1711 1009
A few years ago, I got really inspired and began to write a series of scripts with the intention of producing them into digital audio files. I think I wrote about thirteen of them (heh), and once I was through with all the writing and editing, it came time to begin recording the dialogue I'd written and make them into little theatrical radio programs for the 21st century. They were dark and had a lot of bad things happening in them. I harassed friends and placed ads on Craigslist and trolled forums looking for people to act with their voices. And a lot of people came through for me and recorded parts here and there, but I never ended up finishing any of them completely before other forces in my life took over and I pretty much abandoned the project. I still have a pile of tapes in my closet, recordings of readings. I made my friend Evan record some stuff, but going south mentally at that time convinced me the idea wasn't worth following through with. But I still have the stories!
One in particular that I wanted to share this evening was a morbid sort of fairytale, taking anything potentially wholesome or innocent from that context and replacing it with misanthropic misdeeds against the protagonist. And, I think somewhere in the world, a grandmother is telling her kin about terrible experiences about growing up in this place we know, and the carjackers and the murderers are the hobgoblin and the troll, but the skeleton of the story doesn't change that much as it ripples throughout the multi-dimensional universe.
This is the Snowflake Bride.
THE SNOWFLAKE BRIDE
When I was a little girl, my grandmother would tell me stories. I’ve never been able to find them again in collections of fairy tales or the history books of our native country, no matter where I looked. She said her stories were very old. They had been told to her by her grandmother and likewise she shared them with my mother and then me. It was her legacy for me, my inheritance. My grandmother died when I was young, before our family decided to move to America. She’s been gone for so long sometimes I have a hard time remembering what she looked like, but I will never forget lying next to her in her gigantic bed and hearing her tell her stories to me.
There was one story in particular that was my favorite over all the others. Unfortunately, it was the one grandmother told the least often. I’d have to beg her and plead with her to hear it one more time, even though I already knew it by heart. There was magic in the way she told it, the way here eyes would darken and her voice would change. Eventually she’d give in to me as she always would. That story, she called the Snowflake Bride. I may not do it justice the way she could, but I will certainly try my best.
Deep in the country, at the base of the mountains that made up the northern border of our country, there was a small isolated village. The nearest town was many miles away, so the locals had to rely on each other to survive the harsh winters that befell the region. All facets of life seemed to revolve around preparing for those long cold months, for the weather was unpredictable, almost fickle in the way it could sometimes linger on into the early spring. But eventually everything would thaw and the new harvest could be planned again.
In the village lived a farmer, a simple hardworking man, much like any other one could find in the region. He’d been born and raised in the village, and chose his wife from another family native to there. They had three daughters. The two oldest were a fair resemblance to their mother and father, but there was something different about their youngest daughter. Her hair was the color of ebony and straight, and her eyes were dark, and full as mugs of black coffee, which contrasted strongly with her milky skin. She was strikingly beautiful, which is not to say her sisters were ugly in any way, but perhaps a nicer way to put it would be to say she just wasn’t as non-descript as the rest of them. One couldn’t help but notice her. Her parents named her ( ), which means raven. She was her father’s favorite child, to be sure, but the others didn’t seem to resent her for it, like you’d find in other families. It was just accepted. Despite that fact, she received no special treatment when it came to giving a hand around the family’s farm, as soon as she was old enough to contribute. By the age of three she was out pulling weeds with her mother in the garden. She was able to sew quite well before her fifth birthday. She never complained when she had to rise before dawn to get the animals all fed.
As she grew older, more and more people noticed this peculiar girl. Every boy in the village fell smitten with her yet not one of them dared to approach her. It was as if they were almost afraid of her and her strange beauty.
It didn’t stay that way for long, though. As she began the change from girl to young woman, those once bashful boys put their trepidation aside and began to attempt to win her favor. They would have to try very hard for her to even notice them, since she was so dedicated to working their fields and preparing for the winter. If a boy could even make it to the point where she was aware of them, he could be sure to have the distinct misfortune of dealing with her father, who had no tolerance for awkward boys trying to steal away his beloved daughter. She accepted this as the way things were and forgot about them all as they came and went. This went on, much to her sisters’ growing jealousy, who, being older than her, didn’t appreciate all the unwanted attention their younger sister received. Sadly, even her castoffs had no interest in her older sisters. There was just her.
