Page 109 of The Memory Wood

Earlier that day, when Leon Meunier stormed back into Wheel Town minutes after driving off, I hadn’t realized what was wrong. Now, it’s all too clear: he must have discovered the theft of his phone.

When Annie learned of it, too, after going out to meet him, she would have known it was time to leave. Of course, she wouldn’t have wanted to leave any evidence. Burning down the Gingerbread House fixed that. Whether she started the fire herself I can’t say, but the instruction would have come from her lips.

I think of all this, and when I look up with my carefully remorseful expression, I see that my earlier assumption was wrong, because it’s not Papa standing in the doorway, but Gretel.

vIII

She looks different – a pencil drawing of her former self. Her head is bowed and I can’t see her face. On her wrist, a grubbybandage has replaced my makeshift dressing. Below it, her purpled fingers have swelled to three times their normal size. In her good hand, she precariously balances a tray.

I want to say something: apologize, or beg forgiveness. Then I remember Mama, leaning against the wooden slats with daylight shining through her. Just because Gretel is visiting, it doesn’t mean she’s really here.

Crouching down, she places the tray on the floor. One-handed, it’s a tricky task. The contents – a bowl filled with stew and a tin mug of water – slide across it and tumble off the end. Gretel stares at the mess. Then she stands and raises her head. At last, I see her clearly, and my blood runs to ice. I simply cannot tell if she’s real. Her face is dirty and bedraggled, her eyes as dull as river stones. Beneath the grime, her skin has the pallor of a corpse.

‘Gretel—’

‘Don’t call me that,’ she whispers. ‘That’s not my name.’

‘Are you here?’ I say. ‘Are you real?’

Gretel watches me a long time before speaking. ‘You asked me that once before.’

I did. And I still remember her answer, in the cellar beneath the Gingerbread House:This is real, Elijah. All of it. You’re real, so am I. So is my mum. So is my family. This place is real, too. It’s not where I want to be, and I hope I’m not going to die here. I hope, more than anything, that you’re going to help me survive this – but it’s real, I promise you. It’s about as real as a thing can get.

I look at the tray and the overturned bowl of food. I lift my head and look outside at the mounds of tufted grass. The wind blowing through the doorway feels real, which means the door must be open. The food smells real, too, which means someone must have brought it.

My heart feels as light as a dandelion clock. If Gretel reallyishere, it means I can scrub one black mark off a conscience filthy with them.

She glances past me. ‘I have to go.’

‘Wait—’

Her feet make no sound as she crosses the shed. At the threshold, she hesitates. The wind makes snakes of her hair. Then she’s gone.

I blink after her, wondering what just happened.

This is real, Elijah. All of it. You’re real. So am I.

But that was then, and this is now.

When my gaze wanders to the far wall, I notice that Mama is back, her knees drawn up to her chest. She doesn’t look at me, but this time, at least, she speaks. ‘Only one way forward from here. You’re a survivor, Elijah. So survive.’

I think of my filthy conscience, and the one black mark I’d hoped to avoid. Then I close my eyes and wait.

Elissa

As Elissa shuffles across the grass, the wind batters her and she nearly falls. Her head is abuzz; her throat is on fire. In the last few days, her arm has grown so painful with infection she’d amputate it if she knew how. If she survives this – unlikely, given what she’s just seen in the tool shed – she can’t imagine any doctor could save it.

The ghoul is waiting outside the shack, smoking a roll-up cigarette. He follows her inside and shuts the door.

The witch, Annie, is on her knees by the far wall, loading logs into the wood stove. Watching her, Elissa thinks of the old fairy tale: how Gretel shoved her captor into the oven and released Hansel from his cage. The comparison is so absurd she almost laughs, but there’s no breath in her lungs for that.

Knees cracking, Annie climbs to her feet. ‘This fucking wind,’ she mutters. ‘This fucking cold.’ Finally, her eyes meet Elissa’s. ‘You see him?’

‘Yes.’

Annie gestures to a footstool. When Elissa sits, the old woman grins. ‘Round here, you’re a lick of fresh air. You do as you’re told, and that’s good. I think you want to help us, don’t you? I think you want to do the right thing.’

Slowly, Elissa nods her head.

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