Freya & Zoose

by Emily Butler

  She surfaced quietly, willing the humans to look the other way. Then again, they were making such a ruckus salvaging their baggage that they were scarcely in a position to notice a bird talking to a mouse. “Swim!” she hissed to Zoose. “Get out of the water before they see us!”

  Zoose said nothing, but shook uncontrollably with cold.

  “I mean it!” said Freya. “Let go of that rope and start swimming.”

  “C-c-can’t,” said Zoose.

  “Can’t what? Swim, I tell you!” she commanded.

  To this, Zoose screwed up his face and clung more tightly to the rope, as buoyant as a lead fishing sinker, or maybe even less. In a flash, Freya understood the situation: the mouse couldn’t swim. In addition, he was freezing to death, panting in shallow hah-hah-hahs, teeth chattering like dice. Oh, what was it that Mrs. Davidson had advised in the hour of peril? Freya had read the words a thousand times. They came back to her now: courage and calmness.

  “Courage and calmness,” she whispered, and pried Zoose’s fingers off the rope with her beak. “Courage and calmness,” she repeated, and wedged the mouse under one wing. Propelling herself through the frigid waters in great, lopsided strokes, she reached the edge of the pool at full tilt. Then she dragged him up onto the ice and behind a hummock where they would not be seen. “Courage and calmness,” she avowed, thumping his chest with all her might until he coughed up a lungful of water.

  From there, Freya worked like one possessed. She stripped off Zoose’s shoes and socks and rubbed his frozen feet as energetically as she could between her wings until she was sure his circulation was restored. Then she did the same with his paws. She slapped his cheeks and buffeted his head many times so that the blood would return to his face and brain. “It would raise my temperature, if he pummeled me!” she told herself, and kept at it until he began a pathetic mewling.

  Peering around the hummock, Freya watched the captain and Nils as they revived Knut, who was still shivering like a wet puppy. (Or a wet mouse, Freya thought, glancing back at Zoose.) They peeled off his drenched clothes and wrapped him in a reindeer hide. Then Captain Andrée began to assemble the camp stove. Nils busied himself setting up the tent on a flat stretch of ice some twenty yards from the slushy pool. There would be no more traveling today.

  It was now or never. Freya hopped to the boat, lying on its side where the humans had left it, soggy cargo heaped in piles on the ground. She identified her own bags and bundles, as well as Zoose’s untidy haversack. In several quick, silent trips, she dragged everything behind the hummock.

  Then she unpacked what until now she had called her Article of Faith—a dusty calfskin pouch Freya had assembled long ago on the recommendation of Mrs. Davidson. It is wise never to travel unprovided with a small flask of brandy and water, a tiny case of plaster (with scissors) and strong smelling salts, Mrs. Davidson had advised. With blind obedience, Freya had gathered the items into a bag and zipped it shut, never imagining she might someday need them. Neither had she imagined that the newfangled zipper would weld itself together with rust.

  “Blast!” She hooted her frustration. “Blast this blasted thing. I knew it was a gimmick! Who would trust something called a zipper?” She yanked at it savagely until it ripped away from the leather. Then she removed a tin flask, wiped it clean with her sleeve and opened the screw top. Pressing it to Zoose’s lips, she watched grimly as the fiery liquid sloshed over his chin. Zoose had stopped shivering and was now as motionless as a rock.

  “Smelling salts first, you ninny,” Freya scolded herself. She uncorked the green glass bottle and held it under Zoose’s nostrils, waving it gently to release its fumes. His whiskers twitched ever so slightly, and he moaned. She seized the flask and poured two or three drops down his throat. Zoose moaned again and began to tremble.

  And thus began a long cycle of vigorous massage, alternating with brandy water and smelling salts, until Freya herself was nearly dead with fatigue. Four or five times she held the green bottle to her own nose, just to stay awake and keen. Finally, when Zoose had stopped shaking, she unbuttoned her jacket and tucked him under her wing. Then she fell asleep, just as the low polar sun began to lighten the sky.

