The Colors of Cold by J. M. Sidorova

Author:J. M. Sidorova
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

She scrambled off my lap. She tried to speak but sobbed instead; she shivered and tugged at her nightgown. The kitchen door behind us opened, a gaggle of lanterns spilled out. “Young mistress! Young mistress Maria Vassilievna, where are you?!”

Marie was backing away from me. “It was . . . it was—”

Led by the matron Tolstoy, the search party was closing in; Marie turned and faced them, wailing like a child. “I sleepwalked! Mama, I’m so scared! I’m cold, Mama!”

They surrounded her, swept her indoors. No one ever saw me.

* * *

There is a Russian fairy tale about Old Man Frost, the ruler of winter. He roamed the wildest reaches of the land, he raged in snowstorms, and come morning, he stood amidst his snowy desolation. A sorceress once saw him standing like that, and pitied his loneliness. She made him a lovely daughter out of snow. When spring came, the snow maiden was meandering through the forest and became entranced by a delightful tune played on a flute. The flutist was a handsome lad and she fell in love with him. Yet soon she realized how many obstacles were in the way of her love: he lived in a village and she hid in the forest; she was pale and shy, while he was courted by many a rosy-cheeked lass. Only once did she dare to show herself to him, yet he took interest and invited her to a village festival. There was a big bonfire, and lads and lasses were jumping over it to show off; the flutist dared the snow maiden to jump with him. She knew she shouldn’t but she was determined to prove her love for him. She jumped, and in an instant she evaporated in a cloud of steam.

With us, the parts were reversed, and so were the elements of nature. The trial was not by fire—it was quite the opposite. Not two days after our transgression, pneumonia struck Marie and brought her to the brink of death. Only in October had she convalesced enough to take my visit. She was swathed in blankets in a rocking chair by a fireplace when they ushered me in and left us alone. I knelt beside her. The fire pushed waves of heat onto me.

“You.” She touched the lapels of my jacket. Then, “We are not going to marry, are we?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m sorry. I must be frail. The doctor says my constitution—”

“You are perfect. Kind. Brave. The cause lies with me.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. What . . . did you feel?”

She gazed into the fire. “Cold, ” she said.

* * *

She was a gift of the heavens, and I did not deserve her.

That day Marie asked me henceforth to avoid her company, and I obliged. In a year she was seen with suitors; I could not blame her but suffered afresh nonetheless, not least because Andrei was getting married! Heartbroken was a medical diagnosis back then but it did not begin to describe the mix of envy and bile that flooded me when I stood at my brother’s wedding.

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