Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

Ways in Which Cornelius Fudge Meets an Untimely Demise

# 26 He meets the Wicked Witch in Hansel and Gretel

Once upon a time, in the imagination of a warped Uni student with too much time on her hands, a woodcutter, his wife and their two young, fully-grown children lived in a thatched one-bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere (possibly Adelaide). The family was at the lower end of the poverty line, the woodcutter having been unable to find work, despite the fact he was surrounded by trees. He was, however, very skilled at making daisy chains, being in the process of creating one a mile long to get himself into the Ye Olde Ghinesse Booke of Rekordes. However, daisy-chains, and the method of their creation, have nothing to do with this tale. All daisy-chain enthusiasts will have to look elsewhere. Sorry.

The characters which concern us are, in fact, the two children of the unemployed woodcutter and his wife. This offspring, for some unknown reason, had been born fully-grown and fully-clothed - much to the agony of Mrs Woodcutter, a small, plump woman who really did not deserve the unfortunate fruits of her union with her husband.

On this particular day, an unusually warm one for April, the woodcutter's wife was standing on a wobbly stool, scrounging around in a bare cupboard for food. She couldn't even find a bone for the scrawny-looking mutt that had shown up at the door that morning.

Glaring at the dog, she muttered in frustration, 'Who do you think I am?'

If the dog could speak, it would have said that at this very moment, she resembled Mother Hubbard. It was the headwear that did it. Stupid mop hats. However, upon glancing into the very dark, very dusty back corner of the cupboard (when your nearest neighbours live a week or two's walk away - though less by broom - you tend not to give a damn about hygiene) Mrs W pounced upon a mouldy half loaf of dry bread where there had been none before.

How odd, she thought, holding the loaf like a precious jewel. Jumping off the stool, she set the loaf in the middle of the kitchen table and, shooing away the dog, stuck her head out of the open window.

'Cornelius! Dolores! Lunch is ready!'

Two heads popped out from behind a large tree. The first, a girl, had a squat, toad-like face and short, mousy brown hair held back by an Alice band. The other, a boy, had a lime-green bowler hat topping off his greying curls. Mrs W was damned if she knew where her children had procured these fashion accessories, but, alarmingly enough, they seemed to suit them rather nicely. Cornelius in particular seemed rather attached to his hat and would never let go of it, not even during bath time. Probably stole them, the little brats, she concluded as her children toddled inside.

*

That evening, after Cornelius and Dolores had been sent to bed, the Woodcutters had an important discussion.

'This is it, Peggy,' the Woodcutter said, putting his pipe in his mouth. He was a tall man with reddish hair and birch-wood rimmed glasses. Reclining in his chair at the table, he sucked at the pipe thoughtfully, not noticing 1) the pipe wasn't lit, and

2) there was no tobacco to be found.

'What is it, dear?' Mrs Woodcutter busied herself at the kitchen bucket, preparing to wash the dishes. The Woodcutter regarded his wife carefully.

'We can't afford to keep the children anymore.'

Mrs Woodcutter froze. As her husband watched, she quickly recovered and picked up a dish, washing it meticulously. She then put it aside to dry, wiped her hands on her patched skirts and joined her husband at the table, having finished the washing up. Tears glistened in her eyes.

'Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to say that, John?' She hugged the Woodcutter tightly.

With much effort, the Woodcutter removed himself from his wife's fierce grip. 'Well, it's settled then. How about we dump them in the forest tomorrow? It's best not to waste any time.'

'Sounds good to me.' The couple laughed maliciously.

Of course, this story wouldn't be what it is if our two antagonistic protagonists knew nothing of their parents' sinister plot. As we all know, they were tucked safely in bed. However, as fate would have it, their bed was under the table where their parents sat.

'Did you hear that, Dolores?' Cornelius asked. 'Mother and Father are -'

'I heard. I'm sitting right beside you, you know,' Dolores replied huffily, although she trembled slightly.

'Well, you don't have to act so huffy. I'm just recapping it for dramatic effect.'

