Father John Laurent who I met for a short time, and as a man of the cloth, promised he would let people know my true story, so I shared it with him.
My name is Snow – the only name I know – and this is my story.
The sun was dipping into the horizon when I remembered Nan Flora asked me to gather herbs in the garden. She had just left for the market and the herbs would need time to dry before her return. I ran down the path to the brook and looked back. Faint lights from our cottage flickered in the hill above me, my guiding light especially when the fog settled over the mountain. But I had been doing this many a year now and could easily find my way in the dark too. I knew every tree, dell, flower and scent that laid below and above me.
This was my home, it had been for many years. Just Nan, me and my forest friends that bid me hello in the morning and sleep well at night with their snorts, grunts, whistles, and twitters. I walked unafraid, knowing that I was safe here with the sun as my companion for my daily chores and the moonlight to lull me to sleep.
In the garden, I picked sprigs of rosemary first, its sticky resin coating my hands. Then I moved to the next bed and picked the other herbs. Nan was a powerful healer and all the medicinal herbs she grew was used for concoctions that people from far and wide wanted for their ailments. I did not see these people because Nan travelled for days by cart to sell her wares. She never took me with her for the fear that I would be wanted by men and scorned by woman.
So, all my life I knew no other living soul beside Nan. But I was happy. My life was simple and I needed nothing. Nan taught me to read, write, sing, and dance too.
My basket laden, I trudged back up to our cottage. Inside, I stirred the fire, set the herbs to dry and ate my meal. When I was done, I washed and got into bed. However, it was not long before I drifted off to sleep when a sudden sound woke me. I got up, lit a candle and went to open the door. Outside, I looked around but saw nothing, but as I walked back inside, I heard it.
A soft moan that was a different sound from anything I had ever heard before. I walked back out and lifted my candle. “Hello.” My light was too dim to see beyond a few feet, but the moonlight was bright enough to give shapes and shadows to everything. “Hello,” I called out once more.
And then I heard it again—low moaning. Moving closer to the well, I stopped with a gasp. A figure sat against the wall around the well. Slowly, I drew nearer and dropped to my knees. It was a man—the last one I saw was my father, and then I was but a babe. He abandoned me, but he had to and cannot answer why. I reached out to touch his arm before my eyes lighted on the dark patches of blood against this man’s white coat.
“Who are you?” I asked.
His hand moved and I put mine in his. His swaying head lifted slowly, his drowsy eyes looked at me. “Do not leave me,” he whispered, holding my hand tighter. Then the light in his eyes dimmed, before they closed, and he fell to the side.
“Oh,” I gasped. Pulling my hand from his, I hurried back to the cottage and retrieved a large sack Nan made for our floor in winter. I dragged it back to the man, laid it out, and rolled him onto it. Then, as Nan taught me how to move the foals when they were born and too sick to move, I pulled the sack back to the cottage. I dragged until he lay in front of the fire and added more wood until it roared. Happy he was still sleeping, I set to work, removing his clothes and tending his wounds. Deep cuts slashed across his chest and back. Using Nan’s herbs, I bathed his wounds, applied the herbs, and wrapped them like Nan showed me how to.
When he began to tremble, I was afraid he would not live. I grabbed his hand in mine and gently rubbing the back of it, I murmured, “stay with me,” over and over until I fell asleep by his side.
The twitter of my little blue friends woke me and I quickly added more wood to the fire to keep the cottage warm. Worried about the man, I placed a hand to his forehead. He was still sleeping but his skin was hot. I bathed him with fresh cold water and when I was done with his wounds, I tried to feed him soup made from the healing herbs.
In the evening, I kept the fire burning and when he began to tremble again, I held his hand and whispered, “stay with me,” over and over until he fell asleep.
On the third day, he moved a little but did not wake. Then when I was done wrapping his wounds, his fingers closed around mine. “Do not leave me,” he whispered once more.
And I smiled, and said, “stay with me, then.” As if he heard me, he squeezed my hand.
By day six, he opened his eyes and smiled at me. “You saved me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” I did not know how a man should look but this man had hair as dark as coal, skin as fair as cream and eyes as green as the spring forest.
It was not long before he woke and moved around. With the material Nan Flora had brought back from the market before, I sewed him pants and shirts that did not look as pretty as his clothes he came with, but they were clean.
“What is your name?” he asked the first morning he woke and walked outside.
“Snow.”
“Nice to meet you, Snow. Do you know who I am?” He was tall and seemed to be so big for our tiny cottage.
I shook my head. “I have never been far from this cottage, so I do not know people. Only Nan Flora.”
“You would not like the world that I come from. It is prevalent with strife and hierarchy.” His laugh was soft and made me want to laugh too. “My name is Sebastian, but you can call me Bastian.”
When Nan returned she was most worried that the man would make trouble for us. Grateful that I saved his life, he promised there would not be any trouble.
“How did you find us,” Nan asked one morning.
“I was sent to battle against the Sasken rebels, we got separated from the others and ambushed. Wounded, I rode for days and must have passed out and fell of my horse. When I woke it was to the pretty face of Snow helping me. I do not know where I am, where my horse—”
“Your horse is by the river,” I said. “It’s a beautiful white one, yes?” He nodded.
