The Breadcrumb Trail

The cottage had one room and one window, and the window had no glass in it, only shutters that banged when the wind came down off the hill. Hansel lay on his pallet with his eyes open. Beside him, Gretel was awake too. He could tell by her breathing.

On the other side of the thin wall, their father and stepmother were talking.

“We cannot feed them,” the stepmother said. “The flour is gone. The potatoes are gone. Tomorrow we take them into the forest and leave them.”

“They are my children,” their father said. His voice was low and tired.

“And they will starve here,” she said. “At least in the forest, something may find them. A woodcutter. A kind stranger.”

Gretel’s hand found Hansel’s under the blanket. She squeezed it hard.

Hansel waited until the voices stopped and the house was quiet. Then he slipped out of bed, pulled on his coat, and eased the door open. Outside, the moon was up and the yard was bright as day. He knelt by the doorstone, where a pile of white pebbles lay, and filled his coat pockets until they bulged and dragged.

Back inside, he lay down again. Gretel was still awake.

“What did you do?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

But she did not sleep, and neither did he. They lay side by side and listened to the wind, and to their father’s slow steps in the next room. He walked back and forth for a long time. Once, Hansel thought he heard him stop outside their door and stand there. Then the steps went away.

***

Before the sun was up, the stepmother shook them awake. She gave them each a piece of dry bread and a cup of water.

“Eat,” she said. “We are going for wood.”

They walked all morning. Their father led the way with his axe over his shoulder, and the stepmother walked behind them. The trees grew taller and closer together. Hansel dropped a pebble every few steps. The stones were white, and when they landed on the dark leaves, they made a soft click, click, click.

“Why do you keep stopping?” the stepmother asked.

“I am looking at the birds,” Hansel said.

“Keep walking.”

At noon they reached a place where the trees shut out the sky. Their father built a small fire and said, “Rest here. We will come back for you after we cut wood.”

They sat by the fire and ate their bread. The afternoon went on. The fire burned low. The birds sang, and then the birds stopped singing.

“They are not coming back,” Gretel said.

“They are,” Hansel said. “Wait.”

The sun went down. The forest turned grey, then black. Gretel began to cry, quietly, so as not to be heard by whatever else was in the woods.

“Look,” Hansel said. He pointed at the ground. A white pebble caught the moonlight and shone like a small star. Then another, and another, a line of them going away through the trees.

“You dropped those,” Gretel said.

“I did.”

They followed the stones all night. The moon moved above the branches, and the stones led them on, and just before dawn they came out of the trees and saw the cottage ahead, with a light in the window. Their father was sitting on the doorstep with his head in his hands. When he saw them, he stood up and ran.

“You came back,” he said. He held them both at once. “You came back.”

The stepmother stood in the doorway and said nothing. Then she turned and went inside.

The bread was gone by the end of the week. Hansel scraped the last of the flour from the barrel and Gretel licked the spoon. Their father sat by the cold hearth and did not look at them.

“There is nothing left,” the stepmother said. “You know what must be done.”

“I know,” he said, and his voice was like a door closing.

That night Hansel lay awake. He heard the stepmother’s whisper through the wall. “Tomorrow, then. Deeper this time.”

Hansel got up and felt his way to the door. His fingers found the latch, but the door would not move. He pushed and pulled. The stepmother had tied it shut with a rope.

“Gretel,” he whispered. “The door is locked.”

Gretel sat up in the dark. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets and felt nothing but crumbs from yesterday’s loaf. He gathered them, crumb by crumb, and filled his pockets.

In the morning the stepmother gave them each a piece of bread. “Eat it slowly,” she said. “It must last.”

Hansel did not eat his. He crumbled it into his pocket when she was not looking.

The father led them out again, past the clearing, past the stream, into a part of the forest they had never seen. The trees grew thick and close. The stepmother walked behind them and said nothing.

“Wait here,” the father said at last. “We will come back for you.”

He did not look at them when he said it. He turned and walked away, and the stepmother followed.

***

Hansel watched them go. Then he took a handful of crumbs from his pocket and dropped them on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Gretel asked.

“Leaving a trail,” he said. “Like before.”

“With bread?”

“It’s all I have.”

They sat down under a tree and waited. The sun moved across the sky. Gretel counted the crumbs in her brother’s pocket. “There are not many left,” she said.

“We won’t need many,” Hansel said. “We’ll follow them home tonight.”

But the birds came first. A sparrow landed on the path and pecked at a crumb. Then another bird, and another. They hopped from crumb to crumb, and in a few minutes the trail was gone.

“Hansel,” Gretel said. “The birds.”

He ran to the path and searched the ground. Nothing. Only dirt and leaves.

“They ate them,” he said. “Every one.”

Gretel sat down on a stone. “We’re lost.”

