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Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
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a good deed while I'm in the south with them, will you know it and turn me back?" That was a sudden bad thought. "Would you turn me back while I'm in
the south with them, so that I'd have to get back here on my own, walking?" Howard wondered how far south
south
was. "Or would you wait until we came back next spring?" Waiting wasn't good, either. Why was he even asking? He knew he could never catch up now. "Why didn't you tell me before that I should go with them?"
"Howard," the old witch said, "you're making me tired. Leave me alone." She sat down on the stoop by her door as though she didn't even have the energy to get away from him indoors.
"
You're
tired?" Howard said. "Try being a goose for a while, and see how tired that makes you." He started to waddle toward the pond then decided he'd better check whether she planned to feed him, now that he was stuck here for the winter. "Speaking of cold...," he began.
She hadn't moved, except for dropping her cane.
But Howard knew she hadn't fallen asleep.
The old witch had died.
15. Howard and the Old Witch
Howard sat down heavily in the dust by the old witch's feet.
Now he would never regain his boy's body.
He was stuck as a goose as surely as those born to it.
What were his choices? He could spend the winter here, alone, hoping a solitary gooseâa goose without much experience as a gooseâcould survive the harshness of the weather and the scarcity of food. Or he
could start flying southward and hope to catch up to the Goose Pond geese when they stopped for the night. That was assuming he could find them, of course. Or he might happen upon another flock of geeseâand he could start all over with them. If they let him.
Whichever he chose, he would never have a chance to explain to his parents what had happened. They would die never knowing whether he'd run off or been killed. Actually, now that he thought about it, he would probably die first. Under the best of circumstances, geese don't live as long as people, and his were certainly not the best of circumstances.
He looked at the dead old witch, with her head leaned back against the door, her gray wispy hair lifting in the wind.
Your fault,
he thought.
But he couldn't hate her.
She had been ailing, slowing down, all spring and summer long. She had not gone into Dumphrey's Mill once during that time, and the only ones who had come here had been his parents, looking for him, and Roscoe and Alina, looking for eggs. No one had cared enough to worry about her, and that had to be hard, whether you were a witch or not.
She was still ugly, she was still old, she was still meanâbut Howard couldn't just leave her like this, sitting dead on the stoop.
He flew up to the window and into the cottage. The room was messier, dustier than it had been the time she had let him in to tend his rat-bitten beak. He saw no store of wood set by the fireplace in preparation for the winter cold, the way his family would have done by now. And there didn't appear to be much food left: The
bread she had been throwing out to the geese looked to be close to the last of what she had.
In the corner was her bed, and there he saw what he needed. He waddled over, then tugged with his beak at the corner of the blanket. It came loose, and he managed to drag it off the bed and across the floor.
But then he realized that the old witch was sitting on the other side of the door, so he'd never be able to push it open.
He took as much of the hem of the blanket in his beak as he could manage, determined to fly out the window. But the weight of the blanket hanging loose was too much, and the blanket slithered back down to the floor.
Howard poked and prodded with beak and webbed feet, until finally he managed to fold the blanket, more or less halfway lengthwise, then again widthwise.
This made the blanket rather thick for beak holding, and he dropped it twice more before, on his third attempt, he got most of it onto the windowsill.
Then,
the south with them, so that I'd have to get back here on my own, walking?" Howard wondered how far south
south
was. "Or would you wait until we came back next spring?" Waiting wasn't good, either. Why was he even asking? He knew he could never catch up now. "Why didn't you tell me before that I should go with them?"
"Howard," the old witch said, "you're making me tired. Leave me alone." She sat down on the stoop by her door as though she didn't even have the energy to get away from him indoors.
"
You're
tired?" Howard said. "Try being a goose for a while, and see how tired that makes you." He started to waddle toward the pond then decided he'd better check whether she planned to feed him, now that he was stuck here for the winter. "Speaking of cold...," he began.
She hadn't moved, except for dropping her cane.
But Howard knew she hadn't fallen asleep.
The old witch had died.
15. Howard and the Old Witch
Howard sat down heavily in the dust by the old witch's feet.
Now he would never regain his boy's body.
He was stuck as a goose as surely as those born to it.
What were his choices? He could spend the winter here, alone, hoping a solitary gooseâa goose without much experience as a gooseâcould survive the harshness of the weather and the scarcity of food. Or he
could start flying southward and hope to catch up to the Goose Pond geese when they stopped for the night. That was assuming he could find them, of course. Or he might happen upon another flock of geeseâand he could start all over with them. If they let him.
Whichever he chose, he would never have a chance to explain to his parents what had happened. They would die never knowing whether he'd run off or been killed. Actually, now that he thought about it, he would probably die first. Under the best of circumstances, geese don't live as long as people, and his were certainly not the best of circumstances.
He looked at the dead old witch, with her head leaned back against the door, her gray wispy hair lifting in the wind.
Your fault,
he thought.
But he couldn't hate her.
She had been ailing, slowing down, all spring and summer long. She had not gone into Dumphrey's Mill once during that time, and the only ones who had come here had been his parents, looking for him, and Roscoe and Alina, looking for eggs. No one had cared enough to worry about her, and that had to be hard, whether you were a witch or not.
She was still ugly, she was still old, she was still meanâbut Howard couldn't just leave her like this, sitting dead on the stoop.
He flew up to the window and into the cottage. The room was messier, dustier than it had been the time she had let him in to tend his rat-bitten beak. He saw no store of wood set by the fireplace in preparation for the winter cold, the way his family would have done by now. And there didn't appear to be much food left: The
bread she had been throwing out to the geese looked to be close to the last of what she had.
In the corner was her bed, and there he saw what he needed. He waddled over, then tugged with his beak at the corner of the blanket. It came loose, and he managed to drag it off the bed and across the floor.
But then he realized that the old witch was sitting on the other side of the door, so he'd never be able to push it open.
He took as much of the hem of the blanket in his beak as he could manage, determined to fly out the window. But the weight of the blanket hanging loose was too much, and the blanket slithered back down to the floor.
Howard poked and prodded with beak and webbed feet, until finally he managed to fold the blanket, more or less halfway lengthwise, then again widthwise.
This made the blanket rather thick for beak holding, and he dropped it twice more before, on his third attempt, he got most of it onto the windowsill.
Then,
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