The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

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.

She mussed his hair. “You’re lucky you were in the pet sack — they didn’t see your face right?”

Rupert nodded. Maybe they saw the top of his head when he peeked out from the pet sack, but there were lots of people in Gliverstoll with light brown hair. They would never recognize him from his hair alone.

“That’s good,” Witchling Two said. “I’m sure you’ve heard terrible stories about witches, right? I thought it was a bit surprising that you answered my Classified Ad. You’re the only human who responded — that’s why I thought you were a bunny in disguise.”

“I’ve heard stories about the witches — I just didn’t think they were as terrible as everyone makes them seem.”

Witchling Two shook her head. “Oh no, they’re worse! I’ve watched them do horrendous things. Once I saw them make a boy eat his way out of a pool full of Jell-O.”

Rupert paused. “Actually,” he said after a moment’s thought, “that doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Talk to me after you’ve eaten two thousand, three hundred, and fifty-two cubic feet of Jell-O. That poor boy could hardly walk. His stomach was so big and plushy that his sisters tried to use him as a trampoline for weeks.”

“So that’s what they would do to me if they found me? Make me eat myself to death?”

“Maybe,” Witchling Two said. “Or maybe not. They’re particularly fond of making people lick the dead skin off their feet.”

Rupert made a face.

“One thing’s for sure though — you won’t be found. I may be a mediocre witch—”

“A horrible witch,” Rupert muttered under his breath.

“—And you might just be a normal boy. But I still need your help to pass my exam, and now you need my help to stay alive.”

“Alive?” Rupert gulped.

Witchling Two stood up and popped her head through the top of the sand bubble, which — when she was standing up fully — was as tall as her neck. Then, she ran through the sand bubble until it started to crumble.

“What are you doing?” Rupert asked.

“Popping the bubble! The witches are gone. We’re safe now!”

She skipped around the sandbox until the bubble was entirely destroyed. Rupert shook his head to get the lumps of sand off. A few grains got in his eyes and he teared up as he tried to blink them out.

“Are you crying?” Witchling Two said as she picked up the pet sack. “I learned in primary school that humans only cry when they are extremely happy.” Rupert tried to correct her, but Witchling Two began to sob. “This is so great!” she blubbered, her tears flying everywhere, as she walked toward his house. “I am so happy, too, Rupert — I’ve never had a human friend before!”