A Governess Named Gretel, A Crow, And a Crone

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. It was by all accounts, still just as breathtaking as the day she had found it. Her grandmother (one of the greats-Too many greats to be listed in succession here) had recorded it all down in her diary, and that diary had been passed down from generation to generation. Weather-beaten and magical, it had led her here to this spot as a child. It was here where she had leaned her back against the solid spine of a tree, drinking in the adventures of Hans and Gretel, page by page under the lazy languid sun. The story of her ancestors beckoned her to sit and kiss the sweet green earth once again. She pulled the diary from her satchel, and began to read.

There is a path that leads to a little wood. Beyond the friendly embrace of the little wood, there is a door. The door is tucked beneath the giant gnarled roots of a tree in a little ravine. Weathered by age and the changes of many seasons, the door could be easily passed over by the ordinary bloke. But to those with the greatest of imaginations, and the openest of hearts, it is a curious thing to behold; It is a door that renders the possibility of the impossible.

If one were to open this little door, the first thing he or she would notice, would be the icy song of the Alps accompanied by the tintinnabulation of wind chimes blowing in the breeze. Upon further investigation, one would begin to notice a pulsing membranous sphere floating at eye level before him or her. The colors of this sphere would pour forth, melting into a sparkling homogeneous blue, and without warning would suck the dazed individual up into a thin slip of a tunnel, and then would spit him or her out into a forest the likes of which he or she has never before seen.

If his or her heart should want for exploring, he or she would not want for long. But if he or she is wise, the individual would not follow the little blue bird coaxing him or her to follow it on the narrow path marked by the large honeybee hive. At the end of this hair pin path, is a house made of the types of desserts one only reads about in fairy-tales. 

There is a little walk that leads up to the Swiss chocolate door of the house, and the cobblestones are made of candy rock and Turkish Delight. Just before the walk, are two candy peppermint stick posts supporting two unusual looking lanterns, made entirely of cake and frosting. The shingles on the quaint little roof, are made from gelatinous gum drops, and the whimsical looking trim on the house, from ribbon candy. The exterior of the house is constructed from shortbread, and nougat insulates the walls from the harsh winter nights of this enchanted world. 

Eons upon eons of curious little children have feasted upon the delights of this little house, and none have lived to tell their story, save for one little girl. Her name is Gretel. Years have passed since she escaped that curious house in the forest at the base of the mountain.

She lives with her children in a castle high up in the Alps. She is a widow and a servant maid and governess to Lady Mathilde, who is eleven winters. She has two sons of her own, Ludwig and Leopold, both Lady Mathilde’s age. They are twins, but one is timid and given to tears, while the other is loud and boisterous. Ludwig is very much like his father was, with an affectation for stories and day- dreaming. Leopold is the spitting image of his late uncle Hans, clever but arrogant.

Both boys are quite taken with the spoiled Lady Mathilde, who treats them like two play things. She is a very pretty little girl with shiny raven curls that spiral down her back, and pearly skin. Gretel treats her as if she were her own daughter, and the three children plead with her to tell them stories at night about the enchanted forest she grew up in as a child. More often than not, she succumbs, and they stay up late into the night by the fire as she regales them with tales of that forbidden forest at the base of the mountains.

There is the tale about the maiden who was eaten alive by an ancient elm tree, and then the one about the pixies that live in the deciduous mushrooms that grow in clumps on the forest floor, and then there is the one she lived. The one she recalls every night when she lays her head on her pillow, and then sighs as one solitary tear escapes the corner of her eye. It is a tale of two skinny malnourished children, abandoned by their father and their stepmother in the forest, only to encounter a nightmarish event that would change their lives forever, and only one of them would live to tell the tale and to grieve the loss of the other. It is a tale of poverty, cannibalism, broken hearts, and loss. It is the tale of a middle-aged woman’s dreams, and all of their shadows fleshed out into the light of day. But she would rather grieve, then forget. For to try and to forget is to weigh down the load of guilt and sadness, which she already feels day after day.

And so she spins her tales night after night by the friendly glow of the fire burning in the hearth, as the children listen to her transfixed, their expressions drinking in everyone of hers as she remembers. She closes her tale with a warning, night after night. Let this be a lesson children. Listen to your elders, for they have much wisdom to share with you, meant to save you from years of heartache. Be grateful for what you have. Be grateful you live in this castle far above the dangers of the enchanted forest. You are safe here. Let these stories remain stories, lest they should become memories that keep you awake at night into old age, and haunt you in your dreams.

Ludwig embraces his mother at the end of the telling of her tale, and reassures her he will never leave the castle. Leopold insists one day he will leave, and find this mysterious house made of candy. He brandishes a wooden sword and promises one day he will avenge his Uncle’s death, and slice off the old witches head (even though Gretel insists the old witch was burned alive, and she saw it with her own eyes). Mathilde yawns and declares that she is destined to marry a prince, and no witch in her right mind would dare to harm a princess. Besides, she can’t stay in this silly castle forever.

Gretel pats each of the children lovingly on the head, and ushers them off to bed so they won’t be too tired for their lessons in the morning. After several protests, and demands for another story, the children finally succumb and slink off to their chambers to dream of witches, and little children, and houses made of sweets.

