Текст книги "East "

Автор книги: Эдит Патту

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Rose

AFTER THE WOMAN called Urda snatched Tuki away that morning, I rarely saw him. When I did it was only in glimpses, and despite my friendly greetings, he kept his eyes averted. The only indication that he heard me at all was that his white skin turned a pinkish color, especially around the ears. Urda acted the same as always, not angry or hostile, just blandly indifferent.

To make matters worse, I had had a new nightmare. In it I was able to light the lamp, and when I brought it close to the face of my visitor, I saw that his head was turned, facing away from me. His hair was a rich gold, and I tapped him on the shoulder, to awaken him. The head turned to face me, and when it did I saw there was no face at all, just a great gaping hollow. I screamed.

This time when I awoke, the scream raw in my throat, it was still pitch-dark in the room. I heard a rustling and then some hurried footfalls. I didn't dare reach over to see if my visitor was gone but tiptoed across the room, feeling my way in the darkness, and found the door ajar.

White Bear

She dreams.

Cries out.

In fear.

I dream.

Of peace.

An end.

Finally.

To tell her.

Soon it will be over.

Freedom.

Rose

BECAUSE OF THE nightmares I dreaded the time when the lamps in the halls were extinguished. But in contrast with the nights, my days with the white bear were happy ones. There was an ease between us, like that of close friends who could read each other's moods in an instant. And the humanness in his eyes seemed to be almost always there now. I looked forward to his arrival in the room with the red couch. I would sit on the rug before the fire, a book in hand, and he would come and settle beside me. While I read aloud he would rest his head on his massive paws. Oftentimes he would close his eyes while he listened; I could tell he was not asleep because when we came to a twist in the story or a climactic moment, his eyes would open. He also made small noises that told me he was alert to every word—a rumbling, purrlike sound when the story was particularly satisfying, or a grunting when the tale took a more unbelievable turn.

The stories I read to him were good (some were wonderful), but at times they were almost beside the point. It was the companionship that mattered, especially when we would laugh together at something funny. (Although the sound of an enormous white bear laughing out loud is not for the faint of heart; the first time I heard it, I had to fight back a strong urge to flee the room.)

There was one story in particular that made us both laugh. It was an old Njorden tale about a crotchety husband who always complained about how easy his wife had it, how he had to go off every day to the fields while all she did was sit around the house. The wife grew tired of his complaints and one day said to him, "Do you think you could do the work at home better?"

"Of course," the husband replied. "Any man could."

"Then why do we not switch tasks? Tomorrow I will mow the hay, and you will stay here and do the housework."

The husband agreed to the plan.

Needless to say, while the wife busily mowed row after row of hay, the hapless husband wound up accidentally killing the pig, spilling cream all over the kitchen floor, and letting every last drop of ale run out of the barrel. The part of the story that amused the white bear most was when the husband dropped all the freshly washed clothes in the mud, having gotten tangled up in the washing line.

"I suppose you think you could do better?" I laughed, forgetting that I was speaking not to a person but to a large white bear. He stopped laughing, and I looked up in time to see the unhappiness in his eyes before he left the room.

I thought then of his sigh as he had watched me rinsing the white nightshirt.

I grew better at playing the flauto. I had taken to performing for the white bear, sifting through the sheet music to find the simplest piece for a beginner. I would sit on a small velvet chair and he would lie on the rug at my feet and listen, again with his eyes closed. There was one melody in particular, I could tell, he liked more than any other. It bore the title "Estivale," which I figured out meant "of the summer." I rarely could play it straight through without some kind of mistake, but he didn't seem to care. It didn't matter that my playing was less than impressive; for him it was just that I did it at all. And what mattered to me was the stillness when I was done, and the pleasure in his eyes.

One afternoon, many months after my visit to my family, I played "Estivale" better than I ever had, and the white bear let out a deep sigh of pleasure. Looking into his eyes, which seemed more human than before, I suddenly blurted out, "Who are you?"

Before he could react I continued, unable to stop myself. "Where are you from?" I asked. "How long have you lived here in this mountain? Are you under an enchantment? If you are, how can it be broken?"

Even before the last word died on my lips, I regretted my rashness. The ease between us vanished at once; his eyes clouded over, the animal blankness came back. Then he got up and left the room.

