Breadcrumbs Part 20

And so she did.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Jack, Prince of Eternity

There once was a boy named Jack who lived with the ice and snow. His home was a small ice floe in the middle of an inky lake.

There was a woman who visited him sometimes. She called herself a witch. She said she could be like a mother to him, and that sounded like something good. But when she came he knew there was a great hole at the center of himself. He could never find the right words for her, even though she smiled and patted him on the head and told him he was good.

Sometimes she gave him a kiss on his forehead, and that, too, seemed like something good.

The kisses kept the dreams at bay. Those dreams flitted through his consciousness like the taste of a forgotten food. There was an invisible boy in them, he remembered that much, and Jack felt bad for the boy. He did not like these dreams-even the memory made him feel like he was melting. He did not understand why he couldn't dream of ice, where he belonged.

The witch came and asked him questions and p.r.o.nounced him delightful, but he could see no delight in her eyes. Amus.e.m.e.nt, perhaps. Maybe even mirth. But never delight. He was failing her, and if he failed she would send him to the too-warm dream world. He would melt away.

She brought him things sometimes. She brought him a car made of wood, some playing cards, a schoolbook with math problems in it. He didn't need those things, but he didn't want to disappoint her. He pretended to enjoy them, but she saw right through him, as clearly as if she were looking through ice.

"We'll find something you like," she said.

And he wanted to explain that he wanted nothing but her approval, but he was afraid. So he only nodded and thanked her, and she smiled, and the smile made him feel starved.

"You are such a delight!" she said.

He was not. There was a hole at his center, and she could see right into it.

And then one day she brought him something new. She appeared on his ice floe like the sun.

"It's a puzzle," she said, unfolding her hands. "Do you like puzzles?"

He did. He knew he did. Puzzles fit together. He smiled up at her.

She bent down and placed a pile of small ice shards in front of him. "Good. These are the puzzle pieces. You can spell words with them. If you spell the right one, I will give you your heart's desire."

He picked up a shard and looked it. It felt good in his hands. Right. He held it up, and a sunbeam shone through it as if it was reaching for him.

"What is the right word?" he asked. He could not take back the words once they came out. He was such a small, shriveled-up thing.

She smiled and brushed his cheek with her ice hands. "You have to figure that out on your own."

Eternity. The word popped into his head. Maybe the sun had taken pity on him.

"Aren't you a delight?" she said. He looked down at the puzzle shards. They were made of odd, jagged angles. He reached a finger out to touch one of the points. He felt nothing, but a small dome of red blood rose out of his finger pad. He eyed it curiously, then put his hands on the shards and began to move them around the ice. He let out a breath he did not know he was holding. Manipulating the ice shards felt like coming home. His heart stirred, and he looked up at the witch.

"You like that?" she said.

He nodded, a smile on his face.

"You are fascinating," she said, cold eyes sparkling.

And he knew that she meant it, and he despaired, for he might never feel this way again. "Do you want me to solve it?" he asked, nodding toward the puzzle.

"Of course," she said. "I want you to be happy."

Then he would solve it. He put his head down and lost himself to the ice.

Chapter Twenty-two.

The Snow Queen

Hazel could not see a path ahead of her, but still she moved forward into the great seething nothing-for she had put her faith in the cold now, as it was all she had left. The nothing greeted her hungrily-swirling around her, pulling at her, whipping at her skin. It would soon devour her. Or it already had.

Hazel hunched over and threw her hands in front of her face, as if there was any protection to be had. The air crackled and pushed her forward as her feet tried to make sense of the ground. They couldn't, and she slipped, and then tumbled down the hill like a flake in the wind. Hazel skidded and rolled, the snow clinging to her, until the incline eased and released her. She lay in the snow, a pile of bones, feeling the air whip around her. She could stay like this. She could stay like this.

But she didn't. The cold pulled her forward, still, and so she picked herself up.

She thrust her arms above her head again and then eased herself down the hill, one slippery step at a time. Her clothes were covered in snow, but it didn't seem to matter as she was mostly snow herself now. She breathed it, in and out. It collected in her gasping lungs. The snow was colonizing her, breath by breath.

She reached flat land and picked her way forward, through snow that rose and fell like frozen waves. The wind did not let the snow settle on the ground for long-it blew it up to the sky as fast as the sky could pour it down, and all Hazel could do was push through.

She could not see more than a few feet in front of her, so she did not look. She knew what was out there because it was all a part of her now-the endless churning darkness, the shadowy snowdrifts that collected in the wind and blew apart again.

She huddled her shoulders together, as if trying to make herself as inconsequential as possible, and still trudged forward. One step. Another. Another.

It should have been determination pulling her forward, the surety of her quest, the n.o.bility of her heart. It should have been love, it should have been faith, or at least hope. But she had nothing like that inside of her. She had nothing inside her at all.

And still she went forward.

Somewhere ahead there was a boy who had been her best friend. She had known so many versions of him, she carried all of them with her. Here, he waggled his eyebrows through a cla.s.sroom window; here, he sent her best superhero pitch sailing through the sky; here, they sat in the shrieking shack oblivious to the world's crushed-up beer cans; here, he appeared wearing an eye patch and six-year-old Hazel felt the pieces click into place.

But snowdrifts and night were overtaking her, and Hazel only had room for so much. The Jacks left her, one at a time. The wind embraced them eagerly.

The snowflakes had turned to ice, and the pellets whipped against her face. The wind seemed like it might tear off her skin. The snow was nearly at her waist, and still she could see nothing ahead. One step. Another. It was not survivable, the cold and the tumult and the endless sickening sky. So she hardened her skin against the wind, her blood against the cold, her heart against the despairing sky.

I feel nothing, she whispered, as the ice hit her skin, as the wind beat against her, as the snow menaced around her. I feel nothing. I feel nothing.

