A whole week went by, during which, to Rose Rita’s relief, Mrs. Zimmermann slowly got better. By Wednesday she knew who she was, and she usually recognized Rose Rita. But she still had lingering problems. Mrs. Zimmermann could not seem to keep clear in her head where she and Rose Rita were or what had happened to them. Sometimes she thought she was back home, and she would ask Rose Rita to turn on the radio, or she would suggest inviting Jonathan and Lewis over for supper. At other times she relived her younger days. She would talk about her tour through France in 1912 and 1913 as if she had just returned, or she would worry about the classes she thought she was still taking at the University of Göttingen. But there were also flashes when she was quite sharp about everything. Finally she snapped out of her confusion on the first Monday in March.
“I’ve been out of my head, haven’t I? Really ’round the bend?” Mrs. Zimmermann asked Rose Rita that morning. Mrs. Zimmermann was propped up with pillows, a breakfast tray on her lap, and Rose Rita was sitting on the foot of the bed. Mrs. Zimmermann shook her head, looking worried. “I can’t seem to remember very much after looking into the mirror. What happened?”
Rose Rita was overjoyed to find Mrs. Zimmermann so well. She hurriedly told her friend about everything that she had seen. Mrs. Zimmermann listened, a frown deepening on her face. At last she said, “I never expected that mirror to turn on me. Well, I’m lucky that I am a witch. I may not have all my magic, but there’s enough left to protect me—at least a little.”
Rose Rita blinked. “Protect you? But the mirror knocked you loopy! You didn’t know who I was, or who you were, or anything.”
Mrs. Zimmermann smiled. “Yes, and I got off light at being knocked loopy, as you call it. Why, I expect that sorcerous attack would have made anyone but a witch a blithering moron for life! It was horrible, malevolent magic at its worst, and there was a strong power behind it. Fortunately, when black magic assaults white magic, the white magic sort of automatically defends itself. I didn’t have time to cast a spell, but my magic tried its best to take care of me.” She sighed. Improved though she was, Mrs. Zimmermann still looked terrible. Her face was alarmingly thin, her hands trembled with weakness, and her eyes still had not regained their sparkle. “Well,” she said at last, “I suppose there’s no help for it. You’ll have to bring me the mirror again, and I’ll try to get in touch with Granny Wetherbee’s ghost—”
Rose Rita jumped up. “Gosh, no, Mrs. Zimmermann! I mean, what if it happened again? This time your magic might not be able to save you.”
“Now, don’t talk nonsense,” Mrs. Zimmermann said, gruffly. “We are in a terrible situation. You’re due home in a day or two, and here we are stuck in the past. I’ve got to try to remedy things.”
Rose Rita could be extremely stubborn. She put her foot down. “I won’t bring you the stupid mirror, so you can’t try to use it. Remember what Granny Wetherbee’s ghost told you? We have to help Grampa Drexel, and then we can go home again. Well, Heinrich and I are going to help Grampa Drexel, so there.”
“Good heavens, don’t be so touchy,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “I can see that I’ve been out of it too long. All right, Miss Rose Rita Pottinger! Tell me what you’re up to. I warn you, if it’s dangerous, I won’t stand for it. You may keep me from risking my scrawny old neck with the mirror, but I can keep you from running off and pulling some fool stunt that might get you killed!”
“It isn’t a stunt,” Rose Rita said, in a grouchy voice. “Heinrich—do you remember which one he is?”
Mrs. Zimmermann nodded. “The youngest Weiss boy. The one who looks like a skinned rabbit.”
“He does not!” Rose Rita said. “And if you won’t be nice, I won’t even tell you.”
Mrs. Zimmermann laughed. “We’ve been through too much together to quarrel,” she said. “Peace! All right, what are you and Heinrich up to?”
Rose Rita licked her lips. She was not sure how much Mrs. Zimmermann remembered about the problems of the Weisses. “Well, the family is going to have to move because somebody is spreading awful stories about Grampa Drexel. Heinrich and I are going to find out what’s behind the stories. You told the Weisses that we were looking for relatives. Heinrich is going to drive me to the farms in the neighborhood so I can ask about our Zimmermann cousins. And while I’m there, I’ll snoop around and find out why anyone would want to spread the tales about Grampa Drexel’s being a hex witch.”
“Does Heinrich have time to do that?” Mrs. Zimmermann asked. She knew how hard frontier farm families had to work.
