Marlene's Revenge (Gretel #2)

by Christopher Coleman

  Noah stood at the foot of the path, appearing eager for the last full day’s hike. He stood at least six foot five and had the girth of a sycamore. But he also had a kind face, the look of a person who’d been born to the wrong body, a man who had been judged on the surface because of his size but who would have enjoyed discussing literature and music and theatre. He was certainly quiet, but his quiet demeanor seemed to be more characteristic of introversion than unfriendliness or dimwittedness. Her trust in him was far from complete, but she thought the man emitted a good energy.

  Oskar scuffled behind her, and Anika turned, ready to defend herself. But the translator’s look and posture was anything but threatening. He teetered to one side, stumbling to keep balanced, looking pathetically around at the ground before scanning the wider campsite. He put his hands on his knees and breathed deeply and then began his search again, lifting the stray kindling and logs that were scattered about. He was hungover and miserable; his eyes were bloodshot and sagging, and his hair looked as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  “Let’s go, Oskar,” Anika commanded. “It’s past dawn. You do recall our agreement, yes?”

  Oskar ignored her and kept searching, deepening Anika’s suspicion that he didn’t remember last night at all.

  “We’ve got a full day to walk. Uphill most of the way.”

  Oskar groaned and then stopped suddenly, reaching his arm out in front of his body to stable himself before vomiting behind the large boulder he’d used as last night’s support.

  The reality of what lay ahead was suddenly too much for him, and Anika couldn’t resist laughing. “Rough night?”

  Oskar looked up at Anika and frowned, and then continued his disheveled search.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I haven’t one shoe. I can’t go with the one shoe only.”

  “You’ve got two minutes, and then we’re leaving.”

  “You don’t go without me. You don’t speak to the ancients with no me.”

  Anika pursed her lips and nodded, considering his point. “Maybe that’s true. But only Noah knows exactly where we’re going. And more importantly, he knows the way back. Do you know the way back Oskar? I’m guessing the decades of nightly grog and other less-than-healthy substances you’ve consumed over the years has made your memory, well, unreliable.”

  “Noah stays with me over you. He don’t go without me.”

  “Is that true Noah? Would you risk your reputation as a guide and your pay on this journey for Oskar?”

  Oskar waved a hand at Anika as if dismissing her question. “He don’t know what you say. He don’t speak it this language. It’s why you come with me.”

  It was true that Anika had barely heard an utterance from Noah since they set off—in any language. But he had responded to her last night. “Dawn” he had said, repeating the last word of the question she’d asked while also answering her question. The longer she considered it, Anika suspected Noah understood more than he let on.

  “You go with only Noah, you don’t speak to the ancients with no me.”

  “Yes, you said that already. And it’s ‘without me.’ You say, ‘without me,’ not ‘no me.’”

  Oskar found his shoe beneath the unused pile of logs that had been stacked in reserve for last night’s fire. The weather had suddenly turned unseasonably warm during the evening and the logs had been spared. Unfortunately, the forecast for the next few days was not so promising.

  Oskar held his boot up for all to see. “Now you don’t go without me.”

  Without looking back or saying a word, Noah began walking the path up the mountain. And Anika followed.

  Chapter 17

  Two more days on the Schwebenberg and then Gretel would finally reach the land of her birth. The New Country. The Southlands.

  The Back Country.

  The days at sea had gone by with brutal slowness. The endless circumference of water gave no indication of the ship’s progress, and Gretel often felt like they’d somehow become stuck in this world of water, trapped in the horizon, anchored by nothingness.

  She had spent most of her waking time talking and playing games with Hansel. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment, but they’d packed a deck of cards and a few puzzles, and Hansel enjoyed telling riddles and solving other word games. Gretel also did a lot of reading. Orphism took up a good share of her time, but it was a rule that she only read it at night in her cabin. During the day on the promenade deck, Gretel feared the huge black tome would draw too much attention; so, with little success, she attempted to pass the hours by losing herself in a handful of romance novels she’d brought along.

  But her attention was usually shattered by her feelings of fear.

  The instruction of Orphism over the past year had brought with it an intoxication. It was as if she’d shed the skin of a previous Gretel, releasing a new version of a girl who knew so much more about the world than the previous one.

  But the magic of Orphism was not without a downside. Those lessons that had taught Gretel the techniques and exercises to grow her natural—supernatural—intuition and how to distinguish between the invented fears of the mind and the more accurate senses in her body also enhanced her worries. Her honed insights into the world now left her with perpetual feelings of both wisdom and dread.

  And the closer she drifted toward the docks of the Urbanlands and the geography of the New Country, the stronger her feelings became. Her stomach had been in a regular state of discomfort for the past three days, and Gretel knew it had nothing to do with the motion of the boat. She was nearing her birthplace and the connection that increased the Orphic powers.

  Suddenly Gretel wished she had come alone, without Hansel. She wasn’t so worried about his safety—on some level she knew he would be safe upon their return—instead she thought of the maintenance, emotional and otherwise, that her brother required. She wouldn’t have the time for it. She needed the freedom and mobility to search on a minute’s notice, to pursue answers wherever they might be hiding. And perhaps to be a hero.