It was the summer of her 13th year, and she was out in the main field, picking vegetables. She felt it in the ground first, a faint tremor like a weak earthquake. There came a great thundering though, from one end of the valley, a clamor that could be nothing other than something majestic. She looked up from the plants, and on the horizon she saw a great procession of men on horseback, wearing armor that reflected jagged flashes of sunlight, mean bearing great iron weapons and thick wooden shields. The procession was as wide as it was long as they came into full view, and she couldn’t help but stop what she was doing and stare, open mouthed and amazed at the spectacle. They moved at a leisurely pace, as if to be noticed with the crashing of hoof falls and their sheer mass. More and more villagers took notice of the pageant and wandered out of their plots and homes to get a better sight. She didn’t rise from her knees, but rather she set back to work.
They eventually came to a halt in the center of the village, their horses snorting and scratching at the dirt. There was trumpeting, she could hear, and finally she was roused to abandon the sack of vegetables to see what was happening. There was a tall man standing in the middle of the gathering of villagers, who were all prostrate upon the ground at the man’s feet. Coming up from behind, she listened to the man’s booming authoritative voice as he told the people that his father, a king from somewhere she’d never heard of, had recently been granted rule of the lands their village occupied. They were all considered subjects of His Majesty, whose dominion carried over to his son, the Prince, the man who was explaining all this. He told them of what was to be expected of them with the new arrangement. Having never been exposed to such political maneuvering before, she was fascinated by this proud young man who commanded such attention. She was almost upon him when his men seized her. There was a great commotion as swords were unsheathed but it was as if the world had stopped when the Prince turned and saw here there, being held captive. His eyes seemed to focus and focus in a manner beyond his control. The deep voice that proclaimed his father’s dominion was replaced with the unsure crackle of a pubescent boy.
“Who is she?” he asked no one in particular, the authority draining like through a hole in a bucket.
“Sire, she is my daughter,” spoke her father, lifting his face from the dirt to address the Prince.
The Prince said, “Then we have matters to discuss. Let us retire to your home to speak further.” He motioned for her father to rise, and together they headed in the direction of their home.
One of the soldiers asked, “What about the girl?”
“Let her go,” the Prince said. “She is no threat.” Regaining her freedom, she fled from the army into the fields, getting lost within the tall rows of corn stalks. She weaved her way through until she came upon her house, where she hid below the windowsill outside to spy upon the Prince and her father’s discussion.
“Your Highness, I just cannot…”
“Nonsense,” the Prince cut off her father. “She is almost a woman, and fit to join me in my father’s kingdom.”
“Yes,” her father said, “But…”
“You do understand, peasant, that one day I will be king? And when that day comes and I succeed to my father’s throne your daughter would be my queen. Can you understand what that means? There is another world out there beyond this insignificant village. I simply must have her. This haggling is beneath me, and frankly, I grow weary of it. Think of how this can benefit your family and your people, giving to the world the bride of the once and future king. Gather up her things, old man.”
“Please let me explain, Your Highness. I wish I could give her to you, but she’s been pledged to another to be married.”
Sitting beneath the window, this was the first she’d heard of such an arrangement. Her face flushed in confusion.
“Such a pledge means nothing in the face of a royal decree,” the Prince said.
“To be honest, Your Highness, I know little of your father the King and even less about you, but I have heard of your dedication to spreading the word of this new faith your people call Christianity. While I am sure your ways are noble and just, such beliefs are relatively unknown in a place like this. We still adhere to our old ways, the traditions passed down from our ancestors. These beliefs dictate that my youngest daughter has been sworn to wed the Winterking, and very soon. It wouldn’t bode well for anyone to go back on this arrangement.”
She couldn’t see him, but she could tell the Prince was burning up inside with indignation.
He said, “You would rather dare have another king that you hold in reverence over my father? Surely you understand you speak of treason with such statements?”
Her father said nothing.
“I have never heard of this King,” the Prince said. “Does he dare invoke the threat of war that my father can unleash?”
“I fear,” her father said softly, “that would be a rather one-sided battle.”
