Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Grandmother Winter

Second place in Contest # 22 by On the Premises Magazine.

"In the forest lives an old woman," said Ellie’s mother. "She will eat you if you are bad. Mind me or else."

It was hard for Ellie to take her mother seriously. She was old enough to know the difference between the village superstitions and her mother’s tales. But still, she said yes. She would watch her brother.

Once she agreed, her mother tied on a scarf and left Ellie standing in the doorway holding baby Jackson. The girl watched her mother walk out through the front gate without a backward glance at the two she left behind.

Jackson was especially fussy today. He cried as Ellie fed him sloppy porridge; he stole the spoon and threw it on the floor. Then he spit his meal up all over Ellie.

"Shh," she tried to soothe him. "Shh." His face brightened and swelled like a birthday balloon. She wanted to pop him, to deflate his puffed-out cheeks and screwed-up fists that batted at her. She wanted to leave him crying by himself and go off to play. He would cry whether she was there or not—she couldn’t soothe him.

The sky darkened outside. Mother could take hours, wherever she went to. Ellie had asked several times if she could come along, but had been told no. "It’s grown-up stuff," she was told the first time. "When you’re older," the next time. Finally her mother screamed, "No! Stop asking!"

So she stopped.

Jackson wailed as she bounced him up and down in her arms. She pleaded with him, but he ignored her. She changed his diaper, but he peed on her. She sang a song while he hit her in the nose.

Her mother’s words boiled up inside of her and she shouted, "No! Stop crying!"

This only made him squeeze more tears out and scream harder.

Finally, she put him in his crib and covered him in a blanket that he immediately kicked off. That was it—she couldn’t take it anymore. She walked through the door and shut it behind her.

The air outside was still and heavy with electricity. The wooly clouds were dirty with potential, low and grey and grimy. Guilt filled her throat as she walked away, but she did not turn around. The back of her head crawled with the wrongness of Jackson left behind, alone and crying in his crib.

Ellie slunk into the trees, but didn’t go far. Of course, she promised to some nameless entity inside her head, she would return in a minute and obey the summons of her brother’s cries. Of course, she wouldn’t leave him alone for long.

But she lingered at the edge of the woods. The trees leered at her with twig teeth, and she idled beneath them in a tortured mix of freedom and shame. Another minute and she would return to the house, rescue Jackson from his crib and hold him until their mother returned. She would be good, after this next minute.

Or maybe this one.

Perhaps a couple more.

She watched the clouds swing over their house in the small clearing as she leaned her head back against the base of a large and knobby tree. The sky roiled like boiling soup and she huddled in her coat against the growing winds of the storm. Her coat was old and warm, too large for her by far. It had been her father’s, her mother once told her, but would say no more about it.

Ellie closed her eyes against the wind and snuggled down inside the coat. She felt comforted by it, sheltered in a cocoon of her father’s long-ago protection.

When she next opened her eyes, it was to darkness and wailing. She jumped to her feet. A confusion of thoughts tumbled through her head, until she remembered Jackson left alone in the house. Her mother would be livid at her for abandoning him, no matter that she had never left sight of their home.

Except…how could she have gotten so turned around? She looked left and right, but there was nothing but forest and more forest. There was no clearing, no small and familiar cottage. The branches of the trees loomed out of the darkness like the tales she had heard about sinister creatures of the woods, and Ellie remembered her mother threatening her before she left with the idea of the old woman of the forest.

The wailing was louder now, and Ellie was frightened until she realized it was the wind moaning through the branches. A rumble echoed through the sky, and the first cold drops fell down, white as the trees were black, the stark colors of nighttime.

She had no choice but to walk or freeze. Choosing a direction at random, she shuffled her feet forward, huddling inside her coat. The snow fell down, an endless kaleidoscope of sky demons dancing over her head. Her toes hurt, then numbed, and her feet lost feeling next. Still, she walked and the snow fell.

Her head was tucked down below the collar of her coat for warmth, and she was not sure what made her look up, but when she did, she saw a light flickering in the distance. The clearing! she thought gratefully. Home.

The idea filled her with longing, a visceral tug that sped her numb feet and spurred her to a careless speed. She tripped and sprawled on the ground, knocking away her breath. She lay flat on a bed of snow and struggled to take air in and out. The cold of the hard earth seeped up her arms and into her chest so that she coughed convulsively when she had recovered from the shock of the fall. Can’t lie here, she thought, and pushed to her feet. There was the light, her only hope of safety, and she walked forward again to follow it.

The light led her deeper into the woods. The trees were thicker, and the ephemeral brightness receded before her so she never got closer. In despair, she thought of will-o-the-wisps and what it would mean to be lost in the forest during a winter storm.

As if sensing her ragged emotions, the light flickered again and coalesced into a stable image. Ellie stumbled, fighting with the entwined branches that blocked her way. It seemed there was a clearing on the other side, but the trees were rooted fast and held firm against her numb fingers. She beat at them with her useless hands and shrieked wordlessly into the night.

