Marlene's Revenge (Gretel #2)

by Christopher Coleman

  Anika, Noah, and Oskar walked single file behind the dwarf, heading toward the home of the woman who had fed them the night before. It was she, Anika assumed, who would act as the liaison between Anika and this village doctor. As they reached the house, however, and then continued walking, Anika realized this was not to be the plan at all.

  The small man walked past the house and continued for several blocks until they were outside the most populated areas of the village. These outskirt areas were as quiet as the village center was bustling, and Anika observed only one old man sitting like a sculpture on a stool and a few stray chickens bobbing and pecking in the street. From the outskirts, they continued walking until, within only a few minutes, they were beyond the boundaries of the village altogether.

  It was amazing, Anika thought, how only a few steps beyond the outer roads of the village and suddenly there was no sign that a village existed anywhere at all. There were no indicators—no signs or outposts—that could have directed anyone traveling nearby in the proper direction. There was just dense forest and wilderness. It was no wonder these people went unnoticed by most of the world; it was as if the village had spontaneously sprouted up in the middle of nowhere.

  The dwarf was manic as he led them thorough the overgrowth, saying almost nothing along the way other than a few one- or two-word exchanges with Oskar. The man was small, but his movements were quick and sharp, and he knew exactly where to turn within the woods, despite the lack of any real path or significant landmarks from what Anika could tell.

  “Where are we going?” Anika finally spoke up. “Oskar, ask him.”

  “I ask. He just say, ‘Bosomari.’ Time to talk.”

  “Yes, I got that part. I asked where we’re going.”

  Oskar just shrugged.

  “Noah, do you know where we are?” Anika asked, remembering the language barrier just as the words came out.

  “Oskar, translate please.” But Oskar was too far ahead now and had followed the path around a thicket of trees. Anika grumped.

  “I don’t know where we are now. I only know the way to the village.”

  Noah’s voice was clear, articulate, almost scholarly, Anika thought.

  “Noah! How can you…? This whole time…? Why haven’t you been speaking to me?”

  “I’m here as your guide; that’s all.”

  “You communicate much better than Oskar! I could have left him behind and maybe gotten a few more hours of sleep at night. And saved some money!”

  Noah smiled. “I can speak your language, Ms. Morgan. I cannot speak whatever language these people speak. I assure you, we’d not be on the path we’re on currently if not for Oskar.”

  “I’m not so sure that would be a minus.”

  Anika settled in to the revelation of Noah’s language quite easily, having always suspected there was more to him than he was letting on. She’d always felt comfortable around him, despite his distance, and she wouldn’t be surprised to find there was more about him yet that she didn’t know.

  “I don’t understand where we could be headed. The village—with all those people—how can that not be the right place?”

  Noah just shrugged.

  Anika had lost sight of Oskar and their tiny leader, and broke into a half jog to catch up. As she made her way around a bend of trees that nearly looped back on itself, she came within inches of barreling over the miniature pathfinder and toppling them both to the ground. He and Oskar were standing in front of a wall that was covered ivy. There was a narrow opening through which Anika could see a group of men standing. They looked calm, peaceful, almost disinterested in the presence of the strangers who’d come upon them.

  “Hal bosomari,” the man said. “Chime tup.”

  “It’s time for talk,” Oskar relayed once again. “They wait for us.”

  Anika looked at Noah—her newfound comfort in this place of foreign things and people—but he only stared ahead, drifting back into his role of silent guide.

  “Okay then,” she said. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  Chapter 22

  Gretel instinctively reached for her crotch, wrapping her hand around the pistol that nested there.

  “Who is that, Gretel?” Hansel whispered. “Is that her? It has to be, right?”

  “I don’t know. Stay quiet.”

  Gretel slipped the gun past her waistband and raised it above the water line, trying to shake it dry with slow motion flicks of her wrist, as if doing so would repair any water damage that had been sustained over the past several minutes.

  The canoe approached rapidly and was now less than thirty yards from Gretel. She swam in front of Hansel protectively and reached back with her free hand to feel him, to make sure he was still with her.

  She wanted to shout at the boat, to threaten the intruder with her gun, but her instincts told her there wasn’t much benefit in that. If the assailant hadn’t seen them, then Gretel’s hollering would only give away their position, and if it was the witch, informing her that she had a weapon would take away that advantage as well.

  The canoe was almost upon them now, and Gretel pulled back the hammer of the pistol slowly as she aimed the gun straight ahead, holding it with both hands, using all the strength left in her thighs to tread water with her feet alone.

  “Gretel?” The voice sounded frightened, distant. It wasn’t the witch. The voice was male.

  “Who is that?” Gretel released the hammer and lowered her hands and the gun back into the water.

  “Gretel? Gretel, it’s Petr!”

  “Petr? Petr! What are you doing out here?”

  Petr pulled the arms of the oars toward him and shut down the canoe directly in front of Gretel, instinctively reaching for her hand. “Hansel? What are you two doing out here? When did you get back?”

  “Just a few hours ago. We called from the docks. We called your house and no one answered.”

