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Hey everyone! It's been a while since I've posted a story on here of my own, so i thought I'd give you a rendition of a story I've read before. I hope you like it ^_^.
Maiden of Snow
The cold rain poured down onto the pavement, making the pathway to the house glisten with the moons soft light. The brisk smell of the prismatic drops alerted the mind to picture dewed flowers and watered meadows. As the rain slanted to the gentle push of the wind, an old man, with a cane in hand, staggered up the walkway. Soon, Malcolm’s steps brought him to a tall mahogany door, with a brass knocker. His free hand rose and knocked his coming, his fingers tracing the family crest as the knocker fell back into its place.
“I got it, Mum!” That muffled voice brought a soft smile to tired lips and a twinkle to old eyes. The door opened and golden light seeped out into the drizzling world, inviting the old man inside.
“Grand da!” cried a young boy with joy “Come in! Come in and close the door! Mum says that the heat in our house will be gone to the night if’n I don’t shut the door!” Closing it firmly, he locked it, then turned and grinned up at his grandfather . The child took the man’s leathery hand in his own and brought the welcomed visitor into the warmth of the house. Guiding Malcolm in to the Parlor room, he quickly fetched a rocking chair form the far corner and placed it near the hearth, where a roaring fire snapped and crackled through the grating.
“Mum said that you might not be comin’ today, what with the fields needin’ plowing an all. I’m glad that ya did come, cause then I would’ve ‘ad to take a bath, and I don’ wan’ no bath.”
With a low chuckle, the old man stripped from his wet jacket and soaked bowlers hat, handing them into his grandson’s waiting hands before resting his cane against the arm of his rocking chair. Turning, he winked at the young lad, “Ya will be wantin’ a bath sooner or later, boyo, or else that fire ‘ead of a mother’ll beat ya with a scrubbin brush, then hang ya up to dry!”
“Och, what a thing to be sayin’ to my son! I ought to hang ye by your ears fer sayin’ such things!” A young woman stood at the doorway. Her hands were on her hips and a scowl firmly in place.
“Ah, Deirdre, me beautiful darlin’. Might I have a welcome and a blessing from my only daughter?” Malcolm’s faded green gaze searched her over and thought that she looked well. Flaming red hair was pulled back from her face, and her deep green eyes sparkled their own pleasure at his visit.
“I’ll still be welcomin’ ye, Papa, even when I hang ye by yer ears.” Grinning, she came into the room and hugged him tight. “Can the story wait till I give Gregor a bath?”
“Ahh ma!”
“Ahh ma!” Deirdre mimicked her son and stooped down to become level to his eyes. “You had better git yer bottom up into that tub or it’ll be no story for ye tonight.” She chuckled as her son’s heavy feet raced up the stairs. “The children are fond of yer stories, Da.” She stood up, noting that her father was still standing firmly. “Ye look well.”
He smiled at that, motioning to the stairway. “Go on and wash yer son, I’ll wait and have a wee smoke.”
Left alone in the parlor, Malcolm took from his pockets a stoker and a roll of the finest Irish weed. Walking over to the fireplace, he looked around as his fingers deftly prepared his pipe. The pictures hung straight along the walls and the oak desk that dominated the room was polished well with pine oil that filled the room with its bold scent. Pocketing the weed, he rummaged in his pants for a match.
“Here Grand da.”
Startled, Malcolm spun around, coming face to face with his granddaughter of sixteen. The resemblance to her mother never ceased to amaze him, nor did the trustworthy grace that seemed to emit from her every move. Aye, she was a young woman with a wise mind, for she held out a lit match, ready to light.
“Lilith, my dear, how can I repay ye?” he asked as he bent to help himself to the flame.
“Simply with a story, Grand da, as always.” Her somber blue eyes smiled softly at the old man as he took a deep drag off his pipe. “An’ welcome and may God bless ye.”
“Thank ye, lass.” Bowing his head, he walked over to his chair and sat down, taking another satisfying pull of weed.
“I’m done! I’m done, Grand da!” Streaking into the room, with pajama’s a skew and shirt on inside/out, Gregor came to a halt near his sister. “I nearly died, but I fought like a man!”
“Aye, he fought like a man, he did.” Walking into the room, Deirdre toweled her soaked blouse as she came to sit in a chair near the hearth. “Ye’ll be cleanin’ that mess after the story if’n I have anything to say about it!” Her tone was forceful, but there was laughter in her eyes, always there in her eyes.
Lilith quickly straightened her brother out, tickling him as she put the corrected shirt back on.
“Stop, Lil! Stop! Can we hear the story now Grand da? Can we hear it now?” Grinning, Malcolm clamped his stoker between his teeth as his eyes went from one to the other.
“A fine idea, lad.” Without a thought, his audience moved closer to him, getting comfortable as his eyes roamed the mantle above the fire. Along the wooden surface, scattered dozens of nick knacks. A broken pocket watch was propped up against a young boy’s spinning top. A couple dusty books were held together at ends by a shepherd and his flock. Malcolm’s gaze moved further along, pausing as his eyes found the object of his story: a painting of a winter frozen land. A cottage sat off to the side of the frame, a snow-covered path led the way to its door. Smoke wound it’s way from the tiny chimney and into the winter’s sky, adding homely touches to the forest surrounding it.
