The Snow Child

  “Oh,” Mabel said quietly, and Jack couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or thinking of all the dead bears.

  “I suppose a lot of characters have come through here over the years,” he said.

  “Oh, sure. This place draws kooks like flies. We count ourselves among the sane ones, and that tells you something.”

  Mabel did smile then.

  “You must have heard about the fellow who painted his cabin bright orange?” Esther asked.

  “No, no.” Mabel laughed and shook her head. “I won’t believe you anymore. You’re making it up.”

  Esther solemnly held up her right hand. “I swear it’s the truth. Orange as a piece of fruit. Said it would help him keep cheerful during the black winters. His place was down just the other side of the tracks. I thought it was kind of pretty myself, but all the men in town teased him no end.”

  “Did it work?” Jack asked.

  “Can’t say that it did. He burned up in his cabin that winter, the whole thing down to the ground. I always kind of wondered—he complained about the cold more than any man I’ve ever known. What in the Sam Hill he was doing in Alaska is beyond me. Everyone said the fire was an accident, and that all the paint fueled the flames, but maybe he was just sick of being cold. Wanted to go out in a blast of heat, like old Sam McGee.”

  “Sam who?” Mabel asked. “Did he live around here?”

  “Sam who! And your own father was a literature professor?” Esther went on to recite some verses by a Yukon poet named Robert Service that told of all the strange things done under the midnight sun.

  As light faded, Mabel asked her to stay for dinner, but she said no, she had to get home and cook for her houseful of men. Once she had dressed in her coat and boots and was ready to leave, she hugged Mabel again.

  “Darn it if you haven’t become my very best friend,” she said. “Take care, won’t you?”

  “I will,” Mabel said “It was good to see you.”

  Jack followed Esther into the yard and offered to hitch their draft horse to the wagon.

  “I got it just fine, Jack,” she said. She leaned in close to him and looked back toward the cabin.

  “But I do worry about her,” she said. “She’s got a bit of the sadness about her, like my own mother did. Keep a close watch over her.”

  Jack expected Mabel to be sullen and quiet when he went back inside, but she was humming to herself at the kitchen sink.

  “You two have a good visit?”

  “We did. I’ve never met anyone like her. She is full of surprises, and I rather enjoy it.”

  She poured water into a pot and didn’t look at him. “Why don’t you ever speak up for me, tell her that you’ve seen the child as well?”

  So he was the one, not Esther, who had angered her.

  “It completely baffles me, Jack. She’s real. You’ve seen her with your own eyes, sat with her at this very table. And yet never once have you acknowledged it to the Bensons.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I’m not as brave as you.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “No. You’re different. True to yourself, even if it means people will say you’re crazy. Well, me… I guess I just…”

  “You don’t say a word.” But there was more bemusement than anger in it.

  She went back to sorting through a sack of potatoes.

  “Should I get a pair of those wool pants like Esther was wearing?” she asked.

  “Only if you wear the holey socks as well.”

  “But didn’t they look warm and practical?”

  “The socks?” he teased.

  “No no. Those socks were something else.”

  As she began to peel potatoes, he stood behind her and touched the tendrils of hair that had fallen from their clips and curled at the nape of her neck. Then he reached around her waist and leaned into her. All these years and still he was drawn to the smell of her skin, of sweet soap and fresh air. He whispered against her ear, “Dance with me.”

  “What?”

  “I said, let’s dance.”

  “Dance? Here, in the cabin? I do believe you’re the mad one.”

  “Please.”

  “There’s no music.”

  “We can remember some tune, can’t we?” and he began to hum “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.”

  “Here,” he said, and swung her around to face him, an arm still at her waist, her slight hand in his.

  He hummed louder and began to twirl them around the plank floor.

  “Hmmm, hmm, with a heart that is true, I’ll be waiting for you…”

  “… in the shade of the old apple tree.” She kissed him on the cheek, and he swept her back on his arm.

