Hex Life

by Rachel Deering

  After that day, you visited him as often as possible, which was not often, for what you were doing had two names: adultery and treason. But you could not live your entire life behind castle walls, by the side of the king to whom you were only another affirmation of his prominence. After all, he had married the fairest in the land.

  One day you told your lover that you could not come anymore. “Henrik, I am with child. I have taken precautions, but such things are not infallible.”

  “Is it mine?” he asked, with a pained expression. He had never asked you if you still went to the king’s bed. He knew that queens have no choice in such a matter.

  “It is,” you told him. “But it must not be. You understand, do you not, that it must be the king’s?”

  He had simply nodded. If your child were not the king’s, you would be put to death, most likely by decapitation, before it could be born. He knew that as well as you.

  After that day, you did not go back to his house in the forest, not once, no matter how your heart and your arms ached during the long nights.

  And yet his eyes, as they look at you now, still leaf-green, harbor no resentment.

  “Your Majesty,” he says.

  “Gamekeeper,” you say, although you would prefer to address him by his name, but that will come later. “We are riding to the Abbey of St. Winifred. As you see, our retinue is small—myself, my daughter, our maid, and two men-at-arms.” He looks up quickly at Dorothea, but her face is hidden by her riding veil. Will he recognize himself in her, when he looks at her later? She has his eyes. “We need a man to tend to our needs—arrange for lodging, water the horses, things of that sort. Can you perform such tasks?”

  He smiles. “I serve at your command, My Queen.”

  “Come then,” you say. “We have a spare horse. You shall ride before us, to clear the road through the forest if necessary, or warn of thieves.”

  You look at Franziska and she gives you a small smile. You know that whatever inn you stop at, she will arrange it so that for the first time in fourteen years, you will spend the night with the man you love.

  III. THE COTTAGE

  The dwarves greet you as they have always done, each according to his temperament. Trondor shakes his head and says, “So you’re back, are you?” but you can see that he’s smiling under his beard. Kristof and Olaf embrace you enthusiastically. Anders makes you a courtly bow, Rolf kisses your hand, Nilsen hangs back shyly until you lean down to give him a long hug. But where is Ingar?

  “He found himself a wife,” says Trondor. “It won’t last. It never does.”

  Once, when you were young, you saw one of the dwarf women. Unlike the sociable dwarf men, they are solitary and live deep in the forest, in small huts or the hollow trunks of trees. This one wore a dress stitched of squirrel skin. She was as small as the men, with long fair hair caught up in various places with twigs. It looked like a bird’s nest.

  You saw her only for a moment, speaking with Olaf in the ancient language of dwarves, more melodious than human language. Her voice sounded like wind in the pine branches. She gave him a basket of mushrooms in exchange for some honey, then disappeared under the trees. Trondor explained to you that dwarf women seldom ventured out of the forest. Dwarf marriages are short-lived: the dwarf woman chooses a mate, then allows him to live with her for a time, often until she is with child. But she can stand the company of another only for so long. Eventually, the men return to the company of their brothers, for all male dwarves who share a home are considered part of one family, although of the seven you lived with, only Kristof and Olaf had the same mother.

  You are glad to see them again, these men who took you in and treated you more kindly than your own parents—the mother who tried to kill you, the father who was concerned only with matters of state and died mysteriously while you were with the dwarves, leaving your mother regent. You have seen them only once since the day the prince found you in the glass coffin and took you away to his castle—they were invited to the wedding. When they came up to the dais on which you were sitting, in your gown of white silk with the necklace of Queen Sofronia around your neck, Trondor said, “What is this fairy story they tell of the prince waking you up with true love’s kiss?” You could see Prince Harald across the great hall, speaking with his father, already arranging for the coronation and a transfer of power.

  “Is that not what happened?” you asked him. You yourself had been doubtful of the official version, as you were doubtful of the prince himself. But he would protect you from your mother, who had almost succeeded in killing you with that apple, and whom you suspected of poisoning your father for his throne.

