Many trees were already shedding their leaves, but the canopy above them was still so dense that the day beneath it dissolved into a checkered autumnal twilight. They soon had to start leading the horses on foot, for they kept getting caught in the thorny undergrowth. Jacob had instructed Will and Clara not to touch the trees. However, the shimmering pearls that a Barkbiter had left sprouting as bait on an oak limb made Clara forget his warnings. Jacob barely managed to pluck the foul creature from her wrist before it could crawl up her sleeve.
“This here,” he said, holding the Barkbiter in front of Clara’s face, close enough for her to see the sharp teeth above the scabbed lips, “is just one of the reasons why you shouldn’t touch the trees. His first bite will make you drowsy. A second one, and you’ll be completely paralyzed. But you will still be fully conscious while his entire clan starts to gorge itself on your blood. Trust me, it’s not a pleasant way to die.”
Do you see now that you should have sent her back? Will read the reproach on Jacob’s face as he pulled Clara to his side. But from then on she was careful. It was Clara who pulled back Will in time when she saw the glistening net of a Trapper stretched across their path, and it was she who shooed away the Gold-Ravens trying to squawk dark curses into their ears.
And yet — She belonged here even less than his brother did.
Fox gave him a look.
Stop it, her eyes said. She is here, and I am telling you again: He will need her.
Fox. His furry shadow. The will-o’-the-wisps, drifting in thick iridescent swarms among the trees, had often led even Jacob astray with their alluring hum. But Fox just shook them from her fur like troublesome flies and ran on unwaveringly.
After three hours, the first Witch’s tree appeared between the oak and ash trees, and Jacob was just about to warn Will and Clara about their branches and how they loved to poke at human eyes, when Fox suddenly stopped.
The faint sound was nearly drowned out by the hum of the will-o’-the-wisps. It sounded like the snip-snap of a pair of scissors. Not a terribly threatening sound, and Will and Clara didn’t even notice it. But the vixen’s fur bristled, and Jacob put his hand on his saber. He knew of only one creature in this forest that made such a sound, and it was the only one he definitely did not want to run into.
“Let’s get a move on,” he whispered to Fox. “How much farther to the house?”
Snip-snap. It was coming closer.
“It’s going to be tight,” Fox whispered back.
The snipping stopped, but the sudden silence was no less ominous. No bird sang. Even the will-o’-the-wisps had vanished. Fox cast a worried glance at the trees before she scampered ahead again, so briskly that the horses barely managed to keep up with her through the dense undergrowth.
The forest was growing darker, and Jacob pulled from his saddlebag the flashlight he had brought from another world. More and more often they now had to skirt around Witch’s trees. Hawthorn took the place of ash and oak. Pines sucked up the scant light with their black-green needles, and the horses shied when they saw the house appear between the trees.
When Jacob had come here some years earlier with Chanute, the red roof tiles had shone through the undergrowth so brightly, it had looked as if the Witch had painted them with cherry juice. Now they were covered in moss, and the paint was peeling off the window frames. But there were still a few pieces of gingerbread stuck to the walls and the steep roof. Sugary icicles hung from the gutters and the windowsills, and the whole house smelled of honey and cinnamon — as befitted a trap for children. The Witches had tried many times to banish the child-eaters from their clans, and two years ago they had finally declared war on them. The Witch who had plagued the HungryForest was now supposedly living out her life as a warty toad in some silty pool.
The wrought-iron fence that surrounded her house still had some colorful candy stuck to it. Jacob’s mare trembled as he led her through the gate. The fence of a gingerbread house would admit anyone but would not let anybody out. During their visit, Chanute had taken care to leave the gate wide open, but now Jacob was more worried about what was following them than about the abandoned house. As he closed the gate behind Will, the snipping could again be heard clearly, and this time it sounded almost angry. But at least it didn’t come any closer. Fox shot Jacob a relieved glance. It was just as they had hoped: Their pursuer had been no friend of the Witch.
“But what if he waits for us?” Fox whispered.
Yes, what then, Jacob? He did not care, just as long as the bush Chanute had described to him was still growing behind the house.
Will had led the horses to the well and lowered the rusty pail to draw water for them. He eyed the gingerbread house as if it were a poisonous plant. Clara, however, was running her fingers over the icing as if she could not believe what she saw.
Nibble, nibble, little mouse, who’s been nibbling at my house?
Which version of the story had Clara heard?
Then she took hold of Hansel with her bony hand, carried him away to a little hutch with a barred door, and shut him up there. He could shout all he liked, but it did him no good.
"Take care she doesn't eat any of the cakes," Jacob said to Fox. Then he set off in search of the berries.
Behind the house the nettles were growing so high, it looked as if they were standing guard over the Witch's garden. They burnt Jacob's skin, but he beat a path through their poisonous leaves until he found what he was looking for between the hemlock and the deadly nightshade: a nondescript little bush with feathered leaves. Jacob was filling his hand with its black berries when he heard footsteps.
Clara was standing between the overgrown plots.
"Monkshood, May lilies, hemlock." She looked at him, puzzled. "These are all poisonous plants."
She had obviously learned a few useful things as a premed student. Will had already told Jacob a dozen times how he met her at the hospital, in the ward where their mother had been treated. When you were not there, Jacob.
He got to his feet. Out in the forest, the sound of snipping could be heard again.
"Sometimes it takes a poison to heal," he said. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. Though I doubt you’ve ever learned about these berries."
He filled her hands with the shiny black fruit.
"Will must eat at least a dozen of them. They should have done their work by the time the sun rises. Persuade him to lie down in the house; he hasn't slept in days."
Goyl didn't need much sleep. One of the many advantages they had over humans.
Clara looked at the berries in her hand. She had a thousand questions on her tongue, but she didn't ask them. What had Will told her about him? "Yes, I do have a brother. But he's been a stranger to me for a long time now."
She turned around now and listened to the forest. This time she'd heard the snipping as well.
"What is that?" she asked.
"They call him the Tailor. He doesn't dare to cross the Witch's fence, but we cannot leave as long as he's there. I'll try to drive him off." From his pocket he pulled the key he had taken from the chest in Chanute's tavern. "The fence won't let you leave. But this key opens every door. I'll throw it over the gate once I'm out, just in case I don't come back. Fox will lead you back to the tower. But don't unlock the gate before it gets light."