warmly as with us on a lovely summer day. The tamarind and the acacia
grew there; the moonbeams streamed over the temples of Mahomet. On the
slender minarets sat many a pair of storks, reposing after their long
journey; the whole immense flock had fixed themselves, nest by nest,
amidst the mighty pillars and broken porticos of temples and forgotten
edifices. The date tree elevated to a great height its broad leafy
roof, as if it wished to form a shelter from the sun. The grey
pyramids stood with their outlines sharply defined in the clear air
towards the desert, where the ostrich knew he could use his legs; and
the lion sat with his large grave eyes, and gazed on the marble
sphinxes that lay half imbedded in the sand. The waters of the Nile
had receded, and a great part of the bed of the river was swarming
with frogs; and that, to the stork family, was the pleasantest sight
in the country where they had arrived. The young ones were astonished
at all they saw.
"Such are the sights here, and thus it always is in our warm country,"
said the stork-mother good-humouredly.
"Is there yet more to be seen?" they asked. "Shall we go much further
into the country?"
"There is nothing more worth seeing," replied the stork-mother.
"Beyond this luxuriant neighbourhood there is nothing but wild
forests, where the trees grow close to each other, and are still more
closely entangled by prickly creeping plants, weaving such a wall of
verdure, that only the elephant, with his strong clumsy feet, can
there tread his way. The snakes are too large for us there, and the
lizards too lively. If ye would go to the desert, ye will meet with
nothing but sand; it will fill your eyes, it will come in gusts, and
cover your feathers. No, it is best here. Here are frogs and
grass-hoppers. I shall remain here, and so shall you."
And they remained. The old ones sat in their nest upon the graceful
minaret; they reposed themselves, and yet they had enough to do to
smooth their wings and rub their beaks on their red stockings; and
they stretched out their necks, saluted gravely, and lifted up their
heads with their high foreheads and fine soft feathers, and their
brown eyes looked so wise.
The female young ones strutted about proudly among the juicy reeds,
stole sly glances at the other young storks, made acquaintances, and
slaughtered a frog at every third step, or went lounging about with
little snakes in their bills, which they fancied looked well, and
which they knew would taste well.
The male young ones got into quarrels; struck each other with their
wings; pecked at each other with their beaks, even until blood flowed.
Then they all thought of engaging themselves--the male and the female
young ones. It was for that they lived, and they built nests, and got
again into new quarrels; for in these warm countries every one is so
hot-headed. Nevertheless they were very happy, and this was a great
joy to the old storks. Every day there was warm sunshine--every day
plenty to eat. They had nothing to think of except pleasure. But
yonder, within the splendid palace of their Egyptian host, as they
called him, there was but little pleasure to be found.
The wealthy, mighty chief lay upon his couch, stiffened in all his
limbs--stretched out like a mummy in the centre of the grand saloon
with the many-coloured painted walls: it was as if he were lying in a
tulip. Kinsmen and servants stood around him. Dead he was not, yet it
could hardly be said that he lived. The healing bog-flower from the
faraway lands in the north--that which she was to have sought and
plucked for him--she who loved him best--would never now be brought.
His beautiful young daughter, who in the magic garb of a swan had
flown over sea and land away to the distant north, would never more
return. "She is dead and gone," had the two swan ladies, her
companions, declared on their return home. They had concocted a tale,
and they told it as follows:--
"We had flown all three high up in the air when a sportsman saw us,
and shot at us with his arrow. It struck our young friend; and, slowly
singing her farewell song, she sank like a dying swan down into the
midst of the lake in the wood. There, on its banks, under a fragrant
weeping birch tree, we buried her. But we took a just revenge: we
bound fire under the wings of the swallow that built under the
sportman's thatched roof. It kindled--his house was soon in flames--he
was burned within it--and the flames shone as far over the sea as to
the drooping birch, where she is now earth within the earth. Alas!
never will she return to the land of Egypt."
