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Crumbs	By : CeeCee Category: Fairy Tales, Fables, Folklore, Legends, and Myth > Fairy Tales Views: 5710 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own Hansel and Gretel. These characters belong to the Brothers Grimm. I make no money.

Chapter List
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Crumbs

“Can I help you water the flowers?”

I don’t look up when I hear that little voice with its slight lisp. “Only if you don’t give them too much,” I reply.

“What are you planting, Missy Lynn?”

“Turnips,” I answer simply as I dig with my trowel.

“Yuck.”

“They’re good for you.”

“They taste bad.”

“They help little girls grow nice and big. They make you smart,” I encourage.

It’s not like the child can afford to be finicky. I add that to my towering list of faults that I find with her mother. She peers up at me with those big brown eyes that undo me every time and shuffles her little foot.

“Can I help you?”

“Get the pot,” I tell her patiently as I look away, before the child wraps me around her little finger any more than I’ve already allowed. The earth feels good sifting through my fingers, cool and damp while the sunshine beats down on my back. I can taste the shift in the air, and I’ve maybe a fortnight before the first frost of the season, when the ground will be too hard to break. The turnip roots and potato eyes in my basket are soil-crusted and crawling with grubs, and I have a lot of work to do before Elias comes home for supper.

The child runs off to the back of my tiny shed, and I hear the scrape of the rusty watering pot as she removes it from its hook. “Be careful with the bucket!” I call back.

“I will!” she promises. I sigh again. Gretel’s such a nice little girl. I wish her a better lot in life than what she was born into, but it’s not my place to say.

I’m not one to gossip, so get that idea out of your head, spit-spot. I’m a humble washer woman married to a hardworking man who says her prayers every night and keeps a clean, welcoming home. I have no place to judge my neighbors, certainly. That doesn’t mean it isn’t tempting.

“Missy Lynn?”

“Yes, dear heart?”

“Do you…”

“Yes?” I nudge, trying to get her to spit it out. This is the little ditty that we dance around with each other every morning.

“…do you have any apples?”

“Yes, Gretel.” I nod toward the barrel. The child’s too polite to steal, something I’ve ensured through letting her help me with little “chores” here and there. “Fill the pot. Then you may have one. ONE,” I emphasize as she runs off. I chuckle at the sound of the crank as she lowers the pail into the well. She struggles back with the pail, and the water’s slopping over the edge, since she has to lug it with two hands. There’s new cuts on her little hands, I see, and I wonder where they came from this time. It might help if her mother watched her and her brother more closely. It just might.

She pours the water into the pot carefully, making a little grunt as she tips the bucket. There’s nothing wrong with hard work, before you ask me why I’m making a little child work. That’s our lot in life, when you’re born into humble families, and this is the least of what will be expected of her when she’s grown. I’m keeping her out of trouble and teaching her “womanhood” lessons. Growing your own food and living off the land is good for the soul. And it helps me to have a second pair of hands to help out around the garden, so stop giving me that look.

“Your dress is torn. When I’m finished planting these, I’ll patch it.”

“Yes, Missy Lynn.” She’s already distracted from the pot by my apple barrel, since she keeps staring back at it.

“One,” I remind her. She grins back at me and dashes off, and she finds the tiny step stool I keep by the shed. Up she goes, leaning over to select the best one, and she manages to find a shiny red one without any worm holes or bruises. She wipes it clean on her little apron and crunches into it loudly enough to send the birds nearby twittering. Goodness, but she’s starving…

She loves to hum to herself, sometimes leaving her song in my head at the end of the day. It’s infectious, so I don’t mind, and I pick up the little tune while I’m spreading out my potato eyes. She’s giving my chrysanthemums a little too much water, and I nod for her to move on. The angle of the sun in the sky has shifted, lengthening my shadow, and I know it’s time to start supper soon, but it’s difficult for me.

I know the child might not have supper to go home to, and there is precious little that I can do about it.

“Missy Lynn?” I pretend to be gruff and stern when Hansel pokes me. I’ve tried to train him out of that habit. I turn to him with my hands on my hips.

“Where have you been all day, young man, while your big sister is working hard?”

“I was working, too!” he claims, and he produces a grubby little stack of sticks that he drops down at my feet. “I brought you some kindling!”

“Well! So you did. Hand it over.” He picks it back up sheepishly and hands it to me nicely this time, and I look it over. Some of the twigs are too green to burn, but he made a nice effort. At five, he’s too young to swing an ax, in my opinion. “I guess you’ve earned your reward…” He tries not to grin, and he stares up at me expectantly. Sternly, I nod to the apple barrel, and he yips as he runs to get the stool. He’s shorter, but he makes a grand effort of leaning over the edge to select a nice one, too.

He’s just as ragged as his sister. He’s outgrowing the little trousers quickly, and his boot tops show beneath the hems. But he’s adorable, and he’s biting into that apple for all he’s worth, even though he’s missing two of his front baby teeth.

“HANSEL! GRETEL!” Their mother’s calling them in, finally. It’s getting late, and they’ve been gone all morning. They don’t live far from me, just across the field, so I can’t keep the closest eye on them, but I’m one of their only friends.

How sad.

“Where have you two naughty children been?” I don’t like it when Mama says it like that in her mean voice. The only time she uses her nice one is when she talks to Papa, when she thinks we’ve gone to sleep.

I miss my other Mama. I still talk to her, sometimes, when no one else is listening. Hansel does, too, when he thinks I’m not listening, either. He’s just a baby. I have to take care of him so he doesn’t get into trouble, because then I’ll get into trouble, too. I hate being the biggest, sometimes.

The only time it’s fun is when I’m trying to keep him out of my things, because I can put them up high where he can’t reach. Boys always break things. When he got a hold of Mama’s favorite brooch, he bent back the pin, and I got blamed for it. Mama grabbed my hand and dragged me back into the corner in the kitchen, and she whipped by back with her stirring spoon. Why do I always get blamed?

“We were helping Missy Lynn,” Hansel tells her.

“Bothering her, more like,” Mama growls. She always sounds like she’s growling at us. “Let that woman alone. She has hard work to do, and doesn’t need nosy little children disturbing her. You should have been here, helping with the washing, you lazy little girl.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s frowning, and she comes and stands over me and puts her hands on her hips like Missy Lynn does, but Missy Lynn just pretends to be mad. She only does that so we won’t lie to her or steal. “OW!” Her fingers are hurting me, and she grabs my ear, pinching it and twisting it, and I have to follow her when she does that, or she said she’ll rip it off. She’s strong. I believe her.

“I was going to help with the washing!”

“You’ll do it now, or there will be no supper for you, do you hear me? You’re a lazy little thing!”

“Mama, I’m sorry!”

“You will be.” She’s dragging me, and I trip, and that only makes her madder. We go outside again into the yard, and she points to the wash board and the tub. It’s already full of water, and I can see the Papa’s socks and trousers floating up to the top. “I want these clothes washed, wrung and hung up before your father gets home, or you’ll get nothing to eat.” She puts her hands on her hips again. “I shouldn’t have to do all the work myself because my children are over the field, bothering the neighbors.”

“Hansel was gathering firewood,” I mumble as I walk to the tub.

“I don’t see any firewood, and he’s just a little boy. Your father’s going to have to chop it himself, and he’s been doing that all day long!”

She keeps telling me how much trouble it is to look after me and my little brother, even though we’ve been gone all day. I feel awful about it, but I feel worse about the fact that I’m still really, really hungry. I didn’t get any porridge this morning, and I don’t know if we’ll get any stew tonight.

I wish I were a big, strong man instead of a little girl. If I was, I’d go hunting every day, and bring home a bear, a deer, or a boar every night for supper. No one would yell at me for getting my dress dirty or tell me that bad girls don’t get custard or make me sit in the corner.

I don’t want to tell Hansel that I think we’re running out of food again. I hate it when he gets scared, because there’s nothing I can do about it. My real Mama said it was bad to lie, and when I have to lie to my brother to make him feel better, it makes me feel worse.

I hate the soap. It has lye in it, and it burns my hands, even though the water’s cold. I’m the oldest, and I’m a girl, so I have to do the washing up. When Hansel’s bigger, he’ll have to cut wood like Papa, but until then, I have to take care of him, and it’s hard. He crawls into bed with me sometimes, so I can tell him a story. His favorite one is about the little elves who made new shoes in the cobbler’s shop after he went to bed, and I’m good at telling it, but sometimes I get tired, and I fall asleep before I’m finished. He just pokes me awake and whines at me, “Gretel, I wanna hear the last part!” That’s when I have to kick him out of bed and make him get back into his own. I can’t wait til he’s able to read…

I go and find the great, big bucket of clothespins and I get busy hanging up the wash, but it’s hard; I have to get the big stool from outside so I can reach the line. Then I have to go up, and then down, and then back up on the stool again, and then down, over and over. I hate it. I hate being a little girl.

Sometimes, I hate my life.

“John. Come in here. They’re asleep.”

“Have we any milk?”

“There’s a little.”

“Can you warm it?”

“Sit down. There’s the last biscuit, if you want it.”

“Only if you don’t.”

“Have it.”

She contemplated the milk as she poured it into the pot, musing. She went to the cupboard and found the last, precious remains of the sugar in the nearly empty sack, and she sprinkled a pinch of it into the milk for him, knowing he’d worked a back-breaking, frustrating day in the woods. John sold two cords of wood, which was enough to purchase a meager amount of goods at the market in the morning, but who knew how long it would last? She could only stretch a bag of oats so far, and she despised borrowing, as it seemed only one step above begging to her. Their neighbor, Lynn, was a pleasant enough woman, but Natalie hated the look of pity in her eyes and her presumptuous demeanor when she told her that the children visited her across the field. Once in a while, she’d send them home with a small pot of jam or a half a loaf of bread. It made Natalie burn with resentment, even though she sent back humble thanks.

