by Edith Pattou
After arriving in Neyak and being greeted by Malmo, I went to look for Thor. I found him working on his ship. He was assisted by two friendly young Inuit men, to whom he had taught all his favourite drinking songs.
An older handsome Inuit woman brought a substantial meal at midday, which they shared with me, and I thought I detected a shy sort of understanding between Thor and the woman.
He told me quite frankly that after I had left, he drank up every drop of ale remaining on the broken-down knorr, but that he hadn’t had anything stronger than reindeer milk since. Initially he got quite sick, he said, his body not being used to an ale-free diet, but the people who had become his friends – especially the handsome woman, whose name was Rekko – had taken him in and seen him through the sickness.
“I’ve gotten used to it here,” he said gruffly. “Think I’ll stick around. And once I get the knorr fixed up, I might even start a small trading business, between Gronland and Iseland. Should keep me out of trouble. For a while anyway,” he added with a grin.
I told Thor about Gest, that he had survived the storm (it was information from Gest that had led Neddy and Father to Gronland), and Thor was amazed.
“By Odin, I’d never have thought it possible! Well, that’ll be my first voyage, then. Find the old scoundrel and see if he fancies going into business together.”
I smiled.
I brought the white bear to meet Thor, and for some reason they took to each other right away. Maybe because both men had been lost for so long, Thor understood him better than any of us. The white bear even pitched in to help fix Thor’s ship. He had never done work of that kind before, but he was strong and a quick learner, and it was clear he was glad of something to do.
It was an odd time, our short stay in Neyak. Father, Neddy, Soren, and I were preoccupied with figuring out what to do about the people we had taken away from Niflheim. There were seventeen survivors, and they were from all over the world. The two Njorden were the simplest to sort out, because they could tell us exactly where they had lived. And the same was true of the three from Fransk. But the others were more complicated. Malmo helped with the different languages, and the maps Father had with him were useful as well, but there were two whom we simply could not figure out. One was the young woman who had been on the sleigh with me when I had first gone to the ice palace, and the other was an older woman with flame-coloured hair. These two, we decided, would simply come home with us (and they both were quite pleased with the arrangement), while we would make every effort to return the rest to their original homes.
Soren suggested that once we got to Suroy, the first big port in our southward journey, it wouldn’t be too difficult to find each a passage to his or her home. And he was willing to pay all expenses. I saw then just how immensely generous Soren was, and I understood how lucky our family had been to meet up with him.
I did not know how those returning home would explain their disappearance. Who would believe the true story? Even the crew of Soren’s ship – those who had seen us emerge from Tatke Fjord, a motley group in animal-skin coats speaking a wide array of languages and accompanied by some rather extraordinary reindeer – even they had difficulty believing our tale.
At least, I thought, those seventeen people would most likely have homes of some kind to return to. And unlike the white bear, they knew their names.
I had made up my mind. I would go away.
In Suroy we were able to find passage for all but four of the people who had been enslaved. Three were from Fransk, and the fourth from a small inland country that had no coastal port. The man called Soren had been exceedingly generous. He reminded me of a good and gentle shepherd leading a herd of stray lambs back to their folds. The three from Fransk he decided to take home himself in the ship called Rose, travelling directly to La Rochelle before returning to Njord. And the one who lived inland, Soren supplied with provisions and enough gold pieces to make a good start towards his destination. I was sure he would do the same for me, but I could not ask without giving away my plans. And I did not want anyone to know I meant to go. Especially Rose.
I knew that if I was to look into those purple eyes, I would not be able to leave her.
In my days of wandering the world as a white bear, I observed much about the ways of men and women – and I knew that for me to start a life on unequal footing with Rose was to court disaster.
I must at least know my name.
Fransk was where I would begin my search. The one thing I knew about myself was that I had been a prince. The pale queen had told me one day when I said to her that I felt inadequate to rule the land of Huldre. “But you have royal blood,” she said. “You were a prince in the green lands.”
A prince in Fransk. More than a hundred years ago.
But I thought I’d be able to find someone in Fransk who knew of a long-ago king with a son who had “died” prematurely. I had been having more frequent flashes of memory the farther south we travelled, and I thought it was even possible that I might recognize the place where I had grown up.
I had no intention of trying to reclaim a royal title. I would have been thought a raving lunatic if I even attempted to convince anyone I was Prince So-and-So of the previous century, not to mention being ushered off to the nearest madhouse. Fortunately, my brush with potential kingship in Huldre had left me thoroughly disinterested in royalty of any kind. No, whatever form my life took, I wanted it to be a simple one.
I had decided to go to the castle in the mountain, though it seemed unlikely the castle would still be there. It was possible the Troll Queen had not taken me too far from where I had originally lived. Whether that was true or not, I thought it a good place to start.
