Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow - Jessica Day George [2]
This particular afternoon, Hans Peter had moved over on the bench and given the lass the place closest to the fire. He usually sat there for the convenience of the light and so that he could throw his shavings into the fire with an easy toss, but he did not need the heat. The cold did not seem to bite into his bones as it did to the rest of the family. He said it was because he had been to a place that was colder than hell, and nothing after that would ever be as chill.
“Here, lass,” her eldest brother said, holding up a bit of wood. “What’s this then?”
By twelve she could recognize many of the strange symbols. “Reindeer,” she replied promptly. “But don’t show Mother; she’ll be so angry.”
Hans Peter winked at her, in a much friendlier way than Askel had. “Don’t you worry. Before you can wrinkle your pretty nose, this will be a spoon with flowers ’round the handle.”
The door of their small cottage burst open, and fifteen-year-old Einar came rushing in. He left the door open in his haste, letting in the wind and snow. He stood in the middle of the main room, hands on knees, and wheezed for a few minutes.
The rest of the family, those who were at home at any rate, stared at him. It was some moments before sixteen-year-old Katla ran to close the door. She wheeled around to continue staring at Einar as soon as the heavy door was safely latched.
“In—in—in the vill-village,” he gasped. “Jens Pederson said he saw it.”
“Saw what?” Askel looked up from the corner where he was polishing his worn boots.
“Saints preserve me from half-witted children,” Frida murmured to herself, and pulled her tattered shawl tighter about her shoulders. She picked up her knitting, ignoring Einar.
“The—the—the—,” Einar stammered.
“The—the—the,” Askel mocked, and went back to his polishing.
“The white reindeer,” Einar spit out, making his family freeze in astonishment.
Stories of the white reindeer were as plentiful as stories of lucky third sons. Everybody knew that if you found the white reindeer, it would give you one gift. And what wonderful gifts the reindeer had granted! Fabulous dowries for poor fishermen’s daughters, sacks of gold, new houses, kettles that were always full to the brim with delectable foods, seven-league boots, golden ships . . . and many more wondrous things.
Everyone was on their feet now, jaws agape. Everyone except for Hans Peter, who shook his head and went back to carving. Askeladden crossed the room in two strides and grabbed Einar by the shoulders, shaking the younger boy.
“You are certain? The white reindeer was seen?”
Einar nodded, struck dumb once more.
“Where?”
“To—to the east, past Karl Henrykson’s farm. By the three waterfalls.”
Askel released his brother and grabbed up the boots he had been polishing. Thrusting his feet into them, he pulled on one of the patched parkas that hung by the door. Then he took down a pair of skis and poles.
“Don’t wait up, Mother,” he said gaily, and went out into the snow.
The other children, who until now had not said a word, all scrambled to follow. Frida made no remark as all her remaining children save Hans Peter and the lass divided up the warm clothes and skis and went out into the cold. When the last of them were gone, she turned to Hans Peter and the lass, displeased.
“Well, your brothers and sisters are determined to make this family’s fortune, but I see that you are not,” she snapped. She stalked over to the hearth and took up the spoon that Katla had been using to stir the soup.
“The little one is too young to be off in the forest chasing moonbeams,” Hans Peter said. “And a nameless child should never wander in the woods.”
“And what’s your excuse, a great big man like you? Rather sit all day by the fire like an old woman warming your lazy bones?”
“The lass is too young, and I am too old,” Hans Peter said mildly. “I went chasing moonbeams aboard the Sea Dragon, and I have always regretted it.”
The little lass looked from her grumbling mother to her sad-eyed brother and didn’t know what to do. She could remain here, she supposed.