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

by Christopher Coleman

  I take a step away from Noah and look back at Emre, and then I turn back to Gromus. “As for him, I don’t care what happens to him. That’s your decision.”

  Gromus’ face has turned expressionless, and his voice mimics the expression. “There are only three of us who have the potential to leave this village alive, and your friends are not among them.”

  Oskar looks up in disbelief, distress still in his eyes, his tears having left streaks like rivers on his filthy face. “No me, Mr. Gromus? I do what it is you say?”

  The sympathy I felt for Oskar has turned once again to disgust. I understand his instinct for survival, to plead his case, and in truth he had little to do with the slaughter that has taken place here; but I want him not to care what happens with his life. I want him to feel unworthy of it.

  “Gromus?” It’s Emre, and for the first time since I met him in the back of the store in Zanpie, I hear fear in his voice. “You said my obedience would be rewarded with the gifts you possess.” He waits for confirmation from the beast but gets none. “I’m coming with you. Surely you mean for me to come as well.”

  “Your duty has been fulfilled, young Emre. I’ve no more need for you.”

  Emre lets these words sink in and then, with a tone of acceptance, says, “Then I’ll go. As Hansel has suggested.”

  I said I didn’t care what happened to him, not that he should go, but I let the misquote stand.

  “You’ll not,” Gromus says simply with the same lack of humanity in his voice.

  “What’s to stop me?” Emre challenges. “Threatening to kill the girl? Kill her, I don’t care.”

  Emre takes a few small steps backward, his eyes hovering on Gromus, and then the boy turns and begins a light jog toward Maja and the hill, heading toward the path that leads to the arch and the clearing entrance to Lyria.

  But he falls well short of his aim.

  At about five paces past Maja, just at the beginning of the ascent of the hill, Emre stops and bows his head, and then begins to press his palms tightly against his temples. He looks back toward us, a look of anguish now washed over his face. He makes no sound at first, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open in a silent scream, and then the sound erupts.

  I’ve never heard pain displayed the way Emre expresses it now, and the fact that he’s a child, albeit one that has been turned into something immoral and unfeeling, only amplifies the misery of the sound.

  The boy stumbles forward a few steps and then falls to the grass. His hands are still on his head, but his fingers have moved to cover his face, and I can see the blood seeping through the cracks in them. I don’t know for sure from my perspective, but the blood can only be coming from his eyes.

  “Stop,” I say, still staring at Emre, hypnotized by the calamity unfolding by the hill. But my words barely pass the width of my lips. I can’t explain exactly what is happening to this boy—the man child whose intelligence was exceeded only by his lust for the temptations of the supernatural—but I know that Gromus is killing him, and I can only assume it has to do with the potion he gave to the boy during his time in Zanpie. Gromus hasn’t raised his hands up in any strange maneuver of spell-casting, but his concentration on the boy is visceral, like a tiger watching a deer from the tall grass.

  And then I remember Gisla, the woman who slit her own throat back in Stedwick Village. I had thwarted her attempt to steal my book, and she had taken her own life, as if programmed to do so by something outside of her body. It wasn’t the same thing that is happening to Emre now, but the similarities are undeniable.

  How many other victims were there, I wonder, poisoned by Gromus, waiting impatiently in villages all along the route from Stedwick to Lyria for the arrival of a boy who had come from the New Country looking for his sister?

  Emre’s screams have turned to spurts of coughing and then they turn to nothing at all. His body wrenches a few times as he lies face down in the dirt, and then he becomes still.

  I see Maja staring at his body only a few feet away from where the telepathic murder just occurred, and then she begins to walk toward Noah and I, her head staying fixed on Emre’s corpse until she is at least ten or fifteen feet past it, as if suspicious of it rising from the grass and following after her. She then turns fully towards us and runs the rest of the way. There are no tears from her, and it seems to me she has moved to some other plane of emotion.

  “You probably understand that it is only he amongst you that I can control in that way. He having made a rather meager deal with me, you see.”

