The Magic Circle (10 page)

I step back and crush a pinecone Hansel has left on the floor. I jump at the sound. Hansel is making a wreath for the door, but this cone will not be part of it. The noise disturbs Gretel’s sleep. She looks around in momentary alarm. Then her eyes focus on my face and they
become dreamy. She smiles. “Good night, Mother.” She closes her eyes and is instantly deep asleep.

I have stopped breathing. Now I let the air fill my lungs once more. This child has called me Mother. My ears are ringing with the word. It is an unexpected honor.

I walk backward slowly and lower myself into the rocking chair, feeling dazed. I look about the one-room cottage, as Gretel has taught me to call it. Gretel’s apron, which took me four days to make, is folded on the shelf above the bed. Ordinarily I could pick the cotton, spin it, and weave it all within a single day. But the apron is not plain cotton. The edges are scalloped with crochet. I have dyed the loops pink. I smile at the pervasive signs of beets in this home. There are bunches of dried currants sewn above the pockets. They give a festive air to the little apron. When the currants begin to turn to dust, I will replace them. The supply of dried berries is without end.

Beside the apron on the shelf sits a small stack of hot pads. Gretel made them, in her quiet, insistent way. She never questioned me further about them. I have much to be grateful for.

And beside the stack of hot pads is my carved wooden bowl. It is still empty. But its significance has changed.
I have promised Gretel that when I die, it is hers. I know what this promise means: I have accepted Gretel as a daughter. And now, oh, joy of joys, she has called me Mother. We have adopted each other.

She is a very different girl from the girl Asa was. Gretel is made of oak, where Asa was a bending willow. Gretel would smell of soap, where Asa would prefer perfume. But, after all, I am a very different woman today from the woman I was when I was Asa’s mother. Gretel is a more suitable child to the woman I am now. She doesn’t demand I give the warmth only a human can give. I give all that I can, and it seems enough. Gretel is satisfied with me. I feel a calm I had never expected to feel again.

Peeking out from under the edge of the bed is a new basket that Hansel made. It is crude and asymmetrical. But I like it. It is now full of feathers from the head and tail of the redheaded woodpecker. Hansel is quite expert at spying feathers. He would soar like a feather if he could. I have taken lately to holding his hand when we walk in the woods. Half the time he is breaking free from me to climb a tree for a feather stuck high in the branches. He has the same affinity for heights that Asa had. But he always returns quickly and takes my hand again. Feathers. I think briefly of the basket of feathers that Asa
kept in our cabin long ago. I picture the delight her face would show at the sight of the bright yellow feathers of these birds that call themselves canaries.

Fine, fine children. Both of them. Children who deserve so much.

And I am standing now, walking to the hearth. I am reaching my hands into the ashes, which are still smoldering. I do not look over my shoulder to check whether or not the children watch. Their even breaths tell me they sleep peacefully. I clear away the ashes and dig with my bare fingers into the baked clay earth. It takes most of an hour, but my fingers at last feel the sharp edges of the porcupine-quill box. It is still whole, after these nine long years of being buried. I unearth it and set it beside my knees. Then I fill the hole and push the ashes back in place.

I look at my sizzling skin. Scars will form. I plunge my hands into the bucket of water that sits beside the hearth. It would make no sense to let the burn eat to the bone.

I get to my feet and look at the dirt-covered box. I can already imagine the emeralds in a necklace lying on Gretel’s thin chest. I look at her shoes by the door. Her feet are small. I am sure I have enough diamonds for the soles of her shoes. But no one would rob her here in the woods.
I could cover her shoes with diamonds, top and bottom. Asa would have laughed in glee had it been safe to stud the tops of her shoes in diamonds. Gretel will be more hesitant. I will have to help her learn to let herself enjoy the splendor.

I go out into the night. The air is chilled. Summer is coming to a close with the end of August, and I can smell that this will be a harsh winter. I think of Hansel and Gretel’s stepmother, looking ahead to a hard winter, wondering how she would feed these children. That must have been it. No woman would abandon these children for anything less than desperation.