“What does that mean? Keep in mind the next words you speak aloud could be your last.” She heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed, and she feared for her father’s life.
“I do not wish to speak out of line, Your Highness. I do not wish to offend you or the might your father the King embodies. I wish I could say otherwise, I do, but my daughter, she’s not mine to give, nor is she yours to have. She belongs to him.
“This man you call Winterking? You are certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain,” her father said at barely a whisper.
“Very well,” the Prince said. “I’ll be back, after I travel to my Father’s court to receive a royal proclamation, laying claim to the girl. She’s mine, old man, whether or not you say otherwise. Let this Winterking come between us, for blood shall be spilled.”
As they arrived, they departed in a great din, albeit at a faster pace than before. She could see her father standing alone, his shoulders trembling. She called to him.
“How long have you been out there?” He asked her.
She confessed that she had heard everything. “Father, why have you never told me of my betrothal to this other? Who is he?”
Her father sighed and sat down, and motioned for her to come inside.
“My daughter, you remember as a child being told of the stories of the Summer Mother? She who brings sunlight for our plants to be fed so they can sustain us?”
“Yes, father.”
“Well, just as she brings about the warm seasons of growth, there is another who brings the snow and frost. His cycle is the ice, the barren. He is called the Winterking.”
“Why have I never heard of him before?” She asked.
“We do not like to speak of him.”
“Why?”
“Because the Summer Mother gives us her gifts freely. The Winterking does nothing but take. And sometimes, he takes more than he deserves. He can be very greedy, if he so chooses. There was a winter when I was a boy. The ice never melted. The winds never stopped blowing about their frozen air. Springtime came and still the snow was piled past our doors. Soon, the whole village began to run out of food that we had stored for the winter. Some of the people had to resort to.…to drastic measures to survive. We pleaded with the Winterking to allow the thaw to come so we could go on living, and it was then we made our arrangement with him. He said it was very lonely in his fortress. He said he required a bride to keep him company. But not just any girl, he wanted only the most beautiful one. Each family had to take turns, giving their prettiest daughter to marry him, and in turn he wouldn’t let the winter intrude into our growing season. I’m sorry to say, my dear, that it’s your turn to marry the Winterking.”
“But father, if I marry the Prince, think of the wealth and riches he would shower on us. We could leave this frostbitten place and the Winterking behind. What about that?”
“I’m afraid all the gold and gems their king may possess holds not a candle to that of the Winterking. His kingdom is grander than any mortal ruler’s. You will want for nothing as his Snowflake Bride, you’ll see. You must put the Prince out of your mind, my girl.”
“Yes father,” she said. And that was that, until the days began to grow shorter and the frost would be found on the grass when she’d rise in the morning. Winter was approaching.
The first snowfall of the season began with a few scattered flakes that fell gently from the sky. She watched them drift on the wind currents as her mother and her sisters busied themselves inside the house. She saw her father sitting beneath a tree, and she went to him.
“What’s wrong, father?” She asked.
“The snow is falling, my daughter. That means it’s time for you to leave us and join your bridegroom in his kingdom.”
“How will I find it, father?”
“You’ll know once you’re there. You must travel up the mountain a ways. Leave before dark, before all the light is gone and the snow falls heavier.”
They were quiet for some time.
“Father?” She said
“Yes, my daughter?”
“Will it hurt?”
“No, it won’t hurt. I promise.”
The sun was almost gone behind the horizon when she made her way to the base of the mountain. The snow fell harder and faster with each step. Her home shrank more and more when she’d look back over her shoulder. She didn’t want to go through with this, to marry some mysterious stranger she’d never even seen before, when she had a perfectly acceptable suitor in the Prince who desired her. Everything within her told her to flee the mountain path she was following, to run east towards the Prince’s kingdom, but she knew she couldn’t. She would never betray her father that way.
The path grew more steep and jagged the further she went, farther than she’d ever dared to explore before. The temperature dropped and brought an ache to her ears and the tip of her nose. She gathered her furs around her to keep in the warmth and headed forward. She could see no castle in the distance, no turrets or towers. How far would she have to travel, she wondered, as the snowfall thickened to a consistency of fog. She could barely make out anything in front of her but white, everything white. Her head spun and stumbled more and more frequently.
