Arrin had said nothing. He had been too shocked. Even when the king slapped him on the shoulder, he had said nothing.
“Perhaps she died in the woods,” said the king. “Eh? We’ll keep an eye out. Hard to survive a winter out there—no, I’m not blaming you. Worked out for the best, I expect.”
Arrin, who had said nothing about the boars, or Snow’s current whereabouts, had found voice to say “As you say, my lord.”
He had slipped away after dinner. If it had occurred to the king that Arrin might carry word back to his first wife, he did not act on the thought. The pigs had been waiting in the woods.
And now here was Snow, perhaps dying.
Perhaps it’s her way of making it easier for him, Arrin thought.
He examined the thought for an instant, no more—and pushed it away.
“The convent,” he said. “They know her there, and they’ll protect her. If the queen is dead, it’s only the king to fear, and he’ll be glad enough to see her go into orders.”
The boars looked at him, then at each other.
“Human stuff,” said Greatspot. “Get her up. You’ll take her on your horse, hunter-man?”
Arrin nodded, picking Snow up in his arms. She was heavy and solid, not ethereal as princesses are said to be. He walked to his horse.
Greatspot nodded. “Puffball, stay here. You’ve gone far enough today. Juniper, with me.”
“You’ve gone just as far,” said Puffball mildly.
“Yes. One of us should see this through, and I don’t trust you to speak for us. You’ll crack a bad joke at the wrong moment and these nuns of Snow’s will chase you out with a broom.”
It was awkward mounting with his arms full, but Arrin managed it, using Puffball as a mounting block.
He turned his horse, glancing back toward the den. The little white pig stood in the door, held up between two larger fellows. She was limping, but she met his eyes.
“Take care of her,” she said, in a clear, high voice.
“I will,” said Arrin.
Snow woke.
Her throat ached in ways that defied description. She was surrounded by whiteness—white walls, white ceiling, unbleached linen sheets. There was a window with wooden shutters, and a vase of dried hydrangea blossoms on the sill.
“W-what?” The sound of her own voice was hoarse and ugly. “Where am I?”
“The convent of St. Mirriam,” someone replied. “You were attacked, but you’re safe now. All will be well.”
“Yes…” said Snow slowly. “I remember—”
A thought struck her suddenly, and she tried to sit up. The nun sitting beside her put a hand on her shoulder and held her down. “Ashes!”
“Ashes is fine,” said a familiar voice near the floor.
Snow craned her neck, and Juniper stood up and laid her great bristly head across the sheets. She smiled, as much as a boar can smile.
“Hush!” croaked Snow. “They’ll hear you—”
“Don’t worry,” said the nun. She did not look much older than Snow, but she had a great air of calm. “We know about them. It is…unusual, but their leader agreed to be bathed in holy water, and did not turn into a demon, so we are forced to conclude that it is some manner of miracle.”
Juniper grinned. “It’s a good thing we didn’t bring Puffball. He would have pretended to be one, just for a joke.”
“That’s all right, then…” croaked Snow, and drifted back to sleep.
The next time she woke, she was stronger, and she was able to drink a little broth. Her throat hurt, but if she let liquid trickle down the back and did not try to swallow, it hurt less. Mother Clara came as soon as she was awake, and sat down on the bed beside her.
“My dear, how do you feel?”
“Horrible,” whispered Snow, and smiled weakly.
Mother Clara threw her head back and laughed. “Very good! That will pass. We were worried for a little while, when that young hunter brought you here. Your throat was so swollen that we were not sure that you would survive.”
“She tried to strangle me,” Snow whispered, plucking at the edge of the sheet. “She was mad. She must have been.”
The abbess took a deep breath, and her smile faded. “I am afraid,” she said slowly, “I am afraid that was your mother. The queen. Her sorceries had recoiled on her somehow.”
There was a long silence in the little white room. A breeze came through the little window, and rattled the edges of the dried flowers.
“My mother is the castle midwife,” said Snow, closing her eyes.
The abbess patted her hand. “I sent for her, and will tell her you said so.”
There was a little silence. Snow stirred. “The boars?”
“Your truffle-hunting friends,” said the abbess, laughing. “They were a surprise. I had expected fairies, you know, or possibly dwarves, and I was a little concerned by it. They are not safe friends, and some are devils in disguise. But I could not understand why they would need a human to bargain for them. Your friend Greatspot was a revelation. If she were human, she would make a marvelous abbess, I think.”
Snow thought about a time last winter, when Greatspot had gone into heat and had spent several days away from the den with Puffball. It did not seem terribly appropriate to mention this to a nun. She settled for a nod.
Mother Clara patted Snow’s hand again, and rose. “Rest. When you are strong enough, we will take you out to the garden. Men are not allowed within these walls, and I fear Master Arrin is going half-mad wanting to see you.”
Master Arrin was in fact going half-mad, and had been for several days. When Snow, assisted by Juniper on one side and Mother Clara on the other, made her way into the garden, Arrin nearly flung his arms around her. (He did not, largely because Mother Clara was there.)
“You’re alive,” he said, as she settled on a bench. “I was afraid—you were so limp and your breathing was terrible—”
She smiled. “I still sound terrible,” she said. Her voice still sounded hoarse and hard, like a crow laughing. “It’s not painful, but they tell me it may not ever recover. Oh, well. I got off lightly, really.”
