Grim

Deep in a vault beneath the Hall of Legends is a tale of love and lust, fire and ice. Magic. Reflection. Word spinners repeat it only when they must, for implicit within the seven-act drama is a call for introspection.

But this storyteller has lived well, and has no fear of this fable. So if you dare, settle in with a hot cup—

protection against the approaching chill. Are you ready? Let’s begin.

Act One

Once, beyond the reach of memory, a certain archangel incited rebellion in heaven. But God’s faithful army prevailed, and the Fallen were exiled to Earth, where Lucifer took the name Satan and angel became demon.

Angered by their defeat, jealous of God’s beloved people, the imps set out to cause mischief among the human race. Some realized great success in this, but others grew lazy, and not a few succumbed to lust.

One particularly clever demon (having founded an academy for aspiring young imps) titled himself Demon King and determined to marry a certain human princess. But when he came courting, he was met with ardent distaste. “The world is far too beautiful to spend my days looking at such an ugly creature. And the sun is far too warm to lie beside someone with a frozen heart. I will not marry you.” That might have discouraged a less clever demon. But this one crafted a mirror of enchanted ice, and its magic was quite horrible.

For anytime someone gazed into it, everything beautiful in the world seemed ugly. The most magnificent flowers appeared wilted, the orange glow of a perfect sunset looked rusty-

brown, and the fairest human on all the earth resembled a monster more hideous than the demon himself. The looking glass itself was exquisite, its frame carved in intricate detail and its surface polished to perfect smoothness.

The princess knew nothing of its magic, and its beauty was tempting. Even so, intuiting a trap, she refused the gift.

The furious demon unfurled his long-

unused wings, and flew the mirror toward heaven, so that it might appear a wasteland to any human who looked upward at the sky. But the higher he flew, the more slippery the mirror became, until at last it slipped from his grasp. It fell to the earth, shattering into a billion shards, which swarmed and swirled throughout the world, buzzing like great hives of bees.

This caused terrible trouble, for a single flake lodged in an eye or heart infected it with the mirror’s magic. A great many were attracted to the princess, since the mirror was always meant for her. One large sliver pierced each of her eyes, turning their sapphire-blue crystal pale.

Another burrowed into her heart, growing with each beat until there was nothing left beneath her breast but a miniature iceberg. The demon laughed, then deepened the curse.

“Now you will never know love, my Snow Queen. You may search and search the earth for affection, but any man who kisses you more than three times will freeze solid. And the only place you’ll ever know warmth is in the Land of the Midnight Sun.”

She was borne away by a swarm of ice, which carved a palace for her from a glacier near the North Pole. The demon sent her there with a parting gift.

“One day every year, at the winter solstice, while the sun refuses to rise, you may see beauty. And if you should find a human heart warm enough to thaw yours, you may know love.”

With a throaty chuckle, he returned to his demon school, knowing the odds were longer than long. And that is how the beautiful, frost-hearted Snow Queen came to live in a castle of ice at the frozen tip of the world.

Act Two

Many hundreds of miles away, in a very small town where neighbors were friends, except when they weren’t, lived a girl named Greta and a boy known as K, which was short for Kassandar, a name he found much too unwieldy for daily use. The pair had been friends since the long days of childhood, having adjoining backyards and grandparents who often shared tea, and sometimes a pint or two. In the growing seasons, Greta and K spent long afternoons in the garden, tending prismatic flower beds. Both favored the richly scented roses, though she preferred crimson petals, and he tangerine. The joy they shared in the summer months saw them through the gray of winter.

And as they journeyed through time 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 had an inside source—his fiancée.

She let them in through the kitchen door. “The princess and her prince are in the library, taking tea. Come with me.” She led them up a back staircase to the uppermost floor.

The library was immense, and books spilled from floor-to-ceiling shelves.

The door to the veranda was open, and a lovely cool breeze blew in from the sea. The princess and her young man sat close to the open air, with their backs to the hallway door. But K was not in the room.

Greta breathed a loud sigh of relief before breaking down in tears, startling the princess. “Who are you, and how did you find your way in here?”

She might have called for the guards, but the strange girl was so distraught, instead she said, “Tell me your story.”

When Greta finished, the princess, too, was crying, and even the prince (for, indeed, they had married) had a shine to his eyes. “How can we help you?

Will you dine with us and stay the night?”

Greta agreed to start her journey fresh in the morning. When she woke, a small carriage and two coachmen waited for her at the castle door.

“Oh, thank you!” she called toward the library windows as she climbed up inside. “Farewell, friends.” She did not know that the royal couple lounged late in bed that morning, nor that they were unaware of the generous gift.

