Praise for Sally Gardner
‘This heartbreaking, brilliantly written novel is the most original publication for years’
The Times
‘Shades of Sarah Waters…irresistible’
Guardian
‘Arresting and original and written in a singular voice’
Telegraph
‘The prize-winning Gardner is a dab hand at literary world-creation’
Observer
‘This is an inspirational piece of writing’
New Statesman
‘A truly original voice…a thrilling read’
Spectator
‘Beautiful, twisted and dark. A masterpiece’
Big Issue
SALLY GARDNER is an award-winning children’s novelist who has sold more than two and a half million books worldwide and been translated into 22 languages. This is her third adult novel.
For more information visit www.sallygardner.co.uk
@TheSallyGardner
Also by Sally Gardner, writing as Wray Delaney
AN ALMOND FOR A PARROT
THE BEAUTY OF THE WOLF
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Sally Gardner 2020
Sally Gardner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008217433
Version 2020-09-18
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008217402
To my great friend and mentor, Jane Fior, who has given me so much love and support. When I told her I didn’t think I could write a book about snow, she wisely said,
‘You can.’
So here it is.
I have used the term ‘gypsy’ in this story as it’s appropriate for the time the story is set in. I mean no disrespect to the Roma who where called Tzigane in Transylvania. But whatever name is used, the Roma people have suffered prejudice and discrimination throughout the history of the world.
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
EMILY DICKINSON
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One: Snow Song
Chapter Two: A Tall Tale From Thin Thread
Chapter Three: Her Mother’s Bible
Chapter Four: A Dead Lamb’s Fleece
Chapter Five: From the One
Chapter Six: Who Has Lost It Ever Grieves
Chapter Seven: The Root of Her Tongue
Chapter Eight: The Wedding Gown
Chapter Nine: A Pretty Penny
Chapter Ten: The Angel of the House
Chapter Eleven: Fish and Fabric
Chapter Twelve: Beyond the Forest
Chapter Thirteen: The Weather of Words
Chapter Fourteen: A Roomful of Hens
Chapter Fifteen: Between Her Words
Chapter Sixteen: Let the Devil Take the Consequences
Chapter Seventeen: A Different Pair of Shoes
Chapter Eighteen: Three Coffins
Chapter Nineteen: Pig’s Blood
Chapter Twenty: The Eve of the Wedding
Chapter Twenty-One: The Dark Stain
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Alchemy of Music
Chapter Twenty-Three: Snow Song
Chapter Twenty-Four: Walking Between Two Worlds
Chapter Twenty-Five: Wild Woman
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Hope Box
Chapter Twenty-Seven: His Mother’s Shawl
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Knowledge Forgotten
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Best China
Chapter Thirty: Church Bells Rang
Chapter Thirty-One: The Letter
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Crossroads
Chapter Thirty-Three: The First Step
Chapter Thirty-Four: A Myriad of Stars
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Snow Song
It was the sound of his violin that first cast a spell on Edith. Even before she saw him, the restless notes of his melody drew her to him. The musician was sitting on a bench outside the cobbler’s, a pair of new boots beside him. The morning sunshine illuminated his outline, striking against the burnt orange of the cobbler’s house. The violin looked to Edith as if it were made of liquid honey so polished was its surface. The rhythm of the song with its languid melancholy echoed her own feelings. His music danced into her heart to free her troubled soul from its cage, and she stood mesmerised.
When he had finished he looked up at her, his eyes the colour of a blue winter sky, his hair dark like her own, his face elegant in its composition. Generous lips, a straight nose – unlike the young men of her village with their blond, dumpling faces that lacked definition, as if they had all been baked in the same oven.
‘What’s the music called?’ she asked.
‘Snow Song,’ he said.
‘But it’s spring – the snow has gone,’ she felt herself blushing. Normally she would never have had the courage to speak to a stranger. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to do so if it hadn’t been for the violin. Or so she told herself.
He smiled at her. ‘The snow will come again in time.’
This day became in Edith’s mind the border between two worlds. Whatever she had been before she heard him play the Snow Song, she would no longer remember. By the time he had finished she felt she had entered her realm. She had never known what it was she wanted, now she did: she wanted to hear his music for the rest of her days. She was standing and the tune made two giddy sticks of her legs. She sat down beside him and only then did she notice his small, raggle-taggle dog. They were silent for a while.
