North Child

by Edith Pattou

  The day before the landholder was due to take possession of his property, we had nearly finished with the packing; there was so little worth taking away with us. I was out by the henhouse, feeding the few scrawny chickens we had left, when I heard the sound of wagon wheels. Soon a handsome wagon pulled by two gleaming horses came into view. I called out to Father, who was nearby. Mother was at neighbour Torsk’s with Sara.

  The wagon came to a stop and a tall, well-dressed gentleman alighted and stood for a moment gazing at the farm. He had a look of ownership about him, and I knew at once that the landholder had come a day early. My heart sank a little. Though I had been expecting that moment for a long time, it still pained me. Then the man strode towards Father and me, a pleasant expression on his face. “You must be Arne,” he said to Father, extending his hand.

  “Master Mogens?” my father said hesitantly, taking the proffered hand.

  “No, Mogens works for me, watching over my holdings. I am Harald Soren, the owner of this property.”

  “Well met, Master Soren. This is my son Neddy.”

  I shook the man’s hand, impressed in spite of myself at the kindness and intelligence I saw in his eyes. I had spent much of the past months disliking – even despising – the man, but now that he was in front of me and the day had arrived for him to take away the only home I had ever known, I could not help but think he looked a good and decent fellow.

  “I hope you will find everything in order,” my father said stiffly.

  “Oh, I am sure…” Master Soren began. “But first, let me apologize for arriving a day early. The journey took less time than I had thought it would. The map I used was poor,” he said with a frown. “It is difficult to find maps of decent quality.” His eyes held an exasperated look, then he gave a shrug. “At any rate, I have taken lodgings in Andalsnes. And I can come back tomorrow if that suits you better.”

  “Oh no, today is just as good as tomorrow,” Father replied with courtesy. “May I show you around the farm?”

  “That would be most kind of you.”

  I wondered what must have been going through Father’s mind as we took Master Soren through the farmhouse. For myself, I found it hard to hate the man, with his shiny boots and kind eyes, looking over my home as if he were assessing a mare he had just acquired.

  Then we came to the storage room. Father still had not taken down the few maps he had hung, maps of his own design, made back when he was apprentice to my grandfather. I also saw that all of our wind rose designs lay scattered over the worktable, with Rose’s on top.

  I heard Master Soren give a sudden intake of breath. He quickly strode over to the nearest map pinned to the wall and studied it closely, his concentration focused and intent.

  I saw him trace Father’s signature with his finger, then he turned, his eyes bright, and said, “Am I to understand that you made this map?”

  “Yes, though it is many years old…”

  “Did you, by chance, apprentice with Esbjorn Lavrans?”

  “Yes,” Father answered, and smiled for the first time in many days. “Esbjorn was my wife’s father. He died some years ago.”

  “Well I know. A great loss, it was.” Soren paused. “I had heard there was an apprentice, but no one knew anything about him, after Esbjorn’s death. And since then I have had to get my maps from Danemark, at great cost and much difficulty. Even then, they are either out of date or incomplete. And the maps of Njord…” He gave a snort to indicate his contempt.

  Then his eyes fell on the wind roses. Again he moved forwards, his eyes alight.

  “May I?” he asked. Father dumbly nodded, and we both watched as the man slowly and reverently looked at each design.

  “But these are superb!” he exclaimed, lowering the last into the box. “How is it that I have never seen or heard of your work before?”

  “Because I have done none,” Father replied. “Except for my own pleasure, when time allowed. I am a farmer now.”

  Harald Soren gazed at Father and a silence grew in the small room. When Soren spoke at last he sounded angry. “It is a waste then, a shameful waste.”

  Father’s mouth opened, and I thought he looked angry as well, but he said nothing.

  Then Soren smiled and spoke, his voice warm. “Such a talent as you possess! It is a damnable waste for one such as you to be spending your time mucking about with pigs and plough horses. Not that farming isn’t a noble calling… But mapmaking! Come, let us find a place to sit. I would talk with you further about your maps. And I could do with a cup of grog or whatever you have on hand.”

  Father looked stunned. “Of course,” he said. “I should have offered sooner…”

  “I’ll go,” I said to Father.

  “Thank you, lad,” said Soren. “Now, Arne, show me all your maps and charts and wind roses. I must see everything.”

  And so it happened that while I served them cups of watery ale and some stale bread and cheese, the two men put their heads together over Father’s precious pile of maps. And they were like two children with a game of hneftafl. I had not seen Father so happy in a very long time.

  Soren was a good man. It had been his assistant, Mogens, who’d made the decision to evict us. Soren was an ardent voyager and left most of his affairs in Mogens’s hands. But being between journeys, he had a mind to come himself to see the farm, which had been so long in the hands of one family, with the thought that he would like to know more of that family’s circumstances before he turned them off the lands.

  “Mogens means well,” Soren explained, “but he can be a bit rigid in following the dictates of business.”

