Something is wrong.
        It is too early to wake. They should still be in deepest Sleep. Mother knows it with the same certainty she knows when to breed, to hunt, and give birth. Youngest lies beneath her within easy reach. That need will leave him after Thaw. Mating season is coming, and the bigger males will devour her cubs should they stay. But for now, Youngest and Upstart are still hers.
        Mother leaves Youngest to his slumber. Upstart, true to his nature, clambers blindly out the Den. The firstborn cub is brash and brave, but it clouds his senses. Upstart cannot appreciate the eerie stillness of this odd, gray morning. The wood was always quiet during this time of Sleep, but never completely still. But now, no birds call from the treetops. Not a single creature stirs in the underbrush. Upstart fails to notice any of this even though his ears work just fine. Mother only grunts, and Upstart steps aside.
        She is a truly magnificent beast. Her thick, protective fur still shines golden in dimness. She takes a few cautious steps beyond the Den and sniffs the cold air. Her kind are the greatest trackers in the entire wood. Neither predator nor prey could hide long. Upstart mimics Mother, sniffing out any possible new scents among the rotting leaves. When he nibbles her side for acknowledgement, she gives none.
        Something is wrong.
        Fire.
        Black smoke rises from the gully north of the Den. Fire usually means the Two-Legs, but Mother does not smell them now. She would hear them too. They always bring too much noise along with weak fires weeping white smoke. Whatever burns black in the gully leaves a taste on her tongue, oily and bitter. Something lingers on her nose, something almost dry and flat as summer earth. But meaty. So strange.
        It would be safer leaving well-enough alone. There are the cubs to protect, but she cannot and will not tolerate an intruder so near her Den. Mother gives a hoarse bellow to the wood, challenging any enemy to come forth. They would flee or fight, but nothing answers. She shivers despite her armor-thick fur. This new silence is somehow worse than the black smoke.
        Her massive body cleaves the snow apart, carving a path leading back to the Den. Upstart trots behind her, happy for a new adventure. Mother hopes he learns from this. Attacking the source of the smoke head-on would be foolish. Better to skirt the perimeter, come in through the gully's mouth and trap whatever is out there. And whatever happens, it must be quick and efficient. She and the cubs should be resting till Thaw. An interruption at the wrong time could spell disaster for all three. But she forgets this problem as a familiar smell comes, clean and crisp on the cold air.
        Blood. Fresh blood.
        Mother follows her nose and is rewarded with a game trail. Faint yes, and hardly traveled this time of year, but these are her woods after all. A birch torn down by winter ice lies off to one side of the trail. Wide yellow tracks score its white bark. Mother leans closer and smells an old acquaintance. She clears away a snowbank with one swipe of her claws. There they are just below the surface: round droppings scattered along the ground. It all tells the same story. Elk is nearby.
        While Mother inspects the trail, Upstart is drawn back by the black smoke. Curiosity has led to many wonderful finds before. He always flips over rotten logs and small boulders to sniff the hidden earth. Fat, greasy Grub is always a welcome treat too. Upstart knows Mother doesn't always approve, and frequently scolds him for it. But Upstart also knows what his Mother is, what he will grow up to become. Why fear the wood? What could harm him? He turns and trots back up the path.
        Mother creeps further into the trail, stopping every so often to sniff out and pinpoint Elk's scent. The rich blood and sweat combined with the hearty musk of Elk's Mate drive Mother into full-blown charge. Both might be injured, easier to take down and ensure her and the cubs' future. Hunger and survival mask everything. There is only her prey now.
        She rounds another clump of fallen birch. Blood smears a patch of dead grass. Something crawled through here, legs kicking away drifts of snow and obscuring tracks. More blood lingers on branches far overhead. The white trees, white sky, and white snow are nearly blinding, but Mother no longer uses vision to hunt Elk. She tastes his blood on her wide tongue. Something has torn open his flesh. She follows the blood trail a little further and finally comes upon her prey.
        While never as mighty as Mother and her kind, Elk is to be respected in the wood. His crown can end many an unwary predator; his hooves slice deep and cruel as any claw. Mother has always seen him that way, but now Elk barely stands on shaking legs. His dark eyes widen as Mother makes her approach. There is no running from her. On the flatlands, he might escape, but never injured like this.
        A primal red gash draws up high on Elk's flank. Some of the blood has stopped, but more than enough lies frozen at his hooves. Bone grinds against bone inside the ragged wound, like ice on a freshly thawing lake. Whatever caused it is of little matter. Whatever it was abandoned a good kill, or perhaps the other predator could not catch Elk. Mother can. She circles her prey and makes to trap him in a narrow lane of trees. Then she sees the remains of Elk's Mate.
