A Sprig of Holly

J. A. Clement

Copyright © 2011 by J. A. Clement

Kindle edition

ISBN-13: 978-1-908212-14-6

This story was first published in “Christmas Lites”, the first in a series of anthologies in support of the domestic violence charity NCADV. It is now republished with kind permission of the editor, Amy Huntley.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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1

Helpless

“Help! Help! Oh Gods, what shall I do? There isn’t anyone this side of the peak. What shall I do? Pappy, can you hear me?” Greta clutched her aching head, dizzy, and staggered over to where the tree lay across the still form of her Grandfather. “Pappy? Please, Pappy, talk to me…”

Desperately she heaved at the tree, trying to shift it far enough to release him, but it did not lift in the slightest and the effort only made her head swim, so she dropped to her knees in the snow next to him. “Oh Pappy… if only Matthias had got back. Why did I ever agree to come out this far?”

There was a rustling in the stillness, and Greta fell silent, listening. There might not be anyone human this side of the mountain, but that did not mean that there were no animals around. It was a few years since they’d been troubled with wolves, but if they had come back, Pappy’s predicament might not be a problem for either of them for much longer. Desperately she scanned the clearing in the dusk, searching for a glimpse of grey muzzle…and instead, out hopped the hare. The relief was such that her laugh was nearly a sob.

“You look so much like my hare, the one from the house. We’re in such trouble, hare, such trouble, and I don’t know what to do.” Greta wiped her eyes; blood was trickling down her temple and now she was not moving along, the cold was biting. “Pappy is trapped and I can’t help him, and Matthias isn’t back from the town. It’s so cold, and night is coming on and if I go back to the house for a blanket or the sleigh or anything that I could use to help him, it’ll be dark before I get there and I’ll never find him again.” She did not voice the fact that her grandfather would have died of cold long before she had finished that trek. “There is no-one to help and no-one to advise me. What do you suggest, hare?”

The hare looked at her with that candid gaze for a long minute. It had such an intelligent, considering expression that she almost expected it to reply; but then it simply turned tail and sped off.

“And now I’m talking to animals, and even they aren’t stopping out in this sort of weather.” Greta rearranged her clothes under her to protect her from the snow a little more. They’d be sodden soon, and then she too would not last long enough to get back to the house, but she could not abandon her grandfather to die along and trapped in the chill darkness. How had it come to this?

Looking up, she saw the first twinkling star of the evening showing faintly through the fading light of dusk. Night fell quickly here. It would not be long now. Taking her grandfather’s hand in her own, she composed him as comfortably as she could. A few short hours ago – last night, even, how snug and warm they had been in the drowsy warmth of the kitchen; and how different this darkness would be.

Greta shuddered, wishing with all her heart that somewhere in the last day or so she had found another way of keeping them warm; but events had unfolded with inevitable logic - yes, ever since she had realised how near they were to running out of wood….

2

The Snowmaiden

Greta sat in the cosy, half-lit kitchen looking out of the window. It was no longer snowing; the clouds had cleared and the moon shone clear and bright, magnified by the deep covering of white over the fields. The walls stood black against the snow, and further away where the thick pines of the forest came down to the fields, the trees seemed to be little more than intricately-cut silhouettes. It was beautiful, untouched save for a small flurry in the garden where a hare leapt and bounded through the snow. Greta could not be sure but it looked as if the hare was playing, gambolling in the moonlight.

It was cold, though. She got up from the bench, drew the curtains to block the draught where the wooden frame had shrunk from the glass, and went to check the stove in the corner. Opening the creaky iron door with care, she looked in; the wood was burning low again, so she selected another log and added it to the fire.

“Already?” Her grandfather had roused from dozing in the old chair by the fire. “We don’t have much more wood left. We must be sparing with it.”

“I know, Grandfather, but the fire was dying.” Greta straightened and laid the firetongs back in the log basket, as the lamplight glinted across the polished pans which hung along the shelves

“It’s no good.” He sat forward, frowning in thought. “We’re going to run out of logs. I need to go and cut some more.”

“But Grandfather, it’s so cold. We could wait bit longer until Matthias gets back from visiting his mother. He would help us, I’m sure.”

“We must not let the fire out, Greta. In this weather, without a fire we’ll freeze. After all this snow the mountain pass will be closed for another week and we can’t keep the fire going on what’s in the basket. Besides, we should not be dependent on the goodwill of a neighbour, be he ever so handsome and dashing.”

