Fairly Wicked Tales (43 page)

If only he weren’t so particular about his food! He did
not
know how to properly care for himself. If not for her devotion, he would have continued glutting himself until he blew up like a country hog, or alternately starved himself to skeletal thinness.

He’d been quite plump when she assumed control from the house’s previous owner. The crone had been busy fattening him up and greedy little boy that he’d been, he’d eagerly devoured the gumdrops and honey cakes and other sweets—the only things the old woman allowed him to eat. She herself had been in no danger of gaining weight. Her lot was invariably a meager meal of shriveled vegetables long past their prime, some grisly meat of heaven knew what origin, and dry cheese. Better fare than Stepmother had provided at home, but not by much. The one thing always in plentiful supply, though, were baked goods.

How the old woman had loved her oven! In the end, of course, it had proven her undoing. But during those early months of their captivity, she and her brother had tasted of cakes and cookies and tarts fit for a prince’s table. Even when she’d grown to despise the pastries and could no longer stand even the sight of the sugary treats of which their captor seemed most fond, there was still the savory bread of which she never tired. And what wondrous bread it had been! Wheat and rye and seed; hearty black bread; rich, rustic brown bread and some rare loaves of such whiteness she would have sworn the witch had added bits of chalk to the batter.

Of course, there had always been the gingerbread. Sheets and sheets of gingerbread. Piles of loaves of gingerbread. Every day brought a new batch from the oven. Very shortly, she grew heartily sick of even the smell of gingerbread for the witch had assigned her a most important task and had made it abundantly clear that failure would bring about dire consequences. It was Gretel’s job, and hers alone, to keep the exterior of the house in good repair.

Her other duties were onerous as well. Rising from her bed even before the birds awoke, she spent the hours in the early morning darkness hauling pails of water from the well until the huge caldron the witch used to brew her potions and her stews was filled. She stacked cords of wood next to the massive oven so the flames beneath would not die down and send the witch into a rage should her baking be ruined. Then, she tended the small vegetable garden behind the house, weeding and making sure the plants were properly staked. Afterwards, not so much for the witch’s benefit but more for the sake of herself, her brother, and any other captives who might be in temporary residence, she swept and scrubbed for several hours.

Before they had arrived, the old women seemed not to have cared if the house was filthy inside but Gretel could not stand the ordure. The gobs of fat splattered on the hearth disgusted her, the swarms of flies hovering over shreds of charred skin and cracked bones that the witch had tossed aside made her stomach churn, the over-fed spiders lurking in their webs under the eaves made her shudder. She knew it had been her fastidiousness that had saved their lives for so long. While the witch would never have stooped to cleaning up after herself, she seemed to have found she liked living in better kept surroundings. Besides, her labors kept her thin and thin children held no interest for the witch.

Thus, the duty of keeping up the outside of the house had been thrust upon her. In the afternoons, Gretel found herself patching the roof with slabs of gingerbread and a bucket of sweet frosting to hold each floury shingle in place. Even as she toiled, the forest birds would descend upon the roof and briskly set to pecking up crumbs, immediately undoing much of the work she’d just finished. Or perhaps a window sill had been set upon by the ants which moved from window to door to window and back again, attracted by the spun-sugar panes of glass. Local chipmunks and squirrels often feasted upon the fence posts, carrying off the peppermint and gum drop decorations. Once, a bear cub invaded the front yard and partially devoured a little garden bench with a gingerbread frame and honey-cake cushions.

But most of the repairs were made with gingerbread. Underneath the spun-sugar, the icing mortar, the candy knobs and lemon drops used for decoration, the chocolate swirl trim, underneath it all was a coating of gingerbread. During the hot days of summer, the spicy baked dough softened and refused to hold its shape. Weeping tears of frustration, Gretel would slap futilely at it, cramming fistfuls of the stuff into holes under the eaves, grimacing at the way the overly-sweet dough clung to her hands and clogged the spaces between her fingers, with the overpowering stench of ginger and cinnamon and nutmeg filling her nostrils and clinging thickly to the back of her throat until she felt she would vomit. For her, the spicy bread symbolized their predicament and she loathed it more than she’d ever before hated anything in her life.

