The Snow Song

by Sally Gardner

  He walked with energy towards them and seeing the priest said, ‘Is this a funeral?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the priest.

  ‘Where are the mourners? Where’s the feast?’ He looked from Misha to the blacksmith then the newly covered grave and said, ‘Ah. I see. He took his own life.’

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ said the priest.

  ‘My name is Zamfir and this is my circus. I know you, Priest. Yes, indeed. It was you and the butcher who turned my father away last year.’

  ‘We told him we didn’t want any gypsies in our village,’ said the priest.

  ‘We are called Tzigane,’ said Zamfir. ‘The word gypsy is an insult.’

  ‘Can we help you?’ asked Misha.

  ‘Is there a doctor in the village? A trapeze artist fell and broke her wrist.’

  Half an hour later the circus was off the road, the caravans parked and Zamfir had helped the young girl into the back of the blacksmith’s cart. He climbed in with her and, as the cart set off for the village, he watched the priest pulling his trunk behind him down the mountain road.

  ‘Was it the butcher you buried?’ he asked.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The First Step

  Edith knew if she didn’t leave tomorrow, she never would. There must, she thought, be an unspoken order to the ritual of breaking free; actions that had to be performed in the right sequence before the cage door opened wide enough to release her. Instinctively she understood that just to walk away would mean that she would be trailing the past behind her and in that there would be no freedom. She’d told Misha she would stay until his wedding, but by then all her courage would have vanished, her feet glued to the ground.

  She counted the thunder that morning as a sign. In a village riddled with superstition, thunder on the day of a burial meant the devil attended the butcher’s funeral. The counterbalance to the end of a life must be the celebration of something new.

  ‘I’m going to give you a betrothal supper,’ said Edith to Lena. ‘Tonight. And it won’t involve fish,’ she added. The idea wasn’t met with enthusiasm. ‘You do want to be married to Misha?’

  ‘Yes of course. Yes,’ said Lena who was already worried about what the village gossips were saying about her living in the cabinet maker’s house. ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘But I think it should be done properly. Your father is still missing and…’

  ‘Don’t be a goose. He’s dead and it’s not a valid excuse. Look at you. You want to marry Misha, you’re having his baby, he loves you, and I hope you feel the same.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It’s Thursday – a lucky day.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ agreed Lena. ‘Though all the days of the week are full of perils. Anyway, no one would come. And we haven’t a lot of food. It’s kind of you but it isn’t practical.’

  ‘It is,’ said Edith firmly. ‘And it will happen tonight. If no one else comes then I’ll drink your health alone. But they will come.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Eleven or twelve – I don’t know. I’m not inviting the elders.’

  ‘Oh dear. But… perhaps, if you told one of your grandmother’s stories…’

  ‘Why would that make a difference?’

  ‘People will always come to hear a story and the elders wouldn’t be so offended.’

  Edith shook her head. This is why I can’t stay, she thought. This endless petty superstition that makes everybody scared to look on the world outside.

  ‘Why does it matter what anyone thinks? You’re happy yet you subject your happiness to old wives’ tales. Wednesdays and Fridays are days when no one must use needles or scissors, or bake bread. Tuesdays are unlucky for spinning, and at sunset evil spirits abound. Thursdays and Saturdays are lucky days so you may wash and spin. But be careful, the devil is always waiting at the bottom of the garden. Tell me, what will happen if we have your betrothal supper tonight? Will the house fall down?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Lena. ‘But the hens might not lay for a year.’

  Edith laughed. ‘Have you thought that it was these ancient beliefs that gave the power to the butcher to keep you prisoner? And by believing in them, we give power to the elders and make monsters of men?’

  ‘Are you cross with me?’

  ‘No, Lena, I’m cross that you can’t see what you have and how lucky you are. Instead you act as if you’ve done something wrong.’

  There was a knock on the door and Edith went to open it.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Georgeta, coming inside. ‘It’s none of my business but I feel that there should be…’

  ‘…A party to celebrate Lena and Misha’s engagement,’ said Edith. She led Georgeta into the parlour. ‘Yes, that’s my suggestion. And maybe,’ she muttered, ‘Lena’s mother would come round to the idea of the marriage.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s a little hasty?’ said Lena.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Georgeta. ‘I think a celebration is much needed. I’ll bring food and my maids to help.’

  ‘Both of them – and the cook?’ said Edith. ‘Will the mayor manage without someone at his beck and call?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Georgeta and laughed.

  Lena was so surprised by this sudden turn of events that she couldn’t think what to say except a quiet ‘Thank you.’

  Misha returned to find women cooking and the kitchen filled with laughter.

  ‘We are having a betrothal supper,’ said Lena.

  ‘This is for us?’ said Misha.

  It occurred to Edith that this was the first time in his life that Misha had ever been at the centre of a celebration.

