“But do you really think there are bears? I mean, one hears tales … but … if there are, how are we to defend ourselves?”
“I understand there are two schools of thought on the matter. One says that humans are not natural prey for either wolves or bears, and that if you make sufficient noise, and make yourself big enough, they will run in the other direction. The other wisdom is that you must make stealth your friend, move silently through your surroundings, by so doing neither alerting the hungry beasts to your presence nor provoking them into an attack.”
Hans chewed over this information as slowly and carefully as if it were a mouthful of bony fish. At last he gave a shrug. “I believe we both will be better at large and loud than invisible and silent. That should be our tactic.”
“So long as you promise not to sing.”
“Sing, no. But whistle, I shall. And I will thrash with this,” he decided, plucking a long stick from a wiry tree next to him. “The sound of me beating back nettles and such will give anyone listening the message that I am a man of action; determined, vigorous, and not to be tangled with.”
Gretel regarded her brother in his grubby red silk, with his eye patch, berry-stained face, and bare feet. She feared he looked as if he had already been tangled with quite extensively. Still, if it made him feel better …
“Thrash away, Hans. Let us settle on another two hours’ march before we make camp for the night.” As she spoke she was all too aware of how meager and uncomfortable that camp would be. They had not beds, nor bedding, nor anything with which to construct a tent. They had nothing to cook in, on, or with, and not so much as a medicinal swig of brandy between them.
“Look!” Hans sang out cheerily. “Wild garlic. We must have some.” He tugged at the bright leaves until a muddy bulb emerged. Barely bothering to dust off the soil he chomped into the thing, munching happily. “Mmmm! Quite refreshing. Want some?”
“I prefer mine cooked. Let’s take some with us, that way you can render them more tempting once we have a fire lit.”
The idea of being in charge of firelighting and cooking cheered Hans, as Gretel knew it would, so that he whistled and thrashed on, nibbling a little garlic now and then, his breath alone a fierce deterrent for any would-be predators. They had traveled quite some distance before he began to plead for them to stop and set up camp. Gretel was able to cajole him a little further in search of the perfect campsite—level ground, a bit of a break in the trees, preferably by a stream. She let him think she was eager to be on with the hunt for the sorcerer, which indeed she was, but he did not realize that she was also keen to put a little more distance between themselves and whatever remained of Zelda. For all the time she had spent convincing herself that the witch must surely be dead, she could not shake off the uneasy sense that they were still being followed and watched.
At last he would be driven no further. They selected a spot that conformed to their requirements fairly comprehensively, and both gathered twigs, leaves, and fallen boughs with which to construct a fire. Given how easy it had been to set the witch’s cottage ablaze, they were dismayed at how impossible it now seemed to be to light a simple campfire. Gretel wished she had another garment to sacrifice to the cause, but neither of them could spare any clothing. Hans bent low beneath the ambitious construction of wood and kindling, blowing as good as any bellows might into the smoky smoldering his lighter caused at the base of the thing, but not a single flame burst forth.
“Really, Hans, I thought you knew how to do this.”
“The wood is damp. This forest is so dense, nothing dries out properly.” He set to puffing and blowing harder.
“We must have something we can use to get it going. How about your cigars?”
“My best Havanas? Never!”
“Well then what about some of those cards of yours?”
“My playing cards?!”
“Why not? You have two packs. I think the likelihood of us rounding up a four for canasta is slim, don’t you?”
“But Gretel, my cards, they are the tools of my trade.”
“They are combustible. Don’t you want a cheery fire to rest your poor feet by? And light in the darkness? And hot roasted garlic?”
Hans opened his mouth to protest further but another sound silenced him. It was a long, low, wailing howl. When it stopped there was a charged silence, and then it began again. And when it did, a second, chilling, primeval howl joined in. And then a third. And a fourth.
Wordlessly, and with shaking hands, Hans snatched the cards from his pile of belongings and held his lighter to one after the other until they had properly caught and the twigs atop them had done the same. After that he became entirely focused on feeding the fire with as much wood as they could find. Neither of them uttered the word “wolf” for where was the need when the creatures were serenading them? Once he had convinced himself the fire was steady and that the wolves would not come near it, Hans took the remaining garlic bulbs and buried them beneath the embers to roast. Gretel felt it was something of a backward step, putting the things into the earth when they had gone to the trouble of taking them out of it only hours earlier, but she thought this might not be the moment to criticize. At one point Hans got a little carried away with his alfresco cooking and leaned in overly close to the heat of the fire, losing his exposed eyebrow in the process. The removal of this reliably expressive, bristly adornment to his brow left him with a permanently surprised expression, which rather suited him, as if life was constantly astonishing him. Which it often was. When he pulled the baked bulbs from the fire, with a deal of ooching and ouching and burned fingers, he handed two on a dock leaf to his sister with great pride. Gretel was hungry enough to have eaten them raw and muddy by this point, and so was delighted to find that they tasted quite delicious. Warm food in her empty tummy sent goodwill and hope coursing through her veins.
“Could have done with a little salt, Hans, but otherwise very good indeed. I knew there was a reason I brought you along.”
