Jeep and the Witch of Walgrave

Jeep and the Witch of Walgrave

Long, long ago, in a cheerful, bright forest that began just beyond the village of Walgrave in Northamptonshire, there lived an elf and a witch.

The witch was named Howlit—she lived in a crooked little house with a thatched roof on the northern edge of the forest, and she had a cat named Chernulin. The cat washed, swept, cleaned, and cooked, and in return received only kicks and shoves, because Howlit the witch was cruel, greedy, and quarrelsome. Everyone in Walgrave feared her and tried to stay as far away from her as possible.

The elf was named Jeep; he lived alone on the southern edge of the forest in the hollow of an old oak tree that was two hundred years old, if not more. He was a lively little fellow with a cheerful face, bright green eyes, and straw-colored hair. He wore a bright green jerkin to match his eyes and a red cap that suited him well.

You might ask, was he good or bad? That’s not an easy question to answer. If he woke up on the right side of the bed, he’d be kind and helpful all day. For example, he might enchant Wil the woodcutter’s axe—and Wil would chop twice as much wood as usual, but tire half as much. Or he might teach old Rob a magic word, and when Rob touched a huge boulder with his pickaxe, the stone would crumble into gravel, ready to pave a road.

But if Jeep woke up on the wrong side of the bed, there was no end to his mischief. He might whisper over a bowl of cream—and the poor maid wouldn’t be able to churn a single pat of butter all day. Or he might turn into a three-legged stool, and when a farmer sat on it, the stool would vanish into thin air. In short, though Jeep was an elf, he was just like any child—maybe like the boy reading these lines now, or the girl from the nursery rhyme: when he was good, he was very, very good, but when he was bad, he was horrid.

Of course, no one liked Jeep’s pranks. But no one stayed mad at him for long. And all the residents of Walgrave—masters, workers, Wil the woodcutter, Robert the road builder, and even Jeep himself—lived together happily and peacefully until that fateful day when the old witch Howlit suddenly grew tired of rabbits, berries, and nuts, and especially the milk she stole from the peasants by secretly milking their cows in the pasture.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had roasted elf. Oh, how delicious they are with a slice of fresh barley bread,” said Howlit the witch, giving Chernulin the cat a kick.

“Sweep, scrub, scrape, and wash,
And catch mice! Or else, lazy cat,
I’ll chase you out with a swish!”

She scolded the cat, kicked him once more, picked up the old sack she used for gathering acorns, chestnuts, and hazelnuts, and headed to the ancient oak tree where Jeep lived.

She approached the tree, tapped her stick against its mighty trunk, deeply grooved with age.

“Sweet, lovely Jeep,” she crooned in a fake, sugary voice, “come out of your hollow quickly. Look, I’ve brought you a sack full of cherries, so sweet, so ripe!”

“Sweet, ripe cherries!” exclaimed Jeep, flinging open the door and joyfully leaping out. “What luck! I was just sitting in my parlor thinking how nice it would be to have some sweet, ripe cherries. Where are they, kind Howlit?”

“Right here, in the sack,” replied the witch, untying the sack and poking a tiny hole in it.

“I don’t see them,” said Jeep, peering into the dark belly of the sack.

“Bend down and you’ll see,” said the witch, shoving him with her bony hand into the sack. “Aha!” she exclaimed triumphantly, tying the sack tightly so Jeep couldn’t escape. “Don’t choke on a cherry pit, my little chick!”

She slung the sack with Jeep over her shoulder and set off for her crooked little house with the thatched roof on the other side of the forest.

As the witch hobbled through the forest, she suddenly remembered seeing a lot of mushrooms near the mill pasture the day before. “Oh, how delicious—roasted elf with mushrooms,” thought the old hag. She tossed the sack with Jeep under a large elm tree and went off to the pasture to gather mushrooms.

As soon as the witch was gone, Jeep began shouting and thrashing with his arms and legs. He tried to get out of the sack, but nothing worked—the sack was tied too tightly. “If only someone were nearby to help me,” thought poor Jeep. After all, how many times had he helped others? Suddenly, he heard the sound of someone chopping wood nearby—it was Wil the woodcutter!

“Help!” shouted Jeep. “Help!”

But the forest doves in the top of the elm tree were cooing so loudly that Wil the woodcutter didn’t hear the cries for help. Chop-chop-chop—he continued steadily swinging his axe.

“Help, Wil!” Jeep screamed with all his might. “Come quickly!”

But a bright-eyed stoat ran by, rustling the dry leaves, and Wil the woodcutter still didn’t hear a thing. Chop-chop-chop—the axe continued to strike nearby.

“Help!” Jeep shouted for the third time. “Oh, Wil, help me!”

Finally, the woodcutter heard a faint little voice. He lowered his axe and looked around.

“Could that be Jeep?” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Where is he? Probably up to some mischief again.”

