Gretel

by Christopher Coleman

  The witch did nothing at first, standing completely motionless, and her pause seemed aggressive to Odalinde, calculating. And then, as if finally comfortable with the plan she’d formulated, the witch obeyed, and stepped away from Odalinde, slightly forward, toward the threat before her, her eyes remaining fixed on the man.

  “You know the children? Those two in her charge?” the witch asked. Her words sounded intrigued and pleased.

  “Be quiet!” Odalinde shouted from behind the woman, “You don’t know me, or anything about my children. You’re just that old fool from across the lake! Get out of here! This is none of your concern!” Odalinde tried to sound demented and fierce; she’d never met the Klahrs, but from what Gretel had no doubt told them about her over the last several months, the man was likely to be convinced of her madness.

  The witch moved quickly back toward Odalinde, like a large spider scurrying to a cricket, and, using a single hand, reached down and snatched Odalinde by the hair, standing her straight and positioning her to act as a shield.

  The moment for Georg Klahr to shoot was then, Odalinde knew, there wouldn’t be another opportunity. But the witch’s movements were lightning fast, and with the natural stress of the situation, combined with the incredulousness of the overall scene—including the dead body of his neighbor Mr. Morgan, bloody and shredded on the driveway—it was no doubt Mr. Klahr couldn’t squeeze the trigger. It was likely he would have missed, of course, or even shot the wrong target, Odalinde thought, but it was a chance, and though the woman was still at bay, in that few seconds the advantages had turned dramatically.

  “What do you know of the children who were here?” the witch said calmly.

  “I know I can see the older boy’s father’s cruiser parked there behind you,” Mr. Klahr replied in a similarly calm tone. “And I know if you make another move without being told, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Now tell me now about where I’d find that boy’s father.”

  “Why, I’d be happy to do more than that! I’ll take you right to him! I know just where he is!” The woman paused, and Odalinde could imagine the hate emitting from her eyes as she glared at Georg Klahr, a wide, mocking smile lifting her cheeks. “But I believe I asked you for some information first. You see, after I’m done slaughtering this one,” the witch glanced at Odalinde, who was stagnant, doll-like in the grip of the woman, “I’ll need to find those children. The siblings especially. I just have some questions, of course.” The woman’s voice then dropped an octave, becoming serious and threatening, as if she’d tired of the pretense. “And as she’s just reminded you, this has nothing to do with you.”

  “Well seeing as the children you’re so eager to talk with’s father’s corpse is growing cold behind you there, I’m thinking I won’t tell you where they’ve gone. No, instead, I’m going to leave it up to you to decide whether to release your claws from that woman right now, and then rest quietly until The System gets here, or to have this conversation end with your face full of buckshot and your brains scattered about this property for the scavengers to feed on. I don’t mean to rush you, ma’am, but I’ll need a decision soon.” Mr. Klahr’s tone was steely and the squint of his eye through the sight steady and focused. The next time the witch moved any faster than a tree sloth, the trigger would feel the squeeze. Odalinde knew it, and no doubt the witch did too.

  Odalinde could feel the woman’s breath and heartbeat quicken, and the grip on Odalinde’s neck tightened. The witch was ready to attack.

  Almost before the thought had formed in her mind, Odalinde felt herself lifted from behind as if a large condor had swooped down and snatched her in its talons. “Shoot!” was all she could manage to scream—though she couldn’t be sure it was audible—as she catapulted through the night, the woman attached to her from the back. They were barely two feet off the ground she guessed as they hurled directly toward Mr. Klahr. She could see the surprise in his stillness as they approached him, a frozen disbelief at what he was witnessing. Odalinde tried to scream again, but upon opening her mouth felt a pinch just above her collarbone. The last thing she heard before collapsing in the witch’s grasp, unconscious, was the sound of the shotgun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The narrow ledge that ran along the bank at the bottom of the lake had run out, and Anika was now forced to swim. She’d been fortunate to this point, and was now trying desperately to stay calm, positive, knowing her energy would deplete much more quickly if she let her thoughts descend into panic. But the gunshot had been close, and judging by the direction of the report, it had come from the other side of the lake. Anika didn’t want to admit it to herself, but if she’d had to guess, it had come from her house.

