Great Bear (Nicholas "Santa Claus" St. North) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thecompasspoints) wrote2013-08-15 10:00 pm
thecompasspoints) wrote2013-08-15 10:00 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 00 - Where the Impossible Occurs with Surprising Regularity
NICHOLAS ST. NORTH AND his men rode all night, but it was a most unnatural evening. North’s laughter had finally subsided, but still he charged relentlessly south, like a cheerful madman. The Moon seemed to light the way for them, leading them through the darkest gorges and densest forests.
After several hours at a hard gallop, they came to a river that was too swift to cross. Before the bandits could even slow down, they saw a streaking figure—Was it a boy? Made of light? There followed a dazzling flash that illuminated the water in a strange, otherworldly way. North peered at the river, his instincts kicking in. He was a betting lad, after all, and he sensed that these moonbeams were coaxing him to trust in the impossible. With a nudge, he urged Petrov forward, and they strode right onto the river. They did not sink but rode atop the water! North’s men dashed after them. It was like that again and again. Lakes, streams, fjords—any body of water that blocked their path would light up and magically support them.
And then, as they climbed high into the mountains, something even more astounding occurred. At the edge of a steep escarpment, the mountain sheared off into nothingness. North pulled on Petrov’s reins; the horse reared back just in time to avoid a plummeting drop. North surveyed the edge—below them was nothing but clouds. If they pressed ahead, they’d fall. There was no telling how far, but it was certain death. Then there it was again—that glowing boy, the burst of light coursing through the clouds! And yet again North laughed out loud. He cracked Petrov’s reins and they raced forward. Before his men could shout for him to stop, he’d hurtled off the edge. North and Petrov fell a few feet, then landed on a cloud. They rode on, North now laughing with a reckless joy.
Stunned, his men soared after him, and they, too, began to laugh at the wild, fantastic folly of what they knew was impossible, and yet there it was happening. On and on they rode through these new cloud mountains and valleys, across the white glistening landscape of the air.
THE ENCHANTED CLOUDS SLOPED past the high hills just outside of Santoff Claussen. North and his men skidded down the last cloud’s wavy edge and jumped to the solid ground just below.
Dawn was breaking; the sky was just beginning to brighten with hints of purple and blue.
North barreled forward, urging Petrov toward a dense wooded grove that he suspected surrounded a village. For it was this village he was headed toward, the village called Santoff Claussen, as he’d explained to his men as they’d thundered through the night. “Riches, lads!” he’d bellowed out. “I saw it all in a dream. Treasures like we’ve never seen—not by a half! Not by a tenth! And they’re ours to find!” He’d warned they’d be tested: “Vines with thorns that can cut you in two; trees with roots like lashes. A bear thirty feet tall!”
One of his men shouted out, “But, Captain, no bandit has ever faced those defenses and lived!”
North let out a great “Ha!” He paused only for an instant. “WE are no ordinary bandits!” Then he cracked his leather crop and stormed onward.
Now, just ahead of the sun, the men quickened toward the row of titanic oaks that lined the outer edge of the forest, their huge roots rising up and blocking any path inside. North did not flinch. With Petrov at a full gallop, he rode straight at them. At the last moment the mountainous roots groaned to life. They arched and shifted like prehistoric serpents, forming an entrance large enough for North and his men to ride through. North was sure this was a sign. The village’s defenses are already surrendering! he thought. Perhaps the defenses know exactly who they are up against! “The forest fears us, lads!” he crowed. With whip and spur, they galloped on.
They rushed through the vast, heaving tumult of tree roots, then hurtled into a barbed tangle of giant vines. The vines untwined their centuries of knotting and let them pass. North glanced at the retreating vines’ spearlike thorns with disdain—this was almost too easy! He grinned back triumphantly at his men. Now, bring on the bear.
The first streams of sunlight began to flicker through the fortress of limbs and tree trunks. North could make out the tracings of a well-worn trail and, farther ahead, the open knolls of the village. He raised an arm, urging his men onward, when a terrifying roar shattered the early morning quiet. The bear! The roar echoed out again, louder, closer. North drew his sword and rose up in his saddle, eager to see the beast. His men followed suit. So there was going to be a fight after all!