“Oh, sure,” Rose Rita said. “The school burned down last month, and everyone sort of decided not to try to get it going again until springtime. So he doesn’t have to go to school right now. And the Weiss family can spare him to drive me around, because he’s the youngest and doesn’t do too much. They couldn’t let one of the older boys go, but Heinrich is—what is that word?”
“Expendable,” Mrs. Zimmermann said dryly. “Is that all?”
“Well, sort of.” Rose Rita paused. Should she tell Mrs. Zimmermann about the riddle done in fraktur writing? Heinrich had tried several times to get it, but the big Bible was in his parents’ bedroom, and he had never managed to sneak it out. “There’s something else,” Rose Rita said at last, “but it may not help. I’ll tell you more about that later on.”
And there the matter rested. Later that day Heinrich hitched the mule, Nebby, up to the little green cart, and the two of them set out to visit some of the neighboring farms. It was a blustery day, warmer than it had been, with low, white clouds speeding overhead and their shadows racing across the ground. The snow had melted a little, but there was still plenty of it on the shady sides of the hills.
The first farm they came to was the next one down the road. It was the Pilcher place. Rose Rita talked to Mrs. Pilcher, a chubby, jolly-looking woman. Mrs. Pilcher did not know of any Zimmermanns in the valley, naturally enough, but she had heard the stories about Grampa Drexel. She obviously felt sorry for the Weiss family. “Such a terrible thing,” she said, shaking her head. “Awful stories they tell, but I don’t believe half of them.” But Mrs. Pilcher did not help a lot when Rose Rita tried to find who they were, or exactly what stories they told. The farm woman merely shook her head. “Oh, they say that all the terrible weather is because of a hex, and all the animals that have died, and all the people sick this winter. It’s a worry, I can tell you!”
Heinrich and Rose Rita visited five other farms. Rose Rita soon noticed a pattern. The farther they got from the Weiss house, the more prejudiced the people became. Finally Heinrich would let Rose Rita climb off the wagon out of sight of the next farm house, and she would walk along the road alone. If the farmers or their families even caught sight of the Weiss mule and carriage, they refused to answer the door. Rose Rita did run into a gossipy old woman at the next-to-last place, a Mrs. Kleinwald. She mumbled darkly about the “wizard Drexel” and said that Mr. Stoltzfuss had talked to her son about all the wickedness that Grampa Drexel had done.
So later, when Heinrich and Rose Rita reached a crossroads, Rose Rita asked, “Which way does that Mr. Stoltzfuss live? We oughta try him next.”
Heinrich looked at her as if she had suggested they set fire to each other. “Are you crazy in the head?” he squeaked. “He’s a mean one, Mr. Stoltzfuss. He don’t even come to church much, but he’s always the first to say someone else is doing the devil’s work.”
“Well,” Rose Rita said reasonably, “he’s the one to see, then. Where does he live?”
Heinrich shook his head. “His farm is that way,” he said, nodding toward the road that led away to the right. “But I don’t think it’s good to call on him.”
“How far is it?”
Heinrich shrugged miserably. “Not very far. But he is a mean one, Mr. Stoltzfuss.”
Rose Rita badgered Heinrich until the boy turned the mule onto the road leading to the Stoltzfuss farm. On the way he told her that Mr. Stoltzfuss was a widower who lived all alone. His farm had once been larger, but he had sold off little pieces of it over the years. Now it was just a small place. The wagon creaked up a hill, and Heinrich slowed Nebby’s pace. “There,” he said, pointing to a small, gambrel-roofed house and a large, dilapidated barn. “That is Mr. Stoltzfuss’s farm. I don’t want to go any closer.”
“Then you wait here,” Rose Rita said, and she hopped down from the carriage. By this time the afternoon sun had warmed things up quite a bit. The road was sloppy and muddy, and rivulets of water ran from the melting banks of snow. Rose Rita walked carefully, but her sneakers soon got soaking wet. She didn’t much like the look of Mr. Stoltzfuss’s house as she approached it. It was much smaller than the Weiss home. It had two stories, but it was all in one block, not a central house with two wings, like the Weiss place. And about half the windows had been broken. Boards were nailed over them. The remaining windows looked dark and dingy. The whole house was a weathered gray. It had not been painted in a long time.
Rose Rita walked right up to the front door and knocked. No one answered her second knock, or her third. Thinking that maybe Mr. Stoltzfuss was in the barn, she headed around to the back of the house. As she passed a window, she could not resist peeking in. What she saw made her stop and stare. She tiptoed up to the window and shaded her eyes with her hands.
