“Hansel, he’s after your book.” Maja’s says in a panic, out of breath.
“Ah, but you know that already don’t you?” Emre says immediately, stepping dramatically into my line of sight, entering the kitchen and dining area from what is, ostensibly, his grandfather’s room. He is carefully carrying a bowl that looks small enough to hold easily in one hand.
“Maja run,” I say calmly, moving only my mouth. “Get up and run to the square. I’ll meet you there. At the fountain. We’re leaving tonight.”
Moving only her eyes, Maja looks to her right, and I turn to see a thin man standing tall, his shoulders high and tense; he’s holding a small handgun, the barrel of which is pointed directly at Maja’s head. There is something in the man’s nervous posture that is familiar, and as I focus on his face, I recognize him as the fourth man from the crowd at Noah’s house, the one who ran after Noah fired his warning shot.
Emre giggles, presumably at my naïve plan, and I realize his laughter is the first sign of sincere emotion I’ve seen from him. “As you can see, if she moves, or if you do, for that matter, Leon will shoot her in the head, and I will remove it and place it next to my grandfather’s.”
“So is she right? Is it my book that you want? Is that all?”
“Is that all?” Emre looks genuinely surprised at my question.
“I understand your fascination with it, Emre, but what are you going to do with it? I doubt very seriously that you can read it. And even if you can, you won’t be capable of carrying out the instructions inside. There are complexities you can’t even imagine.”
“Perhaps you’re right and perhaps you’re not, but it is of no consequence. I don’t need to be able to read it. The book is not for me.”
“Gromus?”
Emre gives a long blink and shrugs, nodding as he does. “Yes, Gromus, the son of Tanja.” Emre closes his eyes again, this time for several seconds, as if basking in the sound of his own words.
I immediately think of Gisla, the woman from Maja’s village. The son of Tanja will have his book again.
“What did you say?” Noah steps beside me now. I’m surprised at his timing, giving up his position so awkwardly. His legs are stiff and straight as he wedges in between me and the door frame, as if his pants are too tight, or his knees have been locked in place. “The son of who?”
“What is he doing here, boy? You didn’t tell me Noah was here.” It’s Leon, his hands now shaking, looking back and forth frantically from Emre to Maja and then to Noah and me.
I ignore Leon for the moment and focus on Noah’s question. “He said ‘The son of Tanja.’ Does that mean something to you?”
Noah nods. “Yes. But it will obviously have to wait until later.”
“Yes, obviously.” It’s a nervous joke on my part; still working out the personality flaws.
“And when do you think ‘later’ will come, Mr. Noah?” Emre asks, a slight tone of nervousness lining the boy’s words.
But Noah ignores Emre and instead focuses on Leon. “What are you doing here, Leon?”
The shame in Leon’s face is unmistakable as he swallows and looks briefly at the ceiling.
“What has he promised you? He’s just a boy, Leon. And your daughter. She was—”
“Shut your mouth, Noah. What have you done to help?”
“She was taken. Murdered by the man this boy calls his master?”
“I have no master!” Emre shrieks. He takes a few deep breaths and then composes himself with a forced smile. “And I would be much more careful with the remaining words that come from your mouth, guide. Unless you want to be responsible for the explosion of this girl’s head.”
“Just answer me Leon. What is he giving you?”
“Noah, that’s enough,” I say, struggling to keep my pitch level.
Emre walks in front of Noah and holds the cup just beneath his nose. Noah takes in a small whiff and closes his eyes, swallowing heavily. But he keeps his head still. “What is that?”
Emre grins and looks at me, lifting his eyebrows. “You know what it is. Don’t you, Hansel?”
I do know, of course, but I say nothing, instead focusing on solving the increasingly difficult puzzle of how we’re going to leave this house without any of us dying.