And they both wept bitterly; and the old stork-father, when he heard
it, rubbed his bill until it was quite sore.
"Lies and deceit!" he cried. "I should like, above all things, to run
my beak into their breasts."
"And break it off," said the stork-mother; "you would look remarkably
well then. Think first of yourself, and the interests of your own
family; everything else is of little consequence."
"I will, however, place myself upon the edge of the open cupola
to-morrow, when all the learned and the wise are to assemble to take
the case of the sick man into consideration: perhaps they may then
arrive a little nearer to the truth."
And the learned and the wise met together, and talked much, deeply,
and profoundly of which the stork could make nothing at all; and,
sooth to say, there was no result obtained from all this talking,
either for the invalid or for his daughter in "the wild morass;" yet,
nevertheless, it was all very well to listen to--one _must_ listen to
a great deal in this world.
But now it were best, perhaps, for us to hear what had happened
formerly. We shall then be better acquainted with the story--at least,
we shall know as much as the stork-father did.
"Love bestows life; the highest love bestows the highest life; it is
only through love that his life can be saved," was what had been said;
and it was amazingly wisely and well said, the learned declared.
"It is a beautiful thought," said the stork-father.
"I don't quite comprehend it," said the stork-mother, "but that is
not my fault--it is the fault of the thought; though it is all one to
me, for I have other things to think upon."
And then the learned talked of love between this and that--that there
was a difference. Love such as lovers felt, and that between parents
and children; between light and plants; how the sunbeams kissed the
ground, and how thereby the seeds sprouted forth--it was all so
diffusely and learnedly expounded, that it was impossible for the
stork-father to follow the discourse, much less to repeat it. It made
him very thoughtful, however; he half closed his eyes, and actually
stood on one leg the whole of the next day, reflecting on what he had
heard. So much learning was difficult for him to digest.
But this much the stork-father understood. He had heard both common
people and great people speak as if they really felt it, that it was a
great misfortune to many thousands, and to the country in general,
that the king lay so ill, and that nothing could be done to bring
about his recovery. It would be a joy and a blessing to all if he
could but be restored to health.
"But where grew the health-giving flower that might cure him?"
Everybody asked that question. Scientific writings were searched, the
glittering stars were consulted, the wind and the weather. Every
traveller that could be found was appealed to, until at length the
learned and the wise, as before stated, pitched upon this: "Love
bestows life--life to a father." And though this dictum was really not
understood by themselves, they adopted it, and wrote it out as a
prescription. "Love bestows life"--well and good. But how was this to
be applied? Here they were at a stand. At length, however, they
agreed that the princess must be the means of procuring the necessary
help, as she loved her father with all her heart and soul. They also
agreed on a mode of proceeding. It is more than a year and a day since
then. They settled that when the new moon had just disappeared, she
was to betake herself by night to the marble sphinx in the desert, to
remove the sand from the entrance with her foot, and then to follow
one of the long passages which led to the centre of the great
pyramids, where one of the most mighty monarchs of ancient times,
surrounded by splendour and magnificence, lay in his mummy-coffin.
There she was to lean her head over the corpse, and then it would be
revealed to her where life and health for her father were to be found.
All this she had performed, and in a dream had been instructed that
from the deep morass high up in the Danish land--the place was
minutely described to her--she might bring home a certain lotus
flower, which beneath the water would touch her breast, that would
cure him.
And therefore she had flown, in the magical disguise of a swan, from
Egypt up to "the wild morass." All this was well known to the
stork-father and the stork-mother; and now, though rather late, we
also know it. We know that the mud-king dragged her down with him, and
that, as far as regarded her home, she was dead and gone; only the
wisest of them all said, like the stork-mother, "She can take care of
herself;" and, knowing no better, they waited to see what would turn
up.
"I think I shall steal their swan garbs from the two wicked
princesses," said the stork-father; "then they will not be able to go
to 'the wild morass' and do mischief. I shall leave the swan
disguises themselves up yonder till there is some use for them."