At her cry, the branches suddenly gave way and she fell forward into a small, open area where the trees curved like a roof and bent around the sides of the space as tightly as a thicket. In the heart of the opening was a small cottage, just about the size of her home. Lights shone from all the windows but, oddly, the house looked like it was perched on a nest of dried sticks that elevated it up from the ground.

The wind howled and the snow blew against her back, urging her forward. Fear beat through her skull as hard as the fingers of the wind, yet she still hesitated despite the impetus of cold. Finally, she walked forward until she reached the door and knocked. It was a timid rap, but she could hear the echoes inside as if she had smote upon the door with all of her force.

Quite clearly, she heard a voice say, "Enter." The tone of the voice was as cold as the wind and chilled her through, much as the winter storm had. But she had come here and had no other choice, so she pulled the latch and stepped inside.

The warmth of the fire inside was overwhelming after the cold, and she felt the sting of heat on her face like a slap. She quietly closed the door behind her, her eyes drinking in the simple room. A trundle bed sat in the far corner by the fireplace and, in between the two was a scarred table and chairs. An old woman sat in one of the chairs and she had a knife in her hand. It was as long as the woman’s arm and she held it pointed at the door. No, pointed at Ellie.

"It’s a cold night for a cold heart," said the woman. Then she laughed, splinters of ice edging through it. "What are you doing wandering the woods on such a night?"

"Please, ma’am, I got lost," Ellie said. She waited next to the door, dripping with melting snow, afraid to venture further. The woman put down the knife and smiled, but the smile brought no comfort. Her face was a nest of wrinkles and her mouth had few teeth. Around her neck was a string of long, off-white beads that tinkled strangely as she moved. "I beg of you, please let me stay here until the storm ends, and then I can be on my way."

"You beg for my care? You must have a kind heart to expect favors from a stranger. Do you care for others when they need you?"

Ellie’s mind flashed back to her brother and her eyes pricked with guilty tears. "No, ma’am, I do not. My brother needed me, and I left him behind."

"Aha," said the old woman. "Well, I am not you. For the truth of your words and the regret in your heart, you are welcome to my fire and to share my meal."

Stunned by the generosity, Ellie blinked her eyes and the tears fell down. "Thank you." She swiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. "I will do whatever I can to repay you."

"Not a wise promise to give to a stranger in the woods," said the old woman. She stood, and Ellie could see that the old woman was small, no taller than herself. Perhaps the woman had once been larger, but her back was bent with age and her fingers gnarled with it. Still, she moved lightly across the floor to the fire and dished stew into two bowls from a pot suspended over the flames. She thunked them onto the worn surface of the table, and Ellie sat down across from her, feeling as if she were floating in a dream. Her fingers tingled with returning life.

"What is your name, girl?" asked the woman, giving her a spoon. Ellie told her and took a mouthful of the stew. It was so hot it seared her tongue. "Where is your family?"

After a hesitation while she took a bite and chewed it, Ellie told her this also. "So your mother left you alone? Where does she go when she is gone all day?"

"I don’t know," said the girl. "She will not tell me."

"Hmm," said the old woman. By this time, Ellie had eaten her fill and she felt warm and drowsy. Her eyelids began to droop and she had problems listening to the woman, despite trying to be polite.

"Come," said the voice. "I have blankets in that chest, there. You may sleep before the fire."

Ellie went where she was directed and curled herself into the blankets. Now warmed through, she fell asleep.

When she woke, Ellie was in her own bed at home. She blinked sleep-furred eyes and glanced around. There, in his crib, was her sleeping brother. Her mother was in the bed next to her, also fast asleep.

Had it just been a dream? She sat up as gently as possible so as to not wake the baby, but was startled by the loud thud of something dropping to the floor. She froze. A rustle of cloth was followed the next minute by a thin wail as Jackson woke.

"Ellie!" grunted her mother, and the girl went and picked up her brother. As soon as she touched him, he quieted and looked at her. His blue eyes crinkled and he smiled. She felt her heartbeat racing in her chest and she held him tightly in her arms in apology for leaving him the day before.

But there had been the thump when she rose. Ellie turned her head to look at the floor, and bent to pick it up. It was heavier than it should be for something so small, and she stood there, Jackson propped on one shoulder, holding the item in her left hand. It filled her palm and glowed with the morning sun streaming through the windows.

Her mother stretched and said, yawning, "What have you got there?"

"A golden heart," Ellie answered in a whisper.

"A gold—what?" Her mother jumped to her feet and came around the bed. She snatched the object from her daughter’s hands. She tested it with her fingernail, and then her teeth. "Where did you find this?"

Ellie told her about the old woman in the woods. About how she had fallen asleep there and woken here, holding the golden heart in her hand. "An old woman," murmured her mother. "And she obviously gave you this—but why?" Ellie didn’t know.

"Where there is one, there may be more," said her mother. "But I don’t trust that you’ll know how to get them. Watch Jackson. I’ll be back."