This wasn’t the life she pictured when she was still a girl in pinafores and plaits. She never planned to marry as an escape from a dreary life at home, only to leave one dirt-poor, shabby cottage just to move into another that was equally bleak. John was a sweet, kind man, something that didn’t come along every day. She could have a worse lot in life. He didn’t drink – possibly because wine and ale cost twice as much as bread – and he didn’t curse or beat her. If he possessed one flaw, it was his occasional overindulgence of the children.

Gretel and Hansel weren’t particularly spoiled, but their father gave them high expectations, and it made her shake her head. Natalie had to take the small puppy he’d brought home for them when it was three days old into town one day and let it loose, so that it could never make its way home. The poor mongrel would eat them out of house and home, and she never knew why John brought it home in the first place. He merely gave her the same hopeful smile and said, “It made them happy.”

The roof leaked. Cold drafts slipped into the house through the cracks, and the children were outgrowing their clothing faster than she could let out hems or repair torn seams. The larder was almost always empty, and winter was coming. Natalie saw nothing in the future except long, hungry nights.

And ruin.

Things had to change, and quickly.

“John. We can’t do this anymore.”

“What can’t we do, wife?” She set the mug of milk before him and slid over the small biscuit on the plate, noticing how he picked at it slowly, trying to make it last.

“We can’t feed this family. Not all four of us.”

“We’ll manage. We’ve always managed.”

“What if the children took sick? We can’t afford medicine for them, John! There’s barely enough money to even keep tea in the kettle! Things have to change, John!” It was a common lament. He longed to close his ears against it, but he was exhausted.

“John…we need to let them go.”

He froze, cup hovering in mid-air, and his brown eyes swung up and pinned her, stunned. It took him a moment to process what she said.

“What?”

“We need to let the children go, John. It’s the only way we’ll manage.”

“That’s…no. NO.” He thunked down the mug and shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. They’re our children. They’re not…they’re not fireflies that you capture in a jar! You don’t have the choice of just…turning them out! Of abandoning them! They’re just babes, for heaven’s sake! What madness is this? How could you ever suggest such a thing?”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I…I’ll go into town, and –“

“And you’ll what? Get another job? That’s highly likely. You work all day as it is.”

“Yes. I’ll do it. I’ll work day and night if I have to, wife. What you suggest is unthinkable. The children…the children are all I have.”

She looked at him, hurt.

“They’re all I have left of their mother. They’re my world.”

“This isn’t the life she would have wanted for them. She’s in a better place.” Cold fear rose in his heart.

“You don’t just want to give them up.”

“No one would know.”

“No one would know.”

I can’t sleep, but Hansel’s snoring again, and his feet are sticking out of the covers. I hop up and tuck them back in again, and that makes him roll over and smack his lips. He always kicks in bed; that’s why I always have to kick him out of my bed, or I’ll get his foot in my belly when I’m trying to sleep.

Mama sounds angry again. She doesn’t get as angry at Papa as she does with me, but sometimes she stands there with her hands on her hips, and her eyes scowl at him. I don’t think Mama’s very pretty when she looks like that.

“What you’re asking me isn’t reasonable. It’s mad.”

“It’s not madness when you’re trying to survive. This is a matter of survival.”

“We should be protecting the children.”

“We’re barely able to shelter them here as it is, let alone feed them. And we have to protect ourselves, John.”

I lean my ear against the door and listen, and I feel my heart pounding when I realize they’re talking about Hansel and me.

“If we turn them loose, they could find another family. All we’d have to do is take them away, far enough from home. If they don’t find their way back, then they’re no longer our burden. And they would be better off if someone finds them and takes them in.”

“If,” I hear my Papa say. “I don’t believe in ‘ifs.’ And they aren’t our burden, wife. They’re our children. They’re a treasure. I thought you felt the same, until now. I just don’t understand this.” I hear Papa drinking something and setting down the cup.

“Do you hear that?” Mama stops talking, and I feel my heart pound. They’ll hear me! I run back to my bed and jump under the covers, and I pull them all the way over my head. I can hear Mama’s feet coming down the hall, and the door makes that creaky sound when she opens it up and peeks inside. I try not to move or make any sounds, because I don’t want her to know that I heard her.

I don’t want her to know what I know. She’s trying to get rid of us.

She goes back to the kitchen, and Papa’s asking her what’s wrong.

“I thought one of the children was up.”

“They’re safe in their beds,” he says. “Where they should be.”

“Don’t tell me where they should be, John. They should be with parents who can feed them and send them to school! WE should be living in a home that’s in good repair where we won’t freeze to death when winter comes!”

“This can be that home!” Papa says, and this time, he’s shouting, and it hurts my ears. My eyes burn, and I can’t stop sniffling. When I feel the tears rolling down into my ears, I turn over and stare at the door. Mama’s moving around, taking the dishes to the wash tub.

“If you won’t do anything about this, then I will, John. I’ve lost hope. I’ve lost faith.”

“In me,” Papa says. I almost can’t hear him. “You’ve lost faith in me.”

“There’s no hope for this family if the children stay.”

Papa walks out of the kitchen. His feet sound heavier than Mama’s, and I hear him start to cry. That scares me, because Papa never cries.

The shutter’s banging on my window from the wind. The moon is bright tonight, and I can see the trees if I peek outside through the cracks. I reach over and test the shutter, and I lift up the lock. It hardly makes a sound as it swings open, and I hope Mama doesn’t come back to check on me.

I hear Mama and Papa in their bedroom. She’s still talking, and she still doesn’t sound happy. “We can take them into the woods. Far enough out that they won’t be able to make their way home, John. I’ll pack them some food. Tell them I’m taking them on a picnic. They enjoy picnics, so it will seem like a game.”

My stomach feels funny, like there’s a little flutter.

“I’ll let them play. Then I’ll start home. You meet me with the wagon, and we’ll be off before they can catch up.”

She wants to let us get lost.

She doesn’t love us.

I cry again, and this time I don’t know how to stop it. My pillow’s getting wet, and I feel so lonely. I want Papa to tell her no. I want to go and run inside their bedroom and yell at him that Hansel and I don’t want to leave him.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Papa doesn’t do anything. I just see the glow from their room go out, and that tells me that they are getting into bed.

I can’t believe this.

“I’ll let them play.” That’s what she said. She said we like picnics. We do, but I don’t want to go with her if it means I can’t come home. I don’t know what we’ll do if she takes us away. There has to be a way out of…

…there has to be a way back.

I get out of bed and I open the trunk by my bed. My coat’s in there, folded up and laying on top of my winter stockings. I put both of them on and almost trip over my shoes. Hansel’s still snoring, and I tiptoe over to him and shake him. “Hansel,” I whisper, “wake up. Get up!”

“Nnnnnnnhhh…”

“C’mon, Han. Get up. We need to go.”

“Where?” He sounds like a grumpy bear. He’s trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes, and I decide to pull the blankets off of him. He sits up and frowns at me. “Why are you dressed?”

“We have to go, Hansel. I have an idea.”

“I don’t wanna. Wanna sleep.”

“You have to help me.” An idea came to me when I was looking outside a few minutes ago, and I saw the moonlight hitting the rocks on the edge of the well. I could see those and the paver stones on the front path easily, and it made me wonder…

If we find our way back to the house, Papa might want us back.

“Help me, Hansel. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Outside. Just for a little while. Get dressed.”

“It’s dark outside. It’s scary.” But he’s getting up and being good. I take his coat out of the trunk and find his shoes, too. He’s yawning and crawling into his clothes, and I grab the shutter and push it open.

“Be really quiet and come with me. Quick. Before Mama comes.”

“Why can’t we tell Mama where we’re going?”

“I’ll tell you why when we leave. C’mon!” I want to yell at him, but all I can is whisper really loud, so he knows that I mean it. He makes a face at me and waits for me to climb out the window. When I reach the ground, I help him down, and it’s hard, because he’s heavy. I close the shutter, and I grab the hoe and use it to prop it shut so it doesn’t bang.

“Run, Hansel,” I tell him, and we take off down the path.

“Where are we going, Gretel?”

“We need rocks. Just the little ones,” I tell him.

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to play a game tomorrow. Whoever finds the most little rocks wins tonight, but we’re going to use them for another game when Mama takes us on a picnic.”

“A picnic?” That makes him smile, and he’s so cute when he smiles, and I almost don’t mind that he’s my little brother. I liked him when he was a little baby, even if he wasn’t a little girl. But I hate lying to him.

If he knows what Mama said, he’ll be scared, too, and it’ll make him cry.

“We’re going to use the pebbles to make a trail,” I tell him proudly. “It’ll be fun. Just get the little, shiny ones.” We follow the path and find a few, the shiny gray ones that my Papa calls “slate.” I like the white ones, too, because in the dark, they’re easy to see. I start filling up my pockets, and Hansel does the same thing.

“This one’s all bumpy!” He’s enjoying this, and I laugh at him.

“I found a better one!”

“No, you didn’t!” We go down to the creek and listen to the water flowing. Pretty soon it will freeze up, but I’m thirsty.

“I need a sip.”

“It’s cold out. We have to go home.”

I go over to the creek anyway, and I bend over to cup my hand and drink, but I hear a low hoot in the trees. It makes me jump. “Hooooot, hoooooo!” I almost jump out of my skin. It’s a big, brown owl, and he’s staring at me with big, twitchy eyes. They look strange, like he knows what I’m thinking, and that he knows I’m scared out here in the dark.

