Snow White, Part 1

The queen was always nice to Istas, even after the king died. But one day, the queen paced her room and, having sent all of her attendants out, was quite alone when she heard a knock sound at the door. She hastened to it, thrust it open, and gestured the man standing outside into her room.

As soon as he was in the room, he knelt to the floor and remained there, waiting for his queen’s permission to stand. But she did not give it. He looked up slightly, through his dark, slightly curling hair, and watched the queen, with her lovely figure in a blue gown edged in black lace. Her eyebrows, slightly furrowed, were perfectly shaped and brown, matched her soft, straight, simply adorned hair. She stood quite still, her hands clasped in front of her so tightly her knuckles were white.

Inside her, a dilemma loomed. She was only a few years older than the princess herself, and she had fallen deeply in love with a prince a few lands away. There was obstacle the queen had to get the better of; the prince was arranged to marry Istas a year and a day from the present. It was breaking her heart, daily, that her stepdaughter–whom she cared very much about but had never loved–would marry the man she was convinced was the only one for her, as the late king had not been. This obstacle was the reason this man was in her chambers. Istas, as much as it hurt the queen to do it, needed to be gotten rid of.

She finally settled herself enough to look at the man before her, and ordered the huntsman to take Istas out into the woods and dispose of her.

The king was a good man, decent and kind, she thought. Surely he wouldn’t have people who were otherwise working for him. She had never spoken to this particular huntsman, but surely he would understand. Surely he was decent and kind, too. So when she said ‘dispose of,’ she merely meant that he should get her lost in the woods so the kind and loving but not very worldly princess (as few princesses are) would never be able to return.

Looking into his dark eyes, the queen believed he did understand her problem, and what he wanted her to do. Looking into his eyes, she believed what she wanted to; that she was not sending Istas to death, but rather to a vastly different life.

What the queen did not see–would not allow herself to see–was that this huntsman was a brutal and unkind man. He was a lover of violence and had disguised the fact ever since the king had hired him. He had watched Istas, who was by far the most beautiful possession in the castle. He had watched her, and he had fantasized about her in the darkest corners of his mind, where no one could follow him, or even see in. He had fantasized about her white, translucent skin, and the blood underneath, which would so willing spill forth for him. So willingly give itself to him.

He thought excitedly about bringing Istas so far into the forest that no one would be able to hear her screams as he cut her. He obligingly took the order with a smile, and left the queen to fulfill his duty to her.

“Istas,” he would say, “the queen bids me to take you on a walk into the forest. She regrets that she has not been able to as she had in the months before the king’s death. She tells me you enjoy these walks and have not been on one in months. It would be my deepest pleasure to accompany you, if you would decide to go.” And the genial girl accepts this as a kind offering.

***
It was the day of the huntsman’s plan. He found his mark sitting by her window, painting a watercolor of the world outside. Her dark hair curled in thick tendrils down her back, almost to her hips, and he could see the pale, almost translucent outline of her face. When she turned to him, her sapphire eyes *shined* curiously through the black lace of her eyelashes. He knelt to one knee, and asked her to accompany him into the forest. “I will keep you safe from many a woodland creature, do not fear. I will protect you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That is very kind. I would love to walk in your company.” She returned her watercolors to their place and took her cloak off the hook in the closet. “Which woods will we walk in, my huntsman?”

“Why, milady, whichever you wish, I will most certainly be in accord.” He led the way down the velvet-carpeted corridors of the South Wing and out into the courtyard.

“Since I must get ready for dinner early, perhaps we should take the South Woods, so as to return in time to get dressed for it.”

“Very good, princess. Although you may wish to keep your secret, what shall you wear to the prince’s ball tonight?”

“I wish to keep no secrets. I shall, as his eldest sister, be wearing the kingdom’s colors, a silk blue dress cut with cream. And you, fine huntsmen, will you be making an appearance?”

“I believe I will, milady, and I will dress to match, if it pleases you to have an escort?” But he thought about how she would look sprawled on the ground, her long, black hair mixing with the few hardy flowers and her blood soaking into the light late snow on the ground.

Two hours later, they were well into the forest, deep enough that not one person would hear when she pleaded and screamed for her life . . .

“My Istas, would you like to rest for a moment’s time? You can sit on this log by the violets, if it pleases you.” Oh, the way her blood would rain on these delicate little flowers.

“Why, thank you, my dear sir. I would love to rest a moment.” She gently sat next to the flowers and plucked one from the ground. The color was vibrant and bold, but its boldness was lost in silence, for from its peaceful heart came no scent.

Istas leaned down closer to this gently arranged dance, which is the only reason why the first stab missed her throat.

She stumbled to the ground with a cry, not understanding what would make her kind huntsman turn. She covered her face with one hand, while the other scrambled for something, anything.

The huntsman sliced his knife down, ripping through her silk sleeve and burying it in her arm. He pulled it free, and watched as richly red roses soaked through the cloth.

Her scrambling hand found hold on something, and she swung the stick in his direction. It made contact with nothing, and as she swung up again, he tried to wrench it from her grasp. “You’ll have to do better than that, my dear.”

He pulled harder, and when she let go he fell, unbalanced, to the ground. She threw herself up and bolted into the thick woods. She crouched behind a bush, and waited, her breath coming in short pants. She felt around in the dirt, and found a rock big enough to hurt.

“C’mere, darling, dear Istas, and I can make it not hurt one bit. If you refuse to come, I can make it hurt...a lot. If you hide, I will find you, my Istas, because I cannot return to the queen with my job undone.”

She saw him though her bush, walking slowly and carefully by . . . she dared not breathe as he went.

“It was she who sent me, you know. She told me to ‘dispose’ of you. I think it had something to do with her falling in love with your fiancé. But you needn't worry about him now, sweet Istas, because you are mine.” He walked past her hiding place.

She silently stood up, and hefted the rock. She had one chance. If she missed him, she would die in these woods, by his hand. She aimed, and threw it.

It seemed to float carefully through the air before settling at the nape of his neck. He dropped like a stone.

She looked around, not knowing where to go. Finally she just ran, a direction that told her was away; away from him, away from the castle, where her stepmother had...

She carried on for longer...longer, until her vision grayed from blood loss, and she could barely walk. She came to a cottage, a small cottage, a safe cottage. She nudged the door open, her vision fading into a pain- and fear-filled oblivion, and fell to the floor of the small kitchen.

View the next chapter: "Snow White, Part 2"