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

by Christopher Coleman

  “Marlene. Daughter of Tanja,” Anika whispered. Gretel catalogued the words for later.

  The witch made a grumbling sound, trying to form a word, blood and teeth falling from her mouth as she spoke. To anyone else, the word would have been incoherent, but Gretel recognized it at once. Aulwurm.

  “That’s right, Marlene. We are Aulwurms. And after today, there will be one less of us in the world. Turn away, Hansel.”

  Gretel didn’t check to see if her brother followed the instruction before she pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 45

  “The cure is in Orphism?” Gretel asked.

  Anika lay on the bed, a wet cloth over her eyes. Gretel sat at her mother’s vanity table, thumbing through the pages of the mysterious book. Her mother was still dying, and the cure was somewhere in the pages of Orphism.

  Marlene was dead. For good. Gretel had left no doubt on that subject.

  Gretel would later rationalize that the shooting was as much a mercy killing as it was revenge, but in her heart, she knew the truth. Marlene had killed Mr. Klahr, and that was enough for Gretel to have pulled the trigger.

  Overseer Conway had come with his team of agents, who were followed by a team of medical examiners and detectives. The scene was quite spectacular for a few hours with sirens blaring and lights flashing, but between Marlene’s history and the witnesses at the scene, there wasn’t a need for more than a few questions. After all, as Conway himself pointed out, on the books, Marlene was already dead, so there wasn’t much to investigate. Of course, Gretel interpreted this as an excuse to avoid what was sure to be an amazing amount of paperwork, but the conclusion sounded good to her. She had more important things to do. She had to find her mother’s cure.

  “I’ve read this book front to back a hundred times. I still don’t understand all of it, but the elders taught me enough. There’s no cure for cancer in here.

  “It’s not cancer. And it’s not in your book.” Anika shifted and grimaced, treading along the edges of consciousness. It was clear to Gretel that the sickness had returned and her mother was now symptomatic. “It’s only in hers. It’s only in that woman’s book. That’s what they told me in the mountains.”

  “Then we have to find her book. Petr said he saw one of the System officers reading it. The officer who was involved with Marlene. Perhaps it’s at the System barracks still. Or maybe he brought it to her. It could be back at her cabin now. Yes, that’s probably right.”

  “Maybe,” Anika groaned, her tone as indifferent as Gretel’s was panicked.

  “Mother, you can’t quit now,” Gretel commanded. “Please. You’ve come this far.”

  Anika removed the cloth from her eyes and sat up. She looked at Gretel and her eyes softened. “It was a long shot, Gretel. I never believed I would make it back there. I just needed to come home. I needed to make sure you were okay. You and Hansel.”

  “What do you mean make it back there. You mean here.”

  “No, Gretel. I meant what I said. They told me—the ancient ones—that I had to bring the book back to them. Marlene’s book. They said the cure was inside and that they were the only ones who could interpret it for me. Or something like that. I’m not sure exactly why they needed me to bring it to them. The translations weren’t exact.”

  “They were lying, mother.”

  Anika smiled. “I thought that too.”

  “Marlene has been in the New Country for hundreds of years now. There’s nothing in the Old World that we can’t do here.” Gretel was defiant, pride in her birthplace spewing from her lips. “They just wanted you to bring them the book. It was self-serving this instruction.”

  “That was a theory of mine also.” Anika smiled wider now. “Maybe I have a little of that special power after all. What do you think?”

  Gretel flashed a smile but then was back to business. “I’ve learned the language, mother. The elders were thorough. Once I learned the grammar rules, I was a quick study. I can translate the cure. I’m sure I can.”

  “Gretel, you need to rest now. Hansel and Petr are napping, and you should be too. I can’t imagine how tired you must be. When did you sleep last?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m going out to visit Mrs. Klahr at the infirmary today. I’m taking her truck, and then I’ll drive up to the Urbanlands after. I’ll speak with Conway.”

  “You can’t drive to the Urbanlands, Gretel. When did you learn to drive at all?”

  “I don’t know!” Gretel yelled, her voice breaking, closing in on tears.

  “Okay, okay, Gretel, we’ll go together. And I will drive. Later, though. You let me sleep for now.”

  Gretel watched her mother cover her eyes again with the cloth, and then Gretel quietly stepped out to the hallway. The house was a museum with Hansel in his room sleeping and Petr on the porch doing the same.

  Gretel descended the stairs to the basement, the lingering odor of Marlene still present in the air, and then she stepped out the back door and walked quickly down to the lake. She picked up the oar and pushed the boat into the water, steering the vessel easily across the lake and onto the shores of the Klahr orchard.

  She walked up the embankment to Mr. Klahr’s old truck and opened the driver’s side door. She was going now. There wasn’t time to waste, and her mother was in no shape to drive several hours to the Urbanlands anyway.

  According to Petr, he had ‘borrowed’ Mr. Klahr’s truck from time to time—an easy enough task since Georg Klahr had always left the keys inside. But Georg hadn’t been the last person to drive the car. Marlene had brought Mrs. Klahr back from her cabin in the truck, so the location of the keys now was anyone’s guess. If there was a God, and if He was merciful, they would be somewhere inside the vehicle.

