A Tale Dark and Grimm

come back and tell you.”

The soldier scratched his head. “I didn’t mean the Devil literally knows why.... It’s an expression.”

“People keep saying that,” Hansel replied. “What does it mean?”

“It means—” the soldier began, but stopped. “Wait, are you really going to Hell?”

Hansel nodded, and so did the old man.

The guard stared at the little boy. “Never mind. Just come in.”

On the third day, the man and Hansel walked until, when the sun was low in the sky, they came to a river that could only be crossed by ferry. But the ferryman refused to take them over. “I’ve been in this ferry for seven years, and I can’t get out!” the ferryman said. “I’m sick to death of it! My arms are exhausted, I haven’t slept well in ages, and you don’t even want to hear about going to the bathroom.”

“Why can’t you get out?” the old man asked.

“Devil knows why!” the ferryman said, throwing up his hands.

So Hansel said, “I am going to see the Devil in Hell. Perhaps I can ask him why, and if ever I escape, I will come back and tell you.”

“I didn’t mean the Devil literally—wait, did you say you’re going to Hell?” the ferryman asked. “But why?”

“The Devil knows,” Hansel replied.

The ferryman scratched his head at that. But then he said, “Well, if you promise to come back and tell me why I’m stuck here, I’d be happy to take you over.” And so he did.

At last, as the sun was disappearing beyond the edge of the horizon on the third day, the old man and Hansel arrived at the tall, black doors of Hell. Hansel’s knees began to knock gently against each other. The doors to Hell led directly underground, and there was no handle or knocker. They were just smooth and black. Like eternity.

“Be brave,” the old man said. “And get those three golden hairs.”

Hansel said, “I will.” But he wasn’t sure he believed it.

Hansel’s hand was trembling so badly it took him three tries just to knock on the great doors. But as soon as his knuckles hit them, they swung open, and two pairs of long red arms grabbed him and thrust him inside. The doors slammed shut behind him.

Faithful Johannes sat down on the ground to wait. He wondered how long eternity was.

Hansel stood just inside Hell’s doors, staring all around him. He was in what looked like a cave. It had a low, heavy ceiling hung with long spires of rock; down these spires dripped a red liquid that looked, for all the world, like blood. But though there was a ceiling, there were no walls. Hansel could see forever in every direction. A thousand paths stretched out from where he stood, paths that wound past millions upon millions of craters of bubbling, boiling, liquid fire. In each crater a sinner screamed as red-armed demons drove him under the liquid fire’s surface. The sinners kicked and struggled as they were held below. Sometimes the demons would allow them to rise, and the sinners would scream and cry and say that they were sorry and please let them out, please pretty please with a cherry on top, and then the demons would push them down again to suffocate and be burned.

“Look fun?” said one of Hansel’s two demon guides. Then he led Hansel between the pits of fire, over a path that glowed like embers. The soles of Hansel’s feet began to scorch, and he hopped from foot to foot and winced. But far worse than the pain in his feet was the chorus of screaming sinners bursting forth from the pits and then being shoved back down again, like hellish jack-in-the-boxes.

As they passed one crater, a heavyset woman burst from beneath the bubbling fire and screamed, “Oh pretty please, stop!” Hansel stared at her. It was the baker woman. She saw him, too. “Hansel!” she cried. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Tell them to stop! Please tell them to stop! Please! Pretty please!” A demon with a pitchfork shoved her back under the surface of the boiling fire.

Hansel slowed beside the pit. He hated the baker woman. She was bad. He was glad she was being punished for what she’d done—to them and to all the children she must have eaten before they met her. Yes, he thought as he watched her bob to the surface again, scream, and then plunge back into the torture below. Yes, punish her.

But when she came up again he saw the fear in her face, and the remorse, and the pleading. She deserved to be punished. But not like this. And not for eternity.

“Would you please stop?” Hansel said.

The demon with the pitchfork turned to Hansel. “What?” he hissed.

Hansel swallowed hard. He held his head high. He stared straight into the demon’s eyes. “Please,” he said. “I’ve forgiven her. Stop punishing her now.”

For a moment, the demon looked paralyzed. Then he glanced at Hansel’s demon guides. The corners of his mouth broke into a smile. And he said, “Nice try, kid. But it doesn’t work like that.”

The two demons laughed and pushed Hansel on. His eyes scanned the pits, looking for the empty one that he knew, somewhere, awaited him. Up ahead, he noticed someone in one of the pits who, for some reason, caught his attention. It was a young man with black hair and striking green eyes. He wailed and howled each time his face rose above the boiling pit. Hansel looked away.

Finally, they arrived at an empty one. Hansel stood at the edge, looking down into the boiling fire, rimmed with black jagged rock.

Have you ever stood at the edge of water and known that it was going to be really, really cold? And you knew you had to go in, but you really, really, really didn’t want to?

Well, this was kind of like that.

But with liquid fire instead.

Hansel clenched his lips and clasped his sweaty hands together. He closed his eyes. Behind him, he heard the demons chuckling. And then, before they could push him or kick him or strike him with the pitchfork, Hansel jumped in.

Pain. Greater pain than he could ever have imagined. Burning so terrible and unnatural that every inch of Hansel’s body screamed to get out of the fire. He began to kick frantically, struggling to get to the surface. Finally he rose above the flames, and there was a split second of relief, as if perhaps the pain was coming to an end. But instantly he felt the sting of pitchforks on his neck and his face, thrusting him back under. He went down again and burned and burned, and the burn was worse this time for having felt, just for an instant, the sweet, cooling relief of the surface. Once more Hansel struggled up and clear of the flames.

He was just about to loose the most lung-cracking scream he had ever produced when he heard one of the demons say, “Give him a minute this time. I like to hear them scream.”

Just as the sound pushed past Hansel’s throat and over his tongue, he clamped his lips shut. He looked into the demon’s narrow, stupid, vicious eyes. And he thought, For you, I won’t.

After a moment of the sweetest relief imaginable, they pushed him under again, and he was certain his skin was burning off. He kicked up to the surface. The demons looked at him expectantly. But instead of screaming, Hansel concentrated on the howls of the other sufferers.

“I’m sorry!”

“I hate myself for what I did!”

“If only I had been good!”

“Why isn’t this one screaming?” the demon said as they shoved him back under the liquid fire.

While he was under again, he realized that, while this was terrible, it wasn’t as terrible as all those sleepless nights when he had felt so guilty about abandoning Gretel. At least this was just pain, and not shame and guilt. This was not his fault. He rose to the surface again, and he smiled at the demons.

“This one’s defective!” the demon shrieked. And they pushed him back under.