Ellen saw her marble egg and took it out of the coop and held it between her hands. If the egg ever disappeared she'd know whose door to pound on for it. She felt the need to hide the egg even now, but its shape made finding a hiding place difficult. The egg was made to lie snugly under a chicken, not to roll around the floor of an empty coop. She put it in the cigar box that held her money, then took it out again. She walked to her coat and pushed the egg deep into the fur-lined pocket. This way when she wore the coat she'd have something to rest her hand upon. The bottom of her pocket held the egg perfectly. With her hand on it she felt like a mother, protective and waiting. And she felt it would not do to let the egg grow cold again.
On impulse and not long after Finn left, Phil took the runners off the sled and made a pair of ice skates for Kaneda. They were longer than the reverend's but Phil tried them himself and was satisfied with the way they worked. He made platforms out of wood and strapped the skates to the old man's feet, using strips of hide. Later he drew a map of the camp and showed Kaneda the river path to the Eskimo village, and the old man understood.
“We are going to take a trip to your place,” he said. “We can leave everything but the gold. It will be our vacation before the work of the coming spring.”
That night the storytelling went well and they slept without whiskey, both of them excited about the next morning's departure. Phil had made special covers for the mute dog's paws so that he would be able to run on the ice, and he strung the remaining golden snowflakes together so that they fit over the old man's shoulders and hung down his back and chest like armor. The dog sat all night licking at his feet but getting none of his usual pleasure from it. In the morning, dressed in his skates and gold the old man did figure eights on the familiar front ice and, seeing his chest glimmer, pulled a stick from the bank and made samurai passes through the air.
“Like this and like this!” he yelled, his long skates pointing like swords in the direction he chose.
Phil was afraid the old man would tire on the journey so he pulled a long rope from the shelter and tied an end to each of their waists. They looked like flatland mountain climbers. They would make good time if they left immediately, for the hours of daylight were far greater now than at the time of Phil's arrival. Phil thought briefly that they might even see Finn, trudging along the shore path, looking toward the river.
“Come, Taro,” cried Kaneda, and he gave a slight pull on his end of the rope, forcing Phil to leave the shore before he had secured all of the gold pans in their poker-chip chimneys the way he'd seen them stacked at other abandoned sites. They coasted away from Topcock Creek, the old man in front, his armor looking to Phil like a gold woven net thrown over the shoulders of a fisherman. They turned onto the Snake and then skated side by side. The tips of the old man's skates were curled slightly and they were longer so he worked less, pushing off once for every two of Phil's steps. Their faces were covered and the fur collars of their jackets were packed hard around their eyes.
Phil could feel the pressure again, around his ankles and against the sides of his feet. He looked toward the old man but could see nothing of the discomfort he must feel. The old man skated as Phil's father might have. He was old but his body was taut, every tuned muscle involved with the skating.
When he got home Phil would tell his children the story of the owls. He went over it in his mind, deciding which rhythms to use, deciding his pace and tone. He would take his style from the old man or from the reverend and he would tell the story in both Eskimo and English so that the reverend could hear it and make helpful suggestions. Now he practiced telling the story according to the rhythms of the skating. He pulled out a rope's length in front of Kaneda, then was held back and remembered that in storytelling a common rhythm must be maintained, that it is not good to be continually speeding up and slowing down. At this lesson from the old man's steadiness, Phil thought of a way to relieve him of part of the hard work of skating. He turned slightly and grabbed the rope and pulled it hard so that the old man slipped past him, grinning with his eyes. Now the old man was a rope's length in front of Phil and they could skate at different speeds until Phil passed him and was in a position to pull him forward again. Back and forth they went, the tundra trees flipping past silently, the wide Snake twisting beneath their skates.
