A Tale Dark and Grimm

he had known. His own father had cut off his head. The baker woman had tried to eat Gretel. And then this new father had wished his sons into birds.

Gretel was thinking the same thing. She felt the space on her hand where her finger had been. She looked up at Hansel. He was leaner and stronger than she had ever seen him. They had both grown much over the difficult journey to the Crystal Mountain. “Perhaps we don’t need parents at all,” she said. “Perhaps we can take care of ourselves.”

“Yes!” Hansel cried, leaping to his feet. “Let’s live without any terrible parents at all!”

And so the two brave children, now a little older, and a lot wiser, and with only nineteen fingers between them, set off into the world to find a life that they could call their own.

I won’t even bother saying “The End” anymore. You know it isn’t.

As for this next story, it is really dark. Frightening things happen. You may feel upset—I’m talking to the big kids now.

And as for the little ones, if they are still around, I warn you, I plead with you: Make them go away. Don’t let them hear this story. They may have nightmares. No, they will have nightmares.

At least read it yourself first. Then, if you think they can take it, maybe, maybe you can read it to them. And then you have only yourself to blame if they can’t sleep for a week.

Brother and Sister

Once upon a time, a brother and a sister clasped hands (one of which was missing a finger) and strode out of the white mountains, across green hills, and into a large and wonderful wood.

Trees towered above them like the pillars of Heaven—strong and straight all the way up. Birds sang and flitted by their faces. Little rodents—chipmunks, squirrels, mice—dashed in and out of the underbrush. A fawn appeared and looked at them from behind a stand of ferns, and then bounded off after his mother. Everything was greener here, more full of life, than anywhere Hansel and Gretel had ever been.

The vibrant power of the place began to take hold of the children. Hansel rushed out ahead of his sister, bounding through the ferns, and then running back again, like a dog that’s been let off his tether. Gretel laughed and sang and collected bluebottles and daisies and other wildflowers.

“We could make a life here!” she shouted to her brother.

Hansel hooted with delight and took off after a low-flying blackbird.

Soon the two came to a clearing where there stood a magnificent tree. It rose to such heights that they could barely make out where the lowest branches began, though they could see, if they looked really hard, a crown of green far above them. Gretel jumped when she noticed, in the wood of the tree, what appeared to be a woman’s face. It was made of bark, with brown hair wrapping around its smooth cheeks and wide eyes. Gretel walked up to it, mesmerized.

“What a magnificent tree,” she said.

“Thank you,” the tree replied.

Now you might have expected Gretel to jump, or Hansel to fall backward over a conveniently placed log, but neither did. The tree’s voice was so gentle that neither child was startled at all.

“Welcome to my wood,” she went on. “It is called the Lebenwald, the Wood of Life.”

That’s pronounced LAY-ben-vault. Go ahead and say it. German is fun.

“Plant something,” the tree went on, “and watch it sprout before your eyes. Spy on the wild beasts, and see them leap and bound and grow. You, too, will grow here, and live, and be happy.” Her woody eyes drifted over them, and then she asked, invitingly, “Do you plan to stay?”

Hansel looked to Gretel. She nodded and said, “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” The tree smiled, and then added, “But I ask of you one thing. Please, take no more than you need. Life here exists in a delicate balance. Do not upset it.” Then she told them that, less than a league hence, lay a lovely spot where they could build their home. The children thanked the tree, because it is always best to thank talking trees. Then they bid her farewell and started for the place she had told them of.

They soon came to a small clearing. Some large stones were partially buried in the earth there, and nearby a brook burbled and babbled over smooth rocks. The sun shone in through the green leaves. Hansel and Gretel agreed that this was the place the tree must have meant. They gathered fallen branches and fronds of fern and laid them against the great rocks so that a little hut was formed, half green, half gray. They gathered more ferns, as well as moss and leaves, and made two little beds for themselves, side by side. Then Gretel gathered seeds to begin a garden, and Hansel gathered nuts and berries for supper. That night, they feasted.

Gretel swore that nothing could make her happier, and Hansel agreed. They decided that they needed nothing else—certainly not parents—and that they would be able to live happily, just like this, for the rest of their lives.

Yeah, right.

(Oh, did I say that out loud?)

The next day, Hansel was out gathering food for dinner as Gretel tended their garden. He walked beneath the towering trees, and heard the birds singing as they flitted by, and he thought, What life! What excitement! I want to be part of it all! Just then, a brown rabbit ran across his path. Hansel felt his legs twitch. Before he knew it, he was pursuing the rabbit through the underbrush.

As the sun set that evening, he walked back into the clearing, exhausted but as happy as the chirruping birds. He had the rabbit in his hand. It was dead. He placed it before Gretel on the ground. “Now we must make a fire,” he said, “and eat_.”

But Gretel was upset. “Why did you do it?” she asked. “We don’t need this!” Suddenly Hansel felt sorry for having killed the small beast, though he had enjoyed hunting it so. They made a fire and cooked the rabbit and ate it so it would not go to waste. But Gretel made him promise not to kill any more animals. “We have everything that we need right here,” she said. “Remember what the tree told us.” He felt bad, and promised.

But the next day, as he walked through the woods looking for nuts and berries, he saw a tiny baby fawn, nosing a stand of fern. His legs began to twitch again, and his heart began to race. He remembered what his sister had made him promise. He told himself to turn away. But there was something about the air here, the color of the green, the musty scent of the wood, that made him want to burst as he watched the tiny fawn among the fronds of fern. He couldn’t help it. In a flash, he lit off after the frightened creature.

As the sun set that evening, he walked back into the clearing, exhausted but as happy as the little animals that run among the underbrush. Over his shoulder was slung the fawn. He placed it before his sister on the ground.

“What have you done?!” she cried.

He attempted to calm her. “Now we can eat meat for a whole month!” he said. “And I won’t have to kill another animal for a long, long time!”

She looked at him in disbelief, and then began to weep bitterly over the dead fawn. “Why did you do it?” she