Legend of the Snow Queen

Two months before Christmas, Gordon Clinic,
Munich, Germany

“It’s past seven, Vanessa. You may go home, I shall lock up and leave soon too,” Dr Gordon suggested. “Are you sure? I can stay a while longer,” Vanessa remarked, eyeing the fat notebook on the table that the doctor was scribbling into.

He appeared a little tired. He shoved his glasses back in place, as they slid down his nose every few seconds and his long white beard brushed the top of the notebook he was scribbling in with marked concentration. When he was in this mood, she knew that his ‘soon’ implied at least an hour more. But she didn’t like to leave him alone, in the clinic, after closing hours. For all his busy and long hours. Dr Gordon was long past his retirement age.

“No no, my dear. I am almost done too, it would take a mere few minutes more for me to jot down some observations on the session. You go ahead now.” He brushed her away, his tone absent-minded.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, throwing a quick look around the neat clinic. Dr Gordon was already deeply engrossed in his book, oblivious to her presence. She sighed, nodded to his bent, balding head and closed the door softly behind her, as she stepped out into the corridor.

His pen scratched on the sheet as he scrawled some notes on the latest hypnosis session. It had been riveting, to say the least. In fact, every session with his patients taught him something new. And not only because of the trust his patients showed in him. The beauty of their surrender and the way their minds opened up to him… All these sessions were mind-blowing. Eye-openers to a world beyond common human comprehension. The human mind was a hive and his research got more and more fascinating with every passing day and every unique session with his patients.

The door opened again and he glanced up absently. Then as recognition flickered on his face, he frowned.

“Oh, it is you again. What do you want now?”

“You know what I want, Doctor.”

“And I have told you that I cannot reveal confidential information of my clients, to anyone.”

“Can you at least tell me what is in it? I mean, is she—”

“No, afraid not. I can tell you nothing. You are just wasting your time, you know. I refuse to divulge confidential information.”

“Then Dr Gordon, you leave me with no choice.” It was his tone that instantly alerted the doctor. But before he could fathom the meaning of the threat, gloved hands grasped his fragile old neck and squeezed it tight. He gasped, struggling wildly for breath, his frail hands trying to pry the deathly grip around his neck in vain, as he felt his life ebbing away from him. Within moments, it was over. Dr Gordon slumped forward, his head resting lifelessly on the desk.

One month before Christmas, Neuschwanstein Castle, Germany

The Swans. . . The best motif for love and peace…the opposite of blood and gore. . . .

Leon stared at them, his heart racing. They were so perfect together, their beaks clinging to each other in the shape of a heart. Love, the all-encompassing emotion. An image of Rosy flickered into his mind. Rosy entwined in his arms, her soft breath on his cheek. The prefect love-couple. She would be there to appreciate his decision and this trip to Neuschwanstein would be so worthwhile.

The walk to the castle had been exhilarating and Leon had enjoyed every minute of it. The broad pathway, with piles of snow bordering either side, had wound uphill between snow-laden tall pine trees. The open horse-drawn carriages clip-clopped past the strolling visitors, the sturdy gleaming horses stomping their legs in the cold air as they made multiple trips ferrying the tourists to the castle.

His first sight of the spectacular palace had been the most breath-taking. Those deep blue, tall turrets rising majestically above the limestone walls of the five-storied fairy-tale castle were straight out of a magical Disney film. Perched royally on the Swan Rock, above the Alpsee Lake and near the deafening waters of the 45-metre high Pöllat Gorge. Some labelled it ‘a fantasy realised in stone’. Leon preferred to regard it as the fulfilment of a gorgeous dream, like art from rock, or solidified magic dust. People of his time may have alluded to King Ludwig II as a mad king, but Leon was filled with admiration for the King’s astonishing creation, for his megalomaniacal vision, his supreme love for art, his all-eclipsing obsession with beauty. . . .

Winter touched the castle with an enchanting brush, Leon realised. Summers here were stunning of course, a competition of vibrant, contrasting colours. But the presence of this palatial beauty against the frozen backdrop, the snow a shimmering silver as far as the eye could see, was surreal.

As he had moved from room to room, he had sensed immense pride in his country. It was no wonder that millions of tourists flocked to visit this castle year after year. It was inimitable. The Throne Room, the Tower Garret, the Dining Room, the Bedroom—each an example of ostentatious marble and a gold-gilded expression of beauty. Dominating the walls and the tapestry were elaborate scenes of amazing detail from medieval German folktales, legends and scenes from Richard Wagner’s stage compositions, most prominently Wagner’s Lohengrin.