Ginger had been told never to go beyond the crooked juniper at the far end of the field. Nobody ever explained why. That, of course, made Ginger want to go there.

One late afternoon, when the sky was turning the pale gold that came just before sunset, Ginger walked across the field until she reached the old juniper. Its branches twisted in every direction, and one long limb pointed toward the hills like a bony finger.

Ginger stopped. Beyond the tree was a narrow trail she had never noticed before. She looked back toward home. She could still see the roof in the distance. She knew she should turn around. Instead, she stepped onto the trail.

It wound between patches of sage and prickly pear, then dipped into a rocky hollow where the evening light disappeared much faster. The farther Ginger walked, the quieter everything became. She couldn't hear birds anymore. She couldn't even hear the wind.

Then she smelled smoke.

Ginger followed the smell until she saw a tiny stone house tucked against the hillside. A crooked chimney leaned from the roof, sending a thin ribbon of gray smoke into the air. Bundles of dried plants hung beside the door, and something black sat on the windowsill.

It moved.

Ginger froze. Two yellow eyes stared at her.

A black cat.

Then the door opened.

An old woman stepped outside. She was tall and thin, with long gray hair that hung nearly to her waist. She wore a black dress and heavy boots, and around her neck hung a small silver moon.

The woman looked directly at Ginger. "You shouldn't be here."

Ginger's stomach dropped. She turned to run.

"Stop."

Ginger stopped. She wasn't sure why.

The old woman walked toward her slowly. "If you run now, you'll never find the trail home."

That was worse.

Ginger looked behind her. The trail was gone. There were only rocks, bushes, and shadows.

"What did you do?" Ginger demanded.

The woman's eyebrows lifted. "Me?"

"You're a witch."

For several seconds the woman said nothing. Then she smiled.

That frightened Ginger even more.

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody."

"Then how do you know?"

Ginger looked at the black dress, the crooked house, the black cat, and the smoke curling from the chimney. "You look like one."

The woman glanced down at herself. "Ah," she said. "Very convincing evidence."

Ginger wasn't sure whether the woman was teasing her.

A strange sound came from somewhere behind the house.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Ginger moved backward. "What was that?"

"Something you probably don't want to meet."

Ginger's eyes widened.

The old woman smiled again. "Come inside."

Absolutely not, Ginger thought. But the sun had disappeared behind the hill, the trail had vanished, and something was still scratching behind the house.

Scritch. Scritch.

Ginger followed the witch inside.

The little house was nothing like Ginger expected. There were shelves filled with jars, but most contained seeds, dried berries, and herbs. A kettle bubbled over the fire. Books were stacked everywhere, and dozens of tiny glass bottles caught the firelight. The black cat jumped onto a chair.

"His name is Solomon," the woman said.

Ginger stayed close to the door. "Are you going to cook me?"

The woman stared at her. Then she laughed so suddenly that Ginger jumped.

"Child, I have soup."

That didn't completely answer the question.

The woman ladled some into a wooden bowl and set it on the table. Ginger didn't touch it.

"You still think I'm a witch," the woman said.

"Are you?"

The woman sat across from her. "Sometimes."

Ginger swallowed. "Sometimes?"

"I know which plants stop itching. I know which leaves help a cough. I know when storms are coming before the clouds arrive. I can find water beneath dry ground."

"That's magic?"

"Some people call anything they don't understand magic."

Outside came another sound.

SCRITCH.

Ginger grabbed the edge of the table.

The old woman stood. "Come."

"I don't think I want to."

"No," the woman said. "But wanting to be brave and being brave aren't always the same thing."

She handed Ginger a lantern, and together they walked outside. The darkness seemed enormous now. The lantern made only a small circle of light around them.

Scritch.

There it was again. Behind the house.

Ginger's heart pounded as they crept around the corner. Something moved beneath a pile of branches.

Ginger almost screamed.

Then a tiny face appeared.

A fox kit.

One of its paws was caught between two fallen limbs.

"Oh!"

Ginger dropped to her knees. The little fox struggled and snapped at the air.

"Careful," the woman warned. "Fear can make gentle creatures bite."

Together they lifted the branches. The fox pulled free, stumbled several steps, then disappeared into the darkness. Ginger watched until she could no longer see it.

"That was the monster?" she asked.

"You decided it was a monster," the woman said. "I only told you it was something you probably didn't want to meet."

Ginger looked at her. "You tricked me."

"Perhaps."

The old woman took the lantern and raised it. Suddenly the missing trail appeared again, pale and winding through the darkness.

Ginger stared. "How did you do that?"

"I didn't."

"But it wasn't there before."

"It was always there. You were frightened, so you stopped seeing what was right in front of you."

Ginger wasn't entirely sure she believed that. She looked at the crooked little house, the black cat watching from the window, and the strange old woman holding the lantern.

"Are you really a witch?"

The woman leaned closer. For just a moment, Ginger thought she saw something flicker deep inside the woman's eyes, a tiny flash of green light.

"Go home, Ginger."

Ginger's mouth fell open. "I never told you my name."

The woman smiled. "No. You didn't."

Ginger ran.

She followed the lantern-lit trail past the rocks, through the sage, and all the way to the crooked juniper. When she looked back, the trail had disappeared.

So had the house.

Ginger stood beneath the juniper, breathing hard. Maybe the woman had been right. Maybe fear could make ordinary things seem terrible. Maybe it could make a little fox sound like a monster and an old woman look like something dangerous.

But Ginger had learned something else, too. It was wise not to decide what something was before you knew the whole story.

Still, as Ginger hurried toward home, she slipped one hand into her pocket. Her fingers touched something cold.

She pulled it out.

A tiny silver moon lay in her palm.

Ginger stopped walking.

Far behind her, somewhere beyond the crooked juniper, a black cat meowed.

And an old woman laughed.