_Tuesday, March twenty-ninth_.
Although there are many magnificent buildings in Skåne, it must be
acknowledged that there's not one among them that has such pretty walls
as old Kullaberg.
Kullaberg is low and rather long. It is not by any means a big or
imposing mountain. On its broad summit you'll find woods and grain
fields, and one and another heather-heath. Here and there, round
heather-knolls and barren cliffs rise up. It is not especially pretty up
there. It looks a good deal like all the other upland places in Skåne.
He who walks along the path which runs across the middle of the
mountain, can't help feeling a little disappointed. Then he happens,
perhaps, to turn away from the path, and wanders off toward the
mountain's sides and looks down over the bluffs; and then, all at once,
he will discover so much that is worth seeing, he hardly knows how he'll
find time to take in the whole of it. For it happens that Kullaberg
does not stand on the land, with plains and valleys around it, like
other mountains; but it has plunged into the sea, as far out as it could
get. Not even the tiniest strip of land lies below the mountain to
protect it against the breakers; but these reach all the way up to the
mountain walls, and can polish and mould them to suit themselves. This
is why the walls stand there as richly ornamented as the sea and its
helpmeet, the wind, have been able to effect. You'll find steep ravines
that are deeply chiselled in the mountain's sides; and black crags that
have become smooth and shiny under the constant lashing of the winds.
There are solitary rock-columns that spring right up out of the water,
and dark grottoes with narrow entrances. There are barren, perpendicular
precipices, and soft, leaf-clad inclines. There are small points, and
small inlets, and small rolling stones that are rattlingly washed up and
down with every dashing breaker. There are majestic cliff-arches that
project over the water. There are sharp stones that are constantly
sprayed by a white foam; and others that mirror themselves in
unchangeable dark-green still water. There are giant troll-caverns
shaped in the rock, and great crevices that lure the wanderer to venture
into the mountain's depths--all the way to Kullman's Hollow.
And over and around all these cliffs and rocks crawl entangled tendrils
and weeds. Trees grow there also, but the wind's power is so great that
trees have to transform themselves into clinging vines, that they may
get a firm hold on the steep precipices. The oaks creep along on the
ground, while their foliage hangs over them like a low ceiling; and
long-limbed beeches stand in the ravines like great leaf-tents.
These remarkable mountain walls, with the blue sea beneath them, and the
clear penetrating air above them, is what makes Kullaberg so dear to the
people that great crowds of them haunt the place every day as long as
the summer lasts. But it is more difficult to tell what it is that makes
it so attractive to animals, that every year they gather there for a big
play-meeting. This is a custom that has been observed since time
immemorial; and one should have been there when the first sea-wave was
dashed into foam against the shore, to be able to explain just why
Kullaberg was chosen as a rendezvous, in preference to all other places.
When the meeting is to take place, the stags and roebucks and hares and
foxes and all the other four-footers make the journey to Kullaberg the
night before, so as not to be observed by the human beings. Just before
sunrise they all march up to the playground, which is a heather-heath on
the left side of the road, and not very far from the mountain's most
extreme point. The playground is inclosed on all sides by round knolls,
which conceal it from any and all who do not happen to come right upon
it. And in the month of March it is not at all likely that any
pedestrians will stray off up there. All the strangers who usually
stroll around on the rocks, and clamber up the mountain's sides the fall
storms have driven away these many months past. And the lighthouse
keeper out there on the point; the old fru on the mountain farm, and the
mountain peasant and his house-folk go their accustomed ways, and do not
run about on the desolate heather-fields.
When the four-footers have arrived on the playground, they take their
places on the round knolls. Each animal family keeps to itself, although
it is understood that, on a day like this, universal peace reigns, and
no one need fear attack. On this day a little hare might wander over to
the foxes' hill, without losing as much as one of his long ears. But
still the animals arrange themselves into separate groups. This is an
old custom.
After they have all taken their places, they begin to look around for
the birds. It is always beautiful weather on this day. The cranes are
good weather prophets, and would not call the animals together if they
expected rain. Although the air is clear, and nothing obstructs the
vision, the four-footers see no birds. This is strange. The sun stands
high in the heavens, and the birds should already be on their way.
