Snow White and Rose Red

by Patricia Wrede

  CHAPTER · EIGHT

  “On winter evenings when the snow was falling, the mother would say, ‘Snow White, go and bolt the door.’ Then they all sat around the fire, and the mother read aloud while the two girls sat and spun. A lamb lay close beside them on the floor, and a white dove perched in the rafters with its head under its wing.

  “One evening their reading was interrupted by someone knocking at the door. The mother set her book down and said, ‘Open the door, Rose Red; it must be some traveler seeking shelter from the storm.’”

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, THE SNOW BEGAN. IT STARTED as small specks of white that fell thinly and vanished when they touched the brown grass of the fields. A few of the older residents of the village raised their eyebrows and spoke in hushed voices of the severity of the winter that would surely follow so early a snowfall. Most simply shrugged; a dusting of snow was no cause for concern. The watermen on the Thames and the laborers and water carriers along its banks alike pulled their wool caps down around their ears and went stolidly on with their work.

  Shortly before noon, one of the boats, responding to a servant’s signal, pulled up at the water stairs behind Master Dee’s house. A brief negotiation ensued concerning fees; then Edward Kelly emerged from the house, called a casual farewell over his shoulder, and hurried down the stairs to the waiting boat. A moment later the boatman pushed off and the boat started eastward on its ten-mile journey downstream to London.

  The boat reached the city just before the turning of the tide. As Kelly disembarked, a similar boat pushed off from a wharf just above the London bridge, and started west on the somewhat more arduous trip upstream to Mortlak. The waterman, noting his passenger’s white velvet cloak and air of gloom, assumed that he was one of Queen Elizabeth’s courtiers being sent away in disgrace, as happened now and again. Wishing neither to intrude on the sorrows of such a man nor to become entangled in his follies, the waterman extracted his half-shilling fee and the name “John Rimer” from his passenger, and after that was silent.

  The silence suited John. He had had high hopes of his venture into London, for the city had seemed the obvious place to find the wizard he sought, but he had searched the city for a week without success. Now success was no longer possible. Whatever transformation had struck Hugh down, it was complete. John knew it, as he knew that his brother was still alive and no longer within the borders of Faerie, by a kind of sympathy between them that had existed as long as he could remember. He had known, when he was eleven, that Hugh had fallen into the den of one of the giant worms that mortals call dragons; Hugh had known ten years later when John had broken a leg on one of his journeys and found himself unable to return to Faerie without aid.

  Now both brothers were barred from their homeland, Hugh by the implacable law that had cast him forth and John by his determined defiance of the Faerie Queen’s orders. The bond between them was not likely to do either of them any good. Denied the timelessness of Faerie, they would each live a mortal span of years and die, if they did not first run afoul of hunters, plague, thieves, or human law.

  They could, however, live out their lives together, and it was for this reason that John was returning to Mortlak. Whatever shape his brother had taken on, whatever beast Hugh had become, John was determined to find and protect him. Hugh was somewhere near Mortlak. John was certain of it, and equally certain that he would know his brother at once when they met. Finding Hugh would be another matter; the uncommon bond between the brothers was no more than a general guide.

  The snow thickened as the day wore on. By the time John reached his destination, it was falling in white swirls and the streets were growing muddy. John thanked the waterman and handed him half a crown, which caused that worthy to comment later to his cronies at the Barking Dog how sad it was that such an open-handed young man had had to bury himself in the country.

  John hired a porter to carry the bag he had bought in London, inquired directions to the nearest lodgings, and set off. By the time he reached his destination, agreed on a price for his room and board, and saw his bag carried upstairs to his apartments, it was too dark to think of searching for Hugh.

  Morning brought no better prospects. The snow had continued throughout the night, growing thicker and thicker until it made a dense cloud over the entire town. Enough had accumulated in the night to make walking a difficult task, and it showed no signs of stopping. John, staring out the small rectangular panes of the window in the sitting room he had hired, could barely see across the street. Everything was shrouded in white.

