Snow White Learns Witchcraft

by Theodora Goss

  An arrow would not penetrate the dragon’s hide. He knew that, because while he had been eating at the palace, he had asked Professor Owl’s tail feather to write out the entire Encyclopedia entry on dragons. He had a plan, and would get only one chance to carry it out. It would depend as much on luck as skill.

  But even if it worked, he knew how it would feel, slaying a dragon. He remembered how it had felt, killing the troll. Could he survive the pain? Was there any way to avoid it? He had to try.

  He stood in a narrow hallway off the vault. Keeping back in the shadows, he called, “Dragon!”

  The dragon lifted his head. “Another dragon slayer? How considerate of the King to sent me dessert! Dragon slayer is my favorite delicacy, although the policemen were delicious. I much preferred them to farmers, who taste like dirt and leave grit between your teeth, or fishermen, who are too salty.”

  “Dragon, you could fly north to the mountains. There are plenty of sheep to eat there.”

  “Sheep!” said the dragon. “Sheep are dull and stringy compared to the delicious men I’ve eaten here. Just the other day, I ate a fat baker. He tasted of sugar and cinnamon. There are plenty of teachers and accountants to eat in this city. Why, I might eat the Princess herself! I hear princess is even better than dragon slayer.”

  The dragon swung his head around, as though trying to locate Ivan. “But you don’t smell like a man, dragon slayer,” said the dragon. “What are you, and are you good to eat?”

  I must still smell like the wolves, thought Ivan.

  He stepped out from the hallway and into the vault. “I’m an Enigma, and I’m delicious.”

  The dragon swung toward the sound of his voice. As his great head came around, Ivan raised his bow and shot an arrow straight up into the dragon’s eye.

  The dragon screamed in pain and let out a long, fiery breath. He swung his head to and fro. Ivan aimed again, but the dragon was swinging his head too wildly: a second arrow would never hit its mark. Well, now he would find out if the Captain’s charm worked. He ran across the floor of the vault, ignoring the dragon’s flames, and picked up Sir Albert’s sword. It was still warm, but had cooled down enough for him to raise it.

  The pain had begun the moment the arrow entered the dragon’s eye, but he tried not to pay attention. He did not want to think about how bad it would get. Where was the dragon’s neck? It was still swinging wildly, but he brought the sword down just as it swung back toward him. The sword severed the dragon’s neck cleanly in two, and his head rolled over the floor.

  Ivan screamed from the pain and collapsed. He lay next to the dragon’s head, with his eyes closed, unable to rise. Then, he felt something rough and wet on his cheek. He opened his eyes. Blanchefleur was licking him.

  “Blanchefleur,” he said weakly. “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you, of course,” she said.

  “But I never saw you.”

  “Of course not.” She sat on the floor next to him as he slowly sat up. “Excellent shot, by the way. They’ll call you Ivan Dragonslayer now, you know.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” he said.

  “It’s inevitable.”

  * * *

  The King met him with an embrace that made Ivan uncomfortable. “Welcome home, Ivan Dragonslayer! I shall have my attorney draw up the papers to make you my heir, and here of course is my lovely Alethea, who will become your bride. A royal wedding will attract tourists to the city, which will help with the rebuilding effort.”

  Princess Alethea crossed her arms and looked out the window. Even from the back, she seemed angry.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Ivan, “but I have no wish to marry the Princess, and I don’t think she wants to marry me either. We don’t even know each other.”

  Princess Alethea turned and looked at him in astonishment. “Thank you!” she said. “You’re the first person who’s made any sense all day. I’m glad you slayed the dragon, but I don’t see what that has to do with getting my hand in marriage. I’m not some sort of prize at a village fair.”

  “And I would not deprive you of a kingdom,” said Ivan. “I have no wish to be king.”

  “Oh, goodness,” said Alethea, “neither do I! Ruling is deadly dull. You can have the kingdom and do what you like with it. I’m going to university, to become an astronomer. I’ve wanted to be an astronomer since I was twelve.”

  “But…” said the King.

  “Well then, it’s decided, “ said the Lady. “Ivan, you’ll spend the rest of your apprenticeship here, in the palace, learning matters of state.”

  “But I want to go back to the wolves,” said Ivan. He saw the look on the Lady’s face: she was about to say no. He added, hurriedly, “If I can go back, just for the rest of my apprenticeship, I’ll come back here and stay as long as you like, learning to be king. I promise.”

  “All right,” said the Lady.

  He nodded, gratefully. At least he would have spring in the mountains, with his pack.

  * * *

  Ivan and Blanchefleur rode north, not on a farm horse this time, but on a mare from the King’s stables. As night fell, they stopped by a stream. The mountains were ahead of them, glowing in the evening light.

  “You know, before we left, Tailcatcher asked me again,” said Blanchefleur. “He thought that my time with you was done, that I would go back to the Castle in the Forest with my mother. I could have.”

  “Why didn’t you?” asked Ivan.

  “Why did you refuse the hand of the Princess Alethea? She was attractive enough.”

