A Poisoned Apple
a Snow White retelling
by Caryn Pinkston
cover design © Jaclyn Weist
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Table of Contents:
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Prologue
My family life has always been unusual, for several reasons. The biggest one was that my father died from an accident when I was thirteen, and Mother passed not long after. She had been frail for some time, which probably had to do with the fact that she gave birth to no fewer than seven of us, practically one right after the other. It really wasn’t much of a surprise when she faded away, but we were all very distraught. It was truly an awful thing, to lose both Father and Mother within a year of each other. My brothers and I were left to raise each other in a small cabin in the woods with no neighbors nearby.
As little as I enjoyed the responsibilities that became mine when my parents died, I did my best to meet every last one of them. As the oldest son, I became the man of the house, with all of its difficulties. I didn’t much mind the house repairs and the hunting, but I despised the awful task of trying to keep all six of my brothers in line. Every last one of them was an unruly creature, and it seemed I couldn’t leave them alone for even one hour without them making a terrible mess of things. They were all well-intended enough, but somehow they always managed to find every kind of trouble to get themselves into. They had been rambunctious before my father died, but without him and his commanding presence, my brothers somehow became twice as mischievous as ever before. To be fair, I was once the same way, but finding that I was the family’s provider, I quickly adjusted my habits.
The next thing you ought to know is that this story takes place some six years after I had taken charge of the household. While my brothers were all old enough to be helpful by this time, they were also young enough to enjoy getting themselves into trouble. As much as I might have tried to train them out of it, I hadn’t met with much success. The best I could do was try to keep things from getting out of hand.
Now that our setting has been established, I should introduce you to each of my brothers, to avoid confusion later.
Keaton, the oldest of my younger brothers, has been such the outdoorsman, even from a very young age, that he felt positively suffocated indoors. He would be so cankerous until he could get outside again that we all suffered if anyone or anything prevented him from leaving. Once out he’d at once become so pleasant and even-tempered that we had to wonder if he was the same person. Keaton, by far, was the best at things such as foraging, hunting, and fishing, and he was the brother primarily responsible for putting food on the family’s table. One of the disadvantages of having him for a brother was that he couldn’t be made to stay near home any more easily than he could be made to stay indoors, and he was typically gone for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, but it was hard to be annoyed with him—the longer he was gone, the better game he brought back. It was also fairly difficult to tell when he’d be leaving again—he never planned, and he never thought to ask anyone before leaving once more.
Cedric, the next oldest, is only two years my junior, but sometimes it felt as if he must be much younger. He was the biggest troublemaker of them all, with his pranks, and his temper, and his stubborn streak, and also the only one of the brothers who had ever attempted to pick a fight with Father. If it wasn’t for the fact that Cedric laughed twice as often as he yelled and worked the hardest of any of the household, he might not have gotten along with anyone in the family at all.
Landon, the next brother down—by now, I’m certain you’ve noticed that we are fairly evenly spaced in age—was the quietest of them all, but he made up for what he didn’t say with the mere absurdity of the way he conducted himself. He was constantly inside some daydream or another, and he was so absent that he never paid attention to what he was doing. Curiously, although he was by far the least mischievous of my brothers, he was also the most successful prankster because he unwittingly set traps wherever he went, such as the time he was repairing the roof and left the bucket of nails above. He had apparently also forgotten to nail down the shingle where he had placed the bucket, and, as a result, the next time it rained, we suddenly found there was a bucket right in the middle of the dining room table on top of my bowl of soup. In the years since then, we learned to give Landon chores that another brother could easily redo later, and we wouldn’t have bothered make him work at all if it wasn’t for the strange things he did when he wasn’t kept busy.
Jeffrey, one year younger, was the tallest of the brothers, meaning that he stood at chest-level to a grown man. He was absurdly large for his age, relative to how big the rest of us were, and was even stronger than Father had been before he took ill. I could never understand where all Jeffrey’s muscle had come from, but he was strong enough to snap a board, if he wanted. It’s a good thing he was the most even-tempered of the brothers or we might have had a real problem on our hands. I have never once seen Jeffrey become angry, even when Cedric was in one of his moods. Jeffrey was also the clumsiest, and I often had to scramble to keep up with repairs.
Godwin, the second youngest, was the most affectionate, and he rarely went anywhere without at least one brother nearby. He talked almost constantly, which made him useless for hunting, and he was always getting up some game or another. It was hard to keep him on top of his responsibilities because if there was anyone around while he worked, he talked so rapidly, he would forget the task his hands were supposed to be doing, and if he was made to work by himself, he became so gloomy that he worked slower still. The other difficulty was that he was so optimistic that he drove some of the other brothers, particularly Cedric, nearly mad. On the rare occasions that Godwin was in a serious mood, we all felt as if the sun had gone to hide behind a cloud, and none of us could manage to smile when Godwin was unhappy.
