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pigeon-roosts.
    â€œI have come to tell you a story,” her grandmother said. “It is a story from the old times, before the southerners came. A boy went to the shaman’s tent, and asked how he too could learn to be wise.
    â€œâ€˜If you would be wise,’ said the shaman, ‘you must travel north to the shores of the frozen sea, where the world ends. When you return, you must tell me what you have learned.’
    â€œAfter forty days and forty nights the boy returned.
    â€œâ€˜What have you learned?’ the shaman asked.
    â€œâ€˜That ice is white.’
    â€œâ€˜Only that?’ said the shaman. ‘You must go back.’ And so the boy travelled again for forty days and forty nights, to the edge of the world and back.
    â€œâ€˜What have you learned this time?’ the shaman asked.
    â€œâ€˜That ice is cold.’
    â€œâ€˜Go back,’ said the shaman. ‘You have more to learn.’
    â€œThe shaman waited for forty days and forty nights, but this time the boy did not return, for he had travelled too far and remained too long, and had frozen into a pillar of ice. And the shaman knew that the boy had found wisdom at last; for he had learned that ice is death.”

C HAPTER T EN
    T he money arrived, along with a cheerful, gossipy letter from Gerda’s mother. Gerda packed up her few possessions in her portmanteau and prepared to take her leave. When the coachman came to drive Gerda to Uppsala, his aunt set out an enormous breakfast of porridge, bacon, eggs and buns. She saw Gerda off in a flurry of kisses, and cautions, and tears, and good advice.
    On the stagecoach north from Uppsala Gerda’s carriage-mate was a small plump woman of sixty or so, with bright dark eyes and grey hair drawn back in a knot. In her plain dove-grey gown with pearl buttons up to the chin, she reminded Gerda of nothing so much as a pouter pigeon.
    The woman tucked a bulging carpet bag into a corner, settled herself into her seat, and turned briskly to Gerda. “And where are you off to all on your own, my dear?”
    â€œTo visit a friend,” said Gerda. She supposed it was near enough to the truth.
    â€œOh yes? And where does your friend live?”
    â€œOh, a long way off. In Norrland, somewhere on the Torne River, near a place called Vappa-Vara . . . ”
    â€œIndeed! I know it well. That’s all the way into Saamiland, where the reindeer people live. Well, you will have your adventures, my dear, before you get to Vappa-Vara. It’s late in the year to be setting out on a trip like that. You’ll be running into the autumn storms soon, and the nights closing in.”
    Gerda looked at the woman with interest. “You’ve travelled in Norrland?”
    â€œOh, indeed I have, many a time, and a long way north of that. Ingeborg Eriksson is my name — I dare say you’ve heard of my books. I was a great one for travelling, in my time — though with my rheumatics, I’m getting past those overland trips.”
    â€œDid you go by yourself?”
    â€œOh yes — it’s best, I think. At first I took along a lady companion — my family thought it was unsuitable for a young woman to travel alone. But my companions always seemed to fall ill a week or so into the journey . . . you have no idea how inconvenient that can be! My dear, may I offer you some advice?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œWhen you’re travelling in those parts, you must be sure to pack your own provisions. I can’t emphasize that too much. It simply doesn’t do to depend on the hostelry along the way. A little salt fish, that’s the best you can hope for, and the bread always seems to be mouldy.”
    â€œWhat sort of provisions?” asked Gerda.
    â€œPlum pudding,” Madame Eriksson said firmly.
    â€œPlum pudding?” asked Gerda, disconcerted.
    â€œExactly. You can’t go wrong with plum pudding. I used to take forty