Then Sara, our third eldest, fell ill.

Neddy

WHEN SARA GOT SICK I saw the fear come into Mother. Up until then she had been calm and steady. But I knew that Sara's sickness brought back to her (and to Father) the memory of Elise's death.

There were five of us children living at home then. Myself, Rose, Sara, Sonja, and Willem.

We had been waiting to hear back from Father's brother, who was our only hope at the time. But it became clear that even if he agreed to take us in, we would not be able to make the journey, not with Sara so ill.

Thankfully, our neighbor Torsk offered us a temporary home so that we would not be without shelter when the landowner came to evict us. But Torsk had also been hard hit by the weather, though he at least owned his own farm. And we knew we could not strain his meager resources by staying too long.

I had made up my own mind that, like my oldest brother, Nils, I would leave home and seek a way to earn my living. I would then send all I earned back to my family. My long held dream of one day studying with scholars in one of the big cities was gone.

Mother was with Sara constantly, completely unmindful of her own comfort and health. Father wandered around the farmhold in a daze, looking as though he had aged twenty years. We had little more than a fortnight before we had to leave the farm.

The cold hit early that autumn. This was the last blow in a series of terrible setbacks. We had been slammed with an early blizzard before the last harvest (what there was of it) could be gathered. I think we were numb by then, lacking even the spirit to lament our misfortunes. It warmed enough several days later to melt the snow, but the damage had been done. What had followed then was our typical autumn weather—a succession of blustery, chilly rainstorms.

It was during just such a storm-drenched night, as we huddled around the hearth, that we heard a scratching sound coming from our front door. Mother was at the far end of the great room, sitting by Sara, who had just fallen into a fitful sleep.

The sound came again, and after exchanging a look with Father, I went to the door and cautiously opened it a crack, wondering who or what could be out on such a night.

All I saw was a white blur before the door was flung wide. I stepped back and something large and wet brushed by me.

I turned to stare at an enormous white bear standing in the middle of the great room.

The wind howled in, spewing cold rain, but we were unaware of it.

"Close the door." It was a massive, strange voice. And though it seemed impossible, I knew at once the voice was coming from the white bear.

My sister Sonja swayed and looked like she might faint. I moved to her quickly, putting an arm around her shoulders. She was trembling.

Rose went to the door and shut it.

It was like a dream, gazing at the immense animal that had entered our home. Standing erect on all four feet, he was as tall as me, and water dripped off him onto the wooden floor. And I remembered water dripping off white fur from long ago.

I guessed from the moment he brushed by me that this was the white bear I had seen as a child, the one that had saved my sister Rose. If I had had any doubts, they were dispelled when I looked into those black eyes. It was the same bear. And I was filled with a terrible foreboding.

He gazed around the room, from one to the other of us. His eyes stayed longest on Rose. Then he turned to Father.

"If you will give me your youngest daughter..." The eerie huge voice echoed in the room. He spoke slowly, pausing between each word, as if the act of speaking was difficult, almost painful for him. "Then the one who lies near death will be made well again. And you will be no longer poor but wealthy, and will live in comfort and ease."

The silence in the room was punctuated only by the sounds of the storm outside and an occasional crackle from the hearth fire.

The white bear spoke again. "If you will give me your youngest daughter, then the one who lies near death will be..." And he repeated the words he had said before, again with the same painful slowness.

Mother had risen from her place beside Sara's bed. "You would make our Sara well?" she said in a near whisper. Her eyes burned with a look of desperate hope.

"Yes." It was a growl.

"How?"

"If you will give me your youngest daughter, then the one who lies near death..." And he seemed on the verge of saying it all over again.

But Father stepped forward. He looked like someone who had just gathered his wits after a blow. "Enough," he said loudly. "You shall not have Rose. Or any one of us."

The white bear turned to look at Father, and then swung his head in Rose's direction. "Do not decide now," he said, and this time he was speaking directly to her. "I will return in seven days. I will hear your answer then."

He turned and made his way to the door. And though I had seen Rose shut it securely, the door seemed to open of its own volition and the bear went through, disappearing into the night.

Father quickly crossed to the door and shut it with a slam.

We were all stunned and quiet. Had it not been for the large puddle of water in the middle of the room where the bear had been standing, I think that, except for Rose and Mother, none of us would have believed the thing had happened at all.

"Arne," said Mother.

"Father," came Rose's voice.

They spoke at the same time, but Father shook his head.

"We will not talk further of this," he said, his voice deep, with a dangerous, implacable tone. "It is madness and sorcery and we will not be part of it. Not for any wild promises or guarantees of riches."

"But Arne," my mother said. "Think of our Sara..."

"No!" he thundered. I couldn't recall ever hearing Father raise his voice to Mother before. It was almost as shocking as the talking white bear.

Mother, her face white and strained, said, "But we must honor his request. If we do not 'twould only bring the greatest ill fortune and calamity upon us all."

"Eugenia," Father said, and his face was taut with rage, "we will talk no further of this. Go to Sara. The cold air can have done her little good."

And Mother complied, but despite the frightening anger in Father, there was still that burning hopeful light in her eyes, and I knew she would not leave the matter as it stood.

I went for a shawl for Sonja, who was trembling, then I crossed to Rose. She had seated herself in a chair by the fire, and I sat beside her. She was not shivering, though her skin felt cold to the touch when I took her hand. And she, too, had an expression in her eyes that frightened me. It was not hope but excitement, mingled with traces of confusion and fear.

"What can it mean, Neddy?" she said in wonder.

I shook my head.

"When I was little, Mother told me stories about animals that could speak. I didn't believe her, not really, but now..."

I remained silent.

"Did you see how his fur glowed?"

"It was wet from the rain," I said abstractedly.

"A white bear," she breathed. "Just like the one I had as an imaginary companion when I was a child."

I leaned over to poke the fire.

"And did you see his eyes? Oh, Neddy, do you think he can be the same bear I saw the other day? I think it is." I shook my head, for some reason wanting to discourage the idea. But then Father came up, interrupting us. "There are still dishes to be cleaned, and I think then we had all better go to bed."