One Witch at a Time

by Stacy DeKeyser

  Still staring, Roger nodded slowly and backed away. Then he ducked under the barrier rope and dashed toward home, scattering bean pods in his wake. Rudi heard his voice over the rising wind. “Konrad! Wait’ll I tell you what I just saw!”

  Oma motioned for Rudi to retrieve the egg from the grass and hand it to her. “Master Smith? Time’s wasting, and I’m getting wet.” She wiggled her fingers through the hole in her pocket. “My best apron,” she muttered.

  Marco weighed his axe and circled the beanstalk, taking its measure.

  Blinking the raindrops from his eyes, Rudi hurried to pull Oma outside the rope barrier and up the slope of the riverbank. Agatha scooped up Not-Hildy and followed them as thunder rolled across the sky.

  Finally Marco was ready. He spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and hefted the axe, adjusting his grip on the thick wooden handle.

  Rudi held his breath.

  In one powerful motion Marco lifted the great axe from his shoulder and swung it through the air.

  At that same moment there came a blast of thunder that shook the ground.

  FUM!

  Rudi and Agatha exchanged a horrified look.

  WHACK. The axe head struck the beanstalk and sliced through a vine as thick as Rudi’s arm.

  FUM!

  “Oma,” croaked Rudi, “that is not ordinary thunder.”

  “I didn’t think so,” said Oma, her gaze fixed on Marco. “Master Smith,” she said calmly. “Keep going.”

  Marco swung the axe again, and again, working his way around the huge tangle of vines. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK.

  FUMM!

  “He’s coming!” Agatha hissed in a desperate whisper.

  Marco’s brow furrowed upon hearing these words, but he did not look up from his task. With a sleeve he wiped sweat and rain from his face, and he swung the axe again.

  WHACK.

  The beanstalk began to buckle.

  FUMM!

  WHACK.

  Then, from high overhead, Rudi heard a crackling and a rustling. It grew louder and closer, gathering itself into a rush, and then a roar, as the beanstalk came crashing toward the ground.

  Rudi shut his eyes and covered his head. Beside him, Oma gasped. Agatha stifled a scream. Not-Hildy squawked. A blast of wind hit Rudi as the beanstalk fell, knocking him off his feet. The ground shook as if the sky itself were falling.

  Then all was still. The rain stopped. The wind died away. Not a single bird dared to sing. Even the river itself seemed hushed.

  Away in the distance, thunder rumbled and faded away.

  Rudi opened one eye, and then the other.

  Before him lay the beanstalk. It had fallen across the river, narrowly missing the footbridge, and created another bridge, of sorts. It snaked away across the near meadow and toward the Berg, its upper end disappearing in the pine forest that carpeted the lower slopes of the mountain. On the riverbank a ragged green stump remained, hacked and torn. Bean pods and leaves littered the ground. The stakes supporting the rope barrier had been ripped from the ground by the force of the fall.

  Rudi scrambled to his feet and helped Oma up. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” she answered, brushing leaves from her skirts, the golden egg still in her hand. “Right as rain. Well done, Master Smith.” Then she frowned. “Master Smith?”

  Rudi’s stomach knotted. “Marco?” He took a step toward the fallen beanstalk. “Where is he?”

  “Under here!” came a voice from somewhere near the footbridge.

  Rudi and Agatha scrambled down the riverbank in the direction of the voice. After a few frantic moments Marco popped out of the water, clinging to the fallen beanstalk.

  “Lucky thing I fell into the river,” he said, water running in rivulets down his face. “That beanstalk would’ve crushed me if I’d been on solid ground.” He pulled himself along the vine toward the riverbank, where Rudi offered a hand to hoist him up. “Is everyone all right up here?”

  They all nodded. Not-Hildy squawked in Agatha’s arms.

  “He’s gone,” declared Agatha, scanning the horizon in all directions. “Brixen is saved!”

  Rudi heaved a sigh of relief.

  Oma tilted her head, listening. “Let’s hope so. I don’t trust that foreign witch.”

  “How’s that, mistress?” said Marco, wiggling a finger in his ear. “Did I hear you mention a—”

  Oma waved a hand. “Your ears is waterlogged, Master Smith. I can’t tell you how grateful we are. You’ve saved the village from that hazard.”