  Zoose was the first to stir. He yawned, then stretched his legs as far as he could, digging his heels into Freya’s ribs. Then he burrowed into her feathers, pulling her wing around him like a quilt, and sighed with contentment.

  “Paradise,” he murmured sleepily. “Never thought they’d let me in.”

  Freya opened her eyes. “You’re not in paradise,” she said. “You’re in my armpit.”

  “Shhhh,” said Zoose. “Shhhh…” His voice drifted away like a happy cloud, and he began to snore.

  Freya wondered what to do. On the one hand, he’d nearly perished yesterday. And although it was true that he’d been a nuisance up until then, she would hardly have rejoiced if he’d frozen to death. Freya marveled at her own capacity to act in a crisis. If only her family could have witnessed her courage and calmness! Why, she had saved this mouse from a watery grave and spent the night resuscitating him.

  She was a regular Florence Penguingale.

  On the other hand, she was bone-tired and famished. When Zoose turned to nestle against her with a contented little snort, Freya decided her patient’s recovery was complete.

  “Rise and shine!” she barked, and stood up, leaving a very startled mouse on the ice. He looked at her with some confusion, and then rubbed his eyes and studied the landscape.

  “Took a bath, did I?” he asked at last. His troubled gaze rested on the edge of the sludge water, just visible from where he lay.

  “So to speak,” said Freya. “You were floating around in there like an ice cube. I spent last night thawing you out!”

  “Sure, it’s coming back to me in bits and pieces. I’m not much of a swimmer—I guess you noticed that.” Zoose laughed ruefully.

  “Ah, well, you came through it. That’s the important thing,” she said. Then there was an uncomfortable silence, and Freya realized that if she were waiting for Zoose to thank her, she’d be waiting for a very long time. The mouse was even more deficient in the manners department than he was in the swimming department. Awkward creature! She tried to look indifferent as she riffled through her things for a bite to eat.

  “Think I’ll go see what the crew is up to,” said Zoose, scrambling to his feet. He was quite agile for a mouse who had recently been frozen solid.

  “They’re still asleep,” said Freya, even though he was already out of earshot. She munched on some dried moss and pretended it was bacon while she brooded over her next move. It simply would not do to hole up in the boat again and risk another dunking. She was going to have to hoof it, just like the humans. But that did leave her with the problem of shelter. It was all well and good to spend a night under the stars when the sky was clear, but what about when it snowed? And a stiff winter wind might just be the end of the mouse. Not that that was her problem.

  The solution lay several hundred yards behind her. Freya reached into her Article of Faith and extracted the silver pair of scissors. Then she scanned the terrain. It was impossible to commit this landscape to memory, it was so hypnotically repetitive. But the tracks made by the sledges were as plain as paint, and she followed them all the way back to the spot where they had made landfall.

  There lay the balloon, like a shroud. To have placed one’s trust in several miles of varnished silk, thought Freya. Lunacy! Well, this was no time for philosophizing. She thrust the tip of the scissors into the balloon, puncturing it ruthlessly. Then she began snipping and didn’t stop until she’d cut away a sizable piece of the material.

  It was wonderfully light stuff. She rolled it up and dragged it back to the hummock where she and Zoose had spent the night. Then she opened her largest bag and retrieved her sewing kit, blessing Mrs. Davidson yet again for the sage counsel to rove no farther t
han one’s front door without thread and needle.

  “What are you doing?” asked Zoose, who had suddenly reappeared.

  “It should be obvious that I’m making myself a tent. Making us a tent, if you care to lend a hand,” said Freya, trying not to sound exasperated. She unfurled the silk and spread it on the ice.

  “Don’t bother about me,” said the mouse. “I’ll be moving on as soon as I work out which way is north.”

  “I see,” replied Freya. “Are you leaving before or after you’ve had breakfast?”

  “After, I think,” Zoose said.

  His nonchalance was infuriating. “I don’t wish to interrogate you, but could you explain why you’d rather head north by yourself instead of heading north with present company?”

