from Book III, Part 2, Animus
III. A Mask of Mirrors
Snow-White and the Seven Dwarfs
It
was no fairytale.
That winter the mother died,
but just before she died
she saw her daughter, still
covered in birth fluids,
and said, So pale, my love, your rosebud mouth
so small, and dark curls black as ravens.
But these were her last
words, and the King her husband
ordered a servant to pass a
candle flame before her eyes
for any sign,
but there was nothing.
Already the cheeks were
sunken, and the bedbugs
crawled out of her hair,
dank
with sweat from the killing
birth.
The
child’s name, a scrabble of diphthongs
in keeping with her class,
was entered in the annuls,
but her pet name was Snow
White.
The King remarried, this
time to his dead wife’s sister.
(The woman was slim as a
mink,
and with slinky looks she caught
the King
before her sister was cold
in the ground.)
She was wily, and jealous of
the King’s attention
to her sister’s child, but
thought,
When he’s dead, the kingdom’s mine.
One
day, the Queen was walking in her garden
and heard two
ladies-in-waiting
beyond the yew hedge,
gossiping.
One said, …of course,
she’ll have nothing but the clothes she’s standing in
when the girl inherits.
And the other agreed, Gold follows the bloodline,
and the king’s not one to wait around
when her looks go.
The Queen went straight to
her husband.
He said, Blood to blood, it is the rule, and can’t be broken
while my daughter lives,
but you’ll always have a place in the household
after I’m gone.
Her large grey eyes were
fixed on Snow White,
who sat in the corner,
dressing a wicker doll in
silk.
Then turning to the king she
raged, I am the Queen.
I’ll not be compared to a cooking pot.
As she spoke, the King
noticed, for the first time,
around her eyes the laughter
lines, fine
as spider’s web, and on the
back
of the fist she banged the
table with,
a liver spot or two.
*
‘The
Queen remained in her apartments
for seven years, the windows
closed over with tapestries.
Her jaw line sagged, and
when she sat
her belly rested on her lap.
Every year,
she looked a little more
like her mother, who too
had married above her
station,
but could not outrun
her peasant-stock of humpy
back and bad teeth…’
…The Queen woke with a
start, and shook her head
to clear the nightmare − for
a moment
she had seen herself in a
dark room, in the looking-glass
her mother’s face…
Her
hormones were hallucinogens.
But her hatred for Snow
White was real enough.
It was a pampered pooch.
She baby-talked it, roughed
its coat
and nuzzled it for ticks and
fleas.
It was special.
She sent for her old family
servant, one she could trust
not to talk, and not to go
squeamish
when fine talk turned to
sweaty jelly.
The old servant woman was
good with herbs,
and boiled them to a
tincture
laced into a fatty lamb’s
leg
she fed the King’s best
greyhound; it shivered once
nose to tail, and died.
The King found it in the
hall, black tongue lolling.
The Queen said, Poor thing, it must be rancid meat
I saw Snow White set out; she never liked its barking.
The King’s look was thunder,
but he never said a word.
The King had a pretty mare.
He had bought it for his
wife, the mother of his daughter,
and every time he saw it
he remembered his love for
Snow White’s mother.
A
stable boy came to the King, and told him
the pretty mare had fitted,
its mouth
a bloody foam, and the Queen
said, Poor thing,
it must be the bitter flowers
I saw Snow White mixing in the oats;
she never liked that little horse.
The King’s look was thunder,
but he never said a word.
Later, the King sat at his
table, and the Queen said,
My Dear, have a piece of chicken,
to take your mind off your poor horse and hound.
The King reached out to take
the dish,
but saw no mealy chicken
claw −
instead, a broad hawk talon,
and round it
a silver ring with his own
mark etched in:
his best hawk now
drumsticks.
The Queen said, Poor thing.
Snow White, I think, never liked it stooping so…
But the Queen was clever,
and said, My Dear,
I am ill with worry for your daughter.
I sicken from her wickedness and hurt to you.
The King considered his
Queen,
that he had wronged her in
loving so wicked a child,
and he asked her pardon, and
her pleasure,
and she replied,
A vial of Snow White’s blood, stoppered with her toe,
or lungs and liver in a salty stew;
that will do.
And the King went pale, and
shook,
and knew a promise was a
promise, and a King’s promise
greater still, but when he
found Snow White,
and saw her raven hair, her
rosebud mouth, and she
the image of her mother, he
called the cook
who brought a suckling pig,
and cut and cooked the parts
the Queen demanded.
The
Queen said to her old servant, That’s it
for little Miss, and tasty too.
*
In her garden the Queen had
a well, and in the well
she kept a fish.
The
old servant
sprinkled a few herbs on the
water
and the fish surfaced for a
nibble.
But the herbs were powerful,
and made the well water
clear as silvered glass, and
the fish
speak.
