North Child (35 page)

We fell into a rhythm, Malmo and I, working together almost as a husband and wife who had been together for many years. I became nearly as adept as Malmo at skinning a seal, making a snowhouse, telling tales with the story knife. There was an immense satisfaction in doing the jobs well, although satisfaction was beside the point in a place where doing the job well meant surviving another day.

Living in the frozen world became second nature, and I grew to love the breathtaking beauty of the vast white landscape. And yet a part of me longed for the sight of a green blade of grass, or the smell of rain and wet earth. The only colours in the land were white, grey, and pale blue, with the occasional burst of red from the spilled blood of a seal, and even then there was no smell at all.

We travelled a long time, long enough for the sun to make an appearance in the form of a thin band of light on the horizon. And each day I could see Malmo becoming more restless. Finally, as we crested an icy summit, she said, “I need to return to my people. If we do not reach the ice bridge soon, I will have to turn back.”

I began to worry that there was no ice bridge at all, that it would turn out to be nothing but a fragment of an old myth. But, I reminded myself, the white bear we had met up with “spoke” of the ice bridge.

It was during this time that I began to think about the man-bear I was seeking. The man, not the white bear, kept entering my thoughts. I had seen his face only briefly, and sometimes I could not remember it, but once in a while it would come clear in my mind, complete with that expression of desolation that ate at my insides. Even when his face was a blur to me, the one thing I never forgot about the man was the colour of his hair in the candlelight as I had leaned over him.

I realized I knew nothing about him. Not even his name. To me he was “white bear” or “the white bear who had been a man”. But the man with the golden hair had had a name – as well as a life – before the pale queen took it from him. A father, a mother, brothers and sisters perhaps. Friends.

Was he a craftsman? A farmer? A prince? How long ago had the pale queen taken him from his life? If by some miracle he got free of her, would his old life still be there? Would his family be long dead and buried? It seemed likely, from the few words he had spoken of his long captivity. Would there be even a building that once had been home waiting for him, or would it be occupied by strangers? My stomach twisted. And I felt a white-hot surge of anger at the pale queen. Her cruelty.

Why had she done it? He was a handsome man – I had seen that as he slept and when he gazed at me with such anguish. Perhaps that comeliness had been the beginning of her wish to possess him. But the source of her obsession would have to be more than that, to account for such a monstrous act of thievery.

I thought then of the castle. Had that been his home once, transported into the mountain? Parts of it had certainly had the feel of a young man's quarters. Or had the pale queen merely furnished and decorated it in the manner she thought he would prefer?

Then I remembered the room with the musical instruments, and the flauto that I had learned to play. And the sheets of music. I felt sure that those were from the life the white bear, the man, had once known.

That was one thing I knew about him at least. His love of music.

I am glad I decided not to hurry the ceremony after all. I have had the inspired notion that Myk shall play his flauto at the wedding feast. This will please him. It will slow even further my preparations, for it will take time to get the instrument made and time for Myk to choose and practise what he will perform. But it will be well worth the extra time.

My people know little of music. I have tried to introduce it to them, but when they attempt to play, it does not sound as it does in the green lands. I believe that when they hear music as it should be played, their hearts will be won.

Myk is feeling more and more at home. His memories of a life before this have faded away to almost nothing. I relaxed the rule about not having softskins wait on the royal court, thinking that it would make him less homesick to have those of his kind around him. But it may have been a mistake. Occasionally one of the softskin servants will say something that seems to trigger some dim memory – I have come to recognize that puzzled, wistful look in his eyes – but then it passes. And I make sure that the softskin is taken away to
kentta murha.
Myk has asked where they go. I tell him they were moved to another position in the palace. He looks uneasy for just a moment, then that passes, too.

I have sometimes thought about doing away with the tradition of softskin slaves altogether, for then there would be nothing to trigger his memories, and it gets more and more difficult every year, the expeditions into the green lands. But I think my people would be unhappy. Who will do the work then? they would say. And if I replaced the softskin servants with trolls, there would be resistance. It could easily be done – my power is absolute – but it would be a difficult transition, messy. No, too much change is not prudent. Perhaps one day in the future, after they have gotten used to having a softskin king.

At last we came to the ice bridge.

We first spied it as we ascended a high snowy peak. The sun was peering over the line of the horizon and its light caused the ice bridge to glitter, hurting our eyes, even with snow goggles. We stood still, staring down at the bridge. Through my icicle-rimmed eyelashes, with the light dancing on it, I thought I could see all the colours of the rainbow. And it was a perfect arc, like a rainbow of molten light. The bridge was long, very long, but I could dimly see where it ended. The white icy land on the other side of the river looked much like the land we stood on.

I heard Malmo say something in Inuit under her breath.

As we skied down the slope towards the bridge, I thought of Bifrost, the rainbow bridge that connected the world of man to Asgard, the home of the gods.

At the bottom of the slope, we took off our skis and Malmo led me to the edge of the river that the bridge spanned. She held up one hand, indicating I should approach with caution.

“This river is Tawktoak Imuk,” she said. A silvery grey, almost black, ribbon of water moved restlessly below us.