  “Because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with her,” said Ivan. “I want to spend it with you, Blanchefleur.”

  “Even though I’m a cat?”

  “Even though.”

  She looked at him for a moment, then said, “I’m not always a cat, you know.” Suddenly, sitting beside him was a girl with short white hair, wearing a white fur jacket and trousers. She had Blanchefleur’s eyes.

  “Are you—are you Blanchefleur?” he asked. He stared at her. She was and she was not the white cat.

  “Of course I am, idiot,” she said. “I think you’re going to make a good king. You’ll have all the knowledge in the world to guide you, and any pain you cause, you’ll have to feel yourself, so you’ll be fair and kind. But you’ll win all your battles. You’ll hate it most of the time and wish you were back with the wolves or in Professor Owl’s tower, or even taking care of the lizards. That’s why you’ll be good.”

  “And you’ll stay with me?” he asked, tentatively reaching over and taking her hand.

  “Of course,” she said. “Who else is going to take care of you, Ivan?”

  Together, they sat and watched the brightness fade from the mountain peaks and night fall over the Wolfwald. When Ivan lay down to sleep, he felt the white cat curl up next to his chest. He smiled into the darkness before slipping away into dreams.

  Mr. Fox

  When I first fell in love with Mr. Fox, he warned me:

  You can’t trust me, my dear.

  Just when you think I am there,

  I am gone, I am nowhere.

  Look, I’m wearing a mask. Who does that? Thieves.

  By the time the autumn leaves have fallen,

  you will mourn my absence.

  And yet, I couldn’t help it. After all,

  he was wearing such a dashing red coat,

  like a soldier. He had such a twinkle in his eye.

  He danced so nimbly, holding my hands

  in paws on which he wore black kid gloves.

  His tail ended in a white tuft.

  I knew about the others, of course—or at least

  I’d heard rumors. I knew he was no innocent.

  I knew about the one who had drowned

  herself in a river, her muslin gown floating

  around her. I knew about the one who had locked

  herself away in a convent.

  How does one fall out of love with
a thief

  who has already stolen one’s heart?

  But I was cautious: I went to his castle in the woods.

  Be bold, said the sign above the gate. Be bold.

  But not too bold. I have never been good

  at listening to advice, or taking it.

  I was too bold, as usual.

  What did I find? First, a pleasant parlor,

  with blue silk curtains and rosewood furniture,

  perfectly charming. Then, a library

  filled with books, from Shakespeare to W. B. Yeats.

  A kitchen, with no implements more dangerous

  than a paring knife, beside a barrel of apples

  waiting to be turned into cider.

  Bathrooms with modern plumbing, a dining room

  that contained a mahogany table, seldom used,

  judging by the dust. But where was his secret chamber?

  There must be one. On top of a desk in his study,

  I’d seen a photograph of the girl who drowned,

  beside a vase of lilies, like a memorial.

  And there it was, at the end of a carpeted hallway.

  I knew what it must lead to, that small door.

  It was locked, of course, but I took out my lockpick tools

  (if he was a thief, I was another).

  It opened easily.

  There was no blood on the floor. There were

  no dead, dismembered wives hanging from hooks.

  Instead, the walls were covered with masks:

  fox, badger, mole, boar, weasel,

  otter, squirrel, even one that resembled a tree.

  All the masks he had worn, presumably.

  And on one wall, opposite the window,

  which badly needed washing, was a portrait

  of an ordinary man with sandy hair

  and tired eyes.

  I locked the room behind me. At our wedding,

  he said, “Are you sure, my dear?” with a toothy grin

  that seemed wicked, but was, I thought, a little anxious.

  “To marry the dangerous Mr. Fox?” I asked.

  “Who knows, you might gobble me up,

  but I’ll take my chances.” He seemed satisfied,

  and swung me into a waltz. There’s a moral to this story:

  ladies, have your own set of lockpick tools. Also,

  be bold and wise and cunning,

  like a fox.

  What Her Mother Said

  Go, my child, through the forest

  to your grandmother’s house, in a glade

  where poppies with red mouths grow.

  In this basket is an egg laid

  three days ago,

  the three days our Lord lay sleeping,

  unspotted, from a white hen.

  In this basket is also a skein

  of wool, without stain,

  unspun. And a comb that the bees

  industriously filled

  from the clover in the far pasture,

  unmown since the sun

  thawed it, last spring.

  If you can take it without breaking

  anything, I will give you

  this ring.

  Stay, child, and I’ll give you this cap

  to wear, so the forest creatures whose eyes

  blink from the undergrowth will be aware

  that my love protects you. The creatures

  lurking beneath the trees,

  weasels and stoats and foxes, and worse

  than these.

  And child, you must be wise

  in the forest.

  When the wolf finds you, remember:

  be courteous, but evasive. No answer

  is better than a foolish one.

  If you stray from the path, know

  that I strayed also. It is no great matter,

  so long as you mark the signs:

  where moss grows on bark, where a robin

  builds her nest. The sun

  sailing west.