Act Five

Neither could Greta know that the road was infamous in the land, or that they traveled toward the heart of the Forest of Thieves. She was too content to nibble on the figs and scones provided, a gift from the Demon King, who was well aware of her journey and its possible consequences. Before long, she swooned with drowsiness, and when she woke, it was with a jolt. “Who dares trespass in our woods?” A time-shriveled face materialized at the window. “Why, it’s a lass, and a comely one at that. Get out, get out. I suspect you are quite tender and will make a splendid meal.” Greta’s head was still thick and she heard only what she wanted to, which was “Get out and I will make you a splendid meal.”

She wasn’t really hungry, but didn’t want to seem rude, so she climbed down from the coach, where she was apprehended by a band of thieves.

Greta might have found herself upon a serving platter, had the youngest of the bunch not taken an interest.

“Leave her be, Mother,” she commanded.

“Let me interrogate her, see what her business here might be. Perhaps, should she disappear, someone might come looking for her.” Now, the girl, Phoebe, was simply in want of some company.

Thieves, on the whole, are a closemouthed lot, and not much good for conversation.

She took Greta by the hand, pulled her off toward their camp as the thieves dismantled the coach piece by piece.

“Tell me, girl, why are you here? I’m in need of a good story. Recite it well and I’ll make sure it’s rabbit on the table tonight.” Greta repeated her tale, and it brought tears to Phoebe’s eyes, for such love could warm even the coldest heart.

The encampment was cheered by a ring of fire, circled by substantial tents. On the far perimeter, the horses were kept and, much to Greta’s delight, in their midst stood a reindeer. He looked hungry, so she fed him two of the garden fruits from her pockets. In the highest boughs of the tall pines roosted pigeons—

ugly birds, and not the brightest. But in one nest a pair of mourning doves cooed.

Greta quite enjoyed their soft song, and sought to reward it with another of the fruits. Amiably, she nibbled one, too, and suddenly understood her danger.

While the robbers saw to supper, Phoebe asked Greta to tell her more about K, and how he had come to vanish.

The doves overheard and after a while began to coo in the language of men, which the fruit had given them.

“We saw your young man, K, you call him. He passed this way, sitting beneath an ermine wrap in a sleigh beside the Snow Queen. To Lapland, they went.”

While pigeons are terrible gossips, and rumor is a tool of the devil, the Demon King holds no jurisdiction over doves or caribou. “Lapland!” cried the reindeer, possessed of human speech.

“That was my home when I was a calf.”

Greta drew close to the downy-coated animal, whispered into his ear, “If I can secure your freedom, will you take me to Lapland and help find the place where the Snow Queen has sequestered K?”

The reindeer agreed happily, for the idea of running upon the snowy plains of his homeland again filled him with joy.

Greta waited until after the evening feast, when the thieves all took to swigging amber liquid from a very large bottle.

Eventually, they all staggered off to bed.

It was then she approached Phoebe, who had drunk not a little herself and toyed nervously with a very sharp knife. “Put your weapon down, friend.

You know my quest. Will you help me on my way again? I have little to give—”

“Are you a spell caster?” interrupted Phoebe, for she had witnessed the change in the animals. “Share the secret of your incantation and I shall let you go.” In truth, magic made her nervous, though she lusted for such power. “I am not a witch, only a girl. I gathered the fruit of knowledge from a tree in a garden far from here. If it’s of use to you, I will share what I have. But you must promise to let the reindeer carry me on my journey.” The deal was struck.

Greta gave Phoebe half the remaining fruit, and the thief untied the reindeer.

Greta climbed upon his back. But before she could go, Phoebe stopped her. In a quite uncommon gesture, most likely spurred by rum consumption, she wrapped Greta in a thick cloak and gave her a hamper stuffed with meat and bread.

“Lapland is cold all year round, and winter fast approaches. Godspeed.” The reindeer ran off before she could change her mind.

Act Six

The only knowledge the reindeer needed to find the most direct route to Lapland was instinct, drawing him home. The line they took was straight, but still it took many days, and by the time they reached his familiar turf, the hamper was empty, and so was Greta’s stomach. A small trail of smoke led the reindeer to a lopsided cabin at the very edge of the snowy plain.

“Oh! See how it tilts. However does it stay standing?” wondered Greta out loud. She was almost afraid to knock on the door, thinking the tapping might tip the structure all the way over.

But the house stayed mostly upright and the old Laplander woman who answered was happy enough to let them inside and fill Greta’s belly with the excellent fish she had been preparing. As she cooked, the reindeer repeated Greta’s story, but only after his own, which he thought the most fascinating. “You have come such a very long way,” said the woman, “but you have farther to go. I saw the Snow Queen pass by not long ago. She has a home in Finland, and that, I’m sure, is where she is now.

My dearest cousin lives in Finland, and she knows more about the Snow Queen than I do. I will send you with an introduction, for she is shy about strangers, even those as interesting as the two of you. But, please, take my spare muff, as it is much colder there.”

And so, they were off again, toward the Northern Lights, which danced in the sky, leading them to Finland.

