Every man in the room reluctantly raised his hand, except Misha. The gun he’d secretly bought was a revolver.
‘It must have been an accident,’ said the butcher. ‘Perhaps,’ he leaned menacingly on the mayor’s desk, ‘it was you. You were a bad shot when you were young. I don’t imagine you to be any better in old age.’
‘But why would anyone go hunting so high up?’ said the miller.
‘I wondered that myself,’ said Misha, speaking for the first time. ‘And the shepherd wasn’t wearing his boots. I think whoever murdered him hoped the wolves would eat the corpse.’
The uneasy silence was broken by the butcher. ‘Are you going to listen to the opinion of the village idiot?’
Misha stood tall. He had been on the mountain night and day in the most inhospitable weather. He had stared his fear in the face, and the mountain gods had kept him strong. No man was going to say his word wasn’t to be trusted.
‘I’m no idiot,’ he said. ‘I know exactly where I found the body and I think none of us here would be surprised by whose gun fired the bullet.’
‘Are you accusing me of murder?’ said the butcher.
Misha said, ‘You alone know the truth of what you did.’
‘The marriage should wait,’ said the mayor decisively.
The butcher looked round the room at every man there, each of them trying to avoid his eye. ‘There’s no proof the shepherd was murdered. If you choose to believe the word of this idiot, what then? I’ll tell you. I hope you all have enough food stored for the winter because if my wedding doesn’t go ahead tomorrow, I will not lift a finger to help anyone in trouble. Do you understand what that means?’
There was silence.
‘I’ve no objection to the wedding,’ said the cabinet maker quickly. ‘And my daughter is ready.’
One of the elders spoke up. ‘The chief elder has a point. The investigation, if there is to be one, should take place when spring arrives and the constable can be brought from the town. But meanwhile, life must go on.’
The other elders and the doctor agreed.
The priest said, ‘I give the wedding my blessing.’
The butcher turned to the mayor.
‘Then tomorrow I will be married.’
‘You should all be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Misha. ‘You are forcing a wedding on a woman who has lost the man she truly loved.’
‘Idiot,’ said the butcher as Misha left the room. Then, turning to the mayor, said, ‘What about a drink?’
Georgeta was in the hall looking even paler than usual. ‘Misha,’ she said, ‘you are not, and you never have been, an idiot.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Alchemy of Music
That night the sky was clear and the stars rested on top of the mountain. An eerie hush gripped the village. The community was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen now that the shepherd’s body had been found.
‘Is the wedding still going ahead?’ Vanda asked Georgeta when she arrived at the cabinet maker’s house.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Georgeta and told the women all she had overheard.
‘It’s as I thought. He was murdered,’ said Vanda. ‘By my father.’
The women were quiet.
‘My husband is a weak man,’ said Georgeta. ‘They are all weak men – except for your son. You would have been proud to hear him stand up to your father.’
She went to Edith who was sitting alone. ‘My husband had a letter from a merchant in town, enquiring after his son,’ she said, quietly. ‘The merchant had last heard from him when he wrote to say he was engaged to a girl from this village called Edith.’
Edith had long expected this day and now it was here. There was no light, there was no darkness, no definition. Grief had no edge to it. She was lost. Words were pebbles that skimmed the flat, tideless water of sorrow.
‘A merchant family,’ Georgeta was saying. ‘If the mayor had known he would have raised a search party.’
Edith closed her eyes. She had long known her love was dead. She had known instinctively, just as she knew she would never be the butcher’s wife.
It was while Flora and Maria were helping Edith to get dressed that evening that Edith remembered her grandmother’s coat. A coat of fables she called it. Edith had long kept it safe at the bottom of her hope box for she and her grandmother had embroidered it with her grandmother’s many stories. She spread it out on the bed.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Flora.
Edith put it on. The coat was heavy, the weight of it comforting. It was too large and trailed on the floor but she looked magical in it.
Vanda said, ‘If we had eyes to see the dead, I believe we’d see your grandmother here with us.’
Edith believed Demetrius was there too, even though she couldn’t hear him in her head, even though she couldn’t see him. She was confident that he stood beside her.
The women of the village began to arrive at the bride’s house, as was the tradition. The men went to the butcher’s house to drink the health of the bridegroom. There would have been more joy at a funeral than there was at these two gatherings. None of the talk was of the wedding, all was of the murder. Every man thought he knew who the killer was but daren’t say his name; every woman said quietly, ‘The butcher.’
Edith sat where she had when the day began, before she knew what the hours held. The glow of the candle reflected in the window behind her gave her a golden halo of light. Georgeta thought she had an unearthly quality, that her spirit was on the edge of a journey.
Edith watched the women come in, take wine and cakes and try not to stare at her. They whispered, their low voices a swarm of sleepy bees. Una came with Lena’s mother and was careful to avoid her sister.
What can I do, thought Edith, closing her eyes. What would I say if I had a voice? I would tell the butcher, ‘No,’ and still he wouldn’t hear. How many women in this room had ever been heard, for all their talking?
Una, with determined cheerfulness, lifted her glass to drink a toast to the bride.
