The silent night a sleep.., p.1
The Silent Night: A Sleeping Beauty Retelling, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Sarah Beran
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Karri Klawiter
For Nehemiah,
who has one of the most generous hearts I have known
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
The silence was deafening.
After so many years, Holly should have been accustomed to the way the dark night pressed down upon her or the way the empty halls echoed with the sound of nothing as she walked through on slippered feet. She should have come to expect the tall, flickering shadows caused by her lone candle to be swallowed up by the darkness of the high, arched ceilings, or been prepared for the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that crashed over her as she moved from one unoccupied room to the next.
But even after all these years, Holly was still not used to it.
“First things first,” her voice tried valiantly to overpower the oppressive silence of the night. “I need to find food, and then I should make sure that the windows are open for What and Why. I wonder if Who has a letter for me today?”
Holly glided along the worn track on the floor, her feet moving as lightly as if she were a spirit of the air. She held the candle out in front of her, cupping it with one hand to ensure that the tiny flame was not extinguished by her forward momentum. The moon was half-full, which meant that if the candle did go out, she should still have enough light to find her way around. In truth, on all but the nights of the new moon, Holly didn’t really need the candle to see. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the low light, even if her mind had not.
But the darkness only made the silence louder, so she kept the candle lit.
The long stone hallway stretched out before her, with cold, gray stone floors and walls broken up by dusty tapestries and faded, tattered rugs. Tall windows made up of diamond panes of glass ran at regular intervals, allowing the moonlight to filter through and affording a clear view of the sparkling stars in a dark, velvety sky. Frosty remains of a previous snow still clung to the outside window sills, with feathered fractals that spread up and across the lower panes in an icy web.
At the next juncture, Holly turned to the right and followed another long corridor until she came to a set of stairs. The narrow, circular staircase was nearly identical to the one on the other side of the castle that led to her room, with uneven steps and no railing—a final means of defense if enemies were to ever breach the walls. After so many years, Holly knew the stairs by heart, and she floated down just as easily as she had walked the level floor of the hall.
A few minutes later she walked into the large, empty kitchen. Using the soft circle of her candlelight, she maneuvered her way around the shadowy boxes of counters and worktables until she came to the dark, open doorway of the larder. She bypassed the empty barrels and crates and went straight to a set of shelves along the side, where a collection of potatoes stood arranged in neat rows.
“Tubers it is,” Holly announced, examining the row of reddish-brown globes. “Unless What has found something else. Ha! Tuber.” She switched to a low, gruff tone. “Shall we take tuber three of them, Your Highness? Get it? Like ‘two or three’?”
She tapped a finger against her chin and tilted her head towards the ceiling, considering. Her voice returned to normal. “I think two will be plenty. I doubt the Parliament will want potatoes, and it would be a pity to let any go to waste.”
With two potatoes in one hand and the candle in another, Holly turned gracefully on her heel and strode back to the center of the kitchen. As if on cue, a rattling, tapping sound came from one of the windows. She set her dinner down on the large table and crossed to the window, sliding it open with only a little difficulty.
Cold, crisp air immediately kissed her skin, and Holly inhaled deeply. The clean air was laced with the promise of snow, though on this side of the castle no clouds yet blocked her view of the moon—or at least, what she could see of the moon through the thick layer of holly branches. The spiky leaves covered most of the window, leaving only a small opening in the center.
Holly reached out and pushed some of the leaves to the side. “It’s open!”
Her words were answered by the loud hoot of an owl and the soft whirring of feathers as a small, snowy white owl flew in through the window and alighted on the table beside her potatoes after dropping the bundle of twigs it held in its feathered feet. Two more followed in quick succession, one joining the first on the table with a solid thud. The other landed on her shoulder, depositing a folded piece of thick parchment in her hands. A frisson of warmth wrapped around her heart as Holly tucked it away in her pocket for later.
“Good evening, Who,” Holly cooed, reaching up to gently stroke the soft feathers of the bird on her shoulder. “And What and Why; always a pleasure to see you.”
What hooted, ruffling his feathers and kicking one of the twigs towards her.
“And of course, thank you for the gifts. You are such a kind and clever owl, aren’t you?”
Not to be outdone, Why fluttered over and dropped a sprig of rosemary into her hand.
“Why, thank you! This will go perfectly with my potatoes—but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Both owls hooted proudly as Holly made a small fire and set a small pot of water from the cistern to boil. Her potatoes went in, along with the rosemary and a sprinkling of salt. She carried on a steady stream of conversation with her feathered companions as she worked.
“Where are the others tonight? It’s been a while since we’ve had a full quorum. Though I suppose the weather might keep them busy. Do you think we’ll have much snow this time?”
