Matilda trudged home from school. It had been another horrible day. Poppy Parker had discovered a new way to torment her.

‘Hey, look, it’s doormat,’ she called and her gang had taken up the nickname with enthusiasm.

‘Doormat, doormat,’ they chanted whenever they saw Matilda.

Matilda clambered over the stile. She hated them, hated school but, most of all, she hated Poppy Parker. She stomped across the field, shoulders hunched, eyes to the ground. Which was lucky because it meant she saw the tiny nest in time and managed not to step on it.
Matilda bent to look. The nest was a perfect cup of woven grass. Inside lay four miniature eggs, speckled brown. They reminded her of the freckles on her face, a feature which Poppy Parker had made fun of for months. The eggs were beautiful, though. Matilda took out her phone and took a careful picture.

There was a burst of birdsong high above her head. She looked up in time to see a tiny form tumble across the sky and land some distance away. She went to investigate, sure the creature was hurt. It was very hard to find but Matilda’s eyes were sharp. At last she spotted it - a small brown bird with a tiny crest on its head, quite hidden in the grass. It froze as she approached but soared up into the sky when she got too close. The song began again and Matilda hurried to record the beautiful liquid sounds.

She went home, full of the discovery, and asked her dad about the nest.

‘Aye, that’ll be a skylark, love. They nest on the ground. The parent was trying to draw you away from his nest so you wouldn’t hurt the eggs.’

Matilda spent the evening online, finding out everything she could about skylarks.

Tuesday was ‘Show and Tell’. Usually, Matilda was too shy to say anything but today her hand was the first to go up. She told the class all the things she had discovered - how the skylark was disappearing, all about its eggs and the tiny nest and, lastly, about its glorious song. Her classmates were fascinated, especially when she showed them her photo and the recording of the song.

At break Poppy Parker came up and asked her where the nest was. The bullying tone was missing.  She really wanted to know.  Matilda smiled at her.

‘I can’t tell you that.  It’s a secret,’ she said.

​And she walked away.

Some days I want to wear grey
No matter how bright the sun
Or beckoning the day
 
Some days I want to fade away
To step into the background
And have nothing to say
 
Some days I want to give in
Let go of every last thing
And drift into oblivion
 
Some days...
 
Most days I fight the lure
With colour, music, light
With contact, friends, kin
With all those small kindnesses:
The touch of a sympathetic hand,
The warmth of a fire and a good book
The beseeching eyes of a dog
Who senses all is not well and offers
Love.

The little boy scuffed his shoes in the gravel at the road edge.
            ‘I’m tired.’
His sister walked on. He kicked a large stone into the grass verge and tried again.
            ‘Stop, Anna. My legs hurt.’
Anna wheeled round.
            ‘You’re a baby. Come on!’
A mutinous look descended.
            ‘No. You’re walking too fast.’
She scowled.
            ‘You’re too slow. Like a tortoise.’
His colour flared at the insult and she thought he was going to run at her in fury but he went back to kicking the stone chippings. Anna waited, arms folded. She was tempted to leave him but even at six she knew she had to be the responsible one. Then she heard a car. Startled, she ran back.
            ‘Mind out. There’s a car coming.’
Anna grabbed his hand as the car drew to a halt beside them. The passenger door opened.
            ‘Hey, kids. Do you want a lift home?’
Anna hung back, uncertain.
            ‘No, thank you.’
The man smiled.
            ‘Your mummy sent me to fetch you.’
He patted the seat invitingly.
            ‘Climb in.’
Anna felt her brother’s fingers slipping from her hand as he stepped towards the open door. Belatedly, she tried to pull him back.
            ‘No, Robert.’
He scowled at her.
            ‘My legs hurt.’
The man nodded.
            ‘Of course they do. Hop in and you’ll both be home in no time.’
Anna did not want to be rude but she did not want to get in the car. Mutely, she shook her head.
            ‘OK, then You don’t need to go anywhere. Just climb in and sit on these lovely leopard-skin seats.’
He patted the front seat, furry and spotted like a leopard. Anna thought it looked beautiful. Robert leaned forward.
            ‘Let’s, Anna.’
Anna watched the man. She did not like the way he looked at her, as if his eyes were burning.
            ‘No.’
The man cast a quick look round and scowled when he saw a tractor approaching. Without a word, he drove away. Anna grabbed Robert’s arm.
            ‘Come on. I’ll race you.’
The children scampered like rabbits towards home.
.

It sounded like the whine of a lawnmower and it was getting on my nerves.  The motor had some fault which created a shrill, stuttering sound which was impossible to ignore however hard I tried.  In desperation I slammed all the windows shut and returned to my work.

