Part 7

“Poor pussy, poor old pussy!” he said, “it is a pity that you can’t speak and tell me what you want. I am sure I would give it to you.” Just as he spoke there came a noise outside, and he heard a mewing, and looking through the window he saw the same thin ugly brown cat that had come there last Christmas, and it looked as thin and wretched as ever. When she heard the sound the grey cat stood up on her tottering feet and tried to walk to the window. This time the old gentleman did not drive it away, but looked at it, and almost felt sorry for it; it looked almost as thin and ill as his own grey puss.

“You are an ugly brute,” he said, “and I don’t want you always hanging about; still, maybe you would be none the worse for a little milk now, and it might make you look better.” So he opened the window a little, and then he shut it and then he opened it again, and this time the brown cat crawled into the room, and went straight to the hearthrug to the grey puss. There was a big saucer of milk on the hearthrug, and the brown cat began to lap it at once, and the old gentleman never stopped it.

He thought as he watched it, that it grew fatter under his eyes as it drank, and when the saucer was empty he took a jug and gave it some more. “I really am an old fool,” he said; “that is a whole pennorth of milk.” No sooner had he poured out the fresh milk than the grey cat raised itself, and sitting down by the saucer began to lap it as well, as if it were quite well. The old gentleman stared with surprise. “Well, this is the queerest thing,” he said. So he took some fish and gave it to the strange cat, and then, when he offered some to his own puss, it ate it as if there was nothing the matter. “This is most remarkable,” said the old gentleman; “perhaps it was the company of a creature of its own sort that my cat needed, after all.” And the grey cat purred and began to rub itself against his legs.

So for the next few days the two cats lay together on the hearthrug, and though it was too late to send the grey cat to the show, the old gentleman never thought about it, so pleased was he that it had got well again.

But seven nights after the stray cat had come in from outside, as the old gentleman lay asleep in bed at night, he felt something rub itself against his face, and heard his cat purring softly, as though it wanted to say “good-bye.” “Be quiet, puss, and lie still till the morning,” he said. But when he came down to have his breakfast in the morning, there sat the brown tabby, looking fat and comfortable by the fire, but the grey cat was not there, and though they looked for it everywhere, no one could find it, though all the windows and doors had been shut, so they could not think how it could have got away. The old gentleman was very unhappy about it, but he looked at the strange cat on his hearth and said, “it would be unkind now to send this poor thing away, so it may as well stay here.”

When she heard him speaking of its being unkind, his old cook burst out laughing. “Perhaps,” she said, “’twas a fairy cat, as it could get away through bolts and locks, and nothing but a fairy could have taught my master to think of a thing being unkind or not. I only hope that now he’ll think of some one in this world besides himself and his money.” And sure enough from that time the old gentleman began to forget about his money, and to care for the people about him, and it was all the doing of the strange cat who had come from no one knew where, and gone away to no one knew where.

ONCE upon a time there was a village on the top of a mountain, where during the winter months the villagers saw no one but each other, for the mountain was so steep and the path so narrow that, when it was blocked with ice, it was dangerous to ascend: so during the winter months the people lived by themselves, and cheered themselves as they might in the long dreary evenings, with games and dancing and singing and playing on pipes, for they were cheerful folk, joyous and light-hearted. The sweetest singer in the village was a lad named Othmar; his voice was as sweet as a nightingale’s before the dawn, and also he was the handsomest young fellow in all the country round. Strangers turned to look after him as he went by; he was tall and straight, and had curly brown hair, and big brown eyes, and lips that always smiled. He lived with his old mother, who was a widow, and he worked for them both in the fields and on the farms. When he was a boy he learned the notes of all the birds, and could imitate them so exactly that they would fly down to him and settle on his shoulders. When the farmers had sown their fields, and the birds would have come to pick up the grain, they sent for Othmar, and he sang and whistled till they all left the field and flew after him. So often he was called the bird-boy.

