Relic Environments Trilogy: Book III, Part 2.iv

from Book III, Part 2, Animus

II. The Child-Eaters

ii. Hansel and Gretel                  

It was a time of famine.

Even when the weather favoured

kitchen crops − potato sets and runner beans −

the pickings were lean, but now

bellies bloated, guts pinched and heaved with hunger…

the summer wet, the sun all day

curtained in low cloud no winds could shift,

their plantings rotted in cold clay.

The Father set off into the woods, each day

a little firewood cut, a few cords more

to trade for grain

his wife milled for sour bread.

The Father set off into the woods, at first close by

their poor hut, and the boy Hansel

could hear the steady chop chop chop

of his Father’s axe, but with each day passing

the sound grew fainter, until his sister Gretel said,

Hansel, our Father goes deeper in the woods

each day, and now

the chop chop chop so faint

I cannot tell it from the calling birds.

One night − a wishbone night stuck

between yesterday and tomorrow − the woodcutter’s wife

whispered to her husband, The food is nearly finished; what wood

you find, there’s little grain to trade for.

She looked towards the little loft

where the Father’s children lay: It’s us or them, and better

we alone than four graves one by one.

The Father dragged his rough hands across his face,

and sobbed until he’d rubbed

the tears and snot into his beard. He sobbed

until he stopped, closed his fingers, stretched

and popped his finger-joints:

he knew she had a point.

In the loft, Hansel and Gretel heard, knowing

their Stepmother as good as her word

would see them off, arrange an accident or worse,

abandon them to beasts.

Gretel whimpered, We’re lost. I’m too weak to run.

But Hansel took his little sister’s hand

and kissed it, saying, I have plan,

and climbing from the loft, stopped just once,

his rumbling belly startling

the Stepmother half-awake; her snoring breaking

to a snort, she turned over to the wall, and farted.

And Hansel slipped by, and out the door,

gathering small stones as white and bright

as stars he knew must still be somewhere

through the cloud.

Back in the loft, they whispered, Goodnight.

In the dark

Gretel reached for his hand and held it tight.

                                    *

There was another plan…

The Stepmother, the next morning,

called, Lazybones wake up. It’s deeper woods today,

and we’ll all be needed

if your Father’s hunch is right for easy cords.

Through the forest trail, just out of sight of home,

Hansel stopped and turned, and said,

Father, I think I can just see my little cat

sitting on the roof, and as he spoke, and walked

and stopped again and turned,

a little stone, bright as a bird’s egg

rolled to the ground.

The Stepmother said to the Father: Tell him, it’s no cat.

It’s chimney shadows on the roof; we ate his cat long since.

They walked and walked, a little trail of white stones

winking in the grass behind them,

until they came to a depth of forest

so dark it could be night, and nearly was by then…

The Stepmother said, We’ll be back. Deeper in these woods

the cuts are sweet with resin

and there to be had by those who’d walk that farther in. Stay put.

There are beasts about: take two sticks and make a fire.

But they did not return, and the children shared

their little bread, through the night

picking their way home, stone by shiny stone.

*

The Father opened the door, jumped back.

Father, Hansel said, we might be ghosts, you’ve gone so white.

That night, they heard again

the drip-drop drip-drop of the Stepmother

wheedling, wheedling, until they heard too,

their Father’s knuckles pop.

The next day, Lazybones, another journey,

and down the path they went, but Hansel

was cold with worry. Last night

he’d tried the door, but it was locked − the Stepmother

whispering to the Father, I don’t know what he did,

but it won’t happen twice: I don’t trust that kid −

and now what little bread he had

he pinched apart and dropped, each

stop he made to turn to see his home.

…Father, I think I see a little pigeon

there, just there around the eaves…

The Stepmother said,

Tell him, it’s chimney shadows

playing tricks. And besides, that pigeon never touched the sides.

This time, deeper still, and darker than the dark before,

and they, alone

walked a night and day, a night and day and no way home,

knowing then each pinch of bread

was tastier to birds than stones.

And after three days and nights

Gretel fainted, and everything Hansel saw

swam before in twos and threes, and hunger

whined in his ears, and then, suddenly,

in a tree, a beautiful white bird appeared,

flitting branch to branch, so that Hansel understood

they were to follow.

He pulled Gretel to her feet, and stumbled

through; three birds he saw, but thought

the middle one would do.

