Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow Page 11

  Every morning after breakfast she would write to her father and Hans Peter, and they would write back. That morning when she opened the book, there was already a message waiting for her, this time from Jorunn.

  Dear sister, it said, I am sorry to tell you this, but Father has been badly hurt.

  The lass gasped, and held the book closer to her eyes, as though that would help her read faster:

  Yesterday the tree he was cutting fell on him. His right leg and arm were badly crushed. He was close to Haraldson’s farm; their eldest boy found him. The doctor here could do little, so Hans Peter took Father to Christiania. Father was already feverish. I wanted to go, but am too close to delivering this babe. Tordis and her husband came in their sleigh and she went on with them.

  I know you cannot come, but I wanted you to know so that you might pray for Father.

  All my love,

  Jorunn

  Numb, the young lass just sat at her elegant little writing desk for a while. Eventually, Rollo woke up from his morning nap and came over to ask what news had come. It wasn’t until he put his wet nose into her empty palm that she started and looked at him.

  “I think Father is dying,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She swallowed, then choked and coughed and began to sob. “Father is dying!”

  She grabbed the little book and ran through the palace. She raced through the library, through the room filled with spinning wheels, the butter churn room, the great gallery full of tools and paintings and printing presses. As she ran she shouted.

  “Isbjørn! Isbjørn!” She felt stupid, yelling this way. It had never seemed strange to her that the white bear did not have a name—after all, she hadn’t told him hers—but now she felt a pang at never having inquired. “Isbjørn! Isbjørn!”

  “What is it?” He was running toward her down a long corridor, lined with unused bedchambers.

  Eyes and nose streaming, out of breath, she held up the little book, not caring how foolish she looked. “My father is dying,” she sobbed.

  The isbjørn squinted at Jorunn’s cramped handwriting and then sat back on his haunches. He looked up at the painting hanging on the wall above them—some creatures with horse legs and human torsos cavorting—and then down at her creased and bunched skirts of blue velvet.

  “I have to go home,” she sobbed.

  “You cannot.”

  “Please,” she begged. She reached up and clutched at the fur of his neck, forcing him to look at her. “Please. I will come back. I need only to see him.”

  He gave one of those sad, growling moans of his, that almost sounded like a cow lowing. “You will come back?”

  “Yes, if you still want me.”

  “I need you,” he said. “I will take you to your family today, but you must promise to come back. You must live here one year.”

  “Yes, of course.” She pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and mopped up her face. “Thank you so much, thank you!”

  “You must promise me something else,” the bear said, his voice heavy.

  “Anything!”

  “Promise me that you will not tell anyone the secrets of the palace.”

  “What?” The lass stopped blowing her nose to stare. She hadn’t thought that he knew about her discoveries. “You mean about the tr—”

  “Hush! Do not speak of any of our secrets. To anyone.”

  “All right.” She scrambled to her feet, feeling much better now that she knew she would be seeing her family soon. “I’ll go pack.” And she all but ran to her rooms.

  Rollo came in a few minutes later. “Where have you been?” he panted.

  “Talking to the isbjørn. Where have you been?”

  With a loud rip, she tore the skirt of an ugly yellow dress free of its bodice. Then she laid the skirt on the bed and began placing gowns and shifts on it. Her old knapsack was not large enough to hold her new clothes, and she refused to go to Christiania looking shabby.

  “I was looking for the isbjørn as well,” Rollo huffed. “I found Mrs. Grey instead. Then the bear roared down to the kitchens that we were going to Christiania, so I came here to tell you.”

  “I know; I’m trying to pack.” She added some shoes to her pile.

  “Here, my lady.” Mrs. Grey came in, holding a large leather knapsack.

  “Oh.” She looked down at the dress she had just ruined. “Thank you, Mrs. Grey.” The lass changed into her old trousers and the white parka while the gargoyle repacked the lass’s things and put them into the knapsack.

