And it did. The coin sang, and then it wailed, filling the air with piercing music.
Before he had gone ten steps, Rudi heard another noise behind him. An unmistakable grating growl that blew down the mountain on a chill wind and became a screeching in his ears, as if in answer to the coin’s wailing.
The time had come. All would be won—or lost—in the next few moments.
Fighting the urge to drop the coin and cover his ears, Rudi ran down the path toward the witch’s door, with the fiddler on his heels. He jammed the coin deep into his pocket, and was grateful to find that its song was not muffled. He hurled himself over boulders and tore through brambles.
The screeching followed him, and though it was July, the wind blew as cold as January on his neck. He plunged onward, not daring to look back.
Rudi rounded a bend. Far ahead, at the crevice’s opening, was a sight that made his heart leap.
The search party.
They were milling about, rattling their weapons, such as they were. The men of Brixen were not hunters or bowmen. They were farmers and craftsmen and merchants, and they carried pitchforks and slingshots and knives.
Rudi uttered a cry of relief as he stumbled down the path toward them. Now he would have allies, and not a heartbeat too soon. Together they might yet have a chance to defeat the witch’s servant.
As Rudi drew near, Marco stepped forward and held up his arm.
“Stay back, boy! This is a dangerous place!”
Rudi skidded to a halt. He wanted to tell Marco, Of course it’s dangerous! The fiddler is almost upon me! Can’t you hear him? But he was so winded from running, he could manage only “huh?”
Then, as quickly as it had started, the screeching stopped. Rudi turned. The witch’s servant was gone, though the air remained as cold as winter.
Quickly, Rudi patted his pocket and said, “Shhh!” To his relief, the coin quieted its music, though it continued to echo faintly in his ears. Perhaps it was a phantom sound. Or perhaps the coin did not want to be forgotten.
Marco tugged Rudi closer. “We’ve found the witch’s lair. There’s a low door within that crevice. We need someone small enough to crawl inside, and you’re just the one to do it. Take this.” He held out an axe nearly as big as Rudi. “She’s got the children in there, I’ll wager. Once they’re safely out, chop her into a thousand pieces.”
Rudi’s breath stuck in his throat. He could only shake his head.
“No matter,” said Marco. “Then just flush her out, and we’ll do the rest.” The search party nodded and shook their fists.
“No!” Rudi gasped. “You don’t understand. It’s not the witch….”
“I can help,” came a voice from behind Rudi. “I can help you destroy the witch.”
Rudi knew that voice. As if to confirm his fears, the air grew yet colder, turning his breath to white vapor.
“You again!” said Marco. “I’d know that motley shirt anywhere.” He shivered, from the sight of the man before him, or from the cold, or from both.
“Yes, it is I,” said the fiddler. A gust of wind blew, and then a spray of sleet, hissing on the sunbaked earth. “How else can I make amends for taking your precious children? I am but a servant of the witch, bound to do her bidding. But have no worries, for your children are safe.”
“Where are they? We want to see them now.” Marco stepped forward, swinging his great axe onto his shoulder.
The fiddler inched backward. “Certainly, good sir. You shall see them straightaway. Just as soon as this young fellow pays me what is mine.” He nodded toward Rudi, and his eyes gleamed. The sleet came down in sheets now, so that every man shivered and pulled up his hood.
Rudi only gulped and shook his head. Icy pellets stabbed his face. The coin lay quiet in his pocket and would stay there as long as Rudi had breath.
“What’s he talking about, Rudi?” said Marco.
“It’s the same payment as before,” offered the fiddler. “One golden guilder. He’s finally found it, good lad, and it’s in his pocket. Isn’t it?” He held out his hand.
Marco sighed. “Pay the man, boy, so we can get our children and go home.”
The fiddler took a step closer, his face barely able to contain his triumph. Rudi recoiled. The witch’s words rang in his head: If he takes possession of this coin, all will be lost.
“Wait!” Otto pushed his way to the front of the group. “How can we trust this servant of the witch? I say bring out our children first.”
The fiddler stifled a sneer. “Very well,” he said. “They are inside the cave, with the witch.” He pointed beyond them to the witch’s door.
The search party turned and regarded the low door once more.
This moment’s distraction was enough for the fiddler. He reached out and grabbed Rudi by the collar, yanking it with brutal strength. Then, with a sly grin, he reached for Rudi’s pocket, and the coin.
Suddenly, the fiddler cried out in surprise and pain. The wind and sleet ceased, and from somewhere upslope, growing louder with every heartbeat, there came a new sound.
It was the hum of a bow scraping across the strings of a fiddle.
