West

by Edith Pattou

  Even though I knew it might not get to him for some time, I wrote a letter to Neddy, telling him of my plan.

  Using a portion of the gold coins I had taken from the castle in the mountain, I bought a horse for Charles. We needed to be able to travel faster than we had been, but even with a second horse, it would take us seven days or more to cross Fransk to get to the Alpes, which lay along the border with Sveitsland.

  Estelle

  WHEN I WOKE, I was in a new place, a room.

  I was lying in a soft bed.

  I was still very sleepy, my head so heavy I could barely lift it.

  The ceiling was white. The walls were white. The covers on me were silky white, and there were lots of white pillows.

  I felt like something very strange and scary had happened. But I couldn’t remember it.

  I thought I must be having a dream.

  I hoped I would wake up soon.

  Rose

  CHARLES TOOK TO THE NEW HORSE with little difficulty, naming her Valentina after that favorite aunt of his.

  As we started our trek across Fransk, the weather was unnaturally warm. We encountered a fair number of fellow travelers, and most were friendly, but were inclined, like us, to keep their own company.

  On the afternoon of the second day, the weather cooled slightly and it began to rain.

  By the time we came to the town of Limoges that evening, we were wet through. Impulsively I suggested we stop at an inn for dinner and a bed. There were still plenty of the gold coins I had taken from the castle, and the prospect of drying off and having a hot meal was appealing. Charles agreed with enthusiasm.

  At the beginning of our journey, I had wondered how he was going to handle life on the road, with his most recent memories being those of a pampered prince in the court of Charles VI. But he had been surprisingly adaptable, never complaining, and I wondered if his buried white bear self, who had traveled the world in the roughest of circumstances, was helping him.

  There was an inn, with a stable nearby, close to the center of town. The inn was warm and bustling, more than half full, and a fire blazed in the fireplace in the center of the room.

  There was one large group around a big table near the fire, and most of the noise came from the folk gathered there. The serving maid who brought us our ale and ham and leek soup said that several were locals and the rest were the party of a friar who was on a pilgrimage to Roncesvalles. It was easy to spot the friar, for he was as large of girth as he was loud of voice.

  The serving maid, who told us her name was Marie, was attentive, bringing refills of ale without our asking. I noticed her looking at the two of us in a measuring sort of way, as if trying to figure out how we were related to each other.

  If she only knew, I thought.

  Her attention was clearly much more directed at Charles than me, and glancing sideways at him, I realized with a little feeling of shock that even in his travel-worn state, with his golden hair and light eyes, he was a very comely man. It may sound odd, but the truth is I had never really thought that much about my husband’s looks. After all, I had fallen in love with him as a white bear.

  Marie appeared with another refill for Charles’s ale.

  “I’ve a message,” she said, “from the fat friar over there.” She giggled. “He wonders if you would care to join him and his party.”

  I had noticed the friar glancing our way several times.

  “He also offered to pay for your meal,” she said, lowering her voice. “He’s had a bit more ale than is good for him and is feeling generous, on behalf of the church, of course.”

  The friar represented much that I disliked about the church in Europa. His robes were of the finest cloth, and his hands sparkled with jeweled rings. But there turned out to be no escaping him, for he was most insistent, and so we found ourselves seated at his table.

  Charles at first looked a little uncomfortable, but then he leaned back and drank his ale, listening closely to the conversation. Someone made an off-color joke, poking fun at the Holy Roman Emperor, which the friar found enormously amusing.

  Charles glanced over at me, clearly confused at the mention of the Holy Roman Emperor, but he stayed quiet, listening to the jesting banter about Charles V.

  We were finally able to get away, pleading an early morning departure, although not before the friar insisted that we join his traveling party the next day, since he too was setting out early and was heading in the same direction.

  We agreed, if only to cut the conversation short, but I whispered to Charles as we went up to our room that I’d rather chew nails than travel with the friar, and we agreed that we would try to be up and gone well before him.

  When we got up to our small room, I saw that there was just one narrow bed. I flushed, suddenly overcome with the awkwardness of sharing a room with this husband of mine who was there but not there. Charles gazed at the bed, and being a prince with good manners, immediately offered to sleep on the floor. I stiffly accepted his offer, wishing I had never thought of staying at an inn. I slept poorly that night.

  Unfortunately the friar was up just as early as we were, and short of being outright rude, we had no choice but to travel with him and his small entourage.

  * * *

  When we stopped for the midday meal, I still had hopes of finding a way to move on without the friar, but he invited us to partake of his provisions, which of course were the finest, and, despite feeling trapped, I did enjoy the roast pheasant and light-as-air pastries.

  While we ate, the previously jovial friar took on a serious air, asking if we had heard of the catastrophic events that had recently taken place in the world. And in truth, because of all that had been happening in my own small world, I had to confess that I was ignorant of the series of dire calamities that he proceeded to relate.

  It was chilling to hear of the earthquake in Kina, which had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, as well as flooding in Hollande, which had wiped out entire villages. I did know about the Sweating Sickness, of course, but not about the hundreds of people it had already killed in Anglia and that there were fears it could spiral into something similar to the devastating plague of the 1300s.

