Gretel (The Children Of The Sun) Book One

Book One begins with the story of Gretel, the last child born of a people who walked the deserts of the earth before the beginning of time.

 

Prologue

 

These are the words that span lives over thousands of years: the voices that have traveled so very far, from continents away, to end in a singular point within the weighted pages in my hands. I am but a small piece of that history…, a remnant of something much greater, whose value is no more than its own self-worth. Those who came before, who gave birth to me and those who gave birth to the many generations before my own, are but legend now. They were a people who flourished and gave the world the greatest societies ever known; their mark is forever scarred upon the earth, embedded within the landscape and in the darkest reflection of man. This is all that is left, bound forever in the memory of its last child.

I know nothing firsthand about my mother. Most of what I have come to understand about her life can be found within the words she left behind when she was still a young woman and I just an infant. I have read these words, all of them, over and over again, carefully drawing a picture of her life that I am able to slip into and become a part of. Often times that picture is a terrible one, one I’m scared to allow myself slip into, but beneath it all - beneath even the horrible things - is something so completely beautiful, it is unlike anything the world has ever seen. It is through these words that she has allowed me to walk in her shoes and speak her voice. It is a personal explanation of whom I am and why I’m here.

            I am curled upon the couch in the corner of the room, the pages of her journal spread open across my lap. My coffee, suddenly neglected when my mind became consumed and overwhelmed with her story, has already grown cold. Beside me on the floor lie her riding boots: the same boots she wore everywhere from the time she was a young girl. It was my grandfather who once told me that she would not leave the house without them, regardless of where she was going or what the weather was like. The boots are saddle-brown and heavy, with the leather around the toe worn to a lighter shade. The brass buckles on the sides worn to a dull finish, reflected their use. Those boots followed her on every journey, just as I do now, keeping her spirit company as she continues that odyssey beyond the pages laid out before me. And I know it must sound silly, to be envious of something as trivial as a pair of old boots, but their being here is a reminder of all the opportunities I will never have. I have often tried to picture her wearing them, as she walked around my grandfather’s farm alongside my father, her flowing skirt lifted by each passing breeze, her head down as she performed the day’s chores. They came to know all the people I will only ever read about, each of them brought to life through her kind and gentle words.

In the end it was my grandfather who survived and not the children he sought so desperately to protect. The loss of my mother hit him the hardest, and after that he rarely ever spoke of her. Whenever she was mentioned, his eyes would well up in tears. Shunning the conversation, he would often leave the room altogether, perhaps to go outside to stare across the rolling hills where she used to play as a child. When he did speak of her, he would cast vivid images of her - so descriptive she could be standing before him, real as life and close enough to touch. But he never dared to reach out, and his words would become sparse and invoke so much emotion in him he would be forced to stop.

            I found her journals hidden deep within my grandfather’s bedroom closet, sitting high on a shelf at the back, forgotten and almost out of reach. It had been a year since he had passed and willed their small farm to me. It must have been ages since anyone had touched the journals: the dust sat thick and dark. I carefully blew the dust off the cover, and swirls of fluffy gray floated into the air. I wiped the journals clean with my hand and could make out a faint name written in thick ink on the cream-colored tape that bound them together: Grethel Brunnert.

I tugged at the taut leather string that bound the three journals together. It was as if I had released decades of pent-up frustration as each book rose and swelled under its new-found freedom. Inside, the words flowed from page to page. Drawings and photos and pieces of her life had been taped throughout each volume. The writing ran perfectly across each page - straight and true, even without the aid of lines to keep dipping or wandering letters in check. A single pressed sunflower sat loose within the cover of the first journal, and, flipping from page to page, I could smell the faint scent of dried flowers, as well as hints of her perfume and the lotions and soaps she used. The scents danced off the pages, the scents as strong as if the bottles had all been sitting in my lap. All of these scents, they became her and the memories I was to form of her.

My grandfather kept a single photo of both her and my uncle on the bookshelves in the living room after they were gone. They were standing on the dirt road near where the crops grew. The low-angled morning light was causing my uncle to squint one eye. He was shirtless, showing his thin frame, and his long trousers were rolled up high over a pair of low leather work boots. He was much taller than my mother, and must have stood almost six feet by the time he was fifteen. His long, thin arm was draped loosely around her shoulders. She stood with one leg bent, her foot resting on the toe of those clunky riding boots. With her long, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, she looked ready to sweat and work the earth, just as the two of them had done almost every day. The photo was as mesmerizing as it was beautiful; their deep blue eyes seemed to pierce whoever gazed upon them.

“She could turn heads a mile away, your mother,” my grandfather told me. “That’s just the way she was. Even if you couldn’t see her, you could feel her presence; you knew she was nearby. It was her gift as well as her curse. It drove men mad…; you could see it in their eyes. Their desire for her, the way they lusted after her. Your uncle had the same traits as your mother, the way he could influence and persuade even the most stubborn man. Neither of them brought any of the bad that happened upon themselves, you understand. Both of them were quiet and kept to themselves because that’s what we taught them. Your grandmother understood this right from the beginning. We knew they were both special. That’s why we moved here, where no one knew of us, before they were old enough to remember. I thought I could protect them out here, make them strong. But the world is a vast place, even for someone like your mother.”

My grandfather’s words about her continue to haunt me - they haunt me in a way that makes my heart begin to race. I want to be there to protect her. I’m angry at a world that condemned her before she even took her first breath and those responsible for taking her as they had taken all the others.

There is little resemblance between my mother and me. I am inches taller than her, and my hair is as dark and straight as her boots that sit nearby. In terms of physical traits, I take after my father more, with exception of my eyes: deep and blue. Even I become anxious at times when I catch my reflection in a mirror. But there is no mistake as to why I am this way and, should I be standing next to my grandfather even a stranger would not have known that I was his granddaughter and that he was of my blood. “You have your mother’s spirit. I can see it in your eyes. You look at the world much the same way she did, wild and curious, afraid of nothing. Don’t get me wrong, she loved your father. That was something I could tell right from the beginning. But, whether she realized it or not, there is a reason why she chose him over all the others.”

 When I first found the journals my emotions ran high. I felt conflicted and confused and became resentful towards my grandfather for hiding her journals from me for so many years. I may never know why he kept them hidden, tucked away and forgotten. Perhaps the answer lies buried somewhere beneath all these words and images - a reason to protect me as he had tried to protect her. It would soon became apparent that she, that both she and her father, knew that her time here would be limited, and it is with this understanding that I am able to truly begin to understand who Gretel really was.

 

~

 

 

The date on the first page reads December 16^th. Some of the words underneath, whole lines even, have been scratched out. The hesitation of conveying such a personal expression, erased over and over again, until her nerves had settled and the humbleness of what followed began to peek through the pen that ran over each page.

