play as no one has ever heard them. Yes, and you shall see them too;”
then he laid them in rows—the fiddles first, and the viols, and then
the horns and trumpets, and last the drums and cymbals and triangles,
and clapped his hands, giving a long, shrill whistle. As he whistled,
the instruments rose from the ground, and they began to swell, and
their shapes to change till no longer did they look like musical
instruments, but like human beings, only each had in a strange way kept
the shape it had formerly. The flutes and pipes were tall and thin,
and they and the violins had changed into beautiful girls with slender
throats, and the trumpets were all men and boys of different sizes, but
the drum was the strangest of all, for it was a fat man with very short
legs. The moon had risen and Othmar could see them all quite clearly,
and though he trembled with fear and his heart beat high, yet still
he watched. They stood silent together for a space in a weird crowd,
and then the dwarf waved his arms and called, “Ay! are you all there,
my children?—yes, one, two three four five, six seven eight, nine
ten eleven twelve, thirteen—that is right. Come practice, practice,
practice, and then you shall have a game, and see who Othmar loves
best, and who he will kiss first.”
Then they all began to sing together, but each voice was like the sound
of its own instrument, only it said words through its tones, and in
Othmar’s ears their music sounded as never music had sounded before.
The voices of the violin girls were so sweet that he felt as if he must
weep to hear them, while the sound of the pipes and trumpets filled him
with longing to go into the world and fight and win battles. He sat on
the ground and listened to them like one in a trance, and he felt as if
he never wished to rise or go away again. The dwarf sat on a hillock
near, and did not seem to heed them much. When Othmar took his eyes
from the dancers for a minute, he found that the place was quite full
of all the animals who are never seen by day, but who fly out by night.
There were crowds of bats and owls, and odd moths, all poised in the
air, and seeming to watch the musicians and listen to their singing.
Then when he looked on the ground, he saw that strange wood-snakes and
toads had come out boldly, and with their heads turned towards the
dancers remained motionless and watched them, whilst near him green and
brown lizards lay still as stone, with heads on one side, all staring
through the dusky night at the singers. Othmar thought he only had
watched them for a few minutes, when suddenly the dwarf cried out—“The
dawn, the dawn, my children; see, there is red in the sky. Come, be
quick, see who will win Othmar’s gift before we go on our way.” When
he was silent all the singing girls approached Othmar, but before the
others came one who looked slighter and younger, and whose voice though
as sweet was weaker.
“See, Othmar,” she cried, “before we go on and leave you, let us try to
sing one song together. Sing you as I do.” And Othmar sang with her as
she sang, in a clear voice like a bird’s—
“Ere the sun shines in the sky,
We will sing together, my love and I;
But none shall hear him sing again,
’Neath moon or sun, in shine or rain.”
And then ere the last notes had left Othmar’s mouth, she bent forward,
and clasped him in her slender arms, and kissed him on the lips while
still they were open to sing.
“Good-bye, Othmar,” cried she, “and that will be your last note for
many a long year, for surely you will have no need to sing after I am
gone,” and at that all the strange folk standing near gave a laugh
that was more a chord of music than a laugh. And when her lips touched
Othmar’s he quivered all over as a fiddle-string does when the bow is
drawn across it; and he gave a cry which was like the sweet sound of a
bell.
“Mine, mine!” cried the girl, as he fell back from her frightened. “Now
my voice will be the sweetest and best of all, for I have got Othmar’s
too. No one will hear Othmar now,—Othmar who sang like the birds. And
never will he call the birds again, but I can sing as he sang, and all
who hear me will think that Othmar sings too. Rejoice, my sisters, sing
and rejoice,” but at that moment the dwarf started up crying out—
[Illustration: She bent forward, and clasped him in her slender arms,
and kissed him on the lips.]
“The dawn, the dawn, my children; see, the sun, the sun; beware, beware
its rays.” Then came a great burst of sound like a chord from all the
music folk, followed by a flash of light like lightning, and when it
had cleared away, the singing men and girls had gone, and in their
places there lay upon the ground all the musical instruments—fiddles,
viols, pipes, horns, and cymbals. Othmar stood staring as if he had
been turned to stone, and watched as if he were in a dream, while the
little man quietly packed the instruments on to the mule, and went away
leading it by the bridle as he had come.