“No, Pappy.” Greta blushed and became very preoccupied in brushing dust from her thick blue skirt.

The old man smiled at her use of the childhood name for him. “Don’t worry, he will be back soon, and when he is we will still need his help one way or another. And I notice that he does seem to offer it remarkably often... it may be simply that he has a taste for your excellent apple cake; but perhaps it is not just the cake that he has a taste for...”

“Pappy!” Greta protested, and her grandfather laughed heartily at her discomposure, before becoming serious once more.

“Snow or no snow, tomorrow when it is light, we will go and cut wood, and this time we will not go to the softwood trees that burn so fast, but to the ironwood. That burns hot and long, and a basket of ironwood will last us far beyond this pine, which disappears as fast as if it were kindling.”

Greta sighed. “Very well; but in the meantime I will check the woodstore to see that there is nothing left in there that we could use, even little pieces.”

“Do you think you have missed that much, my dear?” he teased.

“No; but still.” She went and put on boots and a thick coat and hat, and he settled back in the chair. In truth, it was as much an excuse as anything; she had been cooped up in the warm, dark confines of the little house for weeks now, and recently as the wood dwindled they had moved their beds down into the kitchen to be near the warmth of the range. It happened most years, but for some reason the snow had stayed for longer than usual and Greta was beginning to feel cramped and cooped up in the tiny room. Watching the hare playing in the snow, she suddenly had felt that she must get out there in the white vastness, or burst. She did not have to explain it; her Pappy was quite familiar with her moods.

Drawing aside the thick felt curtain that insulated the door, she stepped out of the cosy lamplit kitchen and into the blue cathedral spaces of the mountains. She took a deep breath of the icy air though it seared her throat, and as she exhaled the breath seemed to carry with it all her frustrations, evaporating in a cloud before her eyes.

She took another, and felt herself relaxing… It was as if her soul had been cramped into a cage till now, and had suddenly found itself free to spread delicate lacy wings into the blueglass night, so that the moon and starlight twinkled among the feathers. Greta found herself smiling in quiet delight at the sheer vastness of the frosted silence that surrounded her.

As she walked out into the garden, the snow squeaked quietly under her boots, and a sudden movement caught her eye. She froze; and so did the hare, which had lolloped out of the bushes again. Evidently she did not appear threatening as it considered her for a moment and then returned to its dancing, rearing and twisting in the deep snow.

Greta let it dance and simply stood drinking in the crisp air that tasted of water; and then she ventured a little further into the snowfield. The hare’s joy was contagious, and she danced a step or two herself, but it was a forlorn thing with no partner; so she wandered a little further, enjoying the silence and the stillness and the great white expanse of snow glinting blue under the moon.

A sneeze. Greta turned to see the hare quite covered in snow now, sitting upright with such an indignant expression that she had to laugh, and sneezing again from the snow all over its face. It gave her an idea, though.

“I shall make a snow-maiden!”

Her feet were beginning to go numb from the cold, but it would not take so very long, she thought; she made a snowball, set it in the snow and began to push it along. When it became hard to push she made another, leaving green snowless paths across the field; and while she could still lift it, she placed it on the first and packed it round securely.

It would not be a round, blobby thing like the ones the children made, she decided, placing a third ball on the column. With this bit and another it would be nearly her own height and she would sculpt it into a girl with long hair. Greta’s feet were frozen and her hands stung with cold, but this was obscurely compulsive. She had not meant to stay out here long but having started to make the snowmaiden, she had to finish it. Her hands were painfully cold now, as she could not pat down the snow properly with her mittens on so put them in her pocket while she worked.

In the corner of the woodstore she found a shard of wood which worked very well as a sculpting tool, and with it she carved the snowmaiden’s long hair, the shape of her skirt, her slender waist and the shape of her arms and face. The snowmaiden stood with her head held high, her hands hidden in the muff Greta had carved, and a calm, serene expression on her face. Eventually Greta stood back. It was nearly right; but lacked something. What was it?

“Very good, my dear.” The kitchen door closed behind Pappy as he came out to look at her handiwork. “But she needs a splash of colour so we will be able to see her against the rest of the snow. Try this.”

