The Snow Child

by Eowyn Ivey

  The dress itself was easy to sew; it was the embroidery that kept Mabel up late each night, bent over the kitchen table and squinting as if her eyes were failing. Along the sleeves, across the narrow bodice and scattered down the skirt, Mabel used white silk thread to embroider tiny, starry flowers and loops of thin vines and pearl-drop leaves. The pure white stitches on the ivory silk were subtle; when the light caught them just so, the flowers could be mistaken for snowflakes, the vines for eddies in snow.

  Still, Mabel had yet to see the gown on Faina.

  It’s a surprise, Faina said. Wait and see.

  Mabel had sewed it herself, so how could it be a surprise? But all she could do was make the girl promise that if it did not fit perfectly, she would bring it back in time for alterations. She had not seen Faina since.

  Garrett wasn’t to be found this morning, either, and he had the wedding rings. Again there was secrecy—Esther had wanted one of the grandchildren to carry the rings and another to serve as flower girl. Garrett said he and Faina had other plans. He asked Mabel to weave a wreath of flowers.

  “For Faina’s head?” Mabel asked, her voice trembling. No, she thought. I won’t allow that. Not a crown of flowers.

  “Nah. Not for Faina,” Garrett said. “It needs to be bigger. About this big,” and he held his arms in a circle the size of a large mixing bowl.

  Mabel had waited until the day of the wedding, knowing wildflowers would quickly wilt in the summer heat. And it was hot. Barely past eight in the morning, and already the dew was off the leaves and the arctic sun burned over the mountaintops.

  Flowers for Faina’s veil and flowers for her bouquet, flowers for the Mason jars and flowers for the wreath Garrett had requested, petals and stems, leaves and blossoms—Mabel longed to be consumed by them, as she had been by the embroidery. She wanted to escape the sense that fate was rolling in over the mountains like thunder. She wanted to forget melting clumps of snow, flower crowns and fiery kisses, and fairy-tale endings.

  Careful not to rip her newly sewn cotton frock, Mabel took her metal pail and walked the edge of the meadow: fireweed, their tall stalks just beginning to bloom fuchsia; bluebells with their sweet nectar; wild roses, simple with five pink petals and prickly stems; geraniums, their thin petals lavender with deeper purple veins. Farther into the woods, away from the harsh sun, Mabel bent and plucked delicate white starflowers suspended above the ground on stems as thin and taut as thread; dwarf dogwood with their fat white petals; oak ferns and lady ferns; and at the last minute, a few wild currant branches with their many-pointed leaves and trailing vines of ripe red berries translucent as jewels.

  The Bensons came just as she was arranging the fireweed and oak ferns in glass jars filled with cold river water.

  “Well, look at us,” Esther said as she jumped down from the wagon.

  “My goodness, Esther, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before!”

  “Don’t get used to it. I’ve brought my overalls for the reception.” The two women laughed and hugged.

  “So where’s the happy couple? They haven’t upped and eloped have they?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I hope Faina arrives soon, though. I need to help her with her dress and hair. What time is it?”

  “Nearly high noon. Time’s a-wasting.”

  Just then they all turned toward a strange rumbling sound coming from the wagon trail.

  “What is that?” Mabel asked.

  “That’ll be Bill,” said George, and from around the corner appeared a shiny, bouncing automobile, a stream of dust kicked up behind it.

  Esther made a disgusted face at Mabel. “It was a present from her family. Must be nice to be rolling in the dough.”

  Jack stood motionless, clearly impressed. “That one of those trucks I’ve been hearing about?”

  “Yep. A Ford Model A pickup truck,” George boasted, and Esther rolled her eyes in Mabel’s direction.

  “They had to have it barged up from California, then shipped out on the train. All so they can drive from our house to yours,” Esther told Mabel.

  The automobile came to a grinding stop in the grass just short of the picnic table, and the Bensons’ oldest son opened the door and stood grinning on the running board.

  “Not a bad way to travel, eh?” he called out. He tipped his white fedora in Mabel’s direction.

