The Snow Song

by Sally Gardner

Sorina left her mother talking to the dead man and walked as fast as she dared for she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

  Look as if you are fetching an egg, not as if your mother has shot your grandfather. The sun had come out and melted the snow. It’s going to be a fine day, she thought. I must remember to water the plants.

  She looked up to see Edith and Misha coming towards her.

  ‘Sorina…’ Edith said.

  ‘How did you know?’

  Misha and Lena had spent all night sending messages to each other. In the early dawn Misha had seen the unmistakable figure of Una walking determinedly towards the butcher’s. He’d heard the gunshot and run downstairs to find Edith fully dressed, staring at the walnut tree in the yard.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ she’d said.

  Inside the gloom of the butcher’s house, Edith said, ‘Light the stove and open all the windows.’

  Sorina was grateful to be told what to do and disappeared into the parlour. The light from its window suddenly illuminated the dark hall that led to the butcher’s bedroom. Una was still there, still holding the hunting gun.

  ‘I had to shoot him,’ she said when she saw Misha and Edith.

  Edith looked into the room and felt vomit rise in her throat. Oh God, she thought. Either Una or I will hang for this. She took the weapon from Una and laid it on the floor at the side of the bed.

  ‘You were the only one to stand up to him,’ said Una. ‘I didn’t. Why didn’t I?’

  Edith led her to the kitchen and sat her in a chair.

  Sorina said, ‘What shall I do now?’

  What shall I do now, thought Edith. How do I find a way out of this?

  ‘Put the kettle on the stove,’ she said, ‘and bring the teapot and some cups.’

  Sorina slowly put out the cups, the best china that was reserved for weddings, births and funerals.

  ‘Now sit down and we’ll have some tea,’ said Edith.

  She looked at the girl, a child really. Just a child. And she remembered the sisters arguing, Vanda’s words, the unspoken meaning between them. She thought of what the butcher had done when Vanda was the same age as Sorina, of Vanda’s pregnancy. The story became as clear to Edith as if someone had told it to her.

  Sorina felt Edith’s gaze and looked up at her. Edith saw trust in her eyes and nodded. Yes, there was a way.

  ‘Shall I pour the tea?’ said Sorina.

  ‘Turn the pot three times,’ said her mother, ‘otherwise it’s unlucky. Three times and the devil won’t stay here.’

  ‘I’ll get the doctor and the mayor,’ said Misha. ‘Don’t let anyone else in.’

  It felt like an age before he returned with the doctor and behind them, the priest.

  ‘We met the priest in the street – he insisted on coming.’

  He led the men to the bedroom.

  Edith, Una and Sorina waited in silence. They heard the scrape of a chair and the doctor coughing. He and the priest were talking as they came into the kitchen.

  ‘Who did this? Was it you?’ said the priest, pointing at Edith. ‘Just as I thought – you.’

  ‘It was suicide,’ said Edith.

  ‘I don’t believe it was,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s difficult to shoot oneself in the head with a hunting gun.’

  ‘And the butcher was a God-fearing man – he would never do such a thing,’ said the priest.

  They were joined by the mayor. ‘There’s quite a crowd outside,’ he said and looked round the kitchen. ‘I hear the butcher has been shot dead. What happened?’

  Edith noticed the mayor seemed remarkably cheerful.

  ‘The butcher has been murdered by this woman…’ he pointed at Edith.

  ‘No,’ said Una. ‘I shot him.’ The priest, the doctor and the mayor stared at her. ‘I did it. That word – you just said it. Yes, murder. I murdered him.’

  ‘Mother,’ said Sorina, ‘don’t say that.’

  ‘Better lock her up,’ said the priest to the mayor. ‘She’s confessed to the murder.’

  ‘Don’t be too hasty, Priest,’ said Edith. ‘Nothing is that simple.’

  The priest was horrified to be spoken to in such a manner by a woman.

  ‘It’s what the law demands – justice,’ he said.

  ‘Justice,’ said Edith, repeating the word as if to see how it tasted. ‘Justice. Yes, that is what’s wanted here.’

