THORNED ROSES.

She feels an inadequacy too real to fathom. One that only comes with age. The wrinkles on her face tell her tale. And the grays on her hair are only a piece of what she has lived. But they will also speak of her death, soon enough. And she is scared too much by it. What if she never meets her love again in the heaven he went to? She is afraid he has forgotten her face, her ageless love for him.

She has a cornhusk doll that reminds her of him. The hairs on its head are the ones she salvaged from his charred remains when he was burnt at the stake. When the rain from sobbing clouds sizzled his melting flesh. They said it was because he was a wizard. But it was she that worshipped at the feet of witches and sacrificed in their shrines at black masses. A measly fascination that was, so many years ago. But now, it is the source of her power. A lovely gift that poisons those that once killed her heart so their hearts can die just as fairly.

She hears him speak from the innards of her cottage, where she keeps the skeletons of her foes, foes that have wandered too far into her forest, that have chosen to disturb her quiet. She lays out these sweet wafers for the children, the hearts of the foes, to stumble upon. A tasty bane to ease her old suffering. She cannot remember how many skulls she has in her home now. She is too old to remember. She hears his faint echoes dancing between the dank walls in the night. And these keep her awake because she is unsure of the voices. It might be him. And it might be the voices of the children that lay dead in the catacombs beneath her house that she never visits anymore.

One night, however, she is sure. She hears the faint whisper of words she silently prayed to hear, “Don’t forget me.” She stops kneading the tough dough and keenly listens. Only silence.

“Don’t forget me,” whispers the voice again.

“Hansel?” She calls out. He doesn’t answer. “Hansel, I still remember you, darling…I wish to see you again…”

“But I have no body.” He says from the dark stillness.

“I will find you a body…tomorrow, my love. I will find you a body, and me too. We shall be together, again.” Her voice croaks as she says this. She wishes for his dear affirmation but none comes. So she continues kneading the dough for tomorrow’s wafers. A bit of salt, a bit of flour and milk, and a surfeit of sugar. The children always like the sugar. But don’t taste it, or you’ll lose the last of your teeth. Then the mortal ingredient in this jar labeled, ‘Little Dead’. A patient venom that will delay death only for a little while. This will bring Hansel back to her, and her to him. Tomorrow. She just needs the bodies of a girl and a boy. Those will be the last ingredients.

She lays some wafers further away from her cottage and closer to a spring with flowers that are likely to be picked up tomorrow, before the sun’s pallid rays have faded. Some, she lays close to her cottage, where the curious children always come looking for scary stories to tell their friends. That way, tomorrow she is certain she will have a girl and a boy.

The morning of tomorrow is beautiful. Thorny roses have bloomed along the clear spring and a small girl comes waddling in, basket in hand. She wants only the best roses, those undisturbed by pesky critters. And here they are, needing to be plucked. She baskets them one by one by one and when it is almost full, she is distracted by something. She sees a small purple circle on the green grass. What might that be? She inches closer. Mmmh, smells lovely. She picks it up, meticulously studying it. Crumby, sugary, soft, warm. Fresh. Maybe someone just carelessly dropped it. She hasn’t had breakfast yet. She’s hungry and it smells heavenly. Better than anything she smelled before. She puts it close to her lips, savoring every sniff and opens her mouth to scratch the itch. Oh, how satisfying it would feel.

Then the church bell tolls. She must be late. The wafer is still in her hand and she thinks to save it for later when she has no hurry.

“Hello, child.” A gravelly voice says. “...I hear the purple ones have the best flavor.” The witch appears from behind the shadowy covert, signaling to the wafer the girl has hidden beneath her basket.

“Really?” The girl asks, unfrightened by the woman’s vile air.

“Yes, just one bite, and you’ll see…just one bite.” She says, eyes dilated with expectation.

The girl uncovers the wafer and devours it, sighing in contentment.

“Isn’t it just how I told you?” Says the witch, in wicked suspense.

“Yes, a bit too…sweet…” The girl says in a slur. She is fading, her legs now like straws. The witch is slowly moving toward her, saying things that the girl can’t quite hear. All she hears is, “Hush…hush, it will…over…soon.” Then silence.

Now all she needs is a boy for her Hansel. There must be one a little dead close to her cottage. So she must will her legs to move fast, or else the venom will get a tad bit impatient. She is getting closer to home, girl sleeping on her back. She sees an outline of someone choking on something. ‘Must be my lucky day!’ She thinks to herself. The boy sees her and rushes toward her, holding his neck and begging for help in between labored breaths. He is slightly bigger and older than the girl.

“Oh, what is the matter, child? Come inside, I’ll make you all better,” she says, opening her door and pulling his hand gently toward her.

Both children lie on a bed surrounded by bloody carcasses and blinking candles. Underneath them is the outline of a sigil with symbols drawn in coal, now fading. The cornhusk doll sits on an old rocking chair, needles pinned onto it to keep it upright. But the witch’s only focus is to bring back Hansel. She recites infernal texts from a book whose pages have been read so much that they are hanging by a thread. Her incantations are an echo of powerful words, emotion. They are her passion and her life.

“Hansel, Hansel, my long lost wanderer, take this body as your own. Let it be your flesh and bone!” She urges in finality and slits her palm to let the dark blood spill into a bowl fashioned from a skull. The boy is stirring. It must be Hansel claiming his new home. The witch is thrilled. Finally. Finally, she recovers what she so unjustly lost. She always knew this day would come.

He sits up straight, eyes gazing ahead as if in a trance. “Hansel, is that you?” She asks.

“Hansel…” she calls again but he only shifts his gaze, looking at her. The girl starts stirring. She is supposed to have breathed her last by now, but here she is, tossing, turning. Maybe the magic isn’t working anymore. But why at this dire time? There must be something she did wrong. Is it the poison? It must be the poison. She frantically flips the pages of her book. Maybe she read the wrong text, said the wrong words. But she would never err as such.

As she erratically fumbles through the book, she feels something painful tear into her skin. She feels the warmth of her blood dripping down to her feet, the blade only going deeper into her flesh until it touches bone and crunches. She turns around and sees the boy holding the knife and staring a deathly stare into her eyes. She wants to curse but her voice is choked by the blood that bubbles in her mouth with every dying breath. The witch falls onto the moist earth, a few moments passing before she is as still as the carcasses.

The boy picks the girl up and carries her outside. He carries her for a while before she awakens. “Where are we?” She asks, sleepily.

“You’re alive, Gretel, and we’re going home.” He says, reassuringly. Gretel doesn’t remember this stranger’s name. But she knows him from some place.

“Who are you?” She plainly asks.

“You don’t remember? We’ve been together since we died. My name is Hansel, silly.”