Dawn Rising

☾ A L M A

Alma trudged through the snow silently. Two cubs flounced around her, barking happily at the snow that flew up around them. Alma didn't know what they found so amazing about the snow. Snow meant winter; winter meant cold; cold meant no food; no food meant death. Alma had learned that the hard way. Her paws felt like lead. Her ragged brown fur drooped over her skinny frame. Her stomach growled hungrily, but there was no food in sight. Just a desolate landscape of snow and rock. The last time she had eaten something was yesterday at dawn, but it had only been a small scrap of ptarmigan. She had given the rest to Starry and Mischief, denying the fact that she was starving, that she was dying inside.

She had to stay strong for her cubs. But she had been traveling for days now, and the summer lands beyond the mountains were nowhere in sight. She feared she was lost. She feared her cubs were going to die of starvation, and that she couldn't do anything to stop it., that the wild's cruel ways were going to take them away too soon.

"Mama," Starry's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Yes?" Alma asked. Her voice was brittle and weak.

"I'm hungry," Starry said. She looked up at Alma pleadingly, her large brown eyes wide and hungry. Alma's spirits plummeted. She took in her cub's skinny frame; much too skinny for a cub her age. Mischief, who was trampling through the snow behind her, was also frighteningly small. "When are we going to eat?"

"Soon," Alma promised. She nuzzled her cub gently. "Have patience." Starry didn't reply. Behind them, Mischief huffed. Alma knew what they were both thinking: You've already said that one hundred times, and yet our stomachs are empty as a cave. She forced her paws to keep moving, to keep plowing through the frozen snow. She pushed down panic. She had no idea where she was. When she was little, her Mother-bear had told her that she would instinctively know where to find the summer lands. But Alma didn't seem to have that spirit-cursed instinct. She was utterly, despairingly lost.

Ahead, she spotted a small cluster of shriveled up shrubs next to a rocky outcropping. Against the leaves, she spotted faint splotches of blue. Hope sparked inside her chest. Berries. Starry and Mischief seemed to have spotted them too. "Berries!" Mischief exclaimed happily. She bounded through the snow, skidding to a halt in front of the shrubs, Starry following close behind. They both sat down and pawed at the leaves, leaning forward to snag the dried up berries from the branches.

The sight made Alma want to retch. Cubs shouldn't be overjoyed to find a couple of dried berries. They shouldn't be skinny and wretched. They should be strong and healthy and bright. They should have a strong Mother-bear. One that found the summer lands and didn't get lost in this wasteland of snow. Alma feared she wasn't that kind of Mother-bear.

Alma sat down next to them, trying to not show her cubs how hungry she was. They deserved the food more than she did. Finally, when they were done eating, they got up. Mischief looked more revived than before, but Starry still had that sickly, unhealthy spark. Both cubs snuffled around the bushes a bit longer, but when they finally faced the fact that there was no more food, they got up and waited for Alma to lead on. Alma heaved herself to her feet. Her legs wavered, but she stepped forward. She had to be strong, yet she could feel her energy draining. They had been walking since dawn, and she hadn't eaten a thing. Her stomach growled loudly.

"I'm sorry we didn't save you any berries," Starry said quietly. She looked down miserably.

Alma blinked. Then what Starry said sunk in. "Oh, you don't have to be sorry!" she cried. She stooped down and nuzzled Starry fiercely, pushing down another pang of guilt. "You need food more than I do. You need your strength. I'm older. You don't need to feel guilty, little star." Starry didn't seem convinced, but she just nodded her head sullenly and kept walking.

Alma's stomach ached sickeningly. It was a dull ache that cramped up her insides and made her feel like she could eat anything, even poison berries, to stay alive. She hoped Mischief and Starry weren't feeling that hunger. She so desperately wanted to protect them from the wild's harsh ways, to shelter them from the cold and hunger that could take their life away.

Alma didn't know how long they walked, but she knew that it was too long for a cub to manage. It felt like boulders had settled into her paws, and every step seemed to take all her strength. But what weighed her down the most was the knowledge that it was ten times worse for Starry and Mischief. Mischief's head was hanging and her paws were dragging through the snow and dirt. Starry was steadily falling behind; Alma had to wait for her to catch up multiple times.

"Can we rest now?" Starry whimpered. She had that sad, sickly gleam in her eyes.

Alma looked up at the sky. It was sunset now; they had been walking the whole day. And the whole day, they had eaten nothing but a few shriveled berries. Alma's stomach growled painfully. Starry collapsed into the snow, putting her paws over her head. Mischief plopped down next to her sister, her eyes dull and weary. "I guess," Alma sighed. She swallowed down a wave of despair. Another unsuccessful day added to their long days of trekking. The summer lands were still lost. "We need to find shelter. Over there, by those rocks." She nudged Mischief and Starry to their feet and led them to a small cluster of rocks. Tough yellow grass grew between the cracks. The ground was covered with hard-packed dirt. Mischief and Starry settled down underneath an overhanging rock with small sighs. Starry immediately curled up and squeezed her eyes shut. Mischief was staring out at the landscape vaguely. Alma's stomach growled again.

Mischief glanced at Starry, then at Alma. Alma could hear her unspoken message, and her pelt prickled in shame. Starry was getting weaker. "I'm going to go hunting," she told them. "Stay here. Don't leave. Hide from any strange bears." Mischief nodded. Starry didn't even look up. Her cub's lack of reactance worried Alma, but she turned and padded away.

After a while of searching, Alma found a scrawny marmot standing on a rock. Its senses were slow, so she managed to kill it quickly. Forcing herself to not eat it on the spot, Alma carried it to the cluster of boulders. When Mischief saw the marmot, she bounded over, yelping happily. Stary, however, didn't show as much happiness. She heaved herself to her paws and padded over slowly, waiting silently for her share.

This worried Alma, but she was too hungry to say anything at the moment. She set the marmot onto the ground and split into three pieces as best she could; the two larger pieces for the cubs, and the smaller one for her. No one said anything as they scarfed down the first bit of real food they had had in two days. Alma's piece of marmot was gone all too quick, but she nonetheless felt the slightest bit more full. When she looked up, Starry and Mischief had finished their marmot. Mischief was sniffing around to see if she had missed any last scraps, but Starry had gone back to being curled up, her paws over her muzzle. Alma lumbered over to her. "Are you alright, little star?"

In response, Starry threw up. Marmot-filled vomit stained the ground. Starry's flanks heaved as she emptied herself of her food. Alma and Mischief's eyes widened. "My stomach... hurts..." Starry whimpered. She looked up at Alma, her eyes sad and pained.

Another boulder of panic and fear settled onto Alma's shoulders. "It's going to be alright," she whispered, trying not to let her voice crack. She had to be strong. "You're going to feel better in the morning."

"Maybe it's because you ate the marmot too quickly," Mischief suggested quietly. "Maybe that's why you don't feel well."

"Maybe," Alma whispered. Alma picked Starry up by the scruff and gently deposited her underneath the overhang. Mischief joined them as Alma curled up around Starry, snuggled between them, her head on Starry's flank. "We'll find the summer lands soon," she reassured them. "I promise." Mischief and Starry didn't reply, but Alma could hear their silent response. You've already said that a hundred times. Your promises are empty. You are no Mother-bear.