The Little Witch

by Otfried Preussler

  Otfried Preussler

  The Little Witch

  Translated from the German by Anthea Bell

  Illustrated by Winnie Gebhardt-Gayler

  THE NEW YORK REVIEW CHILDREN’S COLLECTION

  NEW YORK

  THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS

  435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  www.nyrb.com

  Copyright © 1957 by Thienemann-Esslinger Verlag, Stuttgart

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Louise Fili, Ltd.

  Originally published in German as Die kleine Hexe.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Preussler, Otfried.

  [Kleine Hexe. English]

  The little witch / by Otfried Preussler ; translated by Anthea Bell ; illustrated by Winnie Gebhardt-Gayler.

  1 online resource. — (New York Review Books Children's Collection)

  Originally published in German by Thienemann Verlag in 1957 under title: Die kleine Hexe.

  Summary: The little Witch works hard all year to prove herself a worthy witch.

  Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  ISBN 978-1-59017-941-3 () — ISBN 978-1-59017-934-5 (hardback)

  [1. Witches—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction.] I. Bell, Anthea translator. II. Gayler, Winnie, illustrator. III. Title.

  PZ7.P9245

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015016957

  ISBN 978-1-59017-941-3

  v1.0

  For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:

  Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright and More Information

  THE LITTLE WITCH

  The Little Witch in a Temper

  Hurrah for Walpurgis Night!

  Plans for Revenge

  Do You Sell Brooms?

  Good Resolutions

  Whirlwind

  Forward March

  Paper Flowers

  A Good Lesson

  Visitors on Friday

  The Bewitched Shooting Match

  The Chestnut Man

  Better Than Seven Petticoats

  Snowman

  What Do You Bet?

  Carnival in the Wood

  A Game of Skittles

  Stuck Fast

  The Witches’ Council

  She Who Laughs Last …

  Biographical Notes

  The Little Witch

  The Little Witch in a Temper

  Once upon a time there was a little witch who was only a hundred and twenty-seven years old. That’s not at all old for a witch.

  She lived in a witch’s house that stood all alone in the middle of a wood. As she was only a little witch, her witch’s house was not particularly big either. But it was big enough for the little Witch; she couldn’t have wished for a better house. It had a funny crooked roof, and a twisted chimney, and rickety shutters. There was a baking oven built onto the back of the house. Of course there had to be an oven – a witch’s house without one wouldn’t be a proper witch’s house.

  The little Witch had a talking raven. This raven was called Abraxas. He didn’t just know how to croak “Good morning!” and “Good evening!” like an ordinary raven who has learnt to talk. Abraxas could say anything at all. The little Witch thought a great deal of him, because he was a remarkably wise raven and always spoke his mind to her without mincing his words.

  The little Witch spent about six hours a day doing exercises in witchcraft. Witchcraft isn’t easy. If you want to get anywhere with witchcraft it’s no good being lazy. First you have to learn all the smaller spells and charms, and later on the big ones. You have to study the Book of Witchcraft page by page without skipping a single exercise.

  The little Witch had only reached page two hundred and thirteen of the Book of Witchcraft. She was just trying rain making. She was sitting on the seat in front of the oven, with the Book of Witchcraft on her knees, casting spells. Abraxas the raven sat beside her. He was not happy.

  “You’re supposed to be making it rain,” he croaked reproachfully, “and what really happens? First of all you make it rain white mice. Then you make it rain frogs. And the third time, fir cones. I can’t wait to see if you’re going to make it rain properly this time, at least.”

  For the fourth time the little Witch tried to make it rain. She made a cloud climb up in the sky, beckoned it nearer, and when it was right overhead she called, “Rain!”

  The cloud opened – and it rained buttermilk!

  “Buttermilk!” screeched Abraxas. “It seems to me you’ve gone completely crazy. What kind of rain will you make next? Clothes lines? Shoe nails? It might at least be breadcrumbs or raisins!”

  “I must have made a mistake in the spell,” said the little Witch. She had done that before sometimes. But four times in a row?

  “Made a mistake!” croaked Abraxas the raven. “I’ll tell you what the matter is. You’re not concentrating. If you keep thinking about other things while you cast spells, of course you make mistakes. You want to concentrate a bit more.”

  “Do you think so?” asked the little Witch. Suddenly she shut the Book of Witchcraft with a bang. “You’re right!” she cried angrily. “It’s quite true, I’m not concentrating. And why not?” She glared defiantly at the raven. “Because I’m furious!”

  “Furious?” repeated Abraxas the raven. “What about?”

  “It’s Walpurgis Night today, that’s why I’m in a bad temper,” said the little Witch. “All the witches meet today at the dance on the Brocken mountain!”

  “Well?”

  “And the big witches say I’m still too small for the witches’ dance. They don’t want me to ride to the mountain and dance with them.”

  “Well now,” said the raven, trying to comfort the little Witch, “you can’t expect the big witches to take you seriously at a hundred and twenty-seven. It will all come right once you’re older.”

  “Humph!” said the little Witch. “But I want to join in this time, do you hear?”

  “It’s no use fretting for what you can’t get,” croaked the raven. “Does being angry make any difference? Be sensible! What can you do about it?”

