I wrote the
first of these two stories AGES ago…like seriously ages. I think I was like 17
or something and it was just something to laugh about and for my little sister
to read. Then I put it up on www.storiesspace.com which is basically Lush but clean
and if you’re not a member of the site, go and join…like NOW! It’s smaller than
Lush obviously but it’s kind of homely and cute and I really, really like it.
I’ve kind of been neglecting it for a while; I hadn’t logged in for ages but
there’s this pretty exciting eBook thing that’s kicking off sometime soon and
there was this Summer Vacation competition (if you were wondering what the hell
‘Audacity’ was about; that was my entry!) Anyway, when I published the Wolf
Story (below), it was an Editors Pick which is like an Oscar/Grammy to me…(totally
better than a Bafta) and yesterday I wrote a second one (Hansel & Gretel)
which is underneath the first one. So, I hope they make you laugh! :) I started
a Snow White one which is totally WIP but yeah, there’ll definitely be more to
come – they’re so much fun to write!
SETTING THE RECORD STRAIGHT: LITTLE
GREY WOLF
You’ve
heard about me. I know you’ve all read that story about the innocent red-hooded
little girl who goes to visit her Grandmother and gets attacked by a big bad
wolf. And that’s supposed to be me. Big Bad Wolf. At least, that’s what I’m
made out to be. But I’ve had enough of all the hate and having stones thrown
through my windows, and being hit on the head by woodcutters. I’m here to tell
you my side of the story, and then you can judge who the bad guy is. So, it all
started on one fine summer’s day….
***
I was
nine at the time which meant I was very nearly a fully grown grey wolf. I was
the proud owner of strong black paws and gleaming white teeth (which I brushed
twice a day without fail).
Times
were hard. Both my Mom and Dad had always managed to provide me and my eight
younger siblings with all the nourishment we needed but recently, the wolf
population in our Forest had grown and there really weren’t enough rabbits to
go around. Of course rabbits weren’t the only animals on our menu. Mice,
squirrels, birds, even the odd badger would get tossed into the pot but still,
as I said, the ratio of food to wolves was fast declining.
We ate
plants of course. Roses, daffodils, even grass in desperate times. But a wolf
needs meat. Any type of meat would have done except from the one no-go zone:
Humans.
Wolves Do Not Eat Humans.
It’s a
simple rule. Passed down from our forefathers, an unwritten decree preventing
the consumption of any descendent of Man, whether they be female or male, tall
or short, fat or thin, blonde or brunette. No humans. Which is fair enough. Who’d
want to eat one of those silly creatures, dressed up in those ridiculous
‘clothes’, wielding axes and talking like they know everything? Not me. And I
swear on my right paw that I have never, to this day, attempted to eat a human.
The
whole ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ scenario has been blown wildly out of proportion
since that mid-July day. I’ve heard the rumors, heard everything people (and
animals) have to say about me, and it doesn’t make me a very happy wolfy. No It
Does Not. I never set out to capture that darn child, nor her grandmother, and
not any other human being in the whole Forest.
It
started off quite innocently to begin with….
***
So there
I was, spooning up grass porridge for breakfast, telling my mother how the
sprig of gorse had really brought out the flavors, when Dad rushed in from his
seemingly unfruitful morning hunt.
“There’s
been a white rabbit spotted!”
Every
single one of my siblings dropped their spoons and stared. White rabbits were,
I must add, the crème de la crème, of the species. Pure, fluffy, and the meat!
Succulent, juicy, tender….dear lord. Of course, I’d never had the luxury of
tasting such a fine specimen but Gramps Wolfgang (originally from Germany) had
once told me it was the meal of his life. White rabbits were beautiful, white
rabbits were gorgeous….we had to have that white rabbit!
“Where
was it spotted?” Mom was the first to recover, “Alan, where did you see it?”
Dad
hurried over to the head of the table and sat down, began spooning porridge
hungrily into his mouth, “I didn’t see it.” He said, through a mouthful of
grass, “It was Brownie who saw it. Over by the lake.”
He
grinned, “Oh god, I’ll get it for us. We’re going to have a feast tonight, you
hear me? Enough of this grassy nonsense!”
He
looked momentarily guilty at Mom’s stricken face, “I know you do the best you
can dear, but it’s just not enough.” He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back
of his paw and whirled my little sister around in the air, “I can almost taste
it! We’re having white rabbit tonight!” He raced around the cave, began
sharpening his claws, grooming his fur in the mirror, “This is the best day of
my life!”
