The Little Witch

by Otfried Preussler

  “Suppose you did a little something for her?” Abraxas suggested. “I feel very sorry for the poor little child.”

  The little Witch made her way through the crowd.

  “Can’t you sell your flowers?” she asked the little girl.

  “Who wants to buy paper flowers in the middle of summer?” said the girl. “Mother will cry again. If I don’t bring any money home in the evening she can’t buy us bread. I’ve got seven brothers and sisters, and Father died last winter. So now we make these paper flowers – but no one ever wants to buy them.”

  The little Witch had been listening to the girl sympathetically. For a moment she wondered how to help her. Then she had an idea.

  “People don’t want to buy your flowers?” she said. “I can’t understand it. They smell so sweet!”

  The little girl looked up doubtfully.

  “Smell? How could paper flowers have a smell?”

  “Indeed they have,” the little Witch assured her earnestly. “They smell much sweeter than real flowers. Can’t you smell them?”

  The paper flowers really did smell sweet. The little flower seller was not the only one to notice it.

  All over the market-place people began to sniff. “What’s that smell?” they asked each other. “Impossible! Paper flowers, did you say? Are they for sale? I must get some at once. I wonder if they’re very expensive.”

  Everyone who had legs and a nose hurried to the corner where the little girl stood. The housewives came running, the servant girls, the peasant women, the cooks, everyone. The fishwives left their salt herrings to look after themselves, the sausage seller left his stove, the gardeners’ wives left their vegetables. They all crowded round the girl with the paper flowers, eager to buy.

  Even Jacob Cheapjack ran up with his tray. He had arrived last of all, so he stood on tiptoe and made a trumpet of his hands. “Hey, there!” he called over the heads of the crowd. “Can you hear me, flower girl? Jacob Cheapjack here! Just hand me a few of those flowers – well, one, at least. Can you hear me? At least one!”

  “No going out of turn! Not even for Jacob Cheapjack!” cried the people standing nearest the little girl. “Sell the flowers in the right order.” What a good thing we’re in front, they thought. The supply can’t hold out long, and all the people who came later will be left empty-handed.

  The little girl went on and on selling. But the flowers in her basket never came to an end. There was enough for everyone who wanted to buy, even Jacob Cheapjack.

  “The flowers aren’t sold out – how’s that?” asked the people in surprise, putting their heads together. But the flower girl herself didn’t know. Only the little Witch could have told them. However, she and Abraxas had long since slipped away. They had already left the town houses behind, and soon they would reach the cornfield where the broomstick lay hidden.

  The little Witch was still thinking about the flower girl. She smiled to herself. Then the raven nudged her gently with his beak. He pointed out a black cloud hurrying past overhead. It would not have been suspicious but for a broomstick jutting out of the cloud.

  “Look at that!” said Abraxas. “Aunt Rumpumpel! I suppose the monster has been spying on you.”

  “She spoils everything!” the little Witch grumbled.

  “Well, never mind,” said the raven. “You’ve nothing to hide from her – least of all what you did to-day.”

  A Good Lesson

  It had rained without stopping for several days. The little Witch had nothing to do but yawn her head off indoors waiting for the weather to clear. Now and then she worked a little magic to pass the time; she made the poker and tongs dance waltzes in the fireplace, she made the dustpan turn somersaults and the butter churn stand on its head. But none of it would do; she soon got bored with it.

  When at last the sun was shining outside again, the little Witch couldn’t bear to stay in her witch’s house any longer. She wanted to be up and about. “Come on!” she cried. “Out through the chimney! I must see if there isn’t some magic to be done somewhere.”

  “Yes, and good magic in particular,” Abraxas reminded her.

  Together they rode over the wood and out into the fields. There were puddles of water everywhere. The paths were muddy: the farm workers were up to their ankles in mud.

