Clovermead was pursuing a fat doe over the mountains. She was a golden cub once more, and salt breezes riffled through her golden fur. She smelled the doe’s rich musk of sweat and fear, growled hungrily, and ran all the faster. This time she would not let the doe escape. This time she would seize and bite.
You are a fine cub, little daughter, said Lord Ursus. He loped beside Clovermead with easy power. All children are recalcitrant when they first teethe. I know that as well as anyone. I am gentle to my own. The ground rumbled at Lord Ursus’ laugh. But never too gentle. The sky-crone is a nursemaid. I train hunters.
I hunted Snuff, said Clovermead. I tracked his scent. He defeated me once, but I’ll have my revenge. I’ll find him and I’ll leap on him and I’ll tear him to bits, even if he hasn’t killed Daddy yet. I want to rip his lungs out and watch him choke to death. She roared out her pain and her anguish and her rage for the bear-priest’s blood.
You may have him, said Lord Ursus with negligent grace. He should have captured you much earlier. He has proved blunt toothed, fit to be prey.
Thank you, my Lord, said Clovermead. She ducked her head in grateful submission. How can you be with me? I lost the tooth.
I am with you still and always, said Lord Ursus, grinning. Stop, he commanded. Clovermead reluctantly tore herself from the doe’s scent. Look. This foul hole is the sky-crone’s. This is her breeding ground of weakness.
They stood on a high, rocky ledge and looked down into a deep valley. Brine-laden sea mist at the north end of the valley crept over a shallow ridge and trickled southward. The dissipating gray film curled around hazy pines and larches and melted into the white snow on the mountain slopes. Above, the moon bobbed comfortably in a soft gray sea of fog.
At valley bottom a stream coiled toward the northern ridge, then disappeared through a crack in the rock that Clovermead imagined led to an icy underwater grotto where seals and walruses disported themselves in the dark boundary of river and sea. Clovermead traced the course of the river upstream, past a riverbed of ice and granite boulders to a perfect circle of white marble walls that girdled the stream’s source. The slim walls held back seven-foot-high drifts of snow. Within the walls two long, low cloisters bracketed the stream banks. On their roofs women in white robes stood guard, swept snow, and prayed to Our Lady. Above the twin cloisters lay the stream’s source, quiet and serene. It was a perfectly circular mountain pool whose unblemished icy surface was tinged the lightest blue. At the south end of the pool stood a small crescent temple and a craggy altar hewn from a single block of lapis lazuli, where Clovermead saw a small flame flickering. Faintly she smelled cedar incense burning in the temple.
This is Snowchapel, she said, full of wonder. There’s the Blue Stone, there’s the Blue Pool, and there’s the White Temple. It’s all the way the pilgrims describe it.
You believe pilgrims, child? Lord Ursus asked scornfully. Those wanderers hallucinate. I saw them come this way year after year. They arrived from north and south, from Scrimshaw Harbor and Timothy Vale, peering at the water and peering at the sky. I sniffed at the moon and I smelled nothing. I lapped at the water and all I tasted was fish. The nuns chased me from the Scrying Pool and they yelled—I didn’t know what, but harsh words. I was hungry, but the Pool wasn’t for me. I knew they were weak, but they made me run.
You ran? Clovermead could hardly imagine it.
Lord Ursus grinned. His teeth snapped at the mist and rent its billows. I was not yet purified. I had not yet realized who I was. I was as weak as all my servants are before I have torn the weakness from them. I fled from the human women and I learned to hate them. They were so feeble behind their iron edges. And why had they chased me away? For a stupid, meaningless dream. For the dead moon. I know she is dead—that thing in the sky is a bone, a puny echo of light, a rock hurtling in the night. It is a mirage without smell, without taste, without texture, without odor, and silent. How stupid you humans are, to worship a nothing! I swore to punish you for your imbecility. I would make you worship Me. I would be the new God, a divinity you could feel in every inch of flesh and bone. You would scream and know I was your Lord. I would master all your senses, but pain most of all. I made an oath that I would hunt you all down, every one. I swore never to eat honey or fruit or nuts again. Only meat. Laughter boomed through the valley and needles fell off of the pines. I started by hunting pilgrims. I stalked them as they came to Snowchapel. I learned to love their scent of fear, to hunger for the taste of their flesh. I took them one by one, until I realized there were too many of you to kill in a lifetime. So I began to hunt for disciples to aid me in my hunt. Together my disciples and I will fulfil my promise, little cub.
Clovermead whimpered uneasily and she felt less certain of her strength. Her fur stood on edge and she smelled her own fear.
