The Hanged Man: Part 6: Imbolc
Post #36: In which a lonely young woman makes friends ...
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CHAPTER 16
ROSE RED
Rose Red lay sleeping, her black hair tumbled on the pillow. In her dream, she listened to piping, a beautiful, elusive, beckoning sound that called irresistibly for her to follow … She smiled in pleasure and wonder as the sound slipped over her, cool and refreshing. Her lips moved as she dreamed her own smile and smiled at her own dream.
Then, in the midst of tantalizing wonder and pleasure, a screaming shriek rent the dream into fragments, like thin cotton cloth torn on an iron nail, and the dream fell into burning pieces shaped like autumn leaves but holding a world of swelling green and summer gold.
Her mother, Queen Snow White, feared sunlight and never went outdoors, lest her white skin be coarsened, but that morning Rose Red lingered at her window, looking out at the silvery spring morning. She longed to go out into the awakening gardens, walk over the muddy soft earth and feel the damp air against her cheek. Yet time was passing. Even now, the queen would begin to wonder why she didn’t come.
Resolutely, Rose Red left the window and went to her mother’s rooms. The queen, unsurprisingly, was seated in front of her mirror. Rose Red noticed one of the queen’s elaborate gowns laid ready on the bed, and next to it a smaller, matching dress, slightly less elaborate and more modestly cut. Firmly, Rose Red put a smile on her face and went to stand behind her mother’s shoulder.
Rose Red looked like the queen in lovely miniature and innocent immaturity. The queen gazed hungrily at the girl, feasting on the rich careless abundance of black hair, the generous-lipped red mouth and white skin. Rose Red’s day had begun.
The morning slowly wore away as Rose Red posed with Queen Snow White, holding a flower, hair painstakingly arranged, every detail intended to complement the queen’s toilette.
“Your beauty is your greatest asset,” Queen Snow White said seriously. Rose Red nodded and tried to look interested, pushing away her shameful boredom. She’d heard this so many times before!
“You must guard your looks carefully from any harm. Guard your skin and hair. Keep your expression calm and serene so you don’t develop wrinkles and lines. Women without beauty possess no power. Never forget that.”
“No, Mother,” said Rose Red automatically.
The terrible truth was Rose Red wasn’t interested in the way she looked. She knew it would hurt the queen to say this, so she didn’t. But she thought it.
She wanted to know her mother, not the carefully created reflection in the mirror, but the real woman. Sometimes she asked her mother for stories about the world outside the castle, about the queen’s childhood and parents. But all the stories were about her mother’s beauty. She couldn’t talk about anything else and Rose Red struggled increasingly to hold back her impatience and restlessness as the weeks passed.
One morning, feeling scratchy and rebellious and determined to provoke some kind of a genuine response, Rose Red picked up a pair of scissors and raggedly chopped off her long black hair.
There was a terrible scene. First Queen Snow White raged and then she wept, saying she knew she was a bad mother, if Rose Red could behave so! Rose Red, stricken at the hurt she’d caused, apologized over and over, but the queen refused to be comforted. What would people think when they saw her? What would her father, the king, say?
“You’re bad!” the queen sobbed. “You’re bad! How could you do such a terrible thing?”
Rose Red turned and left the room. With no thought or plan, she went down the long hallway, down the stairs and out the nearest door. The sun was shining and it fell onto her face in welcome. Rose Red moved into the shrubbery so she couldn’t be seen from the windows. She moved cautiously through trees and bushes, staying out of sight, her chest so tight she could hardly breathe, and passed through a gate in the wall surrounding the castle and into the woods.
Here she felt safe. She made her way along a narrow path winding through trees until the castle wall dropped out of sight behind her. The path passed near a clearing. Grass grew thickly, scattered with early flowers. Rose Red left the path, chose a grassy spot in the sun and lay down on her back, closing her eyes.
She took a deep breath. It felt like the first breath she’d taken since the scene in the queen’s room. With the breath, her chest loosened and she began to cry. Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting her ears and falling into the grass.
She knew she was bad. She’d known for a long time. She wanted something more than to be beautiful, and that was bad. She’d hurt her mother, and that was bad. She wanted, sometimes, to be alone and private or even make a friend, and that was the worst of all.
Her mother wasn’t happy, and it was her fault. She’d tried and tried to make her happy, but no matter what she did, it wasn’t good enough. She couldn’t be what her mother needed. There was something wrong with her, something ugly beyond hope or help.
Gradually, she came to the end of her tears. She wiped her face and rubbed at her wet ears with the sleeve of her dress. The sunlight felt comforting. She pushed up her sleeves as far as she could. She put a hand on her belly and let it rise and fall with her breathing. She could hear birds, and a bee buzzed over her head. Heat and emotional exhaustion made her drowsy. It was bliss to be alone.
Just as she thought that, she heard a soft sound of singing. She sat up quickly, feeling guilty. The singer came into sight, walking along the path. Rose Red saw a girl a few years older than she was. She wore a black skirt, white apron, and a vest embroidered with leaves, flowers and animals.