  In less than an hour she and the isbjørn were on their way across the snow plain, Rollo hard on their heels. The sun was so bright on the gleaming snow that the lass pulled the hood of the parka down over her eyes and buried her face in the bear’s fur. She dozed as they ran across the snow plain and into the forest. Less frightened and confused by this journey, she was able to see more of the landscape through which they traveled. They ran over hills and across frozen fjords. Night fell as they were running up the side of a mountain, and when the lass woke, the mountain was far behind them. She didn’t remember this from their first journey, and sat up as much as she could on the bear’s back.

  “Where are we?” She had to shout for the sound to carry up to his ear.

  “In the North,” he called back.

  “This is not how we came before,” she shouted.

  “We are going southwest, to Christiania,” he said.

  Then he lowered his head and ran even faster through the foothills, dodging trees and boulders. Rollo scampered beside them, hardly even panting. The lass had to duck to avoid being struck by a tree branch.

  In this fashion they continued on for another day, stopping only once to eat the food the salamanders had packed. By nightfall of the second day, they had reached the outskirts of the great city of Christiania, where the isbjørn had to leave the lass and Rollo.

  “Christiania is no place for a snow bear, I suppose,” the lass said, trying to sound cheerful. She was anxious about her father, but she also felt a pang at leaving the isbjørn.

  “No,” he said. His speech had become slower and more labored the farther they got from the ice palace. “Remember promises.”

  “Yes: I shall be with my family for only five days, and then I will meet you here to return to the castle,” she said. It was an awfully short visit, but the isbjørn was insistent that she not stay one day longer.

  “And?”

  “And I shall not speak of any of our secrets,” she added. Then she reached out and laid a hand on his head, a lump rising in her throat. “Be safe. Don’t let anyone see you.”

  “Won’t.”

  She blinked back sudden moisture in her eyes and turned away. “Come, Rollo.” They hurried out of the little copse of trees that concealed them and onto the road that led to the city. “We’ll be back in five days,” she called back to the bear.

  The bear gave a roar in answer, and the lass saw a flash of gleaming white as he turned and loped off into the deeper forest. “Just five days, and then we’ll be back home—I mean, at the ice palace,” she said to herself.

  “Do you know how to get to Askeladden’s house?” Rollo’s nails clicked on the hard paving of the road.

  “No, but once we get into the city, we’ll just have to ask,” the lass said, hiking her huge pack up higher on her back. “Surely someone will know where the king’s hunter lives.”

  Rollo just grunted in a skeptical way. With the isbjørn’s influence fading, he was panting more and his head hung low. “Just as long as it’s close,” he said.

  “Stop complaining,” she told him. “In an hour or so, we’ll be sitting in front of a warm fire with Father and Hans Peter, just like old times.”

  “Or so we hope,” Rollo muttered.

  The lass didn’t ask about his dire statement. She felt strange too. It wouldn’t be just like old times. Her father was injured, perhaps dying. She knew some of Hans Peter’s secrets, and the family’s fortunes had drastically changed
.

  All because of a bear.

  Chapter 17

  It was nearly dawn before they found Askeladden’s house. The streets of Christiania were confusing to someone who had never seen a village of more than fifty inhabitants. And since it was the dead of night, there was no one from whom they could get directions.

  Finally they made their way to the gates of the palace itself. The human palace was square and made of warm yellow stones that looked friendly even in the dim light of the torches placed around the outside. A fatherly vaktmann inquired as to her business, and she said she was looking for the home of Askeladden Jarlson.

  “Oh, the king’s hunter? Are you one of his many sisters?” The man laughed kindly. “Just down the road there, that big gray stone house,” he said.

  The lass’s head reeled a little. Askel lived in a big gray stone house? Just “down the road” from the palace of the king? She glanced down at Rollo, who looked startled as well.

  “Thank you,” she told the man when she had recovered.

  When she got to the house she was sure there was some mistake. It was such a grand house, with a slate roof and rich curtains covering all the windows. A fine carriage with a pair of matched bays stood in front of the house, and the servant holding the reins looked at her curiously.

