Fred Saberhagen - Dancing Bears

DANCING BEARS

By

Fred Saberhagen

One

1908

"Are you ready for another hunt, Johnny?" The speaker, raising his voice to be heard in the crowded bar

of the London hotel, was a tall man in his late twenties, well dressed in a style favored by members of the

British upper class when at their formal leisure. His fluent English still bore traces of his native Russian.

John Sherwood, who stood leaning on the polished dark wood of the bar little more than an arm's length

away, was not quite so tall, just under six feet. And, as seemed only natural in an American, a bit more

casual in his attire. He frowned, knitting dark brows, and gave the question serious consideration. At last

he said: "I don't think I want any more trophies. Not just now."

"Maybe just one more?" The speaker was holding a recently delivered cablegram between his thumb

and forefinger; he gave the impression of almost offering the yellow paper to his companion, holding it

like a playing card about to be put down decisively.

Sherwood, smiling, shook his head. "I don't know, Greg. The walls of my relatives' houses back in Ohio

are full of my victims' staring heads—or so my sister tells me. When I wrote Eileen that I planned to send

her that last lion skin, she warned me to cease and desist. Don't know now what I'm going to do with the

damned thing."

"Well, you may suit yourself about collecting staring heads. This hunt would have a more serious

purpose. Of course, it ought to be good for some excitement, too." The Russian made an expansive

gesture, and mellow gaslight evoked the glow of wealth from cufflinks of heavy gold.

"Oh, in that case, you know me. I might be talked into it. What's the game?" Sherwood stood up straight

and sipped his drink. He was a sharp-featured man of thirty, with a soft voice and a narrow body, wiry

arms and legs ending in large hands and feet. His square, cleanshaven jaw had not been well shaded by

his pith helmet during his recent exposure to the African sun, and as a result was considerably darker than

the upper half of his face.

Gregori Lohmatski hesitated, as if he were at a loss as to how best to explain. At last he ventured: "I told

you we have some big game from time to time on our estate."

"Yes?"

The Russian's strong hands crinkled the yellow rectangle of paper which had been handed him by an

attendant two minutes ago, and whose contents, approximately a hundred words, had absorbed him

intensely during that brief interval. He folded and smoothed it nervously. "The cable is from my father in

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St. Petersburg, where he spent the winter, as usual. But the news which Father is passing along is from

the country."

"Not bad news, I hope?"

The other man's eyes narrowed as if in discomfort. "No, not bad in the sense of personal

tragedy—which of course is what one always fears and half-expects—or at least I do—when a message

comes by wire." Gregori, who had brightened as he spoke, now paused thoughtfully. "But still the tidings

are not happy."

"I'll drink to an absence of tragedy." The American raised his glass and did so.

Greg was not smiling. For the moment he had forgotten all about his own drink. He tapped the paper.

"At least two men on the estate are dead—eaten by a bear. Neither of them was anyone I knew. One

was a priest, who appears to have been also active in a village council; the other was simply a peasant."

Sherwood's own smile had quickly faded, to be replaced by a look of concern and puzzlement. His

glass clinked on the bar. "Did I just hear you say 'eaten by a bear'?"

Greg nodded. "I know, it sounds like the start of a bad joke. But I fear it is no joke at all." Smoothing

out the cable on the polished wood, he began to read it again, this time muttering certain words and

phrases aloud in English, while his friend listened with keen interest.

"'Killed and partially eaten'—yes. Father makes a point of that. And in two separate incidents."

Sherwood shook his head. He was frowning, as if at something hard to see. "Somewhat unusual," he

commented at last.

His companion squinted back at him. "Johnny, you have been spending too much time in London, and

are developing a British gift for understatement. You know wild animals much better than I do—but in

my limited experience, any bear acting like this is downright unheard of." Then Gregori frowned and

gestured. "Oh, of course one expects them to be dangerous. From time to time a brown bear, or even a

black, may kill a person. But as a rule the animals avoid humans in the wild. In Europe, at least, such

fatalities are very rare."

"In America too."

"Butthis describes a bear going out of its way to attack men." He crinkled the yellow paper again, as if

he might be able to squeeze out of it an extra fact or two. "Well, the cable of course does not give full

details. One thing is clear to me when I read between the lines. My father would like me to come home

and help him to deal with the problem." Greg paused. "I think maybe to help him deal with other matters

as well."

"Such as what?"

"Well, my brother and my sister, for example."

The two young men were surrounded by the sounds and bustle of the bar of a swank hotel. From

outside drifted the noises of the never-ceasing traffic in the Strand. The stuttering roar of an occasional

horseless carriage mingled with the clop of hooves, and the jarring of iron-rimmed wagon wheels on the

uneven street. Out there was a glare of electric light; inside the bar, the illumination was the mellow

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gaslight of decades past.

