THE LAST RIBBON

At dusk they brought the boy to the square.

He was eight years old, dark-haired and small for his age. His mother walked beside him with her hand on his shoulder. His father followed just behind, looking straight ahead.

The rest of the village had already gathered around the wheel. Oak and iron, taller than any man, with a single length of white string, as thick as the boy’s wrist, wound tight around the huge drum. No one spoke. They had all been here before.

His mother knelt and pulled him close. She pressed her mouth to his hair and whispered what they both needed to hear. The boy let her hold him. He did not cry. She buttoned his little coat to the throat and smoothed the collar flat, her fingers trembling. She adjusted his hair so it was out of his eyes, those big blue eyes she wanted to remember, trying to take in every detail of his pupils, every eyelash, every freckle.

His father took her by the shoulders. She gripped the tiny coat. Then her hands loosened and she allowed herself to be pulled back into the crowd.

The Elder stepped forward.

He was a tall man, grown thin with age. He raised a hand and all who were gathered fell silent as they waited for him to speak. He moved with the careful patience of someone who had performed this task many times. He checked the boy’s belt, tested the buckle, then threaded the string through the iron loop at the back and tied it off with a knot he could have tied blind.

He lowered himself to one knee and gazed into the boy’s eyes.

“You must not leave the path,” he said. “You must not untie the string. When you reach the far side of the forest, go to the next village. Tell them to send their bravest warriors. Tell them about the witch.”

The boy nodded.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

The Elder looked at him a moment longer, then placed one hand on the boy’s head.

“Go, Hansel,” he said. “And may God go with you.”

The boy looked back at his father and his mother, then turned and walked toward the trees.

The forest began at the edge of the square. There was no boundary or fence, just the last cobblestone and the trees beyond. They grew so close together that the path between them was barely wider than a man’s shoulders, winding away into shadow until it disappeared entirely.

The boy looked into the dark forest, a forest that harboured something even darker.

He began to walk.

The string tightened behind him.

The wheel began to turn.

The first ribbon passed the marker stone.

It was grey with age, the writing faded to a whisper. The Elder did not look at it. He knew the name by heart.

“Albus, the woodcutter. Fifty-three years old.”

Another ribbon slid past.

“Ivo. Forty-two.”

“Cormac. Thirty-seven.”

“Dunstan. Thirty-five.”

The names came faster. A knot of ribbons bunched together, all warriors, all killed on the same morning. The village had sent its strongest young men into the forest with swords and torches. None returned. Only screams.

After the warriors, they sent their bravest young men. After the young men, the boys.

“Edric. Seventeen.”

“Fenn. Fifteen.”

“Godwin. Fifteen.”

“Harald. Thirteen.”

Somewhere in the crowd, a woman made a small sound. Another turned her face away as a cluster of thin ribbons passed the marker.

“Ivar. Nine.”

“Jocelyn. Nine.”

“Katrin. Nine.”

Moments later another group of ribbons bunched together, half a dozen of them, all the same age, all stopped at the same distance.

“Liesel. Eight.”

“Mattias. Eight.”

“Nell. Eight.”

“Osric. Eight.”

“Pieter. Eight.”

They had made it no further.

Nobody had ever gone further.

Not them.

And not Hansel.

The wheel stopped turning.

The string hung taut, reaching into the dark. He had stopped walking.

His father grabbed the Elder’s sleeve. “That’s where they all fall. That’s the killing ground.”

The Elder did not look at him. “He may yet continue. We wait ten minutes. You know the rules. Have faith.”

The string trembled.

Then it went slack.

A groan moved through the crowd. The boy’s mother broke free and ran for the forest, screaming her son’s name. Her husband caught her at the edge of the trees. She fought him. He lost his grip.

“You must not enter,” called the elder but she did not heed his warning.

She crossed into the dark.

What took her made no sound. One moment she was running, the next she was gone, pulled upward into the canopy by something that moved through the branches like the wind through leaves. Her husband ran after her. The same black shape took him too. There were tearing sounds, piercing screams, then pieces of them rained down through the branches and landed in the undergrowth. A low cackle drifted out as the wind faded back into the deep forest.

The square fell into panic. There was shouting and arguing, a desperate surge forward.

The Elder’s voice cut across all others. “Stay where you are. No adult stands a chance in her forest. You know this.”

He gestured toward the trees where the parents had vanished. “She kills the old. She kills the strong. She kills anyone who can fight back.”

His voice hardened.

