East (6 page)

Eugenia was my anchor then. Despite her superstitious notions, she was a strong and loyal woman, and it was she who kept us all together and alive in a way that was truly remarkable. Never did she blame or castigate me, or rail against her fate. Somehow she made every spoonful of food stretch to two, and found ways to make even the most threadbare of clothing serve.

It is also true that she was wont to come up with tortured reasons, based on superstition, for why our fortunes had turned so ill. Still, she stolidly shouldered the burden of our poverty and kept us going.

Then Sara, our third eldest, fell ill.

W
HEN
S
ARA GOT SICK
I saw the fear come into Mother. Up until then she had been calm and steady. But I knew that Sara's sickness brought back to her (and to Father) the memory of Elise's death.

There were five of us children living at home then. Myself, Rose, Sara, Sonja, and Willem.

We had been waiting to hear back from Father's brother, who was our only hope at the time. But it became clear that even if he agreed to take us in, we would not be able to make the journey, not with Sara so ill.

Thankfully, our neighbor Torsk offered us a temporary home so that we would not be without shelter when the landowner came to evict us. But Torsk had also been hard hit by the weather, though he at least owned his own farm. And we knew we could not strain his meager resources by staying too long.

I had made up my own mind that, like my oldest brother, Nils, I would leave home and seek a way to earn my living. I would then send all I earned back to my family. My long held dream of one day studying with scholars in one of the big cities was gone.

Mother was with Sara constantly, completely unmindful of her own comfort and health. Father wandered around the farmhold in a daze, looking as though he had aged twenty years. We had little more than a fortnight before we had to leave the farm.

The cold hit early that autumn. This was the last blow in a series of terrible setbacks. We had been slammed with an early blizzard before the last harvest (what there was of it) could be gathered. I think we were numb by then, lacking even the spirit to lament our misfortunes. It warmed enough several days later to melt the snow, but the damage had been done. What had followed then was our typical autumn weather—a succession of blustery, chilly rainstorms.

It was during just such a storm-drenched night, as we huddled around the hearth, that we heard a scratching sound coming from our front door. Mother was at the far end of the great room, sitting by Sara, who had just fallen into a fitful sleep.

The sound came again, and after exchanging a look with Father, I went to the door and cautiously opened it a crack, wondering who or what could be out on such a night.

All I saw was a white blur before the door was flung wide. I stepped back and something large and wet brushed by me.

I turned to stare at an enormous white bear standing in the middle of the great room.

The wind howled in, spewing cold rain, but we were unaware of it.

"Close the door." It was a massive, strange voice. And though it seemed impossible, I knew at once the voice was coming from the white bear.

My sister Sonja swayed and looked like she might faint. I moved to her quickly, putting an arm around her shoulders. She was trembling.

Rose went to the door and shut it.

It was like a dream, gazing at the immense animal that had entered our home. Standing erect on all four feet, he was as tall as me, and water dripped off him onto the wooden floor. And I remembered water dripping off white fur from long ago.

I guessed from the moment he brushed by me that this was the white bear I had seen as a child, the one that had saved my sister Rose. If I had had any doubts, they were dispelled when I looked into those black eyes. It was the same bear. And I was filled with a terrible foreboding.

He gazed around the room, from one to the other of us. His eyes stayed longest on Rose. Then he turned to Father.

"If you will give me your youngest daughter..." The eerie huge voice echoed in the room. He spoke slowly, pausing between each word, as if the act of speaking was difficult, almost painful for him. "Then the one who lies near death will be made well again. And you will be no longer poor but wealthy, and will live in comfort and ease."

The silence in the room was punctuated only by the sounds of the storm outside and an occasional crackle from the hearth fire.

The white bear spoke again. "If you will give me your youngest daughter, then the one who lies near death will be..." And he repeated the words he had said before, again with the same painful slowness.

