and soon they were clapping in unison.
They began to chant. “Rudi, Ru-di, Ru-di!”
He jumped.
But his timing was off, and immediately the rope became tangled at his feet. The girls dissolved into fits of giggles, but then they started clapping again, and the rope was turned once more.
“Ru-di, Ru-di, Ru-di!”
He inhaled deeply, and this time he watched the rope carefully, and timed his leap perfectly. He skipped the rope while the girls clapped out the rhythm and chanted his name, and then they sang out once more:
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!
Just as the girls yelled “THREE!” Rudi laughed, and he lost his rhythm. The rope slapped his ankles and stopped.
The girls erupted into applause once more, and behind them Rudi made out one or two mothers standing in their doorways, doing the same. His face burned, but then he gave them all a sweeping bow. He was having too much fun, and he decided he didn’t care who saw him.
“Who’s next?” he called. He took Clara’s end of the rope and dutifully turned it until every girl had had her turn. Then they all tumbled around the corner and into the square, where they dipped their cupped hands into the fountain for a cool drink.
“Rudi?” said Susanna Louisa, wiping her chin with her sleeve. “Is the witch’s chair real? You know—the one in the song?”
Rudi considered her question. The song was an old one, and he had known it by heart since he was very small. Just like the legends of the Brixen Witch and her treasure, he had always assumed it was nothing more than a story. But now …
“I’m not sure,” he said, because he remembered being eight years old, and knew that when an eight-year-old asks a question, she wants to be told the truth. “It could be real, I suppose. I’ve never seen it, though.”
This seemed to satisfy Susanna Louisa, who ran off to join her friends. But Rudi was not satisfied. He decided he would ask Oma, because something told him she would know the answer, and she would tell him the truth. That was one trait old people and children held in common, Rudi observed: Neither was afraid of the truth. He wondered why people changed in the middle years of life, and why they changed back again later. Then he wondered why people bothered changing at all, if they just came back to the way they’d been in the first place.
His musings were interrupted by a shrill noise.
Rudi blinked and looked about. The little girls were scattering and screaming. The noise pierced Rudi’s ears, and he could not make out any real words. He reached for a blur of a pinafore and grabbed hold of an arm. The arm belonged to Marta.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her.
Marta looked at him, her lovely eyes filled with fear. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. So she pointed, and Rudi’s gaze followed her outstretched finger.
And then he saw them. Spilling down the drainpipes of the village hall. Skittering over the stone walls of the churchyard. Swimming through the fountain, fouling its pure water.
“It can’t be,” Rudi exclaimed.
But no one heard him. And finally the screams gathered themselves into one terrible, ruinous word.
“Rats!”
THAT NIGHT, a summer storm raged.
The wind screamed down the mountain and into the village. It blasted its way down chimneys, blowing ashes onto hearths, so that dogs awoke with a yelp and their masters jumped out of their chairs to stomp on the glowing embers before their rugs caught fire.
The thunder shook grandfathers out of their beds and caused babies to wail in their cradles. Slashes of lightning split the night, illuminating every stone and every blade of grass.
Yet those who dared peek through their shutters beheld a black and cloudless sky.
Some villagers thought they saw shadows crossing the
They began to chant. “Rudi, Ru-di, Ru-di!”
He jumped.
But his timing was off, and immediately the rope became tangled at his feet. The girls dissolved into fits of giggles, but then they started clapping again, and the rope was turned once more.
“Ru-di, Ru-di, Ru-di!”
He inhaled deeply, and this time he watched the rope carefully, and timed his leap perfectly. He skipped the rope while the girls clapped out the rhythm and chanted his name, and then they sang out once more:
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!
Just as the girls yelled “THREE!” Rudi laughed, and he lost his rhythm. The rope slapped his ankles and stopped.
The girls erupted into applause once more, and behind them Rudi made out one or two mothers standing in their doorways, doing the same. His face burned, but then he gave them all a sweeping bow. He was having too much fun, and he decided he didn’t care who saw him.
“Who’s next?” he called. He took Clara’s end of the rope and dutifully turned it until every girl had had her turn. Then they all tumbled around the corner and into the square, where they dipped their cupped hands into the fountain for a cool drink.
“Rudi?” said Susanna Louisa, wiping her chin with her sleeve. “Is the witch’s chair real? You know—the one in the song?”
Rudi considered her question. The song was an old one, and he had known it by heart since he was very small. Just like the legends of the Brixen Witch and her treasure, he had always assumed it was nothing more than a story. But now …
“I’m not sure,” he said, because he remembered being eight years old, and knew that when an eight-year-old asks a question, she wants to be told the truth. “It could be real, I suppose. I’ve never seen it, though.”
This seemed to satisfy Susanna Louisa, who ran off to join her friends. But Rudi was not satisfied. He decided he would ask Oma, because something told him she would know the answer, and she would tell him the truth. That was one trait old people and children held in common, Rudi observed: Neither was afraid of the truth. He wondered why people changed in the middle years of life, and why they changed back again later. Then he wondered why people bothered changing at all, if they just came back to the way they’d been in the first place.
His musings were interrupted by a shrill noise.
Rudi blinked and looked about. The little girls were scattering and screaming. The noise pierced Rudi’s ears, and he could not make out any real words. He reached for a blur of a pinafore and grabbed hold of an arm. The arm belonged to Marta.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her.
Marta looked at him, her lovely eyes filled with fear. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. So she pointed, and Rudi’s gaze followed her outstretched finger.
And then he saw them. Spilling down the drainpipes of the village hall. Skittering over the stone walls of the churchyard. Swimming through the fountain, fouling its pure water.
“It can’t be,” Rudi exclaimed.
But no one heard him. And finally the screams gathered themselves into one terrible, ruinous word.
“Rats!”
THAT NIGHT, a summer storm raged.
The wind screamed down the mountain and into the village. It blasted its way down chimneys, blowing ashes onto hearths, so that dogs awoke with a yelp and their masters jumped out of their chairs to stomp on the glowing embers before their rugs caught fire.
The thunder shook grandfathers out of their beds and caused babies to wail in their cradles. Slashes of lightning split the night, illuminating every stone and every blade of grass.
Yet those who dared peek through their shutters beheld a black and cloudless sky.
Some villagers thought they saw shadows crossing the
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