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

by Christopher Coleman

  “Open it, Hansel. Get the last of it and give it to me. And then I want you to stay here in the kitchen. Or go to the lake or do whatever you want. Everything you said was right. I’ll bring it to her alone. Let me do that.”

  There was nothing to say except, “Okay.”

  I fished the key from my pocket and slid it into the narrow keyhole, just as I’d done a dozen times in the past. But halfway in I knew something was different. The fit was tighter, resistant, and as I slid the key in fully and tried to turn it, nothing moved.

  “It’s not working, Gretel.”

  “What do you mean? Is that the right key?”

  “Yes. This is the only key this size I have. The key is the same; it’s the lock that is different.”

  “Do you think she changed it? Why would she do that? I thought she didn’t know where you were keeping it?”

  The next words spoken were mother’s. “That is the part that I find most fascinating.”

  I stood tall and turned towards the sound of the voice. My hands were raised in front of my face, almost as if I thought my mother was about to attack. But she was the opposite of aggressive, and she took several steps back from the threshold of the kitchen and took a seat on the living room sofa. The smile on her face was all lips (as if hiding her teeth, I considered). Her eyes showed something menacing.

  “Mother,” Gretel said, her voice strong, controlled. It was a tone I have always tried to duplicate but could never come close. “Do you know something about the lock on this cabinet?”

  Anika Morgan erupted in laughter at the question just posed by her daughter, covering her mouth with her open hand like a school girl who was embarrassed by her giggling.

  “I’ll assume that means ‘Yes.’”

  Mother continued to laugh and nodded, missing Gretel’s sarcasm. This part scared me as much as anything.

  “She’s taken it, Gretel. Recently. This is how she is for a while. Can’t you tell?”

  Gretel nodded, but I wasn’t quite sure if she really did notice it or if she was just going along.

  “I mean, after all,” Anika said, “you were the one who told me the story of your father’s nurse—Odalinde—and how she kept her things secret in that cabinet. It was quite obvious to me that you would keep my medicine there as well.” Mother stopped laughing, but her smile remained, and she was shaking her head the way a parent does to children they find foolish.

  “Why didn’t you just take it before,” I asked. “If it was so obvious, why did you wait?”

  Gretel answered for her. “Because it was the last of it. If she had broken the rules before it was all gone, we would have found it and taken it away, and then she wouldn’t have gotten the most out of it. But since this was it, what difference did it make. Is that about it, mother?”

  Anika clapped twice and then lay backwards on the couch, so that her feet were dangling off and she was staring at the ceiling. “That’s right, Gretel,” she said. “You were always my smart one.”

  Gretel looked at me and frowned, making sure I understood not to take that comment personally. I didn’t, but only because I knew it was true.

  “And now my smart little girl,” Anika was drifting now, on the edge of consciousness, “now you need to find me more.”

  Even in the midst of her intoxicating bliss, Anika knew the feeling wouldn’t last much more than a couple of months. Seventy-five days was the longest we had ever pushed it. This was day one, so we had several weeks to figure out what we would do. But whatever solution we came up with, more potion wasn’t one of the options. Anika would get well without the centuries-old concoction of evil, or not at all.

  Chapter 11

  “Who was she Maja?”

  Almost four hours has passed since the encounter at the hotel, and neither Maja nor I have spoken a word until now.

  Our journey through the Western Koudeheuval Mountains has begun in earnest, and thus far the climb up the steady grade of the range is surprisingly easy, with nothing more than common forest debris encumbering our path. Even the weather, which I was told normally resembles that of the poles the higher one goes, has been pleasantly cool, balancing out the heat of our hiking. By my guess, we were a little over ten miles outside of Stedwick, ostensibly heading in the direction of Noah.

  “Maja?”

  Maja keeps her eyes forward and her pace brisk, stepping trance-like over the fallen branches and leaf-litter that pave our path. “Who was who?”

  “The woman who was in my room waiting to stab me with a rusty tent spike. What do you mean ‘who’?”

  “I told you who she was. Her name was Gisla. She was an old woman who had been crazy her whole life, and then got crazier the older she got.” Maja pauses. “But she was never cruel. She shouldn’t have done that to herself. I don’t know why she did that.” On the last word, her voice cracks.

  “But who was she? What was her story? She said she was born in the New Country. Did you know that?”

  Maja stops and puts her hands on her hips. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, at once catching her breath, fighting back tears, and exhibiting her annoyance with my topic of conversation.

  “I’m sorry about what happened, Maja. I’m sorry that she’s dead and that we both had to see that. But I knew a woman that reminded me very much of Gisla. A very bad woman who is, in a way, connected to all of this. She’s dead now but...”

  I gather my thoughts

  “And she—Gisla—seemed to know Gromus. Did you hear that? She spoke of him as if he was some kind of a cult leader. You heard her. She said that Gromus ‘will have his book again.’ I never said anything to you or anyone about my book belonging to Gromus. And if that’s true, if it does belong to him, then that’s important to know. Orphism is as ancient as any text known to man, and there are only a handful of copies, so I would understand why he might be after it. But how would she have known that? If it was Cezar who told Gisla about me and my story, he wouldn’t have told her the book belonged to Gromus because I never mentioned that.”