  “I know what I’m going to do about it,” said the little Witch. “I’m going to ride to the Brocken mountain tonight.”

  The raven was horrified.

  “To the mountain! – But the big witches have forbidden you to go! They’ll be having their witches’ dance.”

  “Bah!” cried the little Witch. “Lots of things are forbidden. But if you don’t get caught…”

  “They will catch you!” the raven prophesied.

  “Nonsense!” she answered. “I shan’t join the other witches until they’re in the middle of the dance – and I shall ride home again before it’s over. I shan’t be noticed in the confusion on the mountain tonight.”

  Hurrah for Walpurgis Night!

  The little Witch was not going to let Abraxas the raven frighten her. That night she rode to the Brocken mountain.

  All the big witches had met there already. They were dancing round the bonfire, their hair flying and their skirts fluttering. There were perhaps five or six hundred witches, all told: mountain-witches, wood-witches, marsh-witches, mist-witches and storm-witches, wind-witches, flower-witches and herb-witches. They swirled in wild confusion, waving their broomsticks.

  “Walpurgis Night! Hurrah for Walpurgis Night!” sang the witches. From time to time they bleated, crowed and screeched; they made thunder roll and lightning flash.

>   The little Witch mingled unnoticed with the dancers. “Hurrah for Walpurgis Night!” she sang at the top of her voice. She whirled round the bonfire with the others. “If Abraxas could see me now he’d open his eyes as wide as an owl,” she thought to herself.

  And no doubt everything else would have gone smoothly too – if only the little Witch hadn’t had to dance right into her aunt, Rumpumpel the storm-witch. Aunt Rumpumpel couldn’t take a joke. She was wicked and conceited.

  “Well now, what a surprise!” she cried when the little Witch met her in the crowd. “What are you doing here? Answer me! Don’t you know young people are forbidden to come to the Brocken mountain tonight?”

  “Don’t give me away!” begged the little Witch in dismay.

  “Nonsense!” replied Aunt Rumpumpel. “You must be punished, you impudent little thing.”

  The other witches came up, full of curiosity, and surrounded the two of them. Angrily the storm-witch explained. Then she asked what should be done to the little Witch.

  “She must pay for it!” cried the mist-witches.

  “To the Head Witch with her!” screeched the mountain-witches. “To the Head Witch, this minute!”

  “Yes, yes!” shouted all the witches. “Seize her and take her to the Head Witch!”

  The little Witch begged and prayed in vain. Aunt Rumpumpel took her by the collar and dragged her before the Head Witch. The Head Witch was squatting on a throne made of pronged pokers. She frowned as she listened to the storm-witch.

  Then she thundered at the little Witch. “How dare you ride to the Brocken mountain tonight, when it’s forbidden for witches of your age? Where did you get this crazy idea?”

  “I don’t know,” said the little Witch, trembling with fright. “I suddenly felt like it – and then I just jumped on my broomstick and rode here …”

  “Then kindly ride home again!” the Head Witch ordered her. “Be off, as quick as you can. Or I might lose my temper.”

  At this the little Witch saw that she could try to talk to the Head Witch. “Then at least may I come and join the dancing next year?” she asked.

  “Hm …” The Head Witch thought it over. “I can’t make any promises today. If you’ve been a good witch all the year – then perhaps … I’ll call a council of witches the day before next Walpurgis Night, and then I’ll give you a test. But it won’t be an easy test.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” said the little Witch.

  She promised to be a good witch till next year. Then she leapt on her broomstick ready to ride home.

  But then Rumpumpel the storm-witch asked the Head Witch, “Aren’t you going to punish the impudent little creature?”

  “Yes, punish her!” the other storm-witches demanded.

  “Punish her!” cried all the rest. “We must keep to the rules. A witch who rides to the dance without permission must be punished.”

  “We could throw the naughty little toad in the fire a bit, for a punishment,” said Aunt Rumpumpel.

  “Suppose we locked her up for a few weeks?” suggested a flower-witch. “I’ve got an empty goose-coop at home …”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said a marsh-witch. “Give her to me. I’ll put her in a mudhole up to her neck.”

  “No,” the herb-witches contradicted her. “We ought to give her face a good scratching.”

  “Scratch her too!” spat the wind-witches. “But she deserves a beating as well!”

  “With willow-wands!” hissed the mountain-witches.

  “Use the broomstick!” Aunt Rumpumpel suggested.

  The little Witch was terrified. Suppose it really happened?

  “Attention!” said the Head Witch, when all the other witches had spoken. “If you insist on punishing the little Witch …”

  “We do!” shouted the witches in chorus. Aunt Rumpumpel shouted loudest of all.

  “Then here’s my decision,” said the Head Witch. “We’ll just take away her broomstick and send her home on foot. It will take her three days and nights to get back to her wood – that’s enough.”

  “It’s not enough!” shrieked Rumpumpel the storm-witch. But the others agreed that that would do. They took the little Witch’s broomstick away from her, threw it on the fire with howls of laughter, and spitefully wished her a good journey.