‘Come, Vanda,’ she said. ‘It’s the tradition. Here’s to happiness and a long life.’
Vanda put down her glass and she shook her head. ‘No, this is not a celebration where we all come together, remember our weddings and make the bride blush about the loss of her innocence. This is a wake. A young man who Edith willingly gave her gold coin – her heart – to has been murdered.’
‘Sister,’ hissed Una. ‘It was a hunting accident.’
Silence fell over the gathering and Vanda was about to say more when there was a knock on the door. Lena opened it and found Misha, washed and shaved. She slipped out for a moment to speak to him and came back a little flushed.
‘Tell him to go away,’ called Una. ‘It’s unlucky for a man to be here.’
‘He wants a word with his mother,’ said Lena.
Vanda wrapped her shawl round her and went onto the verandah. ‘Are you going to your grandfather’s house?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Misha. ‘Neither is Father. I’m going to spend the evening with him. I wanted Edith to have this.’ He held up the violin and bow. ‘I’ve polished it but I don’t know how to tune it.’ He gave it to his mother and turned to go.
Vanda reached out and caught her son’s hand. The look of surprise on his face shocked her.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I just…’
‘What is it, Mother?’ Misha asked.
‘I want to tell you that I am sorry for the way I’ve been towards you, truly sorry. You are a far better son than I deserve.’
‘On the mountain I thought about a lot of things,’ said Misha. ‘And I think the way you were was not your fault.’
He touched her arm and for once she didn’t brush him away.
‘I couldn’t have lived with myself if you’d died up there,’ she said and in the moonlight he saw a miracle of sorts take place. His mother’s face filled with love for him, the hard lines softened
by her tears.
‘I love you, Mother,’ he said.
Vanda wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘And I you,’ she said. ‘And I you.’
She took the violin and bow from him, went indoors and gave them to Edith.
Edith ran her finger over the violin. I have no way to tell of my grief, my anger, she said silently to herself. I have no voice. Be my voice.
She put the violin under her chin and with the bow played a note. It cut across the conversation; the room became quiet. Edith tightened the strings.
‘I think it will take practice,’ said Flora gently.
Again Edith put the violin under her chin. She closed her eyes and started to play. This is my voice, she told herself. I will speak in music. And so the first chord rose; a long wailing note that climbed to infinity then a rush of quick, urgent notes, jiggering and giddy. There was a long pause, and no one in the room dared breathe, for this was surely unearthly sorcery. Edith started to play again. The music spiralled upwards and with a sigh fell into a whisper until a tune broke free and danced its rage, its sorrow, its heartbreak into the starry sky. The older women stared at Edith in speechless wonder; the young women wept for all that they could have been, for all that had been stolen from them, for the injustice of lives ruled by fools. The alchemy of the music soared out of the cabinet maker’s house, and Edith’s wordless lament was heard throughout the village. It reached the butcher’s ears and stung his blackened heart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Snow Song
Edith heard the tinkling of bells, the sound of Demetrius bringing his sheep down from the mountain. She woke with regret, knowing it was a dream.
She lay half asleep, but still she heard the gentle chimes. Now wide awake, she rose and opened her shutters. Snow was falling yet the sky was pink, shot through with blues; such an unnatural morning sky. She laughed as she realised it was the snowflakes making the music of the heavens.
Edith dressed and opened her bedroom door. Her father was snoring in a chair by the stove. She walked softly past him, whereupon he jumped to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’ he said, and cursed his sudden movement. His head hurt and it sounded as if pots and pans were falling all round his ears. ‘What’s that terrible noise?’ Then as Edith opened the door, he said, ‘No, I’ll do it. I’ll feed the hens.’
Amused, she followed him onto the verandah. She put out her hand and caught a perfect snowflake.
‘Don’t stand there, girl,’ said her father. ‘Go inside, it’s freezing.’
She realised why he’d been sleeping in the chair: he was frightened she would run away. Where could she run to? If she’d had somewhere to go, she would have left long ago. Her idea was far more brutal. There are other ways to go travelling, she told herself, even if the destination is unknown.
The coffee was on the table along with the bread, butter and jam and still the cabinet maker hadn’t come back. She wrapped her shawl round her and went onto the verandah and watched the snow. This was the snow song that storytellers of old had spoken of. Her grandmother had said that those who were innocent thought it was the music of the heavens, those who were guilty heard the devil’s pots and pans falling.
‘The hens are all gone,’ said her father. ‘Every one of them. Can’t you hear the noise? It must’ve frightened them away.’
Edith went back into the house and opened her grandmother’s room.
‘Do you think a fox got them all?’ he said, stamping the snow from his boots.
A hen waddled up to him and another flew onto the table. ‘How did they get in here?’ Receiving no reply, he said, ‘I need a drink,’ and disappeared into his room.
The yard gate opened, and Edith was nearly blinded by a flash of light from the mirror the blacksmith was carrying. Flora was almost dancing as she came in.
‘I never thought I would live to hear the snow sing,’ she said. ‘Can you hear it?’
Edith nodded.
‘I thought you should see yourself – we’ll put the mirror in your room.’
