by Adam Gidwitz
Finally, there were two score huntsmen in the great hall, and not one of them carried a dead animal of any kind.
The duke turned to his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he said—and he meant this quite literally—“I present to you the worst hunt—and the best—that I have ever had. The fewest creatures! But the rarest prize!”
In came two more huntsmen. Between them they carried a pole. Hanging from that pole was the strangest, most grotesque beast that anyone had ever laid eyes on—it looked like something halfway between a wolf and a man, a bear and a boy.
Ladies screamed. Lords cried aloud. A servant fainted dead away.
The huntsmen cut the dead creature down from its pole. Two more huntsmen approached it with gleaming knives as the duke looked on proudly. They would take off the beast’s hide and head and mount both on the duke’s wall.
Warning: this next bit is kind of gross.
The huntsmen dug their knives into the beast’s skin just below the jaw and began to run their blades between the fur and flesh. Their hunting knives shone red as clurnps of meat and animal hair stuck to their blades. The lords and ladies watched with disgusted amusement. The duke giggled with glee. Who else would have the hide and head of such a monster?
Soon the huntsmen skinning the beast began to gape. One sprang back from the creature, muttering, “It isn’t right! It isn’t holy!” Another huntsman stepped in for him, but soon he fell away, too, crying that there was something “terrible unnatural” about the beast. Finally, the task was left to one huntsman alone—a grizzled old man who bared his teeth and steadily, carefully finished the skinning.
He stepped back from the carcass so that all could see it before he cut off its head. Gasps echoed through the hall.
For beneath that beastly skin was another layer of skin—human skin. And beneath that beastly form was another form—a human form. The blood-soaked form of a boy.
Carefully, the grizzled huntsman returned to take off the beastly head. He sliced into the skin—but instead of severing the neck, he gently peeled away the top layer of hide and fur. After a few minutes’ work, he stepped back again.
In the middle of the floor of the castle’s great hall there lay a naked, bloodstained boy.
“I will cut no more,” the huntsman said. “He’s breathing.”
After the commotion and hubbub had died down, and a doctor had come and gone, and the duke had bragged to one and all that not only was he the only hunter to ever kill a beast-boy, but that he was also the only hunter ever to not kill one (which left more than a few people scratching their heads), the question arose of who would take the bloody, unconscious boy home. A lord and lady who had never had any children of their own soon volunteered, and the boy was moved to their manor and cared for as well as a boy can be.
When, after a few days, the boy finally woke up, he informed them that his name was Hansel.
Hansel was comfortable in the rich, sprawling manor, with a lord and a lady for parents. But he was not happy.
Not a moment passed when he did not wonder what had become of Gretel. He felt ashamed at how he had acted in the Wood of Life. She had been so good to him, and he had been selfish and irresponsible. It made him sick to think of it.
He could not sleep for his shame. Each restless, sweaty night, he lay awake, staring into the darkness. Then, in the morning, he would rise and wander through the manor like a ghost.
Where was Gretel? What had happened to her? He feared it was something terrible. And if so, it was all his fault. He wanted to scream. How, how could she ever forgive him? It was like a private Hell of his own thoughts, and he knew no way of escaping it.
And then, one night, as he lay in bed and tossed and turned and sweat, he thought, I will never do anything like that ever again. I will find Gretel and make things right with her. I will be responsible. I will be good. I swear it.
And because he wanted it so, so badly, he was.
And he felt better.
Wait, don’t tell me, dear readers. This sounds implausible to you.
Of course it does. Having never experienced such a thing yourself, it naturally sounds ludicrous. He wished to be good, and so he was? Just like that?
Yes. Just like that. There is a certain kind of pain that can change you. Even the strongest sword, when placed in a raging fire, will soften and bend and change its form. So it was with Hansel. The fire of guilt and shame was just that hot.
Trust me on this one. I know this from personal experience. I hope that you never will, but, since you’re a person, and therefore prone to making horrible, soul-splitting mistakes, you probably will one day know what this kind of guilt and shame feels like. And when that time comes, I hope you have the strength, as Hansel had, to take advantage of the fire and reshape your own sword.
Once Hansel had sworn to be good, his life was quite bearable. The lord and the lady were fine parents: They cared for Hansel and spoke kindly to him and fed him good food. They had a wonderful library, and Hansel enjoyed sitting in it, reading books about knights and damsels, dragons and giants. He knew he couldn’t stay in the manor forever, for he needed to find Gretel. But until he regained his strength he was very happy to stay with these new grown-ups. There seemed to be nothing wrong with them.
Ah, it makes me sad to even say it. Is there ever nothing wrong with grown-ups? Certainly not in these stories.
Maybe in real life there are perfect parents and amazing adults who will never, ever disappoint you. But Once Upon a Time, no grown-up was perfect. You, my dear reader, have certainly learned that by now.
The Lord and Lady were not perfect, either, of course. Sometimes the Lady had a short temper. Usually the Lord had bad breath.
But worse than these things was that the Lord had a secret—a secret he kept from even his wife. It wasn’t a terrible secret—nothing cruel or evil. It was a secret weakness, one that, try as he might, he could not control. The Lord loved to gamble.
