The Snow Child Part 6

The girl nodded. Jack felt ill. It could have just been the long day of sweating and freezing and no stomach even for lunch. But it didnat seem right, burying a man without notifying the authorities or signing some piece of paper or at least having a man of the cloth read something from the Bible. He didnat see a way out. The worst that could happen to this child, besides her father dying in front of her, would be for the authorities to get involved. Shead be shipped off to some orphanage far from these mountains. She seemed to him both powerful and delicate, like a wild thing that thrives in its place but withers when stolen away.

Without another man to help him lower it slowly, Jack shoved the tarp-wrapped body into the hole, where it fell with an unG.o.dly thump.

Shall I cover him up then? he asked.

The girl nodded.

He began shoveling in dirt and black, dead coals. He wondered if he had the strength to finish, but he kept at it, shovelful after shovelful, the girl silent behind him. Occasionally he stamped his feet on the dirt to settle it and the girl joined him, hopping up and down on the grave, her small face frowning, her marten-fur hat hanging down her back by strings tied at her neck.

So itas done, then, Jack said.

He sc.r.a.ped a few last piles of dirt over the grave.

The girl came to Jackas side. She closed her eyes, then flung her arms into the air. Snowflakes lighter than feathers scattered across the grave. It was more snow than a child could possibly hold in her arms, and it filtered down as if from the clear sky above. Jack was silent until the last flakes settled.

When he did speak, his voice was hoa.r.s.e from the smoke.

In the spring, he said, we can put some pretty rocks here, maybe plant flowers.

The girl nodded and then wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her face into his coat. Jack stood motionless for a moment, awkward with his arms at his sides, and then he slowly reached around her and patted her softly on the back, smoothed her hair with his rough hand.

There, there. All right. Itas going to be all right. Itas done now.

Then one morning, when the last of the snow had melted, she came to the old couple and kissed them both.

aI must leave you now,a she said.

aWhy?a they cried.

aI am a child of the snow. I must go where it is cold.a aNo! No!a they cried. aYou cannot go!a They held her close, and a few drops of snow fell to the floor. Quickly she slipped from their arms and ran out the door.

aCome back!a they called.

aCome back to us!a a"The Snow Child, retold by Freya Littledale

CHAPTER 14.

It was unexpected, to look forward to each day. When Mabel woke in the mornings, happy antic.i.p.ation washed over her and for a moment she would not know its cause. Was this day special for some reason? A birthday? A holiday? Was something planned? Then she would remembera"the child might visit.

Mabel was often at the window, but it wasnat with the melancholy weariness of the previous winter. Now she watched with excitement and hope that the little girl in the fur hat and leather moccasins would appear from the woods. The December days had a certain luminosity and sparkle, like frost on bare branches, alight in the morning just before it melts.

Mabel tempered herself. She imagined running to the girl when she appeared at the edge of the trees and throwing her arms around her, spinning her in circles. But she didnat. She waited patiently in the cabin and pretended not to notice her arrival. When the child came indoors, Mabel did not scrub her clean, brush the leaves and lichen from her hair, wash her clothes, and dress her anew. It was truea"she sometimes pictured the child wearing a lovely ruffled dress and pretty bows in her hair. Sometimes she even daydreamed about inviting Esther over for tea to show off the girl as if she were her own.

She did none of these things. They were silly fancies that had more to do with her own romantic ideas of childhood than with this mysterious girl. The only real desire she had, once she stripped away the vain and the frivolous, was to touch the child, to stroke the girlas cheek, to hold her close and deeply breathe in her scent of mountain air. But she contented herself with the childas smiles, and each morning she watched at the window, hoping this day she would come.

Mabel had not been able to find a pattern in the visits. The child came every other evening for a week or so, but then for two or three days she wouldnat appear. One morning she came and stayed with Mabel in the kitchen instead of following Jack around the barn. She watched Mabel mix bread dough, and it was as if a songbird had landed on a bedroom windowsill. Mabel did not want to frighten her away by moving too abruptly, so she emulated Jackas quiet, accepting manner. She spoke softly to the girl. She described how you had to dust the dough in flour and knead it again and again until it was right in the hands, even and elastic. She told the child that Jackas aunt had taught her how to bake bread, that she had been astounded a woman could be grown and married and not know how.