She was looking into a weird room. The walls were painted with hex signs, dozens of them. A long black table in the center of the room and a black trunk were the only furniture she could see. Lying on the table was a sword, and beside it was an incense burner, a brass contraption that looked like a little fireplace and chimney. Rose Rita was looking past a stack of books that had been carelessly placed on the windowsill. She squinted through the dirty glass. She could see the front cover of one of the books, and the spine of a second. The first book was called The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses, and the second was The Long-Lost Friend.
Just then Rose Rita heard a sound. She moved away from the window just in time. A tall, skinny man dressed in a wide-brimmed black hat and a long black coat came out of the barn and stopped suddenly when he saw her. Rose Rita recognized him as the same old man who had cursed at Mr. Weiss that day Mr. Weiss had given her and Mrs. Zimmermann the ride. He walked quickly toward her and growled, “Why are you trespassing?” His voice was harsh and high-pitched, like a fingernail scraping a blackboard.
“Uh, I—I’m looking for some relatives,” Rose Rita stammered. “My aunt and I are trying to—”
“Lies!” Mr. Stoltzfuss snarled. “I can tell a liar when I see one!”
Rose Rita was scared, but she was angry too. “Don’t call me a liar,” she said. “I’m not the one who goes spreading lies about poor old Mr. Drexel!”
The mean eyes narrowed and grew crafty. “Ach, you know that hellhound? Then you are probably in league with him! Get off my land!” Something about the way he glared at Rose Rita made her shiver. Without a word she turned and ran back around to the front of the house. She heard the rumble of the carriage. Heinrich stopped just in front of the house, and Rose Rita clambered aboard. Then Heinrich flicked Nebby with the thin whip, and the mule clattered away.
Rose Rita looked back. The tall, thin Mr. Stoltzfuss stood beside his house, his hands clenched at his sides. “So!” he shouted after them. “Another little spy! I’ll take care of you!”
The rest of his threat faded in the racket of the mule and wagon. Poor Nebby was about as frightened as Rose Rita had been, and for the first time that day he actually made good speed. Heinrich had some trouble controlling him. Rose Rita looked back. Stoltzfuss stood in the center of the road behind them. He was waving his arms in a strange way, and all of a sudden Rose Rita felt very sleepy and dull and dreamy. When Heinrich spoke, his voice sounded thin and faint, as if it came from far away: “We can go on to the next crossroads and then come back to the high road not far from our farm.”
“Let’s do that,” Rose Rita said. She hated to admit how scared she had been.
They got back to the farm not long before sunset. Rose Rita found Grampa Drexel sitting beside Mrs. Zimmermann’s bed, giving her some more of the smelly green tonic. “Your aunt is better today,” he said as Rose Rita came in.
That was true, but Mrs. Zimmermann had a long way to go. She had slipped back into confusion earlier in the day, Grampa Drexel said. Now she was better again, but she still was so drawn and haggard that her appearance worried Rose Rita. The drink that Grampa Drexel had prepared did its work, and soon Mrs. Zimmermann was sleeping. Rose Rita told Grampa Drexel about the day’s expedition, and about what had happened. When she was about to describe the books she had seen through Mr. Stoltzfuss’s window, she paused. For some reason she could not bring herself to mention them. It did not seem important to her, and so she said nothing about the hex signs or the black table or the stack of suspicious books.
Grampa Drexel shook his head. “Ach, I do not know why Adolphus Stoltzfuss should such a hard man be. Once his father fought for the British. Maybe he is still regretting the Revolution, nicht?” Grampa Drexel rose on shaky legs. He trembled with exhaustion as he reached for his box of herbs and medicines.
Rose Rita said, “I’ll help you with that.” She carried the box back to Grampa Drexel’s room. He asked her to put it on a shelf beside his bed. As she did so, Rose Rita paused. She stared hard at some books on the shelf and reached out to touch their spines. She read the titles: The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses and The Long-Lost Friend. They were just like two of the books she had seen through Mr. Stoltzfuss’s window! Rose Rita turned to tell Grampa Drexel about Mr. Stoltzfuss’s books. Her tongue would not work! She fought to speak, but she could not say a word! Then she remembered the strange gestures she had seen Stoltzfuss make as she and Heinrich drove away. Had he put some spell of silence on her? Was Adolphus Stoltzfuss the hexer?
