The Magic Circle (9 page)

“I’m not stupid,” says Hansel.

“Putting bread crumbs in your pockets instead of stones was very stupid, Hansel. Your brain is pea-sized.” Gretel speaks with great audacity, I am thinking, for one who came so close to starvation’s door.

“What is this story of bread crumbs and stones?” I ask.

“Well, the first time our stepmother sent us out in the woods—”

“Our wicked stepmother,” says Hansel.

“Yes, our wicked stepmother,” says Gretel. “The first time, I told Hansel to fill his pockets with white stones. So he did. And all along the way we dropped white stones. That night, when the moon shone bright, we followed the white stones back home.” Gretel has spied a basket of onions in the corner. She takes one and peels.

“You should have seen the look on the witch’s face when we showed up the next morning,” says Hansel.

“Please, please,” I say, “don’t call her a witch. Just call her your evil stepmother.” And I am already wondering if this woman, so maligned, is truly a witch. But a witch would have more effective ways of disposing of unwanted children. So she is just one more wayward soul. I wonder what mistake she made, what crime of the soul she committed, to bring herself to the state of mercilessness that these children speak of.

“But the next afternoon when she sent us away again,” says Gretel, now chopping the onion with my only knife, “stupid Hansel here—”

“I’m
not
stupid.”

“He puts bread crumbs in his pockets instead of stones.”

“It takes time to gather that many stones,” says Hansel. His eyes water from the onion. I smile. This one is no use in the kitchen at all. I pull my small hand towel off the bowl of rising bread dough near the hearth and hand it to him. He dabs his eyes and walks over to the window.

“So the birds ate the crumbs, of course,” says Gretel. She wipes her hands on her skirt.

“You need an apron,” I say, as I shape the bread dough and put it on a flat pan. I open the oven in my hearth and slide in the pan.

Gretel looks down at the stains on her skirt. “I’ve slept in this for three nights now. It doesn’t matter how much dirtier it gets.”

I nod. She is a practical girl.

“Where’s the endive?” Gretel looks around the kitchen area as she talks.

“I have to cut it.” I take the knife from her and leave, walking quickly through the late-afternoon rays. I can see the moon rising already. It is a full moon of the new month. I walk to the corner of my garden just inside the marigolds. Without the marigolds, all my endive would be eaten by the rabbits. But the smell of marigolds protects it.

I look at the marigolds as if I’m seeing them for the first time. They are cheerful and simple. I make a pocket of my skirt and fill it with endive. Then I cut two sprigs of marigold. I march back.

Gretel’s shoes stand just inside the door. She is on her knees, helping Hansel take his off. She rises as I come in. I walk to her and weave a sprig of marigold into each of her braids.

“You will be a beautiful woman,” I say.

“I’ll settle for being good. Like you,” says Gretel.

I want to smile at her no-nonsense attitude. It is a pity
she didn’t have a beauty-loving mother like mine to soften her core, to open her to the pleasure around her.

Gretel walks to the window and catches the reflection of herself in the spun-sugar glass. “Still, flowers are a treat now and then.” She smiles and returns to the table.

I want to clap my hands with happiness at the evidence that this child is not yet so bound by her pastor’s strict warnings that she cannot enjoy beauty. But I don’t clap. She might think my happiness trivializes her efforts to be pious. I won’t risk alienating this fine child. She is working again already. I nod silently.

She soaks the endive in the water bucket. “And the chicken?”

Fear tightens its grip on my chest. “I have no meat.”

Gretel looks at me solemnly. “We got very poor in the last year. We had only what meat we could hunt. You are an old woman. You cannot be a good hunter.” She lifts her chin proudly. “Poverty and age are nothing to be ashamed of. We will use much garlic.” She takes fresh garlic from her pocket. “I found it in the woods. We’ve been chewing on it, to keep the evil spirits at bay.”

“And fennel, too,” says Hansel, holding up a limp stalk. “Mother said fennel helps in the night battles against the devils.”