  “Present company isn’t heading north. You’re heading east, according to the captain. I just listened to their plans, and lucky I did.” When Freya made no comment, he continued. “They’ve given up on the North Pole. Too far away. They’re making for some islands to the east, where there’s food and a shot at being rescued.”

  Freya considered this. “That sounds reasonable,” she concluded.

  “Well, good luck to you. I didn’t sign up for reasonable. I signed up to discover the North Pole, and that’s where I’m going.”

  “Are you insane?” Freya asked. “You’ll never make it alone. What about ‘staying with the humans if you know what’s good for you’? What about their compasses and maps? What about their cheese, if it comes to that?”

  “Oh, I have some of their cheese,” said Zoose, opening his vest to reveal several large hunks of fragrant cheddar. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

  “Yes, you’ll be just dandy. You almost died yesterday, in case you’ve forgotten,” Freya retorted.

  “And who do I have to thank for that? You. You and all your talk of Death. You might as well have invited Death into the boat with us and then helped him chuck me into the water!” Zoose picked up pawfuls of snow and threw them over his shoulder, chanting defensive spells and stamping his feet seven times.

  Freya stared at him in utter incredulity. “The only person inviting Death here is you, if you think you’re going to reach the North Pole by yourself.”

  Zoose clapped his paws over his ears and stamped his feet again. It was all Freya could do to keep from grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “Death isn’t some trickster who tags along if you say his name. Death happens when it happens, and it happens a lot faster when you act like an imbecile!”

  When you hide in the basket of a hot-air balloon and fly over the Arctic Sea? came the unbidden thought to Freya’s mind. But she wouldn’t allow for that sort of foolishness, not now. “You’re staying here if I have to stitch you inside the tent!” she shouted at the obstinate mouse, who was chanting at the top of his lungs. She lunged for him, wrenching his sleeve and trying to disengage his paw from his ear so he might listen to some sense!

  And so it was that neither Freya nor Zoose noticed the polar bear until it was nearly upon them. No sooner did they feel themselves enveloped in its dark shadow than it struck.

  With one swat of a massive paw, it sent Zoose hurtling through the air like a pebble out of a slingshot. He landed on his back and plowed through the snow until he hit a thick hummock. Freya fared worse: the bear struck again and flung her into a bank of freshwater ice that was as hard as granite. She felt the stab of its claws and the bone-crunching solidity of the ice. Then she heard, saw and felt no more.

  For three days and nights, Freya lay silent and motionless. She had grievous wounds across her ribs from the bear’s attack, and though these had bled profusely, they had not proved fatal. However, the blow to her skull where she’d collided with the ice was catastrophic. Now she was engaged in a battle for her life.

  Inside herself, in the deepest part that burns slowly until one draws one’s very last breath, she tumbled back and back and back. She fell through time as if each year were a flimsy net, too fragile to hold her. One by one, the years gave way like gossamer webs, until at the very end of everything, she was a chick again. She was Baby Frey, the most cherished and long-awaited jewel in her mother’s crown.

  “You’re my twinkle, my moonbeam!” whispered her mother into her ear.

  “Our little treasure, our wunderkind!” added her father, stroking the tip of her tiny beak and laughing when she sneezed. Freya felt the velvety feathers of Mother’s plush tummy and sighed with happiness. How fine to be their darling chick once more. She had forgotten the way Father smelled of pipe tobacco and cologne. It was the safest, loveliest smell in the world.

  Hour upon hour Mother rocked her in her wings, humming lullabies and feeding her spoonfuls of lingonberry jam and cream. When she put Freya down, it was into a crib that was softer than a cloud, and she covered her with the warmest, silkiest blanket imaginable. There she lay, drifting in and out of sleep, listening to Mother’s devoted crooning. What were the words? She could almost hear them.

  Hush, little baby, don’t make a squeak

  Or Papa’s gonna smack you for a week.

  And if that smacking makes you cry

  Papa’s gonna eat up all your pie.

  And if you’re hungry that’s too bad

  You shouldn’t have made your Papa mad.

