But Oma seemed to think otherwise.
“Sit and wait,” she said to his broad back. “I suppose you needn’t worry about rats chewing through your metalworks. But how will you feel when one of your beautiful fat twin babies is bitten?” Oma folded her arms and tapped her foot, and waited.
Rudi, and all the villagers within earshot, held still and waited as well.
Marco turned toward Oma once more. His face had gone pale. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Hmph!” said Oma. “That’s what I thought.” She turned away from Marco the blacksmith.
And now the conversation had come to an end.
Oma beckoned to another man in the crowd, a wiry bald man whose mustache was as wide as his face.
“Did you hear all that, mayor?” she asked him.
“Aye, mistress, I heard,” said the man. “What do you think?”
“How should I know? You’re the mayor.”
The mayor furrowed his brow and pulled at his mustache. “I think tomorrow night, then?”
Oma nodded. “Tomorrow night.”
And so the town meeting was called to order at sunset the following day.
Rudi and his family arrived in time to hear the mayor’s gavel striking. The room was already full of people, and the debate was already under way.
“My children have been afraid to go outdoors,” someone was saying. Rudi recognized the voice of Not-So-Old Mistress Gerta. “Even on the sunniest of days. Then one morning a rat fell out of the rafters, and so the children ran back outdoors. Now they play in the middle of the lane, where they can see whatever might be coming toward them. I fear that one day they’ll be struck by a cart.”
“Seven sacks of flour,” announced Jacob the miller. “That’s how many have been gnawed upon and spoiled by rats. How many more before the summer is out? Soon enough no one will have bread to eat.”
Even Rudi’s mother had something to say. “I keep a spotless cottage. I scrub the floors, beat the rugs, wash the linens. And yet there they are, as happy to be among us as in the barn under the manure. I don’t know what’s gotten into the creatures.”
Several villagers responded with sympathetic murmurs and nods.
“We need Herbert Wenzel,” crackled a thin voice beside Rudi. “Someone needs to go to Klausen and fetch him.”
The voice was Oma’s. And though Rudi himself had barely heard the words, the entire room fell silent.
“Herbert Wenzel?” said the mayor from the platform. “The rat catcher?” And then, meeting Oma’s steely gaze, he cleared his throat and banged his gavel. “Of course! The rat catcher. Because this is nothing more than an ordinary, disgusting infestation of rats. Who better to deal with it than an ordinary, disgust—er, a professional rat catcher?”
Rudi glanced sidelong at Oma. The mayor was proposing exactly what she had suggested the day before: If ordinary measures got rid of the rats, then there could be no enchantment.
Not in so many words, of course. It was bad luck to talk of such things.
“A rat catcher? What would that cost?” blurted Marco the blacksmith. “A pretty penny, I’ve no doubt.”
Oma stepped forward and narrowed her eyes at Marco. “And how are those fine children of yours, Master Smith? Healthy, I hope?”
Marco the smith gulped and said to the room at large, “I think perhaps Old Mistress Bauer is right. It’s time to call in a rat catcher.” And then he nodded toward Oma with recently acquired respect.
Jacob the miller spoke up again. “No one is saying it won’t be costly. But it’s already costing me a pretty penny. Seven sacks of flour they’ve ruined, and more to come, I’m sure. Might as well throw money into the river. Herbert Wenzel provides a service. He’ll earn every penny we pay him.”
Again the voices crowded the air, each with a different opinion.
The mayor banged his gavel, which did nothing much to calm the crowd. “We all agree this cannot continue. It’s time we called in an expert.”
The crowd murmured and muttered. Oma crossed her arms and chewed the inside of her cheek.
The gavel again. “Master Smith has a point as well. Does anyone know how much Herbert Wenzel’s service might cost?” The mayor looked around the room.
Otto the baker climbed onto a chair. “A pretty penny is right enough. My cousin lives in Klausen. He told me once that’s what Wenzel charges: a penny a rat.”
“He charges by the rat?” said Marco. “In that case, I say each household should pay for the rats caught within. That’s fair.”