We
watched, my siblings and I, in excited fascination as he leapt around the room,
singing at the top of his voice, dancing with Mom, until he finally realized
that he still needed to catch the rabbit. Racing towards the door, he flung it
open, “I’ll be back before you know it!”
The door
slammed shut. And then there was an enormous crash. And a howl of pain.
“Oh my
god!” Mom ran faster than I’d ever seen, abandoning her washing up gloves and
throwing open the heavy wooden door, “Alan! Alan, are you OK?”
I
followed, me being the eldest, and was shocked to see my indestructible dad
lying flat on the doorstep, clutching his back left paw, his face scrunched up
in agony.
“Dad!
What happened?”
He
looked at me, his brown eyes gazing into my green ones, “Those mice bones. I
tripped over the fucking things, didn’t I?”
“Alan!”
Mom was shocked at the profanity, “You may be hurt but you have no right to
swear in front of the children!”
Dad
groaned, “Look, just get me inside. I’ll sleep it off and then I can go get the
rabbit for us, OK?”
Mom
shook her head firmly, “No. A darn rabbit is no excuse for you to risk serious
injury. If you use that paw too much you’ll do some real damage. And then some
clever humans will come along and decide it’s best to put you down.” She
sighed, “Leave the rabbit dear. There’s plenty of porridge left.”
“No!” My
dad looked horrified, “This is a golden opportunity! We can’t just let it go to
some other dogs who won’t even appreciate it!”
Mom and
I helped him inside and lowered him down onto his bed, “It’s just a rabbit.” I
said soothingly, though I couldn’t help being mightily disappointed, “Don’t
stress about it Dad.”
“Wait.”
His eyes sparkled as he looked at me. “Wolfie, why don’t you go?”
“Huh?” I
stared at him in shock. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
Dad was gazing at me, looking at my painstakingly muscled body, my sharp claws
and teeth, the killer instinct in my eyes. “Wolfie, it’s time now. Your first
hunt.”
Mom
looked disgusted, “Alan, I don’t want to hear anymore. Wolfie is far too young.
And he’s got homework to do.”
“Forget
the homework.” Dad was smiling weakly, “Wolfie, think of the stories you’ll be
able to tell your kids. My first hunt; a white rabbit.” He shook his head
slowly, already proud of me for the deed not yet executed, “Go on Wolfie. Go
get that darn thing.”
“Really?”
I knew my excitement was written all over my furry face, “I’m allowed?!”
“Course
you are son. Go. With my blessing.”
My
siblings watched awestruck as the golden opportunity dangled before my eyes.
But then, “No!” Mom was back on the case, “You’re far too young Wolfie. Go and
finish that English essay. And you, Alan, you need some serious brain surgery,
if you think it’s sensible to send our son out to hunt for us.”
Dad
groaned, “For Christ’s sake! We both know I’ve needed brain surgery since the
day I married you! What the hell was I thinking?”
Mom
scowled, “And what exactly is wrong with me?”
“Everything!”
Dad’s painful paw had apparently made him rather insensitive, “You’re bossy,
you make me clean my claws, you make me wash, and you cook grass porridge! I
mean, what the hell?!”
Mom drew
herself up to full height, “And you don’t like grass porridge? Well guess what
Alan, neither do I! But I have nine children and a big mouthed husband to feed
and it’s the best I can do when you can’t even catch anything anymore!”
The
argument was clearly far from over and I wasn’t going to sit around all day,
listening to their unsatisfied ranting. So I left. A quick brush dragged
through my fur, a gargle of mouthwash and I was out of there. Into the summer
forest.
Daffodils
and bluebells lined the grassy paths, the scent of roses fresh in the clean
air. The trees and bushes I hurried past were green and lush, scarlet berries
adorning the thorny branches. I didn’t have time to admire the beauty though. I
was on a mission. I was going to get that white rabbit and make my Dad prouder
than he’d ever been.
Maybe
even prouder, I thought with a grin, than the day I’d brought my school report
home with an A in every subject. And then we could all settle down around the
table and enjoy the meal of our lives, courtesy of me! Little old me! The
thought of praise made my paws hurry even faster in the direction of the lake
on the far side of the Forest.
It was
when I was chatting amicably to Mr. Owl that the first encounter happened.