So Ellie spent the day watching her brother. Whatever had ailed him before was gone, and they played with the golden heart, which he seemed to enjoy. She would roll it along the carpet, thumpety, thumpety, and he would laugh and clap his hands.

When darkness fell, their mother returned. "A waste of time!" she said, picking twigs from her hair. "I couldn’t find the old woman’s hut. Well, no matter, I will take the gold to town tomorrow to sell."

"You can’t! It’s mine," argued Ellie.

"No matter that it was yours. It’s mine now. This means that we can live well, better than we do now. Give it to me."

Ellie refused, but her mother overpowered her and snatched it away. "You wicked child!" she scolded. "The old woman of the forest will eat you for being bad!"

The girl said nothing. She got little sleep that night, knowing her mother would be selling her heart tomorrow.

Her mother was gone early and stayed away all day. When she returned, she was furious.

"No one will buy it! When I showed it to them, they just took one look at me and threw me from their store. Maybe they thought I stole it, or maybe it isn’t gold after all. See, look at my hands. They have turned red from handling it, so something has rubbed off on me. But, no matter. If they won’t take it from my hands, maybe they will take it from yours," she told Ellie. "Tomorrow, you will come to town with me and sell it."

"I won’t," said Ellie, holding Jackson. Her mother moved to take the baby, but Jackson howled and clung to his sister.

"Fine then, see how you like going hungry!" snapped her mother. "If you won’t sell it, then you both can starve."

The next morning, their mother packed up all the food in the house and carried it with her to town, not once glancing back over her shoulder at the two children standing in the doorway watching her leave. As the hours passed, Jackson cried and Ellie could give him only water from the well to fill his belly. With her own stomach snarling at her, she warmed the golden heart between her hands, and an idea suddenly came to her. Quickly, she bundled up the baby and herself and walked into the woods carrying Jackson.

The trees seemed to bow down before her as she walked and Jackson became quiet. He watched the winter sky, which showed clear blue through the sere branches. Before long, they were at the house in the heart of the woods and Ellie knocked on the door. "Enter," said the cold voice.

The room was much the same as before. The old woman lowered her knife and put it on the table when she saw them, but said nothing in greeting. "I have returned with my brother," explained Ellie under the watchful eyes of the old woman. "And I come to thank you for the gift."

"What gift?" asked the woman guilelessly, then laughed. "I see you are both hungry. Come, there is much in my stew pot today." She put bowls before them and watched as Ellie fed her brother the soft vegetables in the broth first before touching her own stew. After Jackson was done eating, he played on the floor with the wooden spoon from the pot.

The girl ate steadily and looked at the old woman’s necklace. It was yellow and made of long, thin beads, as if it were made from bones, and the image reminded her of her mother’s threats about the dangers of the woods and old women who ate children. Before she could scare herself, Ellie looked away from the necklace and tried to think only of the warmth and the comfort of the food which filled her empty stomach.

"You have a long journey home," said the old woman when she was finished. "But you are always welcome here."

"Thank you, ma’am," said Ellie.

"Call me Grandmother," said the old woman.

"Thank you, Grandmother," she said dutifully. Smiling, the old woman gestured them on their way.

The trip back didn’t seem so long and the trees nodded at them as they passed. When they got home, their mother was waiting and her face darkened when she saw them. "Where have you been?" she demanded. When Ellie told her, their mother ripped at her own hair in frustration. "Show me this path in the woods!"

So Ellie pointed to where she had walked through the forest, and watched her mother run off into the gathering twilight. The girl put Jackson to bed, rekindled the fire and waited. Eventually, her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep.

When she woke, the first thing she saw was a kettle hanging over the flames of the fireplace. The pot gleamed as bright as moonlight and the smell coming from it made her mouth water. Jackson must have smelled it too, for he was sitting up in his crib, clutching at the bars and staring at her. She took him out and fed him broth from the pot, and then ate herself. She had never tasted anything so wonderful. The meat was tender and juicy, the vegetables as flavorful as if they had just been pulled from the earth. Jackson laughed and clapped his hands.

The door opened just as she finished eating and her mother stormed in, her hair a rats' nest. There were scratches on her face, as if she had tried to claw her way through branches and been clawed in return. Her palms were still bright red from when she had touched Ellie’s golden heart and she sniffed the air until she located the silver pot on the fire. The woman let out a shriek and advanced on the stewpot. "Where did you get this?"

Ellie told her about waking to find it there. Her mother dipped a ladle of it into a bowl and began to eat, but she spit it out after several mouthfuls and went gagging to the door. Ellie glanced in the bowl—a wriggling worm bobbed to the surface and then dipped back down into the soup.

"What trick is this, you nasty child?" said their mother on her return. She hauled the silver pot out the door and dumped its contents in the woods. "I will take the pot to town to sell," she said, straightening her hair.

Ellie stayed silent. She was unsurprised when their mother returned that afternoon, ranting and raving and still carrying the pot. Her mouth was colored a bright green that she swore came from the stew she had eaten and vomited. Between her red hands and green face, she looked like a holiday decoration.