“I should have come sooner,” said Arrin. “Or never left you alone.” He sank to his knees next to the bench.
(Mother Clara shared a look with Juniper, which did not—quite—include rolled eyes.)
Snow shook her head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. It was the queen. She would have found a way. At least…at least it’s over now.”
“You were very brave,” said Arrin.
Snow looked at him blankly.
But I wasn’t brave, she thought. I was brave before, when I talked to the farmer. I was frightened and I did it anyway. I was brave when I went to the nuns. Being attacked by the queen—that wasn’t brave. I just wanted not to die.
She wondered if he would understand. She thought not.
She wondered if, given time, she could teach him.
And then she thought, he rode from the boar’s house, all that dark way, with me rasping for breath in his arms. And perhaps I don’t understand what that was like, either.
It is possible that we might teach each other.
Mother Clara cleared her throat discreetly. “It may be useful for both of you to know that the king has disinherited Snow and remanded her to my care. I believe he would like you to discover a vocation and take orders, but I made him no promises. In any event, you are welcome here as long as you would like to stay.”
Snow exhaled, leaning back on the bench. “Thank god.”
“God most likely had a hand in it,” Mother Clara agreed. “At least by way of his humble servant.” She smiled demurely and Juniper snickered.
Arrin took Snow’s hand and squeezed it hard. “Then I will come and see you again.”
“Yes,” said Snow. “I think I’d like that.”
ODD SEASON
It was an odd season.
The wild geese threaded the sky through
t
he equinox's needle
the sugar maples burned upon the hill.
The bear came walking down the road
through the middle of town.
My neighbor saw him,
said he looked like he was going somewhere
not quite in a hurry.
Everybody stopped to watch.
Couldn't get out of the way fast enough
and then there wasn't any need
because the bear kept walking
didn't look right or left.
Somebody grabbed a gun from their truck
and somebody else told him to put it away
and not to be a goddamn fool.
He left holes in the road
shaped like bear tracks.
In another place they should have filled with turquoise
but here they were red clay and an inch of clear gray water.
The tracks ran past my neighbor's garden.
She planted wild lupine around them
which never does too well on clay.
These grew all right. Maybe that was the miracle.
For the rest of us
we didn't talk about it much
it was one more odd thing
in a season already filled with them.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I always used to roll my eyes at those five-page acknowledgements that showed up in the back of various books.
Then I became a writer. Heh.
Thanks go, therefore, in no particular order, to Sigrid Ellis for buying a short story and setting me down this dark road, to Maggie Hogarth for cover consultation and a lot of good advice about self-publishing, and to my friend Mur Lafferty, who writes short stories and runs a podcast that buys short stories, for discussing the existence of such things as if they were normal and not from some weird other dimension inhabited by people who are not me.
Thanks also go to Terri Windling, for running a poetry week on her blog which led to a couple of the poems in here, and to many long ago folklorists, without whom the world would be a far drearier place.
Thanks forever and always to my kind blog readers who have read my stuff and uttered variations on “I like this!” and occasionally even “I would buy this!” which is possibly the most heartening thing that a reader can say to an author.
Huge, massive, Sharknado-sized thanks to KB Spangler, who edited “Boar & Apples” and left snarky comments in the sidebar and who is probably reading this right now and judging me for not having used semi-colons. (Seriously, what is with editors and semi-colons?)
Likewise, thanks to my three faithful proofreaders, who went through it in record time and caught so many errors that I went and hid under the bed for awhile. Cassie, Jes, and Josh, you three are awesome and if you ever need a kidney, I will start hunting down strangers with your blood type.
And finally, my thanks and all my love to my husband Kevin. There is a place in everything I write, at about the 3/4th mark, where I lose all my confidence and force him to read it and tell me whether or not it will shame my ancestors. He has therefore endured more cliffhangers than any man should be forced to endure, as well as me hovering over him while he reads, going “You twitched! What made you twitch? Was it a funny bit? Was it a bad bit? TELL ME TELL ME OH GOD IS IT HORRIBLE?!”
Despite this, he stays married to me. (I think it’s because I buy him sushi.)
You are all the best sort of people and I am flattered that you let me hang around with you.
OTHER WORKS
As T. Kingfisher
Nine Goblins (Goblinhome Book 1)
The Seventh Bride (forthcoming)
As Ursula Vernon
From Sofawolf Press:
Black Dogs Duology
House of Diamond
Mountain of Iron
Digger Series
Digger Omnibus Edition
It Made Sense At The Time
For kids:
Dragonbreath Series
Hamster Princess: Harriet the Invincible (forthcoming)
Castle Hangnail (forthcoming)
Nurk: The Strange Surprising Adventures of a Somewhat Brave Shrew
Comics Squad: Recess!
T. Kingfisher is a pen-name for the Hugo-Award winning author and illustrator Ursula Vernon.
Ms. Kingfisher lives in North Carolina with her husband, garden, and disobedient pets. She is fond of wombats and sushi, but not in the same way.
You can find links to all these books, new releases, artwork, rambling blog posts, links to podcasts and more information about the author at
www.redwombatstudio.com
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