  “The Queen of Faerie mourns,” he murmured, then shook his head and sighed. Natural or not, the snow made it impossible for him to look for Hugh that day.

  The black bear stumbled through the forest, sliding on icy mats of fallen leaves and lurching over the hidden unevenness of the ground. He was hungry, but the snow covered the late berries and seeds on which he might have fed, and hid the burrows of small animals he might have eaten. The cold wind cut through his fur and swirled the falling snow into dense, confusing whorls that hid his path and stung his eyes. The bear would have known how to find food and where to hide from the weather; the man in the bear’s body did not.

  Stubbornly, Hugh blundered on. Whether because his human half stayed with him when his Faerie essence was stripped away or because the spell binding him was less effective in the mortal world than in Faerie, Hugh had retained more of himself than those who had cast him out would have believed. He did not understand all that had happened to him, but three things he was sure of. His form was not his own; he had once been in Faerie but was no longer; and somewhere ahead of him was his friend and brother, who would help him. He did not know the reason for his certainty, nor did he recall the bond that linked him with John. He only knew that he had nowhere else to go. Cold, tired, and nearly exhausted, Hugh made his slow, uncertain way through the forest, heading toward Mortlak.

  The Widow Arden had hoped to venture into town, but one look out her door had convinced her that this would be inadvisable, at least until the snowstorm ceased. Instead, she and her daughters spent the day mixing herbs and boiling them down into soothing syrups for coughs or fevers. The Widow was sure that the early snow would bring customers to her door in search of such remedies.

  By the time the last of the carefully prepared jars had been sealed with melted beeswax and the clutter of tools and crushed herbs cleared from the table, it was nearly dark. The Widow put a turnip, an onion, and a double handful of well-soaked beans into the copper kettle and set it on the hob to cook, while Rosamund sorted through the mending. Blanche was busy with the lamb, which was doing well enough to have become something of a nuisance indoors. As soon as dinner was on the fire, the Widow went to the chest in the corner, where she kept the four treasured books she had saved from the ruin her late husband had brought down on her.

  “Mother,” said Rosamund as the Widow bent over the chest.

  “What is it?” the Widow said, straightening. Rosamund and Blanche exchanged glances, and the Widow smiled. “Do you want to choose for yourselves what I’ll read to you tonight?”

  “In a way,” Rosamund said cautiously. She looked at her sister again. Blanche nodded. Rosamund swallowed and went on, “Thou hast taught us much, Mother, and of many things that are not common—of herbery, and of Latin, and of Faerie.”

  The Widow closed the chest and sat down on it. “I have; go on.”

  “We think, Blanche and I, that thou knowest more of magic than the uses of Faerie herbs and the wearing of hawthorn to turn away harm,” Rosamund said.

  “An that were true, what would you?”

  “We’d have thee teach us all thy knowledge, and not fragments,” Rosamund said. She already regretted mentioning the subject, but it was too late to take back her words no matter how much her mother was displeased. “Blanche and I agreed together two days ago, when thou didst spend the day at Mortlak.”

  “Did you so?” the Widow said angrily. Her irritation was as much
at her own carelessness as at Rosamund’s temerity in broaching this particular subject. She had never meant for her daughters to guess how great her knowledge was, nor for them to learn anything whatever that could be considered suspect. “And did you not think I might have strong reasons for keeping such instruction from you?”

  “I know thou‘st feared lest someone call us witches—”

  “Yet you dismiss it lightly! You have not seen women hanged for witchcraft, as I have. You do not know—”

  “I know enough!” Rosamund broke in. “You fear so much that someone shall miscall us witches that you see no other dangers, though they be thick as flies on spilled honey in June. God will protect us from malice, but we must guard ourselves from carelessness.”

  There was a pause. “What do you mean?” the Widow said. Her voice was calmer, and Blanche gave a small sigh of relief. Blanche hated quarreling.

  “This,” said Rosamund. “The air’s been thick with spells and strangeness since before All Hallows‘. If Blanche and I are not to step amiss, we must know more than how to slip safely in and out of Faerie. ”

  “You need not mix yourselves in these affairs,” the Widow said.