The Queen looked down, and
called,
Little fish, little fish,
here is my wish, that you should praise
my beauty above all others, raise
it like a star, shiny in a golden dish.
But
the fish, unused to speaking, mumbled
something the Queen just
missed,
except the last words
bubbling on the surface…Snow White…
*
The
King had called the cook
who had brought the suckling
pig,
and cut and cooked the parts
the Queen demanded.
And Snow White, pretty as
she was, the image
of her mother, stood before
her father,
asking, Father, what is your pleasure…
And
the King replied, Daughter
it’s best you go; you’re the image of your mother
and a child no longer. Too pretty by half
by my way of thinking.
If you were seven I’d give you a spanking,
but you’re fourteen now: hold out your hand.
The King took a knife and
hacked her little finger,
saying, One for my hound.
And Snow White said, It doesn’t hurt,
because it’s you.
And the King took the knife
and hacked the next,
and her little rings tinkled
across the floor:
And one for my pretty mare.
And Snow White said, It doesn’t hurt,
because it’s you.
And
the King took the knife, and hacked
her middle finger, long and
white,
its painted nail the shape
of an almond, and said,
This last for the hawk, the hawk
I hunted with.
And Snow White said, It doesn’t hurt,
because it’s you.
And blood splodged the floor
in little drips,
and Snow White said, Father
is there anything else you’d have me do…
The
King thought and thought, then
thought better of it, and
took her to the forest.
He said, Your Stepmother thinks you’re through…
no peace for me unless it’s true.
And Snow White walked off
into the forest,
a silk wrapped round her
hand.
She looked back just once,
to see the King’s dogs
chewing at something on the
ground.
*
In her garden,
the Queen looked down the
well, and called,
Little fish, little fish,
here is my wish, that you should praise
my beauty above all others, raise
it like a star, shiny in a golden dish.
The fish cleared its throat:
In this garden here, it’s true,
none more beautiful than you,
but look about,
your competition is a crone and trout;
in the forest walks the ravishing
Snow White, spared in secret by the King.
The Queen went straight to
her husband.
He confessed, he thought it
best
Snow White was banished
−
he found a fourteen-year-old
girl
unsettling: that raven hair,
that tiny rosebud mouth, her
long smooth shiny legs.
The Queen turned to her old
servant:
Find her.
The old woman turned round
once,
twice, again, and at the
third turn
turned into a bird,
a scruffy crow that flew out
over the castle walls
towards the forest.
*
Snow
White walked and walked
and walked, crossing seven
hills.
Low,
dead branches clattered against
ancient trees, and she could
hear animals
scuttling through the
undergrowth.
The
path went by a dell, and she thought it odd
a little chimney poked
through the moss
by the thicket of trees.
Her
stumpy hand ached, the silk
she’d wrapped it in
by now soaked through with
blood.
Brambles had scratched her
knees and ankles,
and she walked down the hill
to the hut, a faint smoke
drifting from the chimney
stack of hollow elm.
She
opened the door, stooping through it
into a room with a low
ceiling strung with cobwebs.
The
floor was greasy and pulled at her shoes
as she stepped farther in
the darkened room,
and saw the stuffed straw
bundles in a row.
She flopped on one that
seemed to fit, and slept.
*
Seven dwarfs, the last of
seven families,
returned from their mountain
mine, and the gold
they hoarded in its shafts.
They were stout and broad as
broad oak buckets,
grimy, the way men are, when
left
to themselves.
Yet,
grimed and rough, swearing oaths
against their bent backs and
stinking feet,
they stopped cold:
a creature slept a perfect
sleep, a raven-haired sleep,
a dreamy rosebud mouth of
sleep.
One
lifted up her skirts to see, and some
looked close, and others
looked away, but as they looked
a little gold dust fell from
their collars,
sprinkle-sprinkle, and Snow
White
sat up, and sneezed, Ah-choo.
The eldest of the seven came
forward,
You’re trespassing − get out,
thinking only of his
mountain hoard.
The
others were less inclined
to see her off, thinking of
yet another day
of burnt porridge
and trousers stiff with
bacon fat.
They
struck a deal: with her one good hand
she’d scrub and cook
and tidy-up the inglenook,
in exchange for bedding
space, soup,
and clean knickers twice a
week
(They fought to bring the
water…).
Outside, across the mossy
roof,
the shadow of a bird…
*
The Queen took her servant’s
old cloak,
wrapping it close around her
head and shoulders,
smudged her face with hearth
soot,
and practised her lines.
Catching herself in the
looking-glass,
she thought, I look just like my mother…
Into
the forest, over seven hills, she came
to the hut… tap-tap,
tap-tap.
Snow White
left scrubbing the floor,
blew a wisp of hair
out of her eyes, and opened
the door.
