The Snow Child

by Eowyn Ivey

  That joy was gone with the child.

  He walked past the barn toward the new field. Mud sucked at his boots. He stepped off the trail to walk on the moss and grass of the unbroken ground. Tiny green buds were just beginning to open on the birch trees. Something moved through the forest.

  “Faina?”

  Movement again, dark and quick, but it was too deep in the trees for him to make out anything more. A path led away from the field, and he followed it. Three days ago he had seen bear tracks in the mud and scat in the trail. He didn’t have his rifle, but he wouldn’t turn back now.

  A week could be explained; she could have gone hunting. Three weeks—that was something different. Illness, an avalanche of wet spring snow, rotten river ice. Jack ticked off the grim possibilities as he strode through the trees.

  The land was naked without snow or summer greenery. At his feet, fiddlehead ferns unfurled and tiny shoots pushed up through last year’s dead leaves. He climbed as fast as his old heart would allow him. After some time, he arrived at the cliff face and realized he had veered off course and missed the creek. He followed a game trail along the base of the cliffs, ducking under alders, until he heard rushing water. The sound led him to the creek, swollen with spring runoff. It was deafening.

  He walked up the creek until he crested a rise and saw the familiar stand of large spruce. There was the stump of the tree he had cut and burned. A heap of rocks had been arranged on the man’s grave. Faina must have brought them from the creek bed.

  “Faina? Faina! Are you here?” His shouts were lost to the roaring water. “Faina? It’s Jack. Can you hear me?”

  He recalled the door in the mountain where he had watched the girl disappear. He scanned the hillside several times before he saw it. It was like any other cabin door, made of rough-hewn boards, except it was cut short enough so that a grown man would have to stoop to enter, and it wasn’t hung in the frame of a cabin but set into a grassy knoll. He saw no tracks leading in or out. When he rapped with his knuckles, the door swung inward on leather hinges.

  “Faina? Dear child, are you here?”

  He dreaded finding her huddled in a bed, sick or starving or worse. Inside it was not as dim as he’d anticipated. Daylight came from somewhere overhead.

  “Faina?”

  There was no answer. His eyes adjusted. The walls around him were made of logs that had been squared off with an ax. Above him was a wooden ceiling, with a square opening to the sky not much bigger than a stovepipe. Directly below this hole a large fire pit held the cold, charred remains of a few small logs. The fire pit was also square, set into dirt but framed by the wooden planks that formed the floor.

  The builder had dug into the side of the hill and framed the room inside, then replanted sod over the top. The effect was that the small cabin looked like a grassy knoll, just another part of the mountainside. It probably provided better insulation, particularly in winter when the hill was covered in snow, but it didn’t seem solely a practical matter. There was something foreboding about the structure. Whoever lived inside these walls would dwell in darkness and secrecy.

  The air was musty, like that of an abandoned attic, but as he walked around the small room he caught specific scents—wood, dried meat and fish, tanned furs, and wild herbs. Overhead, dried plants hung in bunches from the roof frame. When Jack stood upright, his head was less than a foot from the ceiling.

  The door behind him swung shut with a thump.

  “Faina?”

  He pushed it open again, but no one was there.

  Now that he was in this dank, lonely place, he was more anxious about the child. He paced the small quarters. If he hadn’t seen her go through the door, he wouldn’t believe a young girl had ever lived here. There were no toys, no dresses or child-sized clothes of any kind. Perhaps she had gone somewhere and taken all that with her—it was impossible to know what had been here and now wasn’t. He kicked at the charred wood in the pit. No sparks, no smoke. The fire had been out for days, if not weeks.