“I wanna go home!” Hansel cries, and his cheeks look all red because it’s so cold, or maybe it’s because he’s starting to blubber. I didn’t think about the animals that come out at night.

I hope they aren’t as hungry as we are.

Papa tells us about wolves that come out and eat little children that don’t come home for supper on time. I don’t mind those stories when I’m in the house where it’s warm, but when it’s dark out, and it’s just Hansel and me out here looking for pebbles, it makes my heart pound and little shivers run up my back.

“We’ve got enough rocks,” I tell him. “C’mon. Let’s go!” We run, and I try not to let the pebbles fall out of my pockets. “Hold onto them, Hansel!” We head back to the cottage, and I feel better when I see it. We disturb the birds overhead, and I hear a big, black crow going “CAW! CAAAWWWW!” in the sky. My real Mama always said crows were an omen, but I never knew what she meant.

I’m just glad to be back inside. I’m cold, and my nose is running, and it’s harder to give Hansel a leg up to get back in than it was to help him out of the window in the first place. But we get back in, and I help him out of his coat and tuck him back into his bed. I climb under my own covers and hear him tell me one last thing.

“I can’t wait to play our game tomorrow.”

Papa kisses us goodbye in the morning after he finishes his porridge. There isn’t that much, but it’s really good. “Be good for your mother,” he tells me. “Take care of Han.”

“I will, Papa.”

“You always do. You’re a good big sister.” He smiles at me, but his eyes are sad. I try to smile back.

“I’ll be really good today, Papa. Hope you cut lots of wood.” I don’t know what else to say. Mama hisses at me to get out of the way and let him leave. Hansel gets his kiss goodbye, too, and I go help Mama do the washing up. She’s acting odd, and she has this little smile that she never gives us.

“Hurry, now. Let’s go out, while it’s still sunny outside.” She goes to the cupboard and starts pulling things out, like the jam pot and some bread. She tucks two apples into the picnic basket, and for a moment, I feel happy when I see it, because it’s been a long time since we went on a picnic. But I feel worried when she tells us, “Get ready. Put on your shoes and stockings. We’re going to be gone for a long time today. I want to make sure we have enough time to come back, so I can make supper for your father.”

“Yes, Mama.” I nod to Hansel. “C’mon.”

Mama heats up a little hot water so I can take a bath, but I let Hansel go first while I dig out his clothes, his most beat-up ones, so it won’t matter if he gets them dirty while we’re gone. I find my warm stockings again, and I’m just glad Mama didn’t see them on the floor instead of in the trunk when I woke up today. She didn’t find out that we went out through the window this time. I don’t want to get into trouble today, but I also don’t want to get lost.

Papa waited for us about a half a mile up the path with the wagon. “Hop on,” he calls out, and I help Hansel climb up into the back. The road goes bumpety-bump under us, and the wheels are creaking in my ears. It smells nice outside, like wildflowers, and I can hear bees in the bushes making that loud, angry hum that means they’re getting what they need from the flowers. I love honey, but it’s hard to find, and it costs too much to buy at the market.

We ride down the road until I can’t count houses anymore. Missy Lynn waved to us when we left, and for some reason, she looked sad. I wonder if she has anymore apples or if she baked any bread today. I want to tell her that we’re going to be back soon. All we have to do is find our way back.

Then Papa will want to keep us again.

I stop counting houses, and I start counting trees instead. For every tenth tree, I drop one of my pebbles on the road. Once we head toward the field, it’s harder to find places where the grass is short enough to see the pebbles or bare patches of ground. Hansel watches me and joins in, grinning like we’re sharing a secret. Every time I drop a pebble over the side of the wagon, he does, too.

Mama fixes us sandwiches once Papa leaves us to cut wood. He wants to cut a cord of oak, this time. It burns the best, he tells us, and the families who want to buy it from him will pay him more. I hope he cuts a lot of it. I hope we can get enough food at the market, so that Mama won’t make us leave and never come back. I say a little prayer, and I hope that someone in heaven is listening to me. I know my other Mama is up in the clouds, watching over us, and I hope she can hear me, too.

“Please, please,” I whisper as I fold my hands. “Don’t let us get lost. Don’t let her leave us behind…”

“What’re you whispering about?” Hansel asks. He’s nosy, so I poke him.

“Nothing for little brothers to hear. Mind your business, Han.” He pouts at me and shoves me. I shove back, because I’m nervous, and I can’t even enjoy the sunshine or that Papa took us for a wagon ride.

We play games, and Mama tells me it’s okay to pick flowers so we can make daisy chains. That’s my favorite things to do, but Hansel complains that it isn’t a boy’s game. But Mama’s actually smiling, and we find lots of flowers, the last ones before it gets too cold for them to push up through the ground. We make long, long chains, and my fingers get dirty, but its fun, and I forget for a while why we’re here. I help Hansel gather up “firewood” for Missy Lynne, and some for us, too, and I help him find some that isn’t too green. Once we have a nice, big bundle of it, Mama gives me a small blanket to wrap it up in.

“Hold onto it. Don’t lose any.”

“We won’t,” I tell her, trying to sound grown-up. “We’re good at helping Papa with the wood.”

“Yes, Gretel, I know.” She strokes my cheek and kisses me. It feels good, and she hardly ever does it. Hansel calls to me that he wants to play soldiers, and I follow him.

That’s when Mama decided to leave us.

“GRETEL! I captured your flag!”

“HANSEL! Where’s Mama?”

“She’s over there,” he says, and he acts like we don’t have anything to worry about. But I can’t stop panicking and running, trying to find her. All I see are trees. And the sun’s moved across the sky, making my shadow point the wrong way.

“She’s not over there.”

“Yes she is!” he insists, but he looks confused, and he runs after me while I search for her. “MAMA! MAMA!”

“MAMAAAAAAAA!” I cry. “MAMA, WHERE ARE YOU?” I’m so afraid, and I go back to where we had the picnic. The hamper is gone, but Mama left behind the blanket and the rest of the bread, all wrapped up in a piece of cloth. She left her daisy chain, too, and when I pick it up, I begin to cry.

“MAMA!” Hansel yells. He’s running off, and I’m worried that he’ll get lost. “MAMA, COME BACK!”

“She’s gone,” I say, and there’s this awful little hollow feeling in my belly. I’m not hungry.

I’m lost. Our mother left us behind, and I know in my heart she’s not coming back.

Mothers aren’t supposed to leave. They’re supposed to love you and tuck you in at night. They’re supposed to tell you bedtime stories and help you say your prayers. They’re supposed to hug you when you’re scared and listen to you when you tell them what you want to be when you grow up, or hold you when you’re hurt, or when you had a nightmare. They aren’t supposed to go up to heaven with the angels. And they’re not supposed to climb onto a wagon and leave you behind.

But that’s what they did.

I start to cry. Hansel does, too, when he hears me, and I can’t lie to him anymore.

“It’s getting dark. I’m getting cold, Gretel.”

“It’s okay. Come on.” I take his hand, and we keep walking. I find a hollow log, and we sit down for a while. “This is what we’re having for supper. Don’t eat too much.”

“I want stew.”

“We can’t have any until we get home.” I won’t promise him anything. Papa says if you can’t keep a promise to someone, then don’t make them. I hand him a piece of bread. “Make sure you eat up all the crumbs. Don’t waste it.”

“When are we going to get home?”

“We have to walk. Mama’s not coming back. Papa’s not coming in the wagon.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not.”

We stay there for a while, until ants start crawling over our feet. I hate bugs, and I stomp my feet trying to get them out of my stockings and shoes. Hansel laughs at me, and I tell him to shut up before I start walking away without him.

“DON’T LEAVE ME!” He sounds scared.

“You laughed at me,” I snap.

“I’m sorry! GRETEL, I’M SORRY! DON’T LEAVE ME BEHIND!” I look back and stop, and I feel bad now, because his little cheeks are all red and he’s crying. I let him catch up and he grabs me, wanting me to hug him. So I do, and he’s blubbering on my coat. Little brothers do that sometimes, and if you’re a good big sister, you just let them, and you tell them everything will be all right.

“It’ll be all right.” That means I have to keep my promise now, like Papa says. I still don’t know how. “Let’s play our game, Han.”

“What game’s that?” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and we keep walking.

“The one with the pebbles.”

“I threw mine all away!”

“I know, silly. We were supposed to.”

“Oh.”

It’s getting darker, and I make him wait with me in the woods. We play tag for a while, which he likes, and it feels good to run. He keeps asking me if it will be easier to get home while it’s still light out, like Papa says.

“The wolves will get us.”

“We know how to hide. The moon’s coming out, Han.”

“It’s…big,” he tells me, in this tiny little voice. I love looking at it at night when we’re supposed to be asleep, and I love counting the stars.

We watch the moon, and I see the first pebble, and then the next a few feet from it as we reach a clearing where Papa’s wagon wheels stopped. That makes me excited, and I point to them. “I found the first pebble!”

“No fair!”

“Come on!” We keep going, and Han picks up the rocks. “Leave them there!”

“Why?”

“We don’t have to take them back, Hansel. Just find them. They light up when the moon hits them, see?”

“Oh.” I don’t know if he understands or not, but he acts like it, so I’ll think he’s smart. He’s funny like that. We run and follow the pebbles, and after a while, I start finding wagon tracks again where Papa rolled through the mud.

I don’t know how far we run before I start seeing houses again. I start counting them, and this time, Hansel counts them with me. He’s glad that I’ve moved on to houses, because he gets to win our game of finding the stones.

I don’t care. We’re home.

The door’s locked, and I smell something good that makes my tummy growl. I knock, wondering why it’s taking so long for Papa to answer us. “I’m hungry,” Hansel tells me. “I don’t wanna play anymore games, Gretel.”