The next day he did not come to the room at the usual time. After waiting for a long while, I realized he was not coming at all. I cursed my impulsive tongue and felt lonely and sorry for myself the rest of the day. I tried working at the loom, but it held no appeal for me and I soon gave up. Later I saw Tuki scurrying along behind the woman Urda, and I loudly called out to him by name, but he stuck close to her and they soon disappeared into the kitchen. The door, I discovered, was locked behind them. I went up to my peephole to the sky and sat there at the window, numb, staring at the branch. It was bare. Winter was not far off. Except for the month spent at home, I had been at the castle in the mountain for almost a full year.

That evening my nightmare was particularly intense. My scream still burning my throat, I lay there, shivering, torn between fear and anger. My visitor had scurried away, scared off again by my scream. How long was I supposed to live like this? How was I going to stand it? I thought I would surely go mad if I could not learn who slept beside me night after night. Was it a monster, or a hollow-faced nothing, or the white bear himself? I felt that if I only knew the answer, I could go on, I could endure my life there in the castle.

Suddenly I thought of the candle and flint Mother had given me. What had she said? That the candle would stay lit even in a stiff wind and that the flint would spark a light every time. I wondered uneasily if the candle and flint could possibly light the unlightable darkness. Dare I try?

All the next day I wrestled with the question. The white bear did reappear briefly for our afternoon reading, but I was distracted and he was remote, restless, more animal than human. I tried to play "Estivale," but my fingers felt leaden and my breath short. When I finished we just sat there, still and unhappy, a strained silence between us. Suddenly the white bear got up and exited the room, giving me an unreadable look over his shoulder as he went.

I wandered the castle restlessly, my thoughts jumbled and my head aching. Again I had no will for weaving. Nor did I have any appetite for my evening meal, and leaving the food on the table barely touched, I sat for a time on the red couch, gazing into the fire. I was still undecided. I told myself the candle wouldn't work, then countered by saying that it was still worth trying. I told myself what a horrible mistake I would be making, how trying to light the darkness might upset the balance, possibly even bring harm. But then I reasoned it was a simple enough thing, lighting a candle. No one would even know; I could light the candle, have a quick peek, and that would be that, no one the wiser.

I went to bed as usual, and soon after, the lights were extinguished. I still did not know what I was going to do. I had not actually gotten out the candle and flint but had left them at the top of my pack so I could get at them easily.

I was wide awake when my visitor climbed into bed next to me. I listened closely to the rhythm of his breathing, and after what felt like hours, it seemed to be regular and deep and I was sure he was asleep.

Quietly I slipped out of bed and crossed to the cupboard. I had left the door partway open because it had a slight squeak to it and I didn't want to risk making noise. My hand shaking slightly, I felt in my pack for the candle and flint. They were where I had left them. I took them in hand and slowly crossed to the bed.

I felt my way carefully to the other side of the bed and stood there for several long moments, trembling, listening to him breathe.

I fought against feelings of panic that shuddered through me. I should not do this. But I had to know.

I turned my back to the bed. Then, taking a firm grip on the candle in my left hand, I squeezed hard on the mechanism of the flint. A bright spark flared, but I had misjudged the placing of the candlewick in the dark. Moving the wick closer, I tried again. This time it worked. The candle lit and slowly, silently, I turned toward the bed, holding the candle aloft.

Troll Queen

FOR ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY softskin years (a period of time in Huldre called an alkakausi), my softskin boy was to be a white bear. And at the end of those hundred and fifty years, if the conditions were not met, he would be mine.

The conditions were meant to punish me but also to challenge me. It was the sort of intricate, elaborate contest my father enjoyed setting in motion and then watching unfold.

It was unfortunate my father died before seeing this particular challenge wind down to its conclusion.

But I have watched. And waited, patiently I think.

There were a few halfhearted attempts along the way. It was always tricky for him, balancing the bear and the man inside him. Mostly the bear won.

As the hundred and fifty years draw to a close, this last one, this softskin girl with the sturdy body and violet eyes, has come very close. She has nearly fulfilled one of the conditions.

But not the most difficult. I always knew her curiosity would be her undoing.

Rose

IT WAS NOT A MONSTER that lay sleeping on the white sheets. Nor a faceless horror. Nor even the white bear.

It was a man.

His hair was golden, glowing bright as a bonfire in the light of the candle. And his features were fair, I suppose, but he was a stranger and that somehow was the greatest shock of all—that I had been lying all these months beside a complete stranger. I had to hold the candle steady against the violent shudder that shook my body. Then I noticed the stranger was wearing the white nightshirt, the one I had woven. It fit him well, not too wide nor too narrow across the shoulders; the sleeves falling to his wrists, neither too long nor too short. I thought how lucky I had been in estimating the size, with only the feeling of his weight on the mattress to go by, then realized how absurd I was to be standing there thinking about how well the nightshirt fit.

