Bewitching (5 page)

“Kendra.” Charlie pulled at my skirt.

“What does that boy want?” the witch snapped.

“Not now, Charlie.”

“But Kendra, look. Look what I found.”

“What is it, Charlie?”

He opened his hand and held out a black and green beetle.

“Ugh,” the witch said. “I will turn you into a beetle if you do not watch out.”

“He is but a child,” I said.

Yet, I sensed the witch becoming more and more perturbed.

Due to the witch’s trust of me, or her blackmail, I was permitted to venture outside on occasion, to gather magical herbs and flowers. It was on one such trip that I strolled past the corner of the house and heard a small voice.

“You! Girl!”

I started. I had heard no voice other than the witch’s and Charlie’s for weeks now.

“Please, please, Miss! You are in grave danger. Or rather, your brother is.”

Now I recognized the voice of the gingerbread girl, Miranda.

I turned to face her. She was a child, close in size to my sister Sarah, who had been but ten. Her ringlets must once have been golden. Now, they were of white frosting. Unlike the other gingerbread children, whose faces were frozen, she could move and speak.

“Danger? Why?”

“The witch! This morning, before you woke, she was outside, gathering wood.”

“Wood? She has no need of wood.”

“Exactly. She has no need, for she makes her meals and warms her home by magic. She needs wood for one purpose only. The oven! Where she makes the gingerbread.”

“But why?”

“I know not. Perhaps it is special witch-wood, the better for baking children. All I know is, one morning she went out, gathering wood. That very afternoon, I was in the oven.”

I shuddered. Powers, when used to cure the sick or even lighten the workload, were wonderful things. To use them otherwise was disgusting. But could I have one without the other?

I would have to find out. But first, I had to make sure the witch didn’t bake my brother!

I reached for Miranda’s gingerbread hand, again thinking of dear little Sarah. Had I refused to lend her my hair ribbons? Spoken a harsh word? I was sorry.

“Thank you, little friend. Thank you for telling me. May I ask…?” I hesitated, not wanting to heap insult upon injury.

“Ask me anything. It is lonely never to be asked anything anymore.”

Lonely. That word again. Could it be that the world was merely a collection of lonely existences? If so, perhaps mine would not be any worse.

To Miranda, I said, “How is it that you can speak and move, and the others cannot?”

Her brow furrowed so much I worried it would crack. “I believe I was undercooked. ’Tis hard to believe, for the cooking was so painful that, when the witch came to check to see if I was done, I determined to be quite still. In that way, I was released from the oven half-baked. ’Course I cannot do much.”

“I am sorry.”

“No. ’Tis better this way. I was able to warn you. I wish someone had warned me.”

“How did you get here?” I glanced around, the better to make sure the witch was not coming, not listening. But no. She was resting. Charlie had kept her up all night, singing and banging pots, and then she had gone out early.

“I ran away,” Miranda said. “My father was cruel. He beat me and worse, so one night, I ran. I had grand dreams. I would go to London and meet the king! But, by the first night, I was powerful hungry. The next morning, I saw this house.”

So like my own story.

“I meant to take a few bites only and leave. I was not raised to steal. But the gingerbread was so good, and my stomach growled so. So I took more. Then more. And then, the witch was upon me. She trapped me in a room and, next thing I knew, was gathering wood to bake me.”

“I see. And where did she do this?”

Miranda winced. I could see that the memory still pained her.

“Please,” I said, “I must know.”

“Of course. I am sorry. It is just that I can practically feel the flames, licking my arms.”

Involuntarily, I clenched my own arms. “But I have seen no such oven in her cottage.”

“No, Miss. ’Tis not there, but over yonder in the woods.” Miranda pointed to a spot beyond the house.

The woods! I was seized with an idea. To take Charlie to the oven, the witch would have to release him from the spell. Then, we could escape. It was a small hope, but it was the only hope we had.

“Thank you, Miranda.” I squeezed her hand as hard as possible.

“Please, Miss, do escape, and if you do…” She squinted. “Perhaps you can tell someone about us. I feared my father, ’tis true, but I wish my mother knew what had become of me.”