  The swimming had come naturally to this point and she’d felt remarkably capable in the water—she’d kept her strokes long and smooth, keeping her head above the surface and stopping every minute or so to tread water and rest. She’d make it, she now believed—based on her assessment of her strength and pace thus far, she’d make it. At least to the orchard. But once there—at the orchard—she’d have to stop and rest before heading home. Home—where a gun had been fired only minutes ago. Why was there a gunshot? Certainly no one was hunting in the dark, she could be sure of that, and knowing what she did now about her husband’s role in all of this, Anika’s mind invoked it’s most awful scenarios.

  She tried desperately to banish the thoughts and focus on the progress she was making, watching the stripe of moonbeam on the lake approach. But thoughts of tragedy became pervasive and soon merged with a weariness Anika never thought possible. Anika was now crying and coughing in fear. She stopped again to rest, to reign in her hysteria, but she was struggling now just to remain afloat, her arms were weakened by fear and exhaustion and her breathing was spastic.

  “Don’t panic!” she scolded herself, aloud. “You’ve come too far to die here!”

  She pushed off again, trying to breast-stroke her way forward, but was forced to stop almost immediately. Her energy was crippled now, and evidently Anika was much weaker than she’d believed herself to be. Adrenaline could fuel someone for only so long, she knew—at some point a person needed real strength and actual energy. And hers was spent.

  She stretched one leg as far down toward the bottom of the lake as possible, reaching with her foot and toes, hoping to feel the cold slime of the mud floor, indicating she’d be reaching the bank soon. But she felt nothing, and though she wanted to stretch farther, dipping her head under until she felt exactly how deep the water was, she decided against it, fearing she might never resurface.

  Anika’s eyes filled with tears, not at her impending death, but at her failure to complete her journey to find her children. To save them. Were they dead already? Every cell in her body told her no. So why couldn’t she summon the strength!

  She was now paddling laboriously at the surface, and her feet beneath were kicking down frantically, running and stepping furiously just to keep her nose above the water line. She stared out at the ribbon of placid moonbeam, coughing out the lake water that was now lapping over her lips and into her mouth. A beautiful night, she thought absently, the water in the distance as still as pavement.

  Anika’s nostrils filled with water, forcing another reflexive, gasping effort from her to stay alive. She pushed herself back above the water line, squeezing her eyes shut and snorting the water from her nose. And as she opened her eyes, Anika saw the beam on the lake waver, rippling only slightly at first, and then a bit more. A gust of wind, Anika thought though she’d not felt it herself. And then she saw the real source of the disturbance. It wasn’t a mirage—she wouldn’t allow herself to consider that possibility—it was real. There was only the tip of the vessel at first, and then a silhouette of oars, slapping machine-like at the water, blended into view.

  Anika filled her lungs with air in one last stab at survival, and then screamed, “Help me!” at the canoe cutting through the moonlight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The old
woman could feel the warmth of blood on her neck and face and instantly knew she was hurt—perhaps badly. It had been a dangerous strategy using the woman as a shield the way she had, but in truth, she hadn’t thought about it at all; the strategy had chosen her more than she it. It was pure instinct.

  But now, with the armed man in front of her preparing to reload his weapon, she needed to make a decision: attack again, unprotected and weakened—her new gliding ability was wonderful, but afterward left her temporarily exhausted—or retreat.

  Without looking back, the witch rose to her feet, stumbling badly at first but somehow maintaining her balance and began running to the back of the house and down the slope toward the lake. She kept her body crouched all the while, like a soldier avoiding sniper fire, and her eyes focused on the porch steps which would provide some measure of cover.

