Unspun

by Ruth Nickle

  She drew back. She could see the inside of the house in her memory. The last light of dusk filtering through the sugared window panes tinged the room blue and green and red. The witch’s chair stood in the corner with a bag of knitting. The stove, the shelves, the door to the witch’s bedroom, she saw them all in her mind. And there, in the center of the room, the oven that had filled her nightmares for so many nights.

  The recollection made her dizzy. She pressed her hands against the smooth gingerbread doorpost to keep herself from falling. She couldn’t go in. Not tonight. This day had swept away so much of the nightmare, and yet so much remained.

  It didn’t matter. This house was just a house. Going inside it was not some magic spell that would solve all her problems. She could do that herself. She could leave here and move on.

  One day, someday soon maybe, she’d wake to the sounds of birds chirping a morning greeting instead of vivid, echoing nightmare screams. One day she wouldn’t fill every moment with tasks deliberately chosen to make her forget. Maybe then she’d come back and step into the gingerbread rooms without fear. Maybe she’d come back and sit on the log bench to wait for a thoughtful stranger to appear. Maybe she’d offer him a loaf of bread and they’d sit in the sunshine and talk and laugh and when the meal was done she’d break off a piece of gingerbread for dessert.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t.

  Gretel turned away from the house, facing the darkening woods. What would she do next? She’d focused so long on forgetting that she almost didn’t know there was anything else.

  But now a memory rose up from her childhood, like a tiny curl of leaf unfurling from a seed long lost in the ground. She’d wanted to travel the world, back then, when she didn’t know how much danger the world could hold. She’d wanted to see lakes and mountains and caves, meet dwarves and fairies, find out if unicorns were real.

  She’d buried that dream under gingerbread nightmares, but now bits of the nightmares crumbled and fell away as the dream rose again within her, struggling out into the light. Gretel touched her dream gently, brushing gingerbread crumbs from its leaves. So delicate, but with strength in its roots.

  She settled her knapsack firmly on her shoulder, picked up the sprout of a new dream, and headed down an unknown path into the woods. The gingerbread house faded into the distance behind her.

  Spring’s Revenge

  by Anika Arrington

  CHAPTER ONE

  Once upon another time, not so distant from the first, Snow was queen. She had married her prince in the bitterness of winter, uniting neighboring provinces, and then given birth to a fine son, whom she named Bertram, in spring of the year following. Bertram grew in the same love of his parents that the kingdom did. He learned under their justice and grew in their mercy, by turns, as all children do. Their kingdom was prosperous and peaceful and lacked nothing until the day the king died.

  King Ross Redmond had loved Snow and their son for more than a decade before succumbing to a fever just before the boy’s eleventh birthday. Snow was grief-stricken for some time, but soon turned her energies to the care of her son. And though the boy expressed sorrow at the loss, to the shock of all, he never cried.

  Bertram pined for the father he’d lost, and strove to be like him. He often doubted that his skills would be sufficient to shoulder the mantle of kingship when it came. He hired tutors in every subject to improve his learning. Snow assured her son again and again that she would be there to guide him and that he would be an excellent king so long as he continued to walk in his father’s footsteps. And so in the days leading up to the prince’s coronation his people saw him less and less as his tutors endeavored to instill the wisdom he craved.

  * * *

  No one likes the cold, but all of Thuringia loved my mother, Snow.

  The people dropped flowers as she passed by or rushed to bow before the steps of the palace when she stood on the terrace. She had ruled with a gentle grace since my father died, and we flourished for it.

  But soon she would stand aside for me. Soon I would be the one waving before the crowds on the festival days, making trade decisions, leading the way. I wasn’t sure they loved me so well.

  My history tutor certainly didn’t. He came so highly recommended, I had to engage him. I wanted to be a wise king, someone the people could admire as they had my father. As one of the best, Master Matthaus had little patience for lack of scholarly interest. I had little patience for history. I only tolerated the hour I spent in his company each day because I rewarded myself with a hunt or a fencing lesson afterward.

  Master Matthaus’s switch came down with a crack on the table. He never struck me, but the desk took a fair bit of punishment.

  “Who brought the end of Queen Marwyn’s reign?”

  “My father did,” I said, not looking at the massive tome before me. Everyone knew the story of how Prince Ross had gone searching for the lost princess in the forests that marked the border between Altenburg and Eisenach, how he had restored her to both life and her place among the nobility through the power of his love, and how they had joined the two provinces to create Thuringia.

  “How?” My tutor narrowed his eyes. I was trying his patience, as I so often did.

  “By bringing my mother back from the forest alive.” I stifled a yawn.

  “Yes, but what happened to Marwyn?” His gnarled fingers stabbed at the page in front of me.

  I let my eyes skim the page, not reading the words.

  “For all you go on about wanting to be wise, you seem perfectly willing to be a historical dunce. Ignorance of one’s own history would be a tremendous failing for any ruler. You must learn from the mistakes of your forebears if you do not wish to repeat them.” He waved an irritated hand. “Read the passage aloud.”