Mother had risen from her place beside Sara's bed. "You would make our Sara well?" she said in a near whisper. Her eyes burned with a look of desperate hope.

"Yes." It was a growl.

"How?"

"If you will give me your youngest daughter, then the one who lies near death..." And he seemed on the verge of saying it all over again.

But Father stepped forward. He looked like someone who had just gathered his wits after a blow. "Enough," he said loudly. "You shall not have Rose. Or any one of us."

The white bear turned to look at Father, and then swung his head in Rose's direction. "Do not decide now," he said, and this time he was speaking directly to her. "I will return in seven days. I will hear your answer then."

He turned and made his way to the door. And though I had seen Rose shut it securely, the door seemed to open of its own volition and the bear went through, disappearing into the night.

Father quickly crossed to the door and shut it with a slam.

We were all stunned and quiet. Had it not been for the large puddle of water in the middle of the room where the bear had been standing, I think that, except for Rose and Mother, none of us would have believed the thing had happened at all.

"Arne," said Mother.

"Father," came Rose's voice.

They spoke at the same time, but Father shook his head.

"We will not talk further of this," he said, his voice deep, with a dangerous, implacable tone. "It is madness and sorcery and we will not be part of it. Not for any wild promises or guarantees of riches."

"But Arne," my mother said. "Think of our Sara..."

"No!" he thundered. I couldn't recall ever hearing Father raise his voice to Mother before. It was almost as shocking as the talking white bear.

Mother, her face white and strained, said, "But we must honor his request. If we do not 'twould only bring the greatest ill fortune and calamity upon us all."

"Eugenia," Father said, and his face was taut with rage, "we will talk no further of this. Go to Sara. The cold air can have done her little good."

And Mother complied, but despite the frightening anger in Father, there was still that burning hopeful light in her eyes, and I knew she would not leave the matter as it stood.

I went for a shawl for Sonja, who was trembling, then I crossed to Rose. She had seated herself in a chair by the fire, and I sat beside her. She was not shivering, though her skin felt cold to the touch when I took her hand. And she, too, had an expression in her eyes that frightened me. It was not hope but excitement, mingled with traces of confusion and fear.

"What can it mean, Neddy?" she said in wonder.

I shook my head.

"When I was little, Mother told me stories about animals that could speak. I didn't believe her, not really, but now..."

I remained silent.

"Did you see how his fur glowed?"

"It was wet from the rain," I said abstractedly.

"A white bear," she breathed. "Just like the one I had as an imaginary companion when I was a child."

I leaned over to poke the fire.

"And did you see his eyes? Oh, Neddy, do you think he can be the same bear I saw the other day? I think it is." I shook my head, for some reason wanting to discourage the idea. But then Father came up, interrupting us. "There are still dishes to be cleaned, and I think then we had all better go to bed."

We both stood up, obediently. Then Father caught Rose's hand. "I will not let any wild beast take you, Rose," he said to her. "You know that. I will always keep you safe."

"But Father, what of Sara?"

"We will care for her. She will get better."

Rose shook her head. "We should at least have listened to..."

"No," Father broke in decisively.

Later, as we made our way to our beds, Rose whispered, "Why does the white bear want me, Neddy?"

I shook my head. I could not guess, except that somehow I felt sure it had something to do with the sadness in the animal's eyes. Some great need.

D
URING THE DAYS THAT
followed, I felt nervy, jangled. I jumped at the slightest noise and could not concentrate on anything for longer than a minute or two.

We were all on edge.

Father forbade any discussion of the white bear and his request. I could hear him quarreling about it at night with Mother. They tried to keep their voices low, but one night I could not help overhearing what they said.

"I will not sacrifice one daughter for another," Father said.

"'Tis not a matter of that," Mother replied. "And if we do nothing, Sara will surely die."

"What makes you so certain that this white bear will heal Sara?"

Mother spoke softly in reply and I could not make out the words.