The next interruption was the doorbell.  First a short, hesitant burst, then the long determined ring of someone who refused to go away.  I cursed, jumped up and threw open the front door.  It smashed against the wall with a satisfying wallop and shards of glass flew out onto the doorstep, liberally covering my visitor with icy splinters.

            ‘Er...’
            ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

I began to shut the door against the unwelcome guest but met some resistance.  One hand, holding a leather bound book, pushed back.

            ‘Er...’ he said again.
            ‘What?  I’m busy.’
            ‘Er... Busy?  With what?’
            ‘My work.  What do you want?’
            ‘Er... I need to tell you something.  Can I come in?’

            His voice did not sound eager to enter.  It sounded like the voice of someone who wanted to be anywhere except on my doorstep.

            ‘Come in?  No!’

I took in the meek demeanour and the give-away clerical collar and realised what his mission must be.

            ‘I suppose you’re collecting for something?  What is it?  The church tower crumbling to dust?’
            ‘Er... No.  Not exactly that.’
            ‘Well?  I haven’t got all day.  What do you want?’
            ‘Er...  I wondered.  Did you hear the exorcism?’
            ‘The what?’
            ‘The exorcism.  I thought I was getting through but then all the windows slammed and I lost the connection.’

I stared at him.

            ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

At the word ‘Hell’ he flinched and held up the book in a defensive gesture.  I read the words ‘Holy Bible’ in gold lettering on the cover.

            ‘It’s just that you’re dead, you see.  And the estate agent wants to sell the house and there are no takers, what with the haunting and the poltergeist activity and all...’

Words gushed from his mouth in a tumbled torrent.

            ‘So... er... I was asked to undertake an exorcism.’

I scowled at him.

            ‘Well, you can’t do it now.  I’m busy.’
            ‘Er... Only...  Did you know you’re dead?  Only some spirits don’t realise and...’
            ‘And what?’
            ‘Well, sometimes they just need a nudge, to be told and then they... Go.’

Despite myself I was interested.

            ‘Go where?’
            ‘Er... To heaven, I suppose.  Or, you know.  The other place.’
            ‘For a vicar, you don’t sound very sure about any of that.  Anyway, I’m busy and I’m not interested.  Goodbye.’

I tried to shut the door but he pushed back, with a little more force.

            ‘Er... it’s not really something you can ignore.  I mean, you’re dead.  You need to leave this sphere.’
            ‘Sphere? What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere.  This is my home.’
            ‘Not any more.’

He opened up his Bible and started muttering something which sounded suspiciously like Latin.  It buzzed in my ears like the subsonic drone of a mosquito.  I tried once more to shut the door but this time there was greater resistance and the priest took a step forward, crossing my threshold.  With a howl of fury I threw everything I could at him.  Hats, gloves and scarves sailed by in a whirlwind of wool.  A vase shattered into fragments around his head.  Even the doormat lashed its way up into the air and did its best to envelop him in its folds.  At last, exhausted, I held up my hand.

            ‘Wait!’

The Latin stumbled to a halt.

            ‘What for?’
            ‘This is really rude, you know.  You’re trying to evict me from my home.’
            ‘It’s not an eviction.  The dead don’t have rights. This is an exorcism.’

I fixed my eyes on a small, angry pimple on his neck and squeezed hard.  He flinched but did not back down. I tried a more conciliatory tone of voice.

            ‘How is that fair?  I didn’t ask to be in this position.  I died before I could finish my life’s work.’

He peered past my glimmering form, into the darkness beyond.

            ‘What is so important to you that you refuse to accept that you’re dead?’
            ‘I’ll show you.’
I would have smiled but the scowl seemed to have been etched on my face at the moment I passed away. Instead, I drifted back down the hall, into the living room.  I could hear his heavy footsteps clumping along my carpet as he followed.  They stumbled to a halt as he turned the corner and saw my masterpiece.

            ‘Holy Mother of God!’
​
The Bible dropped from his hands.  Then I smiled.  Eleven Toby jugs sat on my mantelpiece, each with a clerical collar and eyes which followed you around the room.  Eleven little vicars who had had the temerity to try and exorcise me before I could complete my final work of art.
This one would make an even dozen. 

Toes on the beach, pink and vulnerable among a myriad pebbles.

Sharp stones smoothed and blunted by their storming, tumbling passage through the waves, some round and bland, generic shingle, but others lie twisted and angular, resistant to the ocean’s shaping force, a trap for unwary toes.

​Pebble colours of ochre, slate and dun with the occasional exclamation point of a stone as white as bone.
​
And toes, on the beach, pink and vulnerable.

