ONE
Story the First In Which the Winter Child Receives Her Name, and All the Tales That Make Up This Story Are Thereby Set in Motion Many years ago, when the world was much younger than it is today, a king and queen dwelt together in a castle made of ice and snow. No doubt this may seem uncomfortable to you, but as this royal couple ruled over a kingdom where there was so much ice and snow that not a single day went by without some sight of both, the king and queen had become accustomed to their situation. It suited them just fine. They found nothing unusual about their circumstance, in fact.
But I am straying from my path already, and I’ve no more than packed my bag and started out the door.
The king and queen had been married for several years when the stories you are about to read were preparing to begin. The royal couple had loved each other truly when first they had wed, but, as the years went by, the queen began to fear the march of time. She began to ask herself a series of impossible questions, questions with no answers:
If her looks should start to fade, as inevitably they must, would the king still care for her? Or did he love her for her appearance alone?
In all fairness, it must be acknowledged that the queen was very lovely. Her face was a perfect oval. Her lips were the color of the bright red berries that flourished even in the depths of winter, and her skin was as white as snow. Her eyes gleamed like two jet buttons, and her hair was a waterfall of black as dark as a night without stars.
In equal fairness, it must be acknowledged that, by giving in to her fear, the queen performed a great disservice, both to herself and to her husband. The king had not fallen in love with her simply because of the loveliness of her face, but also for the strength and beauty of her heart.
But giving in to her fear was precisely what the queen did. Her heart didn’t even put up a fight. The moment that happened, all was lost, though the queen didn’t realize this at the time. As soon as fear’s occupation of the queen’s heart was complete, she retreated to the castle’s highest tower. All she took for company were her baby daughter, just six months old, and a mirror made of polished ice.
First days, and then weeks, went by. The queen sat in a hard-backed chair, gazing at her face for hour after hour, searching for the first sign that her beauty—and the king’s love—were poised to take flight. The king visited the tower morning, noon, and night. The nursemaids came and went, caring for the princess. The housemaids came and went, dusting the room and lighting the fires. The king sent first the royal physician, and then every other healer in the land to see if any could cure the queen’s strange malady.
None of it made any difference. Nothing the king did or said could penetrate the fear that had captured the queen’s heart. And so, as the weeks threatened to slide on into months and still the queen’s heart refused to listen, something terrible began to transpire. The king’s love began to falter, for not even the strongest love can survive all on its own. Love cannot thrive simply by being offered. Sooner or later it must be accepted and reciprocated. It must be seen for what it is and nourished according to its needs, or it will die.
The queen’s face remained as beautiful as ever. But the king’s love could not stay the course charted by his wife’s fearful heart. His love began to diminish with every minute of every day that the queen stayed in the tower, until at last the morning dawned when the king awoke and discovered that his love for the queen was altogether gone. And in this way, the queen’s own actions brought about the result she had so feared: The king no longer loved her.
Love must go somewhere, however, and the king still had one family member left, his baby daughter. Determined that she should not suffer because her mother had eyes only for herself, the king decided to love the princess twice as much as he had before.
The baby had her mother’s coloring. She, too, had hair and eyes as black as night. Her skin was as pale as fine white linen, and her mouth, a perfect little red rosebud. This caused the king both pain and joy. Every time he gazed into his daughter’s face, as he did each morning, noon, and night, it seemed to him that he felt the clutch of fear wrap itself around his love.
Search though he might, the king could find nothing of himself in his daughter’s face. In every particular, she seemed to be her mother’s child. The queen’s fate was hardly turning out as might have been predicted, let alone desired. The princess’s resemblance to her mother could not help but make the king wonder about his daughter’s own fate. What might it hold in store?
Now, it was the custom in the land of ice and snow for mothers to bestow names upon their newborns. Every family followed this tradition, from the royal couple to the woodcutter and his wife. Most people named their children right away, for it was dangerous to let a child go without a name for too long. Without a name, it is hard to develop a sense of direction. Without a name, it is difficult to set out on your life’s journey and so discover who you are.
This is not to say that any name will do, of course. In fact, it’s just the opposite. Every child must be given her or his true and proper name, and this is a task that cannot be rushed. It takes time.
So when at first days, and then weeks, went by and still the baby princess had no name, though it made the king uneasy, he kept it to himself. But as the weeks slid into months that added up to half a year, the king’s uneasiness turned into genuine alarm. Day after day, the infant princess lay in a basket by the tower window, kicking off her blankets no matter how tightly her nursemaids wrapped her up. This, the nursemaids took to be a sign.
“She is trying to escape her destiny,” whispered the first, as the nursemaids sat together near the kitchen fire one night. They were having a bedtime snack of tea and scones.
“Oh, don’t be daft,” the second replied. She took a gulp of tea, then winced as it burned her tongue. “There’s not a soul alive can do a thing like that.”
But it was the third nursemaid who came closest to the mark. She sipped her tea, for she was more cautious.
“She’s only six months old,” the third nursemaid remarked. “The princess doesn’t have the faintest idea what her destiny is yet. And she won’t, poor mite. Not until she has a name to call her own.”
Not long after this conversation took place, there came an afternoon when, just like always, the queen sat in her hard-backed chair gazing at her reflection. Her baby daughter lay, kicking her legs, in a basket on a nearby window seat. The window was open for, though cold, the sun was shining and the day was fine. High above the castle, so high as to render the legs of the baby princess so small they were almost invisible, the North Wind was passing by.
Now, the North Wind is a cross wind, a contrary and unpredictable blusterer. The plain and simple truth of the matter is that the North Wind hates to be cold. But as bringing cold is the North Wind’s reason for existence, it really has no choice. This is why, in the dead of winter, the North Wind howls so. It’s lamenting its own fate and wailing a warning. It will do some mischief if it can, and never mind the consequences.
And that’s precisely what happened that day at the palace. The North Wind passed by with mischief on its mind.
It did not care that the sun was shining and the day was fine. It could not bring about such things itself, and so they provoked only jealousy in the North Wind’s soul. So when it spied an infant lying unwatched and unprotected by an open window, the North Wind swooped down to take a closer look. Perhaps it might be able to use the baby to conjure up enough mischief to summon clouds that would blot out the sun.
But no sooner did the North Wind come in through the window than it caught sight of the queen gazing at her reflection in the mirror made of ice. The North Wind was so struck by the queen’s beauty that it forgot completely why it had come. If it had been possible for something to deprive the North Wind of breath, the queen’s beauty would have done so.
But no matter how the North Wind tried to get the queen’s attention, frisking around the hem of her skirts, teasing the ends of her midnight-dark hair, nothing compelled the queen to look up. She never even shivered, as if she didn’t feel the North Wind’s presence at all. Instead, the queen’s eyes stayed fixed upon her mirror and her reflection. Thoroughly vexed, for it was not accustomed to being ignored, the North Wind swirled around the tower room. There, on the window seat, was the infant who had drawn it down to the castle in the first place.
Aha! the North Wind thought. It dashed to the window and caught the child up in its arms, sending the basket and cushions beneath her out the open window in a great whoosh of air. Surely whisking away the beautiful woman’s infant would get her attention.
Sadly for all concerned, it did not.
The North Wind carried the princess straight out the window, and still the queen did not so much as stir or turn around. When it realized this, the North Wind behaved true to form. Having stirred up some mischief, the North Wind lost interest and released the child, letting her fall.
Down, down, down the baby princess plummeted, kicking her legs the entire time. She fell past the window where her mother’s ladies in waiting sat busy with the castle mending. Past the window where her father’s pages were dusting the leather spines of all the books on the library shelves. And finally, past the royal study where her father sat at ...
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