by Edith Pattou
I drank, partly because my mouth was dry and partly because her expression was so severe I was sure she would have forced me to drink it if I hadn’t done it on my own.
I stared at her as I drank. She had long white hair, which she wore in a braid down the back of her black dress. Her skin was rough and ridged.
She was a troll. Fear leapt up in me. And I think she could sense it, for she smiled. She gestured at the cup and said that guttural word again, which I guessed meant “drink.”
I did. With an approving nod, she rose and walked away from me. I saw that she had a ring of keys fastened at her waist. They made a faint jingling sound when she walked.
She crossed to the cradle. And bent over it.
I was terrified and started to rise, but my head was too heavy. I sat back down, trying to fight against the sleepiness that was creeping over me.
But as I watched, the troll woman lifted Winn gently out of the bed and rocked him in her arms, gazing down at him. It was hard to tell across the room, but I was almost certain the look on her face was soft, even happy.
I saw her pull a gleaming glass cup out of a pocket on her dress and then she turned so I could not see Winn.
The sleepiness was pulling me down and finally I couldn’t fight it anymore. I fell asleep.
White Bear
A SON.
A Troll Queen who had loved me so much she broke the laws of her world.
Her wrathful father, who had transformed me into a white bear.
A white bear. For one hundred fifty years.
My father, my mother, my brothers and sisters, my Aunt Valentina, all dead, years ago.
These were the pieces of me, of my life. Like a puzzle, the pieces scattered, meaningless until they were whole.
Would I ever be whole again?
Would there be a single moment when it all fell into place, cascading pieces, forming a clear and distinct picture? Of me?
Or would it be a slow thing, a slog, like plowing through waist-deep snow? One piece. Then another. Until, at the end of the journey, they formed a whole.
I wondered suddenly if this had been true of me before. If the reason I had not wanted to name my son Charles was because I did not know who Charles was?
I had been stolen as a nine-year-old boy. Had been a bear for one hundred fifty years. How could I know myself as a man?
The pain in my head started, along with a shimmer of light at the edge of my eyesight. I put my hands to my temples. No, I would not let the brain fever come. I breathed deeply, telling myself that I did know at least three things: that I loved to play the flauto; that I had once been a white bear who preyed on seals and wandered a beautiful, frozen world; and that I had a son.
I would focus on those and keep moving forward. And maybe there would be more memories, more parts I would be able to fit into the incomplete man that I was now. Become whole again.
I could only try.
Estelle
THIS TIME WHEN I WOKE, I was famished. My stomach was gurgling, loudly. I smelled food and sat up. My head only hurt a little.
I looked around and saw a small table and chair that had not been there before. It had things on it, a covered basket, a goblet, and a plate with steam rising.
I crossed to it quickly. The plate held something that looked like chicken and dumplings. My mouth watered.
But first I went to the cradle. Winn was lying there, contentedly sucking on something that looked like a tall glass cup with a kind of stopper on top, which he was sucking on. It looked like a cow’s teat. I had never seen anything like it before. Inside the glass cup was a milky liquid.
The smell of the chicken drew me back to the table. I sat down and began to eat. It was so delicious I didn’t even care if the trolls were trying to poison me. I ate and ate until my stomach was full.
Then I rose, stretched, and went back to the cradle.
The glass cup with the funny stopper looked to be empty and was lying beside Winn. He beamed up at me sleepily, lifting his arms to me. I reached down and picked him up out of the cradle.
It felt so good to have his warm, sturdy body next to mine. I realized that he smelled clean and powdery. The troll woman must be changing his cloths, in addition to feeding him.
“Cher Winn,” I said softly. “I don’t know where we are, and I don’t know what is going to happen to us, but I promise I will do everything I can to keep you safe.”
Winn smiled, gurgling happily.
Rose
WE ARRIVED IN THE TOWN of Chamonix in the midafternoon of our eighth day of travel.
