“’tis for another cause I would wish them away. They say many a heart
has been broken in the village, ay, through these hundred years and
more, for the sake of the vain, misty things. Now ’tis enough! Let not
one of them touch aught that concerns me!”
The maidens shrank back in terror. “Hush, hush, Katrine!” they cried;
“how canst thou dare speak thus--thou who dwellest by the water-side,
too? Who can tell what may befall?”
Katrine laughed scornfully, all the more so, no doubt, that Veit had
just joined the group, and was listening with a mocking air.
“To be sure,” he said, “Katrine is not afraid, I’ll be bound; and why
should she be? I, for one, do not believe in these Nixies and their
spells; there is not a Nixie of them all can lay a spell on me!”
Now it was the men’s turn to murmur. “’Tis the ignorant who boast,”
said an old white-haired fellow, who leaned, smoking his pipe, against
the tavern door. “Thou art a foolish fellow, Veit. There is many a
one among us could speak of the Nixies’ spells. Dost thou mind poor
Heinrich, who wanders about as if he were daft and speaks to no one?
Hast thou marked him sitting alone in a corner of the ale-house at
night? He is a living proof that the Nixies are no dream. To be sure,
he has not taken the matter aright. A kiss and a laugh--that is the way
to use with them.”
“They may get the laugh from me, but never a kiss,” rejoined Veit,
angered at the old man’s reproof; and he exchanged a glance with
Katrine, who turned away with an unwonted blush upon her cheek.
The dance was at its height. Lanterns, fastened with garlands of
flowers, hung from the trees that surrounded the village-green, but
their light was not needed, for the rays of the young moon flooded the
dancing-space with their silvery radiance. Veit leaned against a tree;
he was hot from the dance, and glad to rest as he waited for his turn
to lead Katrine out. All at once he felt a cool breeze fan his cheek,
and yet no wind stirred the branches above him. This was as the cool,
moist breath of a fountain. He turned his head, for he fancied he
caught a glimpse of something glistening in the shadow behind him. Yes,
indeed, there was some one standing by him, a misty form, whose white
draperies shone like a ray of moonlight among the trees. And then a
pair of eyes were raised to his--eyes as deep, and yet transparent, as
the waters of some mountain lake, eyes that shone, beneath the masses
of pale hair, as the lake shines when the stars are mirrored in it. And
that gaze drank up Veit’s very soul, and with it the memory of Katrine,
and of all his promises and all his boasts. In vain Katrine waited for
her partner, and turned at last in a rage to seek another, hoping by
jealousy to win back her truant lover. In vain! All night long Veit
danced with that misty form on the outskirts of the green, where the
trees throw their deepest shadow. For the Nixies do not willingly
mingle with the throng of mortal youths and maidens. There, too, in
the shadow, Heinrich danced, the clouds all lifted from his brow; and
yet another dancer drew near and clasped the third fairy sister in
his arms. The hours flew by, and the enraptured dancers could hardly
believe that the dawn was breaking, but there, on the necklace of each
of the sisters, hung the water-lily, scarcely whiter than the fair
bosom on which it rested--and the petals of the flower were drooping!
Then suddenly Veit felt the gentle pressure lifted from his arm, and
even as he looked round, the glistening forms were already disappearing
among the dark pine-stems. He hastened after them, his comrades
at his heels, but not all their entreaties could stay the Nixies’
fast-fleeting steps; and when their partners reached the edge of the
forest, where it meets the lush, green river-meadows, the rising mists
of morning had already swallowed up those fairy beings, that seemed,
indeed, born of the mists themselves.
Heinrich sighed heavily, and wandered away by himself down another path
that led to the river-side; and the third youth, a merry, reckless
fellow, sauntered off with a careless laugh; but Veit made an angry
gesture, and exclaimed as he turned his steps homeward: “I shall catch
them yet; it is not thus she shall baulk me.”
