The Raven and the Reindeer (2 page)

He hasn’t kissed me again. That means I did it wrong.
 

When his dad made a stupid joke, Kay rolled his eyes and smiled at me. That means…that means…

In the old days, Gerta knew, people used to write questions on reindeer bones and throw them into bonfires. The way the bones cracked told you the answers.
 

I wish I had a bonfire. And a reindeer skeleton.
 

Hard luck for the reindeer, though. I’d want it to be a very old reindeer who died peacefully.
 

It occurred to her that she could simply ask Kay if he loved her.
 

I’d die. I’d just die. On the spot. Immediately.
 

“Are you feeling well, child?” asked her grandmother. “You’ve gone all flushed.”

“I’m fine!” said Gerta. She snatched up her mittens and ran outside.
 

The center of town was full of horse-drawn sledges, but there was a very fine sledding hill just three streets away. The road was never shoveled because it was much too steep for horses, so everyone took their sleds there.
 

She saw Kay with his sled. He wasn’t wearing mittens or a hat, but he didn’t look cold. His friends were more heavily wrapped.
 

Gerta felt self-conscious. It was all very well to be short and sturdy, but when she was bundled up in coats, she felt wider than she was tall.
 

“Hey, Gerta,” said one of the boys, pulling his scarf down so he could talk. He was a shorter boy with dark, curly hair.
 

Kay looked her over coolly and dipped his head once.
 

“You want to have a go at the hill?” asked the curly-haired boy. “You can use my sled.”

“Well…” said Gerta. She was hoping Kay would offer her his sled.

Kay picked up his sled instead. “I’m done,” he announced to no one in particular. “I’m going home.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Gerta. “Thanks, though.”

The curly-haired boy shrugged. “Come back if you change your mind.”
 

They walked home together. Gerta had to stretch her legs to keep up.
 

“What’s your friend’s name?” she asked. “He seemed nice.”
 

“Bran.” Kay’s jaw was set. He looked angry. Gerta wondered if she’d done something wrong.
 

I shouldn’t have said he seemed nice. He probably thinks I like Bran more than him. Oh that was a stupid thing to say.
 

They walked three blocks, while Gerta tried to think of something to say that would let him know that she liked him best of all.
 

“I wish it would snow again,” said Kay abruptly.

“Oh, me too!” said Gerta, who would have agreed to anything at this point.

“A really big storm,” said Kay. “A blizzard.”

Gerta was less sure about this. “Why a blizzard?”

“So everything is covered,” said Kay. “Everything’s white. And crisp. And when you walk on the snow, it’s like you’re the only person in the world.”
 

“It sounds beautiful.”

“You could walk for miles,” said Kay, “and listen to the wind.”
 

“Wouldn’t it be cold?”

“Yes. That’s the point.”
 

“Oh.”
 

They kept walking. Gerta felt as if she were trudging. The snow was loose and wet and every footstep sank deep.
 

She glanced at Kay. “Aren’t you cold right now, though? You don’t have a hat.”

“I never get cold,” said Kay.

Kay got his wish. The snow came down that night like the end of the world. Wind howled under the eaves and frost chewed on the edges of the windows. And the snow fell and fell and fell.
 

“A hundred-year storm,” said Gerta’s grandmother. “The Snow Queen rides tonight.”

Gerta and Kay had been standing at the window, watching the snow fall. Gerta’s nose was nearly frozen off, but Kay was there and she was very happy.

“Who’s the Snow Queen?” asked Kay.
 

“The queen of all this,” said Gerta’s grandmother. “The mistress of ice. She has a palace as far north as north. She rides in a sleigh made of ice and pulled by great white bears who used to be men.” (Gerta’s grandmother knew how a story ought to be told, even if she wasn’t always sure how much yarn went into a sock.)

Kay raised an eyebrow and sipped his hot cider.
 

“How did they turn into bears?” asked Gerta.

