“Let’s go,” she said to Rollo, pushing him aside so that she could clamber to her feet.
“He said to wait here,” the wolf argued.
“Do you really mean to take orders from a bear?”
And off she went, giving her pet no choice but to follow. She kept closer to the trees, not wanting her brother to catch sight of her. In the white parka and boots, he might decide she was a very small bear, and take a practice shot at her. In fact, having felt the pelt of the enchanted
isbjørn,
she was convinced that Hans Peter’s parka was made of the same fur. She wondered anew where her brother had gotten it, and what the embroidery meant.
The bear’s tracks curved in from the edge a little, and the lass thought that very wise. There was no way of knowing if the ground underneath the snow was stable, or was there at all. It was possible to walk on the thickly crusted drifts that extended out from cliffs, but usually only for a very small and cautious human. For something the size of the enchanted bear, it could be deadly.
The trees along the top of the ravine cleared, and she skidded to a stop only a few paces from the
isbjørn.
No, from
two isbjørner.
The second one was not as large, nor as white, but it was still magnificent. The bears stood nose to nose, growling deep in their throats.
The smaller bear began backing away, whining. The larger bear stalked toward it, a commanding note in his
growl. The lass moved her hood back a little from her face, trying to hear what they said.
“No, please, brother,” the smaller
isbjørn
pleaded.
“I am not your brother,” the enchanted bear said, his voice angry. “Do it now.”
“No, please, my lord,” the other bear whined.
The larger of the
isbjørn,
the lass’s
isbjørn,
softened and seemed now to pity the other. “Forgive me. I have no choice. Go now, please, and your spirit shall ascend to the stars as a reward for your sacrifice.”
The other bear let out a strange, keening cry. It started to back farther away but couldn’t seem to break free from the enchanted
isbjørn
’s gaze.
Then the smaller bear wheeled around and ran for the edge of the ravine. The lass cried out, knowing that the snow there was jutting out over thin air and would not hold his weight. The bear stopped just short of the most dangerous part, though, and reared up onto his hind legs. He roared, much as the enchanted bear had done earlier. And, like there had been earlier, there was a twang, and a thunk, as a crossbow bolt made contact.
Only this time, it did not hit a tree. It found its mark deep in the heart of the other
isbjørn,
and the beast fell backward into the snow.
“No!” The lass started forward, but the enchanted bear barred the way.
“Get on my back,” he growled.
“We have to help him.”
“He’s dead. Get on now,” the bear said, still blocking her. When she hesitated, he turned his head and bared his teeth. “You wanted family wealthy. So.”
The lass sagged. She could hear the scrabbling sounds of her brother Askeladden climbing up the side of the ravine to his quarry. He would take it back to Christiania, and it would be made into a coat for the king. And Askeladden would be rich and famous, just as he and Frida had always dreamed.
Just as the lass had asked.
“Wish wisely,” the
isbjørn
said, guessing her thoughts.
Subdued, the lass climbed on his back and the
isbjørn
began to run. He ran away from the ravine, fast and faster, and the lass kept an eye on the ground to the right, where Rollo ran alongside them. She could hardly believe that a bear, a great ungainly bear, could run so fast. Nor that her own dear wolf could keep pace with them. The cold wind tore the tears from her eyes and sent them running back beneath her hood to soak her hair at the temples. The black trees turned to a blur, and then she saw Rollo dropping behind.
“Wait, stop,” she cried, thumping the bear’s shoulder with her fist. “Rollo. He can’t keep up.”
The bear stopped, sliding a bit in the snow. He grunted. “Must go even faster,” he told her. They waited for a full minute before Rollo caught up, and when he did, he fell sideways into a drift, wheezing.
“You’ll have to carry him, too,” the lass told the bear.
“Can’t. Won’t stay on,” the
isbjørn
argued. “Leave behind.”
“Absolutely not. I told you, Rollo comes, or I don’t.” She folded her arms in a mutinous pose, even though the bear couldn’t see her. “Go slower.”
The bear sighed. The lass almost slid off his back into the snow with the force of it. Rollo got to his feet, anxious to show that he was ready to run again, but his sides still heaved with his labored breathing.
