Part II
In which the tale finally begins
Beyond Lapland and the Snow Queen’s empire and far yonder, was one of the last rebel towns. It was crowded with houses and people, for it was in a clearing, and empty space was scarce.
And by the border of the town and the river that ran through the woods, lived two children who shared a garden.
Well, technically, they didn’t truly have a garden in the sense of having a plot of land to cultivate vegetables and fruits, but their parents had put together two large wooden boxes together on their balconies to plant some herbs; and by accident, two little rosebushes soon grew and became entangled with each other.
On warm, summer days, when the birds sang their sweet songs to each other and the flowers dimpled, the two would often unlatch the metal gate that separated the two balconies and sit together, talking about whatever that interested them and playing delightful little games.
And they would continue their chatter all through the year, until the glass doors to their balconies were frozen over and they had to go out in the bitter cold and sit on the little boy’s porch.
Our story begins on a particularly beautiful summer’s day. The sun was smiling gently, surveying the swallows and robins chirping and teaching their younglings on young budding trees.
As usual, the two little ones sat together by the garden and admired the roses, who had blossomed under the care of the little boy’s grandmother and daintily blushed when the little girl proclaimed them to be “oh so pretty”.
“Rune,” the little girl said (for that was the boy’s name), “Wait here for a bit; let me show you my new picture book!”
The little boy’s heart swelled in tenderness as he looked upon the retreating figure. Picture books were a rarity those days and were very expensive; and if one allowed his playmate to even touch them, well, then he was a very unselfish and good playmate indeed.
The little girl returned triumphantly and laid the cellophane wrapped book on the small wooden table beside them. “Here it is --- my new picture book! “ she cried, hazel eyes filled with warmth, happy that she could share the apple of her eye with her dear friend.
Little Rune peeled away the cellophane as careful as he could, taking care not to tear it as the little girl looked on. He gingerly blew some dust off of the cover and read the title out loud: “An Assortment of Hymns and Verses”.
He looked back at his expectant playmate. “Well, what do you think?” she giggled.
“Klara, it’s beautiful,” he breathed, delicately tracing the painted feathers of a blue tit on the cover.
The little girl laughed, pleased that her picture book was of Rune’s liking. But then again, what didn’t? “Look!” she said, pointing at the page where the little boy had flipped open.
The author had painted some roses that were as red as those next to them on the page. They were very lifelike, and as Klara touched the roses, she even expected to be pricked by the painted thorns.
Meanwhile, as the little girl brushed her small hand against the brilliant red petals, lamenting that they couldn’t do the same in life with real roses, the little boy sang the short hymn inscribed next to the roses:
Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.
But we shall the Christ-child see.
Klara joined in with Rune, hiccupping and giggling all the way; they sung it again and again, till the very verse itself was deeply engraved in their little hearts.
The sun shone even more brightly just by hearing their voices, lightly grazing the little boy’s golden ringlets and the little girl’s auburn tresses.
They stood up, still holding hands and puffed their chests out to the clear blue sky, singing as loudly as they dared, for the ancient spinster next door would complain to their parents about their “making a racket and blabbering about nonsense” whenever she had the chance.
And as the town clock struck twelve, the little blonde boy suddenly felt his heart jolt to a start, like it was being squeezed the life out of it, and his breathing accelerated until it was as fast as the bullet trains he had read about.
“Oh my!” he cried, breaking off in the middle of the hymn, “Someone has taken my heart away and started beating it to a pulp!” and followed by, ‘And my eyes! There is something stuck in them.”
The little girl told him to stand still and not wiggle around. She stood on her tippy-toes and peered into the very depths of his startling azure eyes, but she could see nothing at all.
Rune shrugged her away. “It’s probably gone by now,” he said.
But alas, it was not gone; the thing that struck his eyes and heart was one of the splinters of the looking-glass, the awful glasses that could make beautiful things seem ugly and good, pious thoughts into harangues and tirades.
The poor boy even got a splinter into his heart, which froze it to a lump of ice, the bit of looking-glass having come all the way from Lapland.
“Well. There is nothing wrong with me. Nothing,” he repeated, “But you’re the one who’s in the wrong. Look at those roses! Can’t you see they’re disfigured? Don’t you see that their thorns drip blood?
“Come now. Why are you crying? You look so ugly when you are. Though you don’t look better at all when you aren’t.” he rolled his eyes, and kicked the wooden box.
In the midst of her confusion, the frightened girl had utterly forgotten how to speak properly. “You…roses…can’t…kick!” she wrung her hands, tearful hazel eyes pleading him to stop his rash actions.
The little boy folded his arms and began unkindly, “Oh, so you’re mentally handicapped too? “ he rolled his eyes, and mimicked Klara, “You…roses…can’t…kick! Me…too…ugly…to…understand!”