‘Do you know the secret of the violin?’ he asked. ‘And how it came into this world?’
‘No,’ said Edith, aware she was being watched by disapproving villagers hidden behind shuttered windows. None of it mattered. ‘What is the secret?’
He had turned from her and was putting the violin back in its case. ‘A gypsy could tell you the story of the violin’s birth.’<
br />
Edith asked, ‘Do you know it?’
‘I do,’ he said.
And she boldly asked if he might like to have supper with her and her father that evening, adding, ‘You could tell us the story of the violin.’
The butcher, in the shadow of his doorway, was angry to see Edith talk with such ease to a stranger. Strangers weren’t welcome in this village, she should know that. He made a mental note to fine the cabinet maker for it. The old drunk should keep a closer eye on his daughter. The butcher looked again and saw Edith and the stranger sitting side by side as if they had always sat that way – two beautiful creatures. He hit his fist into his hand and returned to the slaughterhouse.
All that day Edith felt her heart to be still dancing to the young man’s music. She sacrificed one of her chickens and cooked it with great care and with great care laid the table. Only then did she tell her father of their guest. He had as usual been drinking since midday. There was plenty of work for a cabinet maker but not for a drunk who could only be trusted to finish a bottle of wine.
‘I don’t want a gypsy at my table,’ he said.
‘He isn’t a gypsy,’ said Edith.
‘He’s a stranger,’ said her father. ‘You know what happens when a stranger enters the house.’
Edith sighed. She’d grown up with these endless superstitions, too many to remember. ‘No, what does happen?’ she asked, knowingly perfectly well her father had forgotten the old tale of how the bloodless often came disguised as strangers.
He took a bottle and, holding it tight to him, said, ‘On your head be it,’ and went to his room.
As Edith put out the painted plates she realised she hadn’t asked the musician his name or what he did to earn a living.
Her father was too drunk to stay long awake and, shortly after the young man arrived with cheese and wine, the cabinet maker excused himself.
‘A gypsy if ever I saw one,’ he mumbled as he went to his bed.
Edith said simply, ‘He’s a drunk. I’ve never known him not to be like that. I should’ve asked you your name.’
‘Demetrius,’ he said. ‘I’m a shepherd.’
They sat down to eat and to begin with she could hardly think what to say but he said, ‘I heard that this village had a great storyteller.’
‘That was my grandmother. She died nearly five years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I was told she knew the story of the violin.’
‘If she did, she never told me or anyone else in the village. But she had many stories she would tell. Round here, nobody wants to hear gypsy tales, more’s the pity. She said she cut hers to fit the mood of the listeners.’
He laughed. ‘That’s what I try to do with my playing.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘You do,’ but she stopped herself and asked if he would like more to eat.
‘Are you a storyteller?’ he said.
Edith had never thought of herself as having that gift. True, she knew all her grandmother’s stories, but the idea that she might be able to hold a crowd spellbound had never occurred to her.
‘I’m too shy for that,’ she said.
‘But you love story and music?’
‘Both,’ she said. ‘I know plenty of stories. It’s music I thirst for.’
He sat back in the chair and for a moment she imagined them to have been long married and their children grown.
‘Once,’ he said, ‘in a village not far from here lived a girl who all believed to be cursed because no man would ask for her hand in marriage despite her wealth and beauty. As for the girl, she was in love with a farmer who never cast a glance in her direction. She did all she could to get his attention and, seeing that her efforts were fruitless, she called on the devil. He came holding a mirror in his hand. She looked at herself in its icy glass and then the devil asked her what she wanted. She told him of her love for the farmer.
‘“If that’s all,” said the devil, “I can help you. Bring me your father, your mother and your four brothers.”
‘The girl gave them up without a sigh. Out of the body of the father the devil fashioned a violin. Out of the white hairs from the mother’s head he made a bow. Out of the four brothers he made the strings and strung them across the fiddle. “Now,” he said, “when your beloved comes, play the instrument.”
‘She did, and when the farmer heard the music he fell under its spell. Never had two people been happier. Nine days passed and the young lovers were walking in the forest when the devil appeared in their path.
‘“I am your lord and master,” he said. “Worship me.”
‘“No,” they said, “never.”
‘The devil laughed and held up his mirror. The farmer saw his reflection and knew it was too late.
