The Maiden in the Ice

Rackham’s Undine.

Whilst walking around the park yesterday (trying to psych myself into a jog), I came up with the plot for another of The Bitterwood Bible and Other Recountings stories.

I’ve had the title “The Maiden in the Ice” bouncing around for a while, but with no real ideas attached to it. And then, bang! The percolation is done and the back-brain sends a telegram to the conscious mind (along with a reminder to pick up milk and bread at the shop and to darn those purple socks). It’s like the ping from the oven when the cookies are done. Here is a snippet from that story:

And so, the villagers waited. And as they waited, they watched. Every day of winter, no matter the snows or the sleet, the winds or the frost, at least one person went to visit the maiden in the ice, to marvel at the colour of her skin, how her hair and the frozen black depths seemed to be enmeshed, at the extraordinary planes of her face. At how her dark agate eyes, just sometimes, seemed to move if you weren’t looking quite at her.

They waited. They waited until the spring thaw came and the hard crystal surface on the lake began to move and creak and crack and thin. They waited until the day when a single slender arm and a clenched fist were seen to break through the now-weakened layer of cold on top of the water. The three lads, kicking a straw ball about by the shore, ran for their parents and soon a small red dory was despatched to the centre of the pool.

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