I feel my hands shake as I begin to read the words of my mother’s voice: a voice I cannot remember even as her words fill my head. It’s as if she is sitting here next to me, reading them aloud, as I feel her warmth radiating throughout the room.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

December 16

 

"I don’t know how to begin such a thing as a journal, or even a diary for that matter. The thought of keeping one still seems rather foolish as I’ve never considered myself special or even worthy of being remembered. The act of retelling this story in my words, as I remember it all, leaves me uncomfortable, for who am I to comment on - let alone pass judgment on - something that is so much bigger than I. This is my story, the one I will leave to my daughter, who I have just given the name Margaret as she grows inside me."

My name is Gretel Margaret Smith. I was born Grethel Brunnert on September 27^th in a small town called Feldkirch, in Austria. When I was still an infant, my father moved my brother, Hansel, and me to the United States, where we settled a small farm in rural Western Pennsylvania. Wanting his children to have a normal life in this new-found home, he changed our last name and gave us the names Margaret and Jonathon, although he only ever used these names for us around strangers. To my father and even Hans, I was still very much Gretel, as neither of them were ever able to let go of our given names.

Our mother, Theia, died when I was still too young to remember, but it was her love that brought us here, away from a world she knew all too well to one she would never know. My father says he still sees her face when he looks at me. I often tried to find her; staring back at me in a mirror, our eyes searching each others in an attempt to reconnect the bond between mother and daughter.

Deep down, I am just a simple farmer’s daughter who, like my father, tried to lead a quiet and peaceful life. I cannot say I have much in the way of friends other than the neighbors to either side of us: some who I chat with on occasion and others who I have met only in passing over the years. For so long, my life existed solely here on my father’s farm. Rarely did we ever venture out into the world. This is how we lived, keeping to ourselves and living within our means. How we had gotten here, to the point where we merely existed within the calm eye of the storm, was not something I ever questioned. I know now that I already had all the answers, knew all the unspoken secrets and the reasons why father tried to keep us - both Hans and I - at arm’s length… and why he was so hard on us, pushing us all the time. It was the discipline he instilled in us at such an early age that carried me through it all. I can no longer find fault with him as all the wisdom he bestowed upon us now makes sense; the reality of his words has come to life, waiting for me around every corner as I march forward. Now a child grows inside me, and it is I who must pass along all that he has given me.

My father was a handsome man beyond his years. At home, he wore his thin blond hair combed back and to the side, revealing his stunning blue eyes and good looks. When I was young, I used to sit in his lap and lay my head upon his chest, staring up at the cleft in his chin. I would run my little finger across the sharp lines of his jaw and cheek until it came close to his mouth, and then he would pretend to bite it off. If anything, he was a true gentleman of the purist spirit who was as delicate with strangers as he was with Hans and me.

It was he who suggested I write all this, put down my thoughts and experiences, because someday these words would become important to someone I may never know or perhaps they will be a surrogate for something I may never be. And so as I press the spine open with my palm and begin to write, my thoughts lye with all the others who have come before me and whose voices may never be heard again.

Surrounded by rolling hills and valleys, our small house - just big enough for Hans and I to each have our own room - sits off the quiet street that passes by our front door. A lone apple tree greets visitors as the crunch of their car tires on the gravel driveway gives away their arrival. Our land is but six acres. It is fertile and open, following the flow of the countryside, rising and falling, its vibrant colors never ending as the world continues beyond our fence. Not far from the edge of the crops, settled at the bottom of the tallest rise is a shallow pond fed by an underground stream. Overlooking it stands a giant shade tree, its thick branches hanging low and spreading wide over the hilltop. Behind the house, at the end of the stony gray driveway which winds its way around the back of the house, stands a stable large enough to board four horses at a time. Parked near the bales of hay piled high along the side of the stable are the two old tractors father uses to tend to the field.

My father wasn’t much of a farmer when we immigrated here; in fact, he knew nothing about it firsthand. A woodcutter by trade, he always chose to do that which we could live out in the country, surrounded by clean air and an open landscape and away from the confines of a city. I’m certain things were hard in the beginning, being a stubborn man when it came to anything that challenged his resolve he threw his back into his work. He learned by trial and error, gathered bits of advice from the neighbors here and there, and used his skills clearing timber and working with wood as trade for help when he needed it. Later, when times were tight, he boarded other people’s horses in the stable. Eventually things started falling into place, and by the time I was old enough to remember the farm was in full swing, enough so that he had to hire someone to help out until Hans and I were old enough to pull our weight.

The work was hard. Rising early and going to bed late - this was how we spent our summers. I cannot say it was bad childhood, as I knew nothing else. When we had time, I could watch television and movies and see how others lived outside our small world, but they all seemed like the characters in the fairy tales often read to us when we were little, and neither Hans nor I took much interest in them.

For me, it was in the hours I spent consuming the great works of literature and history books that filled father’s bookshelves that I began to discover what lay beyond the fence posts that outlined the boundary of our existence. And it was these images that often carried me through the day as I went about my chores and continued to occupy my thoughts until after supper, when I had time to myself.  They would carry me off to sleep. I spent many nights dreaming of the places I read about: the ornate temples of ancient Greece and the pyramids of Egypt, the Coliseum and medieval castles that sat upon great mountains - I dreamt of them all and found myself wandering amongst the people I had read about as if I was there, mingling with their smells and feeling the touch of their clothing against my skin. At times I thought it childish to dream of such things, that the pictures that lay before me spread out at the foot of my bed were beyond my reach.

Regardless of where my mind might have been back then, it was Hans who was always my best friend, and together we could find a way to make the best of whatever we were doing, even if it was shoveling out the stable or doing the nasty work that neither of us wanted to do. Of course, he was older than me by almost two years, so I looked up to him just as I did to father. Hans seemed to possess an understanding of things well beyond his years, and he never spoke up unless he knew the truth of what he was saying. There were no fantasies that occupied his mind; and he never spoke of any places he longed to visit one day… yet the way he spoke made it seem as if he had already lived and seen all the things I would dream about night after night.

When it was raining out or the weather just bad for a stretch, father would always pull a couple of books down from the shelves and hand one each to Hans and me… and did he have plenty of them to choose from! Bookshelves could be found in each room of the house. There was even one out in the stable lined with How To and repair manuals for the crops, animals and equipment we had around the farm. Learning as much as we could, particularly about history and science, was something he would instill upon us from as far back as I can remember. If either of us balked at having to read he would always retell the story about how he had been unable to finish his schooling when he was our age. Helping his family by working as an apprentice in a mill back in Feldkirch, he borrowed any book he could get his hands on when he had a spare moment. “I never had the opportunity to earn a piece of paper to show people how smart I was, but I can hold my own with even the most knowledgeable of scholars,” he would tell us, the accent he so desperately sought to hide peeking through his words.