  And if you want to run away

  Papa won’t try to make you stay.

  And if you go, then one, two, three

  You’re the best little mouse a mousey can be.

  Well, that was certainly odd. Something about the song struck Freya as rather off the mark, and she began to whimper. But Mother made soothing noises, and Freya floated back into a blissful dream. Being a baby was the best thing in the world. If she had any thoughts at all, they were tender and harmonious.

  The light on the other side of Freya’s eyelids waxed and waned, just as it had when she was inside the egg (a time she remembered with great pleasure). When it was particularly bright, Mother fed her bits of rich custard. She pressed these to Freya’s beak, gently coaxing her to swallow the delicious morsels. Freya had never tasted anything so wonderful in her life.

  “Come now, my pet. Eat some more for Mother.”

  Freya obediently opened her mouth, and as she accepted another bite of custard, Mother came into focus. What a funny, furry face she had! What long whiskers! What a silly bonnet she wore! How stooped and short…

  “You’re not my mother,” said Freya.

  “You got that right,” said Zoose. “And if this is what it’s like being a mother, I can see why mine gave me the boot as soon as I could button my shirt. Haven’t slept in three days. I’m as worn out as a broom in a dirt house.”

  Every bone in Freya’s body objected as she tried to sit up. She was sore and stiff, right down to the tips of her feathers, and there was a throbbing pain in her side that made her gasp. “Mother, don’t leave me!” she wailed, and clutched at the dream that was receding like the foamy tide. It was no use. Mother was gone. She wanted to cry.

  In fact, that’s just what she did. Freya wept. She wept for the years of her life gone by in a gray, lonely blur. She wept for the bleak months trapped on an island. She wept for Mother, for Father, for Baby Frey—they were all gone now. She was as weak as a kitten, trapped with an irksome rodent, in the middle of nowhere. She positively sobbed.

  “Come on,” said Zoose from the ground where he had collapsed. “It’s not as bad as all that. I made us a tent, see?”

  Freya did see, eventually. When the last hot tear had rolled down her cheek, she found herself looking at the inside of a tent. It was propped up with a white staff of some sort. “Your stitching is very neat,” she observed without enthusiasm. “Those seams are perfectly straight. Who would have thought it possible?” Her mortification was complete, and there was no reason to censor anything that crossed her mind.

  “Thought
it possible?” objected Zoose. “I’ll have you know that I apprenticed with a tailor in Seville. He used me like a dog, but I did learn a thing or two!”

  “You certainly did.” Freya noticed that Zoose was ensconced wrist to ankle in a kind of a snowsuit, heavily lined with some sort of material that made him look twice his size. He posed for her, dapper in an outlandishly inflated way.

  She herself was lying inside a sleeping bag, warm as toast. “I see you’ve made good use of the balloon,” said Freya, admiring the workmanship, “but what on earth have you filled it with?”

  “Cotton from inside the basket,” said Zoose with pride. “Have you forgotten? There’s bales of the stuff—it’s terrific insulation. Used up almost all your thread, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, well.” Freya pulled the silk under her chin gingerly. “All for a good cause. You haven’t been idle.”

  “That I haven’t,” agreed Zoose.

  They were quiet for a few minutes, adjusting to the strangeness of this new detente. Freya recalled the overturned boat, and dragging Zoose from the water, and her exertions to keep him alive. She remembered their argument, and then the great, looming bear.

  “I thought you were striking out on your own,” said Freya. She hesitated to revisit this unpleasantness, but if he was planning to leave, she wanted it out in the open. In any case, if they were to part ways, it was better to do so on friendly terms. “Don’t misunderstand me—I’m terribly grateful that you stuck around after the attack.”

  “Of course I stuck around. I’m not some riffraff who skips out in an emergency. I mean, I’ll abandon ship when I have to. That is to say, if it’s a choice between me and drowning, I’ll save myself….” Zoose broke off, in some confusion. “I mean, I was drowning. I know it. I know you saved me. Fair’s fair, right? Of course I stuck around.”