Jynx became quite lively as dusk fell and zipped about feasting on flying bugs.
“Gosh,” said Hans, “if only we could catch our supper with such ease.”
They rounded off their meal with the last of the toffees. Having stoked the fire up as much as they were able, they elected to slumber sitting up, back to back, leaning on each other. That way, they reasoned, they could not be snuck up upon by anything given to sneaking. Gretel feared she would not get more than five minutes sleep in such a position, and said as much to Hans as she leaned against his broad back and closed her weary eyes.
Judging by the depth of the darkness, several hours had passed when Gretel came to with a jolt. The fire was still going, but had consumed nearly all its wood, so that it was now nothing more than low embers, and a similarly low glow. She realized that she was no longer sitting up, but lying flat on her back on the leafy ground. She turned to lean on her elbow and squint into the gloom. A moment’s staring was all it took to establish the awful truth: Hans had disappeared.
For a full two minutes Gretel stood beside the dwindling fire and hissed “Hans!” into the darkness. No answer came. It was a ridiculous thing, to try to make oneself heard while at the same time trying not to. She repeated his name in the hope that her brother would respond to it, whereas an Undesirable Other—particularly of the furry variety—would not. In fact, no one and nothing responded. She considered the possibilities. He might have crept off to avail himself of the woodland water closet, i.e., the privacy of a tree a little way off. But then he would have heard her insistent nagging and answered. He might have gone on a somnambulant meander, in which case he could have fallen into a bog, a hole, or a deep sleep some way off. He might have been (she hesitated to form the thought) taken. By something. Or someone. But surely this would have involved such resistance and noise and commotion as would have been impossible for her to sleep through. She dismissed this explanation and settled instead upon his having woken, bleary-eyed, and wandered fr
om the camp for some Hans-like reason only to lose his way. More than likely he had succumbed to sleep once more, and she would find him sleeping like a log, possibly next to a log.
There was no choice but to go in search of him. She repacked their few possessions, including her wig, and shouldered the rucksack. Jynx fluttered about beside her, a little piece of darkness moving in the darkness. Gretel found a longish, thinnish bough and persuaded the end to catch fire. This smoky torch would have to serve as both light source and protection. It didn’t feel like much of either. She scoured the ground for signs of which way Hans might have gone, reasoning that someone of such a robust stature must surely have left a trail to follow.
There were indeed clues. Squashed plants. Broken twigs. Crushed areas of moss. A dozen strides along she found his pocket kerchief. Trying hard not to imagine what might lurk in the gloom beyond the reach of her torch, she pressed on. Here and there things scuttled and scratched. An owl hooted. There was, mercifully, no more howling, so that she was able to convince herself there were no wolves close by. Every now and again she risked calling out and then strained her tired ears for a reply. She began to feel irritation building within her. Why could he not be relied upon simply to stay put for a night? Or not to fraternize with witches? Or fall into streams? Or all but put his own eye out? She had brought him along largely to carry their camping paraphernalia and now they had none, and she was carrying their remaining luggage herself. Things had not, it could be said, gone according to plan.
The path she was following became narrower and twistier, the trees on either side closing in tight to the edges, so that she wondered how Hans had been able to fit through. She found several snagged silk threads on the trunks of the larches that now lined the way, suggesting her brother’s progress had been something of a squeeze. And then she began to hear curious noises, faint at first, but growing ever more distinct. She made a mental note to question Hans, at the earliest opportunity, about how he and strange sounds seemed to be so often connected. Gretel crept on cautiously in the direction of what she now recognized as some manner of music. There were bells, and a light drumming, and something that could have been a harp. It was all rather tuneful and pleasant, which went some way to removing her apprehension. When she was sure she was almost upon the source of the music, she got down on her knees and shuffled to the top of a small hillock, from where she was able to peer down into the dingley dell below.
What a sight greeted her eyes!
There was a clearing at the bottom of a gentle slope, and in it a party appeared to be taking place, attended by miniature people. There were two central fires, around which these little beings sat or danced as the band played with gusto on their suitably small-scale instruments. Tiny lights dotted the low branches of trees and bushes, and by using her trusty lorgnettes Gretel identified these as glowworms hung in jam jars. The atmosphere was one of jollity and fun. Indeed the little people danced and drank and feasted in their bright clothes as if the woods were the safest and loveliest of places to be. And in their midst, lumbering and stumbling, danced Hans. If he had been taken by force and was being kept against his will he certainly showed no signs of it. He seemed to be having quite the time of his life. A self-confessed nondancer, he was doing his best to keep up with a lively jig, though it was only the nimble footedness of his hosts that prevented them from being inadvertently stamped upon by him.
As she watched him he looked up and saw her. “Gretel!” he cried, waving cheerily, evidently delighted to see her. “Come and join us, do! Look, everyone, it is my sister, come to join in the merrymaking.”
Gretel made a second mental note to discuss with her brother his penchant for trusting people of brief acquaintance. She stood up, brushed off her cape and nightdress as best she could, and descended to join the throng. Immediately she was surrounded by the curious small people. They darted and jumped and dashed about in a way that might have been unsettling, but they all wore such broad grins or beaming smiles it was not possible to feel intimidated by them, even though they numbered quite a few.