“Only the young have ever made it past the first trees. Only the young can save us.”

“She’s killing our young too,” someone shouted.

The Elder gestured to two men near the wheel. They took the handles and began to turn.

The string came back frayed, the end sliced clean. They wound it onto the drum in silence.

When it was done, a woman stepped forward. She was not the mother of any child on the string. She was simply old, tired, and no longer afraid to speak.

“No more,” she said. “We cannot keep sending them.”

The Elder turned to face her.

“Only the young can save us.”

The crowd murmured the words back in a low chorus. “Only the young can save us.”

“He was eight years old,” the woman said. “None of them have made it through. Not one. They all die in the same place.” She lowered her head. “He was only eight years old.”

“That’s not true,” the Elder said. “The eight-year-olds made it further than the nine-year-olds, and they made it further than the ten-year-olds.”

“But none of them made it out of the forest,” the woman replied.

The Elder looked at the wheel and thought of all those ribbons. All those names. All those children.

“Then we must send one younger,” he said.

Another voice spoke up. “Any younger and they won’t understand the task.”

The Elder was quiet for a long time.

“They will understand their task,” he said at last. “I will teach them, myself.”

***

Spring came slowly that year. The snow retreated from the forest’s edge in patches. Green shoots pushed up through the mud. The days lengthened by small degrees.

When the buds on the trees began to open, the Elder brought a girl to the square.

She was six years old. Fair-haired. So much smaller than any child they had sent before.

The villagers gathered in their usual places, but something had changed. They stood closer together. Their faces were closed and unreadable. The girl’s mother was not among them. Neither was her father. No one came forward to embrace her. No one wept.

The girl stood in front of the wheel with her arms at her sides. She did not fidget. She did not look around. Her eyes were fixed on the forest. They contained no fear, no sadness, not even curiosity.

The Elder came forward.

He tied the string to the girl’s belt, tested the knot, and began the old words.

“You must not leave the path. You must not untie the…”

“I know what to do,” the girl said.

The Elder stopped. He looked down at the child for a moment, then straightened.

“Go, Gretel,” he said. “And may God go with you.”

The girl turned and walked toward the trees.

The wheel began to turn.

The Elder recited the names as the ribbons passed, quietly now, almost under his breath. The villagers did not need to hear. They knew the list. They knew where each warrior had died, where each brave young man had fallen, and where each child had stopped walking.

The wheel turned. The string unspooled. The cluster of ribbons, all those eight-year-olds, approached the marker stone.

And then passed over it.

The wheel kept turning.

A murmur rose from the crowd. The Elder raised his hand and they fell silent.

The string stretched further into the forest than any string had stretched before. Past the killing ground. Past the place where every other journey had ended.

Further still.

Then the wheel finally stopped.

The string hung in the darkness, taut and trembling. The girl had reached somewhere no messenger had ever reached.

The crowd held its breath.

***

The cottage stood in a clearing where the trees fell back and the sky opened up. It was small, built from dark timber, with a roof of mossy thatch. The windows were fitted with coloured glass, red and orange and yellow, glowing like candy in the fading light. Snow still clung to the eaves and sills like sugar icing. Smoke curled gently from the chimney.

The girl stood at the edge of the clearing. The string pulled tight behind her.

From the shadows, a hand reached out. The nail on its index finger was long, yellow, and sharp. It sliced through the string without effort.

The girl turned.

She was old. Older than anyone the girl had ever seen. Wrapped in black cloth that hung from her frame like draped fabric on a scarecrow. Her face was a map of wrinkles, but her eyes were bright. Very bright.

“Hello, little one,” she said softly.

She reached down and took the girl’s hand. Her grip was careful. Gentle.

“Come inside,” she said. “You must be hungry.”

***

Inside the cottage it was warm and inviting. A fire crackled in the hearth. A pot hung over it, steam rising, filling the room with the smell of vegetables and herbs. A huge oven sat in one corner with something baking inside. The walls were covered with drawings: houses, trees, stick figures holding hands, all done in coloured chalk by children’s hands. Small clothes hung on a line near the fire. Low beds were arranged along one wall, each neatly made, each meant for a child.

There they were, huddled together in the far corner, watching the tiny girl with quiet curiosity.

There were nine of them. All older than her. Eight, nine years old. The ages of the dead whose ribbons clustered at the killing ground.

The witch led her to a stool by the fire and sat her down. She filled a bowl from the pot and pressed it into her hands.

“Eat up,” she said.