  “Oh, I’ve thought of one,” she said. “Let me think…” and she began to hum tentatively. Jack didn’t know it at first, but then it came to him and he began to sing along.

  “When my hair has all turned gray,” a swoop and a twirl beside the kitchen table, “will you kiss me then and say, that you love me in December as you do in May?”

  And then they were beside the woodstove and Mabel kissed him with her mouth open and soft. Jack pulled her closer, pressed their bodies together and kissed the side of her face and down her bare neck and, as she let her head gently lean away, down to her collarbone. Then he scooped an arm beneath her knees and picked her up.

  “What in heaven’s—you’ll break your back,” Mabel sputtered between a fit of laughter. “We’re too old for this.”

  “Are we?” he asked. He rubbed his beard against her cheek. She shrieked and laughed, and he carried her into the bedroom, though they had not yet eaten dinner.

  CHAPTER 18

  The cranberries were tiny red rubies against the white snow, and Mabel’s eyes searched them out. She had thought them inedible, but Esther told her they were actually sweeter once they’d frozen and perfect for sauces and jellies. The late February weather had warmed to just below freezing. The sky was blue, the air was calm, and it was surprisingly pleasant to be outside. Mabel waded through the deep snow near the cabin, carrying the birch basket Faina had given them. The berries were small and scattered among the bare, spindly branches, but Mabel was beginning to fill the basket a few at a time. She planned to make a savory relish with the cranberries, Esther’s onions, and spices. Maybe it would make the moose meat taste like something other than the same meal they’d eaten every day for weeks on end. She was smiling to herself, thinking of how necessity truly is the mother of invention, when she looked up to see the child and the fox.

  Faina never ceased to startle Mabel. It wasn’t just the way the girl appeared without warning, but also her manner. She stood with her arms at her sides in her wool coat, mittens, scarf, fur trim, and flaxen hair. Her brown fur hat was dusted in snow, as were her eyelashes. Her expression was calmly attentive, as if she had been waiting, for minutes, perhaps years, knowing it was only a matter of time before Mabel came to this place in the woods.

  Mabel was no longer sure of the child’s age. She seemed both newly born and as old as the mountains, her eyes animated with unspoken thoughts, her face impassive. Here with the child in the trees, all things seemed possible and true.

  Just as startling was the fox. It sat beside Faina with its silken red tail curled around its feet and its ears pricked forward. Something in its predatory eyes and thin black mouth told of a thousand small deaths, and Mabel could not forget its muzzle smeared with blood.

  Is he your friend? she asked the child.

  Faina shrugged her small shoulders.

  We hunt together, she said.

  Who does the killing? Mabel asked.

  Both of us.

  Do you ever pet him?

  The girl shook her head.

  Once I did, she said. When he was a kit, he took pieces of meat from my fingers, and he never bit me. At night he sometimes slept beside me. But he is too wild now. We run and hunt together, but that is all.

  As if to show the
truth of what she had said, Faina reached her mittened hand down toward the fox. It swiftly ducked and darted around the child’s legs and into the trees. The girl watched, and Mabel thought she saw a look of wonder and longing on her face.

  Have you picked many berries? Faina turned back to her.

  A few, Mabel said. Not as many as I should have. But it’s a lovely day. I don’t mind that it has taken me most of the morning.

  The girl nodded, then pointed past a stand of spruce.

  There are more just over there, she said.

  Thank you. Won’t you come with me?

  But the girl was already running away, toward the cabin. She flickered through the trees and skimmed across the top of the snow, until Mabel was alone again in the forest. Sunlight sparkled on the snow and she could hear the wind blowing down from the glacier, but here it was quiet, so quiet Mabel was left to wonder if she had always been alone. She walked through the snow and into the spruce trees.

  It took some time to identify what she was hearing. Mabel had filled her basket to overflowing with the cranberries Faina had pointed her toward. She pulled her mittens back on and held the basket carefully, not wanting to spill a single berry into the snow. As she neared the cabin, she thought she heard shouts. Or maybe it was singing. Then, as she broke through the trees and out into the yard, she heard it clearly—laughter.