  “Indeed,” said the friar, “there are those who believe the end of the world is upon us.”

  I had found that there were always those who chose to read portents, my mother being such a person, but she had never taken it so far as to believe the end of the world was approaching.

  Because of Neddy, I had learned much of history, and like him, I believed that there were always cycles to life, that terrible things occurred, but that they were followed by periods of peace and healing, and somehow we humans always found a way to rebuild and go on. I would have shared my opinion with the friar, but guessed he would be little interested.

  I noticed Charles looking up at the sky and followed his gaze. Abruptly I stood, saying, “I think it best if we continue our travels. It looks as though we are in for a change in the weather.”

  And indeed banks of gray clouds were piling up from the northeast, while in the southeast there was a blanket of cloud cover that had an odd, almost brown, tinge to it. I paused, feeling slightly uneasy. I didn’t recall ever seeing the sky look as it did. I noticed too that the horses were starting to get restless. Charles went over to calm them.

  The friar lumbered to his feet. “You’re right,” he said. “We’d better find a place to shelter.” The others in his party followed suit.

  There looked to be a large forest not too far in the distance, so we mounted our horses and set out at a brisk trot toward the line of trees.

  The wind kicked up and soon was so strong, our horses had to lower their heads and slow their pace so as not to be pushed sideways. I found myself wishing Sib were with us and could tell me the name of this fierce southern wind.

  But the wind abruptly shifted, and we were hit by a strong gust from the northeast. Ciuin stood stock-still, trembling. I murmured encouraging words
, and she hesitantly moved forward.

  The friar’s horse had also stopped, and the man let out an exclamation. He began whipping his steed viciously, and the poor horse broke into a trot. The friar’s white garments billowed out behind him.

  Charles rode up beside me, and I could dimly hear him say something, but there came a great clap of thunder and a bright white flash of light. I could smell rain in the air, and yet it smelled different with a metallic, almost bitter odor.

  And then the rain started to fall, in large splashing drops. I felt it on my face and hands. Looking down, I let out a gasp. The moisture on my hand was a dull red hue. I glanced at Charles, and saw streaks of reddish brown on his face.

  The friar let out a terrified cry. “’Tis blood!” he wailed. “The sky is raining blood!” And he whipped his horse harder, urging the terrified animal to move faster. The friar’s ivory vestments were stained with red.

  Charles and I exchanged looks of amazement and disbelief, and followed the friar.

  By the time we reached the wooded area, we were all soaked with the strange red rain. Charles and I wore clothing of a darker hue, so it wasn’t as striking as the friar and his white garments splotched with vivid scarlet. But our faces and hands were all a mottled red. The horses, too, were flecked with red, which was the most obvious on Ciuin, who was mostly white.

  I didn’t know what to make of it, but when I tasted some drops on my hand, it did not taste to me like blood, though it did have a faintly metallic quality.

  But the friar was convinced it was Blood Rain. He was trembling with fear, terrified that the god he professed to believe in was filled with wrath and was now preparing to end it all as he had in the day of Noah and the great flood.

  “Blood Rain is an evil omen,” he said, his teeth chattering. “It is said that there were many sightings of Blood Rain before the Black Death.”

  I wished more than ever that Neddy were with us. He would have been able to tell me if what the friar said was true.

  Estelle

  I CAME AWAKE SLOWLY. My mouth was dry, and my head hurt. I thought at first I was in Trondheim and that I had fallen ill with the Sweating Sickness. Except I wasn’t sweating.

  And then I saw the white ceiling and the white walls. And felt the silky white covers over me.

  I wasn’t at the house in Trondheim. Or in the house in Fransk where I lived with Rose and Charles.

  This was a new place, a white place.

  I remembered the reindeer and flying through the icy air. I started to sit up. But my head pounded so hard I almost had to lie back down. I managed to stay up, just barely, and looked around me.

  It was a white rectangular room. At one end was the bed I lay in and at the other end was another piece of furniture. It wasn’t a table, or bookshelf, but it was definitely smaller and higher than a bed. On the wall to my right was a black door. It was shut.

  The light was dim, coming mostly from one oil lamp lit by the door. I saw that there was a small window, set up high on the white wall across the room.

  My thoughts were fuzzy, but through the pounding in my head, I had an uneasy feeling that something was missing.

  I looked down at my chest. I was wearing different clothing, a soft white dress. But more importantly, there was no bairn sling, no Winn.

  My heart started racing.

  Where was Winn?

  I stood then. My knees were weak and my head spun, but I was able to walk.

  I moved across the room and, as I came closer, saw that the other piece of furniture was a cradle. It was a large, fancy one, carved of wood and set on rockers. It was mostly painted white, but the slats along the sides were alternately black and white.

  I reached the cradle and, my heart hammering, I peered over the side.

  Winn was there, fast asleep, lying peacefully on his back, his little hands clenched. I took a deep breath, flooded with relief.