The old man could feel, more than the soreness of the skates, the weight of the golden snowflakes that hung from him, backside and front. Phil had tied the gold in such a way that there was no chance of any of it breaking and falling soft and unnoticed on the quiet ice, so he wasn't worried about that. Still, the old man would not have objected if the gold hung from Phil's shoulders rather than from his own. Had he been skating with Fujino he would have ordered him to carry it. But with Phil it was different. Though he was like a son he was not like a son. He was an equal and would never allow himself to be subjugated in the way that Japanese sons-in-law were supposed to be.
Phil was older and it had crossed Kaneda's mind that all these random thoughts about his daughter were pure madness. His daughter might find Phil less desirable than she had found young Fujino. He suspected that he might also have a difficult time explaining why he had returned to Japan with this man who did not speak their language and why he had allowed the young man of his daughter's clear choice to so spiritually decline that he had chosen
seppuku
over continued life. It was so unlike Fujino that the old man feared they might not believe him. And, though his daughter was beautiful, he worried that Phil might find her shyness unbecoming. He might want her to be more visibly strong like the two women they'd arrived with, the two women from Nome. And there were so few foreigners in Japan that Phil might find himself lonely and might find the task of learning Japanese as difficult as Kaneda found the study of English. These little problems were something he was not facing. He'd been so overjoyed at the discovery of this man who fit his plans so well that he had failed to look at the obstacles.
Phil was a rope's length ahead again and pulled hard, and Kaneda felt the surge of speed and bent his knees slightly so that when he shot past Phil he saw only the blurred side of Phil's coat. It was thrilling, being pulled forward with such a rush. He could see the curled fronts of the sled runners out ahead of him and he could see, way out ahead, the brown speck of dog, trotting. And, though the gold was heavy, it kept him warm. He had no sense of winter except as pinpoints of ice, shafts of it stabbing him directly in the eyes.
The river turned, and when the two men skated together the rope between them swung to the ice and touched pieces of debris that the wind had set in their way. There was no sound other than the sound of the skates, and no place did the ice show a weakening, any of the bluing that preceded its thaw.
In an hour the skaters had moved on the ice so that Phil was always in the lead and the old man always being pulled. It was the weight of the gold and the spreading soreness in his legs and ankles. Much of the time he squatted down, letting the tail of his snowflake armor nearly touch the ice. He could sit that way for a very long time and from there could see clearly the true nature of the ice they passed over. He let his skates fall into and widen the grooves made by Phil's thinner blades.
The ice Kaneda saw was cloudy, with grains running as the water had, toward the sea. It appeared to him that the water had merely stopped in its pitch and roll, frozen in its churn, and he thought that it would have been proper for men to have stopped as well. Ice is slippery because it demands no movement and winter should be a time of no movement for men. Happily the old man touched with his glove the gold webbing that lay over his heart. It was soft and heavy and not subject to the laws that governed the river and men. Suddenly he got the idea that gold would not freeze at any temperature and thus had become so valuable. It was constant, and though it came in many forms it remained persistent and persuasive. Like the flaw in a man's character, it is sometimes hidden but always reappears.
The old man stood and skated forward until the rope once again draped itself on the cool ground. He could see his shadow in the smoky ice and could see the dull yellow of his jacket, like a cloud-dimmed view of the sun. Birds passed overhead, disturbing him. He saw Phil straighten with the slackening of the rope, so he immediately returned to his crouched position, making Phil work once more. It was his gold but half of what he had would be Phil's. If he must carry it Phil must pull. He wondered for a moment what Phil's home would be like. Certainly nothing like Japan, but he was sure, if it was a town of any size, they would have a historian. He wanted to meet the man, to exchange views. He wanted to see what he could see, to learn what he could, in the time he had left, about other parts of the world.
Henriette had missed her monthlies before, but this time she was widely suspicious. She'd lost track of time, letting one day flow to the next like merging beads of quicksilver, but now, as she stood before the window of her room, she was sure. She cupped her hands together just below her navel and perceived the skin tightening. It was three weeks since she'd been with Hummel, five since her engagement to the reverend.
