Two Hunchbacks at a Witches’ Gathering

In the small village of Vechmaal, not far from Tongeren, there lived three siblings to whom fate had dealt vastly different hands. All three were trapped in bodies that made life unbearably difficult—all three bore a hump, each carrying their own cross. The man, the youngest of the three, was a drunkard of shameful repute. Day after day he languished in a fog of weariness and strong drink, seeking oblivion in every cup and tankard he could reach. The eldest sister, a woman with a tongue like a knife and a heart of stone, scolded him ceaselessly. Every sip he took was met with her curses. She spoke of shame, of disgrace, of the dishonour that fell upon their household. The third, a younger sister, bore her burden in silence, yet she too longed for deliverance.

On a dark evening, when the moon hung low and stars flickered shyly between the clouds, the drunken brother stumbled through the woods between Heks and Vechmaal. His feet knew the path no longer, his eyes saw double, his soul cried out for water. But then he saw something strange that froze his muddled mind. Between the trees danced figures—no, not figures, but cats, dozens of cats, hundreds of cats, black-furred and bright-eyed. They danced in a ring of enchantment and whisper, their paws striking the ground in a rhythm as ancient as the forest itself. The man could do nothing but join their dance. The music swept him along like a flood, and his feet began to sway without command from his mind. The longer he danced, the lighter his body became. The hump upon his back began to fade, to crumble, to vanish like mist in the morning light. It was as though a thousand pounds were lifting from his flesh, as though his spine straightened and grew in dignity. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the dance ceased. The cats disappeared between the trees and the night returned to silence.

In the morning the man staggered toward his cottage—yet now without his crooked hump. He walked upright, chest forward, his back as straight as a pine trunk. His sister saw him and could not believe her eyes. Where was the hump? How was this possible? The man said nothing of witches and dancing cats, but the secret could not remain hidden long. When the tale spread—first whispered in the neighbourhood, then spoken loudly throughout the village—his sister was seized by jealousy. She wanted the same. She wanted to be free of her hump. She wanted a straight back and the ability to walk proudly through the village. And so, on a night as dark as that other one, she ventured into the woods.

In the same part of the forest she saw once more the dancing cats in their ring. But this woman, full of arrogance and utterly devoid of humility, did something her brother would never have done. She mocked and derided the cats. "What wretched stuff you are!" she cried out. "Black beasts without souls! And your dance is not even pleasant!" The cats fell still. The silence was like death itself. Then they began slowly to continue, and the woman felt a terrible heat upon her back. When she reached home, light streamed through the windows. Her brother saw her and cried out in horror. Not one hump did she now carry, but two—her own old hump and upon it, like a demon that would not release her, that of her brother. She was now doubly bent, doubly burdened, and the lesson was clear: dignity does not come from a straight back, but from the humility of the heart.