  It was the Klahrs that now occupied most of her anxious thoughts, and she had no doubt her forebodings about them were accurate. The new Gretel had grown increasingly angry at her old self for not contacting her friends the instant they landed in the Old World. She loved her mother dearly and respected her even more, but the days of allowing her to make all the decisions should have ended the night they left the cannery.

  Gretel was in charge of her life now. She had been for some time. She couldn’t have said the exact day it happened—perhaps it was the day Mr. Klahr caught her stealing pears in the orchard—but that it had already happened was without dispute. She had crafted her own life during her mother’s disappearance—the life of Odalinde and her immobile father and her work at the orchard. She didn’t fault her mother for asserting her authority, she faulted herself for not leaning against that authority more heartily.

  Gretel walked to the bow of the ship and draped her arms across the railing, folding her hands together. She looked down at the sapphire blue water for a few seconds and then lifted her head, staring out to the white sky in the distance. The wind had picked up in the last few minutes, signaling a storm was on the way.

  “What are you looking at, Gretel?”

  Gretel barely moved at the sound of her brother’s voice. “Nothing. Everything.”

  “Are you okay?” Hansel’s voice was timid, almost baby-like.

  Gretel kept her back turned. “You’ll have to be ready Hansel.” Her voice was stern, formal. “When we get home, the second we step to the shore, even before I call for the Klahrs or speak to the port attendant, you have to be ready.”

  “I’m packing up tomorrow. I’ll be ready to…”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Hansel.” Gretel turned now and took an aggressive step toward her brother. “You have to be ready to fight. To run. To hide or lie. To kill. Are you ready to kill?”

  Hansel blinke
d innocently at his sister and swallowed, unsure of what to say, petrified by the person standing in front of him.

  “The witch is alive, Hansel.”

  Hansel twitched, as if physically shaken by the words. He blinked again, quickly and repeatedly this time, fighting off the sting of tears. Instinctively he began to shake his head, denying what he’d heard, or perhaps trying to wake from a nightmare. “No,” he whispered.

  “Yes, Han, she is. I wasn’t sure at first, when mother mentioned the possibility back at—”

  “Mother told you? How did she know? How could she? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  Hansel looked down, embarrassed, and there was no need for Gretel to explain.

  “Petr said something about the possibility to her before we left the Back Country. It seemed impossible but…but now…now that we’re almost home, I know it’s true. She is alive. And she’s close. On the move.”

  “Gretel no! No! We can’t go back then! Why would we go back?”

  Gretel stood braced to the deck, committed to the lecture. “We are back, Hansel, and the day after tomorrow we’ll be in our home. And you need to be ready. I can’t do what I have to do and take care of you at the same time.”

  Hansel looked to the side, still processing Gretel’s words from the minute before.

  “Hansel! Do you hear me?”

  “Yes! I heard you! I’ll be ready!”

  Gretel studied her brother, searching for a sign of truth in his words. She nodded as she walked past him and said, “Good. You had better be.”

  Chapter 18

  Amanda Klahr swallowed and felt the burn of cold iron beneath her chin, the chain resisting the downward movements of her throat as it squeezed against her trachea.

  She was positioned on some type of metal stool, sitting rigid and tall against the seatback, blindfolded. She attempted to lift her hands up so she could release the chain that was squeezing against her neck, but her hands were tied down behind her at the wrists, low, the position of her arms pulling her body tight against the splat.

  Her mouth was free, thank god, but with the chain nearly taut around her larynx, she could tell without attempting a whisper that any words she uttered would involve a struggle. The time would come when she had no choice but to speak, but that time was not now. Instead, Amanda concentrated on slowing her breathing and clearing her mind. The breathing part she managed relatively well; her thoughts, however, raced.

  She squeezed her shrouded eyes tight, hoping to extract a memory from last night that would give her a clue as to where she was now. The last thing she remembered was the woman ranting incoherently and then shoving Amanda from the back, sending her reeling through the open passenger door of Georg’s truck. Amanda shuddered now at the memory of the woman’s strength and aggression.

  Her mind now went to the moments just before then, when she descended the stairs with the witch’s hot breath blasting on the back of her neck. The woman’s grip on Amanda’s throat was that of a strangler, and her fingers tightened at the tiniest hint of hesitation or resistance. Amanda had been screaming—she remembered that for certain—and she’d almost fallen face-forward several times. Only the iron-like grip of the witch had prevented that.

  And then she saw Georg.

  He was mangled, his body twisted as if he’d fallen from the top of a skyscraper. His right arm had been torn off at the shoulder, the tendons hanging like wires from an old transistor.

  Amanda had tried to look away, hoping that if somehow, through the mercy of God, she survived this ordeal, she could hold on to some crumb of sanity. But she had not been shown grace. The witch had pushed Amanda’s face until it was only inches from her dead husband’s, nearly touching his nose to hers, forcing her to look upon the frozen expression of terror in Georg’s eyes. But Amanda knew that fear wasn’t for his own pain or death. His eyes shouted to her the horror and his sorrow in failing to protect his wife. His duty to keep abominations like the Northland’s witch from their home had gone unfulfilled. He could no longer defend her. Or Petr. Or Gretel.

