“You’re a good girl,” he said, patting her head absently even though she was only a handspan shorter than he.
“And who is making sure that my Ash-lad is safe?” Frida demanded. “Where is he sheltering from the storm?”
“I don’t know, wife,” Jarl said, sagging down on a chair by the table. “All we can do is pray.”
“Is he not the lucky third son?” Hans Peter spoke for the first time since making his pronouncement to Askeladden. “Is he not, as you call him, the Ash-lad? Surely he will ride out this storm in some fabulous palace, and will return
triumphant tomorrow with a princess and a chest of gold.” His words would have been insulting if his voice hadn’t been so drained of emotion.
“And so he shall,” Frida said, giving her eldest son a defiant look. “He is the best and brightest of all my children, my lucky third son, and he shall return in triumph, as you say.”
The young lass didn’t say anything. She wanted her mother to be right . . . not about the gold and the princess, although that might be nice. No, she wanted her brother to return in safety. She was not half so fond of him as she was of Hans Peter, but he was still her brother, and the lass could not bear to think of losing even one member of her family.
Lost in these dire thoughts, everyone jumped when Rollo lunged to his feet and streaked to the front door. He stood before it, hackles raised, his growl cutting through the silence in a most unpleasant way. Hans Peter also got to his feet, drawing his sharp whittling knife, and moved between the door and his youngest sister.
“Rollo? What is it?” The lass didn’t care if her mother heard her talking to the wolf. She was covered in gooseflesh and thought that she could see a shape moving outside the little front window. A shape not made of wind and snow.
Rollo’s growl rose in pitch, and he took a stiff step forward just as the door burst open. A great, white, fur-covered figure barely managed to squeeze through the
door, shoving Rollo aside as though he were a puppy. Frida started to laugh, to say something, obviously thinking that it was her darling Askeladden come home.
But it was not Askeladden, wrapped in furs and coated with snow. It was not a human at all. It was an
isbjørn,
a great white ice bear of the North, and it was standing in the middle of their cottage and looking right at the lass.
“Rollo, don’t you dare,” she hissed.
The wolf, more stunned than hurt, had regained his feet and looked ready to pounce on the bear. Never mind that the creature outweighed him by more than a ton, where his mistress’s safety was concerned, Rollo had no fear.
“Rollo, I mean it, come here,” the lass insisted, slapping her thigh.
Snorting to show the bear that he was not afraid, Rollo backed his way over to the lass and took up his position beside her. None of the other humans moved. Frida was frozen in place, a ladle in one hand and the pot of stew in the other. Jarl stood beside the table, one hand on the bread knife and the other clenched in a fist. Hans Peter was still standing protectively in front of the lass and their mother, his short woodworking knife drawn. But his hand was shaking so badly that it looked as though he would drop the knife any moment, and his face was the blue-white of frozen cow’s milk.
“What do you want?” The lass’s voice was shrill. “Go away!”
The bear swayed from side to side, blinking its black eyes. The wind blew gusts of snow through the open door that drifted around its massive paws, and the lass could see that the bear was, indeed, whiter than the snow. The gleaming quality of its fur reminded her of starlight, and moonlight, and the pelt of the white reindeer, who had given her a name.
“Go away!” She made a shooing gesture.
“Can you understand me?” The
isbjørn
’s voice was deep and rumbling, and it caught a little, as though it was unaccustomed to talking. Frida gave a little squeak, and Jarl lifted the knife off the table at what sounded like a threatening growl.
“Yes,” the lass replied shortly.
The bear’s eyes closed, and it came a little farther into the cottage. It was crowded against the table now, within reach of both Jarl and Hans Peter and their knives, but it did not seem to care. The black eyes opened.
“Come with me,” the bear rumbled.
“What?” The lass felt like her skin was shifting over her bones.
“You. Come with me.”
“What’s it saying?” Hans Peter’s voice was barely a whisper.
“What’s it
saying
?” Frida’s voice was much sharper, but not much louder. “It’s a
bear
! Kill it!”
“He wants me to go with him,” the lass said. Her voice
shook, and she didn’t bother to whisper. She knew from the bear’s voice that he was male, and from his eyes that he did not mean to harm anyone. “Why?” This last she addressed to the bear.
