The Little Witch

by Otfried Preussler

“Oh yes – I see her,” said the little Witch. “But I must go and have a closer look.”

  She ran up to the carnival witch and said, “Good afternoon!”

  “Hullo,” said the carnival witch. “Are you my sister by any chance?”

  “Perhaps,” said the real little Witch. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve. How old are you?”

  “A hundred and twenty-seven and a half.”

  “What fun!” cried the carnival witch. “I must remember that! From now on, when the others ask how old I am, I’ll say two hundred and fifty-nine and three-quarters!”

  “But it’s my real age!”

  “Yes, of course it’s your real age. And you can really cast spells and ride on a broomstick too!”

  “Of course I can!” cried the real little Witch. “What do you bet me?”

  “Let’s not bet anything,” said the carnival witch. “After all, you can’t really.”

  “What do you bet me?” repeated the real little Witch.

  The carnival witch burst out laughing. “Come here, you Chinese girls!” she shouted. “And you evil sorcerer and you good fairies, come here too. All of you – the desert sheikh and the Indians and the cannibal. Here’s a little witch who can ride on a broomstick!”

  “She can’t possibly,” said Punch.

  “Yes, yes!” cried the carnival witch. “She wanted to have a bet with me. Now let’s see if she was telling the truth.”

  In a trice all the children had surrounded the two witches. The chimney sweep, Jaromir the robber chief, Punch and the Indians, the pirate, the evil sorcerers and the good fairies, they all came crowding around, laughing and shouting.

  “Don’t try and trick us,” cried the Indian girls.

  “Or we’ll tie you to the stake!” threatened the Indian, Red Cloud.

  “If you’ve tricked us,” roared the cannibal, “I shall gobble you up for a punishment! Do you hear? And let me tell you, I’m hungrrry!”

  “You’re welcome to gobble me up, if you’re hungry,” said the little Witch. “But you’d better look sharp, or I shall be off!”

  The cannibal was going to grab the little Witch by the collar. But the little Witch moved faster. She jumped on her broomstick – and whoosh! she was up in the air.

  The cannibal flopped down on his bottom in fright. The cowboys and Indians, the Chinese girls and the Indian girls, they all fell silent. The desert sheikh’s turban fell off. The robber chief forgot to make faces. Red Cloud, the bold Indian brave, went pale under his war paint. The little chimney sweeps turned as white as chalk, but luckily no one could see because they had blacked their faces with soot.

  The little Witch rode round the village square laughing. Then she settled on the roof of the fire station and waved down.

  Abraxas the raven perched on her shoulder and croaked, “Hey, you down there! Now do you believe she can cast spells?”

  “But I can do lots more magic!” said the little Witch. “The cannibal was so hungry …”

  She spread out her fingers and murmured something. Then a shower of carnival pancakes and doughnuts pattered down into the village square! Shouting for joy, all the children fell on the rich dainties and ate as much as they wanted. Even the cannibal didn’t say no to the pancakes, though they were not really his usual diet.

  Only the carnival witch ate nothing. She looked after the real little Witch, who was riding away on her broomstick now, chuckling.

  Well, fancy that! thought the carnival witch. Perhaps she really is a hundred and twenty-seven and a half after all.

  Carnival in the Wood

  “A carnival,” remarked Abraxas the raven that evening, when they were sitting in the warm at home waiting for the baked apples to be done, “a carnival is a splendid thing! What a pity there’s no carnival here in the wood.”

  “Carnival in the wood?” asked the little Witch, looking up from the stocking she was knitting. “Why shouldn’t we have a carnival here in the wood?”

  “I don’t know,” said the raven. “But that’s how it is, and there’s no changing it.”

  The little Witch smiled to herself. The raven’s words had given her an amusing idea. But she said nothing about it yet. She got up, went to the stove and took out the baked apples.

  When they had eaten the apples she said, “I’ve got a favour to ask of you, dear Abraxas. Fly through the wood tomorrow morning and tell the animals you meet to come to the witch’s house in the afternoon.”

