Diary of Anna the Girl Witch 1: Foundling Witch (4 page)

I put down the card and stared at the hand carving and picture. I knew without a doubt that I would be sneaking out of the dorm tonight.

D
ear Diary
,

Monsieur Nolan’s present is kind of goofy, but I like it. He thought I was too old for toys, but he didn’t realize that only little girls wear teddy bear backpacks. That’s all right. I may not be able to wear it to school (unless I want to be teased without mercy), but it’s the perfect place to hide my new treasures in. And the straps will make it easy to carry them when I sneak out of my dorm at midnight…

S
neaking
out of our house was easier than I’d expected. Sister Constance was such a dictator, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find her sleeping in front of the doors so none of the young ladies in her charge could escape.

To make sure my steps were silent, I tiptoed down the stairs, carrying my sneakers in my hand. I avoided the second stair from the top, which always squeaked. Sister Constance’s room was next to the parlor we kept for meeting visitors. I laid my ear against her door. A low, steady rumbling came from inside; she was asleep. I just hoped she would stay that way.

Before leaving, I went into the small kitchen off the parlor. This was more of a lounge than a kitchen. There was no oven or stove, just a fridge for keeping healthy drinks and snacks and a kettle for brewing tea. (Sister Constance didn’t allow sodas or other sugary treats.)

I was usually quite clumsy, and I had to work hard at being stealthy while I rooted in the kitchen cupboards, looking for a candle and matches. I knew we had some. At least once or twice in the past, storms had knocked out power at the Collège and we had to study by candlelight.

In the last drawer, I found a jackpot of candles in small glass holders along with a box of matches. I tucked them into my bear backpack along with my other treasures.

I didn’t have a key, so I left the front door unlocked, hoping that no one would notice before I returned.

Outside, fog had blown in from the lake, filling the lower parts of town with a ghostly haze. I didn’t mind; if I couldn’t see anyone in the fog, then no one could see me either. My bare feet were cold on the damp cobblestones. I hurried around a corner before putting my sneakers back on; then I headed away from the lake, past the orphanage and a few shops. Soon the road led into a park. It was exciting to be outside and alone at such a late hour. I hoped that the clouds would part so I could see the moon, or else this secret escapade would be a waste.

A trail led through the park and into the forest. I had grown up with Uncle Misha in a forest very much like that one, with tall trees that seemed ancient and wise. When I first came to the orphanage, that forest had called to me like a song. More than once, I had escaped Sister Daphne’s watchful eye to roam under the trees. Poor Sister Daphne! I almost gave her a heart attack the first time I had disappeared. I was only six, after all. She scolded me – as best as that gentle lady could – and told me about all the bad things that lived in the forest, hoping that would keep me away. But I never believed her. There was nothing in that forest that could hurt me. Not even the bears.

I ran past the trees, only half-listening to the wind singing through the branches and leaves above. Usually, I loved to hear that song, but tonight, I was on a mission and had no time to wonder at the beauty around me. I ran across the bridge over La Fourche, a twisty rivulet that wound all through the trees. The tallest tree in the forest was an ancient oak that stood over a rock formation I called Bear Paw because it looked just like the hand of a bear. This was my secret spot, the one I had run to a hundred times. I would go there when I was hurt or unhappy. I would go there when I was bored or even when everything in life was just right. I’d whispered all my secrets to that old oak tree, and sometimes, when I listened very carefully, it whispered back.

Tonight, I had so many secrets to tell! I dropped my backpack onto the ground and sat with my back against the itchy bark to catch my breath. My mother had sent me a letter thirteen years ago. How incredible was that? How did she know that Uncle Misha would find me and bring me to Geneva to meet Monsieur Nolan? My life could have taken so many different routes. The bears could have abandoned me to the cold; I would never have survived e
ven one
night without them. Or Uncle Misha could have been a bad man who sold me into slavery. I’d heard that there were still people in this world who bought and sold children like livestock. But no, the bears had kept me, and Uncle Misha had turned out to be the most generous and caring of men. He followed the instructions in my mother’s locket, never even thinking about himself.

How could she have been so sure that would happen? Probably because she had faith – faith in people and faith in nature. Faith that everything would turn out all right.

I wondered what she was like: Did she have red hair like me? Where was she now? Was she even alive? And why did she have to be so mysterious in her letter? I sighed. She had said that everything would be revealed to me in time. I would have to have faith in her just as she’d had faith in me.

My bear backpack seemed to be grinning at me. I picked it up and opened the zipper to reveal my stash of secret items. I laid them out on the ground one by one: a card, a drawing, a creepy carving of a hand, a candle, and matches.

I was on higher ground there than in town. Behind me, the hills rolled on into faraway mountains. The fog that had sunk into the valleys near the lake didn’t reach this high. The air was crisp and clean without a hint of wind, but clouds still covered the moon.