I step back automatically. I have seen both plants growing wild in these southern woods. I have stepped around them with care. “Add the garlic and fennel to your own bowls once they are on the table. I am neither a garlic eater nor a fennel eater.” Then I move closer to Gretel and put my fingers on her cheek. “You are not just lovely to look at,” I say, “you are clever.”

“I’m clever, too,” says Hansel.

“That remains to be seen,” says Gretel.

“Don’t be hard on your brother,” I find myself saying, although I, too, don’t know if this boy is clever.

“Our mother always said that,” says Gretel, looking at me with guileless eyes. She smashes the garlic expertly and puts it on a plate on the table. She looks around. “Where are the hot pads?”

“Hot pads?” I say, feeling a small panic. I must be careful not to betray myself. I have been inured to the pain of heat ever since my brief hours as the salamander of vermillion in that birch grove those nine long years ago. Fire can eat my flesh, but it causes me no pain. I have no need of hot pads.

“I have to hang the soup pot on the hook in the fireplace.”

“But the pot isn’t hot yet,” I say, stupidly.

“Of course it’s not hot,” says Gretel, looking at me
curiously. “But the hook is hot. What if I touch it? Where are the hot pads?”

“Here,” I say, picking up an old towel from the small stack by the wall. “You can use this.”

Gretel takes the towel from me with a doubtful face. She sets the pot on the hook in the fireplace. Then she turns to me with a face bright from the heat of the fire. “Tomorrow we can catch a rabbit.” She smiles faintly. “I’m very good with a slingshot. There are not many foods better than roast rabbit.”

I give no answer. An answer will come to me in time, I know. For now, the danger is not immediate. I can let the child’s words pass.

We eat endive soup in quiet peace. I am careful to take the bread from the oven with the old towel, rather than my bare hands. The smell of the fresh bread is almost as good as its taste. The children eat ravenously. And soon even Hansel is washing up with us and sweeping and wiping the table.

The children are hiding yawns. I smile at their innocent politeness. “You must climb into bed now. Hurry and strip.”

Gretel shakes her head. “We’ve been sleeping in the woods and . . . and we’ve come to prefer the feeling of leaves underneath us.”

“We have not,” shouts Hansel.

“Yes, we have,” says Gretel firmly. “I’ll carry in some leaf piles and we’ll sleep in the corner.”

I am shocked, almost hurt. “Is there something wrong with the bed?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the bed,” shouts Hansel. “I’m sleeping in the bed.”

“No, you’re not,” says Gretel. “There is only one bed. It is for the Old Woman.”

I laugh. “Oh, Gretel, let me tell you a secret.” I lean forward and whisper. “I never sleep. I will be just as comfortable in the rocking chair all night.”

“You never sleep?” says Hansel, his eyes growing round.

“Never,” I say.

“Why not?” says Hansel.

“Don’t be nosy,” says Gretel, but her eyes are as round as his.

I am charmed by her protective behavior toward my privacy. It moves me to speak openly. “I am afraid of what may come to me in my sleep.”

Gretel stares at me.

“Our father had nightmares,” says Hansel.

“Yes,” I say to the boy, “nightmares. Many people suffer from nightmares.” I smile kindly. “To bed now.”

The children strip and climb into the rough cotton sheets I have woven myself.

“That bowl,” says Gretel, pointing, “did you make it?”

“Yes.”

She looks at the bowl with a flicker of longing. But the words that come out do not betray her desire. “It is a good size. It could have many uses.”

“I keep it empty,” I am saying. “I keep it pure.”

Gretel’s face lights up. “Yes, it looks pure.”

“Do you think it’s pretty?” I ask.

“Pretty? I suppose it is,” says Gretel thoughtfully. “But it is pure. That’s what counts.”

“Tomorrow,” I am saying, “tomorrow I will make a fresh batch of caramels.” I am thinking that I would love to feed this girl chocolate—the rich milk chocolate that Asa loved so much. But cacao beans are impossible to come by without going into a village store. Even making caramels means I must lure a farmer’s cow away from the herd so I can rob her of a bucket of milk. Almost nothing is without its risks. But I need to make Gretel candy. “Would you like fresh caramels?”

