I give no answer. An answer will come to me in time, I know. For now, the danger is not immediate. I can let the child’s words pass.
We eat endive soup in quiet peace. I am careful to take the bread from the oven with the old towel, rather than my bare hands. The smell of the fresh bread is almost as good as its taste. The children eat ravenously. And soon even Hansel is washing up with us and sweeping and wiping the table.
The children are hiding yawns. I smile at their innocent politeness. “You must climb into bed now. Hurry and strip.”
Gretel shakes her head. “We’ve been sleeping in the woods and . . . and we’ve come to prefer the feeling of leaves underneath us.”
“We have not,” shouts Hansel.
“Yes, we have,” says Gretel firmly. “I’ll carry in some leaf piles and we’ll sleep in the corner.”
I am shocked, almost hurt. “Is there something wrong with the bed?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the bed,” shouts Hansel. “I’m sleeping in the bed.”
“No, you’re not,” says Gretel. “There is only one bed. It is for the Old Woman.”
I laugh. “Oh, Gretel, let me tell you a secret.” I lean forward and whisper. “I never sleep. I will be just as comfortable in the rocking chair all night.”
“You never sleep?” says Hansel, his eyes growing round.
“Never,” I say.
“Why not?” says Hansel.
“Don’t be nosy,” says Gretel, but her eyes are as round as his.
I am charmed by her protective behavior toward my privacy. It moves me to speak openly. “I am afraid of what may come to me in my sleep.”
Gretel stares at me.
“Our father had nightmares,” says Hansel.
“Yes,” I say to the boy, “nightmares. Many people suffer from nightmares.” I smile kindly. “To bed now.”
The children strip and climb into the rough cotton sheets I have woven myself.
“That bowl,” says Gretel, pointing, “did you make it?”
“Yes.”
She looks at the bowl with a flicker of longing. But the words that come out do not betray her desire. “It is a good size. It could have many uses.”
“I keep it empty,” I am saying. “I keep it pure.”
Gretel’s face lights up. “Yes, it looks pure.”
“Do you think it’s pretty?” I ask.
“Pretty? I suppose it is,” says Gretel thoughtfully. “But it is pure. That’s what counts.”
“Tomorrow,” I am saying, “tomorrow I will make a fresh batch of caramels.” I am thinking that I would love to feed this girl chocolate—the rich milk chocolate that Asa loved so much. But cacao beans are impossible to come by without going into a village store. Even making caramels means I must lure a farmer’s cow away from the herd so I can rob her of a bucket of milk. Almost nothing is without its risks. But I need to make Gretel candy. “Would you like fresh caramels?”
Gretel doesn’t answer, nor does Hansel; both children sleep already.
I quickly boil a vat of water. I collect their clothes and empty their pockets. I set Gretel’s wishbone on the table beside the pile of odd sticks and beetle shells from Hansel’s pockets. I throw the clothes into the boiling water with peppermint leaves. After a while, I lift them out. I realize I am holding these scalding hot clothes in my bare hands. I look quickly over my shoulder to make sure the children have not seen. They are fast asleep. I must learn to be careful. I wring out the children’s clean clothes and hang them on a grapevine cord across the room.
Then I grab my broom and search carefully in every nook and cranny. I find a potato bug that must have traveled in with the last batch of beets. I take no chances, but throw it into the boiling vat. I find some ants, dining on crumbs from our dinner bread. I crush them. There are no other living creatures on the floor. Nevertheless, I open my jug of vinegar and splash the floor liberally. I get on hands and knees and rub the pungent acid into every floorboard.
My eyes scour the walls now. Nothing.
The ceiling. Nothing.