  I shifted in my chair. My parents’ mistakes? The people certainly didn’t think they made any. I had never seen my mother slip a stitch, let alone a blunder that warranted noting in the history books. I turned my attention to the page, curious what it might have to accuse them of.

  “Upon returning to his palace, Snow White and Ross Redmond announced their marriage, but kept her identity a secret. They did this knowing that her mother would seek Snow’s death if she discovered her alive, but also knowing that she would attend the wedding of a neighboring prince. When Queen Marwyn arrived at the palace, they had her arrested for her repeated attempts on Snow’s life.”

  I knew all of this.

  “Go on,” Matthaus prompted.

  “At the wedding Marwyn was brought before the guests and amidst cries for her torture and execution Prince Ross called forth his blacksmith.”

  I looked up at my tutor. “What did he need his blacksmith for?”

  “Keep reading.”

  “The blacksmith came bearing a pair of iron shoes which he placed in the bonfire until they glowed red. The queen was forced into the shoes and told to dance before the guests.” My own feet grew hot and my stomach lurched.

  Matthaus must have seen some hint of queasiness in my face because he took the tome from me and continued the paragraph in his voice like rasping paper.

  “The guests chased Marwyn from the wedding feast and into the forest. She was left to die of her injuries amidst the bitterness of the winter elements and given no burial. No one in either province contested the justice of this.”

  “Is that true?” I did not want to trust the words in front of me any more than I would trust a dwarf with a diamond.

  “Yes,” he insisted. “I was there.” He stared at me with a fierceness he reserved only for those with soiled fingers near his books.

  “And my mother did nothing while her mother was tortured like that?”

  “The histories do not say it, but your mother could not even watch. She said nothing, neither asking Ross to spare her nor interfering as Marwyn was driven into the night.”

 
I could picture her serene face, eyes lowered to a perfectly placed napkin in her lap while the screams and jeers landed around her. For a moment I could even smell the burning of Marwyn’s flesh.

  “She said nothing,” I repeated. The truth settled on my shoulders with the weight of those iron shoes. “But how can the people support her? How did they support my father if they knew?”

  “It was the people who called for Queen Marwyn’s torment. They were enthralled with their princess, as was your father. He simply gave them what they wanted. The question you must ask yourself as his heir is: ‘Will I?’”

  “I think that’s enough history for today,” I said.

  “I think that’s enough for today,” my tutor echoed, as though he hadn’t heard me. “We will meet—”

  But I was already halfway out the door; desperate to drench myself in sunlight, away from the dusty tomes that detailed my family’s legacy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bertram had been told since the day of his birth that he possessed all the handsome features of his mother, but behind their hands the servants and the people whispered that perhaps a young man should not be quite so soft and fair. So he strove every day to learn the manly arts: battle strategy, swordplay, the hunt. As his skills grew, so did his enjoyment of these pursuits, especially the ride out to a hunt.

  Snow watched her son’s progress with beaming pride, but she could never quite hide her concern when he went into the forest. He assumed that it still held the memories of her own fears and the time she lay near death. Whenever he rode forth she reminded him of three things: never ride the deer trails, keep your men-at-arms with you, and carry your own water.

  * * *

  “Prince Bertram, you must slow down. We can’t keep you in sight.”

  “Turn back then,” I called over my shoulder. Not that I expected them to, but I wouldn’t lose this chase for their lethargy. I would outrace the storm clouds within, each roll of thunder one of Master Matthaus’s revelations.

  My captain said something else, but I couldn’t be detained or I’d lose the magnificent hart that had darted out of a thicket, and driven away the internal gloom.

  The day reveled in the glory of the season: warm sun, the whipping air of the ride, the scent of green things growing and dying in a biting bouquet. I refused to lose my quarry in the dappled light that hid it so well. The pace of the chase drove all other concerns away. My mind narrowed to the blood coursing to each limb, my breath coming in snatches.

  Nothing but the present moment.

  Watch the foliage.

  Follow the tracks.

  My horse’s breathing grew labored. Just as I thought I’d lost the hart, and in the same moment I was certain I’d left my companions far behind, it dashed across my path once more. My horse reared, but I leaned in and spurred him on after the beast.

  The stag was beautiful, a creature of powerful muscle and rippling coat. And when the light filtering through the trees reflected off it, I was blinded for just a moment. Perhaps more than a moment, because I followed the beast up an embankment on a narrow deer track I would never have taken on any other day.

  I crested the hill. The soft, carpeted undergrowth gave way to a treacherous incline of jagged rocks. I couldn’t slow us fast enough. My horse lost his footing.

  As I was thrown I thought I saw the hart prancing away down the stream at the bottom of the ravine. I landed against a massive flat stone that drove the breath from my lungs. I gasped for air as the momentum carried me onward down the slope. My head made contact this time. Sparks of white light blazed before me, and then a view of darkness.

  When I could open my eyes, my head protested, and my stomach heaved. I lay still, hoping the nausea would pass. I raised a hand to the worst of the throbbing and found crystalized blood, red as rubies, had matted my hair and now winked in the sunlight. I needed water.

