The summer cold:
Stefano Capacchione

If you stood atop the hill in the centre of the village to cast your eyes through the evergreen trees and the honey making bees, you could just about see the house where the sun went to sleep. Those who woke up early on a day like today would consider the majesty of a waking yellow fire that took to the sky and gifted warmth to their souls. Yet in the house where the sun lay its head, the old lady shivered with dread.

Her heart sank when the sun rose. It signalled the start of another day without the sounds of her children creating or her grandchildren playing. One thousand and ninety-four days reduced the loss, not a jot. If the stories were true, even her youngest grandchildren, Hansel and Gretel wielded weapons to the commands of power, only to fill their hole-laden pockets once again.

Blue skies reminded her of little mouths blowing bubbles and innocent trouble. Green grass, where children sat aghast at chocolate fountains and mini edible houses, posed luscious and bare, like no human ever lay there. Still, her day started true and she baked like she used to, leaving sweet, moreish treats for the birds and the bees. She would give them to the villagers but they thought her the idiot who survived her own children. They spat in her face but what they’d give for a taste of a morsel of cake or a crumb on a plate. Guilt dragged her down but shame was the shovel that buried her underground.

This very morning, before the sun pushed back the covers, the old lady heard a splattering of nattering.

“Gretel, look! It’s a house, no, a street, made of cake!”

Footsteps, quieter and beating steadier than the old lady’s heartbeat, closed in.

“Oh Hansel, it’s a miracle! We won’t starve. We’re going to be ok!”

It couldn’t be, of this she was sure, her grandchildren past of eleven and four but anticipation, impossible to hide, she grabbed some chocolate and stepped outside. It was clear these children were not her kin but she smiled a Cheshire Cat smile all the same. Lodged in her mind from an earlier time, when she made Hansel a ginger-bread house, she extracted a little rhyme.

“Nibble, nibble, my little rat,

It’s my house you’re nibbling at!”

To her surprise, the children replied.

“We’re the wind, we’re the breeze

That plays in the trees.”

With such joy in her heart, the old lady almost walked upright. The children heard her stick before they saw her and dropped their food.

“Sorry miss, we weren’t being rude!” They cried.

“Don’t be silly, come in for some stew”, she replied.

“Come on now you little munchkins, I’m old and slow, you don’t need to worry. My name’s Melissa and I’ll get the lunch in. I’ve got lots more food inside. You can have some and bring some home to your parents when you’re done.”

Melissa rustled up quite the feast. The children devoured it like little beasts but when she asked them where they lived, they went quiet.

“Look, you can stay tonight if you have nowhere to go but your parents need to know by tomorrow. Otherwise, there’ll be riots!”

Noticing the lack of meat on the children’s bones, Melissa frowned. She gave an extra slice of pie to get them through the night and came down in her gown in the morning. Breakfast broke their fast with enough to last for a day or even three. She smiled like a child at the children who came in from the wild but she knew she must set them free.

“Tell me what happened my loves” she inquired.

They finally told her of the toil and trouble that led them to leave home and pitch up at her door. They were dropped in the forest by starving parents, destined by “leaders” to stay poor. Nobody would feed them, nobody could feed them, but leaving them still smacked of cruelty. Melissa decided to forgive. She’d look after them until they grew a little wider then give them back with enough food to feed the whole family. Hansel gained weight but when Gretel stood straight, her ribs could be seen from the moon. She worried and scurried and begged little Gretel to have just one more spoon.

“Oh, Hansel, you’re cute enough and plump enough to eat! If only we could do the same with your sister.”

Hansel’s eyes widened.

“Are the stories true? They say that people like you with big noses, that you’re witches, that you eat children and bury their bones with dead roses!”

Melissa couldn’t help but gasp. Cruelty like this, passed onto to child who knew no better, stung just as strong every time. The idea that she was lesser than they simply because of her creed, slapped the idea of changing minds and remained forever hard to grasp.

“It’s not true, my love, no but I really think we’d better get you both home to your parents. Help me finish the baking and you can take everything we make.”

Melissa struggled to bend, so she asked Gretel to spend a moment taking out the last batch from the oven. Gretel refused and started crying loudly.

“I won’t let you eat me! I’m not portly and rounded!”

Melissa’s temper didn’t spark like the fire but she gasped and shoved her broom out of the way. As she bent down to remove the turkey crown, Gretel gave her a push. Her face was engulfed with the flame from the hearth and both the children scarpered. Melissa lived with a face forever scarred and the children returned some days later. Parents in tow, they stole and cajoled Melissa to bake some more cakes.

“That’s the last thing you’ll do, you stuck up shrew, who are you to take care of our kids!”

It’s sad to imagine but they preferred to see their children starve than a “foreigner” carve meat and a nicer life. They’d been led to believe that the faults of their nation were not with the people who “lead”, but instead with the “other” who beg, steal and borrow from a land that’s not their own.