One Witch at a Time (5 page)

Nothing.

“Susanna Louisa? This isn't funny!”

She must have gone ahead on the trail. Of course. Rudi followed the path upslope once more and called her name, and swallowed a growing sense of panic.

There were stories of menacing things here, high on the Berg. Wolves. Lynxes. Unsavory travelers from the far side of the mountain. But those were only stories—or in any case, not likely. That's what Rudi told himself as he stepped warily along the trail. He reached into his pocket and felt the reassuring heft of Marco's key. He might need to throw it, after all.

Rudi crept around a bend. Ahead of him the path led directly through a tall, narrow crevice that split the black rock of the mountain in two.

He knew this place. Within that crevice lay the Brixen Witch's front door.

Rudi hurried forward into the cold shadow of the cleft. He stopped for a moment, blinking in the dim light. The bright sunshine at the far end of the crevice made the shadows all the darker. “Susanna? Are you here?”

Had she already found the witch's door and gone inside? Rudi crouched in the shade of the crevice, searching for the low door that led into the mountain. To the untrained eye, the door looked like only another facet of the rock, but Rudi knew better. He found the spot and he knocked.

But his knuckles made no sound. So he kicked at the rock. Once, twice—

And on the third kick Rudi's boot met nothing but air. His foot swept into a pocket of darkness—an open doorway that had not been there a moment before—and he landed on the ground with a thud.

Something stepped in from the bright sunshine of the path beyond the crevice and stood over him. It was Susanna Louisa, her braids swinging. “There you are!” she said.

Rudi scrambled to his feet. “I thought you fell off the mountain!” he growled, allowing his fear and relief to melt into anger.

“Why would I do that?” She gasped. “Look! You found something! Is it the witch's door? You go first.” She pushed him through the open doorway.

The door slammed shut behind them, and they stood in utter darkness. Rudi straightened himself and tried to blink away the blackness. Something nudged him from behind; a small hand found his and grasped it tightly. He did not resist.

Now the small hand tugged at Rudi's. Instinctively he lowered his head.

“This was a good idea, right, Rudi?” came Susanna Louisa's wavering whisper.

“Oma said it was,” he whispered back. “I suppose she must be right.”

Now came a noise from deep within the cave. Footsteps. The small hand squeezed his so tightly, Rudi had to bite back a yelp.

He decided to set a brave example and announce himself. It was the polite thing to do, after all. Besides, he and the witch were old acquaintances. He opened his mouth to call “Hello!” but something happened to the word on its journey from his lungs to his lips, and the sound that emerged was more like a squeaky “ 'Lo?”

The footsteps ceased. Something told Rudi that even though his own eyes could not yet see in the dark, other eyes could see him quite well.

“Wipe yer boots,” said a voice, surprisingly close. Rudi automatically obeyed, and he could tell by the tugging on his hand that Susanna Louisa was doing the same.

Somewhere in the gloom a light flared brightly, and then it settled and softened. Rudi heard the creak of an iron grate, and gradually he saw the outline of a piped stove. Next to it stood the familiar shape of a small person in ragged skirts. He blinked, and as his eyes adjusted, her form took further shape.

Her shoulders were wrapped in a threadbare shawl. Tufts of white hair escaped from under a faded kerchief. Her face was crossed with a thousand lines, and her mouth was twisted into what might have been a grin. Or it might have been a grimace.

“So,” she
said without further introduction. “I were not expecting visitors again so soon. What has you brought me? Gifts? Offerings? Supplication?” The tiny old woman held out her hand.

Rudi was ready for this. He shrugged off his pack, pulled it open, and drew out a small package. “Elderberry tarts. Sorry there aren't many. It's been a . . . lean year.”

“So it has,” said the witch, unwrapping the package with care. “And how is your family, young Rudolf? Is Gussie well?” She broke off a bit of tart, nibbled it, and sighed contentedly.

“Oma is well, thank you, mistress,” said Rudi. “Though we are all a bit thinner than last time I saw you.” He hoped she couldn't hear his stomach. The sight of the tarts had sent it gurgling.

But if she noticed, she made no sign. Instead, she turned her attention to Susanna Louisa.

The two stood eyeing each other—the little girl and the littler witch. Despite her extra inch of height, Susanna Louisa took a halting step backward.

Rudi knew how she felt. He got the same squirmy feeling whenever the witch turned her full attention on him. It was something like stepping barefoot into a fresh cowpat—not entirely unpleasant while it was still warm, but someplace he'd rather not stay for more than a few seconds.

“Well, missy?” said the witch. “What about yourself?”

Susanna blinked. Then, remembering herself, she hitched a curtsy. “What
about
me, mistress?”

The witch held out her hand and tapped her foot. “Gifts? Supplication? It's how things is done hereabout.”

Susanna Louisa cast a pitiful glance at Rudi. But before he could reply, her face brightened. She reached into her pinafore pocket, drew out the bunch of rock jasmine, and placed the jumble of tiny pink blossoms onto the witch's outstretched palm.

