In the small village of Kerkom (Flemish Brabant), there once lived a man who listened to the name of Karel. Nothing remarkable here as half of Flanders was either called Karel or Jan during those days, but this Karel was said to be fearless. So fearless, in fact, that he was one of the very few who dared to walk on the narrow path beside the village that went through the fields at night.

Karel was a well liked figure in Kerkom because he was quite sturdy and always happy to lend his neighbours a hand. When treading the eerie path where danger was said to fly, he also always carried a cudgel. His neighbours never worried when they saw in the far distance a figure with the silhouette of a cave man in the fields. Their silverware was quite safe.

One night, he whistled a tune while he walked back to his house. The world around him was dreadfully silent. Too silent. Even the mice didn’t feel like rustling through the dead autumn leaves. Then, suddenly, a hellish tumult reverberated in the sky. He had heard this sound before, although not this close, and he knew that it didn’t come from the respectable world, but from a realm that only the darkest shadows dared to enter, a realm belonging to wicked creatures whose touch made roses wither and turned milk sour.

Still, Karel wasn’t impressed, but he whistled a bit louder. They were probably returning from the sabbath or some other ghastly place. Nobody would strike fear into his heart, or anything else for that matter. Karel lifted his cudgel in the air and swung it at the witches, but all his cudgel touched was the cold, night air. The witches remained firmly seated on their brooms, cackling while they circled around him. This went on for quite some time, but eventually the witches had enough. One of them snatched the cudgel out of his hands, and they all flew away, disappearing in the darkness.

Karel wasn’t upset in the slightest. He went home and slept like nothing had happened. The next morning, an old woman who lived two houses further knocked on his door.

‘Here’s that filthy stick of yours,’ she said. Karel looked confused. He didn’t recognise his cudgel at all. There were little dents and bite marks in the wood.

‘Each of us bit in this abomination once,’ she chuckled, ‘you know you’re lucky that you didn’t hit any of us, Karel. You would have suffered as many blows as there are marks on that stick of yours.’

Did Karel finally feel fear? We don’t know, but we do know that he didn’t go for nightly strolls anymore. Regardless, the old schoolmaster was quite repulsed. Not by the witches, but by Karel, and he defended the actions of those ‘hags’ as the villagers called them everywhere. If Karel had left them alone, their teeth would never have been anywhere near that precious cudgel. And that’s all that they wanted. To be left alone.

Featured image: Arthur Wilde Parsons