The Magic Circle (11 page)

I cannot tell her what I want that broom to do in her hands. I can no longer speak, of course. But more than that, I cannot allow myself to think through the details of the plan I know is forming deep within me. I am ever watchful of the voices that fill my head. They seem to know only part of my thoughts. If I am careful, who knows what may happen. It is two days since I unearthed the box. For two days these children have been alive on stolen time. Stolen from the devils. I have stumbled about most of this time. But whenever I have performed some act the devils believe will lead to the end they want, I have moved freely in my blindness, with no hesitation whatsoever. It is as though they steer me in these acts. I worked methodically, with painstaking care, on Hansel’s cage—and they allowed me each long hour. Now I tap Gretel’s broom insistently, and she sweeps once more. The devils do nothing to stop her. Perhaps they think I make her labor as a form of punishment. Or perhaps they know her sweeping is futile.

“How did it happen like this?” says Gretel, more to herself than to me. She has asked this question repeatedly over the past two days. “What changed everything?” And
now I know her tone will change. It always does at this point. Her voice becomes reed-thin. She is no longer a girl of steel. She is the most fragile of children. “I hate jewels. I hate everything beautiful to the eye.” Now she will stamp her foot. But, no, she does not. Instead, she adds something I have not heard her say before. “There is something very wrong here. You were not a witch when we first came. You loved us, I know.” Her voice resonates like the most sacred of church bells. It is all at once womanly. I know she has arrived at a new perspective. I know she will never be a child again. She no longer pleads. All hope has been abandoned. She admits the reality of the evil she has seen. Would that I could grieve for her. She is as hopeless now as Peter was when first I met him. “Oh, wild and mysterious world,” intones the child-woman Gretel, “if I had the power, I would strike all humans blind.”

I am standing unmoving through these words, mesmerized, wanting them to go on forever. Wanting Gretel to understand all of it. But when she comes to her final statement, her desire to strike all humans blind, I jerk myself to attention. It is a daring statement. She speaks of what she would do if she had destructive powers. I wonder if Gretel realizes her dare. Is she trying to provoke the powers that be? Does she invite the devils to
propose a pact? Oh, ignorant child. How thoughtlessly we tread, how easily we stumble. This child cannot fall prey to them. She must not.

I listen hard. The devils are not provoked. I hear no response from them. They ignore her in their unwavering focus on me. My evil protects the girl, an irony I value. I would take Gretel into my arms and console her if I were allowed a response myself. But no indulgences can I permit myself now. Besides, she would only shudder again at my touch.

I walk to Hansel’s cage and tap the boy’s knee, which always sticks out of the cage at a certain angle. “Hhhhhh,” I force from my throat.

Hansel understands the crude order. He extends the half of the chicken wishbone that Gretel used to carry in her pocket. These children think I do not know it is the bone. They think that with my eyes sealed I know very little. I touch the bone between thumb and index finger.

“How does my finger feel?” says Hansel in a tired voice.

I touch the bone again and think in clear words: The boy is still too thin to eat. His finger has no flesh on it. He’s nothing but skin and bones. I repeat the thought, loudly, if thoughts can be loud.

I have bargained with the many devils that speak in my head—so many that I cannot identify them all. One of them has emerged as a spokesman. That one has agreed: Gretel will go free. Yes, she may yet perish, alone in the woods, once she has left me. But at least she will have a chance. In payment, I will eat Hansel.

I play the game in my head. I repeat that I will eat Hansel. The demons must not know that this is a game. They must believe it.

I lean back in the rocking chair.

“A game?” The voice that has been silent for two days mocks me. “Do you really think you’re fooling anyone? Oh, you mindless peasant midwife! You never learn. You think you’ve struck a bargain with us.” There is much laughter in my head. “You think you’ll outwit us and break your end of the bargain.” The laughter is hysterical now. “You numskull! We won’t be fooled a second time. You bargained for Asa’s life; then you hid. You have done not one single stitch of work for the devils yet. You ingrate! But you are about to repay us, at last.” The voice stops for a moment. I swallow the hard lump in my throat. The voice chuckles. “What a miracle your ignorance is! Once you taste Hansel’s blood, it is all over. The struggle will be done. And you will gladly grab that girl whose hair you decorate with flowers; you will
grab her and fry her with salt and a dash of paprika!”

