The Night of Wishes

by Michael Ende

  “Good idea, Bulzebeeba,” said the witch. “C’mere, Jacob, my fresh, little sad s—hiccup!—of feathers!”

  “Wait a minute!” croaked Jacob in dismay. “If you please, madam, not with me, no. I don’t want to, help!”

  He tried to flee, and tottered about the laboratory in search of a hiding place, but Tyrannia had already downed an entire glass and now uttered, not without difficulty, the following rhyme:

  “O potent bile of omnipitent pition,

  Now hear my wish—hiccup!—and grunt me a nition:

  Jacob Scribble shall—oops!—at last find haven

  From his pains, wounds, and rheumatism.

  In their stead, see a fine-feathered ra . . . raven

  And a most finely tuned organism—hiccup!”

  The sorcerer and the witch—and even the pessimistic raven himself—had expected that the poor thing would be left stark naked, like a plucked rooster, and would sink to his knees bent over in pain, more dead than alive.

  Instead, Jacob suddenly felt himself decked out with a wonderfully warm, shining, blue-black coat of feathers, more beautiful than he had ever had in his life. He ruffled his feathers, fluffed them up, puffed out his chest, spread first his left, then his right wing, and studied them with tilted head.

  Both were impeccable.

  “Well, break my yoke!” he rasped. “Morris, do you see what I see, or have I flipped my lid?”

  “I see what you see,” whispered the little cat, “and I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. For an old raven you look almost elegant.”

  Jacob beat his brand-new wings vigorously and croaked with enthusiasm, “Hooray! My pains are all gone! I feel as if I had just been hatched!”

  Preposteror and Tyrannia stared at the raven with glassy eyes. Their brains were much too fogged over to really grasp what was happening.

  “Wh . . . what’s going on here?” muttered the witch. “Wh . . . what’s that . . . hiccup! . . . crazy bird up to now? Th . . . that’s all wrong.”

  “Aunnie Tootoot,” giggled the sorcerer, “I guessh you bingled something—hiccup!—You’re getting everything all mexed up! You’re a littl’ rusty, poor old girl. Lemme show you how a—oops!—profussional does it. Now watch this.” He downed another frothy glassful and burbled:

  “O putent pole of onnupotent lotion,

  Now wear my dish and grind me a motion:

  May this cat be majestic as no cat before,

  Sound of belly, of mind, and of throat—hiccup!—

  And the bist . . . bestest singer, the greatest tenor,

  With the woe-snightest . . . snow-whitest coat.”

  Morris, who had been deathly sick and hardly able to mutter a sound a moment before, suddenly felt his measly, fat, little body tautening, growing, and assuming the size of a picture-perfect, muscular tomcat. His fur was no longer full of silly-looking spots, but silky smooth and white as snow, and his whiskers would have put a tiger to shame.

  He cleared his throat and said in a voice which suddenly sounded so rich and melodious that he himself was instantly enamored with it, “Jacob, my dear friend—how do I look?”

  The raven winked at him and rasped, “High-class, Morris, strictly big-time. Just like you always wanted.”

  “You know, Jacob,” said the cat, stroking his whiskers, “maybe you should call me Mauricio di Mauro from now on, after all. It suits me better, don’t you think? Just listen!”

  He took a deep breath and intoned a schmaltzy “O sole mio . . .”

  “Shush!” said Jacob, and gestured to him to stop. “Be careful!”

  But, fortunately, the sorcerer and the witch hadn’t heard a thing, for a terrible fight had broken out between them. Each accused the other of having done something wrong, in a loud, drunken slur.

  “You take yourself for a professional?” shrieked Tyrannia. “Don’t make me laugh, ha, ha. You’re nothing but a—hiccup!—ridiculoose amateur.”

  “How dare you!” Preposteror roared back. “You of all people want to slur my profussional refu . . . poopoo . . . reputation, you old hag of a dilettauntie.”

  “Come on, kitty,” whispered Jacob. “I think we better beat it. They’re going to catch on to us soon; then things will come to a bad end for us, after all.”

  “But I’d love to see how it ends,” whispered the cat.

