Who was he kidding? The Fairfoul Witch didn’t care about that stuff. She could use her magic to escape—and who would believe the fifth-grade witnesses anyway?
Rupert felt sick—nauseous in the pit of his stomach, clammy sweat on his neck. The Fairfoul Witch had him trapped and cornered.
He was dead meat.
He looked up at the Fairfoul Witch again, and she seemed to be watching him with upturned lips and a twinkle in her eye. Rupert forced himself to calm down—he focused on his breathing. In and out. Inhale and exhale. The more he focused on his breathing, the calmer he got, and the more disinterested the Fairfoul Witch became.
She turned back to the board with a click of her heels and pointed to her clawed message on the chalkboard: LIFE IS FAIR, AND FAIR IS FOUL.
“This is our new class motto,” the Fairfoul Witch said. “Repeat.”
“Life is fair. And fair is foul,” the class droned.
“Louder!’
“LIFE IS FAIR, AND FAIR IS FOUL.”
The Fairfoul Witch sniffed, her grandflubbing nose twitching. “Today’s lesson is about a little boy. A little boy who broke the rules. A little boy who spends his afternoons gallivanting with a witchling. A little boy who tried to trick me.” She licked her lips. “Tell me, class, what should I do with a little boy like that?”
No one said anything.
“Today’s lesson,” the Fairfoul Witch continued, “is one that will be important for the rest of your lives. The first part is that life is fair. A little boy disobeys and sneaks?—well, he gets his proper punishment. The second part is that fair is foul.” She smiled, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth. “Punishment is not pleasant. Punishment for bad actions—though fair—is often foul. Tragic,” she said, as if she was already anticipating newspaper headlines. She loomed close to Rupert, her clawed hands outstretched like she was ready to strangle him.
Rupert dug into his backpack for something—anything—to stop the Fairfoul Witch. His fingers grazed books, pens, notebooks—his hand closed around his water bottle of sand potion. It wouldn’t work—Sandy said it was stale. He quickly undid the cap anyway.
The Fairfoul Witch loomed over him. “You’re finished!” she crowed.
Rupert took the potion out of his bag and splashed the Fairfoul Witch in the face. She howled and hissed as if her eyes sizzled. “AUGHHHHHHHHH! POTION IN MY EYES!”
Rupert dropped his backpack, ducked around her, and made for the door. His sweaty palms clasped around the doorknob—he turned the knob and kicked the door open. Outside the classroom door were nine women and four girls in black cloaks. Rupert recognized Witchling Four, the Storm Witch, and the Nebulous Witch among them. The other women, he assumed, must be the rest of the Witches Council. And the girls must be the other witchlings.
“Nebby! Storm! Please! My teacher Mrs. Frabbleknacker is the Fairfoul Witch! Help!”
But Nebby just leered at him. Storm began to cackle, and soon all of the witches were tittering, snorting, crowing, and guffawing.
He could feel his face getting hot with rage—how could he be so stupid?
This time, thought Rupert, there really is no escape.
The Potion! The Potion!
AS THE WITCHES INCHED CLOSER AND CLOSER, the taste in his mouth soured. He had dropped his backpack before running out of the classroom—the only weapon he had was himself. He lifted his hands in a boxing position, ready to sock the first witch that laid a hand on him.
The witches cackled.
“Vhat’s zat, boy?” one witch said. This witch was taller than all the others. She had short tangled black hair, a sharp pointy face, small lips, a tiny flat nose, and angry-looking eyes clouded by dark circles. “Vere you going to vhack me vith your fists?”
“If I have to,” Rupert said. “Stay away!”
The witches howled and snorted.
“I am ze Zunder Vitch,” she laughed. “I vill not be vorried by a little boy.”
“Zunder Vitch?” Rupert said. Oh! Thunder Witch! he realized.
“Let me at ’im!” shouted a hoarse voice. “I’ll smack ’em with a dead fish!”