He lay on his side. I stared down at his hand, which curled gently on the white sheet in front of him. There was a silver ring on his smallest finger. I could see sparse golden hairs on the back of his hand, and the curved fingers seemed vulnerable to me. I suddenly felt ashamed, staring down at this sleeping stranger in a pool of candlelight. I felt myself blush, my skin hot and uncomfortable. I raised the candle, thinking to blow it out at once but hesitating briefly for a last look at his face.

And then his eyes opened.

I let out a cry, my breath going short. They were his eyes, the white bear's eyes. My body jerked with the shock of seeing familiar, even well-loved, eyes inside a stranger's face.

In that moment the candle tipped and hot wax spilled onto the stranger, onto the shoulder of the white nightshirt.

He let out a cry of his own, and the sound of it shall remain seared in my heart forever, so horrible was it to my ears. It had nothing to do with the pain of hot wax burning the skin but instead held an enormous aching grief; it was a keening of loss and death and betrayal.

"What have you done?" were the words wrung out of him. It was a stranger's voice yet held dim echoes of the white bear.

But even worse than that cry, and what pierced me even deeper, was the look in his eyes. The utter hopelessness.

"No!" I cried out, and I became aware that something was happening around me. There was an immense roaring in my ears that obliterated all sound. Shards of light and color exploded against my eyes so that I had to close them, and my feet were standing on nothing. I had a sensation of falling yet not moving at all. Flinging my arms out, I reached for the stranger with the golden hair, but my fingers touched nothing. And there was nothing, except sound and color and a terrifying spinning sensation.

Suddenly I felt cold air on my skin, and my feet were on solid ground. Opening my eyes I saw that I was no longer in my room in the castle. There was no castle. I was outside in the night, standing beside the mountain, which loomed above me in the darkness of night.

The stranger with the hopeless eyes was standing in front of me. He was tall and I had to tilt my head back to look up at him. Just behind his head was the moon, gibbous and bright, with a cloud floating past it.

"What have you done?" he said again, this time in a whisper.

"I'm sorry," I answered, my own voice breaking, the words pathetic and flimsy in my ears. I wanted to avert my eyes from his, from the pain, but I could not.

"If you had only held on one last cycle of the moon..." He trailed off, though his eyes remained on mine.

"What..." I began urgently, not wanting to know but needing to, "what would have happened then?"

"I would have been freed. After so long..." He hesitated. "I do not know anymore how long. It feels like several lifetimes..."

"You were under a spell?"

"Yes. White bear by day; boy ... then man ... by night. I could not speak of it. The only way I could be released was for a maiden to live with me, of her own free will, for one year. And during that time she was not to gaze upon my human face."

I heard a faint jingle of bells, though they registered only dimly, so lost was I in the damning words. "And now?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"I go with her. Forever."

"Who? Who do you go with?"

He shook his head, hopelessness flooding his whole body.

"Can't you tell me?"

"It does not matter. I know her only as Queen, and her land is far."

"Where is it?" I asked, willing him to tell me.

He laughed suddenly, and I could hear the full-throated, grating sound of the white bear's laughter in it. "East of the sun and west of the moon," he said.

I stared at him stupidly. "What do you mean?"

"Just as I said—east of the sun and west of the moon is where her land lies." Again he laughed, bitterly.

The bells I had heard earlier were louder now.

"She comes," the stranger said. Then he grabbed my hand and pressed something into it. "Her power is... strong," he said, his mouth twisting as though the last word did not do justice to the truth. "I would not have her harm you."

A sleigh was approaching, pulled by four magnificent white reindeer. The sleigh was a silvery white color and the reins were lined with silver bells. I caught a glimpse of a pale face, cold and beautiful, and behind it, Tuki and the woman Urda. And then before I could move, the stranger with the white bear's eyes was gone, and the sleigh with him.

I could no longer hear the bells. I was alone.

Troll Queen

I COULD HAVE HAD a servant drive the sleigh. But I have always loved the reins in my own hands. The reindeer are superb, the best of the herd. The snow took great care and effort to bring, but I am pleased with my handiwork. It is the finest way to begin the journey to his new home.

I made sure that Urda and Tuki wrapped him well in furs and gave him frequent draughts of slank. The cold will be an adjustment for him, but soon enough he will grow used to it.

His lovely face is pale and pinched with unhappiness, but it does not disturb me, for in time that will fade. There is rauha in the slank and this will help ease his pain, and blur his memories as well.

She was a flawed, unfinished child, unworthy of him.