He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Goodbye, you crybaby,” he waved his hand, “I must find someone more interesting to talk to now.” And he left his dearest playmate all alone and confused on the balcony, ripping off the roses on his way, leaving broken rose petals in his wake.
Days passed and the bright green leaves of summer --- warm, cheerful summer --- withered into nothingness as the seasons turned, just like how Rune started to treat poor Klara, whom he regarded as stupid and naïve.
He began imitating the gait and mannerisms of the people he happened to pass on the streets as he fetched bread and groceries for his parents along with the little girl, thinking that it was clever and funny of him to do so. Some liked it and said he had a gift for these things; some thought he was very mature for his age. Of course she didn’t like his little game; she thought it was rude and unbecoming too, but it was her dear Rune doing all this --- dearest, sweet, harsh Rune.
Whenever the little girl brought out An Assortment of Hymns and Verses and her other picture books, he would roll his eyes and head for his own house to bring his own brand-new books about geometry over.
“Look at this table, Klara! Is it not neat? Look at how the numbers are arranged,” he said, pushing away the picture books. “Much neater and more orderly than those silly colouring pads you own.”
When the snow came even harder than ever before that year (people speculated it was the Snow Queen’s doing; forcing them to succumb through manipulating the weather), freezing all of the roses and herbs into blocks of ice and frost, Rune soon grew tired and bored of just flicking through his calculus and geometry books. But he didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary with Klara.
What on earth was he going to do? The little boy thought to himself while rubbing a small hole through the frosted and frozen windows with his bare hands.
He peeped through the clear spot. A few flecks of snow were falling, and to his surprise, small snowflakes were lying on the windowsill.
After making sure that Klara left her house, he snuck into the balcony and retrieved a snowflake back into the attic, careful holding it in his cold hands. But it was no use; the snowflake melted before he could even take his magnifying-glass out to examine it closely.
Disgruntled, he grumbled and trampled his way out through the gathering snow with magnifying-glass in hand.
The pure caster sugar snow slowly turned into grey, faded lumps underneath his shiny new boots. Snowflakes swirled around him and landed on his navy blue coat, quivering as the gentle zephyr tried to toss them up into air.
He bent over his quavering snowflakes and was about to hold his magnifying-glass over them when he was interrupted. “Rune…What are you doing?” a timid voice came behind him.
The little boy turned around and his lip curled when he saw the shivering girl in her bundle of clothes. “Oh, it’s you.” He turned around and continued to tune the magnifying-glass until every piece of ice on the snowflakes could be seen.
“Come and see, Klara!” he cried in his excitement. “Look at how beautiful they are! Look at how it shines!” he pointed at the glimmering snowflake, “Is it not much prettier than your horrid flowers?
“These snowflakes are perfect in each and every way,” he concluded. “Unlike you.”
The little girl, now accustomed to his taunts, averted her eyes, for she knew that snowflakes could not last forever, and that they melted once the sun came again. But she did not say a word, and merely looked at her feet.
Rune sensed her discomfort and rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he muttered, “It’s not like you’d understand.”
And he, shoving his ice cold hands inside the pockets of his coat, walked back to his house, leaving Klara behind.
“Oh, but I do,” she whispered to the falling snow and to the wintry blue sky. “I understand, Rune. I really do.”
Rune snorted inside. The poor girl was clearly losing her mind, and he would have murdered someone if he continued being with her for any moment longer.
But as God would have it, his Grandmamma invited little Klara over to their house, hoping that it would mend the sudden and unexpected strife between the two former playmates.
Rune climbed behind Grandmamma’s rocking chair as she started her tale, cold heart freezing even more in resentment.
“See the snow, younglings?” she started in her quivery voice that he once thought was endearing.
Klara widened her eyes and nodded soundlessly.
“It was made by the Snow Queen---“
Here, Rune interrupted. “But, Grandmamma, a mortal cannot make snow! Only the clouds can.” He folded his arms and smirked at his obvious jab at his very own grandmother.
Grandmamma nodded slowly. “Yes, dear; but the Snow Queen had what many mortals did not.” She came closer to little astounded Klara and grinned, showing the gaps between her pearly teeth. “Chemicals.”
“The Snow Queen comes to bring us heavy snow every winter to kill our crops and hope, because she wants our souls, our land, our futures; remember children, the Snow Queen doesn’t have a heart---“
Rune tilted his head. “How come she doesn’t have a heart?” he objected. “Every mortal has one.”
Grandmamma sighed. “Rune, her heart is frozen. She can never feel the spring breeze flowing through her hair, or how the summer sun lingers on her skin. She cannot feel anything at all.”
“But how can---“
“Stop, Rune.” she said in a warning voice. “Anyhow, the Snow Queen will come and stay here, till the winter passes. In fact, she maybe here in this village right now, to check on her rebellious former subjects and to see if we have surrendered.” She laughed, and shook her head. “But we never do.”
