North Child

by Edith Pattou

  I was suddenly very hungry and thirsty, and found myself wondering if the white bear was hungry, too. The thought crossed my mind that I was to be the beast’s meal, at the end of a long journey. I shivered, though the air was warm.

  We were moving along the base of a small mountain, through a thick forest of some kind of pungent, wide-spreading tree I had never seen before. Though I could not make out any sign of a path, the white bear was surefooted. I had the feeling he had gone this way many times.

  Without warning he stopped, and after seven days and nights of constant motion, I felt dizzy at the lack of it. There was a ringing in my ears. My stomach growled and my throat was dry.

  The white bear kneeled as he had when I’d said goodbye to Neddy, and I sensed he wanted me to dismount (if indeed that is what you call getting off a bear’s back). I was even more awkward than before; going seven days with no food or sleep had left me weak. And though I didn’t exactly fall off as I had on the sandy shore, I still wound up on my backside.

  The bear stepped away. I heard a low rumbling from his throat, and even some faint words, but I couldn’t make them out. And then there was a soft whooshing, and a piece of the mountain suddenly swung aside, as if it were a great earthen doorway. An entryway into the mountain lay open, and inside, a muted light flickered.

  “Come,” said the white bear.

  I gingerly got to my feet, swayed a moment, then stumbled forwards, my eyes fastened on the warm light within.

  The bear let me go first, walking just behind me. If I hadn’t been concentrating on putting one foot before the other without collapsing entirely, I might have been very frightened. As it was, I made it through the entryway and the next thing I was aware of was a delicious aroma, as of a great stewpot of juicy meat and vegetables simmering on a fire. My mouth watered; I let out a groan and forgot entirely about being afraid.

  “This way,” the bear said, and I followed, my nose telling me that he was leading us to the source of the smell.

  We travelled down a long hall, past several rooms, and I got a fleeting impression of browns and golds, antlers on the wall and fur rugs on the floor. It reminded me of descriptions I had heard of a wealthy person’s hunting lodge. Except it was bigger, as big as I imagined a castle would be.

  At last we came to a room with a large fireplace and a great long table, which was laid out with various shapes and sizes of dishes, some covered with cloths. And in the fireplace was hanging a large black stewpot, the source of the wondrous aroma.

  I stood still, swaying slightly as I stared at the pot, when I heard the white bear’s voice. “Eat,” he said, and then he left the room.

  I made my way as fast as my limbs would carry me to the fireplace, took up a bowl, and ladled steaming stew into it. I crouched there by the hearth and spooned the tender chunks of meat and vegetables into my mouth. When the bowl was empty, I filled it again and then staggered over to the table and fell into a chair.

  I emptied that bowl, too, with the aid of a great hunk of melting-soft bread I had found in a cloth-covered basket. I peeked under a few more of the crisp white cloths and found baked apples in pastry, and strawberries, and rich, thick cream, and all sorts of delicious cakes. Tempting though it was, I was suddenly exhausted and could barely keep my eyes open. I ate a few bites of a small piece of yellow butter-cake with blackberry preserves in the centre, and drank half a cup of fresh frothy milk. There was a large dark-red velvet couch not too far from the hearth, and I sank down upon it, my stomach uncomfortably full. I thought about the white bear, wondering uneasily where he was at that moment, and then I fell asleep.

  Even though I was little more than a child when I wrote in my Book about the green lands and about the softskin boy, I could see ahead to what I had to do.

  I am very angry at Father. We are leaving tomorrow and he will not let me take the boy with me as my servant. He says we cannot take children. And especially not this boy, because of who he is – he is important to the people in the green lands, Father says, like I am in the Huldre land.

  Father is king and must be obeyed. For now. But already my arts are close to being the equal of his, and soon I will have my way. I will come back to this place and find the boy, and then he will be mine.

  Here.

  After so long waiting.

  Her purple eyes.

  Torn cloak.

  Skin pale, sheer as ice.