“Hello,” the stranger said, smiling. She sat down, looking curiously into Rose Red’s face. A dark fleck marked her cheek under her left eye.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Rose Red politely.
“You look as though you’ve been crying. What happened to your hair?”
“I’m all right. I…I cut my hair.”
“Why? Was there no one to help you with it? It’s hard to cut one’s own hair.”
“I wanted it to be different and no, there was no one to help.” Rose Red turned her face away, feeling tears well up again.
“I’m Vasilisa,” said the other. “What’s your name?”
“Rose Red.”
“Would you let me help you tidy your hair? It’s beautifully curly. It only needs to be trimmed. I wish my hair would do that, but it’s straight, so I keep it plaited.”
“It’s…you don’t think it’s ugly?”
“Ugly? Of course not! You’re beautiful, far prettier than I am.”
“Don’t we need scissors?”
“Yes, and my friends live nearby. We’ll go there and I’ll do your hair.”
Rose Red couldn’t face going back to the castle. Not yet. She knew her mother would be looking for her, but she couldn’t bear to go back. She stood, brushing at her skirts, and followed Vasilisa across the clearing and along the path.
After a few minutes’ walk they came to a stone cottage. Rose Red saw a neat garden inside a fence. A well wore a peaked roof like a cap. A cat watched from a window ledge. The roof echoed the inverted V shape over the well, a window under the peak. Outside the house stood a slab of stone that served as a table. The chiseled base formed a single supporting pedestal and several chairs sat around it. No one was in sight. Vasilisa opened the unlocked door, disappeared for a moment, and returned with comb and scissors. Rose Red sat in one of the chairs and Vasilisa stood behind her. Gently, she combed out the tangles, making no comment on dampness around Rose Red’s ears. She began to snip away with the scissors.
It was peaceful. The cat watched lazily from its perch. Rose Red saw a beehive in a small orchard behind the garden. “Who lives here?” she asked.
“My friends are dwarves, small men, you know?”
“I’ve read about them in stories.”
“Yes. They’re guardians. They love rock and wood and plants. They’re wise and good teachers. They possess clear sight.”
“You don’t mean they see well, do you?”
“You’re quick! No, I mean they see the truth in things — and people.”
They’ll see I’m bad, Rose Red thought, and fell silent. Perhaps Vasilisa would finish and they’d leave before the dwarves came home.
They came so silently that Rose Red, lulled by the feel of Vasilisa’s hands, wasn’t aware of them until they stood before her. She started and Vasilisa’s hands dropped to her shoulders, comforting.
It was as though the orchard trees or stones from the wall became animated and friendly. Their brown faces were seamed above beards in shades of brown and russet.
“This is Rose Red,” said Vasilisa. “She needed help with her hair but we had no scissors, so I made free with yours!”
The dwarves laughed and went to the well, pulling up a bucket of water. They washed their hands and faces and some went to the orchard, some to the garden and some into the house. In a few minutes, they had set the stone table with cold chicken, a basket of fruit, a fresh salad, bread and cheese.
“All finished,” said Vasilisa. She ran her fingers through Rose Red’s thick black hair. “You’ve the blackest, thickest hair I’ve ever seen. Bend over and shake your head to get the loose bits free.”
Obediently, Rose Red did so, shyly putting a hand up to feel her head. The air felt strange on her bare neck.
“Now wet your hands and run them through your hair to make the curls spring.”
The water felt cool on her tearstained face and she bathed it gratefully. She dampened her hair with her wet hands and turned to face Vasilisa.
“You’re beautiful. You look like some wild young forest creature. The sun has kissed you and your hair curls around your face as though it loved you!”
It was the first time anyone ever praised her looks without reference to the queen. Rose Red was speechless with self-conscious embarrassment. She groped for Vasilisa’s hand and squeezed it.
Vasilisa squeezed back. “I hope you’ll let us be your friends,” she said softly. “Go sit with them. There’s a chair for you — see?”
When she thought of it later, that afternoon seemed like something out of a fairy tale. Rose Red ate and drank, her shyness gradually melting away under the gentle questioning of the dwarves. She told them more than she knew of the queen and her life in the castle. She told them about the queen’s mirror and long hours spent in front of it. She knew nothing except what she’d read of the forest and world outside the wall. She knew little more of the castle gardens and grounds, having only been allowed to go outside for short periods of time when her mother could spare her.
The day waned and Rose Red felt increasingly anxious about her long absence. Queen Snow White would be frantic by now. She must go home. She thanked the dwarves and they invited her to return whenever she wished. If only I could! she thought. But they’ll never allow it. She watched wistfully as Vasilisa hugged each Dwarve in turn with obvious and easy affection, and then the two girls set off together for the path and the castle.
Rose Red expected Vasilisa to part from her near the clearing where they’d met. She protested when Vasilisa insisted on accompanying her all the way to the castle. She didn’t know what kind of a scene waited for her and wanted no witnesses to the queen’s hysteria or her own punishment. But Vasilisa refused to be put off.
