The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel #1-3)

by Christopher Coleman

  “Do you have schoolwork, Gretel?” It was a common play of Odalinde’s to take the role of the mother. “Your father isn’t been pleased with how it’s been slipping of late.”

  And there the line was crossed. For the most part Gretel had not resisted Odalinde periodically slipping into the character of the maternal head of the house. She was the adult, after all, and performed most of the duties that role required—less one, Gretel hoped and assumed. But Odalinde had increasingly used her own intimacy with Heinrich as a weapon against Gretel, becoming the filter through which any expression of her father ran. “Your father is ready for you” or “Your father wants you to know that he loves you.” And so on.

  And indeed, even the disciplining and disappointments were now being contracted out. Of course, Gretel knew that Odalinde had to be lying in some of the cases, but Gretel had confirmed too many of the reports with her father to dismiss them out of hand.

  Gretel clenched her teeth and glared at Odalinde, holding the look for a long moment before walking away, muttering as she left, “My mother would have hated you.”

  She spoke loudly enough that Odalinde certainly could hear her voice, though Gretel couldn’t be sure she could understand the words. If she did, she didn’t reply.

  What Gretel was certain of, however, was that the words were true.

  Gretel hurried into her room and closed the door, and immediately snatched the book from the top shelf in her closet, holding it to her chest as she lay down on her bed. She hadn’t learned any of what the bizarre symbols meant since the day she brought the book home from Deda’s, and she hadn’t been able to find anyone who could translate it. Gretel had hoped that Deda would be able to tell her more about it, but she had seen him only once since that night, and on that occasion he had been distant and cold. The other candidates whom she had hoped would at least have knowledge of the book didn’t, and, in fact, had never even heard of the term ‘Orphism.’

  But the book had become a security blanket for Gretel, and even though she didn’t know what it was about, she always felt better with it in her hands.

  Gretel lay still with her eyes closed and took deep breaths, imagining what she usually did during the quiet periods: her mother walking through the door, weary from her unbelievable ordeal, a wry smile of relief on her face. Occasionally, the image made her hopeful, but mostly it made her cry.

  The creak of the bedroom door shattered Gretel’s vision, and she turned to see Hansel slump in, his mouth slightly open and eyes half-closed. Gretel frowned at him and turned her body toward the wall. “What do you want Hansel?”

  “I’m hungry,” he whined.

  “Odalinde is finished with Father; ask her to make you something.”

  “I did. She said there’s no food.”

  Gretel turned back toward her brother, slightly alarmed. “No food? Is she sure?”

  Hansel shrugged. “I haven’t eaten today, Gretel.”

  Gretel’s heart began to race, and she soon realized she hadn’t eaten either. She, however, had gotten used to not eating much, and to share her portions with Hansel when she could stand it. But never had she not eaten all day. And Hansel! Hansel needed his food. He was a growing boy!

  Gretel put the book aside and lifted herself from the bed, suddenly aware of her empty stomach. She left Hansel standing by the door as she exited her room and crossed the hall, opening her father’s door without knocking. She heard him groan in his sleep as he shifted in his bed.

  “Father,” she whispered loudly. He moved again but didn’t turn to her. Gretel registered the bowl on the side table, half-filled with soup. “Father,” she repeated, her voice booming this time, commanding attention as if in preparation to scold him.

  Heinrich Morgan raised his head with a grunt and turned wide-eyed toward his daughter. “Gretel? What is it?” His voice was raspy and slow, his eyes cloudy and disoriented.

  Gretel got right to the point. “There’s no food, Father. Hansel hasn’t eaten today. Nothing.” She paused, debating whether to say her next line. “But I see you have.” She stared at the bowl on the table. Heinrich followed her stare and studied the bowl, confused.

  “No food?” The words came out clumsily, as if Heinrich were repeating a nonsense phrase, mimicking what he’d heard to make sure he’d gotten it right. Heinrich looked back toward his daughter and over her shoulder to the door. “Odalinde?”