“Me, either. We’re home now.”

The door opens up, and Papa’s there, looking like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes get really big, and he’s crying again. He doesn’t speak. I don’t think he can, but hearing him cry makes me cry, too, and I just hold on to him. I can smell his sweat and the soap Mama uses when we wash the clothes. His beard scratches my cheek when he kisses me, but it’s okay. “We’re home, Papa! I won our game!” Hansel tells him. He’s such a little idgit sometimes, but I don’t blame him.

“What game! Where have you been?” Mama snaps. She barges outside, and she looks angry and upset. Her arms are folded over her chest, and she has this hard, tight look around her mouth that makes her lips look really thin. It scares me to see her like that. Papa shushes her.

“Just let them in. They’re hungry, wife.” She tries to tell him something else, but he just says again, “They’re hungry.”

Papa shoos her out of the kitchen and fixes us a bowl of stew, scraping what’s left of his bowl into ours, and we can’t eat it fast enough. It tastes so good, and my stomach almost hurts because I’m hardly letting myself swallow before I take the next bite, and the next. I’m just glad to be home, glad to see the fire in the hearth and to smell Papa’s cup of tea and hear the faint bang of the shutters. Mama goes to her rocker and returns to the sock she’s knitting. She doesn’t say anything until she tucks us into bed.

“Don’t let yourselves get lost.”

“Mama, we were playing Gretel’s game,” Hansel tells her, not wanting her to stay angry.

“Your game was very naughty,” she says crossly, and she’s glaring at me, knowing it’s my fault.

“All we did was count the pebbles, Mama. Gretel and I found the ones that shine in the dark. I found the most!” I want to hiss at him to shut up, and Mama turns around and sees how round my eyes are.

She knows. Oh, no.

Oh, no…

Mama was cross with me for the next three days. I had to do more chores and stay busy, or she said she’d whip me with a switch. I had to beat the rugs, hang the wash, clean out the cinders from the heart and scrub the floors. My knuckles are all red, and Hansel doesn’t know why I don’t have any time to play with him. Mama just sends him out to find firewood. I try to tell him to bring back some pebbles, but Mama tells me to be quiet. I know Hansel’s been playing in the creek, because his pants are wet at the bottom when he comes back. I ask him before bed if he brought back any pebbles. “Mama told me not to.”

Papa comes home tonight sounding like he’s really tired. He’s rubbing his shoulder like it hurts, and his skin is really chilled when I try to hug him. “Not now, darling,” he tells me as he sits down in his rocker by the fire. “Be a good girl and fix me some tea.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“No. I’ll go it, Gretel. Take your brother and go to bed.”

That gives me chills. I look back over my shoulder as I tell Hansel to come on, but she frowns at me and points for us to get out.

“We’ll try again.” I can barely hear Mama tell Papa this after they’ve put out their candles for the night.

I try to open the shutter, but this time, it’s been locked up. Papa hammered it shut, telling us that it wouldn’t bang open anymore and let in the cold.

Mama says we’re going to market with her. “Then we’re going to visit your aunt in Stover.” She dresses us in our good clothes and braids my hair, tucking flowers into it to make it pretty. I remember the daisy chains, and I hate them now. She laughs at the sour face I make. “Your face will stay that way,” she teases.

“I don’t care.” She looks at me oddly, but then she calls Hansel to take his bath.

She lets us have bread for breakfast, and Hansel asks for jam on his. I shake my head when she tries to put a spoonful on top of mine. She’s happy, because she doesn’t want to use all of it up.

Jam will make it sticky. I cram the bread into my pocket when she turns away to put the jam back in the cupboard. She shakes her head at me when she comes back and sees my empty plate. “Don’t waste the crumbs, Gretel.”

“I won’t.”

Hansel’s all clean, and he’s grumpy with me because I made him clean his ears. I don’t want him to be cross with me, because we’re going to have to play another game. I try to whisper to him, but Papa is making us climb into the wagon. I try to grab up some little pebbles by the shed, but Mama yells at me.

“Hurry, now. Put those dirty things down, Gretel. You’ve just washed up. We’re going to be late.” I drop the pebbles. She fusses at Hansel, too, but he’s already climbing up into the wagon. I try to stall.

“Mama? Can I have some more bread?”

“I told you not to waste it, Gretel.”

“Let her have a bit more,” Papa tells her as he takes the reins. “But hurry, sweetheart. We’re going to be late.” I smile at him and run into the kitchen. I look for the bread and tear off a big chunk, and I catch as many of the crumbs as I can in my handkerchief before I wrap it up and stuff it into my other pocket.

There they go, packed off into their rickety little wagon. The children have been quiet lately. My little woodcutter hasn’t been over to bring me any twigs for a few days, and that makes me worry. I like listening to Hansel and Gretel’s chatter while I’m doing my chores, so it seems out of place not to have them here, looking for an excuse to “work for me.” I wave to them, and Gretel waves back. She’s a pretty little thing, with those daisies tucked into her little blonde pigtails, but she’s a little sourpuss today. That child always smiles, so I know there’s something wrong. Perhaps they’re off to see relatives? I hope no one’s died. That’s the most daunting aspect of autumn. Man passes from this earth often in the same cycles as a plant withers and falls from the stalk. The wind is trying to blow right through me this morning, and I hope the children are bundled up enough. It promises to be a cold night. Elias wants to make a gift of some oil for their lanterns, hoping that John won’t be too proud to take it. I saw John out the other day, fixing a shutter. I hope that means that they’re keeping themselves warm enough.

I measure out twice the amount of flour into my bowl this morning. It’s time to bake some bread, and I’m thinking that I’ll come up with some crafty excuses to stop by, once I see their wagon come back. I contemplate my apples, and I toss a few of them into a basket by the door. I wonder what else I can add to my “excuse” basket from my own pantry.

I can’t just stand by and do nothing.

We’re good at the market. Papa even says so.

“Keep your brother with you, Gretel. Don’t let him run off.”

“I won’t.” He stops and lets us go into the store with him, and he gives us a piece of penny candy, the really sticky kind. I want it to last forever in my mouth, but Han just crunches his up and licks his fingers. When he gets sticky, he gets dirty, so I wipe his hands when I have a minute. We go through the rest of the market, and Mama picks out a few things, like a couple of heads of cabbage (yuck), oats, carrots, a sack of flour, a bottle of vinegar, a bag of sugar, and a jar of molasses. Father haggles at the meat stand; he calls it “haggling” when you ask one grown-up to give you something, and they want to let you buy it, but they “can’t let you have it” unless you “meet them halfway,” whatever that means. It’s nice looking sausage, but Papa insists that they look kind of puny. We finally get two of them, and they make my mouth water. We also buy a new chookie, and I decide to name her Katie. Our last one, Clara, ended up in the soup pot, but now we’ll have eggs for breakfast, at least for a while. Clarence will be happy to have a friend to shake his feathers at, now.

I decide that Katie looks hungry. She’s sitting in her cage beside us in the wagon, and I feed her a tiny crumb that makes her peck at my hand for more. I can’t give her anymore, and Papa tells me to leave her alone, anyway.

“It’s time to go to your aunt’s,” Mama tells us. “Behave yourselves. Get under the blanket. Take a nap.”

“I’m not tired,” Hansel complains. But he yawns, and he’s been leaning against me a lot for the past hour, meaning he’s going to fall asleep soon.

“Rest, now, so you won’t be cross.” He gets under the blanket and lays down, and I pretend to nap, too. But it’s time to play my game again. I play with the bread, making it into little hard balls, and I start dropping them along the road, one for every tenth house. Then, for every tenth tree.

The horses needed some water, Papa tells me.

“Get out and stretch your legs,” Mama says. “Wake up your brother. Let him go, now, while he has the chance.” I obey, and she points to some bushes. “Over there will be fine.”

“Okay,” I say, but I keep looking back as I drag Hansel with me to the brush. He tells me not to look while he unties his pants.

“You’re a girl, you can’t see,” he informs me. I see him all the time when he takes a bath, but making a pee-pee is different, he says. I agree. Making a pee-pee when anyone is watching is icky. You have to obey the rules. I walk off a few feet, and I turn back and see Mama waving at me from the wagon.

“Watch your brother,” she calls out.

“I am!” I cry out.

We go back to the wagon, but Mama says “Stretch a bit longer. Here.” She hands each of us an apple. “This is lunch. Don’t eat it too fast.” It doesn’t seem like lunch.

We rest up against a tree and eat, and Papa lights his pipe, something I haven’t seen him do for a long time. Tobacco costs a lot, Mama says, and she hates to see him burn good money up like that. I want to tell her that he’s burning tobacco, not money, but she just tells me not to talk back or be sassy.

“Nap,” Mama tells us.

“We have to go to Auntie’s house,” I argue.

“Soon. You’re acting cross. You need a nap.” I wanted to argue that I wasn’t cross, but Hansel was dozing off next to me and using my shoulder as a pillow. Mama spread a blanket over us. “Let your brother rest. We’ll go when you wake up.”

When I open my eyes again, my shadow’s facing the wrong way again when I stand up. When Hansel asks me how long we’ve been asleep, I don’t know what to tell him.

I’m more worried that Mama and Papa are gone.

I’ve gone a bit overboard, but I’m not sorry. When I finish filling my “excuse” basket, it’s so heavy I can barely carry it, but I nag Elias to walk with me across the field after supper. The wagon’s parked outside, and John’s horses are munching away on their oats, but even they look a little lean, not quite wearing their winter coats yet; they should be plumper by now.

“We should mind our own business, wife.”

