The Snow Queen (6 page)

The coachman helped himself to the coffee pot, and a large slice of the apple-cake his aunt had just set out to cool on the window ledge. He sat down in the big armchair by the stove, and put his feet up on a needlepoint footstool.

“Happened to hear some news in town today,” he remarked through a mouthful of apple-cake.

“Oh yes?” said his aunt, wiping her hands on her apron and pouring herself a cup of coffee. She sat down in the chair opposite, leaning forward expectantly.

“The lady from the big house, the Baroness . . . ”

Gerda put down her book. The coachman looked across the room at her. “You were asking where she goes, summers?”

Gerda nodded wordlessly. Her heart was thudding. She felt short of breath.

“Seems she goes way up into Norrland. She has a big house on the Torne River, north of a place called Vappa-Vara. Reason I know, I picked up a missionary at the harbour, off a northern ship. He'd just come back from taking the good word to the reindeer-folk who live in those wild parts. We got to talking, and he told me stories about this beautiful, rich, fair-haired woman who had built a great house at the edge of the pine forest. The reindeer folk are mortally afraid of her, it seems — they think she is some sort of witch, or sorceress.”

“Well now, I never heard
that
particular thing said about her,” observed the coachman's aunt, appreciatively. “Why do you suppose they would think such a thing?”

“Well, you must remember, these are poor godless folk, full of all kinds of heathen notions. And a beautiful woman like that, choosing to live all alone in a great house in the midst of the wilds — why, it would be an odd thing if they did
not
think she was a witch.”

“Well now, Miss Gerda,” said the coachman, “I have found out what you wanted to know, for what good it will do you. And I wouldn't say no to another cup of coffee, if you would be so kind.”

“How late it is,” said the coachman's aunt, yawning.

“Are you not ready for bed, child?”

“In a little,” Gerda replied. “May I borrow a book from the shelf?”

“Why, my dear, help yourself. They are my son's books; I'm not much of a reader myself. But he'll not begrudge you the use of them, I'm sure.”

Gerda waited until she was sure that the coachman's aunt had blown out her candle and settled into her feather bed. Then she crept to the shelf and took down the heavy, gold-stamped atlas. Sprawled on her stomach on the hearth rug, she opened it to Mercator's map of northern Europe.

A country without roads, without cities. On the west, uncharted mountain wastes; on the east, a jagged coastline plunging into the icy northern seas. In between, a land of rivers, moors and marshlands, and trackless pine forest going on to the world's edge. How could she hope to survive in such a wilderness? And what hope had she of finding Kai?

She shivered and hugged herself. Then she put the book back on its shelf, lit a candle, and made her way to bed.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

R
itva sat up in bed and saw her dead grandmother crouched in a corner under the pigeon-roosts.

“I have come to tell you a story,” her grandmother said. “It is a story from the old times, before the southerners came. A boy went to the shaman's tent, and asked how he too could learn to be wise.

“‘If you would be wise,' said the shaman, ‘you must travel north to the shores of the frozen sea, where the world ends. When you return, you must tell me what you have learned.'

“After forty days and forty nights the boy returned.

“‘What have you learned?' the shaman asked.

“‘That ice is white.'

“‘Only that?' said the shaman. ‘You must go back.' And so the boy travelled again for forty days and forty nights, to the edge of the world and back.

“‘What have you learned this time?' the shaman asked.

“‘That ice is cold.'

“‘Go back,' said the shaman. ‘You have more to learn.'

“The shaman waited for forty days and forty nights, but this time the boy did not return, for he had travelled too far and remained too long, and had frozen into a pillar of ice. And the shaman knew that the boy had found wisdom at last; for he had learned that ice is death.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

T
he money arrived, along with a cheerful, gossipy letter from Gerda's mother. Gerda packed up her few possessions in her portmanteau and prepared to take her leave. When the coachman came to drive Gerda to Uppsala, his aunt set out an enormous breakfast of porridge, bacon, eggs and buns. She saw Gerda off in a flurry of kisses, and cautions, and tears, and good advice.

On the stagecoach north from Uppsala Gerda's carriage-mate was a small plump woman of sixty or so, with bright dark eyes and grey hair drawn back in a knot. In her plain dove-grey gown with pearl buttons up to the chin, she reminded Gerda of nothing so much as a pouter pigeon.

The woman tucked a bulging carpet bag into a corner, settled herself into her seat, and turned briskly to Gerda. “And where are you off to all on your own, my dear?”

“To visit a friend,” said Gerda. She supposed it was near enough to the truth.

“Oh yes? And where does your friend live?”

“Oh, a long way off. In Norrland, somewhere on the Torne River, near a place called Vappa-Vara . . . ”

“Indeed! I know it well. That's all the way into Saamiland, where the reindeer people live. Well, you will have your adventures, my dear, before you get to Vappa-Vara. It's late in the year to be setting out on a trip like that. You'll be running into the autumn storms soon, and the nights closing in.”

Gerda looked at the woman with interest. “You've travelled in Norrland?”

