by Adam Gidwitz
The huntsmen tied the strange, dead animal to a pole and carried him triumphantly back to the duke’s manor.
The next morning, Gretel ran through the wood looking for her brother. For a long time she found nothing but broken branches and paw prints. Then, at last, she came to the brook and saw the earth stained a copper red, and the rocks at the water’s edge spattered with blood.
She ran to the tree with the face in it. “My brother has been killed!” she cried. “He has been killed!” But the tree would not speak to her. Gretel fell to the ground and sobbed and sobbed. She was alone, in a great forest, in a dark tale. Her father had tried to kill her. She’d been nearly eaten by the baker woman, and had cut off her own finger. And now her brother, Hansel, was dead.
She would not stay in that forest, not now. “I need to go back to people,” she said, wiping tears from her face. “To grown-ups.”
As she left the Wood of Life, she saw a bird alighting in a tree nearby. Soon she could hear the sound of birdsong again. But it only made it hurt more. They only came back, she knew, because Hansel was dead.
We’re at one of those places in the story—and they happen in nearly all stories, of any kind—when things seem to be really, really bad. When it feels like, if things get much worse, you won’t be able to listen anymore.
When I was little, I used to call this part “the sad part.” I knew it would happen in every story, and I knew it always ended eventually, and I would repeat, “This is the sad part this is the sad part” over and over until it was done.
And so, as I was piecing these stories together, I came to this part. And I realized that this was “the sad part.” I repeated this to myself again and again, to try to make it not feel so terrible.
But it didn’t help. It never does. It still hurts when a character you love dies, and another is left all alone in the world.
Nevertheless, I will tell you, as I always tell myself, that things will get better. Much, much better. I promise.
Just not quite yet.
A Smile as Red as Blood
Once upon a time, a little girl named Gretel walked down a wide, lonely road all by herself. She was as sad as a little girl can be, for the person whom she loved most in all the world was gone.
After a time, she came to a small village that stood in the shadow of another great wood. This wood was as big as the last one, but no two woods could have been more different. Where the Wood of Life had been bright, inviting, and alive, this one was dark, forbidding, and dead. So forbidding that almost no one went in. And exactly no one came out.
It was called the Schwarzwald—the Wood of Darkness.
That’s SHVAHTS-vault. In case you were wondering.
But the little village that stood near the Schwarzwald was not dark at all. No, no: It was ringed by trees that, when Gretel arrived, had just slipped into their golden robes of autumn. Laughter was in the air, as was the smell of wood burning in fireplaces and apple cider frothing with cinnamon.
Gretel walked down the town’s single road, looking in the warm windows of the little houses, wishing that someone might invite her inside for some food, cider, and a little human comfort.
But all the doors remained closed to Gretel. She was very tired, and very, very lonely, and on the verge of giving up. She sat down and all her troubles overwhelmed her. She began to cry.
Presently, the door to one of the houses opened, and a silver-haired woman came out. She went up to the little girl crying by the side of the road and asked her her name, and why she was all alone. Gretel told her that she and her brother had long ago run away from home, but that recently her brother had been killed and she didn’t know where to go or what to do. The woman reached out to hold her, and Gretel fell into her arms and buried her face in the woman’s neck. She took Gretel into her home and washed her and picked the knots from her hair and gave her some old, but clean, clothes.
Some weeks went by. Gretel had no thought now of where else she should go, or what else she should do. For what sense did it make to do anything now that Hansel was gone?
And that is how Gretel came to live with the silver-haired widow in the little village.
Soon Gretel was just another child there, and, though she carried a great sorrow around with her, she put on a brave face. It was the time of the harvest, and everyone worked all day long, including Gretel. In the evenings, when the autumn air became cool, the villagers would gather in and in front of the town tavern and drink and laugh and converse, while the children ran about in their games. But Gretel had no heart to play. So instead she sat by the grown-ups and listened to their talk.
There was one grown-up in particular whom Gretel liked listening to. He was a young man, cheerful and kind. And he was very handsome. He had long black hair and green eyes flecked with gold that seemed to dance in the light. And it seemed to Gretel that the young man liked her, too, for whenever he saw her looking at him, he would smile with lips of deep red, before she, blushing, could turn away.
So she sat near him always and marveled at his easy jokes and his careless laughter and his wonderful eyes. Occasionally he would leave the grown-ups in the tavern and go out among the children. He would tease them gently, and lift them up, and all of them, particularly the girls, loved him.
Sometimes a child would bring to the handsome young man a toy that was broken. It would be a porcelain doll with a finger that had cracked off or a wooden king that had lost its head. The handsome young man would draw from his pocket a tattered piece of twine. He would hold the toy between his knees and tie the twine around the broken place. When he unwound the twine, the toy was as good as new. The children would cry aloud and clap their hands, and the handsome young man would smile. Then he would go back to the tavern with the grown-ups.