“Oh Pappy, that will look lovely!” Greta took the wispy woollen shawl from him, the rich crimson dark as arterial blood in the moonlight. It was a beautiful thing that had belonged to her mother, too lacy to hold any warmth, and so was pretty rather than useful to them. It had been hanging on a hook by the door for a long time, but neither of them could bring themselves to part with it. “How can I make it stay on?”

Pappy trudged across to the old holly tree and selected a sprig, cutting it carefully with his penknife. Greta took it and threaded it through the holes of the pattern, where the glossy green leaves shone darkly against the wool.

“Very nice.” Pappy admired it for a moment before taking her arm. “Are you done out here, Greta? Shall we go back in?”

“Yes, Pappy.”

As they returned, Greta cast a look over her shoulder. The Snowmaiden stood proud in the moonlight, looking at the moon, and by the woodstore, the hare sat quietly watching.

3

The Accident

The following morning, Greta woke late. As always, the first thing she did was dash to the range and coax the red embers back into life; then she dashed back to huddle under her blanket until the fire took hold and began to throw out more heat. The pair dressed and ate breakfast before setting out; to gather enough wood for the fire would be a long task and the days were only short, this far into the deeps of winter. As they passed the snowmaiden, Greta looked around the field. Nearer to, she had used much of the snow in her building, but further down the field there were strange marks in the snow.

“What do you think made those tracks, Pappy?”

“Difficult to tell from this distance, my dear; probably foxes. They roll and dash about in the snow, you know.”

“Shall we look closer?” Greta started to walk over but her grandfather did not follow.

“On the way back, perhaps, Greta; it will take a while to get there and a while to get back, and the days are very short. The marks will still be there this evening and we can go and look at them if the moon is still bright.”

“Yes Grandfather.” Greta followed him regretfully. She did want to go and look but he was quite right and it probably was nothing more exciting than foxes; except that the previous night she had got up and looked out of the window, and could have sworn that her snowmaiden was dancing in the moonlight with the grace of a falling snowflake. After a short while, the snowmaiden had gone back to stand in her place; and Greta shivered back to bed. Last night it had all seemed so real; in the chill light of day, it seemed obvious that it must have been a dream….only, if the tracks in the snow were fox-tracks, she would have liked to have seen them closely enough to be sure.

Greta caught up with her grandfather as he pulled the sleigh behind him, and took a grip on the rope with him. Once they had had deer to pull it, little sturdy beasts that were strong but fleet of foot; but they had no money to replace them. Their harnesses of coloured leather and tinkling bells still hung on the hooks but the only beasts left to pull the sleigh were Greta and her Pappy. She smiled to herself, wondering if she should be wearing the bells herself, but quickly fell into the rhythm of pulling the sleigh up the steep tracks.

Halfway through the day they had stopped for a rest, lighting a little fire to melt snow and make tea while they ate the pasties Greta had prepared; then the work went on, as Pappy lopped the wood and hewed it into manageable logs, and Greta stacked it on the sleigh. As the day was waning, they set off home again. It was much more difficult to control the heavily-laden sleigh on the way back down the hill, and it had pulled them over several times, despite their best efforts. Eventually they had got down to the flatter part of the track, where the forest was mostly made of the softwood trees that burnt away too quickly to be of much use. It was while they were passing through here that there had been a creak and a groan, and something had hit Greta hard enough to knock her out where she stood. She had woken up to find herself sprawled in the snow, freezing cold and with a sore place on her head; but as she had pulled herself to her feet she had discovered that the tree which had only clipped her as it fell had landed fully across her grandfather; and now she could not think of any way to get them safely home.

“I’m sorry, Pappy; so sorry,” she whispered, and to her relief he stirred slightly.

“Greta..?”

“I’m here, and I’m alright. The tree fell on you – are you hurt or just trapped?”

He strained a bit then, caught his breath sharply, and fell still. “I can’t tell. My leg is painful but the cold is making me numb. How long have we been here?”

“I don’t know; I was knocked out when the tree fell.”

Pappy twisted to look at her. “Your head is bleeding, child.”

“It’s only a knock; I’m fine really.” Greta smiled down wanly at him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

He looked up at the sky, taking in the lateness of the hour, and for some moments he was quiet. Then he spoke, keeping his voice light and unconcerned with an effort. “Greta, I can’t get out from under this tree easily. If you are fine, can you walk down to the house and get the other saw from the woodstore, and maybe a rope and a blanket or two? It’s going to take a while to get me out of here – I may need you to saw through the tree trunk, as I can’t do it from this angle.”

