ACT 2: SCENE 3
A cage. A tiny little cage that stinks of death and blood. Her big, brave boy curled up inside, paralysed in brain and body. And all the time the cage gets smaller.
She hears a faint whisper: "There are two doors".
She looks around herself to find the speaker. She is in the Pantoland Museum, surrounded by the neglected souvenirs of yesteryear. The portrait of the last King and Queen dominates the far wall. The Queen holds on to a bundle in a violet blanket desperately. Although the paint is faded she can see that their eyes are alive with pain.
"There are two doors" says the King, "and she will never let another have the second key."
She walks towards the picture. Fragments of a smashed glass slipper crunch under her foot.
"She takes all of our magic and keeps it to herself, makes it all dark," says the Queen. "Look!"
Gretel stands next to the cage and holds up a small stick.
"I can open the other door."
The stick sparks with electricity. Bright lights begin to rise from the abandoned Panto memorabilia and flow towards Gretel. They attach themselves to her stick.
Gretel smiles. "I can do it."
The stick catches fire. Gretel screams but cannot let go. The fire begins to crawl up her hand and arm, where it turns to darkness.
"NO!" The cry belongs to the Queen, who drops the purple bundle. It falls out of the picture and hits the floor. A swarm of maggots spill out of the blanket. They cover the floor, cover everything, writhe over Hansel in his shrinking cage and Gretel in her growing darkness, into their mouths, their eyes, their hearts...
Mrs Trellis awoke from her nightmare still screaming and fighting the imaginary insects. It took her several seconds to realise where she was and who she was hitting. She blinked at the familiar pink, round face wincing under her blows.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, drawing back, "I'm sorry, Mister Mayor."
"Don't mention it, Mrs T," replied the face, rubbing a cheek. "Another bad dream, was it?"
Mrs Trellis sighed. "Every night since the night I dreamed about my Wedding. And they're getting worse. Each time it's all a little bit more terrifying. A little bit more hopeless."
"What happened?"
"Hansel was in a cage, and Gretel was trying magic but it wasn't working. The old King and Queen were there, but everything was dead and dusty. And the baby prince had been turned into a... plague..."
Mrs Trellis' voice petered out. She wanted to cry again but her tears had finally dried out the night before. All she could do now was to sit silently and stare at the ground.
"They're gone," she managed at last. "They're gone and we're lost and Pantoland's been changed and it's all my fault."
"How is it your fault, Mrs T?"
"I can't tell you that."
"You don't know. Because it's not true."
"No Mister Mayor, I know perfectly well how it's my fault. I brought this on through greed and selfishness and stupidity. And I can't tell you, because if I did you'd want to just pack up and go home and leave me here, you'd be so disgusted."
"I would never abandon you, Mrs T. Or the hope of finding the kids."
"I know, I know. Because you're such a gentleman. But you'd want to, believe me. And that would make you sad."
Mrs Trellis looked at her boots mournfully again. The Mayor chewed nervously on his lip in the silence.
"Try me," he ventured eventually.
"No."
There was that flat, eternal "No" again.
A long pause set in, occasionally punctuated by the eerie nocturnal noises of the alien forest.
The Mayor tried a different tactic.
"You said you dreamt about your wedding..."
Mrs Trellis remained silent. The Mayor continued dogmatically, like a spider trying to climb the sides of a wet bath.
"It's just, well, I was wondering, well, if you were a bride, there had to be a groom, right? And so I was just..."
"Mayor, please..."
"...Just wondering who the lucky fellow was."
"That doesn't matter any more, Mister Mayor," she whispered. "I was a fool to think it ever could have mattered more than my darling children. I'm a terrible woman. In every way."
Mrs Trellis hugged her knees. The Mayor put a friendly soft arm around her shoulder.
"You're a very good woman in every way, Mrs T. And Hansel and Gretel are lucky to have you as a mum."
Mrs Trellis snorted a laugh.
"You know," continued the Mayor, " as busy as my life's become after the Tragedy, I've always regretted the fact that Mrs Naize and I never had kids."
"Oh but they're a terrible handful, Mister Mayor. Especially when you're on your own."
"Oh come along now. They're a riot." The Mayor spotted a wistful smile beginning to play on Mrs Trellis' lips. "Especially your pair. I've always loved your home, inferior as it is to an oversized shoe. It's always been so full of happiness and laughter."
"It's always full to the rafters, you mean. Two grown teenagers top to tail in a little bed in the attic, Hansel's PE kit and Gretel's books all over the floor, big piles of darning to be done by the fire... The only things that are ever empty are the larder and the piggy bank."
The Mayor glowed inwardly at seeing Mrs Trellis' eyes begin to come alive again. She was always happiest when complaining about her lot. The words started to fall happily, unthinkingly from his mouth.
"Mrs T, my larder is full to bursting, but I don't have anybody to feed. My piggy bank is full to bursting with golden coins but I don't have anybody to spend them on. The palace has a dozen bedrooms and they're all just collecting dust. I envy you, Mrs T. Because when we find your kids your house will be filled with warmth and love again. Think of it. All those Christmases and Birthdays. And then, some day, there'll be weddings. And Grandchildren. Another couple of tots chasing one another round the garden, breaking things, eating crayons..."
The Mayor trailed off, realising far too late that he had gone too far. He made a brave attempt to change the subject.
"Do you know, I once saw a child eat a new, sharpened pencil, whole?"
"And if we don't find them?"
"It didn't do him a spot of harm, you know," he added desperately, "save for getting beaten up by the bigger kid who's pencil he'd just eaten..."
"Let's face it, Mister Mayor," interrupted Mrs Trellis, "if we don't find them pretty blinkin' sharpish there'll be nothing to look forward to anymore. Nothing but old age and death and nobody to mourn or bury me. An ugly old baggage ending her days cold and alone. Completely alone."
She looked at her boots again.
There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. The Mayor considered touching her shoulder, then her hair, but gave up on both and resigned himself to sitting beside her, arms folded.
"You're not ugly," he sighed, "and you're not an old baggage. And you won't be alone, Mrs T. I promise you that."
She gazed up at him, wordlessly.
"Chin up, old girl, and all that."
She tilted her head so that her chin was pointed as high as possible and smiled faintly.
He smiled back.
"Now try to get some sleep. We've got another long day ahead of us tomorrow. All right?"
Mrs Trellis lay back and drew her blanket about herself.
"All right" she replied.
"Goodnight, Gladys."
"Goodnight Mister... um..." Mrs Trellis frowned in the darkness. "What is your first name?"
"Percy," replied Percy, "it's um..."
"Night then, Percy," said Mrs Trellis.
Some time passed. Owls hooted. Strange Things scuttled. Eventually the snoring began again.
"It's, um...." whispered Percy, "it's, um short. For Perseverance"