She was as pointless and gray as the world.

And she moved on-muscle, bone, and blankness.

And then. There. A breath. The wind released her. The snow settled itself. The cold eased. Hazel stumbled forward, and then stopped.

She could feel nothing at first but stillness. Her body did not know what to do with it. The tick tock of the clock was gone, and Hazel missed it like her own heartbeat.

Hazel shuddered as the wind danced around her gently, as if this was all there had ever been between them. She wiped the snow from her eyes, and it fell agreeably away. And she looked up.

She was standing in the middle of a vast plain in the snow-s.h.i.+mmer night. All around her was still. There was an eternity of sky above her. There was no sign of anything else-the woods, the hills, the storm. The horizon stretched on around her.

But she was not alone. There was a palace just ahead, sitting in the middle of the plain like a gift. It was simple-a small square with a dome framed by four minarets. It looked like it had been sculpted out of snow.

Hazel stared at the palace. It was not the same. It was longer and a little more elegant and more feminine. But it reminded her of the fortress in Jack's sketchbook, of the place where no one could ever find him. It was like this plain had birthed it, just for Jack, and now it presided proudly over this kingdom of nothing.

The glimmering palace tugged at her, and Hazel gave herself to it, even though she was nothing. She was a lamentable splotch, her black hair and brown skin and green s.h.i.+rt and blue jeans and purple backpack a speck in this eternal whiteness.

Inside the palace was the white witch. Hazel was supposed to defeat her, though she could not even manage fifth grade. Still. She dragged her s.h.i.+vering, breaking body the last few steps to the palace, because she had come all this way, and now she was here.

What are you going to do now, you cold splotch? Knock?

What else was there to do?

Hanging in the middle of the front door was a solid ring of ice. Hazel reached up and grabbed it. It did not feel cold to her bare hands, and whether that was because it was really gla.s.s or because she was so frozen that ice felt like wood to her, she did not know.

Hazel banged the knocker down. The sound echoed through the white valley.

Silence. One heaving breath. Two. Three. Then the door opened.

Hazel did not know what she'd expected. Servants. Minions. Something. But she did not expect the door to be opened by a tall, s.h.i.+mmering woman in white, with eyes of ice and skin like snow and a dress that looked like it would evaporate in the sunlight. A rush of cold slammed into Hazel, and of dread, and of awe-so much that she took a step backward. Her feet twitched again, like they might want to flee, if only they could remember how, if only she were ever going to be able to move again.

People feared snowstorms once. Hazel read about this all the time. Pioneers opened their front doors and saw they'd been entombed in snow overnight. They walked across malevolent swirling whiteness and did not know if they would survive. Nature can destroy us in a blink. We live on only at its pleasure.

That was what looking at the witch was like.

The witch tilted her white head, as if Hazel were a great curiosity. "You made it," she said.

Hazel s.h.i.+vered and clattered as the witch appraised her. She was desperate for warmth, but could only search for it in the witch's eyes. There was none to be had. Still, she kept looking.

"You poor dear," said the witch, with a voice like bells. "Let's warm you up. Come inside."

And there was nothing to do but follow.

The witch led Hazel through an empty white front hall. Her movements were like floating. She did not seem real, or possible. She was as substantial as the snow. And yet the very air seemed to bow to her.

Hazel found herself in a parlor-like room. The walls were light blue, like the color Hazel had picked for her own living room, only these walls were made out of some kind of light. Translucent curtains hung in front of two windows, protecting the room from the night outside. There was a long white chaise longue and two tall, curvy white armchairs. Between them sat a small table on which perched a crystal statue of a ballerina.

The witch motioned to one of the chairs in a long, graceful gesture that made Adelaide's swan arms look jerky and pained in comparison.

Hazel fell against the chair. It embraced her.

"Take this," said the witch, picking up a large white fur. She wrapped it around Hazel's shoulders, and Hazel sank into it. She would have taken anything from her.

"Is that better?" the witch asked.

It was. Hazel was tucked into the furs like a baby cub. She could stay that way forever.

The witch settled herself into the chaise. "I'm sorry about the difficulty of your journey. This winter has been particularly harsh."

Hazel huddled in the furs, trying to take in the witch in front of her. It was just like being out freezing in the woods, how all you wanted in the universe was to curl up under a tree and fall asleep. And you knew it meant death. But it didn't matter.

"It wasn't so bad," Hazel found herself saying.

"Good," said the witch. "It is a difficult journey, and you are such a small girl."

Hazel winced. Splotch.

"So," the witch said, leaning in, "what brings a girl like you to me?"

"I lost my friend," Hazel said. As she spoke the words, she felt the snow-touched darkness seep back into her.

"I'm sorry," said the witch. "It can be quite cruel out there. The world is no place for young girls."

"He left me," Hazel said.

"I know. I'm glad you've come." Hazel searched the witch's eyes for some sign that the words were true. But there was nothing but cold curiosity. Of course not-what about her would gladden a witch?

Hazel looked away. Her eyes fell on the crystal ballerina statue. Its arms were up and its feet were in perfect third position. Hazel's feet twitched.

Then she blinked and straightened and shrugged the furs off. What was she doing? "No, wait. You took him. I came to take him back."

"Oh!" said the witch, her head slowly tilting to the side. "I see! That's very interesting. No one's ever done that before."

"I came to take him back," Hazel repeated. "Where is he?" Her voice was shaking. That was the point where she was supposed to sound tough, like she was someone to be reckoned with, like she was the sort of person witches should listen to. Was this really her plan? She sounded like a child.

"Why," said the witch, "he's right out there." She extended an arm toward the window behind her.

"What?" Hazel looked from the witch to the window, then pushed herself off the chair.