The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel Series Boxed set)

by Coleman, Christopher

  And then three days later, everything changed forever.

  “I’m going out,” mother said, walking into the kitchen, truck keys in hand, making no eye contact as she pulled the door open with twice the force necessary.

  “Out?”

  “That’s right, just to the store. To the pharmacy, actually. I just need a few things.”

  Mother had been off the property maybe twice since her return from the Old World, and both of those occasions were to visit doctors, experiences she vowed never to have again. Pills and rehabilitation were unnecessary, she told us; she would get better her own way, at home. And until that time, she would stay away from society at large. It wasn’t such a shock though, this shunning of the world, mother had rarely left the house in her old life. But now she’d become a certified hermit.

  “Do you want me to go?” I asked gently, as casually as I could muster, trying not to condescend. “I’d be happy to.”

  Mother gave me a look that was a cross between confusion and disgust. “Why would I want that?” she asked.

  “I...I don’t know. Maybe you don’t. It’s just you haven’t really been out in a while. And when is the last time you drove? It’s only a few miles to the pharmacy. Is that your list?” I motion to a small scrap of paper in her hand. “If you give it to me, I’ll go for you.”

  Mother stayed silent, continuing to stare at me with the same look of perplexed revulsion, and then she began shaking her head slowly. “All I heard from you for months, you and your sister, is how I needed normalcy, routine, to bring myself back to the ‘old Anika Morgan.’” She grimaced as she said the words, mocking Gretel and I. “Get away from the madness of my trials and get back to a regular Back Country life. That’s what you said!”

  “Mother, I know, I just—”

  “And now this!” she screamed and then lowered her voice immediately and asked with disdain, “Now you are my headmaster? My jailer?”

  “No, of course not,” I replied in a panic, now feeling nauseous and lightheaded. There were few things I wouldn’t have given at that moment to be able to return to three minutes prior, when I could have ignored my mother the moment she walked into the kitchen.

  “You’ve always wanted it like this, haven’t you, Hansel? With just me and you. You’ve wanted to keep me weak and under your control. It’s the reason your sister left. You put up no fight for her to stay.”

  Anika knew none of this was true, and her indictments of me sobered me back to the truth. This was her way of manipulating. I recognized the triggers instantly. In her darker days, when the cravings got the worst, she would often accuse me of having completely contradictory feelings about the things most important to me. Or she would become crude and awful, implying sexual feelings were influencing my decisions, or that I was jealous she was the one who got the potion, because, deep down, I craved it too.

  The Anika Morgan of a year ago had returned, just as Gretel had predicted.

  I frowned and gave my mother a knowing stare, showing her a look that said I recognized what was happening. But it was lost on her, and she gave no indication that she understood the meaning in my eyes.

  “Drive safely,” I said finally, and then I walked past her and into my room.

  THE TRUCK VEERED ERRATICALLY up the driveway toward the road that led to the Interways, and I was genuinely concerned that by the end of her journey to the pharmacy it would end up bowed against the trunk of a tree, with Anika thrown dead into an empty field.

  And I fought away the stray thought that followed, the one telling me that her death would be welcome and solve a whole host of future problems.

  I watched the taillights fade in the distance and then turned quickly and walked down the first three steps that led to the lake. I stopped abruptly and stared off across the water toward the far bank of the Klahr orchard. I had an out, I thought. If this gets too bad, I have a place to go. A tidal wave of gratitude washed over me as I considered the notion, realizing how lucky I was to have that option.

  I focused on the spot by the small clump of bushes where mother meditated daily. I’d stayed away from the lake since Gretel left; it was too cold to row to the orchard in the winter, and besides, I’d always preferred walking the road anyway. Rowing was Gretel’s thing, I thought, and then I felt a twinge of nostalgia, remembering how I would watch my sister row the lake like a titan every Sunday.

  My instinct was to continue staying away from the lake, to forget my suspicions and let whatever secrets existed there lie still. But another instinct had broken through, a stronger more insistent one, perhaps the one Gretel told me I always had inside of me.

  I calculated that the pharmacy was a five-minute drive each way, and allowing for the time it would take her inside the store to find whatever bizarre item was she was searching for—ten minutes, I estimated—I gave myself a total of twenty minutes to explore the grounds before mother came pulling down the drive in some manic fashion.

  I was hoping I’d need none of the time, of course, that the spot would be little more than an open pad of dirt and grass, perhaps with some smooth colored stones arranged just so, their shape and positioning promoting tranquility and mindfulness.

  But as I neared the bank, I knew there would be more. I could smell it.

  I reached the last landing of the railroad-tie walkway that led to our lake and could see clothing shredded and strewn throughout the branches of the clump, torn so thin as to be almost thread by definition. This was the first signs of the lunacy that was occurring here each morning. But then it got so much worse.

  Now that I knew there were discoveries to be made, I hurried, fearful not only that I would run out of time, but also that I would lose my courage and turn back. I stepped down the remaining ties until I reached the bank and then pivoted, with my eyes closed, until I was facing my mother’s space of meditation.

