Hansel and Gretel Went Back
Hansel and Gretel went back.
They had to, ultimately. They could be rescued from the gingerbread house, taken home smug and warm to their mother and father, fed steaming bowls of vegetable soup, but there would always be that memory. They’d remember every time they smelled toffee, cinnamon. They’d remember when they saw the way the ceiling beams curved like candy canes.
Even more, they’d remember when night started to fall; the fading line between dark and light would fill them with terror. They’d remember the forest, and how they had walked in, deeper and deeper; they’d remember the way the trees had arched over them and the way water had dripped from leaf to leaf to needle to needle like a particularly delicate water clock in motion. They’d remember the strange sounds of unidentifiable animals, animals with too many claws and teeth. They’d remember the smell. More than anything else. The smell of loam and moss and rot. The smell of their own fear, dropped with every little white pebble Gretel left behind as they walked under branches of trees entwined like hands praying for salvation from doom.
After that, how easy would it be to accept the safe, sane life, the life at which the Brother’s Grimm only hinted, the life after they went home? Somehow, with the faith none but children have, they beat death. They beat the forest. They beat the darkest fears of being lost forever, sunk in the Abyss.
Every night after, the woods whispered to them.
And so they went back. It was inevitable. For a few years, they fought the call, they lived a life with no sharp edges, though one haunted by the way sun rays filtered down through the leaves, and by how those same leaves seemed to seize the light as evening came on, making the familiar climbing tree in the yard as dark as a witch’s cooking pot.
Then they went back.
They were older now, of course. Hansel’s voice cracking when he sang hymns in church, the blouse of Gretel’s Sunday best starting to push out. They’d shared on late nights, leaning so closely together that it almost seemed incestuous, the dreams they’d had. The old woman living alone in the middle of nowhere. The angle of the house’s roof sharpened by dripping icing icicles. The smell of an oven warming.
Buried under thick blankets while the wind howled, they talked about their dreams of the forest, running naked as wolves through the briars. Dreams or memories of catching the moon in bloody hands, falling exhausted against a gnarled tree where tiny chips of bark stuck in Gretel’s hair, and Hansel only found them, eased splinters from the blonde tangles of wildness, much later, while they were in the cage, getting fat.
Walking back towards the woods which sat low on the horizon like a waiting troll, Hansel and Gretel talked about what it was like having no idea, no idea at all, where they were.
They had to, ultimately. They could be rescued from the gingerbread house, taken home smug and warm to their mother and father, fed steaming bowls of vegetable soup, but there would always be that memory. They’d remember every time they smelled toffee, cinnamon. They’d remember when they saw the way the ceiling beams curved like candy canes.
Even more, they’d remember when night started to fall; the fading line between dark and light would fill them with terror. They’d remember the forest, and how they had walked in, deeper and deeper; they’d remember the way the trees had arched over them and the way water had dripped from leaf to leaf to needle to needle like a particularly delicate water clock in motion. They’d remember the strange sounds of unidentifiable animals, animals with too many claws and teeth. They’d remember the smell. More than anything else. The smell of loam and moss and rot. The smell of their own fear, dropped with every little white pebble Gretel left behind as they walked under branches of trees entwined like hands praying for salvation from doom.
After that, how easy would it be to accept the safe, sane life, the life at which the Brother’s Grimm only hinted, the life after they went home? Somehow, with the faith none but children have, they beat death. They beat the forest. They beat the darkest fears of being lost forever, sunk in the Abyss.
Every night after, the woods whispered to them.
And so they went back. It was inevitable. For a few years, they fought the call, they lived a life with no sharp edges, though one haunted by the way sun rays filtered down through the leaves, and by how those same leaves seemed to seize the light as evening came on, making the familiar climbing tree in the yard as dark as a witch’s cooking pot.
Then they went back.
They were older now, of course. Hansel’s voice cracking when he sang hymns in church, the blouse of Gretel’s Sunday best starting to push out. They’d shared on late nights, leaning so closely together that it almost seemed incestuous, the dreams they’d had. The old woman living alone in the middle of nowhere. The angle of the house’s roof sharpened by dripping icing icicles. The smell of an oven warming.
Buried under thick blankets while the wind howled, they talked about their dreams of the forest, running naked as wolves through the briars. Dreams or memories of catching the moon in bloody hands, falling exhausted against a gnarled tree where tiny chips of bark stuck in Gretel’s hair, and Hansel only found them, eased splinters from the blonde tangles of wildness, much later, while they were in the cage, getting fat.
Walking back towards the woods which sat low on the horizon like a waiting troll, Hansel and Gretel talked about what it was like having no idea, no idea at all, where they were.
posted by e. Readicker-Henderson at 2:40 PM
2 Comments:
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Wow, Ed. Quite a posting. I didn't want the only comment to be a computer-generated, soul-less piece of blog spam. A new practice from the wankers who bring you regular spam.
Post a Comment
<< Home