text: There is a place in the darkest part of the forest where no one dares make a sound. A place where the shrill call of the crow is muted by the soft leaves of the blunt tree branches. In that forest, there was a house. In that house dwelt a stalwart wood cutter and his three daughters. I would tell you that they were all happy, that the town ten miles off was not in a famine, that all the daughters were dutiful and kind, but I never said this tale would be the happy sort. Our story begins in the winter, the long kind of winter that holds the world in an oblivion of icy winds and tea colored skies. That winter has the power to imprison torrent streams and drive a stalwart woodcutter into town in search of food. “Three days”, the woodcutter told his daughters with a furrowed brow, “three days and I shall return to you with food”. The youngest daughter, Anne, was not worried. She had only seen seven winters and still thought the woods beautiful and secretive. The second daughter, Meg, was pernicious and could only think of the years of hunger and privation her father had brought upon the family. The eldest daughter, Beth, was the wise one and took this to be portents of some ill fate. She begged her father to stay in the modest cabin. However, when the sun was still rising the next day, the woodcutter left. The small cabin suddenly felt large and hallowed to the young girls. On the first morning, they played, spinning wool and trapping their fingers in the yarn. They sang long forgotten songs and danced until they were warm in the cold, cold cabin. They sat and watched as the snow fell faster, and thicker, covering up the last remnants of their father’s footprints. The day slipped by faster than dirt through loosened fingers. When the second day came, the girls did chores, sweeping the cabin floors until they gleamed with the bristled broom that hung by the hearth. The three daughters remade the small beds that rested in the corner of the room and watched the birds that were oddly silent in the trees. That day was quiet and still, gone before they could look back upon it. When the third day came the girls waited, they watched from the small window for the shape of their father to appear from the woods. Anne tried to fill the silence with chatter, talking of how the woods suddenly called to her in way they never had before. The third day passed too quickly. “Where is father”? Anne asked, a question that lingered on all three of the daughter’s minds. “Three days”, he had said, his eyes worried, his voice gentle. Three days had come and passed, where is father? The questioned hummed and thrummed through the little cabin. The fourth day arrived and with it came conflict. Their father had only left enough wood for three days, he had to take all he could to sell in town. The house was darker and the cold bit mercilessly at the young girls. Meg shivered and brought the thin woolen blanket closer to her shoulders, “one of us must go out and fetch some more wood, or surely we will all freeze”. She spoke what every girl had been thinking, but what none had the courage to say.Beth had her qualms when little Anne left the cabin and ventured out into the thick wood. Meg was fearful as well, if Anne did not return then they were sure to freeze. The two remaining sisters watched as young Anne’s figure disappeared into the silent, watchful forest. The hours slid by slower than wax off a candle, Meg tried to fill the silence with talk of how bright the birds’ calls suddenly seemed to her. Darkness swept down upon the cabin, crushing the hope of Anne’s safe return. With shaking fingers Beth begin to prepare for the woods, pulling on father’s old pair of thick boots, and stuffing dried grass in her gloves. Meg’s eyes stared at her through the dark, bright and cautious. Just as she’d buttoned up her coat, the small cabin door ripped open. Little Anne stood in the doorway, a bundle of wood jutting out of her coat. Beth embraced her, feeling relief course through her body. As Beth warmed Anne’s hands and feet, Meg took the wood and started to heat the small room. On the fifth day, Anne was different, she did not frown as the other two girls did, she did not watch the window for father. The youngest daughter sat on the floor humming a strange melody, expectantly watching the cabin door. She talked of the woods, how the trees seemed to stretch up and block the sky. She told of the most beautiful music she had heard there, haunting and hypnotizing. The music that had pierced her soul and left her frozen in hope of hearing more. Anne’s eyes lit up when she whispered of the man she had seen playing that music, of how he had promised to come for her and keep her warm for eternity. Beth felt Anne’s cheeks for fever, checked her tiny, frail, wrist, and sent her to bed. The snow swirled outside the window, spinning secrets and deadly riddles in the dark. Beth dreamt of a man shrouded in darkness, who whispered kind, dangerous words in her ears. She awoke the next morning to find the cabin still and Anne’s perfectly made bed empty; all remnants of their youngest sister gone with her. The morning came like an unwelcome guest, bright and cheerfully ignorant of what was truly happening. The sun shone on the snow outside, covering the woods in white, crystallized blankets. Inside, the cabin was frigid and dark. The last log had burned out, leaving wisps of smoke throughout the room. The two remaining girls hugged each other for warmth and felt the tears freeze on their cheeks. Meg had to pry herself out of Beth’s grasp to go out for more wood. She watched as Meg neared the clearing, turning back once to meet her gaze, before letting the woods swallow her. The birds watched as well before flying west, their wings beating madly until they were out of sight. Beth sat in the silent cabin, as far away from the window as she could be. Night came, and just as Beth was preparing for the woods Meg returned, arms full of wood and a smile lighting her pale face. The eldest sister watched the flames dance, and hiss from the hearth, filling the cabin with ill-favored warmth. On the seventh day Meg curled in the pallet by the hearth covering her ears while Beth sang a strange, haunted tune and waited by the door. Dusk covered the forest and the cabin, Meg still sat in the chair upright and eager. Beth focused on the fire, willing her heavy eyes to stay lifted. But the hearth’s shifting flames tricked her to sleep. The eighth day arrived, heavy and still. The last daughter sat in the cabin, tears spent and eyes weary. She carefully pulled on Meg’s coat, straightened Anne’s hat, and fastened father’s boots onto her little feet. She walked where the music called her, to the darkest part of the forest, and waited.