by Roald Dahl
I gazed up at my grandmother, who sat there like some ancient queen on her throne. Her eyes were misty-grey and they seemed to be looking at something many miles away. The cigar was the only real thing about her at that moment, and the smoke it made billowed round her head in blue clouds.
‘But the little girl who became a chicken didn't disappear?’ I said.
‘No, not Birgit. She lived on for many years laying her brown eggs.’
‘You said all of them disappeared.’
‘I made a mistake,’ my grandmother said. ‘I am getting old. I can't remember everything.’
‘What happened to the fourth child?’ I asked.
‘The fourth was a boy called Harald,’ my grandmother said. ‘One morning his skin went all greyish-yellow. Then it became hard and crackly, like the shell of a nut. By evening, the boy had turned to stone.’
‘Stone?’ I said. ‘You mean real stone?’
‘Granite,’ she said. ‘I'll take you to see him if you like. They still keep him in the house. He stands in the hall, a little stone statue. Visitors lean their umbrellas up against him.’
Although I was very young, I was not prepared to believe everything my grandmother told me. And yet she spoke with such conviction, with such utter seriousness, and with never a smile on her face or a twinkle in her eye, that I found myself beginning to wonder.
‘Go on, Grandmamma,’ I said. ‘You told me there were five altogether. What happened to the last one?’
‘Would you like a puff of my cigar?’ she said.
‘I'm only seven, Grandmamma.’
‘I don't care what age you are,’ she said. ‘You'll never catch a cold if you smoke cigars.’
‘What about number five, Grandmamma?’
‘Number five,’ she said, chewing the end of her cigar as though it were a delicious asparagus, ‘was rather an interesting case. A nine-year-old boy called Leif was summer-holidaying with his family on the fjord, and the whole family was picnicking and swimming off some rocks on one of those little islands. Young Leif dived into the water and his father, who was watching him, noticed that he stayed under for an unusually long time. When he came to the surface at last, he wasn't Leif any more.’
‘What was he, Grandmamma?’
‘He was a porpoise.’
‘He wasn't! He couldn't have been!’
‘He was a lovely young porpoise,’ she said. ‘And as friendly as could be.’
‘Grandmamma,’ I said.
‘Yes, my darling?’
‘Did he really and truly turn into a porpoise?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I knew his mother well. She told me all about it. She told me how Leif the Porpoise stayed with them all that afternoon giving his brothers and sisters rides on his back. They had a wonderful time. Then he waved a flipper at them and swam away, never to be seen again.’
‘But Grandmamma,’ I said, ‘how did they know that the porpoise was actually Leif?’
‘He talked to them,’ my grandmother said. ‘He laughed and joked with them all the time he was giving them rides.’
‘But wasn't there a most tremendous fuss when this happened?’ I asked.
‘Not much,’ my grandmother said. ‘You must remember that here in Norway we are used to that sort of thing. There are witches everywhere. There's probably one living in our street this very moment. It's time you went to bed.’
‘A witch wouldn't come in through my window in the night, would she?’ I asked, quaking a little.
‘No,’ my grandmother said. ‘A witch will never do silly things like climbing up drainpipes or breaking into people's houses. You'll be quite safe in your bed. Come along. I'll tuck you in.’
How to Recognize a Witch
The next evening, after my grandmother had given me my bath, she took me once again into the living-room for another story.
‘Tonight,’ the old woman said, ‘I am going to tell you how to recognize a witch when you see one.’
‘Can you always be sure?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said, ‘you can't. And that's the trouble. But you can make a pretty good guess.’
She was dropping cigar ash all over her lap, and I hoped she wasn't going to catch on fire before she'd told me how to recognize a witch.
‘In the first place,’ she said, ‘a REAL WITCH is certain always to be wearing gloves when you meet her.’
‘Surely not always,’ I said. ‘What about in the summer when it's hot?’
