“Why
do
you sneeze when she’s making candles?”
“It’s the
things
she puts in them.” Her nose wrinkled. “The herbs and dried flowers. I wish she would just make plain ones.”
She caught sight of Rollo and half rose. “Oh, he’s going after one! Naughty!” She pointed at Rollo, whose lounging had acquired a certain tension. One black-tipped ear was pointing upward.
A plump gray mouse had emerged from the base of the tuft of grass and was testing the air with a quivering nose. Rollo maintained his position. The mouse skittered forward an inch. Rollo didn’t blink. The mouse paused, sniffed the air, and then scuttled right over Rollo’s left front paw. He didn’t flinch.
When the fat little mouse was half a pace from Rollo, the wolf leaped into the air and came down with both front paws on the mouse. Tongue lolling, he dropped down and poked his paws with his black nose, sniffing his catch.
While Hans Peter laughed and slapped his thighs, the tenderhearted lass hurried over to her pet. “Now, Rollo,
that’s enough,” she scolded. “You’ve scared the poor thing. Let it go.”
Rollo gave his mistress a pleading look.
“Don’t you try that with me, wolfling,” she said in her most withering tones. “You get plenty to eat; you don’t need to add mouse to your diet.”
“But they’re vermin,” Rollo reminded her. “If they get in the house, they’ll chew holes in things and eat
our
food.”
“Well, this one isn’t in the house. It’s outside. And it belongs outside.” The lass put her hands on her hips and tapped her booted foot.
“Rollo.”
Heaving a huge sigh, the wolf opened his paws and the little mouse staggered away. Its nose was twitching so fast that it was a blur, and it kept stopping every few steps to sway, as if faint. Taking pity on it, the girl bent over and gently scooped it up, then put it down just at the mouth of the little hole where it lived with its family.
Sighing again, Rollo stood up, shook out his thick pelt, and wandered nonchalantly over to the woodpile to sniff at the kindling that Hans Peter was stacking. “A lot of wood” was his comment.
“He says that it’s a lot of wood,” the lass reported.
Hans Peter brandished a stick at the wolf. “You’re the one who told the lass a storm was coming.”
Rollo made the little yipping noise that stood for yes. He and the lass had managed to work out some signals for Hans Peter, so that he could, to a certain extent, understand
the wolf. Jarl thought it most clever of his daughter and her pet, and he himself would speak to the wolf often, and try to interpret his answers. Frida thought the situation unnatural, though, so Hans Peter and the lass made it a point to treat Rollo as they would any other dog whenever Frida was around. Rollo understood, and played the part of the goofy mutt for Frida. He would chew on old slippers and whine at the door whenever there was a noise outside, even though he didn’t like the taste of slipper and knew full well that it was only the wind.
“It’s an awful lot of wood, and outside,” Rollo said, and the lass translated. “I don’t think you’ll need
this
much, but some of it should be inside, so that you can get to it.”
“I see.” Hans Peter looked at the pile. “Does he know how high the snow will be? Or how long the storm will last?”
“Deep and long,” the lass translated. “But how deep or how long he isn’t sure. But he thinks that it will not be as bad as the storm his first winter.”
“Well, that’s a blessing at least,” Hans Peter said with a grunt. He was transferring the wood to a large canvas sling so that it could be carried into the house.
Sixth months after Rolf Simonson had brought the lass the pup, a blizzard had come down on their valley. For ten days the family huddled in their cottage, praying for the snow to stop. When it did, it was higher than the roof of their cottage, and it was another week before they could
tunnel their way across the yard and check on the reindeer. Jarl made his living cutting down the large trees deep in the forest, but it had been over a month before it was safe enough to return to his work. They’d had to kill three reindeer to make up for the loss of income. No one living could remember a storm as terrible, and it had made even Frida cross herself and mutter about trolls as they dug their way to the barn.
Now the lass hurried to load a sling of firewood. Rather than flinging it around to her back as her brother did, though, she simply slid hers along the hard-packed snow to the front door. They both kicked their boots against the doorframe as they went in, to knock off the snow, and Rollo daintily shook his feet before stepping onto Frida’s clean-swept floor.
