The Night Father Bear Was Afraid

The Fall was slowly turning into winter in the great northern forest.

The gold and orange leaves had long since fallen from the birch trees, and the last of the birds had flown beyond the distant hills. Every morning, a thin layer of frost covered the ground, and the little stream that ran alongside Father Bear's den had begun to freeze along its edges.

Father Bear knew the signs well.

Winter was quickly coming.

And this year, he feared it would be a long, difficult one.

For many days, Father Bear noticed that the wind was carrying a strange chill through the valley. The squirrels had started collecting their acorns earlier than normal, and the deer had started to retreat deeper into the forest.

One evening, while Mother Bear was getting their five little cubs into bed, Father Bear stood outside of the den beneath the ancient oak trees.

He looked deep into the dark forest.

Something troubled him.

“Papa?” He heard something said from behind him.

Father Bear turned around to see Nikolai.

Nikolai was his only son and was nicknamed Little Bear. “Yes, little bear?” Father Bear said.

Nikolai was standing in the doorway, his paws wrapped in a wool blanket.

“Mama says that supper is ready.”

Father Bear smiled.

“Then we mustn’t keep her waiting.”

But before following him in, Father Bear looked towards the trees once more.

The little den beneath the ancient oak was warm and bright. A fire crackled in the large stone fireplace, it cast dancing shadows across the walls. Mother Bear was busy setting supper on the wooden table, while their five little cubs were gathered around it.

Katerina had a book open beside her plate, though Mother Bear had already reminded her twice that books were not allowed at the supper table.

Izabella was telling Anastasia about a particularly daring climb she had made that afternoon, which grew a little taller and a great deal more dangerous each time she told it.

Little Anastasia listened with her eyes wide open, quite certain that princesses ought never to climb trees, though she had every intention of trying it herself the following morning.

And Mariya was humming a little tune to herself, tapping her paws against the table in time with a melody that only she seemed to hear.

"Come along, everyone," Mother Bear said. "Supper is getting cold."

Father Bear settled into his great wooden chair at the head of the table.

For a little while, the den was filled with the familiar sounds of family life. There was laughter, the clattering of wooden spoons, and the occasional disagreement over who had been given the largest helping.

But Father Bear was unusually quiet.

Every so often, his eyes wandered toward the little window beside the hearth.

Outside, the wind was growing stronger.