“Good-bye, Othmar,” he called back, “good-bye. When you hear my fiddles
again, they will be sweeter than ever, for I have added your voice to
them.” And he went on his way over the hillside and disappeared beyond
the ridge. Othmar ran after him, but he stumbled and fell. He tried to
call out, but no voice would come! Tears ran down his cheeks, and he
sobbed bitterly, but no sound came with the sobs, and he knew that his
voice had left him. The singing girl had stolen it, and he could never
sing or cry out again!
The sun was rising high in the heavens. The green lizards, slow-worms,
frogs and beetles were still ranged around, and gazed at Othmar with
their heads wonderingly on one side. The birds sang louder and louder,
and their voices sounded sweet in the morning air. Othmar bent his head
and wept because he knew that never could he call them to him again.
Then from behind a bush there rose a big black raven, who cast a long
shadow behind him which almost covered Othmar as he sat, and it gave a
deep croak and then spoke quite clearly—
[Illustration]
“Poor Othmar!” it said, “she has stolen your voice!” and he hopped
down. “You will never speak nor sing again. Poor Othmar!—ah! they
stole my voice too; once I could sing far better than the birds you
hear now. That was thousands of years ago, but the dwarf came to my
nest, and told me if I would go with him he would teach me how to
whistle so that the worms should rise out of the ground and jump into
my mouth when they heard me, and he called one of his trumpet-men
to teach me—one you saw dance—and he bid me lay my beak below his
lips while he sang; then he stole my voice, all but a croak, which he
did not want because it was so harsh, but all your voice was sweet,
therefore she has got it all—poor Othmar, poor Othmar!”
Then Othmar raised himself, with the tears running from his eyes, and
turned to find his way back to the village. It seemed a long distance,
for he missed his path, and it was near nightfall before he saw the
tops of the cottages and his own little home; but as he neared the
village, he could see Hulda standing in the road, shading her eyes from
the sun, and watching the way he came.
“Othmar,” she cried when she saw him, “is it you? I have been to search
for you far and near, and there are others now looking for you, for we
were afraid lest you had fallen down some crevice, or slipped over the
rocks.”
Othmar came up to her, and put out his hand, and she saw how pale he
was, and that his eyes were full of tears, but he said nothing.
“Othmar, tell me,” cried Hulda; “what has happened? why don’t you
speak?” but still Othmar was silent. “Are you hurt, Othmar? Did the
dwarf do you any harm?”
Then Othmar flung himself on the ground, and began to sob, but his sobs
gave no sound, though the ground was wet with his tears, and Hulda knew
that Othmar was dumb.
“Poor Othmar, poor Othmar!” croaked the raven who had kept close to
Othmar, and flew overhead, but Hulda did not understand it, only she
wept to see his grief.
“Never fear, Othmar,” she said tenderly, “your voice will soon come
back; it was the long cold night, and the fear that has driven it away.
Come home with me, and let me nurse you, and you shall soon be well.”
Othmar shook his head, and the tears fell from his eyes, but he let her
take his hand and lead him into the village where his old mother sat
and waited for him; but still, although she sprang forward to greet
him, and put her arms around his neck, he could not speak, and his deep
sobs gave no sound. At first the villagers said he was ill, and soon
he would be well again, but as the days passed and he never spoke, they
knew that he was struck dumb. Some said it was the cold, and some that
he had been frightened; only Hulda said to herself, “it was the wicked
little man.”
So the days passed, and Othmar remained silent and worked with the
other young men of the village without speaking, and no longer could
he sing or call the birds to him. Always he looked white and sad,
but saddest of all when there was any village merry-making, and the
villagers sang and danced together. Then when he heard them he would
put his fingers in his ears and hide his eyes so as not to see them and
run afar off by himself; for the sound of any music was quite horrible
to him after the singing of the travelling musicians. So a year passed,
and Othmar never spoke, and instead of calling him the bird-boy, the
village people called him “dumb Othmar.”
It was midsummer-night, and the villagers had been having a
merry-making and dancing cheerily on the green in the village. Othmar
was not with them; he had left the village and went and sat apart on
the top of a rocky hill, from where afar the sea could be seen when the
weather was clear. The moon was wonderfully bright, and the country
was almost as light as by day. Othmar could hear the sound of their
laughter, but he never laughed, and as he sat with his head bowed upon
his knees he wept silently. So he remained alone till far into the
night when all the singing and dancing was done, and the villagers had
gone home, but just when the clocks struck twelve he saw Hulda, who
came slowly to him, and he saw that she too was crying.