  The witch ran past the porch and grabbed one of the wooden steps, the momentum swinging her body left and underneath the open staircase. She paused for a moment, listening, and then continued down the gravel slope of the Morgan property toward the lake. If the man decided to pursue her, which she’d no doubt he would, she’d be trapped at the water’s edge. She had no aversion to swimming (in fact, she imagined, it was likely she’d now be quite adept at the activity), but even if she were as quick as a porpoise she’d be an easy target for a shooter on the bank.

  The woman stepped down onto the mud of the lake bank, noting the footprints of the children who had fled the property earlier—as well as the drag marks of the boat they’d set off in. In an attempt to limit visibility, she ducked low behind a clump of small trees that were skirted in a patch of ivy. And listened. But it wasn’t steps she heard, it was the sound of an old truck engine starting and the dusty growl of spinning tires. He was leaving, and seconds later, he was gone. Out of fear for himself or to return to protect the children he’d spoken of, the witch didn’t much care, she knew only that she was safe for the moment. And moments she could not waste.

  Her first thought was of the Orphist, Odalinde. She assumed she was dead. That the shotgun blast had ripped her apart; after all, she’d been hit—and hurt—how was it possible her human shield survived? But there had been no time to check to make certain.

  Reluctantly the woman raised her hand to her ear and neck, and, finding the source of her gruesome injury, winced with nausea. Her right ear was gone and her neck was missing a chunk, though apparently one not vital to her immediate survival since she wasn’t feeling the encroaching blackness of death’s approach that she’d felt in the past. She had the potion, of course, which would certainly heal her. The thought kept her calm for the moment, but she’d need to attend to her wounds soon.

  But first the woman. It was time for the woman—Odalinde—to die.

  The witch stepped from behind the tree cover and looked out across the lake at the orchard—the orchard owned by the man who had just attempted to murder her, she assumed—and mentally listed it as her next stop. It would be more difficult now—with the home fortified and the element of surprise now gone—but guns or not, she’d need to get to Gretel and Hansel. Perhaps there was a gun in the cruiser, she thought, certainly the officers kept weapons in the trunk. She wasn’t so confident as to count on it, but she hadn’t checked before, and securing her own arms was a possibility that was strong. If only she’d thought to take the officer’s weapon before leaving her cabin! But she hadn’t, and there was no point ruing the decision. And in her own defense, she’d never envisioned these difficulties. She had never counted on a struggle.

  She turned back to the house and took two steps up the slope toward Odalinde when she heard the scream.

  It was a scream she’d heard a dozen times before.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Gretel screamed in reply, reflexively, and slammed the oars to the water, adroitly rotating the canoe toward the sound. At first she didn’t believe what she’d heard—the ‘voice’— and decided it was nothing more than a combination of night sounds and her imagination.

  “Help me!”

  This time the voice was clear and belting, but also desperate, struggling. Drowning, Gretel thought.

  “Wait…wait for me. I’m coming!”

  Gretel dunked the oars and gave one long thrust. There was nothing but darkness in this direction, and she could easily row right over the floundering soul if she wasn’t careful. But her stroke was perfect, and Gretel saw immediately the shape bobbing just above the surface.

  “I’m here,” Gretel said nervously. “Give me your hand.”

  Without looking up, the drowning woman lifted a feeble hand from the water. Gretel grabbed it with one hand and with the other reached down past the thin woman’s elbow to her triceps, gripping it firmly. The woman reached up with her free hand and grabbed the side of the canoe, and with a manic tug from Gretel, pulled herself into the boat. She lifted her head and met the eyes of her savior, and there was nothing left in her to restrain her emotions.

  “How did you get so strong?” The question blurted from Anika’s mouth in a fit of laughter and crying. It was a benign question, an act of maternal instinct aimed at calming her daughter.

  Gretel was hysterical in her joy, and couldn’t lift her sobbing head off her mother’s shoulder. Anika wasn’t much better in her composure, but knew the proper reunion would have to wait.