THE SOUND of the fiddle pierced the air, noisy and sour, like an ill-tempered cat trying to sing. The witch’s servant released Rudi and covered his ears, his face twisting in anger and confusion.
But to Rudi’s ears, it was the most beautiful sound he could imagine.
The children were free.
Rudi scrambled away from the man’s grasp and searched his pocket. The coin was still there.
With a roar, the witch’s servant started up the path in the direction of the fiddle music. “Who dares to steal my magic?”
Rudi gasped in horror. He pulled the coin from his pocket, rubbing it awake. He held it above his head, and its sound carried in all directions.
The servant stopped. He turned toward Rudi once more, and his eyes were black with fury. “You!” he said. “Give me that coin.” He stepped closer, grimacing in pain, or desire, or both.
Rudi’s legs felt as if they would melt under him.
Then, from behind the witch’s servant came the fiddle music once more, and Rudi saw a flash of something in the man’s face.
Torment and indecision. The witch’s words again: Take advantage of his torment and indecision.
Rudi held the coin high and slowly backed away, toward the gathering of men standing at the witch’s door.
The servant growled, but he followed Rudi only a step before turning back again toward the sound of the approaching fiddle.
“You’re stuck,” Rudi said, though the witch’s servant did not hear him. “You can’t decide which magic to grab for. And it’s all out of your possession now.”
The sound of the fiddle grew louder. In a moment’s time, the children of Brixen came around the bend, singing an old song—a song Rudi had known by heart since he was very small. He had never really thought about the words before, but he did now.
The secret lair is cold and damp.
Has not a blanket nor a lamp.
Sing these words and count to three,
Sing these words and you’ll be free:
‘Home is where I want to be.
At my hearth with a cup of tea.’
One … two … THREE!
Behind Rudi, the search party shouted in gladness and relief to see their children marching toward them, safe and happy.
“Stop!” roared the witch’s servant. “Bring those things to me. They are mine!” He stomped in fury, but Rudi noticed that the icy air had softened to a cool mountain breeze.
Rudi held out the singing coin, which for a moment seemed to hold the witch’s servant transfixed.
Upon seeing this, Rudi’s friends hurried past, keeping a wary eye on the witch’s servant. Nicolas, the boastful boy, tromped past lugging a basket of potatoes. Clara and Petra scurried by with a cracked teapot and a coil of rope. Konrad shepherded young Roger past the servant, who stood in an agony
of indecision. Marta carried one of the babies, who buried his face in his sister’s neck. Every child carried some piece of the witch’s bounty. Even the smallest infant clutched a potato in his tiny hands. They were ordinary objects such as could be found in any kitchen in Brixen. But Rudi knew they were much more than that.
At the rear marched Susanna Louisa, with the fiddle planted under her chin and the bow nearly as long as she was tall, making a noise that drowned out everything, even the wailing of the coin. Rudi quickly closed his fist around it.
The witch’s servant shook himself as if he’d been slapped. A wicked grin spread across his face as he turned toward Susanna Louisa and stepped into the center of the path, blocking her way. “Come here, my dear, and I’ll show you how to play that fiddle,” he called, in a voice as thick as cream.
Susanna Louisa stuttered to a halt with one last screeching, echoing scrape of bow across strings. “Rudi?” she squeaked in the shuddering silence. “Now what?”
Rudi had no time to think. The servant stood between him and Susanna Louisa, barely more than an arm’s length from each of them. One lunge in either direction and he would have the fiddle, or the coin. Rudi did not want to find out what might happen if the servant had either piece of magic in his possession.
With a quick rub to set it singing once more, Rudi held the coin higher, praying he’d be quick enough to keep it away from the evil snatching hand.
Now the servant turned his back on Susanna and faced Rudi, who allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction. With his free hand, he gave a small wave. Susanna Louisa noticed.
But the servant did not. He had eyes only for the singing coin.
“Foolish boy,” he spat. “That coin is nothing but trouble for you. Give it to me and I will silence that wretched noise.”
Rudi shook his head and stepped back. Momentarily forgotten, Susanna Louisa scurried past them both, to the waiting arms of the search party.
The servant grinned at Rudi, yet his eyes flared in anger. “Why do you meddle in business that’s between me and the old woman?” He took a step closer.
“The Brixen Witch’s business is my business,” answered Rudi, standing his ground. “And theirs.” He nodded toward the search party, who were celebrating a joyful reunion with their children. “They may not know it, but they need their witch.”
The servant gave an evil laugh. “They care nothing for the witch. They’re ready to chop her into a thousand pieces.”
Rudi shook his head slowly. “Not since you proved yourself to be a liar. Now they know the children were not in the witch’s cave as you told them they were.”