  “Of course not,” said Trondor in his gruff voice. “After he ordered us to give him the coffin and threatened us if we did not obey, one of the footman who was carrying it stepped into a rabbit hole. A corner of the coffin fell to the ground, and the piece of apple was dislodged from your throat. That’s what woke you, child. Kiss of true love indeed! And they call you White-as-Snow, as though you did not have a perfectly good name of your own. Are you happy, Ermengarde?”

  “Happy enough,” you told him. Of course, that was before your mother appeared at the reception—before the incident of the red-hot iron shoes, which you would rather not think about.

  “It’s good to see you again, child,” says Trondor now. Of course you are not a child any longer, but dwarves live for hundreds of years. To him you are still a mere infant. “We heard of the king’s death…”

  “Yes,” you say. “I’m going back to my father’s castle. I have… certain plans. Will you help me, Trondor? You and your brothers? I will need counselors and allies.”

  “Of course,” he says, looking at you through narrowed eyes. You think he already understands what you intend to do. Even when you were a little girl, he understood you better than anyone else. “Shall I bring my axe, Queen Ermengarde? It has not tasted battle for a long time.”

  “Yes,” you say. “I think that would be a good idea.”

  IV. THE TOWER

  You stop at the Abbey of St. Winifred only briefly, to talk to the Mother Superior.

  “Are you absolutely certain about this, Ermengarde?” she asks as she gives you the key to the tower. You gave it to her after the wedding and murder, for what else was it but a murder? At your own wedding, ordered by your husband. At the time, you asked her to keep it for you as long as necessary. You did not know if you would ever reclaim it from her again. But now here you are.

  “Yes, I’m absolutely sure,” you say. “And will you bless me, Reverend Mother? You were, in a way, the closest thing I had to a real mother…” One who loved you and taught you, for once upon a time the Mother Superior was Sister Margarete, who taught you your catechism and geography in the abbey’s long, cold schoolroom.

  “Perhaps I was a sort of mother to you,” she says, looking at you as acutely as she did thirty years ago. Age has not diminished her strength of will or mental acuity. “But blood is important too, Ermengarde. Her blood flows through your veins, and I worry about what you will do—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” you say. “I will be absolutely fine.”

  “I’m sure you will—you were always a clever girl, sometimes too clever for your own good. But what about the rest of us?” Nevertheless, she gives you the key, which is after all yours by right of blood. You are, in the end, your mother’s daughter. She blesses you, kissing you on your forehead as though you were fourteen again and not a queen.

  Before you leave the abbey, you visit your mother’s grave, on which is inscribed only Elfrida and the dates of her birth and death. She’s been dead for more than twenty years, and you still can’t decide how you feel about her.

  But her tower, too, is yours now. You lead your retinue to your father’s castle, which has not been used except as a hunting lodge since the kingdoms were united after your mother’s death. That was another thing the iron shoes accomplished. Did your husband force her to dance in them to r
evenge the way she treated you, as he said, or so he could claim your father’s kingdom? Or perhaps both, for that was the way his mind worked, after all.

  Since the castle is empty, there is plenty of room for you, Dorothea, Henrik, six dwarves, two men-at-arms, and of course the indispensable Franziska.

  The next day, she and Henrik accompany you to the tower. You have already made him the captain of your men-at-arms, and they obey him without question. You selected them because before the kingdoms were united, they served in your father’s household. They are older, so they can be spared from Gerhard’s forces, but also they are loyal to you—they still recognize you as their queen.

  As for Henrik, he too asked you, lying back on your pillows, one arm around you, one hand stroking your long black hair, for the gray strands do not show by candlelight, “Are you sure, my love, that you want to do this?”

