The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel #1-3)

by Christopher Coleman

  Dodd was mesmerized by the woman, but his instincts kept his hand at his waist.

  “When you crave, there is nothing to consider. No reason for doing. Do you want to crave, Officer Dodd? Is that what we’re doing here? Are you making this deal to keep the intruders away in exchange for this life?”

  Dodd nodded. “Yes,” he whispered.

  Marlene nodded slowly. “Then we need the Morgan women.”

  “Let’s find them.”

  Marlene smiled. “No need, Officer Dodd. They’ll come to us.”

  Chapter 24

  Anika sat on the ground directly across from the four men, cross-legged, like a schoolgirl listening to her teacher at story time. The ground of this new land was dusty and barren, grassless, a stark contrast to the lush jungle-like terrain from where she come only minutes before. This new region reminded Anika of ruined cropland, or perhaps a field that had been cleared and leveled for construction.

  In between Anika and the men was a meticulously straight row of large stones, each of which was approximately the size of a pumpkin.

  The four men, who sat as Anika did, were thin and frail, and judging by the gray of their beards and the sun-scorched lines of their faces, the youngest among them couldn’t have been a year less than seventy. The distance they’d walked from the village couldn’t have been much farther than three or four miles, yet these men seemed as if they belonged to a race as different as the natives of the New Country. They didn’t appear to be savages though—the naked headhunter types she’d read of in picture books as a child—yet they also didn’t resemble the relatively sophisticated people she’d seen throughout the marketplace back at the village. It wasn’t just their gauntness; their unshaven faces and matted hair along with their tattered, dirty clothes gave these men the appearance of lowly monks or street beggars. Anika saw no one back in the village with such characteristics.

  Oskar stood just over Anika’s left shoulder, hands folded, positioned to translate. Noah stood back near the entrance to the clearing, guarding them. The tiny guide who had led them to this place left them at the gate, never entering through the opening. Anika assumed he was waiting on the opposite side of the ivy wall to guide them back but knew the possibility that he had abandoned them was real.

  Anika remained still on the ground, having been given no other instruction than the motion of an outstretched hand guiding her to sit. She’d obeyed and kept her eyes on the men as they took their own sitting positions.

  She discreetly scanned the grounds, trying to find where the perimeter of the place ended, but it seemed to stretch on forever. She noted some rather primitive structures, huts and things, scattered about the landscape, and the few people she’d spotted when she’d first entered through the passageway—other than the men who now sat before her—had since dispersed.

  “Do you speak their language, Oskar?” Anika asked, keeping her eyes straight ahead on the men.

  “I not heard them. Couldn’t say.”

  “But our little Bosomari man could talk to them? And you can communicate with him, so you should be able to do this, right? I need you to be able to do this Oskar.”

  Oskar shrugged, giving no promises.

  Anika decided to begin the dialogue. She pointed the tips of her fingers toward her chest, tapping herself. “Anika,” she said.

  None of the men moved.

  Anika pointed at the first man seated to her left. “You? Who are you? What is your name? Me. I’m Anika. Anika.”

  She repeated the chest-tapping motions once more, repeating her name again, until the man to the far right of the line, opposite the man Anika had pointed to originally, put an outstretched finger to his closed mouth, giving the ever-expanding universal signal of quiet. He smiled and nodded with his finger held in place. Anika felt slightly offended and further diminished to the childish role she’d already assumed, but there was nothing threatening in the motion, so she followed the order.

  Almost in unison, the four men closed their eyes and held their hands up, chest high, with their palms facing out toward Anika. They held their mime-like pose in silence for what was maybe twenty seconds. There was no chanting or humming, just stillness, and Anika soon became fidgety, unsure if she was supposed to follow their action.

  Finally, the man who had shushed her spoke. “Donti,” he said, lowering his hands. The rest of the men followed.

  Anika wanted to look back at Oskar, to see if he had the translation, but she decided to stay still and wait it out a little longer.