It took some time to realize she’d come upon level ground as she walked blindly. She thought she was heading in the right direction but had no way to be really sure. Exhausted, bewildered, frozen, she’d had enough. She dropped to her knees, the snow swallowing her up to her chest. Straining her eyes, she saw nothing in any direction. She began to cry, with great tears that froze to her skin mid-cheek. The pain registered but made no difference to the hopelessness she felt. She’d gotten lost, and her mistake could cost her family, and her village, everything. She cried even harder.
She thought at first she’d imagined the voice. That she was losing her mind.
“Are you lost?” The voice came again. There was a shadow passing through the sheets of white, closer to her.
“Yes, yes, I’m lost! Over here!” She struggled to her feet, wiping the ice crystals form her face.
“Oh my, only the most foolish would come up here in a storm such as this. You must be frozen, my darling.”
She said, “I am, sir, I am.”
“My home is not far from here. Would you like to go there and get out of this blizzard?” He was scant inches from her, but she couldn’t make out his face from under his hood. He was about as tall as her, which wasn’t very tall at all, but he did stand with an obvious hunch.
“I would like that very much, sir, but I cannot be long. I have somewhere very important to be.”
“Well, if you freeze to death out here you’ll never arrive at all, will you? Come along, follow me.” She had a hard time keeping up with the man, but they eventually came upon a small shack set squarely in the middle of nothing. It was dark inside, from where she could see.
“I will light a fire in the hearth for you, so you can get some warmth back in your bones.” She sat in the only chair in the room, in front of a battered table that had seen better days. Within minutes the room was glowing and the fire eased the numbness she felt everywhere. In the light, she caught glimpses of her host’s face. It was distorted and misshapen, like a cruel trick to be played on a hapless victim. He’d catch her staring and she’d quickly look away, but she could feel his gaze lingering much longer.
“My, you are a pretty one.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You never did say where you’re headed. There certainly aren’t many destinations out here to choose from, and you don’t look like the mountain climbing type.”
“I have to meet someone,” She said.
“Really?”
“Yes. A very important meeting.”
“I see. Are you hungry, girl? I may have some stew left over that I could heat up for you.”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” As she warmed from the fire her hunger sprang upon her. A hot meal would be delightful.
He served her the stew in a bowl that seemed to have been made form the same kind of weathered wood as the table she ate it at. It tasted unlike anything she’d ever eaten before, but it was delicious. It was gone in moments.
“Thank you. That was very kind of you.”
He said, “It was my pleasure. I don’t get guests that often, especially this time of year. And especially ones as pretty as you.” He’d pulled back his hood, and she could see his monstrous face in the flickering fire light. It was little surprise to her that someone as ghastly as him would be forced to live alone in the mountains, but his generosity had been most welcome.
“I’m afraid I should be going,” she said.
“But you have only just arrived.”
“I know, but as I said, there is someone I am to meet.”
“You have yet to tell me who. This mountain is scarcely inhabited, and I certainly know everyone who lives upon it. Tell me for whom you must risk your life to go meet.”
“If you must know, I am to join the Winterking.”
“The Winterking? Is that so?”
“Yes it is. I am to be his Snowflake Bride.”
“My, that’s quite an honor. Do you realize this?”
“Well, my father told me a little about it, but truthfully he left much out. I do not know what he looks like, or where I can find his castle.”
“To tell you the truth, you’re not far from his castle at all. Surely you saw it when you were outside?”
“No, I didn’t. It was snowing too hard.”
“That can be forgiven. In storms like there sometimes out senses can fail us. Imagine if I’d never found you out there in the snow? You’d have expired for certain.”
As she listened to the man speak she could feel sleepiness creeping over her. There was no time for rest, no matter how much she wanted it.
“If you could be so kind, sir, to show me on my way, I would gladly thank you for your hospitality.”
“Very well,” he said. “Gather up your cloak. It’s turned even colder than when we arrived.”
They went outside and waded through waist deep snow. The man lingered for a moment, as if he was unsure which direction to tell her to travel.
“Ah yes, here we are,” he finally said. “Do you see that tree in the distance? Turn left past it, until you come upon a steep embankment. Follow that until you reach you destination.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay? There is more stew, and I am starved for companionship.”