One evening before the winter had set in, or the roads were blocked with ice, there came along the high road into the village, a dwarf in a yellow cap leading a donkey, on whose back were fastened numberless musical instruments. Fiddles of all sorts, and viols, horns, trumpets, and pipes, and a big drum, and a small one with triangles and cymbals. In the middle of the village the little man stopped and looked about him. “Who would like to hear my music?” he cried, and then as the villagers came crowding around him, he bade them all sit down while he unpacked his mule, but he forbade any of them to help him, or to touch one of the instruments. “For mine is no common music,” he quoth; “all these I have made myself, and in each is a machine which makes it go on playing by itself, if once I start it. See here!” and he took up a long pipe and began to blow, and there came forth the sweetest notes that had ever been heard from any pipe. The little man paused for a minute, with the pipe in his hand, and then laid it down on the ground, when, wonderful to relate, it went on playing of itself.

All the villagers stared with surprise, and some called out that it was magic, and crossed themselves, but the little man took up another pipe, and set that going too, and then the horns and the trumpets, and the drums and the cymbals, and then he took a fiddle and drew the bow across it, and how it played! It made the people weep and laugh. Othmar lay on the ground listening, and it seemed to him as if the sound were made of silver, and when the musician had started them, and all the other fiddles were playing together, he felt as if he should go mad for joy to hear anything so lovely.

Just behind where Othmar lay sat a young girl, named Hulda. She was an orphan, and dwelt alone with an old woman, who gave her food and lodging for sweeping out her room, and cleaning and cooking. Also Hulda made money for her by going out to work for the other women in the village. She was neither pretty nor clever, but she was a good girl, and if any of the villagers were ill or in trouble, it was for Hulda they would send at once, because they knew she would spare no pains to help them, and would think nothing too much trouble. She had played with Othmar ever since they were babies, and loved him dearly. She was the only one who listened to the music who did not think it beautiful. She shuddered as she heard it, and she sat and watched Othmar and saw that there were tears in his eyes, and she grieved that she did not love it as he did.

When at last the instruments stopped and the listeners began to feel for money for the musician, he laughed and said, “You need not give me money, for I am very rich, and don’t need it. In return for my playing, I only ask for one recompense. Let any of your young folks who sing, sing me a song, for I too love hearing music that is not my own.” On this the villagers began to look round for all who could sing, and they chose out some three or four, and begged them to sing their very best to the wonderful musician. Among them was Othmar, but they all bid him wait to the last, as his would be the best. Whilst the others were singing, the little man did not seem to heed them much, though they tried hard to sing well, and chose their prettiest songs, but their voices sounded very rough and poor after the playing.

But when Othmar began he stopped twanging the fiddle-strings and watched him. Othmar’s voice rang out clear and sweet, and all the village folk felt proud of his singing, even after hearing the wonderful instruments. When he ceased the little man rose, and said—

“You have a sweet voice, my boy, be sure that you always use it well; and now I must be going my way, but as I am a stranger here, perhaps you would not mind setting me on my road, and showing me the best way over the hill.”

Othmar sprang up, delighted to go with him, but Hulda, who watched from behind, came up to him and whispered—

“Oh, Othmar, don’t let him take you far—come back soon.”

“How silly you are, Hulda!” said Othmar, almost angrily. “Of course I shall come back, but I shall go with him as far as he wants, and then, perhaps, he will let me hear him play again.”

Othmar and the little dwarf started with the mule laden with instruments, and Othmar led the way down the best road. The dwarf did not speak at all, and so they went on in silence till they had got on to the top of a high hill where they could see the country all round for miles, and the moon was beginning to rise. Here the musician stopped his mule, and stood for a while looking all round. Then he turned, and said to Othmar—“I know now where I am, and here will I stay for to-night, but first before you leave me, would you not like to hear my fiddles and horns again?”

“That I would,” cried Othmar, and he sat himself down on the ground delighted, while the little man unloaded the mule.

“And now,” he said to Othmar with a twisted smile, “you shall hear them 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—

“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—

“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.