by S T Gibson
"They say she called down the storm with her misery," Rasmus said cautiously. Helvig wished he would stop looking at her like she would shatter if spoken to harshly, but she was grateful that he was willing to take over the telling. She didn’t have any more stories left in her tonight. "That so great was her suffering as the wife of a man she didn't love, the air and earth took pity on her."
A flicker of recognition danced in Wilhelm's eyes. "The Rus have a tale like that, about the spirit of winter taking pity on a poor girl. They call him Morozko. They say he rewarded a suffering girl's courtesy with jewels and a marriage proposal, and punished her wicked, rude sisters with icy death."
"All fairy stories start with some terrible truth," Gerda said smoothly. She was watching Helvig so intently the thief could feel herself warming under her gaze, as though the other girl's eyes were glass magnifying a sunbeam. "Maybe the spirits of the land enjoy playing judge and jury among humans every once and a while. We must seem as children to them. So young and foolish."
"Macabre," Jakko said.
"What is?" A voice intoned behind Helvig. A meaty hand settled over her shoulder and she knew the king had decided to pay their fireside circle a visit.
"Evening Your Majesty," Wilhelm said with a tip of his head. There really wasn't need for such formal address among the dregs of their camp, but he had always been one for hierarchy. "Helvig was telling us the story of the ice storm, about that girl who went missing."
"Ah, yes," her father said. Pensiveness sounded like distant thunder in his voice. "Astrid."
Something broke inside Helvig for the thousandth time. Something that, try as she might, she had never been able to mend.
"Kind of you to join us, papa," she said with a weariness she was too tired to hide. "We were just telling some old ghost stories."
"A fine custom to keep on this bitterly cold night."
Berthold settled his bulk down on the tree trunk beside her. He wore an extra coat of mink over his heavy oilskin and knitwear clothes as a ward against the night air. Gerda scooted over a bit to make room for him, and he spied her shoes.
"Those are some sturdy boots, little sorceress. Did my daughter gift you those?"
It was a rhetorical question, of course. He had seen Helvig hard at work scraping the fat and gristle from the deer hide and carefully stitching skin and fur together in her free hours.
"She did," Gerda said with a fond smile in Helvig's direction. "They're the warmest I've ever had."
Helvig blushed furiously and pulled her hood up around her ears to hide it.
Berthold patted Gerda's knee as though she were his own granddaughter, his voice kindly and warm. He was a terrifying man, by all accounts, but Helvig knew better than most that there was a soft spot in his heart for lost things. Especially children.
"And what story will you bring us on this night? I'm sure Wilhelm has already talked your ear off about the Christ child and the star and the three magicians from the Orient. I think we're overdue for something new."
"What sort of story would you like?"
Berthold leaned back in his seat and pulled out his pipe. He took his time packing the bowl with sweet spiced tobacco and then lit it with a stick and the flames of the fire. After he puffed some life into his pipe, he nodded to the tiny girl.
"I think we're all clamoring to hear how you came to be with us, and who your people were before then. Lord knows we've been patient until now."
Helvig glanced sidelong at her father past the beaver fur round her hood. Sly old dog, she thought. Of course, he would take advantage of the traditions of the season to get Gerda to talk. None of them had been able to learn what had driven her this far north in search of a queen who didn't exist outside of nursery rhymes. They had tried, and sometimes Gerda would appease them with a snippet about her time as a witch's apprentice, but otherwise, she guarded her secrets carefully.
Gerda's smile shrank by an inch, but she did not argue. Her eyes took on that haunted, faraway look as she settled in to tell her story, resigned to her fate.
"When I was a girl I lived with my father and my mother and my brother Kai in Copenhagen. We had our rooms in a townhouse overlooking a canal, with roses in the window boxes, and my rather ran a piano school for children out of the ground level. My mother was a cultured woman of letters and began teaching Kai and I to read before we could even talk. Kai is the younger. He’s fifteen and I’m…" Her voice became hushed as she touched her fingers to her mouth. "Oh God. How old am I? Seventeen. I must be."