  “Two hazards, or so it seems,” muttered Marco, winking at Rudi. “Glad to do it, mistress.” And he tipped his dripping cap to Oma, who nodded in reply.

  Rudi offered his hand stiffly. “Thank you,” he told Marco, and he meant it, yet somehow it bothered him to say it.

  “Ah,” said Marco, looking past Rudi. “Here they come.”

  And so they were. The villagers of Brixen had emerged from their cottages and workshops, and now they streamed toward the riverbank and the fallen beanstalk with their baskets, sacks, and pails.

  The mayor was one of the first to arrive. He took a position on the footbridge, raised his arms, and cleared his throat.

  “It seems fitting to say a few words on this noteworthy occasion,” he said, to scattered groans and coughs. “Master Smith here single-handedly disposed of the gigantic mysterious beanstalk, which had become a danger and a hazard, despite also being very delicious.”

  There was a smattering of applause.

  The mayor beckoned to Marco to join him on the bridge. “On behalf of the entire village, I thank you. We are forever in your debt, for you are a true hero of Brixen.” As the crowd applauded, the mayor shook Marco’s hand, then grabbed his soggy shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. Marco blushed. The crowd cheered.

  “And now,” announced the mayor, “it’s harvest time!”

  The crowd cheered again. They scampered across the footbridge, settled along the fallen vine, and began harvesting the beans from the fallen beanstalk that had once extended all the way to Petz.

  Rudi felt a nudge at his elbow.

  “So,” said Oma. “What do you think of our new hero?”

  “Happy for him,” said Rudi immediately. “Very happy, good for him. I’ve always liked Marco, good for him.”

  “You’re babbling,” Oma said.

  Rudi’s face burned.

  “Don’t worry.” She patted his shoulder. “Your time will come. Though, when it does, you may wish you were still a bystander.”

  20

  By nightfall the news had spread through the entire village. Not even the biggest crop of beans after the leanest winter in memory was enough to distract the townsfolk of Brixen when an interesting rumor surfaced.

  It had started with Roger. He’d told his brother Konrad, and had been overheard by their friend Nicolas, who’d found Rudi, who had escaped to the milking barn in search of solitude.

  “The foreign girl has a hen that lays golden eggs!” said Nicolas, breathless. “Konrad said that Roger said you saw her lay one. Did you?”

  Rudi had known this was coming, but it vexed him anyway. And it had happened more quickly than he’d expected. “Did I see the foreign girl lay a golden egg? No.”

  He carried the milking stool to Rosie’s stall.

  “Very funny, Rudi.”

  Rudi settled on the stool and rubbed Rosie’s flank. “Who else did Roger tell?”

  “Nobody,” said Nicolas. “Only Konrad, but he’s Roger’s big brother, so Roger had to tell him. That’s all.”

  Rudi squinted at him and waited.

  “Well . . . ,” said Nicolas. “Of course they told their mama, but what can you do when your mother asks you a question? And mothers and fathers aren’t allowed to keep secrets from each other, so I expect their papa knows too. And I think Mistress Tanner and Mistress Gerta might have heard Roger telling his mother. But that’s all.” Nicolas took a deep breath. “Nobody, really.�
��

  There was no point in getting upset. It didn’t change anything. Rudi still had one more errand to run. It would be tricky, though, now that news of the golden egg was spreading. People would object to having this newfound wealth taken from them. Rudi guessed that Oma would tell him to climb the Berg at first light, so that he and Agatha might escape the attention of curious neighbors asking where they thought they were going with that there chicken.

  “I’m busy,” Rudi said to Nicolas without looking up.

  “But—”

  “I don’t know where it is.” He knew what Nicolas wanted to ask. “My Oma put it away. Someplace safe.”

  Nicolas’s shoulders slumped. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.” He turned and left the barn.

  As he tended to Rosie, Rudi breathed deeply. The cows could always tell if he was upset or worried, and it worried them, too. And poor Rosie was already spooked. Just as Marco had reported, she’d given barely a drop of milk all day. Even now her udder was soft, not full and swollen with milk as it ought to be. Nearby, her newborn calf watched patiently. If the calf didn’t have a meal soon, she would starve, and that would be more than Rudi or his family could bear.

