But that night was the worst night of all. Terrible nightmares plagued him, and he thrashed against his sheets. His body poured sweat. He had no idea where he was, and he felt all the time that he was sinking in quicksand, or drowning, or tangled in the weeds of a swamp. But all night long Nathan stayed there, laying cold rags against his skin, and rubbing cooling ointments onto his chest and forehead. And every time James’ dreams grabbed him in a stranglehold, and he was certain he was about to stop breathing…
He felt his father’s hands on him. He latched onto that feeling—and somehow, it kept the darkness from closing over him.
At long last, sometime near dawn, his fever broke. Nathan bathed his face, helped change his shirt, and then James fell asleep. He slept for two whole days. And one morning when he finally awoke, his fever had left him.
His brothers, sisters and father came to visit him, and they fed him—he was very weak. But he was happy to see them, and very slowly, he began to get stronger.
A few days after that, he was able to come out onto the mosaic floor, and lie on a mat beside the deep scar in the floor, while his father got out the tools, and began telling him all about how a mosaic is made. James couldn’t do any of it yet—he still felt as if his muscles were made of water. But he watched his father work—painstaking and carful and precise.
Several days later, James was strong enough to start participating. Nathan patiently taught him how to hold the tools and how to place the little, delicate pieces. The work slowed down because James was learning, but Nathan didn’t seem to mind. It took several weeks, but one day James looked up and realized that they had repaired about half the floor. However, as he sat back on his heels, looking up and down the length of it, a shadow passed over him.
“What’s the matter?” Nathan wanted to know, even as he hunched over his own portion of stone puzzle.
“You can still see it,” James said, pointing—and filling with painful sorrow. “You can see that I did that with the plough. Even if we do fix it completely…there will still be a scar all across the floor.”
Nathan sat up and smiled at him.
“It’s all right,” he said. “When something like this has been broken and then repaired, people actually tend to value it more, because now it has a good story to go with it.” Nathan pointed at him with his tool. “Besides, I’m happy that you and I get to work on this together! I enjoy it so much, and I will always remember it.”
James nodded, a bit of the shadow lifting. But then, guilt suddenly stabbed him.
“But what about all the work in the field that I haven’t been doing?”
“Your brothers have come to help me with that,” Nathan told him, bending over his work again. “They’re happy to, so that you don’t have to feel like you’re in a rush. By the time the hay harvest comes next summer, you’ll be ready, and that new plough will be set as well!”
James’ stomach turned over at the idea of even touching that wretched plough again. But Nathan urged him to come over near him so he could show him another technique, and so he did, struggling to put the plough out of his mind.
It took two months, but together the father and son finally sealed the scar in the floor, so that it was smooth and beautiful again. As they stood there looking at their finished work, Nathan slapped a hand down on James’ shoulder and congratulated him on how much he had learned, and how skillful he’d become.
“And now for the plough!” Nathan declared. James ducked his head, and pulled a little away.
“What?” Nathan asked.
“I don’t want to,” James muttered. “I don’t want to go near that thing.”
“Look,” Nathan said. “I will be with you the whole time that we’re working on it. You won’t have to do anything alone. It won’t hurt you again, I promise. Trust me. All right?”
James looked at him, doubtful—but was forced to remember what his father had told him initially about the plough, and then, when James had disobeyed him and gotten hurt...
His father had brought him inside, given him a feast, told everyone how much he loved him…
And then cared for him all these months through that terrible sickness. He hadn’t gotten angry at him once. The only thing he’d ever expressed was concern, hope, and confidence that James would get better.
And so James nodded. And he followed his father out to the shed.
“I had your brothers bring the plough back to the shed for me,” Nathan said as they entered. He turned and winked at James “In the cart.”
“Shut up,” James rolled his eyes, trying to hide a smile. The plough sat on the work bench, very dirty and broken and rusted. James made a face.
“Well…this is impossible,” he said flatly. “Look at this thing.”
“Not even close to impossible,” Nathan answered. “Just a lot of work! Come on.”
And so James reluctantly joined his father at the work bench. Over the next several days, they cleaned the plough, took off the broken blade that had stabbed James and threw it away. They then went to the smith and forged a new one, attached it, and also reattached the harness ring that James had broken off. They sanded the wood anew, to smooth any rough edges.
At first, James resented the ugly thing, and the fact that it was difficult to clean, difficult to fix, and just difficult all the way around. But Nathan was always there, and whenever he sensed James’ frustration mounting, he would begin to tell stories about how he had first envisioned this plough, as a young man, and the concepts he had drawn up for it, and then what it had been like to choose the wood for the handles, measuring the length of them so they would perfectly suit James’ height and strength. Listening to this made James’ malice slowly fade away. And he gradually remembered the joy and pride in his father’s face when he had initially showed him that brand new plough on his birthday.
At long last, just in time for the hay harvest, the plough was finished, and James was fully healed.
