The Snow Child

by Eowyn Ivey

Not a single snowflake.

the way dawn threw itself across the cow pond and turned the water to light.

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.

Mabel organized her hours into patterns—wash, mend, cook, wash, mend, cook—and tried not to imagine floating beneath the ice like a yellow leaf.

So this was Alaska—raw, austere. A cabin of freshly peeled logs cut from the land, a patch of dirt and stumps for a yard, mountains that serrated the sky.

each in their pocket of light,

A quiet full of presence.

the broken blue of river ice, glacial crevasses, moonlight—held

She seemed to him both powerful and delicate, like a wild thing that thrives in its place but withers when stolen away.

She seemed both newly born and as old as the mountains,

Something in its predatory eyes and thin black mouth told of a thousand small deaths,

Mabel’s heart was a hole in her chest filling like a well with icy, sweet water.

a sudden, grainy snowstorm blown by a cold river wind.

Even through the cushion of their thick coats, Jack could feel her small arm folded in his, and it was as if his very heart were cradled in those joined elbows.

Let’s keep going, Faina whispered, and Jack, too, wanted to skate on, up the Wolverine River, around the bend, through the gorge, and into the mountains, where spring never comes and the snow never melts.

Snow alone had separated him from a sow grizzly, heavy with sleep and power, her cubs nursing at her side, her long claws trailing from her padded feet.

Love and devotion, the devastating hope and fear contained in a woman’s swelling womb—these

She and Garrett gave each other shy smiles, and Jack felt like an intruder. Garrett jumped down from the log wall and led her through the rough-cut doorway and into the roofless cabin. I know it’s hard to see, with just the four walls, but over here, this will be the kitchen and the window will look out to the river. Won’t that be fine? Faina nodded, but her gaze was distant, as if this all were a strange dream to her. The woodstove will go here. And through there, that’ll be our bedroom, and the baby’s. I know it’s not real big, but don’t you think it’ll do?

Faina nodded once, slowly. Garrett seemed unnerved by her silence. It’ll be OK, won’t it? Once we get some windows and doors in, it’ll feel like a real home. Don’t you think, Jack? It’s coming together? Jack started to say that yes, he thought it would be a dandy little cabin for a family starting out, but then he saw the girl smile up at Garrett, a tender, reassuring smile. Jack was struck with the notion that perhaps she was the wiser and stronger of the two.

Mary