Gift of the Winter King and Other Stories

by Naomi Kritzer

  My grip tightened on the bowl. She was lying; Gerda had an excellent sense of direction. And the station was nothing but hallways. What was Gerda doing in that lab? Looking for Kjeld? Looking for the frag she’d spotted the day before? Either way, she was more devious than I’d given her credit for.

  “Lovise, be reasonable,” Kjeld said. “She’s a child. It takes years of training to make heads or tails of our research—yes, I said ‘our’ research, I’m part of this lab now. Unless she’s been raised from birth to be a perfect spy—and if that’s the case, can’t you think of a dozen things she’s done wrong by now? She wanted to leave last night. In the storm.”

  “You should have let her.”

  Kjeld threw up his hands in disgust. “Lovise, you have formaldehyde in your veins instead of blood. Let her leave? In the storm? She’s a child.”

  “You’re just hoping to get useful information from her.”

  “Well, and I’m not saying I’ll complain if she has anything for us. But—”

  There was a knock at the door; Lovise answered it and had a quiet conference with another white-coated woman. She closed the door deliberately and fixed her gaze on Gerda. “There has been a theft,” she said. “Flagstaff is missing.”

  Kjeld burst out laughing. “Are you going to blame that one on the girl, too? By all means, search her pockets. I’m sure she’s got the dog hidden in one of them.”

  But looking at Gerda’s face, I thought that she probably did know something about the missing dog. Why on earth? Was it tenderheartedness, wanting to free the dog from slavery as she’d freed herself from the station?

  Lovise said, “Let’s continue this discussion elsewhere.” Kjeld obligingly stepped out, and Lovise locked the door behind her, leaving Gerda in the room where they’d been arguing. Gerda briefly pressed her ear to the door, but they must have moved too far away to be heard, because a moment later she dropped with a sigh into the chair, fingering the claw she wore around her neck. It was a small, boring room. Gerda stared at the floor and waited.

  I should go out and finish cleaning up from the storm, I thought. But the last time I left Gerda, I came back to find Lovise furious enough to wring her neck. It was pure superstition to think that watching would make any difference, but I am a very superstitious woman, so I stayed where I was and watched Gerda as she waited. And waited. And waited.

  Finally Kjeld returned. “I think it’s best we get you out now,” he whispered. “The weather looks clear, and I’ve got your cloak and a pair of snowshoes. Follow me.”

  Gerda followed Kjeld through a dingy back hallway and out into the snow. I was shocked to see that the sun was setting; had I been sitting and watching Gerda all day? Kjeld gave Gerda her cloak and helped her put the snowshoes on.

  “Head for my family’s lab,” he said. “They’re a two day walk, due east. If the crow finds you again, tell him they’ll pay well for bringing you to them; he’ll know how to get there.” He tucked a small notebook into her pocket. “They’ll be most interested in this, as well as in anything else you have to tell them. Good luck.”

  Was Gerda spying? For Kjeld? That made no sense, either. But she nodded, and tromped off with her back to the setting sun, struggling a little with the snowshoes. As soon as the laboratory had disappeared behind a rise, she dropped to a crouch and whistled, a long low note.

  A few minutes passed. She whistled again.

  She sighed deeply and stood up.

  Then—a high answering howl. Her face brightened. And there, across the snowy hills, came the dog.

  “All right,” Gerda said. “I freed you. Now take me to Kai.”

  “I didn’t say I knew where Kai was,” Flagstaff said. “But I do know that it gets colder as you go north, and anyone called a Snow Queen must live somewhere very cold. I can take you north. I can take you all the way to the ice wall.”

  “What good will that do me?” Gerda said. “I don’t believe there ever was a Snow Queen; it’s just a story told to frighten the made-children.”

  “Suit yourself,” Flagstaff said. “Is there somewhere else you’d like me to take you? To the rival laboratory, perhaps, like Kjeld wants you to do?”

  Gerda sighed deeply.

  “You’ll need a sled for me to pull,” Flagstaff said. “Creep back to the village after the sun sets and you’ll find one you can steal.”