  “You could back it up a few feet there,” Esther said. “No need to park yourself right in the food.”

  “All right, Mom. All right.”

  Bill and his wife and two small children piled out of the automobile looking as if they had stepped off the streets of Manhattan. The children were dressed in ruffles and bows and shoes that shined in the sun. The wife was wearing a stylish flapper dress in mauve silk and a brimless hat pulled low over her bobbed hair.

  “They don’t even look like they’re part of the family, do they?” Esther whispered in Mabel’s ear. “But I guess you can’t kick them out just for that.” And, in fact, Mabel was surprised to find them all warm and charming. Bill’s wife, Lydia, quickly offered to help with food and flowers and anything else that needed doing, while the children ran happily around the meadow.

  The Bensons’ other son, Michael, arrived next with his wife and three daughters, the youngest still in her mother’s arms.

  “Is she here yet? I can’t believe none of us has even met her before,” Mabel heard the two young wives whispering. “I wonder what she’ll wear? Have you heard anything about the gown?”

  As she helped Esther spread white tablecloths over the picnic and kitchen tables, Mabel tried to concentrate on the billow of fabric and the feel of the linen over rough, splintery wood as she smoothed out the wrinkles.

  I’m here.

  The voice was a whisper over Mabel’s shoulder, but when she turned, no one was there.

  Here. Inside the cabin. Will you help me?

  It was Faina. Her voice came through the empty window frame of the cabin. How had she gotten past without anyone noticing? Mabel excused herself and stepped through the cabin door. The log frame overhead broke the sunlight into sections and dazzled Mabel’s eyes.

  I’m here.

  Have you put on the dress?

  No. You can’t see it yet. But will you help me with my hair?

  Faina stood in bare feet, wearing the cotton slip Mabel had sewed for her. There was the slightest rounding in her belly, just enough to pull the slip tight, and across her breasts as well. Faina was no longer a child, but a tall, beautiful young woman, and she had never seemed so substantial, so full of life. Mabel quickly let the curtain fall closed behind her. This morning she had hung the bridal cloche and veil on a hook on the log wall and laid out the boar-bristle brush and hand mirror with their mother-of-pearl shining in the sun. Faina swept her hair across one bare shoulder.

  Will you plait it for me?

  That would be perfect, child, with the veil I’ve made for you.

  So Mabel brushed Faina’s long hair, so blond it was white. She brushed out the tiny bits of lichen and torn ribbons of birch bark, the knots of yellow grass. Once it was as smooth as silk, Mabel braided it into two plaits, one on each side, that laid neatly down the front of her chest. Just as Faina looked away, out the empty window frame, Mabel pulled a tiny pair of sewing scissors from a pocket in her dress and snipped some hair from one of the plaits. Silently she slid the scissors and hair into her pocket.

  There. There, now. You look lovely.

  For my head, a veil you called it?

  You can’t put it on until your dress is on.

  I can do it. Just help me, please. You mustn’t see the dress yet.

  Mabel took the cloche and veil from its hook and set it on Faina’s head, securing it with hairpins. Then she wove the wild pink roses and white starflowers into the lacework above Faina’s braids and across her forehead. But it wasn’t a crown, not a circle of flowers that could sprout from the earth.

  You will leave now, so I ca
n put on the dress.

  Are you sure? It will still be a surprise.

  Mabel let her eyes dart around the room, but the dress was nowhere to be seen.

  Please.

  All right. All right, child. We’ll all be waiting for you. Your bouquet is there, in the pail.

  Faina reached out for Mabel’s hand and squeezed it. Her touch was strong and warm, and Mabel squeezed back and then impulsively brought the girl’s hand to her lips to kiss it.

  I love you, child, she whispered.

  Faina’s face was quiet and kind.

  I wish to be the mother you are to me, she said so softly Mabel doubted her own ears. But those were the words she spoke, and Mabel took them into her heart and held them there forever.

