CHAPTERONE
Therewasonething,andonethingonly,thatcouldcoaxmeintostripedredtights,afurvest,andanelfcap:JackSnjosson. Make that Jack Snjosson in a Santa suit. Ourhigh-school paper’s for-charity lunchtime food driveoffered an up-close-and-personal with the old fellow inexchangefora nonperishable.Jack,asthepaper’s editorinchief,wastheunanimouschoicefortheredsuit.Neverthelook-at-metype,heresisted,diggingindeeptheheelsofhisoldworkbootsuntilhedevisedaschemerequiringcompanyinhismisery.Mycurrentensemblewastheresult.As the paper’s fashion editor, I found playing elf morethanalittleembarrassing,butatleastIgotfirstcrackatKrisKringle.
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“Uh,Santa,”Isaid,“aren’tyougoingtoaskmewhatIwantforChristmas?”Iscoochedmystripedlimbsintothevelvetyfoldsofhislap.
“Tellme,whatisityouwantfromoldSaintNick?”“Santa”—Iburiedmyfaceintohisbeardandwhis-
peredintohisear—“allIwantforChristmasis...”Icouldn’thelpdrawingoutthemoment.Itwasjust
too much fun and too surreal, even if my definition ofsurrealhadall-newmeaningsinceSeptember.Itwasstillhard to believe everything that had happened in justthreeshortmonths.IreallythoughtIwaslosingitwhen,shortlyafterthemovefromLAtoMinnesota,Idiscov-eredthatIwasaStork:amemberofanancientflockofsouldeliverers.ThingsonlygotmorecomplicatedwhenI met Jack. Turned out he had a pretty nifty talent ofhis own. As a modern-day descendant of Jack Frost—uh-huh, that Jack Frost—he had the ability to controltheweather.Allthesame,hadyoutoldmethreemonthsagothatIwouldaskSanta—andnoteventherealthing,insteadmyseventeen-year-old, bony-kneed, mahogany-haired,gem-eyedboyfriend—forwhatwaspossiblytheonlythingyoucouldn’tgetattheBeverlyHillsNeimanMarcus,I’dhavesaidyouwerecracked.
“AwhiteChristmas,”Isaid.“Andhaveyoubeengood?”fake-Santaasked.“Mostly.”Hegroaned.Becauseofhisspecialancestry,heatwas
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Jack’skryptonite.Theheavycostumewasuncomfortabletohim;myproximitymadeitworse.Nottomentionhewasn’treallythePDAtypeandtherewasalineofatleasttwenty can-donating do-gooders—all girls—waitingtheirturn.
“Thanks, Santa,” I said, kissing him briefly on thecheekandspringingfromhislap.
His face went candy-apple red. It was, as always,ourcombustiblecombinationthattestedhisabilities.Hemadeitthroughtherestofthelunchhourwithoutinci-dent,whileI,hiselfinhelper,handedcandycanestoboththenaughtyandthenice.Whenhislapwasfinallygirl-free,hestretched,peeledoffthepress-onwhiskers,andheadedinmydirection.
“Wereyoutryingtokillme?”AmuchyoungerJackseizedmebytheshoulders.
“What?”Iasked,allinnocence.“Iwasyourhelper.”Ishookmysatchelofgoodiesasproof.
“Youwerenohelpatall.”“Ungrateful,”Isaid.“Unthinking.”“Unworthy,”Icountered.“Unbelievable,” he said, though his tone had soft-
enedconsiderably.“Ahem.”I lookedup to see Pennystandingbehind
us.“Ijustwantedtothankyouguysforallyourhelp.Wecollectedtenboxesoffood.”
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“That’sgreat,”Isaid.“Areyou twostillgonnahelpus load thevanafter
school?”Pennyasked.“We’ll be there,” I answered for both of us. In the
threemonthssinceourfatefulHomecomingadventures,JackandIhadbecomeaunit. Nothinglikealmostget-tingsuckedthroughaportaltoanotherdimensionbyanevilsoul-snatchingRaventofast-trackarelationship.
