Echo North

by Joanna Ruth Meyer

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “Because you want your freedom, no matter the cost. She has many names in many stories: the Fairy Queen, the Godmother, the Devil’s Daughter, the Witch of the Wood. Only in the oldest of tales is she called the Wolf Queen. I did not think anyone knew her by that name anymore.

  “She is powerful and ancient. She manipulates the words of the poor fools who bargain with her, so that they can never pay her what they owe. She takes, and does not give back. If your Hal has been taken by her, made a deal with her—” The storyteller shakes his head, and raises his dark eyes to my face. “I do not know that you could free him, save by making a deal with her yourself. And even then, she would seek to keep you both.”

  Fear curls through me and I shudder in my coat. The little old woman who runs the café comes out of the back and lays a tray of sliced ham and biscuits on our table. I don’t reach for the food, waiting for the storyteller to go on.

  “The Wolf Queen has ruined emperors and kings, brought mighty warriors to their knees, stolen the power of gods and spirits. She turns the world to her will, and her will alone. If she wished to rule every continent on the earth she could do it, but thank God she is content to dwell in her own domain.”

  “If I was to seek her out,” I say, looking carefully at the tray of ham and biscuits, “would you know where to find her?”

  He taps his fingers on his tea mug. “She has the power to step into any corner of the world, but she hides her realm from those who seek it.”

  “But you know where to look.” It’s a guess, a hope, a prayer.

  He nods, slowly. “Your wolf said ‘ever north,’ and that’s a start. There have been only a few expeditions north of this village, and of the few that have gone, even fewer have returned. It could be that in the wild north lies a place where the mountain meets the sky and the trees are hung with stars—the Wolf Queen’s domain. Or it could be what most people say.”

  “And what’s that?”

  The storyteller blinks at me. “A wasteland.”

  I stare thoughtfully into the dregs of my tea, long since gone cold. Ice rattles against the window. “Why is she called the Wolf Queen?”

  “The oldest stories say she was there at the beginning of the world, a wolf imbued with intelligence and human thought, that she saw the creation of mankind and wished to be like them. So she sold her soul to the Devil in exchange for human form.”

  “Wolves don’t have souls,” I say, then think of Hal and flush.

  He shrugs a little, reaching for a slice of ham. “Other stories say she was the first woman, but she loved the Devil more than God, and so was cursed to a half-life. A bargain with the Devil earned her the power to do as she wished, but she was never counted amongst the line of man. Still others say that the Devil created her, the first in a line of powerful creatures formed to plague the children of men.

  “But no matter how it happened, she once had a wolf’s form, and she commands the beasts, and so is the Wolf Queen.”

  “She turned Hal into a wolf.”

  “So it seems.”

  I consider my next words carefully, tracing the scratches in the table with one finger. “It’s my fault she has him in her power again. If I hadn’t lit the lamp—” I swallow down the sudden taste of bile “—if my life is the only thing that might save him, I don’t hesitate to give it. Only …”

  “Only?” says the storyteller.

  Once more I meet his eyes, and see in their depths that he already knows what I’m going to ask him.

  “Only I need a guide to take me into the wild north. To follow the stories and find the Wolf Queen. To try and save him, if I can.”

  “And you would ask that of me, a storyteller?”

  “You are not a mere storyteller. Your face is weathered, your hands rough with work—you have traveled far, I think.”

  He smiles a little sadly. “You see deeply, Echo Alkaev. I have traveled all my life, farther than you know. I collect stories but I’m a trader, too. Stories alone don’t fill the bellies of my wife and my daughter.”

  I bow my head, understanding his meaning and feeling a twist of guilt for keeping him here so long. But he’s my best chance—my only chance—at finding Hal, and I’m not ready to give up. “I can pay you with this, for now.” I tug off my mother’s emerald ring. “I will compensate you further upon our return. But I can offer you something even more rare than gold.”

  He studies the ring but doesn’t take it. “What is more rare than gold?”

