by Edith Pattou
Then I looked down at my chest, and I was no longer sporting the handsome jacket I had been wearing that evening but instead a soft white shirt. I noticed there was a stain on the front of it and I was embarrassed, thinking I had spilled on myself during the banquet. I thought I would make an excuse so that I could go and change my shirt, but when I looked up into the girl’s face to tell her I must stop dancing, I saw an unspeakable sadness in those dark eyes.
And then I woke up. There were tears on my face.
Absently I brushed at the wetness with my hand, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I remembered the shirt I had been wearing when I first came to the ice palace. In a daze I rose and crossed to my chest of drawers. At the back of the bottom drawer was a white shirt. It had a silver brooch of a flauto at the neck, and as I shook the shirt out, I saw that it had a stain on the front.
In wonderment I placed my finger on the stain. It was hard. Like dried tallow. My thoughts heaved. Suddenly I saw the girl, the girl in the moon dress, only her face was different. She was leaning over me, in a small golden circle of light. Then I felt a pain, a burning on my skin. But that was all; I could remember no more. I let out a groan, pressing my face into the white shirt. It smelled of soap and candle wax.
There was a light knock at the door to my room.
“Yes?” I said, quickly stuffing the shirt back into the drawer.
My queen entered. “You are still awake?” she said, curious.
“I was just a little restless,” I replied.
“Have you had a nightmare?” she asked.
“No,” I said evenly, thinking of the happiness in the dream. No, it was not a nightmare.
“Some slank will help you rest,” she said, making a move towards the door.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I had it earlier. I am fine.”
“Very well.” She crossed to me then and looked into my eyes. I kept my thoughts concentrated on her, on her beauty, her goodness to me, my queen who in a day would be my wife.
We embraced. And then she left the room.
I reopened the chest of drawers. I took out the white shirt, crossed to my flauto case, opened it, and wrapped the instrument in the soft white fabric of the shirt. Then I closed the case and returned to my bed.
Kentta murha. The freezing field, or killing field, for that is what I came to know the words to mean.
This was where they brought the softskins who had outlived their usefulness.
It was like some horrible outdoor sculpture garden. Stiffened bodies, naked, frozen in all different positions, scattered across the wide valley. It had not snowed in some time, at least not since the most recent arrivals, and in the blazing light from the sky, I could see several faces that were familiar to me. The young girl with the cough that hadn’t gone away. The elderly man who had lived on my corridor, who shuffled off every morning to his job in the dishwashing room.
The trolls took them out there, stripped them of their protective clothing, and then left them to freeze to death. It was cruel and barbaric, and I was filled with a bottomless rage at those monsters, those trolls. I shuddered to think how many bodies lay stacked up under the layers of ice and snow.
Human beings, taken from their families, their villages, the lives they knew. Then filled with poison that erased that which made them human but kept their bodies useful. And when their bodies were no longer useful, they were cast off in this forsaken place, to die.
At least it would be a quick death, I told myself. But that fact did not take away my rage.
Suddenly I thought of him, of the man who had been a white bear. Would he someday end up here, at kentta murha, when he had outlived his usefulness to the Troll Queen?
And then, with a sudden and intense certainty, I knew that the man I had come to know inside the skin of a white bear was not a man who could ever truly care for a creature who was capable of such cruelty. If he felt affection for the Troll Queen it was born of poisoned slank and of ignorance. He did not know of kentta murha. He could not.
And just as suddenly, it did not matter whether the man cared for me or I for him. The only thing that mattered was giving him his life back, as well as helping all the softskins whose lives had been stolen by the trolls.
I mounted Vaettur again, and we made our way up the slope to head back to the ice palace. I snuck in a back stable entrance, gave Vaettur a bag of oats, and then returned to the servants’ quarters. The door to my room was shut, along with all the other doors lining the hall. I pulled open the heavy door and entered. I took off my coat, first removing the troll mask from a pocket and straightening and reforming it as best I could. Then, still wearing the moon dress, I slipped under the pile of fur-skins. I lay there, trying to make plans, to figure out what I must do, but I was too exhausted even to think. My eyelids closed.
When I awoke the next morning the door was still shut. Through the murky translucent walls I could tell the sun had climbed up fairly high in the sky. The wedding was to take place when the sun was directly above. The morning troll with his cart of slank was late.
Suddenly I remembered the tail end of a conversation between two trolls I had overheard the day before. I had only understood the words “no softskins” and “wedding”, and had thought that it meant that the Troll Queen did not want softskins present at her wedding. I had assumed we’d still be working behind the scenes. But the truth was clear now. We were to be kept shut up in our quarters until after the wedding.
I got out of my bed. Before putting on my coat, I gazed down at the moon dress. Despite my having slept in it, it looked as fresh and unwrinkled as it had the night before. I straightened my hair, put on the pearly shoes, and attached the mask to my face.
Placing one shoulder against the door, I pushed. Slowly the door opened. I stuck my head out, looking both ways down the hallway. It was deserted. Moving cautiously I made my way towards the palace. As I travelled that familiar path through the connecting passageways, I did not come across a single softskin or troll.
