Rupert shook his head. How would he know to meet her at Main Beach if he couldn’t hear her?
“THIS IS FUN! LA LA LA! 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. ACTUALLY, BRING LOLLIPOPS TO THE FISHING DOCK!”
There was a click, and the dial tone started again.
Rupert’s mother walked in the room with the clean laundry and set it on the kitchen table. She danced around the kitchen table and wiggled her butt, doing what she called a “funky little boogie dance,” and Rupert laughed. Watching her reminded him of all the times he used to dance around the kitchen with her when he was younger. She used to grab him under the armpits and swing him up onto the kitchen table, where he would dance until he was out of breath. Then he would count to three before jumping from the table. His mother always caught him and spun him around in circles. That is, before she was too busy to do anything but work.
His mother stopped dancing and winked at him.
“Who was that on the phone?” she asked, folding Rupert’s shirt.
“No one,” Rupert said. He tried to lie smoothly, but he could feel his cheeks and neck growing red.
His mother raised one eyebrow. Rupert was always amazed at the way she was able to raise just her left one. No matter how hard he practiced in the mirror, he could never quite get it to look right. Whenever he tried, he ended up looking like a scrunched up meatball.
Rupert looked his mother in the eye, his heart racing. “It was just Kaleigh,” he said. “From school. She got bored and wanted to talk. That’s all.”
“I don’t believe you,” his mother said. “I know you better than you know yourself, and I know you know that I know you’re lying. I don’t know what you’re up to, Rupert, but when I find out, I better like it.”
“You won’t find out, so you won’t have to,” Rupert muttered, dumping his empty cereal bowl in the sink.
A half hour later, Rupert set out for the fishing dock, wearing purple and carrying lollipops.
The witch was lying stomach-down on the dock, her face just above the water. Her blond hair was tied up in a very high ponytail that rested almost at the top of her head, and Rupert thought she looked especially unwitch-like in her short white pants and pink tank top. In fact, she looked just like any normal girl.
The dock creaked under Rupert’s feet, and the witch turned around to hush him. Rupert tiptoed the rest of the way.
“Get down,” she hissed, and Rupert obeyed.
With his face near the water, Rupert asked, “What are we looking for?”
“Here, fishy fishy fishy!” the witch called. “Come here you cute widdle fishy!”
“Are we trying to catch a fish?”
The witch turned to him, her eyes wide in horror. “Shhh! They have ears, Rupert! You’ll scare them away!”
Rupert laughed. “Well, you’ll never catch a fish like that! You think a fish is going to come running when you call it?”
“Why not?” the witch asked defensively. “My cat comes when I call it!”
“This is a fish,” Rupert said, shaking his head. “F-I-S—” But before he could finish spelling the word, the witch made kissy noises, and hundreds of fish leaped out of the water. Rupert had never seen anything like it—it was like jumping trout or leap-ing salmon or mini-dolphins—it was utterly amazing.
The witch reached out and grabbed a fish just before it descended into water, and Rupert looked at her with his mouth agape.
“I suppose you’ve never gone fishing either?” the witch said. “What a useless apprentice I’ve taken on!”
She started to walk away, and Rupert scrambled to keep up.
“Why am I wearing purple?” he said. “Does this have to do with some spell you’re going to do?”
The witch shrugged. “No, I just like the color purple.”
“And what about these lollipops?”
The witch snatched them out of his hands and popped three in her mouth. Her cheeks bulged like an overstuffed coin purse.
“I WUV WOWWYPOPS,” she hummed, and continued walking.
Rupert ran after her. She blew past Digglydare Close, and to Rupert’s surprise, she blew past Pexale Close, too. Rupert tried to ask her where they were going, but she put a finger to her lips and shook her head.
Rupert’s stomach did a kick. He had the oddest feeling—like something bad was following him—but when he turned to look over his shoulder, he saw nothing there.