“Why do you resist me? The witch’s time is past. When I rule this mountain, you will forget there ever was a witch.”
Rudi squinted at him. “What will you do about a stillborn calf when you rule this mountain?”
The witch’s servant wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be absurd, boy. You think I would bother with the tiny details of your little farming life?”
“What about elderberry tarts? Do you like elderberry tarts?”
“Give me that coin, boy, or I’ll take it from you!”
“Do it, then,” said Rudi, for now he was angry too.
But the witch’s servant hesitated. His eyes flickered to the scene behind Rudi, and he hissed with foul breath.
Just steps away, the search party stood, weapons at hand. Each man had his free arm around a cluster of children. Each child still held a bit of the witch’s magic. And in the midst of the children and their fathers, with hands on hips and a defiant look in her eye, stood a tiny old woman.
Rudi turned back to face the servant. “It seems you’re outnumbered.”
The man bared his sharp teeth and growled in anger. He lunged for the golden guilder in Rudi’s hand.
This time, Rudi was ready. He dodged out of reach and tossed the coin high over his shoulder. As it rose, it wailed more sharply than ever. Then, just as the coin reached its apex, the ragged notes seemed to rearrange themselves in the air. As it fell, the coin played a song so pure and clear, Rudi was certain the nightingale would hide in shame. The coin landed in the witch’s outstretched hand, and a breath of wind blew, warm and full of the scent of summer.
The witch’s magic had been returned to her. All of it.
The servant’s eyes grew wide, and his face grew pale. Then, having no weapon and no other choice, he turned and fled.
“No need to worry,” announced the tiny old woman, dropping the coin into her apron pocket. “He’ll not bother you anymore.”
SNOW FELL upon Brixen.
It began before dawn and continued throughout the day. It brushed against the windowpanes, piling up, inch upon inch, until the entire landscape was muffled in a cloak of silvery white.
The children hurried to finish their lessons and their chores, then bundled into boots and heavy woolens. They disappeared into barns and sheds, emerging with their sleds and their skis. The grass would not be seen again until spring, and soon the excitement of new snow would wear thin, but the first snowfall was always a cause for celebration.
And thus began another long winter in Brixen.
It had been months since the children had returned to a joyous celebration that lasted for days, with feasting and dancing and the ringing of bells. Still, every parent’s heart lurched at the memory of the time when they were gone, and no child argued when admonished to stay close to home.
Stories were told in Brixen that winter, during the long, dark nights, of frightful witches and silver spoons and magic potatoes and cursed coins.
Susanna Louisa told of how a simple rope-skipping song was really a magic incantation that released the children from their rocky prison.
“It helps if you throw magic potatoes at the crack when you sing one … two … THREE,” she added, and then she was sent to bed.
Marco the blacksmith told of how the search party came upon a frail old woman wandering the mountain, probably a lost traveler from Petz. Just in time, they’d steered her away from the witch’s door, admonishing her to leave the coin, which surely had a hex upon it. She’d thanked them for their advice, and for the collection of humble items the children gave her, which they had found in a nearby cave.
“I suppose they belonged to the witch and her servant,” said Marco. “But they can spare a few things for a poor old woman. Funny thing, though—the witch never showed herself, the fearsome creature.”
Otto the baker told of how Rudi chased off the witch’s servant, and good riddance.
“I hear tell the witch punished her servant for allowing the children to escape. He’s locked in a cave high on the Berg, closed up inside the rock. You can hear him screaming during the fiercest storms, and anyone who wanders close enough can feel his icy breath blowing out from the cracks in the rock.”
But of course they were only stories, and stories are meant to be told and embellished, until they become folktale and legend.
Though they looked at him sidelong and whispered behind his back, no one dared ask Rudi to tell his stories. He would not have told them anyway, though Rudi had stories that only he could tell. After all, he had been on the mountain alone. He had found the children in their cave. He had placed himself between all his friends and the witch’s servant. Some folk said that Rudi had met the Brixen Witch herself and that she had shared with him some of her secrets.
The witch had also given Rudi something else.
“Do you think I’ll ever learn to play this thing?” he asked one night.
“I surely do hope so,” said his father, covering his ears and clenching his pipe between his teeth. “You’re worrying the cows with that noise, even from here.”
“Give it time,” said his mother, pouring tea and passing the elderberry tarts. “But perhaps it would be best to wait until summertime, when you can practice outdoors?”
Oma rocked forward in her chair. “Why are you having so much trouble?” she whispered. “I thought that was a magic fid
dle.”
Rudi shook his head. “I think she kept that part for herself. Besides,” and he shook the bow at her, “you know it’s bad luck to talk of such things.”
The Brixen Witch Page 12
