Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

Our national epic Kalevala tells that the bear hails from space and landed on Earth in a golden cradle. Such a detail cannot but fascinate the mind of a science fiction writer. In 1985 I wrote a story about the roots of the virginity myth and constructed a fictive ancient Finnish tribe where the maidens who kept their virginity were able to communicate with animals. In “Bear’s Bride” I returned to that tribe and set out to combine the idea with the bear myth.

The association of the fly agaric with the sky-vault and the shamanistic dimensions of their resemblance (including of course the narcotic qualities of the mushroom) are part of Finnish folklore, as is regarding the ladybug as helper and guide. Incantations asking for the ladybug’s help are kept alive to this day as nursery rhymes. It was gratifying to combine all these elements when I considered what kind of a practical basis such myths might have.

It should be mentioned that Kataya’s song at the end of the story is a genuine, well-known, and very old piece of Finnish folklore, a song sung to one’s beloved. Not a single word was changed in the original text, and it felt bewildering to notice how well the poem fitted, even when addressed to a bear.

This is the first English translation and publication of “Bear’s Bride,” which originally appeared as “Metsän tuttu” in the Finnish magazine Aikakone .

Did Mother say to always go down?

But maybe she said always go up.

Did she say follow streams, and then rivers? First paths and then a road? And then a road all covered with hard stuff? Did she say there’d be a town if you go far enough?

Or did she say, whatever you do, don’t follow roads? Stay away from towns?

She always did say, “You’re not lost.” She always said, “You’re my forest girl. You know which way is up.” She didn’t mean I know up from down, she meant I always know where I am or that I can find out where I am if I’m not sure.

But Mother didn’t come back. Even though she’s a forest girl, too. She had her best little bow, her slingshot, and her knife.

I waited and waited. I made marmot soup all by myself. It turned out really good, so I was especially sorry she wasn’t here. I barred the door, but I listened for her. I studied my subtraction and then I read a history lesson. I didn’t sleep very well. I’m used to having her, nice and warm, beside me.

Did she say, “If I don’t come back after three days, leave?” Or did she only say that when I was little and not that much of a forest girl like I am now? Way back then I would have needed somebody to help me.

She did say that I never listen and that I never pay attention, and I guess this proves it.

But what if she comes back and I’m not here? What if she’s tired? I could help. I could pump up the shower.

Except what if she doesn’t come back?

I was always asking if we couldn’t go where there were people, and she was always saying, “It’s safer here.” And I’d say, “What about the mountain lions?” And she’d say, “Even so, it’s much safer up here — for us.”

She said not to let anybody see us, but she didn’t say why.

She did say people are always shooting things before they even know what they are.

What if I’m some sort of a creature that should be shot? Eaten, too?

Or is she ? We don’t look much alike. Maybe she’s the odd one.

I asked her about all that once, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Now and then, in summer, when there are people camping all the way up here, we go yet higher and hide out until they’re gone. Mother always said, “Let’s us go on a camping trip, too,” but she couldn’t fool me with that. I knew she wanted to keep us secret, but I played along. I never said I didn’t want to go. If we were in trouble some way I wanted us to stay out of it.

I know a lot more than she thinks I do.

I wander all over, trying to see what happened to her. I see where she crossed the stream and started down to the muddy pond, but then I lose track. I check the pond, but she never got there. There’s a fish on the line. I bring it home for supper.

The thing is, do I want to spend my life here alone? Waiting? Does Mother even want me to? I can come back after I see what’s beyond the paths. Mother said two-storey houses and even three-storey. Also I’d really, really like to see a paved road — once in my life anyway.

I wait the three days, looking for her all that time, then I leave. I take Mother’s treasure. She had this little leather book. Even when we just went up to hide, she took that with her and kept it dry.

There are lots of books here — actually twelve — but I don’t take any except the one Mother always wrote in and locked shut.

I stop at the look-over and think to go back, just in case she came home exactly when I left, but I did leave a note. Actually two notes, one on the door and one inside. The one inside I shaped like a heart. It was on the paper we made out of stems. I don’t need to tell her where I’m headed. She’ll see that. I’m leaving a lot of clues all along the way.

It turns out exactly like Mother said it would: a river and then a bigger river and a path and then a road, and after that the wonderful, wonderful paved road. Pretty soon I see, in the distance, a town. Even from here I can tell some of the houses are tall.

I wait till dark. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but it’s a town with plenty of bushes around. I don’t think it’ll be hard to hide. I never had a good look at those people that come in the summer. Mother tried to get me away as fast as she could. I’ve only seen them from a distance. Besides, they were all covered up with clothes, sunglasses, and hats.

We have those.

I want to see what they’re like so I can see what might be wrong with me. Though maybe Mother did something really, really bad a long time ago and had to hide out in the mountains. They couldn’t put me in prison for something she did, could they?

I wait till dark and then I creep into town. Everything is closed up. Hardly any lights on. (I know all about electricity, though I’ve never seen it till now.) I wait till everything except the streetlights are out. I wait for them to go out, too, but they don’t.

I wander backyards. I try to see into windows, but I waited too long for those streetlights to go out. Every house is dark, except for now and then an upstairs window.

In one yard I hide behind laundry where somebody’s mother forgot to bring it in before dark. Mother sometimes did that, too, but I didn’t. She had a lot on her mind. She was always worried.

I just about give up — everybody seems to be in bed — but then I see somebody sneaking out a window, trying to be quiet. It’s that very yard where the laundry is still out.

I hide behind the sheets, but so does whoever crawled out the window. We bump right into each other. We both gasp. I can see on that one’s face that it’s going to yell but I’m about to, too, and then we both cover our mouths with our hands, as if we both don’t want to attract attention. Then we stare.