She giggled. “Indeed, you are. Ah well.” She took up both bowls and one spoon. “It matters not. I will return shortly.”
I heard her departing footsteps. When they faded into the distance, Charlie said, “Is it true what she said, Kendra? Are Mother and Father gone?”
I could not stand this. I could not stand one more thing. I tried to make my voice sweet, rather than scalding, and said, “Of course not, Charlie. Did you not see Mother in her bed?”
“I must know the truth, Kendra. I am a big boy and can bear it.”
But I could not. “Let us put our minds to the situation at hand, and then we will worry about getting home to Mother.”
“And Father?”
“And Father.” My voice almost broke when I said the word, but I held it steady. “Now, please be silent. I must hear what she is doing.”
But I heard nothing, and many hours passed. Charlie, apparently satisfied, as children will be, with lies that favor the way they wish the world was, slumped over and fell asleep. Finally, the room grew dark, then light again as the moon rose. My arms, bound together, ached as if I had been at the washboard for days. I had heard of men being pulled apart, drawn and quartered. Was this how it felt? I yearned to use magic to remove my bindings, but I dared not. The witch had said she would return. I must wait.
Then, I heard a voice. “Hello?”
Through the dim, I looked for Charlie. He slept still. The voice was my imagining.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
It was a voice, a girl’s voice from outside. Someone was here! We were saved!
“Who’s there?” I whispered.
“Miranda. I am one of the … the gingerbread girls.”
“You can speak?”
“Aye, and hear and see and everything but run away. ’Twill be the same for you, if you do not escape.”
“I wish to escape. I was merely waiting for the witch to leave before I tried.”
“Wait no longer. She is gone now, to consort with her fiendish sisterhood. I saw her leave. If you wait, it will be too late.”
“You are sure?” Beside me, Charlie stirred in his sleep.
“Yes. Get to it,” said the tiny voice. “You have little time.”
My heart thundered like horse’s hooves on the empty road. I had to concentrate. Concentrate! I blocked out Charlie, Miranda, blocked out my aching, throbbing arms, everything. I sat, face turned skyward, and tried to summon the magic.
It was easier this time. In seconds, I could feel the bindings unravel. I stretched my arms. I stood. Now, Charlie. Outside, I heard the small, strident voice of the gingerbread girl. I ignored her, carried away by my own voice, my magic. I stretched my arms toward Charlie.
“What is this!”
I stared, fingers outspread. The room was bathed in light, not moonlight nor candlelight. Rather, the room simply glowed.
I turned. The glow came from the witch. Outside the window, I now heard Miranda’s cries. Too late. “Stop, stop! She is back!”
“How did you do it?” the witch demanded. “How did you escape my bonds?”
I did what any child in trouble would do. I lied. “I wiggled out. Anyone would to keep from being baked.”
“Anyone wouldn’t, couldn’t.” The witch surveyed the fallen webs. “My knots are magical ones. If you untied them, you must be a witch yourself.”
Despite my fear, I made myself face her. I had to decide. Tell the truth? Or argue? Was it good to be a witch? Perhaps she would let me go if she thought I was one of her kind. What was it Miranda had said, her sisterhood? But then again, she might see me as a threat.
I had no choice. She knew.
“’Tis true. I untied the knots, not by wiggling, but by magic. I am a witch.” I looked down, trying to decide what to say next. To admit my inexperience was risky. Yet, to pretend to powers I did not possess might be more so. Still, it would be better for her to think me powerful. “I untied myself, and now, I will untie my brother.”
She cackled. “Unlikely.”
“Very likely.”
I began, as before, to concentrate on the mystical words, on what I now knew was a spell. I willed the ropes to unbind Charlie as they had me. Yet, something was different, as if a powerful force bore down upon me. When one moment my concentration wavered, the witch’s greater powers overcame me. I was tired, so tired from weeks of struggling against death, disease, hunger, and grief. I had had enough. I wanted only to lie down, to stop fighting, but if I stopped fighting now, it would all be for naught. Charlie would die. I might die, or as good as die—be all alone in the world.