The witches stepped even closer—so close that they were only a stride away. He had to think, and think fast. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to remember what Sandy had told him about the Witches Council. There was the head witch—the Fairfoul Witch. And then there was an underdog . . . no, an Undercat—the Midnight Witch. What had Sandy said about her? She was just as frightening as the Fairfoul Witch—and she was also dying to overthrow the head witch. This can help, Rupert thought.
“WAIT!” Rupert shouted. “W-which one of you is the Midnight Witch?”
The witches stopped in their tracks, but no one answered him. He scanned their faces for a moment, and his gaze finally rested on a plump woman with skin so white that she looked green. Her eyes were sunken, and she had warts all over.
“You dare speak my name?” she said, in a voice so quiet that it sent chills through Rupert.
“You’re the Undercat,” he said. “If you can help me overthrow the Fairfoul Witch—you could be the head witch!”
The Midnight Witch growled. “I do not team up with humanssssss,” she hissed. She ran her tongue across her front teeth and snarled:
RANK RANCID ROT
STALE SOUR STINK
FOUL FETID FILTH
BAD BRAINLESS BOY
DEEPLY DEFILES
WAYS OF THE WITCH.
Her long, fat fingers grabbed Rupert’s arm, and she dug her sharp nails into his flesh. Rupert tried to wriggle free, but other witches began to grab him, pinning him against the lockers. The Nebulous Witch stood in his line of sight, and he scowled at her—she ran a hand through his hair, holding his head back and tilted upward.
“The potion!” the witches said. “The potion!”
With one free hand, the Nebulous Witch reached into her cloak and pulled out a purple vial. She clicked open the top, and a bit of smoke clouded the air. It smelled like musty rain on a summer’s day. Rupert coughed.
The Nebulous Witch leaned close to Rupert.
“I thought I could trust you!” Rupert said.
“Your mistake,” the Nebulous Witch said. “Poor little Witchling Two—she’s all alone on Main Beach, so sad about your departure.”
“Are you going to tell her what really happened?” Rupert said. “How you betrayed me and fed me to the witches? How you poisoned me with your potion?”
“If that’s the story you want her to hear, I’ll tell her.” The Nebulous Witch smirked, and there was an evil gleam in her eyes. “Bottoms up, Rupert.”
She tipped the potion to his lips. Rupert tried to keep his mouth sealed tight. He closed his eyes and scrunched his face. The juice dripped down his cheeks, into his ears—until something sharp rapped him on the jaw, and he opened his mouth in pain.
The syrupy potion glopped into his mouth, and before he could stop himself, he swallowed.
Unexpected Effects
RUPERT FELT THE POTION SLIDE ALL THE WAY down. For a moment, he felt nothing but the cold fear that coursed through him. The witches were still holding him against the locker, and he tried to imagine himself somewhere else. He didn’t want his last moment to be this. More than anything, he wanted to find his mother and apologize—she was right about the witches all along. Except for his witchling, they weren’t to be trusted.
I’m sorry, Mom, he thought. And I’m sorry, Sandy—I wish we could have been friends without all this mess.
Rupert closed his eyes and let a tear escape. He concentrated on his breathing—in and out, inhale and exhale—until he felt calm and warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach out to his limbs.
Then he twitched.
He opened his eyes, and realized his legs were dangling. Suddenly he fell to the floor and curled up. His cheek
s trembled, and out of his peripheral vision he saw four long and stiff white hairs protruding from each side of his face. He hopped forward and saw his reflection in the mirror.
He was a rabbit.
His ears flung backward, and he scratched his face with his paws.
He looked up at the witches, but they were all looking at their hands as if they had just touched poison ivy.
“Vhat’s zis?” the Thunder Witch shrieked. “Ze potion vas not supposed to turn zis boy into a rabbit!”
Rupert hopped away from them, but they all chased him. Rupert cowered against a locker, and shuddered.
POP! he heard. POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP!
He turned around to see thirteen fluffy rabbits on the floor with him, all hopping around in panic.
“It vas ze potion!” a ginger bunny shrieked. It sounded an awful lot like the Thunder Witch, but with a much higher, squeakier voice. “Ze potion is an Untouchable!”
“We were holding onto the boy! We touched him, and he has spread the potion!” a black bunny yelped, and all the witch-bunnies hopped around in panic.
