Orick turned his back on them all and walked away.
Perhaps he would win the title of Primal Bear and perhaps he wouldn’t. In either case, he wasn’t going to stick around the Salmon Fest to find out.
He marched past the crowd, into the woods. Perhaps the others thought he went into the woods only to relieve himself, but Orick trekked on up a trail through the sheltering pines where the salmon sat cooking on their skewers.
Ahead, at the top of the hill, the trail forked. One branch led north to Freeman, the other led southeast to An Cochan and beyond that to Clere where Orick’s best friend, Gallen, would soon wed. All through this past week, Orick had imagined that after the contests he would sate his lust upon at least one female before heading home.
But suddenly he thought of Gallen’s wedding, and a longing came over him that was too painful to name. If he dirtied himself by breaking his vows of chastity-for he had taken those vows in his heart, though he never had spoken them to God or man-he wouldn’t return home with any sense of real victory.
So Orick went to the fire pits, stood in the blue-gray wood smoke, and began pulling salmon off their skewers, swallowing them hot from the fire. A full stomach was all he would take from these contests, he decided.
Farther up the hill, a feminine voice called to him. “Are you leaving already? Aren’t you going to wait to see if you’ve won?”
Orick looked up. A young she-bear lay sprawled under a tree, and before her was a large, leather-bound book. Orick realized with a start that she’d been sitting here reading while all of the others watched the game. This in itself marked her as an unusual kind of bear. Furthermore, she did not ask the question with the batting of eyes and coyness he would have expected. Instead, she asked with a tone of apathy, as if she were intrigued by his answer, but it wasn’t especially important to her.
“No, I’m not waiting. I’ve done my best, and that is all I wanted to do.” Orick studied the young thing. Her eyes looked bright, alert. He guessed that she was perhaps four years old, but rather small for her age. He hadn’t met her before, didn’t know her name.
“What about the she-bears in heat?” she asked. “They’re all drooling for you. I’ve seen the looks they give you. And ‘a she-bear in heat is the best kind to meet,’ or so I hear.”
“I’m not interested,” Orick said. He pulled another bit of salmon from a stick and swallowed, savoring its smoky flavor with bits of ash on it.
The she-bear pricked up her ears, sniffed the air as if testing for his scent. Orick sniffed back, wondering if she was in estrus. She wasn’t. So perhaps her questions were not the byproduct of some sexually induced intrigue, but were rather guided by a sense of curiosity. The she-bear was not particularly attractive. She had a dull coat of black hair with brownish tips. Her nose was petite, her paws rather overly large. Finally, she asked, “I don’t get it. You could mate with any she-bear down there. Why don’t you?”
Out of curiosity Orick sauntered over to the she-bear. She was reading from a book on how to rig sailing ships-perhaps the most useless topic a bear could study.
“I don’t know,” Orick answered honestly. “I guess I want more from she-bears than they’re willing to offer.”
She studied his eyes. “You’re that bear that runs with Gallen O’Day, aren’t you? So what is it you are after-fidelity?”
Orick hesitated to answer afraid that she would laugh at him, but something about her demeanor said that she wouldn’t. “Yes.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard of some males who want things like that,” she said. “It’s the cub in you. You still want someone to care for you, even after your mother chases you off. You’ll grow out of it.”
“Perhaps I want someone to care for-as much as I want someone to take care of me,” Orick said. “Perhaps I have something to offer.”
“Perhaps.” She nodded. “So where are you going?”
“To Clere. My human friends, Gallen and Maggie, are getting married.”
“Hmmm …” she said. “I was heading that way myself. Do you mind if I come along?”
“Only under one condition.”
“What?”
“If you tell me your name.…”
“Grits,” she answered.
Orick wrinkled his nose in distaste. “That’s not much of a name,” he said, perhaps too honestly.
“I’m not much of a bear,” she answered. She flipped her book shut with her paw, then gingerly picked it up in her teeth and carried it to a red leather pack under the tree. She nuzzled the book into the pack, then stood and slipped the pack straps over her head. Within moments the pack was on, two leather containers dangling at her side when she walked on all fours, as if she were some pack mule carrying its burden.
Then they padded off up the worn trail. By late afternoon they reached Reilly Road, which led south along the coast to Clere. As they flitted beneath trees, the sun shone warmly on them, almost as if summer had returned. And each time the road crossed a stream, Orick was obliged to stop and slake his thirst. His mouth was made dry by more than the constant exercise, for he talked long with Grits about many things-about his interest in religion and her interest in the ways that ships were constructed. They talked of far lands, and of the strange rumors they’d heard of heavenly and hellish creatures walking alive and in the daylight down in County Morgan.
Orick didn’t tell Grits about his part in such matters, how he’d just returned from a journey with Gallen O’Day and learned of the vast universe beyond their small world. Although all the rumors said that Gallen O’Day was up to his neck in affairs with creatures from another world, and though Orick was Gallen’s best friend, Orick preferred to feign complete ignorance of the matter, hoping that Grits wouldn’t press him with questions. The poor she-bear just wouldn’t be able to comprehend such talk, and, if it frightened her, he feared that she might blather the news about willy-nilly.
So it was that they climbed down out of the tall hills and into the green rounded hills of the drumlins. By dusk they reached the village of Mack’s Landing, beside a long gray lake where geese and swans gathered out on the flat waters. Jagged clouds hung on the horizon, curtains of rain falling from them. The town itself was nothing more than a grove of old oak house-trees that sprawled at the bottom of the green slope of a long hill. The house-trees’ rust-colored leaves flapped in a small wind.
The wood smoke from the cooking fires left a pall over the glade, and two large flocks of black sheep had come down to huddle for shelter under the trees. Orick hurried his pace, hoping that he and Grits might be able to earn a meal before dusk. Yet as they neared the town, he got an odd, uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. He slowed.
There were travelers in town-four dozen sturdy mountain horses, so many men that some were forced to camp outside the only inn. The men wore brown leather body armor over green tunics, carried longswords and spears. He knew they were sheriffs from the northern towns, but he’d never seen so many gathered together. It could mean only one of two things: either they were chasing a huge company of bandits, or they had gathered for war.
Orick stopped, raised on his hind legs and sniffed the air. The scent told him little. He could smell leather saddles, horses, well-oiled weapons, the common odors of a camp.
“What do you think they’re up to?” Grits asked.
And Orick suddenly had a sinking feeling. “With all the stories we’ve heard in the last week of angels and demons warring openly in County Morgan, I fear that we’ve attracted some defenders.” Orick licked his lips. “Do me a favor, Grits. I’m a known companion to Gallen O’Day, but I don’t want them to know it. Call me what name you will, as long as it isn’t Orick.”
“Of course, my dear Boaz,” she whispered.
They plodded silently along the dirt road, Orick with his nose down, until they reached the camp under the trees. These were not grim soldiers, worn with experience. Most of them were younger men out for an adventure, strong and limber. One played a lute, and several of the fellows sat beside a campfire, singing drunkenly a rousing old tavern song,