"Maxim and Natalya, right? What's wrong with them?" Greg had never talked a great deal about his

family, and Sherwood had never met any of them. "Or shouldn't I ask?"

The Russian shrugged. "Father is worried about them."

"You mean in connection with this murderous bear?"

"No. Other things. Politics and such."

Sherwood's expression altered slightly. "Oh. Not in my line. If there's trouble in the way of family

disputes, maybe I should schedule my visit at some other time."

"Nonsense!" Greg looked up sharply, and waved his hands again. "There are always family disputes.

Seriously, my father is asking for my practical help as a big-game hunter, because he knows I have been

learning from you. And I think, by implication, he asks also for the help of my friend who's a much better

hunter than I am. Absolutely you must come now."

"Well. A man-eating bear—how can a fellow turn down a chance to go after something like that?" And

Sherwood, finally smiling, thinking what the hell, why not, raised his drink again.

But a moment later, doing his best from a distance to consider this obscure situation in a foreign family,

he frowned once more. "Glad to do what I can, of course. But it occurs to me there must be some good

hunters in Russia, too. Maybe among your neighbors in the region—?"

"You are perhaps thinking of how it would be in America."

"I guess I am."

"Well, it's not like that." Greg spoke with the assurance of one who had spent more than a year in the

United States. "When you speak of neighbors… except for the peasants in the nearby villages, there

aren't many people living within a day's journey of the estate. And I rather doubt that any of those are

eager to help the Lohmatskis."

"Well, killing large animals is about the only thing in the world I'm very good at. But in that department I'll

do my best to help."

"To a successful hunt!" And their glasses clicked together.

Later that night, Sherwood sat in his hotel room two stories above the bar, composing a letter by gaslight

to his sister in Ohio, informing her of a change of plans. He would not be boarding a steamer for New

York as soon as he had expected.

… Greg sends his greetings, and says he's looking forward to another visit to America, but doesn't know

when.

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Speaking of visiting, as you remember, for some time I've had a standing invitation to spend some time

with Greg and his people in Russia. Well, an odd and interesting thing has come up…

… so there seems to be one more chance for excitement of the hunting type, and you know me. (Don't

worry, I promise not to send you a stuffed bear's head.)…

At breakfast the next morning, the two men planned a quick packing and departure for Russia. Gregori

had already cabled his father a reply, telling the people in St. Petersburg to expect him and Sherwood

within a matter of days, and giving some details of their travel plans.

"Father may already have left for the country. But they can telegraph onto the town nearest the estate

that we're coming. He'll get the message in a few days."

"Good."

Gregori, staring off across the dining room, but obviously thinking of other things than white linen and

soft voices and decorum, said abruptly: "I've told you about my brother Maxim."

"You've mentioned him once or twice." Sherwood sipped his coffee. "I got the impression you consider

him something of the black sheep of the family."

"We differ politically. Maxim probably would describe me in something of the same way." Greg paused.

"I told you my father has a problem with Maxim. The problem I think has to do with the fact that my

brother has recently taken a post in the Ministry of the Interior."

"So?"

"This is ominous, because he seems to be in what used to be called the Third Section. Having to do with

the suppression of political dissent."

"Politics is not exactly my favorite activity."

Greg came back. "I know, Johnny. Nor mine either. But if when you reach our happy household, you

see we are not all perfectly happy with each other…"

"So, a family doesn't always get along. That's normal. Is there any more you can tell me about the bear?

The more I think about it, the odder it seems."

Greg was only looking at him. Sherwood continued: "In India I've heard of a man-eating tiger pretty

thoroughly paralyzing an entire district; I think the record kill there by one animal is something like four

hundred people, over a period of eight or ten years. And in Africa a few years back there was that

famous pair of lions that virtually stopped the construction of a railroad.

"But I've been racking my memory ever since you read me that cable, and I've never before heard of a

true man-eating bear."

"No?"

"No. Big cats are total carnivores, of course. But bears just aren't— except for polar bears, who live

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where there's no vegetation worthy of the name. Of course polar bears will eat humans—they'll eat any

flesh and blood that they can get their teeth into—but mostly they go for seals. Even at their meanest,

they just don't seek out people as their chosen diet."

Gregori, plainly unconvinced, had forgotten his remaining bacon and eggs and was gazing at his friend in

gloomy silence.

