Lightning Scarred

by Carolyn Ivy Stein

  She cried out as another wave of pain crashed through her. This time the very air crackled and exploded into sharp, colored light.

  "Again," said the voice within her.

  The sunstone’s power seared the lines of her lightning scars again and again until lightning erupted from her upturned hands.

  This time the witches were prepared for it and they caught the lightning in a cage of ice, wrapping it around the indistinct form of the beast. As she watched, they lowered the caged beast into the ice house, her lightning stabilizing their icy magic.

  They must have trapped it. They must have covered the house with piles of snow. They must have taken Magnihild into their city, because when she woke up she was in a proper bed with shafts of sunlight creating rainbows through the ice walls. Caedmon slept nearby, his snoring familiar and comforting. The rich smell of stew permeated the air; she could almost taste it. She could have eaten the polar bear all by herself, no cooking required. She was that hungry.

  When the witches finally sent her and Caedmon home, it was with the sunstone used to activate her lightning. It was a gift, they said. Caedmon insisted that they accept a reciprocal gift of spices and the gems, which they did. They also left with the polar bear neatly butchered and stored on the sledge. With that and the remaining tørrfisk and dried rye bread, they had enough food to get them to their ship and home, as well.

  The witches also gave her a functional pair of white gloves. Her embroidered red festival gloves had burned up from the lightning that streamed from her hands. She shouldn't care about their loss, it was a small price to pay for a sunstone that would allow their healer to save their people, but she missed them, nonetheless. She would make a new pair, she decided, but instead of embroidering flowers she’d make this pair white in honor of the witches with embroidered lightning bolts.

  It seemed only right and proper.

  Edda - Birth of the Ice Witches

  Fragment from the Drang Isle Edda; Author unknown

  Hungry for companionship, Jörd created a castle of snow and beckoned the white bears to join her.

  Cozy in her winter palace with the dumb beasts, she bore and raised many wise bears as sons and daughters. The Kaneedma, this race of ice bears born fully furred but imbued with the giantess' cunning, were her most loyal friends and followers in Thule. She spent long hours with her wise friends playing games and eating seals.

  One day, a ship lost its way through the ice portal into the land of Thule. At first the sailors were terrified by the Kaneedma's jaws and man-like ways. But Jörd bade them welcome, so desirous was she for new faces in Thule. The sailors enjoyed Jörd's mead and meat. They slept the nights in her icy palace until the solstice came once more and they sailed home again.

  From these men, the giantess bore many daughters, all tall, shapely women with white skin and silver hair. From them sprang the race of ice witches who even now guard Thule's land from monsters and men.

  The saying runs thus: In the age of the blood-soaked moon, a woman born of ice witch and half-breed god shall crack open Thule's shell and release the night. Then man and beast will die in waves of blood hot seas and bitter regret.

  Frozen Art

  Carolyn Ivy Stein

  Raisa hadn't thought herself capable of missing Shabbat in Botosani. She shivered in the bitter cold of spring in Nova Scotia and wished she were sitting on sweet green grass with her feet in the blue-brown water of the Dresleuca River, wavelets lapping against her feet until they wrinkled like raisins in the sun.

  In Botosani, she’d be helping her mother prepare for Shabbat, welcoming Friday night as if it were a bride or a queen, deserving of the finest linens and candlesticks. They’d serve the best bread and wine they could. She’d comb her long wavy black hair and rub rose-scented oil into it until it shone like a mirror framing her pale face, ready for the peace and grace of Shabbat.

  There would be none of that tonight.

  Raisa worked her knife in another fish, tossed yet another stinking pile of fish guts into the barrel, hearing it slap wetly against the other contents. The rest of the fish went into another barrel, which would eventually be salted and dried in the sun. She wished she hadn't left. It snowed in Romania too, but not like the frozen wastes of this strange country.

