The Bear Kit

By Rose Moore

The wind’s muffled whispers say it’s time to wake up, much to the annoyance of the fox. He blinks away the crack of light, as if to reply, “just five more minutes.”

Sounds of scurrying rodents and his pang of hunger betray him. He ate his stash; he must hunt for more food. The wind greets his face like an old friend. He trudges onward, flicking his ears, attuning them to the rustling beneath the surface.

It doesn’t take long to find what he wants. He creeps slowly, calibrates his pounce, then dives face-first. He has dinner with a nice family of lemmings.

As he licks his teeth clean, he remembers why he climbed out of bed at all—and on cue, he detects something new. It leads him to a large heap of snow, big enough to be another’s den—but no respectable hunter would leave their leftovers that raw and wiggling. The rustle is quiet, but sounds like a good-sized meal. A whole slice, or even a hare.

In one swift pounce, he’s buried in the snow.

The creature is hidden deep in the subnivium. Whatever awaits, it makes no move to escape.

His nose meets fur not his own; he wastes no time biting down. It’s too large to be a rodent, with fur too short to be a hare. Using his paws, he digs out his prize for a better look. He nearly misses it, as its hide blends seamlessly into its bed.

A young bear cub squirms about, sneezing snow out its mouth and nose. It’s easily the smallest bear the fox has ever seen, its ears still a shade of newborn dark pink. He pats the nearby area, confirming it’s the only cub around. He hasn’t seen any bears around lately.

The wind roars adamantly, telling of a coming storm.

This cub isn’t food. The fox turns to flee, but pauses. He looks down on the helpless thing.

This cub isn’t food. It wouldn’t taste very good. Too chewy.

There haven’t been any bears, adult or cub, in a long time.

It’s common knowledge that a mother can track her offspring’s scent from miles away. It’s also common knowledge to never touch a mama bear’s cub, unless you plan on becoming their first breakfast together.

But he can’t remember the last bear he’d seen at all.

The snow is spun by a rude whirlwind, partially reburying the cub.

For three months, a mother vixen will stay in her den with her kits, while her mate guards their home, bringing them food every few hours. Should the mother meet an unfortunate fate, the father will not orphan his children. In fact, he’ll readily adopt the role as sole guardian.

The father will still do this, even if one, several, or even her entire litter, are not his own.

With a final windy warning, the father grabs the cub by its scruff.

It’s warm in his den. The cub is cold. It shivers across from him, its wiggling slowing down.

With a perturbed whine, the fox reaches over, carefully pulling the cub closer to his chest. He wraps his tail around its tiny body; the cub sneezes, snuggling in further.

Having a small beast, one that could lead a much larger, hungrier beast, to him in his den, isn’t something the fox ever wanted. The shivers down his spine are not from the cold—but as the beast snores peacefully into his coat, he accepts his current fate.

Many nights have passed; the fox has miraculously yet to be eaten, and the small beast is no longer small. Not a full-grown bear, but officially larger than the fox. Larger than his burrow can fit, and larger than he can afford to feed.

It’s as if the beast understands this, when it exits his den for the first time. It hunts in a strange way that the fox has never seen, with movements that mimic his own style. The fox watches curiously—but ultimately, he leaves it be.

The fox’s new den must be far from his old one, and well hidden—under a bush, behind a tree, or inside one—difficult to find, and moreso for predators to invade.

He finds the perfect spot: a snow hill beside a collapsed cave. Now, he only hopes his old friend will blow away his tracks, before the beast follows them.

By dusk, all is calm. Not a stir is heard outside.

He’d shut his eyes for only a minute before something began forcing itself in. It prods the entrance with its nose, while its paws brush away the surrounding walls.

Luckily, all smart foxes have an emergency exit or two.

Amidst his escape, he sees the beast is none other but his cub. When it realizes the den is too small for it, it flops down, only half-inside.

The fox isn’t sure what to make of this. He quietly approaches, sniffing its paw.

The bear rises, collapsing the den. Night-black eyes stare down the fox. Slowly, it lowers its head, aligning its nose with his. It breathes steadily. After a moment, it relaxes into the snow again.

The fox, for the thousandth time since finding the cub, is at a loss. But, for the first time, he is not afraid. The air is cold, but the bear’s coat is warm. The fox carefully burrows under its neck. The fox will sleep safely under the stars for the first time tonight.

At the break of dawn, the fox wakes to birds in the trees suddenly taking flight. The fox knows the sound of birds collectively deciding to move—it’s formal and organized. This was a chaotic sound, like something startled them.

That “something” rings through his ears next: the thunderous roar of rare creatures called “hunters.” A species of predator that comes out only to hunt—but those hunts can be devastating, and they often travel in packs.

They choose their prey indiscriminately, from the birds they pluck straight out of the sky with their claws that spit fire, to the largest of bears—those were their favourite, but they’ve been scarce lately.

The fox must hide his cub. It’s still sleeping, and nothing in the world can wake a sleeping bear.

The snow is starting up again, and the bear has its face tucked under an arm, concealing its black nose. Hunters can’t see well in storms. The bear should be safe here, if it stays asleep.

The fox, however, is exposed. His den was destroyed, and with warmer months approaching, his fur has darkened. If he sticks around, he’ll lure the hunters to them.

He turns to flee, but spares a second to look up at his slumbering friend.

With another crack of thunder, the fox runs.

He finds a cozy den a mile off—one likely abandoned by its previous owner. It’s snug, but it’ll do. He’ll wait out the storm here.

He hears their roars, occasionally followed by the cries of birds and bigger animals; wolves, caribou, and other foxes.

Then, he hears a familiar cry.

He leaps from his shelter, racing to find the bear—but only the imprint of where it once was remains in the snow. Luckily, the wind left tracks for him to follow. He finds a pack of hunters moving in on something big, lurched over his old home.

It’s the father’s duty to protect his kit from predators. Although he knows his claws and teeth are no match against theirs, he draws them anyway.

Now, all that stands between hunters and fallen cub, is an old, quivering fox.

The beasts inspect him closely, waiting for him to act. He stands still, his gaze never falling.

One hunter raises its claw, another barks at it—the first backs down.

The fox’s heart pounds as the standoff continues. The hunters’ eyes dart between him, themselves, and the bear.

Finally, they step back. He takes a moment to register this. He can’t believe it. He’s never seen them surrender to any creature, especially not one small as him.

When they’ve truly left, he rushes to his friend’s side. The bear’s leg is wounded—he’s seen this mark before, in other animals, and his mate. It lets him lick it clean. The good news is, since it’s so large, the bear’s injury is small in comparison. It will live.

It needs to eat, but it’s too weak to hunt right now. The fox will need to hunt for it, and watch over it until it regains strength. This will be an easy job for him—it's a father’s duty, after all.

But most importantly, for it to heal, the bear needs to rest. As the fox watches the bear’s eyes slowly close, he climbs its body, finding his place under its neck. With the storm winding down, the birds sing their requiems. As fox and bear drift off to their lullabies, there’s a sense of peace in the valley.