The Snow Child Part 13

CHAPTER 29.

Mabel ran without seeing, her face wet with tears and snow, her feet tripping. The small circle of lantern light swung wildly among the snowy trees. For some time all she did was run toward the mountains, and of that she wasnat even certain, but she did not stop. Her skirt dragged in the deepening snow, spruce branches raked at her face, and more than once she nearly fell, but she felt neither cold nor pain. All she knew was the rush of blood in her ears and a hot rage that with each step began to cool to a sort of grieving stupor.

She slowed as the land dipped into a ravine and the trees gave way to overgrown bushes, their thick branches lying across the earth like something set to snare her. She climbed under and over them, the lantern swaying in one hand. None of them grew to the size of a tree, but neither were they like the blackberry brambles back home. Some limbs were as thick as her leg, and dry brown leaves clung to many of the branches. Mabel grabbed at one and brought her hand away with a cl.u.s.ter of tiny cones. Scattered amid these bushes were devilas clubs, bare of their broad green leaves but not of their spines. In places the limbs and shrubs were so entangled that her chest tightened in panica"what if she couldnat find her way out?

At last the ground climbed slightly, and Mabel again found herself among spruce, birch, and scattered cottonwood. She stopped and looked back the way she had come. There was no sign of the cabin, and beyond the lanternas small circle of flickering light, blackness closed in from all sides. Her hair was damp against her neck, and her clothes hung heavy and cold. But she would not go back. He could stay in the cabin waiting, not knowing, just as she had spent so many hours. She would find the girl and make this right.

She held the lantern high and peered into the snow-filled darkness. Where the light spilled ahead of her, Mabel saw that the snow was disturbed. She ran to the tracks. She looked up and down the trail, trying to see where they went and where they came from. Could these be the girlas? But which way? Having run so blindly, she no longer had any sense of home, the river, the mountains. Something seemed wrong about the tracks, the snow too deep for her to make out footprints. Just the same, she followed them.

The tracks led over a fallen birch tree, and she wrestled with her long skirt as she climbed over it. By the time she cleared the log, she was drenched with sweat and snow and her legs trembled with exhaustion. She followed the trail to her left, half running. When her throat burned and her lungs felt as if they would burst, she paused only long enough to take in a few gulps of air. She pictured herself finding the girl huddled against the storm. Mabel would grab hold of her and never let go. She wondered how far she had come. Could she be getting close to the foothills? The land was flat, but it seemed as if shead been running for hours.

It was only when Mabel came again to the fallen birch and saw where she had already climbed over it that she realized her mistake. She was a mad old woman, running in circles, chasing herself through the woods at night. She was aware that any living thing in the forest with eyes would be able to see her as clear as day in the lantern light, while she would be blind to it. Then it was as if she were hovering in the treetops, looking down on her own madness. Mabel saw herself, disheveled and desperate, swiveling her head this way and that, twigs clinging to her wet hair, and it was an awful unraveling, as if in this act she had finally come loose and was falling. She thought of Jack in the cabin somewhere behind her, saw him as a steady light in the midst of the wilderness. She could turn now and follow her tracks back home. She hadnat gone that far yet. But the rage had not burned itself out.

When she began to run again, she no longer searched for trails or the outlines of mountains in the black sky. Everything was strange and unknown, and she could see only a few steps in front of her. Sometimes clumps of frozen cranberries on bare branches or spindly spruce trees or the mottled trunks of paper birch were caught in an instant of light before pa.s.sing back into blackness. At one point she realized that something was cras.h.i.+ng through the trees beside her and she stopped, her heart pounding, her breath ragged.

aFaina? Is that you?a she whispered loudly. But she knew it wasnat the child. It was something much bigger. There was no answer except the snapping of branches. She strained to see farther than she knew she could, past the steam that rose from her own body. She wasnat sure at first, but the noise in the forest seemed to move away from her. She wanted to go home, if only she knew the way.

She had no more strength to run, and at first she wasnat sure if she could even walk. Hot and thirsty, she scooped up snow in her gloved hand and brought it to her mouth, letting it melt down her throat. She was tempted to take off her hat, even her coat, but she knew she could freeze to death like that. She touched a clump of snow to her forehead, then continued walking. She hoped to find a trail again, any trail, and let it take her where it would, perhaps to the mountains, perhaps to the river, maybe back home. In her fatigue she shuffled, and her boots caught on bushes and roots.