“Oh, but we never do,” the little boy mimicked and grabbed his mittens. He pulled on his boots as his grandmother and Klara looked on in resignation. “I’m going to the Square to play with those other boys,” he sneered, “At least they aren’t childish and listen to stupid fairytales.”
And he slammed the front door as hard as he could, pulling his small sled behind him.
Grandmamma sighed once more, and the little girl ventured, “Can the Snow Queen come in here?”
“No, child.” she gave her a crinkled smile.
“Then, will she take me away if ever come in her path?”
“I doubt it. She can only touch and bind those whose hearts are dead and cold to her. But beware her kiss, youngling. Even God’s breath would be sucked away from Him if those devilish lips touched His skin.
“Also, when you see her, sing the purest hymn you hear ever heard again and again without stopping. This will force her to succumb to both your and God’s will.”
“I will remember this, Grandmamma.”
Meanwhile, the boys playing in the Square was teaching Rune a new game. They were going to tie their sleds to the adults’ carts, and whoever went the furthest would become the Winter King.
Now, this was all very fun, and the little boys laughed and laughed at how the adults would find out about their mischief at the very moment they let go of the carts. Rune laughed along as well, but secretly wished someone would ride a bigger, and faster cart so that he could trail behind it.
His wishes were soon realised when a large white carriage turned into the Square. Excited, all of the boys clambered over each other to reach the carriage, but Rune rudely pushed them onto the snow and promptly tied his sled.
By the time the boys recovered from their fall, the little boy was already far away from them. He giggled and hooted, enjoying how the carriage seemed to increase its speed.
“Faster, faster!” he yelled at the driver. The figure, clad in white furs and a woolen cap, nodded and went on faster and faster, till they speeded through the town gates and were out of the town itself.
Rune tried to free his sled from the carriage, but the figure shook his (or her, he thought) head; besides, the string seemed to be stuck to the carriage.
Snow began to fall even more heavily; snowflakes became larger and larger till the little boy was completely blinded by the ice and snow. He cried for help, but no-one heard him, and the driver in the front did not move.
The carriage and the sled flew onwards and onwards, sometimes jerking forward, as if it was crossing rough terrain instead of the snow covered clearing. Poor Rune was absolutely terrified, but he had forgotten his prayers, and he was certain that the multiplication table could not help him then.
Somehow, after a while the white carriage stopped. The frozen little boy couldn’t free his cold feet to walk towards the driver, who was walking in his direction.
A lady came before him. Her blue eyes pierced his heart, and he was about to let out a little cry of pain but the moment soon passed as soon as it came.
She flipped her long, flowing blonde tresses and laughed. “Come now, little boy. We still have a long way to go till we reach our destination.” She held out her hand and pulled Rune up.
He noticed that her hand was cold, and as he followed the lady into another vehicle, he turned back for his sled, but the sled was already securely tied to a chair on the contraption.
“This is my Helicopter,” the lady suddenly said, as if she could sense his thoughts. “And why are you still shivering? Come here.”And she wrapped his white fur around his little body, carefully placing him so that she did not touch him directly.
Millions and millions of questions came onto the tip of his tongue, but all those were swept away and replaced with petrifying and awful bouts of pain when she lightly placed her icy lips on his forehead.
But it all soon was over, and he did not notice the cold, or his uncommonly cold heart. The Snow Queen laughed and kissed him once more, and by this time, he had already forgotten his little playmate or his home or his Grandmamma.
“I know mental arithmetic,” he told, eager to please the mysterious lady. “And I know geometry.”
She smiled, but did not say anything.
“And I know the number of people who live in my town,” he said, feeling dumber and more useless with every passing second.
The lady finally laughed again. “Little one, what is your name?”
He thought for a moment, and tried to recollect his thoughts. “Rune, I think.”
The little boy peered up into the eyes of the Snow Queen. She was so gorgeous and perfect Rune was certain could not have dreamed up of such a beautiful face. She smiled again, and smoothed his hair. “Now go to sleep, Rune; we still have a long way to go.”
And he immediately closed his eyes and sunk deeper into the furs. He did not wake when the storm below them howled and roared; nor did he stir when the snow squawked and cackled around him.
The Snow Queen laughed and directed the Helicopter over vast forests and woods, over kingdoms and lakes throughout the long winter’s night as the little boy fell deeper and deeper into her spell.
Part I ＊ Part III＊ Part IV＊ Part V ＊ Part VI＊ Part VII
Spoiler
This is the second part of my contest entry for SporkPunk's 21 Century Fairytale Contest! Please tell me what you thought of it. 
I'm excited. And nice job blending old fairy tale vibes with new "chemicals" and "helicopters", too. ^^