"Tomorrow morning, I will follow you into the woods," she said. "And we will see how that old biddy does, then."

And that is what happened. Morning came, and Ellie carried Jackson into the woods. The trees let the two children through easily and their mother pushed in behind them, even though the snarled branches tried to block her way. When they came to the clearing, Ellie almost hoped that the house would be gone or some other such magic, but there it stood, perched upon its pile of twigs. The old woman’s voice called out when the girl knocked and the three of them went into the house.

"Hello, Grandmother," said Ellie.

"Don’t Grandmother her," said her mother. "I want answers."

"Answers, hmm," said the old woman. "I will answer your questions. But, for each you ask, I will ask one also."

"Fine," her mother said shortly. "Why have you given Ellie such wealthy gifts?"

"Gifts?" said the old woman. "I have given her nothing from my hands except food and shelter when she was lost and hungry. You may have the same, if you wish."

"But what about the heart and the kettle? Where did they come from?"

"I think," said the old woman, "it is my turn for a question."

"Very well."

"Where do you go when you leave the children?"

"That is none of your business!" said their mother.

"Answer the question. Speak truly." The old woman’s voice was cold.

"I go nowhere."

"Hmm," said the old woman. "Now it is your turn."

"Why will no one buy the gold and silver?" she asked.

"Because they are not yours to sell."

"But how would they know that?"

"My turn," said the woman.

"Ask, then!" shouted their mother.

"Who is the father of these children?"

"I don’t know," answered their mother, growing pale.

"Hmm," said the old woman. "Now ask your last question."

"This can’t be my last question! I have a lot more questions to ask."

"Nevertheless, this is your last one. Choose it carefully."

"Fine." Their mother stared at the old woman, as if she could divine her secrets with the force of her gaze. "Then this is my question. What can I do to get your riches?"

"You can’t," said the old woman. "For I have none. I already told you that I gave no gifts. All my possessions are in this room that you see. Now, for my last question. Who is the mother of these children?"

Their mother turned the color of the snow outside. "I am. That is enough, old woman."

"You are right. It is enough." And with one quick movement, the old woman threw her knife across the room and straight through their mother’s heart.

Ellie screamed and nearly dropped the baby. Jackson, feeling his sister’s distress, started to sob, while the impaled woman hit the floor with a noise like stones falling. Ellie turned horrified eyes from their mother’s body to the old woman, who had not moved from her spot in the chair. The girl cried, "Is this my punishment for leaving Jackson? I promised not to do it again! How could you take our mother from us?"

"Hush, child," said the old woman in the voice of winter. "I have taken nothing from you. That woman was no mother of yours. Not one word she spoke in this room was true."

"But…she raised me. She brought Jackson home to be a brother to me," Ellie said.

"If you were older, you would know that children are not brought home, like a parcel from the marketplace. She stole you away from your real parents and kept you hidden so that she could gain money by promising to return you. You are not the child of that woman. You have a mother and a father who have never stopped wishing to see you again. And your brother is no brother to you. He was taken the same way from his parents."

"No," Ellie sobbed. "Why? Why has this happened?"

"It is the way of wickedness," answered the old woman. "The wicked shall fall before the just. Now, you must return to your family and the baby must return to his." She got to her feet and made her creaking way over to the two of them. Ellie clutched Jackson fiercely to her.

"No! You can’t take him away from me. He’s mine."

"Child," said the woman. "He belongs to himself. You must let him go."

"I love him!" she cried. "He’s my brother. He’s all I have."

"Aha!" And with that, the old woman bent over and dipped her finger into the blood pooling under the dead woman. She raised her hand and touched a dot of the blood to each child’s forehead. Ellie was too shocked to resist.

"Stupay s Bogom," said the old woman. And then the room swirled up around the two children, a whirlwind that encompassed them. When the winds died, the children were gone.

The old woman looked down at the body on the floor and knelt beside it to retrieve her knife. She used the blade to make the first cuts, cleanly and clinically. She had to steady herself as the house stood up on its large and spindly feet, stretching legs like an oversized fowl. Then the cottage shouldered its way out through the grasping trees, taking steps that shook the forest with their power. Using a direction known only to itself, it headed for the place they would be needed next.

She worked as quickly as she could. By tonight, there needed to be more meat for her stew pot.

The Lost Children

Originally published by Third Flatiron Anthologies.

When the midwives came running out the door, crying, Minos rushed into the birthing room. His wife already had the two babies at her breast. The one on the left waved her hands gently as she nursed, but did not turn her head to look up at him. Her long-lashed eyes were closed against the brown hair covering her face, her bovine lips suckling intently. The one on the right kicked his hooves, blinking his sleepy human eyes at the king standing frozen in the doorway. Minos stared at Pasiphaë with horror.

