North Child

by Edith Pattou

  I stared in amazement at the top of my child’s head. Somehow the bairn had turned itself. It was truly miraculous.

  I don’t remember much about the next several minutes.

  Then, “Push now!” I shouted at Eugenia.

  And suddenly I was cupping a squalling baby in my two hands. It was small and red and wrinkled, and had a mass of dark hair. A girl. Rain washed down the puckered face. Eugenia held her arms out to us and I quickly folded our bairn into them.

  She murmured soft words of welcome over and over, and kissed the clenched eyes and fists.

  As she did so a crack of light filtered in through the branches above and Eugenia glanced upwards. And suddenly her damp, flushed face turned a shade paler and her smile vanished. I looked up to see what she had seen, and unexpectedly saw a rainbow with the watery sun behind it. It was beautiful, I thought, and to me was a good omen. The rain still fell, lightly.

  “North,” she gasped in disbelief.

  Then I understood. And I almost laughed out loud in relief.

  “She’s a north-born then, is she? Oh well, it must have been destined…”

  “No!” she screamed at me. “She is not a north-born. She will not be a north bairn.”

  “Eugenia, come. There is nothing wrong with a north child. High-spirited perhaps. Besides, it is naught but superstition.”

  “She is Ebba.”

  I nodded, puzzled. “’Tis a nice name, Ebba. Then you will part with the practice of naming with the direction?”

  “I was facing east when the birthing began.”

  I thought back. The sky had been dark; there was no way to tell what direction Eugenia had been facing.

  “She is an east bairn and her name is Ebba,” Eugenia said defiantly.

  I nodded slowly, though I felt a stirring of unease.

  “I will not have her die,” she whispered.

  Die? I thought, then remembered the skjebne-soke’s prediction. Death by ice and snow.

  “And, Arne, you will never tell a living soul.”

  “Tell what, Eugenia?”

  “That she is anything but an east bairn. And she is an east bairn.” Her eyes burned wildly in her pale, wet face.

  I laid my hand on her tangled hair. “You want time to think on it, Eugenia,” I said.

  “No.” Her voice was implacable. “She is Ebba Rose, for the compass rose, because she is my last,” Eugenia said firmly, her eyes intent on mine. “Promise me, Arne. You will never tell another living soul.”

  I hesitated. Finally I said, “I promise,” because I could not bear the unhappiness behind those eyes.

  She smiled then and bent her face over the baby again, murmuring her love.

  Later I took the baby from her so Eugenia could rest awhile before we began our walk back to the farmhold. I lightly ran my finger over the tips of the standing-up chestnut hair of my daughter. The hair was damp and cool, and as I looked into her wrinkled little face, a thought came, unbidden, unexpected. Nyamh, born of the rainbow. Had I heard it in a poem long ago? One of Neddy’s poems? Whatever the case, from then on, though I honoured my agreement to Eugenia, in my heart I called my daughter Nyamh.

  When I wrote in the family birth book of the beginning day of my eighth child, I wrote Ebba Rose. And when I drew the wind rose, as I had for each of my eight children, hers was the most intricate and would easily have been the most beautiful had it not been for the lie. A strange thing came over me, however, as I drew, and almost without meaning to, the drawing I did also told the truth. But it was only there for one who wanted to see it.

  It was a secret, and so it remained until that catastrophic night when the white bear came to our door.

  It began during my first journey to the green lands. The joy that seemed to steal my breath for ever. And the knowing-I-must-have or I would perish.

  He was a boy then. Playing a game with other children. A round red ball they threw back and forth. Laughing. He and the other children left, then he came back to find the ball, alone. Sweet, fortuitous miracle. I could have willed it so, with my arts, but was too dazzled, unthinking.

  His eyesight must have been better than most softskins’, for he saw me. Or perhaps that was because of my arts, used even without my knowing. I wanted him to see me.

  He ran up to me. His face was so strange, with its curling-up mouth showing white teeth, and his bright green-blue eyes. He held out the ball and said, “Would you like to play?”

