"Just then Sitting-Boy let out a great laugh and he came running out of the field. The bear cub was chasing him, and Sitting-Boy laughed and laughed as he ran. It was a laugh so strong and sweet that the siskins in the trees stopped to listen, and the beaver in the river came to see, and even mother bear turned her head to watch.

"Two-Moons was very afraid for Sitting-Boy and she said "Mother bear, I am thankful to your little one for showing my son how to use his legs. See how well they play together."

"And mother bear called her cub to her, and they turned and left the strawberry fields to the women. That's when they gave my uncle the name Runs-from-Bears."

Jennet said, "I would like to meet Two-Moons and Stands-Tall and Runs-from-Bears and your aunt Many-Doves and your grandmother and all the rest of your people."

"Stands-Tall was killed in battle," Hannah said. "But if you come to visit us in the endless forests, you will meet the others." She looked at the hump of fur in the middle of the pit. "I have known many bears, but I have never seen one such as this. Is she ill?"

"Ach, ne. The hounds wi' bring her tae her feet soon enough. Last summer I saw her break the back o' a dog as big as a sow wi' one swipe o' her paw."

"Where did she come from?"

"A tinker called Alf Whittle bought her aff a ship come frae America, when she was sma'. They say he's taken her sae far as the Aberdeen fair."

A little boy came louping by and began pelting the bear with pebbles. The mass of flesh rippled and the great head reared up and around.

Hannah felt herself go very cold, as if a new wind had come down off snowy mountains. The bear was rolling her head back and forth, her broad wet nose quivering. The eye sockets were empty.

"She smells somethin'." Jennet stepped back.

"Me," Hannah said. "She smells me." She raised her voice and spoke in her own language. "When a pine needle falls in the forest, eagle sees it, deer hears it, and bear smells it. Do you smell me, sister?"

The bear was struggling to her feet now, her head swinging back and forth as she mewled, the sound a child makes when she is looking for comfort. Hannah stepped into the pit, and Jennet grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Ye canna," she screeched. "She'll lay ye open like a ripe plum."

The bear had come as close as the chain would allow. She stood up on her hind legs and her paws hung down before her, claws long and curved and blackened with age and blood. From toe to the top of her head she was covered with scars, and her fur was matted and filthy.

"They put out her eyes," Hannah said. "To keep her in line."

"Aye," said Jennet uneasily. "But she's a grand fighter any road. Shall we stay and watch?"

"No," Hannah said. "I won't watch that."

Jennet had a few coins in her apron pocket and she bought ginger nuts from the sullen girl behind the table. "For Granny," she explained, tucking them away with one reluctant look. She led Hannah through the lanes until they came to a little cottage--it could be no larger than the smallest cabin in Paradise--surrounded by a garden closely planted with cabbage, leeks, potatoes, and carrots. Beans spiraled up a fence overhung by an apple tree. Neat beds of herbs clustered around the path to the door: sage, costmary, gillyflowers and clary, sorrel, chamomile, mint and verbena, borage and feverfew. Very different from the gardens at Carryckcastle, and so much more like home that Hannah wanted to sit right down and stay there for the rest of the day. She paused to run her hand over a spreading savin bush, the flattish evergreen needles prickling lightly.

When a pine needle falls in the forest, eagle sees it, deer hears it, and bear smells it.

"Granny Laidlaw was hoosekeeper at Carryckcastle afore her sight began tae fade. She's fu' blind these five years, but naught else fails her," Jennet said. "And here's ma auntie Kate."

The woman who came through the door with a basket over her arm was a younger version of Mrs. Hope, with blond hair tucked up under a neat white cap.

"Ye've come, then, she'll be pleased. I'm awa' tae fetch butter--dinna gae until ye've had some tea."

The cottage had rushes underfoot and a ceiling so low that Hannah could reach it if she stretched up on tiptoe. A speckled dog was sleeping near the hearth, where a kettle hung over the fire.

In the corner two women were shelling beans, one of them so small and delicately built that Hannah first mistook her for a child. But the face that peered out from a ruffled cap was old, indeed, and the blue eyes had gone as cloudy as marbles. Her hearing was good, for she turned her head toward them at the first creak of the door.

"Jennet, hen. I was hopin' ye'd come the-day. I smell ginger nuts, and ye've broucht a visitor, too. Is it the wee Indian lass, Gelleys?"

"Aye." The other woman peered at Hannah with her whole face screwed into a knot. And then, with voice raised to a screech: "What are ye called, lass?"

"Red skin doesna make her deef, Gelleys." Granny Laidlaw shook with laughter. "Come hen, come closer. Tell me, how are ye called?"

"Hannah Bonner, mum."

"But ye speak English!" Gelleys squinted even harder, as if something in Hannah's face might explain the language that came out of her mouth.

"She speaks Scots, too," Jennet said, quite fiercely. "And her mother's language, wait till ye hear."

"Dinna fash yersel', lassie." Gelleys put down her bowl of beans. "I meant nae harm. Ma grandson Charlie tolt me aboot ye when he came awa frae the Isis."