Branden’s ears rang and his stomach churned. “What do you mean? I just heard you make one.”

“I said nothing,” the Olonto replied. “The Seven Wonders know my mind and heart. I need not speak during the ritual.” His brown eyes flickered. “What did you hear?”

Scarcely hearing the question, Branden counted and recounted. “You spoke of—”

“I said nothing.”

“Fine,” Branden sighed, rolling his eyes, “you thought, felt, or otherwise knew of Seven Wonders. Anyway I heard you speak of them. But I only counted six.”

The furry head above him tilted. “Of which six did you hear?”

“Water, fire, earth, sky, plant, and animal,” answered Branden slowly, running the poem through his mind. “Other parts don’t make sense either. Of course I know some hold the heretical belief that ten so-called gods made the world - and one made each of the Great Peoples. But who besides a Goblin, if even they, would worship or thank Surgoth?” He shook his head, clutching a polished bronze brooch wrought in the likeness of a sheathed sword. “It need not be said that I worship Hanor, the one true God, hallowed be His name.”

Slowly, the Olonto nodded. “You begin to know. You do not yet understand.”

“I’ll not know or understand the worship of any false god, heathen.”

“The Olonto do not try to convert the Great Peoples,” said the creature with a ponderous shake of his head. “I spoke of the Seven.”

Beginning to regret the return to his body and conversation with the Olonto, Branden took a deep breath. “Oh, you really spoke of them this time? Not just me hearing things? Then tell me the seventh Wonder.”

“No. You will understand when you are ready.”

“Blasted creature,” Branden muttered.

The Olonto roared in answer. Like a grizzly bear’s but much louder, it boomed through the surrounding forest. “My name is not ‘creature,’” he said, voice calm. “I am Earth-standing-firm-under-sky-flowing-free-over-fur—”

“Great,” interrupted Branden with a yawn, “I’ll call you Furry.”

Furry regarded him a moment before unleashing another ear-splitting roar.

“Hey, I’m not the one who named you, Furry...” Branden trailed off as a hulking brown mountain ambled into the clearing. For a moment he stared at the bear. “Thanks, but I’d rather fly. Put me back in the hawk. Better yet, an eagle.”

With a shake of his head, Furry frowned. “No. The hawk gave a week of his life. You cannot ask for more.”

“Find another one then.”

The frown deepened. “This noble bear is willing. You may accept his gift. You may also spend the next three weeks in your own body.”

As he lumbered towards the forest, crushing plants underfoot, Branden wondered whether a grizzly could kill an Olonto. The poem, heard even more clearly this ritual, echoed in his mind as his human thoughts faded away.

He soon found the life of a bear far different than that of a hawk, though equally poignant. The world seemed earthier and more solid, though less keen and sharp. Plodding along, he usually found no need to hurry. Honey dripped from the comb, salmon wriggled in the stream, and flowers waved in the breeze. Everything felt small and fragile; the mighty elk fled before him and racoons scrambled about his feet. For himself he felt no fear.

Yet his life belonged to others. From the first moment he had left the clearing, his limbs plodded their way mile after mile to his den.

Two cubs awaited him.

Despite his raw physical power and abundant food, not a moment passed without care. He still savored each berry, each fish, and each deer carcass, yet the terror of losing his cubs loomed like a storm. If they remained near and visible, the clouds lightened. When the cubs vanished from sight or wolves howled in the distance, all grew dark and foreboding. They became his world.

Two brown balls of fur, they no longer nursed but needed his help to find food. Slowly, patiently, with many repetitions, he taught them to catch salmon, to grub for tubers, and to climb for eggs. No haste or frustration marred his training. Each little victory became his triumph; he existed outside himself.

As another dusk settled on the forest, Branden ambled behind his cubs, glowing at their increasing coordination and confidence. One day, he somehow felt, they would depart forever. He ached with emptiness and exhaled with relief at the thought. Light rain began to fall as they climbed the gentle slopes to their den.

Gradually the drizzle became sheets and the sheets a torrent. Little streams of water ran down the hill, taking leaves and twigs with them. Still they maintained their easy pace, unperturbed by the downpour. One of his cubs stumbled, sliding gently down to the bottom of the slope. Branden turned his head, relieved to find his cub still at the edge of sight. Shepherding his other charge, he took the first thudding step down.

Two grey shapes leapt upon the cub faster than lightening. Branden roared and thundered down in an instant. Blood already stained the leaves. The shapes darted away. Roaring again, Branden beat the air, standing over his fallen cub. The grey assassins turned and halted. They howled.

One, two, three, four, five more wolves emerged from the shadows. Snarling, they circled slowly, patiently, deliberately. Branden found himself imprisoned in a ring of fang and fur. Inch by inch, the seven grey shapes tightened the noose. Branden roared rage and defiance. The attackers halted, staring at Branden. His heart thudded. The cub still breathed.

Snarling, the wolves resumed their advance. Turning left, right, forward, back, Branden desperately lunged at their nearest attacker. As it fled another hurled itself at Branden’s back. Whirling about, Branden swung his paw and struck a glancing blow. The wolf hit the mud, slid, and flung itself back into the fray.

About the wounded cub a savage battle raged. Biting and clawing, the grey shapes circled Branden. Ever he tried to crush them piecemeal; they retreated before him and assailed his back. A dozen wounds bled; Branden fought on. One wolf lay motionless in the dirt.

A howl up the slope pierced the night. The three remaining attackers turned towards the howl and bolted.

Flinging himself down, Branden nuzzled his cub. One heartbeat, two, three... and it stirred! Shaking, bloody, his cub stood, lived! Branden felt his heart break with joy. With an eye on his ward, he started wearily back up the slope.

It stood empty. Stricken dumb, Branden stared for a long moment. He bounded forward, running with terrifying speed in each direction. Owls hooted and flew out of his path. He trembled and roared, but the night made no answer.

Eventually he dragged himself back to his remaining cub, escorting it step by step to their suddenly spacious den. Wolves howled in the distance.