by Jon Jacks
They were symbols of a far older god, Serverus had explained, one who had at one time been thought of and represented pictorially as being nothing but a spine; for it was believed a man’s seed actually rose up the spine, serpent like, to spout from the mouth as a new life.
Helen thought it all sounded horrific, yet she knew of many living within her father’s lands who still adhered to ancient practices. People, for instance, who regarded crows not as evil carrion, but as serving to help revive the dead in their new form; their liver, their very innards, devoured and transformed.
Serverus was always allowed to enter unannounced throughout the day, the empress trusting him completely. Today, however, the empress appeared briefly annoyed by his unexpected entrance.
‘Serverus,’ she snapped, her eyes still fixed warily upon the moved piece, yet adding with supposed appeasement, ‘you’ve arrived at a moment I couldn’t have imagined being more ideal: could you tell Helen a story while I check the contents of the…or our various carriages?’
‘I’d be delighted, of course,’ Serverus replied, the scribe’s face immediately brightening at the opportunity to retell one of the many stories he had collected together on his own journeys. ‘There’s one in particular, one I heard while living in Hispania, that–’
‘That isn’t quite the one Helen wishes to hear.’
The empress passed by Serverus on her way out of the tent.
‘The Snow Wedding!’ the empress announced assuredly. ‘Yes: I think she’d enjoy listening to that tale!’
*
Chapter 11
The Snow Wedding
If there had ever been an old woman more gnarled, withered, and ungainly contorted, then no one in the village could remember ever seeing her.
She lived on the very edges of the village, her house situated more within the forest than amongst the other houses of the small hamlet.
Perhaps that was why, the villagers mused, when they could be bothered to think of her, the old woman had wiry muscles more knotted than the roots of a tree, or had bones that crackled like a fire whenever she moved.
She was so old, no one could recall what she had looked like when she had been younger.
Perhaps, they reflected, when they could be bothered to think of her, she had always looked this way.
At the very least, she couldn’t possibly have been anything more than a younger version of the hideous crone she was now.
Fools!
Why must we flatter ourselves that the old have always looked old?
That the young will always be young?
It placates us, doesn’t it, as we try so hard to ignore the way of the world?
For I can tell you now, truthfully, that this old woman once possessed a beauty any princess, any queen, would have envied!
Any prince, any king, would have given away any piece of his kingdom to possess her for just one night.
Yes: that’s how truly captivating this woman had been when she had been young.
Her eyes more precious than the most glittering of diamonds!
Her hair as glorious as the flowing of a stream of blossom!
Her voice more entrancing than the laughter of a sparkling spring!
Her nature as fluidly gregarious as an elegant swooping of swallows!
Oh, how anyone would have loved her!
(I speak from experience, as you may already have reasoned!)
But – enough of my views, of my exclamations.
For her love, unfortunately, was never for me.
It was rather, for a handsome, dashing captain.
(And isn’t this always the case?)
She lived, even then, on the dark edges of the forest.
An area otherwise set aside for goblins, fairies, and other ne’er-do-wells.
From her window, she would stare out into the endlessly swirling snow.
(For hadn’t I already explained that this was a land of snow and ice? I hadn’t? Then please forgive me, for I should surely be excused for presuming that such a tale as this could only ever take place within an environment that most people would wisely avoid.)
Within that magical mix of darkness and its lacework of snow, many things could be seen, could be conjured up, within the minds of those capable of the wildest imaginings.
Yet she retained her reason, for she only ever imagined, only ever hoped, that he must return from the apparently ceaseless wars he was forever being ordered to set out upon.
He was her love.
Her other side.
Her dearest, her spirit, her very being.
And without him, she could not live!
He would appear from out of that swirling snow, at first his form surprisingly arising from the shapes existing within the darkness; and then – more surprisingly still, as if the world had been turned about upon its very head! – he would seem to be a part of the snow itself, it’s whirls taking form, solidifying, the exhausted soldier upon his weary horse.
She would rush out, out into that whirling snow, those streaming flakes of frozen seas, of icy lakes, of crystallised rivers; and they would dance about her as if weaving the most perfect of wedding gowns.
‘Marry me,’ he at last groaned with longing, with love. ‘Will you marry me?’
And the darkness that sat about him garbed him in the most perfect suit for a groom
‘Yes,’ she answered at last, with love, with longing, ‘I will!’
So naturally he made his promise; that he would wrap his loving embrace about her, and clothe her in his longing.
*
But even as they were married, he was once again called away to war.
And so, wrapped in her wedding gown of swirling snow, she morosely watched as he rode away, the funeral black garb of the night swiftly enveloping him; until it seemed he had been nothing more than an imaginary flight of fancy brought into being by swarming flakes.
Forever after, since that day, she would endlessly glance out of that very same window, waiting for his return.