  Petr lifted Gretel under her arm until she was far enough up the side of the canoe to pull herself forward, and then they both helped Hansel inside.

  “What’s wrong, Petr?” Gretel asked, ruffling the water from her hair. “You just came from there, right? I know something is wrong.”

  “I just got back here less than an hour ago. I’ve been away for a few days. I’ve been away a lot lately. I just got home and they were gone.” Peter sounded on the verge of panic now, like a worried parent. “I can’t remember the last time Georg and Amanda were both gone this late at night. I don’t think there’s ever been a time, not when I wasn’t with them.”

  “Has she been there?” Hansel asked, his voice elevating and cracking on the last word.

  Petr knew who ‘she’ was, and there was a silent recognition amongst the three children: the Witch of the North was alive, and they all knew it.

  “I don’t know for sure. But someone was there. The water was running and flooding over the sink onto the floor.”

  “She was there, Petr. Of course she was.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re in my canoe. How else would the canoe have gotten to the Klahrs? They’re in trouble, Petr. We have to find them.”

  Petr was silent for a moment, as if considering where that plan would begin. “Where is your mother?”

  “She didn’t come home with us. She’s…” Gretel paused, having to work to keep her eyes off Hansel. “She had some things to tie up. With our family. It’s a long story. But she’ll be coming home soon. Later this month, I think.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for? About the book or whatever?”

  “There’s a lot to discuss, Petr. I couldn’t start it now. But yes, we found out a lot. We should go back to the house now. To the Klahr’s. We’ll talk about everything later.”

  “Of course, I just…”

  “I know. I want to talk too, but let’s find out what happened here first.”

  The canoe glided into the muddied bank of the Klahr orchard, and Petr and Gretel hopped out
and pulled it up just past the waterline, as if they were a team that had practiced the move a thousand times. Gretel couldn’t help flashing a grin.

  “Okay, let’s not pretend anymore. We know she was here, so we have to look more specifically for some type of clue. Or something.”

  “Like what?” Hansel asked. His voice teetered on whiny, and Gretel ignored him.

  “What if she killed them, Gretel? What if Georg and Mrs. Klahr are dead?” It was Petr this time.

  Gretel didn’t follow up with Petr calling Mr. Klahr ‘Georg.’ “I don’t know, Petr. But…if they’re dead, then where are their bodies? You said you were inside, right? You would have seen them if she had…hurt them.” Gretel, even more than Petr, she believed, couldn’t imagine the thought of losing the Klahrs. Especially Amanda.

  Petr nodded and then gave a knowing look toward Gretel before averting his eyes toward the direction of the house.

  “What is it, Petr? What do you know?”

  Petr shook his head quickly, dismissing any encouragement Gretel may have seen burgeoning. “I don’t know anything, except that if she is alive—and it looks like she is—then she’ll want to find you. And your mother. Don’t you think so? To get her revenge, for sure, but also to finish making her…” Petr didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  “Of course, but what does that have to do with the Klahrs?”

  “She—the witch—knows you’ll come for them. If you suspect that she has them, then she thinks you’ll come for them.”

  “She’s right about that. But I don’t know where they’ve gone. How could I come for them?”

  Petr thought about it. “I don’t know.”

  The three entered the house through the basement door and then took the steps up to the main level. Gretel sloshed through the water that coated the kitchen floor and walked up to the sink, inspecting the counters. She opened cupboards and drawers, feeling nostalgia for this place, even under these circumstances, as she thought of her time in this kitchen, cooking and cleaning, following Mrs. Klahr in from the workers’ lunch table after setting out the midday meal. Those were the wonderful days, Gretel now realized, when her hours were filled with work and routine and rowing sessions on the lake. She didn’t have her mother then, so each day was stained with at least some residue of sadness, but it was during those days when she had discovered her true self.

  “Gretel look at this.” Petr commanded, snatching Gretel from her reverie. “I think this is blood.”

  Gretel walked to the bannister where Petr stood and examined the long purple streak that began on the top of the finial and draped down in a frozen cascade to the base of the stair board. Gretel considered sliding her finger through it, to test if it was indeed blood, but she thought better of it, not knowing exactly what she would do with the substance once her finger was caked with it.

  “It’s blood, right? Don’t you think?” Petr seemed fairly certain, but he wanted Gretel’s endorsement.

  Gretel nodded. “Yes.”

  “What should we do?”

  “We have to find her. Find them.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, Petr!” It was Gretel’s turn to panic now. Tears stung her eyes at the thought of Amanda and Georg Klahr tortured and killed by the monster she thought she killed only months ago. The blame she would carry due to her inability to follow through and verify the hag’s death began creeping into her thoughts.

  “Is your truck here?” Hansel asked. His voice was calm, measured.

  “What?”

  “Your truck. Mr. Klahr’s truck. Is it here?”

  “No, I told you, they weren’t here. They went out. Or they were already out. Or…” Petr was slowly unraveling Hansel’s point. “She took the truck? Do you think she took the truck?”

  “Well, if she didn’t, then where is she? Where are the Klahrs?” Hansel’s questions were rhetorical. “Someone took it.”

  “Oh my god,” Gretel whispered.

