PART ONE
WINTER
CHAPTER
ONE
Names are funny things. They seem to somehow define a person. And yet, a name given at birth may not be a
person’s true name. Or, as in my case,
the name that defines a person may change during their life. I have two names, and you’ve probably heard them
both. You just don’t know that they
belong to me.
Once
upon a time, I was born in a palace by the sea.
A perfect, pink baby with a head covered in a dark dandelion-puff of
hair. And it was then that I was given
my first name: Snow White.
My
mother died shortly thereafter. Sad, but
for me, life without a mother was the norm—I could hardly mourn her as an
infant. And I had nurses and nannies to
mother me. Tragic as it sounds, I did
not miss having a mother too much. That
is, I did not miss the mother I never knew until she was replaced.
My
father, the King, remarried when I was young.
The only things I remember about the wedding are how beautiful my
stepmother looked in her wedding gown and a sweet-looking old lady who sat down
the pew from me. The old woman winked
and smiled at me; my stepmother did not.
After
the ceremony I asked my father, the King, about the old lady.
She’s my mother, he told me
quickly. Then he followed his new bride
out of the room.
I
tell this story because there are two important names to remember in it—and
neither is a given name. The first is stepmother. And while most stepmothers are good and kind
and may, in time, earn the name mother,
mine was not that way. In point of fact,
she was as wicked as they come.
But
the next name you must remember is a cozy name, a safe name. It is the true-name of my father’s
mother. And that name is Granny.
Granny
had, of course, a given name, which will be revealed in due time. But the name that describes her is the name
of a caretaker, a name of family. A name
of a friend.
And
what of my name? What person does it
describe? Who is Snow White? Well, dear reader, that is for you to find
out.
My
early youth was privileged, as one might expect for a princess. While the nation, of course, was his first
priority, my father the King took time to show me that I was important as
well. Even from my toddling days he
taught me a love for and fealty to my people.
Always, always, their needs were paramount. Their desires were heard. Their dreams were sought. And as my father the King taught this, I
believed it. His instruction became
ingrained in my soul, as much a part of my mind as breath was a part of my
lungs—stemming from a separate source than within, but inescapably connected.
Then
she came. Stepmother. So beautiful
that to look at her almost ached—a light too bright to gaze on for any extended
time. But somehow, I never viewed her as
my father’s equal. She did not seem to
comprehend things as he did, as I did.
With all of her outward splendor, she seemed to me to be little more
than winter sunshine. Glowing beauty,
radiance, but with no true substance.
By
contrast, Father, the King, was a light born of flame. Not as obviously beautiful, but so warm that no one cared how he
appeared. And while, like fire, he might
burn, it was only those foolish enough to provoke his wrath who endured such
pain.
You
may have noticed that my father had two true-names. Perhaps, in “husband,” he had three, but to
me he was ever Father, and ever the King.
And
then he was gone. My father the King was
lain in the ground. He lived only in
memory and in the rest of God.
One
would hope that for a suddenly fatherless child of nine, a mother would come to
ease the grief. Someone who deserved the
name of “mother.” But I had only the
woman who had bought my father’s love with her beauty. She cared nothing for me and I, having no one
to claim the available title of mother,
found myself very much alone.
So
we come to my years of isolation.
I
told you that I found myself alone. This
is true. However, I also made myself alone. For with the death of my father the King, I
stopped investigating what the name “Snow White” defined. I ceased almost any attempt to discover
myself. It did not seem to matter very
much without Father to guide me. I
shrank within myself, surviving, existing, but refusing to live.
If
it is we, and not fate, that define our characters, then at this time—and for a
very long time—I shaped the definition of “Snow White” into “a girl alone.”
So
what did I do with myself? All of those
days, all the months stretching into years, lonely but not recognizing that
sorrow for what it was—what did I do with the time?
Truthfully,
much of my life was regimented. Not by
mandate, for no one in the palace either dared or bothered to give me orders,
but by habit. After a few days of
sleeping away my mourning, my eyes opened daily of their own accord around
seven in the morning. Loathing, as I
always had, the feeling of being trapped by quilts and sheets, I arose
quickly. No servants came to aid me, for
the Queen—no, that name, though she seized it, was never truly hers; my
Stepmother—had assigned all of my maids to herself. So I dressed alone and in silence. Hungry, I learned the path to the kitchens
and ate at the servants’ table. Perhaps
I would have joined in their conversations, but none of the servants
breakfasted as late in the morning as I did.
I ate in isolation.
In
the beginning I wandered the palace and gardens, restless and yet listless,
plodding on because I yearned to do something. Though I did not realize it then, I think I
was searching for a way to live up to the name of “Princess”—a name I was
given, but had not yet earned. The
emptiness of that name drove me, but without a clear path to follow, it drove
me from nothing to nothing, moving ceaselessly within a great void.
For
a few weeks walking served to fill my purposelessness, desperate need for
movement. Until the day that I
encountered my stepmother.
I
had stepped cautiously into the empty throne room, gazing around in
horror. Gone were all traces of my
ancestors, including my father the King.
Where stately stone and gorgeous tapestries had once guarded the nation’s
ruler, there was now opulence of a sickeningly excessive sort. The stone was entirely gilded, which might
have been extraordinarily lovely if there were warm summer sunlight to glint
off of it, in hues cast by the colored windows.
But the great portals to the outside world had been draped in heavy,
sun-stopping black. The only light in
the room shone from torches that hung bracketed to the walls with cruel, spiked
bands. The whole room felt dark,
sinister, wicked. The carpet, once the
red of a rose, now seemed bloody and grotesque.
Worst of all, my father’s simple dark-wood throne, carved for comfort rather
than to impress, a symbol of the King he had been, was gone. In its place was a golden, high-backed chair,
glittering with jewels that appeared to be tainted by some inescapable evil.
I
stood gasping, transfixed by the atrocious display. I did not notice my stepmother’s soft
footfalls. Then, suddenly, a door
slammed shut, the noise ripping me from my reverie.
In
a room that made everything else seem ugly, my stepmother was all the more
glorious. It was as though she had
sapped the beauty from all around her, claiming it for herself, leaving
everything else desolate. I felt myself
tremble in fear under her gorgeous stare.
She
said nothing, spared me no more than a long glance. She crossed the room, her scarlet dress
trailing behind her. I glanced down at
my own gown, lovely enough in its own right in my chamber that morning. Now the mourning-black seemed my shroud, as
all life in the room surely must have been pulled into my stepmother as she sat
upon her shining throne.
I
ran. Fear had gripped me, though of what
I did not know. I was certain only that
to remain in my stepmother’s presence would have meant the death of my very
soul.
After
this meeting, I whiled all of my days in my tower. If I felt compelled to move, I paced. If I hungered, I sent a note to have a meal
delivered. I spoke to no one, and no one
spoke to me. I kept my own company and
lived through books.
In
this manner I passed three years. I dare
say that there has never been a soul as aquainted with loneliness as I. I lived on for no other reason than an animal
desire to survive.
I
grew pale. So terribly, terribly
white. Contrasted to the natural black
of my uncut hair, the blood-red of my lips, I began to grow—though I did not
realize it—into a beauty to rival my stepmother. Yet somehow, perhaps due to my father the
King’s lasting teachings, I did not develop my stepmother’s icy manner. She was winter, and I the flower waiting to
bloom until the cold has passed. And
indeed, though I could not see it, my time for growth would come.
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