  Gretel turned to see the nurse standing behind her at the threshold, a smiling look of mock sympathy on her face, the way a mother might observe a crying toddler who has fallen after trying to take his first steps.

  “I’ve only to go to the market, Heinrich. There’s been so much to do around here, what with the children and your condition, that I’m afraid I’ve gotten behind on the shopping. There’s not much money left, but enough.”

  “And the crops? Has anything come in?”

  Odalinde looked away from her patient and down to the floor, embarrassed for him. There would be no harvest of any kind this year, and even she didn’t have the stomach to say otherwise.

  Why would father think a harvest was coming? Gretel thought. There had been no one to work the fields since his injury and mother’s subsequent disappearance, and he couldn’t possibly think Odalinde was tending them. As it was, their crops had been in decline for years, and without severe attention and care, it would have been impossible to keep them bountiful.

  “Not yet,” she said, and a more serious look enveloped her face. “But Gretel has no reason to worry.” Odalinde placed a hand on Gretel’s shoulder. “I’ll head off now for some rice and bread, perhaps some sweets. I’ll be back shortly.” She flickered a glance at Gretel as she began to walk out, and then turned back toward Heinrich. “Oh, and I’ll take Hansel along.”

  The back of Gretel’s neck tingled at the nurse’s words, and for the first time she suspected Odalinde was more than simply unpleasant and coarse. Perhaps, Gretel thought, she was malevolent.

  “I could go, Father. I can drive the truck—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Gretel,” Odalinde interrupted. “It’s part of my duties. And you’ve yet to do your schoolwork. Now let your father rest.” She grabbed the knob of the door and shut it, corralling Gretel out to the hall in the process.

  Gretel would have put up more resistance, but she saw that her father had laid back down and was again drifting toward unconsciousness. She would be surprised if later he even remembered the conversation. Something wasn’t right with him lately, and it was more than his spleen.

  “Hansel’s staying here!” Gretel snapped after they were out in the hall, and she immediately walked over to her brother who had migrated to the living room. She stood slightly in front of him, protectively.

  Odalinde raised her eyebrows, “Really? Perhaps we should let him decide.”

  Hansel locked eyes with his sister; there was defiance in his stare. “I’m going with Odalinde, Gretel. She’s going to buy me a sweet bun with jam.” A meager smile drew across Hansel’s face as he looked timidly toward the nurse. “Right Odalinde?”

  “That’s right, Hansel. Or whatever you want.” Odalinde turned to Gretel, “I’d ask you to come along too, Gretel, but what with your father’s condition and your schoolwork and all.”

  Gretel looked away from Odalinde to her brother. She could see the fear on his face, but it acted only as a backdrop to his hunger, and she was suddenly glad he was going to town. Gretel knew Odalinde wouldn’t hurt him—in fact, she was pretty certain that the nurse would buy him the treat that was promised. And if not, at the very least he would be offered a sample of fresh breads or pastries from one of the stalls at the markets.

  But there was an obvious motive underneath Odalinde’s gesture; whether it was simply to win Hansel’s favor and divide the siblings or something more nefarious, Gretel couldn’t be sure. As far as today was concerned, however, Gretel knew her brother was safe.

  Gretel watched as Odalinde unlocked the cabinet beneath
the sink and fetched her bag, squatting insect-like in the opening as she sifted through the satchel, inventorying the contents. The cabinet, tall and narrow in design, had previously been used as storage for household cleaning items and canned goods; but Odalinde had requested her own private depository when she arrived—’one that was secure from children’—and Heinrich had obliged her and cleared out the cabinet, customizing it with a lock. The reorganization had made for a messy kitchen at first, but as the canned goods and supplies dwindled, counter space was no longer an issue.

  Gretel had kept a close watch on Odalinde’s trips to this private space, and in particular to the time she spent huddled by the opening. As far as Gretel could tell, the bag was the only thing in the cabinet, or at least the only thing she tended to. And Odalinde always squatted, never sat, so as to always keep her bag completely covered and hidden while she shuffled and rechecked the contents. When she did finally take the bag out, it was always double-zipped and clasped, and clutched tightly to her breast or rib. And it was never left unattended—never—which for Odalinde’s sake was a good thing. Because Gretel was waiting.