But then Father cut into the low rumble of her voice. "Are you truly willing to put Rose's life in the hands of a wild creature of the north for a questionable promise of miracles? It is folly. If Rose goes with the white bear, we will surely never see her again. To barter her life for Sara's health—well, it is not even a matter for debate;"

As the seven days passed, Sara got no worse, but neither did she get better. The local healer said there was nothing more we could do other than continue the herbal infusions we had been giving her. We went about the business of readying ourselves for the move to neighbor Torsk's farm until such time as we would hear from Father's family.

I thought mostly of the white bear; I could think of little else. And I had made up my mind that despite my father's objections, I must accept the bear's offer.

I tried speaking about it with Neddy one afternoon as we folded our meager supply of linens into a trunk.

"I will go with the white bear," I blurted out.

Neddy looked at me with horror.

"I cannot stand by and let Sara die," I continued, my words spilling over one another in my haste to make Neddy understand, "not when there is something I can do to prevent it."

"Rose," Neddy implored, "you must not even consider it!"

"And the bear has said that he will take away this poverty into which we have sunk," I said, ignoring him. "Just think, Neddy, Father could make maps again. And you, you could go to Bergen and study with scholars, the way you have always dreamed."

"No!" Neddy said forcefully. "Even if the creature could bring such a thing to be, it would not be worth the price you must pay."

I was silent. I could see that talking it out with Neddy would be fruitless. I must keep my thoughts and plans to myself.

Aside from the more logical reasons for going with the white bear, I had another reason. And that was simply that I
wanted
to go. It was madness, I knew, to consider going off into unknown lands with a wild beast that would most likely devour me at journey's end. I did not want to die. And yet, I wanted to go.

I knew Father would never agree to it.

As for Mother, it confused me to hear her arguing in favor of accepting the white bear's offer. Did she love me so little? If it were Elise the bear had asked for, would Mother have been so eager to hand her over?

On the sixth day after the visit of the white bear, I returned early from Widow Hautzig's. As I entered the outer room of the farmhouse, I chanced to hear Father and Mother talking loudly from inside the great room. I thought they were arguing again, and was on the verge of making my presence known to them when I heard Father say, his voice anguished, "It is nonsense, I know, but I keep thinking that it is the lie of Rose's birth that is behind this."

Lie?
I felt the hairs on my neck rise.

Mother's voice came back, sharp. "There is no lie. She is Ebba Rose."

"Eugenia, she is no east child. You and I both know it."

"She is Ebba Rose." The words were said slowly, implacably, as if to a half-wit.

"No," and Father's voice was loud. "She is Nyamh."

"Nyamh?" There was a pause. "She is not Nyamh." Mother's voice was now cold. "I thought you did not even believe in birth direction. Superstition, you always say."

"Nor do I," Father answered. "At least I did not think I did. My mind is all turned around these days. But I will tell you, when I first held her I looked into her eyes and she was Nyamh. And I have always called her so, in my heart."

The tangled truth behind my father's words began to unravel itself inside me.

Nyamh
begins with an
N. North.
I had been conceived to take Elise's place. But I was a north bairn. I had filled my own place on the compass rose. I felt a great excitement stir in my chest. And then, great anger. My breath grew short and my cheeks were flaming.

My father and mother had lied to me all those years. I moved toward them, without thinking, and in doing so my elbow caught a wooden bowl, which clattered to the floor.

"Who's that? Is someone there?" called Father. Suddenly I did not want to see their faces. Not then. I needed to think. I bolted out of the house, refastening my cloak against the cold autumn day.

As I ran I became aware that, in addition to the anger, a sense of exhilaration was growing in me, the feeling of a puzzle piece falling into place. I was a north. It was obvious. No wonder Mother had tried so hard to keep me close, to mold me into another Elise.

Mother's feelings about north people were well known to us all. Every time she heard of some wild or destructive act by a stranger, she would inevitably shake her head with disapproval and say, "That's a north-born, mark my words."