She started to climb to her feet; but the movement made everything spin, and she had to grab onto a branch for support. She leaned against the tree for some minutes before replying.

“For a second there I thought we might have a chance; but we don’t really, do we?”

“Nonsense, child, of course we do but you need to go now to be sure of getting back before nightfall.” His tone was scolding but her head had cleared enough to hear the falseness in his tone.

“To get home before nightfall, maybe, but not to get back here… I’m not leaving you here to die, Pappy, I’m just not doing it. I won’t be left on my own.”

“Damn it, girl, you’re going to die if you stay here! I’m not going anywhere but you can get home!”

Greta was startled at his roar; he never spoke to her in that tone, but she did not back down. “Pappy, I’m not going to get back to the house on my own either. I can barely stand upright, never mind walk all the way back. So if we’re not going home, I’d rather stay here with you.”

“Greta, please!” he moaned.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice in the matter, Pappy.” She returned to his side, sitting against the tree trunk now so that she could see his face without him having to twist uncomfortably.

They sat for some time in silence as the sky faded and the star grew stronger. Greta began to shiver uncontrollably.

And then, just as she began to fall asleep, a shape stood in front of her. She was so near unconsciousness that she did not bother overmuch, but it bent down and laid an icy arm against her cheek and the sting of that freezing contact jerked her back into wakefulness. She opened her eyes and stared for a moment while her eyes made sense of what was in front of her; and then she jerked back against the treetrunk.

“Pappy!” Greta’s voice sounded thin and high to herself. “Pappy, can you see what I can see?” But he was flitting in and out of unconsciousness and did not answer. “Pappy?”

The hare was back again too, and it sat down trustfully between Greta and the snowmaiden. For some reason this made Greta feel much less afraid, and when the snowmaiden bent forward, and reached towards Greta again, the girl reached up slowly and laid one mittened hand on the arc of the snowmaiden’s arms, joined as they were in the muff she had carved. Rather than snow, the maid seemed to be made of ice and was solid as stone; certainly strong enough to help Greta stand. Of course, the snowmaiden’s surface would have thawed a little in the sun and reset overnight, Greta thought; but once upright, the snowmaid reached her arms out towards her again, still making that odd gesture with joined arms.

“What do you want of me?” Greta did not know for sure whether to be afraid or relieved, but certainly the finely-carved maiden did not seem threatening. The maiden straightened; Greta got the feeling she was thinking. Then she went over to the tree and pushed at it with her joined hands. The whole tree rocked and Pappy cried out but Greta was thinking hard as the maiden turned back to her, stretching out her arms again.

“You’re stronger than I am…can you help?” Greta asked. The maiden inclined her head, and stretched out her arms. “You need hands, don’t you?”

Greta had carved the snowmaiden with hands hidden in a muff, simply because such fine carvings would not have survived very long, but now she was going to take a risk. She took her grandfather’s penknife out of his pocket and turning back to the maiden, took a deep breath.

“I hope this doesn’t hurt you…” She laid the knife to the ice joining the snowmaiden’s arms and began to carve. The snowmaiden gave no indication of anything but patience until Greta had finished two basic mitten-shaped hands. It held them up and flexed them.

“I’ll do them properly when we get home if you like, but my hands are so cold now that I can hardly hold the knife.” Greta stuttered through chattering teeth.

This appeared to be acceptable, and the snowmaiden turned and heaved the tree trunk to one side with no apparent effort.

“The sleigh…we need to put him on it…”

The sleigh was piled high with wood, but the snowmaiden emptied it by the simple expedient of tipping it over and then righting it again. She lifted Pappy onto it with a certain amount of care, and then gestured to Greta to climb on as well. The hare moved over to where the blanket from the sleigh had fallen to the ground and sat there patiently until the snowmaiden saw it and retrieved the blanket, holding it out to Greta who sat next to Pappy in the sleigh and pulled it over them, trying to share her bodyheat with the old man. As she lay back, she felt the comforting weight of the hare’s body curl up on top of them, adding its own slight warmth as the sleigh slid silently through the quick dusk and into the slow dark of nightfall.