  Odalinde shepherded Hansel out the door and down the porch stairs to the truck. Gretel followed them to the bottom of the stairs, leaving her brother with a look that said ‘stay aware,’ and then watched as the truck crept slowly away, disappearing over the hill toward town.

  Gretel could feel the time until her family completely fell apart was short. They were starving and sick, their mother was missing and presumed dead, and now a stranger had come from nowhere and taken control of the household. Things were dire indeed. In the past, these realities would have overwhelmed Gretel and brought her to tears, but she now looked at them with pragmatism, prioritizing them as problems needing to be solved.

  The first of these problems was, of course, her mother. Though she had promised herself never to give up on the possibility that her mother was still alive, there were few actions Gretel could think of taking to help find her. The System officer had never again come calling on her for help—help for which he had told Gretel in no uncertain terms he would need from her. Perhaps her father’s invasion that night had dissuaded the officer. Or perhaps he’d never intended on returning, and had only told her that to make her feel useful.

  And then there was the problem of her father, who apparently was not as far along as Gretel had believed. Or else his recovery had slipped. She knew nothing of medicine, but the doctor had prognosticated her father’s recovery weeks ago, and indeed, based on the immediate signs, seemed to be accurate in his assessment. But there had been a slide in his recuperation—not in terms of his actual internal injuries, but in his overall energy and clarity. Even his intellect, Gretel thought. She didn’t know what to do about the problem of her father, other than to wait it out.

  As for Odalinde, this problem was becoming increasingly formidable, particularly after today’s exchange. At the very least she was not to be trusted; at worst, she was a danger. Her threats were only passive at this point, however, and there was nothing specific Gretel could say or do to fix this problem right now. She would have to let that play out a bit more as well. And if the opportunity arose, she would get into that cabinet and see what mysteries lurked there.

  That left the problem of food. It was the most pressing problem and the one that Gretel felt she had the most control over. Gretel didn’t know where Odalinde’s money had come from to buy the food for which she was now on her way to purchase, but it obviously couldn’t be counted on to feed Hansel and her. With two children in the house, the nurse had let the supplies dwindle to nothing, having not fed either of them all day. But yet there had been a bowl of soup for Father. Had that bowl been from today? Or even last night? Gretel admitted to herself that she couldn’t be sure, though she was fairly confident that if there had been enough for only one person, Hansel and Gretel would have been the last two names on the meal list. For the time being, and perhaps from now on, it would be up to Gretel to figure out where the meals would come from for her and her brother.

  She mentally ran through the names of friends and neighbors in the Back Country, some of whom had helped out in one way or another since her mother’s disappearance. Since most were poorer than Gretel’s family, the help had come mainly in the form of labor and childcare. But since the arrival of Odalinde, it had mostly stopped, with the occasional visit of obligation to “see if there was anything they could do.” There was certainly nothing in the form of financial help, the perception being, Gretel assumed, that anyone affording a private nurse could certainly afford food. Gretel could never quite follow this line of thinking though; after all, they were a farming family, their income depended on selling crops, and if no crops were being harvested and sold, how could they be taking in any money?

  But Gretel didn’t judge them too harshly. She supposed people had their own problems and usually looked only as deeply as necessary to satisfy their consciences. There may have been life insurance, after all, or a family grant to see the Morgans through. It wasn’t the burden of neighbors to ask how they were making it with no crops or occupation to speak of—questions like those might easily be construed as nosy and intrusive. Apparently they were making it and that’s all that mattered.

  Besides, Gretel had always been taught it was the job of family to help navigate the straits of life, and Gretel’s family was nothing short of conspicuous in their absence. Her father’s side of the family had never been close to begin with, and they had drifted even further when Anika disappeared. And Deda, whom Gretel had barely seen since her mother vanished, had become, according to her father, ‘a bona fide hermit,’ and now refused to take calls or visits from anyone, including his own grandchildren.