'Stick to your crocheting, Nelly, you're a lot better at that.'

'Look, you're just jealous, ok? Just because I won first prize at the Annual Haberdashery picnic, doesn't mean -'

'Hem, hem. Shouldn't we be working out a plan to get back home?' Dolores asked, pinching him on the arm.

'Ow! Yes, I guess so. Why don't I just drop bits of bread Mother will give us tomorrow on the ground and make a trail?' Cornelius suggested without thought for the obvious cliché.

'What about stones?'

'What?'

'Won't birds eat the bread you drop on the ground?'

'Of course not, don't be silly. It's fairy tale - we'll make it home whatever we do,' Cornelius said, slightly annoyed.

'All right, you're the boss,' Dolores said, sighing.

They started violently as the table above them shook.

'Shut up, the both of you!' the Woodcutter bellowed, thumping his fist on the table a second time. Cornelius and Dolores scurried around, trying to avoid their father's pointy boots. 'Cornelius, if you and Dolores are going to formulate a plan to find your way home, at least whisper for Merlin's sake! Now, go to sleep!'

*

Bright and early the next day, before the cock crowed, Cornelius and Dolores were roughly awoken by their parents, who shoved another half loaf of bread into their hands, procured by some mysterious means, mostly likely a plot device, and pushed them out of the door, pointing vaguely towards the forest. The two sleepy children yawned and toddled obediently towards the forest where, in about five minutes, they were completely lost. It was one of those forests. You know, the type that fairy-tale characters always lose themselves in. Tells you a lot about fairy-tale characters, really.

Back at the cottage, the cock crowed. In the front yard, the Woodcutters sang and danced gleefully.

'Free at last! Free at last! Thank Merlin Almighty, we're free at last!'

*

'Nelly, where are we?' Dolores asked, her voice trembling. She held onto Cornelius's sleeve with a grip not even an industrial set of pliers could prise off.

'We're in the forest,' Cornelius replied.

'Really. You don't say.'

'I just did.'

Dolores sighed exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. What a git, she thought. She grimaced as her stomach grumbled.

'Nelly, do you still have that bread on you?' she asked.

'Yep - here you go,' he said, handing it over.

Dolores broke off a small piece and popped it in her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully as they made their way through the trees.

'Mother and Father must have given us quite a bit of bread,' she remarked.

'What makes you say that?' Cornelius asked absentmindedly, his gaze following the path of a bluebird that was soaring past.

'Because of the bread trail you've been making.'

Cornelius froze.

'You have been leaving a trail, haven't you?' Dolores's voice grew tight, and notched itself about an octave higher that usual, which was quite the feat. Cornelius refused to make eye contact with her. 'Merlin's beard,' she said in her normal voice, which was just as high-pitched, 'you are a complete and utter twat! How are we supposed to get home now, Mr Sodding Git?'

'How am I supposed to know? Look, let's just keep walking; we'll either manage our own way out of the forest, or bump into someone and ask for directions.' Cornelius tapped the top of his head, making sure his hat was still perched there. If anything happened to his precious hat, he wouldn't know what to do! With a determined look on his face, he began to walk faster.

'I have a bad feeling about this,' Dolores muttered to herself, vaguely wondering why she thought of green, speech-impaired muppets.

*

Night crept up faster than a lethifold. Cornelius and Dolores trudged aimlessly through the forest, having found no one to give them directions. They clutched each other in fear as they heard strange night time sounds, the kind that nocturnal animals make when they wake up and haven't had their coffee yet. All of a sudden there shined a white light in the distance. Anxiously, they crept towards it, finding a small thatched cottage in a clearing.

'Look, Nelly! Home!' Dolores cried. She released Cornelius's arm and began to run forward, but he dragged her backwards.

'No,' he whispered. 'Look carefully.'

Dolores did.

All she saw was a little thatched cottage in a clearing surrounded by a forest, and a small pen with a few chickens dotted about.

'Yes, I see it. And?'

