The Snow Child Part 4

The next morning, he saw where tracks approached the stump, wove this way and that where the girl must have hidden behind a spruce tree, a bush. The biscuit remained on the stump.

That evening, he searched the cabin, looking for other possible bait. He picked up tins and opened boxes until Mabel finally asked what he was up to.

aNothing,a he mumbled, guilty with his lie. She would disapprove of his efforts, or make suggestions of her own, but he must do it his own way. As a youngster, he had never had a deer or wild bird come within reach when his friends were milling about.

More than that, talk of the child seemed to upset Mabel. She had some spirit these days and a brightness in her eyes that eased Jackas heart. The time she spent with Esther was good. But whenever they discussed the little girl, she became agitated. He often caught her looking out the window.

The same traits that as a young woman had made her so alluring now made her seem unwell. She was imaginative and quietly independent, but over the years this had settled into a grave melancholy that worried him. Until he knew more about this little girl and her situation, he felt it best to keep it under his hat.

When the sourdough biscuit, bits of peppermint candy from town, even a piece of one of Mabelas pies that Jack had pilfered, had all failed, he was at a loss for what to try next. He thought back to the scarf and mittens the girl had taken and wondered if she was cold and in need of more clothes. His brief glimpses of her made him doubt this. She seemed at home in the snow in her furs and wool.

Then, on a trip to town, he saw a miniature porcelain doll on a shelf in the general store. The doll had long, straight blond hair, not unlike the girlas, and it wore the brightly colored dress of a European villager, perhaps Swedish or Dutch. It was too much money for something so frivolous, but he ignored his conscience, bought it on credit, and hid it in his coat pocket. When he got home, he found he couldnat wait until the next morning, so although it was after dark, he took it with him when he went to feed and water the animals.

He brought the lantern from the barn and walked to the stump where the other offerings had gone untouched. He took the doll from his pocket. Maybe he and Mabel had truly lost their minds. Cabin fevera"wasnat that what Esther called it?

Jack raised his voice to the cold night and called out as gently as he could manage.

aThis is for you. Are you out there?a His voice was soft and croaky. He cleared his throat, and called out again.

aI donat know if youare out there or if you can hear me, but we want you to have this. Just something I picked up in town. Well, then, good night.a He hoped he might see her, or hear a birdsong from the trees, but there was only the cold and dark. He shifted from one foot to the other, shoved a hand into his coat pocket, and at last turned his back, leaving the porcelain doll propped in the snow on the stump.

When he returned to the cabin, Mabel had warmed water on the stove for him to wash. Steam rose as she poured the water into a basin. Jack took off his shirt, put a towel over his shoulders, splashed water onto his face, and soaped up his beard. Behind him he could hear Mabel bustling in the kitchen.

aOh,a she said quietly.

Jack brought his head up from the basin and wiped his face with the towel.

aWhat is it?a aThe window. Do you see?a As they watched, thick frost unfurled in feathers and swirls across the gla.s.s, slowly spreading from the center toward the corners. Lacy white vines grew in twists and loops and icy flowers blossomed. Within seconds the window that had been clear gla.s.s was covered in patterns of overlaying frost like fine etching.

aMaybe itas from the steam,a Mabel said in a near whisper. She pressed the palm of her hand against the gla.s.s, and her warm skin melted the ice. She curled a fist, rubbed a small circle in the center of the window, and looked through.

aOh. Oh,a she gasped and leaned closer.

aWhat, Mabel? What is it?a aItas her.a She turned, her hand at her throat. aHer little face, right there in our window. She had fur all around her head, like a wild animal.a aItas her hat. Her marten hat, with the flaps tied under her chin.a aBut sheas there now. Go look.a aShe runs fast, even on the snow,a he said, but Mabel was handing him his boots and coat and opening the door.

When he stepped outside, his wet beard and hair stiffened with ice. He walked around the side of the cabin but saw only what he expecteda"snow and trees and night. The child was gone.