She would stare out into that unceasingly swirling snow, out into an area otherwise set aside for goblins, fairies, and other ne’er-do-wells.
She lived, then, on the dark edges of the forest, perhaps even of reason; for she only ever imagined, only ever hoped, that he must return from the apparently everlasting wars he was eternally being ordered to set out upon.
He was her love.
Her other side.
Her dearest, her spirit, her very being.
And without him, she could not live!
When he finally returned, she reassured herself, she would rush out, out into that whirling snow, those streaming flakes of frozen seas, of icy lakes, of crystallised rivers; and they would dance as if weaving between them the most perfect of wedding gowns.
One night, the swirling of the snow, the wailing of the winds, they enticed her, they called her.
He’s here, the voices said.
He’s here, the swirling flakes promised her, granting her glimpses of his return.
They weaved between each other, those flakes, those strands of frozen streams, of icy lakes, of crystallised seas; they made the man divest himself of the funeral garb of darkness, made him accept instead the angelic glow of wraith-like moonbeams, of sparkling stars, of purest, spiritualised matter.
She ran, ran from her house, her house of logs, of wood and earth.
She was naked, of course, for he would envelope her in his warmth, his love.
He would wrap his loving embrace about her, and clothe her in his longing.
*
Eventually even the villagers, when they could be bothered to think of her, realised that the old woman hadn’t been seen for a long time in the shop, in the tavern, on the green.
A group of men set out, heading towards the edge of the forest, already telling themselves what they would find, what they had found so many times on similar expeditions: a frail, withered body, partially mummified by the freezing cold, still
sitting in her favourite chair, or lying beneath stiffened bedsheets.
But the old woman wasn’t seated in her chair.
She wasn’t lying in her bed.
She wasn’t even lying out in the snow, which was another favourite spot chosen by those reaching the end of their time on Earth.
The men searched deeper in the forest, shuddering at the thought of wolves, of bears, of the malicious dark spirits of the forest.
‘Mercy me,’ they groaned, longing to be by their own hearths once more, ‘she’s gone, it’s God’s will.’
And so they set off home, set off back to their cabins made reassuringly of logs, of wood and earth.
But as they morosely made their way back to the village, the swirling of the snow, the wailing of the winds, enticed them, called to them.
‘I’m here,’ the voice said, tinkling with all the laughter and joy of a young, vibrant girl.
‘I’m here,’ the swirling flakes teased, granting glimpses of her as they weaved between each other.
It was the angelic glow of wraith-like moonbeams, of sparkling stars, of purest, spiritualised matter.
She ran, ran from them, from their strange world of logs, of wood and earth.
The men couldn’t follow, of course, their muscles being more knotted than the roots of a tree, their bones crackling like fire whenever they moved.
While she was naked, of course.
For he would envelope her in his warmth, his love.
For that had always been his promise; that he would wrap his loving embrace about her, and clothe her in his longing.
*
Chapter 12
As they were avoiding the road and keeping instead to the ancient, well-beaten track running alongside the river, the carriage Helen and the empress were travelling in rocked uncomfortably back and forth and swayed disconcertingly from side to side.
Even so, the game pieces remained firmly locked into their positions upon the board, which had itself been placed within the centre of the carriage.
Every now and again, Helen eyed the game suspiciously, as if it were drawing life out of her, stealing her very soul.
The view outside the carriage was even worse, even more foreboding.
Through the small, curtained windows, Helen would observe the mass of crows that had set themselves to following the meandering column. They would rest every so often amongst the trees, abruptly darkening the previously snow-white branches as if there had been an abrupt burgeoning of the very darkest of leaves.
‘Yes, she’s keeping track of us,’ the empress casually declared, noting Helen’s interest in the massed crows.
With a flick of her eyes, she drew Helen’s attention back to the board. One of the pieces, one of a black cloud of crows, had moved to a new position upon the board, one just lying a few squares outside of the empress’s own line up of pieces.
Helen couldn’t remember seeing this piece before. Perhaps, then, she reasoned, the pieces not only changed positions but also their forms.
‘It’s unnerving the men: the way the crows are so obviously observing us,’ Helen said.
The empress nodded, her face free of any expression of either concern or nonchalance.
‘It’s only natural that they would feel this way,’ she agreed, warily glancing towards another, more forebodingly formed piece upon the board as she added, ‘It will be even worse when the wolves start gathering.’
*
Chapter 13
‘I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to ask any more favours of your father; but it may be that we will require more of his men to ensure our safe passage.’
‘Does he know who – what – we’re up against: the use of magic? Of the darkness?’
‘I think…he suspects that this would be the case.’
‘What chance have men against such forces? We’d be requesting their help only to be sending them to their doom!’
‘You forget that we also have control of those forces.’
‘Then why would you need more of my father’s men?’ Helen snapped more aggressively than she had intended.
She had been fooled by the empress into accessing the forces of darkness!