‘Even in the summer,’ my grandmother said. ‘She has to. Do you want to know why?’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Because she doesn't have finger-nails. Instead of finger-nails, she has thin curvy claws, like a cat, and she wears the gloves to hide them. Mind you, lots of very respectable women wear gloves, especially in winter, so this doesn't help you very much.’
‘Mamma used to wear gloves,’ I said.
‘Not in the house,’ my grandmother said. ‘Witches wear gloves even in the house. They only take them off when they go to bed.’
‘How do you know all this, Grandmamma?’
‘Don't interrupt,’ she said. ‘Just take it all in. The second thing to remember is that a REAL WITCH is always bald.’
‘Bald?’ I said.
‘Bald as a boiled egg,’ my grandmother said.
I was shocked. There was something indecent about a bald woman. ‘Why are they bald, Grandmamma?’
‘Don't ask me why,’ she snapped. ‘But you can take it from me that not a single hair grows on a witch's head.’
‘How horrid!’
‘Disgusting,’ my grandmother said.
‘If she's bald, she'll be easy to spot,’ I said.
‘Not at all,’ my grandmother said. ‘A REAL WITCH always wears a wig to hide her baldness. She wears a first-class wig. And it is almost impossible to tell a really first-class wig from ordinary hair unless you give it a pull to see if it comes off.’
‘Then that's what I'll have to do,’ I said.
‘Don't be foolish,’ my grandmother said. ‘You can't go round pulling at the hair of every lady you meet, even if she is wearing gloves. Just you try it and see what happens.’
‘So that doesn't help much either,’ I said.
‘None of these things is any good on its own,’ my grandmother said. ‘It's only when you put them all together that they begin to make a little sense. Mind you,’ my grandmother went on, ‘these wigs do cause a rather serious problem for witches.’
‘What problem, Grandmamma?’
‘They make the scalp itch most terribly,’ she said. ‘You see, when an actress wears a wig, or if you or I were to wear a wig, we would be putting it on over our own hair, but a witch has to put it straight on to her naked scalp. And the underneath of a wig is always very rough and scratchy. It sets up a frightful itch on the bald skin. It causes nasty sores on the head. Wig-rash, the witches call it. And it doesn't half itch.’
‘What other things must I look for to recognize a witch?’ I asked.
‘Look for the nose-holes,’ my grandmother said. ‘Witches have slightly larger nose-holes than ordinary people. The rim of each nose-hole is pink and curvy, like the rim of a certain kind of sea-shell.’
‘Why do they have such big nose-holes?’ I asked.
‘For smelling with,’ my grandmother said. ‘A REAL WITCH has the most amazing powers of smell. She can actually smell out a child who is standing on the other side of the street on a pitch-black night.’
‘She couldn't smell me,’ I said. ‘I've just had a bath.’
‘Oh yes she could,’ my grandmother said. ‘The cleaner you happen to be, the more smelly you are to a witch.’
‘That can't be true,’ I said.
An absolutely clean child gives off the most ghastly stench to a witch,’ my grandmother said. ‘The dirtier you are, the less you smell.’
‘But that doesn't make sense, Grandmamma.’
‘Oh yes it does,’ my grandmother said. ‘I
t isn't the dirt that the witch is smelling. It is you. The smell that drives a witch mad actually comes right out of your own skin. It comes oozing out of your skin in waves, and these waves, stink-waves the witches call them, go floating through the air and hit the witch right smack in her nostrils. They send her reeling.’
‘Now wait a minute, Grandmamma…’
‘Don't interrupt,’ she said. ‘The point is this. When you haven't washed for a week and your skin is all covered over with dirt, then quite obviously the stink-waves cannot come oozing out nearly so strongly.’
‘I shall never have a bath again,’ I said.
‘Just don't have one too often,’ my grandmother said. ‘Once a month is quite enough for a sensible child.’
It was at moments like these that I loved my grandmother more than ever.
‘Grandmamma,’ I said, ‘if it's a dark night, how can a witch smell the difference between a child and a grown-up?’
