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G ytha froze, trembling with cold and fear and fever. Though she wished to run, she could not make her feet move, and so she stood still.

The bear stepped forward, each great white paw nearly as wide as her body.

“Gytha,” Solveig’s whisper was panicked. “What do we do?” Her fingers gripped Gytha’s sleeve.

“Don’t run.” Gytha clenched her jaw and raised her chin, too tired and feverish to think of anything else to do.

No one else was on the path. The trees rustled overhead.

The chicken! Gytha grabbed the bag from her sister and held it out as if the bear would be distracted by it. As if a scrawny chicken would satisfy a beastly hunger.

The colossal creature took another step forward, and another, each movement slow and steady.

The bear stepped so close that his nose nearly touched Gytha’s, ignoring the chicken entirely. His soft breaths warmed her face.

She tried to stand firm, as if she were brave, but her heart was thudding so hard that she could barely hear Solveig murmuring prayers beside her.

The bear’s thick fur rippled in the breeze. Its head was huge, and though she could not see its teeth, she imagined them long and white, just inches from her face.

It stared at her silently, huge black eyes intent on hers.

Gytha was so cold she felt faint and distant from her body. Perhaps the bear meant to eat her. Perhaps it didn’t.

She ventured a quavery, “Hello.”

She was so cold that she barely cared if it ate her. Perhaps it was all a fever dream.

The bear snuffed softly into her face and took another step forward. It sniffed curiously at Solveig’s woolen hat and then her shoulder, and then turned his attention to Gytha. The warm air of its breath tickled her neck, and she trembled, imagining huge teeth crushing her throat.

A voice as distant and faint as a memory said, “Are you afraid?”

“Yes.” Her voice shook.

There was a sound like a soft, grieved sigh. “I mean you no harm.” The bear’s huge, dark eyes held hers as its body curved around them, blocking the wind.

“You’re a bear.” Gytha’s voice cracked, the sound somewhere between a shriek and a sob.

“You are troubled by many things, not only your fear of me. Will you tell me of your griefs? ”

Solveig’s huge, terrified eyes were filled with tears. “It’s going to eat us,” she whispered.

Perhaps it was the fever that loosened her tongue, or perhaps it was that she felt that talking could not make the situation any more hopeless than it already was. “My father and mother are sick, and we’ve run out of food.”

The bear merely looked at her, as if it expected more, and its patience, or what she took to be patience, shattered what little control she still had.

“The whole family is starving! My father hasn’t eaten anything but half a bowl of porridge in over two weeks, and even with the chicken from Hildr we have barely enough for the little ones for a day or two, and Brinja and Halvard cry at night because they’re so hungry.

And Randulf says he’s fine because he’s realized that Pabbi and Mamma are giving their food to the littlest ones, and he wants to be brave, and he’s too young to have to worry like that!

And it’s my fault because Torvald was going to marry me and then he’d share his food with us but now he won’t. ”

The bear tilted his head. “There is food enough in the village, and they won’t share?”

Gytha shook her head. “No, no, it isn’t that they’re stingy.

But we had a terrible harvest and so did the rest of the village.

Everyone is struggling but us most of all because of the hens the lynx killed.

We lost all the hens right at the beginning of winter.

And Torvald has his wife’s family to take care of now. He doesn’t have any food to spare.”

The bear snuffed softly, as if to himself. “I will walk you home,” he said at last. “But put your hands in my fur to warm a little.” He turned to Solveig and said, “You, too, little sister.”

Hesitantly, Gytha put one hand and then the other on the bear’s neck.

There were a few snowflakes on the long outer coat, but the underfur was even thicker and warmer than she had imagined, and without stopping to think how dangerous it was, she burrowed her hands deeper until she felt not only the bear’s trapped body heat but the quivering skin of the beast itself.

She pressed her face into the fur, breathing deeply. The creature smelled of ice and pine and something warm and reassuring, a little like the scent of a new, clean lamb. An animal scent, but that of the animal itself, fresh and clean, not dung or sweat or filth.

From the bear there emanated a soft, growly sort of rumble that made her bones shiver, and she drew back, suddenly frightened.

“Little sister,” the bear said again. “Do not be afraid.” He leaned his great head over Solveig’s shoulder so that she was nearly enveloped in the immensity of him.