Mistress Tanner stepped out of the crowd and addressed the burly blacksmith. “And how is that fair? I live next door to you, and I happen to know that whatever rats are in my woodpile came from your woodpile.”
The blacksmith drew himself up to his full height. “Is that so? I’d say it was the other way around!”
Rudi half worried, half hoped it might come to blows, though he knew it would be a lopsided fight. No one stood a chance against Mistress Tanner.
“Now see here!” The mayor pounded his gavel, his voice barely heard above the discussing and the arguing. “This problem belongs to all of Brixen. We will divide Herbert Wenzel’s fee among every household. All agreed?”
“Agreed,” came the answer in ragged unison from the crowd.
“Master Otto,” said the mayor, “would you be willing to venture to Klausen?”
The baker nodded. “I can leave at daybreak and be back in three days’ time.”
“It’s decided, then,” announced the mayor. “Good Otto the baker will fetch Herbert Wenzel, the rat catcher of Klausen. I suggest we all start counting our pennies.”
And he brought down the gavel with a bang.
THREE DAYS later, Otto the baker returned home to Brixen as promised, accompanied by Herbert Wenzel, the rat catcher of Klausen.
That same morning, Oma sent Rudi up to the roof to patch any holes he might find in the thatch. But his father had performed that same task only the day before. It was possible that Papa had missed a gap or two, but Rudi suspected Oma might have another purpose for pushing him up the ladder.
Then Oma mentioned (when his mother was out of earshot) that as long as Rudi was on the roof, if he happened to see any travelers coming up the road from Klausen, he should climb down and tell her.
And so, by the time anyone else in Brixen knew of the rat catcher’s arrival, Oma had already invited him in and learned the names of his ferrets (Annalesa and Beatrice), how long he’d been in the trade (“Thirty years now, and I still have all my fingers!”), and how many lumps of sugar he liked in his rosehip tea (two, thank you).
Rudi’s mother set to work preparing a tray for the visitor, but she appeared to be distracted. Finally, she said, “Pardon me, Master Wenzel, but are you sure that needs to be in the house?” She tilted her head toward a small hutch in the corner of the room. It was made of wood and wire, and it was only partly covered by an empty burlap sack.
Herbert Wenzel nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, mistress, for certain they do. They gets terrible fretful and lonesome if they can’t see me. But don’t you worry. Anna and Bea are the quietest, cleanest creatures you’ll ever see.” And Herbert Wenzel crouched and waggled a finger between the wires of the hutch. The ferrets chortled and rubbed their faces against his finger.
Rudi knelt beside him. “Do they bite?”
“Oh, no, they never bites people,” said Herbert Wenzel. “The hand that feeds them and all that. Here, see for yourself.”
So Rudi slid the tip of a finger between the wires of the hutch, and the two ferrets sniffed it, and examined it, and nibbled it gently. He couldn’t help but laugh.
“Rudi! Must you?” said his mother, and he wondered if she’d nearly reached her limit of tolerating small furry creatures in her house, caged or not.
“It tickles,” he said. He reached in farther and rubbed the top of one soft head.
Rudi’s mother sighed heavily.
“Lovely
little things,” said Oma, wrinkling her nose. “Now tell me, Master Wenzel, I imagine you’re keeping quite busy this season, what with the overabundance of vermin hereabouts. You must be up to your earlobes and eyeballs in rats.”
Upon hearing this, Rudi’s mother pushed the tray into Rudi’s hands and announced, “I must be off. I’m sure Old Mistress Gerta needs me. For something.” And she hurried out the door, barely able to conceal a shudder.
“My daughter-in-law,” said Oma. “A bit queasy when it comes to talk of unpleasant things. But she bakes a lovely elderberry tart, don’t you think? It’s my own recipe.” She motioned for Rudi to offer the tray.
Herbert Wenzel rubbed his finger on his shirt and helped himself. “Well, mistress, I can’t say as I’ve been busy. As a matter of fact, it’s been right quiet in Klausen this summer, so I was a bit surprised when Master Otto came to inquire about my services.” He popped a tart into his mouth.
Oma rocked in her chair. “You don’t say? So, then, why do you suppose the little beasties have chosen to visit Brixen in such numbers?”