  ‘Is it true that a circus is camped just outside the village?’ Georgeta asked him.

  ‘A circus?’ said Edith.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Misha. ‘It turned up after the burial. The priest heard it coming and thought it was the devil. The blacksmith and I brought the proprietor and his trapeze artist into the village. She’s injured her wrist.’

  Taking a basket, Edith walked down to the stream by the orchard. The air was heady with lilac blossom and she had filled her basket with enough blooms to decorate the table when a figure in a tall top hat appeared on the other side of the stream. In the golden light of the early evening she remembered how once Demetrius had stood waiting for her there.

  She jumped when the man called to her.

  ‘I’m looking for the storyteller.’

  ‘I’m the storyteller’s granddaughter,’ she said. ‘I’m Edith.’

  ‘My name is Zamfir. I own the circus,’ he said. ‘Is the storyteller here? One of my artists has broken her wrist and without someone else to entertain the crowd, we’ll be off the road for longer than I can afford.’ He looked at the lilac blossom. ‘What are you celebrating?’

  ‘A betrothal,’ said Edith.

  ‘Are you to be married?’

  She laughed. ‘No. I’m to tell a story. My grandmother was the storyteller – she told me about your circus. She died over five years ago.’

  Zamfir said nothing but nodded.

  ‘You’re welcome to come tonight,’ said Edith. ‘I will be telling one of her stories.’ The circus owner tipped his hat. ‘The house is up there,’ she added, turning from him to point to it.

  When she looked back he was gone.

  Lena was brushing her hair before the guests arrived when Edith brought her the clothes that she’d embroidered for her own wedding.

  ‘These are for you,’ said Edith. ‘A wedding present.’

  ‘You can’t give them to me,’ said Lena. ‘They’re for your wedding.’

  Edith said nothing but helped Lena to dress.

  ‘You’re leaving, I know you are,’ said Lena. ‘That’s why you’ve given me these. Don’t go, please.’

  ‘I can’t stay,’ said Edith. ‘I couldn’t stay here without being married and I couldn’t marry a man I didn’t love. You should understand that. I haven’t told Misha, but I’ve l
eft a letter for you both. If you want to, you can live here. Misha would have the workshop and could make a decent living.’

  Lena put her arms round Edith. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Not a word to Misha. Can you do that?’

  ‘You kept my secret. What you ask is such a small thing.’ She sniffed. ‘You will write, won’t you?’

  ‘Don’t cry,’ said Edith. ‘Goodness knows what misfortune befalls a bride who cries at her betrothal supper.’

  Twenty people came to the supper. The mayor came and raised a glass to new beginnings. Even Lena’s mother came. And near the end of the meal, three musicians appeared on the verandah.

  ‘Zamfir sent us to play for you,’ said the tall man with the cello. ‘He said you’re going to tell a story.’

  Lena’s mother said, ‘That’s the only reason I came – to hear a story.’

  For a moment there was an awkward silence but then, seeing the widow was smiling, everyone laughed.

  ‘A story,’ said Georgeta. ‘Yes, Edith – tell us a story.’

  More chairs were found for the musicians and more wine was poured.

  That evening Edith cast a spell over the party, telling the story of a shepherd and his bride. The musicians played to fit the tale – the bang of the drum for the villain, the violin and the cello for the souls of the hero and heroine – and Edith seamlessly brought out the light and the dark, as all good weavers of words should. She fashioned the story out of her grandmother’s many tales and stitched it together with her own wit into something that chimed with all who were present. She was pleased to see she brought both laughter and a tear to the eye and as she came to the end she picked up the violin and played a last note that fell into the silence.

  The guests clapped and called for more.

  ‘One is enough,’ said Edith.

  The evening drew to an end. The air had turned cold and the guests and the musicians congratulated the lovers and left into the dark of a spring night.

  Flora said, ‘We’re leaving tomorrow. Be at the forge at dawn if you want to come with us. And don’t forget your embroidery.’

  Edith closed the gate and found she was disappointed that Zamfir hadn’t come.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A Myriad of Stars

  The house fell silent. Edith put on her fur hat with the antlers and her grandmother’s coat of fables and poured a glass of wine. In her mind she heard the music of the violin. She went outside. The sky was a canopy of stars and she put out her arms and began to spin, round and round, until she saw Zamfir watching her.

  ‘I have a story for you,’ he said. ‘One I don’t think you’ve heard before.’

  Edith went to take off her hat, but he said, ‘Keep it on – it suits you.’

  She offered him a glass of wine.

  ‘People have the queerest idea about us circus folk,’ Zamfir said as they sat down on the verandah steps. He took a sip of his wine. ‘They think we’re immoral and that we drink ourselves to death after a life of vice. It’s not true. We live simple lives and we look after each other. I think you know how it is when you’re seen in a light that doesn’t reflect the truth of who you are. You have a gift with story; tonight you used three that I know well and changed them and made them into your own brew.’