  When Faina stepped across the cabin threshold and onto the green grass, a hush fell across the small gathering. Even the children quieted and stared up at her, and Faina bowed her head down to them and smiled as if she had known them all her life.

  At first, Mabel could not see what was different about the dress. It fit her perfectly and moved with a soft rustle against her skin. Faina wore leather moccasins beaded in shimmering white beads and tied with white ribbons up her calves. The veil flowed down her back and the flowers were sprinkled across her forehead. She held the bouquet of wildflowers, ferns, and currant vines.

  Then, as Faina stepped closer, Mabel saw the feathers—white feathers, stitched along the neckline of the dress. They lay flat against the fabric so that they seemed part of the raw silk, a mere variation in the texture. Mabel could see the pattern now, how the feathers went from smaller to larger at the center of her chest. Other feathers were sewed along the hemline, and not one covered her embroidery of snow flowers, but each seemed part of the design.

  Mabel heard someone take in a breath, perhaps one of the young women, but then Faina was walking past her to Jack’s side, and she could see the back of the dress. Pure white feathers fell down the center of the skirt and fanned out into larger and larger sizes until along the hem some were as long as a woman’s forearm, all laid flat against the fabric and moving gently with the silk. Like the fabric, the feathers gleamed ever so slightly, a sort of luminosity that came from within the filaments themselves.

  Jack, wearing his best and only suit, took Faina’s arm, and they began to walk slowly toward the river where the jars of wildflowers sat on tree stumps. The smell of cut spruce was strong in the air. Everyone followed without speaking, and the rustle of Faina’s gown became the gentle roar of the river. They arranged themselves near the shore, the jagged, snowy mountain peaks behind them.

  “Where is Garrett?” Mabel heard someone whisper. They shifted awkwardly in their dress shoes, and the baby let out a whimper. The sun was unbearably hot on Mabel’s head and shoulders, and her eyes ached from the piercing brightness. When she looked up at Jack, he nodded at her and gestured with his chin back toward the wagon trail. She turned and looked over her shoulder, and there was Garrett, riding his horse at a gallop across the meadow. He, too, wore a fine suit, and with one hand he kept a black hat on his head, and with the other he held on to the reins. At the horse’s feet, Faina’s husky sprinted, his tongue flapping at his mouth.

  Garrett slowed the horse as he neared the cabin and dismounted even as the horse was still trotting. He loosely tied a lead rope to a nearby cottonwood, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and walked toward the gathering. Mabel was surprised when he came directly to her.

  “Do you have the flowers?” he whispered.

  Mabel frowned in confusion.

  “The wreath?” Then she remembered and pointed to the table where the circle of fireweed and roses and ferns lay.

  “Thank you,” Garrett said, and he kissed her on the cheek.

  Curious, she watched him pick up the wreath and then tap the side of his leg with one hand. Faina’s dog ran to him. Garrett held up a hand, and the dog sat. He slipped the wreath over the animal’s head, and then what looked like a loop of ribbon and a small pouch. Again he held up his hand, and the dog stayed sitting while Garrett walked to the wedding gathering.

  “Not a bad entrance,” Bill whispered as Garrett joined him.

  As the ceremony began, Mabel held to Jack’s arm, but it was as if she were floating and spinning. The hot sun blurred her vision. She would faint, or already had. Words swam and dodged, and she could not tell if they were spoken aloud or only in her head…

  … Hope is the thing with feathers… perches in the soul… to have and to hold… Do you?… hurry… hurry… to the ragged wood… no roses at my head… Do you?… until death do you part… until death…

  I do…

  I do…

  I do…

  I do…

  There was a whistle, like a chickadee’s, and Faina’s dog trotted past as Mabel’s eyes focused again. She clung to Jack’s arm. Faina was calling the husky to her, and Garrett was grinning proudly. The dog, the wreath of wildflowers around its neck, sat obediently at the bride’s feet, and Garrett knelt beside it and untied the ribbon from its neck. He opened the pouch and poured two gold rings into his hand. Mabel heard a child clap and Esther laugh.

