by Radclyffe
With that, the raven flew up to a low branch and carefully led Snow White through the trackless forest to a clearing in the very heart of the Darkly Woods. There before her was a humble cottage of most comforting aspect. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, and all around it was the most beautiful flower garden Snow White had ever beheld.
But the garden was but as an ash heap beside the beauty of the woman who sat near the front door, staring intently into a bronze basin filled with water. Her dress was a dark green velvet; her hair, the color of burnished copper, hung about her shoulders like a mantle; about her waist was a girdle of white silk embroidered most artfully with gold thread.
Snow White approached the edge of the garden and stopped. Her uncertainty rooted her to the spot. When the woman looked up from her basin, Snow White’s heart was in her throat.
The woman rose and walked to Snow White, curtsying deeply before her. Snow White could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. She felt a heat begin to build deep within herself.
“I bid you welcome, Snow White. My home is yours for as long as it pleases you to stay,” the woman said.
“You know my name?” Snow White asked.
“The raven told me you were in the forest. I feared that you might become lost, so I asked her to guide you here. Stay or leave as you choose, your freedom in this forest is absolute.”
“And your name, my lady?” Snow White asked, curtsying until her knee touched the ground.
“I have more than one, but here, in this forest, you may call me Druantia,” she said, smiling. It was a smile that filled Snow White with the most exquisite warmth.
“I thank you for bringing me here, Druantia. I was indeed lost and out of food,” she said, bowing again.
“Do you wish to return from whence you came? I can make it so, you shall be perfectly safe.”
Snow White reacted sharply. “No, good lady. I was, I am, trying to go as far away from my home as I can.”
Druantia gestured to a hereunto unseen bench engraved with the most fantastical creatures. They moved of their own accord, capering and chasing one another across the back, arms, and legs of the bench. Snow White had never seen the like, and she gasped in astonishment.
“Are you a witch?” she asked, more out of awe than fear.
“I am, Snow White. And also something more. But I am no greater or lesser a witch…than yourself.”
“I? A witch?”
“Yes, you, as was your mother. I knew her well. Were you ever told of your family line? It is unbroken for uncounted generations,” Druantia said, gesturing again for Snow White to sit.
“Until just a few days ago, I knew nothing of my mother’s family. My father never told me,” Snow White said, seating herself beside Druantia, her whole body rigid with indecision over what to do next.
“Your father never knew. Your mother fully realized that she would have to hide her true nature in order to be queen of her realm,” Druantia said, taking Snow White’s hand.
Snow White blushed deeply, hardly hearing Druantia’s words. She knew in her heart, and her soul, what her mind had not yet accepted—that all she had yearned for was, literally, at hand. Her life before entering the Darkly Woods was already fading to a disquieting memory. The empty feeling that had dogged her days was fading as well, to be replaced with a certitude of purpose and a deliriously delicious desire to get as close to Druantia as she would allow.
“Are you quite all right?” Druantia said, giving Snow White a concerned look.
“In full truth, Druantia, I’ve never been better. Please continue.” Snow White’s mind, and heart, raced in a manner that she was wholly unaccustomed to.
“You look flushed,” Druantia observed.
“Really? Fancy that,” Snow White said with a giggle she could barely control.
“Yes, well,” Druantia said, giving Snow White a sly half-smile. “Your mother accepted that, as did all of us who loved her. With your mother’s passing it was desired that someone join your household who could teach you what you needed to know, but her personal servants were set against it. They greatly feared the punishments that would befall them if such a teacher were found out.”
“That is done now. I wish for nothing other than to learn all that I can about my mother, her family, about me. Will you teach me? I would consider it the greatest honor.” Snow White had taken up both of Druantia’s hands and clasped them over her wildly beating heart.
“Nothing, or, I suspect, very little would give me greater pleasure,” Druantia said, her own face turning red as an autumn leaf.
And so began Snow White’s journey to reclaim her birthright.
