The Silver Snow Bear

By Jet Pariera-Jenks, age 12

1249

The King received many gifts: ostriches, lions, tigers, spices, sweetmeats and scented candles with which to light his bedchambers. But this was new even for King Henry III; this was a strange creature, like a living ghost of the dancing brown-backed bears that swiped at their muzzles, imprisoned in the Tower of London like criminals, just so Henry could marvel at his wonders. But this bear was larger, a walking snowdrift in the royal court. King Henry took it all in his stride, even though he had never before seen a beast like this. It was, after all, a gift from the King of Norway and to be treated with gratitude, but not ignorance or suprise.

A rope was looped around the bear's neck, and a light mesh mask fastened around her mouth. She was not dangerous, but unpredictable with strangers; and it was hundreds of strangers who flocked to see her. Word travelled fast and far, through London and beyond; people rich and poor came in little groups and gatherings to see the 'ghost bear', the 'ice monster'. None left disappointed. The polar bear was led down to the muddy Thames where the end of the rope restraining her was hooked around a stout and snarled tree stump. Her muzzle was removed and she yawned, stretching her jaws wide, showing keenly pointed canines to the onlookers. The small crowd gasped, stumbling over each other in a frenzied scrabble to get away from what they naturally assumed to be a display of ferocity, but the bear merely ambled lazily down to the muddy riverbank. She leaped lightly into the water just beyond it, like the simple act of jumping between the icebergs of her home. But to the cheering Londoners this was a brilliant stunt. Although I'm not sure how many remained clapping when a wave of filthy water from the impact splattered stinking sludge on their Sunday best!

The Norwegian bear was named Yrsa, meaning wild she-bear, out of respect for her Viking origin. Her life was confined to one of the tower's menagerie rooms, and once a day she was released on a rope to wallow in the river and catch fish with which to stave her hunger. 

And still people came, not crowds really, but transfixed passers-by, always some onlooker for Yrsa to show off to.

As the people came, Londoners began carving, whittling, shaping; suddenly souvenirs were available, wooden, tin, clay and stone bears, mementos of the living ghost of London. Down in one particularly dark alleyway, lined with shops and rickety houses, a silversmith put down the shoe buckle he was making, and began to shape a little silver bear. He wasn't wealthy, but fairly well off, still, a few models to sell at the new attraction would help. A hot meal or a new coat, may be even enough to pay off his debt.

Many bears were made in the silversmith's shop; he set up a stall by the riverbank where families passed, the wealthier ones exchanging a handful of coins for little bears; the poor confined to merely gazing and wishing.

The girl was like any other child of a rich background; she had long hair framing a gentle face with blue eyes, hidden behind a fur-trimmed hood, a heavy dress hitched up out of the mud of the streets, she was rich, or at any rate, her family were, an embroidered dress and finely crafted gold fillet to hold her long hair back showed that.

The girl reached out for a bear, eager and curious, both at the same time but her father touched her shoulder, he motioned towards her meticulously clean hands with a stern frown.

A look of irritation crossed her face and she extracted a glove from one of her many hidden pockets, slipping it on, she picked up a silver bear, turning it in her hands, examining its shape and posture. She smiled; her father, with a curt nod, handed the silversmith some coins. The girl kept on smiling. Her family walked on, but she trailed behind them, looking at the little figure in her gloved palm, then, with barely a moment of hesitation, she ripped off the glove and threw it on the cobbles, she definitely stuck her tongue out at her father's retreating back, before skipping to catch up with her parents.

The girl had begged her parents for hours, they were about to leave London and would not return for simply ages. She desperately wanted to see the bear again; to watch her fish and wash in the river, see her play in the mud of the Thames, and she wanted one last time to see her shake every clinging droplet of water out of her fur coat, like a huge white dog.

Her parents relented eventually, maybe they secretly wanted to see the bear again too, either that, or they were sick of their daughter's pestering!

The stars were starting to come out as the little girl stood with her parents, watching the white shadow pace up and down the bank. Suddenly the bear stood on her hind legs, proud and magnificent - Queen of the ice.

The day was drawing to a close, and people were beginning to head home to their warm firesides, the streets of London turned ugly at night. But for Yrsa a cold cell and a colder welcome was all that awaited her; little comfort for a friendless bear. When the crowd turned away, she dropped down, caked with grime, lonely, sad, pining for the familiar, freezing waters of home. No one saw her grief. No one looked back to comfort her, no one, except the girl who turned for a final glimpse and saw her without the mask; without the pretence. She ran forward to the slumped shape, but a grip on her shoulder startled her. The silver bear dropped from her hand as she was pulled away. The little bear was kicked and booted, shoved sideways by feet in leather shoes and sent skittering across the cobbled street, down into the mud of the riverbank. And no one even noticed.

Years passed, then centuries, Yrsa, wild she-bear died, her presence fading from memories into the mists of time. And the souvenir bear began to shift upwards towards the light. Mud eased out from above him and the darkness finally began to brighten...