  Gretel walked around to the back of the house and continued into the small clump of trees that divided the rear of the house from the small lake that formed the back of the Morgan property. She walked to water’s edge, absently picking up a small stone and tossing it in. Across the lake, Gretel could see the trees of the Klahr orchard approaching full bloom, the apple and pear trees perhaps a week away from perfect ripeness. In a few days the extended Klahr relatives and a dozen or so other workers would descend on the trees like caterpillars, furiously climbing and picking until the last of the fruit was sifted through and basketed, ready to be sold at market, or further processed into jam, bread, and wine.

  The Klahrs were what passed for wealth in the Back Country, having a small stable of horses, a tractor, and two trucks, as well as, by all accounts, a profitable business. They were an older couple—Gretel imagined they were on the other side of sixty by now—and as far as Gretel knew they had no children of their own. At least none Gretel had ever seen. Presumably if they did have heirs, they were now grown men and women—men and women who had perhaps decided to see their land only as a future inheritance, pursuing instead a career more sophisticated than farmer. But Gretel didn’t think this was the case. The Klahrs had lived across the lake from her family since before Gretel was born, and she had never heard of any Klahr children.

  There was nothing at all ostentatious about the couple, but by all measures they were deeply proud of their farming operation, and ran it with great organization and efficiency. They kept to themselves for the most part—Gretel couldn’t remember her mother or father ever engaging them in conversation—with her only interaction coming in the form of the occasional wave from across the lake. They seemed friendly enough, dealing with merchants in town or whatever, but work was always the order of the day, the exception being Sunday, of course.

  So Gretel had no illusions that what she was planning was acceptable, and she justified it only on the most practical of levels: Her family needed to eat, and there was food in her sights.

  Her decision made, Gretel walked back through the trees to the house. She wasted no time on preemptive regret or future plans of atonement, figuring those would only distract from what was required. If her family was to eat, focus and will were
all that mattered.

  There would be no school tomorrow. Tomorrow Gretel would become a thief.

  GRETEL AWOKE JUST AFTER two o’clock in the morning, feeling well-rested and sparked with adrenaline. She had gone to her room just before Hansel and Odalinde returned from the market and had stayed there, forgoing whatever dinner had been brought home for her. More than food she had wanted to sleep, knowing she would need to be fully rested to take on the task ahead. And since Hansel hadn’t come to her, Gretel assumed he had been fed, and that was her main concern.

  As she had done dozens of times in her life, Gretel quietly slid open her bedroom window and slipped out, easing herself down the four-foot drop to the ground below. The sound of her feet in the overgrown garden bed was amplified in the serenity of the night, but Gretel didn’t anticipate anyone investigating it. In a place where nocturnal animals were as common as weeds, rustling sounds outside your house rarely caused alarm in the Back Country.

  She ran slowly on her toes until she was through the tree clump to the lake edge, and then stopped to get her bearings. It was darker than she’d expected; the light she had hoped to get from the moon was swallowed up by clouds. But her eyes would adjust, and she had the lantern.

  After she’d made her decision yesterday, Gretel spent the rest of her time alone preparing for the early morning raid. She had fetched the lantern from the shed, checking the battery twice to make sure it worked. And the canoe, once a fixture along this sliver of beach, Gretel had untarped in the yard and dragged down to the shoreline. The skeleton of a mouse had welcomed her when she first pulled the covering from the small boat, and the accompanying oars had long been broken and discarded, but otherwise the craft seemed in decent condition. As long as it didn’t sink, Gretel thought, that’s all that mattered. If she had had to paddle with her hands she would have—the distance across was short enough that she could have swum it—but Gretel had been able to find a hollowed-out guitar among the ever-increasing junk in the yard, a fossil from merrier Morgan days when things like music were a part of their lives. It would do fine as a replacement for an oar.