“You don’t actually know where you are going?”
Hans shook his head emphatically.
“Then tell me this, who is it you are going to see?”
“Ha! Would all be a great deal easier if we knew the answer to that one. These questions of yours, Herr Kapitan, dashed tricky. Teach you all this stuff at some manner of academy, I suppose.”
“So, you don’t know where you are going, or who you are going to see? Then what do you hope to gain by going into the deep, dark woods?”
Gretel held her breath. The mention of the unmentionable might just have been enough to shake Hans’s composure and have him blabbering and jabbering all manner of things she did not want Strudel hearing.
“Well,” said Hans, paling just a shade beneath the rosy glow of exertion and heat, “Gretel hopes to find out some sort of something, from some sort of someone, which might lead some sort of somewhere, so that we can present Frau Arnold with some sort of answers and then get paid. I just go where I’m sent and do as I’m told. Such is a brother’s lot in life, Herr Kapitan.”
It was convincing because it was, after all, the truth, truthfully told.
Strudel treated them both to a cheery sneer, pivoted on his heel, and strode away.
Gretel patted her brother’s arm. “Help me into my seat, Hans. And then snack, I think.”
“Snack!” he echoed.
SIX
Gretel was not a fan of stagecoach travel, but this was one occasion when the journey went unnervingly swiftly. All too soon they had reached the point in the road where they could easily access the fringes of the forest, and were being handed their luggage. It was early afternoon, and the heat of the day was setting the air like jelly about them, so that it no longer felt fit to breathe. It was with damp underarms and clammy backs that the pair stood on the gritty verge and watched the coach tear away from them until the very last puff of dust had dispersed.
“Well,” said Hans, “here we are.”
“Here we are,” Gretel agreed. They turned to face the forest. The outer edges consisted of a variety of trees, in fetching shades of green, broad-leaved and not too closely set. “It really looks rather pretty, Hans. Quite light, verdant, full of charming flowers and pleasant scents, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Hans’s silence suggested she might have over-egged the pudding. “Come along, then,” she said, picking up the small vanity case in which she carried her beloved wig. “Let us to work!” So saying, she strode forth, following the dry, narrow path that led away from the dazzling sunshine, and into the dappled shade of the trees. Hans followed close behind, his bulky backpack clattering and clanking as he moved along.
The interior immediately provided a very welcome respite from day’s sunshine. There was indeed plenty of light, falling in fractured beams upon the loamy floor, over which trailed tiny white flowers, twisting around the glossy leaves of wild garlic and short, wiry grasses. Birdsong serenaded them as they walked, and small birds of the harmless and attractive type flitted this way and that among the boughs of the oaks and birches. And Gretel had been correct in her expectation of delightful aromas of the herbs and plants around them. There were even butterflies, and Gretel at her most grumpy could not deny the appeal of lepidoptera.
“See, Hans? It is really not so bad. Before you know it we will be accustomed to the place, we will follow the map, becoming fitter and more confident with every stride, and we will reach the cottage of Frau Burgdorf in good time for supper. All we have to do is stick to this,” she explained, slipping her bag strap over her arm so that she could take the map from her pocket and unfold it as she walked. “It is all perfectly clear. We proceed along this path, which is marked thus …,” she held the tattered paper beneath his nose for a moment, “… for approximately half an afternoon. After which time we should reach a small stream, which may be the ideal place to take a little refreshment.”
“Oh?” said Hans, in a small but less-scared-than-he-thought-he-was-going-to-be voice.
“And from there it is only a short distance more, with a gently upward incline, through a more rocky region of the woods, until we reach our first overnight stop.”
“Well, that all sounds very manageable,” Hans agreed. “I could grow accustomed to this exercise business, take it up as a new habit perhaps,” he announced, and the two of them fell into a companionable silence as they walked on, save for the soft squeak of Hans’s lederhosen.
Two hours later, having made splendid progress through what continued to be picturesque, fragrant, and charming woods, Gretel studied the map again and signaled to Hans to stop.
“We should be very nearly at the stream,” she told him. “Time for our picnic.”
“What?” He turned toward her and cupped his hand over her ear.