But, oh, what was that? I move closer. The delicate leg of a hairy spider protrudes from a niche between the logs near the ceiling. If I smash with the broom, the spider may pull itself entirely into the niche and escape. And who knows what powers that spider may answer to? I must entice the creature from the niche. I walk calmly to the hearth and set down my broom. So long as no devil knows that these children are here, so long as no devil can speak within my head, these children may live here with me. I can take care of them. I have lived in isolation for nine long years. Surely it is time for me to have companionship again. We can be a family of sorts. After all, their stepmother is cruel beyond belief and their father is an obvious coward. They can’t be worse off with me. They can’t, so long as the devils do not know they are here. I must face that spider. If it has furious eyes, I must kill it.
I walk quietly to the wall below the niche where the spider hides. I get down on my hands and knees and examine the floor. I buzz lightly, like the sound of a fly in distress. I buzz on and on. I dare not look up at the wall. I buzz and keep my head lowered so that nothing above my head can see the source of the buzz. I buzz on and on. I can hear the spider’s breath-soft steps on the wall. It is a female spider. I sense her femininity. She is very close now. Her eyes burn into the nape of my neck.
I grab her with one swift move and gnash her between my teeth. I hesitate; then I spit her out. She is gone, like a whiff of dust. My tongue licks the bitter ash of instant death from my teeth.
eight
JEWELS
The children are asleep in my bed. I stand over them and feel their breath curl around their cheeks. I marvel at the contrast of their dark lashes on their pink skin. I brush Gretel’s hair away from her temple, as I once did to Asa’s hair. I slide my index finger into a ring of Hansel’s hair. It is the first ring of sorts that I have had on my finger since that fateful ring of Spanish gold. Such a difference between the two rings. I blow Hansel’s ringlet off my finger. They are gentle children.
We have been living together here for four weeks. I know this by the cycle of moons. We are now back to a full moon. The children have adjusted quickly to a vegetarian diet, though they spoke at first of meat. I told them that my religion forbids me to swallow flesh. They believe me. It is not far from the truth.
I am interested to learn that I can answer questions without being deceitful. Indeed, I have never yet lied to these children. I simply present only what they need to know. The rest is left hidden, hurting no one. That my answers are measured and not free does not render them knavish. Always have I understood perspective. Was it not this same perspective I employed so long ago when I responded to Bala’s questions about Asa’s father?
I am standing looking at my own hands. They have changed in the last month. They are covered with callouses from gripping the broom. I sweep our home many times each day, and when I sweep I hold on to that broom with a passion I can barely control. The skin around my nails peels back from the acid of the vinegar I pour generously on the shelves three times each day. There is not a single insect in this home. Not a single spider. This is a clean home, a home free of devils, a home fit for children.
I step back and crush a pinecone Hansel has left on the floor. I jump at the sound. Hansel is making a wreath for the door, but this cone will not be part of it. The noise disturbs Gretel’s sleep. She looks around in momentary alarm. Then her eyes focus on my face and they become dreamy. She smiles. “Good night, Mother.” She closes her eyes and is instantly deep asleep.
I have stopped breathing. Now I let the air fill my lungs once more. This child has called me Mother. My ears are ringing with the word. It is an unexpected honor.
I walk backward slowly and lower myself into the rocking chair, feeling dazed. I look about the one-room cottage, as Gretel has taught me to call it. Gretel’s apron, which took me four days to make, is folded on the shelf above the bed. Ordin
arily I could pick the cotton, spin it, and weave it all within a single day. But the apron is not plain cotton. The edges are scalloped with crochet. I have dyed the loops pink. I smile at the pervasive signs of beets in this home. There are bunches of dried currants sewn above the pockets. They give a festive air to the little apron. When the currants begin to turn to dust, I will replace them. The supply of dried berries is without end.
Beside the apron on the shelf sits a small stack of hot pads. Gretel made them, in her quiet, insistent way. She never questioned me further about them. I have much to be grateful for.
And beside the stack of hot pads is my carved wooden bowl. It is still empty. But its significance has changed. I have promised Gretel that when I die, it is hers. I know what this promise means: I have accepted Gretel as a daughter. And now, oh, joy of joys, she has called me Mother. We have adopted each other.
