Schleeeoop!
I sank into the ground up to my knees. Goldie stopped just short of the mud puddle. “Golly glops! What a mess!” She plugged her nose.
It smelled like goat dung, and it looked like it, too, sort of a brownish green with streaks of yellow. A toad croaked and hopped away. I had clearly invaded her home. Well, I had no objection to leaving. I pulled my legs up, but one shoe stayed in the mud. I had to dig down to get it out. It came loose with a great squelchy slurp and splattered mud all over my face.
Goldie stifled a laugh. So I grabbed a handful of mud and flung it at her face. She stopped laughing. I chuckled and pulled myself free of the bog, then a glob of mud smacked me in the back of the head. I felt the muck dripping down my hair. I turned around to Goldie. She was brushing off her hands with a satisfied smirk.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” I said.
“What?” Goldie shifted nervously.
“War!” I flung two handfuls of mud. She shrieked and stumbled forward into the muck, but as soon as she came back up, she lobbed an apronful of mud in my face. I gagged and sputtered.
“You have a little something on your face,” said Goldie.
“That’s funny, you have a little something everywhere.” I lunged at Goldie and tackled her into the mud. We rolled this way and that while the mud squished and squelched with such a range of pitches it was nearly musical. The smell was vile, but it didn’t keep us from smearing the mud in each other’s faces, laughing so hard we couldn’t stop.
“Look!” said Goldie. “A bend in the river!”
She was right! The river was bending to the left, which was probably what had formed this bog in the first place. We slogged our way out of the mud, soggy and smelly as rotting fish guts, but neither of us minded. I didn’t think I’d laughed quite like that since…since the last time I had a friend, when Rump still lived on The Mountain.
Goldie put her muddy arm through mine, and we walked away from the river, our footsteps squelching in a cheerful rhythm.
By early afternoon, we found the rock shaped like a fish. Its curved body was poised as though jumping out of water, just as the dwarf had said.
“Now which way?” asked Goldie.
“The dwarf said north. And we were going west, I think, so…” I tried to get my bearings, but I wasn’t at all certain until something whispered in my ear. A yellow leaf drifted past me, floating along an invisible path.
“Follow the nymph!” I said. We walked around a narrow ledge on the mountainside that gave way to a steep, rocky hillside and finally smoothed to thick woods dotted with stones. Gravestones.
We instantly slowed, suddenly wary of what lay ahead.
The graveyard looked ancient. Some of the stones were crumbling, covered in lichen, and the names etched in them were nearly unreadable from so many years of rain and wind and snow. I couldn’t help but study the names as I passed.
AGATHA. BELINDA. JACOB. BERNARD.
My skin prickled as I read. People who had once been alive were now dead and buried in the ground, nothing but bones and dirt. No matter how rich or poor, how powerful or helpless, they all died.
“I don’t like graveyards,” said Goldie.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said, though my own voice trembled.
“What if we see a ghost?”
“Then we must hope it is a friendly one.”
BERTHA. HUGO. KLAUS.
The trees began to whisper.
“Do you hear that?” Goldie asked.
“Shhhh.” The whispering grew louder, like a wind rustling the leaves, except I felt no breeze.
“It’s a ghost!” whimpered Goldie.
“It’s not a ghost,” I said. “It’s the tree nymphs.” They seemed excited, or at least they were louder than I’d ever heard them before. Granny said when people die, the tree nymphs soak up all their memories and whisper their ancient secrets and wisdom to those who will listen.
I walked between the gravestones, tilting my ears toward the trees.
ROSAMUNDE. SIEGMUND. GUIDO.
I could almost hear the nymphs saying the names aloud with their tiny clicks and whispers. Then the nymphs took flight, all the leaves rising off the branches at once. They swirled around us, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Surely I could catch at least one.
I jumped and clapped my hands over the nymphs. I tried to use my cloak as a net, but the nymphs evaded me at every turn. Then they swarmed all around me, tugging on my cloak and hair. They did the same to Goldie, pulling us each farther into the graveyard, where more tree nymphs rose off their branches. Finally they all swirled up into the sky in a funnel, leaving all the surrounding trees as bare and lifeless as the graveyard. But beyond the trees lay the treasure we were seeking.
A well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Well, Wine, and Witch
The well didn’t look magical. It was overgrown with weeds and thistles, and the stones were cracked and crumbling.
“Do you think this is the right well?” Goldie asked.
I was doubtful, except we had followed the dwarf’s directions so exactly, and everything had matched his description.
“There’s only one way to be certain,” I said.
I walked to the well and leaned over the edge. The bottom was black as a cave at midnight, and I couldn’t smell anything at all. I turned the rusty stile so the bucket lowered down. There was a plish. I heaved the bucket up and looked inside. Goldie gasped.
“It’s wine, Red! Red wine!”
The nymphs swirled over the roof of the well, whispering excitedly. This had to be The Wine Well. I felt that tingly feeling I get when there’s magic around—surely this would restore Granny’s magic, her life, her youth….
“Do you think we should drink some?” asked Goldie.
“The dwarf said it would restore youth,” I said. “We’re already young. I just need to bring some back to Granny.”
