The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

by Lauren Magaziner

  “Guess what?” she said.

  “What?”

  “There’s a Council meeting tomorrow!”

  “Uh . . . great?”

  Witchling Two put down her dicing knife. “You know what this means?” she said, grinning.

  “That . . . the witches are going to meet?”

  “Nope. Well, yes . . . but nope! It means that we’re going to be able to sneak into the Witches Council lair tomorrow!”

  Rupert perked up. “Really?”

  “Of course, sillyshorts! If they’re in a Council meeting, all of them will be occupied for forty minutes, and we’ll get a peekity peek at those WHATs.”

  “Tomorrow!” Excitement—or nervousness—was churning in his stomach.

  “Yes, yes. The day after this one,” Witchling Two said. “Hold your britches—”

  “Horses,” Rupert corrected.

  “Right!” she said. “In the meantime, help me with this potion, will you?”

  Rupert shed his jacket, snapped on some latex gloves, and walked over to where Witchling Two was chopping with a very sharp kitchen knife. “What do you want me to do?”

  “First, tell me a story.”

  “A story?” Rupert said. He tried to remember one of the bedtime stories his mother used to tell him, but the only one he could think of was Runny Bunny Steals Your Money, the story of a kleptomaniac bunny who sneaks into houses in the night and runs away with humans’ wallets in his mouth. Somehow, he thought Witchling Two might not appreciate that one.

  “Yes, a story. Tell me what Mrs. Fribbleknickers did today—you’re looking off.”

  Rupert leaned against the table and explained the day’s events to Witchling Two, recounting every detail of the poisonous potions that he could remember. As he talked, he held open a plastic bag for Witchling Two as she shoveled the rhubarb into it.

  “Hmm,” Witchling Two said, when Rupert had finished speaking. “She really does seem like a witch, doesn’t she? Sounds like she had some really powerful juice.” She wiped her hands on her floral apron. “Speaking of powerful juice, Rupert, I think we’re ready to brew our first potion together.”

  Rupert smiled. They still hadn’t brewed any potions yet. Instead, he and Witchling Two hunted for ingredients and organized them into boxes and jars every day. Now that Witchling Two finally wanted to make a potion, Rupert felt a squirmy sensation in his stomach. Part nervousness, part thrill.

  “What kind of potion do you want to make?” Rupert asked.

  “I don’t know,” Witchling Two said. “What do you want to make? We could do a sleeping potion, a forgetfulness potion, a flying potion, an invisibility potion, a brain-switch potion, or an egg salad potion, if you want.”

  “What’s an egg salad potion?”

  “A potion that tastes like egg salad.”

  “Why would I want that?” Rupert paused. Something was nagging at him. “Actually, I don’t know if I even have time to help you,” he said. “Mrs. Frabbleknacker assigned a five-hundred-thousand-word essay, due next week.”

  Witchling Two wrinkled her nose. “That’s a lot of words. I think. That’s probably like ten dictionaries worth of words. Or even a penguin’s worth!”

  “Is that a lot?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  Rupert slumped down at the table and took out a notebook and pen. “Start working on whatever potion you want, and I’ll join you later.” Rupert tapped his pencil against his notebook. Then he tapped it against his teeth, enjoying the clicky noise of clatter-bumping. Then he tapped it against his head, which is a proven way to get your brain to move faster.

  Then he got a burst of inspiration and started scribbling:

  Glowworms by Rupert Campbell

  There are many kinds of worms. One type is a glowworm. They glow. There are also wiggly worms. And fat worms. And squirmy worms. Those are the kind my mom hates. There are long worms and short worms. If you cut a worm in half, it becomes two worms. If you cut a worm in thirds, it becomes three worms. But you shouldn’t cut worms because they have feelings, too. You also shouldn’t step on a worm because it will smush on your shoe, and it will take a long time to clean its guts off. Worms are not spaghetti.

  Rupert counted the words. One hundred. He only had four hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred words to go.

  He wrote another sentence, and frowned. How in the world was he going to write so much about worms? He was already running out of things to say.