Darren, the youngest, was the most ambitious, but, unfortunately, he simply didn’t have the wisdom to think through his decisions. He was always trying to come up with a new way to do some old chore—he once tried to get a squirrel to do the dusting for him by tying a rag around its tail—and was constantly trying to do tasks too difficult for his skinny body. The worst mishap was when he tried to leave home to hunt like Keaton only to come back three days later with his knees skinned, his hands cut, nearly faint from hunger, and only a few mushrooms to show for his efforts. Being the youngest, Darren took more teasing than the other brothers combined, and I found that I often had to rescue him.
I realize that I have yet to tell you my name, or anything about me whatsoever. My name is Reymond, and describing myself is difficult, so I will repeat the things my family has either teased me about or praised me for. I am a very good woodworker, although I seem to be better at making pretty little things than big, practical ones, and I never hear any end of grief from my brothers over the flowery things I find myself carving. Cedric builds tables, chairs, and things much faster than I do, so that is mainly his job. My mother liked to tell me that I could cook and sew extremely well for a young man, a fact that I could tell chagrined my father. I didn’t like to do those things any more than my brothers, but I had learned to do them because none of the rest of my blasted siblings would do anything of the kind, even though Mother was clearly needed help with such things as she grew sicker. Now that I think about it, I learned to woodwork as a child mostly to make the kinds of things that pleased my mother. As unfair as it is that I get so taunted for my more “womanly” skills, I’ve never returne
d the grief my brothers have given me on that point. I’m ashamed to admit that even though my ability to make meals and clothing has been both essential and irreplaceable, I often wished I had never learned at all.
Now that you’ve met my family, I should describe to you the house we lived in because it’s a curious place you wouldn’t easily picture unless it was explained in detail. It’s a small house, with only one floor and uneven walls because Father built it himself, and he hadn’t previously had much experience with such things, being a rich man’s son. Because of the patched-together way the house was built, it was almost constantly in need of repairs, and according to my mother, for the first year she lived there, she almost couldn’t sleep for fear of the roof falling down on her.
Over time, Father made adjustments that made the house much more stable, but to this day, it still looks very odd. The house has a low roof, and Father always had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the rafters, which I suppose is the result of his measuring skills at the time he built the frame. The house is filled with an odd assortment of things Father bought, things he made himself, and things he traded for, with, of course, a healthy scattering of things my brothers and I have made. The only pictures on the walls are ones that had been carved into it, mostly by me, and for beds, we have big flour sacks filled with hay. The only real bed is a large four-poster that takes up far too much space in the house, but none of us dared try to move it out. That bed was where our parents slept before they died, and we left it standing there, neatly made, to respect them.
The house had no more room than we needed, even after Father expanded it several times over the years, and we tried to keep it clean because even a little mess would cause a big problem.
Perhaps the strangest thing about our cottage was that it was a good five miles from the nearest town, and half a mile away from the nearest road. There was a good reason for this, and unlike the house’s actual construction, it doesn’t insult my father’s planning skills.
You see, my mother was born with a curious problem in that she was far shorter than she should have been, always standing at waist-level of anyone around her, and she endured no end of taunting because of it. Her family, apparently ashamed of her, kept her hidden and secret until one day when my father went to her parents’ house for some party and happened to spot her watching from a doorway. He felt sorry for her, and supposing she was a small child at first, started talking to her. She quickly set him straight about her age, which surprised him into speaking more openly than he would otherwise.
Before he knew it, he had spent the entire party talking to the strange girl. In that time, they apparently fell in love with one another, and he asked her father for her hand that same night. Her father, relieved to get rid of her, gave his blessing, and my mother and father were wed the following afternoon in a chapel with not one guest. Father then took Mother as far away as he safely could to keep her away from prying eyes and mocking tongues, and that is why our house was placed in such an odd way. Father would not have his bride insulted, and the only way to protect her was to keep her out of sight.
According to my mother, I took her by surprise. She hadn’t expected to be able to bear children, not being bigger than one herself, but there I was. I was born undergrown and scrawny, but I grew to be healthy enough, aside from the fact I had inherited Mother’s size, and she was startled and pleased when Cedric came soon after me. Mother had around five of us before she became noticeably ill, and after Darren, she simply didn’t have any strength left. Or at least, that’s the explanation she gave me. I’m of the opinion that she believed her condition had something to do with her premature death, but she wouldn’t ever say anything of the kind out loud for fear of scaring us because all of her children had inherited her dwarfism. Mother hung on to life for a few more years after Darren’s birth, trying to refuse to die, but then at last, she was gone.
Now that you know my family, have seen my cottage, and know something of our history, the next thing I should do is tell you about Snow, who became like a sister to us very rapidly after she came to live with us.