  “Why not let him go?” I ask, my voice sounding broken and exhausted.

  “And where would he go? Back to Zanpie? Where he would have been questioned without end? And when he didn’t explain himself fully, tortured until he spoke.”

  The people of Zanpie seemed incapable of anything like the inquisition Gromus is describing, but I remember the monster’s age, and the worlds in which he has lived.

  “And eventually he would tell of everything. I’ve learned from much experience that, if at all possible, never let them go. They—and this is especially true of the children—recall a lot. It would simply be an unnecessary risk to allow him to leave.”

  “Why not take him with you then? As you promised him.” Maja asks her question with a voice of steel, disgusted at the lack of honor she just witnessed.

  “I have already explained who is leaving alive and I have no wish to discuss it further.”

  Gromus knows we are aware that whatever magical connection he had with Emre he does not possess with Oskar, who has begun to move backward toward the exit of the hill.

  As if reading my thoughts, Gromus says calmly, “You will stop him, Hansel. That is how. Or I will kill your sister.”

  “I no can die,” Oskar pleads generally, still edging away slowly. “I sorry for you and for Gretel.”

  “Oskar, stop moving!” I call to him, panicked and desperate. It’s not a helpful tone, so I blink a few times and take a breath, trying to compose myself as much as possible under the stress. “You’re not going to die. But I need you to stay right where you are.”

  “He no going to kill her. He tell that you just now. He need her for his potion. It’s like he say.”

  “I will kill her, Oskar,” Gromus replies, showing no tells of a bluff. “And I’ll take the organs from her corpse one by one. It is true, as Hansel surely knows, that this is not the way things are thought to be done, and Gretel’s death may very well be the death of my potion. But perhaps not. Perhaps there is more time than the recipe explains. There are always flaws in these ancient texts. In any case, I cannot allow you to leave, and I will kill this little bitch in less than an instant.” Gromus pauses and points at Oskar. “And then I will find you within the day.”

  “I no can die,” Oskar repeats, clearly not feeling the intended effect of Gromus’ threat. He begins to move more quickly in his retreat.

  “Oskar!” Noah shouts. The guide takes a few steps toward his former friend, hoping to grab him, or at least impede him enough that maybe Maja or I can get to him and detain him.

  I look back to Gromus and see that he has his giant hands around Gretel’s neck, his long thin fingers fully enveloping her throat. The tension in his grip is visible even from my vantage point at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Gretel!” I scream.

  “She’s going to die now. Understand the truth of what I’m saying. If Oskar leaves my sight, I will strangle her and break her neck all in one swift motion.”

  I look back to see that Oskar is now running, and despite Noah’s efforts, the rucksack is weighing him down, allowing him no hope of catching up. He unhinges the pack from his shoulders and starts to run, but it’s too late, Oskar has created too much distance between them and has a clear path to the hill.

  Instinctively, I turn back to Gromus and Gretel and make a desperate rush toward the staircase. Gretel is about to die, and though my steps are in vain, I have to make at least an attempt to save he
r, ill-fated though it may be.

  And then I hear the report of the gun.

  I spin in place, still several paces from the staircase, and I’m met by the image of Oskar grabbing his waist just above the hip. He’s been shot, and as he staggers forward two or three steps before falling to the ground, I see the cause of his collapse.

  Maja.

  The girl from Stedwick Village, who was as innocent as a duckling when we first began our journey, and who is still as pretty as the sunrise, stands with arms outstretched in front of her, the handgun extended, holding the pose of a marksman. She’s a statue of pride, unsmiling though, standing as if in admiration of the difficult shot she’s just made, taking down a moving target at some distance.

  Oskar tries once to get to his feet and collapses immediately, trying futilely to keep the spring of blood shooting from his side. In spite of myself, I feel nothing for the man lying in pain behind me; after all, Oskar was, in part, responsible for the current condition of my sister—as well as mine and my new companions—and he seemed to have little confliction about saving his own life at the expense of Gretel’s.