  All because of the foreign magic.

  Rudi knew it was up to him and Agatha to take the Giant’s treasure back where it belonged. And it would be even more treacherous this time, because this time the Giant would be waiting for them.

  He wished he could set out before daybreak. But it would be folly to venture up the Berg in the dark.

  And what if Rudi failed in his task? He could hardly bear to think of what might happen then. Why was such a huge task left to him, anyway? He was only thirteen years old. Why couldn’t someone else do it? Marco was strong and brave. He was a true hero. The mayor had said so. Marco was the perfect person for the job.

  Rosie gave a long, low Mooooo.

  “Sorry, Rosie,” said Rudi. He gently rubbed her bristly coat. “It seems neither one of us is in the mood.” On his way out of the barn, Rudi caught a glimpse of Zick-Zack. She arched her back and hissed at him, then darted away into the shadows.

  Inside the house, the mood was no better. Oma rocked in her chair as if to keep the rug from flying away. Mama fluttered around the kitchen, trying to prepare a meal of mostly beans. Out the back window Rudi saw Agatha tending Not-Hildy, who was quarantined in a little pen of her own, away from the view of inquisitive neighbors.

  Papa shook his head at the collection of baskets piled high with beans. “Plenty of food at last, but what good will it do if the cows won’t milk?” he said. “Oma, are you sure we can’t sell that egg at market? Think of what it could buy. We’re on the brink of disaster here.”

  “Sit down to dinner, and don’t ask me such a thing.” Oma scowled and rocked. “Unless you want a true disaster on our hands.” She motioned Rudi closer. “Tomorrow morning, at first light,” she whispered.

  And there it was. Rudi wished he could refuse to go. But there was no refusing Oma.

  What would the Brixen Witch think, seeing him in trouble yet again? She’d probably think that he was the wrong person to be dealing with such things.

  More and more, Rudi thought she might be right.

  There came a knock at the door.

  It was the mayor, red in the face and twitchy in the fingers. He nodded a greeting to Mama and Papa. But when he noticed Rudi, he removed his hat and bowed hastily. “Good day, Master Rudi,” he said.

  Rudi felt the color rise in his face.

  “Now what?” said Oma, not bothering with niceties.

  The mayor rotated his hat in his hands. “Well, mistress, there seems to be a bit of scuttlebutt regarding that remarkable hen of yours.” His gaze darted around the room.

  “What are you looking for?” Oma snapped. “Do you think we’re the type of folk who keep chickens in the house?”

  “Certainly not!” the mayor said. His hat rotated more quickly. “At any rate, I’ve had a number of inquiries about that chicken. It seems the good folk of Brixen want to know what’s to become of the remarkable egg that your remarkable chicken laid on the riverbank this afternoon.”

  Oma stared at him. Her rocking chair creaked. The mayor squirmed. Oma looked pleased.

  The mayor tried again. “You see, mistress, it was a difficult winter, if you’ll recall.”

  Oma continued staring and rocking.

  “And the townsfolk, you see, are wondering about this newfound bounty, which quite clearly came about because of the mysterious gigantic beanstalk . . . which, seeing as it was so large, was more or less everyone’s business. . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” said Oma, running short on patience. “Everyone has had their share of beans, have they not?”

  “Oh, yes, mistress,” the mayor hurried to say. “Everyone is enjoying them so much that they’re already getting sick of them!” He cleared his throat. “So you see, it’s not the beans, really. It’s the other thing. From the hen?” He scanned the room once more.

  “What about it?”

  The mayor took a deep breath. “Some folk are saying the egg should be sold, and the proceeds divided up amongst the whole village.”

  Oma rocked in her chair so hard, it inched across the room. The mayor took a stuttering step backward.

  “Now you listen to me, Master Mayor. That hen is not mine, and neither is her egg. And no one else in Brixen can make any claim to them neither. They’re going back where they belong. You think that beanstalk was trouble? Believe me, you don’t want to see what kind of trouble that egg can cause.”

  The mayor nodded nervously. The hat turned. “What shall I tell folk, then?”