There I was, listening to how Owl’s head could spin three hundred and sixty
degrees when we spotted the human. A little girl, I reasoned, as Owl flew off
with a hoot of alarm, yes, a little girl, singing in a high voice as she
skipped along the path, a basket on one arm, a bunch of flowers in the other.
I knew I
shouldn’t talk to her. I shouldn’t even make my existence clear to her but I
was always one for making new friends and the cloaked child seemed charming
enough. Forgetting all my Wolf Law teachings, I proceeded to approach her.
“Good
morning!” I smiled my most winning smile, as I walked up to her.
“Oh!”
She looked startled. A young girl, I thought to myself, six or seven, judging
by the gaps in her teeth, but evidently pampered and well looked after.
“Hello.” She took a step back, almost tentatively and I hastened to reassure
her of my intentions.
“I
didn’t mean to frighten you.” I said kindly, “I just thought you might like to
walk with me for a while. I’ve never met a human before.”
The girl
hesitated. “Well, I’m not meant to talk to strangers.” She said.
“Well,
I’m a wolf.” I said, “Are you allowed to talk to wolves?”
She
giggled, “Well, I never knew wolves could talk.”
I
smiled, “I can. English and Spanish. How about you?”
She fell
into step beside me, “English of course. And Mommy makes me go to French
lessons with this old woman who makes me drink tea and eat fruitcake.”
“Oh.” I
could sense the other animals watching in fascination as I walked along the
paths with this human child, “So where are you going?”
“To
Granny’s. She hasn’t been very well.” The girl said forlornly, “I’m taking her
some cakes and flowers to cheer her up.”
“Oh.
Where does she live?”
“On the
other side of the forest.” The girl replied, “Near a big lake.”
We
walked along in a slightly awkward silence for a few more minutes. “Why are you
wearing that cloak?” I asked, making a stab at conversation.
The girl
scowled, “Daddy got it half-price in the Spring sales and he says I have to
wear it or I won’t get any pocket money.”
I made
sympathetic noises.
She
looked up at me, “Do you think I look stupid?”
“No!” I
said hurriedly, “You’re the best dressed human I’ve ever seen.”
“Really?”
She brightened, “You’re a very polite wolf.”
“Thank
you.”
We
walked along for a while longer and then the girl stopped, “I’m going to pick
some of these tulips.” She said, “They’re Granny’s favorites.”
I
hesitated, “Well, I really need to go, so I’m off now, OK?”
“OK.”
The girl smiled, “It was nice meeting you.”
“You
too.”
And we
parted. I hurried along, suddenly feeling guilty at the time I’d wasted in
conversation with the child. Some other wolf could have caught the white
rabbit!
I ran
along, racing across the forest floor, taking every shortcut I knew through the
trees until in record time, I reached the lake. Panting, I took a slurp of the
refreshing water before glancing around to see if there was any unusual
activity. All was calm and quiet. Now to find that rabbit. I thumped my paws
along as I prowled, a tactic taught to me by my Home Economics teacher. The
game was waiting. Make the noise, alarm the prey, before settling down and
waiting for them to come out. They’d think it was unsafe you see. And they’d
wait for the danger to pass before they emerged and went elsewhere. And that
was the moment to pounce.
I
settled down beside the lake, one eye on the bushes, one eye on the houses
nearby, wary of humans coming out and attacking me in fear. I’d been lying
there for a good five minutes when I saw a large white foot emerge from the
bushes. I remained immobile, hardly daring to breathe as the prey cautiously
emerged, as beautifully pure as I’d expected.
Floppy
ears, a twitchy little nose, both attached to the most gorgeous creature in the
world. I shifted, stretched a paw, raised my head ever so slightly, unable to
prevent the drool that dripped onto the grass. One, two….the rabbit was alert,
looking around before leaving the safety of its hideaway and then…as it
prepared to run…three….I was up like a shot. And then,
“Oh my
god! It’s a wolf! A monster! Someone help!”
I looked
around to see the source of the foolishly fearful cry and the rabbit wasted no time.
He was back into his hidey-hole in an instant, leaving me to face the old woman
brandishing a rolling pin.
“Bad
wolf!” She shouted, “I’m calling pest control! I will not have this vermin on
my doorstep!”
Pest
control? My insides withered at the mention of the name. I’d heard stories
about this Pest Control, about how they caged animals up and took them to white
rooms to experiment on. I couldn’t have the same fate as Old Mother Mole, as
Brown Mouse the Fourteenth, the same horrific end as Chester Squirrel.