“They are born from your arrogance,” his wife told him wearily. There was a note of triumph in her voice. “You would not honor Poseidon by sacrificing the white bull. And I have fallen in love with the bull as deeply as you have.”

Minos looked at the two half-creatures, part human and part calf. “More deeply, it would seem,” he said. Dazed, he slowly started to walk towards her. “I will kill these monsters. And you,” he added belatedly. “For making a fool of me and sinning with the god’s beast.”

“The bull was Poseidon’s gift to you, but you would not sacrifice him as the god commanded. If you had killed him when you were supposed to, this would never have happened. The goddess Aphrodite has already come to bless these children. Would you argue with the gods?”

“I have before,” said Minos. He was human, and he had made mistakes. He should have done what the gods had told him, but he had, as his wife said, been arrogant. He shrank back against the wall, feeling suddenly old and spent of his fury. “Very well. But expect nothing more from me except for your lives.”

Pasiphaë raised her chin. “I have never expected more. And you have given to me the nothing you promised, over and over again.”

By the king’s decree, the children were allowed to live, and indeed, their lives were peaceful. They stayed in Pasiphaë’s rooms at first. The girl, Agaphya, was a gentle and docile daughter. She did exactly what she was told, but couldn’t manipulate her large cow’s tongue to speak human language, and so remained mute. Her brother, Asterion, grew at an alarming rate, the same as any bull. Within half a year, it was hard for him to enter through the narrow doorway leading to his mother’s room. Within a year, he was forced to spend his days outside, in a covered tent rigged up for him in the courtyard with the assistance of his mother’s handmaids. Although his body grew at a bull’s rate, his head grew at a human’s rate, so he had the small baby face of a one-year-old perched atop his strong bull’s neck.

Agaphya refused to be separated from her brother. If she was taken away for even so much as a moment, she would wobble her large cow’s head atop her small baby’s neck and low and low endlessly. The sound was inescapable, her moaning cow cries impossible to hush. Finally, their mother allowed the girl to toddle out to her brother and sleep against his warm side at night. The girl spent her days riding on Asterion as he walked around the courtyard, her legs split wide over the expanse of his broad back. He was careful of his hooves around the tiny girl when she walked on her own feet, and one could tell where his sister was standing simply by the direction in which he pointed his face at any given time. They were like one creature separated into two bodies—or, more correctly, two creatures meant to be one.

The king’s subjects grew so used to having these two as a fixture at the palace that it sometimes came as a shock when visiting dignitaries expressed fear or disgust at seeing them for the first time. The only one who never seemed to accept them was Minos, who took pains to avoid the main courtyard. When he was forced to cross it, he would hurry by and never look up at the two children-beasts there. And they would watch him silently, never speaking or drawing attention to themselves. Their mother had told them about Minos. What she had said was best left unrepeated.

Twelve years passed, and Asterion’s face lengthened, grew larger and more proportionate with his bull’s body. Agaphya’s huge cow head no longer tended to overtip her if she walked too quickly, for she grew taller and broader. By age sixteen, the two halves of their nature seemed to settle into a complementary whole, a blending together of things as intended by the gods.

But the more content the two siblings seemed, the more the king’s face grew wrathful every time he happened to spot them. When he overheard his counselors speaking about these two creatures as “The Minotaurs,” some sort of benevolent symbol for the city, he was furious. This was his city, not a place for the foul offspring of his wife’s adultery. He needed to do something, and that something came about through listening to his wife, incidentally enough.

He hadn’t touched Pasiphaë since the birth. Not brushed a sleeve past hers or put a hand on her skin. He had barely seen her. But at important state functions, he needed a queen as hostess for the appearance of things, and so several times a year, he would summon her to attend court. She always came and fulfilled her duties impeccably. But the slow burn of hatred in his heart engendered by her deceitful presence took weeks to disperse again.

This time was no exception. Even though he had summoned her, upon seeing Pasiphaë’s still-beautiful face, Minos was overwhelmed for a moment with rage. He had to take several deep breaths before he could speak. “We have visitors from the mainland,” he told her.

“Very well.”

“I will send you the details via your handmaiden. Tomorrow is the feast. I want you to show them all honors.”

“Of course. Is there anything else?”

The presumption of the woman! He seethed, but finally shook his head. He did not trust his voice. She turned and left without saying anything else, without once meeting his eyes.

The next night, with the envoys of kings at his side, he couldn’t help but hear the words of his wife as she conversed with one of the ambassadors two seats away. “I would never dare!” she laughed—flirtatiously, he thought.

“It is not as scary as it is made out to be,” grinned the man. He toyed with the grapes on his plate, as if giving his hands something to do while his attention was diverted by a beautiful woman. “In fact, it was over quite quickly.”

“I have always wondered about the oracle.” Pasiphaë’s voice lowered, and Minos couldn’t hear what was said next.

“Yes, I know. I saw them as I came in,” replied the ambassador.

That very night, Minos commanded his ships be readied for sailing in the morning. If that man could find answers at Delphi’s oracle, so could he. He was a king, after all. And the gods bent special favor upon his kind.

