The Snow Child

by Eowyn Ivey

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 glass 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.

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.

“We’re too old for this,” he said. “Are we?”

“Wait,” she said. “Let’s make a snowman.” “What?” “A snowman. It’s perfect. Perfect snow for a snowman.” He hesitated. He was tired. It was late. They were too old for such nonsense. There were a dozen reasons not to, Mabel knew, but instead he set the lantern back in the snow. “All right,” he said. There was reluctance in the hang of his head, but he pulled off his leather work gloves. He took her cheek in his bare hand, and with his thumb wiped melted snow from beneath her eye. “All right.”

He climbed the friendly branches of oaks and wandered along the backs of grassy knolls. Those aimless walks as a child were among his most peaceful memories. This was nothing like back home. He didn’t enjoy his solitude in these woods but instead was self-conscious and alert, fearing most of all his own ineptness.

Alaska gave up nothing easily. It was lean and wild and indifferent to a man’s struggle, and he had seen it in the eyes of that red fox.

Doubt crouched over his shoulder, ready to take him by the throat, whispering in his ear, You are an old man. An old, old man.

What a tragic tale! Why these stories for children always have to turn out so dreadfully is beyond me. I think if I ever tell it to my grandchildren, I will change the ending and have everyone live happily ever after. We are allowed to do that, are we not Mabel? To invent our own endings and choose joy over sorrow?

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I’m not as brave as you.” “You’re mocking me.” “No. You’re different. True to yourself, even if it means people will say you’re crazy. Well, me… I guess I just…” “You don’t say a word.” But there was more bemusement than anger in it.

I don’t know. With my long skirts and all. But he took her by the shoulders and, before she knew his intentions, gently shoved her backward. She expected it to hurt, but the powdery snow was like a thick duvet that softened her fall and muffled all sound. She saw Jack and the child grinning down at her and above their faces the brilliant blue sky. Closer, she could see the individual snow crystals that encased her.

“One row down,” he said. “ ’Bout a thousand to go.” And the boy gave her a half smile, his eyebrows raised as if to ask “Are you still in?” Mabel nodded. “Onward ho?” she asked. Garrett raised a hand, like a conquering explorer. “Onward ho!”

She had never understood how Jack could fall asleep in a chair without washing up, talking to her about his day, or even removing his filthy boots. Now she knew. Yet for all the sore muscles and monotony, the days of working in the fields filled her with a kind of pride she had never known.

You did not have to understand miracles to believe in them, and in fact Mabel had come to suspect the opposite. To believe, perhaps you had to cease looking for explanations and instead hold the little thing in your hands as long as you were able before it slipped like water between your fingers.

Sewing was different. Mabel knew if she was patient and meticulous, if she carefully followed the lines, took each step as it came, and obeyed the rules, that in the end when it was turned right-side out, it would be just how it was meant to be. A small miracle in itself, and one that life so rarely offered.

Mabel drifted, sank into the warmth, and it was like a childhood fever, dreamlike and nearly comforting.

You couldn’t hold her too close or know her mind. Perhaps it was so with all children. Certainly he and Mabel hadn’t formed into the molds their parents had set for them.

“But if you have a safe, warm home with a family, why would you want to be out there?” The boy hesitated and looked to Jack. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I guess maybe I don’t want to be warm and safe. I want to live.”

In my old age, I see that life itself is often more fantastic and terrible than the stories we believed as children, and that perhaps there is no harm in finding magic among the trees.

“We never know what is going to happen, do we? Life is always throwing us this way and that. That’s where the adventure is. Not knowing where you’ll end up or how you’ll fare. It’s all a mystery, and when we say any different, we’re just lying to ourselves. Tell me, when have you felt most alive?”

The moon lit up the entire valley, gleaming off the river ice and glowing on the white mountains. 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.

She told no one of the otter. Garrett would want to trap it; Faina would ask her to draw it. She refused to confine it by any means because, in some strange way, she knew it was her heart. Living, twisting muscle beneath bristly damp fur. Breaking through thin ice, splashing in cold creek water, sliding belly-down across snow. Joyful, though it should have known better.

“Why isn’t she here, staying with us until the wedding?” “She’s where she needs to be. She doesn’t have much longer.” “Much longer?” “Her life is going to change soon. Whatever else happens, she won’t be able to run through the woods like a sprite. Everything will be different.” “I suppose. I just want to make sure she’s safe and healthy.” “I know,” and Mabel’s voice had a bittersweet acceptance in it that he had never heard before.

He took hold of Mabel’s hand, and when she turned to him, he saw in her eyes the joy and sorrow of a lifetime. “It’s snowing,” she said.