And yet, as he turned and began to walk up the valley again, he could still feel the shadow of the unease to which he had wakened. He had a faint memory of strange voices talking all around him… talking about him. The sound of the trees intruding into his half dreams, he presumed, but…

Almost angrily, he drove the end of his staff into the soft turf in an attempt to dispel once and for all the darkness that seemed reluctant to leave him. It hadn’t been the wisest of things to do, he supposed, going to sleep up here. Especially not with something worrying the sheep.

‘Someone’s dog gone wild,’ had been the usual opin-ion of the villagers to such happenings on the few occasions that Farnor had known them in the past; an opinion that was invariably proved correct after some judicious night-watching and trap-laying. The brighter sparks in the village would even take wagers on whose dog it was liable to be.

But it was different this time, for though only a few sheep had been worried, the damage to them had been massive and the traditional conclusion had been spoken hesitantly and in subdued and anxious tones. Then, like a mysterious creak in an empty house, Farnor caught a whisper of the word ‘bear’. Somewhat awkwardly, he put it to his father, only to receive a confident shake of the head and a lip-curling dismissal of the author of the suggestion.

‘Ale-topers’ talk. Berries, grubs, the odd fish, that’s all bears eat unless they’re desperate. They’ve little taste for meat and generally sense enough to keep well away from people.’

‘They say you can get rogue bears,’ Farnor offered. ‘Bears that have…’

His father cut across the tale with his final verdict:

‘The only rogues around here are those who should be working in the fields instead of swilling ale during the day and filling people’s heads with nonsense.’ Though he added, reassuringly, ‘It’s just a big dog gone wild, that’s all, Farnor. Probably from over the hill somewhere.’