On a cool autumn evening, Gaston was at the tavern with his father and LeFou, the usual nightly routine. Gaston was 17 now, and the tavern was like a second home to him at this point. It was a slow night, until Francois came in. "Guess what?" he announced. "I saw a bear in the woods today. Too far away to get a shot, though."

The men were interested. The woods were full of deer and elk, and occasionally wolves. But no bears had been seen near Molyneaux in many years – they tended to stay much further north.

"A bear, huh?" said Auguste thoughtfully. "My father shot a bear once." He nodded at the lone bear head mounted on the wall. "I've always wanted to get one myself, but never had the opportunity." He looked at Gaston and LeFou. "What do you say, boys? Up for a hunting trip tomorrow?"

"Of course!" said Gaston, always up for a challenge.

LeFou looked nervous. Bears were dangerous. But LeFou always went where Gaston went – he wasn't going to back out now. And besides, Gaston and Auguste were the two greatest hunters in the world. There would be no real danger with them around, he assured himself.

They set out the next day, and pitched camp in the woods to spend the night. The following morning, they spent the day tracking until they found signs of the bear. LeFou wasn't skilled at tracking, but Auguste and Gaston were experts, so he just followed them, assuming they knew what they were doing.

They did. At midday, they came upon a clearing, and right in the center was the bear. It was grazing peacefully, fat and content, nibbling at berries from the bushes.

Auguste raised his gun. Hearing the click of the safety, the bear whirled and saw them. It reared up on two legs. Auguste aimed right at its heart, a perfect shot. But just as he fired, the bear dropped back down to all fours. The bullet merely nicked its back, a minor flesh wound. With a roar of pain and rage, the bear lunged at the hunter, its massive front paws slamming him to the ground, then slashed at his chest with its deadly claws and sharp fangs.

"POP!" Gaston yelled. He raised his own rifle and fired, hitting the bear in the side. The bear reared up with a roar, about to attack this new threat, then thought better of it and galloped off into the forest.

Anxiously, Gaston knelt by his father's side. Auguste's chest was bleeding profusely. It was clearly a mortal wound. Gaston started to scoop him up. "Come on, we've got to get you back to the village!"

"No!" Auguste gripped Gaston's arm with his waning strength. He was close to losing consciousness from loss of blood, but he fought to get the words out. "It's too late for that. There's only one thing you can do for me now." Gaston leaned closer to hear his father's dying words. Auguste's eyes were full of emotion: not fear at his impending death, nor love for the son he was leaving behind, but pure hatred and rage - rage at having been defeated, and by a mere beast at that. "Gaston," he said venomously. "You kill that son of a bitch for me. Get revenge." It was the last thing he said. His eyes closed, and he was gone.

Gaston stood absolutely still and silent, staring at his father's body. It seemed unthinkable. Auguste had loomed so large in his life, such a powerful and awe-inspiring presence, as indomitable as a mountain. How could he be gone? Without his forceful spirit, his body was a mere shell.

Unused to loss of any kind, Gaston was unprepared for the wave of sorrow that overcame him. He didn't know how to deal with it. He seized on his father's last words – "Get revenge." That was something he could do. Action was easier for him than thought. His grief swiftly changed to anger, a familiar and therefore comforting emotion. His expression hardened. That bear had taken his father from him, but he wouldn't get away with it, Gaston vowed to himself. Gaston would destroy the creature and avenge his father's death.

He turned to LeFou, who was shaking and whimpering in fear and reaction from the unexpected tragedy. Gaston grabbed LeFou's shoulders and shook him roughly. "LeFou! Snap out of it!" Gaston said sharply. "I need you to bring my father's body back to the village."

"What?" LeFou looked up at him, dazed. "Gaston, I can't carry him, he's too heavy. I'm not even sure how to get back to the village from here."

Gaston shook his head in exasperation. "All right. Follow me." He lifted his father carefully and they walked the two miles back to the campsite where they had spent the night, and where the horses were still tied up. Gaston took down the tent and used the material to gently wrap his father's body as though in a sheet, then put the body on top of his father's horse and tied it on. He handed the horse's reins to LeFou and pointed. "There's the path that leads out of the woods. Go back to the village and tell my mother what happened."