  That is when it began, the strange breath-losing feeling. The wanting.

  And so I took him. Not then, that day. But later.

  My father’s rage was immense. He said I had broken all the laws of our people, the most ancient, the most binding of laws.

  I tried to explain to him the way I had done it, so that none of his people knew I had taken him. It was very clever, ingenious. But it was not enough, and my father set up an enchantment. Binding. And with conditions.

  I hated it but could not change it. My father was still more powerful than me then. It could not be undone. Even now it cannot.

  The conditions were intended as punishment, for breaking the ancient laws, but my father also wove in the opportunity for me to have that which I desired. And once the conditions were met, then the softskin boy would be mine. For ever.

  Throwing a red, red ball.

  A voice like gravel.

  Lost.

  Then…

  Huge, lumbering body.

  Four legs, not two. Wide silent feet.

  Smells, overwhelming.

  Hunger, all the time.

  And hot. Prickling, stuffed-in heat.

  Need to move, always move.

  Find the cold lands.

  Snow and ice.

  White, endless.

  Alone.

  Lost.

  A red ball. Lost.

  Lost.

  Rose was different from the rest of us.

  Her eyes were not blue like ours but a striking purple that looked black in some lights. She was small and stocky, with gleaming hair the colour of chestnuts. My hair was brown as well, but the rest of our family had fair hair, and we were all long-limbed and tall – all except for Rose. Yet despite her short legs, she managed to move faster than any of us.

  She was different in other ways, too. She was noisier, more independent.

  “Rose knows her own mind,” Father would say. He said she was a throwback to Mother’s great-grandfather, the explorer. But Mother would disagree, saying Rose was just a bit wild starting out and would settle into her true east nature as she grew up. She always pointed to Rose’s love of sewing and weaving as proof of her theory. “The interests of an east-born, if I’ve ever seen them,” she’d say confidently. “She’ll settle down. You’ll see.” I wasn’t so sure.

  It was because of Rose and her short, fast-moving legs that I first learned how quickly and how easily you can lose that which you love the most. The second poem I wrote was about losing Rose. It was a clumsy effort, heavily influenced by a legendary poet’s version of Freya’s lament when Odur was lost to her; I relied heavily on the phrase cruel waters. Rose was two years old at the time and I was only six.

  Mother was baking and the rest of us were scattered about, doing chores around the farm. Rose was taking her morning nap, or at least that was what Mother thought. When she went to check on her, Mother discovered that Rose’s small bed was empty. Calling Rose’s name, she began searching the house. Not finding her, she went outside and her shouts grew louder and more frantic. Soon we were all caught up in the search.

  We spread out, each heading away from the farmhouse in a different direction. Being the youngest, I was sent northeast, as it seemed the least likely direction she would go; there was an old stone wall there that no two-year-old could climb.

  Or so we thought.

  There was some snow on the ground, though the day was not bitter cold. When I reached the stone wall, I climbed up (with some difficulty) and sat atop it, peering around.
Despite my parents’ certainty that she would never have gone this way, I wasn’t so sure. I knew my baby sister well enough to know that she always did what my parents least expected. The stone wall bordered a small meadow that gradually turned into a hill. Just beyond this hill lay a much bigger, rockier crag, and on the other side of that was a steep drop into a gorge with a pool of water at the bottom.

  I saw no sign of Rose in the small meadow, nor on the hill. But suddenly uneasy, I ran across both, and then climbed the rocky crag. When I got to the top, I looked down. Standing beside the pool was a large white bear. Rose dangled limp from its mouth, and they were both dripping with water.

  The creature swung its head to face me, then began moving up the rocks towards me. I stood still, frozen by fear. I could see that the white bear was carrying Rose by her clothing – a bunched-up wad at the back of her neck – like a mother cat carrying a kitten. The animal stopped a stone’s throw from me and gently laid Rose down. Just before it turned to move away, I caught a glimpse of the bear’s eyes. The expression there was like none I’d ever encountered in an animal before. It was a look of immense sadness.

