Chapter 3 Hansel
Chapter Three
Hansel
The fog is so thick I can hardly see Gretel at the doorstep.
She’s mostly a shadow, looking smaller, somehow, than she used to look.
Not that Gretel was ever tall. But she used to stand up straighter.
She didn’t look so afraid. We were only kids and life hasn't been kind to either of us. Her timid nature is evidence of that.
I feel for her. She’s fucking terrified and I haven’t seen her like that since… The memories assault me and I’m taken back there, for only a moment before I shut it down. The witch is dead. We aren’t children anymore. And she needs to know it’s over.
If only it was a nightmare, one I’ve spent years attempting to wake from.
As I watch her stare off down the road as if the witch is waiting for us, all of the feelings I’ve spent years suppressing rage inside of me.
Last time I let my feelings get the better of me, we ended up in that witch’s house, and it ruined our lives. Not just ours.
I bristle at the thought.
I’ve already got the wagon ready. The horse is harnessed. I spent half of the night awake, thinking of Gretel in the next room, tossing and turning like the teenager I used to be.
I’m not that boy anymore. And she’s not that girl who longed for laughter and adventure. Life didn’t want her spirit so bright.
“Ready?” I call, hating that this is what brought us together again.
“Yes,” she answers, though just from her tone, I can tell she doesn’t want to do this. She’s already having regrets.
Gretel needs to know she’s wrong. She needs to understand that we killed that witch, and the fog has nothing to do with us.
This curse is steadfast but it doesn't’ mean the witch lives.
She burned in that oven. Her stench ever present if only I think of the dreadful day.
The scream… it haunts me and I imagine it haunts Gretel as well.
Gretel comes to me, her steps tentative, and I hold out my hand to aid her into the wagon.
The wood is old and creaks, but it will keep us warm for the journey.
It’s hard to imagine we went by foot as children.
I’ve taken the path so many times since, from hatred and fueled by pain.
My chest is hollow as I think of going one last time.
One last time and this time, I’ll burn that whole house down.
And what would that mean for the two of us?
Gretel glances up at me, then puts her hand in mine. I force myself not to make a sound. Her hands are just as delicate as I remember, but strong, too. I want to hold her hand. I want to hold it like we did so many times before.
I don’t. I boost her up onto the step and steady her while she climbs over and sits on the bench seat.
“Hup,” I say, my voice carrying out in the fog as I lift the reins. The horse hears, and trots forward.
The wooden wheels are loud on the street, which is part cobblestone, part dirt. I feel every jolt as we bump away from my father’s house. The clatter of the wheels echoes in my ears.
I try to stare straight ahead; I can’t help but to search the fog for any sign of movement.
Each heartbeat of mine is heavy and thumps loudly in my ears.
It’s hard to see anything but the outlines of buildings and hints of doors and windows.
Once or twice, I see someone’s shadow in a window, but that could be a trick of the light.
It’s early morning and we’ve got a long way to go. So far silence is our only company.
Gretel says nothing as we leave the village. The cobblestones give way to dirt, and the sound of the wheels doesn’t rattle back at us anymore. It disappears into the fog.
Thin snowflakes spiral down from a sky we can’t see. It’s probably as white as the fog, and just as chilling. I blink a few flakes out of my eyes. They’re sharp. Not like the fluffy snowdrifts of my childhood at all.
I wanted to go out in it, then. I wanted to make snowballs and build a snowman and catch the snow on my tongue. I wanted to chase Gretel and watch her cheeks go pink.
Now all I want is to be inside. Warm by a fire. Safe.
Alone. Not chasing demons I’ve long since killed.
The cold and the silence are worse with Gretel sitting at my side.
I try to tell myself I don’t care, but I do.
This isn’t how our last time together should be.
This is our last time together. I swallow thickly at the thought.
Once we return to the village, she’ll leave me once again. She can go back to whatever life it is she’s made for herself and leave me out of it.
It shouldn’t hurt so much to imagine that.
It’s not as if I asked her to come here.
But out here, in the oppressive fog and the bitter cold, it makes my heart ache like I just lost her all over again.
For a moment, a small moment, I want to ask her to not leave so quickly this time. Just stay a moment.
