Ida Outhwaite, Classic Fairy Illustrator

Ida Outhwaite, an Australian whose work flourished during the Golden Age of Illustration, is well remembered for her work with fae and children. Her images managed to capture the sense of childhood and fae without being too sweet. And her color palette was rich and pleasing to the eye. I'm surprised she isn't more well known, even though much of her work is nearly 100 years old.

You can read more about here here: http://bit.ly/1R96kfk

And here:

http://bit.ly/1R97NSZ

Her work is also plentiful on Pinterest. 

Some images:

Waking Up Snow White, By Kim Malinowski

I smooth the wet fabric around her collar,

trace and tuck her gown.

We are both wet from rain, and I can see that she has awoken,

tears trickling down.

I taste the brine as our lips

bump.

Nothing happens, she doesn’t pretend to wake up.

I know what dead lips look like—shriveled and pale—like so many lovers.

Too many apples to count. I’ve waited and practiced

and now her lips are soft and full.

I hold her hand, trace a line and whisper—“I know you are awake.”

She takes her hand back.

“I was never asleep, just waiting.”

“Well, I’m the Prince.  I’m supposed to rescue you.”

Rain trickles down my back.  There should be fireworks or something.

Not wet.

“Maybe I’ll love you,” she smiles.

“Maybe I’d like to be dry.”

I brush her cheek with my hand, savoring the softness.

I pick her up, and we go inside.

Kim Malinowski earned her BA at West Virginia University and her M.F.A. at American University.  She currently a student of The Writers Studio.   Her chapbook is forthcoming from Kind of a Hurricane Press.  Her work has appeared in War, Literature, and the Arts, Mythic Delirium, as well as others.

Altered image by Heinrich Lefler

In the Rain House, By Shannon Connor Winward

In my dreams, the moon of mother's eye

splits and cracks, a river swells against

the branches of her lashes

and when it breaks, I wake up gasping.

It rained again last night. It froze today

my roof sagging with a drop of it

round and heavy as my head.

The grass stuck together, white, jagged

protesting my grunts and kicks, my need

to carve a door.  The afternoon rain

sloughed it clean again, but I am cold, cold. 

Summer is a ghost.  The birds

don't sing to me, the flies and beetles

have all gone; no chirrups, no roars.  The stream

has belched over its shores, and the rain

keeps coming back, thrashing petals

from their necks, knuckling across my leaf-

shadow floor.  I have worn

through my lady slippers, my gown

mother's careful stitches fray and shiver

my worry chokes and croaks like toad words

mud in my throat. It's time

to go.  Go where? The rain

will crush me, it will turn to snow. 

The sky is huge, the field is vast

a rough, shorn sea—I will be buried there

unless the owls find me first. They ask

when will I feed them, when will I crawl

from this house—it won't stand

forever; it yellows, it rolls

on itself, the honey brittles.  I will starve.

Oh, Mother, I am afraid. I miss my little

brown walnut bed, tucked and rocked

in your warm breath, your scent of bread.
Do you think I left on purpose?

Do you pray for me? Do you mourn?

Do you thumb shut the window?

Do you sift the barleycorn?

Do you imagine me here, stuck like hoarfrost to what

I cannot change?  It will rain, and I will drown.

The rain keeps coming down.

I used to row in circles round my basin pond.

My thoughts go round in circles.

I once rode the wild current

crossed the world

lashed to a butterfly.  He was my friend.

Now he's gone.  If I had wings, I would have

caught him, I would soar home, but I have only

these tiny feet, and Time is monstrous.  It marches on.

The rain stomps autumn beneath its heel

and winter is rushing in behind

with its ice and fear, its crystal pain. 

But to hell with tears, to hell with rain. It's time to go

go soon.  I'll lasso the moon; either that or die here

with all her wishes, all her dreams of me.

Shannon's bio: "My poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Analog, Gargoyle, Pedestal Magazine, Strange Horizons, Gingerbread House, and past issues of EC, among others. My poetry chapbook, Undoing Winter (Finishing Line Press, 2014) was nominated for an SFPA Elgin Award.  I am also a staff writer for Pop Culture Madness and a poetry editor for Devilfish Review."

River Child, By Chanel Earl

There was once a river. It was broad and steady and flowed through a great valley where it brought life to the woods and fields. In the valley, in a modest farmhouse on the river’s banks, lived a farmer and his industrious wife, who had no children.

The farmer’s wife longed for a child, and everyday as she went about the washing and the cooking, the weeding and the churning, she dreamed of the day when she would have a child to assist her.

