By H. L. Davis
I slosh through a murky puddle and trudge over another mound of slushy snow, leaving my valenki darkened and damp. But chilled feet are the last of my worries. After all these hours of calling, of tramping through this stretch of Russian forest, I still haven’t found him.
“Father Frost!”
My shout is answered by the scent of musty leaves filling my nostrils. I blink rapidly and force my shaky legs to move on. What good are tears? They can’t stop what is happening, can’t halt spring’s return.
The trees aren’t afraid to cry. Drip. Drip. Drip. Waterdrops glisten along dark pine needles, patter down from the birches’ bare branches. They seem to know winter’s end means the loss of Arina’s visits for a time.
What they can’t understand is that I fear my daughter may not live to see them again.
I stop and rest my hand on the trunk of a larch—a feeble attempt to comfort the whole wood. With a sigh, I note the sun’s light, the forest’s shadows. I haven’t yet heard the cuckoo’s call. Surely Frost hasn’t already left?
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
The booming voice makes me turn so quickly I must spread my arms to steady myself.
There Father Frost stands, tall and broad-shouldered, his beard a silver waterfall trickling down the front of his robes. His pale eyes twinkle with satisfaction.
“So, it’s true!” he says. “The winds whispered to me that the Snow Maiden I helped walk and talk is made of snow no longer. That she’s been fully human for some time now. I confess, at first, I did not believe them. But here you are!”
Why is he pretending to be surprised? Flustered, I reply, “Of course, it’s true. I’ve been wed these fifteen years to Ivan Petrovich. Bore a child our second winter as man and wife. But snow must still somehow linger in my veins, because our daughter, she…” My throat tightens. “She’s not like other children.”
“How so?”
I open my mittened hands at my sides as if I can somehow snatch the right words out of the air. “Arina thrives when snow covers the earth. Somehow, the cold gives her health. Laughter. Freckles! But when winter fades, so does she. Growing pale in the sun’s heat—weak to the point she cannot leave her bed. Her condition worsens each spring, every summer. She holds on to hope, but I’m afraid she…she might…”
I pull my coat closer. Do I dare utter the words?
Father Frost’s shoulders droop; his eyes dim. “I wish I could help, Snow Maiden.”
My anger surges at his display of sorrow and ignorance. “You wish? You granted my wish the day I started melting—gave me true life! Surely there’s enough compassion in your cold heart to show similar grace to my child.”
Frowning, he addresses me by the name Papa and Mama chose when they first fashioned me of snow all those years ago. “Natalia, I have limited power in this world. I offered a lonely couple a daughter of snow for a season—a taste of joy that could not last. It took the might of one greater than I to make you flesh and bone.”
Someone else had answered my pleas? I shake my head, my emotions swirling in a flurry of confusion. “If that’s true, then… why does this great being allow Arina to suffer so? It isn’t fair!”
Frost’s voice turns frigid. “Is it fair that your child thrives in a season when countless others battle sickness and death? Was it fairness that granted you a beating heart?”
I step back, a strange warmth washing over me. With effort, I try to swallow what feels like an invisible stone lodged in my throat. “Is there a way I… may speak with him?”
“He once heard you in this very wood, did he not?” Father Frost glances around with a knowing smile. “I believe where you stand is as good a place as any.”
In the distance, faint but clear, a cuckoo sings—the forest crier announcing Frost’s time is over. He looks back at me. “I wish you and your daughter the best. Farewell.”
He vanishes like a breath in icy air.
The wood grows quiet once more. Even the weeping trees seem hushed, waiting. A sense of awe makes my arms tingle. The forest has always filled me with wonder, but this is something different. Something more.
I sink to the whiteness from which I was formed, my mouth dry. For many moments, I cannot speak. Then I choke out a prayer to the one who made me new.
“Great One… I know I don’t deserve your favor, but… could you please heal my daughter? Allow her to feel the summer sun without frailty or pain?”
I scoop up a handful of wet snow. As it crumbles through my fingers, my tears flow. “And if not, I still thank you. For her life… and mine. In sun or snow, a life with love is a gift.”
Golden rays reach through the trees and brush my cheeks, their warmth melting the fear that has long gripped my heart. Bolstered, I stand, certainty flooding my being that I am seen, held, cherished.
And so is my Arina.
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