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mammont hunt and he had run far and he had been hurt and nains and perries and Painted Men pursued him and he ran along the river and now the long long day was over and he had nevermore again to run to bolt to flee and
Iron! Sick iron! The wizards!
and
The King!
sounded their names in the darkness. And the embers slid down because they were tired and the embers slipped beneath the ashes and the embers slept.
    In the morning the embers were awake again and spitting and flaring at the meat that turned, spitted and smoking. Arntat was still crouched by the fire as though he had never left it and as though the meat had come at his bidding and obediently slipped out of its skin and onto the spit. Arntat yawned hugely and glanced at Arnten and it seemed as though his teeth were still the tushes and the fangs of Bear, his eyes still Bear’s eyes so small and cunning and sharp, his blunt face still Bear’s muzzle and his hairy hands with long thick nails — The yawn closed with a snap.
    The man said, “There was the lone one of you?”
    “The — ”
    “Sometimes a she kindles with twain. Or more. My get, by your dam — ”
    “Only me, as I ever heard. I never knew her. Uncle said she drowned. Was mad.”
    Arntat grunted. “It was time for it to be done and I was there and she was there and ‘twas done, so. If not she, another. If not me, another. If not she and me, then not thee.” He took the spit from its forks and rested the savory roast, dribbling, on the grass. “So. The lone one of you. Called me from my bearguise.” He seized his son by his downy shoulders. “Hid from me my bearskin.” Son resisted, wordlessly, was pressed down nonetheless. “Carried off with him my token. Found the nain. Found me. Called me from my bearguise. Stole away my bearskin. The lone one of you.” Arnten was on his back, flat. “Am I to regret ‘twasn’t twins? Or be one of such enough?” The single hand quivered the boy belly as one would a pup’s. Then moved, one hand, two hands, tore the roasted meat apart, slapped a part still sizzling on the place the hand had been — boy leapt up, yelping, bared his teeth and began to eat.
    Boy teeth shining sharp in quick-closed mouth. Boy hand rubbing belly. Boy snout smelling savory food. Boy cub by bear man, tearing meat from bone.
    Still eating when father got up and strode off, he followed at quick pace, still holding his own unfinished portion. “Am!” he said. “Arntat! Bearfather!”
    Bearfather growled over his shoulder.
    “The hide! The horn! The witchery-bundle! Shall I fetch?”
    Arntat growled, “The hide? Leave it be. I’ll go no more a-bearing for now. The horn? Leave it be. Rather than call wrong, call none for now. The witchery-bundle? As you want.” And he melted into the shadows of the all-circling forest. Arnten followed, thinking and eating as he went. Claw and reed and stone and nut, he had read their message and read them rightly; he could part with them for now. The hide with its medicine signs he needed not now. For a moment he begrudged the knife, the good knife of good iron. He took a longing look at the slightly slant and towering beech tree, casting a long shadow in the morning sun as it had cast in the evening. They were all safe up there in the hollow of the hidey-hole. And there, safely, let them bide, then.
    Still eating, he slipped after his father into the dappled surface of the forest.
    Arntat did not precisely linger, he did not exactly dally, neither did he rush ahead with great speed, nor slink through the woods. Some sort of game was being played. For neither did Arnten go so fast as he might. It was the game, then, that each should generally hold the other in sight, but only generally. And sometimes the bigger one would suddenly hide himself and as suddenly reveal himself when the smaller paused to look around, then proceed as though he had not been hidden at all. Before long they had developed many aspects to this game and little tricks and