“This story is about the snow, and why we be callin’ it the tears of our maiden. For our snow maiden does cry, and with her tears, brings our snow….”
~A young woman stood gazing up at the sky as snow fell softly around her. Her hip length black hair swirled with the wind, along with her soft blue dress. Lifting her hand, the snow swirled around her wrist, forming a bracelet of sorts. With a flick of her wrist, the band of snow broke apart and fell to her feet.
“Och, a woman should’na be alone out here in the forest. What are ye doin’ here lass?” A young man came trudging through the snow towards her, fighting the gusts of wind that had no affect on her.
The woman’s cool gray eyes turned to look at him, her mouth baring a soft smile. “I’m perfectly fine here, thank you.
“Well, yer not Irish by the look and talk of ye. What brings ya here?”
“I’ve come to watch the snow.” She smiled, noting his heavy coat and gloved hands. He had a strong build, and had a good heart. “And to see if I can catch the snow maiden.”
“The snow maiden? Do ya know much about her?” he came over to stand next to her, surprised that she didn’t fall through the two feet of snow, just stood on the surface.
“I know that she brings the snow and calls it to her will.”
“Aye, that much o’ it is true, but there is a wee bit more. You see, the maiden is the keeper of our snow, but what most people don’ know is tha’ the snow are the tears tha’ she cries.”
“The snow is the maiden’s tears?”
“Aye.’
“Let me tell you some stories, young man. They are tales told and forgotten, ones that I’ve carried for all my life…”~
It had been six years since Breaden had last been home. Six years he was away from his wife and son. His breath fogged in front of his face as he wrapped his coat tighter around cold flesh and made his way up the path to his house. Breaden’s lips cracked into a smile as the first view of the cottage came into sight. It’s tiny garden was covered in snow, as was the roof that he had thatched the day before he left. His feet plowed through the layers of snow as he ran to the house.
“Meg! Meg, I’m home! Royce! Och, Meg, Royce, I’m home!” Reaching the door, he slammed his fists on it. “Open up, Meg! It’s me - “
One the third pound, the door creaked open. Why hadn’t they called back, or welcomed him? Why was the door not bared if they weren’t home? Stepping into his house, his body stilled, not from the cold of the room, but from dread. Inside, chairs were scattered upon the floor, with cold half eaten food clumped on the table. Striding quickly across the room, he knelt by his hearth and checked the embers. Still warm.
“Meg? Royce?”
As he went through his house, Breaden noted the clothing strewn and furniture askew and his fear doubled.
“MEG! ROYCE!”
Racing to the back door, he found it open and half off its hinge. Shaking, he stepped down into the clearing out back and fell to his knees in the snow. By his legs was a trail of blood that led to a horror that killed him inside. The slopping hills rang with a scream of torture and pain….
“They weren’t…” Lilith’s green eyes stared wide in horror at her Grandfather.
Malcolm nodded with deep regret written on his face. “Breaden was a soldier o’ our country, and with that came enemies. It was brutal. Breaden fought the demons o’ grief and sorrow that plagued him. Fought against the images that flashed through his mind as he set about buildin’ a burial fire. Ye see, it was too cold to be diggin’ a grave, so the next honored burial would be to light a fire an’ send their ashes to the Heavens…
Smoke lifted high into the sky above a raging fire. Breaden watched the dark clouds rise as he muttered his blessing, heedless to the tears that ran down his stone set face. Blue eyes glared at the fire, it’s embers burning into his soul. The fire’s roar and heat feeding into his body, fueling anger and pain to become a rage that drowned all other emotions. Grabbing up a branch, he stuck the end of it in the fire, bringing it to catch its own flame. Turning to the cottage that he had built himself, that he had built for his wife and child, he threw the stick into the house. Standing, alone, he watched as his home crashed down around flames, leaving him with nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The heat from the fire was gone as he walked away from his memories. Staggering into the forest, he went deeper and deeper in, wanting only to get away from something he couldn’t remember; something he didn’t want to remember. The trees here were growing closer together and their height, by far, surpassed most species. Finding a small clearing of ten feet, he halted for a moment. Looking up at the canopy that was laden with snow, Breaden breathed deep for the first time, bringing in cold air that burnt his lungs. Looking back down to the earth beneath his feet, he felt the world tipping. Grasping the bark of a tree, he steadied himself until the dizziness passed. Pain, he was wracked with pain. His eyes hurt, nose, throat and chest; it all hurt.
With a groan that sounded like a cry, he slumped down to the base of a tree, his back supported by another. The cold was beginning to sink into his skin, and he shook from the spasms. His eyes closed for a second, absorbing the noise of the tree’s limbs groaning under the pressure of the snow. The soft peck of a Woodpecker in the distance was echoing in his head, louder than ever. Opening his eyes, he looked at his feet, glaring at them as they disobeyed his mind’s order to get up and walk.