“No!” I
hurried over to the woman who looked terrified, “I’m a good wolf!” I said
desperately, “Don’t call them! I’m not bad, I swear!”
The
woman gazed at me, “You shouldn’t even be talking!”
“Oh, for
god’s sake!” In a fit of desperation I snatched the phone out of her hand and
threw it into the lake.
“You
vandal! You dirty vermin!”
I knew
it was only a matter of time before this old fool alerted her neighbors and so
I used my last resort. I roared at her. And as old-school as the tactic was, it
worked a treat. She fainted, might have collapsed on the floor had I not been
gallant enough to catch her before shoving her into her own larder.
It was
at that very moment when I heard a distant little voice singing cheerfully,
instantly recognizable as the little girl who had accompanied me for a short
while. I glanced around the small cottage, noticed the knitting, the cups and
saucers, the photos on the mantelpiece. Oh my lord. The photos.
On close
inspection my worst fears were confirmed. I had just knocked out the little
girl’s grandmother. And the singing voice was coming closer and closer and
closer. Now, I have never been one to think on my feet (paws) but I have to say
I am rather proud of what I did in my state of panic. The little girl would be
horrified, I thought to myself, if she knew what I’d just done.
So what
was the solution?
Pretend
to be her grandmother of course!
I pulled
on one of the many spare nighties that were around the room and buttoned it up.
It was quite a good fit. In a rush of inspiration I jumped into the bed and
waited, hoping for the best. A moment later I hopped out again. I’d forgotten
the specs! A quick sprint to the larder, followed by a gentle plucking of
glasses from the wrinkled face and a mad dash back into bed had me sorted. And
just in time too.
A little
tap at the door soon echoed through the cottage.
“Come in
my dear.” I said in my best impersonation of the old woman’s voice. “The door’s
open.”
The girl
had arrived. She hurried in, took off her cloak and hung it on the bedpost
before jumping onto the bed and holding out the flowers and basket.
“Oh, how
nice of you dear!” I said, putting the items onto the bedside table.
The girl
was gazing at me, “Granny, are you OK?”
“I’m
fine, sweetheart.” I said, “Why, is something wrong?”
“No.”
The girl was still staring, “But your eyes look huge!”
I
shrugged, “Must be the illness. It can really make a person look funny.”
“But
they’re green.” The girl said in wonder, “You’re meant to have blue eyes!”
“Contact
lenses.” I improvised, “I think they suit me better.”
“And
your ears!” The girl whispered, awestruck, “They’re enormous!”
“Well,”
I smiled, “All intelligent people have big ears. Besides, I can hear you
better.”
My heart
was pounding. I just wanted to get this whole rubbish over and done with.
Little creaks from the direction of the kitchen told me that Granny was
stirring, which was definitely not a good thing.
The
little girl was still staring, “Your mouth!” She whispered, “It’s enormous!”
Oh god.
The sounds from the kitchen were getting louder, the girl was getting more
suspicious and I was getting very worried. Though the child had been nothing
but polite to me, she was a hazard and similarly to her Granny, she had to be
quietened.
“Your teeth....”
she was murmuring, as her eyes took in my furry front paws, “Are so big…”
I threw
the covers back, “All the better to eat you with!” And I pretended to pounce on
her.
She
screamed, I threw off the ridiculous outfit, was all set to get the hell out of
there when I found the exit blocked by a woodcutter. Wielding an axe.
“Oh
god!”
There
was a thump.
And that
was all I remembered.
***
When I
came to, I found myself tucked up in bed, my brothers and sisters gazing at me
curiously, eagerly anticipating my tale. There was a delicious smell in the
air, the scent of meat, a delicacy we hadn’t had in weeks.
“What’s
cooking?” I asked weakly, touching the bandage on my head.
“It’s
rabbit.” Dad said with a grin, “White rabbit. Congratulations son.”
I
frowned, “What? I got it?”
“Yep.”
My sister smiled at me, “Mom went after you when you slipped out. She found you
with a head wound and the rabbit in your paws.”
I leaned
back, “What about the red girl? And the woodcutter?”
Dad
frowned, “That bully was reported for animal abuse. Don’t worry about him son.
You just enjoy your meal. You deserve it.”
***
And that
was it. The rabbit tasted magnificent. And I was the local hero for a while.
That was all until the story came out of the poor little girl who was attacked
by a big bad wolf. But now you know my side of the story, you can make your own
judgment. Was I really that bad? Or was I just an innocent little grey wolf
trying to make a living?
