The Brixen Witch (3 page)

He added kindling to the fire. “I’ve seen you chase away the little girls instead.”

Oma winked at him. “Oh, they always come back. Those girls are sweet on you, especially that tanner’s daughter. You brought out water and a plate of tarts for them once, and now we’ll never be rid of them.”

Rudi’s face burned, and it wasn’t from the heat of the fire. “They were thirsty. I couldn’t let a troop of silly little girls go thirsty.”

“Certainly not,” said Oma. “Funny you should
ask about sticky tunes. It’s been many a long year, but once or twice in my life I’ve heard the witch’s tune.”

Rudi let out a breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.

“I heard it again last night,” said Oma, studying his face. “And I can hear it now.”

Rudi gaped at her. For a fleeting moment he was relieved to know the music wasn’t a phantom in his head. But just as quickly, a more foreboding thought crowded in.

It must be the coin.

“Do you mean to say—”

“I don’t see how,” said his grandmother, still rocking and creaking. “You took nothing from the witch’s lair. Did you?” Her gaze was steady.

Rudi said nothing. Didn’t Oma know it was bad luck to talk of such things?

“But I must say, that tune I hear can be nothing else. I’d know it anywhere. And no good can come of it, I’ll tell you that right now. It’s a good thing you didn’t take anything from up on that mountain. But someone did. Someone nearby. You see, the witch enchants her treasure so that it sings to her. A tune so maddening that any fool who steals even the smallest trinket would rather return it than endure its torment. And believe me, child, the Brixen Witch will not rest until a possession of
hers is returned. Trouble such as that you do not want.”

Rudi swallowed hard, and into his mind’s eye popped the images of the night. The flash of color, and the face in the window. “Oma, have you ever … seen the witch?”

“Me?” She gave a little
hmpf
. “There’s very few have actually seen the witch. She prefers not to show herself.”

Rudi sighed. Perhaps what he had seen last night was his imagination after all. A figment caused by the storm.

Then Oma shook a finger at him, and the fire flared on the hearth. “But I’ve seen her messenger. And by the saints, to this day I wish I’d seen the Devil instead. That thing you did not take? Get rid of it. Carry it back up the mountain and leave it there. Do it today. Better yet, do it now. The weather is turning, and once the snows begin, no one will be venturing up that mountain until spring. You don’t want to be haunted every night from now until spring, do you?”

THE STORM had left a clear, cold sky and a layer of ice that shimmered in the waning moonlight. In an hour’s time the autumn sun would rise above the peaks, chase the shadows from the valley, and melt the ice.

But Rudi had not even an hour to waste. Oma had been right: The weather was turning. October in the mountains meant that autumn could become winter in a single shuddering breath. No traveler wanted to be caught on the Berg when that happened.

Oma had nearly pushed Rudi out of the cottage. He’d barely had time to pull on coat and boots. The golden guilder had hummed as if alive when he pulled it from the depths of his trunk, so loudly that Rudi had feared it would wake his parents.

“Remember,” Oma whispered, “take it high
enough so that you’re out of sight of the village. Leave it where the witch’s servant can find it, but away from the trodden paths. You don’t want some other poor fool to stumble upon it and start the trouble all over again.”

Rudi nodded and jammed the coin deep into his pocket. “I promise,” he told her. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

She shook her head. “It’s bad luck to talk of such things.”

Oma handed Rudi his walking stick. She tugged his collar tighter around his neck, looked him up and down, and then patted his cheek. “I’ll tell your mother you’ve gone fishing.” And she nudged him out the door with more strength than an old woman ought to have.

Rudi wished he could have stayed indoors until proper morning came. But in a moment’s time he was glad to be the only one up and about. With every tick of the steeple clock the enchanted tune grew louder. Soon there would be no denying the awkward truth to anyone within earshot: His pants were singing.

Rudi stepped with care, for every surface was encrusted with ice. He grasped the railing of the footbridge and pulled himself across. If he slipped into the frigid river Brix below, his journey would be finished before it had begun.

Cursing under his breath, Rudi skidded off the bridge and skated along the path. The coin continued to wail, so that Rudi feared the noise would spook the sure-footed cows that now lumbered up the hill to graze in the near meadow.

Once he reached the forest, the walking was easier, for the sleet had not much penetrated the canopy of pines. But Rudi knew that the high meadow would be treacherous. He was glad to have his walking stick.

Rudi shivered as he emerged from the woods. The sun was higher now, and the glaciers that clung to the western peaks shimmered, nearly blinding him. The Berg was the highest of those peaks, but it did not shimmer. Hewn from sharp black rock, the Berg swallowed whatever light tried to touch it. No trees grew on it. Snow would not cling to its slopes. Only the uppermost summit ever saw sunlight, surrounded as it was by the other mountains. The witch lived in the Berg for that reason, or so said the legends. She preferred the darkness, and the cold, and the solitude.

But the sunlight had not yet reached the bottom of the valley, and that was why Rudi shivered. The tune in his pocket had been growing ever louder, so that now Rudi glanced from side to side as he walked. He imagined that at any moment, the
witch’s servant might fly down to smite him and grab the coin.