“I really must be on my way, but thank you for your offer.” She left as fast as the snow would allow her, until she reached the tree he’d described. She eventually came up to the embankment, which jutted from the snow by a few feet and spread in both directions. She was unsure of what direction the man had said to travel, but she chose a way on a whim. The man had said the castle wasn’t far from there. She could always double back if it seemed to be the wrong way.
After not much time at all, she saw a light in the distance. Had she found it? Getting closer, she realized she’d made a mistake somewhere. She was back at the cabin. He came out to greet her.
“Hello again.”
“I must have chosen the wrong direction at the embankment. Sorry to bother you. I’ll be on my way.”
“It’s no bother,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you, my dear.”
“Pardon me?” She said.
“You’ve found me, girl. I am the Winterking.” He spread his arms and bowed deeply, his head touching the snow in front of him.
“No, you’re not,” she said, in disbelief.
“Why not?”
“Because, you don’t look like a king. And this is not a castle. You’ve tricked me, sir, and I do not appreciate it.”
“No, I’m afraid it is your father who has tricked you, not me.”
“Why would he lie?” she asked.
“Probably to ensure you’d actually come. If you knew the truth, perhaps you’d have acted otherwise.”
She stood motionless in the snow, confused.
“Come inside,” he said.
“No.”
“There are some things you can’t fight, little girl. There are some things you can’t change. I’ll be inside.” He left her, standing alone in the snow. The wind howled in seeming mockery of her. Why had her father deceived her? Against her better judgment she forced herself to join him in the shack.
She found him in the process of changing his clothes. His cloak lay on the floor. His bare back was knotted, like an ancient tree, and there was a large growth between his shoulder blades that gave him his hunchback’s gait. He stared at her with hungry eyes. There was a clean white robe draped over the chair and he pulled it around himself. Despite her indignation, she felt herself growing more tired by the moment.
“What should I do?” She asked him.
“Whatever you want,” he said. “You are my bride, not my prisoner. I want you to feel at ease with me. That’s all I want.” He held the chair out for her and she sank into it. She stared into the embers in the fireplace as they dwindled to ashes.
“The fire will be out soon,” she said, yawning. “Will you relight it soon?”
“In time, my dear. There are other things which require my attentions at the moment.” She could hear him behind her, rummaging through his things, but she was unbothered to turn to see. The only thing she could think of, it seemed, was sleep.
“Tell me something,” she said. “Is it going to hurt?”
He walked around to face her. He said, “I honestly wouldn’t know.”
…
In the village the winter battered at the people’s homes, never letting up even for a moment. The girl’s father silently mourned her absence. His wife and other two daughters seemed to go about their lives like nothing had changed, but he could hardly bear it. Nothing eased the feeling of loss, not the drink they made from fermented grains. Not staring up at the mountain, waiting for her return. He thought to himself that maybe he and his wife weren’t too old to try and have another baby, but he knew it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would ever be the same again.
It was nearly spring time but the sky was still as gray at the day winter started. The temperature never rose above freezing. It felt like the sun was afraid to come out with full strength, as if it didn’t want to infringe upon the cold.
There was talk amongst the villagers when they’d gather together. There were whispers that perhaps the girl never made it to her destination. Maybe she had no intention of wedding the Winterking and easing the brutal weather he inflicted upon them all. Could the Prince have had a fit of valiancy and rescued her on her way? The monotony and boredom of the season had its way with their imaginations, the farmer knew. It was idle gossip, but soon the people began to notice their supplies were running out. Their surplus was reaching its end, and spring was nowhere in sight. How soon until things grew dire? A week? Maybe less? More and more villagers impressed upon the farmer that it was his responsibility to go investigate, to find his daughter and uncover the reason she’d offended the Winterking. It was that, or else they could all starve.
He had no choice then, but to make his way to the mountain, the weather fighting his every step. He knew he’d find her if she was out there. He was certain.
Up the mountain pass he climbed, looking for signs of life but there was nothing but ice and snow. Eventually he saw the cabin, far in the distance. He’d never been there before, but he knew that was where he had to go to get answers.