My plan was to slip off the ship after it docked in La Rochelle. I would depart well before dawn and make a good start before anyone was awake. I wanted to leave a note for Rose, but when it came time I found myself unable to. What could I say? “Dear Rose, I go to find my name. Hope to return in a year or two. Yours truly, the man who was once a white bear.”
No, I decided, it was better just to go. After all, she might be relieved.
I did not sleep well that night and thus had no problem rising before dawn. I gathered the few belongings I had decided to take with me – including my flauto – made my way through the silent ship, and descended the gangplank.
I awoke at dawn, which in itself wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the way I sat bolt upright feeling that I’d been smacked across the face.
I jumped out of bed and dressed with an urgency I didn’t understand. I left my room quietly and made my way down the hall. Suddenly I stopped, not sure exactly where I was going. I stood like a hunting dog sniffing the air, trying to figure out the direction in which its quarry lay.
Then I knew. I made my way to the room where the white bear had been sleeping. Silently I opened the door. In the dim light from the porthole I could make out the slumbering forms of two sailors. But the third bunk, the white bear’s bed, was empty.
In some odd way I had been expecting it. But I was flooded with despair anyway. He’d said nothing to me – no goodbye, nothing.
Then I saw something shiny lying on top of the neatly folded blankets of the empty bed.
I crossed the room. It was a silver ring, the one with VALOIS inscribed on it, the one I had worn on my thumb throughout the long journey. He had left it for me.
I grabbed it up, stuck it on my thumb, and left the room.
I returned to my quarters, got my cloak, then left the ship.
There were many people already on the docks, but none of them had seen a man with golden hair wearing a coat of white fur. How long ago had he left? Could it have been as long ago as the night before, right after the last person had retired for the evening? I felt suddenly cold and wrapped the cloak tighter around my shoulders.
Was I going to have to seek him all over again? I felt a rush of anger. Why would he disappear like that, in the middle of the night with no expla
nation or even a goodbye?
I stopped midstride. Perhaps I should let him go, I thought.
Then I remembered his face those past few weeks, strained and pale, and my anger softened. Maybe this was what he needed to do.
As I was walking along the road leading out of La Rochelle, an old farmer and his son came along in a wagon and offered me a ride. It turned out they were travelling in the same direction, and I was very grateful for their kindness.
The farther south we travelled, the more familiar the landscape began to appear. It was extraordinary how fast memories were returning. I was glad to be riding in the back of the wagon, for the farmer and his son would certainly have thought me quite mad if they had heard all my exclamations each time I was assailed by a new memory. Most were memories from when I had been a white bear, those endless years I had wandered the world looking for the one who would set me free. And some were memories from when I had been a child. What I had trouble remembering was how I had gone from boy to bear.
I asked the farmer about the history of the land, about who was king a hundred or so years before, but he and his son had no knowledge or interest in the past. All that concerned them was their lives at the time – how high the taxes were, what a wet spring they’d had, and so forth. I would need to go to a larger city to find scholars who made a study of the past. But for the time being I would continue south.
When their way turned east, the farmer and his son left me near a small village called Koln. Again I was fortunate enough to get a ride from a travelling merchant, who set me down at a crossroads not very far from the edge of the large forest that was known in the region to be haunted. Wouldn’t the locals be amazed, I thought, to learn the true story behind the odd occurrences in that forest. Because the trolls working the farm had wanted their activities to be undisturbed by softskins, they had created the strange noises and lights that were seen coming from the forest. As for those who had been so bold as to stray too far into the forest, the trolls had killed them at once.
By the time I reached the mountain where the castle had been, I remembered everything.
The red ball. The beautiful pale girl with the voice like rocks. And my surprise at seeing her again when she had returned. The sound of bells and finding myself wrapped in furs, flying high in the sky. Arriving at the immense ice palace. Her father in a deadly rage. Watching stupefied as he berated her, setting out the conditions that took my life from me.
The terrifying moment when my body was transformed. The years of hopeless searching.
Rose.
Down to the last night and the last day. Finding the white nightshirt with the stain.
That night I did not remember, as I do now, about the last of her father’s conditions:
Further, no request that he shall make of one of Huldre shall be denied. Except the request to be released from his enchantment. To be released from the enchantment, the white bear that was a softskin must abide by and satisfy a set of inviolable conditions. These conditions shall be made known to him in their entirety.
When I asked the pale queen to wash the shirt, I did not think of this last condition. Or perhaps there was some dim, buried memory spurring me on. I thought only of Rose. Of the story she had told of the careless husband and the tangled washing line – and of how we both had laughed. Of how she had made the nightshirt for me because I was cold. And of how she had washed it for me. I knew she would be able to wash it clean. And I knew the Troll Queen couldn’t.
How odd to think that that stain of tallow had been both my undoing and my deliverance.
Standing there on the dock wondering if I should follow or let him go, I had been flooded with memories. A young sailor with a straggly moustache carrying an enormous spool of rope nearly knocked me over, but I hardly noticed as he recovered himself and continued on, hurling some colourful curses back at me.