  “Where is your brother, Gretel?” Anika stroked the back of her daughter’s head, coaxing her to lift it and speak to her.

  Gretel had a look of bewilderment and terror on her face as she lifted her head. “I think Father’s dead. I don’t know for sure, but…” she kept herself stiff and upright, but unleashed another fit of tears at the sound of her own words.

  Anika turned away and closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly in an effort to keep stable.

  “But Hansel is fine,” Gretel continued. “He’s at the Klahr’s. He’s safe.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Anika sighed and pulled Gretel close, relishing the warmth of her daughter’s body.

  Gretel sniffled like the child she was. “Where were you, Mother? How did you…? What happened…?”

  “It’s too much for now, Gretel,” Anika said. “Far too much for now.” Then she paused and looking in the direction of her home said, “What was that gun shot?”

  Gretel’s eyes flashed wide, suddenly reminded of why she was out on the lake to begin with.

  “What is it, Gretel?”

  “Mr. Klahr. And Odalinde.”

  “Who?”

  “There’s no time, Mother, we have to go!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The old woman could hear the voices—female voices—on the lake, but the whispers were faint and she couldn’t make out the words. But she’d heard those first two words that had snared her attention and recognized them instantly. Those familiar words contained in the scream. The first time she’d heard them was all those months ago, when she lay dying at the base of her porch, debilitated, anticipating the approaching clutch of death’s grasp. And they had rung through the forest like the song of an angel, to save her—quite literally—and to draw to the surface a reserve of power she’d never dreamed existed inside her.

  Help me!

  The witch gave one last glance to the front of the Morgan house, mildly considering the option to continue up the path to the front of the house to ensure the children’s guardian was indeed dead in the driveway. But this detail suddenly seemed far less important than pursuing the voices on the lake. The Orphist woman wasn’t going anywhere, the witch decided, and she crept warily back toward the water line.

  A mixture of laughter and crying was all she could interpret from the sounds, and the witch quickly deduced that the invisible scene adrift on the water was a reunion of mother and daughter.

  She made it home.

  The smile and twitch of pride in the witch came not from an admiration of her Source’s individual effort, but from the blood that flowed in her veins, the blood that had fueled the rem
arkable accomplishment. Her own blood, the witch thought.

  She waded slowly into the water until it reached her shins, careful to stay clear of the moon’s glow. She now had another decision to make: should she swim to them? It seemed an absurd idea at first, considering all the advantages she now possessed—particularly that of knowing their current location, as well as where they lived—but time was against her. No doubt The System was en route already—the marksman neighbor having certainly made that call—and though the one officer, Officer Stenson, had been a puppet in Marcel’s plan, as far as she knew, there was no influence on them otherwise.

  The ability to swim the distance to the boat wouldn’t pose the problem; it was the ability to do it quietly, she reckoned. The lake was deathly still, and even with the occasional jumping frog or fish periodically rippling the surface, she didn’t see how she wouldn’t be noticed before getting even halfway to them. The witch considered her choices again, and as she stood on the lake bank, she heard the voices become clearer. The tones were hushed and deep, but they were steadily approaching. She wouldn’t need to swim to them, they were coming to her!

  The witch ducked back in the thicket of trees where she had taken cover from the never-approaching neighbor. She narrowed her eyes and covered her head as far as possible with her cloak. Without a light source, she knew she was invisible from the bank.

  The woman saw first the arrowhead shape of the canoe’s bow, followed instantly by the silhouetted shapes of her prey. She held her breath, exhaling only slightly during the rattle of the boat as the two women parked it on the gravel shore. She extended her fingers, brushing the back of her saber-like nails against the trunk of one of the small trees in the clump. It was the preparatory move of an animal, instinctive and lethal. She stood slowly from her crouch and opened her mouth wide, touching the tip of her tongue to one of her incisors, relishing the bite of the blade-like point.