The Curious Case of the Missing Granddaughter

It was on a Thursday morning in late autumn that old Pyotr Ivanovich first noticed his granddaughter had not returned from the forest. His wife, Elena Petrovna, had been fussing about it since the previous evening, but Pyotr had assumed the girl was merely dawdling as young people do. By breakfast time, however, even he was forced to admit that something was rather odd.

“She went with the other girls,” Elena said for the third time, wringing her hands in that peculiar way she had. “To pick mushrooms and berries. They all came back yesterday evening. All except Masha.”

“Most irregular,” Pyotr muttered.

The other girls, when questioned, were unanimous in their account. They had wandered deep into the birch forest. Masha had gone one way, they another. When they called for her, there was no answer. They had searched, naturally, but as the sun began to set and the forest grew dark, well—what else could they do but return home?

Pyotr suspected they had not searched very thoroughly at all.

The Discovery

It was generally known in the village that a bear lived in the deepest part of the forest. A large creature, by all accounts, though no one had seen him in some years. The older folk spoke of him with a certain respect. He kept to himself, they said. Caused no trouble.

What no one knew—what no one could have known—was that Masha had indeed encountered this bear.

She had wandered, as young girls will, following a particularly fine cluster of mushrooms. One thing led to another, and presently she found herself quite lost. As evening fell, she came upon a sizeable wooden house in a clearing. The door stood open. There was no one about.

Being a practical child, Masha went inside.

It was a comfortable establishment, if somewhat rough in its appointments. There was a large chair, a large table, and a large bed. Everything was neat enough, though clearly arranged for someone of considerable size.

When the bear returned home that evening, he found her sitting at his table, eating his porridge.

“Well,” he said, in the measured way of one who has lived alone for some time, “this is unexpected.”

An Arrangement

Now, the bear was not a cruel creature, but he was a lonely one. And he was also, it must be said, rather set in his ways. He had certain ideas about hospitality and obligation.

“You have eaten my food,” he observed. “You have warmed yourself at my fire. By rights, you are now my guest. And guests,” he added with a certain emphasis, “do not simply leave.”

Masha understood him perfectly well. She was, in effect, a prisoner.

The bear was quite reasonable about the whole arrangement. She would cook and clean. She would have food and shelter. She would be treated well. But she would not, under any circumstances, be permitted to return to her grandparents.

“They are old,” Masha said quietly. “They will worry.”

“That,” said the bear, “is unfortunate but unavoidable.”

Days passed. Then weeks. Masha cooked the bear’s meals and swept his floors. She mended his curtains and aired his linens. The bear, for his part, was unfailingly polite. He never raised his voice. He never threatened. He simply would not let her leave.

But Masha was thinking.

The Stratagem

It was on a grey morning in December that Masha made her proposal.

“I should like,” she said carefully, “to send some pies to my grandparents. For Christmas, you understand. It would ease my conscience considerably.”

The bear considered this. “Pies?”

“Small ones. I shall bake them myself. You could carry them to the village. You need not go into the village itself, naturally. Simply leave the basket at the edge of the forest. Someone will find it.”

The bear saw no harm in this. Indeed, he rather fancied the walk.

What the bear did not know—what he could not have suspected—was that Masha had no intention of filling that basket merely with pies.

She worked all morning, baking and wrapping. She made a great show of arranging everything just so. And then, when the bear went outside to fetch more firewood, she acted with considerable efficiency.

The basket was large—very large, as everything in the bear’s house was large. Masha had counted on this.

She climbed inside and arranged the pies around herself. She pulled a cloth over the top. It was cramped and uncomfortable, but she was a small girl, and determined.

When the bear returned, the basket stood ready.

“Mind you do not open it,” Masha called from the bedroom, where she had supposedly gone to rest. “Do not eat the pies. They are counted. I shall know if even one is missing.”

“I shall not touch them,” the bear promised, rather offended at the suggestion.

He hoisted the basket onto his back and set off through the forest.

The Journey

The basket was uncommonly heavy, but the bear was strong. He trudged through the snow, thinking about this and that. About halfway to the village, he grew tired.

“Perhaps,” he said aloud, “I might sit on this stump and eat just one small pie. She would never know.”

From inside the basket came a voice, clear and firm: “I see you! I see you! Do not sit down, do not eat the pies!”

The bear jumped. He looked around. There was no one visible—no one at all. How very peculiar.

He walked on, increasingly uneasy.

Some time later, tired again, he paused. “Surely one pie—”

“I see you! Do not sit down, do not eat the pies!”

The bear’s fur stood on end. What manner of girl was this, who could see through forest and distance? He wanted nothing more than to be rid of the basket and its uncanny contents.

He hurried toward the village at a speed quite unsuitable for a creature of his dignity.

The Resolution

At the forest’s edge, the bear set down the basket with considerable relief. He departed at once, without looking back.

Some village children found the basket an hour later. Imagine their astonishment when the cloth moved, and out climbed Masha, rumpled but triumphant.

Her grandparents wept. The village rejoiced. There was a great deal of fuss, as there always is when someone thought lost is restored.

As for the bear, he returned to his house in the forest and found it empty. He sat in his large chair and ate his supper alone, as he had always done.

He was not surprised, exactly. The girl had been clever—he had known that from the start. One should never underestimate the ingenuity of the desperate.

Still, the house seemed rather quiet without her.

And if, some months later, he occasionally found small gifts left at the forest’s edge—a jar of preserves, a knitted scarf—he accepted them with a certain gruff pleasure and asked no questions.

After all, some mysteries are best left unsolved.

The End