The Bear

by Andrew Krivak

Animals are creatures of habit, he told her, their stories written over and over again. In the snows of winter, or over the dirt ground of summer, there was always a tale playing out, and it was the hunter in the end, if she was a good one, who would write the epilogue.

he told her that the voices of the trees were the voice of the forest, and that when they spoke, they spoke with such indifference to time that it would take the girl several moons to hear one of their conversations, the better part of one just to hear a single word. But to them it was no different from any story told to any other around a fire in the night, a word spoken in a moment, or a lifetime.

Those were the trees, replied the bear, companions to us all who forget nothing that happens in the forest beneath them and whose memories span seasons beyond count. For each one carries the memory inside of every living thing that has ever touched it or passed beneath the shade of its limbs and leaves, trunk and branches. Every living thing that has ever walked the earth.

Her father told her once that all animals were creatures of habit and so, too, were they. The difference was she could choose to change her habits. Animals changed when they were afraid. Change before fear has had a chance to overcome you, he said, or after you have overcome it and like a storm it has moved on.