Later in the evenings, when we were sitting at the dinner table, he would ask us questions about what we had read that afternoon. At first I thought his questions were just a test to see if we had skipped out to do something else like play in the stables or explore the countryside beyond the fence, but the way he asked the questions, the tone in his deep voice, made it clear to us to think and interpret what we had been reading in a new perspective.

“Sometimes there’s not a right or a wrong answer to a question,” he would tell us, “you just have to know how to answer it.”

Hans’ eyes would light up when he formed a new idea, and father would continue to press both of us further. The conversation could go on for hours, the excitement in Han’s voice rising until he would talk himself off in some random tangent. Eventually Hans’ enthusiasm would die off and father’s hand would slip underneath the book cover, and he would quietly close it, a smile opened wide across his face.

Our existence wasn’t always work and study, even in the late spring and summer, for there were times when we would catch up on our chores for the week, and then there would be nothing left for us to do. Even then, father saw fit to ease up on us. It was during those times that Hans and I would search around for him. We knew that if he wasn’t out tending to the fields or to one of the horses we were boarding at the time, he could often be found out in the garage or in the back where he parked the tractors, his head buried deep within an engine. But knowing that our work was finished for the week, we could find him coming out from the stables holding a couple of fishing poles. He would be leading my mare, Aethon, by the reins. My favorite riding blanket would be draped over her back as she snorted and huffed in anticipation of a ride. It was father who suggested her name, as her personality and red-brown coat resembled those of the ancient horses of Helios, Ares and Hector, whom he had read about as a child, “Her life has changed since she met you. I can see it in her eyes and in the way she carries herself. She is fit to carry a goddess now, lighting up the sky like the sun, just like her ancestors did.”

“Hans, grab a shovel and dig up some worms,” father would call. Hansel would already be running towards the garage in excitement.

Seeing him with Aethon in tow, I would burst into a run, take the reins from him and lead her alongside as we made our way over to the picnic table where we would stop and wait for Hans. Eventually, Hans would come running from around the shaded side of the barn where the earth was moist and rich with thick worms. His hands dark and covered in dirt, he would drop the worms into an old coffee can and then clap his hands together to shake off the dirt.

Holding Aethon close to the edge of the picnic table where it was easier for me to climb upon her back, I would hand her a thick carrot from the garden or a fresh apple that had just fallen from the tree in the front yard and then climb onto her back. We would trot on ahead towards the pond with Hans and father following along behind.

It was Hans’ goldfish who fell victim to the pond one day, as neither of us really had any interest in swimming in the murky water. “Well, if no one wants to swim in it, we might as well use it to fish,” father said, and in went all four of Hans’ tiny fish.

After some time outside of the small glass bowl they had lived in for so long, all four of those goldfish grew to ten times their size. Nothing delighted Hans more. Whenever he saw one near the surface, its orange body now big, skimming the surface of the clear water along the shore, his eyes would light up. Reeling them in was something, especially when we were both little, as they put up a fight like any other fish. However, father always took care to handle them as delicately as possible before pulling the hook out and carefully releasing them again.

Holding the slippery creatures within his big hands, Hans would give them each a new name before father set them free in the water and allowed them to scurry away. There must have been a hundred names for each one of those fish, and for all the other fish that lived there in the years that followed.

Once a summer, we would watch as father pulled up in his truck and marched down to the pond carrying a baggie full of water with a half-dozen colorful fish swimming around inside. He would dump them into the pond before marching back up to the house, seeing the anticipation in Hans’ eyes. Before too long each of them would be tugging his bobber down below the surface of the water as he let out a squeal turning towards father before he reeled it in.

Father always took his spot under a young shade tree at the far end of the pond. He would lean lazily against it with his cap cocked down low over his eyes and watch as Hans stood right at the edge of the shore, trying over and over again to get the perfect cast and then reeling it back in, until finally the bright bobber made it out to the center of the pond.

I had no interest in fishing for goldfish or for the other blue and red fish they pulled out. Instead, I galloped around the property with Aethon " up and over the rolling hills and through the tall grass that grew alongside the dirt road that followed the fence

“Just ride her easy, honey,” father would tell me as he set his things down under his favorite tree before seeing me off. “There are a lot of holes around here that you can’t see from up there. If you get her in a run and she steps in one, the both of you could get hurt.”

I always minded his words as we set out and would be careful to keep Aethon to a slow trot while we were still within father’s view. Once I got up on level ground where the meadow opened up wide, I would dance with her " let Aethon run wherever she wanted, never tugging on the reigns until I felt we had gone too far. Riding her was the purest freedom I have ever known. Succumbing to her instinct, all I had to do was hang on. She knew what she was doing more so than any human; she just had to be given the opportunity. I was just passenger on her journey and nothing more.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

"I remember sitting high up on father’s shoulders. We were at the edge of the field, and I could see beyond the fence that surrounded the farm. The new sun was hanging low on the horizon, its rays splashing across the lush, rolling hills. The air out here was always so very quiet. Only the breeze playing off the rows of high corn stalks could be heard. It bowed the wild sunflowers and rattled the blackberry bushes that grew along the line the fence. I sat quietly, unmoving, as the warm sun washed across our faces. He had each of his hands around my thin ankles to keep me from falling, my small body rising to the slow rhythm of his breathing. He seemed to be searching for something, but I did not know for what " if it was anything at all. I felt a sadness winding its way through him, holding him there in place, until he bowed his head, turned and walked away." 

 

My mother passed away shortly after I was born, and even though I was never given the chance to know her, I began to understand who she was at an early age. I was only twelve when the world truly started to reveal itself to me. Even amongst the picturesque rolling hills and serenity of the tiny town we lived in, we could not escape nature’s cruelty.

Everyone who had known her spoke of my mother’s beauty, a beauty that would stop men in their tracks and cause women to look on with envy. And it went beyond just the physical: her beauty was embodied in her very being. Even in a dark room, the sound of her voice or even just her presence could soothe a person’s anger, and the touch of her hand would warm the heart of even the coldest human. Yet, despite all this, she went about her life as if she were no different than anyone else, never taking advantage of the simple power she had over others.

I know now that my father’s anxiety for me stems from the same concern he had for my mother; he knew that as much as he wanted to protect us, our fate was ultimately ours. Hans and I, and even father himself, possessed those same traits my mother did, their effects never-ending, even as the body aged and the spirit grew tired. He knows this, as humble as he is; he covers his thick, blonde hair when he goes into town and lowers the bill of his cap to shade the deep blue in his eyes " eyes with an effect not unlike Medusa’s in that they render those who happen to gaze upon them helpless. Even when the temperature rises so high that even the horses want nothing more than to lie under the shade of a tree, father often wears a tank top, but he always conservatively covers himself if he hears someone pulling up in the driveway. He lowers his head, avoids eye contact, except just enough to be polite, and offers a humble handshake: this is how he conducts the business of the farm during the brief encounters he has with others in passing. Often he is unable to hide his eagerness " his desire " to converse about things other than business, to sit down with other men and discuss literature or science or the world beyond our small farm. This is what he said the men of Feldkirch, men the same as him, so often did whenever they were together, and he still possessed that human need to interact with others, although he rarely got the chance these days.

