Chapter I.1 #3
“Yes.” Her father’s hand closed around the wish, hungrily, hiding it from Greta’s view as soon as the witch placed it on his palm. “I’ll go now.”
At those words, Hans charged through the gate, and Greta after him, her tangled hair flying behind her. She was grateful to the witch, and knew she ought to thank her for the berries, but she was so relieved that her papa’s business was done. That they would get to go home. She would be safe.
Her father’s cheeks twitched as she paused, panting, before him, but the witch let out a sharp laugh. “You’re a wild little thing, aren’t you? Part chicken now?”
Greta patted her hair, searching for where the feather had ended up in her mad dash. “Thank you for the raspberries.”
“Wild, but with good manners. I can tell you enjoyed them.” The witch snorted. “They’re all over your face and hands. We’ll have to wash you up.”
That didn’t make sense, so Greta ignored it, which was easy to do because Hans unexpectedly knelt down and whispered in her ear. “Stay close to me.”
Confusion thrummed in Greta’s blood, and with every heart beat, it inched closer to another emotion. One she didn’t want to acknowledge but that wouldn’t be denied. The fear she’d felt in the garden nipped at her insides like the raspberries had grown teeth in her stomach.
When Hans stood, her father was already heading down the path toward home, and her brother—his mouth was thin with determination. He took a step toward their father.
So did Greta. “Wait, Papa!”
He turned, slowly, an unsettling expression on his face. “Greta, you need to stay,” he said. And then, speaking over her shoulder. “Tell them.”
A hand landed on Greta’s shoulder. “You will stay with me, child.”
The witch’s voice was not cruel, but it was the witch’s voice. Fear sharpened into panic, dizzying and choking. Greta pulled away, and suddenly Hans had her hand again. He yanked her toward him and took off, running like his life depended on it, dragging her with him.
Greta stumbled, unable to match his longer strides, and Hans’s hand slipped from her grasp. She picked herself up in a heartbeat, barely noticing the pain in her haste to escape.
“Greta, come on!” Several steps ahead, her brother turned, and his face was white and sweaty with fear.
He waved an arm behind him as he sprinted, urging her along, but he didn’t slow down or reach for her a second time.
Somehow, their father was already vanishing in the distance, and Hans was caught in the middle, unsure what to do. “Hurry!”
“Hans, wait! Papa, wait!” Her lungs burned as she ran, and her shouting slowed her down.
Hans’s steps faltered for a moment, and Greta had hope she might catch up, but then he was off again, yelling at her to move faster (sounding so much like their father), and she could see why.
The forest path was fading before her eyes as though it had never existed at all.
The trees and shrubs closed in on where there had once been a road of dirt, swallowing the trail of pebbles.
No, no. No. This couldn’t be happening. She was going home, too. She didn’t want to stay. She needed to leave, to be safe. Where had her father gone? Why wasn’t Hans waiting for her?
“Greta!” She could hear her brother somewhere through the trees, calling her name repeatedly in a panicky pitch, but she could no longer see him ahead. “Where are you? Run faster!”
Greta screamed after him and kept running through the wooded maze, running where the path had been—where the path should have been—until the underbrush tangled her ankles and tripped her. The dappled sunlight made it hard to see through her tears as she climbed to her feet.
Hans’s voice grew fainter as the forest grew thicker around her. Darker. Over and over Greta yelled for her family, and finally the trees parted and …
She was back in the clearing. The cottage was in front of her, the garden on her right now. It was as though she’d run in a circle, but that made no sense.
And neither her brother nor her father were anywhere in sight.
Greta shrieked in frustration and took off through the trees again.
She was so turned around; she didn’t know which direction led toward home anymore.
The forest was moving, blocking and corralling her, trapping her in a cage with bars made of tree trunks and branches made of spears to keep her pressed within them. Even the birdsong had gone quiet.
No matter how long or hard she searched, not a single white pebble revealed itself to guide the way.
Her nose ran and her lungs ached, and thorns poked through her stockings.
Branches snagged her hair. And yet she never got far.
The path never returned. Every time Greta thought she discovered an opening through the woods, it was always the cottage that eventually appeared in the distance.
Only the cottage. Always the cottage. She couldn’t escape it. She couldn’t escape.
Greta screamed for Hans and received no answer. His voice was now as lost as she was. She couldn’t recall how long it had been since she’d last heard him yelling for her.
Fear drove her a little farther until her legs gave out and defeat won, and she collapsed to her knees near a bush sprouting cheerful pink flowers. She crawled beneath its bark-like branches and cried until her eyes ran dry and burned like ashes.
The witch wouldn’t let her leave, and there was nowhere to go anyway. There was no more home. Now she knew what her father had traded for his wish, and that was worse than the fear. That hurt more than the rawest of bloodied knees or a thousand thorns clawing at her skin.
Greta shrieked with all the rage and betrayal a five-year-old body contained, a scream that tore her lungs from her throat and carved scars into her heart. Then exhausted, she crumpled into a ball in the dirt.