Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow - Jessica Day George [14]
“You’re getting snow all over the floor,” the lass told her brother, recovering quickly.
“Then get the broom and sweep it up before it melts, girl,” her mother ordered. “Come in and sit down, son; have some stew. Einar is helping Nils patch their roof; we have plenty to spare.” She fluttered around her favored third son. “How nice of you to visit. I’ve missed you.”
“This isn’t just a visit,” Askeladden said, shrugging off his snow-clogged outer clothes and leaving them on the floor for the lass to care for. “I’ve come a-hunting.”
“Hunting? Here?” Jarl shook his head. “There’s naught worth hunting in these parts but snowfoxes, and I’ll wager you have enough of those outside the city.”
“Not snowfoxes,” Askeladden said with his charming grin. “Isbjørn. Giant white isbjørn. A creature they say makes the white reindeer seem like poor game.”
“Isbjørn? There’s no ice bear in these parts,” the lass said as she swept up the snow scattered over the floor. She rolled her eyes at Hans Peter, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on Askel, and his face was gray.
“There is a bear in these parts,” Askel said. “A number of hunters have seen it. A massive beast, and whiter than the snow.” Askel’s hands described the proportions of the bear in the air over the table, and his eyes shone. “The royal furrier in Christiania is offering five hundred gold crowns to whoever brings him the pelt.” His eyes shone even brighter at the mention of the money, and so did Frida’s. “The king wants a bearskin parka,” he added. “And I’m going to provide it for him. Imagine if I was the man who brought down this mighty bear . . . the king himself might want to meet me!”
“This is your chance, son,” Frida said, laying her arm around Askel’s broad shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “You’ll make your fortune with this hunt. I can feel it in my bones.” She kissed his cheek.
“Hans Peter, are you all right?” The lass had gone to her favorite brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked as if he were going to be sick. He had let his spoon, with a piece of carrot still on it, fall to the table beside his bowl, and his hands were limp in his lap.
“Do not hunt this isbjørn,” Hans Peter said in a strange, hollow voice. “It is not a natural creature.”
Askel’s voice was thick with derision. “How could you possibly know anything about this animal? Why, none of you had even heard of it until I told you of it just now.”
“Bears do not come here,” Hans Peter said. “White or brown. For an isbjørn to wander this far south . . .” He trailed off. “Do not hunt this bear, Askeladden.” A shudder passed through Hans Peter, and the lass tightened her fingers on his shoulder. “I know more of isbjørn than I ever care to. No good can come of this.”
“What nonsense is this?” Frida shrilled. “What do you know about bears, shut away here by my hearth day after day, as though you weren’t a man grown who should be off making his own way in the world?” She shook her finger at Hans Peter. “Askeladden is going to make his fortune, and I’ll not have your jealousy ruining things for him.”
“Now, wife,” Jarl began. He reached across the table to pat her hand, but she shook him off; he grimaced. “Hans Peter does his part with the farmwork and his carvings. And let us not forget that he once sailed the northern seas on a trading ship.”
Frida turned away from her husband and her eldest son to make her point clear: this was not enough for her. A slow anger boiled in the lass’s stomach. She had been rejected by her mother when she was born, and was used to being dismissed as worthless. But Hans Peter . . . that was something else. It angered the girl to think that Frida could be so cold as to turn against her eldest son this way. True, Askeladden was the lucky third son, but what had he ever done in his life? Trapped a few foxes, shot a few wild deer, flirted with a few foolish farmgirls, and not much else.
“If