The third raven interrupted her. “Do you remember why you ran away, Gretel?”
She looked into his black eyes and nodded.
He said, “Seems like a pretty good reason to me.”
Gretel stared past the three ravens and out the window, at the red and orange leaves that balanced on the ends of branches like tears. After a while, the third raven said, “Well, we really should be going. More flying around to be done, letting people’s fates out of the bag.”
“Anything else we can answer for you before we go?” said the second raven.
“It really isn’t my fault,” Gretel said.
“We are unable to lie,” the first raven replied. “So it must not be.” And with that, the three ravens beat their black wings against the air and flew out the open window.
Gretel fell back on her bed.
It wasn’t her fault.
She had the sudden impulse to take all of the sadness that had been crushing her and hurl it away—to hurl it at those who had caused it in the first place—to make them feel the pain, and know it, and understand it. And understand her.
Slowly, she reached into her pocket and let her hand close around something that was small and cool and turning blue.
The next day, the village was all merriment. Tables were set all about with bread and beer and cider, as well as harvest gourds and autumn leaves and other signs of the festive season. Neighbors spoke cheerily about the cool, clear weather, and little clouds of steam puffed from their mouths. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the smell of roasting sausage, topped with apples, wafted over the gathering.
The handsome young man stood with the other men, drinking beer from a great mug and laughing about this and that. Children ran to and fro. Soon the sausages were ready, and heaping platters were brought to the tables. Gretel quietly emerged from the old woman’s house, her hands buried deep in the pocket of her dress.
Everyone went to their seats at the tables, and the master of the town stood and delivered a few fine words. A couple of the older men did as well. Then the handsome young man stood up, raised his glass to the women, and said they were as beautiful as any women in all the world. All the men cheered heartily, and the women blushed and smiled.
And then, to everyone’s surprise, Gretel stood up. “Can I say something?” she asked timidly. Even standing, she was smaller than most of the sitting adults.
“Get up on the chair, honey,” one of the villagers told her. So she stood on her chair.
“I want to tell you—” she began. But then she stopped. She looked at the handsome young man. He was smiling at her. But then she glanced down at his hands—hands that could tear a girl’s soul from its body—“a dream,” Gretel said. “Just a dream that I had.”
The villagers murmured with approval. Once upon a time, you see, dreams were thought to possess hidden truth.
“I dreamed that I went into the Schwarzwald,” she said. “But as I walked through it, and the rain hit my face, and the roots tripped my feet, I heard the trees whisper, Go home, little girl, go home; to a murderer’s house you’ve come.”
The villagers started with dismay, and the young man was staring at Gretel with a very strange expression on his face. Gretel glanced at his powerful, magical hands, and said hastily, “It was only a dream.
“I came to a house in a clearing. And white birds hung in cages from the eaves. And they chanted, all together: Go home, little girl, go home; to a murderer’s house you’ve come. But I went inside the house and followed a light into the cellar, where I found an old woman wearing a chain of iron. She told me to flee, and that the man who lived there was her son, and a warlock—and a murderer.”
The young man suddenly leaped to his feet. All the villagers stared at him. Sheepishly, he sat back down.
“It was just a dream,” Gretel said cautiously. “Just a dream.
“Then the man came home. And,” she added quietly, “he looked just like you.” And Gretel pointed to the handsome young man—who was staring intently at her and had begun chewing on his fingernails like a madman.
“He had a girl and he was dragging her by the hair. He threw her onto a table and pulled a pure white dove from her mouth and put it in a cage. It was only a dream. And then he took an ax and he chopped the girl to bits. It was only a dream. And he licked the blood off his fingers and threw the bits of the girl into a boiling cauldron. It was only a dream!” The villagers were now talking to one another excitedly, pointing first at her and then at the young man.
“Except one piece didn’t go in the cauldron,” she went on. “The girl’s finger had a golden ring, with rubies red as rubies can be. He threw the finger in a rage, and it tumbled through the air and fell right in my lap.” She paused. The villagers were now silent, waiting for the conclusion of Gretel’s tale. The handsome young man’s shoulders were rising and falling, rising and falling, and his eyes were wild. Gretel, standing on the chair, put her hand into her pocket and drew it out again. “And here it is!” she said. She held the blueing finger, with the ring still on it, in her hand.
The young man leaped from his chair and began to chant the words of a dark curse, but before he could finish someone came up behind him and knocked him unconscious with a tray of sausages. Then the oil was prepared, and a villager was sent to find the poisonous snakes.
Because the best way to kill a warlock is to cook him with poisonous snakes in a cauldron of boiling oil.
Obviously.
But before the handsome young man could be thrown into the cauldron, Gretel went up to his unconscious body and slipped her slender hand into one of his pockets. She withdrew the tattered, bloodstained piece of twine. She put it in her own pocket, and then nodded to the men of the village, who hoisted up his limp body and threw it into the hissing vat of oil and snakes.
As the evil young man’s life came to an end, somewhere deep in the forest a magic shackle was broken, and an old woman was set free. And around the eaves of a dark house, a hundred doves burst forth from their cages and fell to the ground, young women again.
Gretel returned to the feasting table with all the other villagers. They comforted her and marveled at her courage. At the end of the meal she approached the widow and, after apologizing for being so willful and disobedient, told her that she would soon be leaving.
“Where do you plan to go?” the widow asked.
Gretel thought about it. At last, she said, “On.”
There, that one didn’t end so badly. Yes, it was pretty gory in the middle, but Gretel didn’t lose any body parts, and nobody died—at least, nobody we really liked.
In fact, things start getting better right here. So if you’re still feeling sad—about Hansel or anything else—don’t stop now. In fact, if you’re still feeling sad, now’s the time to keep going.
(On the other hand, if you’re feeling sick to your stomach because of all the blood, now’s a great time to stop.)
The Three Golden Hairs
Once upon a time, a duke returned home from a hunt in a magnificent wood.
In his great hall the lords and ladies of his manor awaited him. Every year the duke brought back a great bounty from his hunt, and the lords and ladies would ooh and ahh, and then be treated to a feast.
There was much excitement when the duke finally entered the hall. The lords and ladies cheered, and he bowed and waved and shook hands all around. Trumpets were sounded, and the huntsmen began to file in.