I pushed back. It was passion that had given me power, the passion that came from danger. My passion was my power and my power was my passion, and I shoved with all my might, my mind, my heart, until I could feel the blood coursing through my body, my head, about to flow out my mouth and onto the floor. I willed myself to untie Charlie. I could not see, could not hear anything but blood. Yet, it must work. It must! I had to save my brother.
Then, just as I was about to collapse on the floor, weak and helpless, I felt a grip upon me loosen. That and something else. I felt Charlie’s hand in mine.
Power and passion wrapped around me like a mother’s arm. Though I was inexperienced, I knew now that I could summon the power. I had conquered death itself, had I not? Suddenly I had wings if I needed them, wings of darkness like a giant bird, had fire and water and all the powers of light and darkness at my disposal. If only I could use them in private and not have to fight against this other witch. But I did. Our spirits fought invisibly, and I felt Charlie’s hand slip from mine. I grabbed it, grabbed it fast. I pulled.
“Enough!” the witch screamed. I thought she meant to trick me, make me relax my grip on Charlie, that she might own us both. Instead, she relaxed her own. I felt the power fly from the room. Charlie’s grip upon my hand tightened. I opened my eyes and looked up at her. In the dim light, her eyes glowed fearsomely, and her lips seemed red with blood.
“So it is true,” she said, “the girl does have powers.”
“She does.” I straightened my shoulders. “Yes, she does, and she does not intend to let you kill her, or her brother. I have worked too hard to save us. Now, will you let us go?”
“Yes, let us go!” Charlie screamed.
The witch pointed a long, red-clawed finger at him, and he immediately fell asleep. She turned her attention to me. “I cannot have children getting out and about, telling tales of me and my little picket fence. No, I am afraid that, once captive, you must stay here forever.”
“Stay? Forever? But I have no intention of dying.”
“I have no intention of killing you. Witches cannot be killed by ordinary means anyway.”
Ordinary means? “There was a witch in … our old town. They say she died by water.”
“If she did, then she was no witch. Witches do not drown. Those who do are merely unfortunates. Our kind are stronger.”
It chilled me to hear her say “our kind” and know she meant herself and me. I did not wish to have kinship with the likes of her.
“No.” She drew a long finger across her forehead. “There is only one way to kill our kind.”
“Which is?” Even as I said it, I knew the answer. I mouthed the word as she spoke.
“Fire. The only way to sacrifice a true sister of darkness is by fire.”
I tucked this knowledge away in case I lived long enough to use it. “Indeed? And do you not intend to kill me in your oven, as you have the others? I hope not, for you see, I will not give up easily. I may be young, but I am strong. I have power born of passion.”
“Passion. An odd way to phrase it. ’Deed, you are an odd girl. But I have no intention of baking you. You alone of all my children would give me something else I want.”
“And what is that?”
“A family.” In that instant, her eyes softened to the green of new shoots, rather the color of my own eyes, which disturbed me. She seemed
to be not a monster, but a woman, a woman like many I knew in our village, like Mrs. Jameson and Mother. “A witch’s life is a lonely one. We live forever unless killed.”
“We do?”
She wagged her finger at me. “Did you not wonder why you, of all your family, were spared from the plague?”
I started to protest again, that we had no plague, but with her hand she stopped me. “Waste not your breath with lies, pretty girl. I know the truth. I recognize the scars on your brother’s body, the haunted look in your eyes. I have lived through many a plague, buried husband and children. I have seen that expression in my own eyes. A witch’s existence is lonely. To be immortal is to belong to no one, no time. I have met few of my kind, fewer still I would call friend. Those who are not witches do not wish to consort with us, lest they be hanged by association. Besides, they die. But a girl such as yourself could be the daughter I lost, better than a daughter. Together, we could live forever.”