“Why is it not frozen?” I asked in wonder.

“It is not water as in our lands. Tawktoak Imuk is the black water that kills. To fall into the black water is to die; it makes the flesh fall away from the bone. Here I must leave you, Rose,” she said. “I have been too long away from my people.” She unstrapped her pack and the tent from her back and placed them on the ground in front of me. Then she donned her skis and said in her calm voice, “You will find the man-bear.” She leaned forwards and touched her forehead to mine.

“For you,” she said, thrusting something into my hands. And then she turned and skied away, back towards the slope we had just descended.

“Wait, Malmo!” I called. “You forgot your gear…”

She turned and waved but did not turn back.

“Malmo!” I called again. “Thank you,” I said under my breath.

I watched as she deftly manoeuvred the slope and kept my eyes on her until she reached the top. When she got there, I saw Malmo lift her arms to the sky, and then she was gone. There was a white petrel riding the wind directly above the place she had been. I blinked. Was it possible that Malmo had turned herself into a petrel, or had she merely skied down the other side of the slope? I didn't know.

It was only then that I looked down at what I held in my hands. Malmo's story knife.

I turned to look at the ice bridge. All alone. Malmo was gone and I was by myself in a place where most living creatures would not survive more than a day. And I was proposing to enter an even deadlier place, one no animal would enter.

Fighting off the feeling of panic that flickered at the edges of my mind, I put my hand into the pocket of my parka and clutched Queen Maraboo. I said to myself, “I will cross this ice bridge and go into Niflheim and find the white bear and rescue him.” After all, I was by then more than half Inuit. I had learned from Malmo how to survive in the frozen world.

I strode over to the ice bridge and placed a foot on it. At once my foot slid wildly, skidding off to the side. I had been wise enough not to put my whole weight on it, or I would surely have fallen, possibly even into the killing river itself. I tried again, even more tentatively. And then again. There was no possible way to get a foothold on the surface of the ice bridge. It was slicker than oil.

When the full impact of the situation hit me, I sank down onto the ground in front of the bridge. I felt tears rise but quickly fought them back, remembering they would only freeze on my face.

“There must be a way across,” I muttered to myself. The white bear had crossed the bridge. He might have been on the pale queen's sleigh, but maybe not… And I thought then of the white bear's long, sharp black claws.

What if I were to fashion claws for myself, I thought slowly. And I remembered the
kitchoa,
the tool made of ivory that the Inuit used to simulate the sound of a seal's claws scraping across the ice.

If I could somehow attach the
kitchoa
to the bottom of one foot… And make something similar for my other foot.

So I set to work. In Malmo's pack I found ivory fishing lures with curved hooks, and I thrust them through some strips of sealskin, which I then tied around my boots so that the hooks poked from the bottom. Attaching the ice scratcher to my other boot was somewhat more difficult, but I managed, using sealskin I had cut into thongs. The scratcher was bulkier and so my gait was lopsided, but I thought I could manage.

I sorted through Malmo's gear and my own, and discovered that she had left me all of her food as well. Gratefully I stowed it, and other bits of her gear that I thought would prove useful, in my own pack. I hoisted the bulging pack – with the tent lashed to it – onto my back and hobbled to the foot of the ice bridge. My uneven gait and the heavy pack made me feel clumsy, but the weight on my back, I thought, might give me more traction.

And so I began my slow, tortuous way across that bridge. Each step was a desperate and heart-stopping act: lifting and then carefully placing each foot, then digging it into the ice and holding my balance. At first everything in me was focused on my feet – lifting, planting, lifting again. As I developed a rhythm, I became more and more aware of that evil restless ribbon of black water below. My heart pounded and I grew lightheaded. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the dizzy feeling, and endeavoured not to look at the river at all. But I had to look down to know where to place my feet. The ice was translucent in places, so I could even see the river through the bridge. Worse, though, was the sound of the moving water. It didn't sound like the rivers back home, which made a soft gurgling, slapping sound as they lapped at the bank. Instead there was an insidious whispering noise, as if the river were saying something to me, beckoning me in an evil sort of way. It was far, far worse than the groaning ice back in the ice forest.

I was only a third of the way across, and my nerves were strung so tight I thought I would break apart. I began to sweat heavily and could feel a thin sheet of ice forming on my face.

Desperate, I willed myself forwards, lifting one foot, then the other, and then quickly planting each one again.

It was at about the halfway point when a sharp, biting wind suddenly kicked up, and startled, I lost my concentration. My left foot slid forwards and went over the side. I fell, trying desperately to grab hold of something, but my hands slid, my torso slid. And I could feel my whole body sliding inexorably towards the edge. Frantic, I dug into my pocket and grabbed the handle of what I thought to be my small sharp knife, the
ulu.
With all my strength, I stabbed it into the surface of the ice. Then I saw that it was Malmo's story knife. Miraculously it held, and I in turn held on to it, tightly. Slowly I dragged my dangling foot back onto the bridge, and digging the
kitchoa
into the ice, I pulled myself up until I was in a crouching position.