The Snow Child

The Snow Child.

Eowyn Ivey.

For my daughters, Grace and Aurora.

aWife, let us go into the yard behind and make a little snow girl; and perhaps she will come alive, and be a little daughter to us.a aHusband,a says the old woman, athereas no knowing what may be. Let us go into the yard and make a little snow girl.a a"Little Daughter of the Snow by Arthur Ransome.

CHAPTER 1.

Wolverine River, Alaska, 1920.

Mabel had known there would be silence. That was the point, after all. No infants cooing or wailing. No neighbor children playfully hollering down the lane. No pad of small feet on wooden stairs worn smooth by generations, or clackety-clack of toys along the kitchen floor. All those sounds of her failure and regret would be left behind, and in their place there would be silence.

She had imagined that in the Alaska wilderness silence would be peaceful, like snow falling at night, air filled with promise but no sound, but that was not what she found. Instead, when she swept the plank floor, the broom bristles scritched like some sharp-toothed shrew nibbling at her heart. When she washed the dishes, plates and bowls clattered as if they were breaking to pieces. The only sound not of her making was a sudden acaw, cawwwa from outside. Mabel wrung dishwater from a rag and looked out the kitchen window in time to see a raven flapping its way from one leafless birch tree to another. No children chasing each other through autumn leaves, calling each otheras names. Not even a solitary child on a swing.

There had been the one. A tiny thing, born still and silent. Ten years past, but even now she found herself returning to the birth to touch Jackas arm, stop him, reach out. She should have. She should have cupped the babyas head in the palm of her hand and snipped a few of its tiny hairs to keep in a locket at her throat. She should have looked into its small face and known if it was a boy or a girl, and then stood beside Jack as he buried it in the Pennsylvania winter ground. She should have marked its grave. She should have allowed herself that grief.

It was a child, after all, although it looked more like a fairy changeling. Pinched face, tiny jaw, ears that came to narrow points; that much she had seen and wept over because she knew she could have loved it still.

Mabel was too long at the window. The raven had since flown away above the treetops. The sun had slipped behind a mountain, and the light had fallen flat. The branches were bare, the gra.s.s yellowed gray. Not a single snowflake. It was as if everything fine and glittering had been ground from the world and swept away as dust.

November was here, and it frightened her because she knew what it broughta"cold upon the valley like a coming death, glacial wind through the cracks between the cabin logs. But most of all, darkness. Darkness so complete even the pale-lit hours would be choked.

She entered last winter blind, not knowing what to expect in this new, hard land. Now she knew. By December, the sun would rise just before noon and skirt the mountaintops for a few hours of twilight before sinking again. Mabel would move in and out of sleep as she sat in a chair beside the woodstove. She would not pick up any of her favorite books; the pages would be lifeless. She would not draw; what would there be to capture in her sketchbook? Dull skies, shadowy corners. It would become harder and harder to leave the warm bed each morning. She would stumble about in a walking sleep, sc.r.a.pe together meals and drape wet laundry around the cabin. Jack would struggle to keep the animals alive. The days would run together, winteras stranglehold tightening.

All her life she had believed in something more, in the mystery that shape-shifted at the edge of her senses. It was the flutter of moth wings on gla.s.s and the promise of river nymphs in the dappled creek beds. It was the smell of oak trees on the summer evening she fell in love, and the way dawn threw itself across the cow pond and turned the water to light.

Mabel could not remember the last time she caught such a flicker.

She gathered Jackas work shirts and sat down to mend. She tried not to look out the window. If only it would snow. Maybe that white would soften the bleak lines. Perhaps it could catch some bit of light and mirror it back into her eyes.

But all afternoon the clouds remained high and thin, the wind ripped dead leaves from the tree branches, and daylight guttered like a candle. Mabel thought of the terrible cold that would trap her alone in the cabin, and her breathing turned shallow and rapid. She stood to pace the floor. She silently repeated to herself, aI cannot do this. I cannot do this.a There were guns in the house, and she had thought of them before. The hunting rifle beside the bookshelf, the shotgun over the doorway, and a revolver that Jack kept in the top drawer of the bureau. She had never fired them, but that wasnat what kept her. It was the violence and unseemly gore of such an act, and the blame that would inevitably come in its wake. People would say she was weak in mind or spirit, or Jack was a poor husband. And what of Jack? What shame and anger would he harbor?

