My introduction to the fiction of Roald Dahl is The Witches and this is one of those books whose language and imagination are so exotic that I wanted to scribble down every paragraph, until the story pulled me in and I surrendered to its spell. Published in 1983 with illustrations by Quentin Blake, I was presented a 30th anniversary edition for Christmas--by a dear friend on Goodreads--which includes Blake's etchings. Without the mischievous charcoal drawings to accompany it, Dahl's text alone would be one of the scariest books I've read, electrified with truths only children know about the treachery of adults and the irrational evils of the world.
The story is spun by a seven-year-old British boy whose expertise with REAL WITCHES begins when he travels with his parents to visit his material grandmother in Norway for Christmas. Orphaned in a car accident north of Oslo, the boy is adopted by his grandmother, a big, loving, cigar smoking lady who takes her grandson's mind off tragedy with her stories. Eventually, Grandmamma arrives on the subject of witches. As huge snowflakes fall outside, she cautions the boy that witches are still around and children must be wary of them, as witches despise children, sniffing them out as if they reeked of dog droppings and doing despicable things to them like transforming them into animals.
Content to sit at the feet of his grandmother with the missing thumb and listen to her yarns, the boy is instructed by a family attorney that he is to return to England for his education. Grandmamma goes with him, warning her grandson that they must remain vigilant, as there is a Secret Society of Witches in every country. English witches are on a first-name basis, swapping deadly recipes and plotting to kill children under the direction of The Grand High Witch of All The World, who presides over their secret meetings. By Easter, life has almost returned to normal. The boy busies himself constructing a tree house in a big conker tree in their garden. Alone.
I worked away, nailing the first plank on the roof. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a woman standing immediately below me. She was looking up and me and smiling in the most peculiar way. When most people smile, their lips go out sideways. This woman's lips went upwards and downwards, showing all her front teeth and gums. The gums were like raw meat.
It is always a shock to discover you are being watched when you think you are alone.
And what was this strange woman doing in our garden anyway?
I noticed that she was wearing a small black hat and she had black gloves on her hands and the gloves came up to her elbows.
Gloves! She was wearing gloves!
I froze all over.
"I have a present for you," she said, still staring at me, still smiling, still showing her teeth and gums.
I didn't answer.
"Come down out of that tree, little boy," she said, "and I shall give you the most exciting present you've ever had." Her voice had a curious rasping quality. It made a sort of metallic sound, as though her throat was full of thumbtacks.
The boy survives his encounter in the garden and averts tragedy when his grandmother falls ill with the flu. Unable to take him to the magical places in Norway she's reveled about when summer arrives, she books passage to the seaside town of Bournemouth, where they check in to the Hotel Magnificent. For company, his grandmother gives the boy two white mice, which he names William and Mary. Searching for somewhere he can train his mice far from the prying eyes of hotel management, the boy sneaks into an empty ballroom, reserved for the annual meeting of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.
Hiding behind a screen, the boy and his White Mouse Circus are unseen as the hotel manager escorts a great flock of ladies into the ballroom. Once they think they're alone, the ladies secure the door with a chain. The boy notices that all of the women wear gloves, just as his grandmother warned him witches do, and scratch at the bald scalps under their wigs, just as witches do. A stylish young lady addresses the meeting, removing her gloves to reveal claws for fingers and taking off her mask to reveal a cankered and worm-eaten face. The Grand High Witch herself goes into a fury with the others for their failure to eradicate England of its children.
Advising the witches to quit their day jobs and open candy stores, the Grand High Witch introduces a concoction she calls Formula 86 Delayed-Mouse Maker. This will transform English children to imbibe it into mice, once they're far away from the scene of the crime. The High Witch tests the stuff out on a gluttonous boy named Bruno Jenkins, lured to his fate by the promise of chocolate. As the meeting breaks up, the boy's scent--concealed by virtue of his not bathing for days--finally gives him away and set upon by witches, he is transformed into a mouse too. Finding he quite enjoys being a mouse, the boy reunites with his grandmother, who sees an opportunity.
All the rooms in the Hotel Magnificent had small private balconies. My grandmother carried me through into my own bedroom and out onto my balcony. We both peered down to the balcony immediately below
"Now if that is her room," I said, "then I'll bet I could climb down there and somehow get in."
"And get caught all over again," my grandmother said. "I won't allow it."
"At this moment," I said, "all the witches are down on the Sunshine Terrace having tea with the Manager. The Grand High Witch probably won't be back until six o'clock, or just before. That's when she's going to dish out supplies of the foul formula to the ancient ones who are too old to climb trees after gruntles' eggs."
"And what if you did manage to get into her room?" my grandmother said. "What then?"
"Then I should try to find the place where she keeps her supply of Delayed-Action Mouse-Maker, and if I succeeded, then I would steal one bottle of it and bring it back here."
"Could you carry it?"
"I think so," I said. "It's a very small bottle."
"I'm frightened of that stuff," my grandmother said. "What would you do with it if you did manage to get it?"
"One bottle is enough for five hundred people," I said. "That would give each and every witch down there a double dose at least. We could turn them all into mice."
My grandmother jumped about an inch in the air. We were out on my balcony and there was a drop of about a million feet below us and I very nearly bounced out of her hand over the railings when she jumped.
Roald Dahl is the truth. I loved how fantasy is used here to strip away the deceit and corruption of the adult world, as opposed to using fantasy for escapism. In Dahl's world, there are no gifted children but normal ones, and magical instruments are in the hands of adults, who use them to victimize the meek. The book is terribly frightening, particularly the appearance of a witch under a boy’s treehouse, but Dahl softens his delivery with language that is witty and delightful, meant to beguile rather than unsettle the reader.
All over the Dining Room women were screaming and strong men were turning white in the face and shouting, "It's crazy! This can't happen! Let's get the heck out of here quick!" Waiters were attacking the mice with chairs and wine bottles and anything else that came to hand. I saw a chef in a tall white hat rushing out from the kitchen brandishing a frying pan, and another one just behind him wielding a carving knife above his head, and everyone was yelling, "Mice! Mice! Mice! We must get rid of the mice!" Only the children in the room were really enjoying it. They all seemed to know instinctively that something good was going on right there in front of them and they were clapping and cheering and laughing like mad.
In addition to his craft with language, Dahl is able to express his love for children even as particularly ghastly things happen to children in his stories. Bad stuff happen when you're a kid, but ingenuity and a good heart are the keys to a better world, while greed ultimately leads to a dead end. A film version of The Witches produced by Jim Henson was released in 1990, the year both Dahl and Henson would pass away, at the ages of 74 and 53, respectively. While the ending of the film was changed to reassure audiences, Dahl's vision is magical, exciting and affirms that change, while terrifying, is a natural part of the world.