“I’ve been reading about crop rotation—I know, such riveting material—and I’m thinking that it would be a good idea to implement in the greenhouses. Of course, Nic might have already thought of it, but perhaps it’s worth mentioning.”
“I had the most peculiar dream last night. Or was it this morning? Evening? Oh bother, it’s so hard to know what to call it. Anyway, in my dream there was this big bowl of sugared plums. We used to always have them this time of year, you know. But there was a loud sound, and I dropped the bowl, spilling the plums all over the floor. And do you know what happened? Those sugar plums began to dance! It was really the most ridiculous thing.”
Holly drained the potatoes and set them, steaming, into a bowl to cool while she filled a glass with water from the cistern. It was refilled regularly through a cleverly positioned gutter that ran from the roof, collecting both rainwater and melting snow. She ate by candlelight, huddled next to the small flame for brightness and warmth while the three snowy owls watched her with their bright, golden eyes.
“I’m sorry, dears,” she said around a mouthful of hot potato. “I would offer you some, but I’m afraid I don’t know if tubers are even a part of your diet. And I don’t particularly feel like eating mice, despite how delicious you insist it is.” Her nose wrinkled at the memory of the first meals her friends had tried to bring her. “Though I would appreciate it if next time you could bring something green? Only if you can find it without trouble, of course. I don’t want you making nuisances of yourselves on my account.”
Who gently butted Holly’s ear with her downy soft head and hooted softly. Holly leaned into the fowl’s affection and smiled. “I know you don’t mind, clever thing. But I mind. Things are hard enough in Weihnacht as it is. The people don’t need any extra mischief.”
She rinsed her bowl and cup and laid them out on the counter to dry before wiping her hands down the front of her nightgown. Once upon a time it had been a beautiful, rich blue color; now it had faded to an icy blue that was almost gray.
But it was still warm, though, and that is what mattered the most—especially when winter seemed to come earlier and stay longer with every passing year.
Holly glanced out the open window, noting with some relief that an hour had already passed. She patted the folded piece of paper in her pocket; it would help pass the remaining time.
“Alright, my lovelies, this session of Parliament may now come to its conclusion.” A slight giggle escaped her at the habitual, ridiculous send-off as she gave affectionate cuddles to What and Why. “I’ll be here again at the same time tomorrow. Send Where, When, and How my love.”
The two owls nipped at her with their beaks in sharp bird kisses and took off through the window to fly away soundlessly through the night. Holly looked up at Who.
“Will you stay with me until my letter is finished, or do you have some important owl business to attend to?”
The ow
With the unique comfort that came from being able to feel another heartbeat besides her own in the overwhelming silence, Holly retraced her steps up the steep stairs, down the long halls, and into one of the two other rooms that she used regularly. It had once been a private sitting room in the royal family’s quarters, and there was a tasteful arrangement of comfortable furniture arranged in a semi-circle around a large hearth. A massive mantel of carved oak made up the centerpiece of the room, with rosettes and climbing vines cut into the wood in intricate arrangements. Such care and detail had gone into the craftsmanship that Holly had believed as a young girl that fairy magic had simply transformed real roses into wood.
Faded, dusty stockings hung over the empty hearth, the sight of them bringing up memories of cold, wet snow and peals of laughter, of a red sled the same color as the holly berries outside the window, of the sight of bright eyes and pink cheeks and jolly voices.
No one had expected that would be the day that it all changed.
Holly forced her eyes to gloss over the mantel and the stockings with little more than an absent acknowledgment of their presence. She could dwell on the memories in her dreams later.
Instead, she focused her attention on the small writing desk in the corner that she had dragged into the space so many years ago and shoved against the wall under the tall, diamond-paned window. The wooden chair creaked as Holly sat down. Who hopped off her shoulder, climbing onto the windowsill and immediately starting to preen her feathers.
The scraping sound of the tiny drawer opening echoed loudly throughout the room. Holly reached in and pulled out a stack of papers, creased and bent with fold lines and softened from reverent handling. As she had so many times before, Holly placed her candle to the side and started from the first letter, reading the words in their familiar, looping script.
I find it difficult to compose a proper greeting to an unknown recipient who leaves letters tucked away in the hollow of a tree. Yours was addressed ‘To anyone who finds this,’ which, I suppose, must make the reciprocal ‘To the person who left the first letter’ perfectly acceptable.
To answer your question, yes, I do celebrate the Winter Festival with my family. Everyone in Weihnacht does, though it does seem to be much less thrilling now than when I was younger. It’s hard to be excited about winter when it’s like an impolite guest who always overstays his welcome. I gather from your question that you must be a visitor or recent transplant to our (very cold) country. Do you celebrate the Winter Festival where you’re from?