'It's not home.' Cornelius's eyes remained transfixed on the house.

'What makes you say that?' Dolores asked, annoyed.

'Because we don't live with bears.'

Dolores started. 'What?!' She peered into the gloom. By golly, Cornelius was right! Walking through the front entrance of the cottage were three bears - a Father bear, a Mother bear, and a little Baby bear.

Cornelius and Dolores waited for the bears to disappear through the tree-line opposite them before they breathed easily.

'Bears,' Dolores said softly, in a kind of trance. 'How'd you like that?' She almost didn't notice Cornelius walk straight past her and towards the bears' house.

'Nelly,' she hissed, 'are you out of your mind? It's a bear den!'

Cornelius stopped and turned around to face her. 'I'm hungry!' he whined. 'And I can smell something nice.'

'And you feel like committing a crime at the same time?' Dolores asked, her eyebrows raised contemptuously.

'I'm desperately hungry.'

'Oh, all right then.'

They walked tentatively towards the cottage and, once inside, followed the wonderful smell, passing a room containing three rocking chairs, and found three bowls of porridge on a table in the middle of the sparsely furnished kitchen. What? Can't people (or bears) eat porridge at night?

'Food!' they chorused, and attacked them greedily with spoons lying next to the bowls.

'Ow! 'Is wun's 'oo 'ot!' Cornelius said, waving a hand uselessly in front of his burning mouth. He spat out the scalding cereal.

Dolores shuddered. 'And this one's too cold!' She pushed the bowl away from her.

'Let me 'ave it den,' Cornelius said, and took a bite. 'Ahh ...' he muttered in relief.

They turned to the last bowl and cautiously dug their spoons in, each taking a small bite, sighing contentedly and not speaking until the bowl lay empty.

A soft footstep startled them out of their porridge-lusting reverie. Looking up, they found a young girl with yellow-gold locks standing in the doorway. They clinked softly as a breeze floated in behind her.

'Say, do you live here?' she asked.

'No,' Dolores replied, 'we came for the porridge.'

'Oh,' said the girl, 'it's only ... I'm so frightfully tired; I just wanted a place to sit for only a moment ...'

'Well,' said Cornelius, 'we noticed a couple of rocking chairs in the living room. Maybe you could use one of those.'

The girl smiled. 'Why thank you, kind sir!'

'Not at all,' Cornelius replied. He seemed quite taken with this example of feminine beauty in front of him. He shook his head roughly. 'Come, Dolores, we must be off.' Good night, Miss ... er ...'

'Claire. Claire Gildlox.'

'Come on, Nelly,' Dolores urged. 'Nice to meet you, Claire,' she added, following Cornelius through the door. It wasn't until they had been walking for about fifteen minutes when they heard a high-pitched scream.

'I guess Goldilocks introduced herself to the homeowners,' Dolores smirked. Still, they hurried as far as they could from the bears' house, stopping only when exhaustion knocked them over the head with a heavy mallet.

*

Birds chirped merrily, and the morning sun shone through patches in the canopy of the forest as Cornelius and Dolores continued their journey through the forest.

'Tra la la la la,' Dolores sang happily, swinging her basket of goodies as her red cloak billowed behind her in the light breeze.

'Uh, Dolores?' Cornelius asked, confused. 'Where did you get those from?'

'Oh, there was some girl a while back who thought this wolf was her grandmother. I bet her cloak and basket that it wasn't. Boy, you should've seen the teeth on that wolf!'

'All the better to eat her with?' Cornelius said mildly.

'Why yes, actually.'

Cornelius sighed; Dolores could be so trying sometimes.

'So what's in the basket?' he asked. 'Anything to eat? I'm starving.' Before Dolores could react, Cornelius snatched the basket from her. There was a brass label with Property of R. R. Hood engraved on it.

'Hey, that's mine!' she panted, trying to wrench it from his grip. In their tug of war, the handle broke apart, throwing them on opposite sides of the path.

'Now look what you've done!' Dolores screeched.

