The Dry Grass

A Grimm inspired tale.

One day Hansel and I were walking through the forest to the fetch the doctor for Grandfather, who had been feeling ill. After we had walked awhile and were both quite tired, Hansel suggested we go through the grass. The grass was forbidden, and no one ever walked through it.

“We can’t Hansel. We aren’t supposed to.”

“But the way around is so long, and think of Grandfather!”

“Think of what could be hiding in there.” I didn’t know why the long grass that grew in the very center of the wood was forbidden to walk through, but I didn’t like the idea of walking in it, just the same. It had been whispering at as we skirted its edges.

“The grass is just shorter than you, you’ll be able to see where you’re going the whole time, and you can lead me.” Hansel was younger than I, but quite persuasive. And I was worried about Grandfather. I took off my apron and tied one of the strings around Hansel’s wrist. I tied the other string around my waist.

“So that we can’t get separated.” I told him, “No matter what.” Hansel seemed satisfied by this and we set off, side by side, through the tall grass. It whipped at our faces and whispered at us as we walked. The sun was high above us and the day was hot. The grass didn’t smell fresh, like a meadow usually would, instead it smelt like rot. And there were flies everywhere.

“Do you hear what it’s saying, Gretel?” Hansel asked me. I took his hand in mine and pulled him closer.

“I hear it, Hansel, but try not to listen. We must get through the grass. The doctor’s cottage is directly on the other side and Grandfather needs him so.”

Hansel was silent and squeezed my hand. The grass was indeed saying things in its soft, dry voices.

“We’re so thirsty,” it sang, in a hissing chorus. “So thirsty and so dry!”

It felt like we had been walking for miles when I finally saw the roof of the doctor’s house peaking over the tops of the grass. A fire burned in the hearth, for smoke twisted out of the chimney. It was a welcome sight.

“Gretel, I’m getting so tired and look! I’ve cut myself.” Hansel held out his hand to me as we walked, a deep gash ran across his palm and blood dripped from his fingertips.

“So thirsty,” the grass sang, papery and high.

“Hansel! How did you manage that when we’ve just been walking?” I ripped some fabric from my apron and used it to bind Hansel’s hand, winding it tightly to stop the blood. Hansel had not answered my question. I looked up to find his face slack and still.

“Hansel!” I took his face between my hands, “Whatever has gotten into you?”

“Oh, Gretel,” said Hansel, “Don’t you think we ought to help the grass? It’s so thirsty.”

“Absolutely not. The grass will have water when it rains, silly Hansel.” And a good thing some rain would be, too, I thought, for the decaying smell in the grass had gotten worse as the sun climbed higher in the sky. I pulled Hansel forward, dragging him along behind me, determined to get to the doctor quickly. Hansel’s hand would need looking at and Grandfather was very ill. Hansel trudged behind me as I pushed forward, always keeping the doctor’s cottage in my sights. Hansel grew more tractable as we went, picking his feet up as he walked so that I didn’t need to pull him so hard. Indeed, he became a lighter and lighter burden as we walked until I felt certain he must be prancing along behind me like a little fawn. As I finally reached the edge of the grass I nearly laughed for joy.

“Hansel! See, you silly boy, we’ve made it! What a charming cobble path to the doctor’s door lies before us.”

Hansel did not answer me, I looked back expecting to see him sulking, but instead I saw a corpse, dry and shriveled as the salted meats papa prepared for winter. His boney hand clasped mine in a tight grip, and I now saw why he had become so light, the other hand had become unbound. I collapsed to the ground and lost my senses. The good doctor saved me before the grass had drunk me dry, too. We put Hansel’s body in the carriage and went home round by the road. A while later a high fence was built around the grass. To this day no one knows if the grass whispers there still or if it has withered away, for we are too afraid to look.