The
isbjørn
swung his head around until he was standing nose to nose with the wolf. Every muscle in the lass’s body went rigid. It reminded her of the way he had stood to stare down the other bear, the one who had been sacrificed for her sake, and her family’s fortune.
But this time the
isbjørn
did not talk. Black eyes stared into gold, and the bear made a little singing sound deep in his throat. Rollo’s ears pricked forward, and his hackles raised. When the bear looked away from him, the wolf shook himself, his tongue lolling and his breathing easy.
“I could run all night,” he said. “I feel marvelous.” He stretched, arching his back like a cat.
“Good. We go.”
And the
isbjørn
ran again, covering the snowy terrain even faster than it had before. The lass had to crouch low against his back, clinging with both hands to his fur, her legs locked to his rib cage. She spared only one look for Rollo,
who ran beside the bear as easily as he might have chased a rabbit across the yard. After that she dared not look again, for the wind had so dragged at her head when she lifted it that she had almost been ripped from the bear’s back. Instead she buried her face in the warm fur and clung for dear life as the bear ran up and down hills, dodged between trees, and once gave a great leap across a river.
They went faster and faster, and the hills became mountains, and the bear ran up the sheer stone sides as though they were level, with Rollo at his heels. The sun set and then rose again, and they passed into a forest so thick with trees that the lass could not tell night from day, and yet the bear’s pace did not flag and neither did the wolf’s. The girl slept for what could have been hours, but was more likely days, until she felt the bear slowing down.
When he had slowed enough that she could lift her head to look around, she had no idea where they were. The sharp peaks and mountains of her home, dark with trees, were gone. Instead a white plain lay before them, deep with snow. To the west there was a tall crag, and on top of the crag she saw a shining thing of greenish white that looked like a crown sitting on the head of a giant.
“That is your home now,” the
isbjørn
said.
“Let’s go,” Rollo shouted, and took off across the snow plain, yipping like a puppy.
The bear gave a bellow that might have been a laugh
and went after him. The lass put her face down once more, the wind dragging at her.
At least Rollo was excited, she thought. And her family would have wealth. That was what was important. She hardly dared to admit it, but the novelty of being taken by an enchanted bear to live in a palace had worn off.
She was simply terrified.
It took longer than the lass would have thought to reach the crag where the palace stood. They had already traveled for unknown days, and night was falling by the time they reached the foot of the crag. The white plain had been so flat and featureless that she had misjudged its expanse. Rollo beat the white bear to it, and stood, panting eagerly, at the bottom of a steep trail that wound around the hill.
“Follow me,” the bear said to Rollo. His manner was much warmer toward the wolf now. The long race across the plain seemed to have made them friends.
The lass sat up on the bear’s back and looked around as he went up the path. It was barely wide enough for the bear, and so smooth that she could see their reflection in it. The crag wasn’t stone at all, she realized with a start, but ice—smooth green ice covered with a rime of white snow everywhere but on the path. The peak was so regular in shape, and the path so even, that she guessed it had been created by some hands other than Nature’s. But whose? Who was powerful enough to make a mountain out of ice?
She spoke this last thought aloud, and the bear answered her.
“
She
is,” he said as he plodded up the path. It spiraled around the hill, and now the lass could see that the white snow plain extended in every direction as far as the horizon. “
She
is that powerful.”
“Who?”
But the bear did not answer her.
It was full dark and the moon was on the rise by the time they reached the top of the crag. The palace was not much narrower than the crag: there was only a slender path going around its base. With a gasp, the lass saw that the palace itself had been made of green ice, though the massive doors were hammered gold set with diamonds and rubies the size of goose eggs.
The
isbjørn
approached the doors and let out a roar, and the doors swung open. They entered into a lofty hall, hung with banners of silk that depicted a strange crest: a pearly white
isbjørn
on a blue background, with a golden sun to one side of it and a silver moon to the other. Beneath the bear there was a disturbing symbol that looked like a saw, or a serrated knife, embroidered in black.
