Read Online The Magic Circle by Donna Jo Napoli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donna Jo Napoli
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Gretel called it a cottage. The word sounds warm and cozy and happy. I feel myself standing up, not knowing what I am going to do next.
“Oh, this one has peppermint flavor. Gretel, taste this.” There is the sound of something breaking from my roof again.
I am slightly giddy. I speak, but my voice is musical, not my old, rough peasant’s voice. No, it is the gentlevoice of a friend. I am saying, “Nibble nibble like a mouse, Who is nibbling at my house?” My words are sweet as the candy the children eat.
“It is only the wind,” says Hansel from the roof.
What a foolish, innocent child. Would that all of us could be so innocent.
I open the front door and look upon the little girl in braids. Her eyes open wide at my ugliness. She drops the gumdrop, even though her whole body is aching for its nourishment. Her hands fly up to cover her mouth.
“Don’t be afraid,” my sweet voice says. “You must be tired, and I can see you are hungry. I’ll feed you.”
The girl lowers her hands. The boy drops from the roof. He is younger and suffering even more from lack of food. They look at me with fear and hope. The bitter hunger of creeping starvation burns from those eyes.
“I am ugly, it is true,” I say. “But you know better than to be afraid of outer appearances.”
The girl motions to the boy to come by her side. He obeys. He trusts her. I admire that trust.
“Come inside,” I say.
Gretel stands motionless Hansel looks up at her. Then he looks at me. He wants to come inside.
“I have known the pain of hunger,” I say. “And I haveknown the pain of loneliness. I can help you. Come inside.”
Hansel takes a step forward. Gretel pulls him back.
“You are a wise and careful girl,” I say to Gretel.
“Who are you?” she says at last. Her voice is young and open and human. It is everything I am not.
“I am an old woman. I live alone. I have a simple life.”
Gretel seems to gather courage from my words. “I am Gretel. This is my brother, Hansel. What is your name?”
“You can call me Old Woman.” I step back so she can see the inside of my home. The kitchen table is within view. A bowl of wild cherries I gathered only yesterday sits there invitingly.
The girl licks her lower lip. Her eyes suddenly become decisive. She walks up and takes my hand. She is older than my grandchildren. But the roundness of her cheeks is familiar. If I could love these children, I would. Her eyes are forceful. I recognize that she is trying to win me over. Hunger has made her desperate. But there is no need for her to work so hard at winning me. I have an instinctive attraction for her.
We go into the candy-bedecked house.
seven
COOKING
E ndive soup,” I am saying, “is good for you.”
“With chicken to flavor it,” says Gretel. She pulls a chicken wishbone from her pocket. “I saved this from the last time we had chicken. More than a year ago. It was delicious.” Her eyes shine with the hope of satisfying the hunger that makes her cheeks twitch. “I brought it with me for good luck.” She puts the wishbone carefully back in her pocket. “We need a chicken thigh. A nice, juicy chicken thigh.” She licks her top lip. “The dark meat and blood would add flavor.”
I look at her sharply, afraid the voices will start in my head. “And how is it one so small as you knows the art of the kitchen?”
“I helped my mother cook,” says Gretel. “She called out what I was to do as she spun wool, and I followed the directions.”
“I helped, too,” says Hansel. “I brought Mother the wool.”
“You have a flock of sheep, then?” I ask doubtfully. These children wear old, tired garments. They haven’t the look of children whose parents own animals.
“Oh, no,” says Hansel. “I gathered bush wool.”
I am confused. I look to Gretel for an explanation.
Gretel laughs. “You know, the tufts that remain when flocks are transferred from one grazing area to the next. I showed Hansel how to collect
“Oh, this one has peppermint flavor. Gretel, taste this.” There is the sound of something breaking from my roof again.
I am slightly giddy. I speak, but my voice is musical, not my old, rough peasant’s voice. No, it is the gentlevoice of a friend. I am saying, “Nibble nibble like a mouse, Who is nibbling at my house?” My words are sweet as the candy the children eat.
“It is only the wind,” says Hansel from the roof.
What a foolish, innocent child. Would that all of us could be so innocent.
I open the front door and look upon the little girl in braids. Her eyes open wide at my ugliness. She drops the gumdrop, even though her whole body is aching for its nourishment. Her hands fly up to cover her mouth.
“Don’t be afraid,” my sweet voice says. “You must be tired, and I can see you are hungry. I’ll feed you.”
The girl lowers her hands. The boy drops from the roof. He is younger and suffering even more from lack of food. They look at me with fear and hope. The bitter hunger of creeping starvation burns from those eyes.
“I am ugly, it is true,” I say. “But you know better than to be afraid of outer appearances.”
The girl motions to the boy to come by her side. He obeys. He trusts her. I admire that trust.
“Come inside,” I say.
Gretel stands motionless Hansel looks up at her. Then he looks at me. He wants to come inside.
“I have known the pain of hunger,” I say. “And I haveknown the pain of loneliness. I can help you. Come inside.”
Hansel takes a step forward. Gretel pulls him back.
“You are a wise and careful girl,” I say to Gretel.
“Who are you?” she says at last. Her voice is young and open and human. It is everything I am not.
“I am an old woman. I live alone. I have a simple life.”
Gretel seems to gather courage from my words. “I am Gretel. This is my brother, Hansel. What is your name?”
“You can call me Old Woman.” I step back so she can see the inside of my home. The kitchen table is within view. A bowl of wild cherries I gathered only yesterday sits there invitingly.
The girl licks her lower lip. Her eyes suddenly become decisive. She walks up and takes my hand. She is older than my grandchildren. But the roundness of her cheeks is familiar. If I could love these children, I would. Her eyes are forceful. I recognize that she is trying to win me over. Hunger has made her desperate. But there is no need for her to work so hard at winning me. I have an instinctive attraction for her.
We go into the candy-bedecked house.
seven
COOKING
E ndive soup,” I am saying, “is good for you.”
“With chicken to flavor it,” says Gretel. She pulls a chicken wishbone from her pocket. “I saved this from the last time we had chicken. More than a year ago. It was delicious.” Her eyes shine with the hope of satisfying the hunger that makes her cheeks twitch. “I brought it with me for good luck.” She puts the wishbone carefully back in her pocket. “We need a chicken thigh. A nice, juicy chicken thigh.” She licks her top lip. “The dark meat and blood would add flavor.”
I look at her sharply, afraid the voices will start in my head. “And how is it one so small as you knows the art of the kitchen?”
“I helped my mother cook,” says Gretel. “She called out what I was to do as she spun wool, and I followed the directions.”
“I helped, too,” says Hansel. “I brought Mother the wool.”
“You have a flock of sheep, then?” I ask doubtfully. These children wear old, tired garments. They haven’t the look of children whose parents own animals.
“Oh, no,” says Hansel. “I gathered bush wool.”
I am confused. I look to Gretel for an explanation.
Gretel laughs. “You know, the tufts that remain when flocks are transferred from one grazing area to the next. I showed Hansel how to collect
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