Sherwood pressed on: "Oh, I respect the critters, all right. Bears are dangerous. But frankly, Greg, it's a

little hard to believe that even if a bear has killed two people it could be terrorizing square miles of

territory. Frightening several villages so the people won't even go out of their houses. After all, except in

the Arctic most bears live mainly on plant food. And on fish, when available. Plants are easier to catch

than people, and they don't carry guns…"

Gregori said: "Not for me."

"What?"

"It isn't at all hard for me to believe, that a man-eating bear is reported on our estate, and as a result all

the peasants are afraid to go out. Even when we have a short growing season, and their lives depend on

farming."

"No?"

"No. Of course, whether or not the killings actually took place just as described… you see, Johnny,

according to tradition—or perhaps I should say according to legend—it's not the first time our family has

had trouble of this kind. Very far from the first time. And in my country, legends are hard to distinguish

from history."

Sherwood thought it over, or tried to. "You mean the two men in the cable weren't really killed by a

bear? They died in some other way?"

"How they actually died is perhaps not the most important thing. Maybe a bear really did kill them,

maybe not. The important point is what our people believe about the killing."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't—how could you? Let me explain. At home there's a tradition, going back more

than three hundred years, which says that ever since the time of Ivan the Terrible, certain men of the

Lohmatski family have had a tendency to—how does one say it in English?—there is a Russian word,

obaraten , meaning to change shape. At home we have an old book in the library that I can show you. A

certain man can be transformed mystically, into a wolf maybe, or, in the case of the Lohmatskis, into a

ferocious bear. And the man who changes in this way generally has a nasty habit of killing people and

eating them up. Our family name, by the way? Lohmatski. It means shaggy, or hairy. Like a bear."

There was a little pause. Around them in the restaurant the voices and the cheerful clink of cutlery went

on. The London sun was shining, for a change, coming in through clear windows to dazzle on white

tablecloths. Greg picked up the silver coffeepot and refilled his cup.

At last Sherwood said: "You're serious. I mean that your farm workers still believe this. That men can

turn into animals."

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"Oh yes." His companion nodded matter-of-factly. "I'm sure that most of them believe it devoutly.

Maybe some of the younger ones know better."

Carefully Sherwood set down his knife and fork. "But this is the twentieth century."

"Not in Russia it isn't." Greg was shaking his head decisively. "There it is more like the fifteen-hundreds

still. Officially our calendar is still thirteen days behind yours, but in many ways the gap is several

centuries. My friend, you don't know our peasants. The African natives have nothing on them when it

comes to superstition. If anything at all out of the ordinary has happened on our estate— anything having

even the remotest connection with bears—I can well imagine that our people are afraid to go out into the

fields."

Sherwood was about to ask Greg which of his relatives was currently under suspicion of being a

were-bear. But the expression on Gregori's face decided him against any remark that might be

interpreted as flippancy.

Ordinarily the quickest route to Russia from England would have been by railroad, through France and

Germany and Poland, to Moscow. But Gregori wanted to travel by way of St. Petersburg, in the hope

that he would be able to learn something of his sister. With a little luck, the sea route would be nearly as

fast.

Riding in a horse-drawn cab on their way to the offices of Thomas Cook and Son, where they would

make a final choice and buy their tickets, John and Gregori talked again.

As might be expected in a young man who had spent much of his adult life in Europe and America,

Gregori was strongly in favor of westernization as the only hope for his own country.

"As an educated man,I can be perfectly sure, without having to think about it, that the bear now

wreaking such havoc on our lands, or at least in the minds of our peasants, is simply a bear and nothing

more."

"Sure, why not?"

"Whereas the peasants… well, but let me amend that."

"Sure."

"Johnny, this misbehaving animal is indeed something more than a bear. He stands as a symptom of the

attitudes holding back my backward nation."

"You mean he stands as a symbol?"

"Yes, all right. Probably he is both. My friend, this bear could be not only a symbol but a real

opportunity. I mean, to show the stupid peasants and other superstitious wretches, including the priests,

that modern science and engineering are good at solving problems. In this age of Darwin, electric lights,

and repeating rifles…"

His listener shrugged. "Sure. Oh, well. I was nursing hopes of getting a shot at one damned interesting

animal, and here it's turned into a symbol of superstition, about to be overwhelmed by science."

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Sherwood's own religious background was Middle Western Protestant, his inclination toward the

here-and-now, the practical. As a rule, he didn't give the subject of superstition a great deal of thought.

The latest London newspaper featured a story about the latest in a seemingly interminable series of

terrorist bomb-throwings in Russia, followed by the latest pronouncement by the tsar. The imperial family

and the government seemed to think that everything would soon be under control.

When John mentioned these items, Gregori asked suddenly: "Have I told you much about my sister?"