  Exhausted.

  But unafraid.

  Must remember.

  Conditions, rules.

  So long ago.

  Playing.

  A ball.

  A voice like rocks.

  Then…

  Body split, stretched.

  Pain. And…

  All changed, in a moment.

  Lost.

  But now…

  Hope.

  When I awoke, my head was heavy. But I knew where I was right away. At home, even in summer, there would be a cold tang to the air in the morning, and the mattress I slept on with my sister was not covered in velvet and overstuffed with down.

  I sat up, stretching, and saw that the table had been cleared while I slept, except for a covered basket, a crock of butter beside it, and a large white teapot. Steam was rising from the pot’s spout. My stomach growled and I realized I was ravenous again.

  I stood and made my way to the table. I lifted the white cloth and breathed in the aroma of cinnamon and hot dough. Breaking off a piece of bread, I slathered it with butter and shoved it into my mouth. We hadn’t been able to afford butter in a very long time, and I closed my eyes in sheer delight. I then drank a cup of what turned out to be a sweet, fragrant tea, exotic and fruity, like none I’d had before.

  As I stuffed myself with bread and butter, I wondered where the food had come from. Was there a kitchen with a bustling staff of servants? Or was the food the result of an enchantment?

  My stomach full, I got up from the table and set off to explore.

  I thought of the white bear and felt uneasy, fearing that he might spring out at me from inside a room or around a corner. But there was no sign of him.

  I started down a hall with a vaulted ceiling. The walls were a light polished stone, and sconces holding oil lamps were placed at regular intervals. In between the lamps were large paintings and tapestries. The tapestries in particular drew my eyes; they were done in vivid hues of reds and blues, and depicted lords and ladies in old-fashioned courtly garb. The handiwork was exquisite.

  I came to an open doorway and peered in. It was a drawing room, and it, too, was filled with paintings and tapestries. There was a lush deep-green carpet and various pieces of overstuffed furniture. As in the hallway, light was provided by oil lamps, both on the walls and set on tables. I picked up one of the handheld lamps and took it with me in case there were places not so well lit.

  I continued my exploration. The next room I came to was also furnished with tapestries, rugs, and overstuffed furniture, as well as shelves of books lining the walls. The library, I thought. But I was wrong. Many of the rooms turned out to have books. Finally I came to one that could not be mistaken for anything but a library. No tapestries there – every inch of the walls was covered with shelving, from floor to ceiling. It took my breath away. In Njord the only places I knew to have so many books were the monasteries. If only Neddy could see this, I thought, but I quickly brushed the thought away. I wouldn’t think about Neddy now.

  In addition to the many books I found in the rooms I explored, I also noticed something else that was plentiful. Whoever had decorated this place clearly had a love of music. There was a musical instrument in almost every room.

  Then I came to a large room that was devoted entirely to music, as the library was devoted to books. It was breathtaking. In the centre of the room stood an enormous grand piano, beautifully painted and carved. And in a large ornate cabinet was an astonishing collection of pipes and flautos that appeared to have come from all over the world. There was a lacquered bambo
o flauto in the shape of a dragon that looked to be from the Far East, and there were pipes made of ivory, reed, and soapstone. Some were elaborately carved, some had double pipes, but there was one flauto that was clearly favoured. Displayed in a beautiful box lined with blue velvet, it wasn’t fancy like some of the others but had a simple, classic beauty.

  There were sheaves of sheet music tied up with ribbon, and there were chairs lining the sides of the room that looked as if they could be pulled out to form rows for an audience. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine a gathering of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen seated there on a Sunday afternoon, applauding enthusiastically for the performance of a musician. I liked the room very much, although there hung an air of sadness about it, perhaps because it was empty of people.

  I went into room after room. I was going to count them but quickly gave up. The place was enormous, and because of its size I began to think of it as a castle.

