The Straw Bear and the River of Lost FootstepsA Cambridge Folk Adventure
Long before the city bustled with bicycles and bookshops, when the Fens still whispered with reed spirits and winter festivals carried a hint of old magic, there lived a creature known only as the Straw Bear.Each January, he rose from the stubble fields near the river—woven from last year’s harvest, bound with twine, and filled with the breath of the cold east wind. His purpose was simple: to travel the streets of Cambridge, dancing the old dances to wake the land from winter’s sleep. The villagers joined in with music and dancing
But one year, something strange happened.On the morning when the Straw Bear stepped from the frosted field he found the world eerily quiet. No musicians tuning fiddles. No children waiting with sticky buns. No dancers stamping warmth into their boots.Worse still—his own footprints were missing.Wherever he walked, the snow remained smooth and untouched. It was as though he were fading from the world.The Straw Bear knew this was a sign. Something had stolen the River of Lost Footsteps—the hidden current of old magic that allowed traditions to leave their mark on the land. Without it, the dances would be forgotten, the songs would thin, and the winter might never lift.So he set off to find it.The Straw Bear followed the Cam upstream until the city melted away and the marshes opened wide. Mist curled like sleeping cats around the reeds. There, on a narrow strip of water, waited a crooked punt and a ferryman made entirely of drifting fog.“You seek what was stolen,” the ferryman murmured, voice like wind through keyholes. “The River of Lost Footsteps has been taken by the Fen Hag, who hoards forgotten things.”The Straw Bear nodded, straw rustling like dry applause.“She lives where the river bends back on itself,” the ferryman said. “But beware—she feeds on silence. Make no stillness near her.”The Straw Bear stepped aboard, and the punt glided soundlessly into the mist.They reached a place where the river looped like a knot. There, in a hut made of driftwood and broken oars, sat the Fen Hag. Her hair was a tangle of eelgrass, her eyes two cold coins of moonlight. Behind her, trapped in a glass jar, swirled a shimmering ribbon of light—the stolen river.
The Straw Bear approached, his straw crackling softly. The Hag hissed.“No more dancing,” she croaked. “No more stamping, no more fiddles, no more joy. The world is too loud. I will keep the footsteps for myself.”The Straw Bear could not speak—he never had—but he could dance.And so he did.He stamped, shuffled, twirled, and clattered. He danced the steps of ploughmen and milkmaids, of students and sailors, of every soul who had ever danced to keep winter at bay. His straw rustled like a thousand tiny bells.The Fen Hag shrieked, covering her ears. “Stop! Stop that dreadful noise!”But the Straw Bear danced harder.The jar cracked and out of it came a whirl of golden footprintsWith a final spin, the Straw Bear sent the magic rushing back into the world.By the time he returned to the city, the festival had begun. Fiddles sang. Children cheered. Dancers stamped patterns into the thawing ground.And this time, wherever the Straw Bear walked, his footprints shone bright in the snow, glowing like warm lanterns before fading gently into the earth.The land had awakened.And every year since, the people of Cambridge say that if you look closely on festival morning, you can still see a faint golden trail leading from the fields to the city—a reminder of the winter when the Straw Bear saved the footsteps of everyone who ever danced.