He was about to pick up his axe when Jeep cried out again: “What mischief, Wil! The witch Howlit lured me into a sack. I’m afraid she’ll roast me for dinner tonight.”

“She’s capable of it!”

The woodcutter walked over to the sack, untied the rope, and Jeep burst out, still shaking with fear. But when he saw the mighty woodcutter and breathed in the fresh forest air, he immediately cheered up.

“Thank you, Wil, for saving me. Let’s fill the sack with branches and thorns now. Let the witch think I’m still inside.”

Wil chopped some brambles and blackberries, and they stuffed the sack full of prickly branches, tying it up tightly. Jeep ran back home to his hollow in the ancient oak tree, and Wil went back to chopping wood.

When the witch Howlit returned with her mushrooms, she slung the sack over her shoulder and winced—it felt unusually prickly.

“Who would’ve thought elves carry needles and pins in their pockets,” grumbled the witch. “Prick away, my dear! When we get home, I’ll teach you a lesson!”
The old witch came home, kicked the cat, and he, poor thing, had just settled by the fire: he had been washing, cleaning, cooking, and tidying all day. The witch grabbed her broom and started beating the sack. She beat and beat until she was exhausted. She untied the sack, and inside were prickly twigs.

The witch got angry that she had wasted her effort; she didn’t know what to do with her frustration. She wanted to thrash the cat, but he darted out the door, ran into the forest, and hid in the thicket.

"Jip thinks he’s outsmarted me," muttered the witch. "Well, we’ll see about that!"

The next morning, she got up early, kicked Chernulin, and shouted at him:
"Sweep, scrub, scrape, and wash!
And catch mice! Or else, lazy cat,
I’ll kick you out for good!"

She kicked him again, took the sack in which she had collected beech nuts, chestnuts, and acorns, and headed to the southern edge of the forest, where Jip lived in an ancient oak. She knocked three times on the wrinkled bark of the mighty oak and said in a sweet voice:

"My dear, sweet Jip! Come here, look: I’ve brought you strawberries, so sweet, so juicy!"

"Juicy, sweet strawberries!" exclaimed Jip, opening the door and jumping out. "What luck! I was just sitting here thinking how nice it would be to feast on some juicy, sweet strawberries. Where are they, good Howlit?"

"Here, in the sack," replied the old woman, slightly opening the sack.

"I don’t see them," said Jip, peering into the dark belly of the sack.

"Bend down, and you’ll see," said the witch, pushing Jip with her bony hand, and he flew straight into the sack. "Gotcha!" the witch rejoiced and tied the sack tightly so Jip couldn’t escape. "Be careful, my little chick, don’t choke on the sweet, juicy strawberries."

She slung the sack with poor Jip over her shoulder and headed back to her crooked little house on the northern edge of the forest.

As the witch hobbled through the forest, she suddenly remembered that marjoram grew near the fence by the mill—a great seasoning for roasted elf. She tossed the sack under a birch tree and went to pick some fragrant herbs.

As soon as the witch left, Jip started jumping and thrashing in the sack, trying to break free—but nothing worked: the witch had tied the rope too tightly. "If only someone were nearby to help," thought poor Jip, remembering how many times he had helped others. Suddenly, he heard the sound of someone hitting stones with a pickaxe. It was Rob, the road worker, crushing gravel.

"Help!" shouted Jip. "Hey, old Rob, help!"

But a green woodpecker in the thin birch crown above started loudly pecking, and Rob—the road worker—didn’t hear a thing, just kept crushing stones.

"Help!" Jip shouted again. "Oh, Rob, save me!" Just then, a red squirrel saw the sack jumping on the ground and chattered disapprovingly. Rob still didn’t hear poor Jip.

"Help!" Jip cried a third time. "Rob, please, help!"

Old Rob finally heard the faint voice, dropped his pickaxe, and slowly looked around.

"Is that Jip?" he said, scratching the back of his head. "Where is he? Up to some mischief again, I bet."

He was about to pick up his pickaxe when Jip shouted again:

"Yes, yes, it’s me, Jip! What mischief! The witch Howlit tricked me into this sack. I think she’s planning to feast on roasted elf tonight."

"That sounds like her!" said Rob, striding over to the sack and untying it.

Out jumped a trembling Jip, but when he saw kind old Rob and breathed in the fresh forest air, he immediately cheered up.

"Thank you, Rob, for saving me!" he exclaimed. "Let’s fill the sack with gravel. Let the witch Howlit think it’s still me inside."

Rob gladly brought the gravel, they filled the sack to the brim, tied it tightly, and Jip ran back to his hollow in the ancient oak, while old Rob went back to crushing stones.

The witch returned, picked up the sack, slung it over her shoulder, and groaned: the gravel was heavy, and the sharp edges dug into her back.

"Who would’ve thought elves had such bony sides," she grumbled. "Well, just wait, my dear, we’ll get home, and I’ll count your bones for you!"