1949

The bleeping became incessant, annoying even, which was strange considering that the boy might have been about to unearth an undiscovered hoard of buried treasure! Only it wasn't so much as unearth as 'unsludge'; the Thames hid its secrets well, even those above water. The boy shoved the spade deeper, expecting nothing and started when the blade scraped hard metal, he levered it out. As he prized apart the cloggy lump, mushing the muck before throwing it away, careful not to miss anything. Then he felt a hard shape, cold and smooth. It was shiny too when he scraped the dirt away. A large dog perhaps, or, yes, that was it, a bear; a silver bear. His face screwed up in delight and he waded out of the mud, the gloop sucking at his wellington boots. Once on firm ground he ran towards a man crouched amongst an array of pots and trays, examining the pieces of metal neatly arranged and labelled within. "Dad! Dad! Guess what I got!" shouted the boy cradling the little bear in his hand. The man started, looking up into the boy's eager face and smiled, "What son?" he asked. The boy gently placed the figure in his father's hands and grinned happily. "I found a bear!" he laughed. His father pulled his son close and they gazed at the silver bear as it lay in the weather worn palm. His beard twitched, a sure sign that he was smiling and his eyes twinkled behind mud spattered spectacles. " You know what son?" he said, "I think you did!"

"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked his father, as he lifted his son onto his shoulders. "Yeah!" replied the boy, " I'm sure!" as they headed into the crowd.

London Zoo was packed, hundreds of people shoved into each other. And millions more would visit, waiting with bated breath to see Brumus the polar bear, the first to be born in England. Everyone sighed, cooed and laughed when he emerged, a little fluffy ball of fur, coal black nose snuffling. He tripped over his paws, tumbling head over heels to bump his head on one of the walls of his enclosure, cries of adoration followed and then cries of surprise, for among the crowd, carried high above the many heads was a baby.

This was none other than Prince Charles; bearly one year old the baby prince was a similar age to Brumus and he desperately wanted to see him. He stared at the polar bear in childish fascination.

The little boy, still on his father's shoulders, lent over to the baby, and, with the whole of London Zoo watching, he tentatively reached out, gently touching the baby Prince's hand. "Hello!" He said, "My name is Freddy, I've got something for you!" Freddy turned to the young prince's nanny "Only, would you mind taking it? It might get lost if he holds it." She smiled and nodded and the boy placed his little silver bear into the nanny's outstretched palm.

30 years later - 1949

Like all royalty Prince Charles received many gifts; sombreros, swords and shortbread. but the little shining silver bear had always puzzled him, questions tarnished its silver pelt. Who was the boy who had given it to him? Where was he now? Why did he give it? So when an article was posted in a newspaper about a little silver bear Prince Charles felt inclined to read it. It was about a 10 year old boy who had found a silver bear in the mud of the Thames before gifting it to the baby Prince Charles on his outing to see Brumus, the 'winter bear', at London Zoo. Freddy, now 40, was considering writing a children's book all about his royal little bear. Prince Charles smiled, and picked up the phone.

It's not everyday you receive a personal phone call from a member of the royal family. And Freddy had not been expecting this at all. They talked in great detail about the bear, of its fine features, its style, its age before Prince Charles said, "As a sign of my gratitude I would like to return this bear to you, as a token of friendship between us."

So the little silver bear came to stand on the mantelpiece in Freddy's house and when Freddy passed away the bear made its way to a house clearance sale, eventually turning up on a shelf in a rather interesting shop called Vintiques of Surrey, attached with a unique history for those who cared to look.

2023

King Charles III looked out of the windows at the many gardens of Buckingham Palace; The rose garden was just coming into bloom and the wildflower garden was humming with bees and butterflies in the early morning air.

He was thinking about his son, William, next in line to the throne, soon to take his place as king, and Charles's grandson, George, after him. He thought about the sweet little boy, and sighed, knowing he wouldn't be here to see him grow up to be a handsome young man, nor to see his coronation. He wondered whether he could find him a suitable present, a coronation gift in advance; it was simple to do; but what should he give him? Nothing too lavish; a small heirloom maybe?

Then he remembered a family dinner party from a few years ago; George had sat next to him, colouring a picture of a polar bear with intense concentration. It took him back to another little boy, holding out a small silver bear to him when he was no more than a baby. Then, years later, staring at a newspaper article and hearing the familiar dialling tone of the phone. He wondered what had happened to the silver bear. Maybe he could track down the family who told its story to the newspaper all those years ago. The name came to him, Freddie. Charles rang for his secretary.

George was a little bundle of joy, blond hair flopping over his eyes, an animal colouring book in one hand he raced into the room to say hello to his grandfather. Normally on formal occasions everyone would be smart and tidy, but this was family time and the young boy soon found his favourite place: the sofa cushion on the floor next to his grandfather's chair, he arranged his pencils in a rainbow colour-coded order and placed a new picture in front of him. King Charles looked down at the image, four puppies in a basket, lined with a tartan blanket, half coloured. The old man reached into his pocket, "What is your favourite picture Georgie?" he asked. The boy flicked through the pages until he found an image of a tiger, coloured in orange and black. "This one is nice," he replied, "but I like this picture best." as he turned to the three polar bears, swimming through iceberg-infested water. Charles smiled "I was hoping you would say that," he said with a chuckle as he extracted from his pocket a petite shining box, tied with a purple ribbon, the wooden plaque on top was inscribed with the words

'To King George on your coronation. From Charles, your loving Grandpa Wales.'

With considerable curiosity, the boy began to undo the ribbon. Removing the lid, he pushed aside the rustle of crisp, white tissue paper. His eyes widened as he spotted a tiny silver nose peeking out from the wrapping. He extracted the bear, turning it over and over in his hands, stroking its silver fur and touching the tip of its shining silver nose. 

He looked up at his grandfather and asked, "What's his name?" The king gathered him onto his lap and began to tell him the story.