All of their family and friends came to the farm, and together they all cut the hay, then, after it dried, they stacked it in the barn. James felt so good to be in the company of his family and friends, working outside in the sun again, sweating in a healthy way, and singing loudly with all of them. And when the harvest was done, they sat down to a great harvest feast. His siblings were ecstatic that James could join them, and so happy that he had recovered so well.
However, all evening long, James felt his nervousness building. Because the next day, his father was to teach him to plough.
Nathan woke him up early, and together the two men went out in the front yard, and James saw the horse standing there, hitched to the cart.
“How did you get that cart out to the front?” James demanded.
“I brought it through the north gate…?” Nathan answered, looking at him as if that ought to be obvious. “Here, help me with this plough.”
Together, the two of them hefted the plough out of the shed and into the back of the cart, and secured it.
“Now you lead the horse through this time,” Nathan said.
“What, me?”
“Yes, you know I did it,” Nathan told him. “Just go slowly. I’m right here, don’t worry about it.”
Carefully, James led the horse toward the narrow gate, all the while trying to convince himself. It had to be possible, because otherwise, how had his father gotten the cart out here to begin with? Sure, James hadn’t seen him do it, but in all this time, his father had never lied to him…
Gritting his teeth and hoping, James slowly led the horse through the gate, hardly daring to look back…
No grinding wood. No snapping to a stop.
The cart slipped through the gate, with an inch to spare on either side. Nathan followed the cart through, grinning.
“Shut up,” James said again, shaking his head and smiling. His father just laughed. They drew the cart up beside the field, lifted the plough down, and unhitched the horse. Then, Nathan showed James how to properly attach the ploug
h. After that, they positioned the plough at one end of the field, and stood there.
James swallowed, nervousness fluttering all through his stomach.
“I don’t think I can do this,” James whispered, breaking into a cold sweat. “What if I fall down and it tries to kill me again?”
“It won’t, because it isn’t broken this time,” Nathan said. “And I’ll be right here in case anything gets out of hand. All you need to do is take hold of it here,” he touched the handles. “Keep the plough in line with the horse, and don’t look back.”
“Don’t look back? Why?” James asked.
“If you constantly look back at where you’ve come from, all your furrows will be crooked. You have to keep your head forward.” Nathan said. “Now give it a try.”
James clenched his teeth, put his hands on the plough, his heart hammering…
“Walk on,” he called to the horse. The horse started forward.
And the blade of the plough sliced into the earth, turning over a beautiful furrow. James tripped for a moment, then caught up with it, and held it securely, still trembling with a bit of anxiety.
“Look at that!” Nathan cried. “Beautiful! Isn’t that beautiful. Good horse, good boy. Good boy!”
James grinned like an idiot. It was so easy! Not at all like bending sideways, holding it in place with all his force, straining his muscles, falling down every ten feet, cursing at the horse, at his father, at everything else…
Yes, it worked his muscles, and certainly required attention and focus, but it was so, so much better. His father strolled beside him as the plough sliced through the ground, talking about harvest days when he was a boy, and how enjoyable harvest time had always been when James and his siblings had been children. Before James knew it, they had ploughed up half the field.
“Look at all this!” Nathan praised. “You’ll have the entire field done by the end of the day. Isn’t this so much better than all the other things that have been tried?”
“Yes, it is,” James had to agree, striding steadily behind the new, sharpened plough. “Thank you.”
Nathan just chuckled to himself.
“Well, happy birthday, then.”
James grinned in reply, glancing over the beautifully-ploughed field, listening to the jingle of the harness and the hum of the plough, and the bright tune his father whistled as he strode along beside him.
The End
Hexe
A Retelling of the Witch’s Tale
From Hansel and Gretel
For Kalila
Come further up, come further in.
Chapter One
She sat in a high branch of the oak tree, the early autumn leaves whispering all around her. The afternoon sun flickered through the canopy, dancing across her vision—so she pulled back, into the shadow of the trunk, her one good eye narrowing. She sat, her thin grey arms wrapped loosely around her bony middle. Her tattered skirt—as if made of the dying leaves itself—draped over her long legs and hung down past the branch like a faded banner. Her claw-like hands opened and closed absently as she peered down through the foliage. Down at the road that led from the forest to the outskirts of the village.
She waited. Hardly moving. Her wood-like skin and features blended in with her hiding place. She waited, listening.
There.
A whistled tune—a fiddler’s jig, played every year at the midsummer dance in the square, during the Festival of Flowers. The tune was accompanied by a swift step—boots crunching on gravel. She turned her head and lifted up a little, to see past a low branch, to glimpse the one who came walking.
A tall, handsome, broad-chested man with curly black hair and short beard, wearing tanned clothes, a strong axe laid across his muscular shoulders. A woodcutter, coming home from a day’s labor. She watched him, and did not tear her gaze away.
Then…
Movement to her left. She turned her head, with the sharp motion of a hawk—
To see a young woman with white-blonde hair done up in a bun, striding toward the woodcutter. She wore a plain brown dress and apron, and she had a beautiful face with bright blue eyes. Beautiful, but hard. Behind her trailed two children, both with very curly black hair and wide brown eyes. The girl, eight years old, had her hair bound in twin braids. The boy, ten years old, wore a dark expression. Both children were clothed in patched garb. They held hands, and kept a fair distance behind the woman.