She is a very different girl from the girl Asa was. Gretel is made of oak, where Asa was a bending willow. Gretel would smell of soap, where Asa would prefer perfume. But, after all, I am a very different woman today from the woman I was when I was Asa’s mother. Gretel is a more suitable child to the woman I am now. She doesn’t demand I give the warmth only a human can give. I give all that I can, and it seems enough. Gretel is satisfied with me. I feel a calm I had never expected to feel again.
Peeking out from under the edge of the bed is a new basket that Hansel made. It is crude and asymmetrical. But I like it. It is now full of feathers from the head and tail of the redheaded woodpecker. Hansel is quite expert at spying feathers. He would soar like a feather if he could. I have taken lately to holding his hand when we walk in the woods. Half the time he is breaking free from me to climb a tree for a feather stuck high in the branches. He has the same affinity for heights that Asa had. But he always returns quickly and takes my hand again. Feathers. I think briefly of the basket of feathers that Asa kept in our cabin long ago. I picture the delight her face would show at the sight of the bright yellow feathers of these birds that call themselves canaries.
Fine, fine children. Both of them. Children who deserve so much.
And I am standing now, walking to the hearth. I am reaching my hands into the ashes, which are still smoldering. I do not look over my shoulder to check whether or not the children watch. Their even breaths tell me they sleep peacefully. I clear away the ashes and dig with my bare fingers into the baked clay earth. It takes most of an hour, but my fingers at last feel the sharp edges of the porcupine-quill box. It is still whole, after these nine long years of being buried. I unearth it and set it beside my knees. Then I fill the hole and push the ashes back in place.
I look at my sizzling skin. Scars will form. I plunge my hands into the bucket of water that sits beside the hearth. It would make no sense to let the burn eat to the bone.
I get to my feet and look at the dirt-covered box. I can already imagine the emeralds in a necklace lying on Gretel’s thin chest. I look at her shoes by the door. Her feet are small. I am sure I have enough diamonds for the soles of her shoes. But no one would rob her here in the woods. I could cover her shoes with diamonds, top and bottom. Asa would have laughed in glee had it been safe to stud the tops of her shoes in diamonds. Gretel will be more hesitant. I will have to help her learn to let herself enjoy the splendor.
I go out into the night. The air is chilled. Summer is coming to a close with the end of August, and I can smell that this will be a harsh winter. I think of Hansel and Gretel’s stepmother, looking ahead to a hard winter, wondering how she would feed these children. That must have been it. No woman would abandon these children for anything less than desperation.
And I wonder why I want to justify her actions so much. Who is this wicked stepmother to me and me to her?
But it is not her I care about. It is the children. I seek to justify her actions so that I can quell the rage that lights within me at the thought of her cruelty.
But, oh, joyous, milky-full moon up there in the sky, you witnessed the girl child’s words tonight. I have no need for rage any longer. A new life has come to me. A new world.
And I realize suddenly that this is the second full moon this month. A blue moon. What is happening to me can happen only once in a blue moon.
I am running now, my feet knowing the way perfectly. My hands dip into the stream and wash the newly scarred skin to perfect cleanliness. I laugh a perfect laugh. There is nothing missing. I am very close to hope, after years and years of hopelessness. I cannot wait to get back and begin my work as jeweler. I run as fast as I have ever run. As fast as I crossed forests and lakes to get to these woods nine years ago.
I open the door and stop. My mouth drops open.
“Look!” Gretel is kneeling before the open porcupine box. Her hands are full of gems.
“What woke you?” My eyes race around the room. “What woke you, Gretel?”
“Nothing at all,” says Gretel. She holds the gems close to her face. “Where did they come from?”
“What woke you?” I shriek.
Hansel sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes.
“Nothing,” says Gretel, surprise in her voice. “A silly spider on my cheek. Less than nothing.”
Hansel is out of bed now, walking toward Gretel on bare feet.
“Where is that spider?” I hurry to the bed and stare down at the pillow, which still holds the indentation from her head.
“Why, I put it out the door. Its abdomen was brown, not colored. It wasn’t a poisonous one.” Gretel laughs. “How can you think of a spider at a time like this? Just look, we are rich.”
