Grim, page 13
toward adulthood, everyone in the village
assumed they would one day marry,
so pure was their love for one another.
K grew into a handsome young man,
and strong, from long days hauling lumber
and firewood. Greta learned to weave
intricate patterns, designs inspired by
her beloved blooms. A wedding was not
far away. But then came an unusually
early winter storm. Ice flurried through
the town, filling the streets with a strange
buzzing noise. This was very strange, and
no one could guess the source of the sound.
K’s curiosity was piqued. When he wondered out
loud what it was, his grandmama decided
it must be snow bees. “Do they have a queen?”
asked K. Every hive had one, didn’t it?
“Well, of course, child,” agreed Grandmama.
“The Snow Queen. And she is beautiful
to behold, but her heart is carved of ice.”
K didn’t quite believe it until that same
evening, just as the sun set, when motion
beyond his frost-curtained window
caught his notice. He cleared a small
spot, and when he looked out into
the fading light, he found a striking woman,
pale as freshly drifted snow, peering
back at him. She knocked on the glass.
“Please open the window. I saw you earlier,
hauling wood on your sledge. I might
have work for you.” K felt compelled
to comply, and in a single blink, a swarm
of ice bees rose up and flew inside. One
lodged itself in K’s right eye; another
burrowed into his heart. They were so
tiny, he barely felt pain, but though
the Snow Queen herself didn’t change
in appearance, everything else did.
The cheerful fire shriveled to cold
embers in a smoke-stained hearth.
The walls leaned, peeling paint, and
the threadbare carpet revealed
a splintered floor. Grandmama’s song,
only seconds before so lovely, now
sounded like a tomcat’s yowl. And K’s
heart felt as if it had frozen near solid.
Some instinct told him that if he could
only touch Greta, his love for her might
thaw the ice. But when he glanced
across the way at her window, it appeared
shuttered, and her house dilapidated,
as if no one had lived there for a very
long time. K fell into such despair
that when the Snow Queen urged,
“Come with me,” he took her hand
and followed docilely to her sleigh.
When he climbed in beside her,
she covered him with a rich ermine
stole. Then she kissed him, and he felt
a spark of warmth, but only a spark,
and his life as he knew it fell into
the tracked snow behind them.
When he asked where they were going,
the Snow Queen answered, “To my grand
palace.” And when he wanted to know
why she had taken his hand, she told
him, “Because I need someone to care
for me.” She didn’t say that rumors
of his love for Greta had crept far and
wide, all the way to her ears, and she knew
she must see this thing for herself.
She’d traveled a great distance to K’s
town and spied on the young couple,
witnessing such affection between them
that a little piece of her own heart
melted. Perhaps, enchanted, K would
grow to love her, too, freeing her
from the demon’s curse. So they flew
across the snow, crows caw-cawing
overhead, to the Land of the Midnight Sun.
Act Three
K said goodbye to no one, and not a single
soul had seen him go. When someone
vanishes into thin air, people talk.
“He’s gone looking for work,” some said.
“He’s fallen for another, and run off,”
opined others. After many days with no
word, no sign, everyone came to believe
K was dead. Everyone except Greta.
“I don’t know where he went or what
he’s done, but my heart would tell me
if he had succumbed to some threat
of nature or man. No, my K is alive.”
She waited patiently through winter.
But with the spring thaw, as tender green
shoots pushed up through the earth,
preparing the land for summer, she knew
she must search for K. “Before the roses
bloom, or how will I ever look at them
again?” Despite all best-intentioned advice
to the contrary, Greta packed a few days’
food into a rucksack, and off she went.
Her quest would have been dangerous
enough for a young woman alone, but
dark magic prefers no interference,
unless it is its own. The road from town
went east and west, parallel the river.
Greta called out to the sparrows,
“Do you know which way K went?”
But the little birds just sang, “We’re
here. We’re here.” So Greta cried
to the river, “You must have seen him
go. Tell me which way to travel.”
Rippling waves lapped against the bank.
“Come here,” they seemed to say.
“Come here.” When Greta reached
the beach, she found a little skiff
tied there. “Get in. Get in,” heaved
the water. So she did, and the river
rose, spiriting her away. With no oars
nor sail, Greta was at the mercy
of the current. After a time, she slept
in the soft April sunshine. She dreamed
of roses. Dreamed of ice. Of a sleigh
aloft in a winter sky. Somewhere, midst
the swirling images, the solution
to her puzzle appeared. But when
she woke, tossed into the bow as the boat
bumped against the shore, it was gone.
Greta stepped onto the shimmering
sand and stretched, and when her back
was turned, the river coaxed the boat
away. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Now what?”
But there was really only one decision.
“Well, I suppose I must walk.” It wasn’t
until hours later that she remembered
her rucksack. All her provisions were
somewhere downriver. But, despite
the gnaw in her belly and blisters
forming on her feet, her love for K
drew her forward. On she trekked,
into the purpling evening, until at last
she reached a tidy cottage. Her knock
did not go unanswered. “I’m sorry to
bother you,” she told the bent old woman
who opened the door. “I’ve traveled
all day, and I’ve lost my rucksack and...”
A tear or two spilled from her eyes.
“Could you spare a crust of bread?”