Rudi looked around. The path had emerged from the forest not above the tree line but at a side clearing, at a place where the view was clear all the way down to the village. The path had been chosen long ago for just this reason: here the hunters and mountaineers of the Brixen Valley could establish their position on the landscape, and satisfy themselves that no disaster had befallen the village in their absence.

Today it only meant that Rudi had to climb higher.
High enough so that you’re out of sight of the village
, Oma had said. He trudged along the path that led up and around the edge of the forest, but then he stopped.
Away from the trodden paths
, Oma had also said. Rudi surveyed his surroundings and considered his options.

The trail wound upward and meandered across the slope, then back again in a series of switchbacks. Eventually it led to the top of the tree line and onto the high meadow. Rudi imagined that it, too, had been laid out long ago, probably by cows, who by nature kept to a horizontal path whenever possible.

“Well, I’m not a cow,” said Rudi to himself, because he eyed a shortcut. He wondered how he’d never noticed it before. It was a bit steeper than the worn path, but it would take him in a straight line
up to the high meadow and sufficiently out of sight of the village. He was a good climber, and he had a good stick, and now the sun was high enough to melt the ice and make his going less treacherous. Besides, the singing in his pocket was grating on his nerves—like a spoon on slate, as Oma had said. He ached to be rid of the coin.

So Rudi stepped off the path and started upslope, whistling in an attempt to drown out the coin’s wailing and calm his own jangled nerves.

But the slope was steeper than it had appeared from the bottom. Before long, Rudi’s breathing became labored, and his legs grew wobbly, and he seemed to be not a single step closer to the edge of the meadow above. With each step the ground became looser and more rocky, and soon there was no soil to speak of at all, but only scree—piles of loose, sharp rock that shifted under his feet.

Rudi tried to find a better route, but by now he was entirely surrounded by the scree. Even going back the way he’d come would be tricky. If he slipped now, there would be nothing to break his fall except the trees far below. He had no choice but to keep climbing.

The coin sang louder. Rudi scrambled and stumbled. If the witch’s servant found him now and truly did want to smite him, there would be no escape, and he’d have no defense.

Such a thought caused Rudi’s heart to pound in his chest and his breath to catch in his throat. His hands became moist with sweat, so that he could barely grasp his walking stick.

Then Rudi slipped. His stick caught at a bad angle and broke in two, the bottom half skidding away down the mountain. Rudi caught himself with his free hand and one knee, which both pounded onto sharp rock. He groaned in pain, and as his ears filled with the sound of his own voice, they heard something else. It might have been the wind. But it sounded like laughter. Wispy, malevolent laughter.

The blood would have frozen in Rudi’s veins, if such a thing were truly possible. He scrambled to his feet as best he could and brandished the stump of his walking stick.

The laughter grew louder, and it seemed to come from all directions, so that Rudi had no idea which way to turn. One twist of his body and he’d lose his footing again, and that would more than likely be the end of him. He’d career down the scree, all the way to the forest clearing, and quite likely the loose rock would follow him in an avalanche and bury him forever.

In a surge of dread and panic, Rudi reached into his pocket and his fingers hunted for the golden guilder. “Curse the witch and her servant,” he thought. “Let them have their precious coin.”

But Rudi could not draw out the coin. It was tangled in the folds of his pocket, as if refusing to come out into daylight.

Then Rudi slipped again. He started to slide, and he gained speed, and he rattled down the mountain in a hailstorm of rock and gravel, the cursed golden guilder still in his pocket.

To his surprise, he did not feel pain, though his body scraped and bounced along the scree. He felt only a desperate fear of being buried with the coin. Finally, he managed to yank the guilder from his pocket. The trees loomed up at him from below, growing nearer and larger with every heartbeat.

Just before the trees interrupted his slide, Rudi let go of the coin.

And that night, after Rudi had managed to drag himself home, scraped and bruised and shaken, snow fell on the mountain, heavy and deep and silent.

RUDI WOKE with a gasp. Clutching his blankets under his chin, he dared to steal a peek at the window.

There was nothing there but the pale gray light of an April dawn.

He fell back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take three slow, deep breaths, in an effort to ease the pounding in his chest.

This had become a daily ritual for Rudi.

But he had only counted to two when a sound intruded, and set Rudi’s heart thumping once more.

“Pssssht!”

Rudi lay very still. He held his breath and half opened one eye. A huge moony face loomed just inches from his own.

“Oma?”

“You’re talking in your sleep again,” she hissed. “I can hear you all the way into the far corner of the loft.”

Rudi gulped. “You can? What did I say? And what do you mean,
again
?”

Oma sniffed. “You know what I mean. Come downstairs and make us some tea.”

Rudi followed obediently, casting one last look toward the window. Once they were down the stairs and the kettle was on the fire, Oma motioned for him to sit down.

“Do you know what I saw yesterday on the riverbank?” she said, scooting her chair closer to the grate.

Rudi was too tired to venture a guess, but Oma didn’t wait for an answer.