  Gerda did just that, finding a small dogsled in an unlocked shed after the last window in the village went dark. The dog told her how to hitch him up, and then told her to wrap herself warmly and hold on tight. “Are you ready?” he said when she was settled.

  “Yes,” Gerda said.

  The dog did not start off at a walk and then work up to a run; instead, he broke instantly to full speed, stretching out his wolflike limbs to tear like the winter wind across the snowy fields. Gerda almost lost her grip on the sled, but she tightened her fists and quickly became accustomed to the dog’s pace. He slackened to a trot after a few minutes and said, “Ah yes, I still need to ask. Which way?”

  “North,” Gerda said, and the dog wheeled north across the hills.

  ***

  I WOKE TO the late-morning sun, my cheek resting against my kitchen table. The scrying-bowl was cold against my hand. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes hastily and heated water for tea and scrying, then realized that I could still see Gerda in the murky depths of the bowl. I sat down to look. She was still on the makeshift dogsled; the dog was still running, pulling the sled over hills blanketed with deep white snow.

  I changed the water in the scrying bowl and got myself something to eat. I checked; still running. I went out quickly to check on my garden, then came back in; still running. I couldn’t bring myself to spend more than a few minutes on any task; I kept darting inside to check on Gerda. Finally I saw that they had spotted a hut built of cinderblocks. There was a chimney at one end, and a plume of smoke curled out. “Stop,” Gerda said to the dog. “If there is a Snow Queen, maybe the person who lives there knows where to find her.”

  The woman who lived in the hut was an old Hmong woman—a hermit, like me. She was tiny, shorter than Gerda, though not at all bent over, and she didn’t speak much English. She could see that Gerda was hungry and cold, though, and that the dog was hungry and thirsty. Without speaking, she brought out a bucket of melted snow for the dog, as well as some meaty bones to gnaw on, and she led Gerda into her hut to sit by the fire and drink sweet tea.

  “Kai?” Gerda said. The old Hmong woman blinked at Gerda slowly, then smiled and shrugged, shaking her head to say that she didn’t understand. “Snow Queen?” Gerda tried. The Hmong woman shook her head again. Gerda stood up and tried to pantomime. “A grown lady . . . with children. A woman who steals children.”

  “Child-stealer?” the Hmong woman said suddenly in English.

  Gerda nodded her head, her eyes widening with surprise. “Tell me where,” she said.

  But the Hmong woman didn’t want to. She shook her head and pursed her lips. Finally she said, “You go to Norse woman.” She took Gerda out of her hut and pointed north. “Norse woman, she tell you.”

  “Thank you,” Gerda said. She finished her tea, and went back out to the sled.

  Hours passed. I forced myself to go out to my garden—I had weeds to pull, slugs to pick, vegetables to harvest, but every time I stepped away from the scrying bowl I found myself panicking and rushing back only moments later. Finally, Gerda and Flagstaff came to another hut. This one was also built out of cinderblocks, but snow had been packed all around it like an igloo, to keep it warm. There was a pen in the yard with a high fence, with a dozen other huskies inside—but these were ordinary huskies, not talking huskies. When they saw Gerda and Flagstaff, they all began to bark at once. Gerda knocked on the door. When the door opened, she fell back a step; it was so warm in the hut, the Norse woman went naked. She had tattoos of blue vines winding across her breasts, and a sunburst design around her navel, half hidden by the folds of her belly. She looked G
erda up and down for a long moment and then said to the dog, “You had better stay outside. It’s very warm inside and you wouldn’t be happy. But I’ll send the girl outside with food and water for you.”

  “Thank you,” Flagstaff said.

  “You though, girl, you can come in.”

  Gerda went into the house and almost immediately had to wipe sweat from her forehead and cheeks. She hung my cloak on a hook and rolled up her sleeves. The Norse woman watched her with a raised eyebrow.

  When Gerda had brought the dog food and water, and untied his harness, the Norse woman gave Gerda a bowl of fish soup, and a mug of coffee with whiskey in it. She finished her own meal quickly, and then took out a long pipe, which she lit quietly while Gerda finished the soup. The house filled with curling feathers of smoke.