  She repeated the country name to herself again: Canada. They spoke French and English. Her French was improving slowly, but she needed to learn faster if she wanted a better job or even survive once they managed to get to Quebec. It was hard enough to do here where a dozen different languages could be heard in the salt fish factory.

  Her father kept encouraging her to learn English, claiming they would soon go to New York, where many other Botosani Jews had settled.

  Her mother said that Raisa needed a husband, not another job, but it wasn't true, and they all knew it. The family needed money to buy passage on another ship to Quebec or to Philadelphia or to Daddy's mysterious New York City. So, Raisa gutted fish through the day while her mother worked at a laundry for sailors.

  Her father hadn't yet found steady work. There was little need for fine tailors, and even less need for singers or actors in a land of ice, seals, and gentiles. Still, he tried.

  Raisa knew that he sang on the town’s main street waiting for the occasional coin drop into his hat. He did piece work repairing clothing or sails, whatever the townsmen brought him while he sat in the laundry with her mother. But what worked in Prague and Berlin didn't work as well in the frozen land they found themselves in. For one thing, the harsh air dried his throat something fierce. For another, money seemed scarce among the fish workers. Work from sailors ebbed and flowed, much as the sea itself did.

  Tonight, Friday night, was Shabbat, and there was no challah or suitable wine to be found anywhere. Still she looked forward to it, for the peace of the day if nothing else.

  She finished her shift at the cannery, and pulled her coat and shawl over her shivering arms and head. Some of the other girls kept their coats on while they worked, but Raisa couldn't bear the smell and didn't want it to permeate her best coat. Her only coat, she corrected herself silently and with some irritation.

  She'd protected her special items for months as her family had walked across Europe and England, performing along the way, until they reached Liverpool. They bartered for passage on a whaling vessel, and she sold the lovely crimson coat with the ermine collar and her wedding dress to help with the money for the passage. She didn't miss the wedding dress; it had never been worn.

  She longed for the beautiful coat that had kept her so warm during their travels. When they had disembarked from the ship she looked like a ragamuffin dressed in her worst clothing, now her only clothing. They had nothing left to sell, even if there had been a place to sell it in this wretched town.

  She walked down the snowy street, listening the squeaking of her shoes on the packed snow, slipping a bit on the ice as she made her way to the laundry where her mother worked.

  The one precious item she had refused to sell to the greedy merchants was her pack of paints, pencils, and paper. Each evening she sat and drew as she awaited her mother, feeling the quiet and calm of the evening settle over her. The laundry smelled like warmth and fragrant soap, a balm to her nose after a day in the cannery. Best of all she watched the water and the ships from the door. Each day she drew the the whalers and merchants who embarked and disembarked the ships coming and going from the harbor. She struggled to get it right, but the drawings never meshed exactly with what she saw. She hated that she was unable render reality faithfully on her pad.

  At first she thought the two men arguing outside the laundry were merchants, they were too well-dressed to be whalers and one of the men carried a large art pad, a big brother to her own. She looked back into the laundry and saw her mother was occupied; it looked as if she would be for a while. So, Raisa grabbed her pad and pencil and stepped outside.

  She hoped to get a peek at the hidden art. Unfortunately, the man had wrapped a large tw
ill ribbon around the pad, which meant that even the wind couldn't accidentally expose the inside to Raisa's hungry eyes. He was young with good bones and a patrician face and about the age of Raisa's fiancé before the Czar had come for him. She felt her chest tighten a bit at the memory, but she bent forward a bit to hear better.

  "I paid you in advance," the older man said in a melodious voice that reminded Raisa of her father. He was speaking English, but it was strangely accented. "If you are not going to accompany us, you must return it."

  "I told you, I don't have the money. When you return to New York I'll be able to pay you every penny."

  "Too bad for you. You gave your word. I need an artist on this journey, so you have to come."

  "I can't. I am to get married."

  "The girl will wait."

  "She'll wait forever if I die in the ice," the young man retorted.