He lived every day without giving in to his weakness, but at night, a cold sweat gripped him, and he could not help taking his and his wife’s gold from their chest and creeping down to the back room of an alehouse in town and wagering on cards. Sometimes he won. Usually he lost. But never yet had he lost so much that his wife noticed the difference in the morning.
But one night, a stranger joined the game. His skin looked almost red in the dim light of the tavern’s back room, and his beard was cut into a point below his chin. He bet with the Lord, and he won. He won and won and won again. The Lord knew he should go home, for his money was gone. But he knew that if he went home having lost all their gold, his wife would discover his secret failing. He was ashamed. He asked the bearded stranger if he could win his money back. The stranger said that he could, if he would wager whatever stood before the fire in his library that night. The man could think of nothing that stood before the fire in his library except his fine mahogany stool. It was a small price to pay for the chance to win all his money back. So he agreed.
The Lord lost. He returned home in despair. He walked into the library where the fire burned, wondering if there was some way to hide the loss of all that gold (and the stool) from his wife. But as his eyes fell on the stool before the fire, he saw Hansel sitting on it reading a book.
The Lord thought back to the gambling stranger, to his reddish skin, his pointed beard, and his strange wager ...
Knowledge smacked the Lord over the head like a tray of sausages. He staggered and fell to the ground. Hansel rushed to his side.
“Gambling ...” the Lord said.
“Are you all right?” Hansel asked.
The Lord’s face was pale, and his eyes stared up at the ceiling blankly. “I was gambling with the Devil.”
The next morning, they waited for the Devil to come and collect his due. The Lord wrung his hands and apologized to Hansel over and over, as the Lady buried her face in her kerchief and wept. But Hansel just stood there, nervous and numb. It was too strange, too incredi
ble to believe. He had been gambled away to the Devil? What did that mean? What would he have to do?
He wouldn’t have to do anything, of course. If you are gambled away to the Devil (and this is a matter of public record—I’m certainly not making it up), you are damned to excruciating pain for all eternity, and no matter what you do, no matter how good you are, or how many times you ask, “Please pretty please with a cherry on top?,” the Devil will never, ever, ever let you out. It’s excruciating pain from the moment you arrive in Hell until the moment after eternity.
But Hansel did not know that. Which, for the moment, was probably best.
After a time, the Devil arrived at the manor. He wore a walking coat and carried a cane and had tiny spectacles that sat on the end of his nose. And his hair looked like a hundred thousand strands of shining gold. He approached Hansel and frowned.
“He’s a bit pure, isn’t he?” the Devil said, and sniffed. “He smells ... good.”
Hansel swallowed hard.
“Oh, yes, he’s very good,” the Lord said. “Too good to go to Hell.”
“Would you rather go?” the Devil said swiftly, turning on the Lord.
“Oh, no, no,” the Lord said. “No, take him!”
The Devil smiled and muttered to himself, “You’ll be there shortly anyway.”
“What?” the Lord said.
“Nothin ...”
The Devil turned to Hansel. “Well, you’re so good and so pure it makes me sick. I can’t touch you, and I wouldn’t want to anyway. It’d take me weeks to get the stench of you off me. So report to the gates of Hell in three days’ time.”
Hansel gathered his courage and said, “What will happen to me in Hell?”
“I love it when they ask that,” the Devil said, smiling. “You’ll be in excruciating pain for all eternity, and no matter what you do, no matter how good you are, or how many times you ask, ‘Please pretty please with a cherry on top?,’ I will never, ever, ever let you out. It’s excruciating pain from the moment you arrive until the moment after eternity.”
Well, the cat’s out of the bag now.
He came very close to Hansel, and Hansel could feel the heat of the Devil’s skin. “And if you’re not at the gates of Hell in three days’ time, I’ll flood the whole valley with fire, and everyone in it will die. And then I’ll find your soul, of course, and take my due.”
Now Hansel wanted to cry. But he held his breath, stuck out his chin, and said in his bravest voice, “I’ll be there.”
And the Devil said, “I know.” Then he turned for the door, waved a single pinkie at the Lord, and was gone.
In a forest near the Lord’s manor there wandered a very old man. He had a long nose, a bent back, and lips that puckered around a toothless mouth. He was searching for two children, a boy and a girl, who had been lost long ago.
He was about to sit and rest his aching bones beneath the branches of a comfortable-looking tree when, from a distance, he heard the sound of someone crying. He followed the sound to the foot of a great elm, where he found a boy cradling his head in his hands. The old man felt pity for the poor boy, so he comforted him, and asked him if he needed help.
“No one can help me,” the boy moaned. “I must travel to the gates of Hell in three days’ time and deliver myself to the Devil—to be in excruciating pain until the moment after eternity.”
“Hansel?” the old man said.
The boy looked up. “How do you know my name?”
For a moment, the old man said nothing—he just stared at the boy’s head of curly black hair and round eyes, dark as charcoal. Then he said, “Never mind, I thought you were someone else.”