But as they rounded a bend in the path, it was not a bear they saw at all. Blocking their way was a beautiful misty figure—Ombric’s last line of defense, the Spirit of the Forest. Her shimmering veils, laced with tiny gemstones, shifted and floated around her, as if moving to a breeze that only she could feel. The men reined in their horses and glanced at one another. Not even North’s dream had told of this creature. The Spirit beckoned them closer. As they neared, her eyes glowed and glistened, greener than the emeralds they’d once stolen from the sultan of Constantinople. She seemed made of jewels—the most extraordinary they had ever seen. This must be the fabled treasure!
Though the bear’s bellows continued, the thieves heard only the jangling of the Spirit’s bracelets. North’s men began to dismount their horses, mesmerized. They walked toward her, lowering their swords. But North was unsure. He looked in the direction of the bear’s roar, then back. A shaft of dawn’s light illuminated the Spirit, and her radiance was now blinding. Feeling hypnotized, even North could no longer pull his gaze from her. The world around him seemed to fall away as he imagined the treasure she must surely be guarding. She reached a pale hand toward him, then opened her slender fingers—gold! North began to lower his saber, ignoring Petrov, who was shaking his mane in frustration.
The Spirit looked into North’s eyes. She drifted forward, holding the gold coins higher. Then she held out both hands—thousands of coins were spilling to the ground. The treasure was there before him. He need only take it. He wanted to take it. But Petrov reared up and slammed his hooves against the ground. Suddenly North could hear screaming from the village. He tore his eyes from the spirit—the roar of the bear and the panicked screaming flooding his ears. The screams were coming from children! It sounded as if . . . they were screaming for their lives! The sound pulled at North’s soul, reached into a place in his heart he did not know existed. And for the first time in his life, he turned away from treasure.
He snatched up Petrov’s reins and wheeled away from the glittering phantom. “Lads! This way!” he barked, but they were transfixed. Slapping the reins against Petrov’s neck, North shot his men one last look, just in time to see them scrambling after the loose coins. To his horror, the moment their fingers grasped the coins, they turned to stone. Dashing bandits no longer, they froze into hunched, hideous trolls and elves.
Before North could fathom what this meant, he heard the children’s cries again. As in all moments of true bravery, North’s heart beat so strongly that it filled his whole body with a steady, urgent pulse, flooding his head until there was no thinking, just action. The pounding of his heart was echoed by the drumming of Petrov’s hooves as North raced toward the screams. A second chorus of screams rose up, and North urged Petrov even faster.
But when they reached the town center, Petrov reared back. The scene before them was like something out of a nightmare. North had seen many things, but nothing in his young life to match this. A tree, an oak of staggering size, was actually fighting an enormous black bear. His muscles, dense and flexed with aggression, rippled under an endless mass of fur. The tree’s roots had torn from the ground and were thrashing and grabbing at the bear like an octopus. It swung a massive limb to strike at the bear, but the creature blocked the blow, snapping the branch off at the trunk and sending it crashing into a house. Then the bear clawed at the tree’s trunk, digging holes that revealed the tree’s hollow.
It was there, inside the tree, where North saw the children, at least a dozen of them, cowering and terrified. In front of them stood an ancient wizard madly waving a wooden staff, shouting what sounded like the beginnings of an incantation. But before the wizard could finish, the bear shredded away a huge swathe of bark and snatched the wizard from the hollow, gulping him down in one ferocious bite. The children burrowed deeper into the farthest notches of the tree, quivering.
The tree gave a great shudder, then its roots and limbs fell limp. The bear sprang free. He eyed the children and raised a massive paw. But North had begun his charge. He had the advantage—he saw the bear, but the bear had not yet seen him! He rammed Petrov into the bear’s black fur at full speed, knocking the brutish creature off balance. Drawing a second saber, North managed a half dozen deep wounds before the bear regained his footing. With a roar that shook the forest, the creature swung around faster than North ever thought possible. One single swipe was enough to fling thief and horse into the air. North landed in the tree’s hollow. Though badly wounded, he did not falter. With the children huddled behind him, he stood his ground.
“Our bear has gone mad!” one of the children told him breathlessly.
