_Friday, April first_.
Neither the wild geese nor Smirre Fox had believed that they should ever
run across each other after they had left Skåne. But now it turned out
so that the wild geese happened to take the route over Blekinge and
thither Smirre Fox had also gone.
So far he had kept himself in the northern parts of the province; and
since he had not as yet seen any manor parks, or hunting grounds filled
with game and dainty young deer, he was more disgruntled than he could
say.
One afternoon, when Smirre tramped around in the desolate forest
district of Mellanbygden, not far from Ronneby River, he saw a flock of
wild geese fly through the air. Instantly he observed that one of the
geese was white and then he knew, of course, with whom he had to deal.
Smirre began immediately to hunt the geese--just as much for the
pleasure of getting a good square meal, as for the desire to be avenged
for all the humiliation that they had heaped upon him. He saw that they
flew eastward until they came to Ronneby River. Then they changed their
course, and followed the river toward the south. He understood that they
intended to seek a sleeping-place along the river-banks, and he thought
that he should be able to get hold of a pair of them without much
trouble. But when Smirre finally discovered the place where the wild
geese had taken refuge, he observed they had chosen such a
well-protected spot, that he couldn't get near.
Ronneby River isn't any big or important body of water; nevertheless, it
is just as much talked of, for the sake of its pretty shores. At several
points it forces its way forward between steep mountain-walls that stand
upright out of the water, and are entirely overgrown with honeysuckle
and bird-cherry, mountain-ash and osier; and there isn't much that can
be more delightful than to row out on the little dark river on a
pleasant summer day, and look upward on all the soft green that fastens
itself to the rugged mountain-sides.
But now, when the wild geese and Smirre came to the river, it was cold
and blustery spring-winter; all the trees were nude, and there was
probably no one who thought the least little bit about whether the shore
was ugly or pretty. The wild geese thanked their good fortune that they
had found a sand-strip large enough for them to stand upon, on a steep
mountain wall. In front of them rushed the river, which was strong and
violent in the snow-melting time; behind them they had an impassable
mountain rock wall, and overhanging branches screened them. They
couldn't have it better.
The geese were asleep instantly; but the boy couldn't get a wink of
sleep. As soon as the sun had disappeared he was seized with a fear of
the darkness, and a wilderness-terror, and he longed for human beings.
Where he lay--tucked in under the goose-wing--he could see nothing, and
only hear a little; and he thought if any harm came to the
goosey-gander, he couldn't save him.
Noises and rustlings were heard from all directions, and he grew so
uneasy that he had to creep from under the wing and seat himself on the
ground, beside the goose.
Long-sighted Smirre stood on the mountain's summit and looked down upon
the wild geese. "You may as well give this pursuit up first as last," he
said to himself. "You can't climb such a steep mountain; you can't swim
in such a wild torrent; and there isn't the tiniest strip of land below
the mountain which leads to the sleeping-place. Those geese are too wise
for you. Don't ever bother yourself again to hunt them!"
But Smirre, like all foxes, had found it hard to give up an undertaking
already begun, and so he lay down on the extremest point of the mountain
edge, and did not take his eyes off the wild geese. While he lay and
watched them, he thought of all the harm they had done him. Yes, it was
their fault that he had been driven from Skåne, and had been obliged to
move to poverty-stricken Blekinge. He worked himself up to such a pitch,
as he lay there, that he wished the wild geese were dead, even if he,
himself, should not have the satisfaction of eating them.
When Smirre's resentment had reached this height, he heard rasping in a
large pine that grew close to him, and saw a squirrel come down from the
tree, hotly pursued by a marten. Neither of them noticed Smirre; and he
sat quietly and watched the chase, which went from tree to tree. He
looked at the squirrel, who moved among the branches as lightly as
though he'd been able to fly. He looked at the marten, who was not as
skilled at climbing as the squirrel, but who still ran up and along the
branches just as securely as if they had been even paths in the forest.
"If I could only climb half as well as either of them," thought the fox,
"those things down there wouldn't sleep in peace very long!"