“It is the promise of Gromus, Noah. The promise of life eternal.” Emre’s smile widens in unison with his eyes as he speaks, and his breathing turns heavy and labored. “But as your new friend Hansel has mocked at me, I cannot read the magical words of his legendary book. And thus, the tiny droplets that remain in this bowl are not enough even to last me the month. I need more. And Gromus has promised it to me.”
Noah turns to Leon again. “And I suppose he has promised you the same thing, Leon? Is that it?”
Leon’s silence is the answer.
“Alchemy isn’t real, Leon. There is no such thing as magic elixirs.”
I can hear the lack of conviction in Noah’s words, and I have no doubt that Emre and Leon can hear it too.
“But there is,” Leon replies with sincere wonderment. “This boy, Emre, has described it all to me, with detail impossible to invent. And what about Gromus? And the stories from the elders? How else could he still be alive after so many years? Centuries possibly? And obviously he is alive, because he’s taken my child!”
“Then why don’t you help to kill him?” Noah snaps, his jaw clenched in anger and frustration.
Leon gives a soft, slightly maniacal laugh. “Don’t you think people have tried over all these years? He’s been here for a thousand years! You don’t think men have tried to kill him?”
“So then become like him? Is that your decision?”
“Enough!” Emre yells. “Give me the book, Hansel. Turn around toward the bedroom slowly, pick up your bag, remove the book, and bring it out to me. Do it in less than ten seconds or things will get bloody very quickly.”
I waste no time and squeeze past Noah, who remains stiff by the door, not moving his leg as I pass him. I grab my rucksack, fumbling nervously, hearing the seconds tick down in my head. There’s nothing left to do but give the book over and hope Emre allows us to leave, perhaps having Leon lead us—at the end of the barrel of his gun—down the long road that leads from town.
I bring out the thick book and rub my hand across it, in a moment recalling the days when Gretel first became enamored with it. I was so young then, as was she, and the mysterious book of my grandfather had brought her so much comfort during the time of mother’s disappearance. I grip it in my fingers and hold it against my hip in a carry motion, suddenly feeling possessive of it, not quite ready to relinquish it without a little more information. “Did you kill your grandfather yourself? Or was it Gromus?”
“Give me the book.” Emre reaches his hand forward.
“Did Gromus tell you that using a blood member of your family would make the potion stronger? Perhaps even reverse aging. Though for you that would seem absurd.”
Emre drops his hand and stares at me.
“It’s true. My grandfather tried to use my mother. He gave her up—his own daughter—to a horrible woman named Marlene. She then tried to use her—did use her really—to make the concoction. Using the recipe in this book.”
Emre continues staring, as does Leon, mesmerized by my story. “But it took her months Emre. And even then she wasn’t successful. It’s a very slow process, and you must keep the source alive. Dead organs aren’t viable.” I pause a moment and frown. “Why did you...” I point to the dead head of Emre’s grandfather, which sits on the table in gruesome normality.
Emre smiles and shakes his head, confused. “My grandfather? No Hansel, I’ve no plans to use grandfather. He is far too old. Gromus told me all of this. All of what you’ve said.”
“Then why did you kill him?”
“I decided he would be too difficult to manage. He’s of a different time and culture.”
I can’t know exactly when the murder occurred, but, judging by the cond
ition of the head, it has happened recently, perhaps hours before we came.
“Gromus says my parents are still young enough though. That’s why I’ve kept them alive in the back room. The process has begun. The blending has started.”
I stare back at the room at the end of the kitchen, the one that was off-limits as sleeping quarters. Grandfather’s room.
“Wait a minute,” Leon says and turns to the room, momentarily taking his eyes and aim from Maja. “What are you saying boy?”
My heart hammers as I prepare to lunge at Leon, but Noah, somehow sensing my intentions, puts his arm out across my chest and stops me. And then, as if performing a circus act, or perhaps a roadside trick from some bygone sideshow era, he extends his foot about eighteen inches in front of him and then flicks his ankle in the direction of Leon.