  I take another chance: “A story. My story. About a girl with a scarred face, and a white wolf who becomes a man at night, and an evil queen in an enchanted wood. The story is yours, to do with it what you will. But it will have more meaning if you come with me and find out the ending.”

  “I do not want your mother’s ring. It is too precious to give.”

  “And the story?” I prod him.

  His brows draw close together. “Come and see my wife. Tell her your tale, and we will see what she thinks—if I should come with you, or if I should not. Is that agreeable?”

  It’s more than I hoped for. “Yes.”

  I pay the old woman who runs the café the remainder of my few precious coins, and as I turn to go, she grasps my wrist, pulls me back to her.

  Her grip is shockingly tight. Fire flickers in her eyes, and her face creases in rage. “It will go poorly for you.” Her voice is not her own; it’s guttural, harsh. “If you go with him, it will go poorly for you, and worse for your white wolf. Turn back, while you still can.”

  I wrench away from her, heart pounding. Her nails leave long, painful scratches on my arm. “You can’t stop me. You don’t scare me.”

  She sneers. “Fool.” And then her eyes grow clear again. She gives me a strange look, as if wondering why I’m still standing there, seeing as I’ve already paid.

  If the storyteller noticed our exchange, he gives no sign. Shaking, I pull my coat close, and he leads me out into the snow.

  WE WALK PARTWAY DOWN THE mountain, the world whirling and white all around us. Despite the encounter in the café, hope gnaws like a lion at my heart. I focus on the form of the storyteller, tall and strong in front of me, breaking a path through the snow so it will be easier for me to follow. The powder squeaks under my boots, and my nose starts to run. The cold is sharp, and the wind has teeth. Laughter whispers past my ears and I wonder if the storyteller can hear it, too, or if somehow the Wolf Queen is toying with me.

  Before half an hour has passed, the storyteller slogs his way toward what looks like a snow-covered hill. As we draw nearer, I realize it’s a reindeer-skin tent, smoke swirling up from the hole in the center and disappearing into the sky.

  The storyteller lifts the flap and ducks a little to step in. I follow, shaking the snow from my hair.

  It’s warm in the tent, which feels much larger on the inside. Wooden slats like whale bones form the frame—reindeer skin is stretched tight over it. There’s an iron stove in the center of the room, with a chimney pipe disappearing into the roof. The floor is wood, and there are bundles of furs about the edges, with an expensive-looking rug on one side. There’s a bookshelf, too, and a low table laid with tea things. A woman sits by one wall, rocking a baby in a cradle suspended from the ceiling by a sturdy length of braided leather cords.

  The woman looks up at our approach and smiles at the storyteller, her whole face coming alive. There is laughter on her lips, contentment in her dark eyes. The storyteller crosses the room to her, kneels down and kisses her soft on the mouth. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, every instinct telling me to flee.

  I cannot ask him to lead me north. I cannot ask him to leave his wife and child and head into the unknown.

  But then the storyteller looks back at me with a smile and beckons me over.

  I come, reluctant, and the woman pats the fur laid out beside her. I sit, my toes and fingers tingling in the welcome warmth of this quiet house.

  “This is
Echo Alkaev,” says the storyteller. “She has told me a story and asked for my help, promising the story itself as payment.”

  The wife lifts her eyebrows and gives a brief nod. “What is the story, dear lamb?”

  I tell her, in snatches and starts, a much condensed version of the tale I spun for three days in the café. Weariness presses down on me; my tongue feels thick and slow.

  The wife gives me soup in a stone mug and I drink it all, warmth flooding down into my stomach. Without quite realizing it, I allow her to coax me to one wall of the hut, where I lie down on a bed of furs and close my eyes. Just for a moment, I think, and then I will hear her answer.

  Sleep claims me.

  When I wake I hear voices on the other side of the hut, and I open my eyes to see the storyteller and his wife sitting close together, cradling the baby between them. My heart aches, and I think again that I cannot possibly ask him to come with me. I will tell him that and slip out alone into the snow …

  I dream of Mokosh, drinking tea in her palace room. I sit beside her. Her silver hair shines and she looks familiar to me, in a way I can’t quite pinpoint.