Gretel doesn’t answer, nor does Hansel; both children sleep already.

I quickly boil a vat of water. I collect their clothes and empty their pockets. I set Gretel’s wishbone on the table
beside the pile of odd sticks and beetle shells from Hansel’s pockets. I throw the clothes into the boiling water with peppermint leaves. After a while, I lift them out. I realize I am holding these scalding hot clothes in my bare hands. I look quickly over my shoulder to make sure the children have not seen. They are fast asleep. I must learn to be careful. I wring out the children’s clean clothes and hang them on a grapevine cord across the room.

Then I grab my broom and search carefully in every nook and cranny. I find a potato bug that must have traveled in with the last batch of beets. I take no chances, but throw it into the boiling vat. I find some ants, dining on crumbs from our dinner bread. I crush them. There are no other living creatures on the floor. Nevertheless, I open my jug of vinegar and splash the floor liberally. I get on hands and knees and rub the pungent acid into every floorboard.

My eyes scour the walls now. Nothing.

The ceiling. Nothing.

But, oh, what was that? I move closer. The delicate leg of a hairy spider protrudes from a niche between the logs near the ceiling. If I smash with the broom, the spider may pull itself entirely into the niche and escape. And who knows what powers that spider may answer to? I must entice the creature from the niche. I walk calmly
to the hearth and set down my broom. So long as no devil knows that these children are here, so long as no devil can speak within my head, these children may live here with me. I can take care of them. I have lived in isolation for nine long years. Surely it is time for me to have companionship again. We can be a family of sorts. After all, their stepmother is cruel beyond belief and their father is an obvious coward. They can’t be worse off with me. They can’t, so long as the devils do not know they are here. I must face that spider. If it has furious eyes, I must kill it.

I walk quietly to the wall below the niche where the spider hides. I get down on my hands and knees and examine the floor. I buzz lightly, like the sound of a fly in distress. I buzz on and on. I dare not look up at the wall. I buzz and keep my head lowered so that nothing above my head can see the source of the buzz. I buzz on and on. I can hear the spider’s breath-soft steps on the wall. It is a female spider. I sense her femininity. She is very close now. Her eyes burn into the nape of my neck.

I grab her with one swift move and gnash her between my teeth. I hesitate; then I spit her out. She is gone, like a whiff of dust. My tongue licks the bitter ash of instant death from my teeth.

T
he children are asleep in my bed. I stand over them and feel their breath curl around their cheeks. I marvel at the contrast of their dark lashes on their pink skin. I brush Gretel’s hair away from her temple, as I once did to Asa’s hair. I slide my index finger into a ring of Hansel’s hair. It is the first ring of sorts that I have had on my finger since that fateful ring of Spanish gold. Such a difference between the two rings. I blow Hansel’s ringlet off my finger. They are gentle children.

We have been living together here for four weeks. I know this by the cycle of moons. We are now back to a full moon. The children have adjusted quickly to a vegetarian diet, though they spoke at first of meat. I told
them that my religion forbids me to swallow flesh. They believe me. It is not far from the truth.

I am interested to learn that I can answer questions without being deceitful. Indeed, I have never yet lied to these children. I simply present only what they need to know. The rest is left hidden, hurting no one. That my answers are measured and not free does not render them knavish. Always have I understood perspective. Was it not this same perspective I employed so long ago when I responded to Bala’s questions about Asa’s father?

I am standing looking at my own hands. They have changed in the last month. They are covered with callouses from gripping the broom. I sweep our home many times each day, and when I sweep I hold on to that broom with a passion I can barely control. The skin around my nails peels back from the acid of the vinegar I pour generously on the shelves three times each day. There is not a single insect in this home. Not a single spider. This is a clean home, a home free of devils, a home fit for children.