Gretel

by Christopher Coleman

  “Petr referred to you as my stepmother.” Gretel paused, setting up the blow. “But I never told him about you and Father getting married. Why would he have said that? How would he have known?”

  Odalinde furrowed her brow and smiled, nearly snickering. “I don’t know, Gretel. I told you, I never said anything about marrying your father to anyone. And certainly not to Petr or his father.”

  “So how then?”

  “Maybe he just made a mistake. Or…” Odalinde paused, “is it possible you did tell Petr and just forgot?”

  Her tone was delicate, one intended to encourage Gretel to explore this explanation more deeply. But Gretel had explored it exhaustively and was positive she’d never mentioned the engagement. The whole affair had weighed on her far too heavily to have one day tossed it out casually and forgotten about it.

  “No, it isn’t possible.”

  “So you never told anyone then? Not even at school?”

  “No,” Gretel hesitated, “except…Well, I told the Klahrs. But no one else.”

  Odalinde’s eyebrows flickered up and she cocked her head slightly, her eyes staying focused forward. It was a gesture that said, ‘Perhaps there’s your answer.’

  “They wouldn’t have told Petr,” Gretel protested.

  “No? And why is that?”

  Gretel started in on her defense of the Klahrs, but decided too much time had been wasted already on the ill-fated marriage of Heinrich and Odalinde, and she instead changed the subject entirely. “That figurine-thing, the swan on the mantle, that was my grandmother’s wasn’t it?”

  Odalinde smiled and nodded, again fascinated by Gretel’s instincts. “She gave it to me when your mother was born. It’s an old custom for a mother to give a gift to the godparents upon the birth of a child. I’ve treasured it for a long time. And when I came here it seemed proper to bring it along.” She paused. “I’m going to leave it for you, Gretel. It’s yours now.”

  Gretel was touched by the gift, and wanted to ask a thousand more questions about and how Odalinde came to the responsibility she now owned. And about her grandmother. And how she died.

  But the subjects felt out of place to explore at the moment, as if they were stories from a different book to be read later. So instead Gretel asked, “What will we do if my grandfather is there?”

  The sympathy returned to Odalinde’s face, and she reached out and stroked Gretel’s hair. “I’ve thought about that. Obviously we can’t simply walk into his house and accuse him of kidnapping your mother. I do believe he’s involved in this, but I don’t have proof. So, we’ll say we’re there to visit, that’s all.”

  “What about Hansel? I don’t know if he’ll be able to stay quiet.”

  “I won’t say anything,” Hansel chimed from the back, “I promise.”

  And for the rest of the trip to Deda’s, no one said a word.

  ***

  Anika awoke in the chair and saw her father sitting on the couch in the same position he was when he told her of her impending death. It hadn’t been a dream. Anika hadn’t suspected as much, but the soulless man next to her now left no doubt.

  She tried to gauge how long she’d been asleep, but without windows, she had no idea. Clearly her body was still recovering from its ordeal, and she was thankful for the rest.

  “Who is the woman?” Anika asked coldly, “The woman whose face I smashed?”

  Marcel was sober now, no longer convulsively trying to sell the merits of his diabolical decisions. It seemed to Anika that he’d recognized his daughter was right—he was deranged—and that continuing to advocate for what he was prepared to do only amplified that assessment.

  “She’s your kin, Anika,” he answered, “distantly related, but your blood.”

  Anika nodded at this, the truth of her father’s words obvious to her now that they’d been spoken.

  “She, however, didn’t know of the relation. At least your mother didn’t believe so.”

  This too made sense to Anika—she’d never gotten the sense the woman viewed her as anything other than a common animal. If she had known, based on what her father believed about the potion, Anika suspected the woman’s ferocity and precision would have been even greater.

  “Your mother had known the woman was in this country the day she arrived, so many years ago. She was young then, the woman, and alone.” Marcel looked to the floor. “And not yet inoculated with the potion.”

  “Was she looking for Mother? Why did she come here to begin with, to the Northlands?”

  “The Northlands have always been a common refuge for Old Country folk, surely you know that. Just think of all the like surnames in these parts. The reasons for coming are always changing—when the woman came it was probably for opportunity and adventure, a drive far less coercive than the persecution from which your mother fled. But in any case, it has never been unusual for ancestors to settle in common areas.”

  Anika had never been close with her relatives, but it was true there were many around. “So Mother welcomed this woman when she arrived? They bonded?”

  “No, Anika, that’s not how it was. I don’t think they ever met. Your mother had been here long before the woman arrived. Long before she was ever born.”

  “So how did she know this woman was coming at all? If people arrived regularly, and she had no real connection to her, why was her coming here of any note to Mother? I don’t understand.”

  “It was the book, Anika. It was, of course, the book. Your mother knew she had the book.”

  “That doesn’t help me to understand.”

  “The copies were tracked carefully back then. There were only a few dozen or so in existence, most of which were kept by members of your mother’s family. When a copy traveled, so did word of its movement. Your mother learned of the book’s voyage to the Northlands and she took it as her duty to make sure the secrets it contained stayed safe.”

  “But how did she know the book was coming? Who relayed that message?”