A clump of snow fell down on his worn boots, startling him to look above his head into the tree. Flashes of white wings fluttered past branches, and then two doves dove to the snow packed ground, right in front of him as if he were just part of the forest. Holding his breath, he watched the two doves coo and clean each other, mates.
“There! Right over there, Meg. Do ya see the two doves?” It was the last time he held Meg in his arms. The falling of the leaves was his last month of being whole. Their son was under his palm, warm in his mother’s belly and he held them both tight to his chest.
“Aye, I see them. Oh! Breaden, look! That one fell off the branch!” Her laughter startled the doves and sent them flying away from the disturbance.
“That’s you an me, Meg. We’re two doves, jus’ together.”
Breaden’s eyes burnt with new tears, but his chest tightened against the loss. He watched the two doves hop further away from him, wing to wing and anger began to fill him anew. Why should he be left alone, while others kept their loved ones?
His hand fisted in the cold snow, and with a cry, he whipped out a blade from his belt. The knife left his fingers and flew towards the startled birds that began to take flight at his yell. A patch of sunlight hit the blade’s surface, before it imbedded into soft downy feathers.
He blinked, staring blindly at the deed he had just done. Blood coated the fallen dove’s breast as it lay there, unmoving. His heart beat harder as the mate cut back around and landed next to the dead bird. It blinked rapidly at the corpse, peaking at it’s feathers to stir it. When no response came, it halted, then seemed to stare the hunter dead in his eyes.
All at once, the impact shot through him, and he did what any man guilty of murder would do, he ran. Blindly, he raced deeper into the forest. His head jerked around, looking behind him as if a demon would come out and attack him for his crime. He did not stop till he reached an expanse of a meadow. His chest tightened painfully and stole the breath needed and he fell to the cold earth.
Only then did a choked sob tear free from him. Cold sweat beaded his brow as tears slowly melted the snow beneath him. His fist pounded into the ground until no amount of energy was left, and he lay there, depleted. His blue eyes gazed unseeingly at the snow by his face. Soon, a fresh new falling of snow began, and its soft flakes covered Breaden, until he forced himself to stand and shrug them off.
Looking around, his body feeling weighted and his mind in a numb state, he tried to find familiar markings. Nothing. Raking his hand through his hair, Breaden turned full circle, squinting passed the thickening snowfall. He made his way slowly across the meadows, searching for a path, and found no break in the trees or man grooved trail. Looking up at the sky, snow fell to his face and clung to his eyelashes. Opening his mouth, Breaden tasted the snow. It was like a smooth piece of cloud, melting as it reached your tongue. Its cold touch was refreshing to his heated, dry lungs…
“Hang on, da. Do you mind if I can get us some tea? I’ve become a bit parched meself.” Deirdre patted her son’s head and rushed off to the kitchen.
Malcolm smiled after her and winked at Lilith. “She’ll be dryin’ up those eyes of her’s if’n ya ask me.” Settling back in his chair, he waited for his daughter to come back.
“I all ready had the pot on simmer.” Coming into the parlor within minutes, Deirdre balanced a tray on one hand and a pitcher in the other. Setting them down of the floor between the family, she handed out each other’s drinks. “There si some rum in your cup like you like it, da.”
“Bless ya, now, where was I? Ahh, yes, I remember.” Sitting back in his rocking chair, Malcolm traced his hand through the air. “Breaden walked fer many a day and night. Jus’ scrappin’ by on roots and bark. He was lost, and alone, untill…
Trudging through the snow was harder than ever. His knees were buried and as far as he could tell, both legs were dead to any sensation, be it pain or warmth. The snow fell harder now, slanted with a strong current. Shoulders hunched, he fell once more to his knees, coming to rest in the snow. He lifted his face and relished the sting of the freezing snow and biting wind. He was going to die here. He had already come to terms with I; that he would die alone in this frozen hell.
Just as he began to lean back into the snow and give up, his blue gaze caught sight of a figure immerging from the snowstorm. At first, he couldn’t tell what it was, but as each breath he took, the figure became a woman. A woman? Puzzlement filled him as he watched her walk on the snow towards him, her footsteps not bringing her to fall through the layers. His head craned up to look at her as she came to a halt near him.
She wore a white maid’s dress, the folds covering her arms that were hugging herself around her shoulders. With the dress flapping out to her side as, it’s white length almost blending with the snow, she just stood there.
Breaden searched her over, coming to an end at her eyes, and he caught his breath. The pain and sorrow was plain in those expressive eyes that stared unblinking down at him. Her white hair came across her face as the wind blew, and he was struck with the thought that she looked like a human angel, her hair- textured as if each strand was a feather.
Slowly, the woman dropped her arms from her chest. It was then that Breaden noticed that she carrier something in her arm. As he squinted, he found it was a human= skull, held so lovingly in the crook of her arm. Taken aback, his eyes flew to her face, but it was turned away from him, looking off to her left, in the direction she was pointing at with her other arm.