That evening, the girl stayed for dinner. Jack came in from the barn and Mabel and the child joined him at the table. The girl bowed her head before he had even begun saying the blessing, and Jack and Mabelas eyes met. She had grown accustomed to their ways.

Jack seemed in an uncommonly good mood, making jokes and talking about his dayas work as they pa.s.sed the food around the table. At one point, he turned to ask her to hand him the salt. She was focused on her own plate and didnat notice. Jack cleared his throat, then tapped lightly on the table.

This is getting silly, he announced.

The child startled. He quieted his tone.

We must call you something. Will it be agirla forever?

The child was silent. Jack reached over her for the salt, apparently giving up on getting a name from her. Mabel waited, but Jack went back to eating.

Faina, the girl whispered.

Whatas that, child? Mabel asked.

My name. Itas Faina.

Will you say it again, more slowly?

Fah-EE-nah.

Each syllable a quiet whisper. Mabel at first could make no sense of the foreign sounds, so many vowels without their consonants, but then she heard a gesture toward words like afara and atreea and a breath of air at the end, sounds that were indeed this little girl sitting at their table. Faina.

What does it mean? Mabel asked.

The girl bit her lower lip and frowned.

You must see it, to know.

Then her face brightened.

But Iall show you. Someday Iall show you what it means.

Faina. It is a lovely name.

Well there, Jack said. That simplifies things, doesnat it?

That night, after the child left, they said her name again and again. It began to roll easily off their tongues, and Mabel liked the way it felt in her mouth, the way it whispered in her eara"Did you see how Faina bowed her head at dinner? Isnat Faina a beautiful child? What will Faina bring next time she visits? They were like children pretending to be mother and father, and Mabel was happy.

Dawn broke silver over the snowdrifts and spruce trees, and Mabel was at the kitchen table trying to sketch the birch basket the girl had brought them. She had it propped against her wooden recipe box so that it tipped toward her, and she tried to remember how it had looked full of wild berries. It had been too long since she had drawn, and the pencil was awkward in her hands, the shading and angles of the drawing all wrong. Frustrated, she put a hand to the back of her neck and stretched.

At the sight of the girl peeking in the window, Mabel startled, but then smiled and raised her hand in greeting. When the child waved back, affection surged through her.

Faina, child. Come in, come in.

The child brought the smell of snow in with her, and the air in the cabin cooled and brightened. Mabel unwrapped the scarf from her neck, took her mittens, fur hat, and the wool coat. The child let her do this, and Mabel hugged the clothes to her breast, felt the chill of winter, the coa.r.s.e wool, and the silky brown fur. She draped the scarf over the back of her hand and marveled that her sisteras dewdrop st.i.tch would adorn this little girl.

What were you doing?

The child stood at the table with one of the pencils in her hand.

I was drawing, Mabel said. Would you like to see?

She set the childas outdoor clothing on a chair and left the door cracked open, so a draft could move through the cabin and cool the girl. Then she pulled a chair out for her and sat beside her.

This is my sketchpad. And these are my pencils. I wanted to draw a picture of the basket you gave us. See?

Mabel held up the drawing.

Oh, the child said.

Itas not very good, is it? Iam afraid Iave lost any skill I might have had.

I think it is very nice.

The child skimmed her fingers across the paper surface and rounded her lips in wonder.

What else can you draw? she asked.

Mabel shrugged.

Anything I set my mind to, I suppose. Although it wonat necessarily look the way it ought.

Could you draw a picture of me?

Yes. Oh, yes. But I must warn you, Iave never been very good at portraits.

Mabel put the childas chair near the window so the winter light shone on the side of her face and lit up her blond hair. For the next hour, Mabel glanced from sketch paper to child and back again, and waited for the girl to protest, but she never complained or moved. She was stoic, her chin slightly raised, her gaze steady.

With each stroke of the pencil, it was as if Mabel had been granted her wish, as if she held the child in her arms, caressed her cheek, stroked her hair. She drew the gentle curve of the childas cheekbones, the peaks of her small lips, the inquisitive arch of her blond eyebrows. Self-contained, wary and brave, innocent and knowinga something in the turn of her head, the tilt of her eyes, hinted at a wildness Mabel wanted to capture, too. All these details she took in and memorized.