The next morning Jack nearly stepped on the small basket outside their door.

aJack? Whatas that youa"a aIam not sure.a He set it on the table, and he and Mabel stood over it. It was made of birch bark, its seams crudely sewn with some kind of dried plant root. The basket fit perfectly in two cupped hands, and it was heaped with purple berries. Jack took one, rolled it between his finger and thumb, sniffed it, then put it to his tongue.

aOh, Jack, you donat know what it might be.a aItas a blueberry. Tastes like a blueberry.a She frowned, but he put one to her mouth and she hesitantly tasted it.

aYouare right. Theyare wild blueberries. Frozen like little marbles,a she said.

She sat at the table and touched the bark edges tentatively, as if the basket might break beneath her fingers. aWas it her?a she asked. aDid she bring these for us?a aI guess she knew we were having pancakes for breakfast,a Jack said. Mabel did not smile.

aIall get some wood for the fire,a he said.

Jack followed his old tracks past the woodpile to the stump at the edge of the forest. The doll was gone. The childas small footprints came toward the stump, went once around, and then straight back into the trees. Each track barely dented the snow, as if she weighed no more than a feather.

When he brought an armload of wood inside, Mabel was cooking pancakes. She dotted a few of the wild blueberries in each one, and they ate them at the table, the small basket between them. They did not talk about the child, not until the table was cleared and Jack was preparing to go back outdoors.

aIam going to haul some wood from the east field. Everyone says weall have a cold spell soon.a aHow can you?a Mabelas voice was hushed and trembling. aHow can you eat your breakfast and go into the day as if none of this has happened?a aItas winter, and we need firewood.a aSheas a child, Jack. You might not be able to admit it to the neighbors, but youave seen her, too. You know sheas out there.a He sighed. He finished lacing up his boots, and then went to Mabel and put his hands on her shoulders.

aWhat can we do?a aWe must do something.a aI just donat know whata. I think sheas all right.a Mabel narrowed her eyes. aHow can she be all right? A child, wandering around in the middle of winter?a aI think sheas warm. And she must know how to get food. Look at the berries, and that little basket. She knows her way out there, probably better than either of us.a aBut sheas just a child. A little girl.a He thought Mabel would cry, and he wanted to be anywhere else. It was wrong and cowardly, and head done it beforea"when Mabel lost the baby and shook with grief, when the relatives whispered harsh words, when the Bensons asked about the child in the woods. But it was like the need to take a breath. The urge was too strong, and without saying another word, Jack left the cabin.

CHAPTER 10.

Snowflakes and naked babies tumbled through her nights. She dreamed she was in the midst of a snowstorm. Snow fell and gusted around her. She held out her hands and snowflakes landed on her open palms. As they touched her skin, they melted into tiny, naked newborns, each wet baby no bigger than a fingernail. Then wind swept them away, once again just snowflakes among a flurry of thousands.

Some nights she woke herself with her own crying. Others, Jack gently shook her. aWake up, Mabel. Youare having a nightmare. Wake up.a In the light of day, her dreams were drained of their nightmarish quality, and they seemed whimsical and strange, but the taste of loss remained in her mouth. It was difficult to focus on her tasks, and she often drifted aimlessly through her own mind. A faint memory emerged again and againa"her father, a leather-bound fairy-tale book, a snow child alive in its pages. She couldnat clearly recall the story or more than a few of the ill.u.s.trations, and she began to worry over it, letting her thoughts touch it again and again. If there was such a book, could there be such a child? If an old man and woman conjured a little girl out of the snow and wilderness, what would she be to them? A daughter? A ghost?

She had sought reasonable explanations. She asked Esther about children who lived nearby. She urged Jack to inquire in town. But she had also taken note of those first boot prints in the snowa"they began at the vanished snow child and ran from there into the woods. No tracks came into the yard.

Then there was the frost that crystallized on the window as she and Jack had watched, and the snowstorm that had blown her back toward home when she found the dead bird. Most of all, there was the child herself, her face a mirror of the one Jack had sculpted in the snow, her eyes like ice itself. It was fantastical and impossible, but Mabel knew it was truea"she and Jack had formed her of snow and birch boughs and frosty wild gra.s.s. The truth awed her. Not only was the child a miracle, but she was their creation. One does not create a life and then abandon it to the wilderness.