  “Now then,” she said, when Gerda had finished eating. “What brings you here?”

  “The Hmong woman who lives over the hills to the south said you might be able to tell me where to find the Snow Queen,” Gerda said.

  “I don’t know a Snow Queen,” the Norse woman said. She pulled her legs up to cross them over each other, then leaned forward to pick up her pipe, and began to refill it.

  “The child-stealer,” Gerda said. “Do you know where I can find a child-stealer?”

  “Ah,” the Norse woman said. “So that’s what you meant.” She lit her pipe again and sat back, studying Gerda with bright eyes through the haze of smoke.

  “I’m really looking for my friend Kai,” Gerda said. “We used to live in the station, and then Kai disappeared . . . and they said the Snow Queen took him, because he was disobedient. But I’m sure they told everyone the Snow Queen had me, and I was perfectly safe, living with Natalia. Anyway, Flagstaff brought me north . . . and the Hmong woman said you could tell me about the child-stealer, so . . . ” She slumped backwards, and I thought how exhausted she must be.

  “Do you want to go back to the station once you’ve found your friend?” the Norse woman asked.

  “Oh no,” Gerda said. “I want to go back to Natalia. If I do find Kai, I want to bring him to live with us.”

  She wants to come back to me! I realized that the blood was pounding in my ears, and my head was spinning with relief—Gerda would come back.

  The Norse woman smiled. “In that case . . . ” She took a long draw from the pipe. “I think if you’ll think about it, you’ll realize that you already know where Kai must be.”

  Gerda shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll show you something.” The Norse woman opened a chest, and took something from the bottom of it, which she handed Gerda. “Do you know what this is?”

  It was a metal tag: F2168F. “This is the Fjerra tag,” Gerda said. “Fjerra from . . . sixty years ago.”

  “That’s right,” the Norsewoman said. “How do you suppose I came to have it?”

  Gerda looked at the tag, and then at the Norsewoman. She swallowed hard.

  “The hard thing is, child,” the Norsewoman said, “The Snow Queen comes for all the made-children in the end. Whether you’re good or bad, obedient or disobedient. Now do you know where Kai is?”

  Without a word, Gerda stood up and went back out to the dog.

  ***

  “I DON’T SEE why we’re going south again,” Flagstaff complained.

  “Because that’s where Kai is,” Gerda said.

  Towards noon, she used the claw that I had given her, holding it in the palm of her hand and saying “Natalia, Natalia, Natalia.” A tiny wisp of a breeze ruffled Gerda’s hair and turned the claw slightly. “That way,” Gerda said to the dog.

  Was she coming back to me? No, no, it was too good to be true. As dusk fell, she saw the station on the horizon. That was where Flagstaff balked.

  “You’re going there?” he said. “Then you’re going alone. Do you know what they do to talking dogs?”

  “Just a little closer,” Gerda said. “I can walk the rest of the way.”

  “Wait!” I shouted, in my hut, knowing that she couldn’t hear me. “Why are you going there? They won’t let you back in. Even if they do, do you think they’ll be happy to see you? Do you think Kai is there?”

  The dog consented to take her a little closer, then stopped again. “This is as close as I’m getting,” he said.

  “Then thank you, for all your help,” Gerda said, and cut the harness so that the dog could go on his own.

  “Thank you again for freeing me,” Flagstaff said, and turned north again.

  I watched Gerda, unbelieving, as she circled the station once. There were doors in it, of course, as well as the one she’d escaped through, but they were all sealed tight, with no handle on the outside. Why was she going back there? That ancient tag the Norsewoman had shown her—what could it have meant to her? I tried to think through this logically. Sixty years old. The Norsewoman might be that old; she looked older, but she also smoked a pipe. I was fifty, though I didn’t look it except for my hair. Of course, I thought. The Norsewoman had once been a made-child herself. She had escaped from the station, just as Gerda had. But what did that have to do with Kai?

  I paced my hut. If I left my valley, now, it was just possible that I could make it back with Gerda before the creeping cold killed my warmth-loving trees. But if Gerda resisted—

  She was still watching the doors. Waiting to see if they opened, perhaps. Why didn’t she at least come home to see me? I knew the answer to that, a moment later—she knew she wouldn’t have the heart to leave me again.