  "Is that what's up? You're afraid?" The older man spit into the snow. "Get your courage up. You're going or you'll find me a replacement artist." He stalked off.

  The younger man sagged. Raisa felt sorry for him. She approached him, her own art pad held protectively in front of her.

  "Excuse me," she said, concentrating on using her best English.

  He looked down at her and stepped back a pace away. "I'm not interested," he said.

  It’s the fish gut smell, she thought. But she hurriedly closed the distance between them. She wouldn't have a better chance.

  "I can help you," she said.

  "I'm engaged. I, er, don't need that." He stepped back again, staring at her. She realized she probably looked pretty bad.

  "I'm an artist, too," she said, holding out her pad to him. "I want to take your place as the artist on that ship."

  He stopped and looked at her, clearly skeptical. "I can't give you the advance money he gave me."

  "I know. I heard you tell him that. But maybe I can get something else."

  "What?"

  He looked suspicious, so Raisa continued quickly "My family and I need to get to New York. You said that ship was docking there. I can serve as an artist if my family can come, as well."

  He shook his head. "It's a scientific expedition, not a passenger vessel. Besides it's too dangerous. They're headed into the Arctic."

  "Please, just speak to the captain for me. This helps both of us."

  "Let me see." He roughly took her art pad and flipped through the pages. Something caught his eye and he stopped and looked at her. "You drew this one?"

  "I drew all of them," she said. She tried to keep the annoyance and chill from her voice, but she wasn't entirely successful. He didn't seem to notice.

  "It's good work. Almost as good as a mans."

  She didn't trust herself to respond to that.

  "Okay, I'll talk to the captain for you. What is your offer?"

  "I'll work for him in exchange for money and passage to New York for me, my parents, and my brother."

  He smiled, and then he looked down at her and his smile faded. "I shouldn't do this. You're a sweet little thing. You may die."

  She shrugged. "Better to die on an adventure than live surrounded by fish guts. Besides, my father needs to get to New York City."

  He laughed and she thought his laugh went well with his patrician features. It was a good, melodious laugh. "My name is Samuel Wellstone. What's yours?"

  “I am Raisa Newberger and I am delighted to meet you, sir." She proffered her hand as she had been taught long-ago in an etiquette class she'd taken to prepare for a wedding that would now never happen. Samuel looked down at her fish gut-smeared fingers and shook his head. She was suddenly embarrassed by the stinking slime covering her skin and she blushed hotly.

  He simply bowed quickly to her and said, "Where can I find you, Miss Newberger?"

  "At the cannery during the day or here in the evening," she said pointing to the laundry.

  "I will be back in a flash. Wait for me at the laundry."

  When he returned, he was followed by a stout man in a captain's uniform and the older man she'd seen Mr. Wellstone talking to earlier. The captain nodded at her father who sat next to her outside the laundry. He bent his head silently in return. He said nothing but his heavy black eyebrows spoke fiercely.

  "Here, give me your art pad." Samuel said reaching for it. She let him take it from her hands and watched him flip through the pages showing each one to the two men. "See, what I mean?"

  "Why do you have my daughter's art?" Her father pulled himself up to his full 5'5". He was not a tall man but when he stood and puffed himself up, he had a presence that demanded attention. "That is hers."

  "It's okay, Papa. It's for a job," Raisa whispered urgently.

  He raised his eyebrows, but he didn't press his case. He knew as well as she did that their family couldn't afford to be too choosy. Instead, he looked at the three men as they talked, ignoring him. He scowled fiercely as if trying to protect his small family with the excellent action of his eyebrows and forehead lines. The steam from the laundry and the sharp smell of the lye soap rose around her. Mama would surely appear, drawn by the commotion. Raisa had to get this settled before her mother arrived.

  "Sir?"

  The men turned to look at her and Raisa felt herself shrink back under their gaze, but she forced herself to meet their eyes. Mr. Wellstone winked at her and she let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. "Mr. Wellstone has shown you my art. Has he told you that I would like to take his place?"