“Ah, my love!” cried the woodcutter, letting go of his axe with one hand and stretching it out toward the woman. The woman smiled, took his hand, came near and kissed his lips. The one in the tree watched, frozen.
“And how were my little beans today?” the woodcutter grinned broadly at the children. Uncertainly, both children glanced up at the woman. They did not near their father. The woodcutter’s merriment faltered, and he searched the woman’s face.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“They were quite naughty today,” said the woman, turning a cool look to the two of them. “They set the chickens loose, spilled over the mopping sill onto the floor, and caused the cow to escape. We still have not recovered her.”
“I told you, that was not our fault,” the little boy piped up, his face going red. “None of it was! I told you—”
“Hansel!” the woodcutter snapped—in a sudden, severe and strange tone. “How dare you answer back to your stepmother? How dare you and Gretel cause trouble for her when she has so much work to do to take care of you?”
Tears brimmed in Gretel’s eyes.
“It wasn’t us, Papa,” she whimpered. “I promise—”
“None of your silly tears,” the woodcutter admonished. “For this, you both shall go without supper. Come now, and I’ll hear no more out of you.” And he wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist, and the two of them swept on down the road. The two children stood there for a moment. Hansel put his arm around Gretel’s shoulders as she bowed her head and cried. But soon, the two of them trailed after the adults, saying nothing.
The one in the tree watched after them, breathing shallowly, not moving an inch. Turning everything she had seen over and over in her mind.
As twilight began to fall, and an owl hooted deep in the wood, she nimbly slipped down from her perch and touched her wide bare feet to the underbrush without a sound. Light as a shadow, her long grey braid fluttering behind her like a band of feathers, she wove through the ancient trees. Leaves from the highest boughs drifted listlessly down to the forest floor as the darkness fell. Earthy must filled her head with every breath she took. The forest could easily swallow any newcomer in bewilderment, especially at this haunting hour. But she had wandered its hidden paths for years, and she could never lose herself.
As the last light failed, she came into her very own glen. In the center stood a cottage, with lights flickering in its sparkling windows. Its walls were made of cinnamon wood. Bright licorice and mint plants grew in abundance upon the thatch. The smoke trailing up from the fireplace came from a fire fed by the wood of apple trees. Thus, the entire glen flooded with a savory scent, a flavor upon the air that one could taste.
She paused upon the edge, gazing up at her house, taking deep breaths of the rich smells, hoping to soothe the tension in her chest.
She slowly wandered up the paved path, through the garden of autumn roses, to the black, polished door of her house. She passed her hand over the little window, then curled her talon-like fingers around the handle and pushed it, and entered the cottage—and shut the door behind her.
Chapter Two
Weeks passed. A frost entered the air. The leaves in the wood turned brown, and tumbled to the forest floor, covering it with a tapestry of faded majesty. The sleepy trees stretched their bare arms up to the withdrawing heavens, and the stars gained an icy tone.
She wrapped a long shawl around herself whenever she went out—a shawl resembling thick shrouds of cobweb—and pinned it in front with a brooch of fishbone and twine. She had no need for
shoes—her feet were leathery and tough. She flittered through the wood, nosing her pointed features into cracks and crevices to find mushrooms, or any herbs that happened to still be alive. And always, she listened.
Which is why, one day, as she gathered fallen chestnuts, she caught the edges of an unusual sound.
Voices. The voices of a man, and a woman.
She stopped. She slowly bent, and set the chestnuts down in a careful pile. Then, phantom-like, she swept through the trees toward the sound.
Afternoon light cut through the branches, illuminating to her full sight a man and woman standing in a clearing, speaking in low tones to each other. And the moment she saw them, she recognized them:
The tall, handsome, dark-haired woodcutter—and his ice-haired second wife.
“We have no choice,” the woman said to him, firmly holding his gaze. “They cause too much trouble. We are so lucky to have gotten the cow back, but without the chickens, how shall we survive the winter? And the two of them break and ruin things incessantly, causing more work for me, and costing you more gold than we can possibly afford. If we do not do this, we shall starve this winter.”
The woodcutter attended to his wife, but it was as if some sort of cloud had been cast over his eyes. His brow furrowed, and a pained confusion showed in the cant of his shoulders.
“But what can we do about that? They are our children.”
The woman raised her eyebrows.
“My greatest duty in this world is to protect you, and make you happy. How can I do that if you die of hunger?”
A distressed storm seemed to fight within the woodcutter, but each time he blinked to clear it, the fog seemed to settle further.
Then, the woman stepped closer to her husband, and pressed a hand to his heart.
“Trust me. We shall all come to the woods with you tomorrow,” she said, her voice calm and smooth. “You will go beyond us and begin to cut as you do every day, I will set the children down by a fire and feed them, and go to take you food. And we shall leave Hansel and Gretel in the wood, and we shall not be bothered by them any further.”
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