I touched her frosting hair. “If we escape—when we escape—I will tell them.”

When I returned to the house, I did my best to act natural, and also to keep Charlie quiet. I required time to think.

That night, I prepared a special potion that put Charlie to sleep, then approached the witch, offering to read to her from her book of Irish mythology, which was her favorite. It had been my practice to read each night until she was quite tired, but on this night, I stopped midway through, saying, “Madam, you have been very good to me, teaching me the ways of witches.”

She reached to caress my hair. “It is no less than any mother would do.”

“It is wonderful.”

“Do you love me as much as you once loved your real mother?”

I hesitated. I remembered mother, making my dresses, adjusting my hair ribbons, and teaching me not to lie. Still, I suspected she would permit an exception in this one case. “Of course I love you.”

“Call me mother then.”

“M…” The word stuck in my throat like spoiled meat from a long-dead cow. I coughed it out. “Mother! But one thing you have not told me about is the gingerbread ornaments which adorn this house. How came they do be here? And why?”

The witch screwed up her face, trying to decide whether to tell me. “The why is simple. I was lonely and wanted company. That is why I built my house of gingerbread. Soon enough, children did come, the brats of travelers, nibbling upon my walls. I wanted merely to play with them, to hold them, as I could not hold my own. Yet, the children would not agree to this. If you can believe it, they wished to escape my loving embrace despite the promise of gingerbread.”

“They wanted their own parents.”

“Exactly! Oh, perhaps you will say ’tis understandable, but what was I to do—bear more children only to see them perish, see them age and die while I lived on for centuries? Besides, once the children escaped, they would alert their parents, who then found the authorities. Soon, the townspeople were upon me with a hangman’s noose or, if I were unlucky, with torches.”

“This happened?”

“Aye. More than once. My first gingerbread houses were in Germany. When I was chased out of that country, I built the next here. But this time, I knew better.”

I nodded. I saw what she had done.

“Now, when I caught a child, I baked it into gingerbread, the better to keep it here. I may not have my own Adelaide or Karl, but I have Maggie and Henry, Oliver and Em, all around the house. They are mine forever.”

I shivered. The air had grown suddenly cold. I remembered the reverend saying that colder weather would lessen the plague. Too late for us.

“But they’re dead,” I said.

“Not dead. Frozen. Safe. Safe from the world, my own darlings.”

She smiled, and I knew I must not argue, must not—as Mother said—talk back to my elders. Good advice, as mothers often gave. It would not do to let the witch know that I was disgusted by her doings. I must pretend to agree with her.

So I clapped my hands and smiled like the sort of insipid girl I hated. “How wonderful! I suppose if you went away on holiday, you might bring them with you for companionship.”

“Aye. Though I have not often been on holiday. I am an old woman, in mind if not in body. I prefer to stay here, with these, my children.”

She glanced toward the window at the cookie children. I could see one, a boy smaller than Charlie. His hair stuck up on his head, and I thought how he must have struggled when stuffed inside the oven. Yet now, his face seemed placid, accepting of his fate. His frosted lips even turned up in a smile.

“They seem so happy,” I said.

“Oh, they are. In this way, they too can live forever.”

I tried again. “Will you teach me to do it?”

The witch’s brow curled under. “Why would you wish that, my dear?”

I reached to touch her shoulder. “Because, M-Mother, since you have taken me in, I have felt very close to you. Like all daughters, I wish to be exactly like you. But perhaps…” I stepped away. “I presume too much. You may not feel the same toward me. Forgive me.”

The witch took my wrist in her fingers. “No, no, I adore you as my own and would teach you all I know. It is only that I have no children to bake.”

“Truly?” My eyes met hers now. They were still as shockingly green as the first day I saw her.

“’Deed. Of course, when I first captured you, I did intend—and I say this with every apology—did intend to add you to my picket fence. It would not have worked because, since you are a witch, the flames—even magical flames which keep other children alive—would have killed you.”

I nodded.

“However, now, I would no sooner bake you than I would sear my own flesh. So you see, my dear Kendra, I have no dough for my gingerbread.”