The
isbjørn
swayed from side to side. A low moan issued from its throat. “Can’t say.” Its brow furrowed and it moaned again. “But. Need you. You come now.”
“He says he needs me to come with him,” the girl said in a bewildered voice.
“No.” Hans Peter’s face was white and strained. He waved his knife at the bear, not threatening it so much as urging it away. “No. Leave her be.”
The bear shook its head. “Need you. Please. Come with me.”
“Why do you need me?” the lass pressed. “Come where?”
“Live with me in a palace. For just one year.” Every word seemed to drag out of the bear’s broad muzzle with more and more effort.
“He wants me to live with him in a palace for one year,” the lass reported to her shocked family.
“No.” Hans Peter dropped the knife to the floor with a clatter. Whirling around, he caught hold of both of the lass’s shoulders and shook her gently. “Don’t do this. Please don’t do this. You cannot know what evil there is in the world.”
“You, live in a palace?” Frida’s eyes were moving from
the bear to her youngest daughter, and she looked much more interested than frightened now. She licked her lips. “So, this is an enchanted bear? Like King Valdemon in the old legends?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, woman,” Jarl growled. He had not dropped his knife. “Get away from here,” he said, brandishing his knife in a much more violent manner than Hans Peter had.
“You will not be . . . harmed,” the bear said.
Jarl took another step forward, hearing only a growl.
“Husband, wait a moment,” Frida said. “Perhaps this is the luck that Askeladden has brought.”
“Having an
isbjørn
take my youngest child isn’t ‘luck,’ “ Jarl replied. “And I doubt Askel had anything to do with it.”
“This is the bear he was hunting, I’m sure,” Hans Peter said. “And as I thought, it will bring no good to any of us.”
“It wants to take the pika to live in a palace.” Frida’s hands were on her hips: she was about to get stubborn.
“Mother,” Hans Peter said in that strained voice, “you cannot know what you are saying. This is not a natural thing—you said yourself that this was an enchanted bear. You cannot want the lass to enter into this enchantment.”
The lass gently moved out of her brother’s grip and stood so that she could look the bear in the eyes again. The bear gazed back, its black eyes holding the same hurt and pain that she saw in Hans Peter’s. “You will not harm me?”
“No!” Hans Peter grabbed one of her hands in both of his. “No!”
“Oh, act like a man,” Frida snarled at him. “Your sister has an opportunity most people could only dream of, to—”
“To enter into such horror that you cannot imagine,” Hans Peter said in anguish.
“To live in a palace,” Frida finished.
Even the
isbjørn
froze at this pronouncement, and all eyes were now on the lass’s mother. She was staring through the open door beyond the white bear, looking beyond even the snow that swirled and lightened the darkness. “A palace,” she repeated.
“My lord
isbjørn
,” the lass said, breaking into the silence. “It is all well and good that I shall live in a palace for a year, but what of my family? If you have such wealth, can you not give a little to them?”
“Daughter.” Jarl’s voice was anguished. “No.”
“Little sister, please,” said Hans Peter desperately. “Do not do this.” He turned to the bear. “Why have you come here? Did
she
send you?”
The bear rocked back and forth, looking at each member of the family in turn. “This Askeladden? He hunts me?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky third brother?” The bear’s words had an edge to them.
“I suppose,” the lass said, cautious. “But so far he hasn’t really done anything of use.” She flicked a glance at her
mother to see if this would upset her, but Frida continued to stare out the door.
The bear nodded. “Askel will find bear. Another bear. Fame and wealth for your family.” He made a noise like a reindeer lowing. “Will you come?”
The lass hesitated, but only a moment. There was a singing in her blood, and her heart pounded as though it would leap out of her chest. “Askel will find another bear,” she reported. “He will be famous, and you all will be wealthy.”
“It’s not worth it,” Hans Peter said.
“No, it is not,” Jarl agreed.
“You come?” The bear’s eyes were anxious. “All well. You safe. Family wealthy. You come?”
“Let me get my things,” she said.
Hans Peter made a strangled noise, and put out one hand to her.