"Where could you keep them?" asked the old female stork.
"In our nest near 'the wild morass,'" he replied. "I and our eldest
young ones can carry them; and if we find them too troublesome, there
are plenty of places on the way where we can hide them until our next
flight. One swan's dress would be enough for her, to be sure; but two
are better. It is a good thing to have abundant means of travelling at
command in a country so far north."
"You will get no thanks for what you propose doing," said the
stork-mother; "but you are the master, and must please yourself. I
have nothing to say except at hatching-time."
* * * * *
At the Viking's castle near "the wild morass," whither the storks were
flying in the spring, the little girl had received her name. She was
called Helga; but this name was too soft for one with such
dispositions as that lovely creature had. She grew fast month by
month; and in a few years, even while the storks were making their
habitual journeys in autumn towards the Nile, in spring towards "the
wild morass," the little child had grown up into a big girl, and
before any one could have thought it, she was in her sixteenth year,
and a most beautiful young lady--charming in appearance, but hard and
fierce in temper--the most savage of the savage in that gloomy, cruel
time.
It was a pleasure to her to sprinkle with her white hands the reeking
blood of the horse slaughtered for an offering. She would bite, in her
barbarous sport, the neck of the black-cock which was to be
slaughtered by the sacrificial priest; and to her foster-father she
said in positive earnestness,--
"If your enemy were to come and cast ropes over the beams that support
the roof, and drag them down upon your chamber whilst you were
sleeping, I would not awaken you if I could--I would not hear it--the
blood would tingle as it does now in that ear on which, years ago, you
dared to give me a blow. I remember it well."
But the Viking did not believe she spoke seriously. Like every one
else, he was fascinated by her extreme beauty, and never troubled
himself to observe if the mind of little Helga were in unison with her
looks. She would sit on horseback without a saddle, as if grown fast
to the animal, and go at full gallop; nor would she spring off, even
if her horse and other ill-natured ones were biting each other.
Entirely dressed as she was, she would cast herself from the bank into
the strong current of the fiord, and swim out to meet the Viking when
his boat was approaching the land. Of her thick, splendid hair she had
cut off the longest lock, and plaited for herself a string to her bow.
"Self-made is well made," she said.
The Viking's wife, according to the manners and customs of the age in
which she lived, was strong in mind, and decided in purpose; but with
her daughter she was like a soft, timid woman. She was well aware that
the dreadful child was under the influence of sorcery.
And Helga apparently took a malicious pleasure in frightening her
mother. Often when the latter was standing on the balcony, or walking
in the courtyard, Helga would place herself on the side of the well,
throw her arms up in the air, and then let herself fall headlong into
the narrow, deep hole, where, with her frog nature, she would duck and
raise herself up again, and then crawl up as if she had been a cat,
and run dripping of water into the grand saloon, so that the green
rushes which were strewed over the floor partook of the wet stream.
There was but one restraint upon little Helga--that was the _evening
twilight_. In it she became quiet and thoughtful--would allow herself
to be called and guided; then too, she would seem to feel some
affection for her mother; and when the sun sank, and the outer and
inward change took place, she would sit still and sorrowful,
shrivelled up into the form of a frog, though the head was now much
larger than that little animal's, and therefore she was uglier than
ever: she looked like a miserable dwarf, with a frog's head and webbed
fingers. There was something very sad in her eyes; voice she had none
except a kind of croak like a child sobbing in its dreams. Then would
the Viking's wife take her in her lap; she would forget the ugly form,
and look only at the melancholy eyes; and more than once she
exclaimed,--
"I could almost wish that thou wert always my dumb fairy-child, for
thou art more fearful to look at when thy form resumes its beauty."
And she wrote Runic rhymes against enchantment and infirmity, and
threw them over the poor creature; but there was no change for the
better.