  Jack and the child stood side by side, their arms outstretched and hands nearly touching. Then, without warning, they threw themselves backward into the deep snow.

  Come see! Come see! the child called out to Mabel.

  Jack? Faina? What on earth…

  We’re snow angels, Jack called out, and the girl giggled.

  Mabel walked to them, the basket in her hands, and looked down. Jack had sunk nearly a foot into the snow, and he was waving his arms and legs like a drowning man. He grinned, and Mabel saw that his beard and mustache were caked with snow.

  Nearby the child lay on top of the snow, smiling, her blue eyes wide.

  She saw now that they were surrounded by angels in the snow—Jack’s large, deep-set figure and the child’s, smaller and lighter. A dozen or more were sprinkled across the yard two at a time, and they shone in the sunlight. Mabel had never seen anything more beautiful, and she walked among them.

  Jack struggled to his feet. Then he reached down to Faina and grabbed her hands.

  Watch, the child called to her.

  Jack plucked Faina from the snow, both of them laughing.

  What Mabel beheld in the snow took her breath away. The angel was so delicate, and its wings perfectly formed, like the print left on snow where a wild bird has taken flight.

  Isn’t that something? Jack asked.

  I don’t understand. How…

  Don’t you remember doing this when you were a little girl? Jack said. You just wave your arms and legs around. Come on. Give it a try.

  Mabel hesitated, held up her basket of berries.

  Oh, please. Won’t you? the child begged.

  Jack took the basket and handed it to Faina.

  I don’t know. With my long skirts and all.

  But he took her by the shoulders and, before she knew his intentions, gently shoved her backward. She expected it to hurt, but the powdery snow was like a thick duvet that softened her fall and muffled all sound. She saw Jack and the child grinning down at her and above their faces the brilliant blue sky. Closer, she could see the individual snow crystals that encased her.

  Go on, then, Jack called down to her. You’ve got to flap your arms to make the wings.

  Mabel swept her arms up and felt the drag of the snow, then back down again. Then she moved her legs side to side.

  All right? she asked.

  Jack reached down to her, they clasped hands, mittens and work gloves, and he grunted as he pulled her to her feet.

  Oh, look! Look! the child cried out. Isn’t it perfect?

  Mabel looked down at her own snow angel. Like Jack’s, it was set deep into the snow and the wings weren’t feathery. But it was lovely, she had to agree.

  Yours is the most beautiful of all, Faina said, and she threw her arms around Mabel’s waist and hugged her tightly, and Mabel felt as if she were falling again, tumbling, laughing, backward into the powdery snow.

  The snow angels remained in the yard, even as the little girl came and went from the forest, and Mabel smiled at them. It wasn’t just their whimsical presence, dancing from barn to cabin, cabin to woodpile. It was also the memory of Jack flinging himself back into the snow like a little boy, and giggling Faina at his side. And then the child’s arms around her, hugging her as a daughter hugs her mother. Joyfully. Spontaneously. The most beautiful of all. The most beautiful of all.

  Mabel left the kitchen window and returned to the woodstove. Wait until Esther sees that display, she thought. If she considered us half mad before, once she sees we’ve spent our days making snow angels in the yard, she will surely have us both committed. She stirred the bubbling cranberries. The musky, sour smell permeated the cabin and, Mabel realized, smelled much like the Bensons’ cluttered home had that first day she visited.

  She glanced out the window again. Lovely, crazy snow angels! And then it struck her—among all those snow angels were Faina’s. Her delicate imprints with their feathery wings. Surely their existence could not be denied.

  When Esther sees them, she will know it’s true, the child is real. How could she and Jack make a dozen angels the shape and size of a little girl?

  Though the child had at first been a source of gentle teasing, as winter progressed Esther had become kind and cautious in her doubt. She asked if Mabel was getting enough fresh air, if she was sleeping too much during the day. She encouraged her to come visit, and when Mabel said she wasn’t comfortable driving the horse alone, Esther began to show up regularly.

