The Queen could not suppress a wicked smile.
“Snow White lies dead in the forest. The Huntsman has brought me proof. Behold, her heart!”
The Queen opened the box and lifted it to the Magic Mirror.
“Snow White still lives,” the Slave said. “The fairest in the land. ’Tis the heart of a pig you have in your hand.”
“The heart of a pig! Then I have been tricked!” the Queen said.
The Queen flew into a rage so violent the servants below thought the castle might be coming down around them. She stormed down the stairs, through the front doors, into the courtyard and the stables, where the Huntsman was unsaddling his horse.
“You didn’t kill her!”
“No, Your Majesty, I couldn’t. I’m sorry, but I feared you would regret the choice had I followed your orders.”
“You have made a grave mistake.” And from her belt she took out her dagger and slipped it into his gut, then twisted it violently. He fell to the ground as she pulled it out, blood dripping from the dagger. His blood felt warm. She looked at her hands for a moment, and then at the man who was writhing in agony on the stable floor. She should stab him again, she thought, to finish the deed. But then the blood dripping from the dagger caught her eye. Red and glistening.
Shiny.
Like an apple.
The Queen went directly to her dungeon without a word to anyone she passed, her rage fueling a supreme sense of power. She descended the winding stone staircase, and the chamber grew darker and darker as she descended. At the deepest depths of the dungeon was the room where she kept the sisters’ books and practiced the Black Arts. She slammed the dungeon door with a resounding clank.
“The heart of a pig! The blundering fool!” the Queen snapped.
The crow that had flown in months before had remained there and was perched on a skull near the odd sisters’ spell books. His wings fluttered as the Wicked Queen stormed about the dungeon.
The Queen decided that if she wanted Snow White dead, she must do it herself. But she was known far and wide. She would need to hide herself somehow if she were to travel over the Seven Jeweled Hills, beyond the seventh waterfall to Snow White. She darted over to the shelf where she kept the sisters’ volumes on all kinds of magic—the Black Arts, witchcraft, alchemy, poisons…disguises.
She removed the large dusty old book, and set it upon a table. She would transform her regal, queenly appearance into that of an old peddler woman. She flipped impatiently through the stained, tattered pages until she found the one labeled “Peddler’s Disguise.”
The Queen prepared her beakers and set her potions to a boil. Then, carefully following the instructions set forth in the recipe for the potion, she added a pinch of mummy dust, to make herself old, followed by other ingredients to shroud her beautiful clothes, to age her voice, and to whiten her hair.
When the formula was complete, she poured it into a crystal goblet and raised it to an open window where it was mixed well by the fierce wind and elements. She raised the glass to her lips and drank.
She had never mixed such a powerful potion—and she had never felt a sensation like this before. The room began to spin, and the Queen was sure she would die. Colors swirled all around her, and she grasped her throat, which felt as if it were closing up. Then her hands began to tingle. She held them out before her and looked at them. They began to transform, withering into bony old hands with clawlike fingers.
Her throat began to burn. “My voice!” she said. But the voice that issued from her was not regal and bold—it was cracked and hoarse.
After a while the strange sensation subsided. She gazed into a well-polished beaker and caught sight of her reflection. She was a haggard old woman—like the one from her dream. Her chin was sharp. A wart adorned the tip of her hooked nose. Her eyebrows had grown thick, black, and bushy. And her ragged yellow-gray hair blew into her face as the wind ushered through the window grate. Her clothes, too, had changed.
She was no longer dressed in her regal gown, but in an old black sackcloth with a hood to cover her ratty hair. She was the antithesis of everything she had been. A perfect disguise.
She could not help but laugh to herself. And now she would formulate a special sort of death for one so fair. What would it be? She felt around in her cloak, which still contained the apple Snow White had brought her. A poisoned apple! The Queen remembered back to when Snow White was a child, and the tale she told the Queen in which the sisters had mentioned enchanted fruit.
She flipped frantically through the sisters’ book of potions and found it at last. One taste of the poisoned apple and the victim’s eyes would close forever in the Sleeping Death. The Queen rummaged through the vials and canisters that were stored about the dungeon. She filled her cauldron with a healthy amount of skunk stock, and then added the rest of the formula—mostly herbs like foxglove and wolfsbane—with a dash of things much less ordinary, things found in mortuaries rather than forests.
Before long, her cauldron was bubbling with a green-gray liquid. The Queen considered the apple and smiled. Then she tied a thread around its stem so that she would be able to lower it into the elixir without touching the deadly potion. All she need do now, according to the sisters’ book, was recite the incantation and lower the apple into the cauldron. Then the spell would be complete.
“Dip the apple in the brew, let the Sleeping Death seep through!” she recited.
And with that, she dipped the apple into the cauldron. When she did so, the green liquid turned a sickly blue, and as the now-black apple emerged from its bath, an ominous mark appeared upon it—the death’s-head. This was confirmation that the spell was a success—just as the sisters’ book said it would be. She need only recite one more incantation, and the spell would be sealed. “Now turn red to tempt Snow White—to make her hunger for a bite!”
