Snow White Learns Witchcraft

by Theodora Goss

  * * *

  Wearing the wolf skin, she does not have to be herself anymore. She does not have to be Rose. She can be something else entirely: pain, longing, anger. She can be silence if she wants to. She can be the word “no.”

  * * *

  And what about Leroy? He is no wolf.

  But wolves, she has learned, are not the dangerous ones after all.

  * * *

  This is a fairy tale, so all times are the same time: all times are now. She is always walking down the path, letting the white silk slip fall to her feet, pointing the rifle at the sleeping wolf, telling the story—the only story that makes sense—to the policeman. She is always trying on her wedding dress. It is always the season for blackberries and small red apples. She is always sitting in the darkness, warm and safe. She is always running through the forest, under oaks and pines.

  * * *

  All she wants is the wolf’s pelt, made into a cloak. Her mother does not think it is suitable, but her father consults the furrier. The red cloak has grown too small for her; she will wear the fur cloak, so much warmer in winter.

  She wears it to visit her grandmother’s grave, in the parish churchyard. “Nana,” she says to the headstone. “Nana, I’m so sorry.”

  * * *

  She is fairly certain that if she wears the white dress, the one that makes her look immaculate, the one she may someday be buried in, drops of blood will appear on the bodice. Then streaks will run down the skirt. It will turn as red as a poppy among the wheat, as a flame on a match.

  She rises, opens the closet door, and climbs out the window into the branches of the oak tree, then drops down on all fours and lopes, slowly, knowing that no one is watching, toward the forest.

  She only stops once, to howl.

  The Red Shoes

  There are days

  when I too want to cut off my feet.

  Days on which I desire too much, on which I am filled

  with longing for what I don’t have, and may never.

  When I feel that black hole in my chest

  (like a manhole missing its cover)

  into which things fall: my phone, the alarm clock,

  the bulletin board on the wall,

  the to-do list on my desk,

  all my best intentions, and I think,

  who needs feet? Especially

  feet in red shoes.

  Once you put the red shoes on,

  you can never take them off.

  I put them on when I was fifteen

  and first fell in love,

  and first wanted to live

  anywhere but where I was living.

  I thought, Let me be wild. Let me dance, just a little.

  The red shoes never take you anywhere sensible.

  They will take you to Paris

  when your credit card is maxed out.

  That, of course, is when I first wanted to become

  a writer. One of the incorrigible.

  But sometimes you get tired

  of dancing everywhere: down the street,

  on the subway.

  And you think, I could just take a hatchet to them.

  Karen did it, and she’s up in heaven

  somewhere, where good girls go.

  She no longer wants anything.

  She stopped writing long ago.

  But what about Hans? Because he had a pair as well.

  I suspect he’s tap-dancing

  in the hell writers make for themselves,

  red shoes flashing (his had spangles).

  He could never give up desire,

  no matter how hard he tried.

  He was ugly, and therefore wanted everything.

  (As we are all ugly, if not outside, then inside,

  all ducklings who only occasionally

  recognize our swan parentage.)

  He tried very hard to be good,

  but kept falling in love,

  which is a disadvantage.

  So here I am, red shoes on (they never come off):

  sometimes they are sandals, sometimes rain boots.

  And I don’t know what to do with them except keep walking,

  which is also dancing, because although I may tire,

  they don’t.

  Girl, Wolf, Woods

  There are days on which I am the girl in the woods

  in my red cap, jaunty, with my basket, plentiful,

  wearing my innocence like a placard.

  There are days on which I am the wolf, slavering

  for either seedcake or a grandmother,

  on which I am a hunger waiting

  to be fed, a need, a desire.

  There are days on which I am the woods,

  silent, impenetrable.

  Let me wander from the path, gathering flowers,

  for night comes all too soon.

  Feed me, for I am starved.

  I want wine and cakes and meat. I want

  the girl in the red cap and neat

  apron. I want to crunch her bones.

  I want to lope through darkness.

  Let me be still, let me grow and feel

  sunlight on my arms, which are also branches.

  Let me hear birdsong.

  There was a girl with a red cap,

  a chaperon as they called it in that region,

  which was famed for lace-making.

  She ventured into the woods. The sun

  was shining, but it was cool under the trees.

  There, she met a wolf who was hungry

  not for herself, but for her pups,

  born late in the season, whom she was nursing.

  Give me wine, she said, so I may be strong,

  give me seedcake, or I will gobble up

  your grandmother, and then you.

  The girl knelt and said, here is wine,

  here is cake, here is meat, a cold chicken leg

  wrapped in a napkin, packed in the basket

  by my mother, who embroidered this apron

  with a row of red hearts.

  I was taking it to my grandmother,

  who has rheumatism and cannot run far,

  but would be tough anyway.

  Come, eat. I will share it with you.

  The branches above sighed

  as the wind passed through them,

  and farther down the path, in a cottage

  surrounded by lavender and sage,

  among which bees were gathering

  nectar from the flowers,

  her grandmother was snoring.