We had been able to see the mountains from afar for some days, but the up-close sight of those snow-covered peaks, stretching well off into the distance, was awe-inspiring.
“That one must be Mont Blanc,” said Charles, pointing to the tallest peak in the mountain range.
It dwarfed any of the mountains I had seen before in Njord.
When I was a child, Neddy had told me tales of the frightening creatures that lived up in the tallest peaks of the snow-capped mountains. Ice dragons, ghost wolves, and mountain giants called the Jotun. But never any mention of Huldre.
We were going to need supplies, I realized. Food, as well as equipment that would enable us to tackle the mountain range that lay ahead. There was no Malmo here to help me figure out what I needed, but there must be some similarity between the two worlds. Being in those mountains would be like being in the Arktisk, except that climbing would be involved.
I sent Charles off to buy food to replenish our supply, and I went looking for a place to buy gear.
I finally found a small shop that seemed to have some of the things we needed. I was assisted by a large, talkative man named Ernst, who mostly catered to crystal collectors, mountain men who lived in the nearby village of Tacul. They made their living by climbing up to the glaciers to find crystals to sell.
Ernst sold me a range of climbing equipment—rope, metal spikes, various goatskin garments, as well as some well-crafted snowshoes. He also said that I would need his brand of bedrolls, which were much thicker and more cumbersome than the ones we already had. They were made of rabbit fur, eiderdown, and a thick tightly woven material I couldn’t identify but which he said was designed to repel moisture.
Charles and I met in the center of town with our purchases and found what appeared to be a well-run stable, where we arranged to leave our horses, since our journey would now be on foot.
That night we made camp between Chamonix and the village called Tacul, and while we waited for meat pies to warm, Charles and I reviewed each piece of equipment I had gotten for our ascent. I explained that we would attach the spikes to our boots with leather straps, and that the poles tipped with iron would function as both walking sticks and ice picks.
As I filled him in, I had an odd feeling of déjà vu, though in reverse. I was playing the same role to him that Malmo had with me back in Gronland. It was daunting, though, and a bit absurd, considering I knew next to nothing about mountain climbing.
White Bear
AFTER NYAMH HAD EXPLAINED THE GEAR we would be using to climb the mountains, I asked her about the sword she carried, and if she had received instruction on how to wield it.
She paused, as if not knowing how to answer, then said, “Of a sort. A very long time ago.”
“It appears that the same is true of me,” I said, with an attempt at a smile. “I was thinking I should practice, since it seems likely there will be danger if we must face the Troll Queen.”
Nyamh nodded. “I did the same—practice, I mean—before I came to the castle in the mountain.”
“Perhaps we can practice together? I had a tutor back in my father’s court . . .” Gesturing at my body, I went on, “But I am different now, bigger, and I think stronger, and I would like to try my hand with this new sword.”
“Very well,” Nyamh said, smiling. “Let us commence with our swordplay exercise.”
Rose
IT TURNED O
UT THAT CHARLES’S KNOWLEDGE of swordplay was far superior to mine. Even though in truth his lessons had taken place more than one hundred fifty years ago, they were much fresher in his memory than mine with Nils Erlend had been.
Charles knew the names for things, and he was able to demonstrate various feints and parries, defensive stances and attacking thrusts. But when we tried to practice together, it was awkward; our rhythm was not right. And I suddenly remembered that when I was back in that grove of poplar trees, swordplay had reminded me of dancing, and I remembered too the memories it had stirred of dancing with my husband.
I stopped abruptly. Resting my sword against a tree, I turned to Charles and said, “Did you by chance learn how to dance in your father’s court?”
Charles looked at me in puzzlement, then replied, “I had started to learn. It is part of a prince’s training to be taught the court dances.”
“Let us try,” I said, holding out a hand. I told myself it was all part of the swordplay lessons, but I knew it was an excuse to be closer to my husband. And always there was the hope that it would somehow trigger his memory.
Charles moved toward me, tentatively, then reached out his hand. I took it, lightly. And we began to move.