  Feigning confidence for the sake of the man watching her, the lass raised her hand and knocked loudly on the door. Almost before she unclenched her fist, the door was flung wide.

  A young man stood there in a wash of bright light. He was wearing a nightshirt half tucked into green trousers. “Are you the nurse?”

  She goggled at him. “Einar?”

  “Pika?” Her next-oldest brother rushed to embrace her. “I can’t believe you’re here! I thought that isbjørn had eaten you!” He squeezed her hard and then turned to thump Rollo’s ribs, which the wolf bore with dignity.

  “No, no,” she wheezed, breathless. “I’m fine! But how is Father?”

  Einar pulled back, his face tightening. He looked less the young man now and more the boy she had seen last. “He’s bad. The doctor is still with him. Askel called in the king’s own physician.” His voice was awed. “And now he’s sent for a private nurse, too. I thought that’s who you were.”

  “I heard.” She forced herself to laugh. “Can I—can I see him?”

  “Of course! Tordis is here. And Hans Peter. We’ve sent word to the others, but I don’t know when it will reach them.” Einar led her across the high-ceilinged entrance hall to a broad, curving staircase of polished wood. Then he stopped. “Oh,” he said, dismayed. “I’m supposed to wait at the door for the nurse.”

  “It’s all right. I found my way this far.”

  “The first room at the top of the stairs, on your right,” Einar said. Then he gave her shoulders another quick squeeze and went back to his post.

  With Rollo padding along beside her, the lass went up the stairs, her heart in her throat. There was a gorgeous rose-patterned carpet to muffle their steps, and at the top of the staircase stood a small table holding a vase of Oriental design. The lass wasn’t sure which was more alarming: that her brother Askeladden lived here, or that the door just beside the small table concealed her injured father.

  Mustering even more courage than she had needed before, she knocked softly on the bedroom door. Her knock pushed the door open, for it had not been properly latched. The scene within the room was much as she had expected: her mother, her sister Tordis, her three eldest brothers, all gathered around a bed where her father, pale and swathed in paler bandages, lay. A storklike man dressed in black leaned over him: the doctor.

  “Hello?” The lass clutched at Rollo’s ruff for support.

  All eyes turned to her, even the bleary eyes of her father. For a moment, no one reacted. Then it was as if the room exploded.

  “Lass!”

  “Sister!”

  “Daughter!”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Silence, all of you!” This last came from the physician. “Master Oskarson needs quiet!”

  Hans Peter reached the lass first, hugging her tightly. Then Tordis, followed by Torst. Askel did not embrace her, but stood with his hands in the pockets of his fine breeches.

  “It’s all right, Dr. Olafson. This is my youngest sister,” he said in a pompous voice.

  Their mother did not embrace the lass, either. She stood behind Askeladden, playing with the long silk fringe of the shawl she wore.

  “Daughter.” Jarl reached out his good hand.

  The lass moved slowly toward him. As she went, the warmth of the room made sweat break out on her forehead, and she cast aside the white parka.

  Jarl’s right arm was splinted and swathed in bandages. The blankets had been folded away from his right leg, which was splinted and wrapped in even more white linen. Both his eyes looked swollen, and there was a massive bruise on his left cheek. The girl knelt beside the bed and reached out to clasp his good hand.

  “Father, I’m so sorry,” she said with a sob in her throat.

  “It wasn’t your fault, my daughter,” he said, his voice weak, and gave her hand a little squeeze.

  She shook her head. She had a horrible feeling that this had something to do with her situation. Not for nothing was bad fortune called “troll-luck” in the North.

  “Yes, well...” The physician cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “When the nurse arrives, I shall give her the medicines for the pain and fever. She will know what to do.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Olafson,” Askeladden said. He stepped forward and shook the physician’s hand. “I will show you out.”

  The lass couldn’t help but stare after her brother. He was so polished, so polite, it was eerie. Seeing her expression, Hans Peter gave a barking laugh.