The apple quickly turned from black to the brightest red the Queen had ever seen. She threw her head back and cackled insanely. She was well-armed now. But then she hesitated—what if there were an antidote? She rushed back to the sisters’ book and flipped frantically through the pages. Yes, there was an antidote—the victim of the Sleeping Death could be awakened, but only by Love’s First Kiss. For a moment the Queen was crestfallen and enraged. After all, the Prince would be searching for Snow White. What if he found her, lying there, and kissed her corpse in sorrow. She would awaken. The Wicked Queen quickly put the thought out of her mind. There would be no chance of that. Snow White was in the forest with the Seven Dwarfs. They would find her body and think she was dead. And they would bury the girl alive.
The Queen laughed, startling the crow that inhabited the dungeon.
The Wicked Queen had only one thing left to do—deliver the apple.
She would soon once again be fairest of all.
The Queen packed the poison apple in a basketful of others. It was the sole red one, so that she would be able to identify it when the time came to use it. She gathered up the basket and lifted a trapdoor in the dungeon. She descended the hidden staircase that led to an underground passage, where long ago the King had helped the Queen and Snow to make a hasty and unseen exit from the castle during an attack.
She hopped into the boat and rowed it down the underground river, which eventually opened up onto the castle moat, and finally into the swampland surrounding the forest.
It was still dead of night, and she was sure that she had gone unnoticed—a testament, she thought, to how poorly the castle guards did their job.
The Queen sneaked through the swampland and out into the forest toward the Seven Jeweled Hills. But with her new form—a hunched body and aching joints—it was not easy to navigate the uneven landscape, and she needed to stop often to rest.
And then she came to a clearing that was bathed in what little moonlight had been able to penetrate the clouds.
“Going off to do the deed then?” she heard a voice.
“Who is there?” the Queen asked, still not used
to her own newly crotchety voice.
Three figures stepped from the shadows.
“You!” The Queen gasped.
“You have—chosen the right—path,” the sisters said.
The Wicked Queen pushed them out of the way and proceeded, limping deeper into the forest. She had what she needed—their spells and their potions. She had no further use for them.
“We hope you fare well,” the sisters called after her as she continued her trek toward the Seven Jeweled Hills.
It was after dawn before she finally reached them. She listened for the roar of the seven falls, and followed their path. She carefully avoided wild beasts and creatures of the night. She was forced to climb over felled trees in order to cross roaring rivers and streams which, in her fragile state was not easy. But her determination was so strong, her will to kill Snow White so great, that she managed to arrive at the Seven Jeweled Hills. And just beyond them lay the cottage of the Seven Dwarfs, and in it—Snow White.
The Queen stood as tall as she could atop the hill and surveyed the landscape below. She noticed a worn little path that led into the woods. Chimney smoke hung over the treetops near where she suspected the path ended.
The Queen threw back her head and laughed madly. Then she set out to follow the path.
She was soon rewarded for her efforts. The Queen stood behind a tree and watched the little house. The door opened and the little men the Slave had spoken of set off for their daily work in the mines.
And then, she saw her—Snow White!
The girl had came to the door and saw each of the men off. The Queen was disgusted and filled with venom and hatred. Onyx hair, lips like rubies, skin like snow, heart of gold…bah! The Queen knew better. Snow White was a selfish wench who cared nothing for her father’s memory and was plotting to surpass her mother in the only thing the woman had left in this world—her beauty.
The Queen watched as the men left the house. The sun was streaming through the canopy of bird-filled tree branches. Snow White proceeded to the garden, where she fed bread crumbs to bluebirds. The Queen peeked from behind the tree where she was hiding; her clawlike fingers wrapped around a low branch and made a sickening scratching sound as she dug her nails into the bark of the tree, wishing it were Snow White’s flesh. “Hasn’t changed one little bit,” she whispered to herself in her new raspy voice.
She waited for Snow to go inside before she approached the cottage. She saw her in the open window, happily at work making pies.
The Queen quickly and suddenly thrust her head into the open window.
“All alone, my pet?” she asked.
Snow looked up from her work, clearly spooked by the sudden appearance of an old woman before her.
“Why, yes, I am, but—” the sweet girl answered.
“The little men are not here?” the Queen asked.
“No, they’re not,” Snow replied.
The Queen leaned forward and sniffed around the cottage.
“Making pies?” she asked.
“Yes, gooseberry pies.”
Sweet.
Sickening.
Time to die.
“It’s apple pies that makes the menfolk’s mouths water,” the Queen said. “Pies made from apples like this!”
She pulled the brilliant red apple from her basket and showed it to Snow White. The girl was hesitant, but the Queen used every persuasive bone in her frail old body to convince her to take a bite. Snow White looked enraptured by the apple, and she reached out to take it and pull it close to her lips.
Then suddenly, the Queen found herself attacked by what felt like a hoard of bats. But they couldn’t be bats—it was midmorning. She felt the creatures pecking at her and swatting her with their wings, talons tearing at her skin, and vicious beaks reaching hungrily for her eyes. She was lashed by feathers.
Birds!
She was being attacked by flocks of them. She raised her arms to block them and dropped the apple.