“How will you carry it?” Goldie asked.
I hadn’t considered that. I had nothing in which to carry the wine, but then there was another rush and swirl of nymphs, and what I’d assumed was a nearby grove of trees was revealed to be a house, or at least what was left of one.
It was a large manor, most certainly abandoned. The shutters were chipped and hanging off their hinges, dead ivy climbed the walls and frame, and the stone chimney was only half standing.
“It doesn’t seem like anyone lives there,” said Goldie.
“No,” I said.
“But perhaps there might be a bottle or a jug inside.”
“Yes,” I said, though neither of us moved. A few nymphs settled on the roof of the dilapidated house, making it look all the more overgrown and haunted.
“You go first,” said Goldie.
I walked slowly to the door. It was cracked and chipped. The knob and hinges were orange with rust.
“I think we should knock,” said Goldie. “It’s the polite thing to do.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “We can’t go barging into other people’s houses.”
I gave a quick rap on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again, and the door fell inward. Clouds of dust billowed up as it crashed to the floor.
I covered my mouth with my cloak as the dust settled. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” I said.
“Except maybe ghosts,” said Goldie.
We walked slowly inside and the floorboards creaked beneath our feet. It must have been a grand house once. It looked as though it had been abandoned centuries ago. Everything was covered in thick layers of dust from floor to ceiling. Walls, nooks, and candlesticks were festooned with cobwebs, and the drapes and tapestries had been eaten away by moths.
A dining table was set for two with fine china and silver and crystal goblets, as though the inhabitants had just sat down to a special supper and then—poof!—disappeared, leaving their meal to rot and collect dust.
And there was a wine bottle, too. With a
cork. I took the bottle off the table. It was empty. When I turned around, something rustled and hooted. I jumped back and Goldie screamed. An owl was perched on the edge of the fireplace. He turned his head and looked at us with one amber eye.
“Hello, owl,” I said.
Hoo! Hoo! said the owl.
“What did he say?” Goldie asked.
“He said it’s not polite to barge into other people’s houses.”
“Oh, is this his house, then?” Goldie asked.
Hoo-hoo-HOOT!
“No, he said owls aren’t people.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Well then, whose house is it?”
“Albert?” called a soft voice. “Is that you?”
Goldie and I both gasped as a figure emerged from a cobwebbed corner. It was a woman, thin and pale as mist. She was draped in dust and cobwebs like a forgotten figurine on a shelf. The only bit of color on her was her lips, glistening red.
Goldie clutched my arm. “It’s a ghost!”
“A ghost?” said the woman. “No. They call me The Well Witch, whoever they are, though I don’t prefer to be called a witch. It sounds old and ugly, and I am neither.” It was difficult to tell how old she was. She had the air of something ancient, like old books, dusty and worn at the edges. Her skin was like yellowing paper, yet her voice was high and thin, almost childish. She could have been twenty or a hundred.
“Have you seen Albert?” she asked.
“Who’s Albert?” I asked.
“My love. He should have been home for supper by now. He hasn’t been well lately, you see, and I have the most delicious wine to revive his strength.” In her hands she held a crystal goblet, empty but for a puddle of red at the bottom, just the color of her lips.
“Is that wine from the well?” I asked.
“Yes,” said the woman. “It’s the most delicious wine.”
“I was told the wine can make you young again,” I said.
“Yes, it does,” said the woman. “When Albert grew old and took sick, I devoted all my powers to restoring youth and vitality.”
“And it works?” I asked, feeling the hope fluttering madly in my stomach.
“Oh, yes, as you see, I’m quite young. I’ve been young forever.” As she spoke, her face seemed to shift. It was subtle, but I thought her nose swelled a little and her lips thinned. Probably just the shadows.
“May I take some of your wine?”
The woman glided to the table and picked up another wineglass. “Follow me.” She glided to the entrance and right over the fallen door, saying nothing about it.
In the sunlight, the woman looked older than before. She had some lines around her mouth, and her eyes had crow’s-feet.
“I was old myself once,” she said, her voice just a little raspier. “I can hardly remember anything from that old, old life, except that Albert was sick. He’ll be well again once he has some wine. Where is he? He’s always slipping away from me.”
I looked around, wondering if Albert was as strange and dusty as this woman. She dipped her goblet into the bucket and brought forth the wine. “Anyone who drinks the wine will not die, but regain their youthful strength and beauty. I will gladly share it with you. I think everyone should have it.”
“We don’t need it,” I said. “We’re already young.”
“Yes, of course. Someday, perhaps. Sooner than you imagine. Aging happens so quickly, it seems. One day you’ll feel it creeping on your skin like spiders.” As she said this, wrinkles appeared around her eyes, and the folds around her mouth deepened, as though an invisible sculptor were etching them into her face. “It’s a terrible feeling to grow old.” Her body sagged. Her shoulders hunched. “Old age, sickness, and death. They’re curses. Eternal youth, that is the greatest power anyone can have, don’t you agree?” Her breathing was raspy and labored. Brown spots appeared on her skin, and the veins darkened and rose on her hands.
Goldie nodded. “Of course. Of course we agree.”
