Walpurgisnacht – A German Witchfest   by Steenie Harvey

Germany’s Harz Mountains have an eerie reputation. Locals don't wait until Halloween to cast the runes or scare
the neighbors. April 30---Walpurgisnacht---is the spookiest date in their calendar, a trysting-time for ghosts and
witches.

Yet although Walpurgisnacht is a tourism money-spinner, it isn't some made-up festival. With origins that
predate Christianity, May Eve is a tangible link to a long-gone age when people firmly believed magic stalked
the land.

Throughout much of central Europe, Walpurgisnacht remains one of the year's great turning points. Folklore
deems this is the night when the northern winter makes a final stand, when Dame Holda's witches gather in
lonely places to dance away the snow. It’s essentially a time to bid farewell to darkness and celebrate the Rite of
Spring.

Some of the best Walpurgis revels are in small villages such as Schierke, deep in the forests that once straddled
the border of the former GDR --- East Germany. The village huddles below the 3747 foot-high Brockenberg, the
Harz's loftiest 'mountain' in a land of deliciously sinister hills. Off-limits to western travelers for decades,
Schierke's celebrations now attract around 6,000 visitors.

The Brockenberg was where Goethe set the witches' sabbat scene in Faust, the tale of a doctor who sells his soul
to the devil. Although stories about goddesses, spellcraft, and invisible Wind-hounds had circled among local
villagers for generations, Faust ensured the mountain’s place on the literary map.  

On Walpurgisnacht, the door to the Harz’s Otherworld creaks fully open. Spell-fires blaze, straight paths turn
crooked, and the ghostly Wild Hunt chases the goddess Walpurga through storm and hail. One legend has
Walpurga carrying a spindle and a three-cornered mirror which reveals the future. These symbols seem curiously
related to those other mythic northern stalwarts, the three Norns who spun out the fate of humans beside the
Well of Wyrd.

Just as the Celtic fire-goddess Brigid metamorphosed into Saint Brigid, Walpurga was also claimed by Christianity
in its attempts to quash the older religion. Given the Feast Day of May 1, Saint Waelburga was obviously
intended to replace her pagan namesake.

Much to the annoyance of the church, the older stories refused to wither. Saint Waelburga is associated with
warding off attacks from dogs---but this probably stems from peasant superstitions about needing to feed
Walpurga's Wind-hound (left behind by the Wild Hunt) to ensure good weather for the crops. The saint's other
symbol is a sheaf of grain. As grain is usually linked to fertility goddesses, this is a very unusual brand image
for a Christian abbess.

But back to this May Eve. Revels start in the morning with Schierke's schoolkids and teachers parading in witch
and devil costumes. Faces painted in shock-horror make-up, the Kindergarten's baby witches get taken to see
the arrival of a miniature train, a 'Hexenexpress' festooned with witch-puppets.

Come nightfall, Schierke's puppet shows and folk choirs give way to fire-eaters, sword-swallowers and vampires.
Other dubious-looking characters include phantoms of the opera, crones with broomsticks, and gangs of
gratifyingly horrible hunchbacks whose devilish horns glow in the dark.

Evoking the fun of a medieval fair, the local Kurpark is crowded with beer tents, food-stalls, fortune-tellers, and
all kinds of mystic mumbo-jumbo. There’s certainly no shortage of three-cornered mirrors, witches’ hats, crystals,
amulets and tarot cards.

Although a giant bonfire blazes away, it’s as well to wear a heavy coat for the night-time festivities. Late April can
be bitter-cold and snow often still shrouds the Brockenberg. Even so, numerous visitors seem oblivious to the
chill, undoubtedly because all German festivals are an excuse for the Big Drink. The spirit of choice for serious
tipplers is Schierke Feuerstein. Made from herbs and bitters, it’s a blistering 35º proof. This throat-searing brew
was concocted by a local apothecary called Willi Druber in 1908.

Schierke Feuerstein is still sold in the old apothecary shop, Zum Roten Fingerhut, the Red Thimble. And to help
put you in a creepy mood, Willi’s tombstone in the village cemetery carries a chilling inscription: ''O Wanderer
eile fort von hier, sonst kommt er 'raus und trinkt mit Dir!' It’s a warning to hurry away before the apothecary
rises from his grave and joins you for a drink.

Queuing for my 'medicine', I blink in disbelief. Although Willi himself hasn't joined us, some exceptionally hardy
Valkyries are risking hypothermia, prancing topless among the Kurpark’s trees.

Before the witching-hour fireworks, there’s a play of Wagnerian length on an open-air woodland stage. My friend
didn’t relish the prospect of three hours of 'devilish dances and bucolic music' but even for non-German
speakers, the entertainment is easy to follow. We’re treated to a bawdy pantomime about Holda the Hexe
(witch) and her cronies.

Next morning, my head clangs like an empty cauldron. (The other after-effects of curried sausages, beer,
gluhwein and apothecary's mixture are unspeakably vile, and not designed to produce scintillating breakfast
conversation.) Still, we’re in better shape than the foolhardy souls sleeping off hangovers in the freezing-cold
Kurpurk. To purge all remaining Walpurgisnacht excesses, we don hiking boots and head into the Brocken
National Park.

The Park’s shadowland forest is latticed with paths that double as cross-country winter ski trails. Crouching in the
shadows like malevolent dwarves, bizarre rock formations carry names like the Witch's Altar (Hexenalter) and
Devil's Pulpit (Teufelskanzel).

May Day is a public holiday. Crowds of hikers, some still wearing masks and pointy hats, stride purposefully up
the 10-km long path towards the Brocken's summit. Not that hiking is obligatory. Although legend suggests
besoms are the favored method of transportation, the Brockenbahn railway provides a cheat's way to the summit.

Later we ride the rails into a town that time forgot. Handily linked to Schierke by steam train, Wernigerode is a
fairytale fantasy of labyrinthine lanes, half-timbered houses and a 19th century castle. The Rathaus, or town
hall, is three parts Disney, one part nightmare. Sporting a vivid orange roof and spiky lead steeples, the only
possible architectural description is Gothic-Gone-Mad.

Schierke's main rival for Walpurgisnacht revelries is Thale. This Harz town lays on theatrics at the
Hexentanzplatz, the irresistibly-named Witches' Dancing Place. Cable-cars are the easy route to this pagan disco
above the Bodetal valley, a densely forested river chasm banked by towering rock walls. Along with clearly-
marked hiking trails, information boards detail the locality’s flora and fauna.

The valley also churns with myths. Opposite the Hexentanzplatz, a steep path leads to the Rosstrappe or steed's
hoofprint. This landmark is associated with Brunhilde, another Germanic white goddess figure. Maybe something
got lost in translation, but local literature says she fled from ''a lecherous Bodo man''. To escape, Brunhilde
sprang across the gorge on a giant horse that left its hoofprint in the rock. Attempting to follow her, Bodo
plunged to a watery doom. Turned into a hound by magic, he apparently remains in the river to this day.

Another path meanders from Thale to the Teufelsmauer. or Devil's Wall. Apparently the devil wagered he could
build a wall enclosing his domain in one night. He lost the bet: at daybreak the wall collapsed. Given the area,
the story has uncanny parallels with the demise of communism. However, maybe the true allegory is about
summer's return.

For more information go to www.harzinfo.de
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