Weeks passed. I grew taller as though I were being stretched. There was no meat on my bones but my arms were strong, honed by the hard work, sweeping and cleaning. Hansel was different. His muscles grew flabby for the witch treated him like a pet, a precious morsel who sat all day on a shabby cushion while I fetched for him and the witch fed him small treats. He thought he ate marzipan and sweet fruits but he was deceived by the witch’s spells.  In truth, he ate boiled eggs and slivers of chicken meat from the scrawny fowls she made me catch and kill while I lived on broth made from their boiled bones.

As I grew, it seemed the witch shrank. In the beginning she matched me, eye to eye but, as months passed, she began to look wizened and small. In the evenings I caught her watching me, a strange expression flickering across her face. Sometimes I saw flashes of the girl she had been before age and hardship had withered her skin and bent her ancient spine. I envied her nothing except her power and spent the few idle moments I had in making plans to escape. I thought I could steal away in the dead of night but I knew I could not leave without my brother. He was all I had now although every day the witch took him further from me as she petted and cajoled him with soft words. He was taught to demand my service, to command me to feed him and to complain if I were tardy or slow.

At midnight I was allowed to curl up on a pile of old sacks and sleep for a few hours. Hansel was already snoring, twitching and murmuring on his soft cushion, dreaming of sunlight and running through the forest. I had no dreams. Every night I tried to think of some way to escape the witch and pay her back for my enslavement. Every morning I had to accept that there was nothing I could do while she held Hansel under her enchantment. He thought her wonderful and would hear no word against her.

The seasons passed. By early summer there were only two chickens left to kill and I wondered what we would do once they were eaten. I caught the witch staring at Hansel in a different way. It was the intent look of a cat, waiting at the mouse hole, whiskers a-twitch. Instead of petting him, she began to squeeze his arm and mutter to herself. She made me gather branches from the forest and build a pen for him in the back yard. His muscles were so weak that I had to drag him from the house, half-carrying him to his new abode. I could have lifted him with ease but I did not want the witch to know how strong I had become.

She stopped petting him once he was installed outside. He was one of the chickens, now, a creature to be fed so that he would, one day, feed her. Each morning she checked the width of his flabby arms and pinched his neck as she gauged his weight. I scurried around my tasks, head down and shoulders slumped, hoping she would be deceived by my submission, knowing I would have only one chance to vanquish her. Success would depend on my speed, my strength and her surprise.

The day came when she decided that Hansel was ready for the pot. She had me build a fire of fir cones and old branches and boil up a large cauldron full of water. She was distracted by the thought of the meal to come and I sensed that her power had weakened. The cauldron took an age to heat and I wondered why she did not force it along with some magic but she seemed content to wait, savouring the pleasure of filling her belly with Hansel’s flesh. Sickened, I trudged out to the yard to check on him. He whined when he saw me, like a dog which has been kept on a leash for days. I found I had no sympathy for his plight but only a calculation as to the part he might play in my plans.

The witch came out and ordered me to bring him to the cauldron. I opened the door of his cage and began to drag him out but pretended I was too weak. Impatiently the witch came over to help, pushing as I pulled so that we rolled the boy like a barrel towards the fire.

‘He’s too heavy,’ I moaned. ‘I can’t lift him.’

The witch shoved me aside and pulled at Hansel’s bulk. Hunger had weakened her and she had little strength left in her arms. She would have to use her magic to lift him and I waited for the moment. She closed her eyes and murmured strange, misshapen words into the air. Her bony fingers wove a circle around Hansel’s head and slowly he began to rise like the balloons we saw at the fair. Her attention was all on him and I took a step back and to the side and pushed her with all the force I could muster. She was caught off balance and tumbled forward. I bent and grabbed her ankles, forcing her headlong into the pot of steaming water. With a shriek which echoed through the forest, she splashed into the cauldron and disappeared into the bubbling depths.

Hansel dropped to the ground like a felled tree and lay, moaning with pain on the scabby grass. I peered into the pot. There was no sign of the witch. I took a ladle and stirred the pot but all I could find was a handful of bones from the bottom of the cauldron.  Behind me the last remaining chicken clucked as if in warning. I caught its eye, a beady yellow gaze which reminded me of the witch. It nodded its beak towards Hansel and pecked at his legs. A scratchy voice in the depths of my brain spoke.

Pickings enough for two or more months if you eke him out.

I looked down at my brother, lying at my feet, and thought of the meal which would start to fill my aching belly. Slowly, with a tongue yet unaccustomed to the words, I started to repeat the witch’s chant, waving my fingers in the same complex patterns I had seen her use a thousand times.