“Come, girl,” she would say as she carried the wash out to the line, “Help me with this basket.” And she would imagine the girl assisting her.

“Son,” she would call out if she noticed the farmer had forgotten his lunch, “run this out to your father.” And then she would walk out to the fields herself, thinking of how much easier it would be if she could have a child to do the errand for her.

In the evenings, when the day was done and the dinner was ready, as she sat at her small table, she would sigh and imagine a great, noisy table with many chairs.

She did not talk to the farmer about her fantasies. They used to dream of children together, but as the years went on and the children did not come, his dreams withdrew, and eventually gave up. Now the dreams were hers alone, like the deep sadness she saw in her husband’s eyes.

One day after the farmer left for the fields, and after the farmer’s wife finished milking the cows and collecting the eggs, she set out to work in the garden. It was a gray day in early spring, and the sky drizzled rain so slowly the woman wondered if it was really rain at all. As she worked digging dirt and planting peas, she noticed the roar of the river. It was easy to ignore the ever-present sound of water flowing through the valley, but today the woman heard it with increased interest, for among the sounds of water, she heard the soft sound of the rain hitting the river, and with it indecipherable voices speaking, calling, whispering and even singing.

The woman walked to the banks of the river and called out, “Who’s there?” But although she listened intently for a response she heard only more voices. “Hello? Who are you? Are you good? Are you friends?” She asked each question in turn, but was met only with the unwavering rumble of water flowing over rocks, the steady quiet sounds of the rain, and the voices like a haze over her ears.

“I hear you,” the woman said, “and I don’t know who you are, but I know what I want. Can you send me a child?” As she finished her request, the rain started in earnest. It fell like a waterfall from the sky, drenching her through in mere moments. Still she stayed at the river, whose roar was now deafening as the rain beat against it. The river rose, and soon the farmer’s wife was standing ankle deep in water. As she looked through the rain she saw a figure approach her; a young girl wearing a simple white cotton dress came out of the river and took her hand.

“Mother?” the girl asked, and the woman, her tears falling like the rain that surrounded her, led her to the farmhouse.

The River Child was given the name Celia, and she brought joy to the farmer and his wife, who felt renewed life whenever they looked at her. She was at times sweet and helpful, and then it was as if anything were possible. She helped the farmer’s wife with the laundry and it took half the time. She helped the farmer with the planting and the plants grew twice the size expected. At other times, she was defiant and impulsive, and then it seemed there was no end to her energy, and the farmer’s wife wondered how she could ever keep up.

To the farmer and his wife, Celia was their own child, but they lived in fear that any day she would return to the river.

“Celia,” the farmer’s wife told her every morning, “I love you, and I want us to be always together, so I need you to keep one rule for me. “ At this point Celia nodded her ascent, knowing what would come next. “Never go near the river.” The farmer’s wife commanded, and Celia obeyed.

The valley grew hotter and hotter with each passing month, and on one sweltering day, when the sun itself seemed to be melting out of the sky, Celia said to her mother, “It’s so hot, Mother. We should take a short swim in the river, the cool water will revive us both.”

“No,” the farmer’s wife said. “The river is dangerous. You could be carried away or drowned. I never want to talk of this again.”

Celia listened and obeyed, but inside she carried a longing to see the river that had been forbidden to her. And the next day, after a long afternoon of working in the hot sun, she asked once more. “Mother, I am nearly boiling, it is so hot. Please let me swim in the cool river.”

Again, the farmer’s wife said no. Instead they sat in the shade of a willow and fanned each other to cool off.  “I know you want to go to the river,” the farmer’s wife said, “But I’m afraid to let you go. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Celia understood, and vowed to herself to obey her mother’s wishes, even as she felt the river pulling her at every moment.

The hot summer months were ending. Celia and her mother put up the vegetables from the garden, then Celia and her father harvested their crops and prepared them for market. The heat began to lessen as the days grew shorter, and the farmer’s wife worried less and less about the pull of the river on her daughter. The small family celebrated the harvest with music and dancing in town, with full meals of ripe berries and sweet corn, and with long picnics under the shady trees.

Celia didn’t ask again if she could go to the river, and when she felt its call, she drowned it out with extended conversations with her mother, singing and dancing and the delicious fruit of their harvest. By the time the leaves began changing and the nights became cold, the farmer and his wife had stopped worrying about Celia’s sudden departure, and only Celia knew that the pull to the river was stronger than it had ever been. At times she would wake up at night shaking and go on walks, not toward the river, but following its course at a distance. She heard voices calling, singing and whispering, but she couldn’t make them out. On these nights she returned home restless and sorrowful.

