But could she make it over the fence? As fences went, it wasn’t particularly tall, and the portion of it that formed the barrier was standard chain link; she assessed it would be easy enough for her to scale to the top. But it was at the top where things got problematic. Four or five rows of gruesome barbs formed a wide V-shape that ran the entire length of the fence, making it as difficult to get on top of it as across it. From where she stood now, the jagged steel canopy appeared as some giant metal crocodile, waiting for her entry into its agape jaws, perhaps promising to take her across the lake—a painful retelling of the fable about the mischievous gingerbread boy, Anika thought, only this time she would star in the ill-fated title role.
But Anika knew a choice had to be made, and there were really only two options: head back down the long, dirt road on which she’d arrived, risking imminent darkness and the openness that seemed certain to expose her to The System officer; or, scale the fence in front of her and take her chances with the barbs and the awaiting lake beyond. She hadn’t swam in years, she suddenly realized, but she was comfortable enough in the water, and she trusted that instincts and desperation would take her the distance she needed.
It was the fence that would be the challenge though, and if that was to be her choice—the fence—she would need to move quickly.
Anika descended the hill and walked up to the fence, pushing the weight of her body against it and gripping her fingers through the links like a prisoner of war. It felt strong, stronger than she would have suspected after so many years. She could see through to Rifle Field the exact spots where she and her family used to lay out their blanket and set the picnic platters, Heinrich always meticulous in his combing of the patches to avoid settling on an ant hill. The grass was wildly overgrown now though it appeared certain areas had been recently trampled and used.
This scenario, her precise position standing at the fence, reminded her of something from a nightmare: pursuing some elusive goal—in this case, her freedom—yet ultimately able only to observe it in silent frustration as the monsters steadily moved in.
But this wasn’t a dream; here she was able to make choices, and Anika’s mind instantly sharpened as she assessed the fence and the possible ways over. The barbs atop were even more imposing at this close angle, and a panic started in Anika’s chest at the sight of the rusty aluminum thorns. She could bear the pain, she thought, but if she got caught—stuck—it would almost certainly spell the end.
She walked the length of the fence to the front wall of the cannery which stood only a few feet from the barrier. Rifle Field stared at her, mocking her with its closeness. Anika surveyed everything, not sure exactly what she was looking for, but loosely hoping that, perhaps, time had created a gap at the base of the fence, some opening wide enough for her to squeeze through. She wasn’t as thin as she’d ever been, that was certain, but even if she were as thin as Gretel it wouldn’t have mattered, the spaces between the bottom of the fence post and ground were sound, and not big enough for her even to put an arm through.
She dropped to her knees and raked her hand into the grass, clawing it like a badger. The earth was surprisingly loose, and Anika came away with a mound of wet dirt that left an ample hole just to the side of the fence post. With the cannery situated so close to the lake, the ground below the fence was essentially mud, and could be removed without much effort. But who knew how deep the fence went, and even with the ground being damp, her fingers would be numb in no time. If she had a day to dig, or even several hours, and if she were rested and nourished with the morning sun above her, and if virtually every single thing about how she felt right now was different, she was sure she could tunnel under using her hands alone. But Anika figured she didn’t have that time, and her strength was dwindling.
Once again Anika stared up at the evil barbs above her. It was impossible, she thought—over or under—she simply didn’t have the energy.
Anika slowly dropped her head to her chest and, for the first time in months, after all she’d seen and been subjected to, after all of the betrayal and cruelty that had become her daily life, she began to cry. Her weeping was almost silent as she stood and turned to face the cannery. Her eyes remained closed while she tilted her face to the darkening sky. The bout of tears lasted only a few seconds—Anika would later consider this burst of sorrow was somehow necessary, physiologically, as a means of cleansing her mind, ultimately allowing to enter the thought that would free her.
With her head still angled up toward the roof of the cannery, Anika opened her eyes. And she saw it. A window.
At first Anika rejected what she was seeing as an illusion, a mirage, a cruel trick of her desperate mind. But her memory instantly reacted, assuring Anika the window was real. She’d seen it before, of course, during any number of the Rifle Field visits, but each time it had gone unregistered: an unnoticed speck on the landscape.
Anika bolted toward the foot of the hill to the cannery entrance on the opposite side of the building, nearly losing her footing on the grass as she navigated the corner and then braked, almost instantly, in order to avoid passing the thick metal door. She stood tall and looked indifferently at the threshold, and then let out a disbelieving chuckle at the unlatched door before her. The rusted metal ring that normally, presumably, would have been looped through with the steel shackle of a thick padlock, was empty. Anika unfolded the latch, which barely resisted despite its worn, corroded look, and opened the cannery door.
The interior of the cannery was mostly empty, except for the large canning tables and various-sized tubes of copper piping—some as large as tree trunks—which ran in maze-like fashion from floor to ceiling along the walls. There was little else, however, to indicate that this building had ever been a cannery. There was no heavy machinery or shelving, no stacks of cans or old Weinheimmer signs, and Anika assumed everything had either been gutted by the failed owners or repossessed by the State.