  She had known for some time of Georg’s designs of revenge and his regret at having not acted quickly or bravely enough to save Gretel’s nurse on the front drive of the Morgan property. She had watched her husband for months, tilling empty ares of land, smashing his pickaxe with ferocity and determination, his goal being nothing less than to make his aged body as strong as nature would allow. He had become infatuated with retribution against the woman.

  He was dead now, but the failure wasn’t his.

  Amanda’s thoughts careened now to Petr and his conspiracies. All of what he’d believed from the start was true. It was the System. Again. As infected with corruption and evil as ever. Even after the well-known exposure of Officer Stenson and the role he played in Gretel and her mother’s nightmare, the insidious greed and addiction of the organization continued.

  Thank god for Petr’s curiosity, Amanda thought. And his wanderlust. Both had saved him last night—or maybe it was still the same night, she couldn’t be sure. Had he been home during the invasion, the woman would have certainly gone for him first.

  A sound came from somewhere behind her. It was muffled and low, as if it came from behind the closed door of another room. Amanda used the noise as a reference and began drawing a picture in her head. She was almost certainly in a house; the place didn’t feel vast and open like a warehouse or barn. There was a stillness to the air and smells of domestication.

  And then she thought of the cabin. Anika Morgan had been reticent to go into much detail with Amanda following the ordeal in the woman’s cabin. After all, Amanda had never really been friends with Anika, and even though Amanda and Georg had grown close to Gretel, their relationship with her mother never had time to develop.

  But Amanda knew the story well enough. She was at the infamous cabin. There was no doubt in her mind. Where else would the witch take her? This was her home. She had kidnapped Amanda, stolen her truck, and was now going to use her for the same purpose she intended for Anika.

  “It may not be what you think,” a voice from behind said, grating and hoarse.

  It was the woman; Amanda knew it instantly. She wanted to respond but decided to keep quiet and listen for a moment, thinking that perhaps the words weren’t meant for her and that she was hearing a conversation that had drifted into earshot.

  But that didn’t feel right. The voice was so close.

  “You’re probably thinking I’m going to use your parts for the elixir, yes?”

  She was addressing Amanda—no doubt about that now. “I…” Amanda tried to speak and gagged. Her eyes blossomed wide with agony. The rings of the chain settled perfectly into the crevices of her windpipe, and she panicked as she struggled to force out a breath.

  She managed to release just the slightest puff and then dragged in heavily, gasping for oxygen, but her lungs were still nearly full. Tears streaked down Amanda’s face, and she could feel the heat of blood fill her face. Another thirty seconds, she thought, and she’d be dead. She thought of heaven now, and Georg, and she was suddenly terrified and eager about what lay beyond, wondering whether, in less than a minute, she would see the man she loved.

  Amanda felt the slightest release from her neck, and her whole body lurched in exhalation. She took in another full breath and exhaled. And again. She now felt light-headed and tried to focus again on steadying her breathing, determined not to faint. She knew she was in terrible trouble, obviously, but it didn’t keep her from wanting to stay alive for as long as possible, at least to know the woman’s intentions.

  “What elixir?” Amanda said finally, barely getting the words out in between breaths.

  The woman cackled somewhere in the background. It was a hollow, liquid laugh that nauseated Amanda. If a monitor lizard could laugh, she thought, that was the sound it would make.

  Amanda tried again to lift her hands, desperate this time, but the abrasive fibers binding her wrists held firm.

  �
��Strange that you haven’t heard the story,” the woman continued, her tone mocking, “about a young mother held prisoner in a cabin in the woods of the Northlands. I would have believed that you, perhaps beyond just about anyone in the world, would have heard that story.”

  The cackling resumed, but for just a moment before the woman continued with her dialogue, more somber this time.

  “Your body does me no good. Even before they were delivered to me, I’d have never spent a day’s worth of light hunting you. Your old organs wouldn’t keep me alive for a day.”

  “Lucky me,” Amanda whispered.

  “No, Mrs. Klahr, I assure you, you are quite unlucky. Though I’ve not brought you here for harvesting nor have I brought you here to work my garden and iron my clothes.”

  Amanda tried to speak again, but the chain seemed to tighten. She felt panicky again and attempted to relax her muscles.

  “Gretel, Mrs. Klahr. As I so pleasantly mentioned to you in your lovely bedroom, I will need you to tell me where I can find Gretel.”

  The silence that followed was a clear indicator that the old woman was giving her the space to spill the information quickly and to avoid any drawn-out threats of torture. To have it all end now.

  Amanda opened her mouth as if to speak, but said nothing.

  “Well, of course, Mrs. Klahr, I would never expect you to give such valuable secrets for nothing. Why would anyone do that? No, no, no. I will give you something first, and then you will tell me. That’s fair, yes?”

  “I don’t…know…where.” The words were tortuous squeaking from her throat.