Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Book One
Father
Neddy
Rose
Neddy
Father
Neddy
Father
Rose
Father
Troll Queen
White Bear
Neddy
White Bear
Rose
White Bear
Neddy
Rose
White Bear
Neddy
Father
Neddy
Rose
Neddy
Father
Neddy
Book Two
Troll Queen
Rose
Troll Queen
White Bear
Rose
Troll Queen
Neddy
Rose
Troll Queen
Neddy
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Father
Rose
White Bear
Neddy
Rose
Neddy
Rose
Neddy
Troll Queen
Rose
White Bear
Rose
Troll Queen
Neddy
Rose
White Bear
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Book Three
Rose
White Bear
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Neddy
Rose
Neddy
Rose
Book Four
Rose
Neddy
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Neddy
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Neddy
Rose
White Bear
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
White Bear
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Troll Queen
White Bear
Rose
White Bear
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Troll Queen
Rose
Neddy
Rose
White Bear
Book Five
Rose
Neddy
White Bear
Neddy
Rose
White Bear
Rose
White Bear
Rose
White Bear
Rose
Father
Neddy
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Chatting with Edith Pattou
The Origins of East
About the Author
Copyright © 2005, 2003 by Edith Pattou
Author interview copyright © 2005 by Edith Pattou and Harcourt, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
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First Magic Carpet Books edition 2005
Magic Carpet Book is a trademark of Harcourt, Inc.,
registered in the United States of America and/or other jurisdictions.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Pattou, Edith.
East/by Edith Pattou.
p. cm.
Summary: A young woman journeys to a distant castle on the back
of a great white bear who is the victim of a cruel enchantment.
[1. Fairy tales. 2. Bears—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ8.P2815Eas 2003
[Fic]—dc21 2003002338
ISBN 978-0-15-204563-0
ISBN 978-0-15-205221-8 pb
Text set in Fournier
Designed by Cathy Riggs
Printed in the United States of America
K M O P N L J
To my father,
for his love of stories—
from Harold and the Purple Crayon to Doctor No
And to my mother,
for her unwavering support
Prologue
I found the box in the attic of an old farmhouse in Norway. It was large, the size of a footlocker, and there were markings on it; runes, I learned later.
When I opened the lid, it looked like the box contained mostly papers, a jumbled mass of them, in several different languages and written in different styles of handwriting. There were diaries, maps, even ships' logs.
As I dug deeper, under the papers, I found more: skeins of wool; small boots made of soft leather; sheaves of music tied with faded ribbon; long, thin pieces of wood with maplike markings on them; dried-up mushrooms; woven belts; even a dress the color of the moon.
Then I came upon what looked to be the mouthpiece of a very old reed instrument. I held it up toward the light coming through the small attic window. As the late afternoon sun caught it, a most extraordinary thing happened. I heard the clear, high note of a flute.
And it was coming from inside the trunk.
Other sounds came then—whispering, muttering, swirling around inside my head. Dogs barking, sleigh bells, the cracking of ice. Voices. Hearing voices—this isn't good, I thought.
Still holding the ancient mouthpiece in the palm of my hand, I lifted the top piece of paper out of the trunk. It was a handwritten note.
They want me to write it all down, though I'm not sure why.
It seems enough that Father and Neddy wrote down their parts. Especially Neddy; he was always the storyteller in the family. I am not a storyteller, not really. It takes more patience than I've got—or rather, than I used to have. I guess I did learn a little bit about patience in the course of the journey. But even so, I'd much rather set the story down in cloth. Well, actually I have. Hangs on the north wall in the great room, and the whole story is there.
But words are easier to understand for most people.
So I will try.
It isn't easy for me to walk the path back to the beginning of the story, even to know where the true beginning is. And telling a story, I suppose, is like winding a skein of spun yarn—you sometimes lose track of the beginning.
All I intended to do, when I began the journey, was to set things right. They say losing someone you love is like losing a part of your own body. An eye or a leg. But it is far worse—especially when it is your fault.
But already I'm getting ahead of myself. It all began with a pair of soft boots.