Part 8

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.

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.”

The sun rose high in the sky and the day was very hot, and poor Hulda longed to lie down under the trees and sleep; moreover the snake in her hand twisted and twisted, till she could scarce hold it. Sometimes she cried from very weariness, but still the raven flew in front of her. She had bought dry bread as she came along, and when the raven stopped and hopped upon the ground, she munched it to stave off her hunger, but directly the raven began to fly she followed it, and she never let the snake from her grasp. The sun had set, and dark was all over the land ere she came to the village where the fool lived, but no fool was there to be seen. Hulda sought everywhere, but she could not find him. Then she saw that the raven had stopped and settled on the roof of the cottage where the fool lived, and, standing on one leg, had gone to sleep with its head under its wing, so Hulda lay down by the side of the door, and laying her head on a stone rested too. But first she took off her girdle and tied it firmly round the snake’s throat, and then tied it round her waist again lest she should fall asleep and the snake glide away.

Just when the stars were beginning to look pale, and as there were signs of the dawn in the sky, the door of the cottage opened, and out there came the fool, dressed up as Hulda had seen him before, with feathers and weeds and bits of bright rag. Hulda started up, and he laughed when he saw her. “Look,” he said, “the sun is rising; I am come out to see it.”

“I have come back,” cried Hulda, “and I have seen them all—the old man and the musician girls, and the one who stole Othmar’s voice will never use it again, for this snake has throttled her; but what am I to do now? How can I give him back his voice? What shall I do to make him speak?” And as she spoke she took the snake from her bosom and showed it to the fool. He looked at it very gravely as he always did when anything was shown to him, and looked very wise and nodded. “It is a snake,” he said; “perhaps Othmar will like the snake.”

Hulda begged him to tell her if he knew what she should do, but he would say no more, but began to dance and sing as she had seen him do before. Then at last Hulda burst out crying, “He is nothing but a poor idiot,” she said, “and I have been on a fool’s errand when I did as he told me, though I did see the wicked little man, and this snake did punish the singing girl, so I will take it back to Othmar that he may see I have tried. But now I believe he will be dumb for ever.”

And she took the snake and looked at it as she held it. It was very still, and seemed half torpid, though the weather was warm. She saw it was not a common snake, for it was bright brown, and green with odd markings, and it glittered oddly when the sun’s rays touched it.

“I will go back now,” said Hulda; “I will go back to Othmar, and tell him I have failed, and ask him to forgive my vanity in thinking I could help him. I will go back at once and tell him all.” And overhead the raven croaked and told her to go quickly, but she did not understand what he said.

So again she began to trudge on, holding the snake in her hands and toiling over fields and moors in the way that she knew led to her own little village, though by now her feet were so swollen and her legs so stiff that she almost cried for pain.

Presently she came to the village where the cake-maker lived, and as she passed his shop, she saw that he stood at the door and nodded to her as he saw her coming.

“Good-day,” he cried; “you are the young wench I saw go past awhile back.”

“Yes, I am going home now,” said Hulda.

“And have you found your fiddles and horns that turned to men and women?” he asked. “It was a fool’s errand, I fear, you were going on; and what have you got in your hand now?”

“It is a snake,” answered Hulda, “and——”

“A snake!” screamed the cake-maker. “Lord love the girl, is she mad to go wandering over the country carrying a snake with her? Why, it might kill you, wench! Drop it at once!”

“No, indeed, I will not drop it,” said Hulda, “for it seems to me that it is the only thing which may do Othmar good, for at any rate it has killed the girl who stole his voice, and——”

At this the man started and called out, “Good Lord, she is clean off her head. Stolen Othmar’s voice! What can the wench mean? Why, girl, that snake might bite you, and you would be dead at once. Why on earth should you carry it because it has killed a girl?”

“I am carrying it because the fool told me to do what the raven does,” answered Hulda, “and he has still a worm in his mouth. Look.”

At this the man burst out laughing. “Why, what has that to do with you?” he cried; “a raven will often carry a worm for a bit. Drop this snake at once, you silly lass, or, better still, hold it firm while I crush its head with my poker.” And he seized the poker to kill it with.

Then Hulda was frightened lest he might steal the snake from her, or kill it by force, and she ran on; but she ran in such haste that she stumbled against the baker who was just coming out from his shop with his basket of loaves on his arm.

“Can’t you look where you are going?” he cried in anger, as he picked up the bread which had rolled into the road; and then, seeing it was Hulda, he said:—“Why, who are you running away from, my girl? Are you on the look-out for more fools that you can’t see when an honest man comes along? And whatever have you got there?”

“It is only a snake I have found,” said Hulda, when she had asked the man’s pardon, and she tried to hide the snake in her skirt, but the baker seized her arm and made her show it to him.