  A strangled, despairing noise drew my attention. My horse. I had no idea how long I had lain there, but that whole time the poor beast suffered near death. Two of its legs had broken in the fall. One bone, a jarring whiteness, tore through his dark coat. I tried to stand and found my right foot wouldn’t hold my weight. He made the most horrific keening as I limped over the rocks to him. His eyes rolled with madness and pain.

  My pack, and with it my waterskin, lay trapped beneath him. With an injured foot and a battered head, I’d never be able to move him.

  I drew my sword and, with one merciful stroke, ended his anguish. A torrent of red flowed down the rocks to a stream that ran along the bottom of the steep bank. Everything downhill would be tainted now. I stumbled and slid my way down to the water’s edge and limped along upstream until I judged myself far enough away from the carnage.

  I knelt and dunked my bleeding head in the frigid water. It was torment and relief in the same instant. I pulled up gasping, the icy cascade soaking into my shirt. I shivered and blinked my eyes clear. The crimson evidence of my meager triage pooled in the stream. I cursed myself for not drinking first. But the cold had cleared my head somewhat, and when I stood to move farther upstream I didn’t waver.

  I hobbled just a few feet before I decided the water was clean enough again. This time I paused and looked at the reflected face that shifted with the current: wan with wide, frightened eyes and blood streaking the pale skin. I was a mangled mockery of my mother’s perfection. I swallowed two great handfuls, and the icy snowmelt stung all the way to my stomach, but my thirst insisted. The cold seeped into my flesh until the tips of fingers and toes sparked with numbness. I had to hold myself back, panting. Drinking excessively in the throes of dehydration would make me sick, and I didn’t have the strength for that.

  Sheer rocks rose on either side of the stream, with the occasional sharp, jutting ridge. I couldn’t climb, not in my condition. It would be easier and likely safer to go downstream to wherever the water let out. There would surely be a homestead, if not a village, where I could seek help. But the thought of passing by my horse again choked me. I felt the water in my stomach sour.

  I let my head drop to my knees, cursing my weakness. None of my men-at-arms would have thought twice about putting a suffering beast out of its misery or even walking past a dead animal. I knew what they would all say back at court. How foolish I was to ride off alone, how soft to get thrown and bashed up so badly, how pathetic to balk at walking past a beast I had dispatched with my own hand.

  “Bertram.”

  I lifted my head. There was no one. And the voice calling my name had been no more than a whisper. The trees that stood sentinel at the top of the ridge rustled with a passing breeze that didn’t penetrate down into the ravine. It must have been a trick of the wind and my head wound. Except, I realized, my head had stopped hurting.

  I reached up to the gash to find it healed. No tenderness, no stinging, just smooth skin beneath my hair. Cautiously I stretched, testing the extent of the miraculous healing. I found no bruises or aches. I balanced on my right foot, now perfectly sound. A place of such perfect healing would be a great blessing to my people, and might well bring even greater prosperity. I looked about for some landmark.

  “Bertram.”

  I whirled.

  No one. I was just as alone as I had assumed. My mother’s warnings to drink only from my own water supply echoed in my mind. Perhaps she meant to keep this place hidden. Perhaps, like so many magical things, it was not without its price. I turned to leave.

  “Bertram.”

  There was no mistaking it now. The voice beckoned from upstream, away from certain safety and yet—

  “Come, good prince.”

  The voice was neither menacing nor cold. It filled me with a certain familiarity. This was a place I could be safe. Never laughed at or looked down upon. Within the sound of this beckoning voice, I was home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bertram returned from one such out
ing covered in blood, but with no injuries; his clothes in tatters, but not a scratch on his skin. His men-at-arms had returned to the woods after a rebuke and the promise of demerits from Queen Snow. They searched in vain for the prince in the woods, and not until many hours past nightfall did he come walking up the palace steps. His mother raced to his side, but he waved her away. She insisted that he sit by the fire to warm his skin, which carried a clammy chill. But Bertram insisted he was more than warm enough and wanted only solitude and rest.

  He locked himself in his room and didn’t emerge for three days. He refused all company, all food, all drink. When he finally came forth among the court, everyone stared at the transformation. His once ivory skin was now a sickly grey. His soft, buoyant curls hung lank in his eyes. And the red flush of his lips looked stained with purple wine. He went about shirtless, sweating, complaining of the oppressive heat and demanding that all fires be extinguished. Queen Snow did her best to raise her son’s spirits and convince him to seek help, but he only replied, “I need no help. I’m home.”

  * * *

  The sweat trickled down along my hairline. This incessant wave of heat would surely bring drought. It drove me to distraction.

  “Another pitcher of cold water,” I said, pouring the last drops into my cup. I drank it down, but nothing could slake my thirst since I strode from the woods. I did not wish to go back, but I began to think that finding the stream once more might be my only hope of relief. I paced the floor, wearing out my restlessness on the rich carpet.

  At last I heard footsteps in the corridor, but when the door opened my mother stepped into the private parlor we shared. I found myself retreating to its seclusion more often than usual. She shut the door behind her and stood watching me. Her eyes held the same love and concern I had always known, but also fear.