"Afraid not. You said her name's Natalya. I look forward to meeting her."

"I hope you have the chance."

Sherwood braced himself for more revelations of family conflict. But Gregori, seemingly on the verge of

something of the kind, evidently changed his mind. He said only: "In recent years Natalya is not often

home."

Two

Within a few hours of his arrival in St. Petersburg, John Sherwood was lodged comfortably in the

Lohmatskis' luxurious town house, where he filled in some time by writing another letter to his sister in

Ohio.

Considerately he added a few words, meant to be reassuring, about his personal safety, knowing that

even in Ohio the newspapers must be carrying stories of the violent political unrest in Russia.

May (15, American style;2 , Russian style)

Dear Eileen,

I hope the date above is right. This changing of calendars can be confusing. Here I am. I can report that

the voyage just concluded has been of the best kind—that is, uneventful. Ten days, by sea, from London

to St. Petersburg, is pretty good time.

He paused, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the open window of his room, through which came an

attenuated smell of the sea, along with sounds of distant street traffic. What interesting detail could be put

in that would best convey the alien feeling, even for an experienced traveler, of his new surroundings?

One of the first sights that had caught Sherwood's eye, as he stood on a quayside street in the Russian

capital, overlooking the broad, cold, swift-flowing Neva, had been a small troupe of brightly costumed

gypsies and their dancing bear. Sherwood immediately felt sorry for the bear, which looked mangy and

indefinably abused.

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I don't remember seeing anything of the kind in the States myself, except maybe in a circus. The animal

here is muzzled, as they are in England, and led about the streets on a leash, with an iron ring set in its

nose, like a bull. It looks docile enough as it walks steadily on its hind legs. One of the human members

of the troupe played a mouth organ, another cranked a hurdy-gurdy, and the bear bobbed and swayed

and turned almost gracefully. For the climax of the performance, the bear danced with a human partner;

one of the gypsies, of course. The show quickly attracted a small crowd, who contributed a few coins

when the hat was passed around by one of the gypsy children.

Of course, finding my way around in a new city, or even on a new continent, is nothing out of the

ordinary for me. But this time, thanks to Greg, naturally, I have an absolute superfluity of leisure to look

at and listen to my new surroundings. All routine matters, as you may imagine, are being made vastly

easier for me by the fact that I have a Russian companion, and one experienced in the necessities of

travel here. Greg argues with the minor functionaries while I play sightseer.

All in all, St. Petersburg is an impressive city. Large, of course, as you would expect of the capital of a

big country, and very different from any other city I have ever seen, despite the fact that much about it

reminds me of western Europe. Things familiar are intermixed with the strange and unique.

I can observe a number of things about the people that are very different, too. The man in charge of all

this bureaucratic paperwork regarding passports and residential permits was wearing a sword— and, of

course, a uniform. Half the men in Russia seem to be wearing uniforms, in a staggering variety of colors

and designs, and I of course have not the least idea which outfits indicate real importance, and which

style is worn by those whose job it is to open doors.

This motley army seems splendidly outfitted, but more than a little disorganized, to judge from the

difficulty one encounters trying to get anything done. The great majority of it is engaged, I gather, in what

we in the West would consider civilian jobs.

From the riverfront, where the English Quay still nursed a number of tall sailing ships among the

steamers, Sherwood and his escort had ridden in a horse-drawn cab, on a long bridge over the

clean-looking, swift-flowing Neva, to the Lohmatski town house. The St. Petersburg cabdrivers wore

their own distinctive uniforms, making them odd figures to Western eyes.

Sherwood, no stranger to the homes of the upper class in England and elsewhere, found the furnishings

and general elegance of the Lohmatski house imposing, as were the other mansions making up the

neighborhood. The Lohmatski dwelling was three stories high, set back from the street in its own

grounds, and surrounded by its own high wall. Attached to the house was an enclosed greenhouse or

orangery that would have done credit to the manor of a British duke.

There were an impressive number of servants in attendance, thought Sherwood. Of course he and

Gregori had been expected. The staff greeted the young heir to the family fortunes and welcomed his

guest with every appearance of genuine enthusiasm.

The servants reported that Maxim Ivanovich, Greg's younger brother, had spent most of the winter and

early spring in town, but several days ago had returned with their father to Padarok Lessa, the family

estate.

As far as Sherwood could tell, no one was saying anything about Natalya.

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On the afternoon of their arrival, Sherwood had come downstairs to see about getting his letter posted,

when, on entering the den, he found himself distracted by an impressive array of hunting trophies,

mounted on all four walls.