Again, Greta was wakened by that burning cold touch to the cheek. They were back at the house, the sleigh outside the door. The snowmaiden helped Greta to stand and she tottered in the door to collapse on the bed. The snowmaiden picked up Pappy and went to follow, but though the room was cooling fast with the door open, the fire had not gone out totally, and the maiden recoiled from the warmth that flowed out of the door. Again she approached, evidently afraid but fighting her fear, and this time after hesitating at the door, the snowmaiden dashed in with Greta’s grandfather, laid him gently next to the girl, and dashed out again with droplets of meltwater forming on her face like tears.

Greta was roused from her stupor by the bang of the door, and staggered over to the window to see the snowmaiden moving swiftly away into the darkness. She chafed her poor frozen hands under her armpits to warm them enough to light the lamp; and when that was done, she opened the fire door and threw on it the last logs from the basket, all at once. After a moment the flames flared up and she pushed the fire door to, and went to see to her Grandfather, still too numbed with cold and weariness to care about anything but finding a way to survive the night.

4

Matthias

Out on the mountains, another traveller was consumed with similar thoughts. Matthias was struggling to light a fire in order to set up camp for the night, cursing the luck that had sent his wagon off the track and into the ditch earlier in the day. He should have been home by now, and with the skies as dark and ominous as they were, it was entirely possibly that it was about to snow again and maroon him here. Oh, he’d be right enough in his warm little caravan, but he did not think the horses would survive the night despite anything he could do .

And then the horses began to rear and whinny nervously, so he opened the door of the caravan and looked out, on the alert for wolves. It wasn’t wolves, though. He took down the lantern from the inside of his caravan and went back out to investigate, and suddenly, bold as brass, a great hare appeared and simply sat there in front of him. Normally he would’ve had his little crossbow to hand and the hare would have gone straight into the pot, but there was something so intelligent about the way this hare looked at him that even the thought of making any attempt on it faded.

Behind the hare, another movement; and this time Matthias had to rub his eyes, and rub them again, for it was to all intents and purposes a woman made of snow, beautifully carved apart from the hands, and wearing a crimson shawl which he knew he had seen before.

“That’s Greta’s mother’s shawl!” he gasped, and was doubly amazed when the creature bobbed its head in acknowledgement. “What have you done with Greta?”

The snowmaiden shook its head and gestured him to follow.

“You have done nothing to harm her?” he demanded, standing his ground. The creature shook its head. “What do you want from me?”

The snowmaiden beckoned again, and pulled at the shawl and beckoned.

“Do you mean that Greta wants something from me?” It nodded. “Is she safe?” Its hesitation was clear to see, and it spurred him into action. “The wagon is stuck in the ditch – I’ll have to take the horses…” The snowmaiden strode over to the wagon, considered the matter and then pushed it forward out of the ditch. Matthias fell silent for a moment, then grinned, nervous. “Very well, I’ll take the wagon…” He gave the lantern to the creature while he harnessed the horses, and when all was ready it moved on ahead of him with it, lighting the way.

Greta had managed to get her grandfather into bed and warmed up again. She boiled the kettle and made him drink several cups of tea, and when his colour was better and he was sleeping a more normal sleep, she ventured to take a look at the injury to his leg. It was not a case of serious hurt, more a painful crushing, she thought, but it meant that he would not be able to come out with her to retrieve the hard-won logs they had had to leave behind. Perhaps she could do it herself? But her head ached and she felt sick and dismally sure that she would not be well enough to do so before the fire burnt out in a few short hours’ time. Had the snowmaiden saved them only for them to perish in the night frost in their own home? Greta found she could not care too much about it; at least she was with her grandfather, together and safe from predators. The rest would have to sort itself out.

A light shone in the window; a voice called, a voice that she knew, and the latch rattled. Going to open it, Greta was staggered to see Matthias there with his caravan, taking the lantern from the snowmaiden who bowed gravely in response to his thanks and once again disappeared into the dark.

“Greta, you have blood on your face. Are you all right?” Matthias demanded, forgetting the strangeness of his helper entirely in his worry. Greta looked at him standing there for a moment; and then she burst into tears, and found herself in his arms, and being comforted as she had often wished to be. It was all so overwhelming that she could not understand it, and submitted meekly as he sat her down, made her tea and piled up the fire with wood from the stock he carried with the caravan.

That night he slept sitting on her grandfather’s comfortable chair, warm under a blanket with the fire going strong, and Greta slept as secure and comfortable as she had ever been.