The crone (for that’s what she was,
though her magic was tepid with
great age) allowed, “Come in, come
in, my dear. Tell me about your journey
while I fix you a plate. There’s plenty
here. My garden is bounteous, and
never sleeps.” That much, at least,
was true. “Please help yourself to
some cherries. They’re fresh from
my orchard.” Greta thought it odd
that trees would bear fruit in April,
but with one bite of a luscious red
cherry, all suspicion melted away,
and she told the old woman about
her quest to find her love before
the roses blossomed at home. Caught
up in her own story, Greta didn’t ask
the crone how she had come to live alone
in the wilderness. Had she, the witch
would not have confessed that she was
in the employ of the Demon King.
Still, she wasn’t truly wicked, only
intolerably lonely. Few enough people
passed that way. The spell she cast
on the turnip stew wasn’t meant
to harm Greta, only to lull her into
forgetfulness so she might stay for
a time. “I’ll fix you a bed in front
of the fire, where it’s cozy.” Greta
drifted off to the sound of crackling
wood and slept dreamlessly. The next
morning, after a breakfast of grains
and honey, she followed the crone
out the back door. The garden was
one hundred meters wide, and bordered
on two sides by very tall walls. The far
end was nowhere in sight. “Oh!” said
the girl. “All I can see from here to forever
are flowers in bloom and trees bearing
fruit. But how is that possible?”
The old woman answered easily, “As I
said, my garden doesn’t understand
the constraints of time. You may partake
of anything you see. Except...” She gestured
toward the tallest tree in the yard.
“Don’t eat that fruit. It’s bitter poison.”
Greta hardly cared. The garden offered
her much pleasure for countless days.
Every flower had a story to confess, and bird
choirs sang in leafy branches. The old
woman fed her well and in the evenings
recited poetry and ancient tales of woe.
All thoughts of home and the boy
she loved skittered off into the far
regions of Greta’s mind. She might
have stayed right there for the rest
of her life, but one afternoon she noticed
a raven land on the tree of poison fruit.
He plucked one and, before she could
offer warning, gobbled it down. Greta
waited for him to fall to the ground.
Instead, he ate another. And another.
“Dear raven,” said Greta. “How do you
feel? I’m told that fruit is poisonous.”
The raven looked down with one black
marble eye. “Poison?” he cawed. “This
fruit is quite delicious. Eaten it for years.
Hasn’t killed me yet.” Then off he flew.
Next, a crow landed on the tree.
He, too, ate the fruit without incident.
“Oh, crow. Why would the old woman
warn me not to eat from this tree?”
If a crow could smile, that’s what he did.
“Do you not read your Bible, child?
What is it she doesn’t want you to know?”
Then he tossed her a fruit. “Eat. So sweet.”
Greta ate. One bite, and she remembered
her home. Another, she recalled her
own garden and the greening roses.
When she finished the fruit, she saw
K in her mind’s eye and remembered
her quest. “Oh! I have been here much
too long. But how will I escape
the garden? Do you know a way out?”
The crow blinked. “Indeed I do. Will
you take some fruit for your journey?
I’ve found it a wise thing to do.”
Greta gathered as many as her pockets
could hold, then followed the crow
to a small gate in the wall, barely big
enough for her to squeeze through.
With great force of will she did, and on
the far side she found summer had
come and gone. “It is autumn, and
winter approaches. I have to hurry,
but which way? Where did my K go?”
Act Four
Another day, her cry might have gone
unheeded. But Mr. Crow had taken
an interest in the girl, circling above
her as she hurried away from the garden,
throwing glances over her shoulder.
No one followed, however, and after a safe
distance, she slowed to a stop, winded.
It was then she noticed her companion.
“Might you have seen K, Mr. Crow?
He’d have passed this way in late winter.”
She went on to describe her beloved,
and how he had disappeared. Now,
the crow spoke human fluently,
a benefit of eating fruit from the garden’s
Tree of Knowledge. Still, he enunciated
carefully, so as not to squawk.
“That is a very sad story of love gone
astray. I myself am engaged, and
should the love of my life disappear,
I would search the ends of the earth
for her.” Perched atop a formidable
rock, he considered a minute, then
said, “Come to think of it, I did see a lad
about that age pass this way last winter.
He was dressed in traveling clothes...”
Greta nodded her head. “As well
he would, and the timing was right.
It must have been K. Tell me the color
of his hair. Was it like summer wheat?
And was he tall and broad-shouldered?”
“Well, yes, he was quite a strapping
young man. He wore a cap, but as I
remember, what peeked out at the nape
of his neck was that very shade.” Truthfully,
he’d seen none of that, but he wanted
to give her the slenderest ray
of hope that she was indeed on
the trail of her beloved. “Oh, then,
I’m certain it must have been my K.
And where do you suppose he went?”
The crow told her what he knew.
The story was that a princess who lived
in a castle nearby happened to be a girl
who loved books and the knowledge
they allowed. She yearned for a companion
who was articulate and well-read, and
so the news circulated that her prince
must be this type of gentleman. Many
tried, for she was lovely and a princess
of some means. But when they arrived
at the palace, even the best-spoken
fell mute. Only one was able to pass
her test. Greta’s spirit soared. “That
might have been K. We spent many
evenings together in the company
of books. But...” Sadness weighted
her suddenly. “Did they marry, then,
the princess and he?” The crow couldn’t
say, but either way, “I have to know
and I’ll be happy if only he is alive.”
It shouldn’t come as a surprise,
but it can be exceedingly difficult for
a stranger to gain entry to a palace.
Luckily for Greta, however, Mr. Crow