Cornelius shrugged, rubbing his ankle. Something caught his eye, but before he could investigate further, Dolores snatched the basket and opened it, her mouth falling open in shock as she peered inside.

'There's nothing in here! That girl was a liar - that's false advertising!' She stormed off and sat at the foot of a nearby tree, throwing the basket with so much force that it bounced as it hit the ground, and the object that had caught Cornelius's eye flew into the air. He craned his head, following its course and caught it with precision, although his hat fell off with the effort. Cornelius grunted and dusted his hat before replacing it on his head and concentrating on the piece of parchment in his hand.

'Dolores, you'd better look at this.'

'What?' Dolores picked herself up and waddled to Cornelius's side. He handed her the parchment.

Whoever may finde this baskette please send it to The Wikkid Witche, Gingerbread House.

Thank ewe.

'Maybe we can ask her for directions,' Dolores suggested. 'But which way is the Gingerbread House?'

'I think it's over there.' Cornelius pointed down the path ahead of him.

'How do you know?'

He nodded a lime-green capped head to his left. 'Because that's where the sign post says it is.'

And indeed, there was a lone signpost with two arrows standing in the dark forest. In all probability, the signpost had strayed from its herd and had stayed where it was, hoping one day to be reclaimed. In the meantime, it made the best of its sad, forlorn situation. One arrow faced the direction Cornelius pointed, with the words "To the Gingerbread House" freshly painted in bright letters, while the other, facing the opposite direction, its letters fading from exposure and neglect, read "Way Out of the Forest." It's a common mistake to disregard that arrow. No, really.

Picking up the basket, Cornelius and Dolores headed off in the direction of the Gingerbread House, not realising the horrors that awaited them.

*

It was architecturally stunning, a concoction of bright, well-made sweets covering every square-inch, from the jellybean chimney top to the lollypop petunias in the flowerbeds, although who in their right mind would build a house out of sugar is a question worth considering. Either the homeowner frequently partakes in the use of recreational drugs, or they are just insane. On the other hand, they may be extremely clever, having completed a number of gourmet cooking classes specialising in desserts and sugar decorating, so just get off their backs, ok?

All in all, however, it must be said that the as-yet-unnamed designer of the Gingerbread House had failed to consider the possibility of rain.

Cornelius and Dolores stood before the house, dumbfounded at the awesome feat of confectionary brilliance. It must be added that Cornelius drooled somewhat.

All of a sudden, the liquorice-rimmed front door opened with a creak, and out stepped a tall, stern-looking witch, her black hair in a tight bun. Her spectacles rested upon an absurdly large prosthetic nose that looked as though it would fall off at any second. Without warning, she began to wave her hands furiously over her head.

'Stop! Stop!' she cried, her face contorted in outrage. 'I object! I refuse to be a party to this nonsense!' She folded her arms obstinately. 'You can't make me wear this abominable disguise!' The morning sun's hot rays peeked out behind a cloud and spread across her face, melting the nose somewhat. Receiving no other answer except taken aback stares from two oddly-dressed children, the witch resumed her stern look and, whilst holding the nose in place, addressed them.

'Well, what are you waiting for?' She gestured to the wonder of confectionary artistry behind her. 'Come in!' She gave Cornelius and Dolores an if-you-don't-obey-me-and-step-into-my-lovely-oven-er-house-I-won't-give-you-any-sweets glare that left no room for argument.

Cornelius darted forward enthusiastically, mesmerised by the copious amounts of sugar in front of him. Dolores lunged forward and grabbed the back of his shirt. She felt a bit suspicious of this woman, who reminded her of a strict Transfiguration professor for some peculiar reason. 'Nelly, I don't think we should go in ...' she whispered as her brother shook off her grip and took another step towards the witch, who was cackling very unconvincingly with an occasional disapproving glance at the sky.

'Why not?' Cornelius asked. 'She seems nice enough, plus she's offering us sweets!'