  Plans for Revenge

  It was a long, weary way back. It took the little Witch three days and three nights. She came home on the morning of the fourth day with sore feet and holes in her shoes.

  “Thank goodness you’re back at last!” Abraxas the raven welcomed her. He had been sitting on the chimney of the witch’s house keeping an anxious watch for her. When he caught sight of the little Witch a weight lifted from the raven’s mind. He spread his wings and flew to meet her.

  “This is a fine way to behave!” he scolded. “Gadding all over the place for days on end while I sit helplessly at home!” He hopped from one leg to the other. “You look dreadful! Covered with dust from head to foot! And why are you limping? Did you walk? I thought you had your broomstick with you!”

  “I did!” sighed the little Witch.

  “I did?” croaked Abraxas. “What does that mean?”

  “It means it’s gone.”

  “Your broomstick …?”

  “Gone,” the little Witch repeated.

  Light began to dawn on the raven. He put his head on one side and said, “So they caught you, then? Only to be expected. I should have been much surprised if they hadn’t caught you! Well, you deserved all you got.”

  It was all the same to the little Witch. Sleep! she thought. Oh, for some sleep! She limped into the bedroom and fell on top of the bed.

  “Hi!” cried Abraxas, shocked. “Aren’t you even going to take your dirty clothes off?”

  But she was already snoring.

  She slept like a log till late next morning. When she woke up Abraxas was perching on her bedpost. “Had your sleep out?”

  “Just about,” said the little Witch, yawning.

  “Well, now might I hear what happened?”

  “Breakfast first!” the little Witch grumbled. “I can’t talk on an empty stomach.”

  She had a long, satisfying breakfast. When she was so full she couldn’t have eaten another mouthful, she pushed her plate away and explained.

  “Well, you’ve had a lucky escape, for all your rashness,” said the raven when she had told her story. “Now, don’t you forget to be a good witch till next year.”

  “I’ll take great care,” she promised. “I’ll work seven hours a day instead of six from now on. And I’ve something else to do, too – something just as important.”

  “What?”

  The little Witch made a face. She looked very fierce.

  Then she explained, saying each word clearly, “I – will – be – re-venged!”

  “On whom?”

  “On Aunt Rumpumpel. It’s all her fault, the beast! She gave me away to the other witches, she did! I’ve got her to thank for my sore feet and worn-out shoes! Who stirred up the others against me? Who was the first to say the Head Witch must punish me? She wasn’t even satisfied with burning my broomstick. She still kept on at me.”

  “That was really mean of her, certainly,” said the raven. “But revenge …?”

  “I’ll bewitch her! I’ll give her a pig’s snout!” hissed the little Witch. “And donkey’s ears! And calf’s feet! A goat’s beard on her chin – and a cow’s tail hanging on behind!”

  “Cow’s tail? Goat’s beard?” said Abraxas discouragingly. “As if you could annoy old Rumpumpel like that! She’s a witch the same as you – she’ll bewitch it all away again in a twinkling!”

  “Do you think so?”

  The little Witch realized that a donkey’s ears and calf’s feet were no use this time. “Never mind!” she replied. “I expect I shall think up something better! Something that even Aunt Rumpumpel will not be able to cope with all that easily. Do you think I shall?”

 
“It’s possible,” answered Abraxas. “Only I’m afraid you’ll be very sorry for it if you do hurt Rumpumpel the storm-witch.”

  “Why?” asked the little Witch, puzzled.

  “Because you promised the Head Witch to be a good witch. And if you ask me, good witches aren’t supposed to hurt people. Get that into your head.”

  The little Witch looked doubtfully at the raven. “Do you mean that?”

  “Certainly I do,” said Abraxas. “I’d think it over, if I were you.”

  Do You Sell Brooms?

  What does a little Witch do for sore feet? She brews an ointment of toad-spawn and mouse-droppings, stirs in a handful of ground bats’ teeth and lets it cook through on the open fire. When she spreads this ointment on the sore places, muttering a spell out of the Book of Witchcraft at the same time, her feet heal in a few minutes.

  “There, that’s all right!” said the little Witch in relief, when the spell and the ointment had done their work.

  “Don’t you have to limp any more now?” asked Abraxas.

  “See for yourself!” cried the little Witch. She danced barefoot round the witch’s house. Then she put on her shoes and stockings.

  “Are you going out?” asked the raven in surprise.

  “Yes. You can come too,” said the little Witch. “I’m going to the village.”

  “It’s a long way,” said Abraxas. “Don’t forget you’ve lost your broomstick; you’ll have to walk.”

  “That’s the point. I don’t want to have to walk any more. So as I don’t want to walk any more, I’ve got to walk into the village.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Why? I want to buy a broomstick, if you don’t mind. That’s all.”

  “That’s different,” said Abraxas. “Of course I’ll come too. Or you might go staying away for ages again!”

  The path to the village went right through the wood, over gnarled roots and broken rocks, fallen trees and slopes covered with brambles. That didn’t worry Abraxas the raven much. He sat on the little Witch’s shoulder, and all he had to do was to take care that a branch didn’t hit him unexpectedly on the head. But the little Witch kept stumbling over roots and catching her clothes on the twigs.