“It’s not in my nature,” I tell him. I knock on the door, and I’m surprised that I can’t heard the children playing inside. It’s early yet, and certainly not bedtime.

“Who is it?”

“Lynne,” I tell Natalie through the door. She opens it and wipes her hands on her apron. She looks slightly haggard, and her eyes are impatient, practically snapping at me. I clear my throat. “I just wanted to stop by. I missed the children today.”

“Don’t let them be a bother,” she suggested. “They like to wander. And they’ve plenty of chores to do here, so don’t let them waste your time, Lynn.”

“Pish-tosh,” I counter. “They’re not wasting any time that I don’t want to waste myself. They’re darling. I overdid it in my kitchen today with my baking. I don’t want to waste any of it. Elias and I will never eat all of this ourselves.” I push the basket at her, but she looks…distraught.

“That’s kind of you, but you needn’t have bothered.”

“It’s not a bother at all. Come, I’ll help you put it away! Where are little Gretel and Hansel? I’ve some nice biscuits that they can have with their milk!”

“No,” she says flatly, and now fear enters my heart. “It’s late. There will be time for visiting with them tomorrow, Lynne.” Elias clears his throat behind me, and I can tell he’s just as worried as I am. “I appreciate that you took the trouble.” She thrusts the basket back at me, and I sense some conflict happening within her, something that I can’t read. “Good evening, madam.” She shuts the door softly in my face. She might as well have slammed it.

Elias and I are silent as we turn away. We’re halfway across the field when I quietly tell him, “I don’t like this, husband. Not one bit.”

I can’t find the crumbs.

“I hate this game,” Hansel complains to me. “And my feet hurt.”

“We have to keep going.” I ran out of lies that I could tell him. We weren’t going to Auntie’s house. We aren’t going to have sausage for supper, and I don’t have any more bread in my pockets. I bundled him up in the blanket that Mama left behind, and my nose started running from the chill in the air. I don’t know where to go, and it’s getting dark.

The crumbs are gone. I hear the birds in the trees, and I think they’re laughing at me, because they’ve stolen our path and eaten it for dinner. “More! More! Give us more!” they cheep at us, and I don’t have any more. I can’t see the road. I can’t see my way through the trees.

We’re lost.

“Come on,” I tell Hansel. I hold onto his hand, and it still feels sticky.

“I’m hungry.”

“Me, too. Don’t think about it. Just keep walking.”

We hear water bubbling, and we follow it for a while, but it doesn’t take us anywhere. I hear creatures slithering in the brush, and I hope none of them are bigger than me.

“I’m scared.”

“It’s okay.”

“I wanna go home.”

“Me, too. We’ll get there.”

“You promise?”

I don’t want to, because I don’t want to lie.

“Promise.”

“Gretel. Look.” Hansel points, and I see what he sees, a little white bird.

“What kind is it?”

“I don’t know.” He pulls on my hand. “Let’s go catch it.”

“Why?”

“We can bring it home to Papa. He’ll let us keep it, Gretel. He let us have a puppy before.”

“Mama won’t.”

“She will if he says yes,” he tells me. I don’t have any hope of Mama doing any such thing. We’re lost, and there’s no harm in following the bird right now. Following the creek didn’t help.

The bird just kind of hops and walks where it feels like. He seems to be ignoring us. We hide in the bushes and just watch him jump, and he looks funny. Hansel giggles, and I’m glad for a minute that he’s not scared anymore.

“Let’s get him,” he tells me, and I’m game.

“Quick…” We try to run as quietly as we can, but the birdie hears us anyway. When we get closer, I notice that he’s a pigeon. He’s not completely white, he has gray marks around his head and the tips of his wings and beady black eyes. He cheeps and coos at us, and he hops off, getting ready to fly away. I pull up short, and Hansel bumps into me, but then the bird flies away a few feet before landing again. “Lazy bird,” I mutter.

“We can still catch him!” Hansel tells me.

So we try again. We run, stop, hide, run, and stop again. The trees are getting farther apart, and I can see the moon more easily. The pigeon keeps letting us chase him, and he keeps looking back to see if we’re following him. He looks funny when he cocks his head and flutters off. But I’m getting tired, and it’s colder out; the wind is blowing up under my dress and making me shiver.

“Gretel? What’s that smell?”

“What smell?” But I sniff the air, and I smile. Sweets! COOKIES!

“It smells good!” Hansel tells, and he sounds excited. “Someone’s making cookies!”

And that means there’s a house nearby. One where it’s warm. We run through the brush, and I keep having to duck under tree branches so they don’t slap me. “Wait for me!” I call after Hansel.

“I’ll get there first!”

“Be careful, Han-“ I stop short. We reach the end of the trees, and I see the house. The smell of sweets is stronger, now, and I can see why.

It’s a house, the most incredible one that I’ve ever seen.

“Ooooooooooo,” Hansel goes as he pokes me. “What’s THAT?”

“It’s…wonderful.” My mouth starts watering, and I don’t know if it’s real. I’m so hungry, and that’s what makes me go to it, just to see if my eyes are telling me the truth, that this really is a house, made entirely of sweets.

I laugh. “Hansel…those are gumdrops!” The berries on the small bushes that line the front walk are red, juicy little things that are studded in sugar.

“I want one!” He goes to grab one, but then I have thought. I stop him, and he frowns at me and pulls away. “I want one, Gretel!”

“We have to ask first,” I tell him, remembering what Missy Lynne says about stealing.

“But I’m hungry!” he tells me, and he pulls away from me and dives into the bushes. He picks one of the gum drops and pops it into his mouth. “Mmmmmmm!”

“We’re not supposed to, Hansel!”

“I’m going to eat them all!” He picks them and keeps popping them into his mouth, and mine is watering just watching him. “Those are licorice,” he says, pointing to the next bush.

“Licorice?” I look at the house itself, though, and I’m more interested in the windows. The shutters are striped, red and white, and they remind me of peppermint candy. Mama would say it’s garish, but I love peppermint when we get to have any. When I go up closer, they smell like peppermint, too…

When I chip off a bit from the corner and taste it, I can’t stop. I’m just so hungry.

The window box full of spun sugar pansies tastes like cinnamon bread. The bricks are made of milk sponge cake and they smell like vanilla beans. “The door’s chocolate,” Hansel tells me. He’s talking with his mouth full, and Mama would be upset if she knew.

I almost jump out of my skin when I hear a strange, scratchy voice. I cough when a bit of gumdrop slides down my throat before I mean to swallow.

“Nibble, nibble, little mouse; who’s that nibbling on my house?”

“Shhhhhh,” I hiss, waving at Hansel to be quiet. He keep sucking on the candy cane that he pulled off the mailbox, and he can’t resist taking another bite. “HUSH!” I whisper loudly.

“Nibble, nibble, little mouse…WHO’S that NIBBLING on MY HOUSE?”

“Hansel, I think –“ Before I can tell him we’d better leave, the door swings open so fast that I drop the piece of the shutter onto the grass and jump back.

Father in heaven!

“Greedy little mice,” I hear, but I can’t believe the words are coming out of a mouth like that. “Naughty little children! How dare you intrude on my peace and quiet? Who told you it was all right to eat the home of strangers? And without asking?”

“We-we’re sorry,” I tell her, but it’s hard because my knees are knocking together, and it makes my voice shake. She smiles at me, but I wish she wouldn’t. Her teeth are ugly, rotted things, nearly black, and her laugh is atrocious, really screechy sounding and harsh. It sounds like it hurts coming out of her throat, and a knob in her neck bobs up and down as she does it.

“Don’t worry, little miss,” she tells me. She hobbles out of her house, limping and leaning on a wooden cane. Her boots go ka-thump, ka-thump against the paver stones, which are made of hard candy, if you must know. “I’m but a poor widow woman, living all alone, with only my pets for company.”

“Pets?” Hansel asks, brightening up. He loves animals, as long as they’re small enough not to eat him.

“Why, yes, my pretty boy. I’ve a lovely pigeon,” she tells us, “and a little black cat. I’ve dogs, as well, to guard my home, but you snuck up when they were sleeping, scamps that you are. Come, now, let’s have a look at you.” She reaches into her pocket and takes out a pair of reading glasses that look a little like Papa’s, but the glass part is thicker, and they make her eyes look big and round as an owl’s.

I’m afraid, and Papa told us to be careful around strangers, especially if they offered sweets. But this isn’t the same, is it? Her whole HOUSE is made of sweets, and she just came outside to see what we were doing, right? That should make it okay. Shouldn’t it? She’s not a very big lady, but she’s plump, so I know she eats well, and she probably has plenty of food in her house. She wears her hair in a bun like Mama’s, but it’s all gray. She has a funny chin, like there’s more than one, stacked on top of each other, and the skin around her neck jiggles a lot. There’s a funny black wart on her cheek, and she’s all wrinkly, like a big raisin. She’s dressed in a warm-looking black granny shawl and a dress of wool, which Mama says is good, strong cloth, and it’s also warm and cozy.

It’s so cold outside, and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. Hansel’s lips are blue, even though he just finished eating a cinnamon drop that made his tongue bright red. “Poor pretties. My dears, you look so cold and hungry. Won’t you have supper with a lonely old woman?”

“We’re lost,” I tell her. I can’t help it. We don’t know her, but maybe she can help us. “We can’t find our mama and papa. They rode off-“

“Goodness, that’s a stroke of bad luck. Bet you’ve worried them, dearie. I’m sure they’re beside themselves. But their ill fortune is my gain, child. I’ll tell you what. I’ve a pot of stew just waiting to be eaten, far too much for me and my cat.” Hansel giggles; he knows cats don’t eat stew, or at any rate, not at our house. “Come. Eat. Then, you’ll sleep in lovely, soft beds with warm blankets. I have plenty of room?”

