Hop-Tu-Naa

Author’s Note: In the Isle of Man where I grew up and still live we don’t celebrate Halloween – we celebrate Hop-tu-naa, and we don’t go trick or treating, our children dress up in fancy dress and go from house to house singing a song at each house and collecting presents from the householders. This is the song they sing…


Hop-tu-Naa, Tra-la-laa
Jinny the Witch flew over the house
To catch a stick to lather the mouse
Hop-tu-Naa, Tra-la-laa
If you don't give us something we'll run away
With the light of the moon.

Hop-Tu-Naa

“Go on, Deckers. I knocked at the last house.” Billy, three years older than the rest of us, and our defacto leader of forlorn band of Hop-tu-naa-ers gave me a little shove to propel me through the gate. A gate we had spent the last ten minutes arguing beside.

“B..b..but Jinny the Witch. “ I stammered.

Jinny the Witch was a legend in our village. She lived alone in a sprawling, dusty, ramshackle house at the end of the creepily ethereal drive way I was being shoved along.

For most of the year she was a spectral presence in our childish lives. A glimpsed figure with a shock of unruly brilliant white hair. A playground ogre used by the bigger kids to frighten their younger schoolmates. A hideous ghoul to be avoided.

Except tonight. Tonight was October 31st. Halloween. Hop-tu-naa. Jinny’s Night. The one time of the year we couldn’t avoid her. The ultimate destination of our annual fancy dress parade around town.

Although, like every other kid, I knew why I was compelled to make this terrible pilgrimage in detailing the reasons, “Off you go! If you don’t go tonight, Jinny’ll get you! She’ll sneak into your room at night. She’ll chop you up and feed you to the seagulls.”

“Michael Craine missed last year and Jinny cast a spell that made cars seem invisible. You remember what happpend. Squish!” Vicky Callister piped up.

Billy cast her a withering look, “She turned Bobby Mylchreest into a fly and Mrs Jones swotted him with a newspaper” he mimicked Bobby’s demise by swishing an imaginary paper through the air making a “Thwack” sound at the point of impact.

“And when she answers make sure you sing her song. Or she’ll gobble you up on the spot!” Vicky interjected.

Billy, tetchily due to the girl’s usurping of his role, added “And make sure it is in tune and sing loud – witches are deaf.”

By now we were on the doorstep. I rang the bell. Far off we could hear it tolling. We began to sing, a little hastily at first and I was conscious of Billy’s adolescent voice croaking alternative lewd lyrics. But I concentrated on my own singing, trying to sound as sweet and angelic as I could.

I was so enveloped in singing as well as I could, I didn’t hear the door start to creek open, I didn’t notice my comrades scarper up the drive to the safety of the road, and I didn’t see The Witch standing on the threshold of her home, watching me intently.

When I stopped singing, Jinny looked at me for a moment, and realising that I was now alone and at her mercy I blanched. Transfixed, unable to move, I stared straight into her eyes.

And then she smiled. “My that was heavenly!” She then reached behind the door, saying as she did, “There used to be plenty of hop-tu-naa singers calling here, the bell never stopped ringing”. She produced a large cardboard box filled to the brim with sweets, chocolates, toffee apples and toys. As she began to search through it for a treat, her face became sad and continued, “There seems to be fewer and fewer each year, you are the only one tonight. Tell you what its getting late, you might as well take the lot.” With a broad, kindly smile she passed the box to me. “Well you’ll better run home now.”

Overwhelmed by her largess I could barely stammer “Th-th-thank you Miss Corrin.” Then I turned and raced up the driveway and back to my friends.

“No, thank you.” She murmured as she closed the door.