I don’t see the blade fly through the air, but after it slices its way into the right side of Leon’s neck, I can see the short handle protruding towards me, and the crimson blood that begins to creep down around it.
I realize instantly that was the reason Noah had been moving so stiffly. He had the blade balanced on his foot the entire time of our showdown, waiting for just the right moment to attack. It came at the perfect moment, just after Emre’s disclosure of his murder and madness.
Leon drops the gun in favor of addressing his wound, which will no doubt be fatal by the time the chaos of this scene ends.
As if possessed, or perhaps desperate for a miracle, Emre swallows what remains in the dish, tossing the bowl back against his lips. But he has little knowledge of any of the potion’s powers. And Gromus certainly told him the lies necessary only to use him. Orphism doesn’t work so neatly. The fluid contains no magic shield of protection. It’s only benefit is the awful plodding of eternity.
Emre stands alone now, and Maja has risen from her chair and stands beside him. “What do we do with him?” she asks.
I instinctively defer to my elder, but Noah looks back at me, waiting. It’s my quest, I now realize, so these types of decisions will be mine to make. “We’ll take him with us. If Gromus made him promises, then he’ll be useful in tracking him.”
“I’ll die first. The moment I get the opportunity, I’ll kill myself.” The smile on Emre’s face as he makes these proclamations is in complete contrast to the words themselves.
“Then we’ll have to keep an eye on you,” I say, grabbing the boy by his neck and leading him toward the door. I look down at Leon who is bleeding out slowly, the jerks of his head almost unbearable to witness. “I’m sorry, Leon. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Hansel,” Maja says grabbing my arm. She then motions toward the back room. “We should look. Maybe we can still help them.”
I stand in indecision, not wanting to risk the small window of escape that’s been presented.
“It’s okay,” Noah says, “I’ll do it. You two head out. We’ll have to be very careful in this darkness not to walk straight off a cliff, but we’ll just have to risk it. Head to the outgoing road, down toward the home where I’ve been staying. I’ll meet you there in an hour. And then we’ll head off to find your sister.”
Chapter 16
The first sign of the potion’s diminishment came a few days short of a month following Gretel’s administration of the last dose. It was slight, the aggression, and would have no doubt gone undetected by anyone but me, and that includes Gretel.
But as the days wore on, the aggression soon grew into danger, and I sensed it immediately, even before the first word left her lips that day outside of our house.
It was late morning and I was in the driveway, repairing one of the dozen or so potholes that had formed since the spring rains had begun. I cringed instantly at the sound of the wooden-framed screen door opening on its corroded hinges. I wasn’t anticipating anything in particular, anxiousness was just my ordinary state of being during those days, having no illusions that the end of the addiction was imminent and coming soon.
I looked to the porch to see the door open slowly and wide. But no one exited for several seconds; it looked as if a ghost had opened the door and had stepped outside and was just standing there staring at me.
Anika eventually appeared, and I noticed the signs the moment she stepped out the front door and walked to the top of the porch steps. The stagger and fatigue in her gait and posture were as clear to me as the blue sky above us.
But she also looked pretty. It was a quality in my mother I used to note quite regularly when I was younger, but which I hadn’t consciously observed in months. In contrast to her tipsy saunter and slumping shoulders, her hair was brushed into long waves, and her face was pink with blush and lipstick. And her nightgown, a hallmark of her descent, was clean and ironed.
This transformation was Gretel’s doing, of course, part of her newfound dedication to making our lives as normal as possible until the time for change was inevitable. She had felt the guilt of her absence deeply that day in the kitchen, and had re-committed herself to helping me deal with our mother. I smiled at the sight of Anika, the properness of her appearance rendering the scene almost tender.
But I could see the hurt in my mother’s body. Feel it almost. And I could tell from her posture alone that the cravings had returned.
She took a deep breath, an exaggerated sigh that was meant to be heard. “Hansel, baby,” she said, “come here a minute please.” Her words were quick, jittery, an impatient dictation trying to sound sweet.