As soon as the squirrel had been captured, and the chase was ended,
Smirre walked over to the marten, but stopped two steps away from him,
to signify that he did not wish to cheat him of his prey. He greeted the
marten in a very friendly manner, and wished him good luck with his
catch. Smirre chose his words well--as foxes always do. The marten, on
the contrary, who, with his long and slender body, his fine head, his
soft skin, and his light brown neck-piece, looked like a little marvel
of beauty--but in reality was nothing but a crude forest dweller--hardly
answered him. "It surprises me," said Smirre, "that such a fine hunter
as you are should be satisfied with chasing squirrels when there is much
better game within reach." Here he paused; but when the marten only
grinned impudently at him, he continued: "Can it be possible that you
haven't seen the wild geese that stand under the mountain wall? or are
you not a good enough climber to get down to them?"
This time he had no need to wait for an answer. The marten rushed up to
him with back bent, and every separate hair on end. "Have you seen wild
geese?" he hissed. "Where are they? Tell me instantly, or I'll bite your
neck off!" "No! you must remember that I'm twice your size--so be a
little polite. I ask nothing better than to show you the wild geese."
The next instant the marten was on his way down the steep; and while
Smirre sat and watched how he swung his snake-like body from branch to
branch, he thought: "That pretty tree-hunter has the wickedest heart in
all the forest. I believe that the wild geese will have me to thank for
a bloody awakening."
But just as Smirre was waiting to hear the geese's death-rattle, he saw
the marten tumble from branch to branch--and plump into the river so the
water splashed high. Soon thereafter, wings beat loudly and strongly and
all the geese went up in a hurried flight.
Smirre intended to hurry after the geese, but he was so curious to know
how they had been saved, that he sat there until the marten came
clambering up. That poor thing was soaked in mud, and stopped every now
and then to rub his head with his forepaws. "Now wasn't that just what I
thought--that you were a booby, and would go and tumble into the river?"
said Smirre, contemptuously.
"I haven't acted boobyishly. You don't need to scold me," said the
marten. "I sat--all ready--on one of the lowest branches and thought how
I should manage to tear a whole lot of geese to pieces, when a little
creature, no bigger than a squirrel, jumped up and threw a stone at my
head with such force, that I fell into the water; and before I had time
to pick myself up--"
The marten didn't have to say any more. He had no audience. Smirre was
already a long way off in pursuit of the wild geese.
In the meantime Akka had flown southward in search of a new
sleeping-place. There was still a little daylight; and, beside, the
half-moon stood high in the heavens, so that she could see a little.
Luckily, she was well acquainted in these parts, because it had
happened more than once that she had been wind-driven to Blekinge when
she travelled over the East sea in the spring.
She followed the river as long as she saw it winding through the
moon-lit landscape like a black, shining snake. In this way she came way
down to Djupafors--where the river first hides itself in an underground
channel--and then clear and transparent, as though it were made of
glass, rushes down in a narrow cleft, and breaks into bits against its
bottom in glittering drops and flying foam. Below the white falls lay a
few stones, between which the water rushed away in a wild torrent
cataract. Here mother Akka alighted. This was another good
sleeping-place--especially this late in the evening, when no human
beings moved about. At sunset the geese would hardly have been able to
camp there, for Djupafors does not lie in any wilderness. On one side of
the falls is a paper factory; on the other--which is steep, and
tree-grown--is Djupadal's park, where people are always strolling about
on the steep and slippery paths to enjoy the wild stream's rushing
movement down in the ravine.
It was about the same here as at the former place; none of the
travellers thought the least little bit that they had come to a pretty
and well-known place. They thought rather that it was ghastly and
dangerous to stand and sleep on slippery, wet stones, in the middle of a
rumbling waterfall. But they had to be content, if only they were
protected from carnivorous animals.
The geese fell asleep instantly, while the boy could find no rest in
sleep, but sat beside them that he might watch over the goosey-gander.
After a while, Smirre came running along the river-shore. He spied the
geese immediately where they stood out in the foaming whirlpools, and
understood that he couldn't get at them here, either. Still he couldn't
make up his mind to abandon them, but seated himself on the shore and
looked at them. He felt very much humbled, and thought that his entire
reputation as a hunter was at stake.