5

Colours

Over the next few days, Matthias remained while they nursed Pappy back to health. On the first day they had ventured out to discover that a thick blanket of snow had fallen in the night. Matthias went into the woodstore where he had stabled his horses to discover that not only were they hale and hearty, but also they were stabled amongst great piles of logs and kindling which appeared to have been ripped and smashed into manageable pieces. When questioned as to whether this was her work, the snowmaiden graciously nodded her head. They did not know whether she understood their thanks but told her how grateful they were anyway.

The snow froze crisp, and the three sat in the kitchen chattering in high spirits. It was getting near Yuletide, and Matthias disappeared into the wood and reappeared with a little pine tree to decorate, which he planted in a pot. As they now had wood enough to heat the whole house, they moved back into the parlour and placed the tree there by the window. It filled the room with a fresh scent, and when Matthias produced from the caravan the oranges and cloves he had bought to decorate his own home, the three of them spent a few happy hours making pomanders to hang on the tree so that the whole house was redolent of dark cloves and sharp citrus as well as the rich pine, all of which combined to make up the scent of Yule. Matthias had candles for the tree which they attached, though they would not light them until Yuletide itself, and Greta raided her wardrobe for ribbons which they draped about the tree until it was as colourful as anyone could wish.

But the snowmaiden stood outside the parlour window and looked in, unable to enter the warmth of the house.

“It’s nearly Yuletide,” Greta mused, “and we owe so much to the snowmaiden. How can we ever repay her? What can we give to her?”

“What would someone made of snow want?” Matthias shook his head. “How can we possibly know?”

“Has anyone asked her?” Pappy’s voice interrupted. The others turned to look at him. “No? Well why not try?”

“Why not?” Greta smiled. They looked out of the window where the snowmaiden stood looking in at the three of them. “Let’s do just that.”

“Snowmaiden, we’re coming up to a day where we celebrate and are thankful for what we have,” Greta began, feeling slightly foolish. “We like to give each other presents, things that we would enjoy having. We would like to give something to you but we don’t know what. Is there anything that you would like?”

The snow maiden considered this and then nodded.

“Can you show me what it is?”

The snow maiden set off across the field, and Greta and Matthias followed. She took them across to the wood where Matthias had found his pine tree and gestured at another of a similar size.

“She wants a tree?” Matthias was baffled, but the snowmaiden nodded. “This specific one?” Another nod. “Do you want it here? No? Very well, we can move it. Greta, do you have any idea what this is about?”

“I’m not sure…” Greta watched as the snowmaiden grasped the tree’s trunk and pulled it out of the ground, then set off back to the house where she put it down outside the parlour window. “Matthias, I think it’s meant to be a Yule tree. I wonder if she’s lonely, all on her own outside watching us?” That got a nod too. “Matthias, I have an idea. Can you plant the tree for us, please?”

“Certainly.” Matthias took a shovel and hacked his way down through the frozen earth until it was about the right depth, and planted the tree. Greta and the snowmaiden were still busy round the other side of the house, so he went into the woodstore and took the reindeer’s harness from the hook. He and Pappy spent a few minutes unbuckling the stiff leather and rebuckling it all into one long rope of multicoloured leather, which he then went out and arrayed on the tree with a couple of the orange pomanders they had made. It looked a bit odd, perhaps, but was colourful and festive so he was quite pleased with himself.

“Good grief! That’s wonderful!” Greta returned from the back of the house with the snowmaiden, who moved slowly and with awe over to her tree and gazed at it for some minutes.

Matthias watched, a little nervous. “Do you think she likes it?” The snowmaiden turned and bowed.

Greta laughed. “I suspect that’s an emphatic yes. Do you want to see what we’ve been doing?” They walked round to the spot where she had first made the snowmaiden, and there stood a most wonderful snowman, as sculpted as she and as perfect. “He’s still just snow though, and I don’t know what made her come to life.”

The snowmaiden reappeared, and gazed at the snowman for a moment; and then she touched Greta’s arm.

“Is there something else you want?” Greta watched the snowmaid gesture at her own dress and then Greta’s clothes, at the snowman and then at Matthias. “I’m sorry; I don’t understand.” The snowmaid tried again, but still with no success. Finally, she went back to the tree and waited. They followed and watched as she picked the pieces of leather out of the tree one by one. The black one she laid over her arm. The green piece, the red piece, the blue piece, all went over her arm; but the white piece she dropped on the ground. Then the pieces of the second harness, red, blue, green and black pieces over her arm and the white piece on the ground.