  Gerda had taken her shoes, but left her own tag behind—it was in my attic. I climbed up the ladder and found the tag quickly in the dark corner where I’d hidden her clothes. Then I looked one shelf down. And found it: another tag.

  N2178F.

  Forgetfulness tea is not a perfect spell. Of course, it all came back.

  My Kai had been a year younger than me—oh, and it was the Lars, not the Kai. The Kai of my year was a dullard, a blue-eyed boy who’d never asked a question more complicated than “where is the bathroom” in all his years. Lars had been far too clever, like me, and far too stubborn, like me, and one day he had simply not been there anymore. I had gone to look for him, and had found my way to the outside. Like Gerda, I had quickly gotten lost; like Gerda, I had been found by the witch of the garden. Like Gerda, I had been adopted.

  I didn’t have the heart to look to see if my mother had had a tag too.

  I flung my second-best cloak around my shoulders and hurried out of the house. I had to talk to Gerda. It didn’t matter if my garden died; even if Gerda refused to come with me, at least I’d know I’d tried.

  ***

  GERDA WAS STILL perched behind her rock when I arrived. Her face blossomed into a smile when she saw me. “Mother! What are you doing here?”

  “My magic told me you were close by,” I said, truthfully.

  “But your garden—”

  “I’m going to hurry back there.” I squatted beside her. “But I wanted to tell you, I realized what happened to Kai.” She turned towards me. “Gerda, I realized something while you were gone. I realized that I, too, am a made-child who escaped from the station. And I, too, lost a friend. Gerda, the made-children who stay behind—they are sold into slavery. The girl you saw at the laboratory—she was your friend. She had been fragged—they used their magic to see that she would behave herself, and they sold her. Kai just had it done sooner, since they were afraid he’d cause trouble.”

  “Sooner or later, the Snow Queen comes for all the made-children,” Gerda said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I had realized that, too,” Gerda said. “I still want to find Kai.”

  “There’s nothing you can do for him,” I said. “Must you find him today?”

  Gerda looked away from me, towards the station. “Yes.”

  ***

  WE SLIPPED INTO the station with a shipment of supplies, and hid in the storage warehouse. To either side of us, sto
rage shelves stretched from the cold slab floor to the cavernous ceiling, disappearing into dusk near the top. “Now what?” I whispered.

  “I guess we look for Kai,” Gerda whispered. She looked around at the shadowy warehouse, unsure where to even begin.

  “Use the claw,” I said. “Its magic will help you find anyone who is close to your heart.”

  Gerda took the claw in her hand and said, “Kai, Kai, Kai.” The claw moved slightly in her palm and pointed. Looking carefully to be certain that no one could turn suddenly and see us, we hurried through the narrow corridor between the shelves until we found a solid wall, and then a door in the wall. Through the door, and we were out in a hallway.

  “Kai, Kai, Kai,” Gerda whispered. The claw pointed—but the corridor ran straight, and the claw pointed at an angle. “This way,” Gerda said after a moment, and we continued on.

  I shivered; my years as a made-child in the station were flooding back. We heard footsteps, and flattened ourselves uselessly into one of the doorways, but the footsteps faded away.

  “He’s behind this door,” Gerda said suddenly.

  The door was not locked. We felt a blast of cold air as we stepped inside, colder than the winter air outside; Gerda closed the door quietly behind us.

  We were in another warehouse, but it was a warehouse for storing frozen things. Frost coated the walls; a patch of it melted under my breath as we hesitated by the door. I tucked my hands under my second-best cloak and shivered. Gerda, beside me, hardly seemed to feel the cold.

  At the far end of the room, a brown-haired boy was stacking boxes on a pallet. Gerda sucked in her breath.

  “That’s Kai?” I whispered. She nodded tightly. “Well, let’s go talk to him, then.”

  The boy didn’t look at us as we approached. “Kai,” Gerda said softly. He stopped what he was doing and looked up. “Kai, do you remember me?”