*

The place they came to was built of bread, cake and sugar.

Bread… Cake... Sugar…

Gretel licked a sugar pane, and Hansel

scoffed a slate of cake, then from within

from what on closer look

they took to be a cottage, came a little voice,

Nibble, nibble, be my guest.

When you’re done, step in and rest.

The children answered,

We’re not here. We think we died. Our plan

went wrong, and now it’s heaven drenched in marzipan.

Through the door she came on crutches, her red eyes

blinking in the daylight.

The children fell back, against the sugared-almond shutters.

Don’t be afraid of me. I’m just an old woman

who likes a little company for tea.

Hansel followed in, and Gretel followed him.

When the door was closed

and locked,

the crone came to Hansel, pinched his cheek, and said,

You’ll do, and dragged him through

and pushed him in a shed.

Gretel tugged the door and windows,

but no escape, and to make the bad dream stop,

hurled a pan. The old woman halted it midair, charmed it

bird-like, snatched

and ate it, feathers and all.

Gretel screamed, Hansel, she’s a witch.

My dear, said the witch, that’s so. I am as you say, but

we all have our parts to play: you too.

Your brother’s rangy. I prefer a plumper meal −

chop some veg.

Weeks went by, and Gretel cooked and cooked,

and the witch took pot after pot of stew

to Hansel.

Give me your hand, she said, and he shoved

a chicken bone through a crack in the door.

She pinched and thought, This one’s slow.

I’ll be starved before he fattens.

I’ll take them both and call it done, and hope

the girl’s not as chewy as she looks. Maybe this time

only lungs and liver…

But Gretel, sneaking soup and chicken

all those weeks, was stronger now, and saw

the way the witch poked the air and tapped the floor

before her with her crutches, and knew

the witch’s red, cross-eyes were weak.

The witch instructed, Make a pastry. Get the oven warm,

and mused, for a pie dish big enough for two.

Climb in, human child, and see what heat there is,

was what Gretel

later said was said. Gretel, now a little podgy, posed

slyly at the oven door: I’ll never fit in there.

The witch, squinting towards the heated hole,

climbed in herself, and said, See, any fool could do it.

Gretel slammed the oven door,

threw on more logs, and smelt the burning hair,

and listened to the squeals, as fats from the flesh

bubbled and squeaked, and could be any flesh

Gretel thought,

for a passing moment

considering her next square meal…

She and Hansel found a chest of jewels, pearls

and such they thought useful

and could carry in their pockets.

They walked through the wood, to the edge

of a lake, and noticed a wedge of ducks in flight.

Hansel remembered the time of year,

and the direction ducks took

in that season, and remembered them

sailing over their little cottage.

The children headed south, and home.

                                    *

Their Father said, I would never leave you really,

but they knew he had, and watched him close

from then on.

The Stepmother died the very day

she’d led them out a second time to the forest.

She walked so long, and grew so hungry

she ate black berries from a bush, greenish-black

they were, that killed her dead, their Father

vague about what happened after that...

They took the jewels

and shared them out, and things were better for awhile,

but jewels are not bread, when there is no bread,

nor grain to mill,

when there is no grain, even with only

three mouths to feed.

It was a time of famine.

Relic Environments Trilogy: Book III, Part 2.iii

from Book III, Part 2, Animus

II. The Child-Eaters

i. Red Riding-Hood

The herds are safe in southern pastures.

In these mountains, cold

grips the valleys early. No footprints, except the goatherd’s,

or hieroglyph bird tracks

on grass

flattened under snow.

A few dwellings among the rocks, chimney smoke

mimicking stony roots of pine: far off, wolves, howling.

The sound is hunger, huge,

something pitiful, remote, but we know too,

without remorse, the mineral eye

caught in light from cottage windows.

At this time of year, any man living

keeps to the path, and then

only with a long blade slid down the boot, its edge

long enough, thick enough, to dig past wolf ribs

to the heart.

But each wolf is a man’s weight, heavy −

red-yellow eyes stalking famine in these mountains.

Three to find him, five to kill him, what chance

a child…

In the village, a bride, snuggled under wool and muslin,

her first night married: her husband −

a farmer, a little slow

but in these hills a catch − shifts his weight foot to foot,

stares at the floor.

He sees her spread of mane, her large black eyes, and wonders

what to do, what to do, then says, I need to pee

and steps towards the door.

