White Magic: A Tale Grimmly Told

by Belinda Burke

  “Are you mute, dear? Can you not answer me?”

  The girl shook her head, wondering what she had missed. Something important, something trivial? It did not matter. “I can talk. But I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  It was a rule meant to protect her. They had grown fond of her, the seven dwarves whose house she had shared. Had grown fond of her strangeness, which was at home here.

  But she was not breaking their injunction. This visitor was no stranger, even if the witch was more dangerous than the unknown.

  “What a wise rule, dear, but an old woman like me is no threat to anyone.”

  Snow White almost laughed. Even if she were not truly a witch, that would be a lie. Instead, the girl said nothing. Watched the flickering of the old woman’s face shift from greed to violence. The princess knew both as well as she knew her own name, but she was irritated that they were not being displayed on the features of her witch.

  “Might I come in for a glass of water, child? It has been a long road through the wood.”

  Snow White could have asked, she knew, why an old woman alone with neither burden nor purpose had made her way through the forest at all. Could have, but did not. “That is against the rules, too – to invite you in.”

  The fear-pulse was beating sharper, louder, in her breast. Good sense told her to close the window now and move back, but if she turned away the moment would pass. The feeling of awareness. The fear.

  “I can give you a glass through the window, if you’ll only wait a moment.” Snow White dipped a cup from the barrel by the kitchen door, brought it to the window and handed it out. The fingers that slipped over hers to take the glass twitched with violence.

  But the promise of the witch’s viciousness was soft and strange, not the same as the mirrored edge of the knife that had chased Snow White away. There was life, and death. What was this thing that waited between, in a touch, as both and neither?

  This promise of her stepmother’s. Like a dream. Dim, as the light in the queen’s eyes was dim, subdued by the pressure of some magic that transformed more than just shape.

  The witch drank the water, and handed back the empty cup. The quiet of the moment was undisturbed by the clatter of the glass as Snow White put it in the sink; by the sudden cry of a crow, then another, though the caws came loud from the pale branches of the yew outside the window.

  The same quiet did not last through the quavering of the queen’s old-woman voice. “I should repay you for your kindness, dear. Here, a pretty gift for a pretty girl. I am too old now to wear such things, and I have no daughter of my own to give it to.”

  Long, golden teeth glinted in the early summer sunlight. Peacock feathers, inlaid with gems and lacquer, mother of pearl and golden outlines, shone at Snow White. It was a comb, shimmering marvelously in the yellow afternoon. A jungle waited within every emerald, hovering beneath the surface. A hypnotizing ocean sparkled in each sapphire shadow.

  Her stepmother seemed to stumble as Snow White reached fascinated for the comb, and the gleaming golden teeth came close to biting into her skin. But the moment passed as she continued leaning forward, steadying the old woman with one hand while she snatched the comb with the other.

  It was deadly, she thought. Deadly. But the sparkling gems were too lovely to pass over or ignore, and though the teeth of it stung her fingertips, it smelled of witch and power. “Thank you for the gift, Ma’am. Do be careful. But I have chores now, and if I am not done in time I will be scolded. Goodbye, and good journey.”

  The princess stepped away from the window with her prize in hand. Away, and then again— away. A shadow grew behind the witch, a pouring of presence that might have slipped through the window and strangled her—but though they had left her alone, the dwarves had not left Snow White without protection.

  The window slammed shut between her and her witch, and the girl ran laughing into the house, cradling her new comb. When the dwarves came home Snow White was sitting at the hearth, playing with it, watching the firelight dissolve into fractures of brilliance in every gem.

  The youngest among them asked after it, curious. “And what is that, pretty?”

  “A gift from my stepmother. You missed her. The witch came as an old woman, but she left after she gave me this.” Their eyes flickered greedily, and she pulled it back toward her chest. Dwarves. Such sillies. “The teeth are poisoned, but it’s mine anyway. So no touching.”