“Can we?” Hansel asks before I can make up my mind or tell her no. I have to be polite, Mama says, when someone offers me something, and she’s offering a lot. I can feel the warm air from inside as we walk up to her door, and I wish I could warm my hands by the fire.

“We can look for your mother and father tomorrow, pets, at first light. You can tell them of the kindness you received at Granny’s, and that you were safe and sound as kittens.”

I feel her touch my shoulder, leading me inside as she speaks, and Hansel’s already ahead of me, shrugging off his coat. I catch it before he can toss it on the floor. “Ma’am, can I hang this up?”

“You mean, may you hang it, dearie?”

“Yes, ma’am; may I, please?”

“Why, yes you may, dearie. Right over here.” The sitting room is dark, and I can hardly see anything, but there’s a light shining in the next room, and I can smell stew. My mouth waters as soon as my nose tells me it’s beef.

“Sit, dearie. Eat with me. We’ll be the best of friends.”

These two don’t have much meat on their bones. They never do. There’s no help for it, I suppose. The ones with well-lined pockets can afford to keep a closer eye on their little ones, because they can feed their hungry mouths. But the ones who live like paupers pray for their children to roam and run away. Less of a burden, I suppose. Who am I to complain? Makes it easier for Granny.

The livers are the best part, the most tender. I haven’t had the best luck with tough meats, as my teeth have gone soft and brittle with the passing years. I’m quite the fit miss for one who’s passed her third century, give or take a day. Living well has its rewards, as does spinsterhood. I’ve buried three husbands, and let me tell you, my arms are tired. They deserved it.

The black arts were my calling when I was a younger lass. When my first husband, Simon, gave the barmaid at the inn down the road a toss in our stable, I knew it wouldn’t help to hold my tongue. I still have some of his blood left in a little jar in my pantry. I only use a bit for special occasions, and every now again, it reminds me of how handsome he was when we met. He wanted children. Alas, but it wasn’t to be. I don’t see him being the fatherly sort, anyhow. He was a mean drunk, which is fitting, to me. I’m sure he’s rather thirsty in whatever hell he’s rotting in, now.

I can’t see much of what the children look like. They’re rosy-cheeked, at any rate, always a good sign. I hope they’re plump enough not to be stringy. The last one was too old; any kill over twelve is gamey and gives me indigestion. But that brat deserved it. He kicked my kittie. I caught him drinking ginger beer from my well out back, and it was simple enough to hit him with my cane. The third strike did the trick, and I filleted him and marinated him in a nice marsala wine. It made him a bit more tender, but I prefer my knife to cleave right through.

I’m in the mood for a nice roast. Young girls practically baste themselves without being too greasy. My mouth begins watering at the thought of a juicy –

“Do you have any milk, Miss Granny?” The little girl looks embarrassed at interrupting my train of thought, and she should be. I draw myself up and manage a smile.

“Why, yes, dearie, I have some nice, fresh milk.”

A granny’s work is never done. I ladle generous portions of stew into my grandmother’s china. I’ve never chipped a piece in all of the years since it was passed down to me. It’s nothing to me to go out and kill game myself; I’m handy with a shotgun, arrows, and knives, as well as a handy little blow gun that I fashioned for myself after reading about hunters from other lands. I’m an educated woman, can’t you tell? I adore nerve toxins, but they make the meat taste odd. That’s the price to pay for an efficient kill. I’m immune to poison. My third husband, Isaac, thought it was clever to make me taste the wine I spilled a little asp’s venom into before I handed him the glass. Who’s the clever one now, husband? Tell me, who?

“It’s yummy, Granny,” Hansel tells me. That’s a lovely name, not one you hear every day. I pat his head, and his curls spring back. What a shame it’s just his baby hair; it’ll no doubt be coarse and plain by the time he’s grown. Hold on; what am I on about? I suppress a chuckle. Silly Granny. I can use his hair to line the cushion I’m sewing for my bedroom.

I save trophies from my kills. They make my house more homey and keep me company. It’s important as you age to surround yourself with the familiar to preserve your memory. In my dotage, I’ve collected several hundred baby teeth. Those are a favorite of mine. The children’s clothing makes good scraps for my quilts, and I sleep well beneath them on cold nights like this.

I’ll sleep well tonight. So will they, the poor little dears.

The little room is nice and warm, and Granny already made us a fire. Watching it dance in the hearth makes my eyes sleepy, and my belly’s so full. There are story book pictures hanging on the wall in little frames, and Granny goes to the shelf and takes down a pretty music box. “Open it,” she tells me. I take it carefully and flip open the lid, and wonder of wonders! A tiny dancer pops up and begins to pirouette. The funny, tinny music makes me smile. Hansel laughs, too, but then he yawns and sits down on the bed. He takes off his shoes, and Granny is already beside him, beginning to tuck him in. “Take off your coat, child. Stay a while,” she says, and I can tell she’s having a little joke with me. I’m embarrassed and I feel myself blush; I didn’t mean to be rude, or act like I’m anxious to leave. Even if I am. I miss Papa, and I bet he’s worried about us.

I just wish he didn’t leave us behind.

When I wake up, my teeth chatter, and I wonder what happened to the fire. I sit up and rub my eyes, wondering why the bed doesn’t feel like mine. “Hansel?” I look around the room, and I remember that Granny let us stay the night, but Hansel’s bed is empty. “Hansel?” I call again. I’m worried. Where did he go?

I hear someone humming outside the door, and I reach for the knob, but it’s locked! I shake it, but it won’t budge. My heart starts pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears, and my belly’s fluttering again. It’s also growling again, but I have to find Hansel. He’ll be scared without me.

“Don’t bother trying to let yourself out, dearie,” I hear Granny say from the other side of the door. “Someone’s little brother was a naughty little mouse. He tried to go outside and nibble on my windows again. No one leaves my home without permission. It’s very rude.”

“Please, Granny? Can we go now? We need to go home, so our Papa won’t be worried.” I don’t want to tell her that I’m scared, but she knows, anyway. She just laughs. It’s that ugly, scratchy laugh that I heard last night, and it makes me feel just as awful today, even though it’s not dark out anymore.

“’We need to go home, Granny,’” she mocks, sing-songing and making her voice sound like mine. “Silly goose. Your mother and father don’t want you. They drove off in their wagon and left you behind, child. You’re abandoned. Worthless. There’s no point in my sending you home. This is where you’re going to stay.” I feel sick, and I’m so cold, now, the way the chills sneak up on you when you’re scared out of your wits.

“NO!”

“Don’t bother shouting, child. No one can hear you, and it’s very impolite.”

“LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!” I bang on the door, and my hands hurt. This door’s not made of chocolate, just hard, dented wood with chipped paint and splinters that dig into my palms. I suck on one where it’s torn my skin before I begin to bang on it again.

“Stubborn little brat,” Granny mutters. I heard her make a long “ho-hum” sound that Mama does all the time when she’s cross with us. “Don’t wear yourself out. We’ve a busy day ahead of us, dearie. If you behave, I’ll give you breakfast.”

Luring the prey is the hardest part. Now the fun begins, namely stringing them along. I haven’t kept a pet long enough to get any useful help from them, and the girl looks big and strong. I imagine she’s not quite as tasty as little Hansel. She’s the older sister, and no doubt the work horse in her little family. She mothers the boy, which tells me she does all the chores, too. She might already be too tough.

When I hear her settle down, I unlock the door and sweep into the room. I still hear her sniffling. I despise tears and snot; they make a child look so ungainly and unappetizing. I reach for her, but she tries to evade me. I’m still spry for an old lass, and I pounce once I’ve cornered her, grabbing her little arm. I feel the tendons jump in my grip. She’s a live one, and very lean. Disappointing. Better to go along with my original plan and just fatten the boy.

I drag her along, no easy feat since she’s quite strong, but a quick kick makes her little legs buckle, and she loses some of her fight. Her eyes are large and round as she gets her first look around my sitting room. Poor dearie was so hungry that she didn’t get to take it in and bask in its glory last night, I suppose.

She shrinks back at the feel of my bearskin rug beneath her feet. I love the effect leaving the head on gives it, since I have a fondness for teeth, don’t forget. She eyes my trophies hanging along the wall, and she kicks and weeps, but my ears have grown tired of it quickly. I slap her across the chops, giving my poor head a rest. “That’s enough of that, you naughty little thing!”

“Where’s Hansel?”

“He’s already had his breakfast, dearie, don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten yours, either. Behave yourself, and you can eat at my table. If you don’t, then you eat with my dogs, and they don’t share well.” I drag her into the kitchen, past my dining table, and I open the pantry. It’s large enough to walk into, and I shove her down into the corner. She squirms and tries not to weep when the spiders scrabble out to see who’s invading their home, and she’s fanning at the webs that stick to her hair. “Here.” I drop a hard tin plate on the floor, and I plop a stale crust of bread onto it.

“What’s that, Granny?”

“Breakfast, you ungrateful wretch. Eat. There won’t be anymore until I’ve gotten a day’s proper work from you. From dawn til sundown, you’re my maid. There’s washing up to do, the rugs need to be beaten, my knick-knacks and cozies need to be dusted, and you’re going to scrub my floor until it gleams.”

I love the look of fear. It’s my favorite part. I haven’t lost my touch.

Hansel’s in a cage. I found him after supper, which Granny made me eat in the barn this time. I chipped a plate, and she hit me with her cane. When I drank my water, I saw myself in it, and there’s a big purple mark on my cheek.