  The rain had softened the surface of the highroad too. Just then a cart came along from the town. It was drawn by two horses and loaded with beer barrels. On the bad road it could only go slowly. Foam dripped from the horses’ mouths as they tugged and strained at the heavy cart. But they weren’t going fast enough for the driver. He sat on the box full of self-importance. “Gee-up!” he shouted. “Get along, you nags, can’t you!” And he lashed them unmercifully with his whip, time and time again.

  “It’s too bad!” croaked Abraxas indignantly. “The brute! Thrashing his horses like a hangman! How can anyone stand by and watch?”

  “Don’t worry,” said the little Witch. “He’ll soon stop.”

  They followed the cart until it drew up before the Lion Inn in the next village. The driver unloaded some beer barrels, rolled them across the yard to the cellar, and then went in to see the innkeeper and order himself some food. He left the steaming horses harnessed to the cart. They didn’t get so much as a handful of hay or oats.

  The little Witch waited behind the shed until the driver had disappeared inside the inn. Then she hurried up to the two horses.

  “Does he always treat you so badly?” she asked in horse language.

  “Yes, always,” said the horses. “But you should just see him when he’s drunk or loses his temper. He even uses the whip handle to beat us then. Look at the marks on our backs. That will show you.”

  “The fellow deserves a lesson!” said the little Witch. “It’s a shame the way he treats you! Will you help me pay him back?”

  “Certainly – what do you want us to do?”

  “When he climbs up ready to drive away, I want you to stay just where you are. Don’t move a hoof.”

  “You’re asking a lot,” replied the horses. “If we do that he’ll beat us black and blue, you wait and see.”

  “No harm will come to you,” said the little Witch. “I promise.”

  She went over to the cart and picked up the whip. Then she tied a knot in the end of the whiplash. That was all. Now she could go back behind the shed and lie in wait there with an easy mind, to watch what happened to the driver.

  Soon afterwards the driver came out of the inn. He had been eating and drinking. He sauntered up, whistling loud and cheerfully, climbed up to his seat, took the reins in his left hand and with his right hand, by force of habit, reached for the whip. “Gee-up!” he cried, clicking his tongue, ready to drive away.

  When the horses didn’t move he grew angry. “You wait, you lazy brutes!” he shouted. “I’ll give you some help!” And he was just raising his whip to strike –

  But his stroke missed. The blow went nowhere near the horses. The whiplash jerked back and hit the driver’s own ears.

  “Damn the thing!” he cursed, raising the whip again. He struck a second time – and exactly the same thing happened.

  At this, blind rage seized the driver. He jumped up, swinging his whip like a madman to thrash the horses. But every time the blows hit the driver himself. They struck him on his throat, his face, his fingers, on his arms, his belly and his back.

  “Thunder and lightning! This won’t do!” he cried at last. He grasped the whip by the other end and struck out furiously with the handle.

  He didn’t do that a second time.

  The whip handle hit him on the nose so hard that blood shot out of his nostrils. The driver cried out aloud. The whip dropped from his hands, everything went dark before his eyes, and he had to prop himself up.

  When after a time he came halfway back to his senses, the little Witch was standing beside the cart. “If ever you use that whip again, the same thing will happen,” she warned him. “Get that into your head!
You can drive away now, for all I care. Gee-up!”

  At her signal the horses went obediently forward. The near horse neighed, “Thank you very much!” and the off-side horse threw his head up, snorting for joy.

  The waggoner sat on his box, a bundle of misery. He swore by his swollen nose, “I’ll never touch a whip again, all my life long!”

  Visitors on Friday

  Friday is the same for witches as Sunday for other people. Just as ordinary people are not supposed to work on Sundays, witches must not cast spells on Fridays. If they do cast spells in spite of the rule and get caught they have to pay the penalty.

  The little Witch was particularly careful not to work on Friday. She was determined not to let anything tempt her.

  On Thursday evening she put the broomstick away and shut the Book of Witchcraft up in the table drawer – better to be safe than sorry.

