Cihlar & Egeler - The Saint and her Fool

„You want to stay here overnight and you are not afraid! You are taking on quite a task! Don’t you know that people fall asleep and never wake up again in severe coldness?”

„I shall not fall asleep. I am waiting, you see. Look at the trees there and the white lilies and the silver crowns, the crystal twigs and the strings of pearls and ribbons. Why have they dressed up so beautifully? They are all waiting, knowing something special will happen; they know it well. And earlier a deer passed and looked at me and it also knew.”

„You feel it as well, don’t you?”

He nods to himself. This child has something sacred about her. Sitting there, she also reminds him of a rose so delicate, yet bearing protective thorns.

„What is your name?”

„I have many names but not one of them seems right. At night I think I know the right one but by morning I have forgotten it again. My father calls me ‘poor little thing’ but I don’t want to be called that. So I just left; but I only realised that this is the real Christmas forest once I found myself in it.

„Well, I shall call you ‘Saint Rose’.”

He leans forward and lifts the small child, despite the pungent odour of her shawl, onto his knee, wrapping his jacket around her colder leg, the one in the stocking with the big hole. Now she is not afraid at all anymore and she is playing with his brown buckhorn buttons.

„You know the story of the Christkind , of Baby Jesus who brings beautiful presents? It is all a lie. They are all from a catalogue: the dolls and wagons and soldiers … everything. If it was the real Christkind , he would know that I do not want any new dolls that know nothing about me or of how I feel.”

„Your old dolls know you well, do they?”

„Of course they do! Every night I put them to bed and I never leave them lying about! But at Christmas they are all taken away and are given to the bad children and if I see them again somewhere, their clothes are all dirty. And Lilla, my doll with the beautiful curls, had only one eye left and her arm was broken. Now I no longer play with dolls.

„So they have spoiled your pleasure of playing with dolls, poor little Rose.”

She continues her explanation: „The real Christkind who knows what is in my heart does not come to me. That is why I have come into the forest. Listen to how the tree is sighing! If there really is a Christkind , he has to be here. And even if I were to fall asleep, at least I shall never have to return home to be laughed at because they think I am foolish. I can never find the right words, the ones they want to hear; I can never speak the way other children do.

However, the Christkind would not let me fall asleep. He would come along and bells would tinkle, fine and delicate … Can you hear them? Since I arrived in the forest, I have been hearing the bells and I have followed their ringing to this place, and have come so far that I cannot turn around, come too far to go back now. Or, maybe, if I did fall asleep here, my mother would come and fetch me; she is lying in her silver coffin, with my little brother snuggled in one arm. He has always been allowed to be with her while I have had to learn and study hard and lie all alone in my bed, crying silently lest anyone hear. Maybe she would take me in her other arm and I could stay with her in her silver coffin. Then people could laugh as much as they wished and I would not hear them because there is a thick iron door that seals the silver coffin and no one may open it.”

„Their laughter hurts my little Rose that badly?”

„Surely you know how that is? They all laugh at you, too!”

„They laugh at me? Do you know who I am?”

„You are the Earl of Thorstein Castle. They call you the Earl of Ruins.” She cocks her head. „Why don’t you feed the mice? They are surely nice little mice that sit quite upright as decent people do and would eat out of your hands. You offered me the apple quite generously.”

„So that is what they call me. It’s always good to know all your names,” he mutters. „The Earl of Ruins … You know so many things, little lady. Your mother lies in a silver coffin, poor little Rose; but I still do not know where you are from. Now, then, why do you think I do not feed the mice?”

„Sometimes I listen to the conversations that go on in the sewing room, the room facing the huge linden tree and I have steps up into the tree. Margarete, a plump woman with a small beard like a man, said that it was a shame that you had to live in such ruins. She said you were so poor that it was apparent to anyone who came to visit you just how poor you were by the way even your mice scuttled around with their eyes full of tears.”

Now, he laughs aloud, his deep, hearty laugh bellowing from his strong chest, drowning out the stillness of the forest. She seems almost frightened but then she suddenly joins in, her fine, delicate laughter like a bird’s wing gently stroking the strings of a harp.

„No, they have exaggerated.” He smiles at her. „And I promise to make sure that the mice get proper food.”

„Then I also once saw you walking with your servant, a man who looks like an Arabian figure from a tale in my red story book, and I felt so sorry for you because you are so poor and taller than anyone else I have ever seen and not even your little mice get enough to eat. And now it is not true! People often lie!”

Who could this wondrous child belong to, this bundled-up little rosebud whose mother lies in a silver coffin? She couldn’t be from the village; that is surely too far away. Her words sound so strange and she falters occasionally, as if it isn’t the language she is used to speaking. What twist of fate might this unfortunate child have suffered to have brought her into this forest alone? The forest workers are wont to wander from town to town. There is not a house in the ancient town or in the small, nearby villages that is not inhabited by families with roots overseas. They all have a history of fates, these forest workers; they often gain money and success and lose them both again.

But this child doesn’t seem to belong there. He could surely force out of her where she is from, but he so enjoys listening to her fine, fairy-tale voice in this enchanting forest. He should actually recognise those fine facial lines, those strikingly long eyelashes; it is like a puzzle which he is on the verge of solving.

He will make sure she gets home safely. Maybe her family deserves to worry about her a little. They seem to know nothing of what is in her heart. Strangely, he feels his own heart hoping for something: Maybe she is a poor abandoned child who had lived among strangers, people who couldn’t care less about this delicate rosebud, his little Saint Rose.

Immediately, he scolds himself for being a dreamer. Children who get new dolls and toys from a catalogue each Christmas and their old playthings passed on to ‘bad children’ cannot belong to poor people.

She tilts her little covered head towards him and presses it against his chest for she is tired now and sighs contentedly as if speaking of all this has been a great relief to her. She seems to feel safe and secure, as if the white circle of trees surrounding them with their mystical silence shelter her from all harm and have promised to watch over her forever. Perhaps the Christkind will truly come to her here.

The pale grey sky begins to change colour beyond the feathery branches which, even without their gown of leaves, are dense and tangled, thus only allowing a fine, bright glitter of light to sift through. First, a faint red paints the forest floor pink, a rosy carpet of light, sparkling against the branches and twigs in sheer crystal elegance amidst fluffs of white snow. Then the pink becomes darker and turns to purple. Wondrous hues of violet blend with tones of grey and evolve out of the whiteness. Silently, they both look upon this heavenly splendour. Little Saint Rose almost stops breathing because she feels he must come now. From where, she thinks she already knows. From where the path turns directly into the glowing colours, a heavy silver burden weighs down the beech tree branches so that they form an arch over the path. It is through here that the Christkind must come.