The closest classroom door opened, and the Fairfoul Witch burst into the hallway. “Well?” she said. “Is he dead?”
The thirteen witch rabbits jumped onto the Fairfoul Witch’s feet, and she screamed. A moment later, Rupert heard a POP, and the Fairfoul Witch turned into a rabbit.
The rabbit-witches leaped into Rupert’s class, and Rupert heard cries of delight from his classmates, who all swooped down to pet the fuzzy bunnies. Moments later, Rupert heard more POPs, and he peeked his head in the classroom to see twenty-six new bunnies hopping around—and no children.
Rupert backed away from the classroom. What was going on? He thought he was going to die, but instead he became a fluffy bunny. And so did the witches. And so did the kids in his class.
Rupert heard a tiny squeak from behind him. “Go!” a brown bunny said. “You know where! And don’t touch anyone—or else they’ll turn into rabbits, too!” Then the brown bunny disappeared back into the classroom.
Rupert hopped and hopped and hopped—out of his school, across the street, and down the stairs that led to Main Beach. He had never hopped so much in his life, and his little bunny heart beat wildly. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped to catch his breath. Then he hopped forward with renewed vigor.
When he reached the sand, Rupert found that it was much harder to hop. The sand slid underneath him, and it required twice as much energy to jump. Up in the distance, he saw a girl with blond hair tucked under a wide-brimmed hat standing with her pants rolled up, her calves in the ocean. She was the only one on the beach, and even from far away, Rupert knew it was Sandy.
He pushed himself to go farther and faster—he needed to get to her before the bunnies overtook the entire town. After much more hopping, he was right behind her, watching her hair sway in the wind.
He cleared his throat. “Sand Witch!” he squeaked. “It’s me!”
Sandy turned around and stared at his rabbit form. She blinked for a moment. “BUUUNNNYY- YYYYYYYYYY! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH- HHHHHHHHHHH!”
“No! No!” Rupert shouted. “It’s me! Rupert!”
“TALKING BUNNY! TALKING LYING BUNNY!” She took off her shoe and threw it at Rupert, and Rupert jumped to the side to avoid it.
“I’m not lying! It’s Rupert! Really! The Fairfoul Witch caught me! The Witches Council gave me a potion that turned me into this!”
Sandy froze in horror, a nauseated expression on her face.
“You have to help me,” Rupert said. “The witches are chasing me! Well, they’re not really witches anymore—they’ve all turned into bunnies.”
She blanched. “They’ve all turned into bunnies?” Sandy said with a shudder. “That’s the only thing worse than witches!”
“But it’s not just the witches—everyone in my class has turned into bunnies, too. And anyone who touches us becomes a bunny—soon the whole town will be full of bunnies!”
Sandy winced. “What can I do?”
“You have to turn us back!”
She shook her head. “I can’t. My spells are still rubbish, remember?”
“I’ll help you,” Rupert said. “I’ll coach you through it. You’re the only witch that can stop it. All the other witches and witchlings are rabbits right now. Without you, Gliverstoll is doomed.”
Sandy held her arms close to her chest and trembled again. “I. HATE. RABBITS,” she said through clenched teeth. “We certainly can’t have a town full of them.”
“If enough people turn into them, you might become one, too,” Rupert said. “I imagine it would be hard to fight off a horde of bunnies.”
Sandy shuddered violently. “Please stop talking about them! Just . . . let me think of an appropriate spell.”
She sat down on the sand across from Rupert and buried her face in her hands. Rupert waited patiently as she mumbled. “Honey,” she said. “And money. And funny—oh, that’s no good. Rabbit—habit. Still no good. What about people? Oh . . . steeple.”
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked.
Sandy looked up. “Trying to think of all the ways my spell can go wrong.”
Rupert’s nose twitched, and he stuck his bunny ears straight up. “We’ll be here forever, if you do that,” he said.
