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.