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.