But many a time was Veit doomed to disappointment. True, the Nixies
returned, and oftener than was their wont; for now, whenever the moon
shone, and the lads and maidens danced on the green in their spare
moments, even though it might be but of a work-day evening, the white
sisters crept like the moonbeams through the trees, seeking out always
the same partners. And between times Heinrich grew more and more
melancholy, and Veit more forgetful of his old love for Katrine, and
more reckless, withal, in his speech. The old folk in the village shook
their heads ever more gravely, and whispered ancient tales of boatmen
who had been drawn down into the deep water by the Nixies’ rock. “Veit
had better guard his tongue, and not try to blind their eyes with his
foolish boasts, now that he was plainly more under the spell than any
man of them all.” What would they have said had they known that the
white sisters, too, had warnings whispered to them by the friendly folk
who came to the crystal palace? “It was ill for Nixies ever to seek
out the same man among mortals, and, indeed, to love the haunts of any
mortals over-much.” Perhaps these speeches were prompted by jealousy as
much in the crystal palace as they might have been in the village hut,
but however this may be, the Nix-maidens heeded them not, and seemed,
indeed, more eager than ever before to join the dances on the green.
Now if Veit forgot, Katrine never did; and her anger against the
interlopers grew hotter and more cruel as her own pain and heartache
grew deeper. She sat at home and brooded over thoughts of revenge, and
she spoke with all the wise elders of the village who could tell her
anything of the traditions concerning the Nixies. They dreaded being
surprised by the sunlight--that was plain. But why? No one had ever yet
had the courage to gainsay them, or try to hold them back and find out
the truth. Love, however, gives courage, and Karl, the third partner
whom the fairy sisters sought out, had sworn he loved Katrine, and
only went with the Nix-maidens because Katrine slighted him. True,
Katrine had given her heart to Veit, but the longing for revenge, and
the desire to win back her lost love at any cost, had grown so strong
in her that there was nothing she would not do to gain her end. So it
was Karl now who talked with Katrine on the mill-bridge, and promised,
if her love was to be his reward, to carry out the plot they made
together. Then the cunning Karl set about fanning the flame that was
already raging in Veit’s veins, and consuming the life of poor, foolish
Heinrich. How often, Karl insinuated, had they not been on the point
of winning the love of the wayward Nix-maidens, when the first rays
of dawn had interrupted them! Were they always to be cheated thus?
What mystery was there about these Nixies, that they would not let
themselves be followed, or persuaded to outstay the rising of the sun?
Nay, they had not managed wisely! At the next dance, let them lead the
fairy sisters away, while the night was yet dark, to the deepest part
of the forest, where no light of dawn could penetrate, and try if thus
the spell might not be broken, and the love of these evasive maidens
won.
He spoke to willing ears. Had not Veit said long ago that he would
be master of his fairy partner at last? The plan was a good one. Why
had it never been thought of before? It must be, Veit concluded, the
spell that the wilful creature had laid upon him that had so dulled
his mind! Heinrich, too, needed no pressing; he was clean daft for
love, and hardly knew what he did any longer. So the plan was laid,
and woe betide the Nixies when the time for the next dance arrived.
Katrine watched for it now with anxious eyes, and her heart throbbed
with bitter satisfaction when at last she saw those rainbow draperies
glisten once more in the moonlight beneath the trees. But they were
not long to be seen. The Nixies had suffered their fancy to ensnare
them too far, and when the eager lovers spoke of a quiet space amid
distant forest trees where they could dance and dally undisturbed,
they consented only too easily to follow them thither. No one knew
how the hours sped by in that quiet and dusky spot. Once, as they lay
resting upon the grass, Karl contrived with cunning hand to unfasten
the lilies from the crystal chains, and the flowers that might have
warned the Nixies from their fate withered unheeded upon the moss.