  “Unfortunately, you don’t have any more brains than you did before,” said the raven. “Oh well, what does a singer need with brains? Come on now, hurry up!”

  And while the sorcerer and the witch were still quarreling, the two of them stole undetected out through the broken window.

  •

  Only a small amount of the Notion Potion remained. The aunt and her nephew were already as drunk as skunks, if you’ll pardon the expression. And, as is always the case when the blood alcohol level of such nasty characters reaches a hundred proof, they talked themselves more and more into a senseless fury.

  They were no longer thinking of the animals, and thus happily did not notice their disappearance. They still had not hit on the idea that something could have canceled out the reverse effect of the magic potion. Instead, they each decided in their bottomless rage to let the other have it once and for all—this time with the power of the potion itself. Each intended to subject the other to the most evil and dastardly of all possible treatments. They wanted to conjure one another as old as Methuselah, as ugly as sin, and straight to death’s door. That is why they tossed down yet another full glass in unison, and screeched as with one voice:

  “O pittant ball of umniputent potion,

  Now smear my fish and rant me an ocean:

  May you enjoy beauty and hee!—eternal yoo-hooth,

  Health and—hiccup!—virtue rain down from above.

  May your spirrit be cleansed of all h . . . hate an’ untruth

  An’ above all—oops!—your heart full of love.”

  And suddenly, to their complete bafflement, they found themselves sitting opposite one another—as young and beautiful as a prince and princess out of a fairy tale.

  Tyrannia was speechless as she touched her slim figure (of course, her sulphurous-yellow evening gown now hung about her like a tent), and Preposteror ran his hands over his head and shouted, “Egads, whassat sprouting on my dainty little dome?—hiccup!—Wow, what a wonderful he . . . he . . . head of hair! Give me a cirror and a momb . . . I mean, a morror and a cimb . . . I mean, a mirror and a comb . . . that I may tame these wild locks.”

  Indeed, his previously bald skull was now covered with an unruly black mane. His aunt, on the other hand, had long golden-blond hair cascading down over her shoulders, like the fabled Lorelei, and when she touched her formerly ever so wrinkly face, she cried out, “My—hiccup!—skin is as smooth as a baby’s bottom!”

  And then they suddenly stopped talking and smiled admiringly at one another, quite as if they had just met for the very first time (which, in a sense, was the case, considering their current state).

  Even though the Notion Potion had thoroughly transformed the two of them—not as they had intended, of course—something had remained the same, or rather, had intensified: their drunkenness. After all, no magic can break its own spell; it just won’t work.

  “Bull’seyebaby,” stammered the aunt, “you really are a peetie-swie. Although I must say—hiccup!—you look much too double all of a sodden.”

  “Hold, ye maiden fair,” babbled her nephew, “you must be a mirage, for alluvasudd’n you’ve got a halo or two. In any case, I worship you, dearest Rintintauntie. My soul has done an about-face. Hiccup! I feel so embellished, y’know? So sweet and loving beyond all measure . . .”

  “I feel just the same,” she said. “I feel so good allaway down to the bottom of my heart, I could hog the whole world . . .”

  “Tyeziewyzie,” Preposteror managed to enunciate, “you are such a thoroughly delightly auntie, I must make up with you forever and ever. Whadyasay, shall we call each other by our first name
s from now on?”

  “But my sweet little Beebee,” she replied, “we’ve allaways called each other by our first names.”

  Preposteror nodded with a heavy head. “Too true, too true. You’re so incredibly right onesh again. In that case, we’ll drop the Mister and Missis from now on. So just call me . . . hiccup! . . . wha’s my name, anywho?”

  “Wh . . . wh . . . who cares,” said Tyrannia. “Let’s forget what usa be. We wanna start a new life, don’ we? After all, we were both such . . . hiccup! . . . evil, nasty people.”

  The sorcerer began to blubber. “We sure were. Repulsive disgrossting fiends is what we were ! Oops! I’m so ashamed, Auntie.”