“The Snow Queen enchanted them,” said her grandmother. “She’s Circe’s cold cousin, always turning men into other beasts. Not pigs, though. She likes bears and seals and wolves and all the creatures of ice.”

“Sounds rotten of her,” said Gerta.
 

“Oh, I daresay she had her reasons,” said her grandmother, who could think of a few men that would have been much improved by spending time as an enchanted seal.
 

“What does she look like?” asked Kay dreamily.
 

“White as white,” said Gerta’s grandmother. “She wears the furs of white foxes and her sleigh is cut from birch trees.” She took a sip of her cider. “The snow follows her wherever she goes. When she’s in a temper, she brings down ice storms and the trees fall down like matchsticks.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Gerta.

Her grandmother shrugged. “She’s the Snow Queen. It’s what she does.”

She got up to mull more cider. Kay and Gerta stood at the window, watching the snow whirl down.

They were shoulder to shoulder in the window. Gerta leaned on Kay a little, and he leaned back.
 

She felt a rush of relief.
He isn’t still angry with me about this morning. If he was angry with me at all…
 

She wondered if he would kiss her again. Maybe this time she could figure out what she was supposed to do with her lips.
 

But he didn’t, and the minutes stretched out and her grandmother came back into the room with more cider, bustling back and forth between the counter and the stove.
 

Gerta stifled a sigh. She had lived next door to Kay her entire life, and sometimes he was cold and sometimes he was warm. There never seemed to be any pattern to it. He might spend an entire day playing adventures with her, or letting her help with a puzzle, and then the next day he’d shrug one shoulder when she came near and refuse to meet her eyes.

Oh well. He kissed me once. He knows I’m here, and nearly grown up. And he doesn’t have an understanding with any other girl, because he would have told me.
 

Her lips twisted, looking out at the snow. She could be sure of this. It would not have occurred to Kay that telling her about another girl would make her jealous.
 

That’s ‘cos we’re best friends. And best friends tell each other everything.
 

She slid a glance at Kay. His dark eyelashes framed his pale blue eyes, as he drank in the blowing snow. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.
 

That night Gerta slept in her trundlebed near the stove. She curled up under the green-patched quilt and there she dreamed.

She dreamed that the snow had stopped and the moonlight glowed through the window. Some sound had roused her attention—a high thin chiming, like bridle bells.
 

I could get up.
 

It’s so warm here. It’ll be cold by the window.
 

She looked up into the shadows of the ceiling. The rafters were hung with baskets. Her grandmother baked flat, hard loaves of bread and strung them on wooden poles to keep them. They were delicious when crumbled up and soaked in the juices of rabbit or chicken or deer.
 

The sound came again.
Tingatingatinga-ting-ting-ting.
 

She pushed off her quilt and walked to the window.

Everything was white and blue and silver. The walls of the building across the alley were dark smears, crowned with thick white cliffs of snow.
 

Tingatingatingatinga…

Down the rooftop came a white sleigh, cut from shining birch wood. Bells rang merrily along the traces.
 

There is a sleigh on the roof,
Gerda thought, and then,
Ah. I am dreaming.
 

Because she was dreaming, she did not question that the sleigh was pulled by snow-white otters. They slipped and slithered down the slant of the roof, sliding over each other, a river of white fur and black eyes and arched white whiskers. Gerda kept expecting the traces to get tangled, but somehow the sled kept moving forward.
 

At the edge of the roof, the sleigh stopped. The otters pulled up, chuckling and chirping to each other in liquid voices. They were larger than any otters that Gerda had ever seen. They had pale blue bridles with silver bells and their webbed feet moved across the snow like snowshoes.
 

Gerta was so fascinated by the otters that she hadn’t looked at the sled at all. She tore her eyes away from them with reluctance.

It was a relatively small sleigh, only large enough for one or two people.
Of course,
thought Gerta,
otters probably can’t pull very much weight, not like horses or reindeer…

The runners were ivory, carved in the shape of leaping seals. The trim was ice blue and matched the bridles.
 

