Edith Pattou - East

Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Book One

Father

Neddy

Rose

Neddy

Father

Neddy

Father

Rose

Father

Troll Queen

White Bear

Neddy

White Bear

Rose

White Bear

Neddy

Rose

White Bear

Neddy

Father

Neddy

Rose

Neddy

Father

Neddy

Book Two

Troll Queen

Rose

Troll Queen

White Bear

Rose

Troll Queen

Neddy

Rose

Troll Queen

Neddy

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Father

Rose

White Bear

Neddy

Rose

Neddy

Rose

Neddy

Troll Queen

Rose

White Bear

Rose

Troll Queen

Neddy

Rose

White Bear

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Book Three

Rose

White Bear

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Neddy

Rose

Neddy

Rose

Book Four

Rose

Neddy

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Neddy

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Neddy

Rose

White Bear

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

White Bear

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Troll Queen

White Bear

Rose

White Bear

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Troll Queen

Rose

Neddy

Rose

White Bear

Book Five

Rose

Neddy

White Bear

Neddy

Rose

White Bear

Rose

White Bear

Rose

White Bear

Rose

Father

Neddy

Glossary

Acknowledgments

Chatting with Edith Pattou

The Origins of East

About the Author

Copyright © 2005, 2003 by Edith Pattou

Author interview copyright © 2005 by Edith Pattou and Harcourt, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

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First Magic Carpet Books edition 2005

Magic Carpet Book is a trademark of Harcourt, Inc.,

registered in the United States of America and/or other jurisdictions.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Pattou, Edith.

East/by Edith Pattou.

p. cm.

Summary: A young woman journeys to a distant castle on the back

of a great white bear who is the victim of a cruel enchantment.

[1. Fairy tales. 2. Bears—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ8.P2815Eas 2003

[Fic]—dc21 2003002338

ISBN 978-0-15-204563-0

ISBN 978-0-15-205221-8 pb

Text set in Fournier

Designed by Cathy Riggs

Printed in the United States of America

K M O P N L J

To my father,

for his love of stories—

from Harold and the Purple Crayon to Doctor No

And to my mother,

for her unwavering support

Prologue

I found the box in the attic of an old farmhouse in Norway. It was large, the size of a footlocker, and there were markings on it; runes, I learned later.

When I opened the lid, it looked like the box contained mostly papers, a jumbled mass of them, in several different languages and written in different styles of handwriting. There were diaries, maps, even ships' logs.

As I dug deeper, under the papers, I found more: skeins of wool; small boots made of soft leather; sheaves of music tied with faded ribbon; long, thin pieces of wood with maplike markings on them; dried-up mushrooms; woven belts; even a dress the color of the moon.

Then I came upon what looked to be the mouthpiece of a very old reed instrument. I held it up toward the light coming through the small attic window. As the late afternoon sun caught it, a most extraordinary thing happened. I heard the clear, high note of a flute.

And it was coming from inside the trunk.

Other sounds came then—whispering, muttering, swirling around inside my head. Dogs barking, sleigh bells, the cracking of ice. Voices. Hearing voices—this isn't good, I thought.

Still holding the ancient mouthpiece in the palm of my hand, I lifted the top piece of paper out of the trunk. It was a handwritten note.

They want me to write it all down, though I'm not sure why.

It seems enough that Father and Neddy wrote down their parts. Especially Neddy; he was always the storyteller in the family. I am not a storyteller, not really. It takes more patience than I've got—or rather, than I used to have. I guess I did learn a little bit about patience in the course of the journey. But even so, I'd much rather set the story down in cloth. Well, actually I have. Hangs on the north wall in the great room, and the whole story is there.

But words are easier to understand for most people.

So I will try.

It isn't easy for me to walk the path back to the beginning of the story, even to know where the true beginning is. And telling a story, I suppose, is like winding a skein of spun yarn—you sometimes lose track of the beginning.

All I intended to do, when I began the journey, was to set things right. They say losing someone you love is like losing a part of your own body. An eye or a leg. But it is far worse—especially when it is your fault.

But already I'm getting ahead of myself. It all began with a pair of soft boots.

Book One

East

Once on a time there was a poor farmer with many children.

Father

EBBA ROSE WAS THE NAME of our last-born child. Except it was a lie. Her name should have been Nyamh Rose. But everyone called her Rose rather than Ebba, so the lie didn't matter. At least, that is what I told myself.

The Rose part of her name came from the symbol that lies at the center of the wind rose—which is fitting because she was lodged at the very center of my heart.

I loved each of her seven brothers and sisters, but I will admit there was always something that set Rose apart from the others. And it wasn't just the way she looked.

She was the hardest to know of my children, and that was because she would not stay still. Every time I held her as a babe, she would look up at me, intent, smiling with her bright purple eyes. But soon, and always, those eyes would stray past my shoulder, seeking the window and what lay beyond.

Rose's first gift was a small pair of soft boots made of reindeer hide. They were brought by Torsk, a neighbor, and as he fastened them on Rose's tiny feet with his large calloused hands, I saw my wife, Eugenia, frown. She tried to hide it, turning her face away.

Torsk did not see the frown but looked up at us, beaming. He was a widower with grown sons and a gift for leatherwork. Eager to show off his handiwork and unmindful of the difficult circumstances of Eugenia's recent birthing, he had been the first to show up on our doorstep.

Most of our neighbors were well aware of how superstitious Eugenia was. They also knew that a baby's first gift was laden with meaning. But cheerful, largehanded Torsk paid no heed to this. He just gazed down at the small soft boots on Rose's feet and looked ready to burst with pride.