“She doesn’t want the white one?” Matthias was baffled, but the snowmaid nodded and held the coloured ones in a hug to herself. “She doesn’t want white but she does want colours.”

“She wants colours…” Greta repeated. The snowmaiden picked up the white and held it against herself, where it was barely visible; then she held it out so that it was bland against the white fields. Lastly, she dropped it on the floor again, and picked at the crimson shawl she wore, and the holly sprig, and Greta suddenly realised what the snowmaiden was trying to say. “Of course! She wants colours! Matthias, she’s snow on snow; from a distance you can hardly see her. Do you want colours on yourself, on your dress?” The snowmaid bowed again. “I don’t know how we’re going to do it, but we’ll get you colours, and your young man too!”

The snowmaiden picked up all the bits of coloured leather and began to array them back in the tree as Matthias and Greta returned to the house to warm up a bit.

“I see we have a new tree!” Pappy grinned. “Told you she’d know what she wanted – I never met a female that didn’t…”

“Ha!” Greta pulled a face at him. “Pappy, she wants a coloured dress as well. How can we do that?”

“Can’t you lend her one of yours, Greta?”

Greta shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think it would fit, and I’m not sure she could get it on anyway. I think what she wants is to be coloured in.”

“Can we do that?” Matthias was dubious.

“I have some beetroots. We could use the juice from them I suppose…”

Pappy guffawed. “Hark at you two! Beetroot juice, honestly!”

“Do you have a better idea?” Matthias shrugged.

“Yes I do,” Pappy grinned. “How about paints? I’m a carpenter, I have pots of the stuff. You can’t make a caravan without the proper decoration, and who do you think does that? That would be the man with paint, the one who’s sitting in front of you.”

“Perfect…” Greta danced across the parlour in her delight. “This is going to be so wonderful!”

6

Moonlit Dancing

The following morning was the Eve of Yuletide, and they spent considerable amounts of time painting, Greta taking on the challenge of painting a beautiful dress for the snowmaiden and Matthias sorting out some painted clothes for the snowman. As they finished, Pappy emerged from the house with a tiny pot and brush, and hobbling still, painted a red gold necklace and bracelet on the snowmaiden. She was highly delighted, and being cold enough to freeze the paint into something reasonably solid, she whirled and admired the delicate patterns Greta had painted on; but when they got back to the snowman it still stood inanimate.

“What are we missing? What made you come alive?” Greta asked, but all she got was a sad shake of the head. The snowmaiden turned to walk away, but stopped. Sitting right behind them was the hare, that same hare that had danced in the snow on the first night. “Why, hello!” Greta found that she was genuinely glad to see it. “You seem to be a wise creature, hare; do you know what we should do to make the snowmaiden’s partner come alive?”

The hare lolloped over to the holly tree, and the snow maiden followed in mounting excitement.

“Is it the holly? I hope there isn’t a trick to it…” Matthias cut another sprig and hurried back to the snowman, pushing it into the painted lapel of the jacket. The snowman stretched and bowed, then halted abruptly as he caught sight of the snowmaiden. “Let’s go back in, shall we?”

Matthias and Greta ran back into the house and joined Pappy who was at the window hiding between the curtains as he watched what was going on outside.

The snowman bowed; the snowmaiden curtsied, and they progressed round the field in something that was not quite a dance and not quite a procession. Reaching the house again some hours later, they stood hand in hand gazing at the Yule tree that the humans had planted for them, until dusk brought out a scattering of stars that twinkled amongst the branches like little candles.

Greta dreamt that night that the pair of them watched until the moon came out, and then that she heard something that was almost a kind of music, that seemed to turn into an infectious, happy tune that made her want to leap out of bed and dance just for the joy of it. She dreamt that the music began with a booming beat as the hare drummed its back leg on the snow, and that when they heard it, the snowmaiden and the snowman danced through the field, graceful as snowflakes, leaping and whirling in perfect time as they splashed colour through the snowy field with the hare twisting and jumping between them with all the joy of spring.

She was not sure how long it all went on for, but it must have been some hours as the sky was beginning to pale towards dawn by the time they finished. At the end of the dance, they came back to where she stood at the window and they bowed their thanks to her; and she bowed her own thanks back, hoping only that they understood how much she owed to them. They went back to stand by the holly tree, hand in hand under the fading stars, and Greta turned over and did not dream any more except for the drumming of rain, loud after the silent snow, but sounding like laughter and contentment.

