North Child (18 page)

Every seven days I washed the shirt, along with my own clothing. It was one chore that from the beginning I had insisted on doing myself. In those first weeks I had set up a room especially for washing. It was one of the plainer rooms in the castle and had a generous hearth fire for heating water and the stones I used for ironing. The white woman and man caught on right away and made sure the fire was always lit on washing day. The nightshirt never got dirty or smelled any different from the first time I had put it to my nose, but I wanted to keep it fresh.

One washing day I had just given a final rinse to the nightshirt and was holding it up over the hot water. With steam rolling off its surface, I was thinking how the whiteness of the fabric had a ghostly sort of glow. Then I heard a sound. It was that sighing sound I had heard before, when I was trying on the moon dress and saw the bear through the doorway. And there he was again, standing in the doorway watching me, his eyes avid, almost hungry. Startled, I dropped the nightshirt back into the bucket and hot water splashed up on me. I let out a little cry and the white bear took a few steps towards me. Unhurt, I brushed at the water on my clothing, but my eyes locked with those of the white bear. He gave a low growl, like he was in pain, then he swung his head around and padded quickly away, down the hall.

The homesickness that had begun while I was finishing the nightshirt grew worse. It was intensified, I believe, because I had nothing more I wanted to make on the loom. Or it may have been my homesickness that made me lose interest in weaving, sewing, and spinning. Sitting there at the loom suddenly felt dull and tiresome.

I thought constantly of my family, trying to picture them as spring came to the farm. I did not know for sure that they were still there; in fact, they probably were not, in that they had been on the verge of moving away, but I stubbornly kept imagining them there, in all the familiar places.

I thought about the land around our farm, of my favourite rambles, of the snowdrops that would be coming up beside the creek, and the carpet of spring heather that would blanket the hills to the west. I would sit on the red couch by the hour, gazing vacantly into the hearth fire, thinking of the way the wind had felt on my skin. And the sun hot on my hair.

When I wasn't in the red-couch room, I would sit beside the small window at the top of the castle. I could then clearly see that the lone tree branch had sprouted the beginnings of leaves. I tried jamming my hand through the tiny opening in a ridiculous attempt to reach the leaves, but the branch was much too far away and all I got were scraped knuckles. Some days it was too painful to see the blue of the sky and the green of the new leaves, and I would retreat to the red couch.

The white bear would find me there and I could tell he was uneasy. His eyes watched me with a sad, unsettled look and his skin twitched, as if he was reflecting the restlessness and unhappiness he saw in my face.

I no longer spoke to him or told him stories. I was angry. After all, he was the reason I was not out walking my own familiar trails; it was he who had brought me to this prison. When those feelings grew strong, I would stalk out of the room and restlessly roam the corridors and rooms of the castle. The white bear did not follow me.

My unhappiness began to affect my sleep. I tossed and turned, uncaring whether or not I disturbed my unseen companion. Still, despite my unhappy state I did not violate the unspoken rules about trying to touch or speak to the visitor. Something kept me, just barely, from straying over that line. I still laid out the nightshirt but only out of habit.

I ate little and could tell that I was getting thin and unhealthy, yet I did not care. I had no will for anything except either sitting and staring or incessantly roaming the castle. I had lost interest in my makeshift calendar and no longer knew the day or even the month. Gradually my little spurts of anger at the white bear became the only moments I felt much of anything at all, and after a while even my anger grew dull.

One day I was sitting on the red couch, staring at nothing, when the white bear came into the room. He did not lie in his usual spot but stood facing me and spoke. I had not heard his voice in a long time.

“You…are ill?”

“No,” I said apathetically.

“No food…pale.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Then unhappy…” he intoned mournfully. “…lonely?”

I looked up at him. “I need to go home,” I said simply, “or I think I might die.”

I thought I heard a groan escape from deep in the bear's chest.

I felt a stirring of the old me. “You must let me go. For a visit only. Please.”

He lowered his head in that nodding gesture I had come to know.

My heart started pounding.
Home. Fresh air. The wind.
I thought I might faint.

“When?” I asked, barely able to hide my excitement.

“Tomorrow.” His voice filled the room, though faintly, like the knell of a far-off bell.

It was one of the fairest springs we'd ever had on the farm. Each day dawned clear and fresh, with a bright blue sky. And somehow the very beauty of the days sharpened my feelings of missing Rose.

Early in lambing season I began to notice that Mother and Widow Hautzig were up to something. They were always whispering together or spending hours in the woods collecting things they kept hidden. My guess was that they were concocting some sort of charm, either a finding charm to bring Rose back or a love charm to heal the rift between Mother and Father. If Father had been at home, I would have talked to him about it, but he was gone again.

Soren had told me about a scholar in Trondheim who was eager for an apprentice or assistant. After hearing about me, the scholar suggested that we meet. I knew Soren was longing for Father to move the mapmaking business to Trondheim, and that he was trying to enlist me in his efforts. Though I was sorely tempted to meet the scholar, I felt as Father did. Because of Rose I did not want to leave the farm. So I put Soren off, saying I was not ready yet, and thanked him for his generous efforts on my behalf.

One day I was walking from Father's workshop up to the house for the midday meal. Willem, Sonja, and I had completed the most recent order from Soren, and I was eagerly looking forward to spending the afternoon poring over the new books he had sent. I saw a figure dressed in grey standing in front of the farmhouse. She was facing away from me, but I knew at once who it was.

“Rose!” I cried out, unbelieving.