  ‘Out,’ the priest shouted. ‘You two women, out now. Una stays. Misha, fetch the elders.’

  ‘No,’ said Misha.

  ‘I agree,’ said Edith. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘You have the audacity to tell me what we should do?’

  ‘Doctor,’ said Edith. ‘How many times did Sorina come to you? With, of course, her grandfather’s permission.’

  She had seen how Sorina had sunk into her chair when the priest spoke and she was certain that her instinct was correct.

  ‘Don’t answer that,’ said the priest. ‘No woman should question our judgement.’

  And Edith knew she was right.

  ‘Well, Mayor?’ continued the priest. ‘Don’t you agree? This is a matter for the elders.’

  The mayor poured himself a cup of tea, added honey and stirred it with a small teaspoon. A lightness of heart had engulfed him when he’d heard of the butcher’s death. ‘I couldn’t imagine the butcher owning such delicate spoons,’ he said.

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Una. ‘They were part of my mother’s dowry.’

  ‘Doctor, perhaps you would answer the question,’ said the mayor.

  ‘This is preposterous,’ said the priest.

  ‘Twice,’ said the doctor. ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘And each time it was for what reason?’ asked Edith.

  ‘None of your business,’ said the priest.

  Sorina reached for Edith’s hand. She sat up straight and said, ‘The doctor got rid of two babies. The first baby was made at the hunting party last year. The second was a month ago.’

  ‘Whose baby was that?’ asked Edith.

  ‘Grandpa’s.’

  ‘Is that true, Doctor?’ said the mayor.

  ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘The priest sent her to me.’

  ‘Did you, Priest?’ asked the mayor.

  ‘I’m not going to be bullied into an answer. This girl,’ said the priest, pointing at Sorina, ‘is a liar and a whore.’

  Una had shown no signs of emotion at the shocking revelations. She had sat quietly drinking her tea but the priest’s words brought her back to herself. She stood up and slapped the priest round the face – once – twice. Misha pulled her away and she let out a howl.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mother,’ said Sorina.

  Una knelt by her daughter and put her arms round her. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry,’ she said.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ said the priest. ‘Neither of you are man enough to stand up to these women.’

  ‘No,’ said Edith as Misha blocked the door. ‘You’re going nowhere, unless you want your sins to be known throughout the village. Do you want to say anything else, Sorina?’

  ‘Will the house fall down if I tell what happened to me? Will the bloodless one come and kill me?’

  ‘The house won’t fall down but maybe the bloodless one will come for the priest,’ said Edith.

  She watched as the man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  Sorina stood. ‘I went to help at the inn when the hunting party came up from town last summer.’

  ‘What has that to do with anything?’ said the priest. ‘We’re here because the butcher has been murdered.’

  ‘You’ll be quiet,’ said the mayor, ‘and you’ll listen.’

  Sorina bit her lip. Her legs were shaking.

  ‘You can sit,’ said Edith.

  ‘No,’ said Sorina and started again. ‘When the hunting party came last year, the innkeeper needed extra help. I cleaned the rooms and changed the bed linen. Later, as I was leaving, my grandfather came up the
stairs with a young man. I remember he wore round glasses – he took them off when he… when he…’ She took a breath. ‘He was drunk and he muttered something to Grandpa. Grandpa said to me, “Why don’t you be sweet to this man,” and he went away. Do I have to say more?’

  ‘No,’ said Edith. ‘Unless you want to.’

  Sorina thought for a moment. ‘When I went to leave, my grandfather told me not to make a scene, that no one would believe me. He said that if I said a word, one word, the bloodless would come for me. I confessed to the priest. I told him I was having a baby. I told no one else. I trusted him. Then my grandfather said he knew and he wouldn’t tell my mother – it would be our secret, and he would help me.

  ‘I was so happy to be rid of the baby. When I started to clean Grandpa’s house he insisted… he insisted I wore his mother’s shawl. He said again it was our secret and if I ever told then his mother would come for me and take me to the graveyard. When I was pregnant again, he beat me then took me to the doctor. I never, ever want another man to touch me.’ She looked at the priest. ‘You are… disgusting!’ She shouted the last word.

