"I ... I'm sorry, Mother, but I'm not really hungry. Where is Father?"
"Your father is not here, Rose," Mother replied. "He is a mapmaker now. Off on an exploring journey."
"And searching for you," I added.
"A mapmaker! Oh, I am so glad," Rose said happily. "When will he be back?"
"We don't know," I responded. "Last time he was gone nearly two months."
. "Oh no!" Rose said, obviously distressed. "I haven't much time..."
"What do you mean?" Mother asked sharply. "You are back to stay, aren't you, Rose?"
Rose shook her head. I could see her hands were tightly clenched in her lap.
"Rose is only visiting," I said. "She can stay for one month, no more. Come, Rose, let me show you Father's new workshop."
Rose quickly got to her feet, giving me a grateful look. "I'll eat later, Mother," she said as we went out the door.
"Is Father really a mapmaker, Neddy?" she asked. "Tell me everything!"
While we walked I told her the whole story, of all that had happened since she had left us. I didn't show her Father's workshop after all, not then, for we decided to keep walking until we got to our favorite spot, the hillside where Rose had first showed me the wind-rose cloak.
Rose listened in amazement. When I was done, I leaned over and took her hand. "Now it is your turn," I said. "Tell me where you have been and all that has happened to you."
She was silent. "I cannot, Neddy," she finally said.
She loosened her hand from mine and, standing up, threw her arms out and put her face toward the sun. "It is so good to be home!" she said, joy radiating from her.
I smiled. Then Rose leaned down and, grabbing up a fistful of heather, put it to her nose, breathing in deeply. I remembered how Rose always loved to smell things. I used to call her an elkhound; her favorite dog, Snurri, was an elkhound, and like all of that breed, he had a remarkable sense of smell.
"Oh, it's wonderful, Neddy. You don't know how wonderful." She went darting about, touching things, smelling them.
Finally she sank down beside me again. "I'm sorry, Neddy. I would like to tell you everything, but I cannot, not very much anyway. There were parts that were very, very nice. And there were some parts that were hard. Like not being able to do this..." She buried her nose in heather again. "And the loneliness. The being shut inside..." She shivered a little, then brightened. "But it is fine, Neddy. I don't mind going back, as long as I can have a little time like this."
"But why must you go back? You do not owe the white bear anything."
"Sara is well now," Rose replied. "And Father's workshop ... the good fortune that came to our family because I..."
"You sound like Mother! Rose, those things had nothing to do with the bear. It was coincidence, nothing more. Harald Soren, a flesh-and-blood man, brought about our good fortune, not the bear."
Rose looked at me. There was a yearning in her face, as if she wanted very much to believe what I said. "You can't know that, not for sure, Neddy," she said slowly. "And besides, I made a promise."
"To the bear."
She nodded, her eyes bright. I thought she might weep, but she didn't. "Don't let's talk about this anymore, Neddy."
"I won't press you," I said. "But if you do wish to talk about anything at all, I am here."
"Thank you," she replied softly. And we began making our way back to the farmhouse.
"What is that nasty Widow Hautzig doing here anyway?" Rose asked in a low voice as we saw Mother and the widow coming out of the front door.
"She and Mother have grown thick as thieves," I replied.
"What does Father think of it?"
"He barely notices, he's gone so much. And..." I paused. "Well, there is ill feeling between Mother and Father."
"Because of me?" Rose said quickly.
"It began then," I answered, somewhat unwillingly.
"I am sorry to hear it," Rose said. "Oh, how I wish Father would return!"
"So do I," I replied fervently. "What joy it would give him to see you back home."
Rose
I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT time to be a very fickle thing. When you are unhappy, doing something you'd rather not do, time crawls at the slowest, crudest pace. But when you're happy, it speeds up faster than a skier racing down an icy mountain.
The moments at home seemed to fly by.
How I wanted Father to return! So he'd know I was well and safe, and so I could make up for the anger I'd shown him before I had left. The thought of him wandering the land, looking for me, maybe even putting himself in danger, was almost enough to dampen the joy I felt being home.
The journey from the castle with the white bear had been much like the one before, but the white bear wasn't in such a hurry and I was not so confused and apprehensive. That first moment when I stepped out the doors of the castle in the mountain, I thought I might burst into tears or faint or have some sort of hysterical outburst, but I did nothing except stand there, breathing in my first draught of fresh air in more than six months. The air was fragrant with spring flowers. It was sheer bliss.
The white bear had watched me, letting me get my fill, then he had said, "Come," and I climbed onto his back. I was awkward again after so long. And it felt strange to me, riding on his back as if he were my pet horse, especially because I knew him so well. It was almost like climbing onto Neddy's back. But I was quickly distracted by the immediate need of finding my balance as the white bear began to run.
We stopped occasionally to eat and rest, though always well away from any town or people. He was very good at finding berries and other fruit, and even brought me fresh meat (seal, when we were by the sea, and badger or stoat inland), which I cooked over a fire. My appetite had returned.
Because I was not in such a daze that time, I was even able to enjoy the travel. I marveled all over again at the underwater sensations in my sealskin apparatus. It was the most extraordinary thing, to blindly float through water, carried like a tiny child.
He spoke to me several times during the journey, which may have been part of the reason we went slower. The talking always wore him out and he did not move as swiftly afterward.
During our first stop after crossing the sea, he said to me, "Only a visit ... If you do not return ... great harm."
The word "harm" was said forcefully, yet he did not seem to be threatening me, only telling me a fact; as if the possibility of harm was something he had no control over.
"A month ... one cycle of moon ... no longer," he said.
"I understand," I said.
"They ... family ... will want you to stay ... will do anything."
"I give you my word," I said a little shortly, annoyed by the suggestion that my family might behave less than honorably or trick me into staying.
He plowed on, with great effort. "Do not tell ... They will ask ... not tell." He was agitated, more upset than I'd ever seen him. His eyes were fixed on me, entreating.
"I promise," I said.
"Your mother ... Be most careful ... Do not tell ... about white bear." His humanness was wearing thin, I could see; he was struggling to form the words. "Do not ... alone with mother ... not listen." He gave a low growl, almost of pain, and turned, padding slowly away from me until he disappeared from view among a large cluster of trees.
He returned a short time later with two dead hares. We did not talk while I prepared and cooked them.
He left me several furlongs from the farm, by a brook with a willow tree bowed over it. "I ... go no farther ... In a month ... here ... I will wait." Again those eyes were fastened on me, devouring, as if the sight of me had to last him a very long time.