In fact, I did not see a living soul the entire way between the servants’ quarters and the banquet hall. The softskins were shut in their rooms, and the trolls, every single one of them, from servant to highborn, were attending their queen’s wedding.
I was still a short distance from the banquet hall when I heard the faint sound of music; not troll music but the lovely, clear notes of a flauto as it was meant to be played. The white bear was performing. I wondered how long he had been playing and when the wedding was due to begin. I quickened my pace, the haunting sound of the flauto beckoning me forwards. Then I recognized the melody as his favourite, “Estivale”, the one I had tried to play back in the white bear’s castle. For the first time I heard how truly beautiful it was.
I entered by a side entrance, and the few who noticed did not give me a second glance. They were too entranced by the music. The vast room was packed with trolls. And above I saw that lining the walls were several layers of balconies – which, because they were made of the same translucent ice as the walls, I had not noticed the night before. The balconies were full of trolls in brightly coloured clothing. The light from the sun shone through the ice, and the refraction caused shimmers of rainbow colours to dance along the walls. It was not as spectacular as the northern lights of the night before but gentler, and perhaps even lovelier.
I made my way around the edge of the room, where trolls stood shoulder to shoulder. Movement was not easy, and many of them gazed at me with displeasure; luckily, I was small and could squeeze through the tight crowd. There was room only for standing in the rear and at the sides, but eventually I spotted rows of chairs in the front, nearest the dais and throne, in which the more important trolls were seated. Determined to get as close as possible, I took a deep breath and wiggled my way through until I came to a small bare patch of floor beside the chair of a large female troll who wore a wide-brimmed red hat covered with opulent trimmings. The hat shielded me from view, but I had an excellent vantage point f
rom which to watch what was going on.
When the white bear finished playing his song, there was a short silence. The Troll Queen stood and gazed sternly out over her people. And then, with a great swelling noise, the trolls began to shout and stamp their feet. The floor beneath me shook. Had I not been familiar with troll language and ways after living among them for so long, I wouldn’t have known they were showing approval. But they were, and the noise grew and grew. I could tell the Troll Queen was very pleased. A wide triumphant smile curved her red lips.
I couldn’t see the white bear-man’s face well, but what I could see was unreadable, his features still and resolute.
My people gave Myk a great ovation when he finished playing his flauto. As I knew they would. He has won them over and shall be a well-loved king.
Taking our places for the wedding ceremony, we stood facing my people, Tuki at Myk’s side and Urda beside me. I opened my mouth to begin the words of binding, when suddenly Myk stepped forwards, turning to face me. He got down on one knee and gazed up at me. This was not at all the order of events. I had gone over these with him many times and wondered if he had gotten confused.
“I have a very great favour to ask of you, my queen,” he said loudly.
“Of course. What is it?” I replied. I heard a very faint murmuring from those trolls sitting in the rows closest to the front.
“There is an old custom in the land I come from,” Myk said. “Will you humour me and allow me to ask you a question, before we say the words of binding?”
His words puzzled me. This must be from some old memory of his homeland that had suddenly returned. I did not understand why this should be happening now. But I smiled at Myk. “You may ask me anything,” I said.
“Thank you, my queen,” he replied. “In the land I come from, the question is asked so that a man may know if his intended bride will be a good wife to him. If she will care for him and the home they will share.”
I nodded.
“Will you wash a piece of clothing for me, my queen?”
Wash a piece of clothing? I stared at him. What sort of strange, outlandish custom is this? I thought. It was irksome that he should have had this returned memory, now of all times. Probably some softskin servant triggered it. It is settled then – I shall get rid of all the softskin servants as soon as possible. They are more trouble than they are worth.
“My queen? Will you grant my request?”
The murmuring grew louder. My people knew this was out of the ordinary. They were waiting for my response. Myk’s eyes were on me, too.
“Yes, Myk. I will honour this tradition of your land, and after I have done it, then we will proceed.” It was annoying, but the proposition was a simple one. With my arts I could wash anything clean.
“Then you agree to honour my tradition – I shall marry the one who washes a garment of my choosing.”
All eyes were on us. Tuki let out a little squeaking sound. His pathetic eyes shone with excitement. It was then I felt the first glimmer of unease. I did not see how Myk should have memories of wedding traditions of his homeland when he drank the slank every day. But I could not back down, not with my people watching. It would make me look weak. And I could not back down because of the foolish rules my father had imposed on me.
“I agree, Myk.” After all, it was a small request, insignificant, one easily done.
Myk got to his feet and crossed to his flauto case. From it he withdrew a white bundle of cloth and carried it to me.
Gesturing at Tuki I said, “Bring me water and soap.”
Tuki nodded eagerly and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
As we waited Myk again kneeled in front of me, taking my hand and looking up at me. “You are patient and kind, my queen, to indulge me in this tradition of my homeland.”
I was reassured by his words and by the warmth in his voice. And yet there was something about him, I noticed suddenly, something different.
Tuki returned and handed Myk a bucket that was filled with warm water. Myk brought it to me.