* * * * *
"One could hardly believe that she was once so small as to lie in the
calyx of a water-lily," said the stork-father. "She is now quite a
woman, and the image of her Egyptian mother. Her, alas! we have never
seen again. She did not take good care of herself, as thou didst
expect and the learned people predicted. Year after year I have flown
backwards and forwards over 'the wild morass,' but never have I seen a
sign of her. Yes, I can assure thee, during the years we have been
coming up here, when I have arrived some days before thee, that I
might mend the nest and set everything in order in it, I have for a
whole night flown, as if I had been an owl or a bat, continually over
the open water, but to no purpose. We have had no use either for the
two swan disguises which I and the young ones dragged all the way up
here from the banks of the Nile. It was hard enough work, and it took
us three journeys to bring them up. They have now lain here for years
at the bottom of our nest; and should a fire by any chance break out,
and the Viking's house be burned down, they would be lost."
"And our good nest would be lost," said the old female stork; "but
thou thinkest less of that than of these feather things and thy bog
princess. Thou hadst better go down to her at once, and remain in the
mire. Thou art a hard-hearted father to thine own: _that_ I have said
since I laid my first eggs. What if I or one of our young ones should
get an arrow under our wings from that fierce crazy brat at the
Viking's? She does not care what she does. This has been much longer
our home than hers, she ought to recollect. We do not forget our duty;
we pay our rent every year--a feather, an egg, and a young one--as we
ought to do. Dost thou think that when _she_ is outside _I_ can
venture to go below, as in former days, or as I do in Egypt, where I
am almost everybody's comrade, not to mention that I can there even
peep into the pots and pans without any fear? No; I sit up here and
fret myself about her--the hussy! and I fret myself at thee too. Thou
shouldst have left her lying in the water-lily, and there would have
been an end of her."
"Thy words are much harder than thy heart," said the stork-father. "I
know thee better than thou knowest thyself."
And then he made a hop, flapped his wings twice, stretched his legs
out behind him, and away he flew, or rather sailed, without moving his
wings, until he had got to some distance. Then he brought his wings
into play; the sun shone upon his white feathers; he stretched his
head and his neck forward, and hastened on his way.
"He is, nevertheless, still the handsomest of them all," said his
admiring mate; "but I will not tell him that."
* * * * *
Late that autumn the Viking returned home, bringing with him booty and
prisoners. Among these was a young Christian priest, one of the men
who denounced the gods of the Northern mythology. Often about this
time was the new religion talked of in baronial halls and ladies'
bowers--the religion that was spreading over all lands of the south,
and which, with the holy Ansgarius,[2] had even reached as far as
Hedeby. Even little Helga had heard of the pure religion of Christ,
who, from love to mankind, had given himself as a sacrifice to save
them; but with her it went in at one ear and out at the other, to use
a common saying. The word _love_ alone seemed to have made some
impression upon her, when she shrunk into the miserable form of a frog
in the closed-up chamber. But the Viking's wife had listened to, and
felt herself wonderfully affected by, the rumour and the Saga about
the Son of the one only true God.
[Footnote 2: Ansgarius was originally a monk from the monastery of New
Corbie, in Saxony, to which several of the monks of Corbie in France
had migrated in A.D. 822. Its abbot, Paschasius Radbert, who died in
865, was, according to Cardinal Bellarmine, the first fully to
propagate the belief, now entertained in the Roman Catholic Church, of
the corporeal presence of the Saviour in the sacrament. Ansgarius, who
was very enthusiastic, accepted a mission to the north of Europe, and
preached Christianity in Denmark and Sweden. Jutland was for some time
the scene of his labours, and he made many converts there; also in
Sleswig, where a Christian school for children was established, who,
on leaving it, were sent to spread Christianity throughout the
country. An archbishopric was founded by the then Emperor of Germany
in conformity to a plan which had been traced, though not carried out,
by Charlemagne; and this was bestowed upon Ansgarius. But the church
he had built was burnt by some still heathen Danes, who, gathering a
large fleet, invaded Hamburg, which they also reduced to ashes. The
emperor then constituted him Bishop of Bremen.--_Trans._]
The men, returning from their expedition, had told of the splendid
temples of costly hewn stone raised to Him whose errand was love. A
pair of heavy golden vessels, beautifully wrought out of pure gold,
were brought home, and both had a charming, spicy perfume. They were
the censers which the Christian priests swung before the altars, on
which blood never flowed; but wine and the consecrated bread were
changed into the blood of Him who had given himself for generations
yet unborn.