But what the animals, on the other hand, observe, is one and another
little dark cloud that comes slowly forward over the plain. And look!
one of these clouds comes gradually along the coast of Öresund, and up
toward Kullaberg. When the cloud has come just over the playground it
stops, and, simultaneously, the entire cloud begins to ring and chirp,
as if it was made of nothing but tone. It rises and sinks, rises and
sinks, but all the while it rings and chirps. At last the whole cloud
falls down over a knoll--all at once--and the next instant the knoll is
entirely covered with gray larks, pretty red-white-gray bulfinches,
speckled starlings and greenish-yellow titmice.
Soon after that, another cloud comes over the plain. This stops over
every bit of land; over peasant cottage and palace; over towns and
cities; over farms and railway stations; over fishing hamlets and sugar
refineries. Every time it stops, it draws to itself a little whirling
column of gray dust-grains from the ground. In this way it grows and
grows. And at last, when it is all gathered up and heads for Kullaberg,
it is no longer a cloud but a whole mist, which is so big that it throws
a shadow on the ground all the way from Höganäs to Mölle. When it stops
over the playground it hides the sun; and for a long while it had to
rain gray sparrows on one of the knolls, before those who had been
flying in the innermost part of the mist could again catch a glimpse of
the daylight.
But still the biggest of these bird-clouds is the one which now appears.
This has been formed of birds who have travelled from every direction to
join it. It is dark bluish-gray, and no sun-ray can penetrate it. It is
full of the ghastliest noises, the most frightful shrieks, the grimmest
laughter, and most ill-luck-boding croaking! All on the playground are
glad when it finally resolves itself into a storm of fluttering and
croaking: of crows and jackdaws and rooks and ravens.
Thereupon not only clouds are seen in the heavens, but a variety of
stripes and figures. Then straight, dotted lines appear in the East and
Northeast. These are forest-birds from Göinge districts: black grouse
and wood grouse who come flying in long lines a couple of metres apart.
Swimming-birds that live around Måkläppen, just out of Falsterbo, now
come floating over Öresund in many extraordinary figures: in triangular
and long curves; in sharp hooks and semicircles.
To the great reunion held the year that Nils Holgersson travelled
around with the wild geese, came Akka and her flock--later than all the
others. And that was not to be wondered at, for Akka had to fly over the
whole of Skåne to get to Kullaberg. Beside, as soon as she awoke, she
had been obliged to go out and hunt for Thumbietot, who, for many hours,
had gone and played to the gray rats, and lured them far away from
Glimminge castle. Mr. Owl had returned with the news that the black rats
would be at home immediately after sunrise; and there was no longer any
danger in letting the steeple-owl's pipe be hushed, and to give the gray
rats the liberty to go where they pleased.
But it was not Akka who discovered the boy where he walked with his long
following, and quickly sank down over him and caught him with the bill
and swung into the air with him, but it was Herr Ermenrich, the stork!
For Herr Ermenrich had also gone out to look for him; and after he had
borne him up to the stork-nest, he begged his forgiveness for having
treated him with disrespect the evening before.
This pleased the boy immensely, and the stork and he became good
friends. Akka, too, showed him that she felt very kindly toward him; she
stroked her old head several times against his arms, and commended him
because he had helped those who were in trouble.
But this one must say to the boy's credit: that he did not want to
accept praise which he had not earned. "No, mother Akka," he said, "you
mustn't think that I lured the gray rats away to help the black ones. I
only wanted to show Herr Ermenrich that I was of some consequence."
He had hardly said this before Akka turned to the stork and asked if he
thought it was advisable to take Thumbietot along to Kullaberg. "I mean,
that we can rely on him as upon ourselves," said she. The stork at once
advised, most enthusiastically, that Thumbietot be permitted to come
along. "Certainly you shall take Thumbietot along to Kullaberg, mother
Akka," said he. "It is fortunate for us that we can repay him for all
that he has endured this night for our sakes. And since it still grieves
me to think that I did not conduct myself in a becoming manner toward
him the other evening, it is I who will carry him on my back--all the
way to the meeting place."
There isn't much that tastes better than to receive praise from those
who are themselves wise and capable; and the boy had certainly never
felt so happy as he did when the wild goose and the stork talked about
him in this way.
