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CHAPTER 3

      IT WAS dusk when Ware finished cutting up the fallen tree, and snowflakes were flying among the chips of wood. He set aside as many logs as he could carry and began stacking the rest at the center of the clearing.

      "There's enough there to last us for days." he thought contentedly, "I'll bring back the cart for the rest."

      A footfall sounded behind him, and still holding the wood in his arms he straightened to see who was there.

      At the far side of the clearing, darker than the darkness around it, was a black shape taller than a man. A bear! He'd never heard it, and the snow had masked its musky scent. What was a bear doing out in the middle of winter?

      Ware backed away, thinking frantically, "Where is my axe?"

      But it was at the other side of the clearing, covered with snow. And the bear was coming right for him, snapping its jaws. He heard its teeth crunch together.

      Could he outrun it? Probably not.

      In desperation, Ware threw the log at the bear as hard as he could and raced across the clearing to where he'd dropped his axe. The log stuck the bear's sensitive nose, and it gave an astonished bellow of pain, but it barely paused before it was after him again.

      Ware's hand closed on the axe handle just as the bear reached him. He turned just as the great paw descended — saw its wet snout, smelled its breath as the blow knocked the axe from his hand and tumbled him backward into the pile of wood.

      As he struggled among the moving logs, the bear loomed over him and its paw came down on his chest, crushingly heavy. Claws pierced his leather jerkin and touched his skin.

      The terrible muzzle was inches from Ware's face.

      His heart was thudding "Got to play dead," he thought. He'd heard, long ago, that bears would stop attacking once you were dead. Maybe it was true. So, gritting his teeth, he forced himself to lie absolutely still.

      The bear regarded him for a moment. Sniffed him. Then it rose on its hind legs and cuffed him with such force that he rolled half-over.

      Ware remained limp and immobile, eyes shut. Puzzled, the bear backed off. Then it came and sniffed him again. Its teeth closed on the sleeve of his shirt, and the cloth tore from shoulder to wrist. Ware continued to lie still.

      The creature padded all around him, snuffling. It hesitated a moment and he heard it moving away. Then there was only silence. He could no longer smell the bear. He couldn't hear it. Even so, it might still be there.

      After waiting several minutes, Ware lifted his head and looked around. There was nothing to see but trees and snow. The bear had gone as silently as it had come, leaving only its prints in the snow.

      He got up and examined himself. His sleeve was torn half off, and he ached from the blows and the weight of the bear's paw, but he was not killed. Not even hurt. What a marvel!

      But the bear might come back, and it was dark now and getting colder. And he had all this wood to fetch home. So, shaking his head, Ware gathered up an armload of logs and headed back to the village.

      Half a mile later, as he strode along the path that led home, he stumbled over something and went sprawling.

      What had tripped him? He looked around and stopped, staring. A naked woman was lying on the ground, half-covered with snow and leaves, veiled in a cloud of her own dark hair. The thin arms, the bare legs. How could he have missed seeing her?

      He touched her outflung hand, and it was like cold death. Who was she, poor thing, and where did she come from, he wondered. How sad for her to have died here, all alone in this cold place!

      But at that moment, the woman stirred and drew in a faint breath. She was alive!

      Yes, but the snow lay on her without melting, she was freezing. He had to get her to his aunt's warm kitchen.

      Pulling off his jerkin and the heavy wool smock he wore under it, Ware wrapped her in them as best he could. Then he picked her up and hurried off through the whispering snow, leaving his logs scattered across the pathway.

      When he reached the house at last, he burst into the kitchen calling, "Aunt! Look here!"

      His Aunt Hearth glanced up from the fire where she was heating soup for their dinner and almost dropped the ladle she was holding. "What's happened?"

      Ware laid the woman on a bench by the fire. "I found her in the woods. I thought at first she was dead."

      Hearth turned the unconscious face toward the light and brushed back the cloud of hair. "Get me something to cover her with." She laid a hand against the pulse in the woman's neck, nodded, and lifted the palms of the limp hands toward the fire so she could see them clearly.

      "Will she be all right?" Ware asked anxiously, dragging a quilt from his bed at the far side of the room.

      "I think it's nothing worse than hunger and cold."

      "Good. Put her in my bed, then, where it's warm. I'll sleep on the floor tonight."

      As he bent to lift the woman, her eyes flickered open, and — Ah! They were the golden eyes of a falcon! In those brilliant depths Ware saw a reflected world of wind and firelight, and he was transfixed. Not until her eyes closed and her look released him, did he move to carry her across the kitchen and lay her on the warm cupboard bed.

      Hearth hovered over her a little, telling Ware to finish serving the soup and bread. He was ladling out the soup when the door opened again, and Hearth's brother limped in, his nose red with the cold. "Snowing," the old man announced.

      "Look here, Baker. Ware found a stranger in the woods, starved and freezing."

      Baker shuffled over to stare. "Who is it?" He was softspoken and cheerful, but slow-witted from an old injury — a deep scar that ran from left to right across his rosy, balding forehead.

      Hearth gave him the sort of look she might have given to a sickly, sweet-tempered child. "We don't know who she is, dear. But don't you worry about it. Dinner's ready, so eat while it's hot. I'm going to try to feed her a little."

      Obediently, Baker sat down at the trestle table. Ware put a wedge of bread into a bowl, ladled soup over it, and set it before him. "I was coming home with the wood, and she was lying right there in the path," he told his uncle, sitting down and serving up his own dinner. "and I tripped right over her."

      After spooning up the vegetables and softened bread, Baker picked up the bowl and drank it dry. Only after he'd wiped his mouth and reached for a second slice of bread did he ask, "Where'd she come from? Berachan maybe?"

      "I don't know, Uncle."

      Hearth came to the table and sat down. "She ate a little and went right to sleep."

      When Ware had finished, he got up. "I've got to bring in the rest of that wood before the snow gets worse. We'll need it tomorrow." He pulled on the shirt that Hearth had hung over a chair, and went out to the shed behind the house. Pulling out a two-wheeled cart he headed back into the forest.

      The snow had stopped and the moon was out. He passed the spot where he'd found the woman and went on to the clearing to load up his wood. He hardly thought of the bear at all, but even so, he didn't linger, and before long he was headed home.

      On the way back, he stopped for the remaining logs, and after piling them in the cart, he sat down beside it to rest for a minute.

      As he sat rested there, enjoying the still, bright night, he noticed that something just under his palm seemed oddly warm to his touch. Lifting his hand, he found a small stone about the size and shape of a coin and as smooth as if it had lain for a long time in running water.

      He picked it up and looked at it. Turned it over. And on the obverse side was a dark, broken line — rather like a swift drawing of a bird in flight, wings arched to catch the wind.

      Stones were no novelty; they lay in every path. Even so, Ware closed his hand around it. "I found this in the place where I found the woman. On a night when I was not killed by a bear — at Wintermark, when all the bears in the world should be asleep," he said. "I'll keep it as a remembrance of this day."

      He got up, dropped the stone into the leather pocket that hung from his belt, and started off again. And soon the village lights were welcoming him home.

      At the cottage, he dragged the cart into the shed and went indoors. The kitchen was warm and dark, and he could hear Uncle Baker snoring in his tiny bedroom. In her room, Hearth must be asleep as well.

      Ware tiptoed to the bed and looked at the stranger. She was curled in his quilt, deep in the innocence of sleep. He stared at her for a moment, seeing her dark lashes against her white skin, hearing her regular breath. What was she dreaming, he wondered. What did people dream of who had not grown up in this silent village?

      Then he took the quilt that Hearth had left out for him and lay down before the fire and went to sleep.

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