Father remarried an American woman named Helen around the time I was eight years old. I never faulted him for this, despite Helen’s attitude towards Hans and me as her personality seemed driven by envy and even contempt most days. He met Helen while on a delivery a year earlier; she had taken to him straight away. She was an attractive woman: young and tall with beautiful brown hair that hung straight past her shoulders. Her big brown eyes complemented her dark complexion, which stood in stark contrast to the soft white of our skin. I was happy for him as he seemed to like the adult attention, even if she wasn’t able to hold her own when it came to his longing to chat for hours past bedtime. 

I don’t remember much of Helen as she was always off doing her own thing. She rarely helped out with the daily chores; instead, she piled them onto both Hans and me before setting off in her car for the day. Regardless of her absences, Hans and I got along just fine whether or not she was around.

It was she who removed the photos of our mother from the shelves in the living room, packing them away in boxes stored above the garage and it became obvious early on that we were a painful reminder to her about her inability to have children. On more than one occasion, Hans had overheard her speaking on the phone, her voice filled with envy and disappointment, complaining of the things she was unable to with father. If she stayed at home while father was out making deliveries or running errands, she would often send us outside to do meaningless or made-up chores " things that would have gone by unnoticed if they were not done. When we protested, she would just wave her hand and dismiss us: “I don’t care. Just go outside and get it done!”

Of course, it was always Hans who saw an opportunity within her passive stance with us. Ever the adventurous one, Hans was always eager to set out and explore the rolling hills that surrounded our small farm. It was not uncommon for him to sneak out even as he grew older. He would wander off in no particular direction for hours and hours when he should have been studying. These adventures would sow the seeds for those he would seek out later on in life as his own curiosity of what the rest of the world held would prove too overpowering.

Mostly I stayed at home tending to Aethon or taking her out for a walk, around to the apple tree so she could clean the ground of any apples that had fallen or out to the fence where she could graze in the tall grass. But as I grew older and my thirst for adventure went unfulfilled, I looked up to his growing wisdom and spirit. I too wanted to discover all that he knew. I was afraid of being left behind.

One morning I caught Hans hurriedly packing some food in the big, buttoned pocket of his pants.

“Where are you off to?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I’m bored and there is nothing to do around here,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, indifferent as to whether or not I joined him.

I grabbed my bag, which had nothing in it except a small paperback, lip balm and some odds and ends left over from school, stopped in the kitchen to pour some apple juice from the refrigerator into a thermos, and then ran out the back door. I could see he was already a fair way across the field.

I finally caught up and casually fell in beside him. “Where are we going?”

            Seemingly he ignored my pestering until he gave in and quietly pointed in the direction we were walking, “That way, past the cemetery and through Mr. Anderson’s apple farm. Somewhere on the other side of his property, a couple of towns over, to an ice cream stand that went in next to the road.”

            I tried my hardest to envision the route he had just explained, wondering just how big of an adventure I was getting myself into. Back then, being so young, the world seemed much larger and my perception of distances was skewed by my youthful legs and spirit.

It was one of those rare days when all the chores had been caught up for the week and father, in a hurry to get down into the city to take care of some business with the bank, had left before breakfast and would not be home until near dark. Helen, without as much as a shrug, had driven off into town to do a bit of shopping. Often I felt strange having days like this, when the structure that so defined our lives, and the work and education that shaped who we were, were put on vacation for a few hours. This sometimes left me feeling foreign and numb, at least until my body and spirit adjusted to the freedom.

Having Hans along did make things a lot less worrisome; the way he carried himself, even as a young boy, he gave me a sense of fearlessness. He was always so sure of himself, and he never got lost or took a wrong turn. He walked tall and straight, his wheat-blond hair brushed to one side much like fathers. The confidence that surrounded him could be overpowering at times. And as much as it could have annoyed him that I was along on his adventure, clunking alongside him in my heavy riding boots, he often slowed his long stride just enough so that I could keep up.

            Hans was always a quiet person, even around father and me. If and when he spoke, it was only when he felt he could contribute something of quality to the conversation. Rarely was there any chit-chat from him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t participating. When he sat quietly, it was obvious that his mind was racing with thought, probably so much that his mouth would have had a hard time keeping up. He was a thinker " a deep thinker " and on more than one occasion he would lean his chair back with a perplexed expression on his face under a furled brow, focused so deeply on something. He looked as though the world had come to a stop all around him; nothing could pierce his concentration. Then, as if nothing were wrong, the taut look on his face would disappear. He would sometimes spend weeks mulling over some problem he faced, his subconscious playing out the problem over and over again until at some random moment the solution would present itself. I saw this more than a handful of times. He might spend hours trying to fix an ill-running machine, only to walk away defeated, cursing it. Then, out of the blue, he would be back in the garage and have it running like new, a glint of happiness filling his eyes. Sometimes I wondered if he was happier to have something up and running again than to have the burden of the problem cleaned from his mind.

            “I’ve been this far on Aethon,” I told Hans, turning to look back towards the house, which was already partially hidden from view. “It’s as far as father will let me ride her. Along the fence, I let her run as fast as she wants. I used to get scared trying to hang on, back when my legs weren’t long enough to balance in the stirrups. But now I’m able to stand and don’t feel as if I’m going to get bucked off when she sets off in full stride.”

            Hans looked over at me and let out a smile, as if letting me know he knew what I was revealing: that I sometimes took my bit of freedom and rebellion, just as he took off like this without anyone knowing where he was going.

            “How far have you gone before?” I asked, as curious about his past adventures as I was about where ours might lead.

            We walked on quietly for a moment, Hans kicking a stone ahead of us, before he spoke.

            “I’ve been two or three towns up. I can’t remember the name, but they had a street with a little comic book store and a place that sold old bikes that were fixed up really nice. It didn’t take me long to get there… I was trying to catch a stray dog that kept teasing me. It would run up ahead and then stop to look back and wait for me to get close enough before running off again. The old man who owned the bike shop showed me how he stripped off all the parts and cleaned them up, only replacing something if he needed to. He said the bikes were more valuable that way " and customers from all over the world would call in and buy them from him. While I was there, some customers walked in, so I left and went to browse the comic book store for a while before realizing it was getting late. I ran all the way back and didn’t get home until after father, and boy did he lay into me.”

            I always liked it when Hans opened up to me like this, as his quietness could come across the wrong way some times. I knew it was just how he was, but the farm could get lonely without anyone my age to talk to.