  “I can do that all right,” said Abraxas. “Only the animals will want to know why you’re inviting them. What do I say then?”

  “Tell them,” said the little Witch in a careless voice, “tell them I’m asking them to a carnival.”

  “What?” cried Abraxas, as if he couldn’t have heard right. “A carnival, did you say?”

  “Yes. I’m asking them to a carnival,” repeated the little Witch. “A carnival in the wood.”

  At this Abraxas the raven bombarded the little Witch with a thousand questions. What was her plan? he wanted to know. And would there be Chinese girls and cowboys and Indians at this carnival too?

  “Wait and see!” said the little Witch. “If I told you all about it today you wouldn’t enjoy it half so much tomorrow.”

  They left it at that.

  So next day Abraxas the raven flew through the wood telling the animals they were all to come to the witch’s house that afternoon. And if they met other animals they were to pass the message on. The more who came to the carnival the merrier, he told them.

  And so that afternoon they came streaming along from all directions – squirrels, deer and hares, two stags, a dozen rabbits and troops of field mice. The little Witch welcomed them.

  When they had all arrived she said, “Now we’ll have the carnival.”

  “How do you do that?” squeaked the field mice.

  “Everyone must be different from usual today,” the little Witch explained. “You can’t dress up as cowboys and Indians, of course, but I can do magic instead.”

  She had already decided what the magic should be.

  She cast spells to give the hares stag’s antlers, and the stags hare’s ears. She made the field mice grow until they were as big as rabbits, and she made the rabbits shrink until they were as small as field mice. She gave the deer red and green fur and made raven’s wings for the squirrels.

  “What about me?” cried Abraxas. “You’re not forgetting me, are you?”

  “Of course not,” said the little Witch. “You shall have a squirrel’s tail.”

  She gave herself owl’s eyes and horse’s teeth. They made her look almost as ugly as Aunt Rumpumpel.

  When they were all disguised it should have been time for the carnival to start. But suddenly they heard a hoarse voice over by the oven.

  “Might one join the party?” asked the voice, and when the animals looked round, mystified, a fox came slinking round the oven.

  “I wasn’t invited, I know,” said the fox, “but I’m sure the ladies and gentlemen won’t mind me making so bold as to come to the carnival all the same …”

  The hares shook their stag’s antlers in fright, the squirrels prudently fluttered up on the witch’s house, and the field mice got behind the little Witch for safety.

  “Send him away!” cried the terrified rabbits. “That’s all we need! We’re never safe from this rascal in the ordinary way. Now that we’re the size of field mice he’s more dangerous than ever.”

  The fox looked hurt. “Perhaps I’m not fine enough for the ladies and gentlemen?” Wagging his tail, he begged the little Witch, “Do let me join in!”

  “If you promise not to hurt anyone …”

  “I promise,” he said in honeyed tones. “I give you my word. If I break my promise, may I eat nothing but potatoes and carrots all my life!”

  “That would be hard on you,” said the little Witch. “But I hope it won’t come to that.”

  She didn’t trust the fox’s fair words, so she
settled the matter by casting a spell which gave him a duck’s bill.

  Now the other animals could be happy, for with the best will in the world the fox couldn’t possibly eat them. Even the tiny shrunken rabbits had no need to fear him.

  The carnival in the wood lasted until late in the evening. The squirrels played catch, Abraxas the raven teased the red and green deer with his bushy tail, the rabbits hopped about in front of the fox’s bill, and the field mice got up on their hind legs and squeaked at the stags, “Don’t get big-headed – you’re not much bigger than us!” The stags bore them no grudge; they pricked up their hare’s ears, first the right ear, then the left, and besides, they thought, a carnival is a carnival.

  “It’s nearly time to stop,” said the little Witch at last, when the moon had risen. “But you must have something to eat before you go home.”