Lacy stays, my Dear, the Queen-crone
droned, the… Here, let me help…
followed by a jerk that
winded Snow White,
the stays too tight,
her knees gave way and she
fell,
knocking her scrub brush and
bucket against the door
just closing.
The dwarfs returned, saw her there
blue-faced, and with a swift
knife cut the stays,
her first breath like a
bellows.
That was close, they
said.
That was close, she answered.
*
In her garden,
the Queen looked down the
well, and called,
Little fish, little fish,
here is my wish, that you should praise
my beauty above all others, raise
it like a star, shiny in a golden dish.
The fish swam first in
circles, then in figure-eights,
and spoke,
Snow White lives, beyond the seven hills
she breathes; she’s fourteen, her long smooth legs
unmatched
by any plot you’ve hatched.
The
Queen set off, this time with a comb
tipped in toxic dip, and
offered it to the girl, who knew
the risks, but found chores
dull, and fancied something
new.
So pretty, and for you, the Queen-crone urged.
Through her raven locks she
pulled the ivory comb,
and poison seeped, burning
into her scalp,
and stopped her heart.
… Just in time the dwarfs,
shaking
and shaking to make her
breathe,
and when the comb fell out,
she did.
That was close, they
said,
and Snow White nodded.
*
The
Queen demanded of the fish
her little wish.
The
fish went deep, and surfacing again
along the silvered plane,
said,
She lives. Her raven hair, her tiny rosebud mouth
are nothing if not true: south
of here, over seven hills, she whose beauty so
beguiles − stumpy hand or no…
*
Tap-tap, tap-tap, and Snow
White,
bored, shared the apple with
the Queen,
the Queen’s half sweet as
autumn, Snow White’s
blackened with the old
maid-servant’s art.
And
she could not be saved, and died.
*
The
dwarfs took her body
and washed it with water and
wine,
dressed her in clean
clothes, and wrapped
her stumpy hand in new red
silk.
From
quartz in their mountain they cut
a coffin Snow White’s
length, because they could not
bring themselves to sink her
raven hair,
her tiny rosebud mouth,
her long smooth shiny legs,
into dark and cold.
Into the glassy quartz they
cut her name,
and that she was a king’s
daughter, wronged.
They carried it to the top
of the mountain,
and each kept vigil, year
after year, yet she
remained as she was in life,
her rosebud mouth, her hair
black as a raven’s eye.
*
In her garden,
the Queen looked down the
well, and called,
Little fish, little fish,
here is my wish, that you should praise
my beauty above all others, raise
it like a star, shiny in a golden dish.
And the fish went round,
went round,
went round, I am just a little fish,
it said, but praise
your beauty above all others, raise
it like a star, shiny in a golden dish…
*
Twelve
huntsmen, a king’s son
and others of the court,
took the forest path leading
by the dell.
(They had been cats: riding
out, deep in the woods,
the last they remembered was
a scruffy crow passing over,
and they were changed, their
jewelled cloak clasps,
their white horses, gone.
And
just like that, they were cats, the king’s son
an old grey tom with one eye
cut shut,
and the others yowling
behind, looking for cat words
to ask what had happened.
They dragged a cauldron with
them,
and a cow, and now and then
they killed the cow
and boiled the best bits in
the cauldron, and the next day
the cow stood there, good as
new;
at least they never worried
for their stew.
When
the old maid-servant died, a twisting
burn of acid in her bed, her
spells went too,
and the bag of cats
again become twelve
huntsmen, their silver clasps
and horses restored.)
When
they discovered the hut
the door was off, and the
roof had fallen in,
and they rode on, up the
hill trail
to the mountain,
and found Snow White, pretty
in her pretty coffin,
under vines and old leaves.
The bones of the last dwarf
lay nearby.
The king’s son looked
through the crystal coffin,
and said, This is a king’s daughter, wronged.
Remove her to our court.
They
carried her downhill, heavy
in her crystal coffin, but
the footing was wet,
and the huntsmen slipped,
and when the coffin dropped,
in Snow White’s throat the
plug of apple
popped loose,
and she breathed, and lived.
*
In the Queen’s garden, in
the well,
the old fish went deep, and
stayed.
*
Snow White married the
king’s son,
and to her wedding she
invited nobles of those kingdoms,
except her father, who was
long dead.
The old Queen, though, now
reigning,
came with her retinue – what
wasn’t gold
was silver − and passed
among them
not recognising Snow White,
except the raven hair,
the rosebud mouth
somehow so familiar…
Snow
White
ordered iron shoes, stoked
and stoked red as a witch’s eye,
to be clamped around the old
Queen’s feet,
and the old Queen danced and
danced,
and died, and Snow White,
turning her cold blue eyes
along that company,
rose, and left the hall.