Thus the boy made the trip to Kullaberg, riding stork-back. Although he
knew that this was a great honour, it caused him much anxiety, for Herr
Ermenrich was a master flyer, and started off at a very different pace
from the wild geese. While Akka flew her straight way with even
wing-strokes, the stork amused himself by performing a lot of flying
tricks. Now he lay still in an immeasurable height, and floated in the
air without moving his wings, now he flung himself downward with such
sudden haste that it seemed as though he would fall to the ground,
helpless as a stone; now he had lots of fun flying all around Akka, in
great and small circles, like a whirlwind. The boy had never been on a
ride of this sort before; and although he sat there all the while in
terror, he had to acknowledge to himself that he had never before known
what a good flight meant.
Only a single pause was made during the journey, and that was at Vomb
Lake when Akka joined her travelling companions, and called to them that
the gray rats had been vanquished. After that, the travellers flew
straight to Kullaberg.
There they descended to the knoll reserved for the wild geese; and as
the boy let his glance wander from knoll to knoll, he saw on one of them
the many-pointed antlers of the stags; and on another, the gray herons'
neck-crests. One knoll was red with foxes, one was gray with rats; one
was covered with black ravens who shrieked continually, one with larks
who simply couldn't keep still, but kept on throwing themselves in the
air and singing for very joy.
Just as it has ever been the custom on Kullaberg, it was the crows who
began the day's games and frolics with their flying-dance. They divided
themselves into two flocks, that flew toward each other, met, turned,
and began all over again. This dance had many repetitions, and appeared
to the spectators who were not familiar with the dance as altogether too
monotonous. The crows were very proud of their dance, but all the others
were glad when it was over. It appeared to the animals about as gloomy
and meaningless as the winter-storms' play with the snow-flakes. It
depressed them to watch it, and they waited eagerly for something that
should give them a little pleasure.
They did not have to wait in vain, either; for as soon as the crows had
finished, the hares came running. They dashed forward in a long row,
without any apparent order. In some of the figures, one single hare
came; in others, they ran three and four abreast. They had all raised
themselves on two legs, and they rushed forward with such rapidity that
their long ears swayed in all directions. As they ran, they spun round,
made high leaps and beat their forepaws against their hind-paws so that
they rattled. Some performed a long succession of somersaults, others
doubled themselves up and rolled over like wheels; one stood on one leg
and swung round; one walked upon his forepaws. There was no regulation
whatever, but there was much that was droll in the hares' play; and the
many animals who stood and watched them began to breathe faster. Now it
was spring; joy and rapture were advancing. Winter was over; summer was
coming. Soon it was only play to live.
When the hares had romped themselves out, it was the great forest birds'
turn to perform. Hundreds of wood-grouse in shining dark-brown array,
and with bright red eyebrows, flung themselves up into a great oak that
stood in the centre of the playground. The one who sat upon the topmost
branch fluffed up his feathers, lowered his wings, and lifted his tail
so that the white covert-feathers were seen. Thereupon he stretched his
neck and sent forth a couple of deep notes from his thick throat.
"Tjack, tjack, tjack," it sounded. More than this he could not utter. It
only gurgled a few times way down in the throat. Then he closed his eyes
and whispered: "Sis, sis, sis. Hear how pretty! Sis, sis, sis." At the
same time he fell into such an ecstasy that he no longer knew what was
going on around him.
While the first wood grouse was sissing, the three nearest--under
him--began to sing; and before they had finished their song, the ten who
sat lower down joined in; and thus it continued from branch to branch,
until the entire hundred grouse sang and gurgled and sissed. They all
fell into the same ecstasy during their song, and this affected the
other animals like a contagious transport. Lately the blood had flowed
lightly and agreeably; now it began to grow heavy and hot. "Yes, this is
surely spring," thought all the animal folk. "Winter chill has vanished.
The fires of spring burn over the earth."
When the black grouse saw that the brown grouse were having such
success, they could no longer keep quiet. As there was no tree for them
to light on, they rushed down on the playground, where the heather stood
so high that only their beautifully turned tail-feathers and their
thick bills were visible--and they began to sing: "Orr, orr, orr."