Then the rains came. The dry summer heat was gone and the autumn weather brought with it heavy rains that fell and fell and fell like they were never going to stop. The fields turned to mud.

The river began to rise. And Celia, at her parent’s request, stayed inside the farmhouse. The water reached the garden, where the last of the pumpkins began to float on the surface like lily pads. The water reached the fields, which sent the livestock to the barn, and then, when the water reached the barn, the farmer and his wife had to go together to find a new home for the cows and chickens.

“Stay here,” Celia’s mother said. “We’ll be back soon. Whatever you do, just stay inside.”

Celia nodded, determined to obey in spite of herself, but she felt it coming for her, chasing her, a chorus of voices insisting it was time to return. She hugged her parents, and whispered goodbye.

The rain increased its relentless beating, and while the farmer and his wife worked to save their chickens and goats, the water advanced toward the farmhouse. The porch was soon buried. Water seeped up through the floorboards, and began to flow into the house. As the water hit Celia’s feet, she vanished into the water from which she had come.

And with that, the rain stopped, the water receded. The farmer and his wife returned to an empty home, where they mourned their lost child, but unlike the long grief of former years, this time they mourned together. The farmer took his wife in an embrace as they remembered the joy Celia had given them.

The next spring, after milking the goats and collecting the eggs, the farmer’s wife began her work in the garden. As she sat, she noticed the roar of the river and felt a soft drizzle of rain on the back of her neck, her hair tingled, and she ran to the river, listening to the sounds of the raindrops hitting the water. There she saw the familiar face of her daughter, smiling. And holding Celia’s hand was a little boy. “Mother?” he asked as the two children reached out to hug the farmer’s wife, tears in her eyes.

Chanel Earl's short story collection What to Say to Someone Who's Dying is available at most online bookstores. You can find out more about her at her blog: chanelstory.blogspot.com. 

Altered image by John Byam Liston Shaw.

The Egg Memorial, By Caroline Yu

I did not want to use a rabbit. Rabbits should not lay eggs. But some creature needed to and I could not take the hen. Long ago, a boy climbed a beanstalk and stole the hen from our fine city in the clouds. I’ve heard he told horrid tales about us, claiming we were nasty giants rather than fairies. I also heard it took years to get the hen back. So I knew not to ask the fairy queen if I might borrow her hen. Besides, the hen’s feathers were not golden and her eggs were. She would not work.

You see, some fairy needed to return rain to the ground kingdom. I ask you, how could such be done without making a gold rabbit lay eggs?

Months without rain had left the kingdom dry and decrepit, like an ancient parchment. Yet in its golden days, the kingdom looked lush as a dew-covered rose. Its meadows used to be a blinding green. Many a shepherd blinked at their brightness as he led his sheep. In the forests, wind wove through the trees, and leaves rustled like silken skirts. In the village, gardens yielded produce more colorful than rainbows. The dirt roads made soft sounds when tread upon. At the main road’s end, a stone castle rose proud and tall. It looked quite regal, though if any king lived there, he’d long been forgotten. The kingdom’s people were fair and good. Such people need no king.

Thus the ground kingdom thrived in every way. We fairies flitted into the hearts and minds of its people. We left laughter and found peace. All was as it should be.  

Then the miller’s daughter died.

Once, the young girl carried her suppers to beggars and clambered over fences to visit crotchety hermits. Often, she’d skipped through the market, singing made-up ditties. Her giggles bounced off the market stalls, until even the sternest sellers cracked smiles and lowered prices. The child brought more joy to the village than any fairy, until her illness came. She became a pale and pinch-faced thing, who writhed on a small mattress.

The girl’s mother felt relieved when her daughter passed into our city. We filled the child’s pockets with sparkling gifts before sending her on to eternity. Yes, her mother felt relieved.

Her father felt as dead as his daughter. He grieved without tears, in the harmful way that shrivels the soul and makes it seek loneliness.

Hoping to comfort him, his wife hired two painters, to create her daughter’s portrait from memory. For reasons too pathetic to mention, both failed. In fact, the painters failed so utterly that our fairy queen grew angry. She flew through the clouds, fuming and sputtering about idiot mortals. And in her anger, our queen forgot to send the rain.

The kingdom’s grass grew dry and sharp. Thick dust wrung the strength from the air, until the breeze died. All turned brown, brittle, and ugly as a wart-riddled toad. Produce perished. People became hungry and poor. Money seemed to vanish. The ground kingdom turned as dry as the miller’s soul and as strange as a lonely father who craved no company. 