Once the witch was gone, gingerbread had been the first thing Gretel removed from Hansel’s diet. He’d been plumper than a partridge himself by then, having eaten nothing but candy and cakes for so long. Greedy little boy that he was, he objected strenuously. He’d even, in his outrage at being denied his treats, said some very unkind things to her—especially after she refused to let him out.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly free him while he looked like that! Hansel had always been an extraordinarily handsome boy; everyone in their village said so. Were they to try to return to their previous home now, she’d practically have to wheel him through the forest on a cart. No, she’d decided, she’d first have to slim him down a bit, a process he was steadfastly against.

She next denied him candy and he grew sulky. How he wailed with outrage when she first brewed him a nice, nourishing vegetable soup. He flung the bowl to the ground and demanded something sweet. Adamant, she refused. She appealed to him, telling him how she’d labored in the little garden for his benefit, tending the carrots and potatoes by hand, showing him the blisters. He’d scoffed at her. Certainly, she couldn’t let him starve and yet she could not bring herself to allow him more sugar. One day, while cleaning the oven of the seared remains of the witch, an idea occurred to her—meat.

Even while they lived with Father and Stepmother, meat had been a rare treat. Father was far from poor and could easily have afforded it but his second wife was stingy where her step-children were concerned. It was only when one of the servants would take pity on them and sneak them a few morsels of fatty gristle meant for the yard dogs that they would have even a bit. Hansel had always loved the taste.

At first, she seemed to have reached a compromise with her brother insofar as his nourishment was concerned. He’d eat his vegetables so long as she also supplied him with meat. He continued to voice his desire for candy and cake, but in return for the luxury of meat every day, he cooperated to an extent. He sometimes clamored for something sweet but, after becoming the victim of his sister’s violent reaction when he demanded gingerbread, his griping was reduced to a more or less constant but low-key fearful grumbling.

Then, Hansel grew clever. He wheedled and whined about his cage, claiming he also needed exercise to help him lose the weight. She suggested he run in place and was pleasantly surprised when he tried to do so. For more than a week, Hansel lumbered back and forth across the cage, his huge stomach jiggling as he made what appeared to be a valiant effort. It was very difficult for him and she was pleased and impressed by his seeming cooperation—but not so pleased, fortunately, that she abandoned all thoughts that he was simply trying to lull her suspicions. As a test, she allowed him to convince her he could be trusted to use the outhouse instead of the chamber pots she provided. Pretending to be taken in by his sincerity, she set him free and helped him stagger outside, whereupon he immediately latched on to the front porch railing and began to devour it.

Hansel cackled madly while he ripped off chunks of the gingerbread posts and shoved masses of icing into his mouth, groaning with delight and barely chewing the cake in his eagerness to get it down. He kept a veritable death-grip on the candy railings and, even after she’d managed to pry his fingers free, he simply dropped to the floor of the porch to make himself into deadweight, eating the entire time. As his bulk was still considerable, she had great difficulty getting him back into his cage. Her heart broke once he was locked in again and she saw the injuries she’d been forced to inflict. But, she’d had no choice if she wanted to protect him from himself.

He lay there, groaning for a while. Then he raised a tear-stained face and, with a sudden horrified dawning of understanding in his eyes, his chest lurched and he was profusely sick. Chunks of undigested cake, half chewed pieces of candy and great gobs of icing interspersed with bits of gumdrops spewed from his mouth in a steaming mess while his body heaved and lurched with the force of his vomiting. It continued for several moments and, when he finished and his stomach must have been completely emptied, Hansel went mad.

Instantly, she realized the problem. While she was rolling him back through the kitchen, he must have had a glimpse of what hung in the larder. She burst into tears and tried to explain but her brother’s tantrum was like a storm’s wild wind in the forest, a wind which rips the branches from the tallest trees, uproots them and hurls them to the ground. He railed at her for some time, cursing her with words no boy of his age should know until, finally exhausted, he collapsed onto the floor in the puddle of his own sickness and sobbed quietly.