  Soren asked Father many questions, and by the time twilight came he knew more about our family than most of our neighbours. When he learned of my sister Sara’s illness, he expressed the sincerest of concern and sympathy. The only thing Father did not tell Soren about was Rose and the white bear. Instead he told the same lie that Mother had told our neighbours – that his youngest daughter, Rose, whose wind rose design Soren had particularly admired, was visiting relatives in the south. Father’s face was so stiff and white when he said the words that I was sure Soren sensed something amiss; but if he did, he chose not to question further.

  When Soren left that evening for his lodgings in Andalsnes, he said, “I will return tomorrow to talk with you further, Arne. But there will be no more mention of leaving your farm.”

  Father and I stood watching as Soren’s carriage rattled down the road and out of sight. We then turned and stared at each other with the stupefied expressions of men just awoken from a dream.

  Soren did not return the next morning.

  I began to think that the whole encounter was a dream, or some sort of cruel trick. But later in the afternoon Soren came riding up in his wagon, bringing with him the doctor from Andalsnes. It was I who brought the doctor to Sara at Torsk’s farm, while Father stayed behind to talk with Soren.

  Dr. Trinde bade us leave the room while he examined Sara. As we waited I told Mother, Willem, and Sonja all that had happened with Soren.

  When I had finished, Mother said to me, “Is this true, Neddy? We don’t have to leave the farm?”

  I nodded. Mother closed her eyes. Clasping her hands together tightly, she was silent, her face pale. Then her eyes opened, and leaning close, she stared at me, a strange smile on her face.

  “This happened because of the white bear,” she said in a low voice, her eyes fixed on mine. I looked back at her in astonishment, which quickly turned to anger. That she should use the fortunate turn of events to justify Rose’s sacrifice… I shuddered with revulsion and pulled away from her.

  “Mother…” I began, my voice raw, when suddenly the doctor appeared.

  “I have here a list of herbs that I will need for Sara’s treatment,” he said, unaware of the tension in the room. I tried to focus on his words. “You should know,” Dr. Trinde went on gravely, “that it will be touch-and-go for a few days, but,” and he paused for a moment, �
��I think there is every reason to believe that Sara will pull through.”

  Mother’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached out and hugged me tightly to her.

  “You see?” she whispered. “It was all for the best.”

  I pulled away sharply. Then, grabbing the doctor’s list of herbs, I slammed out of Torsk’s farmhouse.

  I fell asleep again on the red couch by the hearth. I must have been still tired from the long journey, as well as from the many hours I had spent at the magnificent loom.

  When I awoke, my mouth felt sticky. Actually, I felt sticky all over; suddenly I could even smell the odour of seal on my skin. More than anything else in the world, I wanted a bath.

  But I had no idea how to go about finding a place to bathe.

  I didn’t know where the food came from or who kept the lamps lit and the hearth fire going. Was it all magic? Or were there servants who disappeared when I came into sight?

  The first thing to do was to find the kitchen. There had to be a kitchen. And where there was a kitchen, there would be water, and maybe even a large tub for bathing.

  I once more set out to explore, this time with a purpose. As I roamed I began to form a map in my head. And what had appeared to be a confused labyrinth to me the day before began to take on a pattern. It took some time, but I finally figured out that there was a block of rooms on the second floor that did not seem to have corresponding rooms on the floor below. It might just have been the way the building had been cut into the mountain, but I decided to investigate further. Then I discovered a large heavy tapestry that covered one end of a first-floor hall. It depicted a nobleman in a red cloak offering a small red heart to a lady in a blue gown, with a crown of pearls on her head. I lifted up the heavy cloth and found a door. I tried the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it turned easily. Then I slipped through the doorway, finding myself in a spacious kitchen.

  Standing at a worktable in the centre of the kitchen, her hands covered with flour, was a woman. She was a head taller than me and wore a plain black dress, covered by a black apron with flour all over it. She had the whitest skin I had ever seen, almost as white as the flour. Her hair was the same bright white as her skin, and she wore it in a long braid down the back of her dress. She was not a young woman, yet she was quite beautiful. Her features were perfect, her eyes large and black and staring at me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She said something in response, but I couldn’t understand her. She was speaking another language and her voice was rough and gravelly.

  I must have looked startled, for she clamped her lips shut. Then I noticed what looked like a boy hiding behind her. He had the same kind of white-skinned beauty as the woman, though his hair was dark brown rather than white.

  The woman said something to the boy in a whispering voice that sounded like chicken claws scratching over a rough surface. He crossed to a basket nearby and pulled out a pastry of some kind. Then he hesitantly came over and offered it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking it. He was not a boy at all, I realized. He was only a little shorter than me and his features were those of an adult, and like the white-haired woman, he had a perfect nose and wide black eyes. He was staring at me even more intently than the woman had.

  “My name is Rose,” I said to the small man. He did not respond, nor did he take his eyes off me. Suddenly he reached out and touched the back of my hand. As he drew his hand back, with a sideways glance at the woman, his eyes grew even wider, if that was possible, and he rubbed the finger that had touched me, his expression filled with awe.

  The woman glided over to us and gently slapped the man’s hand, shaking her head and making more guttural sounds.

