Into the Wild by Sarah Beth Durst Page A

ground. She had nearly squashed them. A chorus of tiny voices, the ants shouted: “If you spare us, we will aid you later!” She knew that phrase: it was a phrase straight out of Grimm’s.
    She had stumbled onto the animal helpers.
    For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. In the stories, the hero met the animal helpers before he had to face a villain. Was she going to meet a villain? I don’t want to meet a villain, she thought. I want to go home!
    All the creatures—bird, fish, and ants—clamored for her: “Save us! Save us!”
    She took an involuntary step backward and the ants cried out, “Oh, thank you! Thank you! Someday, we will return to repay your kindness!” The ants scattered across the moss and vanished under a mat of fallen leaves.
    Oh, no. She’d done it: a fairy-tale event. She hadn’t meant to. She wanted to run. She didn’t want to meet an ogre or a witch or a dragon or an evil fairy or a . . .
    “Please, save me!” the fish cried.
    I can’t run, she realized. Refusing to help was just as much a fairy-tale act as helping—except characters who didn’t help were always doomed. If a story had found her, she was going to need these creatures to survive whoever or whatever she met next. The tales were very clear about that.
    She picked up the fish by its tail fin. Eww, slimy. She dropped it in the water and wiped her hand on her jeans. “Thank you!” it cried. “Someday, I will return to repay your kindness!” She was sure it would—that was the problem. She didn’t want to need its help.
    In the bush, the bird squawked again. Halfheartedly, Julie tugged at a branch. Snarled, it held fast. She braced herself and yanked. Leaves rustled, the wood bit into her palms, and the bird squirmed free.
    “Thank you!” it cried. Julie muttered with it: “Someday, I will return to repay your kindness.” The bird flew up toward the treetops.
    Maybe if she got out of the area quickly, she could avoid the villain. Mud sucked at her flip-flops as she hurried down the stream. Maybe this fairy-tale event was an isolated incident. After all, she didn’t feel compelled to do anything right now. Maybe she could meet the animal helpers and not have to meet a . . .
    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