Thereafter, he began to refuse all nourishment whatsoever. She tried to force some broth down his throat but his great bulk lent him strength. In the end, she had to secure him to the butchering table and use some of the witch’s tools to pry his mouth open. In the process, she feared she had injured him again and she was both furious at herself and desolate that she should ever be the source of his hurts. Eventually, of course, hunger took control but, even then, he would eat only vegetables. As the witch’s garden had not been very large to begin with, the meager rows of neatly planted carrots, greens, onions and the rest would soon be depleted.

Worse, though Gretel prided herself on her industry in having learned to cook, she initially had no idea how to bake. It was all very well to try and follow recipes but she soon discovered baking was more than a mechanical task; it was also an art, the secrets of which the old lady had jealously guarded for herself. For Gretel to have gone near the oven, other than to clean it or to tend the fire, would have meant immediate harsh punishment, if not death. In the beginning, the results were discouraging. Everything she tried to bake emerged from the oven as an inedible, hard mass of gluey congealed flour or burnt black as tar.

Her husbandry lacked in other areas as well, and she feared her brother might suffer for it. Although she knew well how to weed and tend a garden and harvest its bounty, she had not a clue as to how or when to plant. She dug holes and filled them with seeds, watering daily and weeding dutifully. But nothing sprouted and, when she dug up some of it, she found the seeds had gone moldy. The several fruit trees in the tiny orchard behind the house had potential. But just before the fruit was ready to be picked, flocks of birds descended and stripped the branches bare. In desperation, she gathered the half-rotten fallen fruits from the ground and threw them, bugs, bird droppings and all, into the big cauldron to boil but the concoction was so vile that, even as hungry as he was, Hansel could not keep it down.

She, of course, kept up her own strength by finishing off what was left of the witch. But as to her brother, even when she forced him to eat the meat, he would inevitably vomit everything within minutes. Gretel even tried binding his mouth shut with rags after each feeding in the hopes it would help him to keep his food down. But he retched and strained anyway and she had to remove the gag for fear he would choke on his own vomit.

Weeks passed and turned into months. The vegetables were gone. The fruits were gone. The pantry shelves were bare. When she finally gave in and resolved herself to allowing him some cake or candy from the house, she found it was too late. The forest creatures had been busy; what the rabbits and squirrels and such had not devoured, the birds had carried away. Ants and other insects finished the job. The Gingerbread House had been scoured almost clean to the wood of its frame.

After much effort, she managed to fix up some little cakes by eschewing the oven completely and instead frying up a mixture of flour and water in some of the witch’s fat while Hansel tossed and turned in troubled sleep. The next day, he ate them without making a fuss and she was encouraged a bit before succumbing to a bleak sense of inevitability. So long as the flour and fat held out, perhaps her brother would not starve. But he certainly could not remain healthy on such a diet.

And so, Gretel came to a decision. Hansel panicked at first when she told him she would be leaving him alone for a few days. He was convinced she would never return and he would starve to death, trapped in his cage. He begged and pleaded with her to stay or, at least, to release him—which she knew she could not do. Her tears were as copious as his at the thought of being separated from her dear, sweet brother, even for the few short days that she intended. But, she explained to him, she
must
leave to seek out food that he could bring himself to eat if he were not to starve. He still refused to see reason. So, with a heavy heart at causing him so much pain and sorrow, but with the strength of her resolution, she placed a basin in the cage so he would not want for water, provided him a chamber pot, locked the cottage door behind herself, and set out on her quest.

At first, she considered trying to find the village where they had grown up but, after all this time, she was unsure of which way to go. Though she’d often heard tales that witches, ogres, giants and similar evil creatures always kept a secret cache of silver and gold hidden somewhere within easy reach, Hansel and Gretel had not been so lucky. Their witch seemed to have been concerned only with sugary treats. Without gems or coin to spend, there was little chance she could buy food and, though she was a strong young woman from her household labors, she was not fleet enough to get away after stealing. She had no idea what she would do once she found her destination, but she had always been a resourceful girl and she had no doubt some inspiration would occur to her at the eleventh hour as had so often happened before.