Winter's Child (16 page)

Day after day, she repeated these same questions. Day after day, I kept my lips pressed tightly together, refusing to speak Kai’s name aloud.

I won’t,
I vowed silently.

There was something about the way the old woman posed these questions that alarmed me. The only protection I could give myself was to hold my tongue. Why she should ask these questions, why Kai’s name was important, I did not know. I only knew I did not want to answer.

“I can’t, Oma,” I said, as I did every morning. Doing something of which my own oma would never approve: telling a lie. “I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, my dear,” the old woman said. “I’m sure you’ll tell me in good time.” Something about the way she said this always sent a shiver down my spine.

She’s right,
I thought. Sooner or later, this old woman would learn what she wanted to know. What would happen then, I did not care to guess.

I’ve got to get out of here,
I thought.

As if recognizing it was pointless to ask any more questions this morning, the old woman stood.

“Come along now, Grace. It’s time for chores.”

“May I work in the garden today, Oma?” I asked as I stood as well. This was also part of the daily routine, my request to go outdoors. But not once since I had crossed the threshold of the cottage had I been permitted to set so much as a toe outside the front door.

“Gracious!” my new oma exclaimed as she snatched the hairbrush up from the bed. “Heavens no. Whatever put an idea like that in your mind? You’re nowhere near strong enough to work in the garden. Be a good girl now and make your bed, and then sweep the hearth. I’m going to take this out for the crows. You know how they love it for their nests.”

From the hairbrush, she pulled several strands of my hair.

“When I come back, we’ll have some hot porridge. That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Oma.”

For the record, I hate porridge and I always have, so that made two lies I told every morning.

The old woman turned and walked to the front door. She plucked a shawl from a row of pegs that hung to one side of the door and wrapped it around her head. Then she opened the door. I took an involuntary
step forward. Over her shoulder, I caught a glimpse of blue sky.

This was the moment I hated most of all. The moment she went out and left me all alone, for this was when the walls of the cottage seemed to close in around me. But this morning something unexpected happened. Just as the old woman opened the door, a sudden gust of wind swept into the room, wrenching the door from her grasp and sending it crashing open against the cottage wall.

Cool, clean air, dashed around the room, memorizing its contours. Then it moved to the window at the side of the house, stretching itself out against the windowpane as if to camouflage the fact that it was still inside.

“Gracious!” the old woman exclaimed as she quickly moved to recapture the door. “What a wind there is outside this morning. There must be a storm brewing. All the more reason for you to stay indoors.”

She looked at me, her expression severe, as if she expected me to rebel. I remained silent. I remained still. I did not let my eyes stray to the window where I was sure the wind still hovered.

“You remember your chores now, Grace,” the old woman instructed. “I don’t want to come back and find them incomplete. You know how unhappy it makes me when you disappoint me, don’t you?”

“I do, Oma,” I replied.

With a final glance around the room, the old woman stepped through the door and closed it behind
her. A moment later, I heard the rasp of a key turning in the lock signaling the end of the morning ritual.

She says she loves me, but she makes me a prisoner,
I thought. I walked to the window and leaned my forehead against the glass. Sure enough, it seemed that some of the wind still lingered there, pressed against the windowpane. I gulped in one deep lungful of the air and then another.

Help me,
I thought.
I’ve got to get out of here. She doesn’t love me, not really.

What the old woman called love was literally keeping me a prisoner. This love did not think of me, it thought only of itself.

And suddenly, without warning, Kai’s face came into my mind. I saw again the way he had looked when he had asked me to marry him. I had feared his love would hold me back, would hold me prisoner. That’s what Kai had accused me of when I had turned him down. But now I knew what it was to be held a prisoner by love.

Oh, Kai!
I thought.
How I misjudged you, misjudged your love.

For now that I was thinking clearly, I realized that, like this old woman, I had been selfish. Kai had offered me a gift from his heart. But I had not recognized it, because I had only seen what my heart feared the most.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the windowpane. “Forgive me, Kai. I think I understand why you chose to follow the Winter Child.”

She could do the thing that I could not: look into Kai’s heart and recognize the true value of what she saw.

Never again,
I vowed.
Never again will I be so blind. Never again will I let fear rule my heart.

I caught my breath as, in the next moment, the cottage around me seemed to change before my very eyes. No longer did it look homey and snug. Now that my heart and eyes were no longer clouded by fear, I could see the cottage for the ruin it was. The walls leaned inward. The fireplace smoked. Several of the windowpanes were cracked. My heart in my throat, I spun around.

The door sagged on its hinges. It wasn’t locked at all! I could not be held a prisoner here, not now that I could see this place for what it really was.

Hurry, hurry, Grace!
I thought.

Swiftly, fearing I would hear the old woman return at any moment, I thrust my feet into my boots and laced them up. She had mended the hole in the right one, then had positioned the boots right by my bed, as if in promise of the day I would finally be allowed to go outdoors. But now I knew the truth. The old woman would have kept me a prisoner forever, warping and distorting the name of love. She would have done her best to teach me to believe as she did.

