East

Rose

I FELL ASLEEP AGAIN on the red couch by the hearth. I must have been still tired from the long journey, as well as from the many hours I had spent at the magnificent loom.

When I awoke, my mouth felt sticky. Actually, I felt sticky all over; suddenly I could even smell the odor of seal on my skin. More than anything else in the world, I wanted a bath.

But I had no idea how to go about finding a place to bathe.

I didn't know where the food came from or who kept the lamps lit and the hearth fire going. Was it all magic? Or were there servants who disappeared when I came into sight?

The first thing to do was to find the kitchen. There had to be a kitchen. And where there was a kitchen, there would be water, and maybe even a large tub for bathing.

I once more set out to explore, this time with a purpose. As I roamed I began to form a map in my head. And what had appeared to be a confused labyrinth to me the day before began to take on a pattern. It took some time, but I finally figured out that there was a block of rooms on the second floor that did not seem to have corresponding rooms on the floor below. It might just have been the way the building had been cut into the mountain, but I decided to investigate further. Then I discovered a large heavy tapestry that covered one end of a first-floor hall. It depicted a nobleman in a red cloak offering a small red heart to a lady in a blue gown, with a crown of pearls on her head. I lifted up the heavy cloth and found a door. I tried the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it turned easily. Then I slipped through the doorway, finding myself in a spacious kitchen.

Standing at a worktable in the center of the kitchen, her hands covered with flour, was a woman. She was a head taller than me and wore a plain black dress, covered by a black apron with flour all over it. She had the whitest skin I had ever seen, almost as white as the flour. Her hair was the same bright white as her skin, and she wore it in a long braid down the back of her dress. She was not a young woman, yet she was quite beautiful. Her features were perfect, her eyes large and black and staring at me.

"Hello," I said.

She said something in response, but I couldn't understand her. She was speaking another language and her voice was rough and gravelly.

I must have looked startled, for she clamped her lips shut. Then I noticed what looked like a boy hiding behind her. He had the same kind of white-skinned beauty as the woman, though his hair was dark brown rather than white.

The woman said something to the boy in a whispering voice that sounded like chicken claws scratching over a rough surface. He crossed to a basket nearby and pulled out a pastry of some kind. Then he hesitantly came over and offered it to me.

"Thank you," I said, taking it. He was not a boy at all, I realized. He was only a little shorter than me and his features were those of an adult, and like the white-haired woman, he had a perfect nose and wide black eyes. He was staring at me even more intently than the woman had.

"My name is Rose," I said to the small man. He did not respond, nor did he take his eyes off me. Suddenly he reached out and touched the back of my hand. As he drew his hand back, with a sideways glance at the woman, his eyes grew even wider, if that was possible, and he rubbed the finger that had touched me, his expression filled with awe.

The woman glided over to us and gently slapped the man's hand, shaking her head and making more guttural sounds.

He sheepishly backed away.

"It's all right," I said. "He didn't hurt me."

The woman just shook her head at me. Then she picked up a glass and pointed to it.

"No, thank you," I said. "I'm not thirsty. What I would really like is a bath."

She just looked at me blankly.

I tried to pantomime washing myself but couldn't seem to get the idea across. The small man let out a grating noise that sounded like it may have been a giggle.

But finally something dawned in the woman's eyes and she purposefully strode over to me, took me by the wrist, and led me out through the door covered by the tapestry. The feel of her skin on my wrist startled me. It was rough, as gravelly and coarse as her voice had been. I glanced down at her hand; the texture of her skin was like the bark of a tree, whorled with ridges, fissured. I could make out traces of the flour lodged in the crevices of the white skin. Her touch repelled me, but I didn't let my feelings show.

To my relief she dropped my wrist when we were in the hallway. I understood I was to follow her.

She led me up the stairs and along the hall I had explored the day before. Stopping in front of a door not far from the weaving room, she turned the handle and we entered. It was a lovely room, not fancy but warm and comfortable. A fire burned in a large fireplace and there were several overstuffed chairs in front of it, but the first thing I noticed was the large, lovely bed made of dark polished wood. It was piled high with puffy quilts and pillows. And sitting beside the bed was the small pack I had brought with me from home.

I turned toward the white-skinned woman only to find she was gone.

I quickly explored the room, discovering a large jug of water, a bar of white soap, and a basin large enough for bathing. Using a large kettle I warmed the water over the fire and had the most wonderful bath I could ever remember having.

I dressed in a clean shift and tunic, and then sat in one of the chairs by the fire. I wanted to head directly back to the loom, but instead I made myself sit still and think.

I reviewed it all in my mind. The white bear appearing in our house. His request. The discovery of my parents' lie. The anger in me that drove me to go with the white bear. The journey. And this castle with its comforts, the fires lit all the time, the delicious food, the white-skinned woman and man. But mostly I thought about the white bear.

It was the white bear who had brought me. And I had no idea why, or what I was to da

Perhaps I had been brought here to be a servant, to help the white lady and her companion. But the room she had led me to, where my things were, was hardly the room of a servant. I thought of the loom. Perhaps I had been brought here to weave, to make something for the white bear. Something in particular. Clearly, no expense had been spared outfitting that room. But why me? Surely there were weavers of far superior skill in the world.

The loom. I wanted to see it again. But I continued to hold myself still. I needed to keep thinking.

Maybe the white bear had tried other weavers, but none had families so willing to part with them.

I suddenly felt impatient, and stood up. It was useless trying to sort out the inexplicable. Only the white bear knew the answers to these questions and it was to him I must go.

I exited the room, then hesitated. Where would I seek him? The only places I had seen him so far were the room with the food, the front entrance, and the hallway between the two.

I found my way to the front door. There was no one to be seen in any direction. Perhaps, I thought, I should try the door. It would undoubtedly be shut fast. It was.

My hand was still on the doorknob when I heard a noise, like a sigh or a puff of wind. I whirled around, but there was nothing, or no one, in sight.

He must be here somewhere.

And so I began an exhaustive search of the castle, room by room, hall by hall. I thought I had been over every inch of it but still discovered parts I had not seen before. When I came to the weaving room, I resisted the urge to stop my search, though the loom was as beautiful as I had remembered it.

I tried the door behind the tapestry, the one leading to the kitchen, but this time it was locked. I halfheartedly pounded on the door, but no one came. It seemed unlikely the white bear was in the kitchen, nor did I believe that I would get any help from the two white-skinned folk, so I resumed my search.

Finally, when it seemed I had been over the whole castle twice, I gave up. Nowhere was there a large white bear.

I was angry. What right had he to be wandering around the world outside while I was a prisoner? I realized I was being ridiculous, and it was lucky that I hadn't been able to find the white bear, for I could easily have said something stupid and gotten myself eaten.

I returned to the entrance, and though it was late, well past time for the midday meal, my stomach felt tight and I was not hungry for any of the good food that would surely be waiting for me in that room with the dark red couch. Then I thought of the loom, and this time I did not hesitate.

Once again my hands became a part of the warp and weft, and my body again found the rhythm of the picture I'd begun. It was a meadow not far from our farmhold; the spring-green grass was dotted with purple fleur-delis, and an impatient brook cut through the foreground. I believed it was the best work I had ever done. Then I heard a noise. This time when I turned, the white bear was lying on the rug not four feet from me, his black eyes watching.