Rose
AFTER THE WOMAN called Urda snatched Tuki away that morning, I rarely saw him. When I did it was only in glimpses, and despite my friendly greetings, he kept his eyes averted. The only indication that he heard me at all was that his white skin turned a pinkish color, especially around the ears. Urda acted the same as always, not angry or hostile, just blandly indifferent.
To make matters worse, I had had a new nightmare. In it I was able to light the lamp, and when I brought it close to the face of my visitor, I saw that his head was turned, facing away from me. His hair was a rich gold, and I tapped him on the shoulder, to awaken him. The head turned to face me, and when it did I saw there was no face at all, just a great gaping hollow. I screamed.
This time when I awoke, the scream raw in my throat, it was still pitch-dark in the room. I heard a rustling and then some hurried footfalls. I didn't dare reach over to see if my visitor was gone but tiptoed across the room, feeling my way in the darkness, and found the door ajar.
White Bear
She dreams.
Cries out.
In fear.
I dream.
Of peace.
An end.
Finally.
To tell her.
Soon it will be over.
Freedom.
Rose
BECAUSE OF THE nightmares I dreaded the time when the lamps in the halls were extinguished. But in contrast with the nights, my days with the white bear were happy ones. There was an ease between us, like that of close friends who could read each other's moods in an instant. And the humanness in his eyes seemed to be almost always there now. I looked forward to his arrival in the room with the red couch. I would sit on the rug before the fire, a book in hand, and he would come and settle beside me. While I read aloud he would rest his head on his massive paws. Oftentimes he would close his eyes while he listened; I could tell he was not asleep because when we came to a twist in the story or a climactic moment, his eyes would open. He also made small noises that told me he was alert to every word—a rumbling, purrlike sound when the story was particularly satisfying, or a grunting when the tale took a more unbelievable turn.
The stories I read to him were good (some were wonderful), but at times they were almost beside the point. It was the companionship that mattered, especially when we would laugh together at something funny. (Although the sound of an enormous white bear laughing out loud is not for the faint of heart; the first time I heard it, I had to fight back a strong urge to flee the room.)
There was one story in particular that made us both laugh. It was an old Njorden tale about a crotchety husband who always complained about how easy his wife had it, how he had to go off every day to the fields while all she did was sit around the house. The wife grew tired of his complaints and one day said to him, "Do you think you could do the work at home better?"
"Of course," the husband replied. "Any man could."
"Then why do we not switch tasks? Tomorrow I will mow the hay, and you will stay here and do the housework."
The husband agreed to the plan.
Needless to say, while the wife busily mowed row after row of hay, the hapless husband wound up accidentally killing the pig, spilling cream all over the kitchen floor, and letting every last drop of ale run out of the barrel. The part of the story that amused the white bear most was when the husband dropped all the freshly washed clothes in the mud, having gotten tangled up in the washing line.
"I suppose you think you could do better?" I laughed, forgetting that I was speaking not to a person but to a large white bear. He stopped laughing, and I looked up in time to see the unhappiness in his eyes before he left the room.
I thought then of his sigh as he had watched me rinsing the white nightshirt.
I grew better at playing the flauto. I had taken to performing for the white bear, sifting through the sheet music to find the simplest piece for a beginner. I would sit on a small velvet chair and he would lie on the rug at my feet and listen, again with his eyes closed. There was one melody in particular, I could tell, he liked more than any other. It bore the title "Estivale," which I figured out meant "of the summer." I rarely could play it straight through without some kind of mistake, but he didn't seem to care. It didn't matter that my playing was less than impressive; for him it was just that I did it at all. And what mattered to me was the stillness when I was done, and the pleasure in his eyes.
One afternoon, many months after my visit to my family, I played "Estivale" better than I ever had, and the white bear let out a deep sigh of pleasure. Looking into his eyes, which seemed more human than before, I suddenly blurted out, "Who are you?"
Before he could react I continued, unable to stop myself. "Where are you from?" I asked. "How long have you lived here in this mountain? Are you under an enchantment? If you are, how can it be broken?"
Even before the last word died on my lips, I regretted my rashness. The ease between us vanished at once; his eyes clouded over, the animal blankness came back. Then he got up and left the room.
The next day he did not come to the room at the usual time. After waiting for a long while, I realized he was not coming at all. I cursed my impulsive tongue and felt lonely and sorry for myself the rest of the day. I tried working at the loom, but it held no appeal for me and I soon gave up. Later I saw Tuki scurrying along behind the woman Urda, and I loudly called out to him by name, but he stuck close to her and they soon disappeared into the kitchen. The door, I discovered, was locked behind them. I went up to my peephole to the sky and sat there at the window, numb, staring at the branch. It was bare. Winter was not far off. Except for the month spent at home, I had been at the castle in the mountain for almost a full year.
That evening my nightmare was particularly intense. My scream still burning my throat, I lay there, shivering, torn between fear and anger. My visitor had scurried away, scared off again by my scream. How long was I supposed to live like this? How was I going to stand it? I thought I would surely go mad if I could not learn who slept beside me night after night. Was it a monster, or a hollow-faced nothing, or the white bear himself? I felt that if I only knew the answer, I could go on, I could endure my life there in the castle.
Suddenly I thought of the candle and flint Mother had given me. What had she said? That the candle would stay lit even in a stiff wind and that the flint would spark a light every time. I wondered uneasily if the candle and flint could possibly light the unlightable darkness. Dare I try?
All the next day I wrestled with the question. The white bear did reappear briefly for our afternoon reading, but I was distracted and he was remote, restless, more animal than human. I tried to play "Estivale," but my fingers felt leaden and my breath short. When I finished we just sat there, still and unhappy, a strained silence between us. Suddenly the white bear got up and exited the room, giving me an unreadable look over his shoulder as he went.
I wandered the castle restlessly, my thoughts jumbled and my head aching. Again I had no will for weaving. Nor did I have any appetite for my evening meal, and leaving the food on the table barely touched, I sat for a time on the red couch, gazing into the fire. I was still undecided. I told myself the candle wouldn't work, then countered by saying that it was still worth trying. I told myself what a horrible mistake I would be making, how trying to light the darkness might upset the balance, possibly even bring harm. But then I reasoned it was a simple enough thing, lighting a candle. No one would even know; I could light the candle, have a quick peek, and that would be that, no one the wiser.