IwatchedPennywalkawaywithaPrancer-likelope.Shedeservedthebounceinherstep.She’dworkedhardtopromoteandorganizethefooddrive.Iwasgladithadbeensuccessfulandwashappytohaveassistedbyprint-ingupflyersandplasteringsignsthroughouttheschool.
Jack took advantage of my diverted attention andcoiled a thick swath of my hair around his fist. “Andwhat’sthisaboutwantingawhiteChristmas?”
“Ido.NowthatI’veembracedlivingastone’sthrowfromtheNorthPole,Iactuallydo.”
“You? The California Girl? Not liking this mildwinter?”
“It’swimpy,”Isaid,laughing.Itwastrue.NowthatI lived in Minnesota, the recent start-of-winter warmtempsandlackofsnowseemedpathetic.
Hearchedhiseyebrows.Ilovedthewayitflaredtheblueofhiseyes.“Wimpy,huh?”
CHAPTERTWO
The truck’s radio crooned Bing Crosby’s “WhiteChristmas.” The song worked on two levels: not onlywas it Christmas Eve, but the drive to Jack’s familyfarmfelt likegoingback in time. Ialwaysknewwhenwewereclose,becausemywatchbegantospincounter-clockwise. The numerals even changed to Roman. Attheroad,stonepillarsfrontedtheentrancewithacarvedwooden SNJOSSON FARMS sign strung between them.We pulled down a long gravel driveway. Apple treesdottedbothsidesofthenarrowlane.Theywerebarren,butIrememberedthemleafyandheavywithfruit.Evennow, with their silvery bark set against the hard frostyground,theywereanimpressivesight.
6
Jackparkedinfrontofthehouse,andwegotout.Ifilledmyarmswithwrappedpackages,giftsforhisfam-ily.Itookadeepbreath,lingeringbythepassengersideofthetruck.Ihadbeentohishousemanytimesandsharedmanymealswithhisparents.Ihad,however,neverbeenforaholidaydinner.Reluctantly,mymomhadagreedtoatrade-off.IgottospendtonightatJack’s;inexchange,she got us both for Christmas dinner. A win-win, I’dthought,until, standingthere,mynervoussystemliveduptoitsname.
Jackwalkedaroundtomeandpulledmysuddenlycement-bottomed feet toward the house. “Come on,”hesaid.
I was mostly freaked about meeting Jack’s grand-mother,whowasvisitingforChristmas.ThefewthingsIknewaboutherhintedatanunusualwoman.Forstart-ers,shehadbeentheonetosuspectandthenadviseJackofmyrightfulmembershipintheIcelandicStorkSociety.This, years before even I knew of my soul-delivery-servicefuture.AndshehadrecognizedJack’simmunityto thecoldas somethingextraordinary, even foroneoftheVeturfolk,theWinterPeople,aNorseraceofarcticdescent. Moreover, shehad intuitedouruniqueconnec-tion, the heightening of powers created by our predes-tinedcombination.
“We’rehere!”Jackcalledout.“Finally.”Jack’smom,Alda,metusinthesmallfoyer,
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wipingherhandsonadishcloth.ShehadJack’ssky-blueeyesanddarkhair,thoughherswasstreakedwithgray.
We stamped our boots on the mat inside the frontdoor. The house had old wooden floorboards through-out,evenupstairs.TheywerescuffedandmorewarpedthantheCoenbrothers,butIlikedthecolorfulragandbraided rugs that cozied up each individual room andthat no one was ever expected to remove their shoes.Besides,theykeptthethermostatat,like,forty—below.Footwear,atitsmostbasicdesign,wasprotectionagainsttheelements,oneofwhichwascold.I’dcomealongwayfromthegirlwhohadoncethoughtthatshoesneededtomatchtheoutfit,nottheseason.Youstillwouldn’tcatchmeslidingmypolishedtoesintoapairofBirkenstocks,but I’d made serious progress. I was currently wearingthe Timberland boots Jack had once broken in with arock.Withpink-and-brownargylelacestiedankle-to-toe,theywerebothstylishandcomfortable.