I will tear the human fear from you, Goldenhair. You will be a bear as I am.
I want to be a bear, but it’s terribly hard, my Lord, said Clovermead. I can’t stop being scared and human. I don’t know how to get rid of the foolish chatterbox of a girl in me. My Lord, help me. Tell me what I have to do.
You must become one of my disciples, said Lord Ursus. They do not fear. Others fear them. They hunt. They kill. That withered old moon-prune is my prey. I tore off her arm and ate it; I have her scent. She runs, Clovermead, but she can’t escape me. I’ll devour her all. Soon. There’ll be no moon then, only darkness and my reign. Then a few will hunt with me and many will be hunted. You can hunt, if you want.
I thought you said Our Lady didn’t exist, said Clovermead.
Lord Ursus growled uneasily. She won’t. He wheeled away from the view of Snowchapel. He pawed at the snow and Clovermead knew the chase had started again. No more questions. It is time for you to hunt yourself. Pursue the little girl, the coward, the prattler of moon-hopes and moon-blessings. Run her down. Leap for her. Kill her as she screams and tear out her heart. Do it now!
I will, said Clovermead. She surged forward.
She chased the doe, who now was Clovermead herself, chased the fearful idiot innkeeper’s daughter. Under the eyeless socket of the moon she ran over the white mountain slopes with Lord Ursus at her side. Our Lady was not there. Our Lady was gone, if she had ever been there. Clovermead knew now that the moon had never been meant to do more than light up the darkness, illumine Lord Ursus’ sky-large sable coat.
The girl within the cub dwindled in her massive flesh and Clovermead felt a surge of strength as her humanity finally fled from her and into the racing doe. Now Clovermead was simply a killer. There would be no turning back, no regrets, no fears, once she had disposed of the little girl in the doe. Then she would serve Lord Ursus with a loving heart and rend flesh as he desired. She would live a life of noble action and devotion. She would eat and drink her fill.
Clovermead had almost caught sight of her prey. The doe was winded and Clovermead put on a burst of speed. Her legs pounded the snow, and Lord Ursus encouraged her forward with his warm breath, by his prickling, mocking, welcoming laughter, through the example of his terrible hunger. Clovermead would catch the girl-doe soon, achingly soon. She longed to be done and to sink her teeth into the puling child’s flesh.
Clovermead saw the doe. She could feel the Wickward chit’s flesh between her teeth. Her heart pounded, the night was a stink of fear and hope and ravening hunger, and she leapt—
NO! Waxmelt shouted, and flung himself between her and her prey. Clovermead screamed and tried to turn in midair, but her huge bear body smashed into him, her claws dug into his arms and stomach, her teeth bit into his face. She screamed and tried to get off him, but she was achingly hungry and he was a small, weak rabbit of a man and her claws and teeth ravaged the helpless body of Waxmelt Wickward. I’m here to save you, she tried to say, but all that came out was a roar. I have to rescue you from Snuff, she whispered, but it was a growl as she bit. This is all for you, she screamed as she broke his neck.
I’ve saved my daughter, said Waxmelt, smiling as he died.
I want to wake up, said Clovermead. Tears trickled down her fur as she clawed at the snow. This is just a dream. Stop it now. Dear Lady, take me away from here.
Lord Ursus was behind her again. The moon had set and the land was dark. She heard his breathing and his ancient, corrupt laughter.
Sweet Lady, save me! he jeered. She can’t, little cub. You will become a bear and you will have no father. It has been prophesied. This is a vision, not a dream.
I don’t believe you, said Clovermead, sobbing. Her tears melted her fur. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
Fool! Your mind is as weak as your body. Brat, behold the past. Lord Ursus came closer, swallowed all the sky, and now Clovermead saw around his shoulders a necklace of human finger bones. Some were thick, some delicate, some long, some short, but all had been stripped clean of flesh. Lord Ursus had gnawed on the bones themselves.
Trophies of my prey, Lord Ursus said. Behold the present. One giant claw reached out to stroke Clovermead, to rasp and cut through her fur, to touch her bear tooth. Clovermead looked down and saw that the tooth was in her hand once more, come back to her, and had turned into a bleeding finger, fresh torn from a little girl’s hand. It was Clovermead’s own finger.
Behold the future, Lord Ursus cried out triumphantly. He knelt over Waxmelt’s corpse and bent down to chew his flesh.
Clovermead turned and leapt at him. Her claws were full out and her teeth were bared in a rictus of rage. She howled and felt no fear, and Lord Ursus laughed. He struck Clovermead’s head with a single flick of his gigantic paw and batted her into midair—
And Clovermead woke in the absolute darkness of a prison cart.