Cihlar & Egeler - The Saint and her Fool

Oh, why have you become so shy, you delicate, brown roe? How far apart from each other, how secluded are the children of the world, how lonely is the heart that beats within. Neither animal nor plant really know you, they shy away from you, yet the same stream of red liquid life flows through your heart as does through that of the animal there. You love that four hundred-year-old oak tree, battered and blown from many a wild and stormy night, its lightning-scorched branches now winding like giant snakes up towards the sky. This giant is like a friend to you; you have known him since childhood when on dark autumn evenings, following your father through the forest, you used to gaze up in timid amazement. If one morning you were to find the ancient tree broken and dead on the ground, you would mourn for it as for a good, old friend. But the tree knows nothing about you. The human being wanders in loneliness between all that is life and death, living for the moment, enjoying the blossoming in May and dreaming his silver dreams in winter.

The man stares down to the very end of the path, to where it vanishes in a fragrant veil of mist, as if something were about to come out of it. A longing rises in him, a burning desire that springs from loneliness. Suddenly he sees a small maiden scurrying through the mist, wrapped in an old, brown shawl, the ends trailing along the ground, gathering all sorts of flora, thorns and scraps of frozen moss. She seems to be in a great hurry and she disappears behind the hazel bushes. He knows that beyond these bushes there is a tremendous drop and only a small, icy path leading down. He takes long strides toward the bushes.

„Wait! You cannot go down there!”

A snap, then a child’s faint scream pierces the eerie stillness.

„Hold on! Hold on to a branch. I shall come and get you.”

Half dragging himself, half sliding he descends and finds her in a hollow, blown together with a pile of leaves, lying there in a small, brown heap. Getting hold of a sturdy branch, he reaches for her with his other hand as she stares at him, fright in her chalky white face.

„Here, take my hand, I shall not harm you. Don’t be frightened. Have you hurt yourself?”

„No.” Her voice sounds timid and quite startled.

„Well, then, give me your hand.”

She shakes her head.

„Where in the world are you going?”

She turns, indicating with her covered head the mountain slope on the other side where the forest rises again in icy magnificence.

„This is not the way to get there. Where do you come from?”

No answer.

„Are you from Berklingen?”

A timid answer: „No.”

„No? Your dialect is not as spoken here, otherwise you would have said na .”

She must be a foreign child. She seems to be lost. There are no lumbermen in the forest at this time of day for they have finished their work and gone to their little houses with the pointed gables, to where the children are eagerly waiting for their fathers to set up the Christmas tree.

„Are you looking for your father?”

Now she shakes her head in vigorous denial.

„So definitely for not him,” he mutters.

He lets go of the branch and, stumbling and sliding down, reaches the small nest where the child is crouching and glancing swiftly from side to side as if seeking a means of escape. But she soon realises there is none because she is caught up in the icy, thorny blackberry bushes behind her. Then, with a sudden jerk, she attempts to flee and the trail of her shawl with all its gatherings gets torn off. Nonetheless, he is able to grasp her and as much as she resists and flails about like a small bird held in a hand, he manages to pull her up. Now she is standing with him on the path, trembling, and her face is as white as snow. He smiles at her and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a large, rosy apple which he holds out to her as an offering of peace.

„Here, take it and tell me where it is you are planning to go. Then I shall show you the way, wondrous little lady in your ragged dress.”

Her brown shawl has been quite badly torn by the thorns. She doesn’t want the apple and he puts it back into his pocket though it seems his gesture, or maybe her glancing into his blue eyes, has built a bridge between them.

„Oh, what fine features your face has! And what has happened to your left leg? It looks quite cold, having no boot on it as your right leg does.”

„I couldn’t get it on and I was in a hurry. It isn’t cold at all.”

These are the first words she speaks and, again, he notices that it is not the dialect commonly spoken here.

„And where are you going?”

„Nowhere.”

„I see. Nowhere. Well, that is where I am planning to go, too; so we are both going the same way.”

He nods encouragingly, puts his hands in his pockets and strolls along beside her, still keeping an eye on her so that she cannot slip away. Reluctantly, as if it might be good to have a companion on the way to Nowhere Land, she follows him, this strange little person in tattered cloth. Her legs are stained with traces of ice and thawed dirt; on her right leg she is wearing a boot buttoned down wrongly, on the left, only a stocking with a big hole exposing the white skin of her knee. As he walks with her, he picks up the scent of her shawl. It is the odour of poverty, the odour of seldom-aired, stuffy rooms, pickled cabbage and numerous other common things. The bridge of her nose is very finely, almost proudly shaped, her eyes are large and bright and when she closes her delicate eyelids, it seems as if her eyes shimmer through like tiny stars.

„So you have run away.”

She seems startled and a big yes is written across her face. His laughter is filled with warmth.

„When people go to Nowhere Land, they mostly come from somewhere they didn’t like.”

„And I am not going back.”

„Were you treated so badly?”

„No, not badly. I couldn’t say that.”

She seems to trust him more with each minute. For a while they walk together through this enchanted forest and he waits with the sensitivity for the soul of a child which some people have, knowing that a child’s mind may stray by being asked too many questions and that trust is more likely to be gained though friendly patience. But her steps have become hesitant and slower, and as she passes a pile of brushwood covered with a layer of ice, she sits down on it and says very politely, as would a well-bred maiden, „I thank you very much, I shall stay here.”

„Tired?”

He takes a seat across from her on a stone mound and crosses his long legs.

„May I now serve the apple, my little lady?”

Her eyes light up and a small hand reaches out hesitantly from under the tangle of fringes as a light blush covers her cheeks.

„Thank you. It looks good.”

And now she begins to speak: „Once, Seamstress Rose gave me an apple and I hid it under my sheets until night when everyone was gone. Wasn’t that nice of her? She has red hair and lives in a small cottage where huge, red flowers bloom during summer. She has nine brothers and sisters and when she comes home in the evening, she sews clothes for all of them.”

„What a busy little Seamstress Rose! And where is this cottage with the huge, red flowers which I assume are mallows?”

„First you get to a green field and when the sun is shining, the field is full of white stars and little yellow crowns, and then you come to the tall trees that reach up to the sky and sigh.”

„That sounds wonderful! I think it would be best to continue on our way and visit Seamstress Rose. She will surely have another apple because I have none left, and this seat is cold and my legs are stiff.”

But she shakes her head. „I want to stay here or else I shall have come all this way for nothing.” Her gentle eyes shine now in sweet and utter confidence. „I do not want to go back. I shall wait for nightfall and I am not hungry anymore because you have given me your apple.”