  I got the feeling that the castle was carved right into the mountain, which was impossible, yet by then I had become accustomed to impossible things. There were no windows or doors that I could see, save for the large door we had entered. Most of the rooms looked as though they had not been used in a long time. It was not because they were stuffy or dusty (in fact, they were neat as a pin), but there was a general sense of emptiness, even loneliness, about each room.

  I became more and more intrigued as I explored, forgetting completely my uneasiness about the white bear.

  I began to weave a picture in my mind of whoever it was who lived there (other than a white bear). It became a sort of game to piece together the clues that revealed him… Well, that was the first thing I figured out – that it was a man who lived there. There was little of a feminine touch in most of the rooms I had seen.

  He loved music. And books. I thought again of the library. Neddy.

  I was suddenly hit with a pang of homesickness so severe that I sank down on the thick blue carpet of the room in which I stood. I had been so swept up in the wild ride getting there and then exploring the castle that I had barely thought of my family at all. There I was, thousands of miles from those I loved most in the world, in a strange deserted castle, no doubt with an enormous white bear prowling somewhere nearby.

  A chill went through me and I wrapped my pieced-together cloak tighter around my shoulders. Oh, Neddy…

  I am not one who cries easily, but at that moment tears spilled from my eyes. I don’t know how long I sat there, huddled into my cloak, feeling miserable.

  It was hunger that finally got me to my feet and moving again. It had likely been hours since the hot bread and tea. But I wasn’t sure how to find my way back to the room where I had eaten. So I decided to go forwards, and rushed down the corridor, ignoring the rooms to either side of me, thinking I might find a stairway that would take me back down to the floor where I had begun.

  I had just glimpsed a flight of stairs and was heading towards it when something caught my eye – a door was slightly ajar and I could see lamps lit inside the room. The merest hint of colour and light flashed out at me. I pushed the door open and then caught my breath in amazement.

  A loom. It was the most beautiful loom I had ever seen, more beautiful than I could ever have imagined. It was made of a rich chestnut-coloured wood that was polished so that it gleamed, and the posts were carved with intricate designs, as were the crossbeams. The warp threads had been set up with an astonishing palette of wool in such rich colours as the pale green of early spring grass and the purple of fleur-de-lis.

  I ran my fingers reverently along the threads. In a sort of trance I sank down on the small stool that was perched in front of the loom, as if it had been waiting for me. I felt like I was in a dream, watching myself, but I took up the shuttle and beater and began to weave. Though it was a completely unfamiliar loom, with a different feel to the shuttle and the tension in the warp threads, it took only a few passes before I understood it, and then I was gone, lost in the world of texture, colour, and movement that I loved so well. I could feel the grass brushing against my bare feet, and the violet smell of the fleur-de-lis was thick in my nostrils.

  The loom was like a Thoroughbred compared to the worn, stumbling workhorse of a loom I had used in Widow Hautzig’s shed. And working on it was as different as the looms themselves. It was the difference between walking with a stranger and walking with your heartmate. It was the difference between working for duty and working for love.

  I have no idea how long I wove.

  With no window to the outside world, I could not keep time. I might have been an entire day at the loom, or even longer. What finally brought me to my senses was hunger. My head was light and there was a faint buzzing in my ears. But still I could not stop. My fingers slowly moving, I gazed around the room.

  There wasn’t just the one loom but several others – small hand looms, a weighted loom similar to the one at home, and an upright loom that I guessed to be a tapestry loom, though I had never seen one before, only heard Widow Hautzig describe them. In addition to the looms, there were several spinning wheels (which I would have gone to examine more closely if my knees had not been so weak) as well as shelves filled to overflowing with everything that one could possibly want for creating cloth and sewing it together.

  There was a whole section of shelving devoted entirely to thread. A rainbow of colours and textures. Some spools even looked to have silk thread on them, with colours that included shimmery golds, silvers, and bronzes.