            The sun drew high in the sky, and our footsteps kicked up a slight dust. We tramped along, and after a while I could feel the heat starting to penetrate the thick leather of my boots. I walked alongside and slightly behind Hans, barely able to keep up with those long legs of his, even when he slowed his pace for me. His pant legs were rolled up and he had taken his shirt off. His thin body glistened in the summer heat. Every once in a while, he turned his head back ever so slightly in my direction, letting a smile escape the corner of his mouth. I knew he was testing me with this pace; picking it up as if we were going to be late for something important.

            “There’s a creek up ahead, under those trees,” he said, pointing to a group of tall shade trees growing alongside the road.

            He ran up ahead and stopped on the road above the creek to throw a couple of rocks into the water while waiting for me to catch up.

            “You can cool your feet off for a minute,” he said, climbing down the embankment and squatting close to the water.

            I kicked off my boots and almost forgot to pull off my socks before stepping into the cool water. I walked out to the center, lifting up my skirt to keep it dry as the water rose up to my knees. The mud at the bottom was soft and slippery. I wiggled my toes so my feet would to sink deeper into the mud, where it was much cooler as the nerves at the tips of my toes began to tingle.

            “Where do you think this water comes from?” I asked, as Hans poked around the soft edge of the embankment with a stick. “I read in one of father’s books that a lot of water here comes from hundreds of miles away up north in Canada, and some of it makes it all the way to the Mississippi and then to the ocean.”

            Hans nodded in agreement and continued poking around at something with the stick.

“Do you think it’s why ducks fly south? Because the water they had up north eventually ends up down there?”

            Hans let out a bit of a laugh before standing up and tossing the stick downstream, letting the lazy current carry it slowly away.

            “What? Why are you laughing?” I asked.

            “You can be silly at times,” he said, climbing back up to the road. “Come on, let’s go. If we keep moving like turtles, we’ll never get there in time to beat father and Helen back home.”

            I stretched and tugged at my socks as my damp feet fought against being stuck back inside hot boots. Climbing back up to the road, I hesitated, glancing back towards home as I stomped the mud off the bottom of my boots. An uneasy feeling came over me, and at the time it was not something I could explain. It seemed real enough, the images that flashed before me - a dreamlike look at something that had not yet occurred as strangely familiar voices quietly pleaded that I turn back. I shrugged off the shudder that ran down my spine, embarrassed at allowing myself to be overcome with such silly fantasies.

 

            "Had I known any better " known of all the horrible things to come - I would have turned around and begged Hans to come with me. But that is all in hindsight now, as I watch the last remnant of our childhood floats away along with the stick he let go in the water."

 

 

Chapter 3

 

            "The world did not have much more to offer us anymore. Beyond the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, all that was certain was that the clouds would still pass above us without judgment or harm.

            I read once that twins have a special connection to one another: a connection unlike that between any other human beings, one that goes beyond their physical similarities. The notion never sounded odd to me, their having shared the womb for so long, yet I wondered if there was a significant reason why one was chosen to be born before the other.

            I thought of this, of Hans and me, and the connection we possessed. Back then I could not describe it, how I knew things about him, like how he was feeling, or even the thoughts that grew wild inside his mind. For so long, it seemed as though I had simply made them up, drawing conclusions in order to put my own mind at rest. But it was not so."

 

            It was well after noon by the time we arrived in the small town. I recognized it because we had passed through there once with father, some time ago, but beyond this vague familiarity, we might as well have been in a foreign country. The buildings, like most in and around the Amish communities that surrounded us, were all whitewashed and red bricked. Everything here was clean and tidy without a hint of trash floating in the breeze or in the gutters. And even though it was the middle of the week, only a few cars were parked outside the small row of shops that lined both sides of the narrow street.

            Hans led us up past the shops, walking slowly enough so that I had a chance to gaze in through the big, open windows. There was nothing here that would have sparked any interest from a normal twelve-year-old girl, but it was so rare that we went out to the shops that even the sight of a couple of older women getting their hair done proved interesting enough to watch. Beyond the short row of stores, a few more popped up here and there as we made our way along the unpaved shoulder under a row of shade trees. The road wove its way along in no particular direction. It was broken up by the occasional mailbox, patch of shrubs or black asphalt driveway that lead up to someone’s garage. All the houses out here were single story with wide, well-kept front yards. In the back, a short row of apple trees or a small garden with a plot of corn could be seen peeking out from around the corner.

            It didn’t take much longer to get to where our quiet road intersected a much busier one, which is where the lone ice cream stand we sought stood. It was easily recognizable as an old drive-in restaurant from decades ago that had been given a fresh coat of paint, its offering of burgers and sodas replaced with ice cream and milkshakes and a giant, plastic ice cream cone slowly rotating above it taking the place of what must have been a large hamburger or soda.

            By small town standards, we were presented with an array of choices, few of which either of us had ever heard of let alone tried. It had been a while since father had taken us out for any sort of a treat: as the responsibility of the farm over the summer months took precedence, making certain the work was done so that it would take care of the three of us the rest of the year.

We approached the ice cream stand and surveyed the menu of flavors painted on the wall in front of us. Standing there, I began to feel overwhelmed at all the choices. The longer I stood there thinking about it, the worse my indecision became.

            “I’m going to get vanilla bean and a sugar cone,” I heard Hans say matter-of-factly before he turned his gaze away from the menu and running a line in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

The sun stood tall in the sky, the bright heat radiating from the side of the building, washing over me as my head started to spin.

            I was never one to be squeamish. Having been raised on a farm, the sight of blood or broken bones tended to fascinate me rather than cause me to turn my head and cover my eyes. And nothing, not even the hard work we performed outside every day, had ever caused me to feel ill or feel the need to sit down.

            I must have hit the ground with a thud, coming to when the glare of the blinding sun in my face disappeared. It was Hans leaning over me, hiding me within his cool shadow.

            “Is she alright?” I heard a concerned voice say, and a woman’s face appeared beside Hans’.

            Sitting upright, I felt a wave of nausea draining my energy, forcing me to lie back down.

            “Oh dear, you look dehydrated,” the woman said. “It doesn’t surprise me in this heat and humidity. Just lie down and I’ll get you some water.”

Standing almost as tall as Hans, thin and well dressed she wore a dark brown skirt with fashionable black Mary Jane’s and a conservative black top. Her dark brown hair, streaked with light strands of gray would have hung down to her shoulders were it not pulled back tight into a pony tail. She paused before turning away, and before I lay back down, I saw the glimmer of something I had seen earlier, hidden deep behind her eyes.

            Hans was kneeling beside me, the look of surprise on his face fading slowly as I came to my senses. The dizziness I felt before laying back down was all but gone by the time the woman returned with two plastic cups filled with ice-cold water. I sat up, resting on my hands.

            “Here, drink these slowly, you two,” she said, handing Hans and me a cup each.

            Pressing her hand against my back, the woman held me upright while I sipped at the cold water. With her other hand, she carefully wiped the damp hair from my forehead before turning her attention to Hans, who had already gulped his water down and then dangled the cup loosely between his legs.