“Othmar,” she said, “I have thought and thought, and I know that the
little man with the fiddles was a wicked fairy.” Othmar nodded. “So I
am going into the big world to find him, for if he has done you this
ill he will know how to cure you, and I have saved all my money for a
year.”
Then Othmar took her hand, and kissed it, but still wept, as he shook
his head and made signs to her that she must not go, as it would be all
in vain. But Hulda did not heed him.
“And now,” she said, “I am going, Othmar, and it may be long years
before I return, so you must do three things. First, you must give me
a long curl of your brown hair, that I may lay it next my heart and
wear it day and night, not to forget you. Then you must kiss me on my
lips to say good-bye; and then you must promise that my name shall be
the first words your lips say when they again can speak.” Then Othmar
took his knife and cut from his head the longest, brightest curl of his
hair, and drew her to him and kissed her thrice upon the lips, and then
he took her hand and with it wrote upon his lips her name, “Hulda,” as
a promise that her name should be the first thing they said.
“Good-bye, Othmar,” she said; “you will wait for me.” Then she turned
away and started alone to go down the mountain-side, and she looked
back as she went and called back, “Good-bye, Othmar,” as long as he
could see or hear her.
She went straight down the hill and journeyed for a long way, till the
dawn began to show red in the sky, and she lay under a tree and slept
soundly till the sun had risen and woke her.
She sat and thought which way she should go. “I must seek out some
wise man who knows about fairies and wicked witches,” she said to
herself, “and who will tell me where to search. And I will ask every
one I meet where the wisest person is to be found.” So she went on for
many days till she came to a tiny village, outside which, in a field,
she saw a shepherd minding sheep. Hulda stopped and asked if he could
tell her where she could find a very wise man who could answer her
question.
The shepherd thought a bit, and then he said, “The wisest man in these
parts lives up in the little cottage on the other side of the village.
He cured my sheep two years back when all the flock were sick and many
died—a little cottage with a red gate.” Hulda thanked the shepherd,
and went on till she came to the little cottage with the red gate. When
she had knocked at the door a tall man came out, and she asked him if
’twas he who had cured the shepherd’s sheep, and as he was so clever,
if he would tell her what to do. She told him she wanted to find a
dwarf who led a donkey covered with musical instruments, and whom she
knew to be a wicked sorcerer, since he struck folk dumb.
The tall man looked at her and said, “My business is to cure sheep,
cows, and horses, and I know it right well; but I know nothing of
dwarfs and witches, and how can I tell you which way he has gone, or
anything about him?”
“Then of whom had I best ask?” said Hulda. “Tell me who is the wisest
and most learned man in these parts, and I will go to him.”
The tall man rubbed his head and considered. “I suppose,” quoth he,
“that the old school-master at the village school yonder would be said
to be the most learned man hereabouts, for he teaches the children
all sorts of things that they forget when they grow up. That is the
school-house on the hill.” So on went Hulda again to the school.
As she came near she could hear the children calling out their lessons,
and their master, who was an old priest, teaching them. So she waited
about till school hours were over, and the children had all come out,
and then she timidly went in and curtseyed to the old school-master,
and told him her tale, and asked him, as he was so very learned, if he
would advise her what to do; but instead of answering her the old man
at first stared at her in bewilderment, and then he said, “I can teach
you to read and write and many wonderful things, but of dwarfs who can
steal a boy’s voice I know nothing. You would do best not to think more
of it.”
“But some one there must be,” cried Hulda, beginning to cry, “who can
tell me what to do, and which way to go. For I am sure that the old man
was a fairy, and if so, no living man can help Othmar, but only he who
did the mischief can undo it.”
The old priest looked at her sadly and shook his head. “My child,”
he said, “this is a foolish talk about fairies and sorcerers, I know
nothing of such things. It is only untaught folk and fools who give
heed to such matters.”
“To untaught folk and fools then I must go, for surely they can help
me more than the wise,” she cried. So she left the school-house, and
started again through the little village street. The first person
she met was a baker going home after taking round his bread, and she
stopped him and asked him who was the most ignorant and foolish person
in those parts.