When she fell, it was so hard, so sudden, it was almost as if something had shoved her from behind. She wasnat even able to bring her arms up in defense as she plummeted to the ground, and the blow forced the air from her lungs. At the same moment, the lantern dropped to the snow in a clatter and hiss, and when she was able to pull her face from the snow she had the fleeting thought that she had been knocked blind. She had dropped the lantern. Mabel blinked again and again, quickly and then more slowly. The blackness was so complete that, except for the touch of cool air, she could not tell whether her eyes were open or closed. She got to her hands and knees and pawed the ground until she found where the lantern had sunk into the fluffy snow. The gla.s.s was still hot to the touch, but the flame had been extinguished. Mabel stood and was so disoriented, the same black when she looked up to the sky as down to the earth, that she nearly fell again. She stood swaying.

G.o.d help me, what have I done? Tripped on my own clumsy feet. Thrown away my only light. No matches. Not a st.i.tch of dry clothing. No shelter. No sense of directiona"perhaps, she found herself thinking, no sense at all.

She wondered if she could find her own tracks. She crouched and patted the snow around her, and thought she found some indication of footprints. She followed, bent over, walking and feeling, until something snagged at her hair. She tried to stand and hit her head on a branch. When she reached out, her hands brushed something hard. She took off her gloves and felt, the way a blind person might feel a face. It was a tree trunk. She hadnat found her own trail but had stumbled beneath the branches of a great spruce tree. She felt the ground at her feet and was surprised to find not snow but a bed of dry needles. Perhaps this was all she could ask for, but still, with no source of warmth or dry clothes, she couldnat possibly survive until daybreak. She sat at the base of the tree and leaned against it.

The chill approached along her hairline, damp with sweat and melted snow. It crept down the nape of her neck and up the backs of her wet legs. As it made its way beneath her clothes, along the skin of her ribs, down the curve of her spine, she knew it for what it wasa"a death chill, a chill that if allowed to take hold would freeze the life from her. As if to confirm her suspicions, her teeth began to chatter. It started as a small s.h.i.+ver along her jaw as she sucked air between her clenched teeth, but soon her whole body shook and her very bones seemed to clatter.

aJack.a The name came as a whisper from her cold lips. aJack?a Only a bit louder. He would never hear her. Who knew how far she was from the cabin? aJack!a She crawled away from the tree and, when she felt herself free from its branches, stood and yelled as loud as she could.

aJack! Jack! Iam here! Can you hear me? Jack! Help me! Help! Jack! Iam here! Please. Please.a She stopped yelling and strained to hear, holding her breath for a moment or two, but the only sound was something she didnat believe she could possibly be hearinga"the relentless tiny taps of individual snowflakes landing on her coat, on her hair and lashes, on the branches of the tree. aOh, Jack! Please! I need you. Please.a She yelled and cried until she was hoa.r.s.e and her voice a noiseless screech. Please, Jack. Please. She crawled back beneath the spruce tree, feeling for its branches, its wide trunk, its bed of needles. There she curled up, her clothes clinging wet and cold, her body racked with tremors, the snow settling on the branches over her head.

She woke to the breaking of twigs and the flash of fire in the darkness, and for a moment she thought she was home and had nodded off in front of the woodstove. That wasnat right, though. It was too dark, too cold. Her body ached, and she couldnat move. Something bound her. It was heavy and smelled familiar. Like home. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in front of the fire. A figure bending over, putting something to the flames. Then breaking something over a knee, then more flames. The figure turned toward her, blocking the light.

aMabel? Are you awake?a She couldnat speak. Her jaw seemed sealed, the muscles stiff. She tried to nod, but it hurt. Everything hurt.

aMabel? Itas mea"Jack. Can you hear me?a And he was beside her, kneeling, brus.h.i.+ng her hair back from her face.

aAre you warmer? Iave got the fire going good now. You feel it?a Jack. She could smell him, the scent of cut wood and wool. He reached around her, pressing at her sides like he was tucking a child into bed, and she knew why she felt bound. She was wrapped in blankets. She was confused again. Was she home, in her own bed? But the air was so cold and stirring slightly, and overhead there were branches and beyond them a sky so black and full of stars. Stars? Where had they all come from, like bits of ice?

aJack?a It was only a whisper, but he heard. He had turned his back, to go to the fire, but he returned to her side.