Dolores's mind ticked over for a minute. She glanced at back at the witch, who was unsuccessfully trying to mould her nose back into shape and muttering something about authors who deserve to be locked up forever in the deepest darkest dungeons. With a Blast-Ended Skrewt for company. The witch cackled genuinely.

Eh, Dolores thought. What could possibly happen? It's not like she's suffering from mental delusions about children as hearty meals.

She shrugged and followed Cornelius into the house, where the two unsuspecting children were predictably enslaved and thrown into a cage until further notice.

*

One week later ...

A loud thump on the front door startled the Woodcutter as he threaded a daisy stalk into his almost mile-long chain.

'Damn!' he cried as the delicate stalk snapped in two, rendering it useless. Dropping the ruined flower, he got up and stalked to the door, feeling very cross indeed.

Peering out of the window beside the door, he pushed the curtains aside. No one was there. How odd, he thought. He creased his forehead in confusion and pulled on the latch that opened the front door, sticking his head out cautiously. No one. He was about to head back inside when something white caught his eye. He glanced down.

There was a newspaper, but judging by the slight yellow on the edges, it was about a week old.

Shrugging, he picked it up and brought it inside, laying it down on the kitchen table.

'Peggy,' he called, 'did you subscribe to the Proffett again?'

'Hmm?' the Woodcutter's wife replied, joining her husband in the kitchen. Her sleeves were rolled up, arms wet with soap suds. 'No, I didn't. Why?'

'Never mind.'

The Woodcutter sat down at the table, putting his feet up on a chair which immediately collapsed. The Woodcutter swore; he'd forgotten it was the broken chair he'd promised to mend the other day. It's just that daisy-chaining took up so much of his time lately. His wife grabbed a broom and began to sweep away the broken pieces as the Woodcutter sat on another chair, crossed his legs, reached for the paper and shook it open. He began to read, however, almost straight away he began to splutter madly.

'John? Dear?' his wife cried, dropping the broom and rushing to her husband's aid. 'What is it? What's the matter?' The Woodcutter stared at the paper, shocked and gibbering nonsense. He only calmed down as his wife wrenched the paper from his grip and led him to bed to lie down until he came to his senses.

She marched directly back to the kitchen, incensed and highly curious as to how a newspaper could produce such a reaction in her husband. Sitting in the now-vacant seat, she pulled the paper to her. Her eyes widened; she took in a sharp breath as she read.

MISTERY DEATHES IN GINGERBREDE HOWSE

Missus Marthar Sweete, 76, woz yestrday the soul witnesse to xtraordinry eventes. The sprytlie auld woomin, desiner and manufaktrer of the infamoos Gingerbrede Howse last nite fownd herself at the mercie of two allegedlie fully-grown childrun. Wun, a mail named Cornelius, who Missus Sweete remembers wor a gastlie lyme-greene coloured bowler hat, the othr, a gurle bye the name of Dolores, reportedlie had toade-like feetures.

Acording to Missus Sweete, the 'yungsters' forsd entrie into her home, interogaiting her fore owrs on ende, arsking her qwestions suche as "howe do we noe this is reel shugar and not sum artifishal sweetner?" and "wot kinde of flavoring do you poot in the gum dropes?", all the wile freelie eeting the howse withoute Missus Sweete's permishun.

Missus Sweete sais she blacked out after the repeated grilins, and when she woke this morning, fownd the introodrs' delikatlie rosted and half-eten remayns on the bewtifullie set dinner taybl.

'I don't knowe wot happend,' Missus Sweete sayd. 'I suppoze they juste felle into the ovene...'

And they all lived happily ever after.

Well, obviously, except for Dolores, and Cornelius, but they had it coming.

And Claire, who decided to sue the fairy-tale industry for having grudges against poor, starving, innocent, blonde porridge lovers.

Oh, and a twig Cornelius snapped in two while trudging through the forest.

And we can't forget the lonely signpost, which never did manage to find his herd. It lived out the rest of its existence directing lost travellers to Mrs Sweet's capable hands.

But apart from that, they all lived happily ever after!