  She bewitched a load of hay for the deer and the stags, a basket of hazelnuts for the squirrels, and oats and beechnuts for the field mice. She gave the rabbits and hares half a head of cabbage each. But first she changed all the animals back to their ordinary size and shape and shade. All but the fox.

  “Excuse me, please!” quacked the fox with his duck’s bill. “Can’t I have my snout back too? And if you’re giving the deer and hares something to eat, what about me?”

  “Be patient,” said the little Witch. “You’re not going to miss out. Just wait till the other guests have said good night. Till then – well, you know what to do.”

  The fox had to wait till the last field mouse was safely back in its hole. Only then did the little Witch rid the fox of his duck’s bill. He bared his teeth in relief and set ravenously about the smoked sausage that he suddenly found lying in the snow under his nose.

  “Does it taste good?” asked the little Witch.

  But the fox was so busy with his sausage that he made no answer – and that, after all, was answer enough.

  A Game of Skittles

  The sun had chased winter away. The ice had thawed and the snow was melted. Spring flowers were already blooming in every nook and cranny. The willows had decked themselves out with beautiful silver catkins, and buds were swelling on the birch trees and hazel bushes.

  No wonder all the people that the little Witch met these days looked happy. They were glad of the spring. Thank goodness winter’s over at last, they thought. We’ve had to put up with it quite long enough.

  One day the little Witch was going for a walk in the fields. At the edge of one field sat a woman. She looked so miserable that it went to the little Witch’s heart.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked kindly. “That’s no way to look in this lovely weather! Spring has come, haven’t you noticed?”

  “Spring?” said the woman sadly. “Well, you may be right, but what’s the good of that? Spring or winter, it’s all the same to me. The same trouble, the same sorrows. I wish I were dead and buried in the ground.”

  “Come, come!” cried the little Witch. “You shouldn’t be talking of dying at your age. You’d better tell me what’s worrying you, and then we’ll see if I can help.”

  “You couldn’t possibly help me,” sighed the woman. “But I’ll tell you my story, all the same. It’s my husband. He’s a tile-maker. You don’t earn a fortune making tiles, but what the tile-making brings in would be enough to keep us from starving. If only my husband didn’t waste all his money in the skittle alley! Night after night, he throws away the money he earned in the daytime playing skittles with his friends in the tavern. There’s nothing left over for me and the children. Can you blame me for wishing I were dead and buried?”

  “But haven’t you ever tried to make your husband see reason?” asked the little Witch.

  “I’ve tried and tried!” said the woman. “It would be easier to melt a stone. He won’t listen to me – nothing I say does any good.”

  “If talking to him doesn’t help, we must get at him some other way!” said the little Witch. “Tomorrow morning bring me some hairs from your husband’s head. Quite a small tuft will do. Then we’ll see.”

  The tile-maker’s wife did as the little Witch told her. Early next morning she came to the edge of the field bringing a tuft of her husband’s hair with her.

  She gave it to the little Witch, saying, “I cut this tuft of hair off his head last night while he was asleep. Here you are. But I don’t see how it can help you.”

  “It’s to help you, not me,” said the little Witch mysteriously. “Go home now, and just wait and see what happens. Your husband will lose all his taste for skittles. He’ll be cured before the week is out!”

  The woman went home. She could see no sense in it. But the little Witch knew exactly what she was doing. She buried the tile-maker’s hair at the nearest crossroads, repeating all kinds of magic spells over it. Finally she scratched a magic sign in the sand with her fingernail, on the exact spot where the hairs were buried. Then she winked at Abraxas the raven.

  “There!” she said. “The tile-maker had better be ready for a shock!”

  That evening the tile-maker went to play skittles as usual. He drank his beer with the other players. Then he asked, “Shall we start?”

  “Yes, let’s start!” they all cried.

  “Who’s to have the first go?”

  “Anyone who likes!” it was decided.