  He felt Witchling Two’s hand on his shoulder, and when he looked up at her face, she was leaning over him, craning to see what he was writing. She made a hmmm noise and crumpled her nose again.

  “You got that part from me,” she said, pointing at the part Rupert had just written. Rupert leaned over his paper and read the last few sentences over again:

  Do you ever notice that words sound funny if you say them too many times? Especially Worm. Worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm, worm.

  “Well I’m just trying to fill up space,” Rupert said. “Five hundred thousand words . . .” he said wistfully.

  Witchling Two banged her hands on the table, and Rupert jumped. Then she threw her head back and cackled, as all good witches do. Rupert patiently waited while she laughed so hard that she lay on the table and panted. He was starting to grow fond of her surprises—she always said the oddest things and never did what Rupert expected her to do. That was one of the reasons he loved being her apprentice.

  When Witchling Two stopped panting, Rupert said, “Why are you laughing like that?”

  “Because!” she said. “Put your books away—you’re going to help me with this potion.”

  “What about my paper?” Rupert asked.

  “Don’t write it . . . you won’t have to.” Witchling Two tied her hair up in a ponytail. “We’re brewing something to help you with Mrs. Frabbleknocker.”

  Rupert walked over to her cauldron and peered inside. It was big, copper, deep, and completely empty.

  “What do we need?” Rupert asked.

  Witchling Two put a hand to her temple—in serious-beyond-serious thought. “We’re going to need some of the ingredients I brought from my special supply. Hmm . . . we’ll need . . . a goose egg! Aaaaaand a moose leg! Aaaaaand a loose peg!”

  Rupert fetched a goose egg from a cardboard box and an enormous moose leg from a giant jar in the corner of the room—though he was almost too horrified to touch the preserved leg. It was extremely heavy, and Witchling Two needed to help him drag it across the basement. Eventually, with her help, he threw both the egg and the leg into the cauldron. “What is a loose peg?” Rupert asked. “I don’t think we have any of those.”

  Witchling Two walked over to a stool in the corner of the basement, flipped it over, and wiggled the legs. On the third try, the leg creaked. Witchling Two hoisted the stool above her head, marched over to the cauldron, and tossed the entire chair in.

  Then she grabbed a canoe paddle from Rupert’s mother’s old boat and stirred the potion until it started to crackle. Rupert and Witchling Two stood over the sizzling, sputtering, spitting cauldron. It hissed and coughed like a choking possum. Witchling Two dipped a finger into the dark oily potion and stuck her finger in her mouth.

  “Delicious! Like cabbages in gravy! With a hint of pickles.”

  Rupert cringed. “Are you sure this is safe to drink?”

  “Positutely! I’ve brewed this one before with Nebby. It needs to sit for five days, but after that, it works great, I promise.” Witchling Two dipped a ladle into the potion and scooped a cup into Rupert’s empty water bottle. She pushed the potion into his arms with a wild grin. “Next Monday, make sure to take this right before Mrs. Frubblekunckle collects the papers. And think about her while you drink it.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me any m
ore than that?”

  “You’ll see,” she said, in such a way that Rupert knew the conversation was closed.

  Don’t Smell the Flowers

  THE NEXT DAY, SCHOOL WAS A NIGHTMARE. AT first, everyone was so nervous about their papers on glowworms that no one even paid attention to Mrs. Frabbleknacker as she taught about the psychology of phobias. But Mrs. Frabbleknacker noticed—and she wasn’t happy. As punishment, Mrs. Frabbleknacker made Kaleigh read an entire novel in front of the class to cure her fear of public speaking, Francis sit in a janitor’s closet all day to cure his fear of small spaces, and Allison coddle a tarantula to cure her fear of spiders. Allison ran from the classroom crying.

  Rupert was glad when school was over. He went home immediately and changed into black clothing and packed his backpack with emergency items—a flashlight, a water bottle, a whistle, a first aid kit—just in case.

  He looked at the clock—Witchling Two was already five minutes late.