The witch regarded them with a raised eyebrow. “It'll do. Come in. Sit down.”

Having been here before, Rudi knew the way of things. He stepped toward the glowing stove and perched himself on the low footstool that faced the solitary chair. Without prompting or complaint Susanna Louisa settled herself on the braided rug, tucking her gangly legs under her.

The witch stirred the fire, and now it warmed the air and chased the dampness. “I'm sorry I hasn't any tea to offer. It's been a lean year up here, too. Those blossoms you brought are lovely to smell, but I'm afraid they doesn't make a good tea.”

“That's all right,” said Rudi quickly. “We haven't come for tea.” Which was true, strictly speaking. Still, he had held out a small hope for a steamy mug of her
chamomile. He told himself it was just as well. A sip of tea would only make him crave a bite of tart, and he had brought too few to expect her to share.

The witch settled into her chair. “What has you come for, then? Are you in trouble again already?”

“Not
trouble
, exactly,” Rudi said. “It's only—”

“It's these.” Susanna Louisa nudged Rudi. He pulled the small pouch from his pocket and handed it to the witch.

“So,” said the witch, her face crinkling into a grin, “you has one more little giftie for me?” She opened the pouch and peered inside.

“Oma said you might know what to do about them,” said Rudi.

The witch emptied the contents of the pouch into one hand. “Do about them?” She frowned. “I has no place to plant a garden up here. And this is not even enough beans to make a proper soup.”

Rudi leaned forward on the footstool and cleared his throat. “No, mistress. Look again.” He stole a glance at Susanna Louisa, a glance that said,
Keep quiet
. To Rudi's mind, even a witch might yield to the power of suggestion. If anyone was going to utter the words “magic beans,” Rudi wanted it to be the witch herself.

The witch held the beans in the dancing light of the stove's grate, causing their keyhole markings to shiver. She tilted her head and stirred the beans with a finger.

“What's this?” She
pinched one between finger and thumb, held it close, and examined it. She looked up with a start. “Where did you find these?”

“At the market in Klausen,” said Susanna. “We were—”

“Klausen?” The witch scowled. “Klausen is under my protection. Who dares bring these beans into my province?”

“A shearling girl gave them to us in trade,” explained Susanna.

“In trade? For what?”

“For one of our cows,” admitted Rudi. “And Papa is anxious to undo the bargain.” Rudi suddenly decided that asking the witch for help was neither silly nor superstitious.

“Your papa is anxious over nothing,” said the witch. “An entire cow for not enough beans to make a proper soup? 'Tis hardly a fair trade.”

“It
is
fair!” cried Susanna. “Because they're special beans. These beans are—”

“Magic?” said the witch.

“Yes!” said Susanna Louisa.

“No!” protested Rudi. “How can they be magic?”

The witch dumped the beans back into their pouch and yanked the string tight. “I'd know that keyhole mark anywhere. These beans belongs to
him
. To the witch of Petz.”

Petz. There were
many stories about the place, and they all made Rudi shiver.

Petz was the edge of the world, or so it seemed. It was the last outpost in the mountains—a place more forbidding even than the Berg, if such a thing were possible—shrouded in cold shadow and in mystery. Travelers were obliged to journey past the province of Petz if they wanted to gain entry to the foreign lands beyond the mountains. But few people ventured so far, and Rudi knew of no one who ever ventured to Petz by choice. The place was so desolate, and so brutally exposed to the elements, that it lay encrusted in everlasting ice—ice that all but imprisoned its inhabitants. Or so the stories went.

A dozen questions swirled in Rudi's head, and he didn't know which to ask first.

Susanna Louisa had no such trouble. “There's another witch?” she blurted. “And he's a
he
?”

The old woman tossed the pouch aside. “Certainly there's another witch. There's many. One for each province of the world, I expect. As for being a
he
, why not? In Petz he's called by many names. Witch-king. Conjurer.
Hexenmeister
. Some simply calls him the Giant. Call him what you please, but he's a witch, same as me, and his realm is Petz, and his magic has no business on
my
mountain.”

“I knew it,” declared Susanna. “They
are
magic beans!”

Rudi's breath caught in his throat. Did Susanna Louisa have a talent for spotting magic, after all?

“They're magic, right enough.” The witch scowled. “That keyhole is his mark.” She slid out of her chair and began to pace the room.

Remembering that this was how the Brixen Witch preferred to do her thinking, Rudi nudged Susanna, who shifted on the rug to give the old woman room to think properly.

“His mark?” asked Susanna Louisa.

The witch waved toward the pouch on the table. “ 'Tis how he knows them things that hold his magic.”

Rudi sat up straighter. Perhaps Susanna had a talent
for spotting magic, but Rudi had something she didn't have. He had experience. “You mark your magic too, mistress. Your magical possessions sing to you.”