Jack’smomwasjoinedbyJack’sdad,Lars,atallmanwithdullblondhairthatthinnedontopandwascroppedneatly above his ears and through the sideburns. Aldahuggedmeandtookthepackages,whileLars,amanoffewwords,tookmycoat.
“Your amma’s waiting to meet Kat,” Alda saidtoJack.
Iswallowedwhatfeltlikeagolfball—withanaccom-panyingdivotofturf.
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Jacktookmyhandandledmethroughthekitchenand into thefamilyroom.HisgrandmotherwasseatedonachairneartheChristmastreewithaneedleandthreadinonehandandalargebowlofpopcornonherlap.AsJack and I crossed the room, she set her things on thefloorandstoodtogreetus.Shewassmallandthinandwiry. Her eyes darted quickly to me, and though shewasn’t one of the Storks, she was definitely cut of thesamehomespuncloth.Iimmediatelybrushedmyhairoffmyfaceandstraightenedmyshoulders.
“Amma,”Jacksaid,“thisisKat.”“I’dhaveknownherforoneofOlaf’sclan,”shesaid,
approachingmewithashuffle.Iextendedmyrighthand.“Pleasedtomeetyou.”Shetookmyhandbutdidn’tshake.Insteadsheran
herrightindexfingeralongmypalmandthen,curiously,into the groove separating my thumb from my fingers.Seeminglyconfusedwithwhatshefound,ordidn’tfind,there, she released me. “The power of three,” she saidwithsurprise.Shescrunchedherfaceintoanimpressivenetworkofworrylinesandstaredatmehardandlong.Thensheturnedandheadedforthekitchen.“IthinkI’llmakesometea.”
When she was gone, Jack pressed his fingers to hisforehead.“Sorryaboutthat.She’salittleunpredictable.”
Iwasstillholdingmyhandoutinfrontofme,star-ing at it, as if any sense could be made of what had
9
transpired. I’d heard of palm reading but didn’t knowtheopposablethumbfactoredintotheroadmapofone’slifelines.“Noworries.”Ishookitoff.Hulda,ourwise-woman leaderof the Storks,hadhackeda trail formethroughwhatIwouldhaveonceconsideredweirdandwacky.“Doesshedrinkthetea,orjustreadtheleaves?”
“She may eat the leaves for all I know,” Jack said.“Andthenthecup.”
Irelaxed.Itwascoolthatwewereabletoshoweachothervulnerabilities,asynonymforfamilyasfarasIwasconcerned. Tomorrow was my turn. After Christmasmorningapartatourrespectivehomebases,we’dspendChristmasdinnerwithmypregnantmom,herboyfriend,Stanley, and my afi, my grandfather. And this withoutevenmydadtofactorin.HewasstillinCaliforniafinal-izinghisplanstomovetoNorseFallsandopenawindturbinefactory.
IsatbackfromtheSnjossons’dining-roomtable,sostuffedeven my ears were clogged. I had been wary of a fore-warned menu of mutton stew with rutabaga. Mutton,insofarasIcouldtell,justmeantoldlamb.AndasmuchasIappreciatedmymealhavinghadafulllifebeforeend-inguponmyplate,oldmeatmeanttough.Asfortheruta-baga,anythingthatwasclassifiedasatuberwasnotfitforconsumption.The lamb,a termIdefinitelypreferred to
10
mutton, hadn’t been half bad, after all. Jack’s mom hadused parsnips instead of rutabaga, a kinder and gentlermemberoftheundergroundveggieworld.And,thoughIroutinelyavoidedwordswiththeconfusingIcelandicdthatsoundedmorelikeath,thelaufabrauð,theleafbread,withitsintricatedesignwasalmosttooprettytoeatandascomplicatedtosayasitprobablywastomake.
“Gifts now,” Jack’s grandmother said, clapping herhandswithauthority.HereconomyofwordshintedatherbeingbiologicallyrelatedtoJack’sdad,aswouldthematchingbristledeyebrows.
