East

Neddy

ROSE WAS DIFFERENT FROM the rest of us.

Her eyes were not blue like ours but a striking purple that looks black in some lights. She was small and stocky, with gleaming hair the color 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 toward 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 knelt 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.