  You turned to look at him and said, “Do you think Gerhard would allow me to live the life I want, or our daughter either? If he found out about us, you and I would be condemned to death, and Dorothea would be imprisoned or exiled. And if he did not find out, things would continue as they are. He would want her to marry Prince Ludwig, and he would want me to remain a queen dowager—silent, respectable, so desiccated that eventually I would dry up and blow away like a leaf in autumn. Believe me, my love, if there were another way for the three of us to have a life together, I would take it. However, I am not only Ermengarde, the woman who loves you, but White-as-Snow. Twenty years ago I became the main character in a fairy tale, and it spread throughout the land. If Gerhard announced that I was missing, had perhaps been kidnapped by an equally missing gamekeeper, I would be searched for, watched for, in this kingdom and others. There would be no place for us to hide. So you see, I must use what I have, including the name I was given, the tale that was told about me—I must use these things to write my own story.”

  He nodded, then pulled you closer and kissed you. Now, he dismounts and takes the horses’ reins. Then he waits by the foot of the tower while you open the wooden door with your mother’s key, and you and Franziska enter.

  The tower is not tall, only two stories of ancient stone with a crenelated turret, surrounded by oak trees. Once, it was used to store weapons, and a couple of men-at-arms would sleep there on folding cots. Inside, the windows are small—arrow slits more than windows. It is darker than you expected.

  On the second floor, after you have climbed up the stone staircase that circles the inside of the tower, Franziska raises her lantern.

  There are all your mother’s magical implements, scattered about as though she had left them just yesterday: the cauldron, the table of alchemical equipment whose purposes you do not yet understand, the shelves of bottles filled with powders and other ingredients—dried eye of newt and toe of frog? Are those the sorts of things witches keep, as housewives keep pickles? The shelves also hold large books in leather covers, presumably filled with formulas and spells.

  On the far side of the table is an ornate wooden stand with the mirror whose pronouncements caused so much trouble.

  V. THE MIRROR

  How does one address a magical mirror?

  The problem, of course, is that your mother never taught you witchcraft. Would she have, if her spell had not worked so well? If she had not thought of you as a rival? You would have given up your black hair and white skin and red lips without a second thought, simply for a kind word from her.

  “Mirror, mirror, I believe, is how she usually started,” says Franziska. She too was chosen for her history with your family as well as her loyalty to you—her mother was your mother’s maid, her father drove your father’s own carriage.

  All right, then. “Mirror, mirror.”

  The mirror, which reflected you a moment ago, grows misty, as though filled with fog, and then the fog swirls as though blown here and there by a wind inside the mirror itself. Out of that fog comes a voice.

  “Well, well. Look who’s back. Little White-as-Snow, all grown up. Welcome to your mother’s chamber of secrets and spells, Ermengarde.”

  Is it a man’s voice? A woman’s? You cannot quite tell. It is, undeniably, a cynical, sarcastic voice. It sounds bitter.

  “Do you, too, want to know who’s the fairest in the land?” it asks.

  “Not particularly,” you say. “I assume it’s not me any longer.”

  “You’re right about that,” says the mirror. “You’ve aged out of that particular position. What is it you want, then?”

  “I want you to teach me my mother’s magic,” you say, trying to see something in the swirling smoke. The mirror has no discernable face. “She once called you her familiar. You would know how to use all these books, this equipment.” You gesture around at the contents of the tower.

  “And why do you want to learn magic?” asks the mirror, as the fog swirls more quickly. “Do you, too, want to kill your daughter?”

  “No, to save her,” you say. “I want to become queen—not queen consort, not queen dowager, but queen in my own right. That’s the only way I will have some measure of power over her life, and mine.”

  “I see,” says the mirror, sounding surprised. Clearly, it has not expected this. “I will teach you if you do two things.”

  “And what are they?” you ask, wondering if you will need to sacrifice something, or sign somewhere in blood. You do not relish the thought.

  “First, you must pledge yourself to Hecate. That is merely standard procedure. Second, you must allow me to return to my true form.”