  Gretel sat in the driver’s seat and felt first around the ignition with no luck, and then she scanned the passenger seat, again finding nothing. The glove box was also empty, except for the truck’s registration sticker.

  And then Gretel reached under the seat.

  There were no keys there either. But there was Orphism.

  GRETEL BOLTED FROM the truck and ran inside the Klahr house, dropping the book on the kitchen table and opening it to a random page. She had learned her own book like a religious obligation, and after a brief scan of Marlene’s book, it took Gretel only a minute to recognize the three pages at the back of this book that didn’t exist in her copy of Orphism.

  The symbols on the page organized in her mind like a handful of coins dropped onto a magnet—automatic, effortless—and by sundown Gretel had deciphered the secret to her mother’s sickness.

  It was so obvious.

  It was the potion.

  The recipe that had been made of her mother’s own body was the only thing that could reverse her sickness. It was obscene, this revelation. The cure for her mother was a type of self-cannibalism.

  Gretel looked away from the pages of the book for the first time in hours and then stared off across the lake at her home. Her mother was there, dying, and Gretel now realized there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  The book’s addendum described her mother’s sickness in a way that was cautionary to the creator of the potion. This cancer—for Gretel’s lack of a better term—was an unintended side-effect that occurred when a source was prepared improperly or incompletely. The Source should be destroyed at this point, the text recommended, but if salvage is preferable, you must make the source ingest that which has already been prepared. This will normally restore the potency and suitability for blending.

  It was impossible. If this was the only answer, then there was nothing to be done. And not just because her mother would never agree to undergo the torture of the blending again. And not even because Gretel would never be able to figure out how to prepare the blend or that there wasn’t the time necessary to find all the ingredients.

  It was more than that. It was technically impossible to save her mother because even if Gretel could make all those other t
hings happen, the sickness was already inside her, and making a new batch of potion with a sick Source would do her mother no good. It was too late.

  Gretel closed the book now, and her mind drifted now to Mrs. Klahr, who had been recovering at the infirmary since early last night. Gretel had promised herself that she’d go see Mrs. Klahr today, but her mother’s revelation had altered those plans.

  There was, of course, every excuse not to go now. The hour was late, and Gretel’s prayers of returning her family to normal were effectively destroyed. But still, she wanted to see Mrs. Klahr tonight, and beyond the obvious reason that she loved the woman. Mrs. Klahr seemed to be calling for her, and Gretel knew too much about herself now to ignore those instincts.

  Gretel drove the Klahr truck a little less than ten miles up the Interways until she arrived at the infirmary. Mrs. Klahr’s room was on the second floor—a floor that seemed to indicate Amanda Klahr was in worse shape than Gretel first believed. God knew what poison Marlene had injected inside of her, and Gretel perished at the thought of losing her mother and Mrs. Klahr to the same evil woman.

  Gretel pushed open the door to Mrs. Klahr’s room and stepped inside, and there she saw Mrs. Klahr sitting up in her bed, a small glass container clutched in her fist.

  “This is it, Gretel. This is what you came for, yes?”

  “Yes,” was all Gretel could manage despite the flurry in her mind.

  “It was there, in her kitchen, sitting on the counter. I was alone there, for only a moment, feigning sleep, but it was enough time. It was supposed to happen. Just a moment before we left to come here. And I grabbed it and stashed it in a rather unmentionable place.”

  Gretel didn’t even suggest a smile at Mrs. Klahr’s attempt at levity; she just stood staring at the bottle, entranced.

  “There’s but a swallow left, Gretel.”

  “It’s enough. How did you know?”

  Mrs. Klahr paused now, considering the question carefully. “I don’t think I knew anything, Gretel. I still don’t. But I think that whatever gift you have, whatever signals you receive from the world, sometimes transmit outward as well.”

  “But I didn’t even know about the potion. I didn’t even know I needed it until less than an hour ago. How could you have known to take it?”

  “Or perhaps you did know, Gretel. Without knowing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I listened to that witch speak at her cabin while I was locked away in my own delirium. I heard her teaching that corrupt officer about the lessons she had learned throughout her life. About gifts bestowed upon her that she couldn’t explain. As long as she had lived, she still didn’t understand all the powers she possessed or where they came from. She just accepted them as they came. Unquestioning. The universe delivers, Gretel. You know this. Life delivers.”

  ANIKA GRABBED THE VIAL and swallowed what remained of the potion in one swig, not questioning the potential effects or the story her daughter had just told her. At this stage, there was nothing to lose.

  “Delicious,” Anika teased. “I can see why Marlene was so set on this recipe.”

  Gretel smiled. “I know this will work.”

  “I know it will too.”

  Gretel left the room and returned an hour later to find her mother up from her bed, straightening the room. “You’re better then?” Gretel asked, the glee in her voice obvious.