‘Because grown-ups don't give out stink-waves,’ she said. ‘Only children do that.’
‘But I don't really give out stink-waves, do I?’ I said. ‘I'm not giving them out at this very moment, am I?’
‘Not to me you aren't,’ my grandmother said. ‘To me you are smelling like raspberries and cream. But to a witch you would be smelling absolutely disgusting.’
‘What would I be smelling of?’ I asked.
‘Dogs’ droppings,’ my grandmother said.
I reeled. I was stunned. ‘Dogs’ droppings!’ I cried. ‘I am not smelling of dogs’ droppings! I don't believe it! I won't believe it!’
‘What's more,’ my grandmother said, speaking with a touch of relish, ‘to a witch you'd be smelling of fresh dogs’ droppings.’
‘That simply is not true!’ I cried. ‘I know I am not smelling of dogs’ droppings, stale or fresh!’
‘There's no point in arguing about it,’ my grandmother said. ‘It's a fact of life.’
I was outraged. I simply couldn't bring myself to believe what my grandmother was telling me.
‘So if you see a woman holding her nose as she passes you in the street,’ she went on, ‘that woman could easily be a witch.’
I decided to change the subject. ‘Tell me what else to look for in a witch,’ I said.
‘The eyes,’ my grandmother said. ‘Look carefully at the eyes, because the eyes of a REAL WITCH are different from yours and mine. Look in the middle of each eye where there is normally a little black dot. If she is a witch, the black dot will keep changing colour, and you will see fire and you will see ice dancing right in the very centre of the coloured dot. It will send shivers running all over your skin.’
My grandmother leaned back in her chair and sucked away contentedly at her foul black cigar. I squatted on the floor, staring up at her, fascinated. She was not smiling. She looked deadly serious.
‘Are there other things?’ I asked her.
‘Of course there are other things,’ my grandmother said. ‘You don't seem to understand that witches are not actually women at all. They look like women. They talk like women. And they are able to act like women. But in actual fact, they are totally different animals. They are demons in human shape. That is why they have claws and bald heads and queer noses and peculiar eyes, all of which they have to conceal as best they can from the rest of the world.’
‘What else is different about them, Grandmamma?’
‘The feet,’ she said. ‘Witches never have toes.’
‘No toes!’ I cried. ‘Then what do they have?’
‘They just have feet,’ my grandmother said.
‘The feet have square ends with no toes on them at all.’
‘Does that make it difficult to walk?’ I asked.
‘Not at all,’ my grandmother said. ‘But it does give them a problem with their shoes. All ladies like to wear small rather pointed shoes, but a witch, whose feet are very wide and square at the ends, has the most awful job squeezing her feet into those neat little pointed shoes.’
‘Why doesn't she wear wide comfy shoes with square ends?’ I asked.
‘She dare not,’ my grandmother said. ‘Just as she hides her baldness with a wig, she must also hide her ugly witch's feet by squeezing them into pretty shoes.’
‘Isn't that terribly uncomfortable?’ I said.
‘Extremely uncomfortable,’ my grandmother said. ‘But she has to put up with it.’
‘If she's wearing ordinary shoes, it won't help me to recognize her, will it, Grandmamma?’
‘I'm afraid it won't,’ my grandmother said. ‘You might possibly see her limping very slightly, but only if you were watching closely’
‘Are those the only differences then, Grandmamma?’
‘There's one more,’ my grandmother said. ‘Just one more.’
‘What is it, Grandmamma?’
‘Their spit is blue.’
‘Blue!’ I cried. ‘Not blue! Their spit can't be blue!’
‘Blue as a bilberry,’ she said.
‘You don't mean it, Grandmamma! Nobody can have blue spit!’
‘Witches can,’ she said.
‘Is it like ink?’ I asked.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘They even use it to write with. They use those old-fashioned pens that have nibs and they simply lick the nib.’
‘Can you notice the blue spit, Grandmamma? If a witch was talking to me, would I be able to notice it?’