Each day, as the sky turned from pale blue to rich purple to black, Gretel would watch the handsome young man say his farewells, slip out the tavern door, and disappear into the darkness. Out of the village. All alone. She wondered where he went.
Well, one warm afternoon, when the last of the barley had been brought in from the fields, Gretel sat by the door of the tavern and watched the men play their favorite game. They played like this: One man balanced a mug on his chin, and everyone else tried to throw coins into it. If the mug didn’t fall, the man got to keep all the coins. If it did, he had to buy everyone a drink.
It was the young man’s turn to have the mug on his chin, and Gretel watched as he weaved about like a snake being charmed, trying to prevent the mug from falling. Just then, one of the young man’s friends appeared at Gretel’s shoulder.
“Give him a shout,” the friend whispered. “See if he can hold it then.”
Gretel thought this was a funny idea. So she called the young man’s name loudly.
He was startled, for never before had Gretel spoken to him. He turned to her, and as he did, the mug went crashing to the ground. The men cheered, and the man who had put her up to it threw his head back and laughed till he was red from his collar to the top of his bald pate.
But the young man’s golden green eyes were wide, and suddenly he rushed at Gretel. His hands were stretched out before him like claws. Gretel screamed as he caught her hard around the waist.
And then, in a moment, she was swooping through the air, her long blond hair streaming out behind her, and his strong arms holding tightly onto her hips. And he was laughing—a beautiful, joyous laugh, his head thrown back and his eyes shining.
He placed her on the ground again and smiled at her, and Gretel was breathless. He rubbed her head as if she were a puppy, and then he turned to lead the other men into the tavern.
Gretel had been fascinated by the young man before. But in that moment, when he held her high in the air and his golden green eyes were sparkling and his red lips were curving and he was laughing—laughing with her, and her alone—well, at that moment, Gretel had passed beyond fascination. In that moment, Gretel had fallen in love.
It wasn’t real
love, you might say. Just a child’s infatuation.
You might say that. But if you did, it would prove that you are already old, and that you don’t remember what it is like to be a child at all.
Every day after that, Gretel made sure to be near the handsome young man with the green eyes and black hair and red lips. He would talk to her and make her laugh and steal apples from the harvest barrels for her. And she wondered why she should be so lucky as to get all of this attention from him.
One day, soon before the great Harvest Feast, as the day’s work in the orchards was coming to a close and all the ladders were being folded up and taken in, Gretel noticed a large, beautiful apple still hanging from the bough of a tree up above her head. She tried to jump for it, to grab it and put it in the barrels before a bird saw it and pecked holes in it. But it was too high for her to reach. So she called to the handsome young man, asking him to come over and pluck it. He came and smiled at her, but it was too high for him, too. So he took her by the hips and lifted her into the air, and she gasped—as she always gasped when he touched her—and then she was high enough in the air to reach the apple. And she picked it.
And then, instead of putting her down, he threw her into the air. Gretel screamed—but not in fear. And he caught her and threw her up again, and she was laughing. And he threw her up a third time, but this time he threw her too near an overhanging branch, and she reached up to protect her head, but too late, and she cried out in pain. When he lowered her to the ground, red blood was running in a narrow rivulet down her face. Her forehead had struck the branch and left a deep cut just above her eyebrow. She was having trouble seeing out of her left eye through the steady stream of blood. The young man knelt before her. He gazed at the cut. Very gently, very slowly, he applied his lips to it, and he sucked the blood away. Gretel did not know what to think of that. Then he took from his pocket the piece of tattered twine that he used to fix the children’s toys, and he wrapped it around her head, so that it ran crosswise over the cut. He smiled at Gretel. And when he took the twine away and wiped the blood from Gretel’s face, she saw that the bleeding had stopped and that her head no longer hurt at all.
Now, dear reader, I seem to detect in you a growing unease about this handsome young man. I must say, I think that is very unfair of you.
Do you suspect a flower, just because it is beautiful?
Or a doctor, for his mysterious healing power?
Or the postrnan, because you don’t know where he sleeps at night?
Very unfair indeed.
Oh, and while I’m thinking about it, you should go ahead and rehire that babysitter that came by for the previous story. Make her take the little ones out to a movie this time. A G-rated movie. Or an R-rated movie, for that matter. Whatever it is, it probably won’t be as bad as what you’re about to read.
I know, you don’t believe me. “How much worse could things get?” you ask.
Believe me. Much worse.
As Gretel and the handsome young man walked in from the orchard that night, they talked about this and that—the weather, the apple crop, the upcoming Harvest Feast—until suddenly he turned to her and asked her if she didn’t wonder where he lived. Gretel, shyly, replied that she did wonder sometimes. He asked if maybe she would like to see his house. Her heart fluttered, and she told him she would like to very much, and she thanked him for the kind invitation. And then she asked the handsome young man where his house was.
“A little ways into the forest,” he said.