The first journey on the white bear’s back; “Are you afraid?”; the apologetic way he towered over me; the sigh through the doorway when he saw me in the moon dress; the way he covered his ears the first time I played the flauto; the relief in his eyes when I returned from visiting my family; his hand curled on the sheets; the polite, bored look on his face when we danced; and – I could barely let my mind think of it – the dazed look of wonder on his face when I held up the steaming, stain-free white shirt.
I would find him. I had to. And when I did, I would tell him all that was in my heart. We were no longer under an enchantment; there was nothing to keep us from speaking except our own ridiculous pride. If, after I had said what I had to say, he still wished to travel alone, then so be it. I would not shatter, nor would he.
I knew where he was going and I would follow.
I stood in front of the mountain for a long time. Surely, the castle inside was gone or, if not, was inaccessible to someone with no arts. The sheer rock face showed no sign of an entrance, but then it never had. I thought back to the many times I had gone in and out of that mountain. All I had had to do then was just picture the door opening and it did. Perhaps if I tried that now…
There was a grinding sound and to my amazement the rock face opened, revealing the interior of the castle. I rubbed my eyes, unbelieving. It was very dark inside, but the sun of the afternoon shed some faint light into the front hallway.
I entered.
There were no lamps burning, and therefore it was pitch-black. I kindled a flame in a lamp in the front hall with a striker I had with me. Carrying the lamp I began to explore the castle. It was very cool – the fires had not been lit for a long time – and there was an uncanny stillness about the place. I periodically lit lamps along the way, leaving a trail of light behind me.
Entering the music room, I gazed around at the familiar and well-loved instruments. That had been one of the worst parts of being imprisoned in a white bear’s body; with no fingers or lips, I had been unable to play music.
I crossed to the flauto, the one I had preferred over all others, and picked it up. It had always been so familiar to me. I wondered if the Troll Queen had taken it from my previous life, or just re-created it for me. But why? Had she wanted to make me feel at home, or to torture me?
I put the instrument to my lips.
Vaettur made good time. I did not think I could be very far behind the white bear – that is, if I was right about his destination.
I must have caused quite a few people to stare as I rode Vaettur through the countryside of Fransk. I could tell that the reindeer was not comfortable in the warmer climate, but the early spring weather was still cool enough that he was not miserable.
The forest “hanté” was even denser than I remembered, and the empty farm just as eerie, but soon we had arrived at the base of the mountain. I found the open door right away and knew then that I had guessed correctly. I peered in the entrance, surprised to see that the castle was still there and that the white bear had managed to enter.
Vaettur followed me into the cool entrance hall but stayed there to munch on some oats I had brought for him in a small bag.
I followed the trail of lamps through the dim, echoing hallways, feeling surrounded by ghosts, whispering, sighing in my ears. I thought of Tuki; the pain of his loss was still a fresh wound. Seeing the place where we had first met and played our silly language game was like a blade twisting into me.
The lamps led me to the music room, but when I looked inside, it was empty. Then I heard it – the sound of a flauto. The music was far away, and I turned to follow it. As I made my way back through the hallways, listening closely, I recognized the song as the one he had been playing back in the ice palace when I had hurried towards the banquet hall. And the one I had long ago tried so pathetically to play. “Estivale”.
As I moved closer I realized the music was coming from the room with the red couch. I approached the doorway, almost afraid to enter.
But I did.
And there he was, sitting on the red couch, playing his flauto. There was a large book of music o
pen on the couch beside him.
He saw me and stopped playing. Our eyes met and he stood.
I crossed the room to him. “I love you,” I said in a rush, afraid I would change my mind.
“Charles,” he replied.
I stared at him.
“My name,” he said with a smile that lit his face. Setting down his flauto, he leaned over and picked up the book beside him on the couch. Opening it to one of the blank pages at the beginning, he pointed to some words written in a flowing, cursive hand:
Charles Pierre Philippe, Dauphin
“I wrote this,” he said. “My name. I am Charles Pierre Philippe.” He set down the book.
And then he took both my hands tightly in his.
My daughter Nyamh…my daughter Rose married Charles in a small ceremony in the front parlour of our house in Trondheim. Her sister Sara’s wedding to Harald Soren had taken place several weeks before and was a much grander affair. But Rose and Charles both insisted on a simple celebration, and the joy in Rose’s face shone no less than Sara’s; in fact, it was that much brighter for being so hard won.
When Charles slipped the silver ring on Rose’s thumb, I thought he had gotten confused – or that it was a custom peculiar to Fransk – but Rose seemed well pleased with her thumb-ring, and anyway, my attentions were diverted by the tears streaming down Eugenia’s face. She had forgotten her handkerchief – or rather, I learned later, she had deliberately not carried one because of some superstition that if the mother of the bride brings a handkerchief to her daughter’s wedding, a horrible tragedy will occur within the first year of the marriage. Or some such nonsense. So I had to lend her mine.