All of a sudden, he saw an otter come creeping up from the falls with a
fish in his mouth. Smirre approached him but stopped within two steps of
him, to show him that he didn't wish to take his game from him.
"You're a remarkable one, who can content yourself with catching a fish,
while the stones are covered with geese!" said Smirre. He was so eager,
that he hadn't taken the time to arrange his words as carefully as he
was wont to do. The otter didn't turn his head once in the direction of
the river. He was a vagabond--like all otters--and had fished many times
by Vomb Lake, and probably knew Smirre Fox. "I know very well how you
act when you want to coax away a salmon-trout, Smirre," said he.
"Oh! is it you, Gripe?" said Smirre, and was delighted; for he knew that
this particular otter was a quick and accomplished swimmer. "I don't
wonder that you do not care to look at the wild geese, since you can't
manage to get out to them." But the otter, who had swimming-webs between
his toes, and a stiff tail--which was as good as an oar--and a skin that
was water-proof, didn't wish to have it said of him that there was a
waterfall that he wasn't able to manage. He turned toward the stream;
and as soon as he caught sight of the wild geese, he threw the fish
away, and rushed down the steep shore and into the river.
If it had been a little later in the spring, so that the nightingales in
Djupafors had been at home, they would have sung for many a day of
Gripe's struggle with the rapid. For the otter was thrust back by the
waves many times, and carried down river; but he fought his way steadily
up again. He swam forward in still water; he crawled over stones, and
gradually came nearer the wild geese. It was a perilous trip, which
might well have earned the right to be sung by the nightingales.
Smirre followed the otter's course with his eyes as well as he could. At
last he saw that the otter was in the act of climbing up to the wild
geese. But just then it shrieked shrill and wild. The otter tumbled
backward into the water, and dashed away as if he had been a blind
kitten. An instant later, there was a great crackling of geese's wings.
They raised themselves and flew away to find another sleeping-place.
The otter soon came on land. He said nothing, but commenced to lick one
of his forepaws. When Smirre sneered at him because he hadn't succeeded,
he broke out: "It was not the fault of my swimming-art, Smirre. I had
raced all the way over to the geese, and was about to climb up to them,
when a tiny creature came running, and jabbed me in the foot with some
sharp iron. It hurt so, I lost my footing, and then the current took
me."
He didn't have to say any more. Smirre was already far away on his way
to the wild geese.
Once again Akka and her flock had to take a night fly. Fortunately, the
moon had not gone down; and with the aid of its light, she succeeded in
finding another of those sleeping-places which she knew in that
neighbourhood. Again she followed the shining river toward the south.
Over Djupadal's manor, and over Ronneby's dark roofs and white
waterfalls she swayed forward without alighting. But a little south of
the city and not far from the sea, lies Ronneby health-spring, with its
bath house and spring house; with its big hotel and summer cottages for
the spring's guests. All these stand empty and desolate in winter--which
the birds know perfectly well; and many are the bird-companies who seek
shelter on the deserted buildings' balustrades and balconies during hard
storm-times.
Here the wild geese lit on a balcony, and, as usual, they fell asleep at
once. The boy, on the contrary, could not sleep because he hadn't cared
to creep in under the goosey-gander's wing.
The balcony faced south, so the boy had an outlook over the sea. And
since he could not sleep, he sat there and saw how pretty it looked when
sea and land meet, here in Blekinge.
You see that sea and land can meet in many different ways. In many
places the land comes down toward the sea with flat, tufted meadows, and
the sea meets the land with flying sand, which piles up in mounds and
drifts. It appears as though they both disliked each other so much that
they only wished to show the poorest they possessed. But it can also
happen that, when the land comes toward the sea, it raises a wall of
hills in front of it--as though the sea were something dangerous. When
the land does this, the sea comes up to it with fiery wrath, and beats
and roars and lashes against the rocks, and looks as if it would tear
the land-hill to pieces.
But in Blekinge it is altogether different when sea and land meet. There
the land breaks itself up into points and islands and islets; and the
sea divides itself into fiords and bays and sounds; and it is, perhaps,
this which makes it look as if they must meet in happiness and harmony.