  Rupert began to pace around his room as he thought about her. He was starting to get more nervous for Witchling Two’s Bar Exam than she was. They only had a week and three days until her exam, and she hardly seemed any better. Every time Rupert asked her to practice spells or her WHATs, she insisted on gathering ingredients or brewing. In only two days, they had brewed—and tested—fifteen successful potions, from flu-remedy potions, to hair-restoration potions, to sneezing potions, to tongue-twister potions, to flying potions—they had even made egg salad potion.

  He knew Witchling Two just wanted to practice what she was good at, but he needed to do a better job at keeping her on task. She simply had to pass the WHATs and the spells portion of the exam—otherwise his only friend would be kicked out of Gliverstoll forever.

  He tapped his pencil nervously on every object he encountered until Witchling Two popped up by his window. Rupert ran to let her in, and she toppled into the room with a goofy grin.

  “Lair, lair, lair, lair! Lair, lair, lair, lair! Luh-luh-luh-lair, luh-lair! LAIR!”

  “All right, all right,” Rupert said. “I get it!”

  “We have to start walking over there in a half hour,” Witchling Two said. “That’s when their meeting officially starts. We have to get in and out. No talking to anyone. No stopping to smell the flowers. In and out. Got it?”

  “In and out,” Rupert repeated. He twisted his hands. “Okay. Okay. This is going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

  “Okay? We’ll be great!”

  Rupert fidgeted.

  “So I’ve drawn a map of the Witches Council lair,” she said, laying a drawing of two wiggly circles and a star on Rupert’s bed. He laughed. It was the worst drawing he had ever seen.

  “What is this?” Rupert asked.

  “We’ll start . . . here!” She pointed to the left edge of the paper. “Then we’ll walk to there,” she said pointing at the star. “Got it?”

  “No,” Rupert said, trying to make sense of the drawing.

  Witchling Two jumped up. “Just follow me,” she said. Rupert followed her downstairs, and he locked the door behind him. He wondered for a moment whether he should leave a note for his mom—she would be home in an hour and probably wonder where he went—but he decided that if he told her about his excursion to the Witches Council lair, he would have to tell her about his apprenticeship. And if he told her about his apprenticeship, his mother would forbid it, and Rupert wasn’t ready to stop being Witchling Two’s friend. So he left no note and hoped for the best.

  Rupert followed Witchling Two down Piggleswumpfer Court to Yammerstop Way. He saw the fish-and-chips restaurant down the hill, and his eye gravitated to the giant boulder behind the restaurant—the boulder that could only be seen at this street, at this angle. Witchling Two grabbed Rupert by the collar and pulled him behind a lamppost.

  Rupert gulped, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Why are we stopping?”

  Witchling Two shook her head and pointed at the boulder.

  “What is that?”

  “That’s where we’re going,” she said. “The Council meeting starts in platypus minutes.”

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  Witchling Two flicked her hand. “Easy, peasy. When a witch turns ten, she’s allowed to take a tour of the Council’s lair for the first time. I know exactly where they have their meeting and exactly where they keep a record of all the WHATs. That’s where we’re headed—to the Filing Room!”

  “Right,” Rupert nodded.

  “Stay close to me,” Witchling Two said. “We can’t get separated.”

  “Right.”

  “And remember, don’t smell the flowers.”

  “Right, we’re in a rush.”

  “Yes, but don’t smell the flowers.”

  “Right,” Rupert said. “Hurry. Yes. Got it.”

  “Yes, but don’t smell the flowers.”

  Rupert stamped his foot. “Okay!” he said. “I got it already!”

  Witchling Two smiled. “Good!” she said, and then she ran.

  Rupert followed her as closely as he could, sticking to her back like sweat. Together, they ran down the rest of Yammerstop Way, past the row of coral houses. They ran past the playground (though Witchling Two stopped for a moment to put a handful of sand in a jar). They ran past the quilting store. They ran past Kaleigh’s purple house (to which Witchling Two squealed, “Ooh! I want a house like that one!”). They ran past the fish-and-chips restaurant. And then they ran immediately left, to a grassy area where the boulder sat.