  Seven brothers stared at her, three maybe amused, three laughing already, and only the eldest with concern. “Little darkling, at least let us clean the poison away. If it is magic, you will not be able to do so.”

  Snow White blinked at him, and then she, too, was laughing. “No, no. What would be the fun in that? And it makes the gold shine so brightly, whatever it is.” Carefully, she turned the comb in the firelight, admiring the gleam of it, then gathered her hair in one hand and pinned it up.

  “That is dangerous, darkling.”

  “Yes. Perhaps I will always feel awake if I wear it?” The dwarves stared at her, not understanding. Shrugging, the Princess tilted her head, feeling the weight of the comb.

  But the days went by, and the tingling, alert sensation passed after all. Snow White was too careful to prick herself accidentally, and not curious enough to seek a lingering death.

  The sweet scent of the poison became only another accent to the fragrance of her hair.

  Chapter Four

  Surprisingly untroubled, the years went by in slow, smooth seasons. Needles built beneath the branches, the forest grew bright and dark by turns, and in the immaculate stillness that followed each winter’s first storm, Snow White discovered again and again that her name was a lie.

  She was not snow white.

  It disgruntled her.

  The snow was pure and untouched, had no glow of pink, no living flush marking its alabaster surface. The princess was pale, yes, but only as people could be. Not like the snow at all.

  But her fourteenth winter was less of a trial than those that had come before. Just after the new year, the witch came for a second visit, and this time she came, not as an old woman, but as an old man, peddling from a cart.

  The magic taste was stronger this time, or perhaps Snow White’s awareness of it. Thick. Bitter. Sweet. But the witch had caught her outside this time, hanging the dwarves’ clothes on the line in the winter sun. There would be no hiding behind rules or doors or closed windows.

  The old man whose shape the witch had taken stopped the cart and hailed her, in a voice blurred with croaking masculinity and age. “A remedy for the pretty young miss? A new set of cookware, something to keep you warm in the winter while you work? All I sell is magic, enchantments for a good wife such as yourself—have you so many children, so young?”

  Snow White laughed. What a joke. How amusing, when she knew the witch was aware of the truth. “Children? No. There are only dwarves in this house.” She did not mean to answer so, but the words came naturally and for a moment she doubted her own certain knowledge.

  Could it be that the taste of magic came only from this man’s wares? But the enchantment she smelled was sweet-sour and familiar, and the princess dismissed the thought. Again, the witch spoke, tempting her closer. “Something to keep you warm, then? I have just the thing for such a beautiful young woman.”

  Staring back into the wrinkled gaze, the deep brown eyes, Snow White considered. Perhaps if she said now that she knew, that the disguises were useless, the queen would reveal herself and something would happen. Something that would once again give her that sparkling awareness: I am awake.

  The drudgery of her daily life was not what she desired. Something to break the cycle, anything at all—that might be enough. But the game was still there between them, waiting to be played, the pieces arrayed between the princess and her witch.

  Perhaps the game was something enough, for now.

  Snow White kept her knowledge to herself and responded as if she was aware of nothin
g at all. “You flatter me, sir. But I have been left with no funds to purchase any of your wares, much as I might like to.”

  The old man was nodding slowly now. It would have been a perfect mask, but all Snow White could taste was the stench of witch. “Tis a shame, truly. But here, at least try on this bodice. So lovely, dark as your hair—and look, it laces itself. It even matches the comb you’re wearing. Such a pretty piece, I suppose you wouldn’t part with it in trade?”

  The princess laughed as she lifted her arms, letting the witch wrap the bodice around her waist. A chill moved through her as the fabric touched her skin, followed by a pleasant warmth. The laces began to tie and tighten themselves, just as she had been told.

  Had the queen only come wanting the comb back, since it had not sufficed to kill Snow White? But she would not give it up. It was the prize of the second round of their game.

