Ram Odin, on the other hand, gravitated toward the old men who gathered in the Cave, which was not a cave, but rather a house-sized building with few interior walls. It served as town hall, church, court, and ballroom by turns. And it was the gathering place of the old men who got cold too easily and left all the last-minute winter preparation to younger folk. “I plan to die this winter,” said one of the men. “So what do I care if there’s firewood? I won’t be using it.”
“You say that every year,” another retorted.
“Not bending over to pick up sticks is why I didn’t die.”
Ram Odin soon joined in with a dry witticism or two, and after a while began discussing various philosophies with them, in a folksy way.
Rigg and Ram soon learned the same thing: why this village was a sad and suspicious place. A girl had been lost fifteen years ago, and not in winter—it was spring when she disappeared. No one saw her leave. She was simply gone at suppertime one day, and no one knew what happened to her.
All their children were known to all, and loved more or less according to their character. But this girl, Onishtu, was spoken of with reverence. Not only was she an extraordinarily beautiful girl—“Like the sun when she first comes warm in spring to melt the snow”—but she was also kind and generous, loved by all, and if any of the other children envied her, they kept it to themselves because no one wanted to hear ill of Onishtu.
“They took her,” said someone, and with each person there seemed a different idea of who “they” were. Mostly, though, the candidates were the people of this or that nearby village. “Took her, they did, and stuffed up her mouth so she couldn’t cry out, and carried her off.”
To be somebody’s wife. To be everybody’s wife. To be disfigured. To be kept in a cellar and fed as little as possible until she became scrawny and sour. “They’ll give her back to us then, when she’s an ugly hag, bitter and mean. Then they’ll say, ‘You were so proud of her, do you like her now?’”
And people would nod as if they agreed. Only they’d nod again at the next theory.
Rigg got the idea that they didn’t talk about Onishtu all that often—but it was a story so central to their lives these days that even after fifteen years, it was an open wound, and the arrival of a stranger meant that the tale had to be told, in all its details, from every angle.
When Rigg and Ram Odin were alone in the haybarn where they would spend the night, Ram Odin preempted any discussion by saying, “You’re not the finder of lost things here.”
“I’m the only person who can solve this mystery.”
“It’s not a mystery, it’s a tragedy.”
“It’s a tragedy that they can’t find the answer to the mystery.”
“It’s a tragedy that a beloved child was lost. It’s become a part of how they define themselves—we’re the people that someone envied so much that they did this to us. They’re actually quite proud of it. It sets them apart.”
“I think they’d rather have the girl back.”
“Would they?” asked Ram Odin. “Are you sure?”
“Do you think that if I asked them, any of them would say no?”
“Do you think that just because that’s what they say they want, what they believe they want, it must be what they really want?”
“Why do you have to fight me on something so obvious?” asked Rigg. “Aren’t you glad I went back and prevented your killing?”
“It’s precisely because you have that experience that I’m afraid your do-good soul will triumph over your see-ahead brain, which teaches you caution.”
“I’ll be cautious.”
“Meaning what? The way you were cautious in Ramfold? Constantly fiddling with the past, having no idea what the consequences might be?”
“Everything turned out fine.”
“As far as we know. So far.”
“That goes without saying. The Umbo that warned us of future danger always disappeared when we took his advice and did a different thing.”
“Yes,” said Ram Odin. “I’ll keep that in mind. Just promise me something—and not an idle promise, not an ‘agree so he’ll stop talking’ promise.”
“What’s the promise?”
“That you won’t go back into the past and change things without talking to me first. No, talking to me and listening to what I say.”
“I’ve never had to consult you on these things and I’ve done well enough.”
“Yes, you have,” said Ram Odin. “And I admire your self-restraint—that you’ve never used your ability to rule over other people, or for vengeance. Mostly it’s been to help you accomplish a good and honorable task. But promise me all the same.”
“Yes,” said Rigg. “I promise. It won’t hurt—I always have time to talk things through before I act.”
“Then play this out and see what you find,” said Ram Odin. “I’m curious, too.”
Rigg began right after breakfast the next morning. “Would it be wrong of me to meet Onishtu’s family?”
“You already have,” he was told.
“I mean… would they mind if I asked them about her?”
“Maybe they would and maybe they wouldn’t,” he was told.
“How can I find out?”
“Ask them about her and see what happens.”
So when the father was pointed out to him among the men bringing in the bees, Rigg waited till he finished with one of the hives and then took him aside. “I don’t mean to give offense,” said Rigg. “But I believe that people leave behind a kind of aura, a trace of the path they took through the world. Your daughter Onishtu sounds like a person who would leave a path of joy, and if I can see where she lived, perhaps I can gain some bit of grace for having met her, even across all these years.”
Couching it in religious terms did the trick. The father wasn’t satisfying idle curiosity, he was allowing his long-missing daughter to give a gift to—and perhaps be admired and remembered by—this young stranger, ugly as his face might be.
So after supper, Rigg and Ram Odin went to their house, to the second story. All the houses had two stories, so when the bottom floor was completely buried in snow, they could still get out of the house and tend to the animals and other tasks.
“This was her room,” said the father. “It’s full of grandchildren at the moment.”
“We kept it for her for a few years,” said the mother, “but we couldn’t afford to keep the room out of a hopeless hope, when there were people here with us who had need of it.” She sounded stern as she said it—as if she was rebuking herself for regretting the necessity.
Rigg found the girl’s path easily—it filled the place, during the years it had been her room. Rigg followed the most common routes—to the bed, to the window, to the small washstand, to the chest where clothes were kept. Now that he knew which path was hers, the facemask helped him see what she looked like. A gracious child, her hair long in gentle waves of ebony, her smile wide and welcoming. He saw her when she was alone, when she was with company. He saw how her path intertwined with others, and without leaving the room, traced her pattern of friendships.
“She had many friends,” said Rigg.
“Everyone loved her,” said her father.
“Don’t pretend to ‘feel’ what everybody already told you,” said the mother scornfully.