Rupert caught up to the witch and took a sideways look at her face. She looked nervous, too. Rupert couldn’t help feeling that her wobbly expression was somehow related to his feeling of being followed. But when he took a breath to ask her about what was happening, the witch clamped her hand over his mouth.
“Mmmm!” Rupert said.
“I think they’re on to us!”
“Mmmm?”
“The Fairfoul Witch, that’s who!”
“Mmmm mmmm?”
“My lair must have been booby-trapped for humans. I could smell the magic when we got close,” the witch said. She let go of his mouth and grabbed his hand instead. She pulled him up the stairs that led away from the beach and up to the roads and restaurants of Gliverstoll.
“Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have put that ad in the newspaper,” she groaned. “And I shouldn’t have hung up flyers. And I definitely shouldn’t have stood on the beach with a megaphone.”
The witch leaped up, skipping steps. Rupert ran after her, but then his side started to ache, and he panted for breath.
“Come on, Rupert!” she said. “We have to get out of here, now!”
Rupert coughed and panted, and the witch paced back and forth on the steps above.
“Ah!” she said. “Okay.” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them she looked fiercely behind Rupert. “I need to get this boy to move faster,” she said.
Rupert looked behind him, but no one was there. Who was this witch talking to?
“I need a Jetpack,” she said, and she snapped her fingers.
CRACK.
In a blink, the witch held a brown over-the-shoulder bag with a zipper on top and holes on the sides.
“Is the Jetpack in there?” Rupert said.
The witch shook her head. “It-it’s not a Jetpack,” she said in a very small voice. “It’s a pet sack.”
“A pet sack?”
“A pet sack.”
“But we need a Jetpack.”
“They’re getting closer,” the witch said.
“Who?” Rupert asked, turning to look behind him again. Still, nothing.
“The witches . . . the Witches Council. The Fairfoul Witch and all her underlings.”
“Well, you’re a witch!” Rupert said. “Can’t you stop them?”
The witch opened the pet sack. “This can work. Get in.”
“You want me to get in there?” Rupert grabbed the pet sack. It was made for a medium-sized dog—or perhaps a giant cat. It couldn’t possibly fit an average-sized boy like him.
“Yes!” the witch said. “And hurry!”
Rupert zipped open the bag and curled himself inside. He contorted in a way he didn’t think he possibly could. Somehow his ankle was by his ear and his wrists were knocking his knees—and his head popped out of the bag just slightly. The witch threw the bag over her shoulder and darted up the stairs. Rupert marveled at her speed—even while carrying him over her shoulder, she was just as fast.
With every landing, Rupert thumped against the witch’s side, which hurt his twisted-up body, but he tried not to think about it. Instead he peered out of the bag, watching for the top of the stairs. They were so close! Then Rupert turned around to look behind them.
This time, he caught a glimpse of the witches. There were ab
out ten of them chasing them up the stairs. Some pointed crooked, gnobbly fingers in Rupert’s direction. Others let out menacing cackles. Rupert gulped and ducked back into his pet sack.
“They’re behind us!” he said.
“Don’t you think I know that?” the witch shouted. “Hold on! It’s about to get bumpy—”
And she leaped up the stairs so fast that Rupert thought she was flying—she skipped twenty steps and landed with a THUMP just before the top step. The witch flung the bag that held Rupert onto her other shoulder, and she sprinted toward the residential area.
A Lie, the Witches Council, and the Bar Exam
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” RUPERT ASKED.
“Trust me,” the witch said, stopping at the park.
The witch ran over to a sandbox, dropped Rupert gently in the sand, and sat down next to him. She snapped both her fingers, and the sand flew up around the edges of the sandbox. Then it converged together above their heads; they were stuck in a sand dome.
“Won’t this be a little obvious?” Rupert said. “A giant sand bubble in the middle of the playground?”
“Witches have eyesight that is five times better than the best human, but they have trouble seeing sand,” the witch said. “Well, they can see it, but it’s slippery on their eyes.”