Feeling better, I looked over at the lady and choked out a dry “thank you” before finishing my cup.

            “You two aren’t from this neighborhood. Are you here visiting someone?” she asked.

            “No, ma’am, we live a couple towns over,” Hans said, pointing in the direction we had just come.

            “Did your parents drive you over here?” she asked, looking around. There was no else around us except the teenage girl working inside the ice cream stand.

            “No, ma’am. We walked here to get some ice cream,” Hans said.

            “You two walked all this way? You must have left home really early this morning,” the woman said to Hans before turning her attention back to me. She took the empty plastic cup from my hands, her eyes fixed on mine. I felt her hand move from my back, as the sound of her voice raced within my head, the words indistinguishable as they fell over one another so quickly. Her thoughts, overcome with greed and desire, burned hot around her. I began to see everything, the darkness growing inside her. Casting my glance away, I knew not what to say. Terrified at the images I had just seen, I felt paralyzed… helpless, causing me to turn away.

            “Well then, I suppose we should get the two of you some ice cream. Then I’ll drive you back home, as this one doesn’t seem fit for the journey back,” she said as she got to her feet. I could still feel her gaze at my back.

            My body felt weak, not wanting to move from the ground. Empty. My mind confused at the kindness she showed both Hans and me, even as it raced with her horrible thoughts.  

            “Come now, you two, go sit on the side over there in the shade and I’ll buy you both an ice cream cone. No sense in walking all this way and fainting at the doorstep without tasting what you came for,” she said, casting a smile at us.

            Hans helped me up, and we moved to the shaded wall and sat with our legs crossed in a patch of cool grass. The woman returned with two ice cream cones, which we tried to eat quickly before they melted in the heat. I licked around the outside of the ice cream, desperately trying to keep it from melting down the side of the sugar cone. By the time the ice cream on the top of my cone was down to a safe size, Hans was already crunching the last bit at the bottom of his cone.

            “Now that we’re cooled off a bit and have a belly full of ice cream, what are your names?” the woman asked.

            I had been watching her out of the corner of my eye, as had Hans. It was hard not to as she sat directly in front of us at the edge of a picnic table bench, her body half concealed within the shade from the building as the bright noon sun shown over her shoulder directly at us.

            It was not uncommon for people to stare at Hans and me. Father always told us it was because we were special. It wasn’t that strangers looked upon us like they did to people who were missing an arm or a leg, or who had a mark on their face or a patch over their eye, because those people were never looked at straight in the eye. Rather, they stared directly into our eyes. Sometimes I could get caught off guard and stand there waiting for them to ask a question or say something, as they always seemed as though they were about to. But they would just gaze directly into my eyes and make me most uncomfortable.

            “I’m Jonathon and this is Margaret,” Hans said, catching me off guard, it was rare to ever my name as anything other than Gretel, “but you can call me John.” He wiped his sticky hands in the grass. “Thank you for the ice cream and the water. I have money and can pay you back for it,” he said as he shoved his hand into his pocket.

            “Oh, there will be none of that,” she said, sitting upright, squinting as the sunlight washed over her face. “Well, my name is Ellen, but my students call me Miss Steinberg. Once Margaret is done with her cone, we can walk over to my house and then I can drive you both back home. It’s not too far from here… just down the road a bit.”

            When I finished my ice cream, Miss Steinberg stood up and insisted I hold her hand. We walked slowly down the road towards her house. Hans, being such the boy, picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them about, paying no attention to the two of us.

            I knew it would be useless to try and twist free, to run away, as I had seen what she felt: a longing for me that she could not control. Terrified, I sensed nothing of Hans-not even his presence even as he walked close by. Frozen within my fear I was unable to speak in protest, as I walked alongside, helplessly. Her grip tightened as we drew closer to her home.

I could only assume Hans was still concerned for my well being; the look on his face then, as he sat over me shielding me from the sun, told everything; his guilt and the brotherly need to watch over his baby sister. Now blinded with joy as I was being taken care of, he walked along carelessly as we were led back to her house.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

            "Father had always warned us about the outside world: about how people and their actions are unlike those found in nature. Jealousy, envy and greed… all feelings developed over the centuries as man made the world around him more and more complex. I often wondered if a lion in the wild ever felt envy towards another lion over a kill or a mate. When it becomes too old to protect the pride, does it feel useless and unwanted, or is there a deeper understanding that this is how life was intended? These were the questions, among so many others, that preoccupied my every thought afterwards… after what happened to Hans and me at such an innocent age."

 

Miss Steinberg’s house was rather modest compared to the others we had passed by on our way from the ice cream stand. Her yard was small and, like the others in the neighborhood, she had a little garden at the far end of the lawn as well as a couple of thick metal poles with lines strung between them for drying laundry. Flowers of all colors surrounded the house, and everything was neat and tidy. Not a single blade of grass stood taller than the others, and there was no stone out of place within the two thin gravel paths that made up her driveway.

            Inside, the old walls, outlined in white trim, were covered in a thick paint: a light shade of sea-foam green that seemed to drown each room. Throughout her home, an overpowering scent of roses lingered heavily, masking the stale air between the forever closed windows. The furniture was all antique and had not a scratch on it. It was all dark wood with the kinds of modest curves and classy lines that never went out of fashion. Upon the shelves and end tables sat carefully painted Hummel figurines depicting rosy-cheeked children playing. They were everywhere, sitting upon end tables and along the length of the mantle, a tribute to something so desperately desired.

            Hans and I were left standing in the living room next to the doorway as Miss Steinberg nervously moved about the house; searching for something as she ran back to the kitchen and then to the bathroom before returning to us waiting for a ride back home. It was getting late, and I feared the impression Hans had of me now, bothered that I had fainted and gotten us into this mess… and whether or not he would take me on any more adventures in the future.

            Miss Steinberg suddenly appeared in front me, shaking me out of my worries about Han’s feelings. Hans was busy making his way around the small room, examining the photographs and the figurines that lined the shelves. She stared directly into my eyes, causing me to shy away and feel increasingly nervous. Shifting back and forth on my feet, I fought the urge to turn away and tried instead to remain polite.

            “You two have the most stunning eyes,” she said, almost melting towards me as she took a step closer. “And your hair, I’ve never seen anything like it.” She took some of my hair in her hands and let the strands run through her thin fingers. A shiver ran down my spine as her thoughts revealed themselves to me again. She was still unaware of her intentions; she stood before me innocent, paralyzed within my gaze.

            Hans stopped browsing and walked over to my side. In the cool air of the room, I felt his warmth radiating from him as he stood next to me.

            “Jonathon, before we go, would you mind helping me with something? You look like a strong boy. I just need a box carried from the garage down into the cellar. It would be a big help to me.”

            Hans nodded, but I could tell by the way he moved that he was on guard about something.

            “Wait here for a moment, dear, while I show Jonathon the box,” she said, rubbing her cold, thin hand over my arm.

