Snow Roses

by Taryn Tyler

  That was when I sang. Soft, wild, unpredictable music sprang from my center, through my lips and into the air. The music ignited me, held me like a prisoner in its grasp. I sang of the trees. I sang of the red bear. I sang of fire and ice, melting in dew drops like Snow's tears in the night. I sang of her fear, of the sharp blade of her knife always gripped in her hand. I sang without words of the things words could never quite say.

  I sang of the ghost children's sorrow and I felt them settle into the wood, almost as if they could rest the way the dead were meant to. My songs weren't just Gran's anymore. They belonged to the wood. They belonged to me. Some days, when Snow stopped her knife practice to hear my songs, a still half smile dripped from the corners of her lips and they belonged to her. That was when I loved the songs the most.

  When I sang the flowers bloomed brighter, the summer berries were more plentiful, and the brook swelled with clearer water. I couldn't help but notice the way the forest spiraled with vines the shape of my song. The forest sang to me and I sang back to it so that sometimes I could hardly tell the difference between our voices.

  One evening I went inside at dusk to sear a fish Snow had caught for supper. I knelt next to the fireplace, holding the flint in both hands. Then, without quite knowing why, I set the flint on the floor. I closed my eyes and hummed. Gently, I let the music wiggle its own way out from the deepest part of my being. I opened my eyes. A flame flickered in the fireplace.

  “I knew your song was like fire.”

  I turned to see Snow standing in the doorway behind me. She handed me the cuts of fish, freshly cleaned.

  That summer, when we went to light a fire in the wood, we didn't bring the flint.

  “Should we bring some wood?” Snow asked, glancing at the fresh pile she had chopped the day before. The bark coated logs and branches lined the outer walls of the cottage. More than we would ever use in the warmth of the summer.

  I laughed. “It's the forest, Snow. Wood won't be in short supply. Besides, we want a quick, bright fire, not a slow burn. We need smaller pieces.”

  We bounded into the wood with a satchel of lavender tea and biscuits, gathering fallen branches as we went. We had only been wandering for an hour when we heard a fierce, persistent rustle scuffling back and forth through a rush of ferns.

  “What's that?” I asked “An animal?” But it wasn't scurrying or even hopping, just padding back and forth, back and forth in the same spot.

  “Not an animal.” Snow stood up. She adjusted the satchel over her shoulder in order to add another branch in the crook of her arm. “It sounds trapped.”

  “A hobgoblin then.” I said.

  We kept walking. A moment later I caught sight of his long beard and small wrinkled face darting back and forth through the bushes. He scowled when he saw me and turned his back as if he would run away. He tried but fell, landing on his nut sized knee with a tiny thud.

  “Curse it.” He rose to his feet. I recognized the long fingers and gold stitched clothing of the hobgoblin I had spoken to in the cottage garden when the red and white roses had first bloomed.

  “Are you trapped?” Snow asked.

  The hobgoblin stopped. He glared at Snow. “Do you imagine I'm pacing back and forth for a lark? Or did you think this tree is tied to the end of my beard to decorate it?” He tugged on the long gray hairs of his beard. They stuck straight out longways instead of draping down toward the ground. I squinted past the ferns to the roots of a maple tree. The tips of the hobgoblin's beard disappeared into their spindly fingers, pulled tight like thread in a loom.

  “What did you do to the maple?” I demanded. “He wouldn't pull your beard if you hadn't done anything to him.”

  The hobgoblin curled his lips. His tiny black eyes narrowed. “Nothing you two great big things don't do everyday.” He glanced at the sticks of firewood tucked in Snow's elbow. “I just needed a branch or two to cook my dinner with. We've all but run out down in the hovel.”

  I crossed my arms. “There's plenty of wood on the ground.”

  “No one asked you, witch. Maple gives the meat a better flavor.” He crossed his arms underneath the fraying canopy of his beard, mirroring my stance.

  We stood for a moment, glaring at each other. A breeze rustled through the branches overhead, shifting the shadows on the forest floor. Something glinted in his hand.