  He sheepishly backed away.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  The woman just shook her head at me. Then she picked up a glass and pointed to it.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m not thirsty. What I would really like is a bath.”

  She just looked at me blankly.

  I tried to pantomime washing myself but couldn’t seem to get the idea across. The small man let out a grating noise that sounded like it may have been a giggle.

  But finally something dawned in the woman’s eyes and she purposefully strode over to me, took me by the wrist, and led me out through the door covered by the tapestry. The feel of her skin on my wrist startled me. It was rough, as gravelly and coarse as her voice had been. I glanced down at her hand; the texture of her skin was like the bark of a tree, whorled with ridges, fissured. I could make out traces of the flour lodged in the crevices of the white skin. Her touch repelled me, but I didn’t let my feelings show.

  To my relief she dropped my wrist when we were in the hallway. I understood I was to follow her.

  She led me up the stairs and along the hall I had explored the day before. Stopping in front of a door not far from the weaving room, she turned the handle and we entered. It was a lovely room, not fancy but warm and comfortable. A fire burned in a large fireplace and there were several overstuffed chairs in front of it, but the first thing I noticed was the large, lovely bed made of dark polished wood. It was piled high with puffy quilts and pillows. And sitting beside the bed was the small pack I had brought with me from home.

  I turned towards the white-skinned woman only to find she was gone.

  I quickly explored the room, discovering a large jug of water, a bar of white soap, and a basin large enough for bathing. Using a large kettle I warmed the water over the fire and had the most wonderful bath I could ever remember having.

  I dressed in a clean shift and tunic, and then sat in one of the chairs by the fire. I wanted to head directly back to the loom, but instead I made myself sit still and think.

  I reviewed it all in my mind. The white bear appearing in our house. His request. The discovery of my parents’ lie. The anger in me that drove me to go with the white bear. The journey. And this castle with its comforts, the fires lit all the time, the delicious food, the white-skinned woman and man. But mostly I thought about the white bear.

  It was the white bear who had brought me. And I had no idea why, or what I was to do.

  Perhaps I had been brought here to be a servant, to help the white lady and her companion. But the room she had led me to, where my things were, was hardly the room of a servant. I thought of the loom. Perhaps I had been brought here to weave, to make something for the white bear. Something in particular. Clearly, no expense had been spared outfitting that room. But why me? Surely there were weavers of far superior skill in the world.

  The loom. I wanted to see it again. But I continued to hold myself still. I needed to keep thinking.

  Maybe the white bear had tried other weavers, but none had families so willing to part with them.

  I suddenly felt impatient, and stood up. It was useless trying to sort out the inexplicable. Only the white bear knew the answers to these questions and it was to him I must go.

  I exited the room, then hesitated. Where would I seek him? The only places I had seen him so far were the room with the food, the front entrance, and the hallway between the two.

  I found my way to the front door. There was no one to be seen in any direction. Perhaps, I thought, I should try the door. It would undoubtedly be shut fast. It was.

  My hand was still on the doorknob when I heard a noise, like a sigh or a puff of wind. I whirled around, but there was nothing, or no one, in sight.

  He must be here somewhere.

  And so I began an exhaustive search of the castle, room by room, hall by hall. I thought I had been over every inch of it but still discovered parts I had not seen before. When I came to the weaving room, I resisted the urge to stop my search, though the loom was as beautiful as I had remembered it.

  I tried the door behind the tapestry, the one leading to the kitchen, but this time it was locked. I half-heartedly pounded on the door, but no one came. It seemed unlikely the white bear was in the kitc
hen, nor did I believe that I would get any help from the two white-skinned folk, so I resumed my search.

  Finally, when it seemed I had been over the whole castle twice, I gave up. Nowhere was there a large white bear.

  I was angry. What right had he to be wandering around the world outside while I was a prisoner? I realized I was being ridiculous, and it was lucky that I hadn’t been able to find the white bear, for I could easily have said something stupid and gotten myself eaten.

  I returned to the entrance, and though it was late, well past time for the midday meal, my stomach felt tight and I was not hungry for any of the good food that would surely be waiting for me in that room with the dark red couch. Then I thought of the loom, and this time I did not hesitate.

  Once again my hands became a part of the warp and weft, and my body again found the rhythm of the picture I’d begun. It was a meadow not far from our farmhold; the spring-green grass was dotted with purple fleur-de-lis, and an impatient brook cut through the foreground. I believed it was the best work I had ever done. Then I heard a noise. This time when I turned, the white bear was lying on the rug not four feet from me, his black eyes watching.

  On the day I brought the softskin boy to Huldre I wrote in my Book:

  It is done. He is here at last and my joy is unbounded.

  But my father rages at me. It must be undone, he says.

  I point out to him that it cannot be undone. Death is death in the green lands as well as in Huldre.

  “Then there will be punishment,” he says. “You cannot keep what you stole, unless conditions that I set down are met.”

  I have never seen my father so angry. But I am not worried. I shall meet his conditions. And it shall be as I have willed it to be.