The cage is like the ones we saw once when a circus came to town. They kept the lions and a huge bear in cages like this, with skinny iron bars. This one has a rusty lock and it’s not very big, so Hansel can’t stand up inside it. He just sits there and cries, but Granny doesn’t care.

I stop asking Granny to take us back to Mama and Papa. I don’t want her to be right. Maybe Mama is glad we’re gone, but I know Papa misses us. I know he wants us to come home. I’ll do anything, even go without supper every night if I can just go home and hug him again, and feel his scratchy beard and smell his pipe. I miss him so much. I’ll never be naughty again.

I have to lie to Hansel again. I feel bad about it, but it’s important this time.

“Han,” I tell him on the third day, after I’ve fed the dogs. They’re actually big, mean wolves that Granny keeps in a pen. They lick her hand, but they growl at me like they want to eat, snapping their jaws and pulling back their lips from their teeth. “Let’s play another game.”

“What kind of game?” He reaches for me, and I hold his hand to make him feel better. It’s all I can do.

“Take this little bone. The dogs left it behind.”

“I don’t want it,” he complains.

“I know. Just take it. When Granny comes out, Han, let her feel it. Remember how she wants to feel your fingers?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stick the bone out. It will feel like your finger to her.”

“That’s a dumb game.”

“It’s okay. Just do it.” Just like when I saw the pebbles shining under the moon, I noticed something funny yesterday when Granny came to get me out of bed. Or out of my cot, since she kicked me out of the bedroom and made me sleep in the kitchen, by the pantry. Granny doesn’t see well. She wears those big, thick glasses, but she can’t tell the difference between her walking stick and the fireplace poker. She looked funny today when she tried to walk with it, and it went “CLANG-CLANG!” over the floor. She was good and mad, too, and she slapped me for laughing behind my hand.

She keeps going outside to feel Hansel’s hands. She says that he needs to fatten up, so she can eat him for supper, but she won’t let him out of the cage. She doesn’t want him to try and run off. I have to empty his chamberpot, and it makes him feel ashamed. I tell him not to cry. I also bring him blankets to stay warm, and I pass them through the bars with his dinner. He eats good food. She gives him sweets once in a while, and bread and milk, but not that much meat. She says it will make him gamey and tough.

We have to get away. The sooner he gets fat, the sooner she will cook him. I can’t let her cook Hansel. He’s my little brother, and Papa will cry if he never comes back. Han’s going to grow up and be a big, strong man like Papa, and chop wood and drive a wagon. So I have to save him.

How odd. The little one’s still just as skinny as he was the night I brought him here. I’m certain I’m feeding him enough. I hear him gobbling down the food like a little piggie, even though the only utensil I’ll give him is a spoon. I’m no fool.

The milk is rich and creamy, and the bread is light and flaky, I tasted it myself. I don’t often supplement my diet with starch. Not all of it digests well, and vegetables make me positively gassy. Meat is your body’s friend. I’m just more selective of how I come across mine.

Waiting too long for a decent meal gives me the vapors. Where’s that child? I need something to kick. “GRETEL! Show your face, child!”

“Yes, Granny?” I hate how quiet she’s become. Never trust a quiet little girl; they’re up to something. She appears to be dusting my silver. I can’t see how good a job she’s done of it, but I love to toy with her. By the time she rubs all of the fingerprints off the spoons, her own fingers will be worked down to the bone.

“Come with me to the barn. It’s time to feed the dogs.”

“Yes, Granny.”

“Step lively, little wretch.” I’ve grown tired of the endearments. It’s like lying, and I know you’ll think me a hypocrite, but I prefer the truth. Once a child knows they’re headed for my stew pot, it makes no sense to deceive them any longer. And I love the taste of their fear. Makes them sweeter when they slide across my plate.

She always jumps back when the dogs snarl at her, but I prod her forward with my cane, and she tiptoes over and drops their dish as quickly as she can, kicking it under the gap and into the pen. They snap and gobble down the meat almost lustily, and I know how my pets feel. I let them prowl at night, but they always return. They know when they have a good thing. Wolves are clever animals.

I head to the cage and grin down at my future meal. “Hold out your hand, meat.” Hansel obeys, sticking out his little finger, and I reach down to feel it. Still hard! “BLAST! Still skinny! What mischief is this? You should be fat by now!” I’m huffing, I’m so upset, and it makes my head ache. What am I doing wrong?

I turn away to scold the girl, since her cowering is upsetting my dogs, but then I hear an odd little thump. I turn, and there is something gleaming in the meager sunlight, lying in the dirt.

It looks like…a bone?

I feel the blood rush up into my face, and the rage soon follows. “You WICKED, NAUGHTY BRAT! BITCH!” The girl doesn’t run fast enough, and my dogs growl and snap at her when she runs too close to their pen. I slap her, shove her down, and then slap her again.

There. That helps.

Hansel’s screaming. He’s fat enough, now, and Granny’s complaining at how hard it is to drag him into the house. “Stop struggling!”

“LET ME GO! Don’t eat me! Please, Granny, please! Please don’t! Doooooonnn’t! DON’T! DOOOONNN’T!” His voice is so loud that it hurts my ears. Granny already shoved me into the pantry and locked it, so all I can do is listen to her moving around the kitchen, banging around with her pots and pans. She begins humming to herself, and I start to smell different things that make me hungry, but it makes me sick, too. I know she’s getting ready to cook him.

I might be next.

The ropes are holding nicely. I’ll cut him loose and switch to twine, instead, when I truss him up. The oven isn’t hot enough, and I’ve got it in mind to make a nice béarnaise. I love singing in the kitchen, and my sainted mother’s songs were the lightest, easiest little ditties. The little wretch is scowling and cowering, as though my voice hurts his ears. Doesn’t he recognize a sweet soprano when he hears one? But of course he doesn’t; he’s unschooled and a miserable peasant.

The knives go ka-ching, ka-ching as I sharpen them, and the sound sings all the way into my bones. Oh, but how I’ll enjoy my supper tonight. I’ll eat by the light of the moon, when the crows fly across the sky, listening to my dogs howl their serenade. I’ll give them the scraps.

I open the oven door. I still don’t think it’s hot enough. I don’t like to guess at these things, and my back aches. I’ve got the ague and a bit of arthritis, so I don’t like bending down and worrying about how I’ll get back up.

Hmmmmm…

I jump back when Granny opens the pantry door. “Get up. I need you.” She grabs me and pulls me after her. “Check the oven. Tell me if it’s hot enough.” Hansel stares at me from the table. He’s lying across it, and his hands and feet are all tied up. He looks like a slaughtered lamb that I saw in the market. Its pretty wool was all gone, and it stared at me. It made me throw up. Han’s eyes are really big, and they’re red because he’s been crying again.

“I…I don’t know how to tell if it’s hot enough, Granny.”

“Why, of course you do. Don’t be silly, girl. Climb in and check it. You’ll be able to see the embers glowing if you look in far enough.” Granny has an ugly little smile. Her teeth are pointed, like her dogs’, and she’s leaning over me like she wants to pounce. She reminds me of her mean old black cat when she does that. He flicks his tail, though. Granny doesn’t have a tail…but maybe she should.

“I won’t fit inside it.”

“Wretch. You’re wasting time. It’s big enough to just crawl right inside.”

I sigh. This is ridiculous. The child’s stalling. She can’t be that bright. A smart child would have known not to take candy from strangers, or to eat it off of their cottage, wouldn’t she?

The boy is still mewling, and I long to slap him, but it’s a waste of energy. He’ll be quiet soon enough once I shove him into the oven. I’ve just the right roasting pan, too, and I’m planning to garnish him with an apples. Their scent just reminds me of my childhood. It smells like love.

She doesn’t want to check my oven? Fine, then.

I won’t waste my appetite eating her first. She’s too tough. But she should cook more quickly.

“Child, the oven’s big enough for you to take a look. See?” I open it, and the heat blasts out, and its waves stir my hair. Perhaps the oven’s ready, after all, but she doesn’t need to know that, does she? Some knowledge is best earned firsthand.

“I won’t fit.”

“You certainly will.”

“I’ll get stuck.”

I sigh.

I could just shove her inside, but there’s something in her expression that appeals to me. Gretel is special. The child has this ingrained urge to satisfy the whims of others and the need to please. It’s a rare, splendid quality that will do appallingly little for her in my house. I’ve made it a goal in my life to have the highest expectations of people. When they think then can please you, they grow complacent and lazy.

There’s none of that in this girl. She’s the salt of the earth, and no doubt the apple of her papa’s eye, but again, I’d never tell her that. A babe is born into the world knowing it’s perfect and expecting those around it to wait on its needs every minute, expecting to be loved. Every day of that babe’s life, it learns that he’s very imperfect, worthy of scoldings and spankings and hushes, and that the world doesn’t love him, because it doesn’t have to. He must find his own happiness, even though sorrow waits around every corner for him, waiting to pounce. I gave up on perfect love a long, long time ago. I have none for this child. Yet I find myself feeling a grain of respect.

“Look,” I tell her simply, “it’s easy. It’s a huge oven door. Plenty of room to take a quick peek. This was my granny’s oven. They don’t make them like this anymore.” The child is silent. I sigh again. “I’ll show you how much room there is in here, little wretch!” My back groans with the effort, and I feel it complain with its little crick…

The child’s abandoned her manners, if her hands on my backside are any indication. She gives me a hearty shove, and I fall forward against the grate. The heat’s monstrous, swelling and enveloping me before I can even scream. The little brat takes advantage of my stiff back and she shoves me again, and this time I hear the clang of the iron door, before it squeals shut…

Why, Simon. Fancy meeting you here…

The kitchen’s smoky, and it makes me cough. It smells horrible, now, but I don’t care. “Hansel, c’mon!” He squirms, but he falls off the table because he his feet are still tied. I just bend down and grab his wrists, and I drag him out the door into the yard.