At first our rhythm was as poor as it had been sword fighting. His dancing was more formal than I was used to, there being a difference between court dance and the kind we did at village festivals. But I tried humming and altering the pattern of our steps, and he adapted. We twirled and spun, and I actually began to enjoy it, to forget that this man holding me by the hand had no memory of ever doing this with me before. I smiled at him. He started to smile back, but then his face froze. His eyes went unfocused, his steps faltered. He dropped my hand, letting out a groan.
“Charles?” I said, leaning toward him.
He backed away from me and quickly ran off, wild-eyed, panicky.
I started to follow, but he gestured me away with one hand, the other grasping his forehead.
He went some distance away, sinking to his knees and remaining that way, motionless. I wondered if I should go to him, take him his flauto, comfort him. But I sensed I should keep my distance.
I went and packed up the gear we’d been using. As I sat, waiting, I kept a careful eye on Charles, who still knelt, not moving, both hands pressed to his head. I couldn’t help thinking that if dancing with me had such an effect on him—those flashes of color and light and fever in his brain that he’d told me of—the odds of him finding his way back to being my husband seemed very slim indeed.
But after a while, Charles rose and slowly made his way back.
“I’m sorry, Nyamh,” he said, his voice low.
“What happened?” I asked.
“It is the brain fever. My head hurts, and my thoughts get confused—it frightens me.” He shuddered.
“I understand,” I said, though I wasn’t telling the truth. Because I didn’t think I would ever truly understand how memories of me could have been so completely erased, leaving in their place only pain and colors and the terrible blankness I saw in his eyes.
White Bear
THE TRUTH IS THAT up until my mind rebelled and overwhelmed me with color and pain and fear, I had enjoyed the dancing.
What had Nyamh been to me, before I lost my memory? I knew she was not my wife, that she was not the mother of my son, because she herself had said she had another husband who was lost because of the Troll Queen. But I felt I should know her, that we were connected somehow.
I pushed all these thoughts away. There were more important things to think about. Like the journey through the mountains that lay ahead.
And finding my son.
Estelle
I WOKE UP WITH THAT HEAVY-HEADED FEELING again. My mouth was dry too. I reached for the glass of sweet milk by my bed. But then I stopped.
In the story that Rose told me of her journey to the land that lay east of the sun and west of the moon, there had been a drink the trolls gave their “softskin” servants and the Troll Queen gave Charles. It had an ugly sort of name. What was it? Slank? Yes, I think the drink was called slank. It had something in it that made you sleepy and forgetful. It almost made Charles forget Rose completely. But the little troll Tuki, who died, figured it out and saved the day.
Could this sweet, milky drink be slank? I decided not to drink it anymore. I needed to be awake and have all my wits about me if I was going to keep Winn and me safe.
I crossed over to his crib. Once again he was sucking on that glass cup. But he was almost done, and when he saw me, he lifted both his head and arms in my direction.
“Ooh la, look at you,” I said with a smile. “You are raising your head now! What a clever boy.”
Winn smiled back, and I pulled him into my arms.
I went to sit in the chair at the table, which I saw had a new basket of bread and a plate of fruit. Settling Winn on my lap, I picked out an apple and bit into it. I started to think over all I could remember about Rose’s time with the trolls.
Rose
TACUL WAS A TINY TOWN nestled at the base of the first ascent to the Alpes. It consisted of only a couple of small stone buildings huddled together, and we could see no sign of human activity. I was disappointed, since I’d been hoping to find someone there who could perhaps guide us to the best route to Mont Blanc. We even knocked on a couple of the doors, but there was no response.
After passing through Tacul, we came to a long snow-covered trail gradually heading uphill, and we began to follow the path.
The first stretch of the journey took us through a dense forest of high-branching beech trees with silver-gray bark. It was still and oddly dim underneath the canopy of tree branches, but when we came out of the forest, our eyes were dazzled by the smooth, wide expanse of white that spread out before us. It wound upward between craggy outcroppings of rock, looking eerily like an enormous, twisting roadway of snow and ice built by giants.
