East (10 page)

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 for. 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.

B
EFORE
I
TOOK THE
softskin boy, I went back several times to the green lands. I traveled 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-favored 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.

I
T 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 forever.

Outwardly we busied ourselves with getting ready to leave the farm. Neighbor 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 labor 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.

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 neighbor 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 toward 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 forward, 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 plow 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 neighbors. 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 neighbors—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 odor 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 center 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.