“Oh, that’s always hard to say. Mayhaps they heard about the good cooks here in Brixen.” Herbert Wenzel reached for another tart and laughed at his own joke, but Oma didn’t so much as smile.
“Or”—he tried again, swallowing his bite—“mayhaps an extra litter or two came to town on the coal cart or some such … and you know how it is with rats.” He leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice. “They multiply like rabbits.”
“Ah,” said Oma. “Reasonable explanations, then.” She shot Rudi a look.
Herbert Wenzel tipped his head. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everything has a reasonable explanation.” He slurped his tea and sighed contentedly. “Unless, of course, someone’s done something to vex the Brixen Witch.”
Rudi gulped, but Oma scowled at him, and so he remained silent.
“Still,” continued Herbert Wenzel, “in all my years at the trade, I’ve never seen such a thing. Rats doesn’t seem to be the witch’s type of doing, if you know what I mean. I’ve always thought her hexes were more … poetical. Snow in July. Two-headed calves. That sort of thing.” The rat catcher leaned back and rested his hands behind his head. “No, mistress, take it from me: You’ve nothing here but an ordinary, disgusting infestation of rats. I’ll have it cleaned up in no time.”
Just then Rudi heard voices outside, and a moment later there came a knock at the door.
“We have every confidence in you,” said Oma to the rat catcher. And then she turned to Rudi. “Master Otto has fetched the mayor, I suppose?”
Rudi looked out the window and nodded. “Master Smith is here as well. Shall I brew more tea?”
“They haven’t come for tea,” said Oma. “Open the door.”
So Rudi did, and after polite introductions and curious glances at the hutch in the corner, the talk turned to the business at hand.
He’d need to size things up, of course, but Herbert Wenzel supposed he could clear the village of most every rat in ten days’ time. He would set traps wherever he could, and use the ferrets everywhere else. His rate of pay was a penny a rat.
“I must say, though,” added Herbert Wenzel upon seeing the beet-colored face of Marco the smith, “that most times, people thinks they have more rats than they truly has. That’s just the way of people. They see one rat and right off they imagine there’s twenty. So let me take a look around. I could be finished in less than a week.”
“Back up a minute,” said Marco. “Did you say most every rat? I should think at that rate of pay, you’d get rid of every one. All you need is to leave two behind, and poof! We’re right back where we started. Don’t be thinking we’ll call you back time after time to do the very same job.”
Herbert Wenzel the rat catcher stood up tall and lifted his chin. “I’m an honest tradesman, sir. I’ve been at this job for thirty years—a job very few would take on, if you don’t mind my saying—so I know whereof I speaks. No one can get rid of every last rat. I wish I could give you such a promise, but it’s not possible. Rats is that kind of creatures.”
Otto the baker put his hand on Marco’s shoulder. “In all my visits to Klausen, I’ve never heard a word spoken against Master Wenzel. Besides, we can deal with a few rats. It will be a relief and an improvement over what we have now.”
“You don’t want to solve one problem only to cause another, Master Smith,” said Oma from her chair. “Get rid of every rat, and where will the fleas go? Rats are a part of life, sorry to say.”
Then, as if to punctuate Oma’s words, the coals settled on the fire, and a startled rat scuttled out and across the room, to the noisy consternation of the ferrets in their hutch.
Herbert Wenzel sprang to action. “Hold this, boy,” he ordered Rudi, tossing him the burlap sack.
Oma (who was spry when she wanted to be) jumped out of her chair, grabbed her broom, and handed it to the rat catcher, who brought it down in the corner of the room with a WUMP. He held the bristles tight against the floor for a few seconds, then gave one last decisive jab.
No one dared to move.
After a few seconds, Herbert Wenzel lifted the broom tentatively. Then he motioned for Rudi, who stepped forward, holding the open sack as far away from his body as his arms could reach.
The rat catcher pulled on a pair of thick gloves, bent down, and produced the result of the battle, dangling by its tail and quite dead. He dropped it into the sack.
“I’d say we’ve called in the right man,” announced the mayor. “Let me do the honors.” And he pulled a penny from his waistcoat pocket and handed it ceremoniously to Herbert Wenzel the rat catcher.
