The night of the village witches

In Clara's village, people said that three witches lived at the end of Bramble Lane. No one had ever really seen them. All you could see was green smoke over their chimney on rainy evenings, and sometimes you heard a burst of laughter that didn't sound quite ordinary.

On Halloween night, Clara was walking home from the school party with Dad, her bucket full of sweets, her lantern in one hand and her bat costume on. In the middle of the square, her lantern went out all at once, pfft. And in the dark, they saw them. Three figures in pointy hats, pushing an enormous cauldron in a wheelbarrow.

Clara's heart was pounding. But she badly wanted to know. She tugged at Dad's sleeve. Dad hesitated, looked at the pointy hats, then took her hand. Together they followed the witches from a distance, from doorway to doorway, on tiptoe.

The three witches stopped by the fountain. "Right," said the tallest one, who was called Mother Nettle. "Let's begin." "But Elder isn't here," said the second, Auntie Heather. "It only works with four voices." "Elder has a cold," sighed the third, Petronella. "She can't say a word without sneezing."

Clara stepped out of their dark corner before she had time to think, Dad right behind her. "What do you need to do?" she asked. The three witches jumped, and their hats trembled. Then Mother Nettle burst out laughing, that not-quite-ordinary laugh. "It's our secret," she said. "Every year on Halloween night, we light all the lanterns in the village. But the spell has to be said by four."

They taught her the words, which rhymed like a nursery rhyme: "Little flame, little flame, wake up nice and slow, the night is long and the wind is low." Clara repeated it twice to be sure. Then the four voices rose together, and the cauldron began to smoke.

Green smoke curled up, split into a thousand tiny threads and drifted down every street. At the baker's, the pumpkin lantern lit up, plop. Then the postman's, then the neighbour's upstairs, then the windows of the school. One by one, like stars waking up. The whole village glowed with a calm orange light.

"There," said Petronella. "Now everyone will sleep well, with a little glow outside the window." Mother Nettle handed them each a ladle of hot soup from the cauldron. The soup tasted of pumpkin and chestnut, with a hint of pepper Clara couldn't name.

Clara walked home with her hand in Dad's, her lantern lit again. In her room she got into bed without taking off her bat wings. Through the window she could see the lights of the village, calm and orange, going out gently one after another. Somewhere far away, a witch's sneeze rang out. Clara smiled into her pillow and fell asleep before the last lantern.