As the days of summer grew shorter, Snow White’s knowledge and powers grew apace. And as the women worked together, their love and passion for one another soared to the heavens.
It happened one day, as they made love in the sacred pool, that a woodsman who had lost his way spied them. He soon realized that the woman with black hair was none other than Snow White. Who the redheaded beauty was mattered not to the woodsman, although he did stay to watch.
One thousand gold marks would be his when he told the king what he had seen. Silently, he slipped away and soon found the road to the king’s castle.
As he approached the castle it occurred to the woodsman that he should take care with whom he spoke. If he told a sentry or other servant, they would run to the king with the news and claim the gold that was rightfully his. As he fretted over his dilemma, a well-dressed gentleman approached the castle on horseback. Surely this fellow would take him right to the king. He stood off to the side of the road and waved a filthy kerchief at the Worthy Sir.
“M’lord, I am but a humble woodsman, but I would beg your leave to escort me to the king. I bear news that he is most anxious for.”
“Think you fit to speak to the king? Begone, cur, before I drag you behind my horse for a circuit of this castle,” said the nobleman.
“Please, my lord, great is the news I bear, news known to no other but me,” said the woodsman, dropping to his knees.
“What could you possibly know that would interest His Majesty?”
“News he greatly desires. News of his daughter, Snow White.”
“Snow White? What of her?” the nobleman demanded, dismounting and bearing down on the now-trembling woodsman.
“I have seen her, m’lord. I must tell this to the king alone because he has promised a reward of…”
“A thousand gold marks,” the gentleman finished for him. “Yes, this is so. Come with me, we shall see if you speak the truth.”
“I will speak only with the king!” the woodsman cried. “It is he who offers he reward.”
“Know you not who I am?” said the ungentlemanly gentleman, planting the sole of his boot firmly in the woodsman’s face. “I am His Royal Highness, Charming, the man who will be Snow White’s husband. I as much as His Majesty wish to know of Snow White’s whereabouts.”
“F-forgive me, Your Highness, I did not recognize you. I would never have spoken such a way had I known,” the woodsman said, struggling to sit up.
“In speaking to me, you are speaking to His Majesty. Speak the truth and the money is yours,” Charming said, motioning one of his aides over.
The woodsman eyed Prince Charming warily, then let out a sigh of resignation. He related all that he had seen, to the clear consternation of Prince Charming.
“This spring, you know of it?” Charming asked his aide, after kicking the woodsman in the face again to silence him.
“Yes, Your Highness, it’s a haunted spring, night creatures dwell in it. The people thereabouts know where it is if only to avoid it. The redheaded woman, I’ve heard of her, she is supposed to be a powerful witch, but few have seen her and none know where she hides.”
“If we find one, the other cannot be far away,” Charming said, kicking the slowly rising woodsman again, apparently out of habit.
“The spring is fifteen or so leagues due north, perhaps
twenty once we’re on the forest tracks,” said the aide.
“I want twenty archers, our best,” Charming ordered. “Provisions and gear for several nights in the forest. We’ll start as soon as everything is ready, but I want to take this witch early in the morning, while she still sleeps. No doubt she has placed a most unnatural enchantment on Snow White. Every care must be taken to see she is returned to us unharmed.”
The aide bowed and hurried away.
“So, peasant, you saw Snow White, my future wife, your future queen, engaged in revolting acts of carnal congress with a minion of Lucifer?” Prince Charming said, slowly circling the woodsman.
The woodsman stiffened visibly. “I…I saw…something, Your Highness. It may not have been what I…I think I saw.”
“What you think you saw?” the prince thundered. “Do you expect a thousand marks for what you think you saw? How know you it was even Snow White in that demon’s embrace? Speak, you reeking piece of dog shit.”
“It was…I saw Snow White, Your Highness, of that I have no doubts at all. As to what she was doing, it is far beyond my poor, poor powers to say,” the woodsman said, whimpering in a most abject manner.
