Gretel (6 page)

The dreamlike concept turned to alert curiosity, and Anika opened her eyes to find herself lying in darkness on the ground in her “resting” spot. She wasn’t sleepwalking, she was just sleeping. Mud and branches stuck to the side of her nose and lips, and something insectile quickly crawled its way up from the hairline at the back of her head toward the top of her scalp.

She scrambled to her feet and looked around, frantically ruffling her hair, trying in consternation both to rid herself of the parasite now nestled in her hair and to identify the potentially larger threat on the perimeter. Anika’s slumbered eyes adjusted slowly to the night, and the once-bright moon had temporarily withdrawn behind a stray cloud cluster, making even the black forms of the trees virtually invisible. She was blind, and something was stalking her.

Her first thought was to climb, to locate the closest tree—fallen or otherwise—and get as high as possible. She was no great athlete, but she trusted her abilities given the situation. Besides, running was out of the question, since virtually any animal that she could think of would catch her easily before she took more than a few strides.

But if she were to get some height, Anika thought, maybe she could buy some time. Jab at whatever was after her with a stick or something and frustrate it until it gave up. Anika thought of wolves. Wolves couldn’t climb trees could they? She’d heard somewhere that bears could, but were there really bears in these parts?

These initial plans and imaginings ran their course in a matter of seconds, and were quickly replaced with calmer, more reasonable thoughts. Anika now thought it much more likely that whatever was prowling her space was something more common and less deadly than a wolf or bear. A deer or fox perhaps. Maybe a moose. She stood her ground, motionless, now listening with conscious ears for the sound of steps to repeat.

She waited for what seemed like several minutes and then: Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The patient steps moved to Anika’s left—perhaps ten yards away, maybe less—and then stopped.

Her guess of a deer now seemed most likely; the steps were heavy and deliberate—not the scurrying movements of a squirrel or rabbit—but not threatening either, secretive and apprehensive.

Anika breathed out for the first time in what must have been a full minute, and the passing thoughts of small game now made her stomach moan in hunger. She felt only slightly relieved, however, knowing the ‘deer’ could just as easily be one of a dozen other, less docile things, ready to pounce at any moment.

Anika slowly stooped down, blindly feeling for the largest stick in her immediate confines, which turned out to be a stray branch, two-feet long at most and no thicker than a billiard cue. She grabbed it and stood back up without moving her feet.

“Hello,” she said softly, mildly aware that she was attempting to talk to what she had convinced herself was a deer.

The night answered back with only the distant chirping of crickets and the light rustle of the trees’ topmost leaves. The moon had returned to the black sky, and Anika’s eyes adjusted. She could now see the silvery reflection of the branches and rocks that crowded the area. If something large was still there, she would certainly see it when it moved.

Keeping as still as possible, Anika shifted her eyes from right to left, turning her head just slightly upon reaching the limits of her periphery.

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

This time the sound was plodding and aggressive with no pretense of stealth. Terrified, Anika turned toward the sound, and saw only a glimpse of something curved and dull smash down on her forehead, catching her brow above her left eye and splitting it like a grape.

It was almost dawn when the Morgan truck pulled back onto the gravel road that led to their cabin, and Gretel’s doubts about seeing her mother again had grown stronger.

To this point she had been scared, and had concentrated this fear and directed it toward her father in a projection of overdue frustrations. But she hadn’t really believed her mother was gone forever. Forever. She was too tired now to start adjusting to exactly what that meant to the rest of her life. And as much as her body pressured her to cry, there were simply no more tears.

The drive home from Deda’s had been agony. Her father had stopped at every curve and intersection, every hill and possible hidden entrance, forcing her and Hansel out to wander the shoulders of the highways with him, branching off in opposite directions until he called them back with a barking “Let’s go.” They were the only words he spoke the entire drive.

And the searches were pathetic and hopeless in the vast darkness of the countryside, with only the narrow beam of the car’s headlights to guide them. The only way they would have found their mother was if she happened to be sitting in the eight-foot wide stretch of light at the exact place where her father had pulled over. The ridiculousness of it made Gretel despondent and she cried nearly the whole time.

But as her father now pulled to a stop in front of their home, her sobs had been replaced with a more reserved depression and self-pity. If she had indeed lost her mother, then her loss, she knew, was greater than anyone’s. Including her father. Whatever his weaknesses were as a man, he was an adult and was innately better built to deal with such losses. It was part of what separated adults from children, Gretel thought. She was sad for him, of course, but husbands lost their wives every day—or the other way around—it was an eventual fact of life. And with a home and a fair amount of land, he could marry again if that’s what he wanted. Men with property rarely died alone in the Southlands.

There was Hansel, of course, who
was
a child, and Gretel did not discount the enormity of the loss her mother would be to him. Because of his age, he was more vulnerable than she was, and she knew there was no worse thing an eight-year-old boy could imagine than losing his mother. It would be devastating for her brother, of that she had no doubt. But she also knew that compared to virtually any girl born in the Southlands, a boy’s life was charmed. And though his sadness would be deep and prolonged, his future would arrive unscathed. He would grow into a teenager and then a young man, and as he grew, so too would the respect of those in the community. Not that he would be any great pillar of society (it was the Back Country, after all)—or even a leader of men, she guessed—it’s just the way it was here. Eventually Hansel would inherit the farm from their father, marry a girl, of which there would be several to choose from, and live as the Morgan men did for generations before him: long and average and in relative happiness. And it would go that way with or without his mother.

But it was different when a girl lost her mother. A girl truly
needed
her mother. It was true a girl’s father protected her from physical harm, but her mother was her defender in the community, which, at fourteen, Gretel deemed far more important. And
her
mother was special, particularly suited for the task of raising a girl to womanhood. How brilliant she was! Having the ability not only to navigate the common pitfalls that consumed most of her friends’ mothers, but also to float above all the ridiculous rules that most women accepted without protest. That role of an indentured servant, mothering unlimited offspring at her husband’s command: that was never to be her mother’s lot in life.