Chapter One
It was a quiet afternoon in the middle of summer the year I turned nineteen, and we were all going about our normal daily tasks. I was supposed to be carving something nice to trade for some provisions the next time we went into town, but I was moving between all my brothers, trying to prevent them from getting into any trouble, and stopping pranks before they happened. Cedric and Jeffrey were cutting tree trunks into boards to be used for house repairs later, Landon was fishing—he didn’t even notice the piece of cork I had put on the end of his hook to keep him from snagging himself again—Godwin and Darren were doing some housecleaning—or rather, Darren was cleaning and trying to ignore Godwin, who was chattering away—and as usual, Keaton was off somewhere.
We were all feeling some level of boredom, and I wondered if I shouldn’t let one of the brothers get themselves into trouble just for variety when I heard yelling coming from somewhere in front of the house. I went running toward the sound to investigate, and by the time I got there, most of my brothers had already gathered, all shouting their opinions at once, and I couldn’t make out one word. I found I had to shoulder my way through to look at what they were all gawking at because they made such a wall that I couldn’t see a thing, and I was astonished by what I saw.
Keaton, apparently back from hunting, had a young girl slung over his shoulder in the place of his usual game, the lass kicking and struggling for all she was worth. For a long moment, I felt a wave of dismay wash over me, thinking that Keaton must have somehow gotten the idea that kidnapping a young lady was a proper form of courting. I might have really lost my temper with him if I hadn’t suddenly noticed the aggrieved expression on his face, as if he was enduring a great hardship and would rather be doing anything else. He was hunched over, his back clearly strained from carrying the girl, who was much taller than he was, and his broad shoulders were only barely enough to make it possible for him to carry, or rather, drag her home. Obviously, this situation required an explanation.
By now, my brothers had crowded close to Keaton and his burden, all of them talking even more loudly than before, the girl’s kicking becoming even more frantic. Feeling annoyed with my brothers for being so careless, I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled as loudly as I could. Abruptly, everyone stopped what they were doing, even the lass, and my brothers, glancing at my expression, parted to let me investigate the situation. I walked up to Keaton, a certain rage stirring within me. I had no clear idea what had happened here, but anyway I looked at it, there was something very wrong about a young man carrying a lady away in that manner. “Keaton, put her down,” I ordered, fighting to keep my temper. I didn’t want to scare the poor girl even further by screaming.
Keaton shook his head miserably. “I can’t. If I put her down, she’ll run off into the woods and get herself lost again.” He shifted the girl’s weight on his shoulder, expression pained, and she went back to struggling.
I heaved a long sigh, closing my eyes and trying even harder not to let my frustration take over. “Do you blame her?” I would also be trying to run away into the woods, if I were in her position.
Keaton gave an annoyed frown. “I am not kidnapping her! She was lost when I found her, and I thought she’d be glad to see me, but she wouldn’t tell me where she lived or where she was going, or anything, so I tried to get her to follow me back to town, but then she turned around and ran the other way. I couldn’t leave her out there—she looks about half-starved already—so I brought her back here. She didn’t want to come home with me any more than she wanted to go to town, so I had to carry her.” As he spoke, the girl stopped fighting long enough to catch her breath, thrashed uselessly a few more times, then went limp, too exhausted to struggle any longer.
I frowned. Keaton’s story was very confusing. Having not spoken to many of them, I didn’t know much about young girls, but I thought her behavior was
very strange. Why wouldn’t she want someone rescue her? This was all extremely odd, and I couldn’t even start to make sense of it.
Keaton, realizing she likely wouldn’t be getting up and running anytime soon, sat her down on the ground, very slowly, grimacing deeply as he straightened his back. The girl sat there with her head down and her legs spread out in front of her, shoulders slumped and arms limp, and she was so still I thought she looked more like a doll than a real person. I realized, uncomfortably, that I should say something to her. I opened my mouth, then hesitated. I wasn’t sure of the proper way to speak to her, and, besides that, should I apologize for my brother’s behavior, even though it probably saved her life, what with the wild animals she could have run into? Or should I question her, demanding for her to explain herself?
“Is his story true, miss?” I said at last, rocking nervously on my feet. I didn’t know what it was about her, but I was downright afraid of offending her.
She lifted her face to look at me, and I found myself gaping with amazement. The girl was by far the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Her skin was nearly as fair as milk, which I hadn’t even thought was possible, her hair was as black as night, and her lips were a shade of red I had only ever seen on my mother’s rose bushes. I couldn’t understand how so many contrasts could exist in the same person, and I found myself studying the delicate curves of that impossibly beautiful face. She looked to be about sixteen, but her eyes made her look older somehow. I wondered, bewildered, just who this girl was.
After a moment, she nodded in reply to my question, reminding me that I was supposed to be having a conversation with her, and not staring at her like a painting, and I got flustered, scrambling to remember what we had just been talking about. “D-did you think he would hurt you?” The words that came out of my mouth made a lot more sense than what I was actually thinking, and I stared at the ground, trying to figure out what was wrong with my heart for it to be beating so quickly.
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