It’s the memories that make it hardest of all.
We could always talk before. If we ran out of things to do, we could lie on our backs on a hill and watch the clouds roll overhead for hours, talking about whatever crossed our minds.
I could always think of something new to tell Gretel, or ask her, or wonder about with her.
The farther we get from town, the colder it gets, and the more my heart aches. It’s going to be a long day if it hurts more like this with every mile.
We bump along behind my horse. My hands are cold in the gloves, which need to be thin so I can work the reins.
I’m surprised when Gretel inches toward me on the bench.
I don’t mean to stiffen at her touch, but I do. She lets out a short breath, like she’s disappointed, but doesn’t move away.
Maybe she just needs a scrap of human comfort and warmth. The thought settles something in my chest although I can’t place it.
I’m the only one here to give her warmth. It doesn’t mean anything that she’s come closer. She’s only here to make sure the witch is dead. She didn’t come back for me. And why would she? When surely I remind her of what happened… I know she reminds me of–
“Is the fog getting thicker?” she asks, cutting off my thoughts.
“I can’t tell,” I answer bluntly and she shifts slightly. I nearly second guess myself.
It’s better than silence. I feel like I’m holding my words in my fists. I can’t loosen them. They’re practically frozen and my movements paralyzed.
For a while afterwards, I try to figure out whether the fog is getting thicker ahead of us. Is it warning us away, or trying to entice us into a mystery?
Or is it doing nothing of the kind, because it’s only fog?
It’s only fog. Gretel will see.
She stays close as we go. When she’s touching me, even through all our layers and on this hopeless trip, it makes it easier to breathe. Her weight is gentle against my side and I find myself wanting more. Needing more of her leaning against me. Wanting me to provide for her.
With nothing much to look at in the fog, my mind begins to wander.
Back to that night.
Back to the witch's house.
Back to everything that happened there.
“There will be an answer in the house,” Gretel says softly. “I know it.”
I make a sound in the back of his throat. The memories feel like a hard lump. “That's what the witch said.” We will answer for what we did to her.
"That's not all she said,” Gretel reminds me, her voice low and full of fear.
“I know.”
I've thought of it so many times. She cast that spell before her last breath.
I think of the witch again when Gretel’s elbow presses a little harder against mine.
I don’t have to do much to guide the horse around what must be a curve in the road, but I lean into Gretel anyway, letting the touch grow warmer.
I wish I could wrap my arm around her and comfort her as if the spell was being cast now.
The witch’s words repeat in my mind. I’ve never been able to forget them.
The most powerful of magic will claim you both, you’ll see.
You cannot escape what is destined, so mote it be.
For days and weeks, the witch’s threat left me with dread. But it faded with time as I grew older. There was only the witch.
She wanted to scare us. Ruin our lives. Fill us with fear as her final dying wish.
I shake my head, letting out a low scowl.
"What is it?" Gretel asks.
"Nothing," I say.
How am I supposed to tell her that I can’t get that night out of my head? That I dream about it all the time? That all I want to do is forget? The curse might not be real, but what happened to us is very real.
A shape appears in the fog.
"Look," I say, grateful for a distraction.
Gretel looks in the direction I nod to. The shadowy figures of the old barns are barely visible in the fog. She swallows hard, knowing as well as I do that those are the last buildings on the outskirts of the village. Passing them feels like a point of no return.
We can turn back, I remind myself. We can always go home again.
Except there is no home. Not the way it used to be. Not since everything happened.
“The fires.” Gretel moves even closer as she speaks. I don’t want to talk about the destruction that came to our village, but she steels herself. “She made them happen.”
“She was dead.” The witch didn’t do those things. It was bad luck. I lean forward a little, trying to see through the fog. Doesn’t help.
Gretel looks ahead, too.
I can see my horse’s mane, but not much farther. My whole body is sore from how tense I was all night. I wanted to go to her, even if it wouldn’t fix anything.
"How do you explain them, then?" Gretel asks. "All the bad things that happened to our town.”
So much happened.
When we got back from the witch's cottage, we told everyone who would listen. At first we were met with skepticism but when we cried and showed the scars and brought them back to the house, fear spread like the wildfire would.