“As a matter of fact, I hope to speak with the king, if he’ll see me,” she said. “I want to introduce myself and explain that you’ve been with me this afternoon. He’s likely heard of my…grandmother.”
Rose Red couldn’t dissuade her, but as they neared the castle, she became more and more anxious.
Once inside the walls, Rose Red directed Vasilisa to the front gate to request an audience with the king. She squared her shoulders and went to the queen’s rooms.
It was better than it might have been. The queen cried over her hair and the terrible damage the sun had done to her skin, but she’d already worn herself out and she sent Rose Red away, complaining of a headache. She allowed herself to be hugged and apologized to for the twentieth time and then, gratefully, Rose Red crept quietly away from the dimmed room and tragic figure on the bed. In the hall, she met her father. He snorted, looking down at her with a frown.
“Silly girl. What a fuss over nothing, eh? I’m ashamed of you. You women are all alike. I suppose she’s in a state?”
“Yes, Father. She has a headache and is resting.”
“I’m not a bit surprised. I’m told you were with the girl Vasilisa this afternoon?”
“Yes, Father. She was kind.”
“No doubt, no doubt. Well, it happens she’s asked if you might spend some time together now and then. She comes from powerful people in the North and I’ve given my permission. She’s a fit companion for a princess. Mind you, don’t run away again! It upsets your mother and you know what she is when she’s upset! Ruins her looks!”
“Yes, Father.”
“Very well. Be off with you.”
Rose Red went, head bowed respectfully, but rejoicing in her heart.
Hardly a week went by that a note wasn’t delivered from Vasilisa asking for Rose Red’s presence. The king made it clear to Queen Snow White that Rose Red was to be permitted to leave the castle on these occasions.
Rose Red turned thirteen. Her life now divided in two parts. In company with Vasilisa, she climbed trees, explored the countryside, laughed, ran, spun in circles, napped in tall grass, waded streams and learned something about the kingdom of caverns, caves and mines that belonged to the Dwarves and their brethren, the Dvorgs. The sun turned her white skin the color of a brown egg. She ate enormously, slept well and grew like a young, slim sapling. Vasilisa and the dwarves called her Rosie.
The Queen waited longingly for Rose Red’s hair to grow back, not knowing Vasilisa regularly trimmed it. Rose Red liked the freedom of her short curls. She needed do nothing more than run her fingers through her damp hair to produce waves requiring no other attention.
The second part consisted of her life with her mother. It seemed to Rose Red the price of her joy was her mother’s health and happiness. Rose Red possessed no memory of Queen Snow White being truly happy. She’d never been playful or affectionate. But as months went by, she seemed ill. Sometimes she smiled and become animated when looking in her mirror, but even that started to fail. The mirror became terrible to Rose Red. She could hardly bear to look into it.
The queen had headaches. She didn’t sleep well. Her appetite failed. Rose Red spoke too loudly. Her clothes were rough. Her hair fell in her eyes. Her skin looked terrible — like a peasant’s. Her fingernails were dirty.
All of this was hard enough, but the worst times were when the queen wept, saying she knew she hadn’t been a good mother. She knew she was a failure. She was a burden, a bore. Rose Red would rather be playing with her friends and didn’t care if her mother was ill and needed her.
Rose Red held fast to thoughts of her time away and tried to be patient. Over and over, she told the queen she loved her, she was a wonderful mother, she wasn’t a burden and how could she, Rose Red, help? Would her mother like to hear about the doe and fawn Rose Red saw in the woods? Would she like her temples rubbed with lavender water, or for Rose Red to comb out her hair in front of the mirror?
At the end of these days Rose Red left her mother’s rooms feeling drained and exhausted and knowing she’d failed again. Her mother was ill and unhappy and it was her fault. Yet she couldn’t — she couldn’t — give up her life outside the castle. Not now.
She saw little of the king. Now and then an occasion like a festival or a holiday required them to appear as a family. People gathered to cheer and throw flowers as king and court went by in colorful procession. On these days, people paid homage to Queen Snow White’s beauty. She spent hours in front of the mirror readying herself. Rose Red usually had a gown to match or complement the queen’s, although little could be done with her hair.
Rose Red felt more confident in public than she’d been before she made friends. She waved and smiled to the crowds. The royal family was well liked. The king wasn’t warm, but he was just, so people respected him. The queen was, of course, the most beautiful lady any of them had ever seen, and surely a benevolent, kind, wise queen, if ever there was one! Rose Red often heard how lucky she was to have such a great lady as a mother.
The family dined together formally once a week. One evening Rose Red chattered happily about a nest she’d found (she didn’t mention she’d climbed a tree), the speckled eggs, the behavior of the protective parent birds, until she noticed the queen sat tense and miserable, not eating, and the king looked impatient.
“For heaven’s sake, girl, be quiet!” he said sternly. “What is this nonsense? You talk too much!”
Mechanically, Rose Red ate the rest of her meal without saying another word.
(This post was published with this essay.)