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Many centuries have passed since Hansel and Gretel died. Neither of them ever married; they both died alone. People used to sing songs about them-- how they cunningly outsmarted the witch in the woods, shoved her into the oven and left her there, burning, screaming in searing pain. No more children would ever fall prey to her candied seductions.
Many centuries have passed and everyone forgot to remember. They stopped singing their songs, and no one told their tales anymore. Hansel and Gretel have long been gone and buried. Their flesh has sunk deep into the earth and their bones chewed by vermins of oblivion.
And in the absence of their rhyming melodies, the people started to miss the witch in the woods.
"There in the clearing once stood the house made of dough," they said. "How the sun baked it to perfection! It must have been delicious."
Together, they imagined the time of a forgotten past, dreaming of a talented piece of architecture that would have put any other to shame, and all in their reverie, they seemed to smell the scent of melting sugar dancing in the air.
"Only a genius could have built that!"
Then the facts turned to myth and the myth to facts.
"My grandmother used to say the whole town smelled of cinnamon."
"They said the witch invited orphans to her home and fed them till they're full."
"Wasn't the witch such a good soul!"
Then they blamed the tales and called them "baseless". They blamed the songs and called them "out of tune." They blamed the people who wrote these tales and sang these songs, and they all called them "twisted."
It was then decided. They were to build a monument in memory of the genius who built a house unparalleled in structure and design, a benevolent spirit who fed the poor and the needy, an innocent witch, spoiled by ignorance and a long history of deceit.
They gathered all the masons, and the masons gathered all the stones. There were hundreds of them, cutting, pounding, laying one slab on top of another. When at last it was done, they all cried in awe and admiration.
They never realized, and probably never would, that the stones that built their precious monument were once tombstones that stood on the graves of the witch's poor victims. It was told, centuries ago, that the last thing these children saw before the fire consumed them was the face of the witch, bolting the door of her oven, smiling, announcing loudly -- to the fire, to the vultures, to no one -- how she wanted her meat soft and roasted.
Many centuries have passed and everyone forgot to remember. They stopped singing their songs, and no one told their tales anymore. Hansel and Gretel have long been gone and buried. Their flesh has sunk deep into the earth and their bones chewed by vermins of oblivion.
And in the absence of their rhyming melodies, the people started to miss the witch in the woods.
"There in the clearing once stood the house made of dough," they said. "How the sun baked it to perfection! It must have been delicious."
Together, they imagined the time of a forgotten past, dreaming of a talented piece of architecture that would have put any other to shame, and all in their reverie, they seemed to smell the scent of melting sugar dancing in the air.
"Only a genius could have built that!"
Then the facts turned to myth and the myth to facts.
"My grandmother used to say the whole town smelled of cinnamon."
"They said the witch invited orphans to her home and fed them till they're full."
"Wasn't the witch such a good soul!"
Then they blamed the tales and called them "baseless". They blamed the songs and called them "out of tune." They blamed the people who wrote these tales and sang these songs, and they all called them "twisted."
It was then decided. They were to build a monument in memory of the genius who built a house unparalleled in structure and design, a benevolent spirit who fed the poor and the needy, an innocent witch, spoiled by ignorance and a long history of deceit.
They gathered all the masons, and the masons gathered all the stones. There were hundreds of them, cutting, pounding, laying one slab on top of another. When at last it was done, they all cried in awe and admiration.
They never realized, and probably never would, that the stones that built their precious monument were once tombstones that stood on the graves of the witch's poor victims. It was told, centuries ago, that the last thing these children saw before the fire consumed them was the face of the witch, bolting the door of her oven, smiling, announcing loudly -- to the fire, to the vultures, to no one -- how she wanted her meat soft and roasted.