The Lapland woman gave Greta a pouch of dried fish, for her cousin loved the treat and found it hard to come by. On the skin, she wrote, Please help this young lady in her search for the Snow Queen.

Her story has touched my heart, which I have long believed immune to such things as love. Oh, cousin! How I miss my soldier, so long gone, and I know it must be the same for you. So many have stories, often left untold except in certain company. So many, whose lives are changed forever at the hands of the Demon King. But Greta knew nothing of this as she resumed her journey.

After many more hours of travel, the reindeer stopped before the Finland woman’s home, which stood much straighter than that of her Laplander cousin. Indeed, Greta found the Finland woman quite suspicious of strangers at her door.

But the pouch, with its message on the skin, plus the delicious dried fish inside, was enough to allow her through the door. Again, she talked about her K with such affection that the Finland woman nearly swooned from the telling.

“Dear, dear girl. The Snow Queen is even now only a mile from here. But you will not easily gain entrance to her palace.

She wears the curse of the Demon King, and it both controls and protects her.”

The reindeer then drew the woman to one side and asked whether she might possess some potion or other means to give Greta the strength to fight the curse.

“The girl needs nothing from me,” responded the Finlander. “She holds a powerful weapon.

Neither demon nor queen can conquer it.”

The reindeer understood, and when Greta urged, “Please, can we go to K right this moment?” they left without delay, and he ran as fast as he could to the Snow Queen’s palace. He set Greta down beside a bush adorned with red berries. “You have fulfilled your promise.” Greta stroked his forehead gently. “You are free.” The reindeer was happy enough for his freedom, yet left reluctantly, for he had come to care deeply for the girl and her quest.

Unbeknownst to either of them, word of their arrival had rippled to the lair of the Demon King. He conjured, from shards of ice, a company of sharp-

quilled porcupines and razor-clawed wildcats, and raptors with talons like knives.

In the ever-dusk of winter solstice, the beasts came marching, and for the first time since her journey began, Greta felt truly afraid. “Our father...”

She sent the words of the Lord’s Prayer toward heaven. With each expelled breath, her frozen exhale formed an angel, and soon an entire phalanx, wearing helmets and carrying spears. They thrust them into the ice-hewn beasts, shattering them into hailstones, insignificant in size. With the help of her heavenly protectors, Greta marched straight up to the door, and it opened for her as if commanded. The hair at her nape pricked. Her face flushed hot, despite the cold. And she knew, “K is very near.”

Act Seven

K, in fact, was very near, but though Greta’s intuition screamed it was so, just down a long corridor and across a frozen hall, he couldn’t feel her presence at the door. Couldn’t hear the sound of her call or smell the drift of roses on the air. K lay, prone, on a polar-bear skin, at the foot of the Snow Queen’s throne.

His color was an odd shade of blue, bordering black. He would have been dead of the cold already, except every now and again, his queen would warm him with the heat of her gaze, and her hot cold lips would graze his face, enough to keep him barely alive. All this, Greta saw in the instant she burst into the hall, flanked by angels so beautiful their very presence lit the chamber. As it happened, it was the afternoon of the winter solstice, the one day of the year when the Snow Queen could discern beauty. At the sight of the angels, she fell to her knees. “Oh!

Never have I witnessed such a thing, not even when I was a child.” She wept openly.

K stirred from his oblivion. “What is it?”

he asked, struggling to sit upright.

“What do you see?” But when Greta rushed to his side, he couldn’t recognize her, for she looked ugly as any old hag, with the piece of mirror still lodged in his eye.

“What is it? What do you want from me?”

Greta drew back, horrified that her K didn’t know her. But an angel whispered in her ear, reminding her of the power of the Demon King’s enchantment. Greta reached into her pocket, withdrew the last of the fruit from the garden tree.

“Please. Eat. This will make you strong again.” K might have refused, except the angel fixed him with her eyes, and as he stared into the depths of their pools, he was encouraged to taste the fruit the girl offered. One bite, and he knew. “Greta? Yes, Greta. I know you...” A rush of memory flooded his eyes, washing the evil shard away.

“You are as beautiful as your guardians.”

He opened his arms and Greta fell into them eagerly, her own eyes wet against his chest. The salt of her tears soaked through his shirt, skin and flesh and breastbone, all the way into his heart.

It began to thaw immediately, beating surer and louder. As blood coursed, warm, through his veins, K flushed, and without thinking, he kissed Greta full on the lips.

The gesture filled the Snow Queen with hope that such love might still await her somewhere. “You shall stay together forever,” she declared, “though I will miss your company, dearest K.

Thank you for brightening my days.

Return to your village, where, I suspect, a happy homecoming awaits you.”

Cloaked in a fine warm mantle of love, Greta and K left the palace, hand in hand.

The air was sharp, and the light low, but K paused to promise, “I’ll never again leave your side.” At the bush with red berries stood the reindeer and his own mate, ready to carry the couple home, under the protection of angels and before the roses bloomed.