  “Well,” he tapped his foot in impatience. “Are you going to ask him to let me go?”

  “No.” I didn't tell him that there was no reason on earth the maple would listen to me. The trees rustled again. I looked down at the round gold disc in his hand. A coin the size of his palm. It was smudged with as much dirt as the hobgoblin was but probably worth an entire village. I had never seen the seal engraved on it before. At least . . . not on any kind of currency.

  My hand went to the wooden clasp on my cloak. I rubbed the thin lines carved into it. A single rose. Like my name, Gran had said. And the spindle in Greta's cupboard had been made of gold.

  “We can't leave him here.” Snow said. “He'll be eaten by foxes.” She piled the firewood in her arms onto the ground and drew her knife. She knelt next to the hobgoblin with one knee on the ground and her other lifted over her foot.

  “Don't.” He swiped his hands at her as if he were big enough to shove her away. “Not my--”

  But Snow had already cut off the tip of his beard, freeing him from the hold of the maple roots.

  His face went pale. He ran his fingers over the chopped edges. “Look what you've done. My face. My beautiful, distinguished face. I can't go back to the hovel like this. My brothers will laugh like . . . like . . .” He stepped toward Snow, shaking his fists. “You've ruined me, you milk faced child. You brainless harpy.”

  “Careful what you call her.” I took one step toward him. He turned and ran, scurrying through the bushes like a squirrel. “Thankless fiend.” I turned to Snow “You probably saved his life.”

  Snow sheathed her knife. She looked up at me, still kneeling next to the ferns. “Why did he call you a witch? Because you can light fire with your voice?”

  I shook my head. “Because I live in Gran's cottage.”

  Snow rose to her feet. She picked up the wood she had gathered and we continued making our way through the trees. We walked for a moment in silence, neither of us speaking. Bluejays soared overhead with their flat, flamboyant headdresses. A crow squawked somewhere through the trees.

  “You live in Gran's cottage too.” I said.

  “I do.” Snow answered.

  “Why didn't you say so?” I didn't turn to look at her. The fall of both our bare feet scratched against the leaf covered woodlands. “Do you think I'm a witch?”

  Snow stopped. She turned to me with her silent, half smile. “Do you want to be a witch?”

  But I didn't know. I was beginning to wonder if I had a choice. Gran had left me her songs. I couldn't just forget them.

  We reached the clearing. Snow and I cleaned all the dry brush off the ground, and piled it into the center. We piled the wood we had gathered on top and stepped back.

  “We light it at nightfall.” I said.

  “You light it.” Snow reminded me.

  We sat on a rock beneath a willow and pulled the tea and biscuits out of the satchel. The satchel had kept the tea from heating in the sun. It trickled down my throat, cool and fresh, tasting of wings and earth. The biscuits were made of oat, crowded with bits of almond and dried blueberry. I looked at the round bit of bread in my hand as I chewed. When was the last time I had done any baking? I preferred staying outdoors as much as possible in the summer so we usually ate fresh nuts and berries with the occasional fish. “Did you make these?” I asked Snow.

  Snow nodded. She swallowed a bite, then washed it down with a gulp of tea.

  “But . . .” I took another bite, chewing slowly. Sweet. A little tart. A little sticky. “They're magnificent. I never saw them in Gran's books.” I thought I had memorized every recipe.

&nbs
p; Snow shrugged. A charming cloud of red spread over her cheeks, almost as bright and enchanting as her lips. “I didn't use a recipe. I just . . . threw some things together and baked them.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. She could hardly manage a decent pot of porridge with clear instructions. How had she invented a magnificent biscuit without even thinking about it? “You are a riddle, Snow.” I said.

  Snow grinned. It was a smile I hadn't seen before. Playful. Almost teasing. “I'm sorry.”

  I shook my head, unable to resist returning the smile. “Never apologize for being fascinating.”

  Dusk crawled around us as we finished the biscuits. The sky's gray darkened and the first splattering of stars glittered overhead. A fox pattered across the clearing. Crickets chirped from the grass. Bright colored beetles drifted through the air around our ears and across the sky. A pair of bats flapped out of the trees looking for their supper.