The river, thougha"that was something different. Not a soul to blame, not even her own. It would be an unfortunate misstep. People would say, if only she had known the ice wouldnat hold her. If only shead known its dangers.

Afternoon descended into dusk, and Mabel left the window to light an oil lamp on the table, as if she was going to prepare dinner and wait for Jackas return, as if this day would end like any other, but in her mind she was already following the trail through the woods to the Wolverine River. The lamp burned as she laced her leather boots, put her winter coat on over her housedress, and stepped outside. Her hands and head were bare to the wind.

As she strode through the naked trees, she was both exhilarated and numb, chilled by the clarity of her purpose. She did not think of what she left behind, but only of this moment in a sort of black-and-white precision. The hard clunk of her boot soles on the frozen ground. The icy breeze in her hair. Her expansive breaths. She was strangely powerful and sure.

She emerged from the forest and stood on the bank of the frozen river. It was calm except for the occasional gust of wind that ruffled her skirt against her wool stockings and swirled silt across the ice. Farther upstream, the glacier-fed valley stretched half a mile wide with gravel bars, driftwood, and braided shallow channels, but here the river ran narrow and deep. Mabel could see the shale cliff on the far side that fell off into black ice. Below, the water would be well over her head.

The cliff became her destination, though she expected to drown before she reached it. The ice was only an inch or two thick, and even in the depths of winter no one would dare to cross at this treacherous point.

At first her boots caught on boulders, frozen in the sandy sh.o.r.e, but then she staggered down the steep bank and crossed a small rivulet where the ice was thin and brittle. She broke through every other step to hit dry sand beneath. Then she crossed a barren patch of gravel and hiked up her skirt to climb over a driftwood log, faded by the elements.

When she reached the riveras main channel, where water still coursed down the valley, the ice was no longer brittle and white but instead black and pliant, as if it had only solidified the night before. She slid her boot soles onto the surface and nearly laughed at her own absurditya"to be careful not to slip even as she prayed to fall through.

She was several feet from safe ground when she allowed herself to stop and peer down between her boots. It was like walking on gla.s.s. She could see granite rocks beneath the moving, dark turquoise water. A yellow leaf floated by, and she imagined herself swept alongside it and briefly looking up through the remarkably clear ice. Before the water filled her lungs, would she be able to see the sky?

Here and there, bubbles as large as her hand were frozen in white circles, and in other places large cracks ran through. She wondered if the ice was weaker at those points, and if she should seek them out or avoid them. She set her shoulders, faced straight ahead, and walked without looking down.

When she crossed the heart of the channel, the cliff face was almost within armas length, the water was a m.u.f.fled roar, and the ice gave slightly beneath her. Against her will, she glanced down, and what she saw terrified her. No bubbles. No cracks. Only bottomless black, as if the night sky were under her boots. She shifted her weight to take another step toward the cliff, and there was a crack, a deep, resonant pop like a ma.s.sive Champagne bottle being uncorked. Mabel spread her feet wide and her knees trembled. She waited for the ice to give way, for her body to plunge into the river. Then there was another thud, a whoompf, and she was certain the ice slumped beneath her boots, but in millimeters, nearly imperceptible except for the awful sound.

She waited and breathed, and the water didnat come. The ice bore her. She slid her feet slowly, first one, then the other, again and again, a slow shuffle until she stood where ice met cliff. Never had she imagined she would be here, on the far side of the river. She put her bare palms to the cold shale, then the entire length of her body, until her forehead was pressed to it and she could smell the stone, ancient and damp.

Its cold began to seep into her, so she lowered her arms to her sides, turned from the cliff face, and began the journey back the way she had come. Her heart thudded in her throat. Her legs were unsteady. She wondered if now, as she made her way home, she would break through to her death.