  “How not?” Blanche said quietly. “We’ve seen wizards at their work, and one who is of Faerie has watched us across the border. ‘Tis tardy, I think, to speak of mixing or not mixing.”

  “We must know what’s best to do and not to do when we meet such things,” Rosamund said. “We’ll not make use of spells ourselves.”

  “Nor will we speak of magic where we may be overheard,” Blanche added. “Thou shouldst know as much, for thou knowest we speak not of Faerie, nor have ever done.”

  “‘Tis not so simple as thou makest it sound,” the Widow said, sighing. “Well, I’ll do’t, though my heart misgives me. Thou‘lt not forget the danger of this learning?”

  “We’ll not forget,” Blanche said soberly, and Rosamund echoed her words.

  “And the snow is a blessing today,” Rosamund added. “For ‘tis unlikely anyone will come to our door, and find us at such studies.”

  “As thou sayest,” the Widow said. She glanced toward the window as if to reassure herself that the snow was still falling heavily. Then she rose and opened the chest. From the very bottom, she removed a thin, dark book, handwritten and showing signs of much use. She closed the chest and seated herself on it once more, then looked at her daughters. “To your work, girls; I’ll read slowly, and you may question me as you will.”

  Blanche and Rosamund nodded as one. Blanche set up the spinning wheel beside the window and sat on the rolled-up straw pallet to work. Rosamund threaded her needle and took up the gown that lay on top of the pile of mending. The Widow eyed them both a moment longer; then she opened the book and began to read.

  “‘The forms of magic are many and several, to wit, that which is of Faerie, that which is of scholarship and careful knowledge, that which is of ancient lore and ritual, that which is of wisdom and instinct, and that which is of the devil and to be well avoided. And these are not the sum of magics, for certes there be others that we know not of.

  “ ‘Now, the forms of magic may be distinguished each from the other by certain things . . .’”

  The Widow’s voice went on, pleasant and even, though raised somewhat to carry over the steady hum of Blanche’s spinning wheel. The girls listened intently while their fingers flew. The lamb drowsed by the hearth and the smell of cooking onion crept out of the pot above the fire to permeate the little room.

  Finally, the Widow stopped. “‘Tis enough for tonight, I think, and dinner’s ready,” she said. “Blanche, hast thou—”

  A heavy knock interrupted her. All three of the women started, and their heads turned to stare guiltily at the cottage door. The Widow jumped up, raised the lid of the chest, and shoved the dark book inside. She let the lid fall and sat down again just as the knock was repeated.

  “Open the door, Rosamund,” the Widow said with creditable composure. “It must be some poor man caught unawares by the storm, and now half frozen.”

  Rosamund set her mending down and went to the door. She put back the latch and opened it, leaning forward to peer into the darkness outside. A swirl of snow and cold air came in, and then Hugh shouldered the door wide and thrust his black bear’s head into the room.

  CHAPTER · NINE

  “Rose Red opened the door, thinking it was a poor man. Instead, a bear stretched his broad, black head into the room. Rose Red screamed and sprang back, and Snow White hid herself behind the bed while the lamb bleated in fright. But the bear spoke to them and said, ‘Do not be frightened! I won’t hurt you. I only want to warm myself a little at your fire.’

  “ ‘Very well,’ said the mother. ‘You may lie by the hearth, but be careful that your coat does not catch fire.’ Then she called to her daughters, ‘Snow White, Rose Red, you may come out, for the bear will not harm you.’ So the two girls came out, and after a time the lamb, too, came nearer and was not afraid.”

  ROSAMUND GASPED AS THE DOOR WAS WRENCHED from her hands, then let the extra breath out in a scream when she saw the broad, furry bear’s head with its pointed yellow teeth. She sprang backward, and Hugh took another step inside. Blanche’s eyes grew huge. She rolled off the pallet she had been sitting on and crouched in its inadequate shelter. The lamb scrambled to its feet and bleated a complaint at the uncomfortable cold that was entering along with the unexpected visitor.