  Their first match the huntsman had disrupted, and the witch had showed poor form in using him anyway. But the second round…that, Snow White had won, undoubtedly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. This comb was a gift. Besides, the teeth are poisoned. You don’t want it, I’m sure.”

  A gasp that was out of character, just what she wanted, came from the old man, this time in the queen’s voice. Snow White feigned solicitude. “Sir? Are you well, sir?”

  Then she gasped herself, because the bodice had continued to tighten, and now it was far too tightly laced. Her breath was being forced out of her, her waist narrowed to the point of pain. Her ribs were cracking and still, it tightened.

  Where was the air? The princess couldn’t breathe, couldn’t reach the air that felt so temptingly cold on her tongue, in her open mouth. Drowning on dry land, she dropped to her knees, then managed one strained breath.

  It was an agonized exhalation as she tugged at the magical constriction, shaking not with fear but irritated contempt. “Enough!” To her lasting surprise, the laces loosened. Not all the way, not even to the point of comfort, but enough.

  Panting now, she turned laughing eyes full of tears to the silent figure behind her, wavering because Snow White was lightheaded or because the magic was flickering, she did not know which.

  “Your bodice has ideas of its own about my figure. I should make you let me keep it, after the pain it has caused.” Her heart beat wildly in her chest now, a drum with a rhythm like no song she had ever heard. It moved her forward, closer and closer to the witch, though the witch was backing away from her.

  “Keep… Yes. Yes, you…you keep it.” Back, the queen stepped, and back again—until she was fleeing, running, losing the old man’s shape as she moved down the hill, leaving the cart behind with her disguise. The magic that had summoned the peddler’s vehicle dissolved as she went, a shadow that blew away on the wind, leaving nothing solid behind.

  As the witch fled, Snow White laughed behind her, breathless but no longer from the bodice, just from the fear as it left her empty and alone.

  Like her witch. Why had she come? Had the queen really thought cursed laces would compel her, when she had played as a girl in the witch’s own chamber? Dared the tower alone, seen the empty mirror moving?

  She had watched the sacrifices, seen naked hearts beating on the black table, had peered in at demon summonings and breathed the living fragrance of the witch’s hair. Had swallowed the scent of the magic from the air, the bitter, cloying sickliness of it, had felt a black pulse responding inside herself. Something newborn and still endless…

  Until the moment the witch had poured blackness down her throat, she had never once been harmed by any of it.

  And what was harm? It had not been poison, but perhaps a kind of protection, subtle as the immunity from a childhood bee sting. Was there another reason why the venom of the comb that stung her fingers did not seep into her blood? Why the laces of the corset tightened, and tightened, then obeyed?

  The dwarves came home and Snow White was still laughing to herself as she set the table, brought ale from the kitchen, set out loaves of bread and ladled stew.

  “Was there something amusing, little darkling?”

  “Not for you, since you missed her. Again.”

  The middle brother growled. “The witch?”

  “My witch. Yes. She wants me dead, but she won’t do it except in the proper way. Except by magic. She learned from the huntsman, I think. She wants me for herself; all that I am.” A smile twitched up the corner of her mouth. “I wonder which spell she wants to use me in? But as I will not let her do it, I suppose I shall never find out.”

  The dwarves did not comment on her new bodice. Not even when the laces shifted, and she sucked in a breath, tapping at them sharply now and then.

  Chapter Five

  Snow White still lived, still breathed. That she did so tormented the witch with the memory of her own failures and the girl’s every-increasing beauty. The third time—the third time must be the charm. The queen intended to make certain of it.

  One step at a time, she crafted an apple, using the darkest, the subtlest, the most poisonous and secret arts. It required neither a potion, nor a spell, but both in tandem and something more: a deeper magic. That which could change, not the seeming of things, but their truth.

  The princess was too lovely, too beautiful; so the witch had seen, and so the mirror said, confirming. Something more than girlish prettiness, something more than the splendor of youth. But if she could not defy it, perhaps the queen could make it her own.