  She usually slept late on Friday mornings. Anyway, if she couldn’t cast spells in the morning there wasn’t much else to do. After dinner she generally went for a little walk, or she sat idle in the shade behind the oven.

  “If I had my way,” she often grumbled, “there’d be only one Friday every six weeks. And that would be plenty!”

  It was a Friday in late summer. As usual the little Witch was sitting behind the oven feeling bored. She would much rather have been casting spells. She never wanted to cast spells nearly so much any other day of the week.

  All at once she heard footsteps. Then there came a knock at the door.

  “Here I am!” cried the little Witch. “Just coming!”

  She jumped up, full of curiosity, and ran to see who was knocking.

  Two children, a boy and a girl, were standing in front of the witch’s house holding hands. “Good afternoon!” they said when they saw the little Witch coming.

  “Good afternoon,” said the little Witch. “What do you want?”

  “We’re lost,” said the boy, “so we wanted to ask you the way to the town.”

  “We were looking for mushrooms,” the little girl explained.

  “Well, well – looking for mushrooms,” repeated the little Witch.

  She took the children into the witch’s house. There she gave them cocoa, and they each had a piece of her special Friday cake. The little Witch asked their names.

  The boy was called Thomas and the girl Veronica. They turned out to be brother and sister. Their parents owned the great inn, The Yoke of Oxen, opposite the well in the market-place.

  “I know it,” said the little Witch.

  “And what about you?” Thomas asked, looking over the rim of his cup. “Who are you?”

  She chuckled. “Guess …”

  “How can I guess? You’ll have to tell us.”

  “I’m a witch, and this is my witch’s house.”

  The little girl was frightened. “Oh!” she cried. “Are you a real witch – can you cast spells?”

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the raven soothingly. “She’s a good witch. She won’t hurt you.”

  “No, of course not,” said the little Witch. She poured cocoa out for them both. “Shall I show you some magic?” she asked.

  “Wait a minute!” Abraxas interrupted. “Have you forgotten it’s Friday? Don’t you dare!”

  It didn’t take the little Witch long to think of a way out. “We’ll just close the shutters,” she said. “Then no one will see us.”

  She closed and bolted the shutters on all the windows. Then she began to cast spells. She made a guinea pig, a hamster and a tortoise appear on the kitchen table. The hamster and the guinea pig got up on their hind legs and danced, but the tortoise didn’t want to.

  “Come on!” said the little Witch. “You too.”

  So the tortoise had to dance whether he liked it or not.

  “Wonderful!” said Thomas and Veronica. “How clever you are!”

  “That was just a beginning,” said the little Witch.

  She made the guinea pig, the hamster and the tortoise disappear again, and cast more spells. She worked many other pieces of magic to amuse the children. She made the stove sing a song, and flowers appear in the coffee pot. The wooden whisk and ladle acted a Punch and Judy show on the dresser.

  The children never grew tired of watching. “Do some more!” they begged over and over again.

  So for two whole hours the little Witch cast one spell after another. Then she said, “There, that’s all. You must go home now.”

  “Already?”

  “Yes, and high time too. You want to be home before dark, don’t you?”

  For the first time the children realized that it was getting late. They picked up their mushroom baskets.

  “Oh!” said Thomas in surprise. “But we’d hardly found any – and now our baskets are full of mushrooms!”

  “Fancy that,” said the little Witch, pretending to be surprised too.

  Quickly she set the children on their way.

  “Thank you very much!” said Veronica as they parted. “Suppose you came to see us one day? We’ll take you all over the inn, and show you the kitchen and the cellar, and Corbinian the ox in his stall.”

  “Who’s he?” asked Abraxas.

  “He’s our pet,” said Thomas. “We can ride on his back! Will you come, then?”

  “We’ll come,” said the little Witch. “When would it suit you?”

  “Two weeks on Sunday,” Thomas decided. “That’s the day of the shooting match. We’ll meet on the shooting ground.”

