Charlotte has raked her leaves and planted her daffodil bulbs and stocked her woodpile. In the evenings she lights a fire in the fireplace, and wakes in the morning to find that the fire has died back to embers, and on the cold windows the frost has grown like ferns.
Frost. But no snow.
She picks the sloes, softened by frost, and infuses them in gin. She makes hot cocoa and stands on her porching holding the mug in mittened hands, looking through the bare trees to the dark lake, where the mist rises in a thick spectral cloud in the morning.
Mist. But no snow.
It rains one day, the thick stinging rain that falls when it not quite cold enough to freeze. The temperature plunges that night, and the next morning Charlotte stays home and bakes cinnamon rolls, because her steps are slick with ice.
Ice. But no snow.
And it is only the snow that brings the Snow Maiden.
But at last, at last, the gray clouds gather. All day they hang low over the bare brown trees and the barren land. The air tastes wet, and the time hangs heavy, and Charlotte wanders around the cabin, touching this thing and that, as if this will work some witchery that will summon the Snow Maiden.
The crocheted stars on the Christmas tree, for it fascinates the Snow Maiden to see Charlotte make anything: crochet, or candles, or cookies.
The tea set that held the cookies and cocoa when they feasted beneath the pine tree, after the ice storm, and the ice-coated needles tinkled together like chimes.
The mittens she crocheted the Snow Maiden, oh, many years ago, that she found in a puddle after all the snow melted, for the Maiden can take nothing with her when she goes.
Nor can she leave anything behind. There are no photographs, no recordings of her voice, the songs that remind Charlotte sometimes of silver bells, and sometimes of the desolate wind across the snow, and sometimes (and these are the saddest times) of the birds in spring.
The sky turns peach with sunset; turns blue with approaching night. And at last, at last, like moths in the porch light, Charlotte sees the first flakes of snow.
Charlotte rushes to the door. She throws it open and stands in the doorway, arms wide to the night sky, and cries, “Come!”
There is no one outside. The cold wind brushes Charlotte’s ankles, her throat, and Charlotte turns, and the Snow Maiden stands already by the fire.
She looks as she always does, standing there in her ice blue coat, with her long fair hair and her hands outstretched. “Charlotte,” she says, and Charlotte is already crossing the room to her, the door still open, the snowflakes settling on the floor.
“You’re here.” Charlotte takes the Snow Maiden’s slim cool hands.
“Till the snow melts.” The Snow Maiden is smiling, her eyes blue as the snow at night.
“You’re here now,” Charlotte says. “That’s all that matters to me.”
no subject
Charlotte has raked her leaves and planted her daffodil bulbs and stocked her woodpile. In the evenings she lights a fire in the fireplace, and wakes in the morning to find that the fire has died back to embers, and on the cold windows the frost has grown like ferns.
Frost. But no snow.
She picks the sloes, softened by frost, and infuses them in gin. She makes hot cocoa and stands on her porching holding the mug in mittened hands, looking through the bare trees to the dark lake, where the mist rises in a thick spectral cloud in the morning.
Mist. But no snow.
It rains one day, the thick stinging rain that falls when it not quite cold enough to freeze. The temperature plunges that night, and the next morning Charlotte stays home and bakes cinnamon rolls, because her steps are slick with ice.
Ice. But no snow.
And it is only the snow that brings the Snow Maiden.
But at last, at last, the gray clouds gather. All day they hang low over the bare brown trees and the barren land. The air tastes wet, and the time hangs heavy, and Charlotte wanders around the cabin, touching this thing and that, as if this will work some witchery that will summon the Snow Maiden.
The crocheted stars on the Christmas tree, for it fascinates the Snow Maiden to see Charlotte make anything: crochet, or candles, or cookies.
The tea set that held the cookies and cocoa when they feasted beneath the pine tree, after the ice storm, and the ice-coated needles tinkled together like chimes.
The mittens she crocheted the Snow Maiden, oh, many years ago, that she found in a puddle after all the snow melted, for the Maiden can take nothing with her when she goes.
Nor can she leave anything behind. There are no photographs, no recordings of her voice, the songs that remind Charlotte sometimes of silver bells, and sometimes of the desolate wind across the snow, and sometimes (and these are the saddest times) of the birds in spring.
The sky turns peach with sunset; turns blue with approaching night. And at last, at last, like moths in the porch light, Charlotte sees the first flakes of snow.
Charlotte rushes to the door. She throws it open and stands in the doorway, arms wide to the night sky, and cries, “Come!”
There is no one outside. The cold wind brushes Charlotte’s ankles, her throat, and Charlotte turns, and the Snow Maiden stands already by the fire.
She looks as she always does, standing there in her ice blue coat, with her long fair hair and her hands outstretched. “Charlotte,” she says, and Charlotte is already crossing the room to her, the door still open, the snowflakes settling on the floor.
“You’re here.” Charlotte takes the Snow Maiden’s slim cool hands.
“Till the snow melts.” The Snow Maiden is smiling, her eyes blue as the snow at night.
“You’re here now,” Charlotte says. “That’s all that matters to me.”