Edith Pattou - East

Lie? I felt the hairs on my neck rise.

Mother's voice came back, sharp. "There is no lie. She is Ebba Rose."

"Eugenia, she is no east child. You and I both know it."

"She is Ebba Rose." The words were said slowly, implacably, as if to a half-wit.

"No," and Father's voice was loud. "She is Nyamh."

"Nyamh?" There was a pause. "She is not Nyamh." Mother's voice was now cold. "I thought you did not even believe in birth direction. Superstition, you always say."

"Nor do I," Father answered. "At least I did not think I did. My mind is all turned around these days. But I will tell you, when I first held her I looked into her eyes and she was Nyamh. And I have always called her so, in my heart."

The tangled truth behind my father's words began to unravel itself inside me.

Nyamh begins with an N. North. I had been conceived to take Elise's place. But I was a north bairn. I had filled my own place on the compass rose. I felt a great excitement stir in my chest. And then, great anger. My breath grew short and my cheeks were flaming.

My father and mother had lied to me all those years. I moved toward them, without thinking, and in doing so my elbow caught a wooden bowl, which clattered to the floor.

"Who's that? Is someone there?" called Father. Suddenly I did not want to see their faces. Not then. I needed to think. I bolted out of the house, refastening my cloak against the cold autumn day.

As I ran I became aware that, in addition to the anger, a sense of exhilaration was growing in me, the feeling of a puzzle piece falling into place. I was a north. It was obvious. No wonder Mother had tried so hard to keep me close, to mold me into another Elise.

Mother's feelings about north people were well known to us all. Every time she heard of some wild or destructive act by a stranger, she would inevitably shake her head with disapproval and say, "That's a north-born, mark my words."

I knew that my birth had come on suddenly on a stormy afternoon. Mother must have fabricated a truth she could live with. And Father had gone along with it. "The lie of Rose's birth ... Nyamh."

I felt as though I no longer knew my parents. Or myself.

Then I thought of the wind rose Father had designed for me. It was a lie as well. I tore off the cloak I had made and spread it on the ground.

I knelt by the design. Yes, there was the sun rising. But the white form I had always thought to be a cloud was a bear. I could see it now, upside down. White bear, isbjorn, stood for north. Father had not been able to help himself. The truth was there, too. Truth and lie, side by side.

Nyamh. He called me Nyamh when first he held me as a babe. Ebba was a lie. I had never liked the name Ebba, I thought, smiling grimly to myself. Was Rose a lie, too? No, Rose was at the center of the wind rose. One need be no direction at all to be Rose.

And then it struck me. Did anyone else know? Was it just Mother and Father's secret, or...? Did Neddy know?

For some reason I had to find out.

Neddy was at our neighbor's, helping repair a fence. I picked up my cloak and draped it over my arm. I did not want to wear it anymore. Shivering, I began making my way in the direction of Torsk's farm.

Neddy

IT WAS NEARING TWILIGHT when we finished with the fence. I bade good evening to Torsk and watched for a moment as the big man shambled away. He was a good soul. I could not help but wonder what he would say if I told him that six days before a white bear had come into our great room and asked to take Rose away in exchange for Sara's restored health and a life of ease. I could picture Torsk's expression, a sort of gentle bewilderment; then he would smile and say, "One of your stories, is it, Master Ned?"

It sounded like a story, one murmured by the fireside to an audience of wide-eyed children on a winter night. One of the old tales, of Loki, shape-shifted into a white bear, demanding the life of one maiden to buy eternal happiness for Midgard, the land of the humans. It was not the kind of thing that truly happened in ordinary life. For all that I loved the old tales of magic, I did not actually want there to be talking animals and mysterious requests on storm-tossed nights. Such things were for stories and ought to remain there.

During those six days I tried very hard to convince myself that it had not happened. That we had all had some sort of collective dream. It could have been that way. It was no stranger a notion than what had actually unfolded in our great room.

But I knew it had happened. And that the next day the white bear would return.

Though we had not spoken together alone since that night, I had been watching Rose and suspected that she was still planning to go with the bear. The thought of her leaving filled me with an overpowering ache, and I vowed to myself that I would not let her go—no matter what.

As I rounded the bend to our farmhold, I was surprised to see Rose coming toward me. The air was cold, and yet I noticed she was carrying her cloak instead of wearing it. I felt a tremor of alarm. As she drew nearer I could see she was very pale, and there was a wildness about her eyes. At first I thought she had been crying but could see no trace of tears.

"Rose, what is it? What has happened?" I queried, fearing that Sara might have gotten worse.

Rose was staring at me strangely, as if trying to read something in my face.

Abruptly she took her cloak in her hands, and as she had done on that day that now seemed so long ago, she shook it out, splaying it wide. The afternoon was still and cold, and the wind did not catch the cloak as before. Carefully she spread it out on the ground, then looked up at me again.

"Rose?"

Still she did not speak.

"You're shivering. Why do you not put the cloak on?"

"Did you know?" she asked, her voice higher than usual.

"Know what?"

"The lie? 'The lie of Rose's birth.' The lie in there." She jabbed a finger toward the cloak.

I stared back at her, bewildered.

"The lie, Neddy. I was born for Elise. East. But I am Nyamh." She said the name defiantly.

I still did not understand, although some glimmer of the truth was beginning to dawn on me.

"I am north, Neddy, not east. A true north." And she knelt and pointed to the white cloud at the north of the wind rose in her cloak. "A white bear for north," she said.

So she had learned the truth at last. A truth that I had guessed at a long time before.

She read it in my face. "You knew! Didn't you, Neddy?"

I was silent a moment. Then I nodded. I saw tears come into her eyes, though she blinked them away angrily.

"At least ... I didn't truly know," I said quickly. "I guessed."

"Why did you say nothing?"

"Because ... it was only a guess, and I..." How could I explain that I felt the same way as Mother? I did not want Rose to be a north if it meant she would always be going away.

Her eyes suddenly blazed. "I do not know you, any of you." And to my horror she grabbed up her cloak, and using her teeth to make the first tear, she savagely tore it in two. Then she took each of the two halves and ripped them again.

"North, south, east, west," she chanted, "who's the one you love the best?..." She tossed the ruined cloak at me and stalked away.

I picked up the torn pieces and followed after her.

"Rosie!" I called. "Please wait."

She slowed. I put a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry. I thought I must be wrong. I could not imagine Mother and Father lying about such a thing."

She turned and I pulled her to me, holding her close. She was trembling so violently that I took off my own coat and wrapped it around her. "It's all right," I murmured. Gradually her shaking lessened.

Then she looked up at me and said, "I mean to go with the white bear, Neddy."