The Fairytale Keeper
Part One
A Free Preview
Andrea Cefalo
Copyright © 2012 Andrea Cefalo
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted to
[email protected] Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cefalo,Andrea
Scarlet Primrose Press/Andrea Cefalo
Summary: Adelaide’s mother, Katrina, was the finest storyteller in all of Airsbach, a borough in the great city of Cologne, but she left one story untold, that of her daughter, that of Snow White. Snow White was a pet name Adelaide’s mother had given her. It was a name Adelaide hated, until now. Now, she would give anything to hear her mother say it once more.
A rampant fever claimed Adelaide’s mother just like a thousand others in Cologne where the people die without last rites and the dead are dumped in a vast pit outside the city walls. In an effort to save Katrina’s soul, Adelaide’s father obtains a secret funeral for his wife by bribing the parish priest, Father Soren.
Soren commits an unforgivable atrocity, pushing Adelaide toward vengeance. When Adelaide realizes that the corruption in Cologne reaches far beyond Soren, the cost of settling scores quickly escalates. Avenging the mother she lost may cost Adelaide everything she has left: her father, her friends, her first love, and maybe even her life.
LCCN: 2012932754
ISBN: 0985167815
Praise for The Fairytale Keeper
“A…resonant tale set late in the 13th century… with unexpected plot twists. An engaging story of revenge and redemption… An opener to a future series.” - Publisher’s Weekly
“Really great story. The author’s style reminds me of many great historical fiction pieces that I’ve read. Strong emotion injected into almost every page.” -The Vine Review
“…a unique twist on the Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Part fairy tale retelling, part historical fiction…. The Fairy Tale Keeper is a story of corruption, devotion, and tough decisions.” -Copperfield Review
Awards for The Fairytale Keeper
~Quarter-finalist in Amazon’s 2013 Breakthrough Novel Contest
~Indie Book of the Day
~Finalist in Writing.com’s “Hook Us” Competition
Reader Reviews
“The story that Cefalo weaves is intriguing and leaves you hanging on, wanting more.” -Hooked to Books Book Review Blog
“…it doesn’t feel like any retelling. Because it’s not. The Fairytale Keeper is its own unique story…very entertaining, containing a strong female role, a sweet romance, and much more.” -Lulu The Bookworm Book Review Blog
DEDICATION
To Ken
Contents
Prologue: Winter 1245
Chapter 1: 11 March, 1247
Chapter 2: 11 March, 1247, Night
Chapter 3: 12 March, 1247, Early Morning
Chapter 4: 12 March, 1247, Afternoon
Chapter 5: 12 March, 1247, Late Afternoon
Chapter 6: 12 March, 1247, Evening
Chapter 7: 13 March, 1247
Chapter 8: 14 March, 1247
Chapter 9: 15 March, 1247
Chapter 10: 17 March, 1247
Winter 1245
Fat snowflakes fall lazily to the ground. The streets of Cologne are dusted like sugared gingerbread. The row houses look like the newest gingerbread church confections I had just seen weeks ago at the Christmas market. I open the shutters. An icy wind blows through the window, through the thin wool of my tattered nightshift, through my fair skin, deep to the bone. I shiver violently and dive quickly under the blanket.
“Are you mad Adelaide?” Mother asks with a shiver. “Close the shutters or you’ll catch cold.”
“But Mama, look. It’s snowing.”
“Is it, now?” She smiles warmly. “First snow of the year.”
I move over quickly. Mother sets down the candle by my bedside and slides in next to me. I press my frigid toes against her warm legs. We smile at each other and reach our palms out the window, side by side. Flakes fall and melt quickly against the heat of our palms. I look at her ruddy skin, wondering how mine is dreadfully fair. I pull my hand back into the room.
“You have such pretty skin, my little Snow White,” Mama says, reassuringly, as she closes the shutters for the night. I recoil from the name I used to love. The cruel urchins of the market overheard Mother call me this once. Now they tease me for my pale skin and dark hair by shouting, “Snow White!” as they throw rocks or rotten fruit at me.
I slip deeper into the covers and rest my head on her soft lap. She runs her fingers through the tangles of my black hair though she never pulls. My limbs unhinge as I sink closer to a deep childlike sleep.
“Tell me my story. Tell me Snow White.” I say, slipping deeper into the blankets, shifting until I am most comfortable.
“You always hate it when I tell your story, Adelaide.” She sighs as her finger is caught on a tangle which she abandons for a neater section of my hair.
“That’s because you haven’t added to it since I was born. I am thirteen winters now. Surely there is more to tell.” I say with a yawn.
“A baby in my eyes still.” She coos, and I roll my eyes. “How can I know the story of your life when your life has barely begun?”
I huff in protest.
“I cannot write your story, Snow White. Only you can write your story.”
“Then, tell me another story.” I resign.
Two years later…
11 March, 1247, Afternoon
Once upon a time in the middle of winter, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony. And whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow. And the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, would that I had a child as white as snow, with lips as red as blood, and hair as black as the wood of the window frame.