I hold my hands on the sides of my head and try to pull my own head off my neck as the laughter deafens me.

“And then you will go to the nearest town,” says the voice. “You will eat whatever children you meet. We will keep you hungry for blood for nine years. You had nine years as a sorceress, making us jump at your ridiculous orders. Then for nine years you cheated us, hiding here in the woods. You will now repay in full. Three cycles of nine years, and the last will be the best. Every single child you pass will perish.”

I can taste the hot, sweet blood in my mouth. The blood of infants. It is flawlessly delicious.

This is it. I have lost. They know my thoughts, my plans. They know everything. And knowledge gives them power. They control my deepest desires. I am doomed to eternal torment. There is no solution. I am at last like Gretel as she spoke just a moment ago: I admit the evil that is.

But no! No, Gretel must not admit it. I am old and lost. But the girl must not be lost. She has a right to hope. She is innocent and good. I owe her that right. I must restore it for her. I must hope for her. Dare I entertain a hope? Me, who has gone so long utterly hopeless?
But even a lost soul deserves a hope. Hope is the final refuge. Can devils hear hopes?

I stand up suddenly. I lean over the fire in the hearth, and my eyelids unfreeze. My eyes focus instantly and find the corner where my tongue lies, unmolested by the children. Gretel has obviously been careful to sweep around it. I walk to my tongue and replace it in my mouth.

The girl gasps.

“Asa, light the fire in the oven.”

“Asa? Who is Asa? I am Gretel.”

Hansel stands up and holds on to the bars of the cage.

“Asa, Gretel, what difference does it make? Light the fire.” I stalk around the room, frantic. “I will eat your brother now.”

Hansel screams and collapses on the bottom of the cage.

Gretel opens the oven door and throws in wood. She lights it from the fire that burns slowly in the hearth. She is crying as she works.

I open the porcupine-quill box. “Gretel, take these diamonds.” I pick them out one by one. I am not thinking. I am only doing. I must not think. Hopes need not be thought.

Gretel watches me without moving from in front of
the oven. Her face shows revulsion at the sight of the diamonds.

I go to the door and pick up one of her shoes. I hold a diamond to the sole. It sticks fast. I pour the other diamonds that I hold in my skirt into her shoes.

“Do you love pretty things, Gretel?”

Gretel shakes her head in confusion. She knows I have just heard her say she hates beautiful things.

“Then why were you trying to steal my jewels?”

“Other people like pretty things,” says Gretel. Her face is wary. She looks as though she expects me to burst into a tantrum.

“Go on,” I am saying.

“I would have sold the jewels to others so that my family could eat and live decently.”

I knew her answer before she spoke, of course. But I needed to hear her words. I needed to get her to speak of her family. “Your family,” I say. “Your cursed stepmother tried to get you killed.”

“Our father loves us.”

“Your father let her send you into the woods to die,” I say.

“He was weak,” says Gretel. “He is suffering now. I know he must be suffering.”

“How can you forgive him?” I ask.

“What choice do I have?” says Gretel. “We must have pity on the weak.”

“You and Hansel were weak,” I say, “and he had no pity on you.”

“He loves me,” says Gretel. “He loves Hansel. In the end, that’s all that matters. Forgiveness is a little thing when love is there.”

My skin prickles at the word. “Love,” I say. “Gretel, could you . . .” My voice catches in my throat. “Could you forgive me?” I whisper.

“If you eat Hansel,” Gretel is saying, placing one glittering word after the other into the air between us, her eyes shimmering, “I will . . .” And now she cannot hold back the hysteria that speaks through her eyes. It bursts from her mouth. She cries and screams, “If you eat Hansel, I will never forgive you!”