Solveig stood stiffly for a moment before apparently accepting that there was nothing to be done. She put the bag with the food on the snowy ground and dug her hands into his fur with a muffled whimper.

The bear gave another grumbling murmur.

Their fear had subsided when he said, “Now, will you let me walk you home?”

Gytha felt a strange little flutter inside her, something like hope, or the memory of hope, at the gentleness of his voice. “Yes, Master Bear,” she said. “Thank you.”

He snuffed a soft laugh. “I am no master. I would hope to be a friend, if you will let me.”

Solveig picked up the sack with the food and they set off, one on each side of the great creature with a hand buried in his thick fur.

He kept his steps slow and steady to match their smaller strides.

By the time they approached the lodge, the shadows were long and the forest around them whispered in the wind .

“Go ahead,” Gytha said to Solveig. “Do you want help with the food?”

“I can carry it.” Solveig looked at the bear and gave an awkward little curtsey. “Thank you.”

In a moment, Gytha and the great bear were alone under the last faint hint of sunset. The moon was new and still below the distant mountain peaks, so the darkness was broken only by starlight reflected on the snow. The bear was an enormous, pale shadow beside Gytha.

“Thank you,” Gytha said, her voice tremulous with cold and fever. “You’ve been very kind to us. Thank you for not eating my sister or me.”

A soft, rumbling that made Gytha feel suddenly warmer came from the bear. “I have a favor to ask, and I wanted you to trust me first.”

“A favor?” The girl caught her breath on a sob. “I have nothing to offer. Not even enough food for my little sisters and brothers.”

“You are cold. Go inside now.” The bear’s great nose gave her a gentle shove toward the door.

She stumbled up the path and turned to look back once, just before she opened the door to the lodge. If the bear still stood there, she could not pick out his bulk among the shadows.

Inside, Ivarr and Hlif lay on their bed; Hlif had her back to the room, and Ivarr had wrapped one thin arm over her.

Sigrid had begun cleaning the chicken and Solveig was cutting up the potatoes.

Ashild, one of the twins and ten years old, was mixing flour with water and the last of the precious butter to make dumplings .

Brinja, the youngest at only three, clambered over Ivarr to nestle herself next to her mother in the bed. Neither of the parents moved.

Slowly, the lodge filled with the rich scents of the chicken and potatoes and the dried herbs Sigrid had sprinkled over them. They even had a few onions, though onions alone would hardly fuel a body for long.

At last, Sigrid pulled the pan from the oven and said, “Come eat, everyone!” Everyone scrambled to the table, but Ivarr and Hlif did not move.

Gytha crossed the room and touched her father’s shoulder. “Pabbi, come eat.”

Without opening his eyes, he shook his wife’s shoulder gently. “Hlif, my love, there’s chicken for dinner. Go eat.”

Hlif sighed softly. “I’m not hungry.”

Ivarr levered himself up to see her face. “My love,” he said hoarsely. “Get up. I’ll help you. Go eat a little.”

“And take it out of the mouths of my own children? I would rather die.” Hlif sat up, the movements betraying her weakness, and sat with her back against the tapestry hanging on the wall of the lodge.

Her eyes were sunken and feverish, and she whispered to her husband, “They need you to survive the winter. Go eat.”

At this moment, there was a muffled thud against the door.

“What was that?” Ivarr straightened, his tired eyes suddenly sharp. He strode across the room, gaunt and grim, only stumbling once. He took up his axe in one hand before he wrenched open the door.

An elk lay across the doorway, its neck broken. The body was still warm.

“What is this?” Ivarr knelt to examine the animal and suddenly fell back with a cry. The great bear loomed above him, immense and terrifying .

“It is a gift for you and your children. You are hungry. Eat.”

Gytha heard the words clearly, but Ivarr did not seem to. He stared up at the enormous creature with both hands upon his axe.

“The bear is a friend,” said Gytha, feeling shaky. “Thank you, Master Bear.”

The bear dropped to all fours and disappeared into the night.

For some minutes Ivarr struggled to drag the elk around the house to the storeroom. The bear returned, took the elk’s throat in his mouth, and dragged it easily around the lodge to the storeroom door. Then it disappeared again.