  I realize I’m rambling but I keep going. I’ve had hours of walking to reflect on all that’s occurred since my arrival in the Old World, and this spewing of words is therapeutic. Maja stands staring at me, the despair of the suicide she witnessed still shining in her eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have said that about her daughter,” Maja says. “But the things she was saying, about...boys and things, was disgusting. That wasn’t her. She was crazy, but not like that.”

  “The book has that effect,” I say immediately, “so don’t ever blame yourself for that. I’ve seen versions of what you saw in my own family. She was going to end up that way. Once the idea of what the book offers takes hold, it is a hard grasp to break free from”

  Maja stands unconvinced, so I change the subject, making it more personal.

  “How did her daughter die?” I ask.

  Maja stares up now, her eyes slightly softened. “The story I was told was that she drowned in a pond in the front of her cottage. Gisla was home, and many in the village blamed her. I think Dedu said the girl was only eight. It happened years before I was born.”

  “Is that when she lost her grip on reality?”

  Maja shrugs. “I suppose so. I never really thought much about her. She’d always been that way to me. She’d pass our store just about every day and I barely gave her two looks.”

  I let Maja’s loss linger and then I move things forward. “Should we find a spot to eat?”

  Maja gives me a confused look. “You’re hungry? It’s two hours until noon.”

  “Yes, but we haven’t eaten today. At least I haven’t. But I can go on if you can. I just thought it might be a good time to stop.”

  Maja shakes her head. “No. I disagree that it is a good time to stop. It is still early and the temperature is fine. We should keep going.”

  “Okay.” I feel there may have been an insult in Maja’s statement somewhere, but I appreciate her stamina.

&n
bsp; “And you should also know that your quest has become mine now, so if you’re asking me, I say we continue.”

  “Wait a minute, what? My quest is yours now? What does that mean?”

  “Clearly, you’ve been thinking a lot since we left, but you should know that I have been thinking too.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “There is a whole history—apparently a very dark history—to my village that I never knew anything about. Stedwick has been terrorized for years by some cancerous monster, and no one has done anything about it. They’ve allowed children to be stolen! Shepherds and bakers and welders. And all of them cowards. My family included.”

  “I think you’re being a bit harsh.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, I believe you are. Those who made the decision to bury the Gromus stories did so to protect others from being hurt. Decisions like those have been made for centuries around the world. They’re difficult, but they’re made with good intentions.”

  Maja shakes her head, not buying any of it.

  “Besides, as far as stolen children are concerned, we don’t even know if Tomek was actually stolen. His parents said he was shipped off to the New World. That could have been true. Nobody ever confirmed that it wasn’t.”

  “You don’t believe that it’s true.” It wasn’t a question; it was an observation.

  I look up toward the mountain peaks, questioning it internally. “No.”

  “A century from now, perhaps a millennium, if Stedwick still remains, I will not be counted amongst those who lived there and knew the truth of this monster but did nothing to stop him. I’ve been given this opportunity—you have given it to me—and I will die in pursuit of him, if necessary.”

  I sigh, blindsided by this new audacity. “I told your grandfather I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way. I promised him. You would show me to Noah, and that was the extent of your contribution. What you do after that is up to you. If you leave your village forever, so be it. But it can’t be on my watch as my responsibility.”

  “You’re not putting me in the way of harm; I’m putting myself there. My grandfather is responsible for your sister—at least in part—so I consider it my responsibility to help find her.”

  I have no retort, either from a position of strength or logic. And as I had realized back at the village, at some point along the way, I would need the help of someone with Maja’s spirit.

  “So we go another five miles, Hansel, and then we’ll eat. That is what I suggest. After lunch, we’ll put in another fifteen miles before we lose the day, and then we’ll camp for the night.

  “Fifteen miles?”

  “It’s your sister, Hansel. There’s no time to do anything else but all we can.”

  Maja’s words sober me, and I realize, perhaps for the first time since arriving in the Old World, the severity of my sister’s circumstance. Gretel, I realize, has spoiled me. Her abilities and instincts have always made me believe that, despite the situation, all would be fine. Even in the darkest of times, when Marlene was hunting Gretel and Petr and I in the Back Country, and my mother was off searching for the cure to her unknown disease, that it would end as Gretel wished. She would simply bend the universe to her will.

  But this is naïve, obviously, and in the context of Gretel’s current predicament, it’s selfish. Gretel isn’t the only strength to be reckoned with. There are the Marlenes and Gromus’ of the world as well. Beings who have the strength of Gretel—perhaps more in the case of Gromus—but the aim of malevolence. I am here to help Gretel, but for the first time, through Maja’s words, I realize what that means.

  “At dawn, we’ll leave again,” Maja declares.

  “Thank you, Maja.”

  Maja shakes her head. “I’ve done nothing for you yet.”

  “Please know that you have.”

  She lets my words stand and then adds, “If we keep up today’s pace, we’ll be at Noah’s by dinnertime tomorrow.”

  “Suppertime, huh?”

  Maja nods with a straight face.