  Marcel rubbed his brow with the tips of his fingers and closed his eyes. He inhaled slowly, careful not to trigger another fit of coughing. His exhaustion was palpable to Anika.

  “I don’t know every detail, Anika. Your mother told me this story long ago. I just know your mother was afraid—terrified—that the secret would become known, known here in a land that lacked the context and history to respect it. It’s why she never taught it to me.”

  Anika was relentless with her questioning, leaving no room for her father to change the subject. “But the woman knew the secret. How would it stay safe if that woman knew?”

  “You mother knew she had the book, but it was possible she didn’t know of the black secrets it contained. She thought it quite unlikely actually. And that was the primary reason your mother stayed away from her. She was afraid if she befriended the woman, and made their common ancestry known, that eventually the secret would be revealed. So instead your mother kept her distance, watching for signs from afar, listening for news of unusual deaths…murders.”

  “May not have known the secret? Why would Mother have assumed she didn’t know?”

  “Many of the inheritors of the books, even in those days, revered the document only for what it symbolized, the beauty of life and the powers of nature. Things like that. But they never truly believed or attempted to practice all that was inside. Not most of them. They didn’t believe in the practical nature of the book. Much the same way millions of people own Bibles but don’t live their lives by the letter of The Word. Some do, but most don’t. These books eventually became keepsakes, family heirlooms, an inheritance with a medieval backstory that few believed.”

  “But there is…” Anika paused suddenly and closed her eyes. She exhaled slowly and continued. “There’s the recipe. I don’t recall in the Bible a menu for cannibals.” Anika could see her father draining further, and knew he had no energy for banter or argument.

  “Once the books became two or three generations removed from their
original scribes, there were few people in the world anymore who could read them. There were a handful of families who kept the language sacred and passed it on, but most didn’t. The world was moving on, on to the one we live in today, a world of enlightenment and science—things like Orphism were suddenly viewed with fear and contempt—and ultimately mythology. It was why your mother left her home.”

  “So Mother didn’t know if the woman could read the book? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “She doubted it but had no way of knowing for sure. But even if she could, your mother thought it unlikely the woman would ever attempt to practice it. Not the blending part.”

  “But Mother was wrong.”

  Marcel leaned back in his chair and frowned. “It so happens that, yes, she was wrong. In many ways I wish she hadn’t been but…well, there it is.”

  Anika stared at her father and said nothing, and then stood suddenly with her cup of water and walked to the main door of the building, twisting the handle for good measure, but showing no surprise when it didn’t turn.

  “You didn’t think it would be that easy did you?” Marcel’s tone was mild, as if trying to soften the natural sinisterness of the phrase.

  “I suppose not,” Anika said as she began to stroll the interior perimeter of the warehouse. “But what now, Father? Your plan failed. I’m here, alive, and as far as you know I’ve killed the woman, leaving you with no one to complete the recipe. You’re a dead man after all.”

  “The woman isn’t dead, Anika. I know she isn’t.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Anika’s tone was challenging, almost cocky, and she continued sauntering the warehouse floor, clutching her mug nervously in both hands, passing the empty metal shelving until she reached the back wall and the interior door where Officer Stenson had ducked out.

  “Your mother never taught me the secret to immortality, but the book contains more than that. Much more. There are things inside—lessons—powerful and wonderful things which your mother did teach me. Ways to connect with the life force inside of everything, and to feel that force, intuit it, guide it when necessary. It took years to learn and control it, but I have done it. And I feel Life in the old woman. I feel it as strongly as ever.”

  “So is that where your slave has gone? That System officer? To bring her here? To kill me?” Anika tried the knob of the interior door but it too was locked, and though she hadn’t expected anything different, she let out a disappointed sigh.

  “They’ll be here soon, Anika.” Marcel paused and then said, “I know it means nothing at this point, but I truly am very sorry.”

  Anika let out a sound that was a mixture of laughter and scream. She stood bewildered at the back of the warehouse, staring wide-eyed at the tall ceiling, resetting all that had happened since she’d been found on the road this morning. It didn’t seem possible.

  “So why did you never teach me any of these great lessons, Papa?” Even now, Anika new the sarcastic lilt she attached to ‘Papa’ would sting her father.

  “I tried, Anika, when you were very young. But you didn’t grasp it. It didn’t come naturally to you. I always intended—when you were older—to resume the lessons, but your mother died and, well, I just didn’t. I’ll admit I was disappointed you weren’t naturally able to feel it, feel it the way Gre…” Marcel stopped, as if speaking his granddaughter’s name was forbidden.

  “Gretel? The way Gretel does?”

  Marcel nodded slowly. “Yes, Anika, the way Gretel does.”

  ***

  Gretel wasn’t surprised to find Deda’s house empty when they arrived, nor was she surprised that an aimless search for clues as to Deda’s whereabouts rendered nothing.

  Odalinde and Hansel took the main floor while Gretel searched the basement. At once the musty smell of the cellar transported her back to the last time she’d been down there, the night her mother disappeared, the night she and Hansel waited anxiously as their father and grandfather discussed what could have happened to the only woman in the world that loved all of them.