“We’ll find the way,” Hansel said. “We came from somewhere.”

They walked until dark. Then they walked the next day, and the next. They ate berries and drank from a stream. Hansel’s legs ached. Gretel’s feet blistered. On the third day they sat down and did not get up.

“I can’t go on,” Gretel said.

Hansel put his arm around her. “Then we’ll rest.”

A white bird landed on a branch above them. It looked at them with one black eye, then flew a little way and stopped.

“It wants us to follow,” Gretel said.

“It’s a bird,” Hansel said.

The bird flew again and waited again. Gretel stood up. “I’m going.”

They followed the bird through the trees. It led them down a slope and into a clearing. There, in the middle of the clearing, stood a house.

It was made of bread. The walls were brown and crusty. The roof was sugar, white and sparkling. The windows were clear candy.

“Hansel,” Gretel whispered. “It’s a house you can eat.”

Hansel broke off a piece of the wall and tasted it. “It’s real,” he said. “It’s bread.”

Gretel pulled a shingle from the roof. It was sweet and soft. They ate and ate, laughing, until a voice came from inside.

“Who is nibbling at my house?”

The door opened. An old woman stood there, leaning on a stick. Her eyes were sharp and bright.

“Come in, little ones,” she said. “You look hungry.”

Hansel stopped chewing. Gretel took his hand. The old woman smiled, and her smile was wide and slow.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I have plenty.”

But Gretel did not move. She looked at the woman’s eyes, and she looked at the house, and she felt a cold thing turn over in her chest.

The old woman stepped back and held the door wide. Warm air came out, smelling of ginger and burnt sugar. “Sit,” she said. “Eat.” A table stood in the corner, laid with milk and pancakes and apples. Hansel sat down first. Gretel sat beside him, close enough to touch his sleeve. The woman watched them eat and did not eat herself. “Where are your mother and father?” she asked. “Far away,” Hansel said. “Lost,” Gretel said. The woman nodded slowly. “Then you may stay. I am old, and the work is heavy.” That night she showed them two beds, soft and clean, and Gretel slept with her hand in Hansel’s. In the morning the woman gave them bread and honey, and then she took Hansel by the arm. “Come,” she said. She led him to a small iron cage in the corner of the kitchen. “Get in.” Hansel looked at Gretel. Gretel looked at the cage. “Why?” she asked. “To keep him safe,” the woman said. “He is thin. He needs feeding.” She pushed Hansel in and shut the door. The lock clicked. “And you,” she said to Gretel, “will cook. Fetch water. Sweep. If he is not fat in a month, you will take his place.” Gretel cooked. Every day she carried the pot to the cage and fed her brother. Every day the woman felt his arm and frowned. “Still thin,” she said. “Still bones.” Gretel learned the kitchen. She learned where the knives hung and where the flour sat. She learned the oven, big as a cupboard, with an iron door and a long handle. On the fourth week the woman lit the fire under it. “Today,” she said, “we bake.” She smiled her wide, slow smile. “Stand here, girl. Show me you know how to work the door.” Gretel stood before the oven. The heat rolled out and made her eyes sting. “I don’t know how,” she said. “The door is too heavy. Show me.” “Fool,” the woman said. She bent down and reached for the handle. “Like this.” Gretel put both hands on her back and pushed.

***

The iron door clanged shut. The woman shouted once, deep inside the oven. Gretel held the handle down with all her weight. The shouting stopped. The kitchen went quiet except for the fire. Gretel stood there a moment, breathing hard. Then she ran to the cage. “Hansel,” she said. The lock was stiff, but she found a knife on the table and worked it until the door swung open. Hansel fell out and hugged her. “You did it,” he said. “You did it.” “We have to go,” Gretel said. They ran through the house, and in the room where the woman slept they found a chest. It was full of pearls, and gold, and rings that caught the light. Gretel filled her apron. Hansel filled his pockets until they bulged. “That’s enough,” Gretel said. “That’s more than enough.” They stepped outside. The forest was dark and enormous, but the moon was up, and a white bird sat on a branch, watching them. It flew a little way and waited. So they followed it. They walked all night, and all the next day, and the day after that. Their shoes wore through. Their pockets were heavy, but neither of them complained. On the third evening they saw a light through the trees. It was a window, and behind the window was their father’s face. He came out running, and he caught them both at once. “You’re here,” he said. “You’re here. I have not slept. I have not slept since you left.” He held them so long that Gretel’s pearls dug into her ribs. Then he looked at their full pockets, and at their faces, and he did not ask where the woman was. Neither did they. He built up the fire and warmed milk, and they sat together in the small room while the night pressed against the glass. Gretel kept one pearl in her fist and turned it over and over, warm as a pebble. She had carried her brother out of the dark. She would remember that, even when the pearls were gone.