A few days after the basket had appeared on their doorstep, Mabel decided to write to her sister, who still lived in the family home in Philadelphia. Perhaps the book was in the attic, along with the trunks of clothes and keepsakes that had acc.u.mulated there over the years. She sat down at the table, a loaf of bread baking in the oven, and was comforted by the act of writing. It gave her a rational purpose. Either the book was there or it wasnat, but if her sister found it and sent it to her, Mabel was certain it would be of consequence. The book would tell her the fate of the old man and woman, and the child they had borne of snow.

aDearest sister, I hope this letter finds you well. We are settling into winter here at the homestead,a she began.

She went on to describe the snow and mountains and their new friends the Bensons. She asked about her sisteras children, now grown, and the family home. Then, as casually as she could, she inquired about the book.

aDo you remember it, dear Ada? It was one of my favorites for some years of my childhood. I believe it was bound in blue leather, but I remember little of the storya"not even the t.i.tle. I am sure it is an impossible task I am asking of you, but trying to recall the details of the book has become such a distracting nuisance to my mind. Itas like having a personas name on the tip of your tongue, nearly remembered but not quite. I only hope by some chance you know the book I am thinking of, and better yet know where to find it in all that jumble of trunks in the attic.a Mabel also asked if her sister could send some new pencils, as she intended to pick up her former pastime and had only a few stubs in her drawing box.

She sealed the letter, set it aside, and went to the stove. She pulled the loaf of bread from the oven, thumped it softly to see if it was done, then slid it back into the heat. She glanced toward the window and saw Jack at the woodpile. And then she saw the little girl.

She stood in the trees just beyond. Jack hadnat noticed her. He had taken off his coat and was splitting log after log, swinging the heavy maul above his head and bringing it down with a loud crack into the wood. The girl watched and then crept closer, hiding behind a birch tree and peeking around it. She wore the same coat of blue wool trimmed in white fur. Beneath the coat, Mabel could now see, was a light blue flower-print dress that came to below her knees, and high boots or moccasins made of some kind of animal skin and fur.

Mabel paced at the window. Should she go to the door and call out to Jack, or wait until he saw the girl himself? She was so near she hated to frighten her away. Then she saw Jack raise his head and look at the girl. The child was less than a dozen yards from him. Mabel held her breath. She could see Jack speaking but couldnat hear his words. The child was motionless. Jack stepped closer, a hand extended toward her. The girl stepped back, and then Jack was speaking again. It was difficult to see from the window, but Mabel thought she saw the girl raise a hand in a red mitten and give a small wave. Mabelas breath fogged the gla.s.s. She rubbed it with her hand just in time to see the girl turn and run into the trees. Jack stood with his arms at his sides, the maul at his feet, not moving. Mabel hurried to the door and pulled it open.

aGo, Jack! Go! Go after her!a Her voice was louder and shriller than shead meant. He startled, then looked from Mabel to the woods and back again. At last he charged after the girl, first at a steady walk, then picking up his pace and trotting through the snow. His legs looked long and awkward as his big boots thumped beneath him. Nothing like the nimble sprint of the girl.

She waited at the window. Occasionally she went to the door, opened it, and looked out in all directions, but the yard and woods beyond were empty. Minutes went by, then an hour and another. She considered dressing in her winter boots and coat and going after them, but she knew that was not wise. Night came quickly on these short winter days.

As the cabin darkened, Mabel lit the oil lamps, put more wood on the fire, and tried to stop her rhythmic pacing. She thought of her mother, how often she had paced and wrung her hands when Mabelas father didnat come home from some late meeting at the university. She thought of the wives of soldiers, gold miners and trappers, drunks and adulterers, all waiting long into the night. Why was it always the womanas fate to pace and fret and wait?