Would you like to see?

Is it finished?

Mabel smiled.

As well as I can for today.

She turned the sketchpad toward the child, not knowing what reaction to expect.

The child took in a breath, then clasped her hands in delight.

Do you like it?

Oh, yes! Is that me? Is that what I look like?

Have you never seen yourself, child?

The girl shook her head.

Never? Not in a mirror? Well, I have just the thing. Much better than any drawing I can manage.

Mabel went to the bedroom and came back with a hand mirror.

Do you know what this is? Itas a little gla.s.s, and you can see yourself in it.

The child shrugged her small shoulders.

There, do you see? Thatas you.

The girl peered into the mirror, her eyes wide and her face somber. She reached out and touched the shining surface with one fingertip, then touched her own hair, her face. She smiled, turned her head side to side, brushed her hair away from her brow, all the while watching in the mirror.

Would you like to have the picture I drew of you?

Faina smiled and nodded.

Mabel folded the portrait until it was a square small enough to fit in the childas pocket.

When the little girl was gone and dinner finished, Mabel knitted by the woodstove. Outside, the wind tore down the river valley, and she thought she could hear another sound, too. A mournful baying.

aIs that the wind, Jack?a He stood at the window, looking out into the blackness.

aNope. I think itas those wolves upriver. I heard howling the other night, too.a aWould you stoke up the fire? I feel Iave caught a chill.a She watched him put birch logs to the fire, the flames catching on the papery bark and flickering light against the cabin walls. Then he went to the window and looked for some time out into the night, the way she always did.

aIs she safe?a Mabel asked. aThat windas blowing so savagely. And the wolves.a aI expect sheas all right.a They stayed up unusually late. Jack went outside several times to get more wood, despite the stack of logs just inside the door, and Mabel continued to knit, though her hands were tired and her eyes burned. Finally they could stay awake no longer and crawled into their bed together. They fell asleep to the sound of the wind blowing down the valley.

CHAPTER 15.

It was mid-February when a parcel addressed to Mabel arrived, wrapped in brown paper and delivered via train to Alpine. Jack brought it from town, along with a few supplies bought with the last of their credit at the general store.

Mabel waited until he went back outside before she sat at the table to open it. Could this be it at long last? It seemed ages ago that she had written her sister to ask about the book. For several weeks she had been hopeful, but when it hadnat come she a.s.sumed either her sister couldnat find it or was not interested in the query.

She was tempted to tear open the package but felt the need to be calm and collected. She heated a kettle of water and steeped a cup of tea. When it was ready, she sat at the table and unknotted the packing twine and carefully unfolded the paper. Inside were two separately wrapped packages. The larger one looked distinctly like a book, but Mabel chose to open the smaller first. It contained several fine drawing pencils as well as sticks of charcoal. She turned to the larger package and unfolded the brown paper slowly.

The book was just as she had remembered ita"oversized and perfectly square, a shape unlike any childrenas book she had ever seen. It was bound in blue morocco leather. An exquisite snowflake design was embossed in silver on the front cover, and the same silver gilding decorated the spine. She placed the book flat on the table in front of her and opened it. aSnegurochka, 1857a was written lightly in pencil in the upper corner of the blue marbled endpaper. aThe Snow Maiden.a It was her fatheras neat writing. He had collected many books on his travels, and some he brought back especially for her. He kept them on a shelf in his study, but whenever she wanted to look through them, he would pull them down and sit her on his lap while he turned the pages.

With the book in front of her, Mabel could have been back in her fatheras study with its scent of pipe tobacco and old books. She turned the first page. On the left was a full-color plate overlaid with a sheet of translucent paper, on the other the story, written in blocky, illegible letters. It was in Russian! How could she have forgotten? Maybe she had never noticed. Although this had been one of her favorite childhood books, she realized now that she had never actually read it. Her father had told her the story as she looked at the ill.u.s.trations. Now she wondered whether her father had known the words or had invented the story based on the pictures.