The Little Witch

by Otfried Preussler

  “What a dreadful path!” she said time and again. “I shall be able to ride again soon, that’s the only comfort.”

  They reached the village and went to see the shopkeeper, Baldwin Peppercorn.

  Mr Peppercorn thought little of it when the little Witch and her raven came in at the door. He had never seen a witch before, so he took her for just an ordinary little old woman from one of the nearby villages.

  They wished each other good day. “What can I do for you?” Mr Peppercorn asked kindly.

  First the little Witch bought a quarter of a pound of peppermints. Then she held the bag under the raven’s beak, saying, “Help yourself!”

  “Thank you very much!” croaked Abraxas.

  Mr Peppercorn was most surprised. “What a clever bird!” he said in admiration. “What else would you like?” he went on.

  “Do you sell brooms and brushes?” asked the little Witch.

  “Certainly!” said Mr Peppercorn. “Handbrushes, kitchen brushes, birch brooms. And scrubbing brushes too, of course. Or perhaps you wanted a feather duster …”

  “No thank you, I want a birch broom.”

  “With or without broomstick?”

  “With a stick,” said the little Witch. “The stick is the most important part. But it mustn’t be too short.”

  “How about this one here?” Mr Peppercorn suggested helpfully. “I’m afraid brooms with longer sticks are out of stock just now.”

  “I think it’s long enough,” said the little Witch. “I’ll take it.”

  “Shall I wrap the broom up?” asked Mr Peppercorn. “It will be easier to carry if I put a bit of string round it.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said the little Witch. “But it doesn’t need wrapping up.”

  “Just as you like.” Mr Peppercorn counted out the change and showed the little Witch to the door. “Good day, I am your most obedient –”

  “Servant,” he was just going to add. But what he saw took his breath away.

  He saw his customer put the broomstick between her legs. She muttered something, and whoosh! away flew the broomstick carrying her and the raven. Mr Peppercorn couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “Heaven help me!” he thought. “Is something strange going on here – or am I dreaming?”

  Good Resolutions

  The little Witch hurtled away on her new broomstick like a whirlwind in human form. She raced over the roofs and gables of the village, her hair streaming and her headscarf fluttering. Abraxas perched on her shoulder, clinging on for dear life.

  “Look out!” he croaked suddenly. “The church tower!”

  The little Witch was only just in time to turn the broomstick aside. A shade closer, and she would have been left hanging on top of the tower. Only her apron caught on the beak of the iron weathercock. Rip! it tore in two.

  “Fly slower!” scolded the raven. “You’ll break your neck rushing along like this. Have you gone mad?”

  “It’s not me,” cried the little Witch. “It’s the broomstick. It’s running away with me, the brute!”

  New broomsticks are just like young horses. You have to start by taming them and breaking them in. You can count yourself lucky to get off with nothing worse than a torn apron.

  But the little Witch was cunning. She steered the broomstick as well as she could out into the open fields. She couldn’t bump into anything there.

  “Now, you buck!” she told the broomstick. “Just you buck! When you’ve tired yourself out you’ll see reason all right! Gee-up!”

  The broomstick tried every imaginable way of throwing her. It leapt wildly in all directions, it reared up and let itself drop down – it was no use. The little Witch sat firm. She couldn’t be shaken off.

  At last the broomstick gave up. It was worn out. Now it obeyed the little Witch’s slightest command. Obediently it flew now fast, now slow, straight forward or round in a curve.

  “There now!” said the little Witch contentedly. “Why couldn’t you do that to begin with?”

  She straightened her clothes and her headscarf. Then she gave the broomstick a blow with the flat of her hand – and they flew gently towards the wood.

  The new broomstick had become as gentle as a lamb. They sailed over the tops of trees, looking down at the rocks and brambles far below. Happily the little Witch let her legs dangle. She was glad she wouldn’t have to get about on foot any more. She waved to the hares and deer she saw in the thickets, and counted the foxholes.

  “Look there – a huntsman!” croaked Abraxas the raven after a time, pointing down with his beak.

  “I see him,” said the little Witch. She pursed her lips and spat, right on top of the huntsman’s hat.

  “What did you do that for?” asked Abraxas.

  “Because it’s fun!” she chuckled. “Ha, ha! He’ll think it’s raining!”

  The raven was not amused. “That’s wrong,” he said severely. “Good witches don’t spit on people’s hats.”

  “Oh, shut up!” she said angrily.

  “Thank you very much,” croaked Abraxas, hurt. “But Aunt Rumpumpel will laugh up her sleeve at your ‘jokes.’”

  “The storm-witch … What’s it got to do with her?”

  “A great deal,” said the raven. “Don’t you think she’ll be pleased if you’ve failed to be a good witch all the year? Are you going to give her that satisfaction?”

  The little Witch shook her head vigorously.

  “All the same, unless I’m much mistaken, you’re well on the way to doing it,” Abraxas told her.

  He said no more. The little Witch was silent too. What Abraxas had said made her think. She brooded over it gloomily. But however she looked at it, the raven was still right. When they got home she said, “Yes, that’s true. I must be a good witch. It’s the only way to pay back that Rumpumpel. I’ll make her turn green and yellow with fury!”