"You're the same age as Rasmus," Helvig said, hoping a bit of casual conversation would ease the telling of what was obviously a painful story. It was so unlike the somber girl to divulge her past that Helvig was afraid that if she were to speak wrongly, she would break whatever spell Gerda was under. "And he's just a little younger than me. I’m eighteen when the frost thaws."
"Kai would be a young man now," Gerda continued, absent and wan. "He was always the most responsible of the two of us. He was the boy, you see, and stood to inherit the business from my father. Kai would see to his lessons, finish his chores, and then work into the night with my father in the shop, tuning and repairing the instruments. I never had to worry about things like that. I was always weeping over cut flowers or reading silly fairy stories. Quite given to flights of fancy."
If Helvig hadn’t seen Gerda glowing with delight in the presence of the animals, it would have been difficult to believe such a stoic girl was ever so frivolous.
"Kai was forced to grow up very quickly. He didn't have as much time to play as the other children, and he always knew what was expected of him. I was the only person he could be himself around. So, when he told me of a beautiful White Lady who visited him by night, I knew he was trusting me."
Helvig leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.
"What did you say?"
Gerda's eyes flashed like mirrors in the firelight. "You've seen her too. She appears to those she wishes to claim. She's a dead thing, a wraith who steals children and whisks them away to die of cold at the top of the world."
"If that’s the case than why hasn’t she stolen Helvig?" Jakko asked. His mouth had a funny set it, like he couldn't decide whether to laugh at her story or shiver with fright.
"From what I can tell our princess is afraid of her, and the Snow Queen relies on her charms to entice people out of their warm beds and into her arms. Like my poor, sweet brother."
"Go on," Helvig urged. She was so tired of secrets, and she feared that if Gerda got too distracted, she would retreat back into herself and never bring up her brother again.
"As Kai grew, he became colder to me. He didn't tell me any more stories or play with me in our nursery. He only wanted to skulk about reading books or throwing snowballs at cats with the neighbor boys. He never smiled, never told me he loved me. My mother said that it was just what happened to boys when they reached a certain age, but I knew better. The Snow Queen was draining him of his life, freezing the blood in his veins with her kiss."
The king made a sound in his throat that seemed to say of course, of course. He was a fiend at the gambling tables and an expert at negotiating with everyone from mercenaries to washer-women to town constables. When he got like this even Helvig didn't know what he was thinking, or if he believed a word Gerda was saying.
"One day, Kai took his little sled out into the town square. Some of the older boys were making a game of tying their sleds to the back of carriages and riding them around town, and he wanted to join them. I didn't see what happened next; I was with my mother in the kitchen, but I heard about it from the miller's boy, who came by to give his condolences later that day. A huge white sleigh no one had seen before slid into the town square, driven by a woman dressed in the latest fashions, head to toe in white. Her hair was pale as silver, and her skin had the pallor of death, and she didn't smile at any of them, only at Kai. He got it in his head to hitch himself to her sleigh, and as soon as it was done, she set off t
hrough the town with him, faster and faster, until they were through the gates and into the woods." She pressed her lips together to hold back tears. "None of us ever saw him again."
Silence fell over them all as the fire crackled. Helvig’s heart felt swollen too large for her chest. She had heard many wrenching tales in her day, and every man in her father's camp carried around shameful secrets, but Gerda's story moved her viscerally. If there was any way to soothe that suffering, Helvig would happily dedicate her waking hours to it.
Eventually, Rasmus spoke.
"Why? Why take a little boy?"
"The dead despise their own loneliness, I suppose," Gerda murmured. "My mother wept for days and my father hardly spoke. They thought he had gotten lost in the woods or fallen into the canal that ran behind our house and drowned, since he had always wandered too close to it. But I knew better. I knew she had finally come for him. And I knew I had to get him back."
Her tale finished, Gerda let out a shaky breath. She let her eyes fall into her lap, and the small crew gathered around the fire exchanged fleeting, furtive looks, questioning the reality of what she had said. Except Helvig. She couldn't take her eyes off Gerda.
