The children invented the game during a winter so cold the gutters froze solid. They built a snow fort at the dead end of the block, packed the walls nearly shoulder-high, and carved a throne into the center. Whoever occupied the throne longest became the Rampire Princess, a title assembled from words nobody could later trace. The game survived childhoods, moves, divorces, demolished houses, and every adult attempt to explain why no one used the name correctly.
When I returned to the neighborhood decades later, the fort was still there.
It had been rebuilt many times, yet the oldest section remained beneath an overgrown hedge. Even in July, when the pavement softened in the heat, a fist-sized core of ice persisted in the soil. Children still gathered around it every winter, adding fresh walls and choosing a new princess. None could explain the rules beyond the essentials: the princess sat, the others tried to remove her, and she was never supposed to leave the throne before dark.
My mother remembered more.
Years before I was born, a girl had refused to surrender the seat during a blizzard. By the time adults realized the children were still outside, visibility had collapsed. They found the fort intact and the other children huddled near the entrance. The girl was gone. No footprints led away.
Afterward, parents demolished the fort. Children rebuilt it the following winter without discussing why. Every generation did the same.
This year I watched from my mother’s window as the youngest child in the group climbed onto the snow throne. The others became unusually quiet. She sat very straight, hands folded in her lap, while frost thickened along the inside walls.
I went outside before dusk and told them the game was over.
None argued. That unsettled me more than resistance would have.
The child on the throne opened her eyes and asked whether I had come to relieve her. I said yes before understanding the question. The other children immediately began dismantling the fort around us, laughing again as though released from some obligation.
Since then, the patch beneath the hedge has finally started melting. My own hands, however, stay cold no matter how warm the room becomes, and every night I dream of sitting somewhere made of snow while generations of children wait patiently for me to decide who sits there next.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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