But there were tools strewn about the facility, everything from hammers to pickaxes, which, Anika presumed, had been used to extract sealers and conveyors and whatever else of value existed from their moorings. She figured she wouldn’t need much to get through the window, and she scooped a thick, wrought iron claw hammer from the dusty floor. There was also a wide barn shovel leaning against the far wall, and Anika briefly reconsidered the tunneling-under plan. She decided to stay the course and head to the window, but she grabbed the shovel anyway. You never knew.
From there everything moved like a storm. She scaled the steps leading to the second floor of the cannery and then stopped in front of the window—the window she’d taken notice of, remarkably, for the first time only minutes ago. The glass panes were missing almost entirely, probably broken out decades ago, but the frame of the window remained. It was weak-looking and well rusted, but the grid which once divided the panes was intact and would need to be broken out. But Anika was sure in her plan, she had seen everything play out the moment she spotted her escape route from the ground below, and knew the frame would pose little difficulty. She gripped the iron hammer and banged once on the cross grill of the window and then again. Anika suspected the window would be frail, but when it virtually disintegrated on the second gavel-like blow, she was incredulous.
She placed her first foot on the sill, and then her second; her body was still plenty thin enough to fit between the jambs, though she did have to crouch slightly to avoid the head of the window. She looked just beyond the fence to her landing spot, and then back to the floor of the cannery.
The shovel.
Without really knowing why, Anika stepped down from the sill, grabbed the spade, and tossed it out of the window and over the fence to Rifle Field. She then climbed back up and re-squatted, and with both of her hands gripped to the sill on either side of her feet, Anika took one last breath, and jumped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“You can’t live forever.” Odalinde’s words were weary, a desperate attempt at reason with the mad woman who now
stood above her, measuring the setting, timing the moment for her final, fatal attack. She was so strong, Odalinde thought. Hopelessly strong.
“In theory, that seems not to be true.” The witch’s reply was quizzical as if lightly considering the concept for the first time. “Though practically I’m sure you’re right. But, my fellow Orphist, these types of philosophical dialectics have never been of interest to me, in any area of study really, but particularly in the subject of...”
She paused, and Odalinde noted the trepidation in the witch’s voice in the words that followed.
“...the subject you’ve presented,” she continued. “My role is only to take the opportunities as they are presented to me. And as I’ve promised to those Universals who are greater than the sum of us all, I shall never reject one again.”
With a squint, Odalinde locked eyes with the remade woman, and then, never losing the gaze, shook her head slowly in disgust. “You’re no Orphist. You believe yourself one, talk as one, but you are not. Just as I was not. But what I know now is that you are much worse than I am, or ever was. You care nothing for life—you’re not even human.”
Odalinde had given up on survival, and this type of banter would all but guarantee her death. But there was no discomfort in that thought—her time had arrived to forfeit what she should never have possessed. And as this judgment became realized, a feeling of warmth drifted over her. She’d done what she could for Gretel and Hansel, and her only goal now was to draw out this moment, to stall—for as long as her heart forced blood through her veins—the infandous demon above her.
“You’re a common being. Like a tree.” Odalinde laughed at her somewhat childish analogy. “Destined to live on for centuries, alone and soulless—loveless—with nothing to offer the world.” Odalinde looked away in confusion, a visible display of her rethinking the comparison. “So, to be accurate then, you’re much lower than a tree. A tree is an object which lavishes on the world fruit and habitation, air to breath and shelter from heat and rain. You give nothing. You’re a parasite. An immortal parasite. What worse thing could ever exist on this earth?”
The witch’s expression stayed frozen. The confident smile, which emerged instantly after sending Odalinde to the ground with the force of a stallion’s kick, remained. But Odalinde could now detect the effort behind the smile, and the rage bubbling beneath it. Would she kill her now? Odalinde prayed not, not for her own life, but to give the children just a bit more time.
“I was like you. For years. I know the addiction as well as anyone who’s ever been in its grips.” Odalinde’s tone was softer, now trying slowly to unreel the witch, just enough to keep her on the line while still maintaining the attention she’d won. “But I returned to Orphism—true Orphism—not the horrid recipe that has become its legacy. I rediscovered—or perhaps found for the first time, it had been so long I couldn’t remember—the remarkable book of The Ancients. The beauty and truth of a spectacular people, who informed of a message that, had it been widely read, was potent enough to catapult humanity centuries forward. Perhaps further. I felt the pride in that, the responsibility.” Odalinde smiled flatly. “And I changed. It took some time, but I changed.”
Odalinde paused, hoping the witch would give her some measure of reply, some morsel of conversation which Odalinde could latch onto and steer into a dialogue. But she stood frozen above her, her teeth bared in that insidious smile, fingernails protruding down to the ground.
“You’ve enough now to live for as long you’d ever want to,” Odalinde continued. “Look at you! You’re...quite stunning really. I imagine you were rather old once—old!—and now you’ve replenished. You’ve found that elusive fountain of myth!” Odalinde lowered her voice, sensing an impact of her words on the witch. “Look at you. You don’t need more. These aren’t animals of the forest, these are your kin.”