  There was a bunk made of peeled spruce logs. Instead of blankets and sheets, the bedding was caribou hides and other tanned furs. One corner formed a makeshift kitchen of sorts, with a counter and shelves lined with odds and ends—jars of beans and flour, but not much food to speak of. The opposite wall held wooden pegs from which hung snowshoes, axes, saws, woodworking tools, things a grown man would use. The tools were grimy and beginning to rust. There were also a few items of clothing, including a fur-ruffed parka that would have been too large even for Jack. He took it off the peg and heard a clinking sound. In the pockets were half a dozen empty glass bottles. He held each to his nose. Some smelled of animal urine and glandular lures, others of a potent moonshine. Peter’s water, the child had called it. He shook his head to clear his nostrils and hung the parka back on its peg. In another corner, Jack spotted a stack of dried pelts: beaver, wolf, marten, mink.

  He headed toward the door, then remembered the doll. It could be here somewhere. He tossed aside the furs on the bed, but found nothing. Then he noticed a wooden box under the bunk. He got on his knees and pulled it out.

  Inside was a pink baby blanket, worn and dirty but neatly folded. Beneath it were scattered a few black-and-white photographs. Jack picked them up. One showed a nicely dressed couple standing on a dock, suitcases and trunks stacked beside them, as they embarked on a journey. He didn’t recognize the man at first—in the photograph he was much younger, with a dapper haircut and clean-shaven face. The woman beside him wore a stylish dress, and in her fine-featured face and blond hair Jack saw Faina. These must be her parents, perhaps leaving Seattle on a ship for Alaska. In another photograph, the woman held an infant swaddled in a blanket that looked new and clean, but Jack was fairly certain it was the same one folded in the box. Another showed the man posing with snowshoes, parka, and a lopsided grin. He barely resembled the grizzled corpse Jack had pushed into a hole in the ground, but it was him.

  Jack clenched his jaw. How could a man abandon his young daughter to the wilderness? He put the photographs and blanket back in the box and slid it under the bed. Standing up, his knees creaked and he felt old and afraid. The child was gone. This place had swallowed her.

  He thought again of the doll and took one last look around the room, but knew he wouldn’t find it. It was small comfort. Faina was lost to them, but wherever she was, whatever had befallen her, the doll had been with her.

  When he stepped outside, he blinked hard against the daylight and fumbled to close the door. He stood there a moment, listened to the creek, and let the mountain air blow against his face. Even with all this heartache, it was beautiful here. He could see across the entire river valley, could almost make out their homestead far below.

  CHAPTER 22

  The next day, when afternoon came and went and Jack did not return from the fields, Mabel was only vaguely puzzled. He must have worked through without a break. When evening came and dinner sat cold on the table, she knew something was wrong. Panic constricted her throat, but she dressed calmly in her coat and boots. At the last minute, she took the shotgun down from the wall and filled her pocket with shells. She vowed to learn to shoot it.

  Her hem dragged in the muck as she followed the trail to the fields. Her father-in-law had died in the orchard of a heart attack, and Mabel pictured Jack collapsed in a field. She would be left alone, with little choice but to return to her parents’ home where her sister now lived, or go to Jack’s family.

  Her eyes scanned the first field she came to, but she saw no sign of Jack or the horse. Evening shadows darkened the edge of the forest, and in the sky a handful of stars were scattered across the pale blue. A flock of sandhill cranes rose up from a meadow, their calls as ghostly as their gray, slow-beating wings. The mud was beginning to stiffen in the cold. Mabel followed the trail and trembled uncontrollably.

  Through the trees she heard the horse whinny. The trail circled around to the new field, and there she could see the silhouette of th
e horse, lifting one hoof, then another, still harnessed to the overturned plow.

  “Jack? Jack?” she called.

  She made out only shapes in the gloomy half-light, but she walked toward the horse. There was a muffled groan.

  “Mabel?”

  She wanted to run toward the voice, but the rough ground wouldn’t allow her. Still she saw no sign of him.

  “Here, Mabel. Here.”

  She followed the sound, her head bent toward the ground, until she nearly stepped on him. He lay flat on his back, his face to the darkening sky.

  “What happened?”

  “The horse. Drug me along. Hours ago.” His words came through a slurry of dirt and blood. Mabel knelt beside him and with her sleeve tried to wipe the mess away from his mouth.