As soon as the thought came to her, Rose Rita felt sleepy and confused. A moment later she could not quite remember what she had been thinking about. But she still had a finger against the spine of The Long-Lost Friend. Finally she managed to ask a question: “Grampa Drexel, what kind of books are these?”
Grampa Drexel had sunk into an armchair. From its depths he looked at her gravely. “Books of magic these are. Some have evil spells in them too. But I have them only so I will know how to counteract the bad spells. I believe in magic that is used for good purposes only, never for evil.” He leaned forward in his chair, and his voice grew urgent: “Let me warn you about such books, Miss Rose Rita. Some of them have powerful hexes. Stories there are of one book that is full of spells to conjure up evil spirits. These spells do not need to be spoken aloud. They work if someone only reads them silently. Worse, if an innocent victim begins to read these spells, he or she cannot stop. The words will trap the victim into finishing the spell. And once the spell is completed, then a terrible demon may show up with no control over its actions. The unlucky reader will be torn in pieces!”
Rose Rita shivered and swallowed hard. “Then how can anyone read the books?”
With a weary smile Grampa Drexel said, “Ach, there are ways. Counterspells of protection. And if a smart person finds himself trapped by one of the terrible spells, he can get out again if he takes every step backward. But never find yourself in such a predicament, Miss Rose Rita! Leave such books to old fellows like me, who are too tough for demons to eat.”
Rose Rita tried hard to remember what had first attracted her attention to the books. She vaguely remembered seeing books like them somewhere else, but she could no longer recall just where. She sighed. “Are all these books full of awful magic like that?”
Grampa Drexel tilted his head. “The Long-Lost Friend and the books of Moses? Nein, they are simply filled with remedies and good charms. Powwow books, some name them. I suppose it is possible an evil person might get an idea about how to do some wicked deeds from these books, but me they teach how to help others.”
Rose Rita thought of how Grampa Drexel had been trying to help poor Mrs. Zimmermann. Although she was improving, Mrs. Zimmermann still seemed worn out and old. Rose Rita remembered how she had looked asleep. Her gray hair, never very tidy, straggled across the pillow, and her face was frail and weak. Rose Rita said, “Grampa Drexel, can I ask you for a big, big favor?”
“What, child?”
“Will you help Mrs. Zimmermann get her magic back? She is a good witch too, but she lost all her power trying to help a friend of mine.” Rose Rita told Grampa Drexel about the horrible moment when Lewis had almost been lured to his death by a vengeful spirit, and how Mrs. Zimmermann had put everything she had into saving him.
Grampa Drexel closed his eyes. After a long time he whispered, “Ja, it is a pity such courage and love should make Mrs. Zimmermann lose her magic. There may be a way. Come.”
He led Rose Rita to a small room on the second floor of the house. It was a sort of attic, jumbled with old furniture, broken lanterns, and other odds and ends. Mr. Drexel searched until he found a wooden chest. He opened it, and from within he took a small crystal, just like the one that Hilda had shown her—except this one was dark.
“This is my last one,” Grampa Drexel said. “When I was a young man, seven of these I made. Six of them I have given to those whose magic I have sensed and helped awaken. This one I have saved. I think I have saved it for your friend.” He held the crystal out, and Rose Rita took it. It was cool, smooth, and heavy in her hand.
“What do I do with it?” she asked.
Grampa Drexel smiled. “Usually I notice the spark of magic in a young girl, and I prepare the crystal. Many years later I give it to her.”
“Many years?” Rose Rita asked, appalled. She didn’t know if Mrs. Zimmermann could hold out for very many years without her powers.
Grampa Drexel nodded. “Yes. It is earth magic. For the crystal to gain full power, it must be buried in the earth for at least seven years. The longer it rests there, the more power it gains. And then when it is dug up again, it must be touched first by the one who will wield it. There is also a ceremony to perform when it is buried.” He went on to explain that the crystal had to be named for the one it would serve. Then he had to pronounce a charm over it. Finally, it had to be buried in earth under a waxing crescent moon. “And that is some time off,” he finished. “I believe the time will be right on the seventeeth of this month.”
Rose Rita blinked. The seventeenth of March was just two weeks before April 1. If Granny Wetherbee had told the truth, Grampa Drexel himself was fated to fall fatally ill on April 1. Mrs. Zimmermann was not the only one who was running out of time.