Snow White quickly came to her rescue, emerging from the cottage and chasing the birds away. The Queen quickly grabbed for the apple and checked it to assure that it wasn’t damaged in any way. Snow White came to her side and apologized, and the Queen seized the opportunity to be invited into the cottage by complaining of a weak heart and expressing the need to sit down.
Snow went over to the far side of the cottage to fetch the Queen some water, and as she did so, the Queen pulled out the apple and formulated her plan. Then something unexpected…She couldn’t do this to her little bird. Her heart ached.
Weakness.
Shove it away!
She buried the impulse deep within herself along with her grief, and focused on the matter at hand.
“And because you’ve been so good to poor old Granny, I’ll share a secret with you. This is no ordinary apple. It’s a magic wishing apple,” the Queen said.
“A wishing apple?” Snow White asked.
The Queen got up from her seat and started moving toward Snow White with the apple extended before her.
“Yes! One bite and all your dreams will come true.”
“Really?”
The Queen moved in closer.
“Yes. Now make a wish and take a bite….”
Snow looked apprehensive, and began to back away as the Queen advanced toward her with the apple extended.
“There must be something your little heart desires. Perhaps there’s someone you love?” the Queen asked.
“Well, there is someone…” Snow replied.
“Ah! I thought so, I thought so,” the Queen said, laughing. “Old Granny knows a young girl’s heart. Now, take the apple, dearie, and make a wish.”
The Queen thrust the apple into Snow White’s hands. She smiled and nodded in encouragement as she watched the girl consider the apple.
Then the girl wished. She wished for all the things the Queen once had—for love, for a handsome prince to ride in on horseback and carry her away to his castle to make her his wife. But she also wished for something the Queen knew she herself could never have, and that was to live happily ever after.
The Queen watched, wringing her hands in anticipation.
“Quick! Don’t let the wish grow cold!” she said.
And with that, Snow White sunk her teeth into the most beautiful, ripest apple she had ever seen.
“Oh, I feel strange,” she said.
The Queen watched in anticipation as the effects of the poison set in. Snow wavered to and fro. The Queen rubbed her hands together and rocked back and forth…waiting. Waiting until she would again be fairest of all. And then, finally, Snow White fell to the ground. The bitten apple rolled from her hand, and the wicked Wicked Queen burst into maniacal laughter that could be heard throughout the kingdom. As if in response, a loud thunderclap resounded from above, and the sky opened up with a shower of pouring rain.
Snow White lay at the Queen’s feet as the old woman cackled. She thought she would be elated. Energized. Filled with joy. But instead, she felt weak. The long journey had taxed her. If only she wasn’t stuck in this wretched old body! It would take her ages to get back to the castle. She wanted nothing more than to ask the mirror who was now fairest of all.
She hadn’t bothered to see what she needed to reverse the Peddler’s Disguise potion. Surely the sisters had something tucked away in that old trunk they left.
“Apologies, my Queen.” It was one of the sisters’ voices, though the woman was nowhere to be seen.
“There is no antidote,” another voice echoed, followed by the sisters’ odd chattering laughter.
Panic.
“No antidote! No way to reverse it? Impossible. There has to be a way!” She mentally flipped through the pages of the old book, her heart pounding, hands shaking; she had to sit down again, her heart was that of an old woman.
“Calm yourself,” she said.
Her head was spinning, and she couldn’t catch her breath. “All for nothing!” She felt numb. She couldn’t face her father�
��s reflection in the mirror like this. Old, ugly, worthless. And then she found herself doing the only thing she could. The Queen broke into hysterical laughter. Her life, this day—it had all been so ridiculous. How had she come to this point? She could not control her laughter and she cackled loudly as she stepped out of the door into the rain. Perhaps it would cleanse her. Renew her. Give her some perspective.
She had hated her father and then become just like him. Heartless. Wicked. Cruel. She made a ruin of her life for nothing. She would never be the fairest, not like this. Nothing! She had killed her little bird for nothing. Her head was splitting with pain, she was thrown, taken aback by her guilt, her regret. But what did she regret most, the ruin of Snow’s life or her own?
Suddenly, the little men came crashing into the garden, they’d known what had happened and were crying out for the Queen’s death. The shock jolted her out of any sentimental reverie, and she was once again wicked—now concerned only with preserving her own life.
She scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as she could. The men looked nothing like she had imagined. Their faces screwed up in anger, they knew why she was there, they knew what she had done; somehow, these men possessed a magic of their own.
She ran from the men in a panic, her heart racing and terror gripping at her. Her strides much wider than theirs, she had managed to gain a fair amount of distance on the tiny men, even running in the pouring rain in her weakened state.
The men did not relent, and they pursued her into the forest. Still, she maintained her lead on them.
And then she came to a split in the path. One path led up a cliff, at the top of which was a huge boulder. The other continued farther into the woods. If she ran into the woods, perhaps she could lose herself among the trees. If she ran up to the top of the cliff, she would be trapped.
And then, the sisters appeared again.
“My Queen, we can guarantee that taking the path that leads to the boulder will mean certain death for you.”
Fairest of All Page 12