  “Tell them whatever you like. Tell them I fried the egg and ate it for dinner.”

  The mayor raised his eyebrows. “Yes. Well. I’ll think of something to tell them. All my best to you, Master Rudi.” He bowed once more, plopped his hat onto his head, and left the house.

  Oma rocked forward, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut after him. She muttered to herself, thinking. Then she looked up, surprised. “What are you looking at?”

  Rudi cleared his throat. “Where is it, anyway?”

  With a sly grin, Oma reached into her mended apron pocket, drew out the golden egg, and held it up for everyone to see. “They can say all they like about it, but it won’t matter a bit. At first light tomorrow it’s going back where it belongs. Isn’t that so, Rudi?”

  Rudi nodded miserably. Mama gave a worried tsk. Papa blew his nose.

  There came another knock at the door.

  “Now what?”

  Rudi opened it. “Oh, hullo, Roger.”

  Roger held out an empty cream pitcher. “I’m here for my reward.”

  Rudi scratched the back of his head. “Sorry. But it seems our cows aren’t milking at the moment. We’ll have to owe you.”

  “Oh,” said Roger, but his disappointment didn’t last long. “Can you come out and play?”

  Before Rudi could answer, they heard a loud squawk through the back window. Then a voice: “Oh dear!”

  “Agatha?” said Mama. “What’s wrong, child?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, exactly,” said Agatha, appearing in the window. “It’s just . . . this.” She held up another golden egg.

  “Put that away!” cried Oma, but it was too late.

  Roger’s eyes grew wide. The empty cream pitcher dropped to the floor with a crash, and he dashed out the door.

  “Konrad! Wait’ll I tell you what I just saw!”

  21

  Rudi could not sleep. For the second time in as many days, he lay awake in his bed, waiting for morning and thinking about the errand he did not want to run. His knapsack lay just inside the front door, the two precious eggs wrapped and hidden deep within.

  The villagers had heard about the second golden egg. They had visited the Bauer farm in a steady stream all evening, trying in turns to cajole Oma, or argue, or threaten her, into handing over the eggs. But Oma would have none of it. She cajo
led and argued and threatened right back.

  Still, they tried. The mayor argued that things had changed in the short time since his first visit. It was no small feat for a hen to lay two eggs in one day, not to mention two such remarkable eggs. With a little luck, every family in Brixen might have their own egg before long. What could it hurt to wait, and return Not-Hildy to her owner in a week or so? “We needn’t tell him what his hen’s been doing,” the mayor added with a knowing wink. “He’ll never be the wiser.”

  Mistress Tanner nearly pushed her squalling baby through the open window, demanding to know how Oma could be so selfish as to keep those eggs for herself, without regard for a helpless babe who could not speak for itself.

  Even Marco the blacksmith, who had witnessed for himself the enchanted nature of the chicken and her eggs (and who, in any case, should have known better than to argue with Oma), declared that if seven-year-old Roger could earn a silver florin just for finding a bean, he himself should have at least one golden egg for relieving the village of the mysterious beanstalk. Especially now that Oma had two.

  And so it went into the night. Finally, Papa had barred the door and latched the shutters tight, and ordered Rudi to keep his slingshot close at hand against the possibility of a more serious confrontation.

  Perhaps, Rudi had thought, Marco was not the perfect person to deal with witchy business after all.

  But now, as he lay in the dark, Rudi was convinced that he was not the right person either. He thought of the awkward respect his neighbors showed him, just because he’d had dealings with the Brixen Witch. At first it had made him feel important. But did he really want to live his whole life that way? Standing apart from everyone else. Being pointed at. Whispered about. And for what? So people could pester him with selfish requests, and go away muttering, or worse, if he gave them an answer they didn’t like? To think he’d been jealous of Marco, even for a moment. Marco could have the attention. He was welcome to it.

  Rudi punched his pillow and flopped onto his stomach. Why did anyone need to go with Agatha at all? She’d managed to travel to Klausen by herself in the first place, even crossing the border unharmed. She could certainly carry the magic back to Petz by herself. She even had the other beanstalk to make the going easier. She’d be perfectly all right on her own.