Seated in the sleigh was a woman.

Gerta, who had been highly delighted by the sleigh and the otters, felt the first chill.

The woman was very tall and very slim. Her face was as angular as a fox and her hair was white, yet somehow she did not look old. She sat in the sled with her hands on the reins and looked around, and the world seemed to change as she gazed down at it.
 

The buildings and the streets became small and shabby. The town looked old and grimy. Gerta, who loved her town, caught her breath at the injustice of it, because nothing about the town
had
changed, it was only that the woman in the sleigh was so far above it all.
 

Only the snow remained clean and white, still glowing in the moonlight. The woman in the sleigh did not look at the moon, and some small, wise part of Gerta thought,
I bet she can’t. It doesn’t change if you look at it. No matter how pale and pure and perfect you are, the moon is even more perfect.
 

Gerta, who was short and sturdy and turned pink when she hurried, felt her hands clench into fists.

I wish I would wake up. The otters were wonderful but I don’t want to see the rest of this.
 

The Snow Queen—
surely it must be the Snow Queen, surely it could be no one else—
stepped out of the sleigh. She wore white deerskin boots, exquisitely small, and left no track upon the snow.
 

Gerta jerked back, suddenly afraid that the Snow Queen would see her.

She can’t touch me. If she touches me, something bad will happen.
 

For a moment, she thought that she was safe. The woman would leave. The dream would end and in the morning perhaps all she would remember would be the otters.

Then a pale oval appeared at the other window, directly across from Gerta.

It was Kay.
 

No!
Gerta wanted to yell.
No, go back inside, don’t let her see you!

But this was a dream and dreams are the sisters of nightmares. She could not yell and her hands curled into useless fists on the window frame.

The Snow Queen walked to the edge of the roof and smiled down at Kay.

Kay’s mouth fell open.
 

For a long moment, they looked at each other. Their eyes, Gerta saw, were the same color.
 

The Snow Queen crooked her finger, curled it back.

No! Kay, no, run away! If she touches you
—
!

She did not quite know what would happen, only that it would be terrible.
 

Kay pushed the window open and began to climb out.

The iron railings between the two windows, the highway on which Kay and Gerta moved back and forth, was slick with ice. Gerta covered her mouth with her hands, afraid that he might fall—

—
it’s better if he falls, the snow is thick, he’ll probably live, if she touches him he’ll die or worse—

The Snow Queen reached down and took his hand.

Kay gasped. Even through the glass, Gerta could hear it. He gasped and for a single heartbeat, his eyes glowed like ice in the moonlight.

The Snow Queen’s bones were fine and delicate, but her strength was enormous. She pulled him onto the rooftop and helped him into her sled.
 

Gerta couldn’t help it. She slapped a hand against the cold glass. “Kay!” she cried. Her voice seemed to come from very far away.

He did not look around. He settled himself in the sled, under a blanket trimmed with white fox-fur.
 

The Snow Queen turned and looked down at Gerta.
 

Gerta jerked back as if she’d been lashed with a whip.

The Snow Queen’s gaze was no kinder to her than it was to the town around them. Gerta felt young and weak and disgustingly mortal. She was a stinking, bleating creature, a heifer-calf with muck tangled in her tail. She did not deserve to share the same air with the magnificent Snow Queen.

Her back wanted to bow and her legs wanted to buckle. She wanted to grovel and apologize for existing. She wanted to hide her eyes and crawl away.
 

I can’t—I can’t—she’s got Kay—I’ve got to stop her, but she’s so much
better
than me—

And then, as if from a very great distance, she thought,
Grandmother wouldn’t crawl.

Gerta sank down to her knees under the window…but she did not look away from the Snow Queen’s eyes.
 

The Queen reared back a little, like a great swan arching her neck. She turned back toward Kay.