[Illustration]
The baker stood and stared at her, and seemed to be half angry. At
last he said, “I am sure I don’t know anything about fools. You had
better go on to the cake-maker, who lives a mile up the hill. He is,
to my mind, the biggest fool in these parts.” And tossing his basket
about and seeming to be much offended, he went his way. Hulda went on
for a mile up the hill, and there she found a little group of cottages,
and in their midst was a shop with an open oven, and she could see its
owner busy making cakes and sweets. Hulda went in and bought a cake,
and as she sat and ate it, she asked the man timidly if he knew many
of the people in that neighbourhood, and if any were very ignorant and
foolish.
“Indeed,” cried the man, “you may well ask that. Why, a more silly,
ignorant set of folk I never knew, quite different from the people in
my native town, but that is miles away.”
“And who do you think the silliest then?” asked Hulda.
“Why, for sure ’tis hard to say,” said the man, scratching his head.
“They’re such a poor silly lot, right away from the Mayor down to Tommy
the fool.”
“And who is Tommy the fool?” asked Hulda eagerly.
“’Tis a poor natural-born idiot who lives with his mother in the little
cabin on the side of the common. He spends all his time trying to catch
a bird, and he never has caught one, and never will.”
“Thank you for telling me about him,” said Hulda, rising to go away.
“Maybe if he is really a fool he could answer my questions as they
say,” and she went on again with a lighter heart. At last she came to
the common on which the fool lived with his mother. When she approached
the little cabin, she saw some one dancing about in front of an oak,
dressed up with the feathers of birds and fowls, which looked as if
they had been picked up from the ground. He was a young man of about
eighteen, and he had a cheerful face, but any one looking at him could
see at once he was an idiot. He was dancing round the tree and pointing
up to the birds, and calling them to come down to him. Hulda came up
and stood quite close and watched him, as he ran round smiling and
giggling. Then she said, “Please can you tell me where I shall find a
little man, a dwarf who drives a donkey covered with pipes and fiddles?”
The fool looked at her very gravely, but he said nothing; so then she
went on to tell him how the little man had come to their village, and
how he had stolen Othmar’s voice, and how she had come out to seek it.
Just as she finished speaking, there rose from the ground a raven,
and soared above their heads. When he saw it the fool pointed to it,
and cried out, “The raven, the raven, follow the raven,” and as the
raven flew, he ran after him with Hulda following in turn. They ran
for a long way, the fool leaping and bounding, and pointing with his
finger and crying, “The raven, the raven, do what the raven does.” Then
suddenly he turned, giving a wild laugh, and began to run home again,
but as he went he nodded and called to Hulda, “Follow the raven, follow
it, do what the raven does.”
Hulda felt inclined to burst into tears with disappointment, but still
she ran meekly after the bird, murmuring to herself, “He said follow
the raven, but what good can that do me?” But when the fool had turned
back, the raven slackened his pace, and cawed and lighted on a tree,
and Hulda, panting for breath, sat down under it, and looked up at it.
“Poor Hulda!” it croaked, but she couldn’t understand it; “poor Hulda,
come with me, and I will show you where the dwarf is.” Then it began to
fly slowly on again.
“What shall I do?” sobbed Hulda. “He was only an idiot, he knew
nothing; still he told me to follow the raven, and no one else has
told me anything;” so on she went, and this time the raven flew quite
slowly, so that Hulda kept up with it walking. On they travelled till
evening was well advanced, into all sorts of places where Hulda had
never been, and through many villages. Then it began to grow dark, and
the moon came out, but still they travelled on. Hulda was foot-sore and
weary, but she would not give up, and said to herself, “It was what the
fool said, ‘Follow the raven, do what the raven does!’”
Just before dawn, they came out on to a big plain, where there were
neither houses nor trees, but in the far distance you could see a long
line of mountains; a little further in the centre of the plain Hulda
saw a little dark mass, and straight to this the raven flew, and as
Hulda approached it, she saw that it was the little dwarf, lying asleep
upon the ground beside his heap of musical instruments, with the mule
grazing near. “Oh, good wise fool,” cried Hulda, “now indeed you have
given me the best advice. Since the raven has led me to the wicked
dwarf, now indeed will I do what the raven does, whatever it be.”