  Gretel rummaged again through the drawers of the old desk—including the one that held the dirty magazines—and was momentarily amazed that she and the girl who had mischievously perused those pictures only months ago were the same person. It seemed almost impossible, and she nearly giggled at the embarrassment she felt at the time. Such innocence.

  She scanned the dusty bookshelves where Orphism had sat for so many years, that empty slot now as vacant and black as the book itself. A montage of all the times she’d constructed makeshift scaffolds and had secretly leafed through the book’s pages instantly flashed through her mind. It was all so distant now. How she wished that book was still there. How she wished everything was still here.

  As for clues, the basement contained nothing tangible, a fact Gretel knew to be true before she touched the first step down. But there was something—an inkling—a memory to pursue maybe, something peculiar about that night that went unnoticed. At the time it didn’t stick—there was far too much to process about that night— but there was something. Gretel couldn’t quite find it, however, and if it was still in her brain, whatever that “it” was floated mockingly out of reach, and Gretel didn’t feel she was very close to it. Deda was involved, however, about that she was convinced, and her impatience to find him—and her mother—was festering.

  “Let’s go,” she said to no one in particular as she reached the top of the cellar stairway, “we’re wasting our time here.”

  “Okay, but where?” Odalinde asked.

  Gretel knew the woman’s question wasn’t rhetorical. Her ex-stepmother-to-be believed in Gretel’s intuition, and she, Gretel, now felt the pressure of that belief. “I don’t know! I just know there is nothing here and we have to hurry!”

  “Stop yelling, Gret!” Hansel snapped, the boy once again precariously close to tears.

  “Gretel, it’s okay,” Odalinde said, her voice soft and measured. “I think you’re right. I don’t think we’re going to find anything here.”

  “Then why did we come here at all?”

  “Your grandfather is involved, Gretel. I was being delicate about that before, but you know he’s involved.”

  “Yes, I do know that. But he isn’t here. I knew he wouldn’t be here.”

  “Where is he then Gretel!” Hansel’s voice was as loud as Gretel had ever heard. “I need to find Mother!” The boy slapped his hands to his face, covering his cheeks and eyes, while deep, guttural sobs exploded from him. He dropped down to the floor like a sack of flour and cried, his back and head convulsing with each bawl.

  Gretel frowned at her brother and walked to the front door. “Let’s go,” she said coldly, as she turned the knob on the door.

  ***

  Gretel sat rigid in the front seat of the truck while Odalinde, ostensibly, consoled Hansel. She brushed aside any feelings of guilt about her treatment of her brother, and instead used the time instructively, focusing her intuition. She closed her eyes, squinting them in concentration, and placed her hands flat on the top of her head. She was missing something.

  She sat this way for several minutes, still, waiting for the answer to arrive from the ether, when, finally, the front door to Deda’s opened and Odalinde stepped out holding Hansel’s hand.

  “I’m sorry, Gretel,” Hansel said as he climbed into the back of the truck, “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just miss her.”

  Gretel sighed and had to fight the reflexive eye roll that surfaced. “I miss her too, Hansel. And don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything.”

  Hansel was quiet for a moment, and then said, “I guess I just never believed it, you know? I always thought she was coming back. Especially on that first day, the day she didn’t come home. I was scared just like you and Papa, but I also thought you were both wrong. I thought when we came here that night that…that Deda would know. I thought Deda would tell us everything was fine, that Mother had just been delayed or…I don’t know. Something.
”

  Gretel’s eyes welled at the sincerity and eloquence of her brother’s words, and she turned toward him, awkwardly pulling him close and hugging him. “It’s okay, I know.”

  With Odalinde sitting unobtrusively beside them, the siblings remained embraced momentarily when Gretel’s eyes flashed open.

  “Wait a minute,” she whispered, pushing her brother away. She turned her eyes to the roof of the truck, exploring her memory.

  “What is it, Gretel?” Odalinde asked.

  “That night—that night Hansel and I came here, when Mother went missing—Deda had nothing to tell us that could help. He never told us anything.”

  “We already know it’s Deda, Gretel,” Hansel said, “We know he’s involved in this.”

  “But that’s just it,” Gretel shook her head as if fanning away her brother’s obviousness, “Deda didn’t tell us anything. Remember Han? We were shooed to the basement. Deda and Papa wanted to talk in private. Why in private?”

  “So we wouldn’t hear if something bad had happened. They didn’t want us to get more upset. Deda wanted to protect us.”

  “But protect us from what? If Deda didn’t know anything, what could he have said that would have upset us any more than we already were? And yet, he wanted to talk to Father alone.”

  “What are you saying, Gretel?” Odalinde’s voice was low and clear.

  “I don’t know exactly,” she replied, “we need to talk to Father. And we need to go now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The old woman sat motionless in The System cruiser, her eyes closed, a long, thin smile drawn across her face. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic and her mind was clear. The smells accompanying her meditation were foreign and wonderful, and the feel of the leather on her palms, so lithe and cool, calmed her even further. And the sound. Those sounds which had surrounded her, which had imprisoned her for generations, were now virtually extinguished by the insulation of this perfectly built machine.