The man called Ernst, who had sold me our gear, had told me this was a glacier and it was called Glacier des Bois.
Then we noticed something moving on the glacier, small figures making their way toward us. As they came closer, we saw that they were a man accompanied by a large dog and a mule laden with bulging packs.
The man was short and wiry, with a leathery, lined face. I called out a greeting, but the man didn’t reply. It wasn’t until he and his animals were only a few feet away that he acknowledged our presence, and it was with a scowl. He spoke Fransk, but he spoke quickly and in a dialect that was difficult to understand.
He apparently was asking what we were doing on the Glacier des Bois, and I responded that we were headed for Mont Blanc. The man let fly a torrent of words, spoken so fast I could make out only a few phrases here and there.
“Imbeciles . . . dangerous peaks . . . completely unprepared.”
I was startled, but also felt a little irritated, countering that even though it was true we weren’t experienced at climbing mountains, we had thoroughly outfitted ourselves in Chamonix.
The man glared at me, but suddenly and unexpectedly invited us to join him for tea. He gestured toward a stand of spruce trees growing along the side of the glacier.
Slightly taken aback, we followed and watched as he deftly set up and lit a small fire. The water was soon boiling, and he poured us cups of a minty herb tea. We perched on rocks and tried to answer the questions he threw at us.
Where did we think we were going?
Mont Blanc.
Why?
Charles and I remained silent. The man frowned and forged on with his questions.
What equipment did we have?
I showed him our gear, and at last we got a few grudging nods. The scowl became less severe.
Were we aware of the dangers ahead? Avalanches? Hidden crevasses? Snow blindness?
I hesitated. “I know a little, but . . .”
The man glared at me. Then he drained his cup of tea, set it down, and said matter-of-factly, “I will
guide you to Mont Blanc. Or at least as far as Mont Maudit. After that, you are on your own.”
“Thank you!” I said, surprised but very pleased at our good fortune. “We will certainly pay you for your trouble,” I added, taking out my leather pouch of gold coins.
But the old man shook his head. “Later,” he said, “and then you will pay me what you think I deserve.”
He introduced himself, saying his name was Benoitas, but we should call him Ben. His mule was named Molly, and the dog was Pip. I noticed Charles smiling at the dog, holding out his hand in friendship. The dog trotted over and sniffed Charles, presenting his ears for scratching, which Charles was happy to do.
Before we set out again, Ben meticulously checked our gear once more, tightening straps, examining the stitching on the goatskin, making sure the iron tips on our walking sticks were secure. The important things we seemed to be lacking were veil-like coverings for our eyes to combat the glare of sun on snow, but he was able to rig up one for each of us. They reminded me of the ice goggles I had used on my trek to Niflheim. In fact, much of the gear and the snowy terrain we would be covering reminded me of my journey to the top of the world, with the Inuit Malmo as my guide.
Ben gestured at our swords, saying it was a waste of valuable energy to be carrying such things up into the mountains. “No use for swords in the Alpes,” he said.
“Perhaps not,” I said. “But we will take them just the same.”
Ben gave an exasperated shrug, but didn’t say any more.
Even though Ben could not have been more different from Malmo, I thought of her often as Ben taught us about mountain trekking. Where Malmo was measured and kind, Ben was voluble and grumpy. Where she was still and spoke simply, almost in the language of poetry, he was in perpetual motion and had a tendency to speak roughly.
He told us he made a living as a crystal collector. He said that at the northeast end of the Glacier des Bois was Col des Cristaux, a place rich with veins of quartz. Crystal collectors, like himself and other men from Tacul, spent the summers at the Jardin de Talèfre, a small island of rock in the midst of the even larger glacier called Glacier de Talèfre. Winters were spent back at the tiny village polishing the crystals they collected, and in spring they took them to the marketplace in Geneva.