        Mother thinks it could have been another of her kind. But there are no tracks, no scent, and none ever hunted like this. The gut is worse than Elk's leg wound. Mate lies on her side; belly split open from throat to groin. Mother thinks Cougar might be to blame, but Mate's entrails still steam in the snow. Cougar would never abandon a fresh kill, even if Mother was coming.
        Mother shakes off this strange sight. There is still the matter of Elk. His Mate alone could feed all three of them, but an extra layer of fat will be better. Mother is grateful and so will make quick work of him. A collision, a brief struggle in the snow, and her jaws will find Elk's throat. There is that understanding between them at least. It is the way of this world. The prey runs, the predator gives chase, and their young go on living. Youngest and Upstart can grow strong off this kill, extending Mother's kind for another two generations.
        She looks back for her troublesome cub. Nothing. Elk uses the distraction and escapes further into the birch. She cannot give chase with a cub missing, and Mate is not going anywhere. Mother leaves the body and charges back along the snowy game trail. The Den still lies quiet and undisturbed.
        The gully then.
        There is no stalking now, not with a cub in danger. Low-hanging branches burst into pieces in her pursuit. The black smoke grows fainter on the sky, but even halfway up the slope, its stench chokes her. Fear of fire claws inside, but protection of her cub strikes harder. Mother clears the lip of the gully and looks down through a wall of black smoke.
        Upstart stands alongside a small stream. Before Sleep, Upstart and Youngest played here, slapping the water with their paws. Now water has become fire. Mother rushes to Upstart's side, stepping between him and the flames. Unlike her cub, Mother remembers the last great fire, how the hair on her haunches had smoked. Every animal in the wood fled that time, predator and prey side by side as their world was devoured by crackling flames. Bands of scar tissue ripple beneath Mother's fur as a reminder.
        This fire will never reach the same size and fury of that one. Heavy snow and ice keep it contained to the gully. Her cub's safety reassured, Mother inspects from a safe distance and peers through the flames. A shape finally materializes through the flickering walls of heat and shadow. Mother was wrong. It is the Two-Legs. It could be no one else.
        Two-Legs always come with another beast--horrid, snarling, snorting things carrying them swiftly over land or water. The squat object in the fire's center is surely one of them. Twin tracks lead out behind it. Mother knows where they lead: the open plain. Beyond that is Two-Legs' territory. Every year they come from the plain with their beasts to hunt prey of their own. Upstart, apparently a little braver now, creeps closer to the fire. Before Mother can push him away, the wind shifts and covers them in black smoke.
        It stings her eyes and smothers her nose, leaving her almost entirely blind to whatever danger lurks in the wood. Long trails of snot drip from her nose, freezing instantly on the ground. Mother backs out of the smoke, instincts sharp as her claws. With her sense of smell temporarily crippled, every shadow is a potential threat; every rustle in the bush a prelude to incoming attack.
        A voice comes through the cold, sending terror spiraling up Mother's spine.
        "McLeary, come in. Anybody there? Shit! Come in. Over!"
        Mother instinctively rears up and roars. The voice is so close! Only Two-Legs don't need to be close. They have taken her kind from afar in the past, a mate and cub. This voice continues on, ignoring her warning. The ground shakes as Mother comes back down onto all fours. This strangeness warrants closer inspection.
        She rounds the fire, Upstart safe behind. Two-Legs waits in the snow for her, outstretched flat on the ground, arms out, a black object in one hand, pointed directly at Mother's head. She flinches back, tearing up the earth with her claws. Two-Legs wears the false forest colors. They use it to hide among the trees to hunt. Most still run at the sight of her, especially when she catches them in the open. This one remains still. Mother sniffs, listens. No breath. No heart.
        This male will harm nothing ever again. Whatever disemboweled Elk's Mate carved Two-Legs in half. What Mother took as a single predator was really two pieces. The lower half smokes near the flames. The upper body had some life left in it at the end. A bloody path from the lower half tells his story. Two-Legs died screaming, clawing through the snow and choking on his own fear. And he did not die alone. Another of his kind burns away to blackened bone in the flames. The strange object in Two-Legs' grip continues on:
        "Jesus, man. Please tell me you're there. McLeary! Palmer! They, they overran us here! Sky just opened, and they came pouring out! Sheared open the gates like tin… If you can hear me, get moving north." The halved Two-Legs is like Elk's Mate. Whatever killed them didn't bother eating either. Mother's heart quickens on instinct.