  “What is it, Gretel?” Petr whipped his head around, now overwhelmed by the information coming at him.

  “I know it now. I can feel it. They went to the cabin. And you’re right Petr, she wants me to follow them there. She’s starting the nightmare again.”

  Chapter 23

  The old woman smelled the System officer before he stepped out of the cruiser.

  She’d been kneeling on the floor, steeped in prayer, sending her gratitude and loyalty to this Life that had been provided to her, to the universe that had unfolded all of the riches of her being. Her existence had been a struggle over the past few years—a nearly mortal one at times—but she’d ultimately persevered, and now felt compelled to give thanks for those challenges. And it was Life that deserved all the credit.

  A tear streaked from the corner of the woman’s eye and wedged its way into her mouth, the salty water coating her large incisor. She spat it out and snarled, giving a wicked look toward the window through which the smell of the intruder had wafted. She’d come too far; she wasn’t ready to give up on her journey yet. Maybe she would never be ready.

  The woman had known all along the System would come, of course they would, but she hadn’t expected them this quickly. She and the Klahr woman had left the Back Country less than eight hours ago. By her own primitive calculations, she figured she’d have at least a few days alone with the woman before Petr Stenson came calling. Perhaps even more if the boy didn’t come home for several days, which, the woman had observed, wasn’t completely out of the question.

  But apparently, he had come home and wasted no time alerting the authorities to the absence of his guardians.

  But why would he have scrambled so quickly to contact the System? She never would have imagined the boy would turn to them with such haste. This wasn’t part of her strategy. She was depending on the boy’s cynicism, his wariness that the corrupt police force would see him as the main suspect in whatever crime was declared. The woman was almost certain he would hold back, at least for a few days, especially considering Officer Stenson’s well-documented fall from the good graces of the System. She always believed the boy himself would come to rescue his adoptive keepers, and from there, the woman would begin her torture.

  The witch tilted an eye through the curtain crack and watched the officer open the door and put his foot to the gravel. He stood and looked toward the house. He was tall and burly, with wide shoulders and a stiff jaw. But most alarming to the woman was that he projected a confidence that hadn’t quite existed in Stenson. Stenson was far from milquetoast, but this officer projected something more dangerous.

  The woman took note of the man’s demeanor and then quickly walked to the back room where Amanda Klahr lay semi-conscious, a loop of black iron clasped to her ankle. The chain was unnecessary at this stage, since the effects of the solution had rendered her helpless, but there was no reason for carelessness.

  “Who’s here?” Amanda grumbled. “Is that Petr?” The words came out in a sleepy panic, as if she were having a nightmare, speaking in protest to her own imagination.

  “No one is here,” the old woman said, disinterested, attempting to stay composed.

  “Petr! Stay away!” Her drugged whimper fell well short of the shout for which she was aiming.

  “Shut up! It’s not Petr!” the woman hissed.

  Amanda Klahr tried to rise, and feeling the tug of at her ankle, slapped at it as if a mosquito had landed near her foot. She moaned in despair and collapsed back to the bed.

  “Petr,” she said once more and then took a heavy breath before sliding into another bout of sleep.

  The woman glared at Amanda Klahr for several seconds, gauging the depth of her slumber, and then hurried back to the front room, carrying with her the wooden chair to which her prisoner had been strapped only hours earlier.

  The witch placed the chair beside her dining table and then sat with her back facing the front door of the cabin. She pulled up the oversized hood of her cloak and sighed, and then foc
used on calling forth the strength in her cells. She’d been sloppy again and had been caught off guard; there was nothing to do now but turn completely to the problem at hand.

  The first set of knocks was jarring, authoritative; three sharp wraps followed by a “Hello!”

  The woman stayed silent. She listened for the turn of the knob, followed by the sound of boot steps entering the cabin. As she waited, she did rudimentary calculations in her mind, measuring how many paces she would allow the man to take before unfurling her attack. Six seemed like the right number, maybe five if he started to get jumpy.

  Another set of knocks, followed by the painful creak of rusted door hinges.

  The woman breathed deeply and swallowed, eager now, waiting for the steps to begin. She’d positioned herself tall and narrow in the chair, and slightly off-center from the view of the doorway so that only her shoulder, perhaps only an arm, could be seen by someone entering. It was an enticement for the officer to come closer, as far as necessary to get a good look at the figure sitting in silence.

  The woman sensed the apprehension, the officer’s leeriness as he stalled at the threshold, treating the scene like the minefield it was. She was working hard at restraint, wanting nothing more than to spin and leap toward the arrestor, the pirate who had come to steal her life.

  “Hello?” the officer asked again, curious, perhaps not realizing she was sitting only a few feet away. She waited, her muscles tense, eyeball bulging, shifted left in its socket as if trying to look behind her without turning her neck.

  “I can see you there, so I know you can hear me. Are you going to answer me?”

  This wasn’t going at all as the woman expected, but she managed her composure and kept calm. She stayed seated, her head tilted slightly forward, demurring. “Yes?” she said finally. It was a breathy, sleepy noise, as if she’d just been drawn from a trance. Another layer to her trap.