“Now I must drink. I can feel myself withering away.” The woman—now an old crone—took a drink, long and deep, and as she did, the years seemed to melt away. The brown spots faded, her skin smoothed, and her shoulders straightened. The tree nymphs rushed all around, clicking and whispering excitedly as the woman drained the goblet, almost as though they were being revived as well. By the time she had emptied the goblet, the woman was young again.
“Great ghosts!” said Goldie. “That’s incredible!”
The young woman started. “Oh! Where did you two come from?” She looked between us as though we had appeared out of thin air.
Goldie and I looked at each other, confused. “We’ve been here all along. We came for some of your wine. I wanted to take some to my granny. She’s sick.”
“Sick? Albert was sick. He should have been home by now. Have you seen him?”
“Not since we’ve been here.” Something very odd had just happened. The hair at the nape of my neck prickled. “What’s your name?” I asked. “You never told us.”
“My name?” said the woman. “Why, they call me The Well Witch, whoever they are, though I don’t prefer to be called a witch. It sounds old and ugly, and I am neither.”
“But what other name? What name were you born with?”
“Born with? I was never born. I’ve lived forever, you see, and so I have no name. Names are for mere mortals. Things that grow old and die. I do neither, because of my wine. It’s quite delicious.” She sipped more wine, and again time reversed itself. Her cheeks turned round and rosy, her waist slender, and she even shrank a few inches, so that she now looked to be fifteen or sixteen.
Goldie was transfixed. “Red, I think I know how to make Mummy love me again,” she whispered, but before I could ask how, the woman noticed us and gave a start.
“Oh! Where did you two come from?”
The cold feeling set into ice as I realized exactly what had happened. The wine had made her young again, but it had also taken away her memories. It turned back time, but only for her, and the tree nymphs soaked up the memories as she lost them with each sip.
“We came for your wine!” Goldie said eagerly. “We want to have some.”
“Of course,” said the woman. “Everyone should have it.” She held out the wine goblet and Goldie reached for it, but I yanked her back.
“Don’t, Goldie!” I whispered. “That wine erased her memory. She doesn’t even remember us.”
“I know,” Goldie whispered back. “But don’t you see? If I drink some of this wine, then I’ll be little again. Mummy adored me when I was little. She said I was the most precious thing in the world.” She turned back to The Well Witch. “Can the wine make me younger than I am now?”
“Of course,” said the woman, smiling. “Young and beautiful. That’s why I made it. Old age and death are the greatest curse of this world. Now you can break the curse.” She held the goblet out to Goldie.
Goldie wrapped her fingers around its stem. Was the wine really so bad? Maybe if I gave Granny just a sip, it wouldn’t make her forget too much—just a few years. She’d still remember me, but she’d be well. She wouldn’t die. But how much wine could I give her before she did forget me? That would almost be worse than death, for Granny to live and not know who I was.
Goldie lifted the goblet to her lips.
“Goldie, no!” I lunged and slapped the goblet away. It fell to the ground and broke in two. “Oh, what a pity,” said the witch. “That was my best goblet.”
I watched the wine seep into the ground, my heart pounding as shriveled weeds turned an unnatural green. “Come on, let’s go.” I grabbed Goldie’s hand, but she pulled away and looked at me like I was a troll. “Who are you?”
I looked closely at Goldie’s lips. They were red and glistening. A tree nymph was perched on her shoulder.
Curses. Goldie had swallowed some of the wine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Missing Memories
Goldie turned to The Well Witch and s
quinted her eyes. “Mummy?”
“Am I?” said the witch. “I suppose I could be. I always wished for a daughter, though Albert wanted a son. Where is he? He should have been home by now. Have you seen my Albert?”
“No, and you’re not her mummy. Come on, Goldie.” I tried to grab her hand again, but she wrenched herself free.
“Don’t touch me!” Goldie shrieked. “My mummy told me you’re an evil witch and you do bad things.”
How much time had been erased? Goldie looked exactly the same. She couldn’t have swallowed more than a splash of wine, which I hoped meant only a tiny bit of her memory had been taken. Unfortunately, it was the bit that included our friendship. Still, I didn’t understand why she was being so mean. She hadn’t been this way when we’d first met. Had the wine changed her nature when it took away her memories? Did she really believe I was an evil witch?
“She’s a witch, too,” I said, pointing to The Well Witch. “She just gave you wine that made you forget we’re friends.”
“Ha!” said Goldie. “I’d never be friends with someone like you!”
“Oh, yes, the wine,” said the witch. She dipped the other crystal goblet in the wine and held it out to us. “Here. Have some. It’s very refreshing.”
“Oh, thank you.” Goldie reached for the wine again, but I yanked her back by her hair.
“No thank you,” I said.
“Ouch, you mean girl! Let me go! Mummy!” She reached for the witch, who was drinking the wine again and growing younger still. Too young to be anyone’s mummy.
“She’s not your mummy,” I said. “Come on.” I dragged Goldie away from the well and into the graveyard while she pulled and thrashed and scratched.
“Let go of me! Just who do you think you are?” Finally Goldie wriggled free and ran off through the gravestones. She couldn’t remember my quest to save Granny, and she clearly wanted nothing to do with me.
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