Well. No fairy would dare to tell the queen she’d forgotten something. If I wanted the queen to remember the rain, I’d best remove the source of her anger. What better way than by giving a rabbit golden fur?

I needed the rabbit to attract the attention of the painters’ former assistant, Ella. Ella was an important part of my plan, and because real rabbit fur affected her allergies, I decided the fur would be golden.

I mentioned Ella used to assist both painters, though neither knew she worked for the other. The painters’ ignorance did not exist because Ella had sense to keep quiet. She simply never told painter Abigail she worked for painter Oliver.

Ella never said much to people. She lived alone and saved her words for the wooden rabbits her father, a carpenter, carved for her. She named them, kissed them, and served them tea. Yet Ella yearned for a real rabbit – a secret she kept intentionally. Why hurt her wooden bun-bun’s feelings?

So. I gave a real rabbit golden fur. Then I appeared in Ella’s kitchen to inform her a hypoallergenic rabbit stood outside. If she caught him, she could keep him.

Ella squealed like a child on Christmas then darted out the door.

“Wait!” I called, fluttering after her. I’d forgotten: Abigail and Oliver must help catch the rabbit. They needed its gold-filled eggs. Gold would buy canvases. Canvases could become portraits, and portraits would heal a miller and appease a fairy queen. At least, that’s what I’d wanted Abigail and Oliver to think. Thanks to my poor planning, they’d think nothing.

The rabbit did his part. He shot out of Ella’s reach, darting down the road and kicking up dust clouds – thick dust clouds. Luckily, sunlight struck the rabbit’s golden fur. Ella stumbled through the dust after the blinding light, calling, “Here, Bun-bun!”

Well, this was fixable. With a flick of my hand, I directed the rabbit toward Abigail’s cottage. He scampered back in the other direction. Ella spun and stumbled after him.

Now things were in motion. I retreated to my cloud city, where I could see whatever I chose.

First, I looked in on Abigail. She slumped over her table, flipping through a cookbook. Since the loss of rain, nobody else bothered with cookbooks. When produce could not grow and cows gave no milk, what was there to cook? But Abigail did not want to cook food. She wanted to cook water. Recipes for food were found in cookbooks. Therefore, some cookbook must hold a recipe for water. Abigail was practical – if a little foolish.

Soon Abigail heard scurrying, calls of “Here, Bun-bun!” followed by “Oh! He lays eggs!”

When Abigail rose and opened her door, she found an egg on her threshold. She picked the egg up, which made the gold coins inside it jingle. Normally, a practical woman might not believe an egg could be filled with coins. But like everyone else in the kingdom, Abigail felt desperate. She left the egg on her table then headed out to search for more. Follow the commotion, she told herself. It was the practical thing to do.

Under my guidance, the commotion headed toward Oliver’s cottage.

Since the loss of rain, Oliver sprawled on his mattress and moaned poetically. Poetic moans, he reasoned, would summon the rain. Oliver was poetic – if a little foolish.

Soon Oliver heard scurrying, calls of “Here, Bun-bun!” followed by “Eggs! Give me his eggs!”

Oliver stopped moaning, leapt up, and peered out the window. Through the dusty haze, he spotted a blinding light. Follow that light, he told himself. It was the poetic thing to do. After a good stretch, he charged out the door.

So there the three were, stumbling through the dust, groping for a golden rabbit. Each reached the rabbit at the same moment. Each gripped a handful of golden fur – and found they couldn’t let go.  

As the dust cleared, three stunned faces blinked at two others. The squabbles that followed sounded worse than angry chickens. Ella demanded Abigail and Oliver release her pet. Abigail demanded Ella and Oliver release her new source of income. Oliver demanded Ella and Abigail release the source of his current inspiration.

It soon became apparent none could release the rabbit (part of my plan, of course). Abigail, being practical, suggested they take the rabbit into Oliver’s house. Ella used her free hand to support “Bun-bun” as the three shuffled toward the cottage.

Once the rabbit had been lowered to the table, he laid an egg. Abigail snatched it. She raised her egg as though toasting the others. “Here’s to a portrait beautiful enough to bring back the rain,” she said, and cracked her egg against the table’s edge.

Abigail waited for coins to roll across the table, but none did. You see, if someone cracked the egg to spend its gold, the gold disappeared (also part of my plan).

Abigail blinked at her empty eggshell as the rabbit laid again.