“Slippery?”
“It’s like when you’re walking in a crowded street. You certainly see other people—but can you tell me what they look like? It’s because your eyes just see them and slip off. I have narwhal-narwhal vision, and even I have trouble seeing it. The only reason I’m better at this is because my eyes are younger and stronger.”
“It’s unfortunate that you settled near a beach, then.”
“Long story,” the witch said.
Rupert, still crouched in the pet sack, scratched his ear with his toe.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Rupert said. “If I’m working for you now, I should call you something.”
The witch bit her lip. “I . . . well . . .” she stammered. “I don’t have a name.”
“Don’t have a name!” Rupert said, aghast.
The witch’s lip began to quiver. “Oh, Rupert! I lied to you! I told you I was a witch, but I’m not! Not yet.”
“Yes you are!” Rupert said. “I never would have believed it from the way you dress, but I’ve seen you do magic. I’m twisted up in a pet sack for goodness sakes!”
“I’m not a real witch yet. I’m just a witchling. That’s why I need an apprentice—to help me practice for my Bar Exam.”
“Bar Exam?”
“Yes . . . that is my witch test. It’s coming up in four weeks. I become part of the Council once I pass my exam—and then I’ll be a full-fledged witch, and I’ll finally get to pick my name.”
“Pick it?”
“Of course. That’s the best part, silly. Until then, I guess you can call me Witchling Two. That’s what Nebby and Storm call me.”
Rupert raised his eyebrows. “And who are Nebby and Storm?”
“They’re my witch guardians, silly! The Nebulous Witch and the Storm Witch.”
Rupert scrunched his face. “Who?”
Witchling Two stuck her finger in the sand. She wrote THE WITCHES COUNCIL in big, swoopy cursive. Then underneath, she wrote:
Top Witch:
THE FAIRFOUL WITCH
The Undercat:
THE MIDNIGHT WITCH
Council of Three:
THE LIGHTNING WITCH
THE THUNDER WITCH
THE STORM WITCH
The Underbelly:
THE STONE WITCH
THE NEBULOUS WITCH
THE HIBBLY WITCH
THE COLDWIND WITCH
THE SEA WITCH
Witchlings (not technically Witches Council . . . yet!):
WITCHLING ONE
WITCHLING TWO (ME!)
WITCHLING THREE
WITCHLING FOUR
WITCHLING FIVE
“Make sense?” Witchling Two said.
Rupert shook his head no. “Not even a little bit.”
“Okay. So the Fairfoul Witch is the top witch. The head honcho. The cherry on the sundae, the cheese on the nachos, the sauce on the pasta—”
“I get it,” Rupert interrupted.
“She is in charge of the Witches Council, and everyone has to listen to her. She is the strongest and oldest witch.”
“I’ve read about her,” Rupert admitted. “She’s the only witch anyone ever writes about in the papers.”
“That’s because she’s the boss.”
“So no one ever crosses her?”
“Exactly. And she has an Undercat, named the Midnight Witch. She’s really scary, too, but not half as terrifying as the Fairfoul Witch. The Midnight Witch has been dying to overthrow the Fairfoul Witch for ages. Everyone knows it—she tries to get rid of the Fairfoul Witch all the time.”
“And the Fairfoul Witch doesn’t get mad?”
Witchling Two shook her head no. “She thinks it’s amusing. The Fairfoul Witch knows it will take centuries of practice before the Midnight Witch is powerful enough to actually beat her.”
Rupert pointed to the Council of Three. “What’s that?”
“The Council of Three answers to the Midnight Witch. Then the Underbelly consists of young witches.”
“How young?”
“The youngest one is eighty.”
Rupert’s eyes bugged out. “Eighty!”
Witchling Two nodded. “Since they’re relatively new, they just get to vote on things. They’re kind of the bottom of the heap. But each member of the Underbelly gets her own witchling to raise.”