Her father had already been fooled into providing the empress with the men that had accompanied Helen.
And all so the empress could steal the True Cross!
The empress observed Helen thoughtfully.
‘So, did you enjoy the tale of the old woman?’ she asked innocently.
‘Yes; though I saw it as a tale of an endlessly young woman,’ Helen replied discourteously.
Despite Helen’s impoliteness, which bordered on a triumphant sneer, the empress smiled as if pleased by her answer.
‘Good, good: that’s the way it should be seen. Like those things both veiled and revealed within the swirling of the snow, we can never take for granted what we believe we merely see.’
She looked towards Helen now with a probing stare, one that implied she was expecting a certain response from the young girl: as Helen saw it, the empress was somehow aware that something was being hidden from her.
This was her way of granting Helen an opportunity to admit that there was a secret to be revealed, a burden to be shared.
Helen hoped that she was simply imagining all this, that she was reading far too much into the empress’s stilled glare.
She said nothing, despite fearing that she might have appeared more tight-lipped than was good for her.
The sparkle in the eyes of the empress changed a little, a dulling of their glow: Helen’s silence had surprised the empress, maybe even hurt her a little.
With a pang of regret, Helen realised she should have said something.
The empress had sensed that she was holding something back.
*
There was a knock on the side of the carriage, even though they were still making their way along the rough track.
The empress pulled aside one of the wooden shutters that covered one of the larger windows, revealing the commander of the legionaries riding alongside. He bent low in his saddle so that he could talk to her through the opening.
Before he spoke, Helen guessed what his message would be: that they were being gradually surrounded by wolves.
On the board, a piece had drawn closer to the empress’s side, a piece made up of wolves slinking through undergrowth.
The commander also added, however, that the men were becoming increasingly edgy, as it was obvious to them that this wasn’t natural behaviour, either for the wolves or the darkly flocking crows.
‘The crows are nothing to worry about, Optio,’ the empress replied dismissively. ‘Neither are the wolves for the moment; though you can order our archers to take care of any they feel able to bring down.’
With a salute, the Optio swung his mount aside. The empress pulled the shutter closed once more, blocking out the cold swirls of snow.
‘I wonder why she’s holding off from attacking?’
The empress said it as if she were merely speaking out aloud while asking herself this question. Even so, she once again gave Helen that quizzical stare that seemed to be demanding something of the young girl: such as an admission, perhaps, that she knew the answer.
Not wishing to make the mistake she had before, when she’d said nothing in reply, Helen pointed out that Fausta might be simply waiting to gather her forces.
The empress pouted doubtfully, yet gave the slightest nod of her head, as if accepting this as a reasonable answer.
‘You know, Helen,’ she said, ‘I can no longer guarantee your safety. It would have been best to let you return to your father; but now that your powers have been awakened, Fausta would undoubtedly chase you down. It is only if we stay and work together that we have any chance of overcoming her.’
The empress’s eyes locked directly with Helen’s, her gaze challenging, perhaps demanding honesty of her.
Helen recognised that she was probably reading far too much into these
stares of the empress, no doubt her own guilt playing a part: and yet she couldn’t help but think the empress was somehow well aware that the trust between them had gone.
Hadn’t there been a hint of accusation in the empress’s tone when she had mentioned the need to stick together?
‘Where is your father at the moment?’ the empress asked. ‘Where are most of his warriors presently based?’
‘He’s far north of here, on the coast: putting down the uprising of a rebellious lord.’
The empress briefly pondered this before saying, ‘So, even if we managed to get a message to him in time, and he was prepared to leave putting down this rebellion until later, the countryside they’d have to travel over is so wild it would only cause further dela–’
Her comment was interrupted as the carriage came to an urgent halt.
Rather than taking a look outside, the empress instinctively glanced towards the board.
A towering, dark presence occupied the board’s centre.
The empress sighed miserably.
‘The Angel of Death; now that is a surprise!’
*
Chapter 14
Grabbing her cloak, wrapping it tightly about her, the empress hurriedly opened the carriage’s door and stepped outside. She indicated that Helen should do the same, and follow on behind.
Outside, the cold was biting, despite their cloaks. For some reason, the empress wasn’t utilising her magical powers to keep them warm as she had the previous night.
Perhaps she didn’t want to waste any magical energies, if that was how it worked, thought Helen. Or maybe she didn’t want it to be so obvious to everyone within the column that she was capable of using the darkness.
The whole column had come to a standstill. The foot soldiers stamped their feet to keep warm, their padded garments already soaked with melted snow. Horses whinnied anxiously, no doubt as aware of the presence of the wolves as the men were, if not more so.
Beyond the edges of the stilled procession, everything was perfectly silent, every sound muted completely by the all-absorbing covering of snow. There was a twang of a bow, the dulled yelp of a shadow out in the fields briefly flipping over as an arrow struck it: the empress watched, unimpressed.