Mabel finally made herself sit by the woodstove with her sewing and tried to lose herself in the st.i.tches. She didnat know she had fallen asleep in the chair until Jack came in. His beard and mustache were caked with ice and his pant legs were stiff and snow-covered. He didnat bother to take off his boots or stomp the snow from them but stumbled to the woodstove and held out his bare hands. He hadnat been wearing gloves when shead sent him after the girl. She took his hands in her own. Jack cringed at her touch.

aAre you frostbit?a aI donat know. Cold, thatas for sure.a His words slurred together, either from the ice in his mustache or from fatigue. Mabel rubbed his hands to move warm blood to the tips of the fingers.

aDid you catch up with her? What did you see?a He slid his hands out of hers and pulled some of the ice from his mustache and beard. He took off his boots and then his coat and pants, which he hung from nails behind the woodstove to dry. The cabin smelled of warm, wet wool.

aDid you hear me? What did you find?a He didnat look up when he spoke, but instead turned from her and stumbled to their bedroom. aNothing. Iam tired, Mabel. Too tired to talk.a He climbed beneath the covers and was soon snoring softly, leaving Mabel alone again by the woodstove.

CHAPTER 11.

Jack had always considered himself if not brave, then at least competent and sure. He was wary of true danger, of flighty horses that could break your back and farm tools that could sever limbs, but he had always scoffed at the superst.i.tious and mystical. Alone in the depths of the wilderness, however, in the fading winter light, he had discovered in himself an animal-like fear. What shamed him all the more was that he could not name it. If Mabel had asked what terrified him when he followed the girl into the mountains, he could only have answered with the timid uncertainty of a child scared of the dark. Disturbing thoughts whirled through his brain, stories he must have heard as a boy about forest hags and men who turned into bears. It wasnat the girl that frightened him as much as the strange world of snow and rock and hushed trees that she navigated with ease.

The girl had deftly jumped logs and scampered through the woods like a fairy. He had gotten close enough to notice the brown fur of her hat and the knee-high leather moccasins that bound her feet. By the woodpile, when he had spoken to her, he had even caught sight of her blond eyelashes and the intensely blue eyes, and when he asked if she liked the doll, he saw her smile. The shy, sweet smile of a little girl.

But then she had become a phantom, a silent blur. As Jack tried to follow her, an icy fog moved through the forest. Minute crystals of ice filled the air and gathered as h.o.a.rfrost along the tree branches and on his lashes. He could see only a few feet into the mist. He stopped occasionally, bent with his hands on his knees while sweat froze at his brow. He tried to silence his heavy breathing, but then all he heard was the snow creaking beneath his boots. The child made no sound. He heard twigs crack, only to watch a snowshoe hare bound through the alders, and later, as night closed in, an owl hooted from far away. He never heard the girl. At times he wasnat sure he was even following her anymore but instead blindly thrashing through the trees like a bewitched, crazy man. Then he would see her just ahead, as if she wanted to be seen.

He lost track of how far he had come or how long he had been gone, yet he kept on, past their 160-acre homestead, up into the foothills of the mountains where he had hunted moose and beyond, to where the trees dwindled to alpine birch shrubs and Labrador tea. He followed a ridge that looked down over the snowy river valley and followed her still higher, until he crested a rise and found himself in a narrow mountain gorge with steep shale cliffs.

An eerie gust of wind came down the gorge. Farther up he could see a waterfall of ice pouring off the mountain between the rocky cliffs. Below him, the creek trickled and bubbled beneath ice and wound its way through rock and willow. The girl, though, was nowhere to be seen.

He cautiously followed her tracks up the ravine, and then they disappeared into the snowy hillside. It didnat make sense, yet that is what he sawa"her trail didnat continue up the hill or along the creek; it ran into the side of the mountain. Then he noticed what looked like a small door set into the hillside beneath a rounded dome of snow. Jack crouched behind a boulder, a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He could go to that little door and call out to the girl, but he didnat. What did he expect to find? A fairy-tale beast that holds young girls captive in a mountain cave? A cackling witch? Or nothing at all, no child, no tracks, no door, only insanity bared in the untouched snow? That is perhaps what he feared the most, that he would discover he had followed nothing more than an illusion.