As she neared solid ground, she wanted to run to it, but the ice was too slick beneath her boots, so she slid as if ice-skating and then stumbled up the bank. She gasped and coughed and nearly laughed, as if it had all been a lark, a mad dare. Then she bent with her hands on her thighs and tried to steady herself.

When she slowly straightened, the land was vast before her. The sun was setting down the river, casting a cold pink hue along the white-capped mountains that framed both sides of the valley. Upriver, the willow shrubs and gravel bars, the spruce forests and low-lying poplar stands, swelled to the mountains in a steely blue. No fields or fences, homes or roads; not a single living soul as far as she could see in any direction. Only wilderness.

It was beautiful, Mabel knew, but it was a beauty that ripped you open and scoured you clean so that you were left helpless and exposed, if you lived at all. She turned her back to the river and walked home.

The lantern was still burning; the kitchen window glowed as she approached the cabin, and when she opened the door and stepped inside, warmth and flickering light overcame her. Everything was unfamiliar and golden. She had not expected to return here.

It seemed she was gone hours, but it was not yet six in the evening, and Jack hadnat come in. She took off her coat and went to the woodstove, letting the heat sink painfully into her hands and feet. Once she could open and close her fingers, she took out pots and pans, marveling that she was fulfilling such a mundane task. She added wood to the stove, cooked dinner, and then sat straight-backed at the rough-hewn table with her hands folded in her lap. A few minutes later, Jack came through the door, stomped his boots, and dusted straw from his wool coat.

Certain he would somehow know what she had survived, she watched and waited. He rinsed his hands in the basin, sat across from her, and lowered his head.

aBless this food, Lord,a he mumbled. aAmen.a She set a potato on each of their plates beside boiled carrots and red beans. Neither of them spoke. There was only the sc.r.a.ping of knives and forks against plates. She tried to eat, but could not force herself. Words lay like granite boulders in her lap and when at last she spoke, each one was heavy and burdensome and all she could manage.

aI went to the river today,a she said.

He did not lift his head. She waited for him to ask why she would do such a thing. Maybe then she could tell him.

Jack jabbed at the carrots with his fork, then swabbed the beans with a slice of bread. He gave no indication he had heard her.

aItas frozen all the way across to the cliffs,a she said in a near whisper. Her eyes down, her breath shallow, she waited, but there was only Jackas chewing, his fork at his plate.

Mabel looked up and saw his windburned hands and frayed cuffs, the crowas feet that spread at the corners of his downturned eyes. She couldnat remember the last time she had touched that skin, and the thought ached like loneliness in her chest. Then she spotted a few strands of silver in his reddish-brown beard. When had they appeared? So he, too, was graying. Each of them fading away without the otheras notice.

She pushed food here and there with her fork. She glanced at the lantern hanging from the ceiling and saw shards of light stream from it. She was crying. For a moment she sat and let the tears run down either side of her nose until they were at the corners of her mouth. Jack continued to eat, his head down. She stood and took her plate of food to the small kitchen counter. Turned away, she wiped her face with her ap.r.o.n.

aThat ice isnat solid yet,a Jack said from the table. aBest to stay off of it.a Mabel swallowed, cleared her throat.

aYes. Of course,a she said.

She busied herself at the counter until her eyes were clear, then returned to the table and spooned more carrots onto Jackas plate.

aHow is the new field?a she asked.

aItas coming.a He forked potato into his mouth, then wiped it with the back of his hand.

aIall get the rest of the trees cut and skidded in the next few days,a he said. aThen Iall burn some more of the stumps out.a aWould you like me to come and help? I could tend the stump fires for you.a aNo, Iall manage.a That night in bed, she had a heightened awareness of him, of the scent of straw and spruce boughs in his hair and beard, the weight of him on the creaky bed, the sound of his slow, tired breaths. He lay on his side, turned away from her. She reached out, thinking to touch his shoulder, but instead lowered her arm and lay in the darkness staring at his back.

aDo you think weall make it through winter?a she asked.