When he returned, Minos brought shiploads of new people with him, crowds of architects and slaves. They set to work immediately. The oracle had told him to build a maze underneath his palace, a massive cage for the two unnatural godspawn creatures. Once that was done, he was to leave them trapped in the center.

Work proceeded quickly. He was unsurprised to see Pasiphaë when she eventually came to visit him, her face as pale as cheese.

“You can’t mean to do this. They are children.”

“They are monsters,” he told her coldly. “I should have done this long before.”

She pleaded, she begged for their lives. He relented enough that a small chute was built in the center of the palace, so food and drink could be dropped down for those below. “This is your responsibility,” he told her. “I will have no one help you in this task. You must prepare the food with your own hands and bring it to them. If you fail in that, I will have rocks thrown down instead, and the entrance sealed.”

The queen bowed her head. “Thank you for your generosity, King Midos.” She could not quite contain the bitterness in her tone.

“Be careful, wife,” he told her. “Lest I force their adulterous mother to join them. Then there would be no one left to feed you.”

Pasiphaë bowed her head lower. This time, she did not trust her voice to speak. At her apparent humility, he let her take leave of his presence.

When her children were blindfolded, twenty strong men had to restrain Asterion as he used every bit of his bull’s strength to try and escape. Agaphya, docile as always, meekly allowed her head to be covered with a sack and followed the hands that guided her. Pasiphaë wept as her children were led into the labyrinth, but made no move to stop the soldiers who took them. She knew King Midos’s eyes were on her. She knew, but did not care, except to fervently remind herself that her children would die without her. She needed to stay strong of heart.

Each day before the sun rose, Pasiphaë trekked down to the marketplace and purchased the freshest foodstuffs she could find. Then back to the palace kitchens, where she would spend hours chopping and stirring, creating simple but nutritious fare. She would tie the meals up in a cloth and lower them on a string through the palace chute. When she felt the tug on the other end, she counted a double handful of numbers, and then brought the string back up, with only the cloth at the end of it, now emptied of viands.

After a year passed, King Midos summoned her again. “There is a delegation from Athens,” he told her. “They have spoken to the oracle.”

“What now?” she asked warily.

“Plague,” he replied. “The oracle told them to sacrifice a boy and girl to the creatures underneath our city.”

“Sacrifice? Creatures? They are no more violent than I am! They are children, still, and you have imprisoned them. What have they ever done to you?”

Midos loomed over her. “They were born,” he said. “That is enough.” There was nothing she could argue against that. He continued, “You must lead the sacrifices to the center of the maze.”

“How am I to do that? I have never been inside the labyrinth. I don’t know my way to the center.”

For the first time, Midos smiled. It was not a friendly expression. “You will learn.”

In the end, her handmaiden came up with the answer. “String,” the woman said. “Tie a piece to the entrance to guide you back through any wrong turnings.”

It worked like a charm. Although the boy and girl from Athens were frightened after many hours traveling through the labyrinth, and upon finally seeing the two creatures who awaited them, Pasiphaë managed to reassure them. “These two will not hurt you,” she told the sacrifices. “They are my children.”

The Athenian delegation, satisfied when she came back by herself, went on their way. Pasiphaë sent even more food down the chutes to care for the extra mouths. A year later, the Athenians returned.

“Plague? The oracle?” she guessed when Midos summoned her.

“Yes,” he said without preamble. She led the two new children to the center of the maze and spent many hours of each day after that preparing food for the prisoners in the labyrinth. A year later, the ships returned.

This time, Midos declared that he would celebrate their arrival with a feast. The oracle had told the Athenians that this third time would permanently end the plague that had troubled them. Pasiphaë sat next to the ambassador, the young son of the Athenian king, and spoke with him throughout the long night. Afterwards, she took to her bed, exhausted from the celebrations. Tomorrow, she would lead the last of the children into the maze.

But the next morning, she was feverish and crying out at the pain. Midos, arriving to summon her to the maze, looked down at his wife and saw the telltale boils rising to the surface of her skin. Pasiphaë was insensible, unaware that he was even standing over her. “Tend to her,” he told her handmaiden. “And send the ambassador to me.”

The young man came immediately. Theseus, Midos recalled. “The queen has fallen to Athen’s plague,” he said. The young man appeared startled.

“But the oracle said…”

“Only one thing can cure her. An end to this dreadful disease. Bring the final sacrifices to the center of the maze. Do not come back until you have done so.”

“But I do not know the way. Only the queen knows.”

“Do not trouble me with useless details. Ask her, if you are so inclined.”

With a sinking feeling, the prince knocked at the entrance to her rooms. The handmaiden allowed him into the queen’s chambers, but Pasiphaë was tossing back and forth and couldn’t answer his questions.

“I know a way,” said a soft voice behind him. He turned to see the queen’s handmaiden, a woman a little older than Pasiphaë. “String,” she explained to him.