  The man second from the left held out his hands again, but this time they were lower, and his palms faced up. He looked Anika in the eyes and gave a short, encouraging nod. She took the bait and held her hands out to the man, who grabbed her by the wrists. He studied her palms for a few seconds and then turned her hands over and placed them flat on one of the rocks in the row. Despite the heavy heat that had been pressing down on Anika since she woke this morning, the stone felt cold. It felt refreshing, almost thirst-quenching.

  The same man then wrapped his own fingers on the stone next to Anika’s, and the man next to him placed his hands on his own rock. Anika’s hands were now in the middle of the two pairs of hands. The two men closed their eyes again, and this time Anika did the same.

  At first Anika felt nothing, but then the rock warmed slightly, until it reached a temperature which was almost unbearable. The first man, the man who’d placed Anika’s hands there, lifted his own from the rock and looked over at the man to the far left, frowning. He shook his head. “Omale. Omale.”

  “Ti Omale?” the far-left man replied, this time looking at the other man whose hands were still on the rock.

  “Bi,” the other man said. “Omale.”

  Anika had enough of the language barrier, and she turned back toward Oskar. “What are they saying, Oskar? Do you know?”

  “Omale. That mean dead.” Oskar sounded subdued. “They both say dead.”

  “Me? I’m dead? Is that what they’re saying?”

  Oskar shrugged again.

  “Well ask them!”

  Oskar rattled off a sentence that was about fourteen words longer than Anika would have thought necessary to convey her request, and the first man replied with an equally long response. She heard the name Aulwurm in the reply.

  “They say you are from their tribe; your blood comes from their tribe. They feel the vibrations or something. I don’t get it all, but most.”

  Anika’s eyes teared, not from fear or sadness, but from the reality that she had reached this point. All of this was true, these people, this magic. Orphism. And now that she was here, she wasn’t sure how she should proceed. This was it. This is what she had come for. This was the reason she had risked spending the remaining days of her life with these strange men in the broad ranges of the Old World. If this band of remote hermits couldn’t give her the answers she needed, then that would be the end.

  “But you got the sickness,” Oskar continued. “They say you got the sickness.”

  She was sick, but she wasn’t prepared to die. “I have cancer, Oskar. It’s why I’m here. Tell them I’ve come for their help. I’m not dead yet. Tell them I believe they have medicine that can help me.” Anika paused. “Is that true? Can they help me?”

  Oskar translated to the rapt audience of the four men, each of whom was studying him intensely, unblinking, perfectly concentrated on the words that were coming at them in what was almost certainly broken syntax.

  Oskar waited, equally rapt for their response, and then began the translation. “You don’t have the cancer. That’s what they say. But true you are sick.”

  “But I’ve been to the doctors. They say I do have cancer.” Anika wasn’t arguing, just laying out the facts so that these men had a complete picture of her situation.

  Oskar did his shrug again. “I not sure what that means. They just say you have poison. You have too much poison.”

  “That’s the cancer. Right? The cancer is the poison?
That must be what they mean.”

  Oskar shook her off. “No cancer. Poison. They make the difference.” Anika knew he meant distinction.

  Anika now looked straight ahead at the men in front of her, confused and focused. “What poison?”

  The second man in the row listened to Oskar and then made a motion with his hands as if he was drinking soup, shaping both hands wide and lifting them to his mouth.

  Anika shook her head, not understanding the charade.

  The man then made another motion, and this time Anika’s eyes flooded with tears. He turned one of his soup-sipping hands into the shape of a claw, keeping the other soup hand in place, and then started pretending to shovel food into his mouth. Anika knew instantly what he showed her. It was the perfect pantomime of someone eating pie with his hands. If anyone could see it, she could; Anika had made the motion dozens of times during her captivity in the cabin. She still sometimes saw herself eating pie that way in her dreams.

  “The pie.”

  The man smiled. “Pie,” he said, nodding eagerly.

