How to Stop a Witch (2 page)

Greg’s stomach churned. He silently measured the distance between himself and the door.

“Greghart?” Mrs. French said, staring at Greg past the note he’d given her. He thought about snatching it from her hand, but already she was back to reading, and he had an idea that as bad as her eyesight was, she might notice.

“
It is with depressed rugrats . . .
no wait, that’s
deepest regrets . . . that I rescued the newts . . .
That can’t be right . . . oh . . .
received the news . . . from Simon today. Please . . . allow me . . . to be the frost . . .
no . . .
first . . . to offer my sincerest convalescence . . .
no, that would have to be
condolences,
wouldn’t it? . . .
on your rather unfortunate demise.
Hmm, that part’s right
. Rest assured that you will mower . . .
er . . .
river? . . .
oh,
never! . . . Rest assured that you will never be frog rotten . . .
er . . .
forgotten.
Signed . . .
Brandy Alexander?
” 

The class roared with laughter. Greg might have thought to be embarrassed if he hadn’t been so stunned by Mrs. French’s words.
Rather unfortunate demise?
Hopefully she’d read that part wrong.

“Is this some sort of joke, Mr. Hart? Because if it is, I, for one, do not see the humor.”

“No—there’s been a mistake.”

“There certainly has. I do not like being made a fool. I’m afraid you leave me no choice. You will report to detention directly after school this afternoon.”

“But—” Greg started.

“Take a seat, Mr. Hart. Homeroom is nearly over.”

Greg groaned and shuffled to his chair to the smirks and chuckles of several of his classmates, not the least of which originated from Manny Malice. The huge boy’s face was beaming so brightly, it looked as if he were using it to guide Greg in for a landing.

When the bell rang, announcing the end of homeroom, Greg was met at the door by Kristin Wenslow.

“What was up with that note?” she asked.

“Nothing. It was just a big mistake.”

The two of them stepped from the room and ambled toward Greg’s next class.

“I can’t believe you got detention,” said Kristin. “It’s all Manny’s fault. He’s such a jerk.”

“Yeah, well, it’s early. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s there with me by the end of the day.”

“I suppose. But still . . . it spoils my plans.”

“What plans?”

She eyed him coyly, holding back a smile. “I thought maybe you’d like to walk me home today.”

Greg stumbled and banged his head into a locker but recovered quickly and pretended nothing had happened. “Really?”

“Sure. That is, unless you don’t want to.”

“No! I mean, yes, I want to.”

Kristin smiled. “Well, I’ve got some homework I could work on for Mr. Heineke’s class. Maybe I could wait around until they let you out of detention.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Why do you keep saying that?”

“Oh, sorry.” Greg could barely speak. “I don’t think they’ll keep me more than an hour. Want to meet out front around four thirty?” Kristin’s smile widened. “I’ll be waiting.”

And just like that she was gone. Two minutes later, Greg breathed again.

Greg spent all day
waiting for detention. At three thirty he grabbed up his knapsack and practically ran to study hall. Just as suspected, Manny Malice had crammed himself into one of the tiny desks near the back of the room.

Scattered about were several other students Greg didn’t recognize, but each shared a certain commonality with Manny, and Greg had an idea he was better off not knowing them. He took a seat up front, as far from the others as possible, and immediately began to watch the clock.

Mr. Armbuster, Greg’s gym teacher, had everyone sign an attendance sheet, but then, to Greg’s dismay, left the room. Greg felt as if hundreds of eyes were upon him. He silently thanked the fates each time Mr. Armbuster popped his head in to ensure no one left or misbehaved.

Having never been to detention before, Greg wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. The others all either slouched with their heads lolling backward, drool running from the corners of their mouths, or slumped forward with their foreheads resting in their folded arms atop their desks. Greg would have liked to do the same, but he was way too anxious over his date with Kristin to sleep. Besides, he didn’t feel safe closing his eyes with Manny Malice behind him.