Breaden jerked his head to look around at what held the woman’s interest and froze. In the distance was a town. Their chimney’s billowing out smoke and lights burning bright. With a gasp, he turned back to the woman. She was staring once more at him, soft black eyes expressing her sorrow as she once more wrapped her arms around herself.
Gritting his teeth, the worn man stood before her, his legs buried in the snow, and his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Breaden took a deep breath, not taking his eyes from hers as he went down on one knee and bowed his head to her.
“I give ye my thanks and blessing, maiden of the snow.”
Lifting his head to look up at her, he gasped. The maiden was no where to be found. Jerking himself to his feet, he staggered forward, and almost fell from his deadened legs. With a grunt, he bent to massage the blood back to his legs, and came face to face with a dead dove, lying upon the snow. He reached out a hand and brushed a frost bitten finger along the soft texture of the dove’s back. Picking it up as if it were made of glass, he held it in the palm of his hands. He stood there as, fighting to stay standing as the wind swirled around him, his hands said what he couldn’t say aloud.
Rubbing the dove’s back, his thumb nudged its small wing. With the nudge, a tine object fell out from under the soft down, and his body stilled when it rolled to a side that showed clearly that it was a skull. A tiny dove’s skull. Tears blinded Breaden for a final time. She was the dove. The woman, the snow maiden, was the dove. The dove who’s mate he had killed.
~”Tha’ is quiet a story…”
“Yes, it is, but as I said, that is just one story. I will tell you the others if you meet me here each day, same time, right her, if you are willing.”
“Aye, I think tha’ I will. But, wha’ were ya thinkin’ to be tellin’ tha’ story to me?”
“I told it to you so you know.”
“Know wha’?”
“That the snow is not the maiden’s tears. It is man’s grief.”~
“Breaden carried that dove to the town she had shown him. He laid the wee bird and its mate’s skull to rest that night, an’ sent them blessin’ and praise. The town came to accept him and brought them into their home. He came to find peace with himself, and as far as I know, the man is still ‘round to this day.” Malcolm finished his tale with a somber note, his eyes looking into the fireplace.
Gregor frowned into his empty teacup. “I don’ get it, Grand da. Why did the snow maiden die?”
Malcolm smiled, putting his cup and pipe down on the tray, he stood and grabbed up his grandson. “A dove can’na live without it’s mate. Their love is so strong tha’ they die together.”
“But, does tha’ mean Mum’ll die too?” Small worried eyes flew to his mother, who stood up and smoothed her skirt.
“No, my darling child. I’ll not be leavin’ my babes to die. I love you and yer sister too much!” Gregor reached out towards his mother and clung to her. “I’ll tuck ya in now. Da, I’ll be down in just a moment.” Her hips swayed maternally as Deirdre left the room.
Heaving a sigh, Malcolm looked over at his granddaughter. “Did you drink all yer tea, lass?”
“Aye.” Standing, Lilith piled their cups and the pitcher onto the tray and stood. “I loved the story Grand da. When will we get to listen to the other’s?”
Malcolm smiled at the compliment. “I may be old, but I still ‘ave the workin’ of me younger self. I’ll be tellin’ ye the others tomorrow and the day after.” Walking over to Lilith, he bent and kissed her forehead. “Go on and git to bed. I know ya have a lot to do tomorrow.”
Watching her leave, he went over and put his rocking chair back into the corner, making sure to grab his cane as he went. Stepping out into the hallway, he located his hat and coat, donning them as his daughter came down the stairs.
“Would ye like another coat?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Are the kids all right?” Tilting his hat to the side, he looked up the stairs.
“Aye. Gregor told me tha’ we should get a dove of our own. I told him tha’ if we did tha’, then we would have to find a mate fer it. Now he’s bloody well talkin’ about a whole flock of em!”
Malcolm laughed with her, then reached for the door. “How are the kids doin’ without Trent?”
Deirdre sighed, her arms automatically going around her waist, hugging herself. “Gregor misses him so much. Lilith does too, but she won’t admit it to me, nor will she cry. I’m worried for her, Da.”
“She’s a strong lass, with a good ‘ead on her shoulders. She’ll be all right.” He cupped his daughter’s chin in his palm, looking her in the eyes. “Jus’ love her as ye always have.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “The moon’s raisin’. I’ll be goin’ now.” Opening the door, he stepped out into the night, pleased with the fact that the rain was gone. His cane tapped the pathway as he walked down it.
“Da!” Deirdre watched as Malcolm stopped and turned towards her. “I still think that Breaden is a stupid middle name.”
With a smirk on his lips, he filled his chest out, the proudest Irish man alive. “Aye, but it’s mine, so leave it alone. Close tha’ door and keep the heat in, I’ll be back again tomorrow!” With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked off, leaning heavily upon his cane.
Watching her father go around the corner, Deirdre closed the door. The knocker’s brass weight butted against its Celtic knot work of two doves together, forever.