  “I was poisoned by the pie? The witch’s pie? That’s why I’m dying? Ask them, Oskar!”

  Oskar translated and waited for a response, which he conveyed affirmatively to Anika. “Yes. The pie. Sometime it could be soup, but sometime the pie. They say it’s too much for you that you eat. Too much to live.”

  Anika thought back on those horrendous days of pies and potions, when she would lay frozen, constantly raising her head to stare toward the door, dreading the turn of the knob and the entry of the evil woman carrying that black, wrought iron tray of food. So delicious that first day, so vile virtually every day after.

  “But they can save me, right? They have the medicine here that can cure this? An antidote?”

  Oskar converted the questions again, and this time the response from the group of men was lengthy, with each person taking a share of the time. Anika listened to them as if she understood, watching their mouths and mannerisms, hoping to pick up any clue as to how the verdict would fall.

  Oskar looked down at Anika and frowned. “It’s too late, they say. You have too late.”

  Anika was bemused, and she stood defiantly. “Too late? That’s it? That’s all they said? They must have told you more than that. All they said just now was that it was too late?”

  “They say other things too. ‘They sorry for you.’ ‘They want but can’t help you.’ Like that.”

  “What did they say Oskar?” Anika screamed at him, looking back and forth between Oskar and the four men, whose expressions were now serious and concerned.

  “They said something else.” The sound of Noah’s voice boomed from behind the cluster of Anika, Oskar, and the four men, instantly freezing them, as if he were the director of a stage play who had seen enough of a miserable rehearsal and was now bringing it to an end.

  Oskar turned toward his companion, an expression close to terror on his face.

  “They said much more.”

  Anika stared at Noah, disbelieving, studying him as if he were an ancient mythical statue, uncovered after a thousand years. She was awed not only by this new ability to understand the language of the tribesmen, but also, again, by his incredible articulation of her own. She was beginning to suspect Noah was a person far more substantive than even she had originally suspected.

  Whatever else there was, though, would have to wait. “What more did they say, Noah?”

  “Noah,” Oskar whimpered, “How you...?”

  “Quiet, Oskar.” Anika’s face was stone, her eyes dispassionate, reptilian in their coldness. “What else did they say, Noah?”

  “Oskar was telling the truth about the poison, but he didn’t tell you all of it.” Noah walked up to the group and stood beside Oskar, a look of measured distrust in his eyes. He turned now and looked toward Anika. “You will die because of the pies, that much is true. But they said there is hope for you. A chance for you to live.”

  Anika glowered at Oskar.

  “It isn’t true, these things,” Oskar pleaded. “I no want you to waste your hope. Waste your time.”

  “What did they say, Noah? What are my options?”

  “They spoke of a book. A book of magic or spells or something. The word they used doesn’t translate exactly, but it’s the...”

  “I know about the book. My daughter has it. A copy of it. It was my father’s.”

  Noah’s face scrunched in confusion. “The book they spoke of, they say it belonged to a woman. “Tanja’s book” I think was the name they said...I think they were speaking of the witch you spoke of. I don’t know this language like Oskar, but I know it. It’s a different language than that of the villagers. It’s the tongue of my grandmother, but I haven’t used it in many years. I didn’t get the all of what they said, but I’m almost sure it was her book—that witch’s book they were speaking of.”

  Anika paused, swallowing slowly. “Yes, she had the book too.”

  “Was your daughter’s book the same as this woman’s? Exactly the same?”

  Anika had always assumed the two books were the same, but she had never explored the possibility that they were different. “I don’t know. Ask them. Ask them if all the books are the same. Orphism. The title of the book is Orphism.”

  Noah spoke in the native language, stumbling through some of the words, but gradually easing in to a flow. Oskar discreetly slinked back toward the doorway. Anika followed him, prepared to admonish him for his dereliction of duty.

