“Nearly.” Hansel and Gretel repeated the word together, and it stuck in their throats like a lump. Each saw, in their minds, the dead strewn across the forest floor.
At last, the king and queen took the children to bed, with Hansel helping his limping father up the stairs. Once in bed, their father kissed them both, and then their mother did, and then they closed the door and went away.
When their footsteps no longer sounded in the hall, Gretel sat up and opened the window curtains. The sun was beginning to come up. She opened the window and let the cool morning breeze blow in. She shook her head to get the terrible images of the night out of her mind. And the weight, the old weight, had returned.
“It knew,” she said. “It knew our plan.”
Hansel sat up. He felt the weight, too. Heavier than ever. As if every person in his family were standing on his chest. And every person in the Kingdom of Grimm on top of that. “Come off it,” he said irritably. “It saw us, or heard us, or something. No one knew the plan until we were deep in the forest. And none of the soldiers ran off.”
“Mother and Father knew it.”
“Oh, please,” Hansel said. “Mother and Father told the dragon?”
Gretel admitted that sounded ridiculous.
She sat, looking out the window. The kingdom spread out before her under the rising sun. Maybe the dragon had seen the golden apples and figured it out. It had been an obvious trap. A stupid trap. A childish trap.
But then ...
“Why did Father have a bandage around his head?” Gretel asked suddenly.
“You heard. He cut himself.”
Gretel nodded. After a moment, she said, “Why was he limping?”
“Because—” Hansel said, and then stopped.
“Was he shaving his toes?”
“Wait ... I don’t understand,” said Hansel.
Gretel stood up. “Father,” she said.
“What about him?” Hansel asked, staring.
“Father is the dragon.”
“What?”
“When did the dragon first appear?” Gretel said. “When Father was away, looking for us. When did it kill the kingdom’s army? When Father wasn’t leading the army. Who knew of our plan? Mother and Father.”
“But the wine—you said the dragon didn’t know what was in those barrels.”
Gretel paused, but then she replied, “When did we decide to bring the wine?”
“After we told them—”
“After we told them. And now he has a bandage on his head, and he’s limping.”
“Not.”
“It’s him.”
“He’s our father.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Gretel said. She went to the clothes she had worn for the battle, lying in a bloody pile on the floor, and drew from her belt the small dagger. She walked over to the door to the hall and opened it. She turned to Hansel. “I am going to kill the dragon.”
Gretel walked slowly down the stairs and through the hall to their parents’ room. She opened the door. The king stood in his nightclothes beside the bed. His foot was thickly bandaged, and blood was seeping through the wrappings.
“Where’s Mother?” Gretel asked.
The king turned, surprised. “I thought you would be sleeping,” he said. “She’s in the chapel. Why?” And then, “Gretel, why do you have that dagger? What’s wrong?”
“You are the dragon,” she said.
“What?”
“You are the dragon!” she shouted. She took a step toward him. He took a step back. She stepped toward him again. Then she charged.
“Gretel!” he cried as she thrust the dagger at his chest. He stepped to the side and grabbed her arms. “Gretel! Stop! Stop! What are you doing?”
Just then, Hansel arrived at the door. He watched his father holding his sister’s slender wrists with his strong hands. She was shouting at him, “You’re the dragon! You’re the dragon!” and trying to hit him with the point of the dagger. He shook her—violently—and the dagger came loose from her hands. It clattered to the floor. He kicked it, and it slid under the bed.
He held her wrists tightly. “Gretel, what are you doing?”
Gretel’s face was red and twisted with fury. “You did this to us!” she cried. “You cut off our heads! You’re the dragon! You killed those people! It’s your fault! Yours!” And she lifted her little foot and brought it down on his bandaged toes as hard as she could.
He threw his head back and screamed in pain.
She stomped on the bandage again and again. The bandage began to slide off. Still she stomped.
“Gretel!” Hansel shouted. “Stop! You’re hurting him!”
But Gretel fell to the ground. “He’s missing two toes!” she said. “He’s missing two toes!”
Her father looked up at her. His eyes were not his eyes. They were golden, with neither whites nor pupils. “Hansel!” Gretel cried.
Hansel had seen. He was looking for a weapon. Hanging on the wall there was a sword. He took it down and moved toward his father—the dragon. His father stared at him through golden eyes. “I’m sorry, Father,” Hansel whispered.
“It’s not your fault,” Gretel said.
And then Hansel’s sword cut through the air toward their father’s neck, and at that moment both Hansel and Gretel remembered just what it had looked like, just what it had felt like, when it had been them, not him. And then Hansel’s sword took off their father’s head at the neck and sent it rolling across the floor and into a corner of the room. The king’s headless body fell on top of Gretel.
And just like that, everything was still.
Gretel cradled her father’s body. Hansel’s bloody sword tip touched the stone floor. The light in the room was yellow like the morning. The birds outside did not sing.
Then, out from where their father’s head had once been attached to his body, two tiny claws emerged. They were quickly followed by spindly black legs, and then the golden eyes and head of a miniature, wormlike dragon. Its long, thin, black, blood-covered body slipped out of the king’s neck and scrambled down his shoulder, and, before she could even move, over Gretel’s lap and onto the floor. It skittered frantically toward the sewage grate, its claws scratching and scraping against the bedroom’s flagstones.
Gretel shrieked and Hansel flung himself at it, striking at its skeletal body with his sword. One furious blow broke its back. The next decapitated it completely. But Hansel didn’t stop. He raised his sword and brought it down again and again and again, until the evil little creature was nothing more than a mess of black, pulpy pieces on the floor. Hansel, breathing hard, eyes aflame, took the ash shovel from the fireplace. He collected the tiny beast’s mangled remains and threw them into the fire. The flames roared in greeting, and as they did a long, high, terrible scream pierced the air—just like the screams Hansel and Gretel had heard in the woods.
A moment later, all was silence again, and golden smoke drifted lazily from the blazing fire into the chimney, and then out onto the morning air.
The dragon was dead.
Hansel looked to Gretel. She sat, bent over her father’s lifeless body. She was crying. Hansel came to her side and hugged her. And Hansel and Gretel, brother and sister, sat on the floor of their parents’ room and thought of all they had seen, and all they had done. And they wept.
The End
Almost.
“Quick,” Gretel whispered through her tears. “Bring me his head.”
Hansel looked to the corner where it had come to rest. He went to it and—gingerly, trying not to look—he picked it up. Then he brought it to his sister.
From her pocket Gretel had taken out the warlock’s twine. It was nearly nothing. Just a frayed strand, no thicker than a hair.