They were missed too late. Too late the fairy sisters grasped at their
chains and sought with anxious eyes for their guardian lilies. When
they espied them, they were already faded and dying. At that sight a
moan, the only sound that mortal ears had ever heard from the Nixies’
lips, escaped the ill-fated sisters. They fled, as the spray of the
fountain flies before the wind, through the forest-glades; but even as
they reached the river-meadow, a ray of sunlight greeted them upon its
verge--sunlight, that gladdens the heart of man, but to them was the
shaft of death. No friendly mist spread forth a sheltering veil over
the meadow; and as they felt the warmth of those piercing rays, they
melted as wax before the fire, as foam upon the water. In a moment the
fairy sisters were gone, and in their stead three slender rivulets,
whose foamy whiteness was stained with a faint streak of red, wound
their way with a complaining murmur through the green meadow, towards
the river and the great rock. They disappeared among its hollows, and
he who doubts the tale need but seek out the river-bank by Dietenhain,
and he will find the three streamlets, and the spot that is still
called the “Nixies’ cleft.”
But the spell that the fairy sisters had laid upon two human hearts
was not to be broken thus. From that time Heinrich could find no
rest from his remorse and sorrow, so that they drove him at last to
seek his death in the fatal river. Veit, too, flying in horror from
the village, was drowned in crossing the Elbe, by the great rock at
Strehla, where it is said that the Nixies yearly require the sacrifice
of one human life. Only the reckless Karl and the bold Katrine seem to
have gone scot-free. They married after a while, and lived on beside
the mill-stream without fear of the Nixies; nor can I learn that the
water-folk ever succeeded in doing them any harm.
XII
THE FLYING CASTLE
[Illustration]
Beside the stream of Gerlach, and at the foot of the Glockenberg, in
the Hartz Mountains, there is a deep pit, and here--so the country-folk
tell--there once stood a mighty castle, that was inhabited, not by
knights or earls, but by a wicked woman, who was known only as the
“Lady of the Castle.” She was learned in all manner of evil lore, and
cast spells upon many of the country-people and their belongings,
so that she was feared and hated throughout the district. But her
favourite pastime was to capture the village maidens as they passed
along the road below, and shut them up in the castle, where she made
them work for her, nor ever let them out again as long as they lived.
All about the woods and hedges her spies and serving-men were hidden,
ready to pounce on any luckless girl whose business obliged her to
cross that dangerous valley.
One might suppose that the whole country-side would have risen in
arms against this hateful tyrant. But her dread power of working
spells and her authority as lady of all the surrounding lands made
the people afraid to rebel. At last they could bear it no longer,
however, and they determined to form a strong band, and march against
the castle, with their priest at their head, carrying a crucifix, to
be their defence against the spells and curses of the witch. When the
little army reached the castle they found the great gates closed, the
drawbridge up, and the walls manned by a host of grinning dwarfs, more
like apes than men, who swarmed about the battlements with threatening
gestures. This sight struck terror to the hearts of the rescuers, but
the priest encouraged them by the assurance that, if every man did but
cross himself faithfully, there could no danger befall him from any
of these fiendish apparitions. However, as the castle could not be
surprised, they determined to surround and keep watch about it that
night, till they could bring ladders and storm it on the following day.
So sentry-fires were lighted, and preparations made for a camp, but
not one of the besiegers could get to sleep that night. And behold!
at midnight, as they sat round their fires, watching the dark, silent
fortress with anxious eyes, they saw three tongues of blue flame shoot
up from the topmost tower, and suddenly there appeared upon it the Lady
of the Castle, her witch’s staff in her hand. Her tall form, veiled in
black, stood out in dusky outline against the lurid blue light; and
as she stood there, she waved her wand towards the four corners of
heaven, and uttered some words in an unknown tongue. Immediately the
ground trembled, the light of the stars was darkened, a fearful roar
and turmoil were heard, and with a rending sound, as though the earth
were opening beneath it, the great castle was torn from its foundations
and carried by an invisible hand through the air, till it reached the
top of a neighbouring mountain, where it settled like some monster
bird. But as it went the voice of the witch was heard crying aloud: “If
ye dare to disturb me again in my dwelling, I will take your houses
too, and carry them through the air, as I do this my castle--but into
the lake yonder will I cast them down.” The terror-stricken besiegers
hardly dared follow the flight of the castle with their eyes, but there
it was the next morning, and for many days to come, standing upon the
mountain far above them.
Now there was no more question of rescuing the maidens by force, and
no one, you may be sure, ever set foot on that mountain if he could
help it. But the witch’s servants still haunted the woodland paths, and
bore off many a hapless girl into a captivity, which now seemed more
terrible than ever, far away on yon lonely hill-top.