And I wonder why I want to justify her actions so much. Who is this wicked stepmother to me and me to her?

But it is not her I care about. It is the children. I seek to justify her actions so that I can quell the rage that lights within me at the thought of her cruelty.

But, oh, joyous, milky-full moon up there in the sky, you witnessed the girl child’s words tonight. I have no need for rage any longer. A new life has come to me. A new world.

And I realize suddenly that this is the second full moon this month. A blue moon. What is happening to me can happen only once in a blue moon.

I am running now, my feet knowing the way perfectly. My hands dip into the stream and wash the newly scarred skin to perfect cleanliness. I laugh a perfect laugh. There is nothing missing. I am very close to hope, after years and years of hopelessness. I cannot wait to get back and begin my work as jeweler. I run as fast as I have ever run. As fast as I crossed forests and lakes to get to these woods nine years ago.

I open the door and stop. My mouth drops open.

“Look!” Gretel is kneeling before the open porcupine box. Her hands are full of gems.

“What woke you?” My eyes race around the room. “What woke you, Gretel?”

“Nothing at all,” says Gretel. She holds the gems close to her face. “Where did they come from?”

“What woke you?” I shriek.

Hansel sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

“Nothing,” says Gretel, surprise in her voice. “A silly spider on my cheek. Less than nothing.”

Hansel is out of bed now, walking toward Gretel on bare feet.

“Where is that spider?” I hurry to the bed and stare down at the pillow, which still holds the indentation from her head.

“Why, I put it out the door. Its abdomen was brown,
not colored. It wasn’t a poisonous one.” Gretel laughs. “How can you think of a spider at a time like this? Just look, we are rich.”

“We won’t have to live in the woods anymore,” says Hansel. He holds a ruby in his palm.

“That’s right,” says Gretel. “We can go back to town. We can bring enough jewels to make Father rich forever.”

“They’re leaving you,” says the voice within my head.

The room spins before my eyes, and I fall into the rocking chair. I am shocked at the return of the voice. But the shock is momentary, for the words it speaks cut me so deeply I cannot retreat into a state of shock. I want to say that they are not leaving me. They talk of their father now. But that’s just because the jewels are a novelty. As soon as they have a moment to think about it, they will remember me. They will talk about taking me with them.

“I’m going to make a belt and put this one on the buckle,” says Hansel, pocketing the ruby.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Gretel. “It’s worth money, you foolish boy. We can eat for a year on what this ruby is worth. Father can buy beef again.” She takes the ruby from Hansel and puts it back in the box. She picks up a smaller one. “Here.” She laughs. “Take this one for your buckle.”

“You thought they loved you, didn’t you?” The voice
within my head laughs raucously. “Imagine that, human children loving a witch! You pathetic piece of boar dropping!” And now a second voice breaks into laughter. “They will take all your jewels and leave you here alone. You thought love could save you. Watch. Watch it all crumble away! No one will love you ever ever again.”

My hands clutch the arms of the rocking chair. I feel I am falling, despite my grip. I hold on with all my strength. The children are not talking about me. They are not planning to take me with them. But that’s all right, I hasten to tell myself. That’s the way it must be. It would be tragic if they wanted me to go with them, for I can never leave this enchanted forest. They are right. I am not hurt at their behavior. I will not be hurt.

“Of course you’re hurt,” says that demonic voice. “You are a disgrace to all witches everywhere. Pull yourself together. There they are—delicious morsels of meat.”

“Look at this purple one,” says Gretel. She holds up the amethyst I used to draw magic circles with.

I do not look at Gretel’s pink flesh. I concentrate on the amethyst. I cannot think how it came to be in the box. I used it with the baron’s newborn that day nine years ago. But then it was left in the dirt. Who rescued it? And now I am sure it was Asa. And knowledge of
Asa floods my mind. I see her kissing the amethyst nine years ago and setting it in the porcupine box all shiny wet with her tears. And I see her now. This very moment. I see her swirling skirts. I fight the knowledge. It comes to me from an unclean source. I would give anything to know about Asa, anything but the right to resist killing these two children here. I am fighting and fighting.