Gretel sighs and puts out the fire, as she pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and whispers under the light of the moon Oh Hans, If only things had turned out differently for you. She worries that Leopold is too prideful, and may one day be the death of her. Outside the wind is howling, and frost encircles the window panes, appearing and then evaporating in an endless pattern that whispers of the tell-tale signs of winter. It will be another sleepless night for Gretel. 

Now, let us swiftly glide down the eternal lengths of the mountains into this spectral forest that holds so many memories for Gretel. Let us for one moment imagine the glassy quality of the giant trees that harbor it’s long-held magic. It sits like a silent dome within a snow globe, barring the snow from frosting it’s earthy interior. Like a world of its own, it speaks its own language, and is it’s own jurisprudence.

There is a peculiar quality to the air that leaves one with the feeling that comes after waking from the most vivid of dreams. There is a symphony in each molecule of air, and the birds flitting about from branch to branch, are the composers. The roots of the trees abound and form little hills that blanket the forest floor.

Sunlight pierces the leafy roof of this vast woodland kingdom from time to time, painting the bark of the trees in strokes of burgundy, amethyst, sienna, and velvety brown. There is nothing particularly bad or good about this place, but rather a feeling that something could happen at any given moment. There is an air of tentativeness that lingers in every sight, smell, and sound.

In the palpitating heart of this otherworldly forest, lies a small thatch-roofed hut built from rock, and insulated with moss and dirt. Bits and pieces of the roof have been removed by birds that have used the materials of the roof for building nests; hence, the indifference of time and change has produced a sad-looking historical artifact. It is a testament to the winds of change, and to the story of two siblings, and their tragic plight.

A thin slip of a shrewd looking woman occupies the interior of the house now. Her heart is as bitter as the herbs that hang limply from the rafters in the humble dilapidated kitchen of the hut. The pale innocent faces of the two malnourished children haunt her daily, along with the blood-curdling scream of her sister when she was burned alive in her own oven.

She often pities herself when she thinks of how their father loved them so much more than he loved her. Was it not she who heated the water for the children’s baths? Was it not she who helped her husband haul firewood home each day to keep her stepchildren warm? Was it not she who deserved revenge when his ungrateful children burned her own sister alive so that she could hear her gut-wrenching screams all the way across the forest? 

A sleek black crow settles on the ledge of a little window cut into the wall of the kitchen. It cocks it’s head and squawks at the frowning old hag waiting for her to notice. The woman smiles wickedly.

“Ahhh little Hans! I have a message for you to deliver child.”

The crow ruffles its feathers and stares back at her in beady-eyed defiance.

“Oh but I think you will Hans. I think you will, unless you would prefer to be tonight’s delicacy?”

The woman cackles as she scoops the crow up, perching it on her long crooked finger. His feathers are all afluff as she stoops down to rattle a lock on a rusty wooden chest. Cursing at the effort she has to employ to bend over and to stand back up, she retrieves a scroll of parchment, yellowed with age. 

The crow opens its ugly beak as the cackling crone administers her scheme into its clutches, and with a rustle of wings he is off.

Gretel is resting her brittle bones in a chair with brocaded trim as she ceremoniously knits by the fireplace. She looks up occasionally only to become pleasantly dizzied by the flurry of snowflakes dancing in circles outside of the castle windows. The children are unenthusiastically poring over geographical maps of the mountain ranges that surround their home. It is by all accounts, a seemingly ordinary day for the governess and the three youth. 

Thump. A loud noise at the window startles Gretel out of her lull, and she jumps up out of her seat, nearly twisting one of her already frail ankles. Thump. Gretel puts a hand to her chest, as she sets her knitting down and makes her way over to the window. A flurry of wings is contending for her regard. Thwack Thwack. Thwack Thwack.  A sharp gaze over a hard obstinate beak meets her own, which is wide and startled.

“Oh my. What have we here?”

Gretel hesitates, and then unlatches the window, letting in a blast of rimy air that chills her to the bone and causes a murmur of protestation from the three young scholars at work in the middle of the room.

The stark black fledgling before her hops up onto the window sill and drops a roll of parchment at her feet. There is a hint of regret in its eyes that is quickly diminished with the thought of becoming dinner on the table tonight. With furrowed brow, it cocks its head and squawks and then flies off into the wild winter day in a fluster. 

Gretel’s heart is beating its way out of her chest, and she picks up the scroll, unrolls it, and reads:

Dearest Little Gretel,

Your stepmother requires the presence of you and the three underlings in your care at this time tomorrow before the sun goes down. If you can answer the following riddle, I will return your long lost brother to you. ‘What two things do siblings and bees have in common?’ Meet me in the enchanted forest by the large honey bee hive that marks the hairpin path that leads to ‘you know where’.

Signed,

Frau Leckermaul

Gretel clutches the scroll to her chest as great heaving sobs fill her trembling form. The children rush to embrace her and pummel her with questions. 

Let us now race back down the mountain, through the unyielding forces of the enchanted forest, and back through the thin slip of tunnel that claimed us at the beginning of this story. Observe now, Gretel’s descendant reading the words in her great grandmother’s diary again and again beneath the shade of a giant tree. She is mouthing the words silently to herself...Hans was alive...and that was all that mattered.”