Love,me-Chii
Maiden of Snow
The cold rain poured down onto the pavement, making the pathway to the house glisten with the moons soft light. The brisk smell of the prismatic drops alerted the mind to picture dewed flowers and watered meadows. As the rain slanted to the gentle push of the wind, an old man, with a cane in hand, staggered up the walkway. Soon, Malcolm’s steps brought him to a tall mahogany door, with a brass knocker. His free hand rose and knocked his coming, his fingers tracing the family crest as the knocker fell back into its place.
“I got it, Mum!” That muffled voice brought a soft smile to tired lips and a twinkle to old eyes. The door opened and golden light seeped out into the drizzling world, inviting the old man inside.
“Grand da!” cried a young boy with joy “Come in! Come in and close the door! Mum says that the heat in our house will be gone to the night if’n I don’t shut the door!” Closing it firmly, he locked it, then turned and grinned up at his grandfather . The child took the man’s leathery hand in his own and brought the welcomed visitor into the warmth of the house. Guiding Malcolm in to the Parlor room, he quickly fetched a rocking chair form the far corner and placed it near the hearth, where a roaring fire snapped and crackled through the grating.
“Mum said that you might not be comin’ today, what with the fields needin’ plowing an all. I’m glad that ya did come, cause then I would’ve ‘ad to take a bath, and I don’ wan’ no bath.”
With a low chuckle, the old man stripped from his wet jacket and soaked bowlers hat, handing them into his grandson’s waiting hands before resting his cane against the arm of his rocking chair. Turning, he winked at the young lad, “Ya will be wantin’ a bath sooner or later, boyo, or else that fire ‘ead of a mother’ll beat ya with a scrubbin brush, then hang ya up to dry!”
“Och, what a thing to be sayin’ to my son! I ought to hang ye by your ears fer sayin’ such things!” A young woman stood at the doorway. Her hands were on her hips and a scowl firmly in place.
“Ah, Deirdre, me beautiful darlin’. Might I have a welcome and a blessing from my only daughter?” Malcolm’s faded green gaze searched her over and thought that she looked well. Flaming red hair was pulled back from her face, and her deep green eyes sparkled their own pleasure at his visit.
“I’ll still be welcomin’ ye, Papa, even when I hang ye by yer ears.” Grinning, she came into the room and hugged him tight. “Can the story wait till I give Gregor a bath?”
“Ahh ma!”
“Ahh ma!” Deirdre mimicked her son and stooped down to become level to his eyes. “You had better git yer bottom up into that tub or it’ll be no story for ye tonight.” She chuckled as her son’s heavy feet raced up the stairs. “The children are fond of yer stories, Da.” She stood up, noting that her father was still standing firmly. “Ye look well.”
He smiled at that, motioning to the stairway. “Go on and wash yer son, I’ll wait and have a wee smoke.”
Left alone in the parlor, Malcolm took from his pockets a stoker and a roll of the finest Irish weed. Walking over to the fireplace, he looked around as his fingers deftly prepared his pipe. The pictures hung straight along the walls and the oak desk that dominated the room was polished well with pine oil that filled the room with its bold scent. Pocketing the weed, he rummaged in his pants for a match.
“Here Grand da.”
Startled, Malcolm spun around, coming face to face with his granddaughter of sixteen. The resemblance to her mother never ceased to amaze him, nor did the trustworthy grace that seemed to emit from her every move. Aye, she was a young woman with a wise mind, for she held out a lit match, ready to light.
“Lilith, my dear, how can I repay ye?” he asked as he bent to help himself to the flame.
“Simply with a story, Grand da, as always.” Her somber blue eyes smiled softly at the old man as he took a deep drag off his pipe. “An’ welcome and may God bless ye.”
“Thank ye, lass.” Bowing his head, he walked over to his chair and sat down, taking another satisfying pull of weed.
“I’m done! I’m done, Grand da!” Streaking into the room, with pajama’s a skew and shirt on inside/out, Gregor came to a halt near his sister. “I nearly died, but I fought like a man!”
“Aye, he fought like a man, he did.” Walking into the room, Deirdre toweled her soaked blouse as she came to sit in a chair near the hearth. “Ye’ll be cleanin’ that mess after the story if’n I have anything to say about it!” Her tone was forceful, but there was laughter in her eyes, always there in her eyes.
Lilith quickly straightened her brother out, tickling him as she put the corrected shirt back on.
“Stop, Lil! Stop! Can we hear the story now Grand da? Can we hear it now?” Grinning, Malcolm clamped his stoker between his teeth as his eyes went from one to the other.
“A fine idea, lad.” Without a thought, his audience moved closer to him, getting comfortable as his eyes roamed the mantle above the fire. Along the wooden surface, scattered dozens of nick knacks. A broken pocket watch was propped up against a young boy’s spinning top. A couple dusty books were held together at ends by a shepherd and his flock. Malcolm’s gaze moved further along, pausing as his eyes found the object of his story: a painting of a winter frozen land. A cottage sat off to the side of the frame, a snow-covered path led the way to its door. Smoke wound it’s way from the tiny chimney and into the winter’s sky, adding homely touches to the forest surrounding it.
