Short Stories and Poetry

Dark Snow (Part 3)

My cape flows behind me, the thick fabric catching on twigs and tree branches as the forest becomes dimmer. The trees are growing closer together, and the only thing keeping me moving is the loud, booming bark of the bloodhounds chasing after me. My shoes pound against the uneven ground, the momentum making my hair flow behind me. The red ribbon suddenly slips and falls from my hair. I turn and watch as it falls behind me, twisting and turning in the air, I make a wild grab for it but it just pushes it farther away. With teary eyes and remorse, I turn and keep running leaving the ribbon behind. One of the lasts things left from my father, one of the last things left from better days.

   The sunlight is almost gone and its beginning to get harder to see, the bark of the bloodhounds grow louder, but so do the buzz of large insects, and the rustling of bushes, of tree leaves. I look back one more time, to see where the bloodhounds are. Then I'm flying through the air, everything in slow motion, everything silent, before I come crashing down hard, my ankle twisting beneath me. I cry out in pain and the sounds of the forest return to my ears. I curl up in a fetal position, wrapping my tattered cloak around me, pushing my back against a tree, trying to make my self as small as possible.

   I make sure all my hair is tucked in, the stark color would be a dead giveaway in the dark forest. I hold my breath, thinking about for all this running, why are the dogs, and the Huntsman after me? I have completed all my chores, I have obeyed my stepmother, and kept hidden as I'm instructed to do. What rule have I broken to deserve to be chased down by feral dogs? Never look in the mirror, echoes in my head. My eyes widen as I remember my quick glance into the reflective surface, purely by accident. Of all the rules I could have broken, that's the one that would warrant such a search. My only question is, why?

   The hounds burst through the trees, their barks deafening. I watch them with wide eyes, a held breath. I make not a sound as they snuff the ground, then the real terror steps into the small clearing. The huntsmen, they step almost silently, their tall stature casting shadows in the little light filtering through the thick treetops. They pull their hood down and I gasp. Bright blue eyes whip towards me, the sharp turn of their head pushing a long blonde braid out of their cloak. They step towards me, and a name surfaces. Kyra Chasse, my father's best friend, and apparently the Queen's huntsman. She moves towards me, I instinctively push back against the trunk of the tree.

   "It's okay, your safe. My name is Kyra Chasse," she says softly, calmly.

   "I know who you are," I spit.

   "And I know you. Snow White, daughter of Jacques White. An ebony skinned girl, and a revolutionary." she says.

   "I'm just a lowly servant girl, next to nothing in her stepmother's eyes. Not a revolutionary." I shoot back.

   "Not yet you aren't, but soon enough you will be. Snow Aster White, I formally invite you to take part in a band of brave and intelligent people, a group who embrace all differences including the color of your skin, a faction of people just like you, a small party of kindhearted individuals who want nothing more than to end this lands discrimination. Snow, I ask you to join The Dwarves and become something more than the help. Become a rebel in conformative times, and you may find that your calling is something more than scrubbing floors." she finishes her speech with an outstretched hand.

   "I, this is a lot to think about." I stammer.

   "I can give you some time to think about it." she withdraws her hand. "I will give you the directions to one of our safe houses, where you can hide from your step-mother or the time being."

   She pulls out a map and a scrap of paper, scribbling furiously on both of them before handing them over to me. I take them with a muttered thank you.

   "One more thing before I leave you," she says.

   "What is it?" I ask, clawing myself to my feet, my ankle still aching.

   "Your stepmother sent me for your heart," she says, pulling out a wooden box, my  wooden box.

   "W-What? You just-" I start to stammer before she cuts me off.

   "Obviously I'm not going to follow through with my orders, I just thought you should know. Now I must bid you adue, have a safe journey to the safe house. And," she reaches into her pocket, "be more careful with your hair accessories next time."

   I smile taking it from her gloved hand, she turns the wooden box under her arm and whistles for her two dogs. They yelp and follow her back through the darkening forest, and I'm left feeling more confused than I have been in a long time.

                                                                                        ***

    The journey was a difficult one, with many wrong turns along the way, but eventually, I arrived at the safe house. My cape was ripped, my face was covered in dirt, and my shoes were worn thin. The area is quiet with no sign of other civilization for miles, the safe house its self is a seemingly small cottage with no defining features. I take a large breath, the cooling air filling with mist, and walk towards the cottage. I knock once, pausing before knocking twice in quick succession as the note advised. No one answers and I can hear no movement from inside the house. I try the doorknob and find it unlocked. I twist the knob fully and push the door open, stepping into a warm living room. I close the door behind me, trapping the cold air outside. I lower the hood of my cloak and place it on a nearby coat rack.

   "Hello?" I ask the empty air. No one responds.

   I pull the map and the note from the pocket of my cloak. I pull the blood red ribbon out as well and tie it around my wrist. I tread carefully walking across the threshold. The floorboards creak as I reach a staircase with a small sign pointing up, advertising "beds."

   Shrugging I grab the banister and make my way upstairs, each stair seems as if it's screaming under the strain of my weight. I painstakingly reach the top feeling as if each of those steps were a mountain. I stumble into the room at the top of the stairs. The room indeed had beds, my exhausted mind counted seven, but I could be wrong. I move to the closest bed, lying the map and the note on the bedstand before slipping under the covers, and slipping into a deep sleep, and slipping into troubling dreams.

                                                                                    ***

   A beautiful dark-skinned woman sits at a windowsill. Her chair facing the cold winter air, and the freshly fallen snow covers the ledge. She is sewing something, a small dress it seems. Suddenly she pricks her finger and she holds it out to the frigid air to relieve the pain. One, two, three drops of blood fall on the snow-covered black windowsill. She sits there, her project forgotten, mesmerized by the colors. She sighs, "Oh, how I wish that I had a daughter that had hair as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and skin as black as ebony." Her wish is carried out the window and into the heavens where creatures of magic hear her plea. They whisper amongst themselves, agreeing to grant this wish, hoping the girl they were giving the queen would help change the decaying state of the land for the better.