"But aren't you coming?" LeFou asked in surprise.

Gaston shook his head. "I'm going to go kill that bear."

LeFou was horrified. "Gaston, no! That thing already killed your father, and now it's wounded – it'll be even more dangerous. What if it kills you too?"

"It won't," Gaston said grimly. His steely eyes were cold and vengeful. LeFou knew there was no arguing with him.

He tried another tack. "Look, let's both go back to the village and get a hunting party together to track down the bear," he suggested reasonably. "All the men will come. That bear is vicious, you can't face it alone."

"No," said Gaston firmly. "This is my kill."

"Well, shouldn't you at least talk to your mother first?" LeFou pressed. "She should hear the news from you, not me. And she's going to need you – she'll be crushed when she finds out about your father."

"Getting revenge is more important," Gaston insisted. He put his hand on LeFou's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "LeFou, I need you to do this for me," he said seriously. "Go to the village and tell my mother. I'm counting on you."

LeFou stood a little straighter, honored by the responsibility. "All right," he said solemnly. "If that's what you want."

"Good." Gaston gripped his rifle. "Tell everyone I'll be back soon." He strode back into the forest.

LeFou made his way back to the village. Mireille came out on the porch. Seeing him alone, she knew immediately that something was wrong. "What's happened?" she asked fearfully.

LeFou hesitated, hating to tell her. "I'm sorry," he said sorrowfully. "Auguste is dead. The bear killed him."

Mireille sank to her knees, devastated. She looked up. "And Gaston?"

"He went after the bear," LeFou said. "I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen."

"No…" whispered Mireille, terrified. The bear had already killed her husband, a powerful hunter with decades of experience. What chance did her 17-year-old son have against it?

The news spread quickly. The undertaker took charge of Auguste's body. Crowds of villagers hovered around Mireille's home. The women offered her tea and sympathy, and joined her in praying for Gaston's safety.

The men stood around LeFou, asking him to re-tell the story of what had happened. "How big was the bear?" they asked.

"At least eight feet tall, and about a thousand pounds," LeFou said with a shudder. "It was totally vicious – slashed Auguste to ribbons like it was nothing." He had a scary thought. "What if Gaston doesn't kill it? It might find its way here to the village! It could come after the livestock…or after us!"

The men looked at each other uneasily. "If Gaston doesn't come back, we'll have to go after the bear ourselves," Francois said. But none of them were happy with the prospect. They were all hunters, but they were used to hunting deer, elk, geese, rabbits…prey that did not fight back. This bear was clearly a savage killer, and had been more than a match for the greatest hunter in the village. They had no wish to come face-to-face with such a ferocious beast.

The young girls clasped their hands together, thinking of Gaston, so tall and strong and handsome, going bravely into the woods alone to rid the village of the fierce monster that had killed his father, facing almost certain death, like a knight in shining armor on a heroic quest. It was all so unbelievably romantic. "If he comes back, I'll tell him how much I love him," they each thought. "Maybe he'll even marry me. Oh, let him come back safely!"

Meanwhile, in the woods, Gaston returned to the scene of his father's death and tracked the bear to its cave. Remaining outside, he peered in cautiously. The beast was crouched at the far end, its yellow eyes gleaming.

Gaston stared at the creature with hatred. Never let anyone take what's yours. This bear had robbed him of his father, but he would have his revenge. No beast could take someone away from Gaston and live.

Gaston started to lift his rifle, but then hesitated. A bullet could ricochet in the small space. Carefully, keeping his eyes on his quarry, he drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it on his bow, drew it back, and released it. The arrow lodged in the bear's shoulder. With a roar of pain, the bear rushed forward. Gaston, just outside the mouth of the cave, leaped to the side. As the bear lunged out of the cave, Gaston raised his rifle and blasted it in the side. It turned to attack him, and he shot it twice in the chest. With a final roar, the bear fell, twitched a few times, then finally lay dead.