“Ah.” I remembered what Miranda had said about the wood. Could she have been wrong? I needed to test it. “Of course. I know you would not harm, er, bake me, but I thought perhaps … my brother.”

“Your brother? You would not be angry?”

I screwed up my mouth as if in thought. “I would miss him … at first, I suppose. But he can be a trial. Besides, he would not live forever anyway. Indeed, were it not for magic, he would be dead already.”

The witch’s chin twitched. “’Tis true enough. I will admit I had thought of baking him. Boys yell and run about so. But I thought you would be angry.”

The witch’s fingers felt like worms, crawling, ready to chew my eyes out. I glanced away. It was true what Miranda had said!

I collected myself. “I have learned much from you, Mother. I will do what you think best. You have lived so much longer than I. Besides, if Charlie is baked, we could have him as part of our family forever. Otherwise, he will only grow old and die. Right?”

I dared not move. Yet I wanted her hand off me. It was a relief when she finally released her grip.

“Oh, Kendra! I had hoped you might see it that way. Yet I know children are sentimental. I can tell you all now. I had prepared the oven, and this morning, I gathered the wood. I was only waiting for an opportune moment to take him. I had planned to tell you he had run away, but now, I will not have to resort to such trickery. I am so happy!”

“I am too.”

“We can do it tonight,” she said.

“Tonight?”

“Why not? The oven is prepared.”

“Why … yes. That is true.” The sleeping potion I had given Charlie would prevent his escaping if we went tonight. I had to think of a reason to delay. “It’s just that he sleeps. I gave him a sleeping potion. I was tired of the noise.”

“That is quite all right. It is easier if he sleeps.”

“Yes, but…” What to say? “I suppose you were right before, about sentiment. I am not so sentimental as to wish my brother alive at the expense of valuable training. But…”

“What?” Her disgusting worm-hand once again sought my hair. “I wish you to be happy, Kendra. I wish us to be happy together.”

“I only want to see Charlie once more, awake. I know it will not matter in a hundred years. Still, I have a childish wish to say good-bye.”

She blinked, then again. “And yet, you wish to bake him. You wish to see it happen? Perhaps it would be better if I accomplished it without you.”

“No, no! I wish to learn. It is a childish desire, but please indulge me… Mother?” I made my eyes wide, pleading.

It worked. The witch stroked my hair. I tried not to shudder. I must not react.

“Of course, my dear. I forget that you are still a child, for you are so wise. Let us to bed, Kendra, and when morning dawns, I will tell you my last secrets, teach you as only a mother can.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

I went to bed at Charlie’s side, but I did not sleep. What if she had lied to me? Or changed her mind? This could easily happen if she thought I was reluctant.

The matter of escape consumed me also. I knew I would likely have to kill the witch in order to free us. It should have been a trifle. I had now little fear of death, after all I had seen. But death was one thing, murder quite another. Killing the witch was justifiable, but would that make a difference when I was forced to impel her into flames? She was a human being after all.

Or was she?

She was. If she was not, I was not either, for we were the same. She was human, but she was evil. She meant to harm Charlie. I had to stop her.

As the dawn broke, I squeezed Charlie’s hand. He stirred in his sleep.

“Dear brother,” I whispered, “there is something I must tell you. Listen carefully, for I cannot repeat it or speak too loudly. Nod if you understand.”

Charlie nodded but made no sound. I had cast a spell upon him to bring about his silence. I could take no chances.

“Good.” I tiptoed to the door, cracked it open, and looked out. The witch was not to be found. I returned to Charlie and whispered, “The witch intends to cook you today.”

Charlie turned a bit white but still said nothing. I continued quickly. “Of course, I will not allow this to happen. I will protect you as I have so far.”

Now Charlie’s expression indicated I had not done a very good job so far.

“She will take us out to the woods. You may get an opportunity to run, but remember, she is powerful. If you fail, there will be no second chance. You must wait until I distract her.”

He nodded. I heard a noise, the creak of a door. The witch was awake. I gave Charlie one last look, then laid back and pretended to sleep beside him. I was so weary. Yet my pulse pounded, and I hoped this would serve to keep me alert.

The door opened, and the witch came in. “Wake up, dearies. You are in for a treat.”