This time, Oliver snatched the egg, shook it, then cracked it. Again, the coins disappeared. He glanced at Abigail. “Sounded like there’d be gold inside. I thought I had my second chance.”

Ah, mortals. So disappointed when wealth won’t come their way. Yet what problem can be solved with money?  

Oliver did not mention why he’d failed at first. I told you the reason was too pathetic to mention. Yet if the painters won’t, I must: each painter sent Ella to ruin the other’s portrait.

Why, you ask? The painters were not competing. The miller’s wife had hired both to paint a portrait. The painters sabotaged each other’s work for one ridiculous reason: Abigail was practical and Oliver, poetic.

Oliver found Abigail’s paintings unoriginal. Creating a copy was not creative.

Abigail found Oliver’s work illogical. Lines, squiggles, and splotches were meaningless. So Abigail sent Ella to unwrap Oliver’s completed painting, slash it with a letter opener, then wrap it again. Oliver had done the same.

The village postman delivered two damaged portraits to the miller. A grieving father looked upon two defaced paintings of his dead daughter. Abigail and Oliver lost their chance to heal the miller. And the fairy queen frowned at painters who’d ruined the miller’s gifts to satisfy themselves.

“I painted her laugh,” Oliver whispered.

Abigail raised an eyebrow. A laugh? No one could paint such a thing.

Oliver cleared his throat. He opened a drawer beneath the table and pulled out his painting supplies. He painted the only white thing in sight: an egg.

The golden rabbit had just laid another. Oliver took it with his free hand. He gestured for Ella to hold the egg as he painted it yellow. Yellow for the sunshine the miller’s daughter had played in. Blue zigzags for the roads she’d skipped along. Red notes for the silly songs she’d sung.

Oliver explained each part of his work to Abigail. “Her laugh,” he finished.

Abigail took the next egg the rabbit laid. Ella held it while she painted. Yellow to match the girl’s curls. Blue to match her eyes. Red to match the ruddy color of her cheeks. Abigail painted the child’s lips apart and added dimples. She held up her egg for Oliver to see. “Her smile.”    

The painters exchanged eggs. Both were surprised to find they admired the other’s work. Then Ella said, “You used the same colors.”

Oliver met Abigail’s eye. She smiled as he chuckled. So they had. Perhaps the practical and poetic used the same tools to create different kinds of beauty – a fact both might have realized sooner. Now, without money for canvases, neither could right their wrong.

Oliver lowered his head. Abigail heaved a shaky sigh. Ella? Ella had a second moment of brilliance.

“Pity the miller can’t see your eggs.”

Oliver’s head shot up. Once again, he met Abigail’s eyes. A light flickered there – and the light looked very poetic.

For the next two weeks, Abigail painted the miller’s daughter doing her favorite things. Oliver painted her compassion and joy. Ella asked her father to design and build a shelf for displaying eggs.

When all was finished, the three delivered the egg-filled shelf to the miller’s cottage. Oliver and Abigail would have preferred to send Ella alone. She knew what every egg meant. There remained, however, the problem of being attached to the rabbit. So it was that one rabbit-loving assistant and two embarrassed painters presented an egg memorial to the miller.

The miller listened as Abigail and Oliver explained how they’d tried to capture his daughter’s spirit. He fingered the smooth eggs, letting their stunning colors refresh his soul. Last, he did what he could not do when his daughter died: he cried. His grief seemed great, greater perhaps than it had when his daughter first left him. But sometimes joy is a seed in need of water. One must cry before joy can grow.

The miller’s wife tried to thank the painters, but a sound like applause overpowered her soft-spoken words. All spun toward the cottage’s tiny windows. Outside, the air was veiled in falling water.

Rain.

Yes, the queen’s anger subsided, and she remembered she’d forgotten the rain. She sent it in torrents that restored the kingdom’s glory. In other words, I succeeded. Who would have thought I could do so by inspiring artists to paint money-filled eggs? I am brilliant in my own way.

 The egg memorial now hangs in the miller’s cottage. At night, he weeps for his lost daughter. During the day, he fingers the eggs and smiles. His joy is growing,

Oliver, Abigail, and Ella are fast friends. They had little choice, as each still has a hand stuck to the rabbit. I could not figure out how to free them and gave up trying. Why bother when they are happy?

The three moved into a cottage surrounded by a garden, lush and green from frequent rain. Each day, they fill their garden with painted eggs. Often, people visit. They sift through hedges and peek between flowers, hunting for eggs. Some crack the eggs in search of gold. Most do not.

Even fairies fly down to the garden. They listen to mortals talk about the colorful eggs. Everyone has a reason for why the eggs are beautiful. No one is told their reason is wrong.