Inwardly, I blanched. I did not want to be this woman’s—this monster’s—daughter. Yet part of me felt strange sympathy for the witch too. I knew loss. Perhaps I had not yet lost Charlie, but if what the witch said was true, if I were to live forever, I would lose everyone over and over. Be alone. Could hundreds of years alone drive one to madness? To child baking? Judge not and ye shall not be judged. That was a verse the reverend often repeated at church, though few heeded it. Perhaps I should not judge the witch too harshly until I had lived her life. Or perhaps this was merely an excuse because, as I gazed into her eyes, I realized she could be of use to me. I had never been a stupid girl. Rather, my mother often pronounced me too smart for my own good, too smart to find a husband. I was also smart enough to know opportunity when I saw it. The witch was bad, possibly deranged, but she was older, wiser. She knew how to cast spells not merely from passion, not merely when danger bade her to, but from intent. She wished to be my mother. Though the thought revolted me, I knew what mothers did. They taught their daughters. If she thought I respected her, she would teach me. I pushed back the thought of my own dear mother. It was worthless to think of such things. Mother was gone. My powers had come too late to save her. Besides, Mother would not wish me to die, to let Charlie die. I was sure of it. Equally, I was certain that, if I refused the witch’s request, she would kill Charlie. I did not know, did not care either, what she would do to me.
And once I learned all I could, once I had gained her trust, I could escape.
“And what would it entail, to be your daughter?”
“Entail?”
“What would I have to do, and what would you do for me? And for Charlie?”
The witch drew in a breath. “I had not thought that far.”
“Then think.”
“It has been a great while since I had a daughter.” She stopped and stared ahead, eyes growing misty. “I lost the last of mine these two hundred years.”
“But when you had daughters, what did you teach them?”
“Ordinary things, baking and…” My neck snapped toward the wall through which I had heard Miranda’s voice. “Not that sort of baking. I wasn’t about that then. Regular baking, bread and cakes and, yes, gingerbread. It was rather a favorite of my dear Adelaide’s and, of course, she helped with the sewing. Not mending. I used magic for such dull work, but fine sewing, quilts and samplers. We discussed her future, the husband she would find, the babes she would carry. Of course, none of that came true. She too died of plague.” She shook her head.
“Ah, I see. So you want companionship. If I were to provide it, you would give me advice and guidance … like a mother?”
It was all I could do to force the word mother from my lips, but it had its desired effect.
The witch’s blood red lips formed a smile. “Of course, my dear. I wish to be your mother in every sense. If you were my daughter, I would teach you to be a better witch. This is what I want, and what you want also.” She reached to arrange a hair that had fallen across my face. “I want you to love me.”
I tolerated her touch. I had to. “And my brother?”
She hesitated long enough for me to know that he was not to have been part of the bargain. Finally she said, “I will take care of him too. Like my own son.”
I smiled. “Then I will do as you wish.”
And this was how I became, in fact if not in heart, the daughter of a witch. I did not forget my real mother, but I was so busy learning many new and useful things that the pain of losing her, of losing all of them, lessened. I had lost my family, lost my home. Yet, I had gained something else, something few women of that time ever possessed.
I gained power.
And I learned how to use it. Each morning, instead of making breakfast or milking the cow, the witch would teach me a new trick to make short work of it, so that the cows milked themselves or the butter self-churned. Then, in the time we saved, we studied more serious spell work. I learned to make magic, not merely through passion but by design, not merely by chance repetition of magical words but by movement of my mind. I gained power over objects to make them dance about the room. I made plants grow and animals obey my command. The only power I was unsure of possessing was over people. There were no people upon whom to test power, other than Charlie, and I did not want to do that to him.