Wegatheredaroundthetinseledtree.Alda handed out rectangular packages wrapped
in hunter-green paper and tied with raffia. “Kat first,”shesaid.
Islidthesoft-sidedgiftfromunderitsribbon,gentlytearing thewrapping. Inside laya hand-knit sweaterofcrimsonredwithamotifofsnowflakestrimmingitsyoke.
“Thankyou.It’sbeautiful,”Isaid,holdingit tomychest.“Didyoumakeit?”
“Idid,”Aldasaid.“It’sbeensomanyyearssinceJackwouldwearoneofmycreations.” I lookedat Jack.Hisholidayattireconsistedofawhitebutton-downandLevi’s,onlyaslightupgradefromhisusual—fadedT-shirtsandLeejeans.Despitetemperaturestumblingdaily,I’dyettoseehiminajacket.ANordicsweaterclingingtohisropyshoulders?Ijustcouldn’tpictureit.
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“I’mveryflattered,”Isaid.“Itlookslikealotofwork.”“It will keep the Jolakottur away,” Jack’s grand-
mothersaid.“Ibegyourpardon?”Iasked,pushingmyarmsinto
thesleevesofthesweater.“The Jolakottur, the Yule Cat,” Alda replied. “An
oldcharacterfromIcelandicfolklore.I’msurprisedyouhaven’theardofit.”
Familiesdidn’tgetmuchmoreIcelandicthanmine,soIwassurprised,too.Icould,ofcourse,nameallthir-teenoftheYuleLads:SpoonLickerandDoorSlammertyingasfavorites,andMeatHookhadheadlinedasthebogeyinafewofmychildhoodnightmares.
“The Yule Cat belongs to the child-eating ogressGrýla.AtChristmas,everyoneinthefamilymustbegiftedan articleof clothing,or else the YuleCatwill attack,”Jack’sammasaid,waggingherindexfinger.
“Attack?” I asked, poking my head through theneckandshruggingthesweaterdownovermytorso.Itwasbeginning to feelmore likeawarning thananoldwives’tale.
“Intheoldendays,”Aldasaidinagentlertonethanhermother-in-law,“peoplehurriedtofinishallautumn’swoolworkbeforetheholidayseason.ChildrenwerepressedintoservicewithstoriesofagiganticblackcatthatmadeaChristmasDaymealofanyonewithoutanewpieceofclothing.”
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Finally, a legendI couldwrapmymindaround.Avicious fashion-frenzied feline prowling the streets andtearingintothepoorlyattired.
The restof thegiftswereexchanged. Igaveevery-one,exceptJack,aselectionofCalifornia-themeditems:Ghirardelli chocolates, La Brea Bakery granola, NapaValley dipping oils, Palm Springs dates, Kern Countypistachios, all of which my mom had thought of andassembled. In addition to the sweater, I received applebutter, an All Apple All the Time cookbook, and, fromJack’sgrandmother,abagofrocks.Literally.
“They’remoonstones,”shesaid.“They’reverypretty.”Ishookafewfromthesmall
black velvet pouch onto my palm. They were of vari-ouscolorsfromlightbrownstograysandengravedwithsymbols.Iranthetipofmyfingeratoponeofthegold-paintedengravings.Itlookedlikeapitchfork.
“Thatone’sMannaz,”Jack’sgrandmothersaid.“Therune symbol for man. The runes are the Norse pre-Christianalphabet.”
“Oh.Igetit.”Ididn’t.Ialreadyhadanalphabet.Itwasworkingfine;Ididn’tthinkIneededanother,notanancientone,anyway.Besides,languageseemedthekindofthingthatmovedforwardorprogressed,likescienceor medicine, or synthetic and blended textiles. “Thankyou,”Isaid.“They’reveryinteresting.”
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It became painfully obvious that Jack and I hadn’texchangedourgifts.Aldaraisedhereyebrows.“Is thatitforgifts?”
“IthinkI’mgoingtotakeKatonalittlesleighride,”Jack said, standing up. “Is that OK? The horses couldusetheexercise.”