  “The wood is so alive at night.” Snow said. “How did I live so long twittering my evenings away at Papa's long suppers inside the manor?”

  I tilted my head, peering closely at Snow to see if her eyes held any trace of the haunted look she had when she spoke of the queen, but she wasn't thinking of those times. She was remembering before. “The suppers couldn't have been all bad.” I said “They must have had dancing.”

  “Yes.” She smiled distantly “I used to love watching the noble women twirl across the room in silks and ribbons, waiting for the day I would be old enough to join them but . . .” She fingered the edges of her hair. “I think I would rather watch the bats. People are so far away

  ---everyone at the manor was. Constanze. Dana. Elise. Even Papa. They were always so far out of my reach in some place I couldn't understand. Even when they were right in front of me. Especially then. Things aren't far away here. They just are. The trees. The air. The night. You. I can feel it. I can touch it.” She reached her hand out, almost touching mine, then pulled it away.

  “You can.” I held her gaze, reaching for her hands. “Dance with me.” I said. “Show me how. You must be old enough now.”

  She smiled, biting her lip at the same time. “Almost. But I don't suppose the foxes will care.”

  My feet were ill tuned for the controlled, delicate steps Snow showed me. I tried to mimic the slow, languid motions of her feet and ankles, but mine fumbled, kicking against her toes and shins. I held onto her hand, resting my other palm firmly against her waist but I still managed to lose my balance. I fell forward as we twisted, landing in her arms. She smelled of ferns and maple sap. I felt her breath, soft and slow, rise against my ear. My heartbeat quickened. I drew back.

  The movement was too quick. I had to step my foot back to keep my balance. It tangled between Snow's ankles and we both came tumbling down onto the cool damp grass. My knee pressed into her thigh. My elbow pushed down against her shoulder.

  “I'm sorry.” I muttered, barely able to get the words out.

  Snow laughed. It sounded like rain. Like thunder. “That was much better than my first lesson. I was so stiff my feet hardly moved at all.”

  I pulled my elbow away from her shoulder. “I doubt that. You were probably born with complete control of every movement you ever made.”

  Except when she was asleep. And making porridge.

  “It's dark.” Snow said.

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me, waiting. I didn't move.

  “Time to light the fire.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” We untangled ourselves and I followed her to the kindling piled in the center of the clearing. We stood in silence for a moment, listening to the calls, and scurries of the night. At least that's what Snow heard. I heard the deep thrum of the trees, the enveloping roar of the earth, and the wordless cries of children who had died years before I was born. I closed my eyes.

  I felt the fire, already burning deep inside my chest, brighter than ever before. It spread through my limbs and belly and up into my throat. It rollicked there a moment, dancing to the tune of the earth, then I opened my mouth and let the music out into the night.

  The song I sang was unlike any I had ever tasted before. It gurgled and soared and screamed and laughed all at once, swirling in the air as if I had more voices than one. It warmed me like liquid light then doused me with the chills of a summer rainfall. I felt lightning in its melody and thunder in its rhythm. My mind screamed for it to end while my body wanted it to go on forever.

  Music poured into the night, drowning out every bird chirp, every deer's rustle, every owl's hoot or insect hum. Even the ghosts had fallen silent. All I could hear were the trees and the earth itself, thrumming louder and louder from inside me. I was their voice, their soul, their song. Or were they mine? I wasn't sure if there was a difference anymore. I was the maple the hobgoblin had tried to take branches from. I was the old oak Snow had once killed rabbits under. I was the willow we had sat beneath to drink our tea.

  Snow. I was the grass beneath her feet. The breeze pouring through her inky black hair.

  No. I was Rose. I lived with Snow in Gran's cottage. I might be a witch.

  I opened my eyes. The fire burned high in front of me, lighting the night brighter than a full moon. The heat scorched the surface of my skin. I slipped my hand into Snow's beside me. Her fingers twitched, tightening their grip around mine. The life inside them pulled me little by little back to myself.