Around me the forest went quiet.

The witch snapped her fingers and I was able to move.  Stiffly, like a clockwork soldier, I marched towards the cottage, unable to resist her will.  I felt it, like thunder in my head, a rumbling, grumbling force which threatened to blow me apart if I did not comply.  As I neared the cottage door I realised that the luscious gingerbread house was, in reality, a broken-down place, tiles hung with moss and criss-crossed with spiders’ webs.  My stomach rebelled as I saw that what I had delighted in eating was nothing but rotting wood, mould and black fungus.  Despite the witch’s control, I turned aside and heaved up everything until there was no more to come.

I heard her voice inside my head.

‘That’s right, dearie.  I thought there was no fooling you.  You see clear, but it won’t help you now.  Inside with you and clean my floor.  Wash my dishes and mend my sheets.  If you work hard there will be black bread and bone broth for your supper.  If not, you will go hungry.’

My legs were force to march again, into the dark cottage where Hansel sat, eyes glazed, stuffing himself with the burnt bread and rancid potatoes.

Stop! I wanted to cry.  This is all a trick, a spell to keep you here, a willing prisoner. 

But the words hammered in my brain without any sound, locked inside my head by the witch’s magic.  Stiff and uncaring I marched past and took the broom from behind the stairs.  It leapt to my hand and fastened there so I could not put it down.  I bent to my task and began to sweep the stinking straw which covered the cottage floor. The broom knew its work and pushed it all into one great heap by the back door.  Mouse droppings and tiny bones were swept up into the pile until it loomed over me, as tall as a man.

‘That’s the way, dearie.  A clean sweep for a fresh start.  Now out with you and take it down to the midden while your brother finishes his dinner.’

Without a word I opened the back door.  The broom leapt unbidden from my hand and propped itself beside the door.  I gathered up an armful of muck and took it down the path to the midden, a stinking heap beside the earth closet behind the witch’s cottage.  A few scraggy chickens, pecking at the barren earth, ran towards me, necks outstretched, hopeful of a handful of corn.  They fought over the rotting straw like dogs over the butcher’s barrel, eager for anything which would keep them alive.  One stopped, atop the pile, and gave me a sideways glare from its beady eye.  A scratchy voice, hardly more than a fleeting thought, whispered inside my head.
​
Stay alive and there is hope.  Do what you have to do to survive.

The witch smiled at me, as if reading my thought.  The bony finger painted a complex pattern in the air and my knees buckled as if someone had sliced the tendons in my legs, as father used to hobble the pig he kept by the back porch.  I opened my mouth to protest but could make no sound, not even a whimper of fear as she took a few steps nearer.  Blue eyes, cold and clear as glass, peered into mine and I heard her voice in my head, although her bloodless lips did not move.

‘Oh, no, deary.  That’s not the way to catch me.  You have a lot to learn.’

She turned and beckoned to Hansel who came slowly at her bidding, sleepwalking his way across the clearing, heedless of danger.  I wanted to cry out:
‘Run!’
But no words would come.

The witch bent and held out her one good arm.  Hansel hopped into her embrace and nestled there like a sparrow in its nest.

‘So, you are hungry, my precious.  I can see you need feeding up.  What would you like to eat the most?  Tell me, my lovely, and you shall have it.  I promise.’

Hansel’s eyes grew round so they looked almost comical, like the coal black eyes of the snowmen we made in the long winter months.  His mouth, too, shaped into an ‘O’, making the hollows in his cheeks puff out so that he looked plump and well-fed.  The witch stroked his head and bent nearer, the breath from her words ruffling his curls as she spoke.

‘Anything, my precious.  You can have anything your heart desires.’

‘Roast chicken and potatoes and a gallon of gravy.’

The words came in a rush, tumbling out of his mouth like vomit.  I swallowed bile and tried again to shout a warning but could make no sound.  Even my breath felt stilled in my chest as if I were under water, with no air to keep me alive.

The witch chuckled.

‘Roast chicken and potatoes and a gallon of gravy.  It is there on my table.  Can’t you smell it?’

Hansel lifted his head and sniffed.  He nodded.

‘It smells wonderful.’

‘Of course it does.  It’s just what a hungry lad needs, to make him big and strong.  Come into my cottage and you shall eat your fill, my precious.’
​
She released him and he ran towards the cottage door.  I tried again to call out a warning but the witch had stolen my voice.  The sky grew sullen and heavy, as if a storm was gathering, and the blue smoke from the chimney turned black.  I watched, helpless, as Hansel disappeared inside, the scent of burnt bread and rotten potatoes flavouring the air with a sickly stench.