The lass was pleased to find that, although the palace was made of ice, it was pleasantly warm inside. She slithered off the bear’s back and removed her hood, turning slowly to take it all in. The ceiling of the hall was supported by slender pillars of ice, carved all around with jagged markings.
Her gaze sharpened on these and she went forward to touch one. The ice pillar was smooth and hard, but warm and not at all wet. She studied the carvings that spiraled around it.
“I recognize these,” she said in excitement. “This says something about whales, many whales, coming ashore.” She looked back at the bear. “They’re like the carvings my brother Hans Peter makes. He taught me what some of them mean.” She ran her hand over the carvings, feeling a spike of homesickness. She would not see Hans Peter again for a long time.
“Your . . . brother?” The bear came over to her, squinting at the engraved symbols. “You can read them?”
“Yes.” She held out the sleeve of her parka. “But I can’t read these. I’ve tried, but it doesn’t seem to make any sense. It looks like the same sort of thing, though, don’t you think?”
Now the bear squinted at her parka, studying the red and blue embroidery that ran in bands around the sleeves and the hem. Suddenly his eyes widened and he reared back, giving a roar. The lass cowered against the pillar, and Rollo took up a protective stance between them.
“Where did you get that?” The bear’s voice was thick with some emotion that the girl thought might be rage, but might just as easily have been fear. “Where?”
“It was my brother’s,” she said with a little quaver in her voice. “Hans Peter. The brother you met. He gave it to me. You were there.”
He came down on all fours, still quivering with emotion. “Yes. I remember.” Leaning forward, the bear squinted even harder at it. “Where did
he
get it?”
“I don’t know,” the lass said, nearly whispering. “He went to sea when I was small, and when he came back, he had it. Something had happened to him, something that made him sad.”
The bear made a strange barking noise that caused the lass to start sliding sideways, hoping to put the pillar between them. Then she realized that he was laughing. It was a hollow, bitter laugh, but still a laugh.
“Made him sad?” His voice was mocking. “I wish that were my only complaint.”
“What
is
your complaint?” She said it shyly, still halfway around the pillar.
The
isbjørn
stopped, and he began to sway again as he had at her house. “Can’t say,” he managed finally. A moment ago his words had come easily, easier than at any time before. But now his speech was labored again. “Can’t say!” The words rose to an angry roar. The bear wheeled around and ran off, disappearing through a door at the far side of the hall.
“Well,” the lass said to Rollo, blinking in shock at the bear’s strange behavior. “I suppose it’s just the two of us now. Let’s explore.”
It was so warm in the ice palace that she shrugged off the parka and the extra boots and carried them. They
walked around the large hall, admiring the carvings and the enormous fireplace at the far end. The mantel and hearth, the entire structure was of ice, and yet the fire that burned brightly in it did not melt anything. There was a gorgeous rug laid in front of the hearth, and a chair upholstered in a cloth that the lass thought might be velvet, though she had never seen or felt it in real life. The chair was just the right size for her, she found when she sat in it, and there was even a small tapestry footstool placed at exactly the right angle. Other than the fabric and cushion-stuffing, both chair and footstool were also carved of ice.
“This certainly isn’t for our
isbjørn
,” she told Rollo, stretching her feet toward the fire.
“No, it’s for you, my lady,” said a voice from behind the chair.
The lass was so startled that she lunged forward and ended up on the hearthrug on her knees. Rollo dropped to a crouch, hackles raised and teeth bared.
“Oh, dear me,” said the voice. And then a little person who stood no taller than the lass’s shoulder came around the chair and into view.
He wasn’t human. Nor was he an animal, or at least any animal that the lass had ever seen. The upper part of his body looked like a man’s: he had a bare, muscular chest; two human arms; and a human-looking face. He had a beard and curly hair, both of the same reddish brown color. But there were two slender horns coming out of his
hair, and his eyes were golden, with slotted pupils, like a goat’s. From the waist down, he was very much a goat, with reddish brown fur that matched his hair and beard, and little cloven hoofs. The only clothing he wore was a ribbon tied around his throat, woven of blue and red silk in a pattern that looked rather like the embroidery on Hans Peter’s parka.