And the moment I finally spoke Kai’s name aloud would have been the moment all was lost. There is a power in knowing a name and in speaking that name aloud. A power to summon and a power to banish. But
I had protected Kai. I had kept his name to myself. I had held him in my heart, and my refusal to let him go would help to free me now.

I crossed to the door. It was not quite ajar enough for me to slip through the space.
It’s now or never, Grace,
I thought. I put my hands on the ancient wood and eased the door open a little more. The hinges shrieked like souls in pain.

Well, that’ll do it,
I thought.

Quick as a fish sliding through the narrows, I slipped through the opening. I was almost out when my skirt caught on a stray nail. Almost sobbing now from terror and hope, I yanked it free. The fabric gave way with a high tearing sound. And then I was stumbling down the path, the cackling of crows erupting in the air above me.

“Stop her!” I heard the old woman cry, her voice a wail of fury and despair. “Don’t let her leave me alone!”

Straight as arrows the crows dove at me, their sharp beaks aiming for my head. I cried out, raising my arms to shield my face.

Which way?
I thought desperately. Which way offered the best chance of escape? For the truth was, I feared both the river and the forest.

And then, suddenly, the falcon appeared. His voice was loud even over the caws of the crows. The bird had not abandoned me. He hurtled downward with talons outstretched, scattering the great black birds, then swept off in the direction of the forest. I
followed his flight with my eyes. Through the trees, I caught unexpected flashes of yellow.

I began to run, laughing in joyful understanding, even as the old woman continued to shriek and the crows to caw. The falcon had shown me the way to freedom. It had even sowed the path itself.

All I had to do was follow the row of sunflowers.

T
WENTY
Story the Eleventh

In Which All the Travelers Who Have Wandered Through This Tale Finally Make Their Way to the Door of the Winter Child

I walked swiftly for the rest of that day, determined to put as much distance between me and the cottage as I could. The falcon flew high overhead, as if to spur me on. After expressing my thanks, I did not speak. I concentrated on making up for lost time. I kept my pace brisk. As the day wore on, the trees began to thin. The air grew colder. Patches of snow dotted the ground.

Late in the afternoon, the forest gave way completely to a broad expanse of white. Here, at last, I paused. For surely this could be no other than the land of ice and snow. Traversing it would be my journey’s final phase.

How far is it to the palace?
I wondered. I had no food now, no water. I didn’t have my warm cloak. I had only my determination not to give up.

Come on, Grace. There’s no time like the present,
I thought.

Cautiously, I tested the snow with the toe of my
boot. I wanted to be absolutely sure the ground would hold me before I put my full weight down. Snow and ice were nothing new to me, not with the winters where I had grown up. But, as I began to move through this cold, white landscape, it seemed to me that the snow and ice were different somehow. Shaped by the forces that had created the Winter Child. This didn’t necessarily make them treacherous, but it did make them unique.

There were no tracks in the snow. Nothing to show that any living thing had ever passed this way before. As far as my eyes could see, there was nothing but a dazzling field of white. I lifted my eyes to where the falcon was circling above me in the sky.

“Which way?” I called out. “Do you know?”

The bird made one last high circle, then arrowed down. He swooped low over my head, and then continued into the path of the setting sun.

“If you say so,” I said though, for once, the bird had not given its piercing call. The
whoosh
the falcon’s wings made through the air, the crunch of my boots against the snow, the steady rhythm of my heart as it knocked against my ribs, these were the only sounds. It was as if the entire land was holding its breath, waiting for something.

By the time the sun went down and then the moon rose, not even my own exertions were enough to keep me warm. I was tired and hungry. Even the horrible porridge that the old woman had fed me would have
been welcome. Worst of all, however, was the feeling that I should be nearing my destination now.

Along about midnight, or so I judged by the position of the moon in the sky, the ground began to incline. I stood for a moment at the bottom of the slope, leaning forward with my hands on my knees, sucking in air.

Come on now, Grace,
I thought.
You can’t stop now. You’d never forgive yourself. Assuming you don’t freeze to death before you get there.

I straightened, and as I did, I felt the wind come up, frisking around me like a puppy.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed aloud. “I’m cold enough. If you’re going to show up now, the least you can do is to help me.”

No sooner did I finish speaking than the wind died away, as if it was thinking things over. Then, having made a decision, it pushed against my back, strong as a pair of hands propelling me upward. I barely had time to snatch up my skirts to keep from tripping over them before the wind pushed me to the top of the rise.

There before me, in a valley curved like a large bowl, stood a palace made of ice, its towers dazzling in the moonlight. A great pair of gates stood open wide, as if to welcome all who approached it. Without warning, I grew dizzy. After weeks on end, after more footsteps than I could number, my destination was now no more than a five-minute walk away.

Then, as I watched, a figure made its way out
through the gates and toward me. Suddenly I was running, no longer caring if I took a misstep, no longer remembering the long miles it had taken to get here, no longer thinking of anything else at all. All I wanted was to reach this solitary figure. To meet him halfway, and more.

“Hello, Grace,” Kai said. “It’s about time you got here.”

Sobbing in relief, I hurled myself into his waiting arms.