He didnat answer. Perhaps he was asleep. She rolled away and faced the log wall.

When he spoke, Mabel wondered if it was grogginess or emotion that made his voice gravelly.

aWe donat have much choice, do we?a

CHAPTER 2.

The morning was so cold that when Jack first stepped outside and harnessed the horse, his leather boots stayed stiff and his hands wouldnat work right. A north wind blew steadily off the river. Head have liked to stay indoors, but he had already stacked Mabelas towel-wrapped pies in a crate to take to town. He slapped himself on the arms and stomped his feet to get the blood flowing. It was d.a.m.ned cold, and even long underwear beneath denim seemed a scant cotton sheet about his legs. It wasnat easy, leaving the comfort of the woodstove to face this alone. The sun threatened to come up on the other side of the river, but its light was weak and silvery, and not much comfort at all.

Jack climbed up into the open wagon and shook the reins. He did not look back over his shoulder, but he felt the cabin dwindle into the spruce trees behind him.

As the trail pa.s.sed through a field, the horse seemed to trip on its own feet, and then it tossed its head. Jack slowed the wagon to a stop and scanned the field and distant trees, but saw nothing.

G.o.dd.a.m.ned horse. Head wanted a nice mellow draft, something slow and strong. But horses were scarcer than henas teeth up here, and he didnat have much to choose froma"a swaybacked old mare that looked to be on her last legs and this one, young and barely broken, better suited to prancing around a ring than working for a living. Jack was afraid it would be the death of him.

Just the other day head been skidding logs out of the new field when the horse spooked at a branch and knocked Jack to the ground. He barely missed being crushed by the log as the horse charged ahead. His forearms and shins were still tore up, and his back pained him every morning.

And there lay the real problem. Not the nervous horse, but the tired old man. The truth squirmed in the pit of his stomach like a thing done wrong. This was too much work for a man of his age. He wasnat making headway, even working every day as long and hard as he could. After a long summer and snowless autumn, he was still nowhere near done clearing enough land to earn a living. He got a pitiful little potato harvest off one small field this year, and it scarcely did more than buy flour for the winter. He figured he had enough money left from selling his share in the farm Back East to last them one more year, but only if Mabel kept selling pies in town.

That wasnat right either, Mabel scrubbing her own rough-cut floors and selling baked goods on the side. How different her life could have been. The daughter of a literature professor, a family of privilege, she could have studied her books and art and spent her afternoons consorting with other fine women. Servants and china teacups and pet.i.t fours baked by someone else.

As he rode through the end of a half-cleared field, the horse jerked again, tossed its head and snorted. Jack pulled back on the reins. He squinted and studied the fallen trees around him and beyond them the standing birches, spruce, and cottonwoods. The woods were silent, not even the twitter of a bird. The horse stamped a hoof on the hard ground and then was still. Jack tried to quiet his breathing so he could see and hear.

Something was watching him.

It was a foolish thought. Who would be out here? He wondered not for the first time if wild animals could give that feeling. Dumb beasts, like cows and chickens, could stare at a manas back all day and not give a p.r.i.c.kle on his neck. But maybe woodland creatures were different. He tried to picture a bear shuffling through the forest, pacing back and forth and eyeing him and the horse. Didnat seem likely, getting this close to winter. They should be looking to den up.

His eyes caught now and then on a stump or a shadowy spot among the trees. Shrug it off, old man, he told himself. Youall drive yourself crazy looking for something thatas not there.

He went to shake the reins, but then peered one last time over his shoulder and saw ita"a flash of movement, a smudge of brownish red. The horse snorted. Jack turned slowly in the wagon seat.

A red fox darted among the fallen trees. It disappeared for a minute but popped up again, closer to the forest, running with its fluffy tail held low to the ground. It stopped and turned its head. For a moment its eyes locked with Jackas, and there, in its narrowing golden irises, he saw the savagery of the place. Like he was staring wilderness itself straight in the eye.

