East

Neddy

IT WAS NEARING TWILIGHT when we finished with the fence. I bade good evening to Torsk and watched for a moment as the big man shambled away. He was a good soul. I could not help but wonder what he would say if I told him that six days before a white bear had come into our great room and asked to take Rose away in exchange for Sara's restored health and a life of ease. I could picture Torsk's expression, a sort of gentle bewilderment; then he would smile and say, "One of your stories, is it, Master Ned?"

It sounded like a story, one murmured by the fireside to an audience of wide-eyed children on a winter night. One of the old tales, of Loki, shape-shifted into a white bear, demanding the life of one maiden to buy eternal happiness for Midgard, the land of the humans. It was not the kind of thing that truly happened in ordinary life. For all that I loved the old tales of magic, I did not actually want there to be talking animals and mysterious requests on storm-tossed nights. Such things were for stories and ought to remain there.

During those six days I tried very hard to convince myself that it had not happened. That we had all had some sort of collective dream. It could have been that way. It was no stranger a notion than what had actually unfolded in our great room.

But I knew it had happened. And that the next day the white bear would return.

Though we had not spoken together alone since that night, I had been watching Rose and suspected that she was still planning to go with the bear. The thought of her leaving filled me with an overpowering ache, and I vowed to myself that I would not let her go—no matter what.

As I rounded the bend to our farmhold, I was surprised to see Rose coming toward me. The air was cold, and yet I noticed she was carrying her cloak instead of wearing it. I felt a tremor of alarm. As she drew nearer I could see she was very pale, and there was a wildness about her eyes. At first I thought she had been crying but could see no trace of tears.

"Rose, what is it? What has happened?" I queried, fearing that Sara might have gotten worse.

Rose was staring at me strangely, as if trying to read something in my face.

Abruptly she took her cloak in her hands, and as she had done on that day that now seemed so long ago, she shook it out, splaying it wide. The afternoon was still and cold, and the wind did not catch the cloak as before. Carefully she spread it out on the ground, then looked up at me again.

"Rose?"

Still she did not speak.

"You're shivering. Why do you not put the cloak on?"

"Did you know?" she asked, her voice higher than usual.

"Know what?"

"The lie? 'The lie of Rose's birth.' The lie in there." She jabbed a finger toward the cloak.

I stared back at her, bewildered.

"The lie, Neddy. I was born for Elise. East. But I am Nyamh." She said the name defiantly.

I still did not understand, although some glimmer of the truth was beginning to dawn on me.

"I am north, Neddy, not east. A true north." And she knelt and pointed to the white cloud at the north of the wind rose in her cloak. "A white bear for north," she said.

So she had learned the truth at last. A truth that I had guessed at a long time before.

She read it in my face. "You knew! Didn't you, Neddy?"

I was silent a moment. Then I nodded. I saw tears come into her eyes, though she blinked them away angrily.

"At least ... I didn't truly know," I said quickly. "I guessed."

"Why did you say nothing?"

"Because ... it was only a guess, and I..." How could I explain that I felt the same way as Mother? I did not want Rose to be a north if it meant she would always be going away.

Her eyes suddenly blazed. "I do not know you, any of you." And to my horror she grabbed up her cloak, and using her teeth to make the first tear, she savagely tore it in two. Then she took each of the two halves and ripped them again.

"North, south, east, west," she chanted, "who's the one you love the best?..." She tossed the ruined cloak at me and stalked away.

I picked up the torn pieces and followed after her.

"Rosie!" I called. "Please wait."

She slowed. I put a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I thought I must be wrong. I could not imagine Mother and Father lying about such a thing."

She turned and I pulled her to me, holding her close. She was trembling so violently that I took off my own coat and wrapped it around her. "It's all right," I murmured. Gradually her shaking lessened.

Then she looked up at me and said, "I mean to go with the white bear, Neddy."

"No," I said sharply. "You cannot."

"You won't change my mind," she said. "Perhaps it was always my destiny." She pointed to the topmost piece of torn cloak that I carried. It was the section with the design of the white bear.

I stared at the white shape. "You must not go," I said. "Father will not allow it," I added somewhat lamely.

"He cannot stop me."

"Please do not set your mind on it, Rose. Not yet. Maybe Sara will be better in the morning."

Rose was silent, then nodded. "I will think on it. But in exchange you must promise me, Neddy, that you will not tell Father that I have learned the truth. Nor tell him that I am thinking of going with the white bear."

Clutching at these small shreds of hope, I agreed.

When we returned it was almost suppertime and everyone was busy. No one noticed that Rose wore my coat and that I carried the four pieces of her cloak. Silently I offered Rose the pile of fabric, but she shook her head and, handing me my coat, went to help with the meal. Not certain what else to do, I stuffed the pieces into my coat pockets.

That evening Father broke his silence about the white bear.

"Tomorrow we will do as we always do," he said, "but in the evening only I will stay to give the bear his answer. The rest of you will go to neighbor Torsk's farmhold. We will think of some reason to tell Torsk, perhaps repair work that I must do on my own, work that would disturb Sara. And you will all stay with Torsk until I come for you."

Several voices spoke at once, objecting to this plan. Mother felt strongly that both she and Rose should be with Father when the bear came. And Willem and I both insisted that we should be there, in case the animal should attack.

Then Rose spoke out, her voice quiet and firm. "I must stay with you, Father."

"No," Father said, his own voice just as firm. "I will not allow it."

"The white bear may require an answer from me."

"She is right, Arne," Mother put in.

"No," he said again.

Rose took a breath, spots of color in her cheeks. "If I am not here when the white bear comes," she said calmly, "is it not possible that he may come to neighbor Torsk's, putting him in danger as well?"

Father shook his head, but I could see doubt come into his eyes. There was silence for a few moments and then finally he said, "Very well. You may stay."

"Let me stay, too, Father," I said quickly.

He nodded curtly. I wondered if he, too, feared what Rose might do and wanted two of us there to stop her should the worst occur.

"You must arm yourselves, at least," my brother Willem said.

Father nodded agreement. "Although, in truth, I do not believe the bear will harm us," he said. "Nor do I think he would take Rose by force. If that were his aim he would have done it when first he came."

I had been watching Rose closely, especially when she told Father that she must stay with him, to give the bear her answer. I had never known Rose to lie, especially to Father. It kindled in me the hope that she had reconsidered and would not go with the white bear. But then I remembered the lie Father told Rose, and her anger, and I was no longer sure of anything.