“Let me look!” said the man.
“But there are more important things to hear,” said the bog witch.
“But we’re right here by the cupboard,” said the man and looked inside. “There are bottles of all sizes here. What’s in that one? And that one there?”
“Here is what they call Essence of May,” said the bog witch. “I haven’t tried it, but I know that if you splash just a little on the floor, you’ll immediately get a lovely forest lake with water lilies, rushes, and curled mint. Only two drops on an old notebook, even from the elementary grades, and the book turns into a fragrant fantasy play that can be produced with a scent strong enough to put you to sleep. I’m sure it’s meant as a courtesy to me that it’s labeled ‘Bog Witch’s Brewery.’ ”
“Here is the Scandal Flagon. It looks like it only has dirty water in it, and it is dirty water, but with fizz powder of city-chatter added: three portions of lies to two grains of truth. It was stirred with a birch branch, but not from one soaked in salt and used on a criminal’s bloody back, or from one used by a schoolmaster for spanking, but taken directly from the broom that sweeps the gutters.”
“And here is the bottle with pious poetry, to be used for hymns. Every drop has the sound of hell’s gates slamming shut and is made of the blood and sweat of punishment. Some say it’s just bile of dove, but doves are the best and gentlest of creatures and have no bile. That’s what people who know nothing of zoology say.”
There stood the mother of all bottles! It took over half the cupboard—the bottle of Everyday Stories.1 It was wrapped in both pigskin and bladder so it wouldn’t lose its strength. Each nation could make its own soup here, depending on how you turned and tipped the bottle. There was old German blood stew with robber dumplings, and also thin crofter’s soup with real courtiers at the bottom, and a pat of philosophy floating in the middle. There was English governess gruel and the French potage à la Kock,2 made from cock bones and sparrow eggs. In Danish it’s called cancan soup. But the best soup was the Copenhagian, that’s what the family said.
Tragedy was bottled in champagne bottles that start out with a bang, as tragedy should. Comedy looked like fine sand that could be thrown in people’s eyes. That is to say, the finer comedy. The coarse kind was also in bottles, but these were made up only of future playbills, where the name of the piece was the most powerful. There were excellent comedy titles, such as “Do you Dare to Spit in the Mechanism?” “One on the Jaw,” “The Sweet Ass,” and “She’s Dead Drunk.”
The man became lost in thought from all this, but the bog witch was thinking ahead, and she wanted an end to it.
“You’ve looked long enough at that junk box,” she said. “Now you know what’s here, but you still don’t know the most important thing you should know! The will-o’-the-wisps are in town! That’s more important than poetry or fairy tales. I shouldn’t say anything about it, but there must be some guidance, a fate, something that has overtaken me. Something has stuck in my throat the wrong way and must come out! The will-o’ -the-wisps are in town! They are on the loose! Just watch out, people!”
“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” said the man.
“Please sit down there on the cupboard,” she said. “But don’t fall in and break the bottles. You know what’s in them. I’ll tell you about the great event; it just happened yesterday, and it’s happened before. There are still three hundred and sixty four days to go. Well, I guess you know how many days are in a year?”
And the bog witch told the following:
“There was great excitement in the swamp yesterday! A big celebration! A little will-o‘-the-wisp was born. Actually twelve of them were born, by that brood of will-o’-the-wisps who have the ability, if they wish, to appear as people, and act and rule among them as if they were born human beings. That’s a big event in the swamp, and that’s why all the will-o‘-the-wisp males and females danced as little lights over the bog and meadows. There are female ones you see, but we’re not talking about them. I sat on the cupboard there and had all twelve little newborns on my lap. They were shining like glowworms and had already begun to hop around. They grew bigger by the minute, so that before a quarter hour had passed, they were as big as their father or uncle. It’s an old innate law and privilege that when the moon is in the precise position it was last night, and the wind blows as it blew yesterday, then all will-o’-the-wisps born at that hour and minute can become human beings. And each of them flits around for a whole year exercising their power. A will-o‘-the-wisp can travel around the country and the world too, if he’s not afraid to fall in the sea, or to be blown out in a great storm. He can get right inside a person, speak for him, and make all the movements he wants to. The will-o’-the-wisp can take any form, male or female, act in their minds, but with all his own nature, so he can get what he wants. In one year he must show that he can lead three hundred and sixty five people astray, and in grand fashion. He must lead them away from what’s true and right. Then he’ll obtain the highest a will-o‘-the-wisp can aspire to: becoming a runner in front of the Devil’s finest coach. He’ll receive a glowing orange uniform and breathe fire from his throat. That’s something a common will-o’-the-wisp can really lick his lips over. But there’s also danger and a lot of worry for an ambitious will-o‘-the-wisp who intends to play a part. If a person becomes aware of who he is, he can blow him away, and the will-o’-the-wisp is put out and must return to the swamp. And if the will-o‘-the-wisp is moved by longing for his family before the year is over and betrays himself, then he’s also out of it. He no longer burns clearly and soon goes out and can’t be relit. And if the year ends without him leading three hundred and sixty five people away from truth, and what’s good and beautiful, then he’s sentenced to lie in a rotten tree and shine without moving, and that’s the worst possible punishment for a lively will-o’-the-wisp. I knew all of this, and I told all of it to the twelve little will-o’ -the-wisps, who were sitting on my lap. They were wild with joy. I told them that it was surest and most comfortable to give up glory and not do anything. But the young licks didn’t want that. They already saw themselves in glowing orange with flames coming out of their mouths.
“‘Stay with us!’ said some of the elders.
“‘Trick the humans!’ said others. ‘People are drying out our meadows, draining them. What will become of our descendants?’
“‘We want to go blow blazes!’ said the newborn will-o’-the-wisps, and so it was decided.
“They immediately had a minute-long dance. It couldn’t have been shorter. The elf maidens swung around three times with all the others because they didn’t want to appear haughty. They actually preferred to dance by themselves. Then it was time for the godparents’ gifts. ‘Skipping stones’ as it’s called. The presents flew like small stones across the bog water. Each of the elf maidens gave a piece of her veil. ‘Take it!’ they said, ‘and then you will right away at a pinch know the higher forms of dance with the most difficult swings and turns. You’ll have the proper carriage and can appear at the most elegant parties.’ The nightjar3 taught each of the young will-o’-the-wisps to say, ‘Braaa, braaa, braaa’ and to say it at the right times, and that’s a big gift that pays off. The owl and the stork also gave something, but they said it wasn’t worth mentioning so we won’t talk about it.