‘Only if you looked carefully,’ my grandmother said.
‘If you looked very carefully you would probably see a slight bluish tinge on her teeth. But it doesn't show much.’
‘It would if she spat,’ I said.
‘Witches never spit,’ my grandmother said. ‘They daren't.’
I couldn't believe my grandmother would be lying to me. She went to church every morning of the week and she said grace before every meal, and somebody who did that would never tell lies. I was beginning to believe every word she spoke.
‘So there you are,’ my grandmother said. ‘That's about all I can tell you. None of it is very helpful. You can still never be absolutely sure whether a woman is a witch or not just by looking at her. But if she is wearing the gloves, if she has the large nose-holes, the queer eyes and the hair that looks as though it might be a wig, and if she has a bluish tinge on her teeth – if she has all of these things, then you run like mad.’
‘Grandmamma,’ I said, ‘when you were a little girl, did you ever meet a witch?’
‘Once,’ my grandmother said. ‘Only once.’
‘What happened?’
‘I'm not going to tell you,’ she said. ‘It would frighten you out of your skin and give you bad dreams.’
‘Please tell me,’ I begged.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Certain things are too horrible to talk about.’
‘Does it have something to do with your missing thumb?’ I asked.
Suddenly, her old wrinkled lips shut tight as a pair of tongs and the hand that held the cigar (which had no thumb on it) began to quiver very slightly.
I waited. She didn't look at me. She didn't speak. All of a sudden she had shut herself off completely. The conversation was finished.
‘Goodnight, Grandmamma,’ I said, rising from the floor and kissing her on the cheek.
She didn't move. I crept out of the room and went to my bedroom.
The Grand High Witch
The next day, a man in a black suit arrived at the house carrying a brief-case, and he held a long conversation with my grandmother in the living-room. I was not allowed in while he was there, but when at last he went away, my grandmother came in to me, walking very slowly and looking very sad.
‘That man was reading me your father's will,’ she said.
‘What is a will?’ I asked her.
‘It is something you write before you die,’ she said. ‘And in it you say who is going to have your money and your property. But most important of all, it says who is going to look after your child if both the mother and father a
re dead.’
A fearful panic took hold of me. ‘It did say you, Grandmamma?’ I cried. ‘I don't have to go to somebody else, do I?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Your father would never have done that. He has asked me to take care of you for as long as I live, but he has also asked that I take you back to your own house in England. He wants us to stay there.’
‘But why?’ I said. ‘Why can't we stay here in Norway? You would hate to live anywhere else! You told me you would!’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But there are a lot of complications with money and with the house that you wouldn't understand. Also, it said in the will that although all your family is Norwegian, you were born in England and you have started your education there and he wants you to continue going to English schools.’
‘Oh, Grandmamma!’ I cried. ‘You don't want to go and live in our English house, I know you don't!’
‘Of course I don't,’ she said. ‘But I am afraid I must. The will said that your mother felt the same way about it, and it is important to respect the wishes of the parents.’
There was no way out of it. We had to go to England, and my grandmother started making arrangements at once. ‘Your next school term begins in a few days,’ she said, ‘so we don't have any time to waste.’
On the evening before we left for England, my grandmother got on to her favourite subject once again. ‘There are not as many witches in England as there are in Norway,’ she said.
‘I'm sure I won't meet one,’ I said.
‘I sincerely hope you won't,’ she said, ‘because those English witches are probably the most vicious in the whole world.’
As she sat there smoking her foul cigar and talking away, I kept looking at the hand with the missing thumb. I couldn't help it. I was fascinated by it and I kept wondering what awful thing had happened that time when she had met a witch. It must have been something absolutely appalling and gruesome otherwise she would have told me about it. Maybe the thumb had been twisted off. Or perhaps she had been forced to jam her thumb down the spout of a boiling kettle until it was steamed away. Or did someone pull it out of her hand like a tooth? I couldn't help trying to guess.