  I again turn back to Gromus who is smiling wickedly now. He has released his grip on Gretel, and I consider now that he had no intention of killing her. At least not at this time in that way. Not because Oskar ran. It was a test, a game to see who amongst us would take out the coward.

  But with Oskar no longer a threat to leave, we have now reached another place in the game. There are two more people who Gromus vowed would die on this ground, and those two are completely innocent.

  Noah and Maja.

  “You’ve made your point, Gromus,” I say. “And I see it now. I really do. Emre and Oskar were your creations. So, in a way, I suppose you had some decision in their demise.” I slow my cadence and raise my voice. “But that is not true of Maja and Noah. They belong to me. They are my responsibility. They don’t die here.”

  “Nobody leaves this village. Nobody that is not of our family.” There is no humor in Gromus’ words, just fact and stoicism.

  Maja has released her pose and now joins Noah at Oskar’s side. They are both trying desperately to stop Oskar’s bleeding, to somehow seal what appears to be, from what I witnessed, a mortal wound.

  “You can’t expect them to kill themselves. And you could never expect me to murder them without cause or mercy. And even if I had that ability, that capacity to take the life of an innocent person, I haven’t the weapon with which to do it.”

  Gromus smiles at me and looks down at the rucksack that Noah dropped on his way to chase Oskar, and then back to me. “They listen to you, Hansel. They have followed you to this place. You do have the capacity. Just as your sister does. You are an Aulwurm. And they will die for you if you wish it. Convince them.”

  Chapter 28

  The following day, I arrived at Mrs. Klahr’s before dawn having slept miserably in our family shed the previous night. Things scurried constantly during most of the evening—both outside and within the wooden structure—and the chill of dark fell swiftly and harshly, proving to be no match for the canoe tarp.

  I wasn’t used to walking the Back Country roads during the dark of night, and the recollection of my discovery from the day before made the strolling commute particularly eerie. The experience felt almost like a dream while it played out in my head: that Mother had turned back to the cruel person from a year ago and was now trying, through her own attempts at translation, to make the potion that had held her so tightly in the clutches of addiction.

  She had broken away for a period of time, and the effort she’d put in had seemed genuine and admirable. But the need had hunted her down, imprisoned her once again, promising her that the same feelings with which she’d become so obsessed could be had again. There would need to be a few modifications, perhaps, but the feeling, she believed, was within her reach.

  And when the animals she was slaughtering for this new mixture proved unfruitful, what then?

  The sun was still a few minutes from rising, which meant that Mrs. Klahr was still asleep. Gretel told me that she had become respectful over the years about not encroaching on the Klahrs before her hours began—even though they insisted they didn’t mind—and she imparted to me that I heed the same respect. I would do that going forward, but not today. Today I had to get away from the house. Away from the graveyard that formed the water rim of the Morgan property.

  I sat on the stairs of Mrs. Klahr’s porch for a minute or two and then decided to walk through the orchard and down to the lake. I was intrigued about what things would look like from this perspective. Could I look out across the water and make out any inkling of the crazed temple. The spot was shrouded well from the various views at our house, but perhaps from the Klahr bank there were signs of the madness.

  I brushed past a row of pear trees, and my thoughts instantly went forward a few months to the time when the harvest would begin. It would be a busy time at the orchard, and I would be burdened with responsibility and upholding the legacy of Gretel. My stomach filled with nerves at these thoughts, which was absurd, I realized, considering the far more dire and immediate concern of Anika Morgan.

  I walked to shore and stood next to a canoe and looked over to the far bank and our property beyond. It was too dark to see much of anything, let alone a hidden factory of corpses in the trees. I could, however, just make out the outline of the house, and I immediately noted how bleak it looked from here. There was a hopelessness that rang throughout the property. An emptiness to the design of it all. Perhaps in a few minutes, I thought, when the light of the sun hits the porch side on the east, the vision would be different; but under the veil of Back Country darkness, with the knowledge that neither Gretel nor father nor the Anika Morgan that existed before Marlene, still lived there, it was a disheartening sight.