“We won’t have to live in the woods anymore,” says Hansel. He holds a ruby in his palm.
“That’s right,” says Gretel. “We can go back to town. We can bring enough jewels to make Father rich forever.”
“They’re leaving you,” says the voice within my head.
The room spins before my eyes, and I fall into the rocking chair. I am shocked at the return of the voice. But the shock is momentary, for the words it speaks cut me so deeply I cannot retreat into a state of shock. I want to say that they are not leaving me. They talk of their father now. But that’s just because the jewels are a novelty. As soon as they have a moment to think about it, they will remember me. They will talk about taking me with them.
“I’m going to make a belt and put this one on the buckle,” says Hansel, pocketing the ruby.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Gretel. “It’s worth money, you foolish boy. We can eat for a year on what this ruby is worth. Father can buy beef again.” She takes the ruby from Hansel and puts it back in the box. She picks up a smaller one. “Here.” She laughs. “Take this one for your buckle.”
“You thought they loved you, didn’t you?” The voice within my head laughs raucously. “Imagine that, human children loving a witch! You pathetic piece of boar dropping!” And now a second voice breaks into laughter. “They will take all your jewels and leave you here alone. You thought love could save you. Watch. Watch it all crumble away! No one will love you ever ever again.”
My hands clutch the arms of the rocking chair. I feel I am falling, despite my grip. I hold on with all my strength. The children are not talking about me. They are not planning to take me with them. But that’s all right, I hasten to tell myself. That’s the way it must be. It would be tragic if they wanted me to go with them, for I can never leave this enchanted forest. They are right. I am not hurt at their behavior. I will not be hurt.
“Of course you’re hurt,” says that demonic voice. “You are a disgrace to all witches everywhere. Pull yourself together. There they are—delicious morsels of meat.”
“Look at this purple one,” says Gretel. She holds up the amethyst I used to draw magic circles with.
I do not look at Gretel’s pink flesh. I concentrate on the amethyst. I cannot think how it came to be in the box. I used it with the baron’s newborn that day nine years ago. But then it was left in the dirt. Who rescued it? And now
I am sure it was Asa. And knowledge of Asa floods my mind. I see her kissing the amethyst nine years ago and setting it in the porcupine box all shiny wet with her tears. And I see her now. This very moment. I see her swirling skirts. I fight the knowledge. It comes to me from an unclean source. I would give anything to know about Asa, anything but the right to resist killing these two children here. I am fighting and fighting.
Gretel comes to the chair and stands beside me, her eyes worried. “Are you all right? You don’t look good.”
“She never looks good,” said Hansel. “She’s a hunch-back. You told me it didn’t matter whether she looked good, so long as she was good.”
“Hush, Hansel.” Gretel puts her hand on top of mine. “Are you ill?”
“Tell her,” scream the voices in my head. “Tell Gretel what ails you. Watch the hate that comes into her eyes! Tell her, tell her, tell her.”
My tongue moves of its own accord. “Gretel,” I whisper. All my strength is unable to stop my tongue. “Gretel.”
Her hand tightens over mine. “What is it? You are making me afraid.”
I will never tell Gretel the hideous words that hide behind my lips. I reach my hand into my mouth and grab my tongue. I pull it forward, and my teeth clamp down hard. My tongue flies away across the room, wagging as it goes. I swoon.
When I awake, the voices are frantic. “Open your eyes! Open them.”
I place the index finger of each hand on each eyelid and hold it there. My eyelids freeze shut.
“You wretched fool!” The voice within me splutters now. “You think you can close your mind by not seeing the fresh meat before you. Imbecile. You know they are here. You know the blood that runs through their veins. You can smell it. You can taste it! Your self-imposed blindness is futile. No matter what you do, you know they are here—in the flesh and blood.”
My ears listen against my will. I hear sniffles.
“Don’t cry, Gretel,” says Hansel.
The Magic Circle Page 7