Charlie was a bit of a problem. At first, while he was still recovering, he was content to sleep many hours a day, giving the witch ample time to school me in her—my—craft. As he recovered, though, he wished to run and play like other boys, not to be cooped up in a cottage (even one made of gingerbread) with two women. The witch used magic to hold him, magic to keep him from leaving the house. She could use no such magic on me now, for I knew how to break this simple spell. She knew me well enough to know I would never leave without Charlie. Still, Charlie sulked and sometimes ran and played and broke things. Sometimes, the witch used spells to buy his sleep, but the price was steep. As every mother (or sister) of a new babe knows, a child kept sleeping too long by day will repay this by waking at night.
This annoyed the witch greatly because, by night, she wished to tell me the exploits of her centuries of life, of her work in the court of Henry VIII (“Had he but asked for my help, he could have had a son”), and her dalliance with someone named Vlad somewhere called Wallachia (“a cruel one, he—liked to impale people on sticks”). “Being a witch can be a curse, Kendra,” she told me, “but never forget, it is a blessing as well. Women, we are powerless, often at the mercy of a father or husband. When I lost mine, I might have been forced to take in laundry or … worse. But because of witchcraft, I survived and survived well.”
“Kendra.” Charlie pulled at my skirt.
“What does that boy want?” the witch snapped.
“Not now, Charlie.”
“But Kendra, look. Look what I found.”
“What is it, Charlie?”
He opened his hand and held out a black and green beetle.
“Ugh,” the witch said. “I will turn you into a beetle if you do not watch out.”
“He is but a child,” I said.
Yet, I sensed the witch becoming more and more perturbed.
Due to the witch’s trust of me, or her blackmail, I was permitted to venture outside on occasion, to gather magical herbs and flowers. It was on one such trip that I strolled past the corner of the house and heard a small voice.
“You! Girl!”
I started. I had heard no voice other than the witch’s and Charlie’s for weeks now.
“Please, please, Miss! You are in grave danger. Or rather, your brother is.”
Now I recognized the voice of the gingerbread girl, Miranda.
I turned to face her. She was a child, close in size to my sister Sarah, who had been but ten. Her ringlets must once have been golden. Now, they were of white frosting. Unlike the other gingerbread children, whose faces were frozen, she could move and speak.
“Danger? Why?”
“The witch! This morning, before you wok
e, she was outside, gathering wood.”
“Wood? She has no need of wood.”
“Exactly. She has no need, for she makes her meals and warms her home by magic. She needs wood for one purpose only. The oven! Where she makes the gingerbread.”
“But why?”
“I know not. Perhaps it is special witch-wood, the better for baking children. All I know is, one morning she went out, gathering wood. That very afternoon, I was in the oven.”
I shuddered. Powers, when used to cure the sick or even lighten the workload, were wonderful things. To use them otherwise was disgusting. But could I have one without the other?
I would have to find out. But first, I had to make sure the witch didn’t bake my brother!
I reached for Miranda’s gingerbread hand, again thinking of dear little Sarah. Had I refused to lend her my hair ribbons? Spoken a harsh word? I was sorry.
“Thank you, little friend. Thank you for telling me. May I ask…?” I hesitated, not wanting to heap insult upon injury.
“Ask me anything. It is lonely never to be asked anything anymore.”
Lonely. That word again. Could it be that the world was merely a collection of lonely existences? If so, perhaps mine would not be any worse.
To Miranda, I said, “How is it that you can speak and move, and the others cannot?”
Her brow furrowed so much I worried it would crack. “I believe I was undercooked. ’Tis hard to believe, for the cooking was so painful that, when the witch came to check to see if I was done, I determined to be quite still. In that way, I was released from the oven half-baked. ’Course I cannot do much.”
“I am sorry.”
“No. ’Tis better this way. I was able to warn you. I wish someone had warned me.”
“How did you get here?” I glanced around, the better to make sure the witch was not coming, not listening. But no. She was resting. Charlie had kept her up all night, singing and banging pots, and then she had gone out early.
“I ran away,” Miranda said. “My father was cruel. He beat me and worse, so one night, I ran. I had grand dreams. I would go to London and meet the king! But, by the first night, I was powerful hungry. The next morning, I saw this house.”