Rather than face that possibility, Jack turned his back on the little door and set out for home. For a while, he followed the tracks. At times there were two setsa"the childas small prints and his larger ones. Other times there were just his own, and Jack knew he had probably destroyed the childas with his big boots as he followed her. Still, the sight of his solitary tracks winding through the trees left him uneasy. As it grew darker he feared the meandering trail would keep him in the woods into the coldest, blackest hours of the night, so he left the trail and headed directly toward the riverbed below. From there he could follow the Wolverine back to their homestead and, he hoped, be at the cabin within an hour.

But the route proved difficult as it pulled him down into steep ravines where the snow was well over his knees and forced him through a dense forest of black spruce that threatened to disorient him. He didnat recognize the river when he reached it, not until he had walked partway out onto the ice and heard the roar beneath him. He eased backward until he was sure he was on firm ground, and then he walked downstream, relying on the vague outline of the riverbed to guide him toward their homestead.

He expected Mabel would be waiting for him and wanting answers. It was reasonable, and yet it grated on him. He was tired, aching, and surely frostbit, and he had nothing to offer her but a tired old man who quaked in his boots at a childas door.

The next morning Jack woke to the sound of Mabelas knocking about the cabin. Dishes clattered, a broom swished, b.u.mps and thumpsa"these were the unmistakable sounds of her irritation. Jack eased himself out of bed.

They each went about their ch.o.r.es, but Mabelas anger seemed only to grow, and her footsteps fell heavier and her sighs more audible. Eventually, she would relent, but the breach would become wider and deeper. Jack knew this, yet he could not find the strength to stop it. He escaped to the barn and the woodpile, and left Mabel with her sighs.

For the next several days, he worked in the barn or yard, though he knew he should be burning stump piles in the fields. He watched the trees and searched the snow for tracks. If the girl comes back, he told himself, I wonat run after her. I wonat frighten her away.

So when the girl appeared at Jackas elbow nearly a week later, he did not give chase but instead went about his work as if she wasnat there. He stacked split wood beside the barn, one piece after another. Eventually the girl sat on a round of spruce and watched. When dusk fell, Jack went into the barn to put away the maul and ax. The girl followed just a few steps behind and stopped at the barn door. When he came back out, she was there, watching him with her wide blue eyes. He walked past without acknowledging her. Over his shoulder he called, aTime for supper. Letas go in.a And the girl followed. Jack held the cabin door open for her. She entered gingerly, as if the floor might fall out from under her, but all the same she came in. As she stepped across the threshold and into the warmth, the thin layer of frost on her coat and hat melted. Jack watched the bits of ice on her moccasins dwindle to nothing and the frost on her eyelashes turn to droplets. The childas eyes were left wet, as if she had been crying.

Mabel was working at the kitchen counter, her back to them. Jack closed the door.

aI think we might need some more wood on the firea"a she said, turning with a pot of boiled potatoes in her hands. She looked up and saw the little girl beside Jack and her mouth formed a little circle as if she might make a sound, but instead she dropped the pot of potatoes.

aOh, oh.a Mabel stared at her feet, soaking wet and covered in bits of potato. aOh dear.a The girl had stepped back, startled at the clamor of the pot hitting the floor but now, in the silent cabin, she let out a little giggle and put her red mittens over her mouth.

Mabel quickly scooped the potatoes back into the pot and used a towel to soak up the water. All the while her eyes never left the child.

aIall take your coat for you,a Jack said.

The girl took off her mittens, and as he reached to take them she drew something out of her coat pocket. It was a small animal, white fur and black nose, and Jack was prepared for it to writhe and jump. But it was a lifeless pelt, less than a foot long snout to tail.

aAn ermine?a The child nodded and held it out to him. Beneath the fur its dried skin crinkled like thin parchment paper. Mabel came to his side and touched the tiny empty eyelids and the bristly whiskers. She ran her fingers down the white fur to the black-tipped tail.

aThatas a nice little pelt,a he said and went to give it back to the child. But she shook her head.

aPut it back in your pocket so you donat forget it.a Again the barest shake of her head, a small smile.

aShe wants us to have it,a Mabel whispered.

aIs that it? Is it for us?a A smile.

aAre you sure?a he said.