  I was Rose, standing next to Snow in the wood. We had come to thank the earth.

  Ghosts flickered in the light of the fire. Children grinned at me with hopelessness as their faces turned from gold to red to blue. “Lost.” They whispered, over and over “Lost.”

  Shadows fluttered in a circle overhead. I looked up, staring for a moment before I realized they were bats and owls, gathering in a ring around the fire. Other woodland creatures stepped out from behind the trees. Badgers and fox and mice and rabbits and deer and squirrels. They stood silently in a perfect circle, watching the flames. Watching me. Watching Snow.

  I was Rose. Singing a song I had learned from my Gran.

  I stopped singing. Silence never touched my ears. The owls and bats beat their wings, diving into the clearing with a fluttering roar. Insects I hadn't seen resting in the trees took flight, buzzing across the sky, past our ears and mouths and eyes. Rabbits and mice and deer and fox and squirrels darted into the clearing, squeaking and chattering as they pattered through the grass with a brittle hiss.

  The ground crawled with shadows. A bat flew into the side of my head. Snow ducked as an owl flew past her ear. We held on to each other for balance. Small woodland animals scurried over our bare feet and brushed their tails against our ankles. Tiny claws scratched between my toes. Whiskers tickled the arches of my feet. Insect legs landed on my hands and neck and ears. Snow held on tight to both my hands. Our foreheads tapped against each other as we tried to shelter one another's faces.

  The river of forest life seemed to go on forever until all at once it stopped. A final pair of mice remained, chasing each other through the grass. A moth landed on my nose then flew away. Whatever had brought them had also sent them away.

  Snow and I straightened. Snow coughed, sputtering an insect into her palm. His wet, shriveled wings clung to the creases of her skin. We looked at each other, then at the fire, still burning amidst the swirl of ghosts.

  I let go of Snow's hands and stepped toward the flames. My heart thumped louder than the thrum of the trees inside my chest. My breath heaved, rough and shallow, through my lungs. I had memorized all of Gran's rhymes but none of them seemed right for tonight. Not quite.

  “Thorn and briar.” I whispered “Wing and claw. Spare us from your clenching jaw. Wild wonders, rich and sweet. We lay our treasures at your feet.”

  “You wrote that one.” Snow said. “I've never heard it before.”

  I nodded. I didn't tell her it had come to me in almost that very second. Instead I turned toward her, watching her pale face change colors like the g
host childrens’ in the firelight. “Do I scare you?”

  Snow shook her head. “You could never scare me.”

  I wished I had her faith. Tonight I was scaring myself. “I think I'm a witch.” I said.

  She smiled. A sweet smile. An understanding smile. “I think so too.”

  I looked back at the fire. Its warmth rippled against my skin. “I never had a friend like you before, Snow. Greta always kept me away from the other villagers.”

  Snow stepped closer. I could hear the gentle rise and fall of her breath only an inch or two from my shoulder. “You had your Gran.”

  I sniffed, wiping a tear off my nose with the back of my hand. When had I started crying? I never cried. “I only saw her once a moon and . . . she wasn't like you.”

  “No one's going to keep you away from me.” Snow promised.

  In the warmth of the summer night, under the canopy of more stars than any being could hope to count, I believed her.

  Snow

  W e saw the hobgoblin again toward the end of summer. A hint of cold had already begun to seep into the nights and mornings. Rose and I followed the brook downstream, looking for one last string of fish before the chill of autumn set in and it was too cold to wade up to our shins in the cool liquid ripples. I walked ahead of Rose with my skirts pinned to my bodice so that they didn't drape past my knees. I had a pole and fishing line in one hand and a satchel of strawberries and truffles slung over my shoulder, rubbing against my hip as we walked. A slur of wet gravel beneath the water squashed between my bare toes. The leaves whispered in the branches overhead, caressed by the still, soft breeze. I turned back to look at Rose, feeling the wind twirl through the loose strands of my hair. Rose's head was tilted, her eyes distant, her berry-stained lips bent in a distracted smile.