The girl looked at the other children. A dark-haired boy met her eyes. He did not smile, but he did not look away.

“All were like you,” the witch said. “Left to die in the forest.”

She moved around the room, adjusting blankets, checking the bread in the oven.

“First they sent warriors with axes. Then others with spears and swords. They sent them to hunt and kill me.” She shook her head. “And then they sent the children.” She gestured to the others. “Alone. Wandering the path.”

Her voice softened.

“What kind of village abandons their young?”

She seemed genuinely upset by the thought. Then remembered herself and smiled.

“You’re safe here. They can’t harm you any more. I promise.”

The girl lifted the bowl and drank. The soup was salty and good. The fire was warm. Around her, the other children returned to what they had been doing.

The witch took the empty bowl from her hands and set it aside. Then she pulled up a chair and sat across from her, holding her hand.

“So thin,” she said. “You all arrive so thin. You need fattening up, young lady.” She smiled. “Well, at least I think you do. What do you think? Poke me in the tummy with your finger. If I say ‘ouch,’ it means your finger is too bony and you’ll need two bowls of soup.”

She cackled at her own joke.

“Ready?”

The girl nodded.

The witch closed her eyes.

“Three… two… one…”

Her eyes opened. A horrible sound came from her throat. She looked down.

Not a finger.

A knife.

Buried to the hilt in her stomach, gripped in the girl’s bony hand.

The witch looked up. Her mouth attempted to speak.

The knife came out and went across her throat before she could draw another breath.

Her eyes stayed open. Still confused. Still searching for the abandoned child she thought she had saved.

The girl grabbed her by the hair and hauled her from the chair. The old woman slumped to the floor. Blood spilled across the light wood, staining it black.

The girl’s eyes were still blue. Her tunic still white. The knife still dripping with blood, still held in her hand. Her red right hand.

The dark-haired boy screamed first.

The children scrambled backward, pressing into the walls, into each other. One of them, a boy of nine, the oldest, began to cry. The dark-haired boy pulled him close.

She looked at them, each of them in turn.

There were nine.

When she was finished, she walked to the fire and pulled out a burning log.

***

In the village, they waited.

The Elder looked into the dark forest, which he now knew harboured something darker still. He closed his eyes and prayed.

The string jerked.

Once.

Twice.

The Elder’s head came up. In eighteen years he had never seen the string move after it went slack. He stared at it, then at the forest, then at the wheel.

The string jerked again. Twice more.

A pattern.

A signal.

“The handles,” he said, his voice cracking. “Turn the handles back.”

Two men grabbed the wheel and began to turn. The string pulled back onto the drum, tighter and tighter, until it caught on something heavy. They kept turning.

It came out of the forest slowly, dragging over roots and stones. The villagers crowded forward. The Elder raised his lantern.

The body slid into the square behind the wheel, pulled by the string knotted into its grey hair.

An old woman.

Thin.

Dressed in black.

Her throat had been cut ear to ear in one clean stroke. Her eyes were open. Her mouth curved in a small, confused smile.

No one spoke at first.

“The witch,” the Elder said finally.

The word passed through the crowd. The witch. The witch is dead. A man laughed, a high, cracked sound. A woman began to weep. Someone fell to their knees.

“The witch is dead,” the Elder said louder. “The forest is safe. We are saved.”

The crowd erupted. They embraced. They shouted. They raised their hands to the sky.

Then the girl walked out of the forest.

Alone.

She moved slowly, following the path the body had made through the undergrowth. A short length of string still hung from her belt, the cut end dragging behind her.

In her right hand she held a knife. The blade was black with blood.

Her tunic had been white when she entered the forest. Now it was red. Soaked through, clinging to her body, dripping onto the ground behind her. Her face was spattered. Her hair was matted with it.

Too much blood for one old woman.

She walked into the square and stopped beside the witch’s body. Then she looked up at the Elder and waited.

At the edge of the square, smoke rose from the forest. Black smoke, thick and heavy, carrying the smell of burning wood and flesh.

The Elder stepped forward. He placed both hands on her head and spoke a small prayer, then stepped back.

She was still looking at him.

In the old pig pen at the far edge of the square, his other students were watching him too.

There were twelve of them. The oldest was six. The youngest was three. They stood with their hands at their sides, each one holding a blade. Their clothes were spotted with old blood, brown and dried, the remnants of practice. At their feet lay the bodies of animals. Chickens. Rabbits. A dog.

The Elder looked down at his hands.

They were red.