Sandy sighed. Then she froze, staring at something behind Rupert. He turned his head—thousands of bunnies were hopping down the steps. Black ones, white ones, gray ones, brown ones, tan ones, dotted ones, plain ones. They were pouring down like water out of a watering can, showering down the stairs. From a distance, Rupert thought the bunnies made the steps look like they were covered with a shaggy rug.
Sandy’s bottom lip quivered. “BUUUUNNN- NNYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
“GO!” Rupert squeaked. “YOU CAN’T TOUCH THEM! YOU HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!”
Sandy started to run, but then she hesitated. “You’re coming with me,” she said. “Rupert Rabbit, you had better be fast!”
A Brief Interlude from Real Bunnies
To Whom it May Concern:
We’re not that scary.
We’re actually pretty fluffy, warm, and snuggly-wuggly soft.
Okay. Sure, some of us carry nasty little diseases. And sure, the Black Plague rode in on our distant cousins—the rodents—but that wasn’t our fault. And we formally protest our horrible reputation. Consider this letter our formal complaint regarding our cruel repute. We are certain that you will take the appropriate measures to ensure that our reputation as a lovable animal will be restored.
Cordially,
Common Association of Rampant Rabbits for the Order and Triumph of Society
(CARROTS)
All the Ways a Spell Can Go Wrong
RUPERT HOPPED. AND HOPPED. AND HOPPED. He hopped as fast as his bunny legs could drudge through the sand. Sandy stood next to him and cheered him on, but the flock of bunnies behind them was moving too fast for poor, tired Rupert.
“You’ve got to keep going without me,” Rupert panted.
Sandy cringed and laid her hat on the ground. “Hop in,” she said.
Rupert jumped into her hat, and she folded it around him, just to make sure that he wouldn’t accidentally touch her. She whispered into the hat, “Hold on, Rupert Rabbit!” and then she ran as fast as her little witchy legs could take her.
Rupert jostled around in the hat, feeling very disconcerted and dizzy and frazzled. If this is what animals feel like when they’re picked up by humans, I’m never touching another one again, he thought.
Finally, the bumpy run stopped, and the next thing Rupert knew, he was being tousled out of the hat. He fell splat onto a table, where he lay with all four legs sprawled out while Sandy locked the door.
He recognized the room. They were in Sandy�
��s lair in Pexale Close—where Rupert had first met Sandy during his interview. He hadn’t been there for a long while, since the witches booby-trapped it with their magic, but it looked the same as it did before. It was still musty and smelly, like the sole of a sweaty shoe, and knickknacks were still all over the shelves. The only thing that looked different was that there were loads of spiderwebs everywhere.
“Are we safe here?” Rupert said.
Sandy nodded. “For now.” Sandy walked to her supply cabinet and pulled a piece of wilted lettuce out of the fridge. She set the lettuce in front of Rupert, and then she sat down on a stool.
Rupert jumped forward and began to nibble at the greens.
“What am I going to do, Rupert?” Sandy suddenly cried. “I’m not a good enough witch to save anybody in the town, let alone everybody!”
“I know you can do it,” Rupert said with his mouth full of lettuce. “And Nebby and Storm believe in you, too.”
Sandy peeked at Rupert through her fingers.
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked.
“I can’t look at you,” she shuddered. “Those ears! That tail! That twitchy nose!”
Rupert hopped behind a stack of books. “I’m hidden so you don’t have to look at me anymore. Just listen to my voice—I’ll coach you through this.”
“Okay!” Sandy said. “What do I do, Rupert?”
Rupert poked his head above the books so that he could catch a secret glance at Sandy, but she screamed.
“DON’T. DO. THAT,” she said. “GO AWAY AGAIN!”
Rupert ducked back down.
Sandy cleared her throat. “I need to think of how to phrase my words so that they won’t mess up. But the only words I can think of that don’t sound like anything else are orange, silver, and month, but I don’t see how any of those relate to the spell I need.”
“No,” Rupert agreed, “they don’t.”
Just then, scratching sounds came from the door. Rupert knew the noises came from a boatload of bunnies trying to get in. He looked at Sandy in panic, and she collapsed on the table. “There have to be more words that don’t rhyme!”
The Only Thing Worse Than Witches Page 12