When the blacksmith had propped up the mirror, Edith touched his coat and put her hand to her ear.
‘What do I hear? I hear bells, a flock of sheep,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about the shepherd,’ he added as he left.
‘I know you’re going to wear traditional costume,’ Flora said, unpacking her basket, ‘but I thought you should have this. It’s my wedding present to you.’
The white bird, thought Edith as Flora hung the dress on the bedroom door. Edith had never seen such a lovely garment, elegant yet simple in its design. The feel of the fabric spoke of another life. She smiled. This is the dress I’m going to wear, she thought, the one the butcher promised me, a dress to fly away in. She pointed to the dress and then to herself.
Flora said, ‘But what will the elders say?’ and laughed when she saw Edith’s face. ‘Then, my lady, I shall dress you. And stuff and nonsense to the rest. Perhaps,’ she added, ‘a little plum wine for us wouldn’t go amiss.’
By the time the church bells rang out over the village, a few of the older women had gathered at the cabinet maker’s house to light the fire, lay out the food and shoo the hens into the yard.
Flora had just finished dressing Edith’s white hair with handmade white flowers when Georgeta called in on her way to the church. ‘Edith,’ she said, kissing her cheek, ‘if your grandmother was here she would say you are the Snow Queen from one of her tales.’
Edith slipped her feet into a pair of delicate satin shoes and Flora turned round the mirror so that she could see herself. Edith didn’t recognise the woman she was looking at, a woman with wisdom in her eyes and an hypnotic gaze. Was this her? She had wondered if the loss of her voice had made her invisible, but now she saw there was nothing weak in her. Yes, she said to herself, I have strength enough to do this.
Flora said, ‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever dressed.’
Edith picked up the violin and the bow and held them as if they were a bouquet.
‘Good luck,’ said Georgeta as she set off to the church.
The old women stared open-mouthed when Edith walked into the kitchen.
‘Are we ready?’ said her father, swaying somewhat. There were two Ediths and neither of them – or perhaps one of them – was dressed in traditional costume. He looked again. ‘But… you’re not… that’s the white wedding dress. You’re not…’
Edith stared at him, her eyes blazing with determination. She could see that her father was weighing up the arguments.
‘Change,’ he commanded. ‘Go and change. And give me that violin.’ Edith shook her head, and her father, defeated by alcohol and a daughter he didn’t know, said, ‘All right. It doesn’t matter a bear’s shirt as long as you’re married. Let the butcher – let your husband – punish you. Not me. We should be going… yes, we should be going. I’ve forgotten something… what is it?’
What indeed, thought Edith, who had suspected all along that her father had forgotten to do what the butcher had requested: arrange a sleigh to take them to the church. Now there was nothing for it other than to go on foot. Edith went back into her bedroom and changed her shoes for the hardy boots the cobbler had given her. Flora carried the satin slippers.
‘You can put them on at the church,’ she said, picking up the train of the wedding dress.
The cabinet maker clasped his daughter’s arm in a vice-like grip. Edith held the violin and the bow under her other arm and they walked through the falling snow to the church. The priest was waiting outside for them. The snow bothered him. The noise rang in his ears and he tried to brush it away. For a moment he wasn’t sure what he was seeing; an angel seemed to be walking down the street.
Only when the cabinet maker said, ‘We’re here,’ did the priest realise that Edith had defied the elders and was wearing the wedding dress. He turned on the cabinet maker. ‘We would have been late if she’d…’ And in trying to explain, the cabinet maker uninten
tionally let go of Edith’s arm.
The butcher was waiting in the front pew. Vanda, Una,
Sorina and Misha sat behind him. The whole village had turned out for the ceremony. A whisper reached the butcher that Edith had arrived and was wearing the white wedding dress. The butcher felt a flash of anger but told himself it didn’t matter. Soon, she would be his property. Under his jacket, he was wearing the red shirt that Edith had sewn and embroidered for her husband-to-be. He had ordered the cabinet maker to fetch it from her hope chest. But it had been made to fit Demetrius and the butcher had had to slit it up the back so he could button it. But at least he was dressed as a bridegroom should be.
The organ ground out its tuneless chords, and still there was no sign of the bride. The congregation began to fidget and then a cold wind whirled into the church. The organ music that had just finished started again and everyone rose to their feet, waiting for the bride to enter. Instead, the priest walked with determined steps to the altar followed by Flora and the now sober cabinet maker, beads of sweat on his forehead. He was much out of breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the cabinet maker to the butcher, ‘Edith has run off. I’m sure she’ll be back… I know she’ll be back.’
The second her father had let go of her arm, Edith had picked up her skirt and ran. She ran as fast as she could, slip-sliding but never entirely falling. Behind her she could hear her father shouting, his voice trailing away on the icy breeze. On she ran towards the forest and she dared not look back.
Edith felt the mountain and its whalebone curve as she began to climb. It took all her energy to make progress. If she could reach the edge of the forest she stood a chance of staying hidden. Her dress white, the sky white, the snow white, all without shape, only the forest was a faint etching of dark grey lines on white paper. Still the snow fell.
The Snow Song Page 12