“So you belong to the Nebulous Witch?” Rupert said, pointing to Witchling Two’s chart.
“Yes. And the Nebulous Witch used to belong to the Storm Witch back before the Storm Witch got promoted to the Council of Three. So in a way, Storm is . . . she’s the human equivalent of my grandfather.”
“Grandmother.”
“Yes—Godbrother. That’s what I said.”
Rupert rolled his eyes.
“But how are the Undercat, Council of Three, and the Underbelly chosen?”
“Well it mostly goes in age order—the oldest witches have seniority, so they get the better positions. The younger witches just have to wait.”
If the youngest witch was eighty, Rupert couldn’t even imagine how old the oldest witch must be. Rupert stared at Witchling Two’s chart, looking at all the witches. And then he suddenly got embarrassed. He didn’t want to ask, but he couldn’t help but notice that there were only women witches.
“Can you tell me,” he said sheepishly, “where baby witches come from?”
“Oh, the same place human babies come from,” she said. “From an egg.”
“An egg?” Rupert snorted.
Witchling Two nodded. “In Witch Primary School, I had a class on humans. I know all about how they work. The mommy human lays an egg and has to sit on it for three years. Then a human hatches.”
Rupert opened his mouth to correct her, but then he didn’t really see the point.
“Er . . . good thing you have primary school then,” Rupert said.
“Definitely!” Witchling Two said, nodding vigorously.
Rupert stared at the Witches Council list that Witchling Two drew in the sand. She was number two out of five witchlings. The more Rupert thought about this, the more confused he became. Until he finally asked, “Why did you contact a human? There are four other witchlings training for their exam, right? Why wouldn’t you just ask them for help?”
“Erm . . . well . . . the other witches were all too busy,” she said quickly. “So, I thought I’d get help from a human instead.”
“But I can’t help you with magic,” Rupert said.
>
“Sure you can.” She patted Rupert’s head, which was still sticking out of the pet sack. “I have a potions book, and so you can help me brew. And you can quiz me on magic, even if you can’t do it yourself. Here—ask me to conjure something up.”
“How about you conjure me out of this pet sack?”
“What?” Witchling Two said. “I didn’t catch that.”
“Conjure me a chocolate milkshake with a very long, bendable straw.”
Witchling Two snapped her fingers. “Milkshake,” she breathed. “Milkshake.”
CRACK.
The ground mumbled and rumbled and grumbled. Then it groaned and moaned. The Earth splintered beneath Rupert—the sand underneath him began to jerk. Then his pet sack popped up to the top of the sand dome and Rupert face-planted into the ground. He swallowed a mouthful of sand.
“An earthquake!” Rupert choked, spitting the sand out of his mouth. “I asked for a milkshake!”
“I told you I need practice!” Witchling Two shouted.
“Well do something! If you don’t stop this earthquake, the sand bubble will break, and the witches will find us!”
“I know!” Witchling Two said between gritted teeth. Rupert saw a bead of sweat trickle down her round face. Witchling Two snapped her fingers. The ground still shook. Then she snapped her fingers again and again. She snapped about a thousand times before the ground quieted and fell still.
“Was that you?” Rupert breathed. “Did you stop it?”
Witchling Two shook her head. “To be honest, I think the earthquake just ran its course.”
“And how long do we have to stay in the sand?”
Witchling Two whistled, long and low. “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t intend for the Council to find out about you, but somehow they did. And now you’re in terrible danger.”
“Danger?” Rupert said. “What danger?”
“A witch has never asked a human for help before! And now the Witches Council is after you, and it’s all my fault!”
She started to sniffle, and he didn’t know what to do to console her. He thought maybe he should pat her on the back, but he was still all twisted up inside the pet sack, so he settled on awkwardly rubbing his head against her arm. “There, there,” he said.
The Only Thing Worse Than Witches Page 3