  I started back to the house with the intention of knocking on the front door at the first crack of sunlight, and then I stopped suddenly and lifted my head in terror.

  I turned around and looked back to the lake and gasped. And then I sprinted toward the bank again.

  The canoe.

  I reached the shore and confirmed what I already knew: it was our boat—the Morgan boat that Gretel had made her own, the one she found solace in rowing for so many hours during the days of mother’s disappearance. As far as I knew, that canoe hadn’t moved an inch on our property since Gretel had left for college. I had always walked to the Klahr’s for work or to check on Mrs. Klahr; and mother had barely left the house in the truck, let alone to take a rowing trip on the lake.

  And here it was now, at the Klahr Orchard, on the bank directly across from our property.

  I turned back toward Mrs. Klahr’s house and began to run up the path, and that’s when I saw them. They were descending the same path that led through the orchard and were now headed directly toward me.

  Anika and Mrs. Klahr.

  I had a notion to duck off to the side and avoid them entirely, and then formulate some plan to rescue Mrs. Klahr. But the beam of light from the flashlight Mrs. Klahr was carrying landed directly on me. I was stuck.

  “Hansel, go,” Mrs. Klahr said, her voice deflated and weary. The metal barrel of a handgun pressing against her temple made her lean leftward, and she struggled to keep the beam of the flashlight steady.

  “Hold the light straight,” Anika ordered. “Straight!”

  “Hansel, run!” Amanda Klahr commanded once again. “Go!”

  “Mother,” I said, ignoring Mrs. Klahr. She didn’t respond to me and I barked, “Anika!”

  Mother looked up at me and squinted her eyes, focusing on the light that illuminated my face. “Be thankful, Hansel,” she said.

  I shuddered at the reply and instantly interpreted the statement to mean Be thankful this is her at the end of this gun and not you.

  “Mother, I can’t let you do this.”

  “Do what, Hansel? Mrs. Klahr and I are simply going for a boat ride. Just like your siste
r used to love to do. When I was away.” She said this last part with a creepy nonchalance, as if she had been on vacation. “Besides, you always told me I needed to get out more often. ‘Too much time in the house’ you always said.” Anika cackled at this last sentence, and for the first time since the bedlam had taken over our lives, I saw a resemblance of Marlene. The image of the witch was from a specific time, that first day I saw her standing high on the porch, almost levitating above us—Gretel, Odalinde, Petr and I below in awe. Father stood beside her that day, bewildered in a haze of the potion with which she’d tempted him and that would cost him his own life. Marlene had looked stunning that day, otherworldly, fresh from the rejuvenation of the potion. But beyond the ethereal glow she emitted, her newly-formed face was also enveloped in depravity.

  And now, as mother stood behind Mrs. Klahr, holding a pistol against the elderly woman’s temple, I saw the witch’s likeness once again. It was as if the potion itself—or perhaps the desire for it—brought about certain traits that manifested in one’s appearance.

  Anika shoved Mrs. Klahr forward, and the women were now only a few steps away from me. It was a standoff, and I was the only thing positioned between my mother, Mrs. Klahr, and the canoe that waited at the shoreline to take Amanda Klahr to her death.

  “It doesn’t look like that to me, Anika.” I never called my mother by her first name, but it seemed appropriate at the time. “It looks to me like Mrs. Klahr isn’t very eager to take this trip at all.” The words were a bit lighthearted given the circumstances, but the joke came from a place of nervousness and fear, not cool calm. The truth was, I was terrified and knew that tragedy was imminent.

  “It’s fine, Hansel,” Mrs. Klahr said, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “Just let us go. I’ll be fine.” She began to cry in earnest now, sobbing desperately. I felt the need to run to her, to embrace and console this woman who had endured so much trauma over the past few years, all of which, I realized, had been brought on by the Morgan family. I restrained my instinct and looked over at my mother, who sighed and rolled her eyes.