aJack? Where are we?a She heard him clear his throat, maybe the beginning of a cough, and then, aItas all right. This is going to be all right. Let me get that fire bigger, and youall warm.a When he stood, hunched beneath the branches, and moved away from her, his body blocked the light and heat of the fire. Mabel closed her eyes. Shead done something wrong. He was angry with her. It came back to her the way grief does, slowly. She remembered the child, the snow, the night.

aHow did you find me?a He was feeding the fire, building it higher and higher until she could see his face and feel its heat. aI donat know.a aWhere are we? Are we far from home?a aI donat precisely know that either.a He must have expected this to frighten her, because then he said, aItas going to be fine, Mabel. Weare just going to have to rough it here for a few more hours. Then lightall come, and weall find our way.a His voice faded. Mabel drifted, sank into the warmth, and it was like a childhood fever, dreamlike and nearly comforting.

aCan you sit up?a Jack held a canteen. She wondered how long she had slept. Beyond the fire it was still dark.

aI think so.a He grasped her around the shoulders and helped her to sit. When she reached for the canteen, the blanket fell open to reveal her bare arm. She was naked.

aCareful. Donat let that loose,a he said.

aMy clothing? Why on earthaa He pointed toward the fire where her dress hung from a branch, along with her undergarments. Closer to the fire, her boots were propped open near the flames.

aThere was no other way,a he said, almost as if apologizing.

She tried not to gulp the water, but to take small sips. aThank you.a aSometimes I could hear you calling my name,a he said. aI thought I heard you in the brush, but it was just a cow moose and her calf. Then I tripped over the lantern, and I knew you had to be nearby.a Jack went to the fire. He took down her dress and shook it out.

aIt stopped snowing,a he said as he crawled under the tree with her. He groaned softly as he leaned against the trunk and put his arm around her. She thought of his barely mended back. aCleared off and got cold. You were soaked through.a Mabel leaned her head against his chest. aHow does she do it?a He didnat answer at first, and Mabel wondered if he understood her question.

aSheas got something different about her,a he said finally. aShe might not be a snow fairy, but she knows this land. Knows it better than anyone Iave ever met.a She cringed at the words asnow fairy,a but knew there was no malice in it.

aI canat imagine, spending every night out here. How could you let hera Iam not angry anymore. Itas not that. But why didnat you worry about her? Sheas just a little child.a He kept his eyes to the campfire. aWhen she didnat come back in the spring, I went up to the mountains looking for her. I was sick with worry. I thought Iad made a terrible mistake, and that wead lost her.a aI canat bear the thought of something happening to her,a Mabel said. aShe may be lovely and brave and strong, but sheas just a little girl. And with her father deada sheas out here all alone. If something were to happen to her, we would be to blame, wouldnat we?a Jack nodded. He put his arms around her again. aItas true,a he said.

aI just donat think I could stand it. Not again. Not afteraa She expected Jack to shush her, to pull away, to go back to the fire, but he didnat.

aIave always regretted that I didnat do more,a she said. aNot that we could have saved that one. But that I didnat do more. That I didnat have courage enough to hold our baby and see it for what it was.a She turned to look up into his face.

aJack. I know itas been so long. My G.o.d, ten years now. But tell me that you said a proper goodbye. Tell me you said a prayer over its grave. Please tell me that.a aHis.a aWhat?a aHis grave. It was a little boy. And before I laid him in the ground, I named him Joseph Maurice.a Mabel laughed out loud.

aJoseph Maurice,a she whispered. It was a name of contention, the two names that would have shocked both their familiesa"two great-grandfathers, one on each side, each a black sheep in his own right. aJoseph Maurice.a aIs that all right?a She nodded.

aDid you say a prayer?a aOf course,a and he sounded hurt that she had asked.

aWhat did you say? Do you remember?a aI prayed for G.o.d to take our tiny babe into his arms and cradle him as we would have, to rock him and love him and keep him safe.a Mabel let out a sob and hugged Jack with her bare arms. He tucked the blanket around her and they held each other.

aA boy? Are you certain?a aIam pretty sure, Mabel.a aCurious, isnat it? All that time the baby was inside me, tossing and turning, sharing my blood, and I thought it was a girl. But it wasnat. It was a little boy. Where did you bury him?a aIn the orchard, down by the creek.a She knew exactly where. It was the place they had first kissed, had first held each other as lovers.

aI should have known. I looked for it because I realized I hadnat said goodbye.a aI would have told you.a aI know. We are fools sometimes, arenat we?a Jack got up to feed the fire, and when it was burning well he sat again with Mabel under the tree.

aAre you warm enough?a aYes,a she said. aBut wonat you come in with me?a aIall only make you cold.a She insisted, helping him strip out of his damp clothes and opening her blankets to him. He did bring in cold air, at first, and the coa.r.s.e wool of his long underwear rubbed against her bare skin, but she burrowed more tightly against him. Up and down her body, she felt his leanness, how age had pared back his muscles and left loosening skin and smooth bone, but his hold was still firm. She rested her head on his chest and watched the fire flare and send sparks up into the cold night sky.