Gaston stood over it, breathing heavily. He felt a cold, grim satisfaction at having gotten revenge and fulfilled his father's last wish. It was the only thing he could do for the man who had taught him so much and made him what he was. Vengeance made his grief a little easier to bear.

And he felt something else too, something hard to describe. He had always looked up to his father as the ultimate man, the most powerful and invincible of all. But his father had been defeated by the bear. Gaston hadn't. Gaston had fought the same monster, and he had emerged victorious. He had surpassed even his father. Gaston was the most powerful of all now.

He truly was the best, he realized - the greatest man alive, in every possible way.

He lifted the dead bear onto his shoulders and headed out of the forest and back to the village. Lost in thought, he was startled by the huge cheer that rose up at his approach. The entire town was there, celebrating his return. "Gaston saved the village!" they cried.

Gaston was momentarily confused. He had killed the bear solely out of rage and a thirst for revenge. The village had nothing to do with it.

But gradually he understood. The villagers thought he had acted heroically and selflessly to protect them from the dangerous creature. Well, Gaston wasn't going to deny it. It certainly sounded good. It's all about the image, he thought.

And anyway, now that he thought about it, it was true that the bear might have attacked the village. He really was a hero, he decided.

He grinned and held the bear aloft victoriously. The crowd cheered. "The village is safe now!" he proclaimed.

Mireille ran up to him and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Gaston," she murmured. "I was so afraid I'd lose you too."

"You shouldn't have worried," he assured her. "I'm the best, remember?"

Auguste's funeral was the largest and grandest in village memory. Everyone in town turned out to pay their respects. Man after man spoke glowingly of Auguste's sterling reputation and exemplary qualities: his philanthropy, his big-hearted generosity, his leadership abilities, his many contributions to the life of the village.

But the true tribute occurred that night in the tavern. Dozens of boisterous toasts were made to Auguste, and colorful stories and reminiscences filled the room – stories of his hunting prowess, his fighting skills, his ability to drink any man under the table, and some ribald and off-color anecdotes of his bachelor days. All agreed that his inimitable presence would be sorely missed.

But mixed in with that sentiment was a recurring theme: admiration for Gaston. How proud Auguste would have been of his son. How incredible it was that a mere boy of 17 had single-handedly taken down a ferocious, man-eating bear, the same bear that had vanquished the most powerful and experienced hunter in the village. Gaston was even more remarkable than his father, everyone agreed. No longer merely "Auguste's son," he had made his mark, built an impressive reputation in his own right. He had avenged his father's death and saved the village from a deadly menace. He was a true hero, the villagers said.

Thus was the mantle passed. Gaston took over the tavern and immediately made it his own. He had the bear made into a rug, ordered a special chair custom-made out of hides and fur from his kills, and commissioned a huge portrait of himself to hang above the hearth. Despite his youth, he had a commanding presence, and all the men deferred to him, just as they had to his father.

With her husband gone, Mireille became even more devoted to her son, focusing all her attention on keeping him comfortable. She cooked all his favorite meals, dusted his trophies daily, cleaned and polished his muddy boots when he came home from hunting. It never occurred to him to thank her - after all, she had been catering to his every whim his entire life, and he took it for granted. But she didn't mind. She knew he enjoyed his creature comforts, just as his father had, and it gave her pleasure to see him smacking his lips over a good meal, or looking so handsome in his freshly-pressed clothes and gleaming boots. That was all the reward she needed.

As time passed, people often asked Gaston when he was going to get married. He always gave a vague answer. He knew he would get married at some point, but he was in no great rush to settle down immediately. With his gorgeous looks, he had no shortage of female companionship, and he enjoyed it to the fullest. He came and went as he pleased, without having to answer to anyone. And no matter how late he returned home, his mother always had a hot meal waiting for him. He was content with the status quo.

So life settled into a routine, and three years passed uneventfully.

But soon after Gaston's 20th birthday, Mireille took ill with consumption. Always slim and frail, she wasted away over a matter of weeks.

Gaston hired the finest doctors, promising them unlimited gold if she recovered. "Do something for her!" he demanded angrily.