  The first thing that struck me when I opened my eyes was the glaring white of bone, so stark and clean as it poked through the darkness of the bloody mats of hair and grisly organs. Just behind that was the smell, which had been mostly contained in the space by the cold, heavy air, drifting only slightly beyond its perimeter. When the summer arrives, I thought, that will be evident for miles.

  As I began to take in the totality of the scene, I was certain I was looking at human corpses. This was a massacre, I thought, one that, when finally revealed to the System, would ruin the lives of dozens and send my mother to her execution. It was far worse than I could ever have imagined, and the thought of all that had happened and was still to come made me retch.

  But as the wave of nausea passed, I waded into the center of the space, toward the bodies, stepping over a strange pile of stones that had been built near the perimeter, not stones of tranquility certainly, but an arrangement of stones they were. I knelt down by the heap of flesh, which was a gruesome pyre of ravaged skin and appendages.

  But it wasn’t human.

  I used a thick fallen branch to move aside the heavy mounds of tissue and cartilage, and I could see that the bottom layer of the stack was formed by the skulls of animals. Deer. Squirrels and birds. Others that were of a size somewhere in between. I gauged those to be either foxes or raccoons. Perhaps both. There was a shudder of relief, that the remains were of animals, but in some odd way it made the scene even more frightening.

  I continued scanning the area and noted again the strewn clothes. They appeared to be some of Gretel’s old things, perhaps from when she was a little girl, but they were so shredded it was hard to be sure. Littered on the ground throughout the area were stems and petals from flowers I didn’t recognize, and I unconsciously presumed they were picked from somewhere off our property.

  I measured the scene further, trying to put the pieces of this horrid puzzle together, hoping to get a hint of understanding about what was happening in this space. I was unsure whether I wanted it to be attributed to madness or wickedness, but in some ways it didn’t matter.

  In others, t
hough, it was everything.

  I stood and began to turn around to investigate the pile of stones that met me as I entered the circle, and that’s when a gleam of light flashed, just for an instant, from behind a spruce branch just beyond the perimeter of the space. It flashed again, a wink of tinted orange, and as I leaned in toward the flash, I picked up the source of the reflection, following it through the brush to something curved and metallic. I judged it to be copper.

  I moved the branch aside and was met by a large pot—a cauldron—sitting benignly, isolated from the gruesome circle of death. It was about a foot wide and eighteen inches deep, and the mouth was covered with a thin sheet of metal that had been tied down with string that was wrapped around the vessel on three sides. On top of the metal sheet were several fist-sized stones, the smooth type that are commonly-found along the lake bank, reinforcements for the string ties.

  “My god what is happening?” I say aloud. “This can’t be....”

  I forced myself to turn away from the cauldron, to get back on task, and scurried back to the pile of stones. I kneeled before them, as if in prayer, and picked up the top stone, placing it aside carefully. I continued to unstack a few more in the same manner. I needed to see what was buried beneath, but I likely had only a few more minutes before I’d be forced to flee. I had no intentions of learning what would happen if Anika caught me there.

  I kept going with the unstacking, keeping a mental vision of how the pile looked before I arrived so that I could restack it properly. I had no doubts that Anika was well-tuned to the arrangement of everything in her ‘meditation’ spot, including the positioning of her bizarre stone temple.

  With the removal of the fifth rock, I could see that the pile of stones was indeed burying something. The thing beneath was wrapped tightly in heavy black plastic, and I immediately noticed that the material was a piece of fabric that had been cut away from the tarp that was formally used to cover our canoe.

  I unfolded the swatch of tarp at the top and could see that something even blacker was contained underneath. Something cold. Something as black as the belly of a horsefly. I rolled the fabric all the way down, fully revealing its contents.

  And then I screamed.

  It was a book, and the words draped across the cover seemed crisp and bold, taunting.

  Orphism.

  Chapter 25

  We begin our walk down the path toward Lyria, with Noah in front still brooding from the vote. Before we’ve even left sight of the clearing, he repeats several times that if we’re not welcome by the people there—and we will know this at once—we must leave immediately. There will be no bargaining. This village accounts for a large part of his income, he tells us, and as it is, just by showing up without notice will threaten many of his future earnings.

  “Despite the deal we made, these people value their property and solitude very much. Their existence is known, but not by many, and their location by even fewer. Every one of my clients signs a contract forbidding them to disclose the location.”

  Maja picks up her pace and strides past Noah. “I doubt that all of them abide by that contract,” she says. “And you just said that people other than just you and your clients know about this place. Oskar knows. Hansel knows.”

  Noah ignores the last part. “What others know is not my concern, and whether or not my clients violate the terms or their agreements misses the point by quite a bit. The Lyrians allow in who they wish. And perhaps you’re right. Maybe every stranger who stumbles upon their village gets treated quite comfortably. They were certainly agreeable with me. I don’t know about all of that. I just know that we have agreed upon my requirements for visitation.”

  Noah is getting worked up again, and I can see that he is on the verge of turning us back whether we like it or not. Or at the very least not guiding us in. Again though, I want to keep this peace that has been managed relatively well thus far in our journey.

