The witches’ year was coming slowly to an end. Walpurgis Night drew nearer and nearer. Things were getting serious for the little Witch now. She was giving everything she had learnt a thorough revision these days. Once again she went through the Book of Witchcraft, page by page. She had her witchcraft at her fingertips.
Three days before Walpurgis Night Aunt Rumpumpel came riding along. She climbed down out of her black cloud to say, “The Head Witch has told me to come and summon you before the Witches’ Council. The test is at midnight the day after tomorrow. You’re to be at the crossroads behind the red stone on the heath. However, if you’ve thought better of it, you don’t have to come …”
“But I’ve got nothing to worry about!” said the little Witch.
“Who knows?” replied the witch shrugging her shoulders. “It might be wiser to stay at home, all the same. I’d willingly make your excuses to the Head Witch.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would!” said the little Witch. “But I’m not so stupid as you think. You can’t frighten me.”
“There’s no helping those who won’t take advice!” said Aunt Rumpumpel. “Well, till the day after tomorrow, then.”
Abraxas the raven would very much have liked to go with the little Witch this time. But he had no business at the Witches’ Council. He had to stay at home. When the little Witch set off he wished her the best of luck.
“Don’t be nervous!” he called as they parted. “You’ve been a good witch, that’s the main thing.”
The little Witch reached the crossroads behind the red stone on the heath at the stroke of twelve. The Witches’ Council was already assembled. Besides the Head Witch, there was a wind-witch, a wood-witch, a mist-witch, and one each of all the other kinds of witches. The storm-witches had sent Aunt Rumpumpel.
But the little Witch was not afraid. She was sure of herself. She’ll burst with rage when I pass the test and join the dance on the Brocken mountain tomorrow, she thought.
“Let’s begin,” said the Head Witch. “Let’s see what the little Witch has learned.”
So each in turn the witches set her exercises – calling up winds, and thunder, making the red stone on the heath disappear, conjuring up hail and rain. They were not particularly difficult tasks. The little Witch was never once at a loss. Even when Aunt Rumpumpel told her, “Cast the spell on page three hundred and twenty-four in the Book of Witchcraft!” she was not stuck for a moment. She knew the Book of Witchcraft inside out.
“By all means!” she said calmly, and she cast the spell on page three hundred and twenty-four in the Book of Witchcraft – it was a thunderstorm with flashes of lightning.
“That will do!” said the Head Witch. “You’ve shown us that you can cast spells. So in future I will let you join the dance on Walpurgis Night, although you’re still rather young. Do any of the witches disagree?”
The other witches agreed with her. But Aunt Rumpumpel replied, “I do.”
“What’s your objection?” asked the Head Witch. “Aren’t you satisfied with her knowledge of witchcraft then?”
“No, it’s not that,” said Aunt Rumpumpel. “But she’s a bad witch all the same. I can prove it!” She took a notebook out of her apron pocket. “I’ve been watching her secretly all the year. I’ve written down the things she did. I’ll read them out.”
“You’re welcome to read them out!” cried the little Witch. “I’ve nothing to fear if it’s not all a pack of lies!”
“That remains to be seen!” said Aunt Rumpumpel. Then she read aloud to the Witches’ Council what the little Witch had done during the year. She told them how she had helped the women picking up firewood, and how she had taught the mean forester a lesson. And she told the stories of the flower girl, the driver of the cart with the beer barrels, and the chestnut man too. She told them about Corbinian the ox, whose life the little Witch had saved, and about the snowman and the boys who stole birds’ eggs.
“Don’t forget the tile-maker!” said the little Witch. “I taught him a lesson too!”
She had expected Aunt Rumpumpel to take great pains to run her down. Instead, she was reading only her good deeds out of the notebook.
“Is this true?” asked the Head Witch after each story.
“Yes, it’s quite true!” said the little Witch – and she felt proud of it.
In her pleasure, she never noticed that the Head Witch was putting her question in a sterner voice each time. Nor did she see the other witches shaking their heads more and more seriously. So she was terribly startled when the Head Witch suddenly cried in horror, “And to think I very nearly let her dance on the Brocken mountain tomorrow night! Ugh! Ratsbane! What a bad witch!”
“But why?” asked the little Witch in surprise. “I never did anything but good magic.”
“Exactly!” spat the Head Witch. “The only good witches are those who do bad magic all the time! But you kept on doing good things. You’re a bad witch.”
“And what’s more,” Aunt Rumpumpel told them, “what’s more, she once cast spells on a Friday! She did it behind closed shutters, to be sure, but I was watching down the chimney.”
“What!” cried the Head Witch. “This is the last straw!”
She seized the little Witch in her bony fingers and pulled her hair. At that all the other witches fell on the poor thing with wild shrieks and beat her with their broomsticks. They would have beaten the little Witch till she was crooked and lame, if the Head Witch hadn’t called, after a while, “That’s enough now! I know a better punishment for her. You shall collect the wood for the witches’ bonfire on the Brocken mountain,” she told the little Witch spitefully. “All by yourself. By midnight tomorrow you must have the bonfire built. Then we shall tie you to a tree nearby, and you shall stand and watch the rest of us dancing all night long!”
“And when we’ve had a dance or two,” suggested Aunt Rumpumpel, “we’ll go and tear the hairs from her head. One by one! That will be fun – we shall enjoy that! She won’t forget this Walpurgis Night for a long time.”