Most prominent were a pair of snarling bears' heads—a great brown and an equally impressive

white—whose tongues and teeth of painted plaster showed need of a good dusting. Presently Gregori

joined him, murmuring orders to a servant. Soon Sherwood stood sipping strong Russian tea and looking

up at this trophy.

He gestured with his tea glass, held in a metal frame to protect the user's fingers from the heat.

"Someone's been hunting polar bears."

Gregori gave the head a glance, but at first did not seem interested in this object which must have been

so familiar to him. "Ah, yes. Well, Father in his youth was something of a hunter. As was Grandfather

before him, I understand."

"They went out together?"

Greg paused, then said: "They couldn't have, very often. Actually I suppose they never did. Father was

only about ten years old, I understand, when Grandfather in effect abandoned the family."

"Too bad. So, I suppose the polar bear was shot at your Siberian estate? I remember your telling me

once that the family had other lands, way out in Siberia somewhere."

"I doubt this bear was shot there." Suddenly Greg looked vaguely melancholy and very Russian. "That

estate is called Padarok Sivera. It means 'The Gift of the North.'"

"Interesting name. Have you been there?"

"Not I. None of my generation have. You can ask Father about it, when we catch up with him. He made

the journey once, as a young man." Greg smiled. "I used to wonder a lot about Padarok Sivera, but I

doubt I could even find my way there without doing some research. Grandfather supposedly went by

sea, taking a ship at Archangelsk and working his way along the northern coast, which is sometimes

possible in summer. And I don't know what the inhabitants, if there currently are any, would say if a

Lohmatski showed up and proclaimed himself the landowner."

"I guess you weren't kidding when you said those lands are in a very remote area. Must be a long way

from here."

"A very long way, indeed. I expect the journey could easily take half a year."

The American thought about it. "You mean round trip?"

"No, not at all. One way. You see, in the north there are few railroads; the Trans-Siberian crosses the

continent far to the south, close to the Chinese border. And such roads as we have for horse-drawn

vehicles must be seen to be believed—even the main highways. And the rivers, with some exceptions,

run south to north; not very convenient for the traveler going west to east."

Sherwood was duly impressed. "Six months. I've really got to get hold of a map. Whatever continent I'm

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on, I always like to have some idea of the geography around me."

Then he turned, struck by a sudden recollection, and began to inspect the shelves nearby. The library

contained several thousand volumes, and he soon discovered almost a full shelf of English titles. "You

were going to show me a certain old book."

Greg, nudged out of some memory which had evidently been called up by the thought of unseen Siberia,

looked his puzzlement.

Sherwood prompted: "Back in London, you told me there was an old book in your family library, having

to do with the local legends about bears…"

"Ah, of course!" The shilling dropped, as the English put it. Greg took a couple of frowning turns around

the bookcases. He went up a ladder briefly, inspecting the higher shelves, and came back down, dusting

his hands. At last he rejoined Sherwood, looking dissatisfied. "It may be at our country house. At

Padarok Lessa, I mean, of course. The estate where we are going."

Then suddenly he turned, struck by a thought. "That's the old gentleman up there. My Grandfather, I

mean." Gregori pointed to an area of wall, free of shelves, where several photographs were mounted.

Sherwood strolled over for a close look at the indicated picture. Taken evidently around the middle of

the nineteenth century, the portrait was of a youngish man with heavy eyebrows, positioned stiffly in a

high-backed chair, a long-barreled rifle in his lap. A real antique weapon—Sherwood could see the

percussion lock. The man's intensity came through despite the formal pose—or perhaps because of it.

"A hunter," said Greg. "And a real explorer, if all the stories are true. Or even half of them."

Sherwood tried hastily to compute years and ages. "Still living?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so. Father always speaks of him in the past tense." Then Gregori frowned, as he,

too, began calculating decades in his mind. "Let's see. I was born in eighteen-eighty. Father in…

eighteen-fifty, I believe. That would put Grandfather well into the class of octogenarian, if he were still

alive. Probably not likely, for one who chose the edge of the Arctic Circle as his place of retirement—

shto?"

The concluding word had been addressed to a servant, who now came forward murmuring something,

also in Russian, and pressed a folded paper into his master's hand. Gregori after frowning briefly over the

note looked up.

"It is from my sister. Someone—one of our servants, I suppose— has informed her of our arrival."

Sherwood didn't understand.

Greg observed his puzzlement. "You see, she is here in town, but reluctant to come to the house. She

fears that the police may be watching, and that they might want to arrest her."

"Good Lord."

"She's not sure, but doesn't want to take the chance. She wants me to come and meet her, if I can do so

without being followed."

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Fred Saberhagen - Dancing Bears

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