  “So you will!” croaked Abraxas. “But from now on you really must do nothing but good.”

  “I won’t fail!” she promised.

  Whirlwind

  So from then on the little Witch studied her Book of Witchcraft seven hours a day instead of six. By next Walpurgis Night she meant to know everything a good witch could be expected to know. She was still young enough to learn easily; soon she could cast all the important spells from memory.

  Inbetween times she sometimes went out for a ride. She needed a change after so many hours of hard practice. It even happened, since she had bought her new broomstick, that she went on foot through the wood now and then. Choosing to walk is not at all the same thing as having to walk.

  One day, when she was wandering about the wood with Abraxas the raven, she met three old women. All three carried baskets on their backs, and they were peering at the ground as if they were looking for something.

  “What are you looking for?” asked the little Witch.

  “We’re looking for dry bark and broken twigs,” said one of the little old women.

  “But we haven’t had any luck,” sighed the second. “The wood might have been swept clean.”

  “Have you been looking long?” asked the little Witch.

  “Since this morning,” said the third old woman. “We’ve hunted and hunted, but we haven’t collected so much as half a basket full. What will become of us if we have so little wood to burn next winter?”

  The little Witch glanced at the baskets. They held nothing but a few dry sticks. “If that’s all you’ve found, I can see why you look sad,” she said to the women. “Why can’t you find anything?”

  “It’s the wind’s fault.”

  “The wind?” cried the little Witch. “How can it be the wind’s fault?”

  “Because it won’t blow,” said the first old woman.

  “And if the wind doesn’t blow, you see, nothing falls down from the trees.”

  “And if no twigs and branches fall down, how are we to fill our baskets?”

  “Oh, so that’s how it is!” said the little Witc
h.

  The women who were looking for sticks nodded, and one of them said, “What wouldn’t I give to know witchcraft! Then we’d be all right! I’d call up a magic wind. But there, I can’t.”

  “No, to be sure,” said the little Witch. “You can’t.”

  The three women decided to go home then. “There’s no point in hunting any more,” they said. “We shan’t find anything so long as the wind doesn’t blow. Good afternoon!”

  “Good afternoon!” said the little Witch. She waited until the three women were a few paces away.

  “Couldn’t you help them?” Abraxas asked softly.

  The little Witch laughed. “That’s just what I’m going to do. Hold tight, or you’ll get blown away!”

  Making a wind was child’s play to the little Witch.

  She whistled through her teeth – and immediately a whirlwind arose. And what a whirlwind it was! It rushed through the trees, shaking the trunks. It tore the dry twigs off all the trees. Pieces of bark and big branches rattled down on the ground.

  The women shrieked and ducked their heads in fright. They held their skirts down with both hands. The whirlwind almost blew them off their feet. But the little Witch didn’t let that happen.

  “That’s enough!” she called. “Stop!”

  The wind obeyed at once. It died away. The woodgatherers looked timidly round. Then they saw that the wood was full of sticks and broken twigs.

  “What luck!” they cried all three. “So much wood to pick up all at once! It’ll last us for weeks!”

  They picked up as much as they could carry and stuffed it into their baskets. Then they went home, beaming with joy.

  The little Witch watched them go with a smile.

  Even Abraxas the raven, for once, was remarkably pleased. “Not bad for a start!” he said, pecking her shoulder. “I think you really have the makings of a good witch.”

  Forward March

  After this the women who came to pick up sticks never had to go home with empty baskets. The little Witch saw to that. They were always cheerful now, and when they met the little Witch they said, smiling happily, “It’s a real pleasure, collecting firewood this year! Coming into the wood is well worthwhile.”

  So the little Witch was very surprised one day when the three women came along the path with tear-stained faces. Their baskets were empty. She had called up a magic wind only yesterday evening, and there must be plenty of sticks and bark.

  “Just think what’s happened!” sobbed the woman. “The new District Forester has forbidden us to collect sticks! He’s emptied the baskets we’d filled – and next time he’s going to put us in prison.”

  “How friendly of him!” said the little Witch. “Why is he doing this?”

  “Because he’s mean!” cried the women. “The old forester didn’t mind at all, it’s this new one. You can’t imagine how angry he was. We’ll never have cheap firewood again now.”

  The women began to cry once more. The little Witch cheered them up. “The new forester will think better of it,” she said. “I’ll bring him to reason.”

  “How?” the women wanted to know.

  “Just leave it to me! Go home now and don’t worry. After tomorrow the new forester will let you collect as much wood as you can carry.”

  The three women went away. Quickly the little Witch bewitched herself a basket full of firewood. She put it down at the side of the road and sat down by it, as if she had been picking up wood and was just having a little rest. She didn’t have to wait long before the new forester came up. She knew him at once by his green coat, his gun and his leather gamebag.

  “Aha!” cried the forester. “Another one already! What are you doing there?”

  “The basket is so heavy, I must stop for a bit to get my breath back.”

  “Don’t you know collecting firewood is forbidden?”

  “No, how am I supposed to know?”