No, here, she says, looking to the corner pot, but he

too shy this first night

steps out into the dark.

For seven days they search, her father, her brothers,

in the hills, through scabby pines, in claptrap barns

but nothing, no-one, nowhere.

She set aside her wedding dress, and the months passed;

in time, she wed again −

not to one who wanders out in wolf country, but true

to ready wool, black eyes and the mane:

in the cold room, from the corner pot

the pong of steamy leek.

                                    *

… Their daughter herded, leapt crags,

knew the song the blade makes on oil stone.

Prettier than most, no scars, her Grandmother’s precious-precious,

she knew the way

to hers and back, an arrow’s flight,

a cloth-yard of arrow, a distance of wool and muslin

her Mother let her fly.

And she, twelve, thirteen perhaps −

who could know, here beyond Christian registers,

her boyish body a thinning membrane of first blood,

a shift of swelling hips and breasts

fearless through that landscape.

Her Mother let her fly…

My lovely, the boy from the village

came to set your Grandma’s hearth this morning, but says she’s poorly.

Take these oatcakes and nettle wine, and keep her company.

The wind out’s hard; take your shawl, the red one I mended.

Remember your knife.

Her Grandmother’s hut, squat squalid above a byre

she kept for milking-goats, swayed in the north wind,

the ladder to it creaking in the north wind,

the creaking she took as north wind,

not climbing:

whoever heard of a wolf

climbing ladders, slimy goat guts still stuck in his teeth?

But then, who knows what wolves know

in their long language, ridge to long ridge

their howling connects, above the desolate huts?

The Grandmother heard the latch −

Precious-precious, is that you?

… then dark against the doorframe

she knew the shape, heavy as a man stood black against the light,

and the last thing

she saw, her own scrawny belly

hanging from the wolf’s mouth, her last scream

gone crunch,

a popping hearth coal reflected in her eyes.

                                    *

The girl took the path

across the high ridge, the path she knew

wolves took, but this time of year,

the rocks shot through with alpines, with sedum

yellow as a wolf’s eye, with dainty reds

stretching towards the weak light,

she plucked them for a poesy, set brightly

about the cakes and wine gourd.

Her Grandmother’s favourites: pretty alpines, cakes

and nettle wine… her Grandmother, whose teeth

and scalp (too tough to chew) were in a stew

Wolf stirred −

this standing-up, sitting-down

Wolf, this Wolf who whistled by the fire,

who knew as well as you,

or me, that Grandma’s precious-precious

must be young, plump, and worth a try, away

from north winds blowing through the byre.

He stretched back on the bed, picked his lice,

and waited.

The path she took, by chance or cunning, brought her

from the south, downwind.

She came to the byre, and saw a piece of milking-goat,

another, and another, the north wind creaking

through stale straw, the ladder and the hut.

She turned, looking to the wood of scabby pine

dusted red-yellow, and breathed

once, and once again, and steadied on the ladder.

She touched the latch; it gave.

Dark inside, the fire gone down,

She stepped into the room…

Prcis prscis com to ths bd

ey hv to shw yu smthng prcis

She stepped a step.

Prcis prscis tk offyr clths

cm

In that new dark, dropping her shawl, her red shawl

mended by her Mother, her shift

and stockings, her clogs kicked off

by the dead fire, she reached deep into the basket

of pretty flowers − bright alpines red and yellow −

and climbed into the bed.

Across her belly, his bristle of rough coat

shivered… the cold eye, the twitching ear

and nostril:

I knwo you.

The scent of stew

still faint in the room, on his breath, she said, And I know you.

Wolf looked down: under wool and muslin,

she took in her hand Wolf-cock, Wolf-balls, and said,

Long enough, thick enough,

larger than a lamb’s head, these are for you, and raised

the dripping dough to let him see, and pulling the knife

still further, filleted the howl

hissing for air in Wolf’s throat.

She stood by the bed, blood

smeared across her legs and belly, her face.

In the cold room, above the bed, damp

fogged the dark.

She walked to the hearth, and made a fire.

Relic Environments Trilogy: Book III, Part 2.ii

from Book III, Part 2, Animus

I.Tales of Wood and Iron

ii. Rapunzel

The house was built of whole trees

notched into a daub and wattle frame,

eaves thatched, a hearth of creek stone

dressed to keep a fire.

Latin the old tribe left

remained long after their departure

south across the mountains, settled now

to place names and the skills of making walls

and a straight road deep into the forest.

