Page 34 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
—Maid Maleen, as retold by the Brothers Grimm
* * *
Ruth seemed to grow stronger in the dark. Like the nocturnal moonflower, with its glowing white trumpet face opening to the night sky, Maleen’s friend found solace and sustenance even without sunlight. She stood straight and solid, unbowed by their confinement.
But she watched her friend surreptitiously. Worry thrummed in her chest as she peeked through her thick eyelashes at Maleen. The princess seemed to grow paler, softer, and wispier with each day and night that passed. Ruth feared eventually Maleen would disappear, dissolve into the darkness like spun sugar under water. And then, she would be alone—truly alone—in this living tomb.
—The Tower, by Emily Rose
Twenty
Emily
* * *
It starts to snow not long after Alex stomps out of the cabin. I can see the first flurries from my spot on the floor near the door. By the time my heart rate returns to normal and I pull myself to my feet, fat white flakes are falling. I press my head against the cool pane of glass and watch from the window for a while before returning to my manuscript. I have a half-formed thought that I might go outside for a break at some point, but while I’m typing away, the snowfall intensifies into the promised storm. I’m so caught up in the story I don’t even notice.
Despite everything, including the strangeness of my host and the now-raging storm, I’m glad Tristan suggested coming here. I feel more in tune with my book than I have in a long time.
I write for hours until I reach what I think will be the midpoint, the spot where Maleen finally realizes nobody’s coming to save them. She and Ruth have been forgotten. In the original fairy tale, the king says he’s locking up the princess and her lady-in-waiting for seven years, and they resign themselves to their fate, believing it’s temporary. Outside the windowless tower, though, the kingdom falls into war and ruin, and the king is dead. So when the seven years are up, they’re not released. It’s the point of no return for the character. It’ll be the impetus that makes Maleen find the strength to save herself.
I’m excited to reach the scene, and my fingers fly over the keys. I can barely keep pace with the story as it unwinds in my mind with startling clarity. I’m riding a huge wave of dopamine, prepared to keep drafting until I crash.
This is flow. The writer’s high I crave. When the story takes over, time loses all meaning, and I’m immersed in my work. Completely focused.
Until, at some point, the lights go out. I glance up, startled. Outside the wind howls, and the storm rages. I block it out and return to my book.
I keep writing, hoping the lights will come back on, but when I finish the scene and stretch my cramped fingers, the cottage is still dark. Alex warned me this would happen, I remind myself. I have flashlights and candles, and I’m tempted to press on, stay with the story, but if the lights are out, the heat is off. I need to start a fire before the cabin gets any colder.
I stand and eye the pile of logs in the small fireplace with suspicion. Then I walk over for a closer look. I realize that, while I’ve watched Tristan start a fire at least a dozen times, I’ve never actually done it myself. But how hard can it be?
I find the flashlight in the kitchen drawer and aim it at the hearth while I flick the wheel on the long lighter. The kindling catches fire, and for a moment, I think it’s going to do its job and light the logs, but then the flame sputters and dies. I stare in disbelief. I swear the air is colder. I shiver. I don’t know if the chill has already overtaken the cabin or if I’m imagining it. I try a second time, then a third without success.
The last thing I want to do is call Alex. The woman was so weird and overbearing when she stormed in here earlier. But what choice do I have? I’m shaking and on the verge of tears. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and head upstairs to make the phone call.
I navigate the dark cottage cabin by flashlight, taking the stairs slowly so I don’t lose my footing. It’s so dark inside. I glance out the window on my way to the phone by the bedside. It’s even darker out there. I see nothing but a wall of swirling, howling snow. The heavy snow blots out the late afternoon sunlight, and dark gray clouds fill the sky.
I shiver involuntarily, then turn away from the window and train the light on the pad beside the phone. The telephone number is written in precise straight digits. Not only is the phone a landline, but it’s an old-school rotary phone. I trap the receiver between my neck and my ear and am reminded how I first encountered a rotary dial phone the summer I was twelve. I was at sleepaway camp, and we could call home on Sundays from the phone mounted on the wall outside the mess hall. The counselors laughed at all of us for our lack of familiarity and eventually told me the reason I couldn’t hear my dad clear was because I was holding the receiver upside down. I smile at the memory as I dial Alex’s number. I listen as the phone rings once, twice, three times.
“Come on,” I hiss. “Answer.” I picture myself dying of hypothermia in this stupid cabin.
Finally, after I lose count of the rings, Alex’s voice comes on the line. “Hello?” It’s groggy and hoarse as if she’d been woken from a deep sleep.
“Um, Alex, it’s Emily. Did I wake you?”
She doesn’t answer the question. “What’s wrong?”
“The power went out.”
“I told you that would happen.”
“I know, but I can’t get the fire to light.”
Alex goes silent on the other end for a beat. Then, “What do you mean, you can’t get the fire to light?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if the starter’s wet or I’m doing something wrong. I can’t light it. It’s getting really cold in here.”
I cringe at Alex’s exasperated huff. I feel stupid enough. This woman doesn’t need to make me feel worse, but she does, of course.