Gretel comes to the chair and stands beside me, her eyes worried. “Are you all right? You don’t look good.”

“She never looks good,” said Hansel. “She’s a hunch-back. You told me it didn’t matter whether she looked good, so long as she was good.”

“Hush, Hansel.” Gretel puts her hand on top of mine. “Are you ill?”

“Tell her,” scream the voices in my head. “Tell Gretel what ails you. Watch the hate that comes into her eyes! Tell her, tell her, tell her.”

My tongue moves of its own accord. “Gretel,” I whisper. All my strength is unable to stop my tongue. “Gretel.”

Her hand tightens over mine. “What is it? You are making me afraid.”

I will never tell Gretel the hideous words that hide behind my lips. I reach my hand into my mouth and grab my tongue. I pull it forward, and my teeth clamp down
hard. My tongue flies away across the room, wagging as it goes. I swoon.

When I awake, the voices are frantic. “Open your eyes! Open them.”

I place the index finger of each hand on each eyelid and hold it there. My eyelids freeze shut.

“You wretched fool!” The voice within me splutters now. “You think you can close your mind by not seeing the fresh meat before you. Imbecile. You know they are here. You know the blood that runs through their veins. You can smell it. You can taste it! Your self-imposed blindness is futile. No matter what you do, you know they are here—in the flesh and blood.”

My ears listen against my will. I hear sniffles.

“Don’t cry, Gretel,” says Hansel.

“I’m not crying.” Gretel sniffles loudly.

I hear clinking noises.

“Yes, you are. Don’t cry. The Old Woman will be all right. Look, her tongue is still alive.”

“Get away from that thing and stuff your pockets,” hisses Gretel.

“It’s still moving,” says Hansel. “It wants me to cup it in my hands so it can speak.”

“Don’t touch it!” I hear a slap. “Listen to me, Hansel. Did you see any blood when she bit her tongue off?”

“You hurt me. Don’t hit me, or I’ll wake her up and tell her. She always says you have to be nice to me.”

“Don’t be daft, Hansel. Blood. There was no blood.”

“No blood,” says Hansel.

“That can mean only one thing,” says Gretel.

“What?” says Hansel.

“That she’s a witch, you idiot.”

“A witch!” Hansel whispers now. “A witch?”

“Fill your pockets with jewels. We’re leaving.”

“But we don’t know which way to go.”

“It doesn’t matter which way we go,” says Gretel. “If we stay here, we’re doomed.”

Their footsteps pass my chair.

“Listen!” says the voice in my head. “Listen to love lost.” The voice laughs. “Do what you must!”

I am rising quickly. My eyes are still frozen shut, but I move without stumbling. My hands reach for the wooden bar. I hear the clank as it drops across the door in front of the children. They are locked in. I have imprisoned them. I know precisely where they are, despite my frozen-shut eyes. My mouth opens in anticipation. I fight myself. I don’t want to be walking toward them. I don’t want to. But I cannot stop my feet.

“Eat them,” scream the voices in my head. There are many voices now. “Eat them, eat them, eat them.”

H
ansel sits in the cage I built slowly but expertly, despite my blindness. It hangs from the ceiling beam. I know he is sitting because I heard him plop down five minutes ago. He alternates between begging to be let out and working on his wreath. I have put the pine boughs and cones in with him to keep him quiet. I cannot risk hearing him cry. I cannot risk letting the devils see how I react to his tears.

“Why must I sweep again?” says Gretel. I touch her shoulder lightly, and she shudders with revulsion. I know she is leaning over her broom. She is very, very tired. “I have swept this room a dozen times already. I have wiped
with the vinegar-soaked rag in every corner. This room is clean, I swear to you. It is clean.”