The hour dragged by like a runnerless sled drawn up a rocky cliff by a lame husky. While he waited, Greg thought again about the strange note Brandon sent.
Greg’s rather unfortunate demise?
Had Simon really prophesied Greg was going back to Myrth to die? If so, he knew one thing for certain. The next time he felt the unpleasant prickling of a rift about to open, the last thing he was going to do was stick around to see what came out of it.

The memory of that eerie prickling pressed so hard on his mind, Greg could almost believe he was experiencing it now. Suddenly the air beside him split open, and Greg realized the awful sensation wasn’t a memory at all. He jumped up, screaming, and ran for the exit, knocking over two desks along the way.

As if he’d been standing with his hand on the knob, Mr. Armbuster threw open the door. “What’s all the commotion about? Hart, what are you doing out of your seat?”

Greg snapped his head toward the front of the room, where the rift disappeared in that instant, leaving behind a second envelope that dropped soundlessly to the floor.

“What? Oh, nothing. I . . . uh . . . thought I saw a spider.”

The other boys roared. Apparently they’d all been either sleeping or too distracted by Greg to notice the gaping hole that had floated at the front of the room a moment ago.

Mr. Armbuster scowled. “Take a seat, Hart, before I add another hour to your detention.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“And put those desks back.”

Greg righted the desks he’d knocked over and rushed back to his seat, where he stomped on the envelope and waited forever for Armbuster to leave. The instant the door closed, Greg snatched up the envelope. He struggled to keep his hands from trembling as he tore it open and peered cautiously inside.

The message was written on old parchment, just like the first, but this time the handwriting was perfectly legible.

Dearest Greghart,

It has come to my attention that my scribe has taken it upon himself to send a rather inappropriate message your way. Please allow me to offer my deepest apologies for his thoughtless action. I do not know exactly what he told you, but rest assured we do not expect you to deal with Witch Hazel for us. Our problems are our own, and we can handle them without your help, no matter how overwhelming the odds against us may seem. Simon’s prophecy about the destruction of Pendegrass Castle is no doubt incorrect, and just in case it isn’t, that’s all the more reason why you should just go about your business as if you never heard from any of us. Again I apologize.

Hope not to see you soon, 

King Peter Pendegrass III 

(Please, call me Peter.)
 

Greg studied the note a long while, wondering what trouble Witch Hazel might be brewing. The witch was an ornery old hag whose idea of fair play might be to kill you slowly, so you wouldn’t miss out on any of the experience. She could be dangerous even under the best of circumstances, but Greg had an even deeper reason to be concerned.

The Amulet of Tehrer.

Last time he saw Hazel, Greg had been forced to give her a small pentagon-shaped piece of metal, the crucial piece to an amulet that had been broken apart centuries earlier, after nearly causing the destruction of Myrth.

Even though at the moment the destruction of Myrth didn’t sound like a bad thing, deep down Greg knew the Amulet of Tehrer must never be reassembled. With it, Hazel could control dragons, and while only one dragon remained on Myrth, an enormous creature named Ruuan who had helped Greg the last two times he visited there, Greg didn’t want to think what might happen if Ruuan were forced to use his seemingly endless powers for evil rather than good.

Now, as the clock ticked slowly toward four thirty, Greg couldn’t help but wonder if Hazel had already managed to locate the remaining amulet sections. Maybe King Peter really did need his help. But what about that first note and Brandon’s talk about Greg’s “rather unfortunate demise”?

Perhaps Mrs. French just read it wrong. Maybe it was supposed to say “rather unfortunate disguise” or “rather unfortunate devise.” But no, then why would Brandon have been offering condolences? Maybe she got that part wrong too. Brandon’s handwriting
was
pretty bad.

Mr. Armbuster came back into the room at twenty after four. After what seemed like another hour, he announced to the boys that their punishment was over for the day. Greg was first out of the room. For the moment, he gave up fretting over what might be happening on Myrth and fretted instead on his upcoming meeting with Kristin. As inconceivable as it seemed, he found her waiting outside as promised.

“You’re here,” Greg said.

“Well, of course,” said Kristin, laughing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just . . . I thought this morning . . . well, maybe I’d been dreaming or something.”