…she had a little daughter, whose skin was as white as snow with lips as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony, and she was therefore called little Snow White. And fifteen winters after the child was born, the queen died.
-Snow White
~
I place my hand on the nose of the brown workhorse as Father and Johan remove her dead body from its carriage. He shakes his head and snorts, the steam of his breath floating into the cold March fog.
I am not supposed to be motherless. That happens to other children. Yet here I am, watching Mama being placed on a pyre. My legs shake as I approach her for the last time. I haven’t slept in days.
A loosely-knit ivory shroud is tightly wound around her lifeless skin. Her once pink lips are violet and flattened. Mama is dead, I think. Seeing her again makes it all dreadfully real, and the grief robs me of breath.
I brush my fingers along the waves of her clay-colored hair and trace her high cheek bones, resting them on her cold, hard hands folded gently across the waist of the cream-colored tunic she was wearing when she died.
The bouquet of wild flowers I had plucked for the funeral is now wilting in my iron grip, and the leaves have browned. She is too good for wilted flowers, I think, and toss the bouquet to the ground. I return to Father’s side where he stands with Mama’s cousin, Galadriel.
Th
e dead flowers begin to roll away with an icy gust of wind, but Father kneels quickly to collect them. He pushes them against my stomach and muffles a cough. Men do not cry in Cologne, at least not outside the walls of their homes, so he stares straight ahead stoically with his jaw tightly clenched.
Father Soren moves hurriedly through the funeral rites. His face twists with disgust and I imagine he fears contracting the great fever that has killed so many in Cologne. His callous eyes stare through us, devoid of compassion.
He speaks faster as the heavy clouds darken and the roar of thunder builds. I despise him and his church. In this, I know I am not alone. These vile men hide in their churches as the people of Cologne succumb to the fever without last rites. They are the ones who order the bodies of our family and friends to be dumped like refuse into an enormous pit far outside the city walls.
Yesterday, Father sent friends to find a priest who could serve Mama her last rites. St. Severin, St. Kunibert, St. Gereon… even the cathedral’s priests refused us and stated that, as it was Sunday, they were busy preparing for Mass, but I know better. No priest would come to our home for fear of catching the fever. I pray Saint Peter shall pardon this missing sacrament and grant Mama entry to Heaven.
I hope these men all perish without their last rites. I hope they are placed on that horrid cart destined for the pit outside the city, their crooked bodies hanging from the edge of the cart with the poorest and most decayed victims, mouths agape, surrounded by flies.
Father says we are lucky to have a funeral at all. We are lucky that 1247 has been a fruitful year for us. We are lucky to live in a city where a cobbler can earn enough to bribe a priest into giving a funeral service. We are lucky Father comes from a long line of cobblers, and that the wealthiest families of Cologne purchase his shoes. We are lucky the fever hasn’t stopped pilgrims from coming to Cologne and buying from our booth in the market.
But I do not feel lucky today.
Father Soren quickly bows his head in silence. Then, with a snap of his chubby fingers, he summons his dark-haired associate, Johan, to light the pyre. The straw below Mama ignites and flames lap at her like the devil’s tongue. An anxious twitch possesses my leg. She cannot be dead, I think. She would never leave me.
I run to the pyre and pet her hair, but she does not wake. I kiss her cold hard face and beg her to rise, but she does not hear. I beg louder, choking on sobs.
Father Soren gasps with disgust.
“Stupid urchin!” He hisses. “She’s infected herself now!” He backs farther from the smoking pyre and points a shaking finger toward me. “She’ll give us all the fever.”
I shake Mother’s shoulders and cry for her to wake. My flowers fall and are swallowed by the growing flames as unbridled sobs burst from my throat. I embrace her body tightly, knowing now she shall not rise.
Smoke stings my lungs and fire smarts my skin like hundreds of tiny whips, but the burns are nothing compared to the wicked pains of grief that wring my stomach like a wet rag, that smite the breath from my lungs, and put a hardened lump at the back of my throat.
Father pries my arms loose and pulls me backward. I fall to the ground coughing. A rim of ambers glows along the hems of my chainse and surcote which I smother in the cold, soggy ground.
“Take your coins and go, coward,” Father spits as he pitches a small bag to the ground by the growing flames in disgust.
Johan retrieves the bag before it catches fire.
“I should have had your wench placed on the cart and disposed of properly, Schumacher,” the priest declares. He stares straight into Father’s eyes and spits on Mama’s corpse.
Father’s eyes narrow, and his face flashes a violent scarlet as he charges Soren. Soren’s buggy eyes widen with fright and shock, as he runs to the opposite side of the pyre. He shifts left and then right, trying to anticipate how Father might come for him. Johan stands with crossed arms at the head of the pyre.
“You wouldn’t hit a priest, would you, Schumacher? It’s a hanging offense.” Soren warns, swallowing hard.
Father unsheathes his dagger. “I don’t plan on hitting you.”
Galadriel gasps. “No, Ansel, don’t do this! Katrina wouldn’t want you to hang.”
