North Child (12 page)

The loom was like a Thoroughbred compared to the worn, stumbling workhorse of a loom I had used in Widow Hautzig's shed. And working on it was as different as the looms themselves. It was the difference between walking with a stranger and walking with your heartmate. It was the difference between working for duty and working for love.

I have no idea how long I wove.

With no window to the outside world, I could not keep time. I might have been an entire day at the loom, or even longer. What finally brought me to my senses was hunger. My head was light and there was a faint buzzing in my ears. But still I could not stop. My fingers slowly moving, I gazed around the room.

There wasn't just the one loom but several others – small hand looms, a weighted loom similar to the one at home, and an upright loom that I guessed to be a tapestry loom, though I had never seen one before, only heard Widow Hautzig describe them. In addition to the looms, there were several spinning wheels (which I would have gone to examine more closely if my knees had not been so weak) as well as shelves filled to overflowing with everything that one could possibly want for creating cloth and sewing it together.

There was a whole section of shelving devoted entirely to thread. A rainbow of colours and textures. Some spools even looked to have silk thread on them, with colours that included shimmery golds, silvers, and bronzes.

There were bins of carded wool, baskets of raw fluffy wool awaiting carding, and skeins of finished wool, ready for weaving. There were bottles of liquid colour for dyeing and bowls of powdered pigment in every colour ever seen in nature and some I had never seen before. There were sharp, glittery scissors, needles for knitting, and sewing needles of every thickness and length. I was dumbstruck.

But finally, I knew I must find something to eat or I would become ill. I lurched to the door and out into the hall. My head swimming, I made my way to the stairs. Just looking along the curving staircase made my ears ring and my legs shake, but I started down anyway. I finished my descent sitting, dragging my rear down each step like a very young child.

At the bottom I pulled myself upright using the banister and began to walk forwards. I sniffed the air for the smell of stew, but there was no scent. I began to worry that I was far from that room where I had eaten. Or that the food was in a different room.

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 fur. 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.

Before I took the softskin boy, I went back several times to the green lands. I travelled 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-favoured 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.

It 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 for ever.

Outwardly we busied ourselves with getting ready to leave the farm. Neighbour 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 labour 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 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.