7

The Sprigs of Holly

In the morning, Greta threw the curtains open to wish the snowmaiden and her snowman a happy Yuletide, only to find that the dream of rain was no dream. The long cold had broken, and the rain had washed away all the snow.

Pulling her boots on over her nightdress, Greta dashed out to the holly tree, but there was nothing left of the snowmaiden or her mate, nothing but the crimson scarf and two sprigs of holly.

Crying slightly, she picked the soggy scarf up from the ground. An arm went round her shoulders.

“Was it real, or did we all dream it?” Matthias kissed her cheek and gave her a handkerchief. “It is a strange story for a Yuletide.”

“It was real.” Greta wiped her eyes. “The snowmaiden saved us when we were lost in the snow. Besides, she left this.” She held up the shawl, but Matthias had dropped to one knee to look at the holly. Despite the cold and the long-frozen earth, both sprigs had somehow taken root in the ground.

“She left us more than that, I think. “ He laid a hand to the holly, which was only lightly rooted and came away without damage. “She has left us these too. Let’s put them in pots for the moment.”

“Pots? Why? Can’t they just stay there?”

“They wouldn’t grow there. It’s too near the parent tree, too much in the shade.” He smiled, straightening up. “Besides, we will plant them at our house when we are married.”

Greta cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, are we getting married?”

Matthias grinned. “If you’ll have me, we are. Will you marry me, Greta?” He fished in the pocket of his coat, pulling out a beautiful little ring, red-gold with a solitary ice-like diamond in it. Greta slid it onto her finger where it fit as if made for her.

“Maybe…” she teased. “If I’m free that day.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes it is, Matthias. I will marry you; and we will plant the holly trees together.”

There was a cough behind them, and they whirled guiltily.

“You youngsters have no sense of decency.” Pappy’s tone was dry.

“Do you object to my marrying your granddaughter?” Matthias asked, anxious.

“Are you going to marry her? Good choice, m’boy, good choice. No, what I was objecting to was you standing there in your nightgowns in a muddy field on Yuletide when you should be in here warm and cosy, making the breakfast we’ve been looking forward to for the past three weeks. How about it?”

Laughing, the three went back into the house to enjoy passing the Yuletide with those who loved them most, and celebrate what they had been given, which was mostly each other. When Matthias and Greta were married, she wore the crimson shawl over her dress. They planted the little trees either side of the gate; and they never forgot all that they owed to the hare, the snowmaiden and the sprigs of holly.

Afterword

The story continues in Novella 2:

The Holly & the Ivy

Try it now!

A child disappeared.

A mystery ailment.

And a family secret finally uncovered…

Greta and Matthias are worried. Their daughter Holly is sick and no-one knows what is wrong. The doctor cannot help, and Holly gets paler and sleepier with every passing day.

Then every parent’s worst nightmare: Holly disappears.

But just when everything is at its blackest, hope comes in the shape of a hare. Can it really be the same that helped Greta during the winter of the Snowmaiden? Who is the owner of the tree root doll?

And can they find Holly before it is too late?

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About the Author

J.A. Clement lives with her husband and a lunatic lurcher in the South of England. She absolutely loves having the opportunity to share her stories with real live readers, and is working to finish the next book rather faster than this one... and the next series and a few other things. To hear first about new releases you can sign up to her mailing list via her website; mails are only sent when new books are released or if there is an author event (a few times a year at most).

However if you have questions or comments, she’d love to hear from you - email is probably best but she lurks in cyberspace as below.

You can connect with JAC via:

jaclement.wordpress.com

jaclement.ondarkshores@gmail.com

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Other Books by Weasel Green Press

J.A. Clement

On Dark Shores:

The Locket

Flight from Shantar (due)

The Lady & The Other Nereia

Parallels:

The Black-Eyed Susan

Song of the Ice Lord

Tales for the telling

The Scarred Artisan

The Last Dragon

A Sprig of Holly

The Holly & The Ivy

* * *

Jo Edwards

Work-Wife Balance

Potbound

A Mixed Reception

Foggy’s Blog

A Very Foggy Christmas

* * *

Dulcie Feenan

Christmas Comes to Oddleton