I picked up the strange drawing and examined it again in the dim light. My mother’s note had said to look at it by the light of the moon, but it looked the same as it had in my room. I glanced up. Just then, the clouds broke apart, and moonlight spilled over the page in my hand.

I gasped, almost dropping the page. My heart went into overdrive and started to thump in my ears.

The drawing began to move – not the whole page, just the ink. It glowed and jiggled and leaped off the page like a 3D movie! The gnarled chicken legs straightened, bent, and straightened again as if thankful for the opportunity to stretch. The house bobbed up and down with each stretch. The skulls on the fence twirled around, and blue light shot from their eyes. I thought I heard a faint laugh; then a witch popped up from behind the house. I blinked in astonishment. She hadn’t been part of the original drawing. She was ancient looking, with long, tangled hair, a pointy nose, and strange teeth that looked too big for her mouth. She sat in a basket, or maybe a bowl, and carried a broom. She zoomed around the house in her basket, sweeping the roof tiles with her broom.

What kind of witch carries her broom and flies in a bowl instead? Now I definitely heard laughter. The trees around me shook with a powerful wind. The paper was torn from my hand – but not before I saw the witch turn and look straight into my eyes!

I chased the page across the wet grass. The wind died down as if it had never been. I found the paper and pounced on it as if it might jump away. It had refolded in the fall, and the moving picture was gone, replaced by the faded, unmoving ink.

Wow!

I unfolded the picture again. The old woman was still visible, sitting in her basket, staring right at me.
Oh dear God.
A shiver ran down my spine.

Quickly, before the moonlight could touch it again, I folded the picture and tucked it inside the card.

I had so many questions that I couldn’t even put them in order. My science teacher once asked if any of us believed in magic. I raised my hand, feeling silly, and so did a few other kids in the class. But he said that he believed too. Magic was just science that we didn’t yet understand, he said.

So was this glowing, moving image just science? I supposed that someone from five hundred years ago would think our movies were magic. Still… I certainly couldn’t explain how a lifeless picture had come alive in the moonlight. I looked up at my friend, the moon. He was just a sliver of light, like a glowing grin. Like he knew more than met the eye.

I felt as if everyone knew more than they were saying. Indeed, Monsieur Nolan must have known about my parents, but he never told me about them. Now I wondered if Uncle Misha even knew who my mother was.

And why would she leave such an odd present for me? Apart from the magic, what was the image supposed to mean? She wanted me to learn about myself. So what did an old flying witch who lived in a walking house have to do with me?

My eyes fell on the hand carving. The note had said to put it in a flame
in an emergency
. Well, I considered this an emergency: The drawing had scared the wits out of me. I had to know more about my mother and family, or the mystery was going to drive me crazy.

I lit the small votive candle and placed it on the ground.

The hand was cool and waxy to my touch. What would happen to it when I heated it in the flame? I thought it might melt like wax, but after the amazing dancing picture, all bets were off.

At first, nothing happened. I held the hand over the flame. It warmed. Then it shivered, making me cry out in alarm. And then… it exploded! Not exploded like a firecracker or a bomb – it exploded in size.

Oh, and it came alive.

With a terrified shriek, I dropped it. The hand zipped around the trees for a minute, and then hovered in front of me as if it were waiting. I stared at it, unable to move. What else could I do? What did it want from me? Was I supposed to do something? It shook like a dog after a bath and opened its fingers so they pointed straight at me.

After a moment, I realized that it probably wanted to shake my hand. I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch it. Seeing a disembodied hand floating in the air was more than creepy, it was plain crazy. The only reason I didn’t run away right then was that the hand had come from my mother, who had suggested I warm it in a flame. Didn’t that mean that the hand was safe?

It jerked toward me again. It seemed insistent that I shake it. I looked at it, trying to calm my frenzied breathing, thinking over and over that it couldn’t be bad. Tentatively, I held out my hand, and its fingers wrapped around my knuckles, palm, and wrist. It was easily the size of a bear paw, and it was warm.

After a firm handshake that had felt strangely reassuring, it let me go and hovered expectantly again.

“You’re… uh… Squire. Is that right?” I asked.

The hand formed into a fist. It was wrinkled with large knuckles dusted with wiry black hair. Definitely a man’s hand, so I began to think of it as a “he.” He turned his knuckles up and down. He was nodding!

“Oh, good, so you understand me.”

Squire nodded again.

“Can you speak?”

He turned side to side, like shaking his head no; then he mimicked holding a pen and scribbling.

“You can write?”

He nodded again.

“That’s great, but I don’t have a pen with me.”

Squire spread his fingers wide. I guessed that was a shrug.

“Did you know my mother?”

He nodded.

“Can you tell me her name?”

He shook himself in a “no” sort of way. That wasn’t really a fair question; right now, he could only answer yes or no. I’d have to wait until I got back to my room. I could ask again when he had pen and paper.