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.
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.
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:
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.