        "-say they don't like the cold. Just gotta keep moving! I don't know anymore. They-they're spreading out all over. Seattle's gone, I think the Americans bombed it! More in Victoria. It doesn't matter. We can't stop them!"
        Mother leans in and nudges Two-Legs' outstretched arm. The warm blood sticking to her snout scares her more than the body. This kill is fresh as Elk's Mate.
        "We're going to Great Slave Lake. Try and make a stand. I think, I think we're all that's left."
        Mother crushes the squawking object beneath her paws. It hisses a final objection and dies. Two-Legs always make too much noise. Everything within the wood can either smell, feel, or hear them coming. Though not many animals would dare attack, let alone kill one. Mother ponders this, mouth agape and lower lip curled out. Maybe it was Wolf. Wolf attacks Elk if in a customary pack. Only Wolf never ripped its prey clean in half or beheaded a kill before eating. Mother scans the tree line, surveys the top of the gully. She and her cub are hemmed in here. The wood remains silent but not empty. Mother can taste it clean as blood.
        Something is wrong.
        She turns Upstart back up the gully. They should be back inside the Den. The Den is sheltered, closed off from behind, and easier to defend. The extra meat Elk would have provided is too much trouble now. Mother can make do with his Mate. She will secure the Den then secure the food, and it will have to last till Thaw. Mother keeps urging Upstart forward.
        A terrible, high whistle warbles out of the trees. Mother turns, hoping it is only the squawking box. That second, dry scent comes back on the wind. There is no life in it, none she recognizes anyway. Trees beyond the gully shiver in something's passing. Some of the icy branches high up the trunks clack and shear off. Upstart mewls but does not run. Mother has taught her cubs well. The safest place to be is still near her side.
        She lets out a harsh burst of air from between her teeth. No warning now. The trees fall silent, but every sense tells her the unseen intruder still watches. Mother sniffs the air. The intruder lurks beyond the fire, trying to hide within the weakening shadows. It does not stalk, and it travels alone. Mother can't even tell how many legs it goes upon. Dry branches and underbrush stick to slick, rubbery flesh like when Snake creeps along the ground. Mother backs up the slope, never taking her eyes off the gully.
        A tree explodes from unseen impact and crashes into the fire, sending sparks up like an angry nest of Wasps. Whatever is coming will be on them soon. Mother rears back up onto her hind legs, stretches out her muscular neck, and lets loose a bone-shattering roar from her mighty jaws. Every single tooth and claw readied for battle.
        The unseen intruder accepts her challenge with another whistling cry. The last line of brush at the gully's edge tears open and the creature slithers into sight. Mother goes back down on all fours, ears twitching and nose quivering in wonder. It is unlike any of her brethren from the wood. The ruddy brown hide is completely hairless. It slithers and hops through the snow on a squirming mass of long, root-like legs. Only some of the legs hover above its body like Snake, snapping at empty air with two sharp claws. It is not Cougar. It is not Wolf. If anything, it reminds Mother of Grub and Worm and Spider.
        It circles the fire, sliding smoothly over the empty ground like the stream over rocks. Mother's poor vision finally makes out the creature's eyes, a cluster of green orbs at the round head. The creature turns them upward to Mother and Upstart. A hooked beak slides out from between two red flaps below the head and pierces the air with another alien whistle. Whatever it is, it does not hunt. It killed Elk's Mate and the Two-Legs, leaving them to rot in the snow. It will try to do the same for Mother and her cubs. She charges.
        The steep gully walls aid her, turning her body into a battering ram with teeth. She aims for the creature's smooth sides. Nothing can stand up to a direct charge. It will fall beneath her weight and fury, flesh exposed and vulnerable to her swift claws and teeth. Prey has fallen like this before, reduced to nothing more than a bag of broken bones and meat.
        The creature leaps at the last instant, going straight up on its legs like springs. Mother tries directing course, then stopping, but now the steep descent and her mighty frame work against her. Momentum drives her down clumsily into the snow and rock only a short distance from the fire. Then the creature is on her.
        The clawed limbs tangle up in her fur, pinching and biting her back. They soon worm through her armor and find flesh. Mother roars as bloody chunks are scraped away by the snapping limbs. She manages to catch one in her jaws and bites down. It is like the flesh of a giant Grub. Bitter, bright blood bursts from between teeth. Mother roars again, rearing up, trying to shake the creature from her back. It answers her by unfolding its beak and reducing her shoulder to red ribbons.