He faced forward in the wagon, shook the reins, and let the horse gather to a trot, both of them eager to put the fox behind them. For the next hour, he rode hunched and cold as the wagon b.u.mped along through miles of untouched forest. As he neared town, the horse picked up its pace, and Jack had to slow it to keep the crate from spilling out of the wagon.

Back home, Alpine wouldnat have been called a town at all. It was nothing more than a few dusty, false-fronted buildings perched between the train tracks and the Wolverine River. Nearby, several homesteaders had stripped the land clear of trees before abandoning it. Some went off to pan gold or work for the railroad, but most had hightailed it home with no plans of ever returning to Alaska.

Jack carried the crate of pies up the steps to the hotel restaurant, where the owneras wife opened the door for him. Well into her sixties, Betty wore her hair short and mannish and ran the place like a one-woman show. Her husband, Roy, worked for the territorial government and was rarely about.

aGood morning, Betty,a Jack said.

aItas ugly as far as I can see.a She slammed the door behind them. aColder than h.e.l.l, and no sign of snow. Never seen anything like it. Got some of Mabelas pies?a aYes, maaam.a He set them on the counter and unwrapped them from the towels.

aThat woman sure can bake,a she said. aEverybodyas always asking after them pies.a aGlad to hear it.a She counted a few bills from the till and put them on the counter beside the crate.

aSo I know Iam risking losing a few customers, Jack, but Iam afraid we wonat be needing any more after today. My sisteras come to live with us, and Roy says sheas got to earn her keep by doing the baking.a He picked up the bills and put them in his coat pocket as if he hadnat heard what shead said. Then it registered.

aNo more pies? You sure?a aSorry, Jack. I know itas poor timing, with winter coming on, butaa Her voice trailed off, and she seemed uncharacteristically embarra.s.sed.

aWe could cut the price, if that would help,a he said. aWe need every penny we can get.a aI am sorry. Can I get you a cup of coffee and some breakfast?a aCoffee would be fine.a He chose a table by a small window that looked out over the river.

aItas on the house,a she said as she set the cup in front of him.

He never stayed when he brought the pies into town, but this morning he wasnat eager to get back to the homestead. What would he tell Mabel? That they had to pack up and go home with their tails between their legs? Give up, like all those before him? He stirred some sugar into the coffee and stared out the window. A man with scuffed leather boots and the dust-beaten air of a mountain camp walked along the riveras edge. He wore a bedroll on his backpack, led a s.h.a.ggy husky by a rope tether and in his other hand carried a hunting rifle. Past him Jack could see a white haze shrouding the peaks. It was snowing in the mountains. Soon it would snow here in the valley, too.

aYou know, theyare looking for help up at the mine.a Betty slid a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. aYou probably wouldnat want to make it your profession, but it might get you all through a tight spot.a aThe coal mine up north?a aYep. Payas not bad, and theyall be at it as long as they can keep the tracks clear. They feed you and bunk you, and send you home with a little extra money in your pocket. Just something to think about.a aThanks. And thanks for this.a He gestured toward the plate.

aSure thing.a A G.o.dforsaken job, coal mining. Farmers were born to work in the light and air, not in tunnels through rock. Back home, head seen the men return from the mines with their faces black with coal dust and coughing up dirty blood. Even if he had the will and strength, it would mean leaving Mabel alone at the homestead for days, maybe weeks, at a time.

Cash money is what they needed, though. Just a month or two might be enough to pull them through next harvest. He could stand most anything for a month or two. He ate the last bite of bacon and was ready to head out when George Benson came noisily through the restaurant door.

aBetty, Betty, Betty. What have you got for me today? Any of those pies?a aTheyare fresh off the homestead, George. Have a seat and Iall bring a slice over.a George turned toward the tables and spotted Jack.

ah.e.l.lo there, neighbor! Iall tell you whata"your wife bakes a mean apple pie.a He threw his coat over the back of a chair and patted his round belly. aMind if I join you?a aNot at all.a George lived about ten miles the other side of town with his wife and three boys. Jack had met him a few times at the general store and here at the restaurant. He seemed a good-natured sort and always spoke as if they were confirmed friends. He and George were about the same age.

