The Snow Child: A Novel (27 page)

“No, it is something.”

They followed the trail that led to the new field. Garrett led the way, carrying his shotgun and kicking at dirt clods. What are you feeding my boy over there? Esther had joked, and Jack, too, had noticed that Garrett had shot up several inches during the summer. He had lost some of the boyhood softness in his face, and his jawline and cheekbones were more prominent. His mannerisms had matured as well. He looked Jack in the eye, spoke his opinions clearly, and rarely had to be asked to do something. George doubted it, said they were too kind to speak so of his youngest son, but during their visits he eventually saw the change, too. Maybe we should have sent our others over as well, George said and laughed. But Jack suspected the boy could only come into his own without his brothers looming over him. There was even some sign that Garrett took pride in the work he had done here at their homestead.

The trail ran along the edge of the field and past a swath of black spruce. The waning daylight did not penetrate far into the spindly, dense trees, and the air was noticeably cooler in their shadow. It was such a thin line, just a wagon trail, that separated the forest from the tidy green of the field, and Jack was thinking of the work that had gone into it when Garrett stopped in the trail and broke down his shotgun as if to load it. Jack looked past him. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and just as they did, Garrett dug a cartridge from his pocket and thumbed it into the barrel.

“No! Wait.” Jack put his hand on the boy’s back. “Don’t.”

Garrett looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, and took aim.

“I said don’t shoot it.”

“That fox? Why not?” Garrett squinted in disbelief, then swept his eyes back down the gun barrel, as if he had misheard. The fox ran out of the woods and crouched in the trail. Jack
couldn’t be sure—one red fox from another. But the markings looked the same, the black ears, near-crimson orange fur, the black-socked feet. It was all he had left of her.

“Leave it be.”

“The fox?”

“Yes, for Christ’s sake. The fox. Just leave it be.” Jack shoved the gun barrel down.

The animal took its chance and darted into the potato field. Jack glimpsed the fluffy red tail between the plants, and then it was gone.

“Are you crazy? We could have had it.” Garrett broke down the shotgun, pulled out the cartridge, and stuffed it in his pocket. Their eyes met and Jack saw a flash of irritation, maybe even contempt.

“Look, I wouldn’t have minded but—”

“He’ll be back, you know.” Garrett’s short, disrespectful tone surprised Jack.

“We’ll see.”

“They always are. Next time he’ll be picking through your dump pile or sniffing around the barn.” Garrett walked ahead, and as they circled the field he watched where the fox had run but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t until they neared the house that he spoke again. “It doesn’t make any sense, letting it get away.”

“Let’s just say I know that one. He used to belong to somebody,” and Jack found the words hard.

“Belonged? A fox?” They neared the barn and Jack wanted the talk done and Garrett off to bed, but the boy stopped in front of the door.

“Who did it belong to?”

“Somebody I knew.”

“There’s nobody else around here for miles…” His voice
trailed off and he turned to the barn, then back again. “Wait. It’s not that girl, is it? The one I heard Mom and Dad talking about? The one Mabel says came around last winter?”

“Yep. That was her fox, and I don’t want anyone shooting it.”

Garrett shook his head and exhaled sharply out his nose.

“Is there a problem with that?”

“No. No, sir.” It had been a long time since he had called Jack sir.

Jack walked toward the house.

“It’s just… there wasn’t really a girl, was there?”

Jack almost kept walking. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. He was tired. His evening had been disturbed, and he wished he had stayed put at home in front of the woodstove. But he faced Garrett.

“Yes. There was a girl. She raised that fox from a pup. It still comes around sometimes, and it’s never done any harm, only taken what we’ve offered.”

Again there was the shake of the head and the soft snort.

“There’s no way.”

“What? Raising a fox from a pup?”

“No. The girl. Living by herself around here, in the woods. In the middle of winter? She wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“You don’t think a person could do it? Live off this land?”

“Oh, somebody could. A man. Somebody who really knew what he was doing. Not many,” and he said it as if he were one of the few. “Certainly no little girl.”

Garrett must have seen a look pass over Jack’s face, because his confidence seemed to falter. “I mean, I’m not doubting what you think you saw. Maybe there’s just another way to account for it.”

“Maybe.” Jack walked slowly toward the house. He didn’t
wait for Garrett to say more, but as he neared the door he heard him call out, “Good night. And tell Mabel good night, too.” Without turning around, Jack held up the back of his hand in a brief wave.

“Nice walk?” Mabel’s eyes were on her sewing. She had lit a lantern and in the weak light was bent close to the fabric. Jack eased off his boots and went to the basin to wash his hands. He splashed the cold water over his face, too, and then dried his face and the back of his neck.

“How’s the sewing coming?”

“Slow but sure. I just had to rip out a few seams, so I’m pulling my hair out right now.” She put down her work, sat back in the chair, and stretched her neck. “Did you two have a nice walk?”

“It was all right. Quieter on my own.”

“Yes. He’s become quite a talker, hasn’t he? But I do enjoy him. And he is a hard worker.”

“Yes. He is.”

Jack stoked the woodstove and added a log. Nights were cooler now as autumn approached.

“So what have you been sewing on over there?”

“Oh, just a little something.”

“A secret? A Christmas present, then, is it?”

“Not for you. Not this one,” and Mabel smiled up at him.

“Well, what then?”

“Oh, nothing really…” and he knew she wanted to tell him.

“Come on. Out with it. You’re like a cat with a goldfish in its mouth.”

“All right, then. It’s for Faina. A new winter coat. I think I’ve figured out how to do the trim.” Mabel stood and held the
pieces of the coat in front of her, laying the blue boiled wool across her front and along her arms as if it were sewn together. Then she picked up a few strips of white fur.

“For Faina?”

“Yes. Isn’t it beautiful? This is rabbit fur. Snowshoe hare, actually. I asked Garrett for it. I told him I was working on a sewing project. He said this was the softest, and it is. Feel it.”

So this is what she’d spent her time on these past few days. This is what kept her up at night, sketching in her little notebook, smiling and lighthearted. He wanted to yank the thing from her hands and throw it to the floor. He felt sick, lightheaded even.

“Don’t you like it? You see, I noticed last time we saw her, how her coat was frayed and worn. And she had nearly outgrown it last winter. Her wrists were sticking out. I wasn’t sure about the size, but I tried to remember how tall she had been when she was sitting in this chair, and how narrow her shoulders were.”

Mabel spread the coat on the table and picked up some spools of thread. Her face was radiant. “It’ll be lovely. I know it will. I just hope I can finish it in time.”

“In time for what?”

“For when she comes back.” She said it as if it were as plain as the nose on his face.

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“For Christ’s sake, Mabel, she’s not coming back. Can’t you see that?”

She stepped back, her hands at her cheeks. He had frightened her, but then her temper flared in her eyes. “Yes she is.”

She folded the coat and began sticking pins in the little tomato pincushion, her movements quick and angry. Jack sat in
the chair by the woodstove. He put his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands, his fingers in his hair. He couldn’t look at Mabel. He heard her in the kitchen, clattering dishes and slamming cups, and then walking to the bedroom door. There she stopped. He did not raise his head. She was out of breath, her voice hushed but sharp.

“She is coming back. And damn it, Jack, I won’t let you or anyone else tell me differently.”

She carried the last lit lantern with her into the bedroom, leaving Jack alone in the dark.

S
now had come to Mabel in a dream, and with it hope. Her coat as blue as her eyes, her white hair flashing as she skipped and spun down mountain slopes. In the dream, Faina laughed, and her laughter rang like chimes through the cold air, and she hopped among the boulders and where her feet touched rock, ice formed. She sang and twirled down the alpine tundra, her arms open to the sky, and behind her snow fell and it was like a white cloak she drew down the mountains as she ran.

When Mabel woke the next morning and looked out the bedroom window, she saw snow. Just a dusting across the distant peaks, but she knew it had been more than a dream.

The child did not have to die. Maybe she wasn’t gone from them forever. She could have gone north, to the mountains, where the snow never melts, and she could return with winter to her old man and old woman in their little cottage near the village.

Mabel only had to wish and believe. Her love would be a beacon to the child. Please, child. Please, child. Please come back to us.

No matter how she turned it over in her mind, Mabel always traced the child’s footsteps back to the night she and Jack had shaped her from snow. Jack had etched her lips and eyes. Mabel had given her mittens and reddened her lips. That night the child was born to them of ice and snow and longing.

What happened in that cold dark, when frost formed a halo in the child’s straw hair and snowflake turned to flesh and bone? Was it the way the children’s book showed, warmth spreading down through the cold, brow then cheeks, throat then lungs, warm flesh separating from snow and frozen earth? The exact science of one molecule transformed into another—that Mabel could not explain, but then again she couldn’t explain how a fetus formed in the womb, cells becoming beating heart and hoping soul. She could not fathom the hexagonal miracle of snowflakes formed from clouds, crystallized fern and feather that tumble down to light on a coat sleeve, white stars melting even as they strike. How did such force and beauty come to be in something so small and fleeting and unknowable?

You did not have to understand miracles to believe in them, and in fact Mabel had come to suspect the opposite. To believe, perhaps you had to cease looking for explanations and instead hold the little thing in your hands as long as you were able before it slipped like water between your fingers.

And so, as autumn hardened the land and snow crept down the mountains, she sewed a coat for a child she was certain would return.

Mabel ordered several yards of boiled wool, and then in a giant kettle dyed it a deep blue that reminded her of the river valley in winter. The lining would be quilted silk, and the trim white fur. It would be sturdy and practical, but befitting a snow maiden. The buttons—sterling silver filigree. They came from
a shop in Boston, and she had saved them for years in her button jar, never finding a purpose for them until now. The white fur trim she would sew around the hood and down the front of the coat, along the bottom, and around each cuff. Snowflakes, embroidered with white silk thread, would cascade down the front and back of the coat.