“Picnic!” she found herself yelling.
Hans shook his head. “It’s no good,” he bellowed back. “I can’t hear you over that roaring noise.”
Gretel had been hoping the unsettling rumble she had been hearing for a few hundred strides now was all in her own head. Alas, this was not so. She walked on and rounded the next bend to find herself toe to edge with a deep, wild, fast-flowing, rock-filled torrent. It was not wide, but too wide to jump. The speed of the water had carved a gouge into the forest floor that now formed a steep-sided gully, through which the white water raced. Most of the roaring came from the waterfall just upriver, over which countless quantities of peaty water charged before swirling past.
Hans came to stand beside her. “Ah,” he mouthed soundlessly.
Ah, indeed. Gretel shooed him back with flapping hands and they made their way farther down the bank to a grassy knoll where the noise was less and speech was at least possible.
“How on earth are we to cross?” Hans asked, somewhat unnecessarily, in Gretel’s opinion.
“Have you nothing in that pack of yours that might assist us?”
“I shall look but …” He shook his head and sucked air through his teeth in the manner of one pronouncing something a hopeless case. He slipped the rucksack from his back and dug deep. “No, that won’t help … no … no. Oh, nice bit of weisswurst, we might gain strength from that.” He paused to hand Gretel the sausage and then resumed his digging. “Oh, maybe … but no.” He pulled out a bedroll and canvas sheet. There was rope, but it was thin and short and meant for constructing an awning or hammock, not hauling large Bavarians across fast-flowing water courses. Hans straightened up, defeated. “Nothing,” he said flatly. “But a stout stick would help, wouldn’t it?” He pulled a folded knife from his pocket. “If we wade across …”
“Wade! You are suggesting I step into that.”
“It will be perfectly safe. We will form a human chain, with me at the fore, testing the way with my trusty staff.” He bounded off to assault a blameless hazel bush. “This is the very stuff, nice and springy, d’you see?” To make his point, he bent back one of the taller, whippier offshoots of the little tree. Unfortunately, his palms were sweaty, so that the branch slipped through his grasp, springing back to smack him smartly in the eye. “Ow!” he yelped, hopping around, clutching his face.
“Hans, stand still and stop making such a fuss.” Gretel put her hand on his arm. “Let me have a look, I’m sure it won’t be …”
But it was. It was every bit, and then some more. As Hans revealed his eye Gretel felt her stomach turn over. The whole socket was already a bloody, swollen mess.
“The good news is,” she told him as calmly as she was able, “that your eye is still where it should be. The cruel wood has not removed it.”
“Good news indeed,” gasped Hans. “And the bad … ?”
“It may … smart a bit for a while. But think of this,” she added, searching for words of encouragement, for they could not afford to lose momentum, “you will have a rakish scar once it has healed up, and there is nothing that says ‘bravery’ like a rakish scar.”
“You are right about that, sister mine!” Hans squa
red his shoulders manfully. “I will endure.”
“That’s the spirit. Although, if you are willing to sacrifice your kerchief, I think it would be a good idea to cover it up.” She was relieved when he agreed to a makeshift bandage, as the look of the thing was quite revolting. “There!” she assured him, “Attractively piratical.”
“You think?” Hans cocked his head this way and that, blinking out from his one good eye. Suitably encouraged, he chopped off a good-sized hazel stick. The pair then removed their boots and stockings, which they hung around their necks. When the moment could be put off no longer, Hans took Gretel’s hand, and together they clambered down into the river.
“Hell’s teeth!” cried Gretel as her feet met the bone-chillingly cold water. “Has no one told this torrent that it is summer?”
“Snowmelt from the Zugspitze!” Hans gasped by way of explanation.
They inched their way forward. Each step was slipperier and more perilous than the one before it. The rocks upon which they must tread were coated with slimy algae, and the force of the water against their ankles, then shins, then knees, caused them both to wobble and teeter. Gretel felt the hems of her hitched up skirts and petticoats become quickly sodden and heavy, so that they dragged against her wish to go forward. She had to push hard to make her legs lift and move through the river.
“Keep going!” Hans cried, probing with his stick, which was in fact proving a boon. “It’s working. We shall soon be across!”
