The Cottage in the Woods

You've probably heard Greta's version of events. I know I have. It's a gruesome goulash of grotesque gibberish, a fulsome farrago of fearsome falsehoods, a sickening salmagundi of salacious slander. Even though I am the target, I trust that it is obvious she has concocted a self-serving fable that features Greta as the virtuous heroine and myself as the irredeemable villain. Of course, it might come as a bit of a surprise to her that I am still alive, since her melodrama ends with my murder (fully justified, apparently) at her hands.

She's a piece of work, that one. I admit that I was taken in at first by her histrionics. She had a pitiful tale of abuse at the hands of her step-mother, a weak father who was afraid to step in, near-starvation rations and back-breaking labor. There is a reason I live alone in the woods. I don't particularly like people, especially children and most especially teenagers, but I took her in, along wth her half-brother, Hans, who seemed to adore her in a somewhat unhealthy way for a part-sibling.

They showed up at my door one afternoon with some wild story of pursuit and persecution, so, against my better judgement, I let them inside. It was only for one night and then they would be on their way. That was the understanding agreed on by all parties. I'm just a poor old single woman. I didn't have enough food stocked away to support the appetites of a pair of growing adolescents. Greta promised that they would be out the door and on their way at the sun's first light. Somehow, of course, that didn't happen.

The next morning, instead of a quick meal and a fond farewell, there was more sobbing, more storytelling, more heartstring plucking. Another day, I finally agreed. What could it hurt? She had Hans distract me by asking for help with an injury on his foot. He turned out to have a broken toe, and I suspect his sister was the one responsible for the fracture. He told me that he fell, but Greta hinted their parents had beaten his feet to punish him. As I was trying to set the boy's swollen digit with a splint, Greta was searching my cottage high and low, as I later discovered.

Exactly what she was trying so hard to locate, I wasn't able to determine at the time, but I knew immediately that someone had been sticking their sticky fingers where they didn't belong. When I took her to task, there were more tears and more false apologies. They were just so poor, they never had anything of their own, and so on. Hans, as usual, remained silent. I should have insisted that they leave then and there, but I did not. Blame an old woman's weakness.

After a few days, when the depredations of their ravenous consumption upon my stocks of food were beginning to become obvious, I had the idea of sending my two "guests" out to hunt, or at least to trap. I presented them with some of the clever devices I had prepared and explained how to bait and set them - both at least nodded their heads when I asked if they understood. Just as I had begun to enjoy the first few moments of privacy available to me in many hours, they were back, screaming piteously and pounding on the front door. Apparently they had encountered my neighbors, the owls, who inhabited a small copse of trees near the cottage. The mild hooting had completely unnerved the two teens, and they refused to leave the house again. My traps had been discarded and left behind.

The situation reached a crisis point a day later when I found myself locked in my own cellar. I had gone down in search of something - anything aside from more potatoes - to prepare for the evening meal. I knew I had a smoked ham stashed away, but I was still hoping to reserve it for a more auspicious dining occasion. When I heard the hinges squeal behind me and the latch click into place, I knew immediately what had happened and rushed back bang on the door and demand my release. I heard female laughter on the other side of the wooden planks along with the sound of my kitchen drawers being emptied onto the floor. Hans didn't seem to be taking any audible part in the gaiety, but he also made no move to free me.

I quickly realized that my protests and outrage were only enhancing Greta's enjoyment of my predicament, so I desisted and sat down on the stairs to think. Before too long, inspiration hit, and I had a plan not only to escape the cellar, but to rid my house of the two unwanted invaders. As it happened, I had a walk-in oven installed in my kitchen. For reasons which I will not review in any detail for the purposes of this account, I had also added a secret room next to the oven - well-insulated from the heat and perfect for concealment. Who would spend time searching for a refugee in a room full of scorching fire? My little closet had a connection to an escape tunnel which led from my cottage into the copse of trees where the owls lived.

After going back down the stairs to retrieve my precious ham, I called out through the door in the sweetest tones I could manage to announce my discovery. "It's a lovely piece of meat, my dears," I told them. "We'll fire up the oven and have quite a feast tonight!"

Their response was so quick that I almost fell backward down the stairs. Greta peaked through and then threw open the door, apologizing for “accidentally” locking it. "Oh Nana!” (she had taken to giving me that false title of affection) "Nana, we didn't know you were down there. How wonderful that we heard you call." I ignored the brazen insincerities and brought the ham into my kitchen to begin preparations. Hans was happy to take on the job of preparing the fire for the oven. Greta helped me to clean the ham and then to stud it with cloves and glaze it in honey. In no time at all, we were ready to begin the baking.

"Greta, my dear," (I was equally insincere, I suppose) "take the ham into the oven and slide it into the middle compartment."

"Nana, I don't know how," she claimed, in spite of the fact that she had been roasting potatoes there for nearly a week.

"How could you have forgotten that, you weak-minded little..." I stopped myself there, because this was all part of the plan. "Very well, I'll do it myself."

At that point, I couldn't miss the devious gleam in her eye, which only confirmed that I had judged the little monster accurately.

As I expected, the door slammed shut behind me as soon as I carried the ham into the oven room. Nonchalant, I loaded the ham into the middle baking compartment and then slipped into my hidden chamber. I could imagine the two pair of ears leaning close to the wall waiting to hear my wails of distress. That evil hunger, I was not about to feed.

I made my way through the escape tunnel to the trees and then crept back to watch the unfolding drama through a window. Greta tentatively opened the door to the oven room, and then bravely sent Hans in to investigate. He came out shrugging. She went in herself and removed the ham. Like little animals, they began tearing at it and filling their faces with their fingers. In a very short time, there was barely any meat left and they slumped sluggishly in their chairs. It was time for part two of my plan.

I went back to the copse and called out to my friends, the owls. We had an understanding, they and I, and old Hoormaz, the elder of the parliament, quickly understood my intentions. As it began to grow dark, he and his companions began to gather on the roof of the cottage. The latch on one of the windows was broken, and I kept it closed by propping a copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth against it. It was no trouble at all for Hoormaz to push it out of the way so that the window opened fully. The he and the other birds flapped inside.

The screams inside were delicious - almost as tasty as the ham would have been. There was much thumping and rattling and finally the door flew open and the two young people came bursting out and sped down the path as if all of the demons of hell were in pursuit.

I thanked Hoormaz and the other owls with some mice which had somehow imprisoned themselves in the traps Greta and Hans had abandoned during their aborted hunting expedition. And then I went home, sat in my favorite chair and enjoyed a quiet evening alone.

Greta has her version of the story and I have mine. I leave it to you to decide whose is more accurate. Regarding her claim that she found a great treasure hidden away in my cottage after murdering me, I can only point out that I am, after all, still very much alive. These rumors of my death seem to have been greatly exaggerated. Also, I recently checked on the so-called "treasure," and it is still quite safe in a place she would never have thought to look.