  “Good,” said the tile-maker, reaching for the ball. “Then I’ll knock all nine skittles down at once. Just watch them tumble over!”

  He gave a mighty swing of his arm. Then he rolled the ball.

  The ball rolled thumpety-thump along the skittle alley. It crashed into the skittles with a thunderous noise, and crack! off flew the king skittle’s head! The ball rolled on and struck the wall with a loud crash, making a big hole in it.

  “Hey, you – tile-maker!” cried the skittle players. “What’s the idea? Do you want to break up the skittle alley?

  “That’s funny,” muttered the tile-maker. “Must have been something to do with the ball. I’ll use another next time.”

  But his next turn, when it came round again, was even more disastrous, although he had chosen the smallest ball of all. It shattered two skittles to pieces, so that the chips whirred round the scorer’s ears – and it made another hole in the wall.

  “Look here!” the other players threatened the tile-maker. “Either you roll the ball a bit more gently in future, or we shan’t let you play skittles with us any more.”

  “I’ll be very careful,” the tile-maker promised them faithfully.

  He rolled the ball for the third time.

  It was the most cautious, gentle shot he had ever made in his life. He pushed the ball off with only two fingers – but crash! it rolled through the middle of the skittles and struck the corner post with such force that it broke in half.

  The post heeled over and half the ceiling crashed down. Planks and pieces of beams fell like hail; laths, bits of plaster and roof tiles rattled to the ground. It was like an earthquake.

  The skittle players stared at one another, pale with fright. But when they had got over the first shock, they took their beer mugs and flung them at the tile-maker. “You be off!” they shouted furiously. “Get out! We don’t want anything to do with a man who breaks the skittle alley to pieces. Play skittles anywhere you like in future – but you won’t play here!”

  On the following evenings, at the other skittle alleys in the village and the surrounding villages, just the same thing happened to the tile-maker. It never took more than three shots to bring the ceiling tumbling down. Then the other players threw beer mugs at the tile-maker and wished he were on the moon. Before the week was out there was nowhere left for him to play skittles. “For goodness’ sake!” people cried wherever he appeared. “It’s the tile-maker! Quick, hide the skittles and put the balls away. Don’t let that man get his hands on them, or something dreadful will happen!”

  In the end the tile-maker had no choice but to give up skittles for good. Instead of going out to the ta
vern every evening he always stayed at home now. He found that dull at first, to be sure, but in time he got used to it, for the little Witch’s magic spells had taken care of that too.

  After this the woman and her children were in no danger of starving, and the little Witch could be happy to think how she had helped them.

  Stuck Fast

  Abraxas the raven was a confirmed bachelor. “Life is far more comfortable for a bachelor,” he used to say. “In the first place you needn’t build a nest. In the second place you needn’t be bothered with a wife. And in the third place, you’re spared having to look after half a dozen hungry chicks year after year. They eat you out of house and home first, and then they fly away in any case. I’ve heard about it from my brothers and sisters. They’re all old married people, and I wouldn’t change places with any of them.”

  Abraxas the raven’s closest brother was called Krax. His nest was in the tall elm tree on the bank of the duckpond in the nearby village. Abraxas paid him a visit once a year, in the time between Easter and Whit Sunday. By then, of course, his sister-in-law had laid the new eggs, but she had not hatched them out yet. So Abraxas ran no risk of having to help his brother and sister-in-law feed their greedy chicks.

  This time when Abraxas came back from his visit to Krax and his wife the little Witch could see that something was wrong from a mile off.

  “Has anything happened to your brother Krax?” she asked him.

  “Not yet, I’m glad to say,” Abraxas answered. “But my brother and his wife are in great trouble. There are two boys who have been strolling near his home for several days past, climbing all the trees and stealing the nests. The day before yesterday they robbed a blackbird’s nest, yesterday a nest belonging to magpies. They pocketed the eggs and threw the nests in the duckpond. My brother Krax is in despair. If things go on like this, the boys will get to his nest sooner or later.”