“Our Ombric,” came the teary voice of a young girl, “has been eaten!” She choked on the words, struggling, he could tell, to contain a sob.
“Then he’ll eat no more,” replied North, and braced for the bear’s attack.
The bear rose to his full height, casting a shadow over the bandit and the children. His claws were ready. His teeth were bared. He let out a growl so low and ominous, North could feel it in his bones.
For once, North did not laugh in the face of danger.
With blinding speed, he threw six daggers, three from each hand, and riddled the bear with knives. Then he redrew his sabers and attacked. The bear struck back. But North was at the ready. In an instant he’d sliced off the deadly tips of the bear’s claws. The bear surged forward; North, both sabers in hand, plunged.
But the bear was not done. He tossed North to the ground like a rag doll. The bandit, stunned, could not get up. The bear lunged at him, his full weight bearing down. But North was not finished either. He would not let that monster have the children. With what little strength he had left, he raised both sabers just as the beast’s massive body slammed on top of him.
The bear landed with the violence of a meteorite. The ground shook for miles. A cloud of dirt and earth mushroomed up, turning the morning sky ashen.
In the silence that followed, the children looked out from the splintered gashes of Big Root. They could just make out the bear’s huge shape through the haze of dust. He shifted and lurched, trying to get to his feet. His breathing was labored and short. With one long, mournful groan, he slowly rolled over and moved no more.
As the air began to clear, the children gasped. The man with the swords lay on the bear’s chest. Both sabers were jammed to the hilt in the black fur just above the behemoth’s heart. The man lay unmoving as well; he looked so small and ragged, like a toy. In a daze the children crept forward to stare at the valiant swordsman. Their world was shattered. Their beloved bear had turned into a monster and destroyed everything they held dear. But they wanted, somehow, to help this man who had so courageously saved them. Ombric would know what to do, but Ombric . . .
Some of the children began to cry softly. Others kneeled, reaching out to touch the crumpled man. And as they did so, a dark, shadowy mist began to rise up from the mouth of the bear. An inky mass began to form. It grew larger, sizzling and writhing in the morning light. Then it sharpened into a shape that towered above them. The children drew back. They’d seen this face before—in the story Ombric had showed them of the Golden Age.
Looking down on them was Pitch himself. In his hands was Ombric’s carved staff, broken in two. “This is all that’s left of your precious wizard,” he sneered.
After several hours at a hard gallop, they came to a river that was too swift to cross. Before the bandits could even slow down, they saw a streaking figure—Was it a boy? Made of light? There followed a dazzling flash that illuminated the water in a strange, otherworldly way. North peered at the river, his instincts kicking in. He was a betting lad, after all, and he sensed that these moonbeams were coaxing him to trust in the impossible. With a nudge, he urged Petrov forward, and they strode right onto the river. They did not sink but rode atop the water! North’s men dashed after them. It was like that again and again. Lakes, streams, fjords—any body of water that blocked their path would light up and magically support them.
And then, as they climbed high into the mountains, something even more astounding occurred. At the edge of a steep escarpment, the mountain sheared off into nothingness. North pulled on Petrov’s reins; the horse reared back just in time to avoid a plummeting drop. North surveyed the edge—below them was nothing but clouds. If they pressed ahead, they’d fall. There was no telling how far, but it was certain death. Then there it was again—that glowing boy, the burst of light coursing through the clouds! And yet again North laughed out loud. He cracked Petrov’s reins and they raced forward. Before his men could shout for him to stop, he’d hurtled off the edge. North and Petrov fell a few feet, then landed on a cloud. They rode on, North now laughing with a reckless joy.
Stunned, his men soared after him, and they, too, began to laugh at the wild, fantastic folly of what they knew was impossible, and yet there it was happening. On and on they rode through these new cloud mountains and valleys, across the white glistening landscape of the air.
THE ENCHANTED CLOUDS SLOPED past the high hills just outside of Santoff Claussen. North and his men skidded down the last cloud’s wavy edge and jumped to the solid ground just below.
Dawn was breaking; the sky was just beginning to brighten with hints of purple and blue.