  Rupert and Witchling Two panted for breath as they walked up to the giant rock. Witchling Two pressed her hand against the boulder, and it rolled aside, revealing an archway that led straight into the heart of the hill.

  With two enormous gulps, they walked inside, and the boulder rolled back into place behind them. Rupert stared—the passageway had linoleum floors, pictures of fuzzy, smiling baby animals on top of powder blue wallpaper, and bright lights.

  “This is . . . not what I expected,” Rupert said.

  Witchling Two grabbed his hand, and they briskly jogged down the hallway, which led into a domed room with twelve golden chandeliers. Cawing blackbirds flew across the room then rested on the arms of the chandeliers, peering down at Rupert and Witchling Two with their beady eyes. Across the domed room were two carved doors and an archway. Rupert wandered to the center of the circular room, where he could hear the echoes of voices.

  “Ve haven’t been ushering enough of ze tourists!” a gruff-sounding woman said. “Ze past month ’as been too slow on ze business.”

  “It’s been fine,” a soft but firm voice said. Rupert recognized the voice—it was Nebby. “I’m more concerned about Justice Column Forty-six. The amendment for this article is still up for debate.”

  “Pish posh!” said a nasally voice. “I’m more concerned about Witchling Two gallivanting with that human!”

  “There is no reason to believe that she is still with the human,” Nebby said coldly.

  “We caught her! We chased her! How can you deny this?”

  “That was one time. There is no evidence that indicates she’s still with the boy, and now you’re spreading rumors and lies.”

  There was a hissing sound, then a gavel, then cries of Order! Order!

  Witchling Two put a hand on Rupert’s arm. “We don’t have time for this,” she whispered.

  “They’re talking about us,” Rupert mouthed back.

  She shrugged and walked toward the archway, beckoning for Rupert to follow her. They walked into an archway and found themselves in a tunnel made entirely of dirt. The cold air made Rupert shiver. For a while, he kept up behind Witchling Two, but he soon found himself slowing down until finally he stopped.

  His nostrils twitched, and he sniffed. He smelled the most beautiful smell that anyone in the world had ever smelled. />
  “What is that?” he said. “What is that wonderful—”

  He looked to the left and spotted a bed of flowers. He walked over to them and leaned closer. They were the most delicate shades of red, violet, pink, and indigo, and Rupert reached out to touch one . . .

  Footsteps came closer from around the corner. “What are you doing?” shouted Witchling Two.

  Rupert sniffed. “Come smell these!” he said. “They are splendid!”

  “I told you not to smell the flowers!”

  Rupert inhaled. “Oh, how glorious!” he said. “How wonderful! How magnificent! How astonishing!”

  Witchling Two hoisted him up into a piggyback and began to run down the hallway with him. “I told you not to smell the flowers. Never trust a pretty flower. They are terribly sneaky things . . . as sneaky as bunnies.”

  Rupert twisted and turned, trying desperately to get out of her piggyback grip, but she held on to him tightly.

  When she rounded the corner, she put him down. She dragged him down a torch-lit hallway, and with the flickering firelight, it was starting to look like a real witch’s lair. Finally, they stopped at a wooden door.

  Witchling Two whisked him into a small room with many stacks of crumpled up papers, and Rupert finally began to realize that the smell was gone— and he had a thundering headache.

  “What was that?” he groaned. He felt groggy, like he couldn’t tell whether he was sleeping or awake, or what was up and what was down.

  “Flowers,” she said, shaking her head. “They’re our security traps. We witches can’t smell them, but they’re meant to catch human intruders. They put you under a spell, and the moment you touch the flowers, you’re caught in a net.”

  Rupert put his hand to his temple. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

  “I couldn’t very well leave my apprentice at the mercy of a flower bed, could I?”

  Rupert licked his lips, looking around the room. “So this is the Filing Room?”

  “Sure is!”

  “You call this filing?” Rupert said, staring at the stack of crumpled up papers on the floor. He looked around the room. There wasn’t a filing cabinet in sight—just a whole bunch of papers on the ground and a small, wooden table by the door.