But as the years went on, there grew up in the village a brave and
pious maiden whom her parents had dedicated from childhood to the holy
St. Anthony, the patron saint of the family. For it was good, they
thought, to be under the protection of a saint, when there was so much
evil dwelling near at hand, and so much danger to be feared. The maiden
was named Antonia, and got her living as a shepherdess. This often led
her into lonely places among the woods and meadows at the foot of the
dreaded mountain, but she was never afraid, and always escaped being
caught, though many a maid she knew was taken almost from her side.
Sometimes she would even lead her sheep up the slopes of the mountain
itself, for every one shunned those pastures, so that they were rich
and untrodden. And as she got nearer to the castle, and looked up
at its dark, frowning walls, she mused more and more upon the poor
creatures shut up within it, and how they might be helped to escape.
At last the matter got such hold upon her mind that she dreamed of it
at night, and her dreams took clearer and clearer shape, until this is
what she dreamed. She saw a garden filled with shrubs and flowers, such
as she had never known before; dark walls closed it in on every side,
but within all was bright and blooming. Yet there was a taint in the
scent of the blossoms, and an unwholesome heaviness filled the air. She
herself lay upon a mossy bank, and above her hung boughs covered with
trails of purple blossom. She tried to reach them, but could not move
a limb. Then a dreadful sense of terror came over her, and she called
aloud upon St. Anthony, and at once the heavy air cleared, and the
weight was lifted from her limbs; and as she rose, cheerful and glad
once more, a voice sounded among the trees: “From within the castle
help must come--from within.”
The sound of the voice woke her, and there she lay in her own bed at
home, and wondered. “From within.” Did that mean that she must give
herself up into captivity? The more she thought of it, the more she was
sure it must be so; but she dared ask counsel of no one, for she knew
her parents would never consent to her casting herself into the lion’s
jaws.
And there was one other, too, in the village, who would never suffer it
either. She thought of him, and sighed; yet now she thought far oftener
of her captive sisters even than of him, and his glance and his smile
made her sad instead of merry.
The day came--she had felt it coming for long--when she could resist
the call no more: the dark walls of the castle drew her as by an
irresistible fascination; and when it was time to lead her sheep
homeward at evening, she gave them into the charge of another maiden
who was going that way, and saying she had lost her staff upon the hill
and must turn back to seek it, she sprang up the mountain-slopes.
To her surprise, no one spoke to her, no armed figures dashed out from
among the bushes to seize her, but she was allowed to go on unharmed,
right up to the castle. She had never been so far before, and when
she reached the great gates, they looked so dark and frowning in the
twilight, and the whole place so still and lonely, that for the first
time her heart sank, and she almost turned back. But just then the
vesper-bell sounded from the valley below, and it seemed to put heart
into her, and to remind her that her saintly protector was just as near
as in the valley. She advanced towards the gate, and was raising her
staff to knock upon it, when it opened silently, and in the dusky porch
she saw a tall figure, veiled in black, and holding a golden key. It
beckoned to her, and with a beating heart Antonia entered, and heard
the great door swing to behind her.
[Illustration: For the first time her heart sank, and she almost turned
back.]
As she went forward, the air grew thick and heavy, and she felt the
same sense of deadly faintness that she remembered in her dream steal
over her now. Presently her guide lifted a dark hanging, that covered
one of the doors in the passage they had been following, and they
came out into a lofty hall. Here the darkness had fully closed in,
and the great, misty spaces of the roof were lit by swinging lamps,
that threw out a strong perfume as they burnt. Underneath, all along
the walls, ran long divans, or heaps of cushions, covered with silken
drapery, and above them hung canopies formed of huge flower-heads,
like poppies, whose transparent, blood-red petals waved and fluttered
gently in the upper air, shedding the same drowsy perfume as the lamps.
Upon the divans many maidens lay sleeping, in all sorts of positions,
just as they had sunk down while at work. The faces of some were
familiar to Antonia; these were the girls who had been ravished from
the village since she could remember; and others there were, who had
been taken many years before her birth, and of whom she had but heard.