  But do not stop to gather

  the hawthorn flowers, nor yet

  the red berries which so resemble

  coral beads. They are poisonous.

  And do not stop to listen

  to the reeds.

  He must not be there first,

  at your grandmother’s house.

  When your grandmother serves you,

  with a silver spoon, on a dish

  like a porcelain moon, Wolf Soup,

  remember to say your grace

  before you eat.

  And know that I am pleased

  with you, my child.

  But remember, when returning through the forest,

  kept warm against the night by a cloak

  of the wolf’s pelt:

  the hunter is also a wolf.

  Snow, Blood, Fur

  She looks at herself in the full-length mirror of the bridal salon. She resembles a winter landscape, hills and hollows covered with snow, white and sparkling. She is the essence of purity, as though all that has ever blown through her is a chill wind. The veil falls and falls to her feet. She shivers.

  “Are you cold, Rosie?” her mother asks.

  She shakes her head, but she is cold, or rather she is Cold, a Snow Queen. If she breathed on the mirror, it would frost.

  “Well, you look beautiful. Just beautiful. Nana would have been so proud.”

  * * *

  When she gets home, she goes up to her bedroom and opens the closet door. In one corner, in a wooden toybox she has kept from her childhood, is the wolf skin. She puts it on, draping it around her shoulders, then steps into the closet, pulls the door closed behind her, and sits down beside a parade of high-heeled shoes.

  It is dark, as dark as she imagines it must have been in the belly of the wolf.

  * * *

  Sometimes she still has nightmares.

  She is walking through the forest. Pine needles and oak leaves crunch under her boots. Once in a while, blackberry bushes pull at her dress so she has to stop and untangle the canes. She is wearing the red cloak her grandmother knit and felted. In it, she looks like a Swiss girl, demure, flaxen-haired: a Christmas angel. Her grandmother gave it to her for her sixteenth birthday.

  Suddenly, on the path ahead of her is the wolf. Dark fur, slavering red mouth. Sharp, pricked ears, yellow eyes as wild as undiscovered countries. Or it is a young man, a hunter by his outfit. He has a tweed cap on his head with a feather in it, and is carrying a rifle. When he sees her, he bows, although she cannot tell if he is serious or mocking her.

  “Aren’t you afraid of the wolf, Mistress Rose? He has been seen in this forest. Perhaps I should escort you, wherever you might be going.”

  In her basket is a bottle of blackberry cordial, a small cake with currants. She is taking them to her grandmother, who has rheumatism. She has been told to beware wolves…and young men.

  She shakes her head, eyes down. Hurriedly, she passes him, but as she is about to reach the bend in the path that will take her out of his sight, she turns back, just once, to look.

  The wolf is standing in the middle of the path. Then, he disappears through the trees, off the path, where she is not allowed to go.

  When she reaches her grandmother’s house—small, tidy, with green shutters, apples ripening on the crooked tree, bees dancing around the skep—she knocks on the door. Hearing no answer, she opens it. There is no one in the parlor. She puts the cordial and cake in the pantry, leaves the basket on the kitchen table.

  “Nana!” she calls. Could her grandmother be asleep?

  In the bedroom, which smells of lavender, all she sees on the bed is the young man, naked. She has never seen a naked man before. He is beautiful, and grotesque, and frightening.

  “Rosie Red, come to bed,” he says. “You see, I have gotten here before you.”

  She takes off the red cloak.

  * * *

  “Rosie!” her mother calls. “The florist is here with the centerpiece.
Rosie, where are you?”

  She knows what it will look like: lilies and gladiolas, so perfect they seem to be artificial. Scentless.

  It is very quiet in the closet. It is very dark. She draws up her knees and puts her arms around them.

  * * *

  When she wakes up, the wolf is lying next to her. Where she lay, the sheets are spotted with blood. He has left his rifle on the chair, beside his discarded clothing.

  She rises, still naked. Her father taught her how to use a rifle. One shot, and his body jumps on the bed. He yelps, although she does not know if he has woken up or passed directly from dreams into death. Two shots, and he lies still.

  * * *

  Her fiancé works for an accounting firm.

  “Leroy has such a good job,” says her mother. “He’ll take care of you, Rosie. What more could any woman want?”

  When he touches her, she shudders, as though his fingers were made of ice.

  * * *

  The police say she is very brave. Did they not find the remains of her grandmother at the edge of the woods, buried under oak leaves? Mauled—that is the only word. Mauled, gnawed, half-eaten.

  They make her sit and drink a glass of blackberry cordial—for the shock, they say.

  There is blood on the bed, a great deal of blood. It is the wolf’s blood, they say, and she nods.

  Later, her mother will bleach the sheets, but whenever she looks at them, she will think there was blood here, and here, and here.

  * * *

  “Rosie, the cake has arrived!” It has tiers and tiers of vanilla sponge iced with fondant, topped with sugar roses.

  She imagines the table downstairs, in the dining room. The cake, the flowers, the gifts on display: Limoges dessert plates, engraved demitasse spoons.