  ‘The truth shines,’ said Edith. ‘You can’t keep it in the shadows for the sun will always find its moment to bring it to the light. Priest, you are trusted by so many and you abused that trust.’

  The mayor said to the priest, ‘You are a coward and the crime you have committed is beyond any words I have. You will leave this village as soon as you’ve buried the butcher. There are, so I believe, signs that the dead come back as the bloodless. You, Priest, had better take care. They feed on cowards. And you, Doctor, you will go when a replacement has been found for you.’

  ‘Now tell me, Mayor,’ said Edith. ‘How did the butcher die?’

  ‘Suicide,’ said the mayor.

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Ah – suicide,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Una?’

  ‘I shot him.’

  ‘Sorina?’

  ‘My mother had the courage to kill a monster.’

  ‘Misha?’

  ‘The bastard killed himself.’

  ‘Priest?’

  He didn’t answer immediately. Then, ‘Suicide.’

  ‘The truth,’ said Edith, ‘is that the butcher is dead.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Church Bells Rang

  ‘Who’s going to tell the bees and the animals in the stable that the butcher’s dead?’ said Sorina. ‘Someone must otherwise another misfortune is bound to happen.’

  The men looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I should fetch my mother,’ said Misha.

  He left the house by the yard gate. A crowd had gathered outside.

  ‘We heard a gunshot,’ said a woman. ‘What’s happened?’

  His head down, Misha pushed through and the villagers, getting no response, turned their attention back to the house.

  Misha felt it first in the pit of his stomach and it rose inside him until his face broke out in a smile. Finally, he was free of that man. The day was brighter than the day before. Last night Lena had told him how much she loved him. He put his hand to his beard – his hair had grown long. He would go to the barber’s; this was a new beginning.

  First he went to the cabinet maker’s house and was glad to find that the old drunk wasn’t yet up. Quickly Misha ran up to the attic room and retrieved his revolver. He’d bought it in case he needed to defend himself against his grandfather and had taken it with him up the mountain and fired it once for practice. He checked the chambers – one missing bullet – and tucked the weapon in his belt, under his coat.

  At his mother’s house he was greeted by the smell of fresh bread and coffee. Vanda was alarmed to see him.

  ‘Is it Edith? Has something happened to her?’

  ‘No, Mother. Not Edith. It’s the butcher.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  For a moment Misha thought she was going to faint. He caught her and helped her to a chair.

  ‘Dead?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Misha knelt beside her. ‘Una shot him. But the mayor believes it’s suicide.’

  ‘It’s justice, that’s what it is,’ said Vanda. ‘Long overdue justice.’ She stood and wrapped her shawl round her. ‘I’ve dreamed of this day for a long time and never thought it would happen.’ She put her arm through her son’s. ‘Una won’t be arrested, will she?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Though she keeps saying she shot him.’

  ‘Then she’ll be arrested and charged and…’

  ‘Mother, I’ve never seen the mayor look more relieved, and the doctor and even the priest have agreed to say the butcher killed himself.’

  ‘The priest? That shit,’ said Vanda.

  It was as if all the village were waiting at the butcher’s house. Vanda drove them aside as she would geese. Inside, the cuckoo clock struck the hour.

  ‘I want to see him,’ said Vanda.

  She followed Misha into the bedroom and stood silent for a moment then said, quietly, ‘Hell is too good a place for him.’

  The sound of Sorina’s hysterical laughter made her look up and she hurried to the kitchen. Misha closed the bedroom door behind her. The butcher had ruined the lives of too many people and Misha was determined that his dead finger should point at no one but himself. Carefully, Misha placed his revolver where he imagined it would have fallen if the butcher had fired it.

  In the kitchen, Vanda gathered Sorina to her and sat her down as the girl’s laughter turned to tears.

  ‘I shot him,’ said Una to her sister.

  ‘Not a day too soon,’ said Vanda.

