I myself had two separate encounters with witches before I was eight years old. From the first
I escaped unharmed, but on the second occasion I was not so lucky. Things happened to me that will
probably make you scream when you read about them. That can't be helped. The truth must be told.
The fact that I am still here and able to speak to you (however peculiar1 I may look) is due entirely2 to
my wonderful grandmother.
My grandmother was Norwegian. The Norwegians know all about witches, for Norway, with
its black forests and icy mountains, is where the first witches came from. My father and my mother
were also Norwegian, but because my father had a business in England, I had been born there and
had lived there and had started going to an English school. Twice a year, at Christmas and in the
summer, we went back to Norway to visit my grandmother. This old lady, as far as I could gather,
was just about the only surviving relative we had on either side of our family. She was my mother's
mother and I absolutely adored her. When she and I were together we spoke4 in either Norwegian or
in English. It didn't matter which. We were equally fluent in both languages, and I have to admit that
I felt closer to her than to my mother.
Soon after my seventh birthday, my parents took me as usual to spend Christmas with my
grandmother in Norway. And it was over there, while my father and mother and I were driving in icy
weather just north of Oslo, that our car skidded5 off the road and went tumbling down into a rocky
ravine. My parents were killed. I was firmly strapped6 into the back seat and received only a cut on the
forehead.
I won't go into the horrors of that terrible afternoon. I still get the shivers when I think about
it. I finished up, of course, back in my grandmother's house with her arms around me tight and both
of us crying the whole night long.
"What are we going to do now?" I asked her through the tears.
"You will stay here with me," she said, "and I will look after you."
"Aren't I going back to England?"
"No," she said. "I could never do that. Heaven shall take my soul, but Norway shall keep my
bones."
The very next day, in order that we might both try to forget our great sadness, my
grandmother started telling me stories. She was a wonderful story-teller and I was enthralled7 by
everything she told me. But I didn't become really excited until she got on to the subject of witches.
She was apparently8 a great expert on these creatures and she made it very clear to me that her witch
stories, unlike most of the others, were not imaginary tales. They were all true. They were the gospel
truth. They were history. Everything she was telling me about witches had actually happened and I
had better believe it. What was worse, what was far, far worse, was that witches were still with us.
They were all around us and I had better believe that, too.
"Are you really being truthful9, Grandmamma? Really and truly truthful?"
"My darling," she said, "you won't last long in this world if you don't know how to spot a
witch when you see one."
"But you told me that witches look like ordinary women, Grandmamma. So how can I spot
them?"
"You must listen to me," my grandmother said. "You must remember everything I tell you.
After that, all you can do is cross your heart and pray to heaven and hope for the best."
We were in the big living-room of her house in Oslo and I was ready for bed. The curtains
were never drawn10 in that house, and through the windows I could see huge snowflakes falling slowly
on to an outside world that was as black as tar3. My grandmother was tremendously old and wrinkled,
with a massive wide body which was smothered11 in grey lace. She sat there majestic12 in her armchair,
filling every inch of it. Not even a mouse could have squeezed in to sit beside her. I myself, just
seven years old, was crouched13 on the floor at her feet, wearing pyjamas14, dressing-gown and slippers15.
"You swear you aren't pulling my leg?" I kept saying to her. "You swear you aren't just
pretending?"
"Listen," she said, "I have known no less than five children who have simply vanished off the
face of this earth, never to be seen again. The witches took them."
"I still think you're just trying to frighten me," I said.
"I am trying to make sure you don't go the same way," she said. "I love you and I want you to
stay with me."
"Tell me about the children who disappeared," I said.
My grandmother was the only grandmother I ever met who smoked cigars. She lit one now, a
long black cigar that smelt16 of burning rubber. "The first child I knew who disappeared", she said,
"was called Ranghild Hansen. Ranghild was about eight at the time, and she was playing with her
little sister on the lawn. Their mother, who was baking bread in the kitchen, came outside for a breath
of air. 'Where's Ranghild?' she asked.
" 'She went away with the tall lady,' the little sister said.
" 'What tall lady?' the mother said.