  “You really should turn back now,” she says, pouring a cup of tea for me as well. “There’s no need to involve the storyteller and his family. You can’t undo what is already done—how do you know Hal is even still alive?”

  I don’t drink the tea, just stare into it. “I can feel it.”

  “Feelings are all very well, Echo, but look where they’ve gotten you.”

  “You’re the one who told me to light the lamp!”

  She shrugs. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have listened to me.”

  “I’m not giving up. I’m going to find him. I’m going to free him from the Wolf Queen.”

  Her violet eyes look very seriously into mine. “How do you know he even wants to be free?”

  The dream shifts, and I see Hal kneeling in the midst of the Wolf Queen’s court, bound in thorns. She smiles as she places a gold crown on his head, and hauls him upward. “Not long now, my prince. Not long until this will all be over.”

  But there is blood on his shoulders. And his eyes—his eyes are empty.

  When I wake a second time, the wife is making tea and stirring a pot of bubbling liquid on the stove. The storyteller isn’t here.

  She looks to me with a smile. “Good morning, Echo,” she says. “I am glad you slept so well.”

  I shudder, still caught in the grip of my dreams. “Where is—”

  “Ivan? He’s gone to fetch supplies.”

  My brain feels sluggish. “What supplies?”

  Her smile saddens a little. “For your journey, love.”

  This jerks me fully awake. Mokosh was right about one thing. “But he can’t! I changed my mind—I’m not asking it of him anymore. He should stay here. With you and the baby.”

  She stirs the pot and shakes her head. “Once, long ago, Ivan gave up everything he was to save me. I understand why you must do the same for your Hal.”

  I stand from the furs and come to join her at the stove. Porridge bubbles in the pot, thick and sweet.

  “There is one magic older than the Wolf Queen’s, a magic not even she can defeat.”

  “Love,” I say quietly.

  “Yes, dear one. It was there when the world was created, and it will stand when the world is remade. If you love something you will not give it up, not for anything. It belongs to you, it is part of you. If you grab hold of it and never let it go—no one can take it from you. Not even the Wolf Queen.”

  Her words are like the ones the wolf said to me, but deeper, somehow. They make me feel fragile and strong, a globe made of glass.

  “I will miss Ivan, of course, but he will come back to me. He always does. It’s written in the stars, you know.” The baby stirs in her cradle. “Will you fetch her for me?”

  I step over to the cradle and peer in. The baby stares up at me, smiling, her cheeks plump and brown, her eyes fierce and dark, just like her father’s. I scoop the child up gently into my arms, hoping my scarred face doesn’t scare her. But she just laughs and tugs at my hair. She feels heavy in my arms—soft, warm. My throat constricts as I think of Donia’s tight belly, a brother or sister I might never meet. I think of Rodya and his new wife, I wonder if they will have a child soon. I don’t ponder a child for myself. There is too much ahead of me to even wish for one. But I somehow don’t want to ever put this baby down.

  Ivan comes back just then, a huge pack over his shoulder, his breath fogging in front of him.

  I feel guilty, holding his child, but he smiles and steps over to fondle the baby’s tiny cheek. “I see you’ve met Satu.” Then, to his wife, “I’ve everything we need.”

  She smiles at him. “Lay the table, will you, my greatheart? Breakfast is almost ready.”

  So Ivan sets the table and I keep holding Satu, while her mother spoons porridge into earthenware bowls and then pours us all tea.

  We sit down and the wife takes Satu, settling her in her lap. Before I can say anything about retracting my request, Ivan lays out a map, weighing it down with his teacup, and begins explaining our route.

  “We’ll leave the village here,” he says, pointing, “and follow the northeast track down the mountain. From there we should be able to head due north. I’ve enough supplies to last us three weeks, which ought to get us to a frozen lake or river. We can do some ice fishing.”

  Satu almost dunks her whole face in the porridge and the wife laughs as she scoots the bowl out of her reach just in time. Ivan laughs, too, and I can’t help but smile.

