chapter 2

Hansel shifted in his chair by the fire, shrinking from the memory of what followed. How terrified they had been, how guiltily they had pleaded and apologised. How she had seemed to take pity on them, had invited them in so kindly; how trustingly they had followed. How she had given them a hot meal and made a fuss of them, the poor little mites. His heart broke slightly even now as he recalled the little soft beds she had made up for them - how cosily she had tucked them in and bid them goodnight. How lucky they had felt, how happy they had been. How stupid.

Hansel had awoken the next morning, not in the little soft bed but on a hard stone floor, to the sound of his sister weeping from behind a locked door. Cold and confused, he looked around him, and found that he was the one locked in. He leapt up and rushed to the door in a blind panic, when the sharp voice of the witch stopped him in his tracks. It was the exact opposite of the soothing tone of she had used the night before, when she had put them to bed, murmuring to them: sweet dreams, and goodnight little children... Now the witch was barking instructions at Gretel in a harsh, strict voice that struck fear into his soul.

He was stunned, but the shock of hearing the cruelty in the witch's voice, and the awful realisation that they had been deceived, was nothing compared to the utter horror of learning what she actually intended to do with him.

This was difficult for Hansel to think about now, and it was difficult in a way that he had never quite been able to understand. Whenever he permitted himself to think about it at all, the sensation was of trying to reach something just beyond the boundaries of himself. He had escaped with his life, and he had long stopped waking in the night from nightmares of being eaten. He felt lucky to be free, and alive; he had learned to be brave. Strangely, the fate he had escaped was no longer the aspect of the whole ordeal that troubled him. There was something else besides that that haunted him, that he struggled to accept about himself, even now...

The food.

So much food - more and more and more of it. Even though he had been mortally afraid, he had eaten it hungrily, gratefully. To a boy brought up in poverty, such quantities of food were unimaginable, as was turning down the opportunity to eat it. As well hunks of spiced gingerbread, and handfuls of candies, there were also slabs of cake, all manner of sweet pastries; game pies; hams smeared with hot mustard; cured meats; all manner of fruits, nuts, creams, custards, warm bread straight from the oven, dripping in fresh butter...

Hansel wondered where it came from, how the witch got hold of it, and how it was that she seemed to have endless quantities of it. He knew, guiltily, that Gretel was forced to prepare it for him, and even worse, that she was never allowed to eat any of it herself; the witch gave her only stale breadcrusts to eat, and stagnant water to drink. He snuck Gretel what food he could through the grate at night, while they had whispered conversations about how they would escape. Even Gretel didn't know where the food actually came from. He suspected that it was bewitched, but somehow that thought didn't deter him from eating it.

Having only ever felt the pain of hunger, Hansel had soon experienced the uncomfortable ache of being much too full. The first time he felt it, the feeling in his stomach was so unfamiliar to him that he didn't know what caused it, and then he worried that he was ill, and maybe even that he would die. He had never considered that it was possible for a person to eat too much, that a stomach had a limit. Although the feeling was unpleasant, it was strangely exhilarating. Still, after that, he learned to pace himself; after all, there was no need to rush, there seemed to be no end to the food. He had nothing else to do, except curl up in the corner of the little room, eating and eating and eating, gazing all the while at the heavily bolted door.

One morning Hansel had woken up and noticed that he could no longer feel the hard floor digging into his bones. His scrawny frame was rounding out. He realised that he was more comfortable now, and he lay there thinking about the delicious food, and the effect it was having on him. He imagined that he was enveloped in kind of plump, soft cushioning of his own body, and felt strangely protected by it; for the first time in his life, he had the sensation of taking up space. Dreamily, he succumbed to the feeling, it was wonderful...

His next realisation was one of horror. The bigger he became, the sooner he would die. As he lay there, considering this fearful possibility, he heard her footsteps creeping up behind the door, muttering as she always was about plump, juicy little boys, ripe for eating. Suddenly, her face appeared at the grate. Hansel felt his blood run cold every time he saw her; she always stood there at the grate, motionless, peering sightlessly into the little room. He had sometimes stared straight into her dead white eyes, knowing that she could not see him at all. It chilled him to the bone.

"Are you fat enough yet, little boy?" She rasped, menacingly.
His heart pounded. What if he was?
"Come here, and we will see!"
His mind raced, he looked around frantically, and then he noticed the splinter of bone lying on the floor. There was no time to think about it. He picked it up, and passed it to her through the grate. She latched onto it with her own horrible gnarled fingers and pinched it. His heart was in his mouth. She snapped, angrily:

"Thin! Still too THIN!" She let go of the bone in disgust, and her face vanished from the grate.

He heard her footsteps disappearing, followed by her shrieking at Gretel to prepare his breakfast. He stared at the bone, disbelieving. It dawned on him that perhaps, in a way, he had discovered his freedom. He was trapped, it was true, at least until he and Gretel escaped, which they were determined to do. For the time being, however, it seemed that he could eat as much as he liked...