Before every girl--for they kept their youth unchanged--stood a wide
tapestry-frame, on which, through each weary day, their fingers wove
strange and lovely patterns, in delicate hues of every kind. As long
as daylight lasted, the witch, as Antonia learnt afterwards, kept them
awake by many ingenious means of torture; by unearthly and startling
sounds that broke from the vaults below--by cruel pricks from the magic
needles they worked with--by strokes, too, from her fairy wand, with
which she walked up and down, and which lengthened at her pleasure,
so that none were out of its reach. But even so, though their fingers
might move, their heads were heavy and giddy, and no thought of home,
no stirrings of a desire for freedom, ever arose with enough strength
to give them energy to rebel.
As she entered the hall, the witch cast off her black veil, and Antonia
beheld the cruel red eyes, the lank jaws, and the grizzled tresses, the
sight of which had first bereft her wretched captives of all their
will and courage. But upon brave little Antonia they failed in their
dreadful effect, and the witch saw it with surprise. “Here we have a
hearty lass indeed,” she jeered; “and truly I might have known it,
since she is the first I have known foolhardy enough to come to these
gates of her own accord. Perhaps she will be able to bear the burden of
the keys.” And bending down, she drew from under an iron table a heavy
ebony casket, bound with silver, and a huge bunch of keys. Both of
these she fastened with chains about Antonia’s shoulder, and the poor
girl almost sank to the ground beneath their terrible weight. The witch
grinned. “I have long been looking for a girl strong enough to carry
these about for me,” she said, “and perhaps they will keep thee quiet.
Now follow me; thy time for slumber is not yet.”
So all through the night, and for many other nights and days, Antonia
followed her about, staggering beneath her burden, while the witch
visited all the doors and grated windows of the castle, all the
underground cells where she put her few unruly prisoners, or where she
kept her treasures of gold and jewels, and stores of beautiful silks
for the embroideries. Antonia now carried the keys of all these doors,
bound about her in such a way that she herself could not raise a hand
to touch one.
When the midday sun was hot, all the maidens, and Antonia among them,
were allowed to spend an hour in the garden; and as soon as she entered
it Antonia knew it for the place she had seen in her dreams. There
were the high, dark walls, that matted boughs of ivy, and a poisonous
scarlet creeper, only partly succeeded in hiding. There were the
strange shrubs and nameless purple flowers, and there was to be felt
the heavy, sickly air--she remembered it all so well. The sun struck
through the overhanging boughs with a fierce, burning heat, as though
it were shining through a roof of glass, and no refreshing breezes ever
stirred the leaves, or cooled the brows of the captive maidens. Yet
they never complained; and when, during their short hour of leisure,
Antonia spoke to them as to old acquaintances, or told them she had
come from their home, they did not seem to care about hearing of it,
or to have any recollection of their former friends. She saw she could
expect no help from them. From whom was she to look for it, then?
Surely, only from her guardian, St. Anthony, whose voice it had been,
she knew, that had bidden her “give help from within the castle.” But
where, in all this bewitched, wicked place, could she find a corner
to pray to him, or a spot worthy of his holy presence? Not one of the
captive maidens wore her rosary, or seemed ever to think of saying a
prayer. How could he turn his eyes upon such a household? Oh! could
it be that she, in her earnest desire to obey his voice and help her
forsaken sisters, might be thought worthy to make a shrine for him!
Well, at any rate she would try.
And so, day after day, in the little time given her for rest and
refreshment, Antonia toiled to make St. Anthony a shrine. She found a
spot, hidden among wild-rose bushes--the only flowers in the garden
that she knew--where there was a ruined pillar and what looked like
the remains of an old archway. Here there were some fallen stones;
and others she brought--staggering under their weight and that of her
hateful keys--from more distant parts of the garden. Sometimes her
strength almost gave way; sometimes she had to stop her work because of
the spying eyes of the witch herself; sometimes she had to make great
efforts to overcome the dull, faint feeling that the unwholesome air
produced, and that she feared above all things.