A vigorous nod.

Jack hung the ermine from a hook by the kitchen window and smoothed the back of his hand down the white fur. Mabel bent down toward the child. aThank you,a she said.

aHere you are.a He pulled a chair out from the table. aYou can sit here.a The girl sat, coat and mittens piled on her lap, the marten-fur hat still on her head.

aAre you sure I canat take those for you?a he asked.

The girl didnat speak.

aAll right. Suit yourself.a As Mabel put a plate of moose steaks in the middle of the table, she glanced at Jack, widened her eyes questioningly and raised her eyebrows. He shrugged almost imperceptibly.

aI suppose we wonat be having potatoes, will we?a Mabel said. She looked at the girl and smiled. aWe do have some of those awful sailor biscuits. I guess thatall have to do. And some boiled carrots.a

CHAPTER 12.

Never had Mabel imagined the little girl would be sitting before them, at their own kitchen table. How had this come to be? The moment had the surreal fast-and-slow movement of a dream. She set an empty plate in front of the child and fought the urge to grab her hand, to touch her and see if she was real. She and Jack sat in their chairs. He folded his hands in his lap and bowed his head. Mabel did as well, but could not stop looking at the girl.

She was even smaller than she had appeared at a distance, and the chair back towered around her. With her coat on, the child had looked almost roly-poly as she sprinted through the trees, but now Mabel saw her thin arms and small shoulders. She wore that same cotton dress with tiny flowers on it, but Mabel could see now that it was a summer dress for a grown woman. Beneath it, she wore a long-underwear shirt that was too small; the sleeves did not reach her thin wrists. The girlas hair was white-blond, but when Mabel studied it, she saw that woven and twisted among the strands were gray-green lichens, wild yellow gra.s.ses, and curled bits of birch bark. It was strange and lovely, like a wild birdas nest.

aDear Lord,a Jack began. The girl did not close her eyes or bow her head but, unblinking, watched Jack. Delicate lips, the hint of bones beneath rounded child cheeks, a small nosea"Mabel found herself recalling the face Jack had carved into the snow. The childas face was gentle and young, but there was a fierceness as well, in the flash of blue in her eyes and the point of her little chin.

aWe thank you for this food and for this landaa Jack paused. Mabel couldnat remember him choosing his words so carefully for a blessing. aWe ask you to be with us as wea share this meal, with each other and witha with this child who has joined us.a The girl opened her eyes wider and glanced from Jack to Mabel, her lips pressed together.

aAmen.a aAmen,a repeated Mabel. The girl watched, her hands bundled in her coat, as Mabel served moose steaks onto each plate. Then she leaned forward slightly, as if to inspect the meat.

aOh. Let me get those awful crackers.a Mabel stood and walked behind the girl, pausing for a moment to take in her fragrancea"fresh snow, mountain herbs, and birch boughs. Mabel allowed her hand to slide along the back of the chair, her fingertips barely touching the girlas hair. Perhaps it was not a dream after all.

As soon as Jack and Mabel began to eat, the girl did as well. She picked up the sailor cracker, sniffed it loudly, and then set it down again. Mabel laughed. aI agree wholeheartedly,a she said and set her own cracker aside.

The girl then picked up the meat with her hands, smelled it, and bit into it. When she saw Jack and Mabel watching, she put it down. Jack used his knife and fork to slice pieces off his own steak and eat them.

aItas all right, dear,a Mabel said. aYou eat it any way you want.a The girl hesitated, then picked it up in her hands again. She didnat devour it the way Mabel expected, like a starving pup, but instead ate it daintily, little nibbles here and there, but eating every bit, even a line of gristle that ran through it. Then the child picked up each slice of boiled carrot and carefully ate it. Her plate was clean even as Jack and Mabel continued to cut their meat.