“Sure,”Alda said. “Don’t be too long, though.YoustillhavetodriveKathome.”
“WatchoutfortheYuleCat,”Jack’sgrandmothersaid.“I’mnotworried,”Isaid,acceptingJack’shandashe
ledmeoutoftheroom.While bundling up, I was grateful for the new
sweater; it was beautifully crafted, warm, and anotherlayer in my connection to Jack’s family. Bring on theYule Cat, the child-eating ogress, and all thirteen YuleLads—MeatHookincluded—Imusedtomyself.Ihadcompleteconfidence inmycompanion.Thebuddysys-tem:nowthatwassomethingIbelievedin.
CHAPTERTHREE
Jackdrovethesleighdownapaththatheadedtothebackof theproperty,one thathadbeenfrequentedby trucksandtractorsduringharvestseason.Afewscantinchesofwhite powder covered the ground, but, by all accounts,thewinterwasofftoaslowstart,withsnowfallwellbelowaverage.Theweaklightofthewintersunwasnomatchfortheadvancingdusk.Therewaslessthananhourleftin the day. I noticed that Jack had packed several verylargebattery-operatedlanterns.
Ifpassingthroughtheroad-frontgatefelt liketimetravel,dashing through the snow inanopen sleigh feltlikewakingupon the frontofa Hallmarkcard. Iwassure that Season’s Greetings was scrawled at our feet incalligraphy.
15
Finally, Jack pulled up along the edge of a smallcreekthatgurgledwithbrackishwater.
“Areyouwarmenough?”Iwasbundledinbothofthethicklapblanketsthat
Larshadswungovertheseat.“Yep.”He pulled me close to him. I tucked into the nook
created by his outstretched arm. “Gifts now,” he said,clappinghishandsashisgrandmotherhad.
I laughed.“Iwentfirst lasttime.Yourturn.”Frominsidemyparka,IpulledawrappedgiftandplaceditinJack’shands.
Heturneditoverseveraltimes,shookit,knockedonit,andevensniffedit.
“It’sagift,notamelon,”Isaid.He took his time, lifting the tape gingerly, folding
thepaperbackcarefully.Ifinallyreachedover,dugmynailsin,andripped.
“There’salwaysthatway,”hesaid.Insidewasafoldednavy-blueLADodgerscap.He
shookitout.“What’sthis?”heasked.“Anewhat.”Withapuzzledlook,heheldituptothefadinglight,
turningitonewayandthenanother.OK,somaybetheDodgerswereanacquiredtaste.“Ialreadyhaveahat,aluckyone,”hesaidteasingly.
Thecapinquestionwas,indeed,lucky,havingonceskittered and drawn me away from an out-of-control
16
truck. Still, it wasn’t the most stylish of things. “It’salwaysnicetohaveoptions,”Isaid.
“So,amIsupposedtowearthisthing?”Hedroppeditonhislap.
“Let me show you,” I said, cramming it over hisshaggybangs.
“Itmakesastatement,Isuppose,”hesaid.“The statement being: I’m with Kat Leblanc,
CaliforniaGirl,Dodgersfan.”“You thinkIneeda reminder?”he said, liftingmy
chinwithhisforefinger.“You’renotexactlythekindofgirloneforgets.”
“I’m sure you say that to all the girls you’ve savedfrombeingdraggedintoanotherrealm.”HardtobelieveI couldbe soflipabout that horriblenight and Wade’sevilplan.Isupposedmakinglightofitwasawaytodeal.Jackhadalmostdied.Ishiveredtothinkofit.
“Only theoneswithwhomI’ve surviveddrowningincidentsandbearencounters.”
It was comforting to know that he, too, could jokeabout our brushes with death, especially as neither oneofusthoughtourordealswerebehindus.Hekissedmyeyelid.Itflutteredasifabouttotakeflight.
“Butaboutthecap,”hesaid.“Whataboutit?”“Doesitcomeinanothercolor?”“Dodgerblue,buddy.Noothercolor.”