Think now first and foremost of the sea! Far out it lies desolate and
empty and big, and has nothing else to do but to roll its gray billows.
When it comes toward the land, it happens across the first obstacle.
This it immediately overpowers; tears away everything green, and makes
it as gray as itself. Then it meets still another obstacle. With this it
does the same thing. And still another. Yes, the same thing happens to
this also. It is stripped and plundered, as if it had fallen into
robbers' hands. Then the obstacles come nearer and nearer together, and
then the sea must understand that the land sends toward it her littlest
children, in order to move it to pity. It also becomes more friendly the
farther in it comes; rolls its waves less high; moderates its storms;
lets the green things stay in cracks and crevices; separates itself into
small sounds and inlets, and becomes at last so harmless in the land,
that little boats dare venture out on it. It certainly cannot recognise
itself--so mild and friendly has it grown.
And then think of the hillside! It lies uniform, and looks the same
almost everywhere. It consists of flat grain-fields, with one and
another birch-grove between them; or else of long stretches of forest
ranges. It appears as if it had thought about nothing but grain and
turnips and potatoes and spruce and pine. Then comes a sea-fiord that
cuts far into it. It doesn't mind that, but borders it with birch and
alder, just as if it was an ordinary fresh-water lake. Then still
another wave comes driving in. Nor does the hillside bother itself about
cringing to this, but it, too, gets the same covering as the first one.
Then the fiords begin to broaden and separate, they break up fields and
woods and then the hillside cannot help but notice them. "I believe it
is the sea itself that is coming," says the hillside, and then it begins
to adorn itself. It wreathes itself with blossoms, travels up and down
in hills and throws islands into the sea. It no longer cares about pines
and spruces, but casts them off like old every day clothes, and parades
later with big oaks and lindens and chestnuts, and with blossoming leafy
bowers, and becomes as gorgeous as a manor-park. And when it meets the
sea, it is so changed that it doesn't know itself. All this one cannot
see very well until summertime; but, at any rate, the boy observed how
mild and friendly nature was; and he began to feel calmer than he had
been before, that night. Then, suddenly, he heard a sharp and ugly yowl
from the bath-house park; and when he stood up he saw, in the white
moonlight, a fox standing on the pavement under the balcony. For Smirre
had followed the wild geese once more. But when he had found the place
where they were quartered, he had understood that it was impossible to
get at them in any way; then he had not been able to keep from yowling
with chagrin.
When the fox yowled in this manner, old Akka, the leader-goose, was
awakened. Although she could see nothing, she thought she recognised the
voice. "Is it you who are out to-night, Smirre?" said she. "Yes," said
Smirre, "it is I; and I want to ask what you geese think of the night
that I have given you?"
"Do you mean to say that it is you who have sent the marten and otter
against us?" asked Akka. "A good turn shouldn't be denied," said Smirre.
"You once played the goose-game with me, now I have begun to play the
fox-game with you; and I'm not inclined to let up on it so long as a
single one of you still lives even if I have to follow you the world
over!"
"You, Smirre, ought at least to think whether it is right for you, who
are weaponed with both teeth and claws, to hound us in this way; we, who
are without defence," said Akka.
Smirre thought that Akka sounded scared, and he said quickly: "If you,
Akka, will take that Thumbietot--who has so often opposed me--and throw
him down to me, I'll promise to make peace with you. Then I'll never
more pursue you or any of yours." "I'm not going to give you
Thumbietot," said Akka. "From the youngest of us to the oldest, we would
willingly give our lives for his sake!" "Since you're so fond of him,"
said Smirre, "I'll promise you that he shall be the first among you that
I will wreak vengeance upon."
Akka said no more, and after Smirre had sent up a few more yowls, all
was still. The boy lay all the while awake. Now it was Akka's words to
the fox that prevented him from sleeping. Never had he dreamed that he
should hear anything so great as that anyone was willing to risk life
for his sake. From that moment, it could no longer be said of Nils
Holgersson that he did not care for anyone.