            They both disappeared out the back door. I was glad she was gone and no longer staring at me. I felt nervous being left alone in her house and didn’t dare go snooping around the room like Hans had just done. Taking a seat in a beautiful chair near the open entry to the room, I sat quietly and waited.

            The two of them returned quickly. Miss Steinberg held open the back screen door as Hans struggled to carry in a big wooden box. His back arched as he rested the bottom edge against his thighs, his arms pulled taut under the weight.

            “Be careful with the stairs,” she said, holding the door to the cellar open tight against the wall. “They can be a little narrow and steep.”

            She watched Hans disappear down the stairs, one hand resting on the open door. “If you don’t mind, set it down against the far wall next to the others.”

            And with that, she stepped back into the hall and let the heavy door slam shut with a loud thud!

 

 

            I felt the earth fall out from underneath me. The violent crash of the door repeated itself over and over as I watched the sky open up above me " my mind raced backwards, retracing our steps all the way back to our house, along the winding dirt road and past the stream to where the sunflowers bowed over the fence, dancing in the summer breeze. The sky, so blue and pure, and the clouds drifting lazily above us suddenly seemed so very far away.

 

~

 

 

It was my seventh birthday party. The kitchen was decorated with colorful balloons and crepe-paper streamers, twisted and taped to the edge of cabinets. On the counter behind me sat the birthday cake and apple pie I had made earlier in the day, insisting on making them both rather than taking up father on his offer to buy them from the grocery. I had spent hours mixing in different food colorings into the icing and decorating it to look like the field of sunflowers that sat outside the edge of the farm.  

“You know that both you and your brother are special?” father said.

After filling his plate with mashed potatoes and thick green beans picked fresh from the garden, father took his seat at the head of the dinner table, before he continued. He spoke calmly and clearly, his eyes fixed on his plate, only pausing to eat so as to not interfere with the timing of what he had to say.

            “You are both special to me and I do love you both more than either of you can imagine,” he continued. “And if your mother was here, she would tell you the same thing. You two are special in a way that no other children in the world are, or can ever be. This is not something I expect you to fully understand right now but, as you grow older, I can hopefully explain it to you in a way that will make more sense. There are a lot of good people on this earth, the both of you included, but there are also a lot of people who take advantage of the good nature of others and harm them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

            I was completely fixated on his words. He lifted his eyes to meet ours only when searching for some acknowledgement of our understanding. Quietly nodding, I sat frozen as he continued speaking.

            “Here we live in a place where we can choose who comes and goes, but we are not isolated from the rest of the world. Your mother and I never wanted to raise either of you in a manner that would make life difficult for you later on when we’re no longer here. This is why I am so hard on you, pushing you to think before you act. I can only hope the things I teach you will serve you well one day. What you must ultimately understand is that if someone treats you differently, or if someone is mean to you because of how you look or act, it is not because you have done something wrong or have acted out of turn; it is only because they are envious and desire something that you and only you possess… something they cannot have.”

            My father ate quietly after he finished speaking. The sound of the fork against his plate was the only noise in the room. Hans and I sat there, taking in his words, waiting for more, wanting more of an explanation. Our young minds ran confused.

Looking up from his plate, he seemed to notice the concern on my face. His eyes were as soft as his voice when he spoke, and he opened up into a big smile as he reached his hand across the table and covered mine. “Anyway, I know a lot of people who would be jealous of Gretel’s birthday cake and her famous apple pie. Isn’t it time for desert?” He slid his empty plate forward, folded up his napkin and set it on the table. He took an armful of empty pots and plates to the kitchen sink and then returned with the birthday cake. The bright light from the cake’s candles cast reflections in his deep-blue eyes.

 

~

 

 

            My mind and body were numb as the days passed by, forever slowly. I was a prisoner, free to move about the house but held in bondage at the thought of what would happen to Hans, still trapped beneath us, should I try to flee.

            Miss Steinberg put me in a room in the attic. The room was adorned in pinks and lace curtains, done up as a child half my age might have decorated their room. The air hung thick and warm. At night, I lay there, unable to sleep. My temples pulsed and my mind raced as the vision of what had happened played over and over again in my head. I had seen it behind her eyes, exposing the disarray of her soul, the act that was about to happen to us, working itself out, as the subconscious began to take control of her emotions. I knew this before, yet I said nothing as I watched myself move in tune with her thoughts.

            Days were spent doing mindless chores with Miss Steinberg never very far away. More than once, when I passed by the door that held Hans captive, I saw myself flinging it open and then the two of us running free. But I knew it was locked; the doorknob would not turn without the key she kept hidden.

In between chores, we baked pies and cookies and cakes unlike any I’ve ever seen. Their sugary taste was very different from the ones I made for father and Hans. Spread out over time, their novelty made them ever more delicious than the indulgent variety that came spitting out of Miss Steinberg’s oven throughout the day. Despite this, she always looked upon me with such a loving expression, how a mother might towards their own daughter.

            She had me deliver these every day to Hans, who was sitting bored down in the cellar. I took comfort in knowing that the air was cool down there. That should he need to sleep and rest, he could do so, unlike me, who tossed and turned in the heavy damp heat of the attic room, unable to turn off the thoughts that raced through my head even for a moment. Each day, I saw something change in him. At first it was in the way he squinted his eyes and seemed to feel his way around the room, up the stairs and throughout the house. Keeping still as I sat in front of him, it was as if his ears were following the light sound of Miss Steinberg’s footsteps above, memorizing the pattern of her movements.

            “All this sugar gives me a headache,” he said, handing the plate back to me. I saw the helplessness in his expression turning to anger.

            “I’m sorry I got us into this,” he said softly, his words anxious with defeat. “Please take this back upstairs. I’m not going to eat it.” He reached over and placed his cool hand on mine.

            It was the way he spoke, the intensity of his words that caused my heart to race. I felt a growing fear that something was going to happen, and soon. I saw what he meant to do as he silently conveyed his thoughts to me in such a manner that I understood them to be his, and not those of my imagination. The images that had been playing over and over inside his mind became as clear to me as they were to him. He did not need to explain what it was he planned to do; our attempt to escape would come soon enough, and when it was time I would now know what to do. It was then that the both of us began to understand what it was father had told us " about our being special in a way others could not know " and even why others would want to do us harm.

            Slowly I walked back up the stairs, carrying Hans’ plate. For an instant I thought about dumping the food off the side of the stairs so I could arrive at the door and show her that he had eaten everything on the plate. That would save him from more of her erratic scrutiny. I gripped the plate with both hands, forcing myself not to do such a thing. The stairs rose into the light cast from the open door, and I stared directly into her eyes " eyes filled with nothing but rage and betrayal. 

            So often she had gazed upon me with such a loving expression. Her words and thoughts were so kind and gentle, I wondered if she ever really meant either of us any harm at all. It was then that she grabbed me by the arm, her thin fingers digging deep into my flesh, and quickly pulled me away from the door, letting it slam shut behind us.

