The warm July twilight descended, deeply dark, as only found in the Mountainous Highlands. A bright young crescent moon hung behind the chimney of a sturdy village cottage. From yard to yard, restless dogs, idle without a hunt, barked at one another. And old man Matthew was preparing to venture into the forest. The old man always approached this task with great care. Scratching the back of his head, Matthew tossed some tobacco and a few signal flares into his pack. You never know when you might cross paths with a bear in its mating season. A formidable beast, one you can’t outrun—you’d have to fight it off. After inspecting his gear once more, the old man pulled out a large wicker basket, set everything by the doorstep, and went to bed.
At the crack of dawn, Matthew slung his backpack and rifle over his shoulder, called for his dog Bunny, and set off toward the village outskirts. Overjoyed by freedom, the dog galloped down the road, loudly announcing the new day to the other dogs confined in their yards. Bunny trotted lightly, occasionally leaping high above the wheat stalks, guiding the old man toward the distant forest. This time, they weren’t out to hunt; their quarry was porcini mushrooms and ripe wild strawberries. Matthew dearly wanted to please his granddaughter, who had promised to visit soon. The berries might already be past their prime, but the jam he’d made would come in handy.
Matthew noticed the light growing stronger as the coniferous trees thinned. Soon, birch trees would appear, encircling large green clearings. It seemed-they had arrived. Having filled his basket halfway with fragrant red berries, the old man straightened up wearily. Rubbing his sore back, he headed toward the shade of a sprawling tree where faithful Bunny guarded the rifle and backpack. He sat down, leaning against the thick trunk:
— Gathering berries is getting harder every year, — he said aloud, patting the dog, — and you’re no help at all.
He took a sip of cold water from his flask and dozed off, cooled by a gentle breeze.
The dog’s furious barking jolted the old man awake. Confused, he snapped his eyes open and locked gazes with Her. About twenty meters from their resting spot, swaying on all fours, stood an enormous brown she-bear. The dog barked ferociously, and the beast was clearly preparing to charge. Bared teeth, raised hackles—the predator’s intentions were unmistakable. “But what happened? Bears don’t attack without reason,” the man thought, reaching for his rifle.
A shot rang out into the air, and the animal lurched to the side, revealing the reason. Behind the she-bear, standing on its hind legs, was a small cub: “No older than three months,” Matthew noted instinctively. The cub, darting after its mother, let out a loud cry and sat down. A thick chain rustled menacingly in the grass. “A trap,” the old man realized, “we need to get out of here—an enraged she-bear will kill anyone nearby.” Grabbing his backpack, he began to back away slowly. At that moment, the cub jerked again and, in an almost human way, sobbed bitterly.
The massive, furious beast made a sharp turn and charged back. For a split second, Matthew froze, then yanked a flare gun from his pack and fired the pyrotechnics straight at the bear’s shaggy face. The bear recoiled and bolted into the thicket, pursued by the frantically barking dog. Matthew started to leave but stopped, hearing an especially pitiful cry from the wounded cub. — I’ve got no more than ten minutes before the mother returns, — raced through his mind. Cautiously, he approached the cub. His trusty hunting knife didn’t fail him. With effort, he pried open the steel jaws of the wolf trap, gave a sharp whistle, and the freed cub, limping, scampered off. Matthew whistled loudly again and sidestepped in the opposite direction from the fleeing animal.
Backing away and whistling for his dog, Matthew paid no attention to the ground beneath his feet. The dog and the bear appeared simultaneously, startlingly close, from different sides. Caught off guard, the man lost his balance and fell. There was no time to get up. Matthew rolled onto his stomach, shielding his most vulnerable spots from sharp claws, and covered his head with his hands. Minutes dragged on. A tense breath tickled behind his ear. The smell of singed fur filled his nose. The she-bear was closely inspecting the man pressed into the ground. But no attack came. Nearby, the dog barked relentlessly.
Matthew’s entire life flashed before his eyes before he cautiously lifted his head. The she-bear was slowly walking away toward her cub, who was happily devouring the strawberries. The clearly content cub had knocked over the basket and was picking berries from the grass, comically pursing its lips. Then it reached for the backpack and deftly pulled out a piece of bread wrapped in cloth. The calmed mother nudged her injured offspring with her shaggy head and joined the feast. Hoarse from barking, Bunny growled threateningly at the thieves. Matthew stood, waved his hand dismissively, and backed away. Even as he left the clearing, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the very light, piercing gaze of the brown she-bear.
For the first time, Matthew returned from the forest empty-handed, having even lost his backpack. He thought about sneaking back to his cottage through the gardens, but at the village edge, he ran into his neighbor Simon. The curious friend tagged along, and soon, over a cup of strong tea, he was listening to Matthew’s tale of misfortune:
— Why didn’t you shoot her right away? — Simon squinted slyly at his neighbor.
— She’s a mother. What about the cub? It would’ve perished alone in the forest, so young, — Matthew shook his head regretfully.
— You went to the forest to feed a bear! — Simon roared with laughter. — Let your lady friend return the food she stole! — the joker went on.