Kristin’s cheeks flushed in a way Greg found particularly pleasing. But then he realized she might just be cold. He debated putting an arm around her for warmth but couldn’t shake the vision of her shooting mace into his eyes and using some Judo move to send him somersaulting into the shrubbery.

They cut across the grass toward the start of a path that led within three blocks of Kristin’s house. Last month, Manny Malice had cornered Greg on this very same lawn. Fortunately, Greg had just returned from Myrth and was recovering from a spell that allowed him to rip a four-inch-thick limb from one of the trees and threaten Manny with it. Of course, Manny knew nothing of Myrth or the spell. He just assumed Greg possessed superhuman powers, so naturally he’d given Greg a wide berth ever since. Still, Greg scanned the woods. Seven-year-long habits were hard to break.

“So what was up with that note?” Kristin asked as she and Greg stepped into the woods.

Greg stooped to pick up a fallen branch to use as a walking stick, another habit he didn’t acquire until his first trip to Myrth, last fall. “You know about the note?”

“Of course. Everyone knows.”

It took Greg a moment to remember the incident in homeroom that morning. “Oh, you mean the first one.”

“There was another?”

“Huh? Oh, no, of course not.”

“Sure there was. What did it say? And who’s writing them?”

Greg sighed, wondering if there’d ever been a boy who could get himself into trouble quicker. “It was nothing, really.”

“Come on, Greg. How about the first note? What was that? Who’s Brandy Alexander?”

“Brandon,” Greg corrected. “I mean, he’s nobody. I just made him up.”

Kristin frowned. “I can’t believe you’re lying to me.”

Greg didn’t know what to say. This walk wasn’t going anything like he’d planned. “No, Kristin, wait. I’m sorry, but—well, I can’t tell you who he is.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, that’s all. You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“Try me.” Her eyes gazed up at him, pleading, and Greg tripped over a root for not watching where he was going.

“Careful,” Kristin scolded.

Greg nodded and limped along, nursing a newly sore toe. “I tried to tell you once before. As I recall, you asked me to go see the school nurse.”

“You’re not talking about that silly story you made up about traveling to some other world, are you?”

“It’s not a story. It really happened.”

Kristin reached for his forehead, but Greg ducked her hand. “I’m not sick. I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared forward, avoiding Greg’s eye. It seemed an awkward way to walk, but it did effectively convey her mood.

“Okay, you’re right,” she said. “But look at it from my point of view. You’re claiming to have been abducted by space aliens.”

“Not aliens. People. Good people, just like you and me. And according to their note, they’re in serious trouble.”

“I heard the note,” Kristin said. “It sounded like you were the one in trouble.”

“Not that note. The second one.”

“So you did get another?”

“Yes, while I was in detention.”

She frowned at him. “I’ll bet Mr. Armbuster found that interesting.”

“Armbuster didn’t see it. He was out of the room. And neither did anyone else. They were all asleep.”

Kristin quit walking and propped her hands on her hips. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound?”

“I’m not making this up. I can prove it.”

Greg slipped his backpack off his shoulder and loosened the straps. For a moment he debated pulling out his pet shadowcat, Rake, but he was trying to sway Kristin, not find out if she really did carry mace. Instead, he withdrew the second note from under his journal and handed it over.

Kristin eyed him doubtfully but took the parchment and read it. “Oh, so this one’s from a king now.”

“Yes, King Peter. You’d like him.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her roll her eyes.

“Maybe we should start small,” she said. “Do you know any kings on this world you could introduce me to?”

Greg scowled. “Okay, you’re right. I’m making it all up.” Furious, he turned and stomped down the path without waiting to see if she would follow.

“Hey, wait up.”

Greg watched her come. As mad as he was, he couldn’t help but admire the way her hair jostled from side to side when she ran. He wished there was some way to convince her he was telling the truth. Then the secret of Myrth could be something only the two of them shared.

“So, who’s this Witch Hazel the king mentioned?” Kristin asked.

“What do you care? You don’t believe me anyway.”

“I’m trying to understand, all right? Are there witches on this other world of yours?”