“In the forest?”
He laughed. “You’re not afraid of that silly old forest, are you?”
“No,” she lied.
“I’ll leave a path of ashes for you to follow. How’s that?”
Gretel’s heart floated up near her mouth. “That’s good,” she said.
But that night, when she returned home and told the widow that she was going into the Schwarzwald to visit the handsome young man, a great fight began. The widow forbade her from going. It was not right for a child to visit a man’s house in the first place, she said. And the fact that it was in the Schwarzwald? Did Gretel know nothing of that place? Was she a fool?
Gretel was furious. She raged and cried all that night. The next day, her face red and puffy, she told the handsome young man that she could not come, that the widow would not allow it. He smiled and told her not to worry, that they were still friends. But he talked to her less that day. She watched him from afar. Rarely did his gaze turn to meet hers.
He’s forgetting me, she thought.
At the end of the day, the handsome young man turned toward the tavern without even glancing at Gretel—as if she no longer even existed.
Just before he disappeared inside the tavern door, Gretel ran and caught him by the arm. “I’ll come,” she whispered fiercely, urgently. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
The young man hesitated, and then smiled and went into the tavern.
Gretel returned home more determined than ever. She told the widow that she was going on the morrow, and that there was nothing she could do about it. They fought more that night, but Gretel was implacable. Early the next morning, she rose and prepared to go.
But she found the widow, arms folded sternly across her chest, standing before the door. Gretel ran and pushed past her, squeezing under her armpit and then breaking into a run once she made it past the door frame.
“Gretel!” the widow cried. “Gretel!” But Gretel ignored her, and ran out of the yard and into the dirt road.
Then, from the doorway, the widow cried, “Take these!” Gretel slowed and looked back. The widow held a bag of lentils in her hand. Cautiously, fearing a trick, Gretel walked back into the yard.
“Scatter them on the ashen path,” the widow said mournfully. “In case it rains.”
Gretel walked to the edge of the Schwarzwald and peered in. She felt a shiver skitter down her spine. At the wood’s edge the trees had the bright red and yellow leaves of high autumn. But Gretel could see that a little farther in the branches were mostly bare. The path of ashes snaked deep into the wood and out of sight.
For a moment, Gretel hesitated. The wood was an evil place. Everyone knew that. What if she just turned around, she wondered, and did not go? What then? He would think she was a coward. Or worse—he would think that she did not care. No, Gretel could not allow that. She breathed deep. Then she plunged into the darkness, scattering lentils as she went.
As she walked, the air became colder, and within minutes the sunlight was almost entirely blocked by the trees. Gretel began to feel frightened. Branches hung like the claws of dead men. Clouds of gray mist passed by, looking for all the world like lost souls. The trees around her were gnarled and scarred, mutilated by time. No bird sang.
The branches’ long fingers became longer as Gretel walked, and soon it seemed that they were trying to grab her hair and her cheeks, scratching and tearing into her soft skin. She tripped on the twisted roots that reached up from the ground like corpses in a graveyard come back to life. Then it began to rain, as cold and sharp as needles falling from the sky. The rain struck the wood of the trees, making eerie sounds almost like words. Gretel stopped and listened. The words seemed to say:
Go home, little girl, go home;
To a murderer’s house you’ve come.
For a moment she stopped and considered following the rain’s advice. But then she shook her head. “You’re being foolish,” Gretel told herself. “Rain can’t talk.”
No, of course it can’t. The moon can eat children, and fingers can open doors, and people’s heads can be put back on.
But rain? Talk? Don’t be ridiculous.
Good thinking, Gretel dear. Good thinking.
She went on through the darkness, ducking to avoid the clawing branches, and still she scattered the lentils behind her. Finally she came to a clearing.
In the center of it stood a tall, dilapidated house. It had once been painted black, but now the paint was peeling, revealing the r
otting wood beneath—which was black, too. The stone roof was high and steeply sloping, with a long row of unlit windows poking out from beneath the slate.
Before the windows, from the eaves, hung cages. In almost every one there perched a white bird, like a dove—but filthy, covered with brown stains and molting feathers. As Gretel stepped into the clearing, one called out in a voice that sounded more like a crow’s than a dove’s:
Go home, little girl, go home;
To a murderer’s house you’ve come.
Then another repeated it, and another, their raspy voices ringing out together in horrible chorus:
Go home, little girl, go home;
To a murderer’s house you’ve come.
Pssst!
Gretel!
GRETEL!
What are you doing? Turn around! Go home! Go home!
You would go home, wouldn’t you, dear reader? You wouldn’t be taken in by such a man as this. You would turn right around and leave.
Tell me you would. Say you would.
Oh no, you wouldn’t.
Not with such an object of your fascination and adoration there waiting for you—for you alone.
Haven’t you ever had that enchanting friend—the coolest boy, the older girl—and he or she seemed to like you? Of all people, you?