  Then all sound was lost to the river’s roar, and the ground shifted beneath Mabel. She saw Garrett and Faina, face to face. She saw the flicker of the gold rings in the sun, and then they were kissing and suddenly everyone was cheering.

  “Are you all right, Mabel? Mabel?” Jack held her from behind, his arms firmly beneath her elbows. “Here, let’s sit down at the table. It’s this heat. It’s gotten the best of you.”

  Someone brought her a glass of water, and one of the young women swept a fan back and forth in front of her. At last she could breathe and think.

  “Faina? Where’s our Faina?”

  “She’s over there.” Jack pointed to one of the big cottonwoods, where the girl stood, white and shimmering, beside Garrett.

  “But… is it snowing?” and she heard someone laugh beside her.

  “Goodness no, dear.” It was Esther. “Just cottonwood seeds. But it does look like snow, doesn’t it?”

  The air was filled with the white down. Some floated up and over the trees, while other seeds drifted lazily to the ground. Faina looked at Mabel through the falling white and held up a hand, a little wave, like when she was a child.

  “They’re married?” Mabel whispered.

  “Yes, they are,” Jack said.

  CHAPTER 53

  The night was cool and pale blue, and Faina lay naked atop the wedding quilt. She was on her side, her long legs askew, one arm beneath her head, the other curved below the slight round of her belly. Garrett took off his suit jacket. His white button-up shirt was clammy with sweat and his feet ached from the dress shoes he had worn all day. He undressed and left his clothes on the rough-cut plank floor. As he walked toward the bed, he let his hand skim across the wedding gown where it had been thrown over a chair, as if a giant wild bird had shrugged off its skin and cast it aside. After the ceremony, as they ate fire-grilled salmon, potato salad, and an extravagant white cake with white frosting and candied rose petals, as the voices ebbed and flowed and the sun danced off glasses of homemade elderflower wine, again and again Garrett let his hands touch the small of Faina’s back where the feathers lay flat against the silk, and he knew they had come from the swan.

  Aren’t you cold? Garrett whispered as he lay beside her. She shook her head and slid her arm around his neck to kiss him. Overhead, moths fluttered along the log purlins of the roof frame and a few scattered stars shone even in the gloaming. It could rain, the bugs could be ferocious, he had told her, but she insisted on sleeping in their unfinished cabin.

  It’s our home, she had said. So he hauled their wedding bed to the cabin, along with the quilt his mother had sewed for them and the feather pillows and soft sheets they had been given as wedding gifts.

  Faina’s fingertips grazed his bare arm, and she laughed.

  But you are cold. Your skin is prickl
y.

  Garrett shrugged.

  It’s OK. I won’t freeze.

  As they made love beneath the summer night sky, he tried not to think about the child in her womb or their raw gasps and sighs traveling across the land. He wanted only to think of her.

  During the next weeks, as Jack and Garrett worked beneath the endless sun to put the roof on the cabin, then add the door and windows and woodstove and cupboards, Faina disappeared into the trees, her dog trotting beside her. She was gone for hours, sometimes the entire day, and Garrett did not know what to make of it. He politely dismissed invitations to Jack and Mabel’s for dinner, not wanting them to know how rarely Faina joined him for meals. He prepared his food alone in the cabin, often nothing more than a can of beans heated atop the woodstove. One night Garrett sat up, waiting for her to return, until it was nearly morning. No longer open to the night sky, the cabin was dim and stifling, but he wouldn’t let himself prowl outside like a restless animal. She would come home.

  Where do you go?

  When?

  Every day. Nights, too. I thought you wanted to be here, with me, in our home.

  I do.

  So?

  But she only blinked her white eyelashes at him and patted the dog. Garrett was reminded of that day at the frozen lake when he had wanted to curse and kick the ground and fight back but instead could only dumbly follow her.

  We love each other, don’t we?

  He didn’t want his voice to whine.

  She came to where he sat, held his face up to her and kissed him hard. That night she stayed.