Soon after the night with Hummel, Henriette told him that she could not see him again, but he came now, the silent serenader just below her window. He stood long hours in the cold, his head turned upward in the moonlight, or when she worked and when Ellen was at rest he stood silently in the corners of the bath, his features hanging heavy off his bones.
“I can't see you and I'm sorry if I led you on,” she had said, but he wouldn't answer, would only look about, furtive, sorrowful.
And now her monthlies missed. Henriette knew she could confide in the reverend, tell him the baby was his and that he would never doubt it. Or she could tell John Hummel. Both men wanted her and to tell the truth there were ways in which she would not be unsatisfied with either. With Hummel she'd be rich and warm, living in his imagined house, and with the reverend she was sure to be needed, would be able to help in his work. She was afraid of Hummel's mother, but was afraid of everyday life in the village as well. Maybe she'd get tired of it, want to leave, and be forced by the reverend to stay, or worse, force him to leave and then lose him. In the village too much would be expected of her. In Nome nothing would.
Henriette saw Hummel moving along the paths below so she stood back from the window. She could hear him standing in the snow. She turned the lanterns low and began dressing in the orange light of the slow stove. It didn't seem as though her skirt was any tighter than it had been, so perhaps this pregnancy was too soon imagined. Perhaps it was time, not her skin, that stretched so thin and long. Each night took the time of two to pass, and at that rate wouldn't it be another week before her period was even due? Ah, if that were only the case she'd still have two men to choose from and it would be pleasant, in a way, to be sought after. In the end she'd probably choose the reverend, who'd asked her first and in writing. There was something about the weakness of that note. Not what it said exactly, but the way it looked. Now that she'd seen Hummel's hand she could compare. Hummel's life had been ordered by his mother but the reverend needed somebody. One look at his note would tell you that.
Henriette sighed and went down the stairs to the main room and saw Ellen alone, throwing her marble egg high into the air and catching it. She wore a pair of canvas trousers and was lifting her leg and throwing the egg up from under it. It was a schoolgirl's game, and each time, when the egg was in midair, she'd clap her hands lightly and count, one O'Leary, two O'Leary, like jumping rope but with only herself and the marble egg.
Henriette stood quietly and watched. She'd never before thought of Ellen as a girl. And she was good at it. She sometimes let the egg go from behind her back yet caught it deftly in front of her without really looking. And from wherever she happened to throw the egg it always came down in the same place. Ellen merely placed a hand against her stomach and waited, nearly casual, for the egg to fall into it. Then she flipped it to the other hand and released it again, higher into the air, higher and higher. Of course there were no customers and Henriette hoped that Hummel would remain outside, that no one would come in to destroy Ellen's mood. It was strange to watch the marble egg lift closer to the dusty ceiling each time. It rose heavy end first and then turned slowly and descended that way as well. As it reached its apex it stopped in the air before turning and Henriette could see the shafts of brown marble laid through the white, like a child softly growing. The pattern ran from the base to the top and Henriette thought, each time, that it would surely come apart in Ellen's hands, that this time when she caught it she would have two pieces of egg, equal and heavy and good for nothing. Yet always the egg rose and fell without incident. It rose slowly, as if a bubble in a liquid room, and always as an accompaniment to Ellen's song: One O'Leary, two O'Leary, three O'Leary, fourâ¦.
Henriette thought of the egg in her body as floating and turning as Ellen's egg did. Perhaps it too rose heavy end first around its half child. She couldn't imagine that it too had a fault, that it was cracked or would break. Its shell was made of sterner stuff. Yet as Ellen continued her game Henriette remembered the expanding skin of her belly and began hoping that Ellen would miss, that the marble would fracture on the hardwood floor and that she would be able to hold the flesh of her abdomen, loose again, in both of her hands. She knew, suddenly, that if the marble egg broke she'd be safe. She knew it. Yet Ellen kept skillfully at her game, fast and sure. Henriette imagined Ellen dancing along the dusty roads of Ireland, this egg of hers always reaching a bit higher into the sky. It is the nature of lonely children that they have patience and she knew that Ellen would never miss.