‘“Both of you have listened to my music,” said the devil, “and both of you have looked into my mirror. Now you will have to pay the price.”
‘The devil carried them away and the violin lay at the crossroads in the forest until a gypsy happened to find it. He plays it still, driving men and women wild when they hear its intoxicating sound.’
‘I can well believe it,’ Edith said. ‘Will you play again?’ As Demetrius picked up his bow she thought how extraordinary it was that a piece of wood could be transformed into an instrument and the music it made could weave its way into your soul.
And slowly he played the fiddle in a key that sang to the rhythm of her very being and the yearning chords filled with longing were carried softly away into the spring night.
Only when he was leaving did he ask, ‘Would you marry me?’
And she said, ‘Yes.’
They stood a long while, close together, not touching. Finally he put his hand to her face and then he left.
She cleared the plates almost in a trance and knew as if she had always known that she would marry the shepherd.
Chapter Two
A Tall Tale From Thin Thread
Love came later, or so Edith told herself, though she wasn’t sure that she believed that. Every night Demetrius sat with her on the verandah and she felt the stars had aligned to bring her the shepherd and his violin. She hadn’t known until then how love could transform you. The mountain appeared more beautiful than she had ever seen it; the fresh leaves on the little walnut tree in the yard seemed greener, brighter.
Such happiness as she felt with Demetrius was intoxicating and she feared that in her passion she might lose her footing and be swept away.
‘Where do I begin and where do you end?’ she asked him.
He thought for a while and said, ‘When two rivers collide can you tell, in that whirling water, which river was which?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘And does it matter?’
She found in his love the healing balm she needed.
Demetrius talked to her as an equal, unlike the miller’s son who not long ago had tried to woo her with an eye on her hips and an eye on her breasts.
Demetrius told her, ‘Hold up your questions. They’re boulders,’ and laughing said, ‘Throw them down and don’t be satisfied with half-thought-out answers.’
One evening he asked her to tell him a story.
‘What story would you like to hear?’ she said.
‘You choose.’
She thought for a time and why this one came to her she couldn’t say.
‘There were two brothers, neither were rich nor poor. A letter arrived to tell them they had been left in their uncle’s will a tall house and a chest full of gold. The letter went on to say that whichever brother arrived first, it would all be his. If the brothers arrived together, they could share it between them.
‘The two brothers had never been close nor far apart and they agreed that they would set off together in the morning. But the next day the younger brother had gone. The older brother sighed and went to open his shop for business as usual. He’d had a night to sleep on things and he’d thought about the letter. Their uncle had never been a kind man and the town where
they were to go had no tall houses that he could remember.
‘The younger brother walked there and did not wish to arrive looking shabby so the minute he entered the town he bought himself new shoes, a suit, a coat and a hat. Not having the money, he promised to pay the cobbler, the tailor and the hatter as soon as he had the chest of gold. He decided that as he was now rich he would stay in a fine hotel, and as he had walked so far he would have a meal fit for a king. His head filled with wine, he went to claim his inheritance.
‘He was pleased when he found the house for it was a grand building, though he wouldn’t have described it as tall. “It doesn’t matter,” he said to himself. “All this will be mine and mine alone.”
‘A butler took him upstairs and opened a door. The room was the nursery and in the middle of the floor was a tall dolls’ house and beside it a small toy chest filled with toy coins.
‘“This must be a mistake,” said the younger brother.
‘The butler said nothing. Broken by disappointment and having no money, the younger brother tried to leave the town without paying for his new clothes, his hotel bill, or the meal fit for a king, and found himself in prison.
‘The elder brother worked hard and one day he met a tall woman and fell in love. Time passed as time always will.
‘The younger brother, freed from jail, took comfort in wine and bemoaned the injustice that life had thrown at him. In his sober moments he grew curious about his older brother and wondered if he, like himself, was penniless. He returned to the village and found his older brother living in the same house, happily married to the tall woman. Having no resentment, the older brother asked the younger to stay and dine with them.
‘“How did you know that the will was a trick?” the younger brother asked.
‘“I would have told you but you were in such a hurry to leave.”
‘“Told me what?” said the younger brother, his eye greedy on the wine.
‘“That all the riches we have are to be discovered inside us. My wealth I found in the love I have for my wife. Such a promise as our uncle made us were hollow words from a shallow grave.”’
The Snow Song Page 1