  “How did this happen?”

  “Black bear.”

  “Here?”

  “By the woods. I busted a bolt on the damned plow, was trying to fix it. The horse saw the bear first and started prancing.”

  Mabel looked toward the forest.

  “Gone now. Don’t think it meant us harm. Just ambled out, like he didn’t see us. I tried to get free of the plow. The horse spooked and flipped around on me, caught my leg up in it. Pulled me through the dirt, till I fell free. Hoped he’d bring the damned plow all the way home, so you’d know. But he stopped just there.” Jack tried to sit up, but grimaced in pain.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “Damn near everywhere.” Jack tried to laugh, but it came out as a gravelly cough. “It’s my back.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Unhitch the horse. No, don’t be nervous. He’s all run out now.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we’ve got to get me on him so you can walk us home.”

  “Can you stand?”

  “I don’t know.”

  After Jack talked her through it, she unhitched the horse and led it to where he lay. Slipping her arms beneath his, she tried to help him off the ground. He was heavier than she expected, and she sank in the cold mud under his weight. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and, groaning, got to his knees.

  “Christ.” He squinted tears from his eyes.

  “I should go for help. I’ll get George.”

  “No. We can do this. Here.” He held her around the shoulders again and she stood with him, her face crushed into his muddy shirt.

  “Easy. Easy there. Grab his bridle.”

  With one hand Mabel tried to hold the horse steady while it jerked its head away. Jack fell from her and leaned into the animal’s side.

  “Jack, you can’t. How can you mount him like this?”

  “I’ve got to.” He grabbed the mane and cried out as he hauled himself up, sprawling belly-down across the horse.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Mabel fought to keep the horse still. Jack eased one leg around so he straddled the bare back, his head against the animal’s neck where the coat was stiff with dried sweat. Jack’s breathing gurgled.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “Jesus.”

  “Jack? Should I start walking now?”

  “Easy. Easy does it.”

  The way home was long and disorienting. Mabel couldn’t discern distance or depth in the murky light. She carried the shotgun in one hand and led the horse with the other. Whenever the horse tripped or stumbled, Jack cried out. Mabel wished she had a rope or lead. Several times the animal yanked the halter strap from her hands, and she feared it might throw Jack to the ground and bolt home.

  “It’s OK, Mabel. Just take it slow.”

  She led the horse to the cabin door and helped Jack slide slowly to the ground, down to his hands and knees.

  “Go on,” he said. “Take the horse to the barn.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll get myself inside. Go.”

  As she led the horse away, she looked over her shoulder to see Jack crawling up the doorstep.

  A focused composure came over her as she heated water and helped Jack out of his clothes. She put a wool blanket on the floor in front of the woodstove so he could lie there while she washed the blood and dirt from his skin and hair. He grunted in pain occasionally, especially as she dabbed at the abrasions across his shoulder blades. What concerned her more was the deep purple that had begun to well up across his lower back.

  “I should go for help.”

  He shook his head. “Just get me into bed.”

  She decided to leave the superficial wounds unbandaged, hoping they’d heal faster that way, and slid a clean long-underwear shirt over his head. Half naked, Jack went on hands and knees into the bedroom. Mabel helped him onto the bed. Later she brought him a bowl of broth and tried to spoon it into his mouth, but he only gritted his teeth in pain.

  She sat up late that night with a candle on the table and a cup of cold tea in front of her. Occasionally she heard the bed creak and Jack moan. He had shattered bones before—caught his hand between pallets at the family farm, broke his leg when a horse rolled on him—but she had never seen him like this. She knew the pain would worsen by tomorrow. She thought of the empty fields and the frantic pace he had been working, often twelve hours at a stretch, and still he said he would never get it done. Even if he healed quickly, this could ruin them.

  Mabel never really slept that night. Her agitated mind worked in relentless circles of planting days and calculated earnings, circles that always came back to a place with no answers. Occasionally she nodded in the chair, only to startle awake at the sound of Jack’s cries.