“Henceforward, woodsman,” the prince said, leaning down and whispering into his ear, “it shall be far beyond your poor, poor powers to say anything at all.”
And with that, Prince Charming slit the woodsman’s throat from ear to ear.
It was at dawn of the next day that Prince Charming and his men found Druantia’s cottage. No smoke rose from the chimney; the door and windows were closed. The prince deployed his men in a rough circle all around the cottage and yard.
He sent three men in to kill Druantia and bring forth Snow White. These men approached the cottage in silence, then, in a thrice, were through the door. Those outside waited for screams, but nothing issued forth from the cottage except silence.
Presently, the three emerged, sheathing their hunting knives. The rest gathered around. “Empty, Your Highness,” one of them said.
“And the hearth is cold. No one has been here for two, maybe three days,” said another.
“She knew we were coming and she’s run off. No matter, they are on foot, we’ll track the witch down and send her back to hell in pieces,” Prince Charming said as he rode his horse over the garden, trampling down the flowers.
“You owe me an apology for what you’ve done to my garden,” Druantia said.
The men turned as one to face Druantia. She and Snow White stood on the crest of a ridge that ran behind the cottage. Both women wore dresses of the most dazzling white satin; on their heads were diadems of silver with a single round moonstone at the center.
Prince Charming continued to ride his horse back and forth through the garden.
“Snow White,” he called out. “All is well now. Come down here and be safe. We will deal with this fiend from the pit.”
“I did not ask you to come here, and no power on earth could induce me to go anywhere with you,” Snow White said, putting her arms around Druantia’s waist.
The sound of bowstrings being drawn filled the air.
“No man fire until Snow White is with us,” Prince Charming called out. The men relaxed, but kept their arrows notched.
“Snow White,” he said, in as gentle a voice as he could muster, “this woman has placed a vile enchantment upon thee, but once she is dead, all will be well again. Know you I? I am Prince Charming, your future husband. Your father, the king, is sore worried about thee. Come to me, Snow White, come to me and my life be forfeit before any harm should befall thee.”
Snow White remained silent and tightened her embrace of Druantia, who put her arm across Snow White’s shoulder.
“You loathsome whore,” Prince Charming said, presumably to Druantia. “My men shall make great sport of thee before your head hangs from my saddle horn.” He drew his sword and strode forward.
The sky quickly darkened, and a great wind rushed through the forest. The branches of the great oaks swept back and forth, bowling over the archers. Panic stricken, they threw down their bows and ran, horses and men, away into the forest.
“Do you think you can frighten me as you did those fools?” Prince Charming said, fixing a withering glare on Druantia. “I’ve sent over four hundred of your kind back to hell. Snow White is mine, her kingdom is mine, and you will be nothing but meat for my dogs when I’m done with you.”
“A kingdom you covet, a kingdom you shall have,” Druantia said, raising her hand, her oak wand materializing in it as she did so. “Hail to thee, Charming the First, king of the frogs.”
She pointed the wand at Prince Charming. A great flash of light filled the glade. Of Prince Charming, nothing remained but a small, warty, toadish-looking frog atop the heap of empty clothing.
Upon the death of her father, Snow White ascended the throne, where she was beloved by all for her sense of justice and the wisdom of her decisions. Witches were no longer put to death but banished to the Darkly Woods, along with their familiars, which, oddly enough and quite contrary to popular belief, turned out to be other women rather than cats or budgies.
The menfolk were greatly put out by this, especially since so many wives freely, indeed, eagerly admitted to practicing witchcraft, but the law was the law. These women were sent into the Darkly Woods and ordered to never return. Except on market days. Or if they forgot something or had someone really, really, really important to visit. But after that they had to go right back. And on nights of a full moon, a strange hellfire glow could be seen in the heart of the Darkly Woods, with the sound of many drums pounding out unnatural rhythms accompanied by the howls, growls, shouts, and laughter of many women apparently suffering either the torments of the damned or something else entirely. No man dared venture forth to investigate.