        Mother slams back against the gully floor. If she can't tear this thing apart, she will crush it. They both land hard against the cold ground, but the creature squirms out from beneath her instantly after impact. Mother rolls over and backs away from her new enemy. This is all wrong. Nothing about this fight makes sense. There are too many limbs, she's never seen anything this large with a beak, and there is something far too familiar in those obscene green eyes. There is a certain cunning, a kind shared only by Two-Legs. The green eyes flash as the creature stalks her around the fire, leaping from snowdrift to snowdrift in a frenzied mass of flesh. Mother breaks off and makes for the slope and her cub.
        The creature simply lashes out its longest limb. Pain explodes from Mother's right, rear leg. Bones turn soft as water, and Mother collapses into the snow. The creature gives a triumphant cry and leaps down onto Mother's head. Freezing snow and dirt fill her nostrils, darkness swallows her eyes, and bones scream with pain. Several snapping claws lift her up and drag her back through the snow. Then she is flying through the air and colliding with the flaming wreckage. The smell of her own burning flesh comes back to her now. Suddenly, she is a cub again running scared, alone, and in pain through the wood. Every other inhabitant fleeing for their lives, fear and flame becoming the entire world.
        The creature leaves her spent and dying in the snow. There will be no killing blow, at least not yet. There is no understanding with this thing like Elk. Instead, it makes for Upstart. The cub is halfway up the slope, standing his ground but shaking from top to bottom. When he cries out for Mother, the creature answers with a shrill scream.
        Mother can barely rise to her feet, let alone charge. Everything in her body tells her to stop, and everything in her instinct forces her on. When she tries rolling back over, greater pain fills her entire leg. She stands, grunting with effort, on her other side, and finds shaky footing. Here the fear and pain lessen. If she can stand on this side, there still might be a way to attack, but this new enemy deserves a different tactic. An attack like last time will only end with her cub dead.
        Mother chuffs out a spray of blood and frozen air. The creature blocks her view of Upstart. Her new approach is hardly stealthy like Cougar or Wolf, but the creature is no longer concerned with her. There is no fear of her. Mother steadies herself and aims for the creature's hindquarters. She will teach it fear. The creature is certainly not from this cold land. Every animal in the forest, from Elk, to Wolf, and even Two-Legs know the rule: never come between a mother and her young.
        Snapping arms writhe up for Upstart's exposed throat, and then Mother is back. The creature turns just in time to meet Mother's brutal maw head-on. Bone cracks somewhere beneath the rubbery, red skin, and the creature squeals in pain. Mother's teeth clamp down on a cluster of eyes and more bitter fluid pops on her tongue. The creature's squeal becomes a high-pitched scream.
        It does not strike out with any limbs now. Every single one is focused squarely on wrenching away from pain. Mother catches a mass of them in her mouth, but this time she does not bite down. Instead, she pulls back, tugging on the limbs like a stubborn tree root. Flesh splits and tears, but Mother holds on, carrying the creature back down into the gully. She comes down hard on her injured leg, but keeps tugging and finally swings the creature back into the flames. Now the two have come to an understanding. Now, this creature becomes like any other animal of the wood. Flame is a universal enemy. When it touches the creature's skin, Mother recognizes the fear rolling off it in waves.
        She dives in with claws now, ripping at the remaining eyes and weakened limbs as the fire attacks the creature from the rear. Her hair smolders and smokes, but Mother fights on. A few limbs slash again and again at her back and haunches. She ignores the stabbing pain from the fresh wounds. With each strike, she bites down harder, thrashes her head violently, and finally, something gives way inside the creature with a gristly rending. It collapses back onto the fire, and fresh flame devours the creature's hide.
        Mother wishes she could rear up again, smash this horrible thing into the ground again and again till nothing remains but mud. But with each breath, more blood sprays across the snow. Despite the fire, cold takes root somewhere inside her. She takes Upstart by the nape and hurries up the slope. He isn't full-grown yet, but she still struggles to hold him in her mouth. Blood trickles out from between her teeth, turning his fur slick. Luckily, the cub remains motionless in her grip.
        Mother's mind fills with holes of bottomless pain. She knows what the cold inside her brings. Three cubs have come before these two. Two gave her harsh lessons in death. One taken by Two-Legs, the second lost in a rushing river after Thaw. But now, her cub still lives. Pure instinct drives her up the slope and back onto flat ground. Even though she may die, something inside tells her the cubs will be alright. Both will live if they can just make it back to the Den.