I stalked ahead, furious with Hansel.  Our second day out in the forest and we were going to die of hunger.  He was sure he had been so clever, using our meagre supply of dry bread to leave a trail of crumbs.  He thought we could use them to find our way back home, even though I told him it would never work.  As usual, he was certain he knew best.  I would have laughed at his disappointed face when the birds swooped down and ate every tiny crumb but our situation was too serious for the smallest smile.

I could hear him crashing through the undergrowth behind me, blundering around, tearful and weak.  He called my name but I ignored him, concentrating my anger so it formed a hard steel ball in the pit of my stomach.  Let him suffer and whine.  I had no time for it.  Or for him.  My skin felt as if it would scorch leaves as I pushed through the brambles and bracken on the forest floor.  My rage felt as if it alone would keep me alive.

And then I smelt it.  A wonderful scent of honey and gingerbread, threading its way through the tall trees, like a promise of paradise.  Entranced, I lifted my head and sniffed, breathing in the glorious smell.  My stomach rumbled and my mouth filled in anticipation.  I forced my way past nettles and broken branches, ignoring everything except that enticing scent.  Soon, my path became easier and ahead I thought I could see a beam of sunlight.  The sweetness in the air mingled with the harsher scent of wood-smoke.  I burst from the undergrowth, into the light, and saw a small cottage, the chimney wreathed with blue smoke.

I stopped, mouth agape.  The cottage roof was covered in slates of luscious gingerbread, dredged with icing sugar which sparkled in the feeble sunlight, like snow in a dream.  The walls were made from sweet biscuit, iced with delicate patterns, and the window frames were formed from black liquorice.  The pebbles on the smoking chimney were made from red and green and yellow sweets, glistening like the stained glass in the village church.

Behind me, Hansel stumbled from the dark forest, blinking in the sunlight but I ignored him and darted forwards, eager to snatch at the crisp edge of the porch.  It broke, crumbling and warm in my hand, the most wonderful cake I had ever tasted.  I reached for more and filled my mouth, mindless of crumbs and sticky fingers.  Hansel held back, looking unsure.  I turned from him and pulled biscuits from the windowsill, pink and white wafers which were more delicious than the cake.
​
‘Here,’ I called and threw one towards him.  It fell on the ground and vanished, leaving a wisp of green smoke curling in the air.  With a moan, Hansel ran forwards and fell on the doorstep, cramming the sweet gingerbread into his mouth so that I thought he might choke on it.  I realised that I must look like that, too.  After two days without food it seemed we would never feel full again.  No matter how much of the sweetness we ate, it did nothing to fill the void.

Behind us came a voice.

‘Well, well.  Deary, deary me.  And what is this I find?  Visitors?  And ones who do not even ask permission before they disturb my peace and destroy my property.’

I turned.  An old woman, with a withered arm, stood at the edge of the clearing.  She was dressed in black, with long white hair falling from an untidy coil on top of her head.  Her bony finger pointed at us, accusingly.  I knew, in an instant, what she was.  A witch and one with a magical cottage, a lure for hungry children.  And I thought:
​
She is old and alone.  We are two.  We can defeat her if we stick together.

Our stepmother hated us.  I knew it as soon as she came to the house, leaning on our father’s arm as if she were too helpless to stand alone.  She came in with a bright smile and glittering eyes and, with a shock, I recognised malevolence. It was like meeting a foe in battle.  She did not want us, the children of a previous marriage.  She wanted to destroy our family and keep our father to herself.  Hansel, of course, realised nothing.  He sickened me with his eager acceptance and brought her flowers, gathered from the forest edge.  I was coldly polite and waited, sure that my father would see through her cloying protestations of love, but it seemed that I was the only one who could see how empty all her promises were.

When Father took us into the forest and tried to leave us, Hansel cried and begged to go back.  I did not.  The home we knew was no longer a sanctuary. Our father had changed, was no longer interested in us but eager to return to his young wife, with her honeyed smile and stinging eyes.  He told us to go and gather mushrooms, he would come back later and take us home.  All the while, his eyes were dull and glazed, like a pigeon that has been torn from the sky by a sparrowhawk.  He had to prise Hansel’s grasping fingers from his coat before he strode away.  Hansel tried to follow but could not match the pace of our father’s long legs.  Desolate, he flung himself to the forest floor and wept.

I had no tears.  I had used them all when our mother died.  Now I had only rage, coiled in my stomach like a viper.  I vowed that someone would pay for everything the world had taken from me and spat into the leaf litter, to make the vow stick.  Hansel knuckled his eyes.

‘What shall we do?’ he asked.

‘Survive,’ I answered and turned on my heel and walked away.