We fall onto the grass, and I just listen to myself huff and puff and choke. My hair smells like smoke. Hansel and I are all dirty, and it’s been too long since I had a bath. I roll over and look at Hansel, and I remember to untie the cloth stuffed into his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“My hands hurt.” I work on the ropes, and I manage to work them off. Hansel’s little wrists are all red and sore, but he reaches for me and just holds onto me, and he’s started crying again. I don’t care if he gets my dress wet. I rock him like Papa does, and I just let him cry.

I head back to the barn, and I find a small knife on the shelf. I hear growling and barking from the pen, and I look back at the wolves. I lose my breath for a minute when I see them.

They’re not wolves anymore. They really are dogs, big brown Labradors. When they see me, they keep barking, but it’s the kind a dog makes when it wants to be let inside for the night. My puppy sounded like that before Mama told us he lost his way. They wag their tails when I come up to the pen, and when I fiddle with the lock, one of them licks my hand. “It’s okay,” I say, and I jump back when I open the door, but they just run out. They don’t care about me, except for one of them. He comes out and barks, then sits down and thumps his tail on the ground. He nudges my hand until I pet him, and I’m gentle with him, in case he changes his mind. He follows me out of the barn, and I go back and cut off the ropes around Hansel’s ankles.

“Where’d that doggie come from?”

“It’s one of Granny’s,” I tell him. The dog’s licking Hansel’s face and sniffing him, and he can’t stop giggling. I’m glad he’s happy, because I’m still scared. It’s still night out. I search around and find a lantern, and I wonder if it’s safe to run back inside. I don’t have my coat.

I run to the back of the cottage and spy the window. It’s open, and I think Granny didn’t bother to lock it back up, since I wasn’t sleeping in that room anymore. I haul myself up onto the barrel and scooch inside, and I see our coats and shoes. I also see the music box.

I like its tinny little song. Mama might like it, too, if we bring it back.

“I’m taking you, too.” I grab the box, tuck it into my coat pocket, and I wriggle back out of the window. The smoke from the kitchen is just starting to work its way under the door.

We watch the house burn from the trees. Neither one of us wants to try and eat anything out front, even though we’re both hungry. The smell of burning sugar makes me sick.

“Does Granny have a cellar?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe there was more food in it,” Hansel says. He sounds hopeful. I don’t want to build him up and act like I think there is any, but you know what? It can’t hurt to try. That’s what Papa always says. It can never hurt to try.

We look out back, and there is a bulkhead door with a thick iron handle that I never noticed before. “Look.”

“Let’s see if we can go inside.” I don’t tell Hansel no. We’re going to have to sleep in the barn, anyway, but it would be nice to eat something first. I work on pulling the handle, but it’s stuck. Locked. I’m tired of locks.

“What’s that?”

“The music box.”

“It’s ugly.”

“You just don’t like it because it’s pink.” I turn the little crank, and it spins and tinkles for me again. It makes me smile. I wonder how old the box is and where it came from. At least I have the time to hear the whole song this time.

But when it stops, a tiny door on the back of the box clicks open. It’s a drawer. A tiny bit of silver glints up at me, and I pull out a key. It doesn’t unlock the music box itself, so now I’m confused.

“Maybe it’ll unlock the cellar,” Hansel tells me.

“No. Of course it won’t.” Boys are dopey sometimes. He snatches the key from my hand and goes back to the bulkhead. “Hansel! BRAT! Give it back!” He shoves it into the lock and jiggles on it, and he keeps pulling on the handle.

I almost laugh when he falls back and lands on his bottom when the bulkhead door opens, but I’m too surprised.

When I hold up the lantern to take a better look inside, all I see are shiny things that glitter when the firelight hits them. Hansel and I both say, “Ooooooooooo,” because they’re all so pretty. There’s plenty of room for us to crawl inside, and it smells dusty and damp, but we stay there and just stare at everything, picking up things and turning them over in our hands, even though it’s not polite.

The doggy’s back, wagging his tail. He tries to follow us inside the bulkhead, but I tell him, “No. That’s no place for a dog.”

“Gretel?”

“What, Hansel?”

“Can we take him home with us?” Hansel looks at me with big eyes and starts saying “Pretty, please” until I tell him to stop. He can do that all day. He’s my little brother. That’s his job.

We sleep in the barn, and it’s not as scary with Humphrey there. That’s what I decided to name him. The baker at the market is named Humphrey, too, and sometimes he gives Hansel and me a day-old roll when we stop by.

The dog curls up around us and keeps us warm. We sleep in the empty stable with an old saddle blanket, and when we wake up, I take Hansel to the well to get a drink. I raise up the pail, and I think it’s going to be ginger beer, but it’s plain water now. I’m glad, because I’m thirsty and I need to wash my hands.

I take Hansel back to the cellar, and I hand him a sack. “Take whatever you can carry.”

“It’s not ours.”

“Granny won’t care anymore.” I start picking through the boxes of trinkets and try on a ring that’s too big, even for my thumb.

“Greta?”

“What, Hansel?”

“Can we get the wagon?”

“We can’t drive a wagon, dummy.” Boys are silly, sometimes.

“I mean the toy one in the barn.” I stare at him, and then we grin at each other. We run back into the barn, and Humphrey runs after us, barking all over the place. The wagon still works, and it has a long, thick handle. We pull it outside, and Hansel and I just load it up with everything that we can carry. There’s coins and pocketknives, rings, bracelets, spoons, necklaces, a nice gold watch for Papa, silver goblets, a tiny brass urn… I want to sit down and play with the utensils, but I don’t have my dollies with me for a proper tea party.

“Let’s go,” Hansel grumbles. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m cold,” I add, and I’ve had enough of Granny’s place and the smell of smoke.

We pull the wagon behind us, and it goes bumpety-bump down the path. It gets easier to pull once we reach the road again, and I see a bird that looks a lot like Granny’s pigeon. It hops one, two, three times in the gravel before it flies off. “We can follow it again,” Hansel tells me.

“No. That didn’t work before.”

“It’s headed that way. See that brown thing over the trees?”

“Hansel…I think that’s a chimney.” And I’m so excited that I want to dance and shout.

But I just tell Hansel to play a new game with me, and we count every tenth tree as we roll the wagon down the road. Bumpety-bump.

I haven’t slept well since the night Natalie shut her door in my face, so I’ll blame the hallucination I’m having now on exhaustion. Just as I finish hoeing another row to plant my carrot seeds, I hear barking and the clatter of wagon wheels over gravel, as well as the clinking noise of metal. When I look up, I ask the Father in heaven if my eyes are telling me the truth.

Those poor, sweet little urchins have returned! With a great, brown dog trotting along on their heels! I smother the choked cry that escapes my mouth as I watch them approach their house. I don’t want to distract them, because that would rob their father of precious seconds of his reunion with his children. But they turn, and Gretel waves over to me anyway. She’s too far away to see the tears dripping down my cheeks. I lean on my hoe for support and manage to wave. She’s satisfied that I noticed her, and she lets Hansel run ahead of her to the front door. He tries the handle…there’s a good lad, Hansel, give it a good turn.

“PAPA!” My heart squeezes itself in a fist. That’s it, children, run inside, or you’ll destroy me and turn me into a weeping puddle. Poor Elias will be so relieved; I’ve given him a bad turn with my worry, and he’s fretted just as much over little Hansel and Gretel as I have. Gretel lets her brother go inside first, like the good big sister she is, and she’s lugging that odd little wagon behind her…what on earth is inside it?

It doesn’t matter. They’re home!

I’ve been over to the house every night since the children disappeared, not because I wanted to make more veiled attempts at charity. No, friend, I had an easy excuse this time.

Natalie dropped dead.

John found her when he came inside after a frustrating day in the woods. He called out to his wife, he told Elias, and she didn’t answer him. He smelled supper on the stove, and the house was too quiet, he explained, without the children there. There had still been no word from them, you see, and he’d been searching all day, woodcutting be damned. I know I shouldn’t curse…

She was lying on the floor, staring up at nothing. Her face was an eerie white and her mouth was open in surprise. The poor dear choked to death. As easily as you or I would stand over the stove and taste what we cooked to make sure it was good, Natalie popped a bit of carrot into her mouth, and it lodged in her throat. It was a black day, that such bad luck could befall a man the night after he lost his children. I was standing at my door, lantern in hand when the undertaker’s wagon came to their house, and my knees buckled when they carried her outside.

I clung to Elias as tightly as I could that night, and I prayed non-stop for some sign that John’s misfortunes would cease, before he himself died of a broken heart. But the Father has heard me, now, and I want to dance for the sheer joy of it.

I throw down my hoe and whip off my scarf, since I need to fix my hair properly. I look shamefully messy, with my cheeks all red from the cold and from crying. But first, I go back to my kitchen and find my basket, and I fill it up with goodies again, stuffing in so much food that it groans when I close the lid. No excuses are needed to visit this time. But I take my time, brushing my hair, putting on my day dress and powdering my nose.

Let the little ones have their time with their father. His ears alone deserve the tale of where they’ve been and what it took for them to return. But there’s an odd scratching at my door, and a whistling whine greets me when I open it. Well! Look at this presumptuous canine, wagging his tail and nosing at my hand.

“I don’t suppose you’ve had your breakfast yet, either, you great leviathan! Come along, now, it’s just water and scraps for you! And don’t get any bright ideas about digging in my garden!” I sigh. Leave it to two small children to bring home another mouth to feed. John will have his hands full, poor man, but I have no place to judge my neighbors, certainly.

END.
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