            “If your brother wants to be a little brat then he can starve to death as far as I’m concerned,” she howled, turning me around. Her open hand began to strike my backside, over and over. Her strikes quickened, and she began sobbing uncontrollably and repeating, “This is your fault! You brought this upon yourself and your brother!”

            She spun me back around in her grip. Both hands landed upon my shoulders and she grasped and shook me violently, looking through me, beyond my very being. I stood there, unflinching, allowing her to release all her rage upon me. I looked directly into her eyes, casting my gaze deeper and deeper, until finally she calmed and let go of me causing me to fall against the kitchen table.

            “Go upstairs to your room, and don’t come down until I tell you to,” she said, her words coming quietly from under her breath.

            I walked cautiously past her, and then ran up the stairs, stomping on every step. I was worried about what she might do to Hans, who was sitting downstairs in the dark cellar by himself. I wanted her to direct her energy towards me, not him. Sitting alone upstairs, I felt the anger and fear swelling up inside me. I understood the helplessness that consumed Hans " a helplessness that grew and grew until I became mad with it. Allowing those feelings grow inside me, allowing them to take over and nurture whatever little strength and courage I now possessed, I waited for her, and for whatever she now had planned for us.

            My thoughts swam back and forth from Hans to my father, who must be ill with worry, and then to the woman whose home we were trapped in. I felt cheated and betrayed " not by her but by the world as a whole, and betrayed by myself. I clasped my hands tight over my ears as father’s words rang back and forth and the room spun violently around me. I heard Hans’ voice, his thoughts becoming mine; the nervous twitch that coursed throughout his body, driving him mad as he sat captive in the corner of the cellar. Together our feelings came into focus, amplified throughout the house, as we tried so desperately to make the rafters shake " to pull this house down on top of us.

            Sitting alone, my feet over the edge of the foreign bed, I let out a scream the likes of which I have never done before or since. It came from a place deep inside me " one I did not know existed " and with the scream released, I began to feel powerful… in control.

            It felt like hours had passed after that scream before I heard the door to the attic open, only moments later. She stood in the doorway with both hands on her hips, her face awash in stern disappointment. I turned and looked away, unable to look at her.

            She walked forcefully towards me, took my wrist in her hand, and squeezed it, as if trying to hurt me. “Little girls do not scream!” she bellowed, shoving me back onto the bed. “Little girls do not scream like that in my house!” 

I bounced back upright, and saw the hatred in her eyes turned red at my defiance. I watched her thin hand arc slowly through the air to strike my cheek, but I never felt it. She raised her hand again, and again, and the room went dark… and the world became peaceful once again.

 

            I awoke as my lungs struggled for air. Miss Steinberg’s dress covered my face as she sat forward leaning over me, my wrists and ankles tied to the posts of the bed. Pulling, I felt a sharp pinch as the coarse rope bit into the skin between my thumb and forefinger. I could see her face as she, sitting upright and straddling me, examined her work. I tried to kick and pull away, but my arms and legs barely moved. The taut rope mocked my struggle.

            “You can kick and thrash all you want, dear. It will just make the ropes tighter,” she said, casting a contemptuous glance down at me.

            She seemed almost amused at my situation, the one she was responsible for. Panicked, my breath fell short as I tried to inhale; her weight was heavy on my stomach. I felt as though I was suffocating. Slowly the expression on her face changed, softened, and she raised up on her knees a bit, allowing the air to once again fill my lungs. Opening my eyes, I watched as she examined my face.

            “My child, you are the most beautiful thing, aren’t you?” she said, taking a hand and stroking my face and hair. “Your eyes, so pure… one could get lost in them forever. Your hair, so soft. You are absolutely perfect in every way.”

            Her fingers ran softly over my face, around my cheeks and across my lips. “From the moment I saw you, I knew I had to have you, to take care of you. I have never seen anything like the two of you. It’s magical, the two of you. It’s as if I have stepped into a dream and found something absolutely sacred.”

            She cast her eyes into mine, causing her to pause as she sat frozen, unable to make a sound. I lie there, gazing deep into her eyes, taking her to a place she had never been, causing her to feel as if she were drugged. I could feel the energy leaving my body, using all my inner strength to hold her fixed. And as I struggled, gently tugging against the ropes she felt what I was doing, the rustling of the rope shook her out of my trance. Closing her eyes, she slowly leaned forward and kissed me gently on the lips before climbing off the bed.

            The door shut quietly behind her. I knew where she was headed: downstairs to Hans. Locked in here for hours, I imagined it being late outside, the sky at its darkest point, a point at which Hans should be fast asleep. I lay there, calm, the dull ache in my wrists and ankles all but forgotten as was the warm sting across my cheek and jaw. Relaxed, my mind wandered through the house, down into the basement next to him, I was reminded of what was about to happen.

            Upstairs, where I lay in the attic, everything became so completely quiet. I could hear the sound of my heart beating, its rhythm having slowed after she left me alone in the room. Unlike in the basement, the sounds of the house did not make their way up here. I followed her throughout the house, silently.

Lying there, unable to move, I let my mind take me to where I needed to be, the voice of Hans within it guiding me.  Down the stairs, past the kitchen and into the basement, I saw myself lying next to Hans upon the cold cellar floor and he next to me, our eyes closed as the old house revealed her every step.

            Dreamlike, I saw the cellar door open. The sharp light penetrated the darkness, and my eyes began to fill with tears. Miss Steinberg was holding a knife from the kitchen in her hand. Hiding behind the door, Hans leapt at her pushing her back effortlessly. Caught off guard, he forced her back against the stove, causing the boiling pots and pans to crash upon the floor. Holding her there against the hot coils of the stove, her flesh began to burn, filling the air with the putrid smell of the searing fibers of her clothes and hair. Violently she swung the long knife, trying to dig into the taut flesh of his back as it cut away clothing, turning the skin red and damp with blood.

            I felt my body relax, exhausted, as the tension on the ropes seemed to loosen, allowing the soft bed to consume me.

 

            The door to the bedroom swung open, and light from the hallway below flooded the attic room. Hans rushed towards me and quickly cut my arms and legs free. He pulled me upright and over the side of the bed. I put my arm around him and felt the warmth of his damp shirt as he helped me down the stairs towards the front door. As it swung open, I turned and saw her lying against the stove, unmoving, her lip and nose oozing blood. My eyes followed the faint trickle of his blood down the hallway to the bottom of the stairs from which we had just come. Then Hans took my hand in his, and we both ran out the door and into the cool air of the night.

 

Continued... If you would like to read more, please feel free to contact me.

 

Copyright 2012 R. Matthew Simmons, All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I have included the Prologue and first 4 chapters of Book One. If you would like to comment, please do. If you would like to read more, please feel free to contact me.