“What on earth are you carrying a live snake with you for?” he asked. “Don’t you know they are venomous beasts, and the bite of one is certain death?” And, like the cake-maker, he tried to wrench the snake from her. At this Hulda was terribly frightened.

“If they take the snake from me,” she thought, “then my last chance is gone,” and she tried to free herself from the baker, but he seized her by the skirt and held her fast, and shouted out to others to come and help him.

“Help, help!” he cried. “Here is a poor mad girl, and she has got hold of a poisonous adder, and she will let it loose in the village and it will bite some of our children and kill them.” And when they heard his cry the villagers all came running out of their cottages.

“Let me go, let me go,” shrieked Hulda, “it will do no harm. I will hold it tight, and I would not lose it for the wide world.”

“I tell you she is mad,” roared the baker, and the cake-maker came up and said the same thing. “She wandered by here some time back, and all she wanted to know was where she could find another as mad as herself, but she will have far to go before she meets one, I reckon. We must secure her and take the snake from her, but beware how you catch it, for fear it should bite.”

And the people all gathered round her and made a great hubbub, though they were afraid to touch the snake which Hulda still held firmly in her hand. And they made such a din that the old school-master came out of the school-house with his pupils after him.

The people told him there was a poor mad girl who had got a snake, and would not let them take it from her, and he remembered Hulda as the others had done, and shook his head and said sadly, “I fear it is too true. The poor child is really mad, but we cannot wrench the snake from her lest it may turn and bite us. But it is certain that it would not be safe to let her go; so, as the children are all going home now, let us lock her into the school-house here, till we can get something to kill the creature with, and then when the doctor comes, he can see if the poor girl is very bad, and what had better be done with her.”

Hulda turned quite white with fear, and cried out that she was not mad, and that the snake should harm no one, but they would not heed her, and pushed her into the school-house, and bolted the doors on her, and there Hulda sat on the floor and cried as if her heart would break.

“Alas!” cried she, “now all hope is gone, and Othmar will be dumb for ever. For what good have I carried this snake with me all this way, if now it is to be taken from me and killed?” and her tears fell on the viper as she looked at it in her hand. It was very bright green and yellow, and it kept wrinkling and twisting its skin as she grasped it, and making a loud hissing noise. As her tears were still falling she heard a croak over her head, and saw the raven perched on a window above her, and again her hopes revived.

“Maybe he has come to help me,” she thought, “for I should never have found the little dwarf if it had not been for the raven.” Then as she looked up at the raven sitting in the window, she saw that it was pecking at a piece of rope that hung through the window, and Hulda thought—“Surely if I could climb up to the window, I could scramble through it, and climb down the rope on to the ground. Only if they were to see me, they would catch me again, so I must wait till nightfall when there is no one there.”

So she sat down again and waited till the sun had set, and she trembled at every noise lest it might be some one coming to seek her, but they left her alone, and no one came. When it was quite dark, and all the village was quiet she went to the window, and tried to climb up to it, but she found that she could not manage to get up on to the window-sill while she held the snake in her hand. Then first she thought she would wind it around her waist, but she remembered how it had tightened around the singing girl and killed her, and for some time she could not think what to do with it. At last she twisted it into a knot, and placed it in her bosom, though she trembled lest it should bite her. And when she placed it in her bosom, she saw the curl of Othmar’s hair that lay there, and she took it and tied up the snake’s jaws with it so that it might not open its mouth. “For Othmar’s hair will not break or give way,” she said; “it is like his heart, it will be true and strong till the end.”

Then she climbed up on to the window-ledge, and scrambled through the window, and took the piece of rope and let herself down on to the ground outside. And when she lit upon the ground, she heard the raven croaking above her, and her heart leapt for joy, and she began to run as fast as she could to get away from the village lest they might catch her again.

When she came again into the open country, she looked for the raven, and saw that it was flying in front of her as before, towards the distant mountains where she knew lay her home. She toiled on, for many days, but by now the summer had nearly passed away, and when she got into the high mountain land, she found that the cold winter had given signs of coming, and the trees were beginning to be bare, and there was a light white frost on the ground. It was far into the night when she arrived in the village, and the villagers were all asleep and their cottages shut. Outside the cottage where Othmar lived grew a big old ivy tree, and on this the raven perched, and underneath it Hulda lay down to wait the dawn and Othmar’s waking. She lay quiet for a bit, but when she saw a faint glimmering of light where the sun was going to rise, she felt she could be still no longer, and she sprang up and called, “Othmar, come down, I am here,” for she dreaded having to tell him before the other villagers that she had failed.

In a few moments the door of the cottage opened and Othmar came out, and ran to greet her, but she kept afar.

“Othmar,” she cried, “I have done you no good, save that I have punished the wicked girl who took your voice. This snake killed her, so she will never sing as you did again. See.” And she held out the snake to him; it was curled round and still tied up with his hair, and as the sun began to shine it glittered brightly.