“Here!” Hans grabbed her hand and pulled her onto what passed for a dance floor. Gretel saw that his patched eye had been stuffed with some manner of herbal poultice. It smelled rather strongly, though not unpleasantly. “You have to try this, sister mine. More fun than any dance you’ve danced in your life before, I promise you.” He held onto her and wheeled her about with an energy and enthusiasm she would not have thought him capable of, particularly given his lack of sleep, food, and shoes. She noticed tiny tankards made of nutshells around the place, and a larger one fashioned from a piece of bark that could only have been for Hans.
“Who are your new drinking companions, Hans? How was it that you left me to come here with them? Did they threaten you?”
“Threaten? Good gracious no! The very idea,” he laughed as he spoke, but then found he could not also dance, for want of breath. At last he stopped whirling them both across the trampled earth of the forest floor. “No, I got up to, well, you know, do what a person must do when he has spent the day drinking spring water … and on my way back I encountered a little group of these wonderful folk. They were on their way here for the party and invited me to join them. It seemed churlish to refuse.”
“And it never crossed your mind to wake me up?”
“Didn’t want to disturb you,” he explained with another guffaw of laughter. “Thought I’d come back later and then I could introduce you.” He swept an arm wide and slow to indicate the entire company. “These, sister mine, are the woodland pixies, and a jollier, happier band of people you could not wish for.”
Gretel frowned at him. “What are you drinking?” she asked, forced to raise her voice above the crescendo of music, cheering, and laughter. “It seems very potent.”
“Marvelous stuff!” Hans agreed, snatching up his vessel to offer to her. “Never come across anything quite like it, have to say. Here, be my guest.”
Gretel sniffed it suspiciously. She could drink even her brother under the table if she had a mind to, but there was something unfamiliar about the liquor at this party. Something not entirely alcohol based, she decided.
“Thank you, no,” she said. “I prefer to drink with people to whom I have first been introduced.”
“Then let us rectify the situation at once!” Hans insisted, moving in a manner that suggested focus was not currently his strong point as he searched for someone in the crowd. Gretel observed that while Hans was dancing with the pixies, he had become most definitely pixilated.
TEN
The pixies were reduced versions of the more common humans. They were identical to, say, Gesternstadt folk in every aspect save their size, which was that of a garden gnome, and their slightly rustic attire. Most wore garments that seemed to have been fashioned from the very woodlands they inhabited, all leafy greens or earthy browns, spun or weaved from the flora that surrounded them. Here and there adornments of beetle wings or tiny polished stones lifted their outfits, and Gretel could not help but be impressed at the skilled tailoring and needlework that must have been required to produce such minute, detailed, and sturdy clothing.
“Here, I say!” Hans attracted the attention of an adult pixie, a male, who sported a fine beard and a ready smile. “Come and meet my sister.”
“Greetings!” exclaimed the little man, extending a hand while keeping a tight hold on his tankard with the other. His grip was firm, though Gretel noticed as she shook it that he had an unsteady gaze that wavered as he made eye contact with her. Again she wondered what it was they were all imbibing.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance…” She waited for Hans to introduce her properly, and when he did not was forced to prompt him. “Hans? A name?”
“Oh, he doesn’t have one,” Hans explained. “None of them is called anything. It’s the way things are done here; friendly, casual, each man equal to the next. I find it rather refreshing, have to say.”
The pixie nodded. “
We are all friends here. No need for formal Mr. This or Missus That.”
“But,” Gretel felt compelled to ask, “how do you know whom you are talking about?”
“Ah, we don’t encourage that,” the pixie told her. “Doesn’t do to talk about people who aren’t present. Might be misconstrued. Could be thought of as tittle-tattle and contain hurtful words. Wouldn’t do at all. Not here.”
Hans beamed “I do so like these little fellows!”
Gossip was a pet hate of Gretel’s, but even so, she found the concept the pixie was putting forward more than a little problematic. “No one is more in agreement with you than I on the matter of malicious whisperings, believe me, and yet, how can you identify a person when you have a need to? If, for instance, you wish to locate a specific person, or engage the services of another? Both cases might require the discussing of those persons with another party.”
“That’s easy, we just use the thing that is distinctive about that person, say his job or a standout feature.”
“And if they have no job, nor any … standout feature?”
The pixie took a thirsty swig of his drink and raised his eyebrows. “Can’t imagine why you’d want to seek them out if that were the case. But, supposing you had your reasons, we just use the relation that person has to another person, until we get to one who has something worth noting. So, say you wanted to ask for that person over there …” Here he paused while Gretel followed his pointing finger to see a youngish male pixie of medium height and unremarkable appearance, “you’d just ask for the son of the man with the talent for singing.”
“I see. And this can be applied to anyone, however dull their family?”
“Course it can. Just keep going. All identities radiate out from someone worth mentioning, so you can step back to them if need be.”
The Sorcerer's Appendix Page 9