They had timed their entrance right: the last of the candles was cooling on the table, and the herbs had been put away. The lass sneezed three times in quick succession and hurried to make dinner.
As the first snowflakes fell, they were sitting down to eat when the door to the cottage suddenly banged open to reveal a huge, white, furry creature. Frida shrieked, and the lass leaped backward off her bench. Rollo sprang from his position by the fire and stood between the people and the monster in the doorway, hackles raised, and snarled.
With a guffaw, the fur-clad figure pulled aside the high collar obscuring its face. It was Askeladden, up from the
city. He laughed again at their expressions, and then shook himself so that the snow fell off his parka and hood and revealed the gray fur underneath.
“You’re getting snow all over the floor,” the lass told her brother, recovering quickly.
“Then get the broom and sweep it up before it melts, girl,” her mother ordered. “Come in and sit down, son; have some stew. Einar is helping Nils patch their roof; we have plenty to spare.” She fluttered around her favored third son. “How nice of you to visit. I’ve missed you.”
“This isn’t just a visit,” Askeladden said, shrugging off his snow-clogged outer clothes and leaving them on the floor for the lass to care for. “I’ve come a-hunting.”
“Hunting? Here?” Jarl shook his head. “There’s naught worth hunting in these parts but snowfoxes, and I’ll wager you have enough of those outside the city.”
“Not snowfoxes,” Askeladden said with his charming grin. “
Isbjørn.
Giant white
isbjørn
. A creature they say makes the white reindeer seem like poor game.”
“
Isbjørn
? There’s no ice bear in these parts,” the lass said as she swept up the snow scattered over the floor. She rolled her eyes at Hans Peter, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on Askel, and his face was gray.
“There is
a
bear in these parts,” Askel said. “A number of hunters have seen it. A massive beast, and whiter than the snow.” Askel’s hands described the proportions of the bear in the air over the table, and his eyes shone. “The royal
furrier in Christiania is offering five hundred gold crowns to whoever brings him the pelt.” His eyes shone even brighter at the mention of the money, and so did Frida’s. “The king wants a bearskin parka,” he added. “And I’m going to provide it for him. Imagine if I was the man who brought down this mighty bear . . . the king himself might want to meet me!”
“This is your chance, son,” Frida said, laying her arm around Askel’s broad shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “You’ll make your fortune with this hunt. I can feel it in my bones.” She kissed his cheek.
“Hans Peter, are you all right?” The lass had gone to her favorite brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked as if he were going to be sick. He had let his spoon, with a piece of carrot still on it, fall to the table beside his bowl, and his hands were limp in his lap.
“Do not hunt this
isbjørn,
” Hans Peter said in a strange, hollow voice. “It is not a natural creature.”
Askel’s voice was thick with derision. “How could you possibly know
anything
about this animal? Why, none of you had even heard of it until I told you of it just now.”
“Bears do not come here,” Hans Peter said. “White or brown. For an
isbjørn
to wander this far south . . .” He trailed off. “Do not hunt this bear, Askeladden.” A shudder passed through Hans Peter, and the lass tightened her fingers on his shoulder. “I know more of
isbjørn
than I ever care to. No good can come of this.”
“What nonsense is this?” Frida shrilled. “What do you know about bears, shut away here by my hearth day after day, as though you weren’t a man grown who should be off making his own way in the world?” She shook her finger at Hans Peter. “Askeladden is going to make his fortune, and I’ll not have your jealousy ruining things for him.”
“Now, wife,” Jarl began. He reached across the table to pat her hand, but she shook him off; he grimaced. “Hans Peter does his part with the farmwork and his carvings. And let us not forget that he once sailed the northern seas on a trading ship.”
Frida turned away from her husband and her eldest son to make her point clear: this was not enough for her. A slow anger boiled in the lass’s stomach. She had been rejected by her mother when she was born, and was used to being dismissed as worthless. But Hans Peter . . . that was something else. It angered the girl to think that Frida could be so cold as to turn against her eldest son this way. True, Askeladden was the lucky third son, but what had he ever done in his life? Trapped a few foxes, shot a few wild deer, flirted with a few foolish farmgirls, and not much else.