I flick the whip ever so slightly, and the reindeer soar across the sky. My arts keep the softskins below from seeing us.

I look back at him, bundled in his furs. His eyes are closed, the lashes dark against his white cheeks; perhaps he sleeps. The breath-stopping joy fills me until I feel I shall burst apart.

Rose

WHAT HAVE I DONE? I thought, and sank to my knees, weeping.

It was the cold that brought me out of my grief. I discovered with a shock that I was lying in my nightdress in several inches of snow.

The cold had seeped into my whole body, and I began trembling violently. Then I remembered the stranger pressing something into my hand and I uncurled my frozen fingers to find his silver ring. I could see it only faintly by the moonlight. The ring was plain—a polished, gleaming silver—but there was a word etched inside of the band: VALOIS. Fransk, I thought, but I didn't know what the word meant. Another sob rose in my throat, but I swallowed it. Slipping the ring onto my thumb (the only finger it fit), I told myself I must do something, beginning with getting out of the cold.

I stood, gazing around me. The mountain before me was covered in snow, and there was no sign on its surface of a door or entrance to the castle. I wondered if the castle was even still there, or if my actions had caused it to disappear altogether, along with the white bear. But there was no white bear anymore. A stranger had stood in his place. A stranger whose life I had destroyed with one reckless choice.

Shivering violently I suddenly noticed that my pack from home was sitting nearby in the snow. I ran to it, and inside I found all the things I had originally brought with me from home. There were also a few items I had added since, including the dictionary of words from Tuki's language I had made. My leather wallet was there, too, and despite my frozen hands, I couldn't help opening it. Glimmers of gold, silver, and pearly moon shone out at me. Breathing hard I shut it again. This then was all that was left of the castle in the mountain.

I dug deeper, found the wool vest made by Widow Hautzig, which I pulled over my nightdress, and then some wool socks, dragging them hurriedly onto my frozen feet, followed by my old boots. Finally I wrapped myself in a woolen sweater from home and then my mended compass-cloak.

It was as I was fastening my cloak that I saw the candle and flint lying in the snow. My cheeks flamed and I crossed to where they lay. I was tempted to grab them up and hurl them away from me as far as I could. But instead I deliberately picked them up, dusted off the snow, and thrust them into my bag.

I was shivering so hard I could barely breathe. If I didn't find shelter soon, I would lose my wits. I began to move around the base of the mountain and after a short time found a small, low cave. I wedged myself into it, wrapping my cloak tightly around me. Searching the back of the cave, I found a handful of dry kindling, and though I loathed the sight of it, I used the flint my mother had given me and managed to get a small blaze going.

As I sat there before the tiny fire, my shivering subsided somewhat. My thoughts had been as jangled and shivery as my body, but they, too, quieted.

What did it mean? "East of the sun and west of the moon." Was it a clue, directions of some kind to the faraway land where the pale woman he called Queen was taking him?

But how could that be? Neither the sun, nor even less the moon, provided any sort of fixed point from which to take that kind of bearing. They were always moving across the sky. What was east of the moon at midnight would be entirely another direction by dawn. It made no sense.

Maybe if I could figure out the positions of the sun and moon at the very moment when he had spoken those words, then I could at least chart the right direction.

I remembered looking up at him, the moon almost directly above his head. My back had been to the mountain then. So I had a good idea of the moon's position at least.

But what of the sun? Could I make any sort of calculation as to its position? I didn't know how soon it was until sunrise. And even if I did know that the sun was an hour or two below the horizon, what did that gain me? How could there be a reachable destination lying east of the sun and west of the moon when the two directions were opposite? My father had taught me that the earth was a round ball, and so, I reasoned, there would be a point, on the far side of the globe, where the two directions would meet....My head began to ache.

"East of the sun and west of the moon" As unfathomable as the words were, I realized I must figure them out, reason it through. For I would go to this impossible land that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. From the moment the sleigh had vanished from sight and I could no longer hear the silver bells, I knew that I would go after the stranger that had been the white bear to make right the terrible wrong I had done him.

It didn't occur to me to do anything else.

I could just as easily have looked around and thought, At last, I am free to return to my home and family! I could have put it all behind me and briskly turned my steps toward home. But I did not. Instead I was busily mapping out a journey to an unreachable place.

In the meager light of the small fire, I gathered my things together. When weaving a cloth, you must always know where you are in the design. So it was with me. Before I could begin to chart my course, I had to first find out where I was.

All that mattered was to make things right. And I would do whatever it took, journey to wherever I must, to reach that goal.