“This story is about the snow, and why we be callin’ it the tears of our maiden. For our snow maiden does cry, and with her tears, brings our snow….”
~A young woman stood gazing up at the sky as snow fell softly around her. Her hip length black hair swirled with the wind, along with her soft blue dress. Lifting her hand, the snow swirled around her wrist, forming a bracelet of sorts. With a flick of her wrist, the band of snow broke apart and fell to her feet.
“Och, a woman should’na be alone out here in the forest. What are ye doin’ here lass?” A young man came trudging through the snow towards her, fighting the gusts of wind that had no affect on her.
The woman’s cool gray eyes turned to look at him, her mouth baring a soft smile. “I’m perfectly fine here, thank you.
“Well, yer not Irish by the look and talk of ye. What brings ya here?”
“I’ve come to watch the snow.” She smiled, noting his heavy coat and gloved hands. He had a strong build, and had a good heart. “And to see if I can catch the snow maiden.”
“The snow maiden? Do ya know much about her?” he came over to stand next to her, surprised that she didn’t fall through the two feet of snow, just stood on the surface.
“I know that she brings the snow and calls it to her will.”
“Aye, that much o’ it is true, but there is a wee bit more. You see, the maiden is the keeper of our snow, but what most people don’ know is tha’ the snow are the tears tha’ she cries.”
“The snow is the maiden’s tears?”
“Aye.’
“Let me tell you some stories, young man. They are tales told and forgotten, ones that I’ve carried for all my life…”~
It had been six years since Breaden had last been home. Six years he was away from his wife and son. His breath fogged in front of his face as he wrapped his coat tighter around cold flesh and made his way up the path to his house. Breaden’s lips cracked into a smile as the first view of the cottage came into sight. It’s tiny garden was covered in snow, as was the roof that he had thatched the day before he left. His feet plowed through the layers of snow as he ran to the house.
“Meg! Meg, I’m home! Royce! Och, Meg, Royce, I’m home!” Reaching the door, he slammed his fists on it. “Open up, Meg! It’s me - “
One the third pound, the door creaked open. Why hadn’t they called back, or welcomed him? Why was the door not bared if they weren’t home? Stepping into his house, his body stilled, not from the cold of the room, but from dread. Inside, chairs were scattered upon the floor, with cold half eaten food clumped on the table. Striding quickly across the room, he knelt by his hearth and checked the embers. Still warm.
“Meg? Royce?”
As he went through his house, Breaden noted the clothing strewn and furniture askew and his fear doubled.
“MEG! ROYCE!”
Racing to the back door, he found it open and half off its hinge. Shaking, he stepped down into the clearing out back and fell to his knees in the snow. By his legs was a trail of blood that led to a horror that killed him inside. The slopping hills rang with a scream of torture and pain….
“They weren’t…” Lilith’s green eyes stared wide in horror at her Grandfather.
Malcolm nodded with deep regret written on his face. “Breaden was a soldier o’ our country, and with that came enemies. It was brutal. Breaden fought the demons o’ grief and sorrow that plagued him. Fought against the images that flashed through his mind as he set about buildin’ a burial fire. Ye see, it was too cold to be diggin’ a grave, so the next honored burial would be to light a fire an’ send their ashes to the Heavens…
Smoke lifted high into the sky above a raging fire. Breaden watched the dark clouds rise as he muttered his blessing, heedless to the tears that ran down his stone set face. Blue eyes glared at the fire, it’s embers burning into his soul. The fire’s roar and heat feeding into his body, fueling anger and pain to become a rage that drowned all other emotions. Grabbing up a branch, he stuck the end of it in the fire, bringing it to catch its own flame. Turning to the cottage that he had built himself, that he had built for his wife and child, he threw the stick into the house. Standing, alone, he watched as his home crashed down around flames, leaving him with nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The heat from the fire was gone as he walked away from his memories. Staggering into the forest, he went deeper and deeper in, wanting only to get away from something he couldn’t remember; something he didn’t want to remember. The trees here were growing closer together and their height, by far, surpassed most species. Finding a small clearing of ten feet, he halted for a moment. Looking up at the canopy that was laden with snow, Breaden breathed deep for the first time, bringing in cold air that burnt his lungs. Looking back down to the earth beneath his feet, he felt the world tipping. Grasping the bark of a tree, he steadied himself until the dizziness passed. Pain, he was wracked with pain. His eyes hurt, nose, throat and chest; it all hurt.
With a groan that sounded like a cry, he slumped down to the base of a tree, his back supported by another. The cold was beginning to sink into his skin, and he shook from the spasms. His eyes closed for a second, absorbing the noise of the tree’s limbs groaning under the pressure of the snow. The soft peck of a Woodpecker in the distance was echoing in his head, louder than ever. Opening his eyes, he looked at his feet, glaring at them as they disobeyed his mind’s order to get up and walk.