  ‘I refused to hear you… I remembered the shawl… I remembered you wearing it and my…’ Her words were lost in sobs.

  Vanda pulled her chair closer to Una’s. ‘It’s a pity there wasn’t a spare bullet for him,’ she said, nodding at the priest.

  ‘The priest will be leaving the village,’ said the mayor.

  ‘Good,’ said Vanda. ‘Could he move out of my sight? Why doesn’t he wait in the bedroom with my father? Perhaps there are some words he’d like to mumble over him.’

  ‘Women,’ muttered the priest.

  Edith caught his arm. ‘What did you say?’ she said.

  ‘I said, “Women.”’

  ‘You owe us women an apology – you owe the whole village an apology for your behaviour. You should stand up in church and say sorry for the pain and misery you and the butcher caused Sorina, caused all of us. You terrified Lena’s mother into keeping her daughter a prisoner. You accused Flora of being a whore. And you tried to force me into marrying an evil man. The list of your sins is endless.’

  The priest yanked his arm away. ‘I said I would agree that the butcher’s death was suicide. And I will as long as I’m allowed to leave the village peacefully.’

  Misha came quietly into the kitchen and stood behind his mother, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, Priest,’ said Sorina, ‘if a man commits suicide, he’s more likely to come back as one of the bloodless, isn’t he? And even if you read a service at the side of the butcher’s grave and sprinkle it with holy water, it won’t stop him coming back to find you and take you with him, will it?’

  ‘But we all know the butcher didn’t take his own life,’ said the priest.

  ‘But surely he did?’ It was the hard voice of the miller. No one had seen or heard the elder come in.

  ‘There is no doubt in my mind that it was suicide,’ the mayor said boldly.

  ‘Of course it was, he used this,’ said the miller, holding up the revolver. ‘It was on the floor by the bed.’

  The mayor was speechless, baffled as to why neither the doctor, the priest nor himself had noticed it.

  ‘Perhaps, Mayor,’ said the miller. ‘You should talk to the villagers.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will give an address in the square in half an hour,’ he said, trying to cover his surprise.

  ‘That’s as it sho
uld be,’ said the miller. ‘I’ll let it be known.’ He went outside and could be heard giving instructions to the crowd.

  ‘Where did the revolver come from?’ said the doctor to the mayor.

  ‘We missed it, didn’t we, Doctor?’ said the mayor. ‘It must have been among the bedclothes and fallen to the floor.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the doctor, ‘that must be it.’

  ‘It was found,’ said Misha, ‘that’s the important thing.’

  The blacksmith’s cart arrived at the butcher’s house fifteen minutes later and Edith let it into the yard. The blacksmith and Misha lifted the body of the butcher onto a sheet and covered it with another.

  ‘May I come with you?’ the priest asked the blacksmith. He had no desire to face his congregation. The sooner he was gone from here the better.

  ‘Yes,’ said the blacksmith. ‘I’m only going to the forge.’

  ‘I know,’ said the priest.

  Misha opened the gates and the cart trundled off. The priest, sitting beside the body of the butcher, appeared to have shrunk in size. Children ran behind, pulling faces at him.

  Half an hour later, the death of the butcher was no longer a rumour. Women, men and children came out into the sunshine and stood in the square in the morning light, waiting for something to be said to mark the momentous event. Usually the butcher would take the lead but that strange morning it was the mayor.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I have to inform you that the butcher has taken his own life.’

  There was a gasp of surprise, then a stunned silence.

  ‘Is he really dead?’ asked someone.

  ‘Yes,’ said the mayor.

  ‘Does that mean we’ll have to pay what we owe him?’ said another voice.

  ‘Yes, what about the money?’ asked one of the farmers.

  The mayor had discussed the matter with Vanda and Misha before he’d ventured out to give his address. They’d both said the debts should go with the butcher’s dying.

  ‘Anyone owing money to the butcher will not have to pay back a penny,’ said the mayor. ‘That is the wish of his two daughters and his grandson.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked another.

  ‘Yes, now go home,’ said the mayor.