North barreled forward, urging Petrov toward a dense wooded grove that he suspected surrounded a village. For it was this village he was headed toward, the village called Santoff Claussen, as he’d explained to his men as they’d thundered through the night. “Riches, lads!” he’d bellowed out. “I saw it all in a dream. Treasures like we’ve never seen—not by a half! Not by a tenth! And they’re ours to find!” He’d warned they’d be tested: “Vines with thorns that can cut you in two; trees with roots like lashes. A bear thirty feet tall!”
One of his men shouted out, “But, Captain, no bandit has ever faced those defenses and lived!”
North let out a great “Ha!” He paused only for an instant. “WE are no ordinary bandits!” Then he cracked his leather crop and stormed onward.
Now, just ahead of the sun, the men quickened toward the row of titanic oaks that lined the outer edge of the forest, their huge roots rising up and blocking any path inside. North did not flinch. With Petrov at a full gallop, he rode straight at them. At the last moment the mountainous roots groaned to life. They arched and shifted like prehistoric serpents, forming an entrance large enough for North and his men to ride through. North was sure this was a sign. The village’s defenses are already surrendering! he thought. Perhaps the defenses know exactly who they are up against! “The forest fears us, lads!” he crowed. With whip and spur, they galloped on.
They rushed through the vast, heaving tumult of tree roots, then hurtled into a barbed tangle of giant vines. The vines untwined their centuries of knotting and let them pass. North glanced at the retreating vines’ spearlike thorns with disdain—this was almost too easy! He grinned back triumphantly at his men. Now, bring on the bear.
The first streams of sunlight began to flicker through the fortress of limbs and tree trunks. North could make out the tracings of a well-worn trail and, farther ahead, the open knolls of the village. He raised an arm, urging his men onward, when a terrifying roar shattered the early morning quiet. The bear! The roar echoed out again, louder, closer. North drew his sword and rose up in his saddle, eager to see the beast. His men followed suit. So there was going to be a fight after all!
But as they rounded a bend in the path, it was not a bear they saw at all. Blocking their way was a beautiful misty figure—Ombric’s last line of defense, the Spirit of the Forest. Her shimmering veils, laced with tiny gemstones, shifted and floated around her, as if moving to a breeze that only she could feel. The men reined in their horses and glanced at one another. Not even North’s dream had told of this creature. The Spirit beckoned them closer. As they neared, her eyes glowed and glistened, greener than the emeralds they’d once stolen from the sultan of Constantinople. She seemed made of jewels—the most extraordinary they had ever seen. This must be the fabled treasure!
Though the bear’s bellows continued, the thieves heard only the jangling of the Spirit’s bracelets. North’s men began to dismount their horses, mesmerized. They walked toward her, lowering their swords. But North was unsure. He looked in the direction of the bear’s roar, then back. A shaft of dawn’s light illuminated the Spirit, and her radiance was now blinding. Feeling hypnotized, even North could no longer pull his gaze from her. The world around him seemed to fall away as he imagined the treasure she must surely be guarding. She reached a pale hand toward him, then opened her slender fingers—gold! North began to lower his saber, ignoring Petrov, who was shaking his mane in frustration.
The Spirit looked into North’s eyes. She drifted forward, holding the gold coins higher. Then she held out both hands—thousands of coins were spilling to the ground. The treasure was there before him. He need only take it. He wanted to take it. But Petrov reared up and slammed his hooves against the ground. Suddenly North could hear screaming from the village. He tore his eyes from the spirit—the roar of the bear and the panicked screaming flooding his ears. The screams were coming from children! It sounded as if . . . they were screaming for their lives! The sound pulled at North’s soul, reached into a place in his heart he did not know existed. And for the first time in his life, he turned away from treasure.
He snatched up Petrov’s reins and wheeled away from the glittering phantom. “Lads! This way!” he barked, but they were transfixed. Slapping the reins against Petrov’s neck, North shot his men one last look, just in time to see them scrambling after the loose coins. To his horror, the moment their fingers grasped the coins, they turned to stone. Dashing bandits no longer, they froze into hunched, hideous trolls and elves.
Before North could fathom what this meant, he heard the children’s cries again. As in all moments of true bravery, North’s heart beat so strongly that it filled his whole body with a steady, urgent pulse, flooding his head until there was no thinking, just action. The pounding of his heart was echoed by the drumming of Petrov’s hooves as North raced toward the screams. A second chorus of screams rose up, and North urged Petrov even faster.
