She raised her head a fraction and peeked over at Oskar, who had closed his eyes again and was leaning back against the rock. He was either asleep or almost there. Thank God, Anika thought, silently begging things wouldn’t get messy now. Not yet. According to Noah—through Oskar’s translation—they had another two days, which meant this camp night and then one more. She could make it. And once she got what she needed from the Aulwurm elders, whether that be a cure or a death sentence, Oskar could take his rotten liver to the summit of Mount Koude and jump. But for now, she still needed him.
“Anika, I’m feeling a little cold. This rock is so hard.” Oskar’s words were slurred but loud. He paused a beat and then shouted, “And so am I!”
Anika slithered her legs from the bedding and pushed the covers down with the soles of her feet. She rose in silence and stood on her bed quietly, knife in hand, eyes locked on the translator.
“I need something soft for my hard...”
The blade was microns from Oskar’s Adam’s apple before he could let out the last word of his vulgarity. Anika’s hand was pressed against the back of the drunkard’s neck as she placed her mouth next to the man’s right ear, brushing it slightly with the chap of her lips. If the man swallowed, Anika would watch as he slit his own throat.
She turned the blade so it was now on its side, the flat cool steel against Oskar’s neck, the blade pointing up toward his chin. “What do you think, translator? Is everyone going to make it through the next few days?”
Oskar was now fully awake and whimpering. “It was just some jokes, Anika. Nothing about real life.”
Anika glanced over toward Noah’s shadowy dwelling, examining the emptiness for any evidence that the larger guide was planning an attack to protect his imperiled companion. The two men had come as a package deal when the travel arrangements were made weeks ago, but Anika never got the impression they were at all acquainted. I guess she was about to find out.
“Jokes are funny, Oskar. So how could it be that you were telling jokes?”
“I am so sorry, okay. What you going to do? Kill me?”
Anika placed the edge of the blade on the fold of skin that bisected Oskar’s chin and throat. “If you ever touch me, Oskar, or even take a step in my direction in a way that leads me to believe you’re going to touch me, I will kill you, and with less thought than I’d give to smacking a mosquito that’s landed on the back of my calf.”
Oskar gave a nervous giggle and flashed a weak smile. “So then not that much thought, no?”
Anika smiled fully and relaxed the hand at the back of Oskar’s neck. “You see, Oskar? That’s a joke.” She lowered the blade a half an inch and pulled the steel toward her, sliding the side of the knife against Oskar’s stubbled skin, applying the slightest pressure as the metal drew against his windpipe. If the blade had been facing toward his throat, he would have been dead within seconds.
Oskar closed his eyes again and made a weeping sound.
“We leave at dawn then,” Anika said flatly. “How does that sound to you, Noah?” Anika spoke up just slightly, directing her words to the empty space just outside the perimeter of the fire.
There was no answer at first and then she heard a response boom from the shadows. “Dawn.”
AT DAWN, NO MENTION was made of the night before, and Anika wondered if Oskar remembered at all what had happened. It was the type of event, she thought, that people who live in the fog of intoxication must wonder about quite regularly. It was a strange way to exist, but there was something envious about it.
Anika’s thoughts drifted back to her imprisonment at the cabin. The daily—sometimes twice daily—dosages of narcotics the despicable hag had administered to her, diluting the poison into her water and food, keeping her at once restrained and loquacious. Now looking back on it with some distance, she appreciated the long-term barriers that had been erected by those drugs and the short-term memories that had been erased forever. There was so much horror she could remember; it was shocking to imagine what she had forgotten.
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 blinked 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.
The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel Series Boxed set) Page 42