  “Your true form?” You look at the mirror, astonished. “Is this not your true form?” The mirror has been a mirror as long as you have known that your mother was a witch. You remember seeing it on its ornate stand the only time she brought you to this tower, before you were sent away to the Abbey of St. Winifred. She stood you in front of it, showed you your own reflection, and said, “Look, Ermie, at what a pretty girl you are. Someday, you’ll look just like me!”

  “No,” says the mirror. “Your mother ordered me to become a mirror so I could show her whatever she wished to see—chiefly herself. I have been trapped in this form ever since. You are my mistress now. Allow me to return to my true form—simply say the words—and I will teach you.”

  “All right, then,” you say with some trepidation. “Return to your true form.” What will you see? A serpent? A dragon? A demon with horns and a forked tail?

  The smoke in the mirror swirls faster and faster, until it looks like a gray whirlpool, and suddenly sitting in front of you is not a mirror in a frame but a wolf with fur the color of smoke.

  It stares at you with yellow eyes and says, “Thank you, mistress. Shall we begin the first lesson?”

  VI. THE CAULDRON

  It takes Gerhard longer than you expected to realize that you are not at the Abbey of St. Winifred. When his army comes marching over what used to be the border between two kingdoms, you are ready. You have had three months to learn magic from Grimm, which turns out to be the name of your familiar. You hope you have learned enough.

  You stand outside the portcullis of the castle, which is on a hillside. You are dressed all in black, like a widow or a witch. To one side of you stands Henrik beside his horse, ready to lead the charge on your command. He is now the general of a small but dedicated army of your father’s men-at-arms, who have returned to serve you, and the sons they have brought with them, as well as some men from the village who wish to defend White-as-Snow against a distant king they do not trust. Your legend has served you well—they are proud to follow a queen out of a fairy tale. The strongest of them are standing, waiting armed and armored, on either side of the hilltop for the command to attack. The rest are in the castle behind the portcullis, waiting at arrow slits and on turrets, crossbows cocked.

  On the other side of you is Grimm, who is sometimes a mirror, sometimes an owl, and sometimes a wisp of smoke. Today he is a great gray wolf surveying the landscape before him. Scattered around you are seven
dwarves, for Ingar has returned. His wife is with child. He will likely not see it until it is several years old, and then only if it is male, for the dwarf women keep their girl children in the forest. You think this may be a very good system.

  Behind you is Dorothea, dressed in black as well. Two months ago, you told her the truth about her father. To your relief, she kissed you on the cheek and said, “I always blamed myself for not being able to love Papa—I mean King Harald. But now I don’t think it was my fault. Perhaps in some way, I could always tell he was not really my father.” She is stirring the cauldron, which is set over a fire and has started to bubble fiercely. Franziska is adding the necessary ingredients from baskets and glass bottles. You will need to pay attention to the cauldron in a moment, but right now, you are waiting for a parley.

  Three men are riding across the field beneath Gerhard’s standard. Of course Gerhard would not come himself, but as they ride closer, you see that the one in the middle is Wilhelm, between two men-at-arms. Your younger son is as handsome as always, and you cannot help feeling proud of him, even though he is currently your enemy.

  “Hello, Mother,” he says when he has dismounted and walked up the hillside toward you. “Hello, Dorothea. It’s good to see you again.” He waves at his sister. His escorts remain mounted, and behind. “Mother, Gerhard wants you to know that if you surrender now and return with him, all will be forgiven. If you do not, he will take this castle by force.” He glances around the top of the hill, and then up at the castle. “I must say, you don’t have a lot of men, unless you’re hiding some of them where I can’t see. The castle is strong, so you could hold on for a while if you have stores, but eventually Gerhard would starve you out if he simply waited long enough. I did learn military strategy at school, you know. That and German poetry, which is considerably less useful except when impressing aristocratic young women. Anyway, I hate to agree with anything Gerhard says—you know what an irritating bore my older brother can be. But I think you’d better surrender. I don’t want you or Dorothea to end up in a dungeon.”