  “I hope he’s serving something good.”

  Chapter 12

  We keep up the pace—and add a bit to it—and just after lunchtime the following day we arrive at the edge of a village called Zanpie. According to Maja, who had heard it from a friend of hers who lived in one of the neighboring villages of Stedwick, Zanpie was the last place Noah had been known to reside.

  “Is he a kind of celebrity?” I ask Maja. “Noah, I mean.”

  “What does that mean? Celebrity?”

  “It means famous. Is he known by everyone in the Old World?

  “I don’t know that I would label him as someone quite that lofty. Certainly, everyone does not know of him. But there are many who do, particularly in this region. If you are hiking the Koudeheuvals in this part of the range, he is the guide of choice. But he is not cheap. He charges quite a bit from what I’m told, so his services are reserved for those who can afford him, which would mean tourists mostly, I suppose, and perhaps some of the more wealthy locals who are looking for more adventure than their lives offer. In any case, if the guide Noah is here, or was here recently, everyone in this village would know of it. And now that I’ve talked it through, I suppose I should have asked you before we left Stedwick if you had sufficient money for this quest. If what I’m told of Noah is true, you’re going to need it.”

  I keep my mother’s story and her connection to Noah to myself for the time being and simply nod in understanding, implying I can take care of whatever fees must be paid. I do have a bit of money that I’ve brought with me from the New Country—by no means a fortune, but some—but I have no intentions of spending it on information or services that can be had for free. And I’m expecting Noah will offer all the help he can without hesitation; if my mother’s stories and letter are accurate, the man will give his life to help the daughter of Anika Morgan.

  “So where do we start?” I ask .“When we arrive in the town, should I just walk up to the first storefront that has a man holding a shotgun and ask him where I can find Noah? You know, similar to the way it works in your village?”

  “That’s not the way it works in our village,” Maja responds, again missing the joke. “Our village is simply more vigilant these days. Since the disappearance of your sister.”

  Again, Maja finds a way to turn my attempt at levity into what would appear to be my attitude of nonchalance or indifference. I’m neither of those things, of course, at least not as it pertains to Gretel and my commitment to finding her, but this village girl seems to be exposing a weakness in my personality. I feel the sting of her reproaches, which is probably an indication that I need to change my behavior some.

  “I’m sorry, it was a joke.”

  Maja gives a look that resembles confusion, one that asks how it is I could be telling jokes at this particular moment, which again only reinforces my known flaws. “Let’s go,” she says, giving me a miniature smile that says she understood my humor on some level.

  We follow a winding stone path that starts on the outskirts of Zanpie and leads through a valley of large wooden houses that sit high on the hills, their windows like blind eyes staring down on us, watching us without noticing. The path beneath us is masoned and precise, and the grass surrounding the stones is short and manicured, recently cut. The welcoming grounds of Zanpie are idyllic, really, as peaceful as one could expect so deep in the Old World.

  The walk is a short one, certainly less than a half a mile, before the path ends abruptly in a dramatic narrowing of the valley. The valley is so narrow in fact, that it almost closes completely, and had the hedges on either side been allowed to grow over, we would never have seen the opening at all.

  But the opening is there—two feet in width perhaps, just wide enough for Maja and I to squeeze through—and as we sidle our way past the tall shrubbery through to the other side, we are instantly greeted by what at first appears to be a huge courtyard. But as Maja and I take in the scene further
, it’s clear that the area is too large to be simply a courtyard. The grounds are, in fact, the Zanpie city center.

  The buildings around the center are low, nothing taller than two stories, and rather primitive compared to most modern forms of architecture. But they appear well-kept, undamaged and clean, and together they form what seems to be a perfect square perimeter of a shopping district, indicated by the signs above the entrances and a miscellany of carts and tables trimming the storefronts. This is no doubt the hub of trade in this village. Downtown Zanpie.

  We’ve arrived midday, and the sun is high and the weather ideal for doing just about anything outdoors; at this time on a day like today, this area should be robust with Zanpie citizens. Yet the scene is quite the opposite. There are barely a dozen people in the square, scattered randomly, and half of them seem to be either homeless or insane, and in a few cases, both.

  In front of the store that stands just to the right of where Maja and I squeezed through the village boundary, two old women stand motionless, watching us, and judging by their stares, they’ve been studying us from the moment we stepped through the valley crevice. They gaze wide-eyed at Maja and me, stiff as icicles, staring at us as if we were passing bears in the woods and they rabbits hiding in a fallen log.

  “Hello,” Maja says softly, smiling, her beauty suddenly striking, piercing through as if from nowhere, overwhelming me like the wind from a typhoon. I force myself to look away from her face, concentrating instead on the suspicious women, who aren’t appreciating Maja’s beauty quite as much.

  The first woman simply frowns at Maja’s greeting and backs into the store without ever taking her eyes off of us. But the other swallows and blinks nervously.

  “Nie wizek,” she says softly, tears beginning to fall as she shakes her head. I can’t understand the words, but her voice sounds defeated. “Nie ma wizek.”

  “What is she saying?” I ask.

  “She said ‘no more to take. There are no more to take.’”