Chapter 12: One's Own Place from Bear Metamorphoses

≪ to the previous chapter
Five days had passed since Luka and I returned from the bog. Gradually, the putrid aftertaste of the Navka's energy faded away. The most surprising consequence of that event for me was that I didn't want to eat at all. At first, I chalked it up to nausea, but that passed. Luka went around chuckling, explaining nothing in advance. When I finally asked him directly, he deigned to explain.

Chapter 11: The Bog Hunt from Bear Metamorphoses

≪ to the previous chapter
For three more mornings, Luka made me change my form. He demanded I speed up the process. In the end, the transformation became almost instantaneous. But Luka wasn't satisfied, forcing me to do it again and again — sitting, standing, walking, running.

Chapter 10: Luka's Vixen from Bear Metamorphoses

≪ to the previous chapter
Of course, Luka was already waiting for me, always knowing in advance when I would arrive. He was sitting on the porch, tinkering with something as usual. When I approached, he lifted his head.
"Well, there you are. Have some kvass after your journey," he nodded towards a jug standing in the shade.
I happily downed a cup.

Chapter 9: The Bear Amulet from Bear Metamorphoses

≪ to the previous chapter
I spent a couple of days at Luka's homestead, helping him with chores a bit, but we didn't really talk about anything important. Luka was constantly occupied with some object, fussing over it tirelessly, whispering something to it. I didn't ask questions, deciding that if he wanted to, he would have told me himself. If he was silent, there was a reason. I didn't see the bear during those days; after our memorable meeting, he had gone back into the forest.

Chapter 8: In the Dread Murom Forest from Bear Metamorphoses

≪ to the previous chapter
It was supposed to be a fishing trip, but it turned into a regular booze-up in the great outdoors, as often happens with men escaping the watchful eyes of their wives. One of my colleagues, who was from a local village near Kirov, had talked us all into going to a river aptly named Krivaya, or "Crooked." As Vysotsky sang: "In the reserved and dense, dreadful Murom forests, all sorts of unclean beings wander in hordes and sow fear in passersby."