  “I feel quite wonderful,” Anika said. “I feel as if I could swim the oceans.”

  Gretel couldn’t hold back any longer and began to weep, a month’s worth of pent up emotions flowing from her at once.

  With purpose, she walked toward her mother and hugged her tightly, sinking her face into her shoulders to muffle the sobs. Anika stroked her daughter’s hair and reciprocated the embrace. “I knew it would work,” Gretel said. “It had to.”

  “Yes, dear. You were right. It seems to have brought me from the brink. I feel wonderful.”

  Anika now pulled away from Gretel and smiled with her lips, though her eyes suggested other emotions.

  “Is everything okay, Mother?”

  Anika chuckled in a way that made Gretel shiver. “Of course. I just, I feel so wonderful.”

  “Yes, you’ve said.” Gretel’s smile waned. She looked at her mother, wary.

  Anika’s eyes flickered at the sarcasm, and Gretel detected the slight curl of a sneer on her mouth.

  “Mother, what’s wrong?”

  “I have to ask you a question, Gretel,” Anika said stoically, staring in her daughter’s eyes, the pace of her words unusually fast.

  “A question? Okay, what is it?

  “It’s about the potion.”

  Gretel forced down a swallow and then took an enormous breath as she nodded.

  Anika Morgan dropped her gaze to the floor for just a beat and then looked back to her daughter and smiled. Her eyes blazed, and Gretel noticed her teeth seemed a bit larger than before.

  “What about the potion, mother?”

  “I was just wondering,” Anika said, her hands trembling lightly. “Is there any more?”

  THE END

  Hansel (Gretel Book Three)

  Christopher Coleman

  Hansel (Gretel Book Three) © copyright 2017 Christopher Coleman

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Chapter 1

  I was barely fifteen when I murdered my mother.

  Some would call it self-defense, I suppose, but at this point in my life I have a decent feel for the difference between the things that are real and those that make a person feel better. I’ve thought about that night a lot over the years. It was murder.

  For most kids, teenagers, the trauma of killing their own mother would be profound. Catastrophic even. And, in truth, that was true for me as well.

  But there was a difference with me. Inside, I always knew things would happen the way they did. That day I left my mother to die, alone in the lake, gasping for air as she sank below the water line grasping and splashing in terror, was merely the culmination of a childhood filled with calamity.

  It’s been almost four years since that day, probably a long enough period to move further away from it than I have, but I’ve come to realize that the more distance I get from the event, and all of those others that led up to it, the more painful the memories become. For the past two years, I’ve been trying with great uncreative effort to drown those memories.

  “Two more, Fritzy,” I bark. “Now understand: that’s two separate drinks, not a double.”

  Tonight, I’m in a bar—The Keller—in the Old World, having just disembarked from a vessel that landed here from the New Country only hours ago. I’m on my way to see Gretel, but I’ve got a couple of birds to kill first.

  “My name is Gus,” the bartender replies, not meeting my eyes. He finishes cleaning the glass in his hand and then pulls a bottle of rum from the ledge.

  “Ice first,” I correct. “Please Fritzy, make my drink properly.”

  “Sure, buddy.” The bartender is a burly fellow—he’s got six inches and fifty pounds on me easy—but he is in no hurry to escalate my obnoxiousness to conflict.

  The first of the two drinks hits the bar and I lift it immediately, taking
in three quarters with the first gulp, and then the rest with the follow up. Gus shoots me a disapproving glance without lifting his head.

  “Not bad, Fritzy, but maybe ease up a little on the mixer, yeah?”

  Gus twitches in a splash of soda and sets the second drink down on the chipped lacquer bar top. He wipes away a phantom smudge beside my glass and then drifts away to a spot far in the corner and lights a cigarette.

  I’m alone on the stools, and in the entire bar but for a couple of middle-aged ladies who are clearly from somewhere other than here. Probably had a couple of drinks at the inn in which they’re staying and then suddenly felt adventurous, deciding to give the local dive a shot. Their conversations sound a bit too chipper; trying too hard to sound relaxed. I can feel their uncomfortable stares on the back of my neck when I order my most recent round.

  Of course, I too have come from someplace else. The Back Country. A place unknown to the rest of the world until only a few years ago, but whose legend, it seems, has grown steadily over time. Unlike the gals behind me, however, my presence in this tavern is not by chance.

  “Hey Gus?” My tone is somber now, sober.

  Gus snaps his head toward me, almost choking on his drag.

  “I’m hoping you can answer a question for me. Two maybe.”

  Gus composes himself, reasserting his dominion. “You writing a story about me, fella?”

  I snicker. “No Fritzy, why in the world would anyone want to do that?”

  I stay quiet, awaiting an answer, allowing space for the insult to resonate. Gus only frowns.

  “I am looking for someone though, and I’m thinking you, running a place like this, might have heard of him. Maybe even crossed paths with him at some point over the years. I just have a question or two. What do you say?”

  Gus nods slowly, and gives me a sideways look. “Okay pal, let’s see how the first question goes, and then I’ll decide from there about the second.”