  “It will be okay, Noah. We’ll simply be honest with them. That’s all there is to do. We’ll tell them of Gromus. Of Gretel. That we are not here out of curiosity. We’re here in desperation, and we’re requesting only one night of hospitality. I don’t have a lot of money, but I have some. I’d be happy to pay them. And if they still refuse, as per our deal, we’ll leave without question.”

  Noah takes a deep breath and then relaxes his face and shoulders, gearing down his stride to a slow walk before he stops and smiles at me. “It is why you should decide these things. As I knew. You have the measured logic of your mother.”

  The stone path leads down a steep hill and then flattens out to another clearing where, ahead, the horizon presents a long straight line which seems to head off into infinity. “Come,” Noah says, a grin on his face, prideful at what we’re about to experience.

  We walk toward the empty horizon and reach the top of another hill, one that is perfectly even and manicured, invisible from a distance. “Look there,” Noah says, pointing down. “There it is.”

  The veiled village sits at the bottom of the hill in an exquisite arrangement of small wooden homes which radiate from a center hub. In the middle of the hub is a large stone building, perhaps the seat of power in Lyria, and surrounding that building is an evenly distributed set of wooden structures that look like telephone poles, though unless the Lyrians have independently figured out electricity and telecommunications, the poles are more likely totem in nature, or perhaps some other decorative structure. We’re not yet close enough, though, to see exactly what they are or the purpose they serve.

  “This is it,” Noah says. “Lyria. It’s beautiful, is it not.” Noah is in full smile now, sunny with pleasure.

  Oskar looks away and frowns.

  “As I knew it would be,” Emre replies. “Just as I knew it would be.”

  “They will greet us at the bottom. The people are generous and kind. There is nothing to fear.”

  “I thought they didn’t trust people,” Maja challenges.

  “Yes, that is true. But they are a peaceful people, uninfected by the modern world. It is a true community, with few personal possessions.”

  “I don’t see anyone to greet us,” I say absently, mostly to myself.

  “What is that building in the middle?”

  “It’s where we’re going. To speak with the Seniors.”

  As we begin our descent, I notice the homes seem to be made from a deep brown wood—some species of rosewood is my guess—and don’t look much different than the Back Country cabin in which I was raised. But as we approach, I can tell now that there is nothing modern accommodating these homes. Certainly no electricity, as there are no wires running in and out, and nothing mechanical on the roads or properties.

  “What are those poles surrounding that building?” I ask, now certain the poles aren’t a power source.

  Noah stays quiet, and just as I finish asking my question, he begins moving faster toward the foot of the slope. He reaches the bottom and stops, staring into the hub, and then he explodes into a full sprint toward the building.

  And then I see the bodies.

  “Oh my god,” Maja says. “What in..?” She turns away and puts her hands on her head, palms to her forehead in a motion of disbelief, and then she lowers herself to the ground in a half faint.

  I watch Maja collapse in a slow-motion crumple, and then I turn back to the building and start a steady march in Noah’s wake, progressing behind him toward the hub, all the time doubting what I’m seeing is real. From behind me I hear Oskar utter the word, “No.” It sounds like he’s stifling a cry.

  I’m just at the hub now, and I position myself a few paces back from Noah who is standing frozen, staring at the totem poles and the bodies adorning them. The bottom sections of the poles are painted and carved with images of nature—animals and rivers and mountains—as well as more indistinct tribal lettering and shapes.

  The designs and carvings at the tops of the poles I can’t see. They’ve been covered up, re-decorated with the corp
ses of Lyrians.

  Men, women, and children, their necks and bellies cut wide, have been tied tightly to the poles by some type of heavy jungle vine. Their eyes have been removed, and to ensure their stability on the pole, a stake has been shoved through the middle of their chests. Some of the victims now possess only a torso, the lower half of their bodies having been cut too deep at the stomach, gravity having now sucked the rest of them to the earth.

  There are two dozen bodies at least surrounding the building in a ring of torture and horror.

  I walk up next to Noah, who has been standing in front of the pole that stands directly outside the front of the hub building. His head is bowed and he is crying. I stand beside him but say nothing; I can’t remember how to speak.

  Oskar arrives next to me, and though I don’t turn to see him, I can sense the awe in him, his wonderment at the monstrousness that it would take to carry out the crimes above us.

  I can’t stare anymore and I turn back toward the hill. Maja is standing again, but has moved no closer to the catastrophe, a decision for which I attribute no shame.

  Emre has moved toward the hub as well, but he has stopped about halfway between us and the bottom of the hill. He is engrossed by the carnage, his eyes bulging. He shifts them toward me until our eyes meet. And then he starts to laugh.

  I expect to feel abhorrence toward the boy, which in a way I do, and I have thoughts about attacking him, threatening to switch his corpse with one of the innocents hanging above. But my feelings don’t match the thoughts. What I’m feeling is beyond hate, transcendent of any feelings I’ve known before. As I take in the extent of the massacre, it’s as if I’m floating above it, not fully accepting of the reality.

  “Is so bad,” Oskar says finally, snapping me back. His voice is more shocked than sad, and I suspect his feelings are similar to mine.

  “It’s so much worse,” a voice cries out, the desperation in the words heartbreaking.