Galadriel is right. Mama would not want this, but Father’s rages rarely wane with reason. I have no doubt that he could kill the priest. He has a lean strength that increases three-fold when he’s angered. I’ve seen him beat a thief nearly twice his girth in the market. It took nearly a half-dozen men to pull him off, but Johan is a Goliath with a broad sword at his hip.
“Johan!” Soren cries. “Will you not protect me?”
Johan bounces the bag of coins in his hand. “That depends on what your life is worth to you, Priest.”
“Traitorous oaf! Our deal was already struck.”
Father rounds the pyre, and Soren rushes behind Johan who smiles at his good fortune.
“You can have half the purse!” Soren squeals.
“If I let the shoemaker kill you, he’ll let me keep them all.” Johan observes.
“Done. The purse is yours.”
“The purse is already mine, as I see it. What else can you offer?”
“A guilder.”
“Two.” Johan counters.
“Fine,” Soren hisses. “Two guilders!”
“As I see it, Schumacher, the priest has paid a fine of two guilders for his wrongs and receives no pay for the funeral.” Johan reasons.
“Ansel, please,” Galadriel pleads once more. She approaches him slowly like he is a wild animal. She reaches for his sleeve, and her eyes widen as she attempts to calm Father with her striking gaze, but he looks past her to Soren.
A long moment passes, and I feel torn between siding with Galadriel and urging Father on. The rogue spat on my mother and deserves to be punished. I should like to see Father give him a thrashing he shan’t soon forget. Father sighs and sheaths his dagger.
“Ready the carriage, Johan,” Soren orders, turning away.
My hand rests on a cobblestone, and revenge tempts me. I pick it up, rise, and pitch the stone, aiming for the back of Soren’s bald head. He yelps as it strikes his shoulder. He turns and narrows his eyes at me.
“You little witch!” He hisses, rubbing the injury.
He approaches the pyre and kicks a log from beneath it. The structure collapses. Mother’s burning remains tumble to the ground. Soren races to the carriage and jumps aboard. Johan whips the horses, and they charge toward the city walls. Father races after them in vain.
I drop to my knees, wailing in anguish. I cry as the dark, moaning clouds pour down upon us, rain sizzling in the flames. Mama’s charred remains extinguish under the cold deluge.
Father runs to me and falls to his knees. He turns me away from the defiled corpse. “Do not look,” his voice cracks, and he embraces me tightly. He cries violently, angrily, as I sob into his shoulder. I had never heard my father cry like that before, and I hope I never have to hear it again.
~
Father stands, and pulls me with him. He urges me forward, forcing my gaze on the long road ahead of us back to the city. “Night approaches.”
“We cannot leave her here like this,” I cry in protest, but Father does not reply and continues to push me forward. I know now he shall return to bury her.
“I hope you do not intend to do this alone.” I say quietly. “There are wolves and thieves outside the gates at night.” He does not answer. I fight the urge to beg him to reconsider, for I know my protests shall fall on deaf ears.
My crying ebbs and flows from violent bawling to whimpers. I cannot fathom ever being happy again after this day. The tears still pool and flow down my face which is raw from the water, the wind, and whips from the long black strands of my hair that cannot be tamed in this weather. My throat grows painful and tired and my cries slowly abate. My anguish is locked away, and I feel nothing, not even the sting of the cold March r
ain.
The sky slowly darkens from grey to black as we approach Severin’s gate, which, like all the gates, is closed every night. Father knocks on the heavy wood. The window slides open and a one-eyed, old man appears from behind it. “State yer business,” he says matter-of-factly. His long, wet, silver hair blows out from the window.
“Gregor, it’s us,” Father says.
“Ansel?” The man squints with his one good eye.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry about yer missus,” Gregor says gently. He continues with his condolences as he jumps from his stand. I wonder if he knows we can no longer hear him. The chains crank as the massive gate rises, revealing Gregor, a sweet old man barely as tall as my shoulder.
He and my grandfather, whom I never met, were childhood friends. Plagued with rheumatism, Gregor was forced to give up masonry long ago. He now mans the gate for little pay. When Father noticed Gregor’s toes poking out from beneath his shoes a fortnight ago, he made him a new pair without charge.
“Do the shoes fit well?” Father asks, looking down at his work. Gregor does not answer, but looks past Father to Galadriel, staring at her with a nearly religious captivation. It is the way men have stared at her since she arrived, as though they would either like to eat her whole or revere her for an eternity.
Even in her soaked, drab, grey tunic and cloak, Galadriel is beautiful. Her blonde hair shimmers even on a stormy day like this. She has skin as fair and clear as fresh cream. Her light blue eyes are wide, and I can imagine jongleurs composing songs in her name.
“Gregor? Are you all right?” I ask to snap him from his awkward stare.
“Oh, yes!” Gregor finally answers. “Oh! My feet are as warm an’ dry as the Holy Land itself, Ansel!” Gregor’s pointed nose passes his lips, bobbing up and down when he talks. He parades his footwear, and then looks up at Father with concern. “I’m really sorry ’bout Katrina, Ansel. She was a queen among women.”