To the deep, stone-walled cellars of the Viking's loghouse was the
young captive, the Christian priest, consigned, fettered with cords
round his feet and his hands. He was as beautiful as Baldur to look
at, said the Viking's wife, and she was grieved at his fate; but young
Helga wished that he should be ham-strung, and bound to the tails of
wild oxen.
"Then I should let loose the dogs. Halloo! Then away over bogs and
pools to the naked heath. Hah! that would be something pleasant to
see--still pleasanter to follow him on the wild journey."
But the Viking would not hear of his being put to such a death. On the
morrow, as a scoffer and denier of the high gods, he was to be offered
up as a sacrifice to them upon the blood stone in the sacred grove.
He was to be the first human sacrifice ever offered up there.
Young Helga prayed that she might be allowed to sprinkle with the
blood of the captive the images of the gods and the assembled
spectators. She sharpened her gleaming knife, and, as one of the large
ferocious dogs, of which there were plenty in the courtyard, leaped
over her feet, she stuck the knife into his side.
"That is to prove the blade," she exclaimed.
And the Viking's wife was shocked at the savage-tempered, evil-minded
girl; and when night came, and the beauteous form and the disposition
of her daughter changed, she poured forth her sorrow to her in warm
words, which came from the bottom of her heart.
The hideous frog with the ogre head stood before her, and fixed its
brown sad eyes upon her, listened, and seemed to understand with a
human being's intellect.
"Never, even to my husband, have I hinted at the double sufferings I
have through you," said the Viking's wife. "There is more sorrow in my
heart on your account than I could have believed. Great is a mother's
love. But love never enters your mind. Your heart is like a lump of
cold hard mud. From whence did you come to my house?"
Then the ugly shape trembled violently; it seemed as if these words
touched an invisible tie between the body and the soul--large tears
started to its eyes.
"Your time of trouble will come some day, depend on it," said the
Viking's wife, "and dreadful will it also be for me. Better had it
been that you had been put out on the highway, and the chillness of
the night had benumbed you until you slept in death;" and the Viking's
wife wept salt tears, and went angry and distressed away, passing
round behind the loose skin partition that hung over an upper beam to
divide the chamber.
Alone in a corner sat the shrivelled frog. She was mute, but after a
short interval she uttered a sort of half-suppressed sigh. It was as
if in sorrow a new life had awoke in some nook of her heart. She took
a step forward, listened, advanced again, and grasping with her
awkward hands the heavy bar that was placed across the door, she
removed it softly, and quietly drew away the pin that was stuck in
over the latch. She then seized the lighted lamp that stood in the
room beyond: it seemed as if a great resolution had given her
strength. She made her way down to the dungeon, drew back the iron
bolt that fastened the trap-door, and slid down to where the prisoner
was lying. He was sleeping. She touched him with her cold, clammy
hand; and when he awoke, and beheld the disgusting creature, he
shuddered as if he had seen an evil apparition. She drew her knife,
severed his bonds, and beckoned to him to follow her.
He named holy names, made the sign of the cross, and when the strange
shape stood without moving, he exclaimed, in the words of the Bible,--
"'Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him
in time of trouble.' Who art thou? How comes it that, under the
exterior of such an animal, there is so much compassionate feeling?"
The frog beckoned to him, and led him, behind tapestry that concealed
him, through private passages out to the stables, and pointed to a
horse. He sprang on it, and she also jumped up; and, placing herself
before him, she held by the animal's mane. The prisoner understood her
movement; and at full gallop they rode, by a path he never could have
found, away to the open heath.