  “As you see, Askel has found his place in the world,” he said in his dry way.

  “And a good thing he has,” their mother said severely. “Where would your poor father be, if Askeladden was not able to call upon the king’s own physician?”

  Bowing his head, Hans Peter said nothing. Their mother turned on the lass.

  “Have you broken your word?” Frida’s face was stiff, but the lass thought she saw a hint of fear in her mother’s eyes.

  Momentarily confused, she blinked, then shook her head. “No, the isbjørn brought me to the city so that I could be with Father. I have to go back in a few days.”

  Frida nodded curtly. “See that you do.”

  The light dawned on her youngest daughter. Frida was afraid if the lass broke her word to the bear, their newly acquired wealth would be taken away.

  “Such a short visit,” Jarl muttered. Then he slipped into sleep.

  His youngest daughter watched, fearful, until she saw his chest rise and fall in the rhythm of natural sleep. Then she loosened the hand she still clasped and pulled the blankets over it.

  “The physician gave him medicine to ease his pain,” Tordis told her, coming to stand by her side. She put an arm around the lass’s shoulders. “He said it would make him sleep.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Of course he’ll be all right,” Torst said, his voice gruff. His face was as white and strained as everyone else’s, but now he mustered a grin. “He just has to rest. That’s what the doctor said.”

  But Hans Peter was frowning. “We should let him sleep,” he said abruptly, picking up his parka and heading out the door.

  Frida and Torst followed him, but Tordis and the lass stayed by their father. A few minutes later, an efficient-looking woman with gray braids wrapped around her head and a long apron came in. She smiled at the two girls as she felt their father’s wrist for a pulse.

  “Are you the nurse?” Tordis whispered.

  The woman nodded and put her finger to her lips. Exchanging looks, the lass and Tordis slipped out of the room.

  Still hushed from the sickroom, the two sisters made their way down the wide staircase in silence. Tordis led the way into a si
tting room where the rest of the family was gathered.

  The lass sat on a sofa beside Tordis and accepted a cup of tea and a slice of bread and cheese. She surveyed the room, which was luxuriously furnished, and then her family. Tordis looked much the same, in clothes that she had made herself, brightly colored and fancifully cut. Hans Peter was dressed in heavy, simple wool clothing, as usual, but there were no patches or frayed cuffs. Askel, Torst, Frida, and Einar were all in fine city clothes, though somewhat disheveled.

  “Will Father be all right?” This time it was Einar who asked the dreaded question.

  “Of course he will,” Askeladden said with false heartiness. He took too large a gulp of coffee and choked. Torst pounded him on the back.

  “It will be a miracle if your father ever walks again,” Frida said. “He won’t lose his arm, but his hand may be of no use. Praise the skies that Askeladden is able to provide for us. At least one of my children was not a waste,” she sniffed.

  “Father has sufficient means to care for himself,” Hans Peter said. He was still clutching the white parka in his hands. With one thumb he rubbed the blue ribbon that ran down the sleeve, and the lass wondered if he had noticed that it had been taken off and then reattached. “Of course, we had to sacrifice our youngest to an enchantment to get where we are. But I’m sure it was all worth it.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “Yes, it was.” The lass put her chin up and spoke the words firmly. “Father will survive this accident. He will be treated by the best doctors and cared for by a professional nurse. Askel and Mother have a comfortable home—”

  “You shall have one, too,” Askel interrupted her. “When you come back for good, you can come here.”

  She knew how much it cost Askel to be generous, so the lass smiled at her brother, and thanked him.

  “If I hadn’t gone with the isbjørn,” she continued, “we would all still be huddled in a little cottage with a leaky roof. And when Father had his accident, we would have been caring for him ourselves in front of the kitchen fire.” She finished this with a curt nod, and took a sip of her now-cool tea.

  “You’re assuming that Father would have had this accident if the isbjørn had never come to us,” Hans Peter said, voicing the lass’s fears. “I’m going to get some sleep.” He stalked out of the room.