But when they reached the town center, Petrov reared back. The scene before them was like something out of a nightmare. North had seen many things, but nothing in his young life to match this. A tree, an oak of staggering size, was actually fighting an enormous black bear. His muscles, dense and flexed with aggression, rippled under an endless mass of fur. The tree’s roots had torn from the ground and were thrashing and grabbing at the bear like an octopus. It swung a massive limb to strike at the bear, but the creature blocked the blow, snapping the branch off at the trunk and sending it crashing into a house. Then the bear clawed at the tree’s trunk, digging holes that revealed the tree’s hollow.
It was there, inside the tree, where North saw the children, at least a dozen of them, cowering and terrified. In front of them stood an ancient wizard madly waving a wooden staff, shouting what sounded like the beginnings of an incantation. But before the wizard could finish, the bear shredded away a huge swathe of bark and snatched the wizard from the hollow, gulping him down in one ferocious bite. The children burrowed deeper into the farthest notches of the tree, quivering.
The tree gave a great shudder, then its roots and limbs fell limp. The bear sprang free. He eyed the children and raised a massive paw. But North had begun his charge. He had the advantage—he saw the bear, but the bear had not yet seen him! He rammed Petrov into the bear’s black fur at full speed, knocking the brutish creature off balance. Drawing a second saber, North managed a half dozen deep wounds before the bear regained his footing. With a roar that shook the forest, the creature swung around faster than North ever thought possible. One single swipe was enough to fling thief and horse into the air. North landed in the tree’s hollow. Though badly wounded, he did not falter. With the children huddled behind him, he stood his ground.
“Our bear has gone mad!” one of the children told him breathlessly.
“Our Ombric,” came the teary voice of a young girl, “has been eaten!” She choked on the words, struggling, he could tell, to contain a sob.
“Then he’ll eat no more,” replied North, and braced for the bear’s attack.
The bear rose to his full height, casting a shadow over the bandit and the children. His claws were ready. His teeth were bared. He let out a growl so low and ominous, North could feel it in his bones.
For once, North did not laugh in the face of danger.
With blinding speed, he threw six daggers, three from each hand, and riddled the bear with knives. Then he redrew his sabers and attacked. The bear struck back. But North was at the ready. In an instant he’d sliced off the deadly tips of the bear’s claws. The bear surged forward; North, both sabers in hand, plunged.
But the bear was not done. He tossed North to the ground like a rag doll. The bandit, stunned, could not get up. The bear lunged at him, his full weight bearing down. But North was not finished either. He would not let that monster have the children. With what little strength he had left, he raised both sabers just as the beast’s massive body slammed on top of him.
The bear landed with the violence of a meteorite. The ground shook for miles. A cloud of dirt and earth mushroomed up, turning the morning sky ashen.
In the silence that followed, the children looked out from the splintered gashes of Big Root. They could just make out the bear’s huge shape through the haze of dust. He shifted and lurched, trying to get to his feet. His breathing was labored and short. With one long, mournful groan, he slowly rolled over and moved no more.
As the air began to clear, the children gasped. The man with the swords lay on the bear’s chest. Both sabers were jammed to the hilt in the black fur just above the behemoth’s heart. The man lay unmoving as well; he looked so small and ragged, like a toy. In a daze the children crept forward to stare at the valiant swordsman. Their world was shattered. Their beloved bear had turned into a monster and destroyed everything they held dear. But they wanted, somehow, to help this man who had so courageously saved them. Ombric would know what to do, but Ombric . . .
Some of the children began to cry softly. Others kneeled, reaching out to touch the crumpled man. And as they did so, a dark, shadowy mist began to rise up from the mouth of the bear. An inky mass began to form. It grew larger, sizzling and writhing in the morning light. Then it sharpened into a shape that towered above them. The children drew back. They’d seen this face before—in the story Ombric had showed them of the Golden Age.
Looking down on them was Pitch himself. In his hands was Ombric’s carved staff, broken in two. “This is all that’s left of your precious wizard,” he sneered.