I shook out the white cloth and held it up. It was a shirt with a dull grey stain on the front. Where had Myk gotten this shirt? I wondered. Something was not right. But there could be no trick, no deception. The slank had never failed.
I took the bucket of water from Tuki and a bar of white soap he also handed me. I did not want to kneel over the bucket – that would not do – so I ordered a table brought. I set the bucket on the table.
“In the country of your future king,” I said to my people, speaking loudly and with dignity, “they have a ritual before binding, and it is to honour him that I cleanse the shirt.”
I dipped the shirt in the water, rubbed the stain with the soap, working it in until the fabric was covered with suds. In truth, I had never washed cloth in my life, for that is servants’ work, but I had seen it done. The stained part was hard against my fingers, which puzzled me. But I concentrated, felt the tingling of power in my fingertips. Then I rinsed the shirt. Holding it up so the stain faced me, I saw that instead of fading away, the stain was, if anything, larger and darker than before.
Something bubbled in my brain. This was not right. It cannot be.
Calling on my arts, I immersed the cloth again. The soap churned white in the water; the surface of the soapy liquid swirled and foamed. Iridescent bubbles fizzed up into the air. All eyes were on me as once again I lifted the shirt from the water.
The stain had blackened, hardened. I let out a cry of rage. This could not be happening. Was it some sorcery? One of the southern trolls seeking to undo me? But why? My eyes found Myk. He was not looking at me but at someone walking towards him, wearing a dress that resembled the moon. I had seen it before… She stepped forwards.
“May I try to wash the shirt?” she said.
Then I knew. She wore a mask, but it was her. The softskin girl. She had come for my Myk. It was impossible. Yet there she stood, her face hidden by the mask, but her eyes filled with the most provoking bravery. Did she not know I could destroy her with little more than a thought?
I should have done so, right then, but everyone was watching, and it would have looked like weakness to refuse. If I with my arts had failed to clean the shirt, then so would she. Myk must see her fail once again. There would be ample time to destroy her after she had been defeated.
I saw Tuki cross to the softskin girl. She said a few words to him, and nodding eagerly, he darted away. Urda was speaking to me, buzzing in my ear, asking who the troll girl in the moon dress was. I told Urda she was a fool – this was no troll. Did she not recognize the softskin girl whom she had waited on in the castle? Urda recoiled, muttering under her breath.
I stared at Myk. His face was unreadable. Had he planned this? With Tuki? I could not believe it of him. Myk was mine, body and soul.
Tuki returned with several pieces of kindling, a large stone tile, a bar of white soap like the one I had used, and an iron pot with water in it. He gave these to the softskin girl. Urda ran to Tuki, taking him by the arm and hissing at him. He merely smiled at her, shaking her hand off gently, then gestured towards the softskin girl.
My people had been murmuring during Tuki’s absence, but all grew quiet as we watched the softskin girl stack the kindling on the stone tile, light it with a striker Tuki had also brought her, and set the pot of water atop it.
I made the shirt. I spun the thread from sheep’s wool and white-bear fur. I wove the thread on the loom. I stitched the cloth into a shirt that fitted the man who had been a white bear.
And I knew the way to remove tallow from fabric.
But the Troll Queen, with all her arts, had been unable to remove the stain. Was there really any hope that I should succeed?
I held the cloth in my hand, remembered well the feel of it in my hands as I folded it every morning and laid it on his side of the bed in the castle. And also the feel of it, wet and soapy, the many times I had washed it.
I dipped the shirt into t
he hot water, pulled it back out, then worked soap around and onto the stained, stiff area. When the water was boiling, I carefully lowered the shirt into it, then stirred the bubbling brew into a froth with a wooden stick Tuki had given me. I suddenly remembered the rhyme Estelle had taught me.
The old woman must stand at the tub, tub, tub,
The dirty clothes to rub, rub, rub;
But when they are clean, and fit to be seen,
She’ll dress like a lady and dance on the green.
After a few minutes had gone by, I used the stick to lift the shirt out of the water. It gleamed white, steaming in the cool air of the ice palace. There was no stain.
A murmur swelled from the trolls standing closest to the front, then it grew even louder, working its way around the enormous room and up into the balconies.
Before anyone could move, Tuki bounded across to me and said in troll language, with a loud voice, “It is Rose – Rose will marry the prince from the green lands!”
I looked up at the Troll Queen then, and the ferocious and baffled rage on her face was a terrible thing to see. Instinctively I dropped the steaming shirt on the ice floor and reached for Tuki, thinking somehow to protect him, but too late, too late.
I did not think. I wanted heat, destruction. First Tuki. Then her.
I called on the sun. White hot, searing, blistering. Sent through my fingers. Straight, like a shaft of blazing flame, into his body, Tuki’s body, obliterating him in an instant.
I heard Urda scream. My eyes were blinded by the heat and rage. I would kill Urda. I would kill them all. I rubbed my eyes.
Then I heard a deafening, rending explosion of sound. Beneath; below my feet. My eyes cleared and I looked down. Saw a jagged crack in the floor of my palace; followed it with my eyes to the place it began, the place I had sent the heat of the sun into Tuki.