A clump of snow fell down on his worn boots, startling him to look above his head into the tree. Flashes of white wings fluttered past branches, and then two doves dove to the snow packed ground, right in front of him as if he were just part of the forest. Holding his breath, he watched the two doves coo and clean each other, mates.
“There! Right over there, Meg. Do ya see the two doves?” It was the last time he held Meg in his arms. The falling of the leaves was his last month of being whole. Their son was under his palm, warm in his mother’s belly and he held them both tight to his chest.
“Aye, I see them. Oh! Breaden, look! That one fell off the branch!” Her laughter startled the doves and sent them flying away from the disturbance.
“That’s you an me, Meg. We’re two doves, jus’ together.”
Breaden’s eyes burnt with new tears, but his chest tightened against the loss. He watched the two doves hop further away from him, wing to wing and anger began to fill him anew. Why should he be left alone, while others kept their loved ones?
His hand fisted in the cold snow, and with a cry, he whipped out a blade from his belt. The knife left his fingers and flew towards the startled birds that began to take flight at his yell. A patch of sunlight hit the blade’s surface, before it imbedded into soft downy feathers.
He blinked, staring blindly at the deed he had just done. Blood coated the fallen dove’s breast as it lay there, unmoving. His heart beat harder as the mate cut back around and landed next to the dead bird. It blinked rapidly at the corpse, peaking at it’s feathers to stir it. When no response came, it halted, then seemed to stare the hunter dead in his eyes.
All at once, the impact shot through him, and he did what any man guilty of murder would do, he ran. Blindly, he raced deeper into the forest. His head jerked around, looking behind him as if a demon would come out and attack him for his crime. He did not stop till he reached an expanse of a meadow. His chest tightened painfully and stole the breath needed and he fell to the cold earth.
Only then did a choked sob tear free from him. Cold sweat beaded his brow as tears slowly melted the snow beneath him. His fist pounded into the ground until no amount of energy was left, and he lay there, depleted. His blue eyes gazed unseeingly at the snow by his face. Soon, a fresh new falling of snow began, and its soft flakes covered Breaden, until he forced himself to stand and shrug them off.
Looking around, his body feeling weighted and his mind in a numb state, he tried to find familiar markings. Nothing. Raking his hand through his hair, Breaden turned full circle, squinting passed the thickening snowfall. He made his way slowly across the meadows, searching for a path, and found no break in the trees or man grooved trail. Looking up at the sky, snow fell to his face and clung to his eyelashes. Opening his mouth, Breaden tasted the snow. It was like a smooth piece of cloud, melting as it reached your tongue. Its cold touch was refreshing to his heated, dry lungs…
“Hang on, da. Do you mind if I can get us some tea? I’ve become a bit parched meself.” Deirdre patted her son’s head and rushed off to the kitchen.
Malcolm smiled after her and winked at Lilith. “She’ll be dryin’ up those eyes of her’s if’n ya ask me.” Settling back in his chair, he waited for his daughter to come back.
“I all ready had the pot on simmer.” Coming into the parlor within minutes, Deirdre balanced a tray on one hand and a pitcher in the other. Setting them down of the floor between the family, she handed out each other’s drinks. “There si some rum in your cup like you like it, da.”
“Bless ya, now, where was I? Ahh, yes, I remember.” Sitting back in his rocking chair, Malcolm traced his hand through the air. “Breaden walked fer many a day and night. Jus’ scrappin’ by on roots and bark. He was lost, and alone, untill…
Trudging through the snow was harder than ever. His knees were buried and as far as he could tell, both legs were dead to any sensation, be it pain or warmth. The snow fell harder now, slanted with a strong current. Shoulders hunched, he fell once more to his knees, coming to rest in the snow. He lifted his face and relished the sting of the freezing snow and biting wind. He was going to die here. He had already come to terms with I; that he would die alone in this frozen hell.
Just as he began to lean back into the snow and give up, his blue gaze caught sight of a figure immerging from the snowstorm. At first, he couldn’t tell what it was, but as each breath he took, the figure became a woman. A woman? Puzzlement filled him as he watched her walk on the snow towards him, her footsteps not bringing her to fall through the layers. His head craned up to look at her as she came to a halt near him.
She wore a white maid’s dress, the folds covering her arms that were hugging herself around her shoulders. With the dress flapping out to her side as, it’s white length almost blending with the snow, she just stood there.
Breaden searched her over, coming to an end at her eyes, and he caught his breath. The pain and sorrow was plain in those expressive eyes that stared unblinking down at him. Her white hair came across her face as the wind blew, and he was struck with the thought that she looked like a human angel, her hair- textured as if each strand was a feather.
Slowly, the woman dropped her arms from her chest. It was then that Breaden noticed that she carrier something in her arm. As he squinted, he found it was a human= skull, held so lovingly in the crook of her arm. Taken aback, his eyes flew to her face, but it was turned away from him, looking off to her left, in the direction she was pointing at with her other arm.