Pride might come before a fall; blind optimism—or in Hans’s case, half-blind optimism—also often precedes a painful and humiliating upending. Just as they were within a stride of the opposite bank; just as Hans gallantly handed his sister past himself and guided her toward the other side; just as he allowed himself a small smile of pride, and even Gretel was summoning up some minor manner of congratulation, Hans’s feet were swept from under him. With a shout, he fell backward, his own considerable weight crucially tipped by the not-inconsiderable pack still strapped to his shoulders. Down he went, flat on his back, into the water. Fortunately, the water was not deep enough to drown him. Unfortunately, it was sufficiently deep and plentiful to saturate and ruin every vulnerable item of their camping apparatus. The blankets. The bedrolls. The food. All were soaked and rendered twice their weight and half their usefulness in the time it took Hans to let out a “Gadzooks!”
After a great deal of puffing and gasping and much by way of muttered curses, Gretel was eventually successful in hauling her brother from the river. They lay panting on the bank for some moments before they felt able to continue. At last, Gretel cajoled and nagged Hans into getting up and getting along. The day was fading fast. Soon it would be dusk, and neither of them wished to be wandering through the woods in the dark. They forwent their picnic in order to reach safety before nightfall, settling for nibbling disconsolately on a bit of wet wurst as they went. The squeak of Hans’s lederhosen had been transformed into a squelch.
As they walked on, Gretel noticed subtle changes in their surroundings. The trees were closer together, the undergrowth denser, the forest canopy blocking out more of what was left of the sun. In what remained of the heat of the day, Hans steamed gently.
“I say, Gretel, how much farther?”
Glancing at the map, she said, “Not far at all.”
“Good thing. Wet leather chafes, you know.”
“A passing discomfort only. Soon we will be in the cozy embrace of the little guest house, where no doubt a meal is being prepared as we walk, and you will be able to change into dry garments.”
Gretel was doing her utmost to show everything in its best possible light, but even so she could not deny to herself a creeping sense of unease. She told herself it was nothing more than a long-buried memory struggling to the surface, and should not be paid any heed. Nevertheless, one reason for her disquiet simply could not be ignored, and that was the strong impression that they were being watched. Or possibly followed. The word “stalked” pounced into her mind, but she batted it aside. Of course there were woodland creatures thereabouts. Naturally all sorts of small animals would be curiously observing the strange interlopers in their midst. She was too big and too bold and too old to be spooked by a few squirrels. She squinted at the map through her lorgnettes.
“If I am not very much mistaken, the cottage should come into view about …”
“… now!” Hans finished her statement in such a tone as caused her to stop in her tracks, as he had done, and look up to see what it was that had made him express so much in such a little word.
The cottage was indeed in plain view, but there was nothing plain about it. It sat in a charming clearing, its garden flower filled, its little cobbled path twisting from a dear wooden gate attached to a white picket fence. The forest stood aside, as if held back, to allow this pretty space for human habitation. But the cottage was not an ordinary cottage. It had windows where windows should be, and a chimney where a chimney should be, and a front door at the front of it. But …
Gretel and Hans stood and stared. Gretel knew she was holding her breath and was certain her brother would be holding his too. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. For her part, Gretel was aware of just about the only time in her life when she had ever had an almost overwhelming urge to run. But that urge was canceled out by the bowel-loosening terror that was now taking hold of her. In the end she could do nothing but stand and stare at what was before them, for their accommodation was no more or less than the most detailed, most artfully constructed, most colorful, most elaborate, most splendid example you ever did see of a gingerbread house.
SEVEN
Hans recovered sufficiently to about turn and attempt to flee. Gretel took hold of his collar.
“Where do you think you are going?” she asked.
“Away from here. Away from that!” he replied in a stage whisper.
“It is just a house.”
“You know full well what it is,” said Hans as he squirmed beneath her grasp.
“You are overreacting. It is a traditional style of house. It’s not really made of … gingerbread.”
“How can you tell?”
“Look closer. Go on, look.”
He forced himself to squint at it with his one available eye.
“Well,” he allowed, “it does appear to me a real house. Just made to resemble … food.”
