The creature swung its head to face me, then began moving up the rocks toward me. I stood still, frozen by fear. I could see that the white bear was carrying Rose by her clothing—a bunched-up wad at the back of her neck—like a mother cat carrying a kitten. The animal stopped a stone's throw from me and gently laid Rose down. Just before it turned to move away, I caught a glimpse of the bear's eyes. The expression there was like none I'd ever encountered in an animal before. It was a look of immense sadness.
I quickly knelt beside Rose. I listened to her chest and found she was breathing steadily, but she was pale and still, and there were vivid red scrapes on her cheek and knees. Then her eyes opened and she smiled. "Neddy," she said happily, putting her arms around my neck.
I picked her up and carried her home. I told my parents where I had found her but not about the bear. I don't know why not. Perhaps I thought that none of my family would believe me, that they'd think it was a story I'd made up. But that wasn't the reason. There was something about the bear that frightened me, something beyond its bigness and fierceness, and I didn't want to think about it, let alone talk about it.
Somehow Rose had climbed over the stone wall, made her way across the meadow, climbed up both the gentle hill and the rocky crag, then slipped and slid down the other side into the icy water of the gorge. Father thought Rose must have crawled out of the water herself. But I knew it was the bear that pulled her from the pool, and that it had probably saved her life. She would have drowned if the bear had not rescued her.
Rose had no memory of the bear. I'm quite sure she never actually saw it.
And I never told anyone.
White Bear
Warm place.
Skin itches, all the time.
Plunging into cool water, relief.
Purple eyes. A child.
Up above on the rocks.
Smiling down unafraid.
I remember.
Long ago.
A ball.
A red ball.
Then nothing.
Lost.
The girl above.
Falling.
Purple eyes shut. Her face.
Floating, bruised.
Lift her up, above water.
A boy. Pale eyes, frightened.
Thin arms. Raises her to him.
Takes her away.
Alone.
Rose
FATHER TOLD ME THAT my first gift was a pair of boots, made of the soft leather of reindeer hide. Which was very fitting, for I loved wearing boots.
I always wore my older brothers' and sisters' hand-me-downs, though that never bothered me. The boots had already been resoled many times by the time I got them, but I must have put more miles on those boots than all of my brothers and sisters together.
By the time I was five or six, I had already gone missing more times than my parents could count. One of my favorite games was to imagine myself a bold explorer, like my grandfather and great-grandfather. I had made it my goal to discover and claim every square inch of the land that lay within walking distance of our farm.
On the day I first saw a white bear, I had slipped out of the house when my sister Selme was distracted by a frog I had hidden in a pan in the kitchen cupboard. I climbed the stone wall that lay to the northeast of our farm and ran through the meadow, but instead of climbing the rocky crag (which I'm told I had fallen off of and then nearly drowned when I was two years old), I headed due north. I walked a very long way, finally coming upon a small grove of trees. There, standing among them, was a white bear. It stood very still, watching me.
I stopped, staring with delight at the snow-white fur. I wasn't close enough to see its eyes clearly and what expression they held, but I was too young to be afraid, so I smiled widely at the animal. It gazed at me for a short time, then turned and lumbered away. I tried following, but it had vanished. Soon I got hungry and turned toward home.
I didn't tell Mother and Father about seeing the white bear, especially Mother, because I knew she'd insist on keeping me even closer to home. "You see!" she'd say. "Dangerous wild animals are out there. It's not safe."
I told Neddy, though, and was disappointed at his reaction. He frowned and said in that superior, older brother tone I hated, "You mustn't go anywhere near a white bear, Rose. They are dangerous and fierce creatures, with long, sharp teeth that will gobble you up. They are always hungry and they move very fast." He acted like he was some kind of expert on white bears.
I didn't pay any attention to him. From then on the white bear was my imaginary companion on all my explorations. I would pretend that I was riding along on its white-fur back, the two of us a fierce duo conquering and claiming new lands by the score.
I spent much of my childhood longing, in vain, to see a white bear again. It was extremely rare to see white bears in our part of the country. They were ice bears, isbjorn, that usually made their home in the snowy north.
White Bear
Watching for the child.
The girl with purple eyes.
Purple eyes.
And her smiling mouth.
Standing in the trees, watching her.
The girl.
Taller.
Unafraid.
She moves toward me.
Purple eyes, trusting.
Cannot.
Not safe for her.
Hunger.
Hunger.
Hunger.
Must go.
Quickly.
To feed.
Now.
Then return.
Neddy
WHEN ROSE WAS FIVE, she began to weave. The first thing she made was a belt with a crude design of a white bear. Those were her two passions: weaving (or sewing) and exploring with her imaginary white bear.
Inside the house she could always be found weaving belts on her small, rigid heddle loom. When we had more belts than we could ever use (some of the farm animals even sported Rose's belts), Mother taught Rose to work the household loom. By age eight Rose was her older sisters' equal when it came to weaving.
Then one day, taking a basketful of eggs to Widow Hautzig, Rose laid eyes on the widow's loom. Widow Hautzig was a local craftswoman who had a small business weaving coats and rugs and various other items to sell both in nearby Andalsnes and to wandering merchants who would take them to fairs and markets farther afield. To Rose, who knew only our own rough one at home, the widow's loom was large and impressive. It was twice as tall as Rose, and the wood was polished and carved with simple designs.
Unfortunately, Widow Hautzig was a grouchy old woman with no patience at all for a small, wild girl desperate to learn all about her beautiful loom. More than anything in the world, Rose longed for a loom of her own, a fine big one like the widow's. But she knew that was impossible, that Father would never be able to afford it. Still, Rose was stubborn, and she would not rest until she had found a way to get the Widow Hautzig to let her use her loom.
When she was nine Rose found out that Widow Hautzig had a weakness for chanterelle mushrooms. So Rose trained her favorite dog, Snurri, to sniff out chanterelles in the forest. After much hard work she struck a deaclass="underline" In exchange for a weekly basket of chanterelle mushrooms, Widow Hautzig would teach Rose how to work her loom. Though the lessons were short and very disagreeable (often Rose would come home in tears over some gibe of the widow's), still Rose was a determined pupil, and before long the baskets of chanterelles were being traded for a chance to actually do her own weaving on the loom.