  ‘You heard me?’

  ‘Yes. But I have a story for you. It’s about your beginning, where you came from.’

  Edith thought of when Demetrius had told her how the violin had come into the world.

  ‘Our circus always had a storyteller,’ said Zamfir, ‘and the finest of them was the woman you knew as your grandmother. In the summer she would travel with us, telling stories that were acted by the clowns. One summer the storyteller brought a young woman with her. She was slight with snow-white skin. Her husband, the cabinet maker, had found another woman in a village further down the mountain and the storyteller hoped that after a few months away the young woman might find the strength to leave him for good.

  ‘One evening after a show when we were gathered for music and a meal, a stranger came and stood to look into the fire. It’s said he was a handsome devil – dark eyes, black hair – and the young woman couldn’t stop looking at him. He went to where she was sitting and said, “You will never have a child with your husband.” She had stood up, furious to be spoken to in that way, and went to slap him. The stranger was fast, he caught her arm and kissed her. Never had anyone seen such a startled expression on any woman’s face. The storyteller told him, “Enough of this nonsense.”

  ‘He didn’t move. The music stopped, all went quiet and he said, “Old woman, you will bring up the child. She will be like me, she’ll have the power to walk between two worlds.”

  ‘The storyteller raised her hands to the heavens when she saw the young woman walk away with him. But she was confident that in the morning sense and reason would return.

  ‘It didn’t. When it was time for the circus to move on the young woman said she was staying. After the summer the storyteller went back for her and saw straight away she was with child. And they went home.

  ‘Six months later a midwife called the storyteller to the house of the cabinet maker. His wife, the young woman, had died and the child was sickly and not likely to live. The cabinet maker wanted the storyteller to take the baby, saying girls had no value, they took land away from you and brought little in return. But the storyteller stayed and became your grandmother, and she poured her stories into you. Now,’ said Zamfir, ‘I’ve told you your beginning, tell me your end.’

  Edith looked up at the myriad of stars and thought about the power of a story to define a past or predict a future, of the infinite possibilities of what lay ahead. One thing was certain: come the new day she would be leaving. The rest was unknown, except for the end of her story.

  ‘Do you really want to hear it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She was quiet for a while and when she did speak it felt to him as if the night itself was talking, all too aware of the dawn to come.

  ‘This is yet to happen which has never happened and will happen again.

  ‘An old woman returns to the village she was born in after years of travelling. There is one journey left and this she has saved for the last. She has roamed far, telling her stories, some years have been better than others. She has left the man she lived with. He loved her more than she could ever love him; some say that was what kept him close to her. They parted at a railway station. He knew this day would come because she had told him this much of their future.

  ‘She finds a house outside the village, she keeps a sheep for company and promises it will never smell mutton cooking. Villagers come to her, feeling her stories calm a trouble mind, put right a wrong, and there she stays until the sheep dies and autumn turns to winter. She knows the snow is coming. She has waited for this snow for a long time. One morning she wakes to the chiming of the snow, the music of a winter sky. She leaves a note on the table as she did many years ago when she first left her house to go travelling. This time she won’t take the violin, there’s no point. In her mind she has made this journey a thousand times. She has no fear of the frost, no fear of the snow. All that matters is that she finds the two dancing fir trees.

  ‘The day is drawing in and never once does she doubt the trees. She hears the wolf howl, hears the bear growl and is not afraid. When the moon rises the two mighty fir trees stand before her like gossiping ladies in their dancing white skirts. She pushes through their soft caresses until she is in the clearing with the wooden cabin.

  ‘The moonlight shines silver on him; he is beautiful, untouched by time, and all age falls from her as she goes to him. He puts his hand to her face. His eyes are the blue of a winter’s sky and she knows she is home.’

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the lobster. First, I must thank Clio Cornish, who over lunch, suggested I write a story set in snow – though at the time my mind went completely bl
ank while the lobster congealed on its bed of noodles.

  It took a while to come up with the story until Emily Gerard’s excellent book The Land Beyond the Forest led me to the location. My thanks to her and to other writers whose adventures and pens took them among the Saxon and Roma peoples of the region.

  I would like to thank my dear friend Julia Paton for her generous spirit, Jacky Bateman for her work on the manuscript without which I would be lost in the forest, and my new editor, Finn Cotton. It has been a pleasure to work with him. Grateful thanks to my agent Catherine Clarke, and to Lisa Milton for publishing this book.

  Special thanks go to my daughter, Freya, whose wisdom and philosophy are second to none. She always sets me on the right path when the snow becomes too deep.

  Sally Gardner

  Hastings, June 2020

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