Dawn Rising

M I S C H I E F ☽

The next day, Mischief awoke to the milky light of dawn. She shivered and tried to snuggle closer to Alma and her warmth. But the thick, warm fur that Alma should have had was thin, and the cold seeped through Mischief's pelt. Giving up, Mischief sat upright. She saw a small marmot carcass strewn across the ground just in front of her. Surprise tingled her pelt when she realized that her stomach wasn't doing its customary growling, as it did every morning.

Then she remembered: last night, Mauna had gone hunting, and come back with two marmots, one for Alma and one for Mischief. She had refused Alma's offer to share, claiming that she had already eaten much prey earlier that day. So, Mischief and Alma had gulped down the prey and, for the first time in a long time, went to sleep with full stomachs.

Mauna was sleeping in the small strip of barren fir trees. From where Mischief was, she was no more than a brown clot of fur curled against a tree. But at the same time, Mischief knew that Mauna was so much more than just a clot of color in the distance; she was a bear who had offered survival, friendship and love to Alma and Mischief when their lives were falling apart.

Although Mischief barely knew Mauna, she was enchanted by the elderly she-bear.

Next to Mischief, Alma stirred and blinked open a dark amber eye. She yawned and lifted her head, looking up at the dawn-streaked sky. Then she looked down at Starry's body, colder than ever, that she had curled up next to that night. Mischief also gazed at Starry's body- the body of the sister who had been with her since birth, who had been through everything with Mischief, the sister with whom Mischief had bickered with and played with and laughed with.

"It's time," Alma murmured. "It's time for her to climb up the starts to Yuralria." Mischief knew that Alma didn't much believe in the golden-eyed great spirit who had created all creatures. Most creatures believed in Yuralria, but Alma didn't. Mischief suspected it had something to do with her childhood; maybe she believed that Yuralria hadn't been kind to her. But now, for the sake of her cub, Alma believed.

Alma closed her eyes and touched her nose to Starry's forehead. She whispered something inaudible, then raised her head to look at Mischief.

Mischief felt her eyes grow watery and her throat close. She painstakingly advanced toward Starry and stared at her still, half-closed eyes. Fear rose like bile in her throat at the sight of the gruesome body death had left behind. I will be like that one day, she thought. Dead. Nevertheless, she lowered her head and touched Starry's forehead. She didn't know what to say, so she only repeated what Alma had said. I hope you climb the star ladder and find Yuralria, she said softly, in her mind. And I hope Yuralria is nice up there and you'll never, ever be hungry or cold.

Then Mischief recoiled, whimpering. Loss and sadness and fear churned in her stomach. Without looking at Mischief, Alma took Starry's body and ever-so-gently put it in the hole she had dug in the ground. It was barely deep enough for Starry, for the ground was frozen and hard, but Alma had managed. There weren't even any pretty flowers Mischief could find to bury Starry.

Just as Alma started to pat the dirt over Starry, Mischief said, "Wait." She loped over to the overhang, where, at the base of the boulder, a few large pebbles lay. With careful consideration, Mischief picked one that was all white; it glittered in the morning sunshine with a cheery radiance. Like Starry, Mischief thought sadly. She loped back to where Alma was waiting, the small stone held carefully in her mouth. Then she stooped down and placed it in Starry's paws. "It's her own little star," she said quietly.

Alma made a choking sound, like broken whimper. Then the two, Mother-bear and daughter, patted dirt and rocks over Starry's small, limp body. When they were done, Alma sat back and covered her eyes with her paws. Mischief could only stare. She had never felt such grief. It was like a huge throat had come to swallow her whole, and Mischief couldn't do anything, for she was drowning in her own sorrow.