"There's nothing we can do," they told him gently. "Just keep her comfortable. It's only a matter of time."

Gaston raged against them, and paced the room like a caged tiger. He hated feeling so helpless. At least when his father had died, Gaston had had a flesh-and-blood enemy to blame, something he could strike out against and destroy. But the killer stealing his mother's life by degrees was silent and invisible. Gaston wanted to fight for his mother's life, to attack the thing that was killing her, but there was nothing to fight. All he could do was stand by helplessly and watch her die.

Although he hadn't given much thought to his mother over the past few years, he had always assumed that she would always be there, hovering in the background. There was something comforting in her steady presence, her unconditional love and endless devotion to him. The realization that she would soon be gone, that the house would be empty, hit him much harder than he would have expected.

Mireille saw his sorrow and was moved by it. "Gaston," she said gently. "Just sit with me. That's the best thing you can do." So he sat with her for days, trying to cheer her up, telling her hunting stories and sharing village gossip and humorous anecdotes from the tavern.

Although she knew she was dying, Mireille enjoyed those last few weeks. She was strangely content and at peace. In the past few years, Gaston had been off leading his own life, hunting all day and going to the tavern at night. He had grown up and didn't seem to need her any more, except for doing housework.

So it meant the world to her to see him sitting by her bedside for days on end, clearly so concerned for her. He did still love her in his own way, she realized, and the knowledge warmed her heart.

In some ways she felt that this was for the best. If she had lived, she would have soon found herself abandoned, she knew. Gaston was a grown man – it was time for him to start his own family. She knew it was natural and right for him to do so, but still, she had dreaded the day that he would choose a bride, move out and leave her all alone. Her entire life had revolved around taking care of her husband and son. It was all she knew how to do. With both of them gone, her days would be empty, her life meaningless in her eyes. To end her life with her son at her bedside was better than to live for years and years alone and unneeded, she felt.

"Gaston," she told him, "It's all right. I've made my peace with this. But I'm worried about you. Who will take care of you when I'm gone?"

He had to laugh. Only his mother would worry that the strongest, toughest man in town needed someone to take care of him. "I'm fine, Ma."

She grasped his hand. "After I'm gone, promise me you'll pick a girl and settle down. A wonderful girl. The best girl you can find. Someone who will love you and take care of you."

"All right, Ma. Anything you say," he promised. "Just rest. You need your strength."

LeFou came to see her, bringing her flowers. She was grateful and thanked him. "LeFou," she told him, "please do me a favor – look out for Gaston after I'm gone."

He chuckled. "Gaston doesn't need anyone to look out for him. He does a good job of that himself."

She smiled. "Thank you for being such a good friend to him all these years. I feel better knowing he has someone he can always count on. He's very lucky to have you."

LeFou was moved. He wasn't used to being appreciated. "Thanks. I think Gaston was lucky to have you for a mother." He hesitated, then added shyly, "I wish you'd been mine."

She patted his hand. "Me too," she said. "And I think your own mother would have been very proud of you. I'm sorry she missed out on seeing you grow up."

"Thank you," he whispered. He left with tears in his eyes.

Mireille steadily grew weaker. The day came when she knew it was time. Gaston sat by her bedside, holding her hand, wishing he could do something, anything to help.

She looked up at her son. There was so much she wanted to say to him. She wanted to tell him not to be as hard and unyielding as his father, not to be so focused on winning that he lost sight of everything that truly mattered. She wanted to tell him to think of others, and that kindness did not equal weakness. She wanted to urge him to allow love and compassion into his heart.

But she didn't know how to begin. She felt things deeply, but wasn't good at putting her feelings into words.

She looked at Gaston, a grown man, his father's son in every way. "I love you, Gaston," was all she could say, her heart brimming.

He looked at her, this woman who had devoted her entire life to making him happy. "I love you too, Ma," he said, a lump in his throat. He kissed her forehead.

She smiled gratefully. He had not said those words to her in many years. And his father had never said them. She squeezed his hand, her eyes full of love for him.

Then she was gone. And he was alone.