It took them half the day to crush and collect four measures in the little clay cup, but they were encouraged by finding a spring of fresh water that ran much more freely than the one inside the cavern. They were able to collect all they needed without any trouble, after which it only remained to milk the goats and go back with their work three parts finished.
Leaving the pleasant valley behind them they climbed back towards the summit where the goats had recently been grazing, only to find that the flock had disappeared. After a long search they were discovered on a far-off peak, and Gobbolino and the little wooden horse plodded after them, Gobbolino carrying the milk jug and the cup, while the little horse proceeded very carefully so that he would not spill the precious liquid that had been measured with such care inside his wooden body, and not a drop of which must be wasted on the ground.
They soon discovered that the goats were playing a game with them.
No sooner did they reach the peak than the whole flock raced back past them bleating derisively They led them a merry dance over crag and rock and valley before allowing themselves to be caught and milked. They thought it the greatest sport in the world to see Gobbolino and the little wooden horse panting and scrambling after them. They would wait until they were almost within reach and then set off again, leaping and bounding and flicking their tails— their bleating sounding for all the world like mocking laughter. It was as if, having had their milk rejected in the morning, they were now taking their revenge.
In the end real tears of frustration and despair began to flow down the cheeks of Gobbolino and the little wooden horse, and when they saw them crying the goats stopped their teasing and came crowding round them, saying how sorry they were, and trying to make up for their bad behaviour.
Gobbolino was the first to stop crying, for he wanted to milk the goats as soon as possible.
Just at the last moment he remembered to catch in his paw the last five tears shed by the little wooden horse, and drop them into the mixture already floating about inside his little wooden body.
The wooden horse stopped crying at once. He was horrified to think how nearly the precious tears had been wasted.
Gobbolino filled the milk jug when both friends had had a long drink, and the precious cupfuls had been added to the rest. Then they struggled back to the witch’s cave, both so tired they could hardly climb over the rough rocks and stones along their way.
Long before they arrived they could hear the witch angrily calling for them. Her spirits and her vigour rose rapidly at the end of the day, and from a sad old woman she became almost the familiar and fierce old witch that Gobbolino used to know.
“Why have you been dawdling out there?” she demanded. “I could see you half an hour before you arrived! Didn’t you hear me calling for you? Why didn’t you come running? Tell me! Tell me!”
“I didn’t want to spill the milk, ma’am!” Gobbolino explained humbly.
“Pah!” said the witch, taking the jug and tipping a large mouthful down her throat. “You could have brought it back earlier in the day! Why you have even lost an ear racketing about on the mountain!” she said, turning to the little wooden horse. “Whoever heard of such carelessness? Now, you have had the whole day to gad about in the hills and tonight one of you shall come with me! Which of you is it to be? I think itshall be the little wooden horse! Yes, yes… it shall be the little wooden horse!”
“Oh, no, ma’am! No, ma’am!” pleaded the little wooden horse in a great fright, for the idea of riding on a broomstick with the precious spell-break still inside him was quite terrifying. He looked round the cavern to see where he could tip the liquid, and saw the pumpkin standing beside the spring.
While the witch fetched her broomstick he trotted into the corner, emptied the pumpkin and tried to pour the mixture in behind her back. Meanwhile Gobbolino managed to slip in between her legs and trip her up, but in getting to her feet she saw what the little wooden horse was doing, and thought, being rather blind, that he was trying to hide from her inside the pumpkin.
Stumbling across the cavern she caught him by the tail, and before he could prevent it half of the precious spell-break was spilled on the floor.
The witch could not see well enough to notice that the liquid was coloured with fruit juice and pale with goats’ milk. She poked at it with her stick, and then poked at the pumpkin, which promptly fell over and emptied out the remains.
“Well, well— we don’t need water while we have milk!” the witch said, limping out of reach of the mixture on the floor. She let go of the little wooden horse. Both he and Gobbolino were shedding tears of bitter disappointment, and now there was no mixture to make good use of them.
“Come along! Jump up behind me, Dobbin!” said the witch, going to the entrance of the cave and mounting her broomstick.
Very reluctantly the little wooden horse climbed up behind her, but the broomstick would not leave the ground.
“Get off, then!” the witch cried to him, but when he jumped thankfully to the ground the broomstick stayed lifeless and inert, though the witch shook it and cursed at it, and kicked it and finally flung it on to the ground.
Only Gobbolino had noticed that the end of the broomstick had been resting in a puddle of the nearly finished spell-break, the rest of which had now vanished into the cracks of the cavern floor, taking with it all the efforts of their long day’s work. Even the pumpkin lay upside down and was drained quite dry.
“If my broomstick will not carry me, perhaps my horse will!” shrieked the witch, leaping on to the back of the little wooden horse.
“Up! Up! Up!” she yelled at him. “Up to the stars, my horse! Away! Away!”
To the great surprise of the little wooden horse and the distress of Gobbolino he suddenly found himself rising in the air.
The witch was no great burden, being mostly skin and bone, and the feeling of flight was so delightful he hardly heard his friend’s cries.
In fact, it was the witch who was flying, clasping the little wooden horse so tightly with her knees that he felt he himself had wings, and although the effort she put into it was greater than riding on a broomstick, she rose valiantly above the summit of the mountain and sailed away to the north; quite heedless of Gobbolino’s pitiful cries below.
The moon shone over the earth with a wide, white radiance, and below him the little wooden horse could overlook a great many miles of country spreading out on every side. He could see the river, and even the faraway forest across the plain, with the village and the church tower standing out clearly in the moonlight. Between the village and the Hurricane Mountains, far, far below them; and not very far out of the village itself; a small dot that might or might not be an animal; or a bird, or even a human being; was wending its way.
And suddenly the little wooden horse realized that the bat might indeed have delivered its message; and the moving dot might even be the old priest answering their plea and coming to help them! It was only an instinct; but it made him aware.
Too late! Too late! The little wooden horse groaned aloud as he thought of the wasted spell-break. It was true that the mixture as it stood had had some success in putting the witch’s broomstick out of action, even without the good man’s blessing, but what was the use of that when not a drop remained to challenge the magic of the witch’s circle?
The flying itself was wonderful.
When he had overcome his fears that the witch would let go of him, the little wooden horse began to enjoy the wild ride, the flashing past of countless stars, and, far away below, the small winking lights of towns and villages, the gleam of rivers, and the silver spread of the sea. For a witch that had such a dread of water they must have crossed a thousand streams.