That Risen Snow: A Scary Tale of Snow White and Zombies (Wattys 2014 Award Winner)

Chapter Seven

Grouchy

GROUCHY RETIES BLUSHFUL’S ROPES so that his injured hand—now cool as autumn shade—is above his heart. The raised hand makes Blushful look like he’s perpetually trying to get everyone’s attention. Grouchy’s about to say as much when Merry returns from the kitchen holding an empty jar.

“Isn’t this where Bones kept the raylee root?” Merry says.

Coughy frowns and looks around the cottage. “Better question: where’s Snoozy?”

Snoozy missing. Raylee root missing. Damn. Grouchy rises and notices a blade-shaped smear of blood on the counter.

“More better question,” he says. “Where’s the Prince’s sword?”

Soon, Grouchy stands with Coughy and Merry below the staircase, a winding wooden structure with one thin railing circling its outer side. In the Collective’s early days, Grouchy and Blushful built this staircase, cutting and finishing each step. Snoozy worked every night for a year carving designs on the railing. It’s the core of the cottage, both literally and symbolically.

The door upstairs is shut, though Grouchy knows he left it open earlier.

“That raylee root could give Blushful extra hours to live,” Coughy says. “Possibly days.”

Grouchy puts a hand on the railing—smooth wood inlaid with ancient dwarf symbols. “What do you know about raylee root?”

“Bones was the expert,” Coughy says, “but I do know it’s mildly euphoric. Slows down the heart. It’s often used to keep injured lumberjacks from going into shock. Or to slow poisons.”

“So that’s what Bones gave Snoozy every morning before we entered the mine?”

Merry bites his lip. Coughy wipes his nose.

“Shit-wickets,” Grouchy says. “I know we don’t talk about each other’s horrors, but there’s no point denying it. The damn rules have changed now.”

“Why?” Merry says.

“What?”

Damn. Merry’s wearing his speech face—furrowed brow, raised chin, thoughtful smile.

The portly dwarf holds out his hands. “Why must things change? We’re still the Collective, with or without Bones. We should think hard before throwing out everything the Collective stands for. Everything Bones lived for.”

“Lives for,” Grouchy says. “He ain’t dead yet.”

“And odds are,” Coughy says, “he’ll still be walking even when he’s dead.”

“Why did Bones give Snoozy raylee root?”

Coughy shrugs. “It can be used to treat addiction. Usually for puddleweed smokers. In small doses, it’s entirely safe. It keeps the smoker from getting the sickness when they quit their poison. It helps them to cleanse. To maintain.”

Grouchy shakes his head. Treating poisons with poisons. That was Bones for you.

One of Bones’ suggested anger treatments for him was vulgarity. Bones told him that he kept his hatred for humans and his anger in general bottled up inside, like a whistling tea kettle. And when Grouchy asked how to let out the pressure, Bones patted his belly and told him, “Shit, dwarf. Fumping cuss like all hells until your flaming mouth is raw, your core is wanked, and your ass is numb.” They laughed long and hard over that.

Grouchy smiles now, thinking of Bones’ nasal laugh. Except his smile quickly fades when thinks about how he treated Bones last night. And now, he’ll likely never get the chance to apologize.