GRETHEL

DREI | GRETHEL

A HOUSE IN THE WOODS — that was where the crumbs had guided them. Hansel had protested with as much reason as he could muster, tremors still splitting his earthen hands, even as he pulled at Grethel with the same fervour of the trees. But she was not to be dissuaded and eventually he, too, would succumb to the house and its breaded scent.

It was much larger than their current homestead, and without the memories. Their house, as rickety as Mutter's aging bones that once held it together, constantly loomed over their shoulders despite its short stature.

"Did you know this was here?" Her voice was a whisper, as if the watchful air would catch them and hold them prisoner for trespassing.

"Never." Truth revealed itself in the form of creased brows and narrowed eyes.

Indeed, loneliness hung around like a ghost — in the slight overgrowth of weeds and the scratched white of the paint, lingering, a stain in the windows, a small indent carved into the door. All but wilted should the flowers have been, and yet they grew steady in their place, mindless of the sneaking trees that ate up the land around them, year by year. So thick was the forest here that she couldn't see beyond it.

"Come on!" She tugged at Hansel's arm, but he didn't move.

"Grethel, I don't think—"

Her smile fell at this. "What's the worst that could happen? There were crumbs, and— and that delicious smell, there must be food here."

Hansel's stomach made an agreeable noise and he relented. "If we must to survive," he looked to the gnarled pathway but found it gone, "then we shall visit, if only for a short time."

Grethel was beside herself with joy, and moved with tentative feet along the stepping stones, as if afraid they'd give way and the ground would swallow her whole. Hansel wore his mistrust more openly. When they reached the door it was he who knocked – after studying the bronze eagle that broke from the wood and took flight. Gripping the weathered metal in his white fingers, he brought it down against the door. Thrice for good measure.

The door remained silent.

Grethel knocked once more for good measure. A phantom answered in their blind eyes, a breeze of a touch, so cold that even the house shuddered.

Grethel dared to enter first.

Despite there being all the signs of abandonment, the house had all the warmth of a home. The floors were well swept by time, furniture set, dining table made for feast, and the silverware glinted in the far room. The rug, although dog-eared at one corner, was untouched by the wear of feet. The house almost seemed to be in waiting.

"Guten tag, Waldbewohner. I am Hansel, and this, my sister, Grethel. We were wondering if you'd be so kind as to aid us."

The walls didn't reply.

He hadn't dared release his rifle, she noticed, and even now did he aim to fire from the hip – not enough to appear a threat but still ready.

Lesser inclined to believe in such danger was Grethel. Her hunger sought out the delicious scent, hung like gold thread in the air, and guided by the hand of the devil did she move through the house. In the kitchen, the arched brick fireplace warmed with embers, and on the workbench, a fresh loaf of bread.

"Hansel."

He appeared soon after, twin rifle at his side, eyes wider than he'd ever allowed as his fingers skirted along the workbench. The usually shock of blue flowed, trance-like, the murky river they used to visit. It disappeared when he saw her.

Forgoing any manner she once knew, Grethel sank her teeth into the bread but froze in the ice of his eyes. "Want some?" Crumbs dusted her hands in her conviction and suppressed her voice. Still, the grandeur of such luxury seemed a foreign concept and she wasn't about to deny it her attention.

The expectation to combat raised voices came all too naturally to her; so when Hansel's lips parted into a crooked grin, her shield had no protection. He laughed the deep, hearty laugh she'd regarded as myth, and with it her guilt dissipated.

She began to laugh, too.

The invasion of such a thing caught her off guard, and for a time she basked in it, until once again silence seized the hollow of her lungs and sank into the space between her lips. Hansel left the room with less than he had entered with.

Alone with the pallid walls, she drew open the curtains.

Her witch smiled, softly, and she stepped from the forest.

Grethel refused to believe her traitorous eyes, and only after viciously rubbing at them did her sight prove to be true. Clad in green robes so deep it rivaled the underbrush, she lingered in mind and in memory a moment more — and then she began to walk. She met Grethel in the gardens.

"You have found my home, child." Gone was the crooked antler, the black fire in her eyes, but the kindness still lingered in her soft curves.

She beckoned to Grethel, hand outstretched, and the girl took her hand. Her skin was ice – not just in complexion, but in the power behind her slender fingers, smooth, almost crystalline, to the touch. But she did not melt beneath the sun as they sat between the flora.

Occasionally, her witch would sing for her, weaving new life in word, and when bathed in her voice, the flowers would bloom and dance. Grethel danced beside them.

And when Grethel sat, cross legged, at the foot of the stump, looking up at her, her raven-feathered hair and moonlight skin, she said, beautifully melancholic, "We're all destined to burn, child. Some just brighter than others."

Those words would hang in the trees and whisper to the girl for a time to come.

"Grethel, it's getting late." It was Hansel, stood in the cottage doorway, arms crossed and eyes wandering. "We'll stay the night."

In the fading light of evening, the trees were menacing creatures, taloned and gnarled, ready to reach out and steal children in the night. Her witch watched them with daring eyes.

Grethel gestured to the witch. "Hansel, I found her."

Hansel looked to her, to his sister, not quite concealing his sigh, and continued on his way. "Is this her home?"

It was her witch who answered. "Why yes, it is. You're more than welcome to stay a while."

"How kind."

He had prepared a hearty meal, and they feasted richly for once in their lives. Smoked meats, honeyed bread, anything they'd dreamt up was conjured under Hansel's handiwork. A chalice of wine, almost akin to blood, so thick Grethel could see her ragged self in the depths, was shared between their lips – away from their parents' eyes.

Twin beds, clad in woodsmoke and white linen, would become their homes for the night.

Weary as her bones were, Grethel waited for her witch to braid her hair, slim fingers making quick work of the knots and tangles. Hansel didn't say a word, but she could see the silver of the rifle tucked between his fingers.

❖

*updated two days in a row and then nearly a week after*
ye I struggle to write