A Short Story - Inspired by Snow White

The Tale of Harris & Alabaster Snow

The Ambrosia Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the ash oak trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its rusted hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. There was no crowd, not even a handful of ogres inside the inn and there was no music. Inside the Ambrosia a pair of hunched dwarves huddled at one corner of the bar, drinking quietly, their eyes darted furtively looking to the entrance. Everybody had a reason for being afraid of the Queen. They added a small, uneasy silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels of honey mead behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight. Harris’ eyes were dark and distant coals, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things. The Ambrosia was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was as deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great riverstone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

In an hour, Harris knew that the Ambrosia would be full and the fast-paced current of the night would wash away time. Again. But for now his thoughts returned as always to another night. Harris had a different job in those days.

The tawny-striped owls had hunted almost silently, their eyes scanning for ring-tailed rodents scurrying through the underbrush. The smell of moss-wet earth and musty forest decay had wrapped itself around the oak trunks. Harris had been sent to hunt. And kill. Her name was Alabaster Snow. She was the greatest healer in Arceus, her powers were said to bring back the dead from Erehwon. And she was hated by the Queen. It was rumoured that the Queen had poisoned Alabaster’s mother and married her father. Of course, there was no proof of the poisoning. That was Harris’ job – to ensure that it was done as if she had died of natural causes. And the Queen had wanted Alabaster destroyed.

Harris felt as if he was transported back into that time again.

At first, I watched her from a distance, my disguise blended in with the forest and I kept my footsteps light. The ebony hunting mask issued by the Queen hid my features and I was all but invisible. Her pale, tear-stained skin was translucent in the moonlight, like gossamer. She looked lost, her lithe form consumed by the forest shadows. As I got closer I heard her uneven breathing. Her apple-red lips quivered in fear. Night had fallen and she had nowhere to go. I almost pitied her, but being a Henchman, I could not risk disobeying the Queen's direct order. It was then, when she was most vulnerable that I sprang upon her. In a single swift movement, I grabbed her dainty, porcelain wrists and tied them to the closest oak tree. I stifled her screams with a rag I had in my satchel. She struggled but was no match for my strength. Looking into her mahogany eyes, wide with muted terror, I could not bring myself to harm her. So I set the forest ablaze and let nature complete my work. It would seem as if she had died in a forest fire.

But every night as I polish mahogany, I think of those eyes, and my feet get heavier, almost as if the Ambrosia’s timber floors are dragging me down, a little deeper every night. I’m rooted in sin and remorse.

Harris sighed as customers trickled in. He poured mead into crystalline jugs and served large bowls of steaming Ambercup Squash soup and hunks of blackened Tourmaline bread, sprinkled with Begonia seeds and red salt on vast boards. The Ambrosia became full of sound, the planets had offered visitors from Yuzzumi and Chargrion tonight, they chugged and snorted. Cutlery jangled and jugs were clanged together and set down with a splash. Ogres stomped uproariously to an old star-sailor ditty, heaving their large odorous bodies good-naturedly and swore in languages the locals luckily did not know when they landed heavily on each others’ feet. Some local gnomes jeered at the newcomers and he had to settle them down. It got like that sometimes, rowdy. But he was used to it. And eventually, after the arguing and taunting, they usually settled down and bonded while watching the latest dragon race on the large screens in the Ambrosia.

The door swung open and the seven dwarves entered. They were regulars, miners at the local Moldavite mountain mine and always came straight from work still dressed in their thick overalls and steel-tipped boots, helmets and mine lights slung casually over their shoulders, jackets covered in a fine layer of soot. Grumpy was fond of the flaming absinthe. Harris knew all of their favourite drinks.

But tonight there was another person with them. She wore a velvet cloak, dark red and swirling like a current around her. As she lifted her hood, he recognised those eyes instantly. Warm like polished mahogany. He dropped the glass in his hands and it shattered on the floor as if pulled out of his hands by force, his feet rooted and sinking deep. He was transfixed but trembling. Nobody noticed, with the din of the crowd.

As the dwarves approached, he collected himself and asked, “So, Grumpy, your usual tonight? Sleepy? Lavender-blossom ale? Sneezy, I have your low-allergy tonic...and for the lady?”

He smiled politely as he took their order. When he returned with their drinks, he heard snippets of what had transpired.

Grumpy grumbled under his breath, “To another year with Alabaster, it was this night a year ago when we found you in the burning forest. We hoped to save some wildlife and...I guess it’s lucky we arrived in time to save you as well. ”

Bashful chimed in, “That night we gained a new friend. Ever since you joined us we have been grateful to you for all your help around the house and warm dinners. Thanks Aly,” he blushed shyly.

Sleepy yawned, “Let’s make a toast before I fall asleep.”
They all clinked their glasses together and downed their drinks just as quickly.

Maintaining the appearance of his usual calm composure, Harris felt inexplicably lighter. As if the weight that had been pulling him down was released, at least some part of it.
One by one, customers yawned and waved their goodbyes to one another, shot parting jeers at others and swung through the Ambrosia’s doors.

Alone again, the silence settled comfortably back into its place. Harris’ feet were light as he went about cleaning up for the night, wiping away stains and spills, washing platters and jugs. He sighed and then was silent. It was the patient, cut-flower silence of a man unshackled from his guilt.