East
Authors: Edith Pattou
Copyright © 2005, 2003 by Edith Pattou
Author interview copyright © 2005 by Edith Pattou and Harcourt, Inc.
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First Magic Carpet Books edition 2005
Magic Carpet Book
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Pattou, Edith.
East/by Edith Pattou.
p. cm.
Summary: A young woman journeys to a distant castle on the back
of a great white bear who is the victim of a cruel enchantment.
[1. Fairy tales. 2. Bears—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ8.P2815Eas 2003
[Fic]—dc21 2003002338
ISBN 978-0-15-204563-0
ISBN 978-0-15-205221-8 pb
Text set in Fournier
Designed by Cathy Riggs
Printed in the United States of America
K M O P N L J
To my father,
for his love of stories—
from
Harold and the Purple Crayon
to
Doctor No
PrologueAnd to my mother,
for her unwavering support
I found the box in the attic of an old farmhouse in Norway. It was large, the size of a footlocker, and there were markings on it; runes, I learned later.
When I opened the lid, it looked like the box contained mostly papers, a jumbled mass of them, in several different languages and written in different styles of handwriting. There were diaries, maps, even ships' logs.
As I dug deeper, under the papers, I found more: skeins of wool; small boots made of soft leather; sheaves of music tied with faded ribbon; long, thin pieces of wood with maplike markings on them; dried-up mushrooms; woven belts; even a dress the color of the moon.
Then I came upon what looked to be the mouthpiece of a very old reed instrument. I held it up toward the light coming through the small attic window. As the late afternoon sun caught it, a most extraordinary thing happened. I heard the clear, high note of a flute.
And it was coming from inside the trunk.
Other sounds came then—whispering, muttering, swirling around inside my head. Dogs barking, sleigh bells, the cracking of ice. Voices.
Hearing voices—this isn't good,
I thought.
Still holding the ancient mouthpiece in the palm of my hand, I lifted the top piece of paper out of the trunk. It was a handwritten note.
They want me to write it all down, though I'm not sure why.
It seems enough that Father and Neddy wrote down their parts. Especially Neddy; he was always the storyteller in the family. I am not a storyteller, not really. It takes more patience than I've got—or rather, than I used to have. I guess I did learn a little bit about patience in the course of the journey. But even so, I'd much rather set the story down in cloth. Well, actually I have. Hangs on the north wall in the great room, and the whole story is there.
But words are easier to understand for most people.
So I will try.
It isn't easy for me to walk the path back to the beginning of the story, even to know where the true beginning is. And telling a story, I suppose, is like winding a skein of spun yarn—you sometimes lose track of the beginning.
All I intended to do, when I began the journey, was to set things right. They say losing someone
you love is like losing a part of your own body. An eye or a leg. But it is far worse—especially when it is your fault.
But already I'm getting ahead of myself. It all began with a pair of soft boots.
East
FatherOnce on a time there was a poor farmer with many children.
E
BBA
R
OSE WAS THE NAME
of our last-born child. Except it was a lie. Her name should have been Nyamh Rose. But everyone called her Rose rather than Ebba, so the lie didn't matter. At least, that is what I told myself.
The
Rose
part of her name came from the symbol that lies at the center of the wind rose—which is fitting because she was lodged at the very center of my heart.
I loved each of her seven brothers and sisters, but I will admit there was always something that set Rose apart from the others. And it wasn't just the way she looked.
She was the hardest to know of my children, and that was because she would not stay still. Every time I held her as a babe, she would look up at me, intent, smiling with her bright purple eyes. But soon, and always, those eyes would stray past my shoulder, seeking the window and what lay beyond.
Rose's first gift was a small pair of soft boots made of reindeer hide. They were brought by Torsk, a neighbor, and as he fastened them on Rose's tiny feet with his large calloused hands, I saw my wife, Eugenia, frown. She tried to hide it, turning her face away.
Torsk did not see the frown but looked up at us, beaming. He was a widower with grown sons and a gift for leatherwork. Eager to show off his handiwork and unmindful of the difficult circumstances of Eugenia's recent birthing, he had been the first to show up on our doorstep.
Most of our neighbors were well aware of how superstitious Eugenia was. They also knew that a baby's first gift was laden with meaning. But cheerful, largehanded Torsk paid no heed to this. He just gazed down at the small soft boots on Rose's feet and looked ready to burst with pride.
"The fit is good," he observed with a wide smile.
I nodded and then said, with a vague thought of warning him, "'Tis Rose's first gift."
His smile grew even wider. "Ah, this is good." Then a thought penetrated his head. "She will be a traveler, an explorer!" he said with enthusiasm. So he did know of the first-gift superstition after all.
This time Eugenia did not attempt to hide the frown that creased her face, and I tensed, fearing what she might say. Instead she reached down and straightened one of the boot ties. "Thank you, neighbor Torsk," she said through stiff lips. Her voice was cold, and a puzzled look passed over the big man's face.
I stepped forward and, muttering something about Eugenia still being weak, ushered Torsk to the door.
"Was there something wrong with the boots?" he asked, bewildered.
"No, no," I reassured him. "They are wonderful. Eugenia is tired, that is all. And you know mothers—they like to keep their babes close. She's not quite ready for the notion of little Rose wandering the countryside."
Nor would she ever be. Though I did not say that to neighbor Torsk.
That night after we had pried Neddy from Rose's basket and gotten all the children to sleep, Eugenia said to me, "Didn't Widow Hautzig bring over a crock of butter for the baby?"
"She was only returning what you loaned her," I said.
"No, it was for Ebba Rose. Her first gift, I'm quite sure." Her voice was definite.
Eugenia did like to keep her children close, but it turned out she wanted to keep Rose closest of all. And that had everything to do with the circumstances of Rose's birth.
O
UR FAMILY WASN'T ALWAYS
poor. My grandfather Esbjorn Lavrans had a well-respected mapmaking business, and my father's father was a prosperous farmer. But Father had a falling-out with his family when he went to Bergen to be an apprentice to the mapmaker Esbjorn. My mother, Eugenia, was Esbjorn's daughter, which is how Father met her.
Father and Mother had eight children. Rose was the last-born and I was second to last, four years old when they brought Rose home from Askoy Forest. Some would say four is too young to remember, but I definitely have memories. Lots of them. I remember her smell, like warm milk and soft green moss. I remember the noises she'd make—gurgling like the creek we later took to calling Rosie's Creek because she fell into it so often; the clicking she made with her tongue, like a wren pecking at our chimney; the howls of frustration when she kept toppling over while learning to walk. Not that it took her long. She was running around on her short legs at just five months.
I also remember clearly the evening Mother and Father came home from an afternoon of herb hunting, and instead of herbs they were carrying a lumpy bundle that made funny noises.
My older brothers and sisters had been worried about Mother and Father because there had been a storm and they were much later than usual returning. I told everyone not to worry, that they had gone out to bring home the baby and that's why they were so late getting home.