You
decide.
The END
SETTING THE RECORD STRAIGHT: HANSEL AND
GRETEL’S STEPMOTHER
Yeah,
that’s me; Hansel and Gretel’s APPARENTLY evil stepmother. But you can stop
with all the booing because quite frankly, I’ve had enough. Why do people
always feel the need to demonize stepmothers? I’m serious, if I had it my way,
stepmothers would be the glorified ones. It’s no easy task you know, getting
married to a man with kids; having to look after another woman’s children. But
we do it. And instead of society being grateful, what do we get? A whole load
of bad publicity and stupid rumors and untimely deaths. It’s not fair. So, if
you people finally give me a chance, I can tell you what really happened with
Hansel and Gretel, and maybe then you’ll let me rest in peace. Are we all
sitting quietly? No more booing? You really want to hear this? Fine, then I’ll
begin…
***
I was
twenty five years old when I first met Mr. Woodcutter. For him, it was love at
first sight. For me, the love was slightly delayed until I’d seen the bottom
line of his bank statement and then I fell in love pretty quickly. As you
already know, Mr. Woodcutter was indeed a woodcutter and a very successful one
at that. He lived in the country and in those days, no-one really ‘owned’
woodland or any of that so he pretty much chopped down any tree he pleased and
then sold it to people to keep their log fires going (central heating hadn’t
quite caught on yet).
Anyway,
Mr. Woodcutter was a widower; his wife had died during an accident involving
her husband’s axe. Yeah, I know you’re thinking ‘WHAT THE HELL???’ and that was
my first thought too but I figured it’d be best not to ask too many questions.
Maybe she tripped over the axe and broke her neck or something. I don’t know.
Well, she was dead and Mr. Woodcutter was back on the market. Unfortunately
however, he had undesirable baggage in the form of two children; a boy and a
girl. Enter Hansel and Gretel. As children go, Hansel and Gretel were pretty
nice kids. They were clean and tidy, they didn’t fight much, they were always
very polite and most importantly; they were quiet. I admit it; I liked them.
When Mr.
Woodcutter asked me to marry him, it was kind of a no-brainer for me. The man
had money, he had a house, he was ruggedly handsome (all woodcutters are) so I
didn’t waste any time agreeing. For me, Hansel and Gretel were kind of an added
bonus if I’m honest. I love kids, I even trained to be a preschool teacher but
the idea of having my own kids wasn’t
something I’d ever embraced. Morning sickness, contractions, mood swings,
stretch marks… ew. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t slightly vain but hey;
isn’t everyone? So what if I wanted to preserve my good looks? With Hansel and
Gretel, I skipped the being pregnant/giving birth/vomit and diaper stages and I
just got two nice kids at the end of it all. Win-win situation, right?
To begin
with, everything went well. The four of us made up a perfectly happy family and
arguments were rare. Hansel and Gretel were top of their class at the local
primary school and they were lovely, agreeable children. They didn’t seem to
resent me for taking their Mother’s place, in fact they even called me ‘Mum’
and encouraged me to do all the things that mothers are generally supposed to
do. I read them bedtime stories, helped them with their homework, made birthday
cakes, showed Gretel how to sew and knit and we all settled down into a regular
family routine.
After
the children went to bed, we would sit, Mr. Woodcutter and I, in the family
room, me knitting and him carving odd little sculptures out of some spare wood
boughs. It was on an evening like this that he told me something had been
troubling him.
“It’s
Hansel and Gretel.” He said, as he whittled a piece of oak down to a small owl
sculpture, “I think they’re too mollycoddled.”
“What?”
I looked up from my knitting, “How do you mean?”
He
shrugged uneasily, “Well look at them. They sleep in soft beds; eat the best
food while most children around here are starving because of the famine.
They’re going to grow up with an innocent view of the world.”
“What’s
wrong with that?”
“They’re
not going to be self-sufficient. By the time they realize that the world isn’t
all about comic book characters and cupcakes, they’ll already be in at the deep
end.”
I shook
my head, “No they won’t. Hansel can just follow in his dad’s footsteps and be a
woodcutter. He’ll make enough money. And we’ll make sure Gretel marries some
rich man. Don’t worry about it.”
Mr.
Woodcutter shook his head unhappily, “There’s all this bad propaganda about
woodcutters these days.” He handed me a newspaper. “Read that.”
