Julie heard a crunch, and a pale, slim tree stepped onto the path in front of her. She was 99 percent sure it hadn’t been there a second ago.
And she was 99 percent sure it wasn’t an ordinary tree. Its bark looked more like scales. Its roots had toenails. Splashing into the stream, she backed away from the “tree.” There was a second “tree” beside it with the same scaly bark. She looked up.
Perched on top of enormous chicken legs was the witch’s house.
Chapter Twelve
The Witch
Run, Julie thought, staring up at the former Agway rooster sign.
But what if it chased her? She imagined it leaning down to peck, and she shuddered. Maybe she could sneak away. Had the house’s owner seen her yet?
Tumbling from the porch, a rope ladder smacked down in front of Julie.
Okay, that would be a “yes.” She squinted up at the porch. A face poked over the edge—Julie saw a mass of white, frizzed hair—and then the face disappeared.
It almost looked like . . . No, it couldn’t be. Out of the whole forest, Julie couldn’t have found her own grandmother so quickly. Could she have? No, it was wishful thinking. Trying to see better, Julie stepped back from the house. The chicken legs stepped forward. Gulping, Julie gawked at the giant legs. Imagining them move was one thing; seeing them move was another.
She heard footsteps on the porch. “Come on up, dearie!” she heard. Julie’s heart skipped a beat. That voice! It was Grandma’s voice! Wasn’t it?
“Grandma, is that you?” she called.
Oh, please, please, let it be her.
Grandma—if it was her—didn’t answer. Julie steadied the rope ladder. “Grandma, I’m coming up!” She climbed onto the ladder, and it swayed under her weight, reminding her unpleasantly of the rope climb in gym class. I’m not afraid of heights, she told herself. Just a wee bit terrified of falling. But she could do it if it meant finding Grandma. Slowly, she climbed up the rungs.
One, two, three . . . don’t look down . . . nine, ten, eleven . . . At the top, Julie swung her leg up and flopped onto the porch like a beached fish. “Oof.”
Knees shaking, she got to her feet.
“Well, now, what a fine, plump girl you are. I think I’ll have you basted with a dash of oregano and a sprig of rosemary. And perhaps a squeeze of lemon.”
Julie didn’t hear her. Her own mind was shouting too loudly: it was Grandma! She was alive! She wore a billowy black dress rather than her usual sweats, and her hair was frizzed like a thundercloud, but it was unarguably Gothel. Julie threw her arms around the witch’s neck. “Oh, Grandma, I’ve done everything wrong! I lost the Seven League Boots! And then I helped the ants and the bird and the fish . . .”
The witch squirmed. “Release me, child.” She peeled Julie’s arms away.
Gulping down a sob, Julie let go. “Grandma?” Wasn’t she glad to see her? Or was she angry because Julie was in the Wild? Did she think Julie shouldn’t have come? Julie was beginning to think she shouldn’t have come—she’d probably made the Wild grow with the story bit with the animal helpers. “I’m sorry,” Julie said.
“Unprecedented. Inappropriate,” the witch muttered. She flattened her hair and straightened her dress. “Let’s start over, shall we?” The witch tapped a crooked finger on Julie’s arm. “Well, now, what a fine, plump girl you are,” she said. “I will have you basted . . .”
Basted? Plump? Grandma called her plump? “Grandma?”
The witch scowled. “Stop calling me that, child.”
For an instant, Julie didn’t understand. Didn’t Grandma recognize her? Staring at her grandmother in confusion, she noticed Gothel’s eyes were their natural color: red. She wasn’t wearing her tinted contact lenses, Julie realized with relief. That explained it! She probably couldn’t see Julie as more than a blur. (A plump blur, Julie thought.) Julie leaned in so Gothel could see her better. “It’s me. Julie. Grandma, don’t you recognize me?”
The witch squinted at Julie. “You weren’t the one I turned into a flower, were you?”
Stricken, Julie opened and shut her mouth. It wasn’t just the lenses: Gothel didn’t know her. Her own grandmother didn’t know her.
“Or, I know,” the witch said, “you’re the squirrel.”
No, no, no! She had to recognize her! “It’s me! Your granddaughter! Julie Marchen!” Julie clutched her grandmother’s wide sleeve. “Don’t you remember me?”
The witch pried the fabric out of Julie’s fingers. “This is not how it is done,” she said. She drew herself up to full height, and Julie instinctively shrank back. “You must perform a task for me,” the witch said.