  “Right,” said the little Witch. “We’ll come two weeks on Sunday, then. Run along now!”

  Thomas and Veronica held hands and ran off towards the town. The little Witch turned home. I wish all Fridays went so fast! she thought.

  When she got home, there was a pitch-black cloud hovering over the roof of the witch’s house.

  “You’ve done it now!” croaked Abraxas. “Rumpumpel the storm-witch was watching. Down the chimney, I suppose.”

  “It might just be an ordinary black cloud,” suggested the little Witch in confusion. “I can’t see a broomstick, at any rate …”

  But secretly she was very worried. Suppose it really was Aunt Rumpumpel? What bad luck! She would complain to the Head Witch at once that the little Witch had been casting spells on a Friday.

  “Let’s wait and see what happens,” she said meekly. She waited for a whole week, day by day. But nothing happened. She wasn’t summoned before the Head Witch for punishment.

  So it wasn’t Aunt Rumpumpel after all, then, thought the little Witch in relief.

  The Bewitched Shooting Match

  The bells were ringing, the cannon were booming, and there was hardly room for all the happy people in the meadow outside the town. The little Witch was looking out for Thomas and Veronica. She pushed her way through the crowd. Abraxas the raven almost put his neck out of joint.

  Where could the two children be hiding?

  Thomas and Veronica were sitting behind the marquee. They were in the depths of despair. After a long search the little Witch found them.

  “Well, what long faces!” she cried, shaking her head. “How can anyone look so miserable on the Sunday of the shooting match?”

  “We can,” said Thomas. “Father has donated our ox as the prize.”

  “Corbinian the ox?” asked the little Witch.

  “Yes,” sobbed Veronica. “He’s the prize for the champion shot.”

  “And the winner will have him killed and roasted,” Thomas told the little Witch, “and then all the marksmen will eat him up.”

  “But suppose no one wins the ox?” the little Witch suggested. “That might happen …”

  “No, it couldn’t happen,” replied Thomas. “You can’t have a shooting match without a champion shot.”

  “Plenty of things can happen,” said the little Witch. She had already decided on a plan. “You come with me. Everything will be all right.”

  Hesitating, the two children followed the little Witch back to the shooting
ground. The marksmen were just arriving. In front marched the Captain with a drawn sword; at the back trotted Corbinian the ox, with ribbons and bright streamers draped all over him.

  “Hurrah!” cried all the people, craning their necks.

  They all wanted to watch the shooting match and see who won the ox.

  “Company – halt!” ordered the Captain. Then he made the band sound a flourish on their trumpets.

  “Hush! The Captain’s going to make a speech!” hissed the crowd.

  “May I bid you all a hearty welcome to our shooting match,” said the Captain. “Today our special thanks are due to the generous owner of the inn The Yoke of Oxen, who has given a live ox for the winner’s prize.”

  “Hurrah!” shouted all the people once more. “Long live the host of the Oxen! Long live our noble benefactor!”

  “And now I declare our shooting match open!” said the Captain of the marksmen, waving his sword.

  At one end of the meadow stood a tall post. A wooden eagle was fastened to the top. The marksmen had to shoot it down.

  Naturally the Captain had the first shot – and his shot went quite wide.

  “These things happen,” said the crowd.

  The Captain stepped back, feeling ashamed of himself.

  The Lieutenant was the next to try his luck. He took aim and fired – but again the shot went wide.

  The crowd began to smile. Soon they were laughing. They could understand one shot fired by one man missing the eagle. But when all the shots fired by all the marksmen missed, they split their sides laughing. Had anyone ever seen the like of it?

  “Incredible!” muttered the Captain chewing in a puzzled way at his moustache. He was so ashamed, he wished the ground would open and swallow him up. He had no idea that the little Witch had bewitched his rifle, and the rifles of all the other marksmen.

  But the children from the Oxen knew what was going on. At every shot that went wide they grew happier. “Wonderful!” they cried. “Splendid!”