Breaden jerked his head to look around at what held the woman’s interest and froze. In the distance was a town. Their chimney’s billowing out smoke and lights burning bright. With a gasp, he turned back to the woman. She was staring once more at him, soft black eyes expressing her sorrow as she once more wrapped her arms around herself.
Gritting his teeth, the worn man stood before her, his legs buried in the snow, and his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Breaden took a deep breath, not taking his eyes from hers as he went down on one knee and bowed his head to her.
“I give ye my thanks and blessing, maiden of the snow.”
Lifting his head to look up at her, he gasped. The maiden was no where to be found. Jerking himself to his feet, he staggered forward, and almost fell from his deadened legs. With a grunt, he bent to massage the blood back to his legs, and came face to face with a dead dove, lying upon the snow. He reached out a hand and brushed a frost bitten finger along the soft texture of the dove’s back. Picking it up as if it were made of glass, he held it in the palm of his hands. He stood there as, fighting to stay standing as the wind swirled around him, his hands said what he couldn’t say aloud.
Rubbing the dove’s back, his thumb nudged its small wing. With the nudge, a tine object fell out from under the soft down, and his body stilled when it rolled to a side that showed clearly that it was a skull. A tiny dove’s skull. Tears blinded Breaden for a final time. She was the dove. The woman, the snow maiden, was the dove. The dove who’s mate he had killed.
~”Tha’ is quiet a story…”
“Yes, it is, but as I said, that is just one story. I will tell you the others if you meet me here each day, same time, right her, if you are willing.”
“Aye, I think tha’ I will. But, wha’ were ya thinkin’ to be tellin’ tha’ story to me?”
“I told it to you so you know.”
“Know wha’?”
“That the snow is not the maiden’s tears. It is man’s grief.”~
“Breaden carried that dove to the town she had shown him. He laid the wee bird and its mate’s skull to rest that night, an’ sent them blessin’ and praise. The town came to accept him and brought them into their home. He came to find peace with himself, and as far as I know, the man is still ‘round to this day.” Malcolm finished his tale with a somber note, his eyes looking into the fireplace.
Gregor frowned into his empty teacup. “I don’ get it, Grand da. Why did the snow maiden die?”
Malcolm smiled, putting his cup and pipe down on the tray, he stood and grabbed up his grandson. “A dove can’na live without it’s mate. Their love is so strong tha’ they die together.”
“But, does tha’ mean Mum’ll die too?” Small worried eyes flew to his mother, who stood up and smoothed her skirt.
“No, my darling child. I’ll not be leavin’ my babes to die. I love you and yer sister too much!” Gregor reached out towards his mother and clung to her. “I’ll tuck ya in now. Da, I’ll be down in just a moment.” Her hips swayed maternally as Deirdre left the room.
Heaving a sigh, Malcolm looked over at his granddaughter. “Did you drink all yer tea, lass?”
“Aye.” Standing, Lilith piled their cups and the pitcher onto the tray and stood. “I loved the story Grand da. When will we get to listen to the other’s?”
Malcolm smiled at the compliment. “I may be old, but I still ‘ave the workin’ of me younger self. I’ll be tellin’ ye the others tomorrow and the day after.” Walking over to Lilith, he bent and kissed her forehead. “Go on and git to bed. I know ya have a lot to do tomorrow.”
Watching her leave, he went over and put his rocking chair back into the corner, making sure to grab his cane as he went. Stepping out into the hallway, he located his hat and coat, donning them as his daughter came down the stairs.
“Would ye like another coat?”
“No, I’ll be fine. Are the kids all right?” Tilting his hat to the side, he looked up the stairs.
“Aye. Gregor told me tha’ we should get a dove of our own. I told him tha’ if we did tha’, then we would have to find a mate fer it. Now he’s bloody well talkin’ about a whole flock of em!”
Malcolm laughed with her, then reached for the door. “How are the kids doin’ without Trent?”
Deirdre sighed, her arms automatically going around her waist, hugging herself. “Gregor misses him so much. Lilith does too, but she won’t admit it to me, nor will she cry. I’m worried for her, Da.”
“She’s a strong lass, with a good ‘ead on her shoulders. She’ll be all right.” He cupped his daughter’s chin in his palm, looking her in the eyes. “Jus’ love her as ye always have.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “The moon’s raisin’. I’ll be goin’ now.” Opening the door, he stepped out into the night, pleased with the fact that the rain was gone. His cane tapped the pathway as he walked down it.
“Da!” Deirdre watched as Malcolm stopped and turned towards her. “I still think that Breaden is a stupid middle name.”
With a smirk on his lips, he filled his chest out, the proudest Irish man alive. “Aye, but it’s mine, so leave it alone. Close tha’ door and keep the heat in, I’ll be back again tomorrow!” With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked off, leaning heavily upon his cane.
Watching her father go around the corner, Deirdre closed the door. The knocker’s brass weight butted against its Celtic knot work of two doves together, forever.
Love,me-Chii