Odalinde knew any word she uttered could topple the delicate interest she’d acquired, and she measured each carefully.
“You don’t want to be a destroyer forever. You’ve already taken this gift—despite what you’ve done to get it—it’s yours now, and there’s nothing that can be done to return it. So take it, live a long life, and then, centuries from now, let your spirit return to the universe, the way Life has intended it always to be. For all of us.”
Odalinde reveled in her eloquence, not out of pride, but because she recognized that her filibustering words and the truth of what she was saying were one and the same. Yes, if it was time to die, she was ready; she had never been as certain of anything in her long, damaged life. She would welcome it now, the moment she believed the children were safe, she wanted not another second in this world.
But she would never know if her words would have been enough to change the witch, or if another few minutes could have made any difference at all for the children. The scene was broken, interrupted, as the sound of popping gravel cascaded from beneath the truck of Georg Klahr.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Anika stood looking back at the cannery window and the fence over which she’d just vaulted; she had no clue if she’d cleared the deadly barbs by five feet or five inches. Before she jumped she told herself only to look forward, to the treetops in the distance, and to focus on landing as soundly as possible. And the strategy had paid off. The ground, soft from overgrowth, cushioned the soles of her feet—as well as her knees and shoulders on the subsequent roll—and she’d touched down on the other side uninjured. She was free once again, and the thirst to find her home was now primal.
She walked slowly across Rifle Field to the edge of the lake—the latest hurdle in Anika’s seemingly endless maze of obstacles—took off her shoes and rolled her pants to her knees, and then waded to the middle of her shins, gauging the depth of the water and the amount of swimming that would be required. Once she left the grounds of Rifle Field and started up the lake, she knew there would be no bank on which to rest, not until she reached the Klahr orchard—or her own property on the opposite side. Was that a quarter mile? A half? Surely it wasn’t a mile! Really she hadn’t any idea. She could wade much of the way she supposed, and at no point would she be required to swim at breakneck speeds or fight currents; but once she was out there, beyond plodding distance, there was no going back.
And darkness had arrived.
The night was clear and the moon, not yet high, was a solid gibbous that in little over an hour she estimated, would offer a beacon to follow. It wasn’t visibility that worried Anika, it was her stamina. Even the numerous nocturnal critters, some of which were potentially harmful, never even entered Anika’s thoughts; had she found herself in this situation a year ago, having never endured the ordeal that would now shape her life forever, thoughts of snakes and eels would have paralyzed her. But she trusted herself now, trusted her instincts and decision-making. And there was little choice besides.
She stepped back to the shore and disrobed to her underwear, figuring the weight of her clothes would only add to her burden, and then waded back into the lake, this time pushing forward, feeling the cold murkiness of the lake seep over her crotch and hips before settling at her midriff. She looked back to the shore, briefly regarding her shoes and clothes, considering whether the smart move was to toss them into the water, erasing evidence that she’d been there at all. She quickly decided against it—if she were to drown, she figured, those may be the only clues to finding her body and eventually punishing the guilty. The System would certainly crack the case! she thought, smiling in spite of the dreadful truth of her cynicism.
Anika began sidestepping slowly down the bank toward her destination, careful to have one foot planted firmly before lifting the other, and thankful for every inch she made closer without being forced to swim. At the onset, the going was steady, and the ground at her feet was sturdy. Maybe she could walk most of the way, she thought. It wasn’t likely, but not impossible. Perhaps the water levels affected the bed beneath and deposited dirt and gravel at the borders, making this trip achievab
le by foot alone! She was getting carried away, she knew, particularly since she knew as much about lakes and tides and submarine sediment as she did about the mating habits of the striped polecat. Nothing. But her mind was occupied, and though the waterline had risen since her departure—closing in on her breasts—the rise was gradual, and she was confident in her progress.
Her foot set down on something hard, Anika assumed a rock until it moved slowly away, and then she assumed a turtle. If the only thing she encountered in this lake tonight were turtles, she thought, she’d label herself happy. She’d been lucky to this point, not just in the lake but since she’d left the warehouse.
Since she’d killed her father. (This was not the time to explore that part, she thought. Later she’d be happy to run through the emotions associated with that act, but not now.)
Of all the scenarios, things had fallen into place for her. Finally. She’d escaped the warehouse before the officer returned, had found her escape route through the cannery window before nightfall, and, miraculously, found herself no more than a short boat ride from home, though this last part, she supposed, would have been luckier with the provision of an actual boat. But, all in all, things could have gone much worse.
And when the report of the shotgun exploded over the lake, she assumed they were about to.
GRETEL SCREAMED AT the sound of the blast, turning sharply toward the window that looked out on the orchard and the lake beyond.
Reflexively, Petr draped his arm across Gretel’s shoulders, pulling her close to him. She moved into his clutch, but her eyes were wide with shock and focused on Mrs. Klahr, whose look was akin to Gretel’s.
The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel #1-3) Page 29