CHAPTER 30.

Mabel would reduce the child to the shabby clothes and slight frame of a flesh-and-blood orphan, and it pained Jack to watch. Gone was Mabelas wonder and awe. In her eyes Faina was no longer a snow fairy, but an abandoned little girl with a dead mother and father. A feral child who needed a bath.

aWe should inquire about schooling in town,a she said just days after Jack had told her the truth. aI understand the territorial government has a.s.signed a new teacher to the area. Students meet in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the boardinghouse. Wead have to take her by wagon each morning, or she could stay there for several days at a time.a aMabel?a aDonat look at me like that. Sheall survive. If she can spend months alone in the wilderness, she can certainly stay a few nights in town.a aI just donat know ifaa aAnd those clothes. Iall get some fabric and sew her some new dresses. And some real shoes. She wonat need those moccasins anymore.a But the child was not so easily tamed.

I donat want to, she said when Mabel showed her to the tub of hot water.

Look at yourself, child. Your hair is a mess. Youare filthy.

Mabel pulled at the ragged sleeve of the childas cotton dress.

This needs to be washed, maybe just thrown out. Iam making several new dresses for you.

The child backed toward the door. Mabel grabbed her by the wrist, but Faina yanked it free.

aMabel,a Jack said, alet the child go.a The girl was gone for days, and when she returned she was skittish, but Mabel took no heed. She pinched at the girlas clothing and hair, and asked if she had ever gone to school, ever looked at a book. With each prying question, the child took another step back. Weare going to lose her, he wanted to tell Mabel.

Jack wasnat one to believe in fairy-tale maidens made of snow. Yet Faina was extraordinary. Vast mountain ranges and unending wilderness, sky and ice. You couldnat hold her too close or know her mind. Perhaps it was so with all children. Certainly he and Mabel hadnat formed into the molds their parents had set for them.

It was something more, though. Nothing tethered Faina to them. She could vanish, never return, and who was to say she had ever been loved by them?

No, the child said.

Fainaas eyes darted from Mabel to Jack, and in the quick blue he saw that she was afraid.

I will no longer allow you to live like an animal, Mabel said. Her movements were sharp around the kitchen table as she stacked dishes, gathered leftovers. The girl watched, a wild bird with its heart jumping in its chest.

Starting right now, you will stay here with us. No more running off into the trees, gone for days on end. This will be your home. With us.

No, the child said again, more forcefully.

Jack waited for her to fly away.

aPlease, Mabel. Can we talk about this later?a aLook at her. Will you just look at her? Weave neglected her. She needs a clean home, an education.a aNot in front of the child.a aSo we let her go back into the wilderness tonight? And the next, and the next? How will she find her way in this world if all she knows is the woods?a As far as Jack could see, the girl found her way fine, but it was senseless to argue.

aWhy?a Mabel pleaded to him. aWhy would she want to stay out there, alone and cold? Doesnat she know we would treat her kindly?a So that was it. Beneath her irritation and desire to control was love and hurt.

aItas not that,a Jack said. aShe belongs out there. Canat you see that? Itas her home.a He reached up to Mabel, kept her from picking up a bowl. He took her hands in his. Her fingers were slender and lovely, and he rubbed his thumbs along them. How well he knew those hands.

aIam trying, Jack. I am. But it is simply unfathomable to me. She chooses to live in dirt and blood and freezing cold, tearing apart wild animals to eat. With us she would be warm and safe and loved.a aI know,a he said. Didnat he want the child as a daughter, to brag about and shower with gifts? Didnat he want to hold her and call her their own? But this longing did not blind him. Like a rainbow trout in a stream, the girl sometimes flashed her true self to him. A wild thing glittering in dark water.

Mabel let go of his hands and turned to the child.

You will stay here tonight, she said.

She took hold of the childas shoulders, and for a moment Jack thought she would shake her. But then Mabel smoothed her hands down the girlas arms and spoke more gently.

Do you understand? And tomorrow we will go to town to ask about school cla.s.ses.