“If you want to sit here by the fire like an old woman all your life, brother, that is your decision,” Askeladden said in his haughty way. “But I have chosen a different road, one that will lead me to riches, and fame.”
“The third son’s birthright!” Frida said.
“It is a fine thing, to set your sights on crystal towers
and golden thrones,” Hans Peter said quietly. “But first you had better see what lurks within those towers, and what sits on those thrones. Every palace needs a foundation, Askeladden. Make sure that yours isn’t of human bones.” And with that, Hans Peter got to his feet, his every movement as slow and jerky as an old, old man’s. The rest of the family watched in stunned silence as he made his way up the ladder and into the darkness of the loft.
“He’s mad,” Askeladden said quietly after a moment.
“He’s hurting,” the lass said fiercely. “He’s hurting, and none of you care.” She was still standing, her fists clenched. Rollo stood beside her, pressed against her thigh, uncertain what to do to comfort his beloved mistress.
“Pika, pika,” Jarl said softly. “
I
care. But there’s naught we can do.” He smiled sadly at his youngest child. Then, turning his gaze to Askel, his smile faded. “I have never known your brother to speak madness—”
“Until now!”
Jarl held up one hand in a sharp gesture to silence Askeladden. “I have
never
known Hans Peter to speak madness. His counsel has always been sound, and he knows far more of the world than I ever hope to. You should listen to his advice.”
“Jarl, don’t talk nonsense!” Frida pounded on the table with her bony fist. “Hans Peter is a good-for-nothing, and my Askeladden is a strong, brave man. He’s a fine hunter, and if he says that he will bring down the
isbjørn,
he will!”
“Thank you, Mother,” Askeladden said in a lofty tone. “I think I shall sleep here tonight, to rest up while this storm blows itself out, and then I shall be off after the bear.”
“An excellent plan, my son,” Frida said. “Here, have some more stew, and some bread and cheese. You need to keep up your strength. And before you leave tomorrow, I’ll pack you a bag with plenty of dried meat and cheese and bread, for the hunt.”
“You will regret this,” the lass said.
She was speaking to Askel, but she never knew if he heard her. Her gaze was fixed on the little window beside the door. The shutter had flapped loose when Askel had come in, and she had not yet closed it. The greased reindeer hide pane barely let the light filter in when the sun was shining, but now she thought she could see the snow swirling outside. It seemed to make shapes: an
isbjørn
and the shambling form of a troll.
“You will regret this,” she repeated, her voice no more than a whisper. “We all will.”
When Askeladden had been gone three days, even Frida began to worry. The storm had been fierce, but after the skies cleared, the pristine snow looked welcoming. Askel had tested his skis and found the chill temperature had made the snow perfect for travel. He loaded up his knapsack with food, his crossbow, bolts, and knives, and waved a cheery farewell to his mother.
Hans Peter sat by the fire and said not a word to anyone, not even to the lass when she pressed him to eat something. He ate reluctantly and didn’t carve a single piece of wood. Rollo sat beside him, his head on Hans Peter’s knee. His silence affected the entire family, and added to it was a strangeness in the air.
Jarl went out and about his work, as usual, skiing through the trees and pulling back a great sledge of wood at the end of each day. The lass and Frida milked the reindeer and made cheese, and the lass found a squirrel’s cache of nuts and ground them into meal. But all this was done in silence. Though not a talkative woman, Frida had a sharp tongue and enjoyed giving orders to her husband
and remaining children. But for three days she said almost nothing. The lass did not sing, Hans Peter did not tell stories, and Jarl did not share the details of his day.
And then another storm descended.
The wind raged around the little cottage, and there was not even time to secure the animals. Jarl tried, but the snow had turned into needles of ice, and he hardly made it two steps out the door before he was forced to come back in. The skin around his eyes, the only part of him exposed to the weather, was stung raw.
“There’s no way to bring the chickens in,” he panted as the lass helped him remove his ice-covered outer clothes. “We may lose them all. But the bigger animals should do all right: the barn is tight, and they had water and feed.”
“I made sure of the chickens,” the lass told him, trying to reassure her father, whose expression was as bleak as she had ever seen it. “They’re safe enough.”