I search wildly through the jewels in the box. I grab at the amethyst. A spark shoots through my body. “Blessed amethyst!” I cry out, dropping it. “I cannot touch holy things. I cannot touch your holiness. I cannot touch my blessed amethyst.” I wring my empty hands. I gnash my iron teeth. I speak in a harsh voice. “Is the fire hot enough yet, Gretel?”

She looks at me as though I’ve lost my senses. She is
shaking. She chews on the fat part of her palm. I know she is working to catch hold of herself once more. “Hot enough?” She seems barely able to process the words.

“Is it hot enough, girl?”

She jumps at my shout. She blinks. She is mastering the hysteria now. Rationality returns to her eyes. Or a semblance of rationality. “Hot enough?”

“Yes. I want you to check it. It must be just the right heat. It has to be perfect.” I stare at her, willing her with my eyes to understand. This girl understands so much. She must understand just one last thing. She is rational again now. She must understand. “The fire has to be perfect.”

Gretel’s eyes hide the beginnings of a thought. She looks in the oven. “I don’t know. I don’t know how hot the fire must be to roast a human.”

I nod my head in agreement, wondering if I really saw some glimmer of understanding in her or if that was just my hopes fooling me. I wish I could give some sign to her now. But they might see. “You stupid human,” I say roughly. “Must I test it for myself?”

“Yes,” whispers Gretel. “Test it yourself.”

I walk to the shelf and take down the carved wooden bowl she loves so much. I turn and look her straight in the eye.

She stares at me, unblinking, almost not breathing.

I walk to Gretel and hold out the bowl. She makes no move to take it. There is tragedy in her face. I place the bowl at her feet. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but I touch my finger to her lips and hold it there, until her lips are so cold and numb, she will not be able to speak for several minutes. Her eyes are luminous and wet. They call to me. I dare not answer their call.

I open the oven door and lean in. The noise of the fire is a symphony to my ear. I count the tongues of the flames to pass the time. What is keeping the child? I lean in farther.

“What are you doing?” asks the voice in my head.

I lean farther into the oven. I must not think about the devil’s question. I must hear only the loud fire. The heat is palpable. My face and chest part it with effort.

“What are you doing?” The voice within me is angry. “Your body can burn, mindless witch! Don’t be fooled by the lack of pain. Beware! Do not lean any farther.”

I empty my mind. Farther. I lean farther. I am almost crawling into the oven. Each second drags. I wait and wait. How long can I keep my mind empty? My eyelashes scorch.

And now I feel a tug at my cloak. Is the child trying to pull me back? Has she failed to comprehend, after all?
I shrug her off brusquely. The girl persists. I put my hand back, and my fingers close over Gretel’s fingers. Hers slip away instantly, and I am clutching my rough cloak circled around a lump. I do not know what it is, but I can feel it strain to fly from me. I hold tight; my grip is iron.

Gretel pushes me in at last, strong and efficient. She shuts the door behind me with a sacred slam.

“Change!” screams the voice in my head. “Change into the salamander of vermillion! Change, you stupid, cowering midwife.”

The heat, true to form, brings me no pain. I watch as my skirt and blouse catch fire. The lambent flames dance across my body. They lick my hair into flickers of light.

“You are damned! Don’t you dare burn up! Change into the salamander! Change right now!”

I can hear Gretel screaming in the kitchen. She is screaming and screaming. Her cry is: “Mother!”

I pull the lump from where the folds of my skirt have turned to ash. The amethyst glows rich, royal purple. It no longer resists my touch. I draw a magic circle around myself with this final gift from the girl child. Then I raise the amethyst to my cheek. A tear glistens on the gem, then sizzles into steam. It was my own tear. Oh, miracle tear!

I can cry. And now I am crying for joy. Hallowed be hope, after all. I am crying with rapture. I am dying. Dying into the waiting hands of God.

I am dying.

Oh, glorious death.

I am dying.

Dying.

Free.

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