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He adjusted its fit. It was a definite improvementoverthemeshJohnDeerecap.
“Your turn,” he said, pulling a small round-shapedpackagefromunderthesled’sfrontseat.
Unlike Jack, I knew how to open a gift properly.WithinmomentstheshreddedpaperlayatmyfeetandIheldabeautifulsnowglobeonasquatblackbase.Thedomedscenedepictedadark-hairedboyandablondgirlinaredcoatskatingonatree-linedrink.
“Howdidyou...?”Iaskedwithacatchinmyvoice.Itwassoeerilyreminiscentofourfatefulencounter:thewinterday,fiveyearsago,whenJackandImiraculouslysurvivedaskatingaccident.Eventheredcoatwithwhitetrimwasaccurate.“Didyouhavethismade?”
Jack shook his head no. “I found it in a box of mygrandmother’soldChristmasdecorations.”
“But...itlookssomuchlike...”“Turnitover,”hesaid.I upended the glass. A stamp on the bottom read
“GleðilegJól1946.”“MerryChristmas1946,”Isaid.“Yep.”Before even our parents were born, our likenesses
wereentrappedinasnowglobe.“Weird.Isn’tit?”Iasked.“Idon’taskanymore.Ijustaccept.”Hehadtherightattitude.Certainaspectsofourlives
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werealmosttoomuchtocontemplate.Ishooktheglobe.Snow fell, powdering the girl’s hair and shoulders anddustingthepinetrees.“IdidaskforawhiteChristmas.It’sperfect.”
“That’sjustpartoneofyourgift,”hesaid,stretchingouthisarms.
Alightsnowbegantofall.“Hooray,”Isaid,cuppingflakesinmyjoinedpalms.
“MywhiteChristmas.”Itbegantosnowalittleharder.I looked around, awestruck. “But how? Before, it
onlyhappenedwhenyouweremad,orjealous,oroutofcontrolinsomeway.”
“I’vebeenpracticing,”hesaid.The flakes grew large and feathery. They clung to
thehorses’hidesandtails,andmylapblanketwassooncoatedwithathickbandofwhite.
“I can see that.” I scooted in for a kiss, somethingwe’dbeenpracticingtogether.Itstruckmethat,liketheproverbialsnowflake,notwokisseswereeverthesame.Thisonewasallthemorespecial,giventheholidayset-ting.Andithadadeliciouscontrastbetweenthecoldairandtheheatweweregenerating.Thetipsofournoseswerechilly,butourhotbreathandlipsweresmoldering.Ishruggedmyhandsoutofmyglovesandwalkedthemunder his shirt and up his ribs. For one of the Winter
19
People,hisskinwasalwaysthermal.Norwouldheeverhave occasion to complain about my icy fingers. I saton his lap. His groan, though not a complaint, was raw.ForgettheHallmarkgreetingcard;wewerenowriflingthroughthepagesofaHarlequinromance.
I pulledawayand leanedmyheadback.Thesnowwasfallinglikeconfettinow;giantcrystallineflakesclungto my eyelashes and wet my face. I was startled to seeJack with a cap of white hair, as if the intensity of ourkisshadprematurelyagedhim. Lookingaroundat thecloakedlandscapeandnightfallingasfastasthesnow,Iknewitwastimetobringthingsdownanotch.
“Uh,Jack?”“Yes.”“Thisseemslikeanawfullotofsnow.”“Huh?”“Maybeyoushouldturnitoffnow.”“Crap!”“What?”“I’mtrying.”“And?”“It’snotworking.”Ijumpedoffhislap.“Quitfoolingaround.”“I’mnot.”Hisvoicewastight.Icouldbarelyseemyhandoutstretchedinfrontofmy
face.Thewindhowledlikeawolf,hungryandirritable.
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We’d jumped books to Little House on the Prairie: theblizzardscenewherePahadtotiearopetohiswaistsoasnottogetlostbetweenthehouseandthebarn.