As he went into the labyrinth, Theseus took the children with one hand and held the string with the other. Although he made many wrong turnings through the twisting corridors of the stone maze, hours later, he made the final turning and saw a sea of light.

Or so it seemed, after such a long time in the darkness. At the center of the enormous cavern at the labyrinth’s end, a small fire was burning. Four children sat around its perimeter, black with smoke and filth. They cowered back at his sudden appearance, at the rage on his face when he saw them. Here were all the sacrifices demanded by the oracle. No wonder Athens had continued to suffer plague, if all these sacrifices still lived. It was the deepest betrayal of the gods.

Suddenly, he heard a sound to his left and looked over to see two monstrous creatures approaching him. One thundered towards him like a galloping horse, and he dropped the string he was holding and reached for his sword.

When he emerged from the entrance to the labyrinth hours later, having followed the string back to its source, the soldiers at the entrance gaped at him. Theseus wiped a bloody hand across his face, but it didn’t improve his appearance. One of the men at the entrance tentatively asked, “Were you successful?”

Theseus looked down at his bloody hands. “Yes,” he said shortly. “They are all dead.”

The man’s eyes widened. “All, your Highness?”

“I have made answer to the gods’ demands for sacrifice.”

“Bad news, then, your Highness,” said the other soldier. “The city mourns. The queen died while you were below. I am truly sorry. You must not have been in time.”

Theseus smiled grimly. “The gods have spoken through me,” he said. “And I was successful. I got there just in the nick of time.”

The Heart of Yuki-onna

Originally published by World Weaver Press.

Before father’s eyes stopped on her, she knew. Before he had told them that there were too many mouths to feed in winter, before her mother had fallen to the ground weeping, she knew.

"Yuki-onna," he said.

She lowered her head and nodded. Over the sound of her mother’s weeping, she stood up and walked to the door. But before she opened it, she paused and half-turned back to face her family. She did not look up into the granite face of the man who had given her life—and now wanted to take it away. Instead, her eyes focused on the ground.

"Will it hurt?" she asked softly.

Her mother wailed. Her father’s face, glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, seemed frozen into a mask that had no meaning. No one answered her quiet question.

She took nothing with her when she walked outside into the blizzard. She wore her kimono, but no shoes; they would be needed by the younger ones. The first touch of the snow was sharp like glass, even against her hardened soles. The winds blew through her thin kimono as if she wore nothing at all.

Staggering, she put a hand out to the cherry tree to steady herself. It was bare, as all the plants were bare, but her fingers glimpsed a hint of warmth beneath their tips, as if the tree had sympathy for her. With no other destination in mind, she sank down beneath its gentle branches and huddled upon herself.

She didn’t know how long it was before the winds faded. "Yuki-onna," she heard from somewhere, and with the voice came warmth and light. She glanced up, but her lashes had frozen together and her hands didn’t seem to be working properly as she tried to bat at her eyes to open them. Standing up on numb legs, there seemed to be a burning fire beneath her now. It was not unpleasant, but she longed suddenly to take off her kimono, to bathe in the waters of fire as she bathed in the meadow stream in the summer.

"Yuki-onna," she heard through the distant sounds of the storm. She reached out her hands—to what, she didn’t know, as she still could see nothing through the driving snow.

There was pressure now upon her fingers, as if someone had taken them in a firm grasp. She smiled, felt herself falling slowly through the air, as if she had all the time in the world, as if each second had become a century. Her eyes were closed, but she could still see the brilliant light and feel the fires burning, burning through her until she was as light as ash. She could feel herself dissolving.

The next gust of wind picked her up and blew her away.

In the morning, the storm was gone, and in its place was an unbroken ocean of white. When Hisao went outside, he knew what he would find.

But he did not find it.

Under the cherry tree, he noticed a round hollow, as if someone had lain there for a long time, but no sign of Yuki-onna. On the trunk of the tree was a perfectly white handprint, as if burned into the bark itself by a strong fire. Farther out, the fields were pristine and empty.

He went inside and told his wife. Like the night before, she fell to caterwauling until he drew back his hand and silenced her. After that, the tears dripped from her face, but she made no sound.

"She can’t have gotten far," he told her. "I have better things to do than search for her."

So he did them. He chopped wood, carried in snow to melt for the cookpot. He checked his snares, and was pleased to discover a rabbit in one of them. But the whole time he worked, he felt as if he were missing something. He felt as if someone were watching him, which was absurd. Yuki-onna couldn’t have survived the storm. Perhaps he merely felt her dead eyes following him around from the shelter of some convenient nook where he hadn’t found her body. Well, he would discover her in the springtime when the snow melted, that was for sure.

That night, Kenshin, the youngest, wouldn’t stop fussing. "I want Yuki-onna!" he cried. His older sister had often let him into her warm bed at night and held him when the moaning of the wind scared him, singing lullabies. Without her, he was cold and frightened.

Hisao shouted for Kenshin to be quiet. When he wouldn’t stop asking for Yuki-onna, Hisao yelled, "She is holding back the winter for us!"

