Snow White-Little Red Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

            Change did eventually touch my life.  And when, at last, I sent out shoots of life, I was relieved beyond description to find nourishment in the world around me.

            Clearly no help would come to me from my stepmother.  In three years’ time, she had not spoken a word to me—a fate that was, in its own way, worse than any direct abuse could have been.

            The source of my society may not come as a surprise to you, but I did not anticipate it in the slightest.  To explain it, I must describe the state of the kingdom during my early life.

            My father the King had raised the nation to glory: we were at peace, the treasury more than comfortable, the government uncontested.  Our borders stretched well beyond the bounds that had defined them in previous years.  Our pure-hearted warlocks and enchantresses protected us from plague and famine, and our armies quelled any hint of dark magic or marauding mortals.

            Then my father the King died, and my stepmother seized the throne.  She claimed to be taking only a regency until I came of age at fourteen, but those in association with her knew that this was a lie.

            In the course of her reign, my stepmother drove the country well down the path to total destruction.

            Under the false Queen’s careless watch, the borders shrank as parcels of the land were sold to various ambitious neighboring countries.  Even more unfortunately, the folk who were willing to sell our precious homeland for gold were the sort who turned their new wealth toward the study of dark magic, unwitting trapping themselves in the clutches of evil in pursuit of money.

            I wish I could say that this was the end of the nation’s problems.  But before I can tell you about the terrible things that followed, I must describe my birthday.

            I would have let it pass unnoticed, like the other two birthdays preceding.  But fourteen marks the coming-of-age in our land, and for me, should have meant the right to rule.  But with my stepmother on the throne, I despaired of saving the kingdom.  I fought only for my own continued existence.

            Then, on the morning of my birthday, I was abruptly awoken by light in my eyes as the drapes over my windows, ordered into place years before by my stepmother, were pulled clear.

            “Princess!”

            I groaned, but sat up, slightly alarmed.  How many days had it been since my last verbal exchange?  I could not remember.  I looked around, deciding if, perhaps, my stepmother had engineered some nefarious plot that involved my early arousal from bed.  But the young woman fretting over my mess of books, strewn across the floor over the last week or so, was a kitchen servant.  Not much older that I, she smiled encouragingly at me.  I did not reciprocate, only stared at her, uncomprehending.

            “It’s your birthday,” she explained patiently.  I nodded.  She stared at me momentarily, perhaps awaiting a more thorough response.  I did not give one, and she continued at last.  “There is a celebration in the town!”

            I raised my eyebrows in confusion, eyes on hers.  Finally, I found my voice.

            “A celebration of what?”  The sounds rasped in my under-used throat.

            “Of your birthday, Princess,” she said patronizingly.  “The people always have a holiday in your honor.  But this year, for your coming-of-age, they have outdone every previous celebration.  You must join them.”  She faltered, blushing.  “If you wish, I mean, Princess.”  She curtseyed to me, neck bent but eyes still searching mine for an answer.

            I was not sure what to tell her.  I had lived alone for so long, I did not know what to make of the invitation.  But, unexpectedly, a tiny ripple of hope , begun by the young woman’s words, spread from my heart.  I nodded, feeling as though I were in a dream.  She looked at me curiously, apparently awaiting words.

            "What will I wear?”  I whispered.  The girl smiled.

            “I’ll help you!”  I winced at her strident squeal.

            The horse felt unsteady and uncomfortable beneath me, shifting my body constantly into new positions and wrenching my joints to contorted angles.  She was beautiful, though.  Black as my hair, but curried so smoothly that the sun glinted off of her flanks.  For myself, between moments spent clinging to the beast for survival, I stared like a surprised child, absorbing as much of the surroundings as I could take in.

            Everything was so colorful in the sunlight.  The anniversary of my birth came as the summer waned, but I was warm with excitement.  I had lived so long by torchlight, too afraid of my stepmother to open my window, that I had forgotten the taste of wind, the smell of blossoms, the feel of life around me.  Indeed, I thought to myself that I had been dwelling in the abode of the dead.

            We rounded the last corner, the final bend before the town—and my new life—came into view.  One of the servants riding beside me, a horse trainer, uttered a command.  My mount slowed.  I glimpsed the town for the first time since childhood, and then I saw the people.

            There was music playing.  Simple music, a few pipes and a lute, but there was a joy in the sound that I had not experienced in years.  And with the sound, dancing in the streets.  I felt a tear slip from the corner of my eye as bells of laughter rang in the air.  The great emptiness I had carried since my father the King died, the wound that ached in my heart, felt—not yet healed, but at long last warm.  I had not smiled in days, years maybe, I didn’t know.  But, slowly, I smiled then.

            A few of the people stopped dancing to stare at me, and I writhed inside.  I wondered for the first time in years what I looked like—almost no alterations had been made to my appearance in preparation for this all-too public debut.  My wardrobe had only added tears and patches since my father the King had died.  My face was unwashed, and I had surely added a layer of grime in my rough travel here.  I brushed self-consciously at my skirts—washed recently enough, but worn almost through—as more pairs of eyes rested on me.  As though on some cue, two of the servants called at once over the crowd,

            “Hail, the Princess Snow White!”

            In the quiet moment that followed, I feared that the people would spurn me for my haggard appearance.  Instead, a cheer rose up that did not end for several minutes.

            The night of my fourteenth birthday might have been the most exhausted night of my life.  So unused was I to any exertion, merely the ride to and from town would likely have assured me a good night’s rest.  The hours of partying, not to mention the overwhelming adulation of the people, left me so tired that I had to be carried to my bed.  Yet, worn through though my body was, my mind raced with images of the day’s excursion.

            I had been asked to kiss every baby, dance to every tune.  The latter was a problem, as I had not danced in three years, and then not very well.  The people did not care.  They clasped my hands and pulled me along in the steps, laughing only from joy, never in mockery of my fumbling feet.

            Tears flooded my eyes as I recalled the almost reverent way every man, woman, and child had bowed or curtsied as I left.  For the first time in years, I felt appreciated, special.  I felt loved.

            Finally I drifted off to sleep, a small smile fixed on my lips.