I
glanced down at the copy of The Guardian.
‘Save the trees and our planet!’
Reading on, it was apparent that fuel from wood was no longer a popular form of
energy. Burning wood contributed to carbon dioxide emissions which meant acid
rain and global warming. “So what?” I tossed the paper down onto the coffee
table, “People are always saying England’s too cold anyway. Global warming will
be good, we’ll get some more warmth around here.”
Mr.
Woodcutter rolled his eyes, “That’s not the point. There’s a whole load of
stuff about icebergs melting and how nuclear power is the way forward. In a
couple of years, woodcutters are going to end up redundant. By the time Hansel
grows up, all these woods will be under the care of the National Trust or some other fancy society.”
“And?”
I’d dropped a stitch and was fast losing interest.
“And,
Hansel will have to get a proper job. In one of those dog-eat-dog city places.
He won’t survive two seconds. And as for Gretel getting married to a rich man,
you’ve already seen the kind of boys she brings home.”
I rolled
my eyes, “Just because that kid wore a leather jacket, it does not make him an
automatic waster.”
“Yes it
does.” Mr. Woodcutter glowered. “Anyway, as I was saying, the point is, our
children are not self-sufficient.”
“Yes,
they are.” I had more faith in his kids than the man himself, “They’re fine.
They can take care of themselves.”
“No they
can’t.”
“OK,
fine.” I put down my knitting and thought for a second. “Let’s do a test.
Tomorrow morning, we’ll take them out to the forest, leave them there and see
if they can find their way back home. If they can, it means that they can take
care of themselves and you can stop worrying about this. If they can’t, we go
pick them up and send them to one of those Scouts groups or something.”
Mr.
Woodcutter considered for a minute and then he smiled, “Sounds like a plan.”
***
The next
morning, Hansel and Gretel seemed rather subdued. They eyed me warily as I
served up their breakfast and even sniffed at it suspiciously; as if afraid
there was some alien ingredient in the toast.
“What’s
wrong?” I asked, concerned, but they simply shook their heads and averted their
eyes. I shrugged, “Well, cheer up anyway. Today we’re all going to the forest
to help Daddy chop down some trees.”
Hansel
and Gretel exchanged seemingly knowing glances but didn’t protest. Soon enough
we were all making our way to the nearest forest, which was about half a mile
away by foot. It was a lovely summer day, the air was clean and fresh, birds
were singing, global warming was working its magic as the sun shone down and I
would have expected Hansel and Gretel to have been happy. But they were
trailing behind, dropping little white pebbles and talking in low voices,
occasionally darting suspicious glances at me. I did my best to cheer them up
but they ignored me entirely. I decided that they were probably acting out one
of their comic book adventures, me as the villain… or something like that.
Eventually
we reached the forest but instead of picking flowers and playing chase as I
would have expected the children o do, they simply sat sullenly on an old log
and glared at me. I finally realized that they must have got wind of the
conversation I’d had with their father last night. Maybe that was why they’d
been dropping those pebbles, I figured, the clever little things had already
mapped out their route! There was nothing wrong with a little well-placed
eavesdropping now was there?! See? I
felt like saying to Mr. Woodcutter, these
kids are smart and self-reliant!
I held my tongue though and in due course, Hansel and Gretel fell sound asleep
and Mr. Woodcutter and I made our way back home. And as I’d predicted, by
midnight, the children knocked softly at the door, tired and hungry.
***
I was
thrilled but Mr. Woodcutter however, could not bear the fact that he’d been
wrong. I guess he was under the impression that he ought to know his children
better than their stepmother did but he was adamant that since they’d already
known of the plan beforehand, my ‘test’ didn’t count and in his eyes, the
children had yet to prove themselves. I tried to remind him that Hansel and
Gretel weren’t soldiers; they didn’t need to prove their mental strength and geographical competences but he
assured me that since they were his
children, he knew best. That annoyed
me a little but I didn’t have much of a counter-argument and besides, the
carrot cake in the oven was almost done so I had no time to fight with him.
Now, Mr.
Woodcutter was more brawn than brains which was probably why I liked him so much.
It gave me something nice to look at and it meant that I generally got my way.
However, on some occasions he was monumentally stupid and this night was
shaping up to be one of his worst. After much deliberation he finally announced
that he had a plan.
“Oh
yes?” I yawned, as I drained the contents of my 16th mug of coffee.
“Yes.”