The lass turned and looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m going. I think I have to go. But I’ll be back, and you needn’t worry about me.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
He closed his eyes and hugged her tight. The firelight made a halo out of his silvered hair, and tears ran down his cheeks. “I’ll get my white parka and boots; you’ll need them.”
“This is madness,” Jarl half whispered, sinking down onto a chair. “Madness.”
“No, Papa,” the lass said, going over and putting her arm around her father’s shoulders. “No, it’s the right thing to do. I feel it deep in my heart.”
He reached up and squeezed the hand that lay on his shoulder. His fingers were icy cold. “Oh, you poor wisp of a girl. If anyone could come out the better for an adventure like this, it would be you.”
Rollo trotted forward and leaned against the girl’s legs. “I shall protect you,” he said, giving the bear a defiant look.
The lass gave a little, nervous laugh. “And I shall have Rollo to protect me,” she told her father.
“No,” the bear said. “No wolf.”
The lass narrowed her eyes at him, her free hand dropping down to rest on Rollo’s head. “Yes, wolf. If Rollo doesn’t come, then I’m not going.”
The bear swayed back and forth, growling low in its throat. It was not threatening, more thoughtful. Then he heaved a huge sigh. “Wolf come,” he agreed heavily.
And so she went to pack her meager belongings. A comb. A carving of a reindeer Hans Peter had made. The few tattered clothes she had inherited from her sisters. And that was all. She tied it up in her shawl and pulled on a pair of breeches that had once belonged to Torst and then Einar, before becoming so ragged around the hems that several inches had been cut off. She put on both her wool sweaters and got her mittens.
Hans Peter wrapped her in his parka, putting the
white boots once more over her own worn brown ones. Her father handed her a napkin in which he had wrapped some
lefse
and cheese. Her brother put everything into the leather knapsack he had taken on his sea voyage, and she strapped it to her back. The lass kissed her brother and father both and then her mother, who merely nodded at her in farewell.
“Get on my back,” the
isbjørn
instructed.
Hans Peter lifted her onto the bear’s broad back without needing to be asked.
With Rollo hard on his heels, the
isbjørn
took off into the blizzard as though he had wings. The lass held tight to his soft white fur, and prayed.
Just when the lass had settled in to the strange rocking motion of a bear at full gallop, the animal stopped. They were on top of a steep crag that looked down over the ravine with the little stream where the lass had freed the white reindeer. The snow was letting up and the moon had dared to show its face, which made it easy to see the black ribbon of water. Standing beside the boulder that jutted into the stream was Askeladden.
He had pulled aside the high collar of his parka, and his breath steamed the air. Even from this height, the lass could see that he was angry, his face red with more than cold, and he was punching one mittened fist into the other. He kicked at the boulder, suddenly, viciously, and let fly with a curse.
“Get down,” the
isbjørn
said.
The lass slithered off his back, and Rollo came up alongside. A thrill of fear ran through the girl. Maybe it was all lies. Maybe now the bear was going to eat her, and Rollo, and Askeladden. Or it had changed its mind and was going to just leave her here. At least, with the white fur parka, she was warm.
“Wait here,” the bear said.
He loped a little farther along the edge of the ravine and raised his head, sniffing the air. He made a strange sound, a sort of hollow huffing noise that tingled the lass’s ears and seemed to carry on the wind. After a few heartbeats it was answered by a similar sound that came from the south of where they were.
Then the enchanted bear stood on his hind legs. He was twice as tall as Hans Peter, the lass realized. He extended his black claws, curled his lips back to reveal long white teeth, and snarled. Down in the ravine, Askeladden was too busy cursing to notice. The bear opened his mouth and let out a roar that shook the snow from the boughs of the trees all around them.
The lass sat down with a bump in a snowdrift, her jaw agape. Riding on the bear had been exhilarating, and she had been daydreaming about the palace she was going to live in. Now it hit her, hard, that she was at the mercy of a very large and very wild animal, enchanted or not.
Sitting in the snowdrift with Rollo pressing against her, she could no longer see down into the ravine, but she could hear Askeladden’s shout. There was a twang, and a crossbow bolt struck into a tree just to the left of the bear’s head. The bear dropped to all fours and ran, keeping to the edge of the ravine but going in the opposite direction from the lass.