The Snow Queen – A Bedtime Story

In a village that sat right on the edge of the Silbenwald, there lived two children who were the best of friends in all the world. The girl was called Gerda, and the boy was called Kay. Their houses stood so close together that they could lean out from their rooftop gardens and almost touch each other's fingertips. Red roses grew between the window boxes, and in summer they smelled so sweet that bees came from miles around. Gerda and Kay would sit up there together for hours, listening to the wind singing softly through the leaves. Whenever they were side by side, they felt that nothing in the world could go wrong.

One winter evening, snow began to fall. The flakes drifted down in slow, lazy spirals, and Kay pressed his face to the glass to watch them. Then he felt something land on his cheek — something very small and very cold, not painful at all, just a strange little shiver, like a breath of frost finding its way inside him. From that evening on, Kay was quieter, and a little distant, as though he were looking at the world through different eyes. Gerda noticed, but she told herself he was simply tired. She was patient, and she waited for the old Kay to come back. But he was gone for much longer than she had expected.

As winter deepened, Kay disappeared. He had been swept away on the great white sledge of the Snow Queen, carried off across the glittering fields and far into the distance. The Snow Queen was not a wicked woman, but she lived alone in a vast, frozen world, and sometimes the silence became too much to bear, and she would bring someone back with her. Kay slept deeply in her great sledge, dreaming of home. Gerda waited one day, then two — and when Kay did not return, she made up her mind firmly and quietly: she would go and find him herself.

Gerda pulled on her warmest things — her red coat, her white scarf, her green mittens — and she ran down to the river. She had a feeling the river might know the way. She climbed into a small boat and whispered, "River, please take me to Kay." And sure enough, the boat began to glide, gently and steadily. The banks slipped past; willows dipped their branches down like friendly arms. Fireflies glowed between the roots of the trees, as if they were lighting her way. Gerda's heart was brave and warm, even as the air around her grew cool.

The boat carried Gerda to a little house on the bank, wrapped in a wonderful garden full of bright flowers — even in the middle of winter. A kind old woman lived there, wearing a large sun hat and a gentle smile. She loved Gerda straight away and invited her to stay for a while. She gave her hot soup and a soft bed. But she forgot — quite without meaning to — to ask Gerda about the friend she was searching for. And so Gerda stayed on in the garden, playing among the flowers and sleeping peacefully. Then one day she saw a rose, and in an instant she remembered Kay.

Gerda said a warm goodbye to the old woman and hurried on her way. In the Silbenwald — where lanterns hung softly glowing from the branches and fireflies still sparkled even in the autumn — she met a crow. The crow spoke to Gerda in a friendly, rather croaky voice, and told her about a prince and a princess who might just know something about Kay. Together, Gerda and the crow walked through the Silbenwald, following the warm light of the lanterns from tree to tree, until they came to a beautiful castle that stood in the heart of the forest, glowing with a quiet golden light.

In the castle lived a kind-hearted prince and a clever princess. They welcomed Gerda warmly and listened to every word of her story. But the prince was not Kay — he only looked a little like him. The princess gave Gerda a warm coat, a soft fur muff, and a golden carriage so that she could continue her long journey. "Go on bravely," said the princess, "for the love you have for Kay is the greatest thing you carry." Gerda thanked her from the bottom of her heart, climbed into the carriage, and rolled on into the wide world — the lanterns of the Silbenwald glowing behind her for a long while yet.

The golden carriage travelled through forests and over hills. Before long, Gerda met a robber girl with wild curls and a wide, bold grin. She was fearless and straight-talking, but kind underneath it all. When she heard Gerda's story, something in that grin went a little soft. She gave Gerda her reindeer, Bae, so that Gerda could ride swiftly north — to where the ice lived, and where Kay must surely be. "Ride fast and ride brave!" the robber girl called after her, waving with her whole hand. Gerda nodded, held tight to Bae's warm fur, and rode.

Bae carried Gerda through the snowy landscape to a small, warm hut, where a wise woman lived. The wise woman listened carefully to everything Gerda told her, then scratched a few words onto a piece of wood — a letter for another wise woman further north, who could show Gerda the final part of the way. Gerda rode on, until the world around her became entirely white and wide and still. But Gerda was not afraid. Deep in her chest, a small warm light was burning — the memory of Kay, of the roses on the rooftop garden, of summer afternoons and the smell of sweet flowers. That light kept her warm, even in the cold.

At last, Gerda found the great, silent ice palace. And there sat Kay — a little stiff, a little cold, but alive. Gerda took his hand and called his name, and warm tears spilled down her cheeks and fell onto him. And just like that, something shifted — Kay grew warmer, softer, more himself. He blinked. He looked at Gerda. And he smiled his old smile. "Gerda," he said, simply. They held each other tight. The Snow Queen watched, and she bowed her head quietly, and she let them go — for even she could feel that true friendship is warmer than any ice. Gerda and Kay rode home on Bae, through the Silbenwald, past all the glowing lanterns. The roses were in bloom when they arrived. And the two friends knew, without having to say it: love always finds the way.