Bio: Caroline says, "In addition to Enchanted Conversation, my fiction has been accepted by Timeless Tales, Plays children's magazine, and Ladybug."

Secret Passage of the Eldest Princess, By Star O'Star

After the second princess was already a toddler and the twins newborn, but before younger princesses were even thought of, the eldest princess was shaken awake on a pitch-black night.

She, her mother, and her baby sisters were bundled into a sable unliveried carriage at midnight and driven up, up, uphill to a loftily situated castle newly won by their father, the king-conqueror. This hasty uncomfortable move was, they were told, in order that they could be kept safe, for the peoples of the land were at war, their strong papa, the king, defending them. 

This mountainous castle had been hard won the eldest princess, heard them say. It was secured among stark peaks such that three sides of that fortress did not require ramparts at all. They were ‘natural solid vertical rock’. There could be no more protected place.

What followed was a bumpy jarring ride, wherein the eldest princess kept being awakened, alternatively jostled by the rolling of the carriage over rocks in the road and by sounds of her mother speaking tersely with the guards. Finally she was lifted and carried by strong arms to a wide drafty room. A lump stuffed mattress was unrolled for her on the bedstead and she was laid there, covered over with sheets and a warm blanket as she yawned, half-asleep. She turned on her side and fell back to slumber with a sigh.

She slept soundly then and of course was not upset until morning, when she found herself alone in a large echoing unfamiliar solar, its dark wood beams slanted with sunlight from tall thin windows. Was that a bird in the rafters? She heard a coo and saw a single feather drift down to the floor near her bed.

The princess looked around in confusion, then jumped out of the warm bed in surprise, fully awake. What had happened? Standing, she shook with fear. Everything remained quiet, even the bird who was probably frightened by the princess’s racket.

After few moments she felt that her mind was orienting itself, accepting what she saw. She found she had stopped shaking. She went to look out of a window, her feet bare padding on the wooden floor. She swung the pane out into the summer air, which here in the mountains was still warm, though the breezes were cooler than at home.

She looked out the window for home. Below her was a long, low valley with a twisting river. Yes, she spotted her home castle like a small brown lump. There were borders of trees or maybe those were battle lines of foes. Somewhere her father was carrying his great sword and riding his war horse. She felt insignificant to him now – more insignificant than she felt when in his immense presence.  

The princess felt safe though. Looking at the road just below her, she realized that the solar she was in was at least several stories up from ground. Yes, high and safe.

Just then a young chambermaid bobbed in with the princess’s breakfast. Then she bid the princess ring the bell on the tray when she was done and liked to see her mother and the babies. When and if the princess, please, would care to. Also the princess might have to dress herself as the princess’ old nanny had been left behind at the old castle in the haste of the night’s flight. She would obtain for her some clothing. The princess started to reply, but the maid was off before the princess could speak.

The princess sat on the large bed and ate her breakfast alone, not feeling lonely, or at least not quite.

The walls of the solar were creamy colored and the ceiling lofty. She could see dust twirling in the air where the sunlight flung its shafts. The large bed she sat on was dwarfed in the huge room, one in which ten or more similarly sized beds could easily have been accommodated.

After finishing her meager toast and tea, she stood up on the bed in her long white nightgown, which she just then noticed was slightly soiled from the ride in the night, perhaps from smears of dirt or being rubbed against some postern as she was carried in half-asleep. She brushed the fabric off absently. Then she looked back at what had attracted her attention in the first place. Standing on her mattress she could better see and run her hand across the headboard of the bed.

The intricately carved rich brown wooden headboard was wild with scores of flowers of every type. There were big tropical flowers alongside smaller more delicate temperate ones. She ran her finger over the lovely precise carvings. Then she stopped. There, just to one side of center, was a small carving of a snowflake among the blooms of the etch-fashioned wooden garden.

The center of the carved snowflake was round and she could not help but want to press it with her dainty finger, and so she did. It receded in. Simultaneously she heard a click and the bed she was standing on swung to the side in a wide arc. Startled, she sat down suddenly on it as it moved. She waited breathlessly until the swinging movement of the bedstead stopped, then lay down on her stomach to look over the side of the bed at the region of the floor the bed had swung away from. There was no floor at all there. Under the bed was a staircase.

Her eyes went wide and she gave a small gasp. Then she laughed. Surely she had found a servants’ staircase. She would, she decided, descend to what was probably the kitchen and surprise the chef, chambermaids, and little serving boys.