The witch Howlit arrived home, kicked the cat, and he, poor thing, had just settled by the fire: he had been cleaning, washing, dusting, and sweeping the floor all day. The witch grabbed her broom and started whacking the sack of stones. She beat and beat until she broke a sweat. She untied the sack, and inside was gravel. The witch grew even angrier, not knowing what to do with her frustration. Chernulin would’ve gotten a beating, but he darted out the door, ran into the forest, and hid in the thicket.

"That trickster Jip has outsmarted me again!" exclaimed the witch. "Well, he won’t get away with it a third time!"

The next morning, the witch got up early, kicked Chernulin, and said:
Mend, patch, fix,
Iron, wash, and sew!

Or else, lazy cat,
I’ll kick you out headfirst!

She kicked the cat once more, went up to her bedroom, and dressed up as a wandering peddler. She put on a long black skirt, a gray blouse, pulled a straw hat low over her eyes, and draped a shawl over her shoulders. Then she took a large box filled with all sorts of things and hung it around her neck. What wasn’t in that box? Threads and needles, buttons, pins, and ribbons, brooches, stockings, and aprons, but the most tempting items were the red morocco boots.

This time, the witch Howlit didn’t go to the ancient oak where Jip lived but wandered through the forest for a long time until she heard a cheerful song sung by the merry Jip. Limping toward the sound, she saw Jip walking along the path, singing and dancing. As always, he wore a green jacket that matched his eyes and a red cap on his yellow braids.

“Good day, Mr. Jip!” exclaimed the disguised witch. “How wonderfully you sing! How well the green jacket suits you, how neatly the red cap fits! And I have something interesting here for a dandy like you. What do you say, Mr. Jip, about these red morocco boots?”

Jip stood on tiptoes, grabbed the edge of the box with his little hands, and peeked inside.

“I can’t quite see,” he said.

“Why don’t you jump into the box, Mr. Jip, and take a good look for as long as you like,” suggested the cunning witch.

Jip jumped into the box, settled comfortably, and began to examine the red boots.

“Aha, got you!” the witch exclaimed triumphantly, slammed the box shut, and locked it tightly so Jip couldn’t escape. “Now try them on! But make sure they don’t pinch, my little chick!”

And she limped back home to the northern edge of the forest. She walked without stopping, never letting go of the box. And so she arrived home with the box in which poor Jip was trapped.

“Roasted elf for dinner!” the witch licked her lips, kicked the cat in passing—he had just settled by the fire after a long day of sewing, mending, patching, ironing, and washing—and ordered him, “Go fetch some firewood, you lazybones! I need to stoke the oven.”

The cat trudged off for firewood, brought back an armful, tossed it by the hearth, curled up, and dozed off again.

“Roasted elf for dinner,” the witch purred and kicked the cat again: “Go, lazybones, fetch water from the well. I’m thirsty!”

The cat dragged himself to the well, drew water, poured it into a pitcher, placed it on the table, and curled up to sleep once more.

“Roasted elf for dinner,” the old witch clucked and kicked the cat again: “Go, you good-for-nothing beast, bake me some barley bread!” The cat went to the kitchen and began kneading dough. The old woman opened the box:

“Come here, my little chick!”

Little Jip crawled out of the box, trembling with fear.

“Everyone says you’re very clever. Open the oven door, take a look inside, and see if the heat’s good enough to roast you.” She rubbed her bony hands, cackled, and licked her lips.

“Ask her to open it herself,” whispered Chernulin to Jip.

“You show me how to open it first. I don’t know how.”

“Whoever called you clever was sorely mistaken,” grumbled the wicked witch. “Look, it’s very simple.” She reached out and opened the heavy cast-iron door. “Now, try and see if the heat’s good.”

“Let her try first,” whispered Chernulin.

“But how do I try? I don’t know how,” said Jip.

“What a fool you are!” the witch snapped. “It’s as easy as pie. Watch!”

The old woman bent double, stuck her hand into the oven, and then her head.

“Quick!” shouted Chernulin. “Push her with all your might!” The cat jumped from the table where he was kneading dough, and together they shoved the witch into the fire, slammed the door shut, and locked it tight.

“Bad rubbish makes good heat,” said the satisfied cat and tossed in more logs.

The fire roared, the flames roared up the chimney and licked the straw on the roof. The roof caught fire, and soon the whole house was ablaze.

“Run!” the cat yelled.

They grabbed each other’s hands and ran from the burning house. Soon, only ashes remained.

Jip and the cat made their way through the forest to the southern edge, where the ancient oak stood, and began living there together. And the whole village of Walgrave—Will the woodcutter, Rob the roadmaster, and, of course, little Jip and the cat Chernulin—were all very happy that the wicked witch was no more. And from then on, they all lived merrily and happily ever after.

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Jeep and the Witch of Walgrave

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