" 'The tall lady in white gloves,' the little sister said. 'She took Ranghild by the hand and led
her away.' No one", my grandmother said, "ever saw Ranghild again."
"Didn't they search for her?" I asked.
"They searched for miles around. Everyone in the town helped, but they never found her."
"What happened to the other four children?" I asked.
"They vanished just as Ranghild did."
"How, Grandmamma? How did they vanish?"
"In every case a strange lady was seen outside the house, just before it happened."
"But how did they vanish?" I asked.
"The second one was very peculiar," my grandmother said. "There was a family called
Christiansen. They lived up on Holmenkollen, and they had an old oil-painting in the living room
which they were very proud of. The painting showed some ducks in the yard outside a farmhouse17.
There were no people in the painting, just a flock of ducks on a grassy18 farmyard and the farmhouse in
the background. It was a large painting and rather pretty. Well, one day their daughter Solveg came
home from school eating an apple. She said a nice lady had given it to her on the street. The next
morning little Solveg was not in her bed. The parents searched everywhere but they couldn't find her.
Then all of a sudden her father shouted, 'There she is! That's Solveg feeding the ducks!' He was
pointing at the oil-painting, and sure enough Solveg was in it. She was standing19 in the farmyard in the
act of throwing bread to the ducks out of a basket. The father rushed up to the painting and touched
her. But that didn't help. She was simply a part of the painting, just a picture painted on the canvas."
"Did you ever see that painting, Grandmamma, with the little girl in it?"
"Many times," my grandmother said. "And the peculiar thing was that little Solveg kept
changing her position in the picture. One day she would actually be inside the farmhouse and you
could see her face looking out of the window. Another day she would be far over to the left with a
duck in her arms."
"Did you see her moving in the picture, Grandmamma?"
"Nobody did. Wherever she was, whether outside feeding the ducks or inside looking out of
the window, she was always motionless, just a figure painted in oils. It was all very odd," my
grandmother said. "Very odd indeed. And what was most odd of all was that as the years went by,
she kept growing older in the picture. In ten years, the small girl had become a young woman. In
thirty years, she was middle-aged20. Then all at once, fifty four years after it all happened, she
disappeared from the picture altogether."
"You mean she died?" I said.
"Who knows?" my grandmother said. "Some very mysterious things go on in the world of
witches."
"That's two you've told me about," I said.
"What happened to the third one?"
"The third one was little Birgit Svenson," my grandmother said. "She lived just across the
road from us. One day she started growing feathers all over her body. Within a month, she had turned
into a large white chicken. Her parents kept her for years in a pen in the garden. She even laid eggs."
"What colour eggs?" I said.
"Brown ones," my grandmother said. "Biggest eggs I've ever seen in my life. Her mother
made omelettes out of them. Delicious they were."
I gazed up at my grandmother who sat there like some ancient queen on her throne. Her eyes
were misty-grey and they seemed to be looking at something many miles away. The cigar was the
only real thing about her at that moment, and the smoke it made billowed round her head in blue
clouds.
"But the little girl who became a chicken didn't disappear?" I said.
"No, not Birgit. She lived on for many years laying her brown eggs."
"You said all of them disappeared."
"I made a mistake," my grandmother said. "I am getting old. I can't remember everything."
"What happened to the fourth child?" I asked.
"The fourth was a boy called Harald, " my grandmother said. "One morning his skin went all
greyish-yellow. Then it became hard and crackly, like the shell of a nut. By evening, the boy had
turned to stone."
"Stone?" I said. "You mean real stone?"
"Granite," she said. "I'll take you to see him if you like. They still keep him in the house. He
stands in the hall, a little stone statue. Visitors lean their umbrellas up against him."
Although I was very young, I was not prepared to believe everything my grandmother told
me. And yet she spoke with such conviction, with such utter seriousness, and with never a smile on
her face or a twinkle in her eye, that I found myself beginning to wonder.
"Go on, Grandmamma," I said.
"You told me there were five altogether. What happened to the last one?"
"Would you like a puff21 of my cigar?" she said.
"I'm only seven, Grandmamma."
"I don't care what age you are," she said. "You'll never catch a cold if you smoke cigars."
"What about number five, Grandmamma?"