Snow White and her closest adviser, a woman known only as “Dru,” were inseparable as they traveled the kingdom together, seeking after the well-being of her subjects. Tongues wagged, as idle tongues are wont to do (no snickering, please). But…
They Lived Happily Ever After.
Alex Stitt is a British-American bibliophile with a Master’s in Counseling Psychology, penning novels for the bright eyed and the queer-at-heart. Inspired by years as an international ally trainer, Alex writes gender-variant, culturally diverse fiction with a flare of bohemian magic.
This story is based on “The Red Shoes.”
The Red Shoes
Alex Stitt
Like many in the South, we had lost our fortune in the great dust bowl, maintaining only our propriety and a useless hunk of land. It was the summer of 1936, remembered as another blazing heat wave thick with cicadas, screaming in the trees. I was only sixteen, but I, in our ever-shrinking town, was wed-stock—which is to say a qualified bachelor.
“Don’t go flapping your gums at me, James,” Ma said, still bossing Lenore, our only maid, through the vicarious process my mother called cooking. “You’re going to the cotillion! When our mayor and our preacher fashion an idea, best you listen. Not everyone was invited, you know, but by the grace of God we have not been forsaken! People remember the Conahues. Good breeding is all we’ve got left.”
Blinking, I watched Lenore bake an apple crumble my mother would later claim as her very own recipe, though I hadn’t seen flour on Ma’s fingers since Pa died.
“All right, Ma, I’ll go,” I said, looking down at my worn soles. “But I’ll be needin’ new shoes.”
With a heavy sigh, she shook her head.
“Your pa’s got some old loafers up in the closet—”
“Which I’m wearin’,” I said, drawing her disappointment to all our spent reserves.
The cotillion was devised by Mayor Everglass, whose daughter had just reached an eligible age. Wanting to find a noteworthy suitor, not merely for the sake of his own dwindling fortune, he and our pastor had arranged a platonic social. It was to be a sensible, jazz-free affair for all the young boys to meet all the young girls, and so
stitch our community back together.
I was going to need new shoes.
Defeated, Mother waved me into the living room, looking suspiciously at Lenore, who knew all too well Ma kept our money under a loose floorboard beneath her rocking chair.
“Tomorrow,” she said, touching my face with hope and condescension. “And do buy something dapper. No more…shenanigans. Please. My heart can’t take it.”
Gifted a whopping three dollars from Pa’s old cigar box, I smiled, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed up to my room.
My wardrobe was the ghost of my father. Every piece of clothing I had, from my Sunday best to my work overalls, had belonged to him at some point, and they were all torn and faded long before I ever grew to size. I’d barely known my pa. He’d died when I was six, and so I’d spent my life watching his ghost on a wire hanger, waiting for the fateful days I’d fit a shirt, or a jacket, or a hat.
Turning away, I crept to my own private floorboard, one I’d pried open myself, secret even from Lenore. Inside, I kept my shenanigans, my shame, and my only genuine joy.
Unwrapping a bundle of paper, I looked down on a square fold of crushed red velvet, its neckline an intricate pattern of lace. Lifting the dress, I stood before the mirror, holding it against my front. Its soft fabric was a dream, a flattering fit I had found eight months ago, on a trip searching for work in New Orleans. But I was too young to hire, and too impulsive—my imagination quickly stolen by the flapper mannequins in the storefront window. I’d never seen clothes like that, their wooden heads adorned with feathered hats, their faux bodies layered in Chinese silk and French crinoline.
It was there, off Bourbon Street, I’d found my dream. I had gone in, just hoping to touch one of the dresses, to tangibly know what drew me, but I couldn’t stop. Knowing my proportions by heart—Ma having measured my life against my pa’s inseam—I’d walked in and inquired, quite sheepishly, if they owned anything with a 32-inch waist and 38-inch chest. I was promptly escorted to a rack of fineries, where I’d found this ankle-length number.