“Oh, indeed I have, many a time, and a long way north of that. Ingeborg Eriksson is my name — I dare say you've heard of my books. I was a great one for travelling, in my time — though with my rheumatics, I'm getting past those overland trips.”

“Did you go by yourself?”

“Oh yes — it's best, I think. At first I took along a lady companion — my family thought it was unsuitable for a young woman to travel alone. But my companions always seemed to fall ill a week or so into the journey . . . you have no idea how inconvenient that can be! My dear, may I offer you some advice?”

“Of course.”

“When you're travelling in those parts, you must be sure to pack your own provisions. I can't emphasize that too much. It simply doesn't do to depend on the hostelry along the way. A little salt fish, that's the best you can hope for, and the bread always seems to be mouldy.”

“What sort of provisions?” asked Gerda.

“Plum pudding,” Madame Eriksson said firmly.

“Plum pudding?” asked Gerda, disconcerted.

“Exactly. You can't go wrong with plum pudding. I used to take forty pounds of it, on my longer journeys. It keeps well, and there's nothing more nourishing.”

“And what else?”

“What else? Let me see.” The woman began to tick things off on her gloved fingers, beginning with her thumb. “Lamp wicks. You can't have too many of those; you simply can't get them out in the wilds. Candles, of course. Plenty of candles. And as to clothing — vests, drawers, petticoats, all of wool; eiderdown is best for your coat. Make sure it has a fur collar you can pull up, and sleeves long enough to cover your hands. In the cold weather I would wear a sheepskin over that, and finally a coat of reindeer skin. In those climes the last spring frost comes in the middle of June, and the first one of winter arrives before the end of August.”

What a sight you must have looked, thought Gerda, imagining this plump little person in her three thick coats, one on top of the other.

“Not to mention two pairs of thick stockings,” Madame Eriksson went on. By now she was on the fingers of the second hand. “Felt boots — the kind that come up over the knee. A fur-lined cap, and a few rugs and shawls won't come amiss.”

“I should never be able to afford to buy all those things,” sighed Gerda.

“Then,” said her companion, “you'd do best to cut your visit short. Once the snows come, and the northern nights set in, you will find you need every bit of that, and more.” She rummaged in her bag, brought out a bottle of red wine and a loaf of black bread. “And in the summer, of course, you'll do well not to be eaten alive.”

“By wolves?” asked Gerda, alarmed.

“By mosquitoes. You can run away from wolves. From the mosquitoes, there is no possibility of escape. Well, now, my dear,” she said, breaking off a piece of the bread and offering it to Gerda, “we have a good long trip ahead of us. Suppose you tell me what sends you off into the northern lands.”

As the carriage rattled over the stones Gerda chewed on her crust, sipped wine straight from the bottle, and told her story. The wine was making her too sleepy to think of lies, and it seemed to her that this grandmotherly woman, with her kind, uncritical gaze, could be trusted with the simple truth.

“Well,” said Madame Eriksson, when Gerda had finished, “I must say, I admire your enterprise. Though I've never yet met a man worth going to the ends of the earth for.” She looked at Gerda with kindly cynicism. “Ah yes, my girl, I see it in your eyes. You think this Kai of yours is different. Well, you're young, you're entitled to your illusions.” She held out her hand for the wine bottle. “I worry about you, though, traipsing off on your own into the wilderness, when you're unaccustomed to travel.”

“I will manage,” Gerda said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

“I doubt it,” the woman said. “No maps, no provisions, no money . . . ”

“I have money,” said Gerda.

“Oh, I dare say — but it won't be enough. Listen,” the woman said, “if I were ten years younger, I would be tempted to come with you. As it is — I have a friend who might be persuaded to help. This adventure of yours is just mad enough to appeal to her.”

“Help me? How?”

“Well, let's think what you need. Good advice, for a start. But then if you were one to listen to advice, you would not have come as far as you have. I expect the princess could easily spare a carriage and some warmer clothes. I propose that the two of us pay her a visit.”

“She's not really a princess, is she?”

“Oh, every bit of it, her blood is as blue as my magnesia bottle. She's a princess in her own right, in a nice little southern kingdom whose name I've forgotten. Married beneath her, you might say, for her husband is only a count . . . why, what's the matter with you, child, your eyes are as big as dinner plates.”

“I've never met a princess,” wailed Gerda, aghast. “I wouldn't know what to say to her. I wouldn't know how to behave.”

“Nonsense,” said Madam. “A more down-to-earth, common-sense sort of princess you'd never hope to meet. If you're going to make a habit of travelling, my girl, you'll learn to get along with people of all sorts, from peasants to princes. And what's more you'll learn to sleep wherever you put your head down, whether it's a skin tent, or a goat hut, or a royal palace.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Gerda, chastened. Madame Eriksson drew a book out of her bag and settled back in her seat to read. Gerda rode the rest of the way in anxious silence, wondering if she would be expected to curtsy. Whatever would the ladies of her village say, if they knew that Gerda Jensen had been entertained by royalty?