"Number five", she said, chewing the end of her cigar as though it were a delicious asparagus,
"was rather an interesting case. A nine-year-old boy called Leif was summer-holidaying with his
family on the fjord, and the whole family was picnicking and swimming off some rocks on one of
those little islands. Young Leif dived into the water and his father, who was watching him, noticed
that he stayed under for an unusually long time. When he came to the surface at last, he wasn't Leif
any more."
"What was he, Grandmamma?"
"He was a porpoise22."
"He wasn't! He couldn't have been!"
"He was a lovely young porpoise," she said. "And as friendly as could be."
"Grandmamma," I said.
"Yes, my darling?"
"Did he really and truly turn into a porpoise?"
"Absolutely," she said. "I knew his mother well. She told me all about it. She told me how
Leif the Porpoise stayed with them all that afternoon giving his brothers and sisters rides on his back.
They had a wonderful time. Then he waved a flipper23 at them and swam away, never to be seen
again."
"But Grandmamma," I said, "how did they know that the porpoise was actually Leif?"
"He talked to them," my grandmother said. "He laughed and joked with them all the time he
was giving them rides."
"But wasn't there a most tremendous fuss when this happened?" I asked.
"Not much," my grandmother said. "You must remember that here in Norway we are used to
that sort of thing. There are witches everywhere. There's probably one living in our street this very
moment. It's time you went to bed."
"A witch wouldn't come in through my window in the night, would she?" I asked, quaking a
little.
"No," my grandmother said. "A witch will never do silly things like climbing up drainpipes or
breaking into people's houses. You'll be quite safe in your bed. Come along. I'll tuck you in."
我的姥姥
八岁前我两次遇上了女巫。第一次我安然脱险，但第二次就没有那么幸运了。你们读到
我所碰到的事情，准会急得叫起来。这也没有办法。我必须把事情原原本本地讲给你们听。
不过我到底还在这里，并且能够把我的遭遇告诉你们（不管我的模样看来多么古怪），这都
完全亏了我的了不起的姥姥。
我的姥姥是位挪威人。挪威人对女巫的事全知道，因为挪威有许多黑森林和冰封的高
山，最早的女巫正是出现在那里。我的父母也是挪威人，不过我的父亲在英国做生意。我出
生在英国，生活在英国，进了英国学校。一年两次，在圣诞节和暑假，我们回挪威去看我的
姥姥。据我记忆所及，这位老太太是我家父母双方唯一活着的亲戚。她是我母亲的母亲，我