“Wegottagonow,”Jacksaid.“Beforeitgetsworse.”“It’sgoingtogetworse?”“Itcould,”hesaid.“Howarewegoingtoseeourwayback?”Jack lightly switched the horses with the reins.
“Thesegirlsknowtheway.”That didn’t help. Our welfare was in the hands of a
coupleofnags:onecalledMoonbeamandtheothercalledBubbles.Neithername,ifyouaskedme,inspiredmuchcon-fidence.I’dhavepreferredaSaintBernardnamedHero.
Itwasslowgoing.Eventhehorsesshiedtheirheadstothesidewiththewindswhippingthesnoweverywhichway. Jack was quiet, which made me nervous. Everyfew minutes I could hear him muttering—cursing,technically—underhisbreath.Andhewasgoingtobustalobeifheconcentratedanyharderonwhateveritwashedidtoharnesstheweather.
MycellphonewasatJack’s,inmypurse,nexttothefront door, my “Stayin’ Alive” ringtone probably notsoundingsocuteandretroanymore.
Icouldstillseetheoutlinesoftreesoneithersideofthe path, but barely. I wondered how the horses keptto the trail. As if sensing my concern, they came to anabruptstop.
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“Shit,”Jacksaidwithalashofthereins.“Giddyap.”Nothing.He tried again. Bubbles, or at least I think it was
Bubbles,neighedincomplaint.Aheadwindbarreledintome.Myfacehurtfromthecold,andIburrowedfartherintomycollar.ThoughI,betterthananyone,knewofhisresistancetocold,IstillshudderedwithsympathyforJack.
“Holdthereins,”Jackfinallysaid.“I’mgoingtohavetoguidethem.”
Hejumpeddownfromthesled,carryingonelanternwithhimandleavingtheothernexttomeontheseat.
Thehorseswereinnomoodanddugintheirhoovesobstinately.IcouldjustmakeoutJack’sformthroughthesqualling snow at first coaxing, and then pulling, untilhewasfinallyengagedinanall-outtug-of-warwiththeanimals.Hemayhavehaddetermination,but theyhadbrutestrengthandwerenotabouttobeledintoanabyssthroughwhichtheyhadnoguideposts,nopointofrefer-ence, nothing but a wall of swirling white. And then itcametome.Theyneededacorner.Notliterally,ofcourse,asthatcouldputusintoaditchorthicketoftrees.Theyneededwhatmymotherhadalwaysgivenmewhenwedidjigsawpuzzlestogether:asmall,manageablestart,anachievablegoal.
AscoldasIwas,Ishruggedoutofmywhiteparkaandthenhastily tookoffmynewredsweater.How,ofalldays,hadbothJackandImanagedtodressinwhite?
22
Anddang, itwascold.Myteethchattereduncontrolla-bly.Theyformedwordsoftheirownvolition.Theyevengotalittlemouthyandcrass.GoodthingJackwasoutofhearingrange.Theycursedusboth:meforcomingupwiththestupididea,andhimforlistening.
Coat back on and lantern and sweater in hand, Iscrambled out of the sled. Fighting the driving snow, Imade my way to where Jack struggled with the horses.I held the lantern and red sweater mere inches in frontofonehorseandthentheother.Inoticedtheybothliftedtheirheadsslightly. Jackcaughtonandurgedthemfor-ward toward the wagging sweater that, inch by inch, Ipulledawayfromthem.Itwasworking.Evolutionmovedquicker, but at least it was progress, and who knows,maybebythetimewegotbackI’dhaveadaptedforfrost-bite resistance, a mutation I supposed Jack already pos-sessed.Asthingsstood,Icouldn’tfeelmytoesorthetipofmynose.Asifsensingourclearheadedness,eventhesnowandwindsrelaxedalittle.
“Itwon’tletupforlong,”Jacksaid.“ButIthinkwecangetbackinthesleigh.”
We settled back onto the wooden seat. I tucked ablanketaroundmyfrozentoes.
“Isitover?”Iasked,liftingmymittedglovetocatchflakes.
“Notevenclose,”hesaid,switchingBubbleslightly.“Webetterhurry.”