He found his answer, lying in the snow near the front door of the cabin. It was a delicate pile of bones, stripped clean of their meat. They were tiny, the bones of a child, as white as the snow surrounding them. He knew that they were all that was left of his daughter.
On his knees, clutching as the little slivers, he wailed at the flint sky above him.
“Why are you here?” A voice called from inside the house. “This goes against our arrangement. You must leave here at once.”
“You have broken out arrangement. I have sacrificed my most important thing and yet you go back on your promises to my people. How can you justify that? How? My beloved daughter is no more, and yet my village hovers on the brink of starvation. Why haven’t you kept up your end of the bargain?”
“Well, if you must ask,” the Winterking said, “perhaps I don’t bear the influence upon the elements that your people have attributed to me over the years. Have you ever considered that?”
“What are you saying? That we’ve freely sacrificed our children to you for nothing for all this time? That it’s all been on the whim of coincidence?”
“Certainly that argument could be made,” he said, “but is that a chance you and your people are willing to take? Look at how well you’ve done so far. This current season excluded, of course. Even divinity can have its weaknesses.”
The farmer shouted, “What shall I tell my fellow villagers? How will this information fill their bellies?”
He said, “It’s really not my concern. Go back to your home, while the weather still allows. And pray my whims don’t swing toward the catastrophic. Be gone and never return.” With that, the voice form within the cabin fell silent. In shock, the farmer turned and went back in the direction he came.
The snow fell form the sky like a mighty avalanche. It gathered on his shoulders like a great wet weight, forcing his body to the earth. He moved unconscious of the world about him. The words to say to his neighbors wouldn’t form in his mind. What could he say? Their fate, it seemed, was sealed.
He couldn’t see anything ahead of him, but he knew the village was near. He could make out sounds coming from the direction, sounds unfamiliar to this time of year. There were the sounds of horses, of shouting, the shrill cries of women. He ran as fast as he could through the snow. There were too many people outside, he thought. There was no reason for so many of them to be gathered out of their homes. It made no sense to him. He wanted to ask someone what was going on, but when he reached the first person he saw they knocked him to the ground and held him there. His face buried in the slush, he could barely breathe and see nothing. He fought to rise but another joined the first person in restraining him.
“What is this?” He struggled to say. “What have I done?”
One of the men said, “Take him over there, with the others.” Two pairs of rough hands lifted him and dragged him along the familiar lane that led to the center of their village. There were torches there, shoved into the ground. They lit a terrible sight: a pile of bodies, unmoving. Frantic, he looked around and recognized his captors as the soldiers who’d traveled to their village with the Prince the summer before. He had said he’d return.
“Your Highness, we found another one out by himself!” One of the men pulled the farmer over closer to one of the torches. He saw the Prince come quickly toward him, his eyes feral. His hand rested on the handle of his sword.
“Where is she?” The Prince asked. “”No one seemed to be willing to disclose where you were hiding her. Do not make the same mistake they did, or else you’ll be dealt the same fate. Now tell me: where is she?”
“She’s, she’s gone,” he said weakly.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Gone, no more. He took her, like I said he would.”
“Nonsense. I know she’s still here. Give her to me, now.”
“If you want her, you must find the Winterking.”
“I asked my father, you know. Even he has never heard of this Winterking, and my father is an educated man. If there was such a king he’d have known of him. Why continue this lie?”
“If you don’t believe me, venture up the mountain with your men and your horses. You’ll come across his kingdom soon enough.”
“Perhaps I will, old man. I will have her, mark my words.”
With that, his soldiers dropped the farmer into the snow. In the light he could recognize some of the faces in the pile of bodies. It looked like he had killed every one of them in order to find her. He couldn’t be the last one left. Fate couldn’t be that cruel. He made one final request of the Prince, before his army went to battle for the Snowflake Bride. The Prince, being merciful above all other things, obliged the farmer his request, and with his blood turning the snow around him pink, he lay facing in the direction of the mountain, and he thought he could see his beautiful daughter climbing down the steep pass, returning home at last.
…
That is the story of the Snowflake Bride, as told to me by my grandmother. One day, when I am an old woman and I have my own grandchildren, I hope they will lay patiently for me as I tell them her stories, as they were told to her.