He grinned at me, and it was his ruggedly-handsome grin so I softened a little
and waited for him to continue. “We should take Hansel and Gretel to the forest
and leave them there and see if they can find their own way home.”
I stared
at him. I knew he was having a monumentally stupid night but this was a
flabbergasting show of dim-wittedness. “But we already did that.” I spoke
slowly, clearly enunciating every word, hoping that the meaning would penetrate
his beautifully shaped but rather thick skull.
He
rolled his eyes, “Don’t talk in that patronizing voice woman. I ain’t daft you
know. I know that we already did it. But this time, the kids won’t know about
it will they? They won’t have time to collect the stones. Now we’ll really see
how they do out there on their own.”
“Fine.”
I would have accepted any plan just so I could finally get some sleep. “Great
idea.”
Mr.
Woodcutter grinned broadly, “I’m not just a pretty face now am I?”
I
pretended to be asleep, privately wondering whether doctors could measure
skull-bone density.
***
The next
day we put Mr. Woodcutters plan into action. I pretended not to notice when
Hansel put his toast into his pocket, deciding that if the children had somehow
heard us again, I would keep it to myself. We went to the forest just the same
way as before and everything happened in a similar fashion. Mr. Woodcutter and
I arrived home and we waited for the small tapping at the door. It didn’t come.
I watched the clock. The hour hand ticked past midnight. They’re probably just slightly delayed. I thought to myself. They’ll be fine. I tried not to think of
what a stupid idea the whole thing had been in the first place. The clock kept
ticking. Mr. Woodcutter, devoted, caring father that he was, was snoring loudly
in his armchair. The first signs of dawn began to appear outside. I prayed for
the knock at the door. It didn’t come. The sun rose steadily but there was
still nothing. And then, finally, just as I was about to have a full scale
panic attack, there was a knock. I threw open the door but,
“Would
you sign for this please?”
It was
the bloody postman! With the new axe that Mr. Woodcutter had got at a knock
down price off eBay! I signed for it in a daze before yelling at my husband to
get his lazy butt off the sofa and to come and find our darling children.
What an idiotic idea! I cursed myself silently as we
trekked through the forest calling out Hansel and Gretel’s names to no avail.
As night fell, and we were no closer to success, Mr. Woodcutter decided to go
back to the house.
“How
could you?” I yelled at him, “Our children are missing! They could get eaten by
a wolf and all you want to do is go home?!”
“Oh,
give it a rest woman!” He rolled his eyes, “I’m grieving ain’t I? Can’t be
roaming around a bleedin’ forest for the rest of my life!”
“Grieving?”
I shouted, “You don’t even know they’re dead!”
“I’m
grieving for their loss!” He countered, “What, is that illegal now?”
And he
stomped off.
***
I never
saw Mr. Woodcutter again. I didn’t particularly want to. I couldn’t decide who
was to blame. OK, so it had been my idea in the first place but Hansel and
Gretel had come back the first night, hadn’t they? It was him who wanted to do
the whole farce again and then it had all gone wrong. I spent weeks and weeks
walking through that forest, looking for any trace of those children but it was
a waste of time. I couldn’t find them anywhere.
Eventually,
I moved on. I tried to forget. Tried to rid myself of any guilt by getting a
job with the Missing person’s unit of the local police force and it was a few
years later that the whole story came out. Hansel and Gretel had been taken in
by a witch. Yeah, who’d have thought it; a bloody witch, right there in the
forest! Apparently she had some kind of candy house to lure the children in
with and she planned on roasting the two of them and eating them. So, a
cannibalistic witch apparently. Gross. But Gretel shoved her in the oven and
then her and Hansel got the hell out of there. So they were self-sufficient. They’d saved themselves and run all the way
back home to Daddy. If only they’d missed out the witch part and run home in
the first place, it would have saved us all a whole load of heartache.
As much
as I loved those two children, when it comes down to it; they were murderers.
OK, so maybe the victim was an evil witch but hey, you haven’t heard her side
of the story yet, have you? Not that she’ll be able to tell it because she’s
burnt to a cinder but that’s not the point. If people go to prison for
accidentally killing burglars who break into their homes, then why did Hansel
and Gretel get off scot-free? They went home and lived happily ever after with
their father and no-one asked any questions. They didn’t even wonder what
happened to poor old me! I looked it
up on Wikipedia, you know, and all it says is ‘at home they find only their father; his wife died from unknown cause.’
The cheek of it.
The END