  Now his aunt started crying buckets herself. “Come to my virginal bosom, thou yoble nouth . . . hiccup! . . . thou noble youth! Evvything’s gonna be different from now on. We’ll both be sweet and kind, me to you an’ you to me an’ we two to evvyone.”

  Preposteror was racked with sobs. “Oh yes, oh yes, that’s how it shall be! I’m so touched by us.”

  Tyrannia stroked his cheek and sniffed. “Don’t cry so, my little turtle dove, you’re breaking my hiccup. And besides, s’not even necessessary; we’ve already done so many good.”

  “When?” asked Preposteror, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  “This evening, when do you think?” explained the witch.

  “How so?”

  “Because the potion granted all our wishes literally, understand? It didn’t reverse anything.”

  “Howzyou know that?”

  “Well,” said the aunt, “just you take a looka us. Hiccup! Aren’t we any proof?”

  Only at that moment did she realize what she had just said. She stared at her nephew, and her nephew stared at her. He turned green in the face; she turned yellow.

  “B . . . b . . . but that means,” stuttered Preposteror, “we haven’t fulfilled our contract in the least.”

  “And what is worse,” whimpered Tyrannia, “we’ve even managed to gamble away everything we had to our credit beforehand. One hundred percent!”

  “Then we’re doomed!” roared Preposteror.

  “Help!” screamed the witch. “I don’t want to be foreclosed upon, I don’t want to! Look, one m . . . m . . . more glass of potion is left for each of us. If we use it to wish something re . . . re . . . really bad, something really da . . . da . . . dastardly, maybe we can still save ourselves.”

  They both filled their glasses one last time as fast as they could. Preposteror even went so far as to lift the bowl of Cold Fire and shake out the very last drop. Then the two of them emptied their glasses with one gulp.

  They started hemming and hawing and hemming and hawing, but neither of them could come up with a dastardly wish.

  “It won’t work,” slobbered Preposteror. “I can’t even put a curse on you, Tye.”

  “Me neither, Bubby,” she wailed. “And do you know wh . . . wh . . . why? We’re just too darned good now!”

  “How horrible!” he lamented. “I wish . . . I wish . . . I was just like before, then all our plobrems would be solved.”

  “Me too, me too!” she sniveled.

  And although it didn’t rhyme, the Notion Potion granted them this final wish as well. In one fell swoop they both became as they had been before: nasty-minded and highly displeasing to the eye.

  But it was all in vain, for the Satanarchaeolidealcohellish Notion Potion had been drunk to the last drop. And the last glass finished them off. They fell off their chairs and lay sprawled on the floor.

  At that very moment, a mighty bronze bell tone sounded from within the bowl of Cold Fire, shattering it to bits.

  Outside, the New Year’s bells began to chime.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Maggot, suddenly seated in Preposteror’s old armchair once again, “that’s that. Your time is up. I am obliged to discharge the duties of my office. Do you have anything else to state by way of rejoinder?”

  Snoring in two-part harmony was his only reply.

  The visitor stood up and allowed his lidless gaze to sweep through the devastated laboratory. “Well, well,” he muttered, “we seem to have had quite a jolly time. I doubt that we will be in such a frolicsome mood upon awakening.”

  He lifted one of the glasses, sniffed it curiously, and shrank back in shock.

  “Heaven’s bells!” he said, throwing it down in disgust. “What a revolting aroma! I smell a rat, in more ways than one.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “And to think people drink such stuff! Oh well, there simply aren’t any more connoisseurs nowadays. It really is high time that such incompetent riffraff be taken out of circulation.”

  With that, he reached into his black briefcase and withdrew a couple of bailiff’s stamps bearing the likeness of a bat. He licked and carefully pasted them on the foreheads of Preposteror and Tyrannia. Each time there was a slight hiss.

  Then Maledictus Maggot settled back down in the armchair, crossed his legs, and waited for the hellish soul shippers, who would soon come to carry them off. All the while he whistled a happy tune, for he was thinking contentedly of his impending promotion.

  •

  Meanwhile, Jacob Scribble and Mauricio di Mauro were sitting next to each other on the roof of the cathedral.