Finally, the little boy stopped crying. Hisao and his wife went to sleep.

The next morning, Kenshin’s bed was empty. When Hisao went tearing outside to look for his son, he found no sign of him. No trace of footprints in the snow, although no new snow had fallen since the night Yuki-onna had left. He found absolutely nothing at all.

"He must be in the house," he roared, storming inside. They looked in the cupboard, lifted up their sleeping mats, but there really weren’t many places to hide.

This time, his wife was silent as she cried. But her eyes seemed to stab into him, and he could feel the gazes of his remaining children waiting for his reaction.

"I will…check the snares," he told them. He put on his boots and coat slowly, trying to think. When he stomped out into the snow, his feet left deep imprints, but there was no sign of any other marks. He walked in and out of the woods at the edge of the clearing, poked at the branches above his head, called out Kenshin’s name. The echoes of his voice came back to him, but no sign of his younger son.

He returned home at dusk, empty-handed. His wife’s eyes cut across him and his children turned away.

That night, Hisao slept fitfully. Every hour, he would start awake and go to check on his remaining three children. They had pushed their mats and blankets together and slept curled in a mess of thin, tangled limbs. His one remaining son and two daughters, all with his own coal-black eyes and their mother’s rosebud mouth. His children. Near dawn, he finally fell into a deep sleep.

He walked through the woods, but the sunlight was thin and cast the ground in shadow. Snow trickled down from overhead, but the light remained constant and dim. Nothing stirred in the forest except for him—the birds were silent, the small creatures rustled no leaves and did not leap from branch to branch. Everything seemed to be hiding away, and he walked deeper into the forest with a sense of dread.

Far ahead, he glimpsed a shining white light. Sanctuary! He picked up his feet, trying to run as the wind pushed the snow into his face, as the flakes grew thicker and fell faster. He could feel the skin of his cheeks turning cold against the brutal assault of winter.

The shining ahead of him dimmed. "No!" he cried, reaching out. He pushed his legs faster, staggering in the deepening snow. The drifts were up to his ankles, his knees, his thighs. He grabbed at passing tree trunks, and the touch through his gloves raced up his arms like icicles, instantly numbing them. The white light flickered and flickered again, and he noticed that it was topped by a sea of glowing black.

Then the light grew brighter—the creature, turning. He saw that it was a woman in a white kimono, her long black hair blown back by the wind. Her lips were blue as the sky in high summer, and her coal-black eyes burned him like ice. Despite this, her face was familiar, if terrible.

He crouched down before her, bowing his head. "I am sorry, my daughter," he told the apparition.

The ghost made no answer. It reached out one long-fingered hand, the skin as white and final as death. At the last moment, he looked up and saw behind the figure the small forms of his two sons cowering behind her.

Hisao shouted, sitting upright. His wife cried out, waking up and turning to look at him. "What is it?" she demanded.

He shook his head. He didn’t know what to tell her. Was it a true dream, or only a nightmare? He threw back the covers and got to his feet, although the light was still dim. He hadn’t been asleep for long, perhaps only moments since the last time he’d checked on the children.

In the small house, it took only a few steps to reach their sleeping mat. He stared down at it, unbelieving.

Two children lay sleeping on the mat, their limbs entwined in sleep. His two remaining girls.

His only other son was gone.

Hisao spent a long time looking down at his sleeping daughters. His wife was sitting up on their mat now, but didn’t rise to her feet. From where she was, she could see the two children. She could guess what it meant.

Still, Hisao went to the door and opened it to look out. His boot marks from the two days before were all over the white snow, but there were no other footprints. He gently closed the door, returned for his boots and coat, and went back outside without a word to his family.

His wife never knew what happened to him, for Hisao never returned. When night fell, she found a rabbit on the doorstep, frozen solid as if dipped into a vat of ice. She thawed it, skinned it and cooked it for supper, and she and her daughters ate until their stomachs were round. Every couple of days after that, there would be an offering hung on the door latch—sometimes forest creatures, sometimes cattails or baskets of nuts or piles of daikon or renkon. All the offerings were completely frozen, the nuts delivered in a basket composed of ice that melted when she put it in the stew-pot.

When spring came, the offerings ceased. But their fields sprang forth with a higher yield than they’d ever seen, and they had plenty of food set aside by the time winter returned and with only three mouths to feed. But for the rest of their lives, anytime in the winter that their supplies ran short, they would find food on their doorsteps to tide them over. The widow and her daughters became known for their generosity to others, and the village where they lived prospered. The daughters married well, and their husbands were kind to them and their children.

But, still, they never forgot their sister Yuki-onna or the day she walked out into the snow, never to return. Until the day they died, late at night when the winds moaned, they would swear they heard a voice outside singing lullabies. And once in a while, travelers through the region would stop at the village and speak about a moving light in the snow that guided them to safety in a storm. To them, the light appeared to be a woman and two small boys, glowing with a shine as beautiful and serene as the moon.