  That is not how the story goes, you insist.

  But that is how I prefer to tell it.

  Red as Blood and White as Bone

  I am an orphan. I was born among these mountains, to a woodcutter and his wife. My mother died in childbirth, and my infant sister died with her. My father felt that he could not keep me, so he sent me to the sisters of St. Margarete, who had a convent farther down the mountain on which we lived, the Karhegy. I was raised by the sisters on brown bread, water, and prayer.

  This is a good way to start a fairy tale, is it not?

  When I was twelve years old, I was sent to the household of Baron Orso Kalman, whose son was later executed for treason, to train as a servant. I started in the kitchen, scrubbing the pots and pans with a brush, scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees with an even bigger brush. Greta, the German cook, was bad-tempered, as was the first kitchen maid, Agneta. She had come from Karberg, the big city at the bottom of the Karhegy—at least it seemed big, to such a country bumpkin as I was then. I was the second kitchen maid and slept in a small room that was probably a pantry, with a small window high up, on a mattress filled with straw. I bathed twice a week, after Agneta in her bathwater, which had already grown cold. In addition to the plain food we received as servants, I was given the leftovers from the baron’s table after Greta and Agneta had picked over them. That is how I first tasted chocolate cake, and sausages, and beer. And I was given two d
resses of my very own. Does this not seem like much? It was more than I had received at the convent. I thought I was a lucky girl!

  I had been taught to read by the nuns, and my favorite thing to read was a book of fairy tales. Of course the nuns had not given me such a thing. A young man who had once stayed in the convent’s guesthouse had given it to me, as a gift. I was ten years old, then. One of my duties was herding the goats. The nuns were famous for a goat’s milk cheese, and so many of our chores had to do with the goats, their care and feeding. Several times, I met this man up in the mountain pastures. (I say man, but he must have been quite young still, just out of university. To me he seemed dreadfully old.) I was with the goats, he was striding on long legs, with a walking stick in his hand and a straw hat on his head. He always stopped and talked to me, very politely, as he might talk to a young lady of quality.

  One day, he said, “You remind me of a princess in disguise, Klara, here among your goats.” When I told him that I did not know what he meant, he looked at me in astonishment. “Have you never read any fairy tales?” Of course not. I had read only the Bible and my primer. Before he left the convent, he gave me a book of fairy tales, small but beautifully illustrated. “This is small enough to hide under your mattress,” he said. “Do not let the nuns see it, or they will take it from you, thinking it will corrupt you. But it will not. Fairy tales are another kind of Bible, for those who know how to read them.”

  Years later, I saw his name again in a bookstore window and realized he had become a poet, a famous one. But by then he was dead. He had died in the war, like so many of our young men.

  I followed his instructions, hiding the book under my mattress and taking it out only when there was no one to see me. That was difficult at the convent, where I slept in a room with three other girls. It was easier in the baron’s house, where I slept alone in a room no one else wanted, not even to store turnips. And the book did indeed become a Bible to me, a surer guide than that other Bible written by God himself, as the nuns had taught. For I knew nothing of Israelites or the building of pyramids or the parting of seas. But I knew about girls who scrubbed floors and grew sooty sleeping near the hearth, and fish who gave you wishes (although I had never been given one), and was not Greta, our cook, an ogress? I’m sure she was. I regarded fairy tales as infallible guides to life, so I did not complain at the hard work I was given, because perhaps someday I would meet an old woman in the forest, and she would tell me that I was a princess in disguise. Perhaps.

  The day on which she came was a cold, dark day. It had been raining for a week. Water poured down from the sky, as though to drown us all, and it simply did not stop. I was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. Greta and Agneta were meeting with the housekeeper, Frau Hoffman, about a ball that was to take place in three days’ time. It would celebrate the engagement of the baron’s son, Vadek, to the daughter of a famous general, who had fought for the Austro-Hungarian emperor in the last war. Prince Radomir himself was staying at the castle. He had been hunting with Vadek Kalman in the forest that covered the Karhegy until what Greta called this unholy rain began. They had been at school together, Agneta told me. I found it hard to believe that a prince would go to school, for they never did in my tales. What need had a prince for schooling, when his purpose in life was to rescue fair maidens from the dragons that guarded them, and fight ogres, and ride on carpets that flew through the air like aeroplanes? I had never in my life seen either a flying carpet or an aeroplane: to me, they were equally mythical modes of transportation.

  I had caught a glimpse of the general’s daughter when she first arrived the day before, with her father and lady’s maid. She was golden-haired, and looked like a porcelain doll under her hat, which Agneta later told me was from Paris. The lady’s maid had told Frau Hoffman, who had told Greta, and the news had filtered down even to me. But I thought a Paris hat looked much like any other hat, and I had no interest in a general’s daughter. She did not have glass slippers, and I was quite certain she could not spin straw into gold. So what good was she?