  Her prediction was correct—his pain doubled up on itself through the night, and by morning Jack could hardly speak. She gently rolled him onto his side and lifted his shirt. The bruises ran deep to the bone.

  “My feet are numb, Mabel.” His whisper was desperate.

  She smoothed her hand across his forehead and kissed him on the lips. She spoke with a calm assurance she did not feel. “I’ll be right back.” She brought him water and soft bread, then told him she would be outside for a while feeding the horse.

  She had saddled a horse only a few times in her life, but she decided it would be faster than the wagon. She did not want to leave Jack alone, but like the problems she had worried over during the night, there seemed to be no other answer. She would go for a doctor.

  Despite the summer she had spent in town, she couldn’t recall where to find the doctor. He probably had a room in the boardinghouse or somewhere in the hotel. After the wearying two-hour ride from the homestead, Mabel dismounted and walked the horse along the dirt road to the general store. Jack had always spoken well of Joseph Palmer, the owner. She remembered him as a kind man with a short white beard and quiet manner.

  The old man seemed embarrassed on Mabel’s behalf when she asked after a doctor.

  “No doctor around here. Nearest one would be in Anchorage. You’d have to catch the train in.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t have a doctor, dear. Never have,” he repeated gently.

  “You must be joking? No doctor? Isn’t this a town, for God’s sake?”

  Mabel took a slow breath, tried to find some small reservoir of strength inside herself. Mr. Palmer nodded as she told him of Jack’s injuries. He’d known men who twisted up their backs, and doctors never could do much anyways.

  “You’ve just got to let time take its course. It’ll either heal, or it won’t,” and he said it as if he regretted the truth, as if he knew what hung in the balance.

  Aside from train tickets to Anchorage, Mr. Palmer could offer her only a brown glass bottle.

  “Give him a bit every few hours. It’ll ease the pain and help him sleep,” he said. “And don’t worry about giving him too much. I’ve known men who drink it regularly and don’t seem overly affected.”

  Mabel paid and thanked him. As she turned toward the door, he spoke again.

  “It might not seem proper, but you could consider getting him a few jars of drink. Ted Swanson, on the other side of the tracks, down by th
e river. He could help you. It might do Jack some good, mix a bit of that in alcohol. I don’t usually make such recommendations, but it sounds as if he’s in need.”

  Laudanum and moonshine—all this place could offer her injured husband. She mounted the horse and galloped toward their homestead, too angry to be frightened.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sticky cottonwood buds cracked open beneath blue skies and the mud in the fields turned to moist, rich soil, but Mabel’s grief seemed beaten over and dusty and all too familiar. Something akin to hunger or thirst clung to the back of her throat, and she considered drinking some of Jack’s laudanum but didn’t. Backlit by the brilliant sun, the cabin was dark and cool. She didn’t light the fire, but kept candles burning. In the bed where she no longer slept, Jack lay in a stupor, calling out only when the painkiller wore off. She thought of what Esther had told her about moose, how they often starved to death just as spring arrives. Having lived through the depths of winter, the long-legged animals wallow in the heavy, wet snow and succumb to exhausted despair.

  She was alone. The strong husband who had cared for her was a crumpled man who sobbed in the night and begged her to leave him, to go back home and find a new life without him. The little girl she had begun to love had vanished, another child lost. Sitting upright in the chair, she slept in brief, intense bouts at odd hours and dreamed of a bloody, stillborn infant and puddles of snowmelt. The fairy tale from her sister’s letter haunted her dreams. “Whenever I do know that you love me little, then I shall melt away again. Back into the sky I’ll go—Little Daughter of the Snow.”

  When Mabel woke, she could not even grieve her dreams. There was too much to be done: caring for the horse, hauling water, helping Jack to a makeshift chamber pot, cooking meals, even if she alone ate them. Fatigue distorted her sense of time, and often she did not know whether it was day or night, dusk or dawn.