Grizzly Bear

Grizzly Bear

You hike farther than usual. The path grows steep, laced with roots and shadows, and the city hum fades behind you. There’s a clearing where moss muffles your footsteps and the trees grow thick and old. In the center, sun catches something bronze beneath a fern.

You touch the medallion.

Behind you, a deep voice rumbles like thunder trying not to be bothered.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You freeze.

From the trees, a shape shifts forward—a bear, vast and shaggy, with eyes like polished stone. You don’t run. You’re not sure you can.

“You lot always look so surprised,” he says. “Like the mountains shouldn’t answer back.”

You try to swallow the sudden lump in your throat. “You’re a—”

“Grizzly,” he finishes. “And before you ask—yes, I’m awake. Yes, I’d rather not be. And yes, I know you touched it.”

He lumbers closer. Not threatening, just heavy with presence. “That medallion’s more trouble than it looks. It wakes things. Voices. Dreams. Old hungers. Makes the squirrels talk too much and the deer start quoting the stars.”

You ask, “What do you think the medallions are?”

He snorts. “What does it matter what I think? You’ll chase them anyway. That’s what humans do. You follow trails until you lose the thread, then double back louder.”

He lowers himself into a patch of grass with a long sigh, like a landslide settling.

“But fine. You want my guess? They’re reminders. Markers. Warnings. Or maybe keys. Keys to something older than stories. Older than me.”

He scratches behind his ear lazily. “Course, the trouble with keys is they usually mean there’s a door. And I don’t much care for what’s behind closed doors.”

He looks at you again, sharper now. “You should pace yourself. The forest has long memory, and little patience.”

You nod slowly.

He closes his eyes and mumbles, “I once sat through a thunderstorm that lasted three days. Didn’t move. Just listened. You might try that sometime.”

You step back toward the path. Before you go, he says, without opening his eyes, “If you see the wolverine, tell him he still owes me a pinecone. And if he pretends he doesn’t know why, you bite your tongue and walk away.”

Then he is silent, still as a boulder, vanishing into the hush of the clearing.