  I was sitting, as I have said, in the kitchen beside the great stone hearth, peeling potatoes by a fire I was supposed to keep burning so it could later be used for roasting meat. The kitchen was dark, because of the storm outside. I could hear the steady beating of rain on the windows, the crackling of wood in the fire. Suddenly, I heard a thump, thump, thump against the door that led out to the kitchen garden. What could it be? For a moment, my mind conjured images out of my book: a witch with a poisoned apple, or Death himself. But then I realized it must be Josef, the under-gardener. He often knocked on that door when he brought peas or asparagus from the garden and made cow-eyes at Agneta.

  “A moment,” I cried, putting aside the potatoes I had been peeling, leaving the knife in a potato near the top of the basket so I could find it again easily. Then I went to the door.

  When I pulled it open, something that had been leaning against it fell inside. At first I could not tell what it was, but it moaned and turned, and I saw that it was a woman in a long black cloak. She lay crumpled on the kitchen floor. Beneath her cloak she was naked: her white legs gleamed in the firelight. Fallen on the ground beside her was a bundle, and I thought: Beggar woman. She must be sick from hunger.

  Greta, despite her harshness toward me, was often compassionate to the beggar women who came to our door—war widows, most of them. She would give them a hunk of bread or a bowl of soup, perhaps even a scrap of meat. But Greta was not here. I had no authority to feed myself, much less a woman who had wandered here in the cold and wet.

  Yet there she lay, and I had to do something.

  I leaned down and shook her by the shoulders. She fell back so that her head rolled around, and I could see her face for the first time. That was no cloak she wore, but her own black hair, covering her down to her knees, leaving her white arms exposed. And her white face... well. This was a different situation entirely. It was, after all, within my area of expertise, for although I knew nothing at all about war widows, I knew a great deal about lost princesses, and here at last was one. At last something extraordinary was happening in my life. I had waited a long time for this—an acknowledgment that I was part of the story. Not one of the main characters of course, but perhaps one of the supporting characters: the squire who holds the prince’s horse, the maid who brushes the princess’s hair a hundred times each night. And now story had landed with a thump on the kitchen floor.

  But what does one do with a lost princess when she is lying on the kitchen floor? I could not lift her—I was still a child, and she was a grown woman, although not a large one. She had a delicacy that I thought appropriate to princesses. I could not throw water on her—she was already soaking wet. And any moment Greta or Agneta would return to take charge of my princess, for so I already thought of her. Finally, I resorted to slapping her cheeks until she opened her eyes—they were as deep and dark as forest pools.

  “Come with me, Your Highness,” I said. “I’ll help you hide.” She stood, stumbling a few times so that I thought she might fall. But she followed me to the only place I knew to hide her—my own small room.

  “Where is...” she said. They were the first words she had said to me. She looked around as though searching: frightened, apprehensive. I went back to the kitchen and fetched her bundle, which was also soaked. When I handed it to her, she clutched it to her chest.

  “I know what you are,” I said.

  “What... I am? And what is that?” Her voice was low, with an accent. She was not German, like Frau Hoffman, nor French, like Madame Francine, who did the baroness’s hair. It was not any accent I had heard in my short life.

  “You are a princess in disguise,” I said. Her delicate pale face, her large, dark eyes, her graceful movements proclaimed who she was, despite her nakedness. I, who had read the tales, could see the signs. “Have you come for the ball?” What country did you come from? I wanted to ask. Where does your father rule? But perhaps that would have be
en rude. Perhaps one did not ask such questions of a princess.

  “Yes... Yes, of course,” she said. “What else would I have come for?”

  I gave her my nightgown. It came only to her shins, but otherwise fitted her well enough, she was so slender. I brought her supper—my own supper, it was, but I was too excited to be hungry. She ate chicken off the bone, daintily, as I imagined a princess would. She did not eat the potatoes or cabbage—I supposed they were too common for her. So I finished them myself.

  I could hear Greta and Agneta in the kitchen, so I went out to finish peeling the potatoes. Agneta scolded me for allowing the fire to get low. There was still meat to roast for the baron’s supper, while Greta made a cream soup and Agneta dressed the cucumber salad. Then there were pots and pans to clean, and the black range to scrub. All the while, I smiled to myself, for I had a princess in my room.

  I finished sweeping the ancient stone floor, which dated back to Roman times, while Greta went on about what we would need to prepare for the ball, how many village women she would hire to help with the cooking and baking for that night. And I smiled because I had a secret: my princess was going to the ball, and neither Greta nor Agneta would know.

  When I returned to my room, the princess was fast asleep on my bed, under my old wool blanket that was ragged at the edges. I prepared to sleep on the floor, but she opened her eyes and said, “Come, little one,” holding the blanket open for me. I crawled in and lay next to her. She was warm, and she curled up around me with her chin against my shoulder. It was the warmest and most comfortable I had ever been. I slept soundly that night.