She turned to face me. I ran to her, folding her in my arms, my eyes blinded by tears. Then I held her away from me, drinking in the sight of her standing there, solid and real. She looked thinner, but her face glowed with happiness.

“Rose, are you truly back? I can't believe it,” I said.

The smile on her face wavered. “'Tis only a visit, Neddy,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Why?”

“I promised.”

“The white bear?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“He is gone but will return for me.”

“How long?”

“One month.”

“That is too short! Surely…” I stopped when I saw her expression.

Hearing our voices, Willem and Sonja came out of the farmhouse. There were cries of joy and many hugs, and shortly thereafter Mother and Sara came walking up the road, in company with Widow Hautzig.

“Rose? Is it Rose?” Sara cried, and soon Sara, Rose, and Mother were embracing one another all at once while Widow Hautzig looked on.

“Sara, you look well! You are fully recovered?” Rose asked.

Sara smiled and nodded.

“Oh, Sara, I am so happy to see you.” And Rose embraced Sara all over again.

“But Rose, you are so thin!” Mother said, tears in her eyes, as she tightly clasped Rose to her. “Come inside,” she said, pulling Rose into the farmhouse. “There is soup on the hearth. And then you must tell us everything!”

Rose was so busy gazing around the farmhouse that she seemed barely to hear Mother's words. “Everything is different,” she said. “The new furniture. Fresh paint. What has happened while I was gone?”

“Ah, it is a long tale,” Mother replied. “Sit down, and I'll fetch you a bowl of soup. Sara, get Rose a cup of apple mead.”

Rose obediently sat. Then her eyes lit on the loom.

“Oh, it's Widow Hautzig's loom. How kind of you to give it to us,” she said to the widow.

Widow Hautzig had the grace to look a little embarrassed, but Mother rescued her. “It is yours now, Rose. I knew you would be back.” She and Widow Hautzig exchanged a look as Mother placed the bowl of soup in front of Rose.

“I…I'm sorry, Mother, but I'm not really hungry. Where is Father?”

“Your father is not here, Rose,” Mother replied. “He is a mapmaker now. Off on an exploring journey.”

“And searching for you,” I added.

“A mapmaker! Oh, I am so glad,” Rose said happily. “When will he be back?”

“We don't know,” I responded. “Last time he was gone nearly two months.”

“Oh no!” Rose said, obviously distressed. “I haven't much time…”

“What do you mean?” Mother asked sharply. “You are back to stay, aren't you, Rose?”

Rose shook her head. I could see her hands were tightly clenched in her lap.

“Rose is only visiting,” I said. “She can stay for one month, no more. Come, Rose, let me show you Father's new workshop.”

Rose quickly got to her feet, giving me a grateful look. “I'll eat later, Mother,” she said as we went out the door.

“Is Father really a mapmaker, Neddy?” she asked. “Tell me everything!”

While we walked I told her the whole story, of all that had happened since she had left us. I didn't show her Father's workshop after all, not then, for we decided to keep walking until we got to our favourite spot, the hillside where Rose had first showed me the wind-rose cloak.

Rose listened in amazement. When I was done, I leaned over and took her hand. “Now it is your turn,” I said. “Tell me where you have been and all that has happened to you.”

She was silent. “I cannot, Neddy,” she finally said.

She loosened her hand from mine and, standing up, threw her arms out and put her face towards the sun. “It is so good to be home!” she said, joy radiating from her.

I smiled. Then Rose leaned down and, grabbing up a fistful of heather, put it to her nose, breathing in deeply. I remembered how Rose always loved to smell things. I used to call her an elkhound; her favourite dog, Snurri, was an elkhound, and like all of that breed, he had a remarkable sense of smell.

“Oh, it's wonderful, Neddy. You don't know how wonderful.” She went darting about, touching things, smelling them.

Finally she sank down beside me again. “I'm sorry, Neddy. I would like to tell you everything, but I cannot, not very much anyway. There were parts that were very, very nice. And there were some parts that were hard. Like not being able to do this…” She buried her nose in heather again. “And the loneliness. The being shut inside…” She shivered a little, then brightened. “But it is fine, Neddy. I don't mind going back, as long as I can have a little time like this.”

“But why must you go back? You do not owe the white bear anything.”

“Sara is well now,” Rose replied. “And Father's workshop…the good fortune that came to our family because I…”

“You sound like Mother! Rose, those things had nothing to do with the bear. It was coincidence, nothing more. Harald Soren, a flesh-and-blood man, brought about our good fortune, not the bear.”

Rose looked at me. There was a yearning in her face, as if she wanted very much to believe what I said. “You can't know that, not for sure, Neddy,” she said slowly. “And besides, I made a promise.”

“To the bear.”

She nodded, her eyes bright. I thought she might weep, but she didn't. “Don't let's talk about this any more, Neddy.”

“I won't press you,” I said. “But if you do wish to talk about anything at all, I am here.”

“Thank you,” she replied softly. And we began making our way back to the farmhouse.

“What is that nasty Widow Hautzig doing here anyway?” Rose asked in a low voice as we saw Mother and the widow coming out of the front door.

“She and Mother have grown thick as thieves,” I replied.

“What does Father think of it?”

“He barely notices, he's gone so much. And…” I paused. “Well, there is ill feeling between Mother and Father.”

“Because of me?” Rose said quickly.

“It began then,” I answered, somewhat unwillingly.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Rose said. “Oh, how I wish Father would return!”

“So do I,” I replied fervently. “What joy it would give him to see you back home.”