North Child Read Online Free PDF

have put more miles on those boots than all of my brothers and sisters together.
    By the time I was five or six, I had already gone missing more times than my parents could count. One of my favourite games was to imagine myself a bold explorer, like my grandfather and great-grandfather. I had made it my goal to discover and claim every square inch of the land that lay within walking distance of our farm.
    On the day I first saw a white bear, I had slipped out of the house when my sister Selme was distracted by a frog I had hidden in a pan in the kitchen cupboard. I climbed the stone wall that lay to the northeast of our farm and ran through the meadow, but instead of climbing the rocky crag (which I’m told I had fallen off of and then nearly drowned when I was two years old), I headed due north. I walked a very long way, finally coming upon a small grove of trees. There, standing among them, was a white bear. It stood very still, watching me.
    I stopped, staring with delight at the snow-white fur. I wasn’t close enough to see its eyes clearly and what expression they held, but I was too young to be afraid, so I smiled widely at the animal. It gazed at me for a short time, then turned and lumbered away. I tried following, but it had vanished. Soon I got hungry and turned towards home.
    I didn’t tell Mother and Father about seeing the white bear, especially Mother, because I knew she’d insist on keeping me even closer to home. “You see!” she’d say. “Dangerous wild animals are out there. It’s not safe.”
    I told Neddy, though, and was disappointed at his reaction. He frowned and said in that superior, older brother tone I hated, “You mustn’t go anywhere near a white bear, Rose. They are dangerous and fierce creatures, with long, sharp teeth that will gobble you up. They are always hungry and they move very fast.” He acted like he was some kind of expert on white bears.
    I didn’t pay any attention to him. From then on the white bear was my imaginary companion on all my explorations. I would pretend that I was riding along on its white-fur back, the two of us a fierce duo conquering and claiming new lands by the score.
    I spent much of my childhood longing, in vain, to see a white bear again. It was extremely rare to see white bears in our part of the country. They were ice bears, isbjorn, that usually made their home in the snowy north.

Watching for the child.
    The girl with purple eyes.
    Purple eyes.
    And her smiling mouth.
    Standing in the trees, watching her.
    The girl.
    Taller.
    Unafraid.
    She moves towards me.
    Purple eyes, trusting.
    Cannot.
    Not safe for her.
    Hunger.
    Hunger.
    Hunger.
    Must go.
    Quickly.
    To feed.
    Now.
    Then return.

When Rose was five, she began to weave. The first thing she made was a belt with a crude design of a white bear. Those were her two passions: weaving (or sewing) and exploring with her imaginary white bear.
    Inside the house she could always be found weaving belts on her small, rigid heddle loom. When we had more belts than we could ever use (some of the farm animals even sported Rose’s belts), Mother taught Rose to work the household loom. By age eight Rose was her older sisters’ equal when it came to weaving.
    Then one day, taking a basketful of eggs to Widow Hautzig, Rose laid eyes on the widow’s loom. Widow Hautzig was a local craftswoman who had a small business weaving coats and rugs and various other items to sell both in nearby Andalsnes and to wandering merchants who would take them to fairs and markets farther afield. To Rose, who knew only our own rough one at home, the widow’s loom was large and impressive. It was twice as tall as Rose, and the wood was polished and carved with simple designs.
    Unfortunately, Widow Hautzig was a grouchy old woman with no patience at all for a small, wild girl desperate to learn all about her beautiful loom. More than anything in the world, Rose longed for a