  I quickly kneeled beside Rose. I listened to her chest and found she was breathing steadily, but she was pale and still, and there were vivid red scrapes on her cheek and knees. Then her eyes opened and she smiled. “Neddy,” she said happily, putting her arms around my neck.

  I picked her up and carried her home. I told my parents where I had found her but not about the bear. I don’t know why not. Perhaps I thought that none of my family would believe me, that they’d think it was a story I’d made up. But that wasn’t the reason. There was something about the bear that frightened me, something beyond its bigness and fierceness, and I didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it.

  Somehow Rose had climbed over the stone wall, made her way across the meadow, climbed up both the gentle hill and the rocky crag, then slipped and slid down the other side into the icy water of the gorge. Father thought Rose must have crawled out of the water herself. But I knew it was the bear that pulled her from the pool, and that it had probably saved her life. She would have drowned if the bear had not rescued her.

  Rose had no memory of the bear. I’m quite sure she never actually saw it.

  And I never told anyone.

  Warm place.

  Skin itches, all the time.

  Plunging into cool water, relief.

  Purple eyes. A child.

  Up above on the rocks.

  Smiling down unafraid.

  I remember.

  Long ago.

  A ball.

  A red ball.

  Then nothing.

  Lost.

  The girl above.

  Falling.

  Purple eyes shut. Her face.

  Floating, bruised.

  Lift her up, above water.

  A boy. Pale eyes, frightened.

  Thin arms. Raises her to him.

  Takes her away.

  Alone.

  Father told me that my first gift was a pair of boots, made of the soft leather of reindeer hide. Which was very fitting, for I loved wearing boots.

  I always wore my older brothers’ and sisters’ hand-me-downs, though that never bothered me. The boots had already been resoled many times by the time I got them, but I must have put more miles on those boots than all of my brothers and sisters together.

  By the time I was five or six, I had already gone missing more times than my parents could count. One of my favourite games was to imagine myself a bold explorer, like my grandfather and great-grandfather. I had made it my goal to discover and claim every square inch of the land that lay within walking distance of our farm.

  On the day I first saw a white bear, I had slipped out of the house when my sister Selme was distracted by a frog I had hidden in a pan in the kitchen cupboard. I climbed the stone wall that lay to the northeast of our farm and ran through the meadow, but instead of climbing the rocky crag (which I’m told I had fallen off of and then nearly drowned when I was two years old), I headed due north. I walked a very long way, finally coming upon a small grove of trees. There, standing among them, was a white bear. It stood very still, watching me.

  I stopped, staring with delight at the snow-white fur. I wasn’t close enough to see its eyes clearly and what expression they held, but I was too young to be afraid, so I smiled widely at the animal. It gazed at me for a short time, then turned and lumbered away. I tried following, but it had vanished. Soon I got hungry and turned towards home.

  I didn’t tell Mother and Father about seeing the white bear, especially Mother, because I knew she’d insist on keeping me even closer to home. “You see!” she’d say. “Dangerous wild animals are out there. It’s not safe.”

  I told Neddy, though, and was disappointed at his reaction. He frowned and said in that superior, older brother tone I hated, “You mustn’t go anywhere near a white bear, Rose. They are dangerous and fierce creatures, with long, sharp teeth that will gobble you up. They are always hungry and they move very fast.” He acted like he was some kind of expert on white bears.

  I didn’t pay any attention to him. From then on the white bear was my imaginary companion on all my explorations. I would pretend that I was riding along on its white-fur back, the two of us a fierce duo conquering and claiming new lands by the score.

  I spent much of my childhood longing, in vain, to see a white bear again. It was extremely rare to see white bears in our part of the country. They were ice bears, isbjorn, that usually made their home in the snowy north.

  Watching for the child.

  The girl with purple eyes.

  Purple eyes.

  And her smiling mouth.

  Standing in the trees, watching her.

  The girl.