  “Well, you know now!” snapped the forester. “Empty your basket and be off with you.”

  “Must I empty my basket?” asked the little Witch. “Dear Mr Forester, have pity on me! You can’t treat a poor old woman like this!”

  “I’ll show you how I can treat you!” said the forester angrily. He seized the basket to empty it.

  Then the little Witch said, “You’ll leave that alone!”

  The forester was furious. “I’ll have you put in prison!” – That was what he meant to shout. But instead he said, “Please forgive me. I was only joking. Of course you can go on collecting wood.”

  Why on earth did I suddenly say the opposite of what I meant to say? the startled forester asked himself.

  He couldn’t know that the little Witch had cast a spell on him.

  “There now, my son, that sounds better!” she said. “If only the basket wasn’t so heavy!”

  “Shall I help you?” asked the forester. “I could easily carry your firewood home …”

  She chuckled. “Really, my boy? How kind you are! What a polite young man!”

  I could hit myself! thought the new forester. What makes me talk such nonsense? I’m not myself at all! Against his will he had to shoulder the heavy basket.

  “If you feel tired, mother, you’re welcome to sit on top,” he said.

  “Really?” cried the little Witch.

  In despair the forester heard himself answer kindly, “Why, of course! Up you get!”

  The little Witch didn’t wait for a second invitation. With one bound she swung herself up on top of the full basket, and the raven hopped on her shoulder.

  “Now, off we go! Forward march!”

  The forester wished the basket, the old woman and the raven at the bottom of the sea. But wishing didn’t help him. He had to trot along like a willing beast of burden.

  “Keep straight ahead!” cried Abraxas. “Gee-up, donkey, faster! Or I’m afraid I shall have to peck your bottom.”

  The new District Forester went hot and cold by turns. He trotted on and on. Soon he was dripping wet and his tongue was hanging out. He cast off his green hat and then his leather gamebag. He dropped his gun too.

  He ran right through the wood like this.

  “Left!” Abraxas ordered. “Right, behind the ditch over there. Then on up the hill!”

  When at last they reached the witch’s house the forester could hardly stand on his feet. But the little Witch had no pity on him.

  “Now, suppose you just chop the firewood up small, my boy?” she asked.

  “I’ll chop it up, tie it into bundles and put it away,” gasped the forester.

  And so he did.

  When he had finished – and the work took a long time – the little Witch said, “You can go home now. Thank you, my son! I’m sure there’s no other forester so kind. How happy the women who come to pick up wood will be! I expect you help everyone like this, don’t you?”

  The new District Forester staggered away. He dragged himself wearily home to his forester’s house. In future he gave a wide berth to any woman collecting wood.

  The little Witch had many a good laugh over this trick.

  “I’d like to go on doing that,” she told the raven, “helping good people by punishing bad ones – that’s what I enjoy!”

  “Is it necessary?” Abraxas replied. “You could do good in other ways too. Without playing tricks on people, I mean.”

  “Oh, that’s boring!” she said.

  “How do you know?” asked Abraxas.

  Paper Flowers

  One day the little Witch fancied a ride into town. She wanted to have a look at the weekly market there.

  Abraxas was delighted. “Splendid!” he cried. “I’ll come too. It’s lonely here at home in the wood, nothing but lots of trees and hardly any people. At the market in the town it’s just the opposite.”

  However, they couldn’t very well ride the broomstick right into the market-place; that would have caused quite a stir among the people. They would probably have had the police after them too. So they hid
the broomstick in a cornfield just outside the town and went in on foot.

  In the market-place, housewives, maidservants, peasant women and cooks were already crowding round the stalls. Shrill-voiced gardeners’ wives were shouting the praises of their vegetables. “Buy my fine apples and pears!” cried the greengrocers over and over again. The fishwives wanted to sell their salt herrings, the sausage seller wanted to sell his hot frankfurters, the potter had his earthenware jugs and dishes spread out for sale on a pile of straw. Here was a man shouting, “Pickled cabbage! Pickled cabbage!” There was a cry of “Watermelons, pumpkins – here you are – watermelons, pumpkins!”

  The loudest voice of all belonged to Jacob Cheapjack. He stood on the top step to the well in the marketplace, hitting his tray with a hammer and shouting at the top of his voice.

  “Come buy, good people, come buy! Bargains here today! Prices cut today. I’m giving everything away half-price! String, snuff, braces! Razor blades, toothbrushes, hairclips! Kettle-holders, boot polish, garlic sauce! Walk up, ladies and gentlemen. Come buy, come buy! Jacob Cheapjack here!”

  The little Witch loved all the noise and bustle. She let herself drift to and fro with the crowd. She tasted the pears here and the pickled cabbage there. She spent two pence on a firework from Jacob Cheapjack, and he threw in free a glass ring for her finger.

  “Thank you very much,” said the little Witch.

  “Much obliged! – Walk up, ladies and gentlemen! Come buy, come buy! Jacob Cheapjack here!”

  Right at the back of the market, in the furthest corner, a pale little girl was standing with a basket of paper flowers, sad and quiet. The people hurried by without noticing her. No one bought anything from the shy little girl.