Matthew blushed and waved him off. Thanks to Simon, the whole village soon heard about the incident. Only the laziest didn’t tease the old hunter about his shaggy “lady friend.” But Matthew wasn’t angry:
— Let them chatter, their tongues have no bones, — his conscience was clear; he hadn’t orphaned the cub.
Soon, he stopped thinking about the incident altogether. His granddaughter Mary and her husband were planning to visit that weekend. He needed to prepare.
— We’ll go berry picking together, — the joyful old man dreamed, — I’ll take her to our lake; there are fine strawberry patches there, and no risk of meeting a forest predator.
But neither Saturday nor Sunday brought the guests. Matthew called repeatedly but couldn’t get through.
— Well, they’re young. They’ll let me know when they decide to come, — the easygoing old man quickly moved on.
Monday morning started for Matthew well before dawn. He was awakened by loud barking—not just barking, but an uproar from the village dogs, as if they’d all gone mad. Looking out the window, he saw Bunny circling the garden, trying to leap over the high wicker fence. “Must be a beast in the village,” the old hunter decided, grabbed his rifle, and rushed out the gate. He hurried down the main street as fast as he could and soon joined the men gathered at the village edge.
Bristling with rifles, the villagers were trying to figure out what caused the commotion. Only with the first rays of sunlight did they spot the culprit. Along the edge of a rye field, a massive brown bear was pacing, clutching a bloodied rag in its teeth. The hunters stood puzzled; the bear seemed to be trying to break into the village despite the dogs’ attacks.
— Isn’t that your lady friend? — jibes rained down on Matthew. — Come to return your food? — the men roared.
Matthew squinted and whistled for his dog. The others lowered their rifles and followed. Realizing the danger had passed, the bear stopped. It scanned the crowd, locked eyes with Matthew, and very slowly placed the bundle on the grass near him. Carefully, lifting its paws high, it backed away and then bolted across the field toward the forest. The people stood in a slight stupor: women crossed themselves, men scratched their heads.
Only Matthew trudged resignedly toward the gift. Somehow, he knew it was for him. Bending over the dirty cloth, he took off his cap. He recognized his granddaughter Mary’s favorite shirt—the one he’d given her for her last birthday. “What does this mean? Is Mary in trouble?”—terrifying thoughts raced through his mind. Matthew lifted the bundle and heard a squeak. He saw a wrinkled newborn’s face, tiny clenched fists sticking out, and turned around, bewildered. The baby let out an angry cry, the healthy, hungry wail of a living child. The village women swooped in like mother hens, took the baby from Matthew, and quickly carried it away. The others followed back to the village. Something terrible must have happened. Mary was only eight months pregnant; she wasn’t due for another month.
At a village meeting, Matthew shared everything and asked for help searching for his granddaughter and her husband, who were supposed to have arrived the day before. Within an hour, the village men split into three groups and set out to comb the forest. Matthew, with Simon by his side, hurried toward the fork leading to the city road. The path wound through a sparse birch forest, and there Matthew spotted his morning visitor. The she-bear stood upright, anxiously sniffing the air. “This meeting isn’t by chance,” Matthew realized, nudging the stunned Simon. Noticing she’d been seen, the bear dropped to all fours and, glancing back, slowly trudged in the opposite direction from where they needed to go. Limping behind her was the small brown cub. The men stood for a moment, then followed.
Seeing the humans following, the she-bear broke into a light trot, then sprinted. The cub lagged behind, whimpering pitifully. But the mother barely slowed and soon reached the old city road at the edge of a deep ravine. She glanced down, waited for her cub, and slowly headed into the thicket. Minutes later, panting hunters were searching for a way down to the bodies of a man and a woman lying below. Simon shouted into his phone, calling for help. Matthew cradled the head of a delirious Mary, trying to comprehend what had happened. His gaze fell on the old wooden bridge overhead, and it all clicked. A gaping hole yawned in the middle. Locals knew the bridge’s planks were rotten and had long taken a detour. But Mary hadn’t visited in nearly a year—she must have taken the shortest route. But why on foot?
A week later, Matthew sat by the bedside of his recovering granddaughter. The doctor had allowed him to break the tragic news: her husband, Steven, was gone. But Mary stopped her grandfather, who began cautiously:
— Don’t try, I know. I saw everything, — the young woman turned away, — now I’ll live for my son.
— You really remember it all? — Matthew asked, horrified.
Mary nodded: — I remember the car breaking down. How I offered to show the way to the village. How the planks cracked, and we fell. I remember screaming, then suddenly going into labor on a pile of branches that saved my life. I called for Steven, but he didn’t answer. I remember wrapping the baby in my shirt. And I remember the bear, too. It stood at the edge of the ravine, watching us. Then I passed out from fear.
Matthew fidgeted with his old cap: — We should name the boy. Maybe Steven, after your husband?
Mary stared out the window for a long time and shook her head: — Grandpa, register him as Michael. He’s practically the godson of that she-bear.
The she-bear never appeared in the village again. Mary recovered and moved back to the city with her son. And every year, on his great-grandson’s birthday, Matthew gathered a large basket of treats and went with Bunny to that special clearing. Sitting under the tree, he left the gifts, crossed himself broadly, and headed back. He dearly wanted to believe that, from somewhere in the dark thicket, a pair of wary, very light eyes—those of his shaggy friend—watched him.
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