Since I have no idea when your letter was left in the tree, I am not very confident that this note will ever be seen by another pair of human eyes. Still, in the spirit of curiosity, I will be back again in a week’s time.
Nic
Joy,
I must admit that I was pleasantly surprised to find your answer. Just tell me one thing: does the owl stare you down while you approach as well? No matter which direction I come from, its eyes are always on me. It’s rather unnerving.
I am sorry to hear about your illness. Being confined to bed is terribly frustrating, and I hope you recover soon. While I did say the Winter Festival is not nearly as exciting as when I was younger, Deus Natus Day is still one of my favorite holidays, and it would be a shame if you had to miss it.
Nic
Joy,
Now that I am thinking of it, how exactly are you getting your letters to the tree if you haven’t been able to leave your home? Unless, of course, you are really a wood sprite or some other fairy and make your home amongst the branches. If that is the case, is the owl your butler? Or guard? Is that why it continues to stare at me?
(I hope you understand that I don’t really think you are some kind of fairy creature. I am very cognizant of the fact that there is likely a friend or some other third party involved who carries the letter for you. My father is always reprimanding me for being much too ridiculous; he believes that a “real” man is much too serious to have an imagination.)
But you asked about Deus Natus Day, not my father’s opinions. Our family celebrates like most—we attend chapel at midnight the night before. I think my favorite part is when, after the last song, all of the lights are put out and we walk home by candlelight. Even the streetlamps are unlit. Though I am growing weary of the seemingly endless snow, there is something almost magical about the way the moonlight causes the ground to sparkle.
The next morning, we sleep late and attend another chapel service. Then it’s home for a hot lunch of ham, buttered rolls, roasted vegetables, and an assortment of cookies and pastries. (I can smell them baking in the kitchen now.) We exchange gifts—my mother and father and two younger sisters and I—and then the rest of the day is spent together in whatever fashion we choose.
What about you? What kinds of traditions does your family keep this time of year?
Nic
Holly smiled softly as she pictured the domestic scene that Nic’s words conjured in her mind. She could practically taste the Deus Natus treats, and her own memories of celebrations melded with his descriptions, until she nearly wasn’t sure which were her own and which were contrived. She stroked a loving finger over the familiar words as she moved the letter aside to read the next one.
Joy,
I had nearly forgotten about sledding! It’s been so long since my siblings and I were young enough for such frivolity that I hardly remember the feeling of flying down a snowy hill. I’m sure we still have a sled around here somewhere… Perhaps I’ll get it out again.
It’s quite an interesting question, to be worried about the economic state of the country. Are you sure you’re not some foreign spy trying to puzzle out our weaknesses?
I’m joking again, of course. No one with ill intentions would be able to get past that owl and its soul-searching gaze.
To be honest, Weihnacht is struggling. There’s no reason to sugarcoat it. The winters have been stretching on for longer and longer every year, and the growing season has in turn become shorter. It’s been years since the farmers have been able to harvest more than a meager crop of winter wheat, and the warmer months are gone so quickly there’s hardly time for any spring or summer crops. Resources among the lower classes are scarce, spirits are low, and crime is on the rise. Just the other day a man was brought before the duke for breaking into his neighbor’s cellar and stealing three bushels of pickles.
Pickles, Joy. He was reduced to stealing pickles.
The priest claims that one day God will send us a ruler again and bring back spring. But Weihnacht lost their royal family almost a century ago, and unless the ghosts in the castle come back to life, I’m not sure how exactly he expects that to happen. In the meantime, we are getting by. There is talk of forming an alliance with our neighbors to the south. The duke, whose position, as you know, has taken on a regent status, is hopeful that Ernteland would be amenable to adopting Weihnacht as a vassal state, thus allowing us to keep at least some of our autonomy. His daughter, as the sacrificial offering to be made in the marriage alliance, is not nearly as hopeful. In fact, she is vehemently opposed to the idea.
On that cheery note, I must close this off. Feel free to share any fresh ideas you might have about improving the lives of the Weihnish citizens. Perhaps all that time cooped up in your bed has given you lots of creative solutions.
Nic
A grin stretched across Holly’s face. When Nic had written that letter, he had no idea just what he was getting into. She wished she could have seen his face as he read her reply. Did his eyes widen with as much surprise as his next letter communicated? His words conveyed amazement and awe—did he laugh and shake his head as he read? Did he share her ideas with as much enthusiasm as he claimed?
Holly’s mouth silently formed the words as she read. This particular letter she knew almost by heart, so often had it been read, as it was the first time she could remember since that night that she had something truly helpful to offer.
Joy,
Beautiful, brilliant, blessed Joy,
