Hali and the Bear

     In a small village at the foot of the hills, bordered by a snaking river to one side and a deep forest to the other, there lived a boy named Hali. He was the son of Tahi and Naia, a farmer and a healer, and he was a quiet, unusual child. He didn’t like to play with other children. He wasn’t loud or disruptive. As he grew, other villagers began to whisper about Tahi and Naia’s strange son. “What is wrong with him?” they would say. “Why doesn’t he run? Why doesn’t he dance? What sort of child has nothing to say?”
     But Naia understood her son far better than anyone else did. “He has plenty of things to say," she told the villagers. "He just doesn’t have the tools he needs to say them. Give him time.”
     The villagers continued to mutter, skeptical, but sure enough, as the years passed, Hali found his tools. He began to sing, to play the flute. He spoke in music.
     “He is still strange,” the villagers would say. “What sort of boy sings, but does not speak?”
     “Music is the language of the gods,” Naia would reply. “It speaks more than words ever will.”
     Hali knew what people thought of him. The other children in the village called him names, cast him looks over their shoulders. He knew they thought he should learn to fight, not to sing. He should become a soldier, so he could protect his people when the wars came. He watched as other children his age trained to become warriors. You should join them, he always thought. But he never did.
    Years passed. The weather grew drier, and it became more difficult to grow crops. Hali spent less time playing music, and more time tending to his family’s fields.
    One day, riders on tall horses rode into the village. They wore bright uniforms, and carried the banner of the king. They dismounted in the village square, and asked to meet with the village Elders.
    By the time the Elders arrived, a crowd had gathered. The Elders spoke to the riders, and then turned to address the crowd.
    “What is it?” someone cried. “What do they want?”
    “We have not paid our yearly fee,” replied one of the Elders. “We owe them a percentage of our crops.”
    “We have no crops!” someone said angrily.
    “We haven’t had rain in weeks. What are we supposed to do?”
    “It does not matter,” said one of the riders. “This was our agreement.”
    “Is there no other way to make the payment?” said one of the Elders.
    The rider paused. “There may be,” he said. “Of late, there has been a great bear terrorizing parts of the kingdom, eating livestock. If one of you were to stop it, I am sure the King would forgive you for this year’s payment, considering the resources you would save.”
    “Then we will do it,” replied the Elder. “Where can it be found?”
    “We believe it can be found in a cave at the heart of the forest. If you can vanquish it before the moons align, we will forgive your debt.”
    So the Elders chose someone to find and kill the bear; a warrior girl named Saska, only a few years older than Hali. She was sent into the forest with a spear in hand.
    Two days later she returned, weaponless, exhausted, claw marks on her arm. Defeated. And so a second warrior was sent to kill the bear, and when he did not succeed, a third.
    The aligning of the moons was drawing nearer. A dozen different people had been sent into the forest, but none had been successful. So the Elders summoned all of the villagers to the village square to hold a meeting.
    “Who will go next?” they asked.
    Silence. No one wanted to do it. They were all afraid.
    Hali turned to look at his parents. He thought of how hard they had worked over the years, trying to get their crops to grow. They needed this task to be done. He wanted to help them. But Hali was no warrior.
    Maybe this isn’t a task for warriors, thought Hali. Twelve have tried, and all have failed.
    So Hali stepped forward. “I will do it,” he said.
    Hali wandered the forest all day, until he found the cave at the heart of the forest. He lit a torch, took a deep breath, and walked into its dark stone mouth.
    It was cold inside the cave, and despite the torch, Hali could hardly see. He had no idea where he was going. Every time he rounded a corner, he expected to see gleaming eyes, a flash of teeth. Death was surely waiting for him.
    But when Hali finally found the bear, it was not waiting behind a corner. It was on the other side of the cave, watching him from a distance. Cautiously, Hali took one step forward, then another. The bear did not move, and did not drop its gaze. He was fifteen feet away. Ten feet. He raised his sword.
    The bear lunged, knocking the weapon out of Hali’s hand. He stumbled backwards, dropping the torch, and the bear swiped at him with a huge paw, knocking him to the ground. Hali’s arm stung where the bear’s claws cut his flesh.
    The torch flame flickered out, leaving Hali in the dark. He sensed the bear above him, felt the cold stone pressed against his back. He fumbled for his sword on the ground, searching, and his hands grasped something. It was long and round. A sword hilt? No. His flute. It must have fallen out of his pocket.
    What can I do? Hali thought wildly. I can’t fight, I can’t see, and I’m about to be eaten.
    So Hali did the only thing he could do, the only thing he had ever been good at. He picked up the flute and began to play.
    It was quiet at first, difficult to hear over the beating of his heart, but it did not take him long to find the rhythm. If I am going to die, thought Hali, it might as well be while I’m playing music.
    But the bear did not attack. Somehow, Hali could sense it calming. So he moved from the slow dissonant tune he had been playing into something brighter. His fingers seemed to find their place, dancing over the flute. Cautiously, he stood.
    He didn’t know where the bear was, and even if he had, there was nothing he could do except continue to play and hope that it didn’t attack him. He stumbled around until he found one of the tunnels, and then began to wander, searching for a way out.
    He went on that way for what felt like forever. He could sense the bear following him, but he ignored it, never turning around. Eventually, he found his way out into the forest.
    It was morning. The sky was a soft grey, slowly brightening between the trees. Hali’s legs were exhausted, his fingers stiff. He sat down on a tree stump, his flute slipping from his fingers, too tired to go on.
    When he finally looked up, he saw that the bear was standing at the entrance of the cave, watching him with curiosity, its head tilted. When Hali sang out a sweet, simple melody, it padded forward and lay down next to him.
    When Hali returned to his village, the villagers were surprised to see a bear loping along behind him. “What have you done?” they asked. “Is this the beast you were sent to kill?"
    “We were told to stop it, not to kill it,” replied Hali. “It is no longer a threat.” 
    And so the villagers received their reward. As time passed, the drought lessened, and it became easier to grow crops. Soon the village was prospering again.
    This was many years ago. Now, if you go to those hills, you will see a man and a bear walking together, on and on. The man rarely speaks, but he is always singing.
    When visitors come to the village, they think it is strange. “Who are they?” they ask. “What sort of man sings, but does not speak?” 
    They want an explanation, a story. But the villagers only smile and reply, “Music is the language of the gods. It speaks more than words ever will.”