极其爱她。她和我在一起的时候说挪威语和英语。我们说哪种语言都行。这两样语言我们说
起来同样流利。我不能不承认，我觉得我和她比和我母亲更亲密。
我的七岁生日过后不久，我的父母照常带我到挪威去和我姥姥一起过圣诞节。就是在那
里，有一次我的父母和我在严寒天气里坐车行驶在奥斯陆以北时，我们的汽车滑出大路，翻
到岩石深谷里去了。我的父母因此丧生，而我因为被牢牢地拴在汽车后座上，只有前额受了
点伤。
我不愿讲那个可怕的下午发生的那件可怕的事。想到它我还会发抖。自然，我最后回到
了姥姥家。她用双臂紧紧地搂抱着我，两个人哭了一夜。
“我们现在怎么办呢？”我透过泪水问她。
“你和我住在这里，”她说，“我会照顾你的。”
“我不回英国去了吗？”
“不去了，”她说，“我不能去。天堂将收留我的灵魂，但挪威将保存我的骨头。”
第二天，为了我们两个都能忘却我们巨大的悲痛，我姥姥开始给我讲故事。她是一位了
不起的讲故事大王，我被她给我讲的每一个故事迷住了。但直到她讲到了女巫，我这才真正
激动起来。对女巫她显然是位大专家。她对我说明，她这些女巫故事不同于大多数故事，不
是想象出来的。它们都是真的，千真万确。它们都是事实。她给我讲的关于女巫的每一件事
都真正发生过，我最好相信它们。更糟糕，更糟糕得多的是女巫还存在于我们中间。她们就
在我们周围，我最好也相信这件事。
“你说的当真是真话吗，姥姥？真而又真的真话吗？”
“我的小宝贝，”她说，“如果碰到女巫认不出来，那你在这个世界上就活不长了。”
“可是你对我说过女巫像平平常常的女人，姥姥，那我怎么能认出她们来呢？”
“你必须好好听我说，”我姥姥说，“你必须记住我对你说的每一句话。即便做到了这一
点，你也只能在胸口画十字，祈求上天保佑，希望一切逢凶化吉了。”
这时候我们是在奥斯陆她家的大客厅里，我已经准备好上床睡觉了。这房子的窗帘是从
来不拉上的，透过窗子我能看到漆黑的窗外大雪飘落。我的姥姥很老了，满脸皱纹，宽阔的
身体穿着灰色的花边裙子。她端坐在她的扶手椅上，把椅子撑得满满的，连一点空隙也没
有，老鼠也钻不进去。我刚满七岁，坐在她脚旁的地板上，穿着睡衣、睡裤、睡袍和拖鞋。
“你发誓，你不是哄我吧？”我一个劲儿地对她说，“你发誓，你不是骗我吧？”
“听着，”她说，“我知道至少有五个孩子一下子从地球上消失了，再也没有人见过他们。
是女巫把他们消灭了。”
“我还是认为你只是想吓唬我。”我说。
“我只想使你绝不要重蹈覆辙，”她说，“我爱你，我要你和我在一起。”
“告诉我那几个孩子是怎么不见了的。”我说。
我姥姥是我见过的唯一一位抽雪茄的姥姥。现在她点起一支，那是支黑色的长雪茄，它
冒出一股烧橡胶似的气味。“我认识的第一个不见了的孩子，”她说，“叫做兰希尔德·汉森。当
时兰希尔德约八岁，她正和小妹妹在草地上玩。她们的妈妈在厨房里烤面包，出来要透口
气。‘兰希尔德呢？’她问小女儿。
“‘她和一个高个太太走了。’小妹妹回答。
“‘一个戴白手套的高个太太，’小妹妹说，‘她牵着姐姐的手把她带走了。’再也没有人看
见过这个兰希尔德。”
“没有去找她吗？”我问道。
“大家在方圆几英里内找了个遍，城里的人也个个帮忙，但是没有找到她。”
“那么另外四个孩子呢？”我问道。
“都跟兰希尔德一样不见了。”
“他们是怎样，姥姥，是怎样不见的？”
“每次出事前，房子外面总看到一个奇怪的女人。”
“可他们是怎样不见了的？”
“第二个很古怪，”我姥姥说，“有一家人姓克里斯蒂安森，住在霍尔门科伦。在他们家的
客厅里有一幅令他们十分自豪的旧油画。油画上有几只鸭子在农舍外面的草地上。油画上没
有人，只有草地上的一群鸭子和作为背景的一座农舍。这幅画很大很好看。有一天他们的女
儿索尔维格放学回家时吃着一个苹果。她说是街上一位好太太给她的。第二天早晨索尔维格
不在床上。父母到处找也找不到她。忽然她的爸爸叫起来：‘她在那里！是索尔维格在喂鸭
子！’他指着那幅画，索尔维格真的在上面。她站在草地上，正从篮子里拿出面包屑来扔给鸭
子。爸爸扑到画前面去摸她，但是没有用。她只是画的一部分，是画在帆布上的。”
“你见过那幅画吗，姥姥，有那小姑娘在上面的？”
“见得多了，”我姥姥说，“更奇怪的是，小索尔维格在画上老是变换位置。一天她在农舍
里，可以看到她露出脸从窗口往外看。另一天她在画的左边，抱着一只鸭子。”
“你看见过她在画里动吗，姥姥？”
“没有人见过。无论她在哪里，是在外面喂鸭子还是从窗口往外看，她都是不动的，就是
个油画人像，太奇怪了。”我姥姥说，“实在奇怪。但最奇怪的是，她在画里会随着时间长
大。十年后她从小姑娘变成了大姑娘。三十年后她到了中年。到事情发生五十四年后，她从
画上一下子消失了。”
“你是说她死啦？”我说。
“谁知道！”我姥姥说，“在女巫世界里有些事情稀奇古怪。”
“你讲过两个了，”我说，“那么第三个碰到什么事了呢？”
“第三个是小比吉特·斯文松。”我姥姥说，“她就住在我家马路对面。有一天她开始全身长
出羽毛。一个月后她就变成了一只大白鸡。她的父母把她养在花园里的一个鸡舍里。她还下
蛋呢。”
“蛋是什么颜色的？”我问。