Barefoot, she stepped down the wooden stairs of that hidden staircase. The stairwell was unlit by any window. As she felt her way down in the dark, she wondered if this was indeed a passage to the kitchen. She could not smell any fire-smoke or foodstuffs that usually wafted up the servants’ stairwell at home.

Flight after flight, she realized that surely she had passed below even the level of the kitchens.  Still the steps went down. After a while they changed into a cool white stone that seemed to glow ever so slightly in the dark. As she went further, too curious to stop, she found herself thinking of her father. Maybe his bravery pumped in her veins? Clear-headed, she wondered, if not to the kitchens, where were the steps leading?

At last she spied the bottom of the staircase in the gloom. The air was cold and her feet felt cold too now. The bottom of the stairs was visible and the steps ended at a carved marble balustrade and a white powder. As she stepped into it she realized it was a dusting of snow. The stairs had brought her around the corner of what appeared to be the entrance out of a cave. Before her rose a hill, deep with snow at least up to her knees and topped with snow-covered ice-trimmed birch trees. She thought to run back upstairs and definitely try to find some lined slippers.

But it was not so very cold. Maybe she could go just far enough to peep over the top of this hill, then run back up the stairs to warmth. Would not her father want to know what land his castle connected to? She thought of his deep voice and his soft beard over a hard jaw. Was she perhaps on the other side of the mountains? But the mountains were so tall and surely she had not come so far down those steps. Had not her father said there was ocean on the other side of the mounts? Maybe this was a dream, but her cold feet said no, and she picked up some snow and made a snow ball in her hands and threw it, having then to wipe her wet chilled hands on her nightgown, a thick cotton that seemed far too thin now.

There was a brushing sound from among the birches on the hill and she looked up to see a white wolf looking at her with dark eyes. After a while, when she did not run, it came down the short slope. She had frozen with dread, but the wolf approached her and nuzzled her hand like a dog. It looked into her eyes and she felt it was tame. Also, she felt approved of. Then the wolf turned and went back up the slope along its trail through the deep snow.

The wolf stopped halfway up the slope and looked back at the princess as if to say “follow me”, then continued up the hill. She set her jaw and decided to follow, as any courageous girl would do who wasn’t too cold, and who could see that the top of the hill did not seem that far. She would at least get a look over the hill before she retreated, flew back up the stairs and swung the bedstead back over its secret stairway. If she walked quickly surely her feet wouldn’t freeze.

Over the top of the hill, the snow-clad ground sloped downward and below the princess could see a lake, completely frozen over. A stiff breeze had cleared the lake of snow and was making the ice-coated trees crack. As she stood there though the wind ceased, and the trees which had been sprinkling down powdered snow, now stilled. The princess noticed the sky was actually not cloudy as she first thought, but was palest of evening blues.  Above the lake was rising a full moon. Even as she watched the moon climbed higher, a few tiny stars popped out in the darkening sky. ‘This is a strange part of the world or universe’, her old nanny, who had been left behind and was far away, might say.

The frozen lake was the same pale blue as the sky, and down there on the lake was someone ice-skating! She could make out that it was a boy. At the bottom of the hill was a tree log on its side and next to it was a fire in a circle of stones that gleamed brightly a color of flickering gold so different than the surrounding whites, grays, silvers, and those so pale blues.  She found herself drawn to the fire. The princess followed the wolf down the slope, still striding along in its made trail. She discovered laid across the log next to the fire was a cloak of white wool, thick white socks and a pair of white ice-skates. She picked them up and, yes, they were her size. 

The boy had noticed her and began to skate over. At first he had waved and made a direct path, but as he got closer he seemed to get shyer. He skated in loops and twists, showing off she thought. Finally he skated up to the frozen bank where she stood, close enough to speak to.

“I am sorry,” said the princess, “were you expecting someone?” She moved to shrug off the cloak that she had pulled over her shoulders.

“No,” said the boy. “I don’t know who I was expecting. Maybe I was just hoping. I am a prince of this land and I welcome you.”

“I am princess here,” she said with a proud pout and jutted out her chin. He laughed.

“You are most welcome princess,” he said, “because all I have is brothers of whom I am the eldest.”

“What?” she asked, then, “This is the strangest of places. Outside my bedroom it is now morning, not evening, and it is high summer at this time.”

“Oh,” he said with what seemed a slight confusion, “there are many wonders here! I would love to show them to you.” He looked hopeful, yet still shy.

“First, may we skate?” asked the princess. “I never have, though I have seen the performers do their tricks and spins. Can you teach me?”