He sat down beside Hansel gingerly and frowned. “So,” he said, “you must go to Hell?” Hansel sniffled hard, wiped the tears from his face with the back of his sleeve, and began to tell the old man why.
When he finished, the man was staring at him intently. “It’s not a lost cause, my boy. Nearly. But not completely.” He stopped.
“Yes?” Hansel asked.
“Well,” the old man said, “it is said that in Hell the Devil can have no power over one who has three of his golden hairs.” Hansel thought back to the bespectacled Devil with the thin strands of gold on his head.
“But how would I get them?” Hansel asked.
“That, I have no idea. But I can take you to the gates of Hell—I know where those are. And I can guide you back if you ever come out.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Hansel said, staring into the man’s unlovely face. And then he said, “But now can you tell me how you knew my name?”
The old man didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly got to his feet and began to walk. After he had gone a little way, he turned and saw that Hansel was still sitting on the ground under the great elm. “Well,” the old man said, “do you want to go to Hell or not?”
They journeyed all day, until, when the sun was low in the sky, they came to a small city, ringed by walls of stone. The old man asked the guard if he and Hansel could stay within the city walls for the night.
“No one stays in this city,” said the guard. “For our fountain of wine no longer flows, and we are all in mourning.” And he told them of a magical fountain that had once given wine without cease, until one day it didn’t. “Devil knows why!” the soldier said, throwing up his hands.
The old man was about to turn away from the city gate when Hansel said, “I’m going to see the Devil in Hell. Perhaps I can ask him why, and if ever I escape, I will come back and tell you.”
The soldier scratched his head. “I didn’t mean the Devil literally knows why.... It’s an expression.”
“It is?” Hansel replied. “Oh. What does it mean?”
“It means—” the soldier began, but stopped. “Wait, are you really going to Hell?”
Hansel nodded and so did the old man.
The guard stared at the little boy. “Never mind. Just come in.”
The next day, the old man and Hansel walked until the sun was low in the sky, and again they found themselves at the gate of a city with walls of stone. Again the old man asked the guard if he and Hansel could stay.
But the guard said, “No one stays in this city. For our tree of golden apples is now barren, and we are all in mourning.” And he told them of a magical tree that had once given golden apples without cease, until one day it didn’t. “Devil knows why!” the soldier said, throwing up his hands.
So Hansel said, “I am going to see the Devil in Hell. Perhaps I can ask him why, and if ever I escape, I will come back and tell you.”
The soldier scratched his head. “I didn’t mean the Devil literally knows why.... It’s an expression.”
“People keep saying that,” Hansel replied. “What does it mean?”
“It means—” the soldier began, but stopped. “Wait, are you really going to Hell?”
Hansel nodded, and so did the old man.
The guard stared at the little boy. “Never mind. Just come in.”
On the third day, the man and Hansel walked until, when the sun was low in the sky, they came to a river that could only be crossed by ferry. But the ferryman refused to take them over. “I’ve been in this ferry for seven years, and I can’t get out!” the ferryman said. “I’m sick to death of it! My arms are exhausted, I haven’t slept well in ages, and you don’t even want to hear about going to the bathroom.”
“Why can’t you get out?” the old man asked.
“Devil knows why!” the ferryman said, throwing up his hands.
So Hansel said, “I am going to see the Devil in Hell. Perhaps I can ask him why, and if ever I escape, I will come back and tell you.”
“I didn’t mean the Devil literally—wait, did you say you’re going to Hell?” the ferryman asked. “But why?”
“The Devil knows,” Hansel replied.
The ferryman scratched his head at that. But then he said, “Well, if you promise to come back and tell me why I’m stuck here, I’d be hap
py to take you over.” And so he did.
At last, as the sun was disappearing beyond the edge of the horizon on the third day, the old man and Hansel arrived at the tall, black doors of Hell. Hansel’s knees began to knock gently against each other. The doors to Hell led directly underground, and there was no handle or knocker. They were just smooth and black. Like eternity.
“Be brave,” the old man said. “And get those three golden hairs.”
Hansel said, “I will.” But he wasn’t sure he believed it.
Hansel’s hand was trembling so badly it took him three tries just to knock on the great doors. But as soon as his knuckles hit them, they swung open, and two pairs of long red arms grabbed him and thrust him inside. The doors slammed shut behind him.
Faithful Johannes sat down on the ground to wait. He wondered how long eternity was.
Hansel stood just inside Hell’s doors, staring all around him. He was in what looked like a cave. It had a low, heavy ceiling hung with long spires of rock; down these spires dripped a red liquid that looked, for all the world, like blood. But though there was a ceiling, there were no walls. Hansel could see forever in every direction. A thousand paths stretched out from where he stood, paths that wound past millions upon millions of craters of bubbling, boiling, liquid fire. In each crater a sinner screamed as red-armed demons drove him under the liquid fire’s surface. The sinners kicked and struggled as they were held below. Sometimes the demons would allow them to rise, and the sinners would scream and cry and say that they were sorry and please let them out, please pretty please with a cherry on top, and then the demons would push them down again to suffocate and be burned.