“As I say, a tradition, part of the vernacular architecture hereabouts. Only you and I would read anything else into it.”
“All the same, I don’t believe you want to spend a night in it any more than I do.”
“I certainly don’t want to spend a night out here. Think of our situation: you have had a soaking, and so has our bedding and our food. Night is almost upon us. We are booked in to stay here. I received a very pleasant letter of confirmation from the proprietress, Frau Burgdorf, who sounded as sane and hospitable as the day is long. I refuse to let ghosts drive us away from comfort and a good meal, and toward privation and hunger.”
“Well, when you put it like that …” Hans steadied enough for Gretel to risk releasing him.
“It is tradition, Hans, nothing else.”
“Fair enough. But I give you fair warning, if anything remotely resembling a witch comes out of that house …”
At that moment, the bright red door with the painted details that looked so very much like piped icing slowly swung open. A figure emerged from inside the house.
Hans gasped.
So did Gretel.
There stood before them a woman of striking elegance and beauty. She was tall and slender, with golden hair piled atop her head, as if done effortlessly and casually, and yet resulting in something truly sophisticated. Her gown was all flowing lines and slinking satin. Not exactly high fashion; more something for wearing at home for a soiree. Gretel took in at once the daringly high heels and the tasteful emerald earrings and ring, as well as the narrow, plaited gold bangle and matching brooch. She could not help but admire
any woman who so clearly knew how to accessorize. The apparition of loveliness blinked a little against the low sunlight, shielding her eyes with her hand.
“Hello? Oh, darlings, is it you? Are you here at last? Welcome! Welcome!” she called out in a voice that contained not a trace of crone, but an unmissable, sexy purr. As she spoke she held up a long-stemmed cocktail glass to toast their arrival.
“I say!” said Hans, in an altogether different kind of whisper to the one he had been using only moments earlier. “I say!” he repeated, for no particular reason.
Gretel gave him a shove forward and then strode up the path herself to offer their hostess her hand. “We are very pleased to have found our way to your door, Frau Burgdorf,” she said.
“Oh, call me Zelda, for heaven’s sake, darling, please! Everybody does. And anyway, every time I hear ‘Frau Burgdorf’ I look around for my mother-in-law! Ha, ha!” She ignored Gretel’s proffered hand and leaned in close to deliver a noisy kiss on each cheek. “Your turn!” she squealed at Hans, who allowed himself to be similarly welcomed. “My, but you are a strong fellow! And whatever have you done to your poor eye? Come along in, and I’ll see to that for you. But first, who’s for a cocktail?” She slipped her arm through his and fairly waltzed him over the threshold. Gretel followed on.
Where the exterior of the house was an homage to Bavarian culture, the interior was something quite other. It was open and spacious, filled with chaises longues, settees, fur rugs, silk throws, and more cushions than Gretel could count. Though she did try. The whole effect was of leisure, and of luxury. It was Bohemian, yet refined and somehow not so fancy. Gretel felt suddenly that she had gone beyond her limits of tiredness. Whether it was the march through the hot day, the lack of food, or the sight of such seductive comfort, she could not be sure. She knew only that she must recline at once if she were not to fall over.
“Forgive me … Zelda, but I must sit for a moment.”
“Oh, but of course! You must both be exhausted. It is such a long way to the stagecoach stop. Now, Fraulein Gretel, you sit just here …” She led her to a green velvet sofa that Gretel all too happily sank onto. “Perfect. Kick off your shoes, my darlings, relax. You are in Zelda’s home now, and I desire nothing more than to see my guests happy and taking their ease.” She guided Hans to a high stool beside what looked like a bar of some sort. “You sit there and mix us all some lovely drinks. Here,” she pushed an armful of bottles of jewel-colored liquids, a shaker, and an ice bucket toward him. “I believe you are a man who knows a thing or two about drinks. Am I right?” When Hans mumbled and nodded happily she clapped her hands together in delight. “Wonderful! I shall fetch water and a bandage for your poor, dear eye, and then we shall sip our cocktails, and when you are recovered I will show you to your bedchambers to change for dinner.”
The Sorcerer's Appendix Page 6