  They had climbed up once again, which had been no trouble whatsoever given their newly found strength. Now they looked on happily as people exchanged hugs behind a thousand brightly lit windows and countless fireworks shot into the air, bursting into iridescent sheaves of fire above the town. And they listened, deeply moved, to the magnificent concert of the New Year’s bells.

  Father New Year, now a stone figure once more, gazed down upon the festive glow from the heights of the steeple with an enraptured smile.

  “Happy New Year, Jacob,” said Mauricio with a choked voice.

  “Same to you!” replied the raven. “All the best. Take care, Mauricio di Mauro.”

  “That sounds like a goodbye,” said the cat.

  “Yes,” croaked Jacob hoarsely. “It’s all for the best, believe me. When things have regained their natural order, then cats and birds will be natural enemies again.”

  “It’s a pity, really,” said Mauricio.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jacob. “After all, that’s the way things are.”

  They were silent for a while and listened to the bells.

  “I wonder whatever became of the sorcerer and the witch,” the cat said eventually. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Jacob. “The main thing is that everything worked out well.”

  “Do you think so?” asked Mauricio.

  “Sure!” rasped Jacob. “The danger is past. We ravens have a sixth sense about such things, and we’re never wrong.”

  The cat pondered on it for a while. Then he said softly, “Somehow I almost feel sorry for the two of them.”

  The raven gave him a dirty look. “Oh, just be quiet!”

  They both were silent and continued listening to the concert of the bells. They still didn’t want to part.

  “In any case,” said Mauricio, breaking the silence once again, “it is sure to be a very happy year for all—that is, if the rest of the world is as lucky as we were.”

  “No doubt about it.” Jacob nodded meaningfully. “But the humans will never know who they owe their luck to.”

  “Certainly not the humans,” the cat agreed, “and even if someone told them, they would think it was a fairy tale at best.”

  Another long pause ensued, but still neither one made any attempt to bid the other farewell. They gazed into the glittering, starry night, which appeared higher and more infinite to them than it ever had before.

  “You see,” said Jacob, “these are the ups of life you’ve been missing out on.”

  “Yes,” said the cat emotionally, “so they are. From now on, I’ll be able to melt the hearts of one and all, won’t I?”

  Jacob cast a quick sideways g
lance at the stately snow-white tomcat and said, “Cat hearts, in any case. I, for my part, will be satisfied to get back to Elvira’s cozy little nest. Her eyes are going to pop out of her head when she sees me in my classy tux, all young and snappy.”

  He smoothed a couple of errant feathers carefully back into place with his beak.

  “Elvira?” asked Mauricio. “Tell me the truth, how many wives do you have, anyway?”

  The raven cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Well, you know, there’s no relying on women. You have to get a good supply ahead of time, otherwise you’re liable to be left out in the cold. And a traveling bird needs many a warm nest. But you’re too young to understand that.”

  The cat feigned indignation. “I’ll never understand such things!”

  “Just you wait, Mr. Minnesinger,” said Jacob dryly.

  By and by, the sound of the bells died away. They sat next to each other in silence. Finally, Jacob suggested, “We should go and report to the High Council. After that each of us can go his own private way.”

  “Wait!” said Mauricio. “We can always go to the High Council later. Now I would like to sing my first song.”

  Jacob looked at him in horror. “I saw it coming,” he croaked. “Who do you want to sing for, anyway? There’s no audience here, and I’m completely unmusical, I am.”

  “I shall sing for Father New Year and in honor of the Great Tom in Kitty Heaven,” said Mauricio.

  “All right”—the raven shrugged his wings—“if you must. But are you really sure that someone up there is listening?”

  “It’s nothing you could understand, my friend,” said the cat with dignity. “It’s over your head.”

  He quickly licked his silky snowy-white coat one more time, smoothed his imposing whiskers, struck a pose, and, while the raven listened patiently, albeit uncomprehendingly, started meowing his first and most beautiful aria to the starry sky above.

  And since, by some miracle, he could suddenly speak fluent Italian, he sang in his incomparably mellifluous Neapolitan cat’s tenor: