The Snow Child (28 page)

I love it more than anything, she said against Mabel’s arm.

Oh, you couldn’t make me happier. Mabel stood and held the child’s hands in her own and looked her up and down.

It does fit well, doesn’t it?

The girl nodded, then glanced to where her old coat hung.

I was thinking, Faina. Perhaps I could take your old coat and make it into a blanket for you. That way, you’d still have it. Would that be all right? I’d have to cut it into pieces, but then I could sew them back together into a nice new blanket.

Really? You could? And I’d still have it?

Oh, yes. Most definitely yes.

Mabel was giddy and talkative as she cooked dinner, not allowing Jack or the child to speak of anything except the joy of being together. Maybe that should have been enough. Maybe he should have been grateful, without asking for more.

It was only when the cabin became overheated, with the woodstove and steam from cooking, when the girl seemed to wilt in her chair, only then did Jack sense some ripple beneath the surface, some doubt or fear in Mabel’s desperate happiness. She dashed to the door and brought in a handful of snow. She dabbed it to the girl’s cheeks and forehead.

There, there. It’s much too hot in here. There, there.

Jack put the back of his hand to the child’s forehead, but she was cool to the touch.

I suspect she’s just tired, Mabel.

But she continued with the snow, putting some to the girl’s lips.

Too hot, too hot, Mabel murmured. Please, get some more snow.

Jack opened the door to the swirling storm, driven in all directions by the wind off the river. It was a miserable night. She’d be soaked through in no time, and the wind would suck away any last heat. He would not let the girl leave, not to go back to that cold, lifeless hovel in the mountains.

You’ll stay here tonight, he said as he brought in another handful of snow.

Mabel frowned.

Will she?

Yes.

He spoke with more confidence than he felt.

The girl sat forward in her chair, her blue eyes narrowed and fierce.

I will go, she said.

Not tonight, he said. You’ll stay here with us.

Oh yes, you must, child. Can’t you hear that wind blowing? You can sleep in the barn.

Jack wondered at his wife. The barn? Why would she suggest such a thing? It was freezing out there, nearly as cold as being outdoors, but she persisted.

You’ll be comfortable, she said. We even have a little bedroom made up, for the boy who helped us this summer. It’s perfectly cozy and out of the wind.

Faina was on her feet. When she looked at Jack she didn’t speak, but it was as if she were shouting. You promised. You can’t keep me here.

He wondered what he could do. Physically hold the child, force her to stay against her will? She would fight like a trapped polecat. She would hit and scream, maybe even bite and scratch, of that he had no doubt, and he would be left feeling a beast himself.

But he could not let her go back to the lonely wilderness after stumbling, bloodstained, into their home. If she were injured or killed, when he could have kept her safe, he would never forgive himself.

Faina had already fastened the shining silver buttons on her new coat.

Please don’t be angry, she said.

Can’t you hear the wind? Jack said.

The child was already at the door. He waited for Mabel to protest, even to beg.

All right, she said. If you must go, you must. But you’ll be back, won’t you? Promise to always come back.

Solemnly, as if swearing an oath, the child said, I promise.

Jack watched her leave, and it seemed like a disturbing dream, the child with her blood-smeared brow and twisted blond hair and snowflake coat, and his wife, composed and accepting. He stood some time at the window, staring into the night. Behind him Mabel bustled with the dishes and sewing scraps.

“How could you have known?” he asked.

“Hmmm?”

“How could you have known she was coming back? Now? Ever?”

“It’s the first snow. Just like that night.”

Jack looked at her, slowly shook his head, not comprehending.

“Don’t you remember? The night when we built the snow child. Snowflakes as big as saucers. Remember? We threw snowballs at each other. Then we made her. You carved her lovely face; I put on her mittens.”

“What are you saying, Mabel?”

She went to her shelves and brought back an oversized book bound in blue leather, adorned with silver gilding.

“Here,” she slid it across the table toward him. “You won’t be able to read it, though. It’s in Russian.”

Jack lifted the book. It was surprisingly heavy, as if the pages were made of lead rather than paper. He flipped through the illustrations, impatient.

“What is this?”

“It’s a storybook…”

“I can see that. What’s that to do with—”

“It’s about an old man and an old woman. More than anything they want a child of their own, but they can’t have one. Then, one winter night, they make a little girl out of snow, and she comes to life.”

Jack felt a stomach-turning sinking, as if he had stepped into bottomless wet sand and try as he might could not get back onto firm ground.

“Stop,” he said.

“She leaves each summer, and comes back when it snows. Don’t you see? Otherwise… she would melt.” Mabel looked a little frightened at her own words, but she didn’t falter.

“Jesus, Mabel, what are you saying?”

She opened the book to an illustration of the old man and old woman kneeling beside a beautiful little girl, her feet and legs bound in snow and her head crowned in silver jewels.

“See?” she said. She spoke like a nurse at a bedside, calm and knowing. “You see?”

“No, Mabel. I don’t see at all.” He slammed the book closed and stood. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re telling me you think that little child, that little girl, is some sort of spirit, some sort of snow fairy. Jesus. Jesus.”

He stomped to the other side of the cabin, wanting to escape but unable.

Mabel gently pulled the book back and slid her hands up and down the leather. She was shaking slightly.

“I know it sounds implausible, but don’t you see?” she said. “We wished for her, we made her in love and hope, and she came to us. She’s our little girl, and I don’t know how exactly, but she’s made from this place, from this snow, from this cold. Can’t you believe that?”

“No. I can’t.” He had the urge to take Mabel by the shoulders and shake her.

“Why not?”

“Because… because I know things you don’t.”

Now she looked frightened. She held the book to her chest, her lips pursed and trembling.

“What do you know?”