You set out on foot all alone?" Helvig asked. She had assumed that Gerda had many unhappy tales to tell, and that she had been travelling for some time, but she couldn't imagine her alone for so long, with no one to squeeze her hand when she lost hope or drape her shoulders in warm blankets in the brutally cold months. "When you were just a child? How did you…?"
"Survive? Unwillingness to die. I had a child’s faith when I set out that all would be well. I packed what I could, slipped out before my parents woke, and crossed the Øresund on foot. It had frozen over that year."
I remember," Rasmus said. "But the sound between Denmark and Sweden would have been crawling with Swedish guards! We were taught to shoot any rebel we saw crawling across the ice, no matter their excuse."
Gerda shrugged.
"I was small. I got lucky. I asked around for Kai in the first town I came to, and took work in a tanner’s shop when I ran out of money and food. That’s how I travelled, following stories of the Snow Queen north, stopping for a few months at a time in towns to work and resupply. I passed myself off as a boy until I wasn’t able anymore, and then I took up women’s work, sewing and midwifery and handicraft."
"That’s how you seem to know a bit of every trade," the Robber King said, nodding in appreciation. Of course he had been watching her, noting her many useful skills. Nothing in the camp escaped his notice, especially when he could leverage it to his advantage.
"And when did you meet the witch?" Jakko prompted, chewing a hunk of venison.
"That was later."
"After the princess?" Helvig asked quietly. Gerda’s eyes skimmed her face and then flittered off into her own private thoughts.
"Before. I’d rather not discuss it, thank you."
An awkward silence fell, broken only by the snap and pop of burning tinder. The Robber King puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, enveloping Helvig in a thin cloud of fragrant smoke. It smelled like home, and surety, and a firm hand on her shoulders guiding her in the right direction.
After some time had passed, Berthold leaned in Gerda's direction and layed his finger aside of his nose.
"I very much hope you find your brother, birdie. Take it from an old man. Lost things tend to turn up the moment you stop searching for them."
Gerda smiled weakly. The Robber King patted her cheek and then his daughter's, rising with a groan and stretching out his aching back. He was getting older, though Helvig didn't like to think about it. He had trouble with his back on particularly cold days, and his joints creaked whenever rain was near.
"I'll leave the revelry to the young. But we're in the dark days now, so mind you watch for spirits walking abroad. The dead are fleeter of feet than you would imagine."
Jakko snorted. A boy of his age was predispositioned to turn his nose up at warnings about the things that ran wild in the unclaimed days between Christ's mass and Epiphany. He was the type to try something stupid to show his bravery, but luckily there were no nearby grave sites to disturb, so Helvig supposed wouldn't be tempted.
"Let them try us," Jakko crowed, and brandished his stubby knife. "I'll give them a Christmas present they're not likely to forget."
Wilhelm rolled his eyes skyward, invoking some saint under his breath. Helvig could imagine him with his own children then, with that little boy who had been taken from him in the fires. He must have made a fine father, she realized, and the thought sent a pang of sadness through her. It was a night for it, she supposed. Or maybe she was becoming weaker, softer. Gerda’s presence seemed to have that queer effect. Helvig thought twice before shouting at the boys now, and she forced herself to say things like please, and thank you, and I’m sorry for boxing your ears when you took the last bit of bread.
"The dead are entitled to their masses same as you and me," Wilhelm said. "Let them have the few days of the year God has allotted to them."
Gerda was standing, brushing snow off the hem of her dress. Helvig rose with her instinctively. She wanted to stoop to clear the ice from Gerda's skirts, to lift them delicately to dry them in the warmth of the fire. But such behavior wouldn't be seemly, so she tangled her fingers together and held them behind her back.
"Thank you for your stories and your companionship," Gerda said, as inscrutable and formal as ever. "Happy Christmas."