And until this moment, Gretel didn’t think it was hers. She had anticipated and depended on her mother encouraging and reinforcing these values as she grew, molding her into something proud and independent. Not to lead armies into battle or found nations, but to become her own woman. And Gretel wasn’t there yet. She wasn’t ready to lose her mother.

She had, of course, considered another possibility: that her mother wasn’t dead. That she had instead left them, fed up with domestic life on the farm. Perhaps she even had the intention of retrieving her and Hansel once she was settled into whatever new life she’d found, one that had been blueprinted and dreamed of for years. It wasn’t an impossible scenario; her father was no prince, and though he was by no measure evil or abusive, charming and inspiring he was not. It was no great stretch to imagine a woman like her mother trading up when the opportunity arose.

But this prospect, though obviously a better, happier one, didn’t fit, and provided little comfort to Gretel. Somewhere within her, she knew the news was grim.

Her father turned off the truck’s motor and left the keys in the ignition. He opened the door of the truck and walked to the front door of the cabin where he stood motionlessly, his head hung, staring at the ground in front of his feet.

“We’ll go again tomorrow,” he said, “when there is light.” He then opened the door and walked inside quietly.

Gretel sat in the passenger seat of the truck and stared bleakly through the open car door at the spot where her father had stood just seconds before. The thought of another day combing the emptiness of the Interways was unbearable right now, and she pushed the thought aside. She could only pray that he would change his mind by tomorrow morning and let The System do its work.

But what her father said wasn’t as dispiriting as how he was behaving. For starters, he had left Hansel sleeping in the back of the truck, having made no effort even to wake him, let alone carry him inside: something he had done without thinking dozens of times in his life. Her father was still ill, Gretel realized, and his injuries were far from healed and were probably flaring as badly as ever right now, but he hadn’t even looked at his son. Hansel was certainly no toddler, of course, he was in fact rather tall and stout for his age, having always been a hearty eater and eager farmhand. But her father had always relished carrying his son to bed, whether from the truck after a long road trip or the large sofa in the den where Hansel liked to sit and read his magazines. It was something Gretel had observed in her father with great interest, even early in her brother’s life, since the act was so out of place within her father’s overall character.

But she was being too hard on him, perhaps. His wife was gone, and whether through force or by choice, the result for the rest of his life was essentially the same.

Gretel reached down and picked the book off the floor. In the context of the dirt road that made up the front yard of her cottage, the black tome now seemed somehow smaller and incomplete, losing some of its fascination to Gretel. But not all.

The blackness and sterility of it were still mesmerizing—appearing as shadowy in the dim light of the truck as it did on Deda’s shelf—and the feel of it, that leathery coldness, remained.

Deda had allowed her to take the book home, and she had only asked to do so because she had seen the look in her grandfather’s eyes when he saw her with it, struggling to reach it from the precarious edge of the work bench. His face had burst into the same smile she had seen when they first arrived, only this time his eyes were alert, craving. Instinctively, she had asked for it, feeling that doing so was a preemptive strike of sorts, though what exactly it was she was preempting she didn’t know. She had always wanted to take it, of course, but knew on some level that it would be out of place with her outside the realm of the damp cellar. And that now seemed true.

Deda had told Gretel that the title of the book was
Orphism
, and according to him it was older than The Bible; how he knew that fact was unclear, since he claimed to have no idea what the word ‘Orphism’ even meant or what the book itself was about.

“But your grandmother treasured it,” he had told her while they both sat in Deda’s small kitchen, having exited the creepiness of the cellar. Deda’s smile had been warm as he reflected on his deceased wife. “And it’s one of the few possessions of hers that remains. So I have come to treasure it as well.” It had seemed so strange to Gretel to be openly discussing the book that for so long had held such mystery, and she felt a bit silly that she had never asked her grandfather about it before. It was only a book after all.

“Why did she love it so much?” Gretel asked.

Deda paused and then said, “It was special to her.” His smile waned slightly as he looked away from his granddaughter, appearing disappointed that she had posed such a question. He forced a cough and rose from the table, making his way to the stove and picking up the teapot that sat on the back burner.

The awkwardness of the silence that followed Deda’s non-answer was striking, and Gretel had been relieved when her father entered the room. His face was stern and tired. And he had made no acknowledgment of Deda.

“Gretel, we’re leaving,” he said. “Your brother is in the truck.” He turned and walked out, and the subsequent sound of the front door opening and closing had been deafening.

The ride back to the Southlands would be tortuous, Gretel knew, but she had been glad to be leaving.

She’d grabbed the book—O
rphism
—with both hands and stood up from the table. “Bye Deda,” she said and turned to leave, not really expecting a reply. She had come to accept these periods of moodiness and depression in her grandfather over the years, and though her feelings were often hurt by them, she mostly felt sorry for him.

“Your grandmother was an amazing woman,” Deda said, his voice crisp and loud, as if he was standing right behind her.

Gretel turned back toward the kitchen and saw Deda standing at the stove, casually firing up the teapot as he was before.

“You, Gretel, would have loved her. And she you.”

“Okay, bye,” Gretel had managed to stammer, and then quickly walked from the house and into the front seat of her father’s truck, which her father had wasted no time shifting into park and driving away.

Deda’s words had been eerie and out of place, Gretel now thought as she tried gently to stir her brother awake. But they were somehow comforting. She had never known her grandmother—she died when Gretel’s mother was just a girl—but her mother had always spoken fondly of the woman, and that had always been important to Gretel.

Her mother. Gretel’s eyes filled with tears once again. “Hansel.”