Just as the black grouse began to compete with the brown grouse,
something unprecedented happened. While all the animals thought of
nothing but the grouse-game, a fox stole slowly over to the wild geese's
knoll. He glided very cautiously, and came way up on the knoll before
anyone noticed him. Suddenly a goose caught sight of him; and as she
could not believe that a fox had sneaked in among the geese for any good
purpose, she began to cry: "Have a care, wild geese! Have a care!" The
fox struck her across the throat--mostly, perhaps, because he wanted to
make her keep quiet--but the wild geese had already heard the cry and
they all raised themselves in the air. And when they had flown up, the
animals saw Smirre Fox standing on the wild geese's knoll, with a dead
goose in his mouth.
But because he had in this way broken the play-day's peace, such a
punishment was meted out to Smirre Fox that, for the rest of his days,
he must regret he had not been able to control his thirst for revenge,
but had attempted to approach Akka and her flock in this manner.
He was immediately surrounded by a crowd of foxes, and doomed in
accordance with an old custom, which demands that whosoever disturbs the
peace on the great play-day, must go into exile. Not a fox wished to
lighten the sentence, since they all knew that the instant they
attempted anything of the sort, they would be driven from the
playground, and would nevermore be permitted to enter it. Banishment was
pronounced upon Smirre without opposition. He was forbidden to remain in
Skåne. He was banished from wife and kindred; from hunting grounds,
home, resting places and retreats, which he had hitherto owned; and he
must tempt fortune in foreign lands. So that all foxes in Skåne should
know that Smirre was outlawed in the district, the oldest of the foxes
bit off his right earlap. As soon as this was done, all the young foxes
began to yowl from blood-thirst, and threw themselves on Smirre. For him
there was no alternative except to take flight; and with all the young
foxes in hot pursuit, he rushed away from Kullaberg.
All this happened while black grouse and brown grouse were going on with
their games. But these birds lose themselves so completely in their
song, that they neither hear nor see. Nor had they permitted themselves
to be disturbed.
The forest birds' contest was barely over, before the stags from
Häckeberga came forward to show their wrestling game. There were several
pairs of stags who fought at the same time. They rushed at each other
with tremendous force, struck their antlers dashingly together, so that
their points were entangled; and tried to force each other backward. The
heather-heaths were torn up beneath their hoofs; the breath came like
smoke from their nostrils; out of their throats strained hideous
bellowings, and the froth oozed down on their shoulders.
On the knolls round about there was breathless silence while the skilled
stag-wrestlers clinched. In all the animals new emotions were awakened.
Each and all felt courageous and, strong; enlivened by returning powers;
born again with the spring; sprightly, and ready for all kinds of
adventures. They felt no enmity toward each other, although, everywhere,
wings were lifted, neck-feathers raised and claws sharpened. If the
stags from Häckeberga had continued another instant, a wild struggle
would have arisen on the knolls, for all had been gripped with a burning
desire to show that they too were full of life because the winter's
impotence was over and strength surged through their bodies.
But the stags stopped wrestling just at the right moment, and instantly
a whisper went from knoll to knoll: "The cranes are coming!"
And then came the gray, dusk-clad birds with plumes in their wings, and
red feather-ornaments on their necks. The big birds with their tall
legs, their slender throats, their small heads, came gliding down the
knoll with an abandon that was full of mystery. As they glided forward
they swung round--half flying, half dancing. With wings gracefully
lifted, they moved with an inconceivable rapidity. There was something
marvellous and strange about their dance. It was as though gray shadows
had played a game which the eye could scarcely follow. It was as if
they had learned it from the mists that hover over desolate morasses.
There was witchcraft in it. All those who had never before been on
Kullaberg understood why the whole meeting took its name from the
crane's dance. There was wildness in it; but yet the feeling which it
awakened was a delicious longing. No one thought any more about
struggling. Instead, both the winged and those who had no wings, all
wanted to raise themselves eternally, lift themselves above the clouds,
seek that which was hidden beyond them, leave the oppressive body that
dragged them down to earth and soar away toward the infinite.
Such longing after the unattainable, after the hidden mysteries back of
this life, the animals felt only once a year; and this was on the day
when they beheld the great crane dance.