“Why, thank you, your honor,” said Herbert Wenzel with a bow. He took the sack from Rudi and tied it closed. “Well done, boy. It always makes things easier to have a helper on the job. I shares one-fifth of my earnings when I has a helper. Are you game for the task?”
Rudi’s eyes grew wide. He’d never earned a real wage before.
“You ought to take that up with his father,” said Oma, settling back into her chair.
Then came a cooing noise from the hutch in the corner.
“Would I be able to work with the ferrets?” asked Rudi.
“Why, of course,” said the rat catcher. “That’s what my little dears is for. They loves to catch rats. And I can tell they like you already.”
“Your mother would not approve,” warned Oma, and Rudi knew she was right.
And yet he did not stop the words from spilling out: “I’ll do it.”
Herbert Wenzel smiled and held his hand out to Rudi. “Congratulations, boy. It seems as if you’re hired.”
AND SO THE next morning, Rudi became the rat catcher’s assistant.
He learned to handle Annalesa and Beatrice, so that they quickly grew to trust him and obey the sound of his voice.
Then, beginning at Rudi’s own house, Herbert Wenzel and his ferrets instructed Rudi in the rat catcher’s trade.
“First we gets permission from the master and mistress, because we has to pull up some floorboards.” Herbert Wenzel looked to Rudi’s parents, who stood in the doorway with arms crossed and forlorn expressions on their faces.
Papa nodded solemnly. “We’ll attend to the milking, then. Good luck.” With that they hurried out and shut the door behind them.
Herbert Wenzel surveyed the room, and produced a crowbar from his bag. He commenced prying up two of the wide floorboards, one at either end of the room. He laid them carefully across the rug, lit a candle, and then knelt alongside one of the exposed lengths.
“See how the joists run crosswise with the floorboards? They makes perfect little tunnels for rats.” Herbert Wenzel held out the candle and motioned for Rudi to kneel beside him and look into the space beneath the floor.
Rudi ventured a careful peek, more than half expecting a rat to jump out at him from the darkness. But all he saw was a series of parallel channels, created by the th
ick foundation beams that lay side by side beneath the floor, about half an arm’s length apart, from one side of the room to the other.
“So now we works together,” said the rat catcher, “you, me, and my little dears taking turns—and we sends the ferret in at one end of the tunnel, and the rats bolt out the other, and we catches ’em with these.” Herbert Wenzel held up a large net and an empty wire cage. “Which end of the tunnel do you want?”
Rudi felt the blood drain from his head.
The rat catcher burst out in a great guffaw and clapped Rudi on the back. “That’s a joke for the new helpers, young master. I can never resist seeing the look on lads’ faces. Yours was right up there with the best.” And chuckling to himself, Herbert Wenzel stood and carried the net and cage to the opposite side of the room.
“We’ll work our way across, one joist at a time. Now, you just bring out my Annalesa nice and gentle, and set her into the first tunnel. She’ll know what to do.”
Rudi did as he was told.
Annalesa had a long body and short legs, and her pale fur was soft as a rabbit’s. She looked something like the weasels and stoats that Rudi often spied on the meadow, but she had a gentle disposition, and she chortled as Rudi rubbed her head and lifted her out of the hutch.
Rudi set the ferret into the opening of the floor. Herbert Wenzel waited at the other end, holding the net. Annalesa immediately disappeared into the darkness, and Rudi could hear her muffled progress across the room as she scrambled along between the joists. A few seconds later, she popped out at the other end and into Herbert Wenzel’s waiting hand.
“Nothing there,” said Herbert Wenzel. “Send her down the next one.” And he released the ferret, who bounded back across the rug and toward Rudi. He scooped her up and sent her again into the darkness beneath the floor, this time one joist to the right.
In short order they had worked halfway across the room. Annalesa was clearly enjoying her game of back-and-forth, but she produced no rats. Rudi was secretly disappointed. He was hoping to see (from his safe position on the opposite side of the room) what the docile Annalesa would do when confronted with a surprised rat.
The Brixen Witch Page 4