But I ignored the command, refusing to fall in so easily, and focused back on my work. I picked up another shovelful of dirt and poured it in the hole at hand, patting it down with the back of the spade. I took my time smoothing over the dirt and then, after wiping my brow and sighing, I grabbed the end of the handle and leaned on it casually before looking up at Anika. I made no move to obey her order and instead said, “What is it mom? I’ve at least seven or eight more holes to fill.” Not to sound completely insubordinate and indifferent, I added, “You look very nice today, by the way. I especially like the makeup.”
“Thank you, baby. Come here though. I just need you to...” Anika cut off her own sentence in a whimper, and then ran a hand through her hair. It wasn’t a move of modesty or embarrassment at the compliment; it was the move of a junkie.
She took her hand from her hair and then covered her mouth with it, looking off to her left toward the clouds in contemplation.
“I don’t know. I just...” Her voice cracked at that point and then she rubbed her face with both hands and sat down on the first step of the porch.
“I could use some help out here, mom. I know you’re all dolled up and such, but there are still a bunch of pots to fill.”
Anika looked up at me slowly, a wrinkle of confusion on her brow.
“It will be good for you. You can’t be inside all day. All day in bed. You should get out and get some exercise.” I held my mother’s stare, and then teased, “There are laws against children doing all the work in any one particular house.”
There wasn’t even the trace of a smile in return. “What?” is all she said and then she stood up slowly. She held her pose as still as a mountain for a moment, tall and strange, and then she began to walk down the steps.
“There you go,” I said, “that’s the attitude,” pretending that my encouragement was what had precipitated her movements. But I knew in my heart that Anika Morgan was not coming to help me.
The moment she reached the platform at the bottom of the steps, I could see that the wrinkle of confusion on her face had turned to hate. The blood vessels in the sclera of her eyes seemed to flare, appearing almost to bleed throughout the white surfaces in her sockets.
Anika stood on the platform for a moment longer, staring at me, not at all trying to disguise her contempt.
And then the screams started. And she started to run towards me.
“Oh my god,” I said to myself, and a swallow of vomit forced its way into my mouth. The fight-or-flight response told me
that if I turned and tried to run, I would be caught from behind and killed, strangled by the hands of my own mother. So, instead, I stayed in my spot, widening my stance while gripping the shovel tightly in my palms.
My mother then put her arms out straight, with her fingers curled at the tips like the talons of an eagle. As she approached in a full sprint, still screaming like a gypsy, I could see her teeth again, like that day in the kitchen, chomping up and down in robotic relentlessness. I absently imagined that that was what a shark would look like if it were bred with a human. I gagged at the thought, a reflexive act that was half-laugh, half-terror.
Anika Morgan was only steps from me now and her hands were aimed directly for my throat. At the pace she was moving, and with the unbridled fury she was possessing, if she slammed into me and grasped her fingers around my neck, she would have killed me. Quickly.
My instinct was to try without hesitation to kill her, to swing the spade with all the force in my hips and shoulders and catch her at the top of the head, perhaps at her temple, cutting off the blood flow to her brain and thus the instrumentations of life itself. Or maybe, I thought, I could bring the lip of the spade up into her chin, thrusting the pierced end up through the jaw, perhaps catching her esophagus and jugular along the way.
But I restrained myself. The instincts to preserve my own kin wrestled their way into my muscles, and instead I threw the blade of the shovel low, catching my mother just below her left knee.
The scream was revolting, and my mother dropped to the surface of the driveway as if she had been struck by a stray bullet, one from an errant hunter, perhaps, who had discharged his rifle from somewhere from across the lake.
“I’m sorry, mom,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”
She squirmed for a moment, grabbing her leg in panic and desperation, her hair and face, so pristine only moments ago, now looked grotesque.
I leaned down to help her, but I wasn’t quite sure where the safe distance was.
The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel #1-3) Page 70