“Jesus Christ, Mabel, I buried her father. He drank himself to death in front of that poor child. She begged him to stop. She put her little hands to his face, trying to warm him even as he was dying in front of her. Her own father. All those days I was gone? Where did you think I was? I was up there, in the mountains, trying to help her. Digging a goddamned grave in the middle of winter.”

“But you never told me this.” As if he was lying, inventing this awful tale to prove her wrong. So tightly she held on to her illusions. Jack clenched his jaw again and again, felt the muscle work as he bit back his anger.

“She made me promise not to tell you or anyone else.” It sounded so weak. A grown man making a promise like that to a little girl. He’d been a fool.

“What about a mother?”

“Dead, too. When she was just a baby.” He was old and tired and couldn’t holler such things in an argument. “I think it must have been consumption. Faina said she died of a coughing sickness, in the Anchorage hospital.”

She stared blankly. Her head nodded slightly, all the blood drained from her face. He went to her, knelt beside her chair, took her hands in his.

“I should have told you. I’m sorry, Mabel. I am. I’d like it to be true, that she was ours, that she was a wilderness pixie. I would have liked that, too.”

She whispered through her teeth, “Where does she live?”

“What?”

“Where does she live?”

“In a sort of cabin dug into the side of the mountain. It’s not that bad, really. It’s dry and safe, and she has food. She takes care of herself.” He wanted to believe that the child was tough and sure-footed, like a mountain goat.

“By herself? Out there?”

“Of course, Mabel,” he pleaded. “What could you have thought, that when she wasn’t here with us she was some kind of snowflake, a snow child? Is that what you thought?”

She yanked her hands from his and stood with such force she knocked her chair over.

“Damn you! Damn you! How could you?”

Her anger startled him. “Mabel?” He put his hands on her shoulders, thinking to hold her, but he could feel the heat of her fury through the fabric of her dress.

“How could you? Let her live out there, like a starving animal? Motherless. Fatherless. Starving for food and love. How could you?” She shoved her way past to the coat hooks.

“Mabel? What are you doing? Where are you going?” He took her by an arm, but she pushed him away. She wrapped a scarf around her neck, pulled on gloves and a hat, then took the oil lantern down from its hook above the table.

“Mabel? What are you doing?” He stood there in his socked feet as she slammed the door behind her.

She would come back. It was night, and it was snowing. She couldn’t go far. She didn’t know the way, had rarely left the homestead except by a wagon he drove.

But the silence of the cabin unnerved him. He lit another lantern, paced at the door. The minutes ticked by on the old wooden clock on the shelf. Finally he put on his coat and boots and took the lantern. Outside the snow was thick. It fell so densely that he could see no more than a foot or two in front of him, and Mabel’s tracks had disappeared.

CHAPTER 29

M
abel ran without seeing, her face wet with tears and snow, her feet tripping. The small circle of lantern light swung wildly among the snowy trees. For some time all she did was run toward the mountains, and of that she wasn’t even certain, but she did not stop. Her skirt dragged in the deepening snow, spruce branches raked at her face, and more than once she nearly fell, but she felt neither cold nor pain. All she knew was the rush of blood in her ears and a hot rage that with each step began to cool to a sort of grieving stupor.

She slowed as the land dipped into a ravine and the trees gave way to overgrown bushes, their thick branches lying across the earth like something set to snare her. She climbed under and over them, the lantern swaying in one hand. None of them grew to the size of a tree, but neither were they like the blackberry brambles back home. Some limbs were as thick as her leg, and dry brown leaves clung to many of the branches. Mabel grabbed at one and brought her hand away with a cluster of tiny cones. Scattered amid these bushes were devil’s clubs, bare of their broad green leaves but not of their spines. In places the limbs and shrubs were so entangled that her chest tightened in panic—what if she couldn’t find her way out?

At last the ground climbed slightly, and Mabel again found herself among spruce, birch, and scattered cottonwood. She stopped and looked back the way she had come. There was no sign of the cabin, and beyond the lantern’s small circle of flickering light, blackness closed in from all sides. Her hair was damp against her neck, and her clothes hung heavy and cold. But she would not go back. He could stay in the cabin waiting, not knowing, just as she had spent so many hours. She would find the girl and make this right.

She held the lantern high and peered into the snow-filled darkness. Where the light spilled ahead of her, Mabel saw that the snow was disturbed. She ran to the tracks. She looked up and down the trail, trying to see where they went and where they came from. Could these be the girl’s? But which way? Having run so blindly, she no longer had any sense of home, the river, the mountains. Something seemed wrong about the tracks, the snow too deep for her to make out footprints. Just the same, she followed them.

The tracks led over a fallen birch tree, and she wrestled with her long skirt as she climbed over it. By the time she cleared the log, she was drenched with sweat and snow and her legs trembled with exhaustion. She followed the trail to her left, half running. When her throat burned and her lungs felt as if they would burst, she paused only long enough to take in a few gulps of air. She pictured herself finding the girl huddled against the storm. Mabel would grab hold of her and never let go. She wondered how far she had come. Could she be getting close to the foothills? The land was flat, but it seemed as if she’d been running for hours.

It was only when Mabel came again to the fallen birch and saw where she had already climbed over it that she realized her mistake. She was a mad old woman, running in circles, chasing herself through the woods at night. She was aware that any living thing in the forest with eyes would be able to see her as clear as day in the lantern light, while she would be blind to it. Then it was as if she were hovering in the treetops, looking down on her own madness. Mabel saw herself, disheveled and desperate, swiveling her head this way and that, twigs clinging to her wet hair, and it was an awful unraveling, as if in this act she had finally come loose and was falling. She thought of Jack in the cabin somewhere behind her, saw him as a steady light in the midst of the wilderness. She could turn now and follow her tracks back home. She hadn’t gone that far yet. But the rage had not burned itself out.