  The Widow rose and reached for the eating knife she carried at her belt, though it was far too small to be of much use against so large an animal. Rosamund took two more hasty steps backward and snatched up the long, heavy branch they had been using to poke up the logs in the fire. Pale and frightened, she stood brandishing her makeshift weapon like a club, while the bear shed snow onto the rush mats and peered shortsightedly around the room.

  The Widow cleared her throat, and the bear’s head swung in her direction. She froze, while the bear squinted intently at her. Then it began to growl, its upper lip curling back to show sharp teeth. Rosamund clenched her hands around the branch until her knuckles showed white. She was about to force herself to step forward, when the bear sat back on its haunches, raised its muzzle to the ceiling, and gave a long howl of agony and despair.

  Until that moment, Hugh had not realized that he would be unable to communicate with people once he found them. He had seen the light shining from the windows of the Widow’s cottage and gone toward it, half out of instinct, half from a reasoned desire for warmth and shelter. He had not stopped to consider how the inhabitants might react to the appearance of a large black bear at their door.

  The fear on the faces of the three women confronting him, and the complete failure of his attempt to speak to them, brought home to Hugh the full extent of the trap he was in. He howled his despair in the only way he had left to express it, then shook himself and began backing out of the cottage. He would not terrify these people further to no purpose.

  The Widow Arden had not moved since the first wave of her astonishment and fear had driven her to her feet. She stared at the bear, remembering the vision she had had while scrying for Rosamund and Blanche, but one bear is very like another and the light near the door was poor. Only when the bear began to back away in such an unbearlike fashion did the Widow summon her courage to say tentatively, “Bear?”

  Hugh paused and swung his head to look at the Widow, and she was shocked at the tortured bewilderment in his eyes. Rosamund raised her branch threateningly, and the Widow caught her arm. “Peace, Rosamund. This creature’s done no harm.”

  “But it’s a bear!” Rosamund said, bewildered by her mother’s strange response.

  “Belike,” the Widow said. “And belike not. Canst thou understand me, bear?”

  Hugh swung his great head up and down in an exaggerated nod. Rosamund stepped backward involuntarily, and her eyes widened. Blanche stared from behind her meager cover. Even the Widow was momentarily startled into silence. Hugh
looked at her with an air of patient expectation, and she hastily collected her thoughts.

  “Then in the name of Jesus I adjure thee, bear, to answer truly: mean‘st thou aught that’s ill for any of us here?” said the Widow.

  Hugh shook his head with even more energy than he had nodded earlier. Blanche jerked back behind the straw-stuffed pallet, and Rosamund shifted her grip on the branch she held.

  “Art thou in need, then?” the Widow went on. The bear nodded, and shook himself. Great, slushy drops of half-melted snow flew in all directions, and the smell of wet fur rose to fill the cottage. The Widow flinched, then almost smiled. “Is’t the cold that’s thy first difficulty? Dost thou seek shelter from this most untimely storm?”

  Hugh nodded again. The Widow hesitated, then said, “Rosamund, lay down thy club and shut the door, ere the cold doth freeze us all.”

  “Thou‘lt never let this creature stay!” Rosamund said, astonished.

  “How not?” the Widow said. “The bear hath promised to do no ill. Wouldst thou take the promise and turn him out to freeze? Do as I bid thee!”

  Muttering under her breath, Rosamund set her branch down beside the fire and edged around the bear to the door. The noise of the storm lessened as the door swung shut. Rosamund glanced at her mother, then dropped the latch into place. The musky odor of bear intensified. Rosamund turned, shivering, and stared at their visitor.

  There was a long silence. Hugh could smell the fear permeating the room, and he stood still as a post, afraid to move lest he make matters even worse. The Widow bit her lip, already regretting her impulsive generosity and wishing the bear had not had the haunted eyes of the young man she had seen in her vision three weeks before. Blanche crept slowly out of her hiding place, hoping the bear would continue to overlook her presence, and Rosamund leaned against the door and looked longingly at the branch her mother had made her leave beside the hearth.