  There was no guarantee Esther would come anytime soon, but she did visit every few weeks, weather depending, and often on a Sunday afternoon. It had been more than two weeks since her last visit and Sunday was just a few days away. As long as it didn’t snow, she would see proof of the little girl from the forest, and Mabel would be vindicated.

  Esther’s disbelief was all too familiar. It brought to mind the many years Mabel had spent as a child, looking for fairies and witches and being teased by her older siblings. Her head is stuffed full of nonsense, one teacher had warned her father. You let her read too many books.

  Once Mabel was certain she had caught a fairy. When she was eight years old, she built a trap box out of twigs and hung it in the oak tree in their backyard. In the middle of the night she spied it out her bedroom window rocking back and forth in the moonlight, and when she opened the window she could hear a high-pitched twittering, just how she imagined a trapped fairy would sound.

  Ada! Ada! she had called to her sister. I’ve caught a fairy. Come and look. Now you’ll see they’re real.

  And Ada came, sleepy-eyed and grumbling, and they walked in their bare feet and nightgowns out to the oak tree. But when Mabel lowered the box from the branch and peeked inside, what she saw wasn’t a fairy but a trapped songbird, quivering in fear. She opened the little door, but the bird would not fly out. Ada shook the stick box, and when the bird fell to the grass, Mabel could see that it was failing. Before she could make it a nesting box in the house, it had died.

  The memory made her ill. Wrapped tightly in its hold were shame and humiliation, and the terrible guilt of having caused the bird’s death. But at the core was the truest emotion—an angry disappointment. If she couldn’t convince anyone else, how could she go on believing?

  The next days were bright and calm. Mabel guarded the snow angels, and they didn’t fade. They glittered and shone beneath the blue sky as the days lengthened. When the sun glared down, she feared they would melt, but the air stayed cool and the snow fluffy and dry.

  It wasn’t until Sunday morning that the wind began to blow down from the glacier. Mabel could hear it gust along the ri
verbed, and she watched it stir the treetops, knocking snow to the ground. Please, Mabel thought. Come quickly. Come see, and you’ll know she is real.

  Mabel did not hear the horse trot into the yard that afternoon—the wind was blowing too violently. She didn’t know Esther had arrived until the door burst open and she came tripping into the cabin.

  “Look what the wind blew in!” Esther said. She laughed boisterously and slammed the door closed.

  “Oh, Esther! You came. And in this weather!”

  “It wasn’t this bad until I was halfway here, and then I figured I was damned either way, so here I am.”

  “I’m so glad. Wait! Don’t take off your coat. I want to show you something.” She wrapped a scarf around her face and pulled a hat low on her head.

  True to her adventurous nature, Esther didn’t ask why, only turned on her heels and followed Mabel back out into the blustery afternoon. Although the sun was still shining and the sky was clear, the wind swept the powdery snow off the ground, swirled it through the air. Half blind, they stumbled across the yard.

  “Over here,” Mabel called to Esther.

  “What?”

  They couldn’t hear each other over the wind, so Mabel waved for her to follow, and they went toward the barn. Maybe on the lee side the snow angels would be protected.

  When they arrived, however, only the faintest suggestion remained, just a few shapeless dents in the drifting snow.

  “Do you see?” Mabel yelled into the wind.

  Esther shook her head, then raised her eyebrows and held up her hands questioningly. The wind slacked for a moment, though they could still hear it in the distance.

  “Do you see anything?” Mabel pointed to where the snow angels had been.

  “No, Mabel. All I see is snow. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “It’s just… They were here.”

  “What was here?” Esther spoke quietly, concerned.

  Mabel forced a smile.

  “Nothing. It was nothing.” She hooked her arm into Esther’s. “Come on. Let’s get back inside, before the wind begins to blow again. I want you to try my cranberry relish.”