“Most certainly,” he laughed, bowing with a joyful smile. At his bidding she slid on the socks laying on the log, then skates. He tied their laces for her and helped her secure the cloak. Then he smiled and took her hands and helped her up, leading her forward to the ice. He taught her how to ice skate as the moon lifted higher, until she tired.

“Now the wonders?” she asked.

“Another night,” he said. “Tomorrow perhaps? I am so glad to meet you, for I have had no one else calm to talk to and you are an answer to a dream. Please come again. Next time wear shoes though.”

The princess laughed and said she would. The princess smiled as she ran to the snow dusted marble stairs.

When she got back she rang for a bath and soaked her body to warmth again. She went afterwards to her mother. From her mother’s lips she heard that the war was going poorly. Then mother shooed her away, bidding the princess occupy herself as she was busy caring for babies without nursemaids. Picture-books would sent up to the princess’s solar from the castle’s intact library.

The princess descended to the silver-birched wood the next day, and though she wore a cloak and longed to skate, it rained a warm silver rain. She sat down on the bottom-most step and cried.

After a while a wolf appeared on the ridge as before. Its fur was damp and gray-looking in the rain. She heard it whimper. It was the same tame wolf. The wolf came down the slick slope. She wiped her tears on her cloak and petted the wolf’s wet fur.  

“You are brave to come back,” said a voice. It was the prince. He was wearing a sleek cloak which the rain beaded off. The rain was penetrating the princess’s own cape.

“I came…”

“I know,” he replied, “from the land of magic.”

“Magic,” she laughed, chagrined, “I don’t have magic.”

“You have what we lack here,” said the prince, “maybe it’s the magic of your sheer courage, happiness, kindness...”

She laughed with delight, for it felt true.

The wolf moved away. The prince took her hand and led her to the top of the slope that overlooked the now liquid lake, choppy and the same gray as the sky. This time though he led her through a rock-outcrop.

“The wonders?” she asked.

“At one time…” he replied with a sad tone. He looked down and sighed.

Below, on an island, was a palace in obvious disrepair. On the shore was a ransacked-looking village surrounded by bedraggled trees that nonetheless appeared to have small buds that sparkled like diamonds even in the drizzle. The fields though were empty of sprouts.

“This side of the rocks is supposed to be summer but these buds were not here until you came,” said the prince. “Many long years of hot and cold we have had. The people in the huts below will be too starving to even come out and greet you.”

The princess turned to look at him in surprise. The cliffs behind him were lovely rocky waterfalls under the spattering sky, beckoning one to climb, but she turned back to the misery below.

“I am the eldest of my brothers, heir to this kingdom. There have been floods, famine, plague. My parents are gone, dead.” He added the last with sadness, as if it was hard for him to say.

“I am sorry,” said the princess. The fear of her father dying was a real one, but not actuated.

“I told my brothers about you. I realize that we should try to rebuild. Make this place worthy of you.”

The princess held on to his hand, “Upstairs, my father is fighting too - another king’s claim, a bad king. My queen-mum and sisters and I are living in a castle that my papa captured. He is trying to win more land and there is always someone, my mother says, who has brash words against my father and he fights them.” She added then, “People are dying for it all.” She said that proudly but then cast her eyes down with realization.

“People are dying?” The prince looked stung. “From fighting for land?”

In an insightful blurting out of words, she added, “My king-papa likes to fight.” She realized the lameness of the remark. She thought of him on his war horse, looking up and away from her. Her sense that she was never quite brave or clever enough faded. How smart was he? How helpful to his people? She thought of the refugees moving outside her windows back at her home castle.

The prince continued, “Princess, my kingdom is different. I invite you here. Its people need leadership, wisdom, help...”

“No one from my family will come,” said the princess. “They won’t even listen to me.” Then she thought of the warring ways of her father and his soldiers. How could she tell of this place – have them bring rough ways here.

“We need you, princess. I need you. You bring me so much hope. I will host a dance for you, bring out the last of our stores, feast and eat with our people,” he said. “My mother used to dance with my brothers and I.”

The princess laughed at this. “I’d like that.”

“There is a new springtime in our land and dancing will cheer us. Be here and someday…” the Prince’s voice trailed off.

Idealistically, she drew herself up. She would help, plan with him. Together. As friends. As equals.

Still, a land one day hard ice and the next searing rain? She wondered, as much as she tried, would she ever be properly prepared for what would come? She determined she would adapt.

Beaming, the princess said, “Yes, and if you tell me your name, I will tell you mine.”

Image by Edward Lear.