  My legs were shaky so I sank to the floor beside the cradle, and I noticed that the slats were carved in the shapes of figures.

  I caught my breath. They looked like echecs figures, like Queen Maraboo.

  My head spun. I didn’t think I could make it back to my bed, so I lay down on the floor beside the cradle and fell asleep.

  Rose

  IT WAS THANKS TO THE BLOOD RAIN that we were finally able to get away from the friar. He was so shaken by it and by his end-of-the-world fears that he abandoned his pilgrimage to Roncesvalles and decided to go to a much closer monastery that lay to the south.

  Charles and I rode on, after stopping at a stream to wash the Blood Rain off ourselves. We were each wrapped in our own thoughts. And when we made camp later that night, we were still quiet.

  It was Charles who broke the silence.

  “My father is no longer king of Fransk, is he?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “He is not.”

  “Is this Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, now king of Fransk?”

  “No,” I answered. “The current ruler of Fransk is Henry II.”

  Charles looked confused. “I have no brother named Henry. Or uncle.” He set down his portion of stew. “I begin to think that a great deal of time has passed, though I do not know how that can be.”

  I gazed down into my own stew. Abruptly I made up my mind. The Blood Rain had made things clear. I thought that now I knew what the Troll Queen’s Aagnorak was. And it terrified me.

  “Charles,” I said, “I believe it is time to tell you the truth. Your truth.”

  His eyes widened.

  And without preamble, I launched into the story of the day the Troll Queen had first seen Charles, the day he was playing with a red ball. How she had started wanting him, how her father had been furious when he discovered she had disobeyed all the troll laws and taken him, how he had turned Charles into a white bear. I told him he had been a white bear for one hundred fifty years, had roamed the earth, hoping to be set free of the enchantment.

  And then he had been set free. I did not tell him how, or the role I had played in it.

  But I did say that when he was set free, everyone thought that the Troll Queen had died, that he himself had seen her fall to her death. But she had not died. She was very much alive, and she wanted revenge.

  It was she who had used fearsome storms to wreck a ship Charles had been on, I said, and imprisoned him underneath the castle in the mountain.

  “And it is even worse,” I said. “I think it was she who caused the earthquake in Kina, as well as the flooding, the Sweating Sickness, and the Blood Rain.” I took a deep breath. “I believe the Troll Queen wants nothing less than the destruction of all humans, ‘softskins’ as she calls us.”

  He stared at me. “This is a great deal to take in.” He put a hand to his head, and I could see traces of panic in his eyes.

  “I know.”

  “It sounds like the fairy tales read to me when I was very young.”

  “I know,” I said again. “And there is still more you must know.”

  He looked apprehensive. “More?”

  “Yes,” I said. “This Troll Queen has also stolen a child, a bairn. That is where we are going now. To rescue the bairn.”

  “Whose bairn is it?” His voice was low.

  I was silent for a moment. I didn’t know if I was going too far, if what I was about to say would cause him harm, in the fragile state he seemed to be in. But I went ahead and said it. “The bairn is yours.”

  Charles stared straight ahead. I searched his face for signs of distress. Was his mind going to flash colors and heave, the way he’d described before?

  “My bairn,” he repeated. Then his eyes cleared, and he lowered his hand from his head. Slowly he nodded. “I have had memories of a new-born child. Holding it in my arms. A son, I think?”

  I nodded, my breath catching in my throat. He remembered Winn.

  “My bairn,” he repeated. “And this Troll Queen who stole me, who turned me into a white bear, has now stolen my bairn?”


  “Yes.”

  “What is his name?”

  “It hadn’t been settled. I believe,” I said carefully, “that initially you named it Charles, but you weren’t happy with that. So in the meantime, Estelle came up with a nickname, Winn, for the west wind.”

  “Who is Estelle? Is she my wife?” he asked, his voice matter-of-fact.

  My breath caught again, and I was sure my face was flushed. “Uh, no. She is not your wife. She is young, the daughter of a good friend of yours who died. You became her guardian. I believe the Troll Queen has her as well.”

  “If the girl Estelle and my son are somewhere in the Alpes, we must journey there at once,” Charles said, resolute.

  It was later as I was refilling our skin bags in a nearby stream that Charles came up to me.

  “I have one more question,” he said.

  “Yes?” I said, looking up at him.

  “Nyamh, why do you seek this Troll Queen?”

  I thought for a moment. “Because she has wronged me as well,” I said at last.

  “How has she wronged you?”

  “She took my husband from me,” I said, unblinking.

  “Then you seek revenge?”

  And I nodded. Yes, in some deep-down part of me, I did seek revenge, for all the Troll Queen had taken from me.

  Estelle

  SOMEONE WAS SHAKING ME.

  I looked up and saw a woman with large black eyes and very white skin staring down at me. It was not the troll girl I had traveled in the sleigh with. This woman was older.

  She said something in a gravelly, deep voice and, putting her hands under my arms, lifted me to my feet. She was strong.

  I couldn’t walk very well, but she managed to propel me back to the bed on the other side of the room. She sat me down and handed me a cup of the sweet hot milky drink.