The girlas cheeks flushed, and she shook her head no, no.

Faina, this is not your decision. It is in your best interest. You must stop running around like a wild sprite. You will grow up some day, and then what?

No, she said.

Quickly, quietly, the child was nearly away, already wearing her hat and coat. Mabel stepped toward her.

Itas for you, donat you understand?

But the child was gone.

Mabel lowered herself into a chair, hands clasped in her lap.

aDoesnat she understand that we love her?a Jack went to the open door. It was a clear, calm night, the moon s.h.i.+ning through the branches. He saw the child at the edge of the forest. She had stopped and was looking back at the cabin. Then she turned away and, as she began to run, she shook her hands out from her sides in a gesture of frustration. Snow began to swirl.

Snow devils. Thatas what they had called them as children. Wind-churned funnels of snow, almost like white tornados, but these had sprung from the childas hands.

The girl vanished into the forest, but the snow devils circled and circled and grew. Jack watched in wonder, fear even. The snow churned toward the cabin, growing and circling, until it consumed everything. The yard darkened. The moonlight disappeared. The wind howled and the snow whipped at Jackas pant legs.

Into the night, the snowstorm beat itself against the cabin, and sleep would not come to Jack. He lay staring at the log ceiling of their bedroom and felt Mabelas warm body against his. He could wake her, slide his hands beneath her nightgown and kiss the back of her neck, but he was too distracted even for that. He forced his eyes closed and tried to stop his brain from spinning. He rolled from one side to the other, then climbed out of bed. He fumbled until he was in the kitchen. He lit a lantern, dimmed it as far as he could, and took the book down from the shelf. At the table, he turned the pages of ill.u.s.trations and foreign letters.

He did not notice Mabel until she sat down in the chair opposite him. Her hair was loose and untidy and her face creased from where it had pressed into the pillowcase.

aWhat are you doing awake?a she asked.

He looked down at the book. aIt is strange, isnat it?a aWhat?a she asked, her voice hushed as if there were others to wake.

aThe child we made out of snow. That night. The mittens and scarf. Then Faina. Her blond hair. And that way about her.a aWhat are you saying?a Jack caught himself.

aI must still be half asleep,a he said. He closed the book and gave her a small smile. aMy brainas muddled.a He hadnat convinced her, but she stood, straightened her nightgown, and returned to the bedroom.

Jack waited until he heard her crawl into bed, pull the covers up, and then, after some time, breathe the deep, slow breaths of sleep. He opened the book again, this time to a picture of the snow maiden among forest animals, snowflakes falling through the blue-black sky above them.

He had said too much, but not as much as he could have. He hadnat told Mabel about the snow devils, or about how Faina had scattered a snowfall like ashes on her fatheras grave. He didnat tell her how, as she stood over the grave, snow fluttered against the childas skin as if she were made of cold gla.s.s. The flakes did not melt on her cheeks. They did not dampen her eyelashes. They rested there like snow on ice until they were stirred away by a breeze.

CHAPTER 31.

The boyas brought you something, Mabel.a Jack opened the cabin door wider so Garrett could follow with his bundle, wrapped in leather and tied with a string of rawhide. It tucked easily under the boyas arm, and it didnat look to have the stiffness or bulk of a dead animal. All the same, maybe he should have asked before letting Garrett bring it inside.

aWell, good morning. Come in. Come in.a Mabel wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. aWould you like something hot to drink?a aYes, thank you.a aSo howas trapping?a Jack asked.

aIam just getting the sets out now. But Old Man Boyd said I could have his marten line. Heas retiring down to San Francisco.a aIs that so?a aI guess he found a small run of gold in a creek up north, and now heas set. Says he wants some warm sun for his old bones.a aAre you running his line, then?a aNot yet. But it wonat be long. Heas got all the poles in place. And heas selling me his number-one long-springs. Says he wonat be trapping anything but good-looking women in California.a Mabel was taking coffee mugs out of the cupboard and didnat seem to be listening, but the boy flushed a sudden red. aI meana thatas just what heaa aIs it a long trail, his trapline?a Jack asked.

aItall take me two days to check it. Iave got a wall tent Iall put up so I can stay overnight when the weatheras bad.a aAre you frightened?a Mabel asked from where she stood at the window.

The question seemed to confuse the boy.

aWhen youare out there, alone in the woods,a she said, aarenat you frightened?a aNo. I canat say that I am.a Mabel was quiet.