A thousand years passing − herbs

once cultivated for a cure

grew wild beyond the old enclosures.

Near a tumbled brick course he gathered

chervil, rocket, the clove-scented pinks

craved by his wife these many months,

heavy and heavier still and soon the child.

Beyond the rubble boundary

thick with tansy and succulent rapunzel,

he sensed the old woman suddenly beside him,

knew her names, Artificer, Blood-Bake, Time Wheel,

no warning but her smell

and he felt his choices fade.

She wore a beaded cap stuck with feathers,

a cloak the colour of shadows.

She said that place was hers forever,

from the world’s dark heart

to the blind blink of heaven.

For his trespass, one life was forfeit.

She fixed him with a sign.

He told her all.

When he returned home he kept quiet,

but his wife saw through him, was afraid,

and wished he had not come back, there

to the house where fear was the first-born.

In the upstairs room a window

framed with coppice hazel, a film

of pig’s bladder stretched over – no other light

but candles by the rope-slung bed

and his wife exhausted with the birth.

Still blood-soak on the straw

when a filthy wind roared through the cracks,

blew the window from its leather hinges.

The man leaned out into the night,

shouldered back the gale

but could not stop the gaps nor the wind’s hands,

shouting to his wife the child the child.

When she looked where the babe had been

she saw a dead cat tucked stiff as toenails.

The wind dropped

and the man heard the sound

that rose in his wife’s throat, and the room

was filled with the sound, and his mind,

and his heart was filled.

                                    *

Time passed without destination

and the child grew, secret in the stone surroundings

far from festivals or trade.

The old woman called her Herb Child, Tender Leaf,

a hundred pet names of taste and scent.

Days were whispers, and the girl’s hips

widened womanly, between her legs

a neat tuck of silky muff.

The old woman felt the blood banging

and the weather turn − dragged the girl

naked, deeper still into the forest

to a great oak, old before the old tribe left,

now a hollow rising high as a cock’s crow.

Up, up they climbed, to a high room

through a hole of rotted branch, a chamber

the old woman had prepared as a hatred

and a jealousy are prepared.

In the room was a seat of bound bark

and a wheel to sit at spinning.

Her hair was long and grew

like a new sun, and she spun slippers

and a gown from her own hair, head to toe.

                                    *

Days are paltry things

where divine light blanks the human scale.

Day after day, down the deer path

the old woman came steady as bread,

remorseless as salt, with no word

but of climbing and hauling.

One day, looking up to the heavy height,

she called, Iron-Hair, Sable-Soft, oblige:

from the treetop, a ladder of bright ropes tumbled

to the ground.

The old woman

stepped into the mane of braids, uplifted…

Beyond a twist of briars, a young lord

rested in a clearing’s shade, the crake voice

drifting through to find him −

Iron-Hair   Sable-Soft   oblige

Watching the old woman

raised high through branches,

watched her leave −

he calls the name of mink and metal,

rises into the leafy canopy,  

eyes meeting eyes soft as a dressed pelt,

a figure cat-slinky, languid as the moon.

                                    *

If there was time it passed, root-gnarl time.

The old woman came, stood calling,

Flame-Heart, oblige, then caught the man-scent,

buckskin sweat and the spilled seed,

drew the knife ready.

She entered like a shadow, wild look

this way and that way… where where…

The girl touched her belly’s own sweet swell,

heard the whispered, One life is forfeit,

and with one quick cut

the world fell free.

Even then his voice below,

the old woman turning to it, winding the hacked hair

on a snag, let it tumble, felt the weight of it,

felt the man’s weight heaved.

She lunged as the face appeared, the blade

slicing as she fell, his eyes in blood,

still sight enough to see the hagheap

crumple past.

On the ladder of her own hair

the girl climbed down into the light,

gathered comfrey and witch hazel

and with the loosed braids

bound them in a poultice to the prince’s wounds.

The old woman’s corpse lay where it fell.

With a yank on the chin hair

the girl stuffed an acorn down its throat.

South beyond the mountains

she gave birth in the prince’s lands,

and there were many years and many children

and in time the prince became king.

Across his eyes the knife cut scarred

crooked as a deer path.

Each night she walked it in her dreams,

to the wood’s great sink of rotted stump

where she stood, anchored in oak shade

deeper than the world’s dark heart, older

than the cold, blind blink of heaven.