  There were bins of carded wool, baskets of raw fluffy wool awaiting carding, and skeins of finished wool, ready for weaving. There were bottles of liquid colour for dyeing and bowls of powdered pigment in every colour ever seen in nature and some I had never seen before. There were sharp, glittery scissors, needles for knitting, and sewing needles of every thickness and length. I was dumbstruck.

  But finally, I knew I must find something to eat or I would become ill. I lurched to the door and out into the hall. My head swimming, I made my way to the stairs. Just looking along the curving staircase made my ears ring and my legs shake, but I started down anyway. I finished my descent sitting, dragging my rear down each step like a very young child.

  At the bottom I pulled myself upright using the banister and began to walk forwards. I sniffed the air for the smell of stew, but there was no scent. I began to worry that I was far from that room where I had eaten. Or that the food was in a different room.

  Or worse, that there would be no food at all.

  At the end of the hall I rounded the corner, and standing there was the white bear. He was somehow larger and whiter than I remembered. I let out a small scream and fell clumsily to the ground. I felt close to fainting but took several deep, gasping breaths and the feeling passed.

  The white bear watched me with his sad black eyes. Then he said in that hollow deep voice that always seemed like it was wrenched from him, “There is food. Come.”

  I got up shakily and followed.

  After a while he stopped, and I stopped, too, stumbling a little.

  “If you need…grab…my fur.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, my voice thin. I was too addled by hunger to be afraid. I reached up and set my hand on his back.

  He started walking again, and I followed along to the room he had led me to before, when we had first arrived. I did stumble once along the way, and kept myself from falling by grabbing a handful of white fur. He didn’t pause or flinch.

  Once again there was a stewpot on the hearth, with a thick soup of lentils and ham bubbling inside. The white bear stood in the doorway, watching me for a moment, then he turned and disappeared.

  As I ate, my mind whirled with thoughts about this extraordinary place and all the things in it – the loom, the delicious food that appeared out of nowhere, and most of all, the white bear.

  Before I took the softskin boy, I went back several times to the green lands. I travelled in my own sleigh, taking only Urda, and I did not try to talk to the boy
but only watched, learning of his life. I wrote in my Book:

  It seems these softskins die with great frequency; their lives are shortened by a wide variety of illnesses and accidents. The boy I watch is a fifth-born child, but two older than he have already died. It shall be no surprise then if he, too, shall seem to perish.

  It was simple, the plan I came up with. I chose an ill-favoured troll to sacrifice, one who would be little missed in Huldre, and then with my arts summoned up a very simple act of shape-changing.

  If only my father had not been so angry.

  It is odd, the twists that life will sometimes take. The ewe that you think will give birth with ease dies bringing forth a two-headed lamb. Or the ski trail that you have been told is treacherous, you navigate easily.

  The days that followed Rose’s departure were dark and more painful than anything I could have imagined. Father was a ghost of a man, pale and hollow-eyed, moving about the farm clumsily, as if he didn’t belong there. He avoided all of us, especially Mother. She spent her time with Sara. It was as if she believed that by nursing Sara and restoring her health, she could justify Rose’s sacrifice. But of course nothing could. Not ever, not even if Sara were to suddenly leap from her bed, fully recovered. As it was, there was no change in her condition.

  I spent my time in a dazed sort of twilight world, going about my chores, but my mind was always on Rose, imagining her in every possible situation except the one that ended with her gone for ever.

  Outwardly we busied ourselves with getting ready to leave the farm. Neighbour Torsk was kind and helpful; I think even in his simple way he was aware that something was very wrong with our family. Mother told him that Rose had gone to live with relatives in the southeast for a time, and that the rest of us were hoping to follow her as soon as Sara’s health improved.

  At first, because Father was so lost in grief, my brother Willem and I did all the heavy work about the farm – repairing and cleaning and sorting. But after several days Father set aside his lost look and threw himself into the labour with a frightening intensity, as though work was the only thing that kept him from madness. By the end of the week our farmhouse looked as good as it possibly could have, given our reduced circumstances.