        Mother is too focused to hear the broken whistling or scrabbling claws following her up the slope. Upstart roars in warning to his busy Mother. Shaky, yes. Small, yes. But a defiant roar all the same. Upstart roars again. Mother finally turns her ringing head. A few of the creature's limbs still work. They slither to any tree roots or rocks they can reach, and haul the rest of the mutilated creature up to meet them.
        Mother reaches the top of the slope and lets Upstart go. She can smell her Den and its dry, safe confines. Youngest is alone there, his soft breath echoing in her ears. Upstart does not run back home to join his brother, though. He stands and faces the next attack alongside Mother.
        The creature wrenches itself up the lip of the gully. Slashed eyes and burnt flesh drip into the snow, draining its life bit by painful bit. Its longest, wicked arm still works. It rises swiftly and slashes its pincers together, the sound breaking the air like a whip. The blood-stained beak glows in the coming dawn, hungry for more.
        Mother makes ready for her final charge. Upstart does likewise. The creature, far more cunning than Mother gave it credit for, hunkers down into the snow, attack arm raised. It will go for the top of her neck, try and lodge itself there. She will let it. Let those hooked arms get stuck there in the hearty lump of muscle and fat. Mother plans for remaining eyes. They can go off the slope together, and it can die blind and broken beneath her. Only the cubs matter now.
        Each enemy is so preoccupied with oncoming attack, neither looks to the side. Elk gallops despite his wounded leg and blazes past Mother and Upstart before they can charge. The rising sun shines high behind his antlers, turning his crown into a pillar of white flame. He leaps over fallen logs, lands bleating in pain, charges on, and lowers the deadly spear points.
        Antlers meet flesh, and the creature's head is sliced open on impact. Elk keeps moving, driving the buzzing, squealing thing on his antlers back over the gully. Limbs scrabble for purchase but find only open air. The antlers burst out the creature's back, flooding the ground with more harsh blood. The creature lets out a final cry of pain and goes still. Hanging off Elk's antlers, it looks no more dangerous than any other prey. Elk shakes his head and lets the creature tumble down the slope.
        Mother eases her tensed muscles as Elk retreats from the edge. One of his larger antlers has broken off inside the creature, but there are still enough. Only Elk's eyes meet Mother's, and both predator and prey come to a new understanding. This time of Sleep, with her cubs still growing, Mother should make a meal of him. Only that was the old way. Something went wrong, and the world both knew has changed forever. There will be plenty more killing in the wood, but Elk's and Mother's are done.
        She hurries Upstart back into the Den, pushing his rump with her nose. She is too weak to carry him. He still does not understand, but he and Youngest will have time. If Mother can help it, her cubs will live on. Upstart and Youngest are nearly old enough to survive without her and her milk. Mother hopes so, at least. The hope will have to be enough. Mother's vision darkens despite the brightening morning. Upstart mewls from inside the Den and Mother growls a final warning to her offspring. He heeds her and snuggles back down against Youngest for warmth. There is little else left to do. Mother leaves.
        The wood remains quiet for her. The birds no doubt fled while Mother and her cubs slept. She leaves the shrouded safety of her trees and comes to the endless plain. As a cub, she was taught to fear such a place. There is no need for fear any longer. More Two-Legs lie dead in the dirt, their bodies frozen hard. More fires burn in the sky beyond. More of the creature's kind lie here too. The Two-Legs' rolling, snorting beasts are now silent. The creatures lay burning or bleeding, some half-in mighty machines of their own--one enemy old, the other new. Even the Two-Legs with their sly ways could only bring down some.
        Mother walks on till she comes to the wide river. She found a good mate here once. Before that, she learned to catch Salmon as a cub. Things had been easy before the Two-Legs came. Now, something had come for them. The river is where her life began. Mother can feel it; this is the right spot. The sun fully emerges from the clouds, its own nightly hibernation done. Mother settles into the bloody snow on the plain, feeling cold for the last time, and sleeps again.

        Upstart smells the burning creature beyond the slope. It will trouble him no more, but Mother is gone. Youngest sleeps on despite the strange smells, sounds, and sights that occasionally pass by the Den. Weird whistles echo through the air, met with growls of rage, howls of pain, and bugles of triumph. Fire fills parts of the sky, and other times the whole world is silent. The very wood is at war. Upstart and Youngest will face it come Thaw. Upstart calls for Mother sometimes, but she never comes. Upstart closes his eyes and goes back to the long Sleep with Youngest, unsure of what world waits for them upon waking.