aHowas it coming out at your place?a George asked as he sat across from him.

aItas coming.a aYou got any help out there?a aNope. Just working away on it myself. Got one or two good fields cleared. Always more to do. You know how it goes.a aWe should swap a few days here and therea"me and my boys come over to your place with our draft horses, and then you lend a hand our way.a aThatas a generous offer.a aWe could help you get some work done,a George continued, aand your wife could come over and get some girl time with Esther, talk about baking or sewing or whatever it is they talk about. She gets tired of all us men. Shead be thrilled to have you all over.a Jack didnat say yes or no.

aYour kids all grown and gone?a George asked.

Jack hadnat seen that coming. He and Mabel were that old, werenat they, that their children could be grown and having families of their own. He wondered if he looked the way he felt, like someone had stuck out a foot and tripped him.

aNope. Never had any.a aWhatas that? Never had any, you say?a aNope.a He watched George. If you said you didnat have children, it sounded like a choice, and what kind of craziness would that be? If you said you couldnat, the conversation turned awkward while they contemplated your manliness or your wifeas health. Jack waited and swallowed.

aThatas one way to go, I suppose.a George shook his head with a chuckle. aHeck of a lot more quiet around your place, Iall bet. Sometimes those boys of mine like to drive me to drink. Ha.s.sling about this or that, dragging out of bed in the morning like the pox was on them. Getting a good dayas work out of the youngest one is about as easy as wrestling a hog.a Jack laughed and eased, drank some of his coffee. aI had a brother like that. It was almost easier to just let him sleep.a aYep, thatas how some of them are, at least until theyave got a place of their own and see what itas all about.a Betty came to the table with a cup and slice of pie for George.

aI was just telling Jack theyare looking for help up at the mine,a she said as she poured hot coffee. aYou know, to get them through the winter.a George raised his eyebrows, then frowned, but didnat speak until Betty had gone back into the kitchen.

aYou arenat, are you?a aSomething to consider.a aChrist. You lost your ever-loving mind? You and Ia"weare no spring chickens, and those h.e.l.l holes are for young men, if anybody at all.a Jack nodded, uncomfortable with the conversation.

aI know itas none of my d.a.m.ned business, but you seem like a good fellow,a George went on. aYou know why theyare looking for men?a aNope.a aTheyave had trouble keeping crews on since the fires a few years back. Fourteen, dead as doornails. Some burned up so bad you couldnat tell aem apart. A half dozen they never found at all. Iam telling you, Jack, itas not worth the pennies theyad pay you.a aI hear you. I do, buta well, Iam backed up against a wall. Iam just not sure how to work it out.a aYou need to make it through until harvest? You got seed money for the spring?a Jack gave a wry smile. aAs long as we donat eat between now and then.a aYouave got carrots and potatoes sacked away, havenat you?a aSure.a aYou get yourself a moose yet?a Jack shook his head. aNever been much of a hunter.a aWell, see herea"thatas all you need to do. Hang some meat in the barn, and you and the wife will be set till spring. It wonat be cake and caviar, but you wonat starve.a Jack looked into his empty coffee mug.

aThatas how it goes for a lot of us,a George said. aThose first years are lean. Iam telling you, you might get sick of moose and potatoes, but youall keep your neck safe.a aTrue enough.a As if it were all settled, George finished off his piece of pie in a few huge bites, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and stood. He reached a hand down to Jack.

aBetter get going. Esther will accuse me of p.i.s.sing the day away if I donat get on home.a His handshake was steady and friendly. aDonat forget what I said, though. And when it comes to getting those fields cleared, wead be glad to come over and help you out. Can make the day go faster to have company.a Jack nodded. aI appreciate that.a He sat alone at the table. Maybe it was a mistake isolating themselves the way they had, Mabel without a single woman friend to talk with. Georgeas wife could be a G.o.dsend, especially if he went north to work at the mine and Mabel was left alone at the homestead.