  "Oh, yes, he has told us, child. What he didn't tell us was that you are a girl. I'm afraid we have both been conned."

  "Please, just look at my sketches. I can do this."

  The captain shook his head slowly in negation.

  "Papa, tell him."

  Ever the actor, her father emitted a lengthy, dramatic sigh before pulling himself up to his full height and speaking in a deep voice with just the barest edge of command. Raisa recognized it as the voice he used when playing Prospero in the troupe's performance of The Tempest last year. "My daughter..." He shook his head lightly as if he were shaking snow from his head and turned to the captain. "Take my daughter and with it our fortunes, Captain. Her courage and art will see you through. Then bring her safely back to us."

  "I cannot guarantee her safety. We go to a forbidding place, filled with ice and danger."

  "I am ready," Raisa said. "Besides, where else will you find a willing artist in time?"

  Mr. Wellstone laughed again, and the sound was contagious, a delight. She envied his fiancé in that moment. "Captain Bowers, take her with you. You will not find better today."

  Grudgingly, the captain agreed to allow Raisa's to prove herself to him. He told her to present herself at the ship in two hours, which was sooner than she'd expected. She agreed immediately to prevent a change of heart, hers or theirs.

  The ship she found waiting at the dock was a converted whaling vessel like the one she'd arrived in Nova Scotia on. Her art-trained eyes detected a number of differences. The ship had been reinforced from bow to stern with seven feet of oak making the ship look thicker and heavier than a run of the mill whaler. Two smokestacks blackened near the top rose from the center. Sails flapped loudly on the three masts and the bowsprit. It was a majestic ship and she longed to sit on the dock and draw it. Would there be time?

  She heard Captain Bowers’ gruff voice come from behind her. "You're here. Fine. At least you have courage."

  She turned and smiled. "I'm ready, sir."

  "Let me make one thing clear. I am taking you only because the scientists insist that we need an artist. If you can provide adequate pictures of the phenomena they need, I'll transport you and your family from Nova Scotia to New York City. If you can't produce what they need, well..." He stroked his mustache and tilted his eyes toward the gray sky.

  "What then?"

  "Then you will be revealed as one of Wellstone's con jobs and I'll turn you in to the proper authorities. Back out now and I won't bring charges." />
  Raisa's face became hot and a staccato pulse sounded in her throat. "I am not a con. I showed you my art book."

  "Wellstone could have drawn those for you."

  Raisa struggled to control her voice, struggled to keep her temper. After all she'd done, he was going to refuse her? Because he thought girls couldn't draw? No. "They're mine. I can do this job. And when I do, you will pay me and take my family to New York City."

  "I will take your family to New York City, but there is no money to pay you. We already paid Wellstone. Get the money from him when you return.”

  "But—"

  "Or you can back out now. No charges. No problems."

  "I'm not backing out." She would show him.

  He nodded and presented his hand. She shook it. Apparently, the deal was done. "Is that your warmest coat?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  “When you get aboard, we'll get you outfitted with appropriate gear. Can you use a camera?"

  The questions went on for quite a while. When the Captain Bowers walked off, the chief scientist, a man named Peterson continued the questioning. He examined her drawings, grunting as he did so. By evening, Raisa was given a large pile of flannel, wool, lambskin, and sealskin clothing designed for a man. She scarcely knew how to wear it all; it seemed overmuch. She fell in love with the reindeer sleeping bag, that was so soft and warm with the pelt turned to the inside. It was odd to wear a man's pants but also freeing in some ways. And they were far more practical than her skirts. The sealskin boots were much too large for her dainty feet, but a few extra pairs of wool socks remedied that, though her feet sweated within.

  The camera was another story. Peterson showed her how to use it and then left it with her, saying that it was her responsibility to accompany any scientist who asked for a photographer/artist.