“棕色的，”我姥姥说，“是我有生以来见过的最大的蛋。她的妈妈用它们做煎蛋，好吃极
了。”
我抬头看着姥姥，她坐在那里像个古代女王坐在宝座上。她的眼睛是灰色的，像在看着
许多英里外的什么东西。这时候只有雪茄是真实的东西，它冒出的蓝烟在她的头上缭绕。
“但变成鸡的小姑娘没有失踪？”我说。
“没有，比吉特没有失踪。她活了许多年，下她那些棕色的蛋。”
“你说过他们全不见了。”
“那是我说错了，”我姥姥说，“我老了。我不能把什么都记住。”
“第四个孩子又发生了什么呢？”我问道。
“第四个是男孩，叫哈拉德。”我姥姥说，“有一天早晨，他的皮肤全变成了灰黄色的，接
着开始变硬，像个果壳。到晚上他已经变成了石头。”
“石头？”我说，“你是说真正的石头？”
“花岗石，”她说，“你高兴的话，我可以带你去看他。他们仍旧把他保存在房子里。他站
在门厅里，像一个小石像。客人把他们的雨伞都靠在他身上。”
虽然我还小，但是我不准备相信我姥姥告诉我的每一句话。但她说得言之凿凿，严肃认
真，脸一点不笑，连眼睛也不眨。我开始犹豫了。
“说下去吧，姥姥，”我说，“你对我说是五个。最后一个怎么样了？”
“你想吸一口我的雪茄吗？”她说。
“我只有七岁，姥姥。”
“我不管你几岁，”她说，“抽雪茄不会得感冒。”
“第五个怎么啦，姥姥？”
“第五个，”她像嚼好吃的芦笋那样嚼着雪茄烟头说，“那是件十分有趣的事。他是个九岁
的男孩，叫莱夫，正跟家人在海湾过暑假。这天全家在一个岛上野餐游泳。小莱夫潜到了水
里。他的父母在岸边看着他，觉得他在水下待得时间特别长。等到他最后浮上来时，他已经
不是莱夫了。”
“他是什么呢，姥姥？”
“是一条海豚。”
“不可能！他不可能变成一条海豚！”
“他是变成了一条可爱的小海豚，”她说，“而且极其友好。”
“姥姥。”我说。
“什么事啊，我的小宝贝？”
“他千真万确变成了一条海豚了吗？”
“绝对不假，”她说，“我跟他的妈妈很熟。全是她告诉我的。她说那天整个下午莱夫变成
的那条海豚都和他们待在一起，让他的弟弟妹妹骑着他在水里玩。他们玩得开心极了。后来
他向他们摇摇他的鳍，就游走了，从此以后他们再也没有见过他。”
“可是姥姥，”我说，“他们怎么知道那海豚真是莱夫呢？”
“他跟他们说话呀，”我姥姥说，“他让他们骑的时候一直哈哈大笑，说笑话。”
“发生这样的事，那时候不是要闹翻天吗？”我问道。
“没怎么闹。”我姥姥说，“你要记住，在我们挪威这儿，这种事司空见惯。到处都有女
巫。就在这会儿，也许我们这条街就有一个。现在你该上床睡觉了。”
“夜里女巫不会从我的窗口进来吗？”我有点发抖地问道。
“不会，”我姥姥说，“女巫从不做攀着水管溜进别人家里这样的傻事。你在床上完全安
全。来吧，我来给你塞好被子。”
点击
收听单词发音
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1
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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2
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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3
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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skidded
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| v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的过去式和过去分词 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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21
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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porpoise
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| n.鼠海豚 | |
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flipper
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| n. 鳍状肢，潜水用橡皮制鳍状肢 | |
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