  Taller.

  Unafraid.

  She moves towards me.

  Purple eyes, trusting.

  Cannot.

  Not safe for her.

  Hunger.

  Hunger.

  Hunger.

  Must go.

  Quickly.

  To feed.

  Now.

  Then return.

  When Rose was five, she began to weave. The first thing she made was a belt with a crude design of a white bear. Those were her two passions: weaving (or sewing) and exploring with her imaginary white bear.

  Inside the house she could always be found weaving belts on her small, rigid heddle loom. When we had more belts than we could ever use (some of the farm animals even sported Rose’s belts), Mother taught Rose to work the household loom. By age eight Rose was her older sisters’ equal when it came to weaving.

  Then one day, taking a basketful of eggs to Widow Hautzig, Rose laid eyes on the widow’s loom. Widow Hautzig was a local craftswoman who had a small business weaving coats and rugs and various other items to sell both in nearby Andalsnes and to wandering merchants who would take them to fairs and markets farther afield. To Rose, who knew only our own rough one at home, the widow’s loom was large and impressive. It was twice as tall as Rose, and the wood was polished and carved with simple designs.

  Unfortunately, Widow Hautzig was a grouchy old woman with no patience at all for a small, wild girl desperate to learn all about her beautiful loom. More than anything in the world, Rose longed for a loom of her own, a fine big one like the widow’s. But she knew that was impossible, that Father would never be able to afford it. Still, Rose was stubborn, and she would not rest until she had found a way to get the Widow Hautzig to let her use her loom.

  When she was nine Rose found out that Widow Hautzig had a weakness for chanterelle mushrooms. So Rose trained her favourite dog, Snurri, to sniff out chanterelles in the forest. After much hard work she struck a deal: in exchange for a weekly basket of chanterelle mushrooms, Widow Hautzig would teach Rose how to work her loom. Though the lessons were short and very disagreeable (often Rose would come home in tears over some gibe of the widow’s), still Rose was a deter
mined pupil, and before long the baskets of chanterelles were being traded for a chance to actually do her own weaving on the loom.

  She could only do this during the very short breaks between Widow Hautzig’s own projects, some of which took a long time to complete. And Rose would have had no time at all on the loom were it not for Widow Hautzig’s rheumatism. When her rheumatism was acting up, the widow would take a long rest, sometimes even as much as a fortnight if it was a particularly bad bout.

  “Thank God for Widow Hautzig’s rheumatism,” Rose would say every night before bed. Mother once overheard her and scolded her, so Rose was careful to whisper those words to herself from then on.

  Even with Widow Hautzig’s rheumatism, Rose never could weave anything that required more than a few days’ work. Then, one day, as she was trying to discourage Snurri from digging under Widow Hautzig’s storage hut, Rose saw something through a crack in the woodwork of the hut. There were no windows in the hut, but it was not locked, and without asking permission, Rose entered the small building. The inside was cloaked with dust and cobwebs, but Rose barely noticed. Her eyes were riveted by a good-sized loom leaning against the far wall of the hut. The frame listed at a precarious angle; the warp beam and heddle rods were splintered; there appeared to be no crossbeam at all; and a tangle of decayed and unravelled warp thread sprouted from top and bottom, but Rose was not discouraged.

  It took Rose a long time and many baskets of chanterelles to convince Widow Hautzig to let her try her hand at fixing up the broken-down loom, which had been the castoff of an old aunt of the widow’s. In return the widow made Rose clean the filthy old storage hut until it was spotless.

  Rose then cajoled Father and me, as well as Willem, to help her repair the loom. Widow Hautzig offered no assistance, and even insisted that it not be removed from her property. She also complained unceasingly of the small amount of noise we made, hammering and sanding and such.

  I was appalled when Widow Hautzig did not give Rose the loom outright, since she had no use for it herself. What rankled even more was that the nasty woman even continued to demand chanterelle fees for the use of the loom we repaired, and made Rose work in that windowless, unheated hut.