  “You no have to pay me, I know that,” he sulked. “And they no say ‘Tanja’s book.’” They call it the daughter of Tanja’s book. I not know what it mean. But there no cure for you. This is for robbing people. How you say? A con, yes? You can’t believe in the witchcraft. Is for fools.”

  Anika felt no need to recount to Oskar the things she’d seen or the magic that she knew existed in the world. Or that he was in no position to judge people’s foolishness. “Oskar, what else did they say? Tell me. I am going to pay you; you’ve done more than I ever expected to this point, so I need you to keep doing your job. And there’s no point hiding it now. Noah will tell me in a minute anyway.”

  Oskar looked down and frowned at the overgrowth of buffalo grass sprouting up the border wall. “They say there is cure, but it is in one book only. Only the book of Tanja’s daughter. This other book, of your daughter, they say that one no have it.”

  Noah had arrived behind Anika and listened to Oskar. “This would seem to be true. The men told me that all the books contain the recipe, but not the cure. The anti-recipe. But again, that’s not the exact translation of the word he used; I think it’s close though, close to the same meaning. He said this anti-recipe can undo the sickness. But it is contained in the one book only.”

  “Do you believe them, Noah? Do you think there is a chance any of it is true? I already know Oskar’s opinion.”

  “I would believe it worth trying. You came this far. And what are you losing by trying? They may not have been able to heal you, not directly, but they gave you hope—information—maybe it’s all the information you need. Why would you not try?”

  “Because you waste your time,” Oskar barked. “Tell her, Noah. Tell what she have to do. You can no read the book Anika. You no can make this recipe. How you will do it?”

  Noah stared directly at Anika, his eyes earnest and hypnotic. “If you choose to do this, choose to try to heal yourself, they said to bring it to them. To translate it. You won’t be able to understand it.”

  Anika closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, beginning to weigh all that would be required to bring this task to fruition. Just finding the book would be formidable, returning here, to this secret village in the middle of the Old World, would be nearly impossible, especially considering the small measure of time she presumably had left. “You can do it, Noah. Or you, Oskar. One of you can decipher it, right?”

  Noah shook his head. “Not me, Anika, and I don’t think Oskar either. They say this la
nguage of the book goes back beyond them. There is only one here who can translate it. And she cannot travel due to her age and her physical debilitation.”

  “How then? How can this be done? Ask them, Noah.” Anika nearly whispered now, as if she were communicating with the dead. “Ask them how this can be done.”

  Anika, Noah, and Oskar walked back to the group of men. They had remained virtually unmoved in their seated positions, the expressions on their faces calm and caring. Anika sat down in the spot where she’d been diagnosed just moments before and reversed the actions, holding out her hands now, beckoning the closest man to reach out to her. The second man in the row gave his hands to her, smiling.

  “I want you to translate, Oskar.” Anika looked up at her interpreter, eyebrows high. “I’m paying you to do this, and I need you to do your job. I need the translation to be precise.”

  Oskar nodded.

  Anika looked at the man seated before her and squeezed his hands gently, gaining his attention. “I’m dying, that’s what you said.” Anika paused, waiting for the interpretation. “You’ve also told me what I have to do to live, yes? Get the book—Orphism—and bring it back here. But that will take time.” Anika paused again, piercing the man’s eyes, waiting for Oskar’s foreign words to finish.

  The man nodded, affirming the reiteration of the day’s events.

  “How long do I have to do this? I live very far from here.” Anika made what she believed was the universal signal for far—large, forward-raking motions of her arms above her head. “Can you help me?”

  The man waited for Oskar to finish and then looked at Anika, the first real sign of sympathy showing on his face. He blinked twice and then stood and turned his back to Anika. He cupped his hands to his mouth and gave an animal-like call to the sky.

  There was a delay of a few seconds, and then a slight woman walked out from between two of the small huts lining the edges of the common area. As she came closer, Anika noticed the woman carried a duffel no larger than a grapefruit down by her thigh. The woman approached and walked past the group of men, placing the bag on one of the stones forming the divide.