  “There will be glaciers,” Ivan continues, “frozen streams, wide expanses of tundra. No forests for shelter.”

  Ivan sounds more knowledgeable than I’d hoped for. I swallow, studying the map. It ends not very far north of the mountain village. “How long …” I glance up at Ivan, the question plain in my face.

  “Two months, three. It’s hard to know.”

  “And if it’s longer than three months?”

  He looks determined, but his wife bows her head over the baby, and once more my heart constricts. “We will go until we cannot continue. We will know when we come to it.”

  “I can’t ask you to do this. I can’t ask you to leave for so long.”

  “Isidor and Satu will be well taken care of.” Ivan moves one hand to his wife’s shoulder. “Provisions are laid by, there is money enough.”

  “But you know I can’t pay you.”

  “You promised me the story. That is enough.”

  Isidor looks up at me. Her eyes gleam with moisture, but the same determination lines her face as does Ivan’s. “You must find your wolf. You must find your Hal and bring him home again.”

  I have to fight to keep back the tears. I am suddenly, terribly afraid that the Wolf Queen will bring harm to Isidor and Satu, to punish Ivan for helping me.

  But their minds are made up. And without Ivan, I know I won’t get much farther. I need him to get to Hal. So I push my fear, and my guilt, down.

  After breakfast, we prepare for our journey.

  Ivan has bought new boots for me, a reindeer-skin coat with a hood lined with fur, wool socks, and men’s trousers—also made of reindeer-skin. Isidor tsks when he pulls out the trousers, but Ivan just laughs at her. “She isn’t going to a ball, my lovely, a gown wouldn’t do.”

  He has snowshoes for the both of us, packs stuffed with food and furs, matches and a tinderbox for when the matches run out. There’s also a tent, folded and bound tight, that he’ll strap to one of the ponies. He’s acquired two, both sturdy, stocky beasts: one is black and the other gray.

  Isidor helps me dress in one corner, when Ivan has gone out to ready the ponies. The trousers and shirt hang loose on my frame, grown thin from my weeks of traveling, but I belt them tight. The coat is quite warm, and I don’t button it closed yet.

  She gives me a kerchief for my hair: it’s blue, and embroidered with exquisite gold firebirds. I tie it at the nape
of my neck, then sit down to pull on socks and boots. When I’ve finished, I yank the emerald off my finger and hold it out to her. “I want you to have it. Take it as surety that I will send Ivan back to you.”

  She shakes her head, closes my hand back around the ring. “I do not need it, little lamb. Ivan always comes back. It will be luck for your journey.”

  “Isidor, please take it.”

  But then Ivan comes back in, trailing snow, and the moment is lost. “We are ready,” he says.

  “Thank you for everything,” I tell Isidor.

  She pulls me into a hug and kisses my head, and I have a sudden longing for my father. “Godspeed on your journey.”

  I kiss Satu and then step out of the tent, leaving Ivan and Isidor to say their farewells in private.

  He comes out a few minutes later with Isidor hovering by the entrance to their home, the baby held fast in her arms.

  Ivan claps me on the shoulder, and I follow him to where the ponies wait, laden with our packs. I button my coat. The sky is heavy but it’s not snowing yet. Still, the wind bites sharp. I climb up onto the black pony and close my fingers around his reins.

  Ivan lifts his hand in farewell, then nudges his pony off down the road.

  I glance back once at Isidor and Satu, and have to quickly look away. I pray to God that Ivan will come home again, safe and soon. And that the Wolf Queen will not harm them while he is gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE FIRST DAY IS MOSTLY JUST riding, winding down and down the mountain, then crossing a wide expanse of snowy fields. The clouds break away late in the afternoon, and on the distant horizon a high mountain range stretches into the sky.

  Ivan is a quiet traveling companion, but even though I can’t shake away the guilt of forcing him to leave Isidor and Satu, I’m glad to have him.

  It doesn’t snow that first day, and the heat of the pony radiates through my legs and up my spine so I stay quite warm, though my nose tingles in the sharp air. I’m glad for the mittens, keeping my fingers from frostbite.