The raven flew on, and lit upon a scrubby bush, a little way from
the sleeping dwarf, and Hulda followed and crouched beside it, making
no noise lest she should disturb the sleeper, and hiding behind the
branches so that she could not be seen. Presently the little man
rose from the ground, and called out, “Come, my children, practice,
practice; the dawn is here, and the sun will rise, and then we must go
upon our way.”
Then Hulda saw what Othmar had seen before. The pipes raised themselves
from the ground, and untwisted, and became tall, lithe men; some
gradually uncurled themselves, and put forth long arms and became
beautiful girls, till each instrument had taken the likeness of a human
being. Then they began to dance and to sing, and Hulda watched them
as Othmar had watched them, and she too felt as if she had never seen
and heard anything so beautiful in her life, and she longed to rush to
them, but she heard the raven croak above her, and remembered the words
of the fool, “The raven, the raven, do what the raven does.” Then she
saw that the raven had hopped off the tree, and was standing upon the
earth in front of her, and was beginning to dig in the earth with its
long beak, as if it would find a worm. “The fool said, Do what the
raven does, so must I dig too,” thought she, and she began to scoop the
brown earth with her hand, till she had made a hole, watching the raven
all the time.
Presently she saw that the raven had found a long worm, and held it by
its throat in the air, but it did not swallow it. Hulda looked into her
hole to see if there was a worm there also, and at the bottom she saw
lying a long, lithe, green snake, twisted up and apparently torpid.
“Surely,” thought Hulda, “if I do what the raven does, I shall take
this out,” and she put her hand into the hole, and grasped the snake
by its throat, though she was very much afraid of it, and then she
crouched down behind the raven and the bush.
“Come,” cried the dwarf, when they had all sung together, “now let us
hear the last new voice. Othmar’s voice was as sweet as silver. Now
let me hear how my youngest daughter has treated it.” Then there came
to the front the youngest and fairest of the girls, and began to sing,
and when she heard it, Hulda could scarcely keep from screaming, for
she recognized that the tones were Othmar’s; but just as the singing
sounded the sweetest, the raven with a croak opened his mouth, and
dropped the worm upon the ground, and Hulda let go her hold of the
bright green snake, which darted through the short grass towards the
dancers.
There arose from all sides the cry of “A snake, a snake!” and they
seemed panic-stricken. The snake glided straight towards the singing
girl, and deftly coiled itself round her ankles, while from the old
man and all the others came a terrible uproar, but the snake from the
girl’s ankles had slid up her body in bright green coils, and then
twisted itself around her throat, and coiled tighter and tighter and
tighter, till her head fell over on one side. Then Hulda heard a noise
like the sighing of wind, but sweet and tender, while the dwarf and all
the singers were in a hubbub and confusion.
For a moment the old man stood motionless, then he rose and gave a
terrible cry. Hulda trembled when she heard his voice, it sounded like
nothing earthly, but ere he was silent there had risen from the ground
and from the bushes near a number of little cloudy forms, black and
thick, and twirling in all directions, and they twisted in and out
among the singers; and as they twisted among them, they ceased to be
men and women, but became musical instruments, as they had been before,
all save the girl around whose neck the snake had wound, and who seemed
to shrivel and shrivel in its coils till she was no more to be seen.
In less than a minute they were all packed again upon the mule, and the
little old man was leading it quietly away, as if nothing had happened.
And upon the grass lay the glittering snake, though all trace of the
girl around whose neck it had twisted had gone. Hulda ran to it, and
then she almost cried, for she feared that after all the girl with
Othmar’s voice had escaped her. But she remembered the words of Tommy
the fool, “Do as the raven does; follow the raven,” and looking up
she saw that the raven was fluttering above her, with the worm it had
picked up from the ground in its mouth.
“Oh, dear raven,” cried Hulda, “you brought me to where the little man
was, now lead me back and show me what to do next.” And mindful of the
fool’s advice, she picked up the snake, and holding it firmly by the
throat, turned to follow the raven, who flew ahead of her. Thus they
journeyed back, over the same country through which Hulda had come
before. All looked just the same, but Hulda was sorely tired, for she
had now been walking many days, and she felt sad, for she did not know
if after all she had gained anything, or whether she ought not to have
followed the little old man, and though she had heard Othmar’s voice,
she did not know how she was to get it back to him. “Never mind,” she
said to herself, “the fool told me right so far, and evidently he knew
all about it, so I had best keep to his advice.”