The boys murmured their goodnights, then devolved back into their own conversations just as soon as she had turned to go. None of them seemed quite as interested in Gerda's story as Helvig was, though Rasmus still had a look of sober amazement on his face. Perhaps they assumed she was lying, or had already guessed parts of her tale that Helvig had been too foolish to riddle out.
"Helvig," her father said as she turned to follow Gerda. She spared him half a glance. "Help an old man back to his bed. My back is barking."
He followed her out into the snow, leaning heavily on the arm she offered. She had harangued him about getting a walking stick, but he insisted it would make him look past his prime and invite mutiny from the muscled young upstarts who liked to cause trouble in his camp.
When they were out of earshot of the boys, he straightened a bit, not needing his daughter's assistance so much after all.
"What is it?" Helvig asked, well-acquainted with her father's tricks. This was one of his favorites to secure a private conversation.
Berthold kept his huge hand on his daughter's arm, as though she were the one who needed assistance navigating the route home.
"Quite a tale from your little friend," he said.
Helvig bristled. She didn't like the idea of her father requesting a private audience to discuss Gerda, no matter what he had to say about her. Up until this point, Berthold had given the girls a wide berth, and hadn't complained when Helvig disappeared from her usual spot sitting at his feet to spend more time with Gerda. She had sorely hoped he wouldn't bring this change of behavior up in conversation.
"We've all got out tales of woe. Hers is no different," she responded.
They were ambling not towards the king's tent but towards Helvig's, with Berthold setting their agonizingly slow pace. Already Helvig wished it was Gerda on her arm and not her father, so she could draw the other girl close and give her all manner of sweet condolences. She would be upset after telling her story. She would need comfort. A bit of bawdy gossip to make her laugh, perhaps, or stiff drink, or Helvig holding her comb and hairpins while she brushed out her hair.
"No, I think it's quite different. I think it's told us all we need to know about your witch."
"What do you mean?"
When the King looked at his daughter, his eyes were soft with sadness. She knew that whatever he had to tell her was going to break her heart into more pieces than Wilhelm's demon mirror, and she braced for the impact.
"That girl's brother died when she was just a child, Helvig. It's a
terrible thing, and a hard one, and I fear…" He took a deep breath, squinting up at the pinpricks of light in the night sky. "I fear it's driven her mad. You heard her, raving on about snow bees and fairy queens."
Helvig's skin hardened into armor.
"She isn't mad. She a wonderful, clever girl, and she’s saner than any of us."
Berthold’s voice became even more gentle.
"She could have killed that boy for all we know, and the horror of the thing snapped her mind in half. I’ve seen it happen, little vixen, to men stronger than her."
Helvig recoiled from her father. Not even her childhood nickname could soften the cutting edge of his words.
"That's a terrible thing to say!"
"I don't say it to be unkind, merely cautious."
Helvig ground her teeth together.
"I won’t abandon her," she said, voice thick with tears. Helvig hardly ever cried, and detested people seeing it when she did, but her father disapproving of Gerda was too terrible to bear. It meant he could send her away and forbid Helvig to speak to her again. "She isn’t hurting anyone and she’s still my guest, and my friend. I must take care of her. I want to, papa."
"I’ve known that from the start. There’s no shame in the affection that sometimes passes between girls. I don’t fault it against your character, and Gerda has made a fine companion for you, for a time. But you must see reason."
Helvig’s face burned. They'd had this discussion before, and she hoped to avoid it the second time around. It hadn’t saved anyone then, and this affection Berthold spoke of had gobbled up everything good that she touched and nearly burned down a town, but still her father refused to blame her. That was well enough, she supposed, but she would carry the guilt of Astrid with her to the grave.
Helvig was different now, stronger, more guarded. She could handle the way Gerda mixed her up inside, at least for a little while longer, and no one had to die for it.
Whatever you may think about any…impropriety. It isn’t true. We haven’t…I’ve been a perfect host."
They had reached Helvig’s tent. Inside, the thief knew, her companion waited for her in bed, probably already undressed and drowsy-eyed.