  To consume; to become. The two things were the same in her mind. They had been the same since the morning she had sent the huntsman out with her stepdaughter, seeking flesh for a spell, a potion – beauty as sacrifice and satisfaction.

  Perhaps now the time had come for her to make them the same for Snow White.

  A mouthful of the apple would be enough to lay the princess low forever, and if the first taste was not enough to kill her, the second would deliver something worse.

  A living death.

  A silence that might go on forever, dreamless, empty… That, perhaps, would be punishment enough.

  The witch infused her apple with subtler powers than death alone. She moved from murder to dreams, utter silence to sleep. It would be more than enough to force the thudding beat of the girl’s nimble pulse to stillness. It would entrance the one who looked upon it: an apple that could never be turned from once noticed, nor put down once picked up.

  Even to the queen’s eyes, aware of the magic and inured to its draw, it gleamed softly, one piece of fruit with the scent of an entire orchard.

  “Oh taste and see.” The queen murmured the words to herself in darkness, then turned to the blank, reflective blackness of her sleeping mirror. She hesitated to awaken it, though the urge struck her the moment her face appeared in the dark surface.

  What would it tell her but what she knew already? “You, my queen, are fair. Of great beauty. And yet lives one fairer by far than thee.” Mocking, her voice echoed back at her as she said the words.

  White as snow. Black as ebony. Red as blood. She thought those things and the thoughts, too, were mocking, but at least the echo of them did not shout back at her from the walls.

  The enchant the apple took months of careful work, six days of invocation, seven nights of fasting, the aid of demons and the favors of immortals she had never intended to summon…but when it was done, it sat heavy in her palm, luminous with magic.

  Down the stairs, through the locked door, she went out of her black tower and into the night. As she walked she drew the disguise she had chosen over her own face. Once more an old woman, this time she wore a religious habit, the farthest thing from witchery she could conceive of. Snow White was becoming aware of her. The last time, she had been too much at ease for the queen’s comfort.

  The comb. She keeps my comb and wears it still, though she knows it to be poison!

  Yet she thought that it might not matter what shape she assumed for this visit. The power of the apple was not to be denied. It would entice
the girl, hypnotize her, draw her to a quick red death or a slow, black sleep.

  In a basket of normal fruit the enchanted apple was a gleaming wonder. The queen covered it as she made her way through the dark of the village below the castle, and into the black of the wood.

  She knew the way well by now, had traveled this road in her sleep more than in waking life. It was a long way through the forest, but the length of the trip was made less trying by the promise at the end of it.

  This time, she would not be surprised by anything. She would not surrender to shock, even if, thinking back, she was more and more certain that the girl had known who was she was both times she had come here.

  This time, the witch would stay, regardless, and watch the princess succumb.

  Snow White sat in the doorway of the dwarves’ cottage, the jeweled comb in her hair reflecting the winter sun. The princess hummed beneath her breath as she stared out across the snow that had fallen overnight, wondering if the pink at the edge of the sky would brighten before it surrendered to snow-gray.

  A nun came out of the forest, and the princess watched the older woman cross the space remaining between them, a silhouette that gained detail as she approached. The mist of the woman’s breath huffed before her, and her footsteps crunching across the snow were an eager noise.

  Snow White’s senses tingled with the spreading sensation of danger. It was not the fullness of that awake feeling, but the prickling precursors began to accumulate in her veins.

  She had faced death, played with death, but this time…this time, something was coming that was not to be denied. Something that would consume her. Did she want it? The princess faced the certain knowledge that she should turn and run, lock and bar the door, answer it to no one but her dwarves…

  Instead she stayed, and stood. Though she could feel the witch’s magic against her skin, all she could smell was apples. Blossoms. Orchard-fragrance, overwhelming even the crispness of the snow. Her mouth watered as the witch in her nun’s shape grew closer, as the woman formed a beatific smile on her face.