XIV
A long time afterward, he lifted up his head. The sunbeams shone obliquely in, bringing a rosy glow. They resembled straight bars of gold.
“Father, father!” whispered Johannes.
Outside, the sun was pouring over everything a flood of shining, golden, glowing splendor. Every leaf hung motionless, and all was hushed in solemn worship of the sun.
Along with the light there fell into the room a gentle soughing—as if the sunbeams were singing.
“Sun-son! Sun-son!”
Johannes lifted up his head, and listened. It tingled in his ears.
“Sun-son! Sun-son!”
It was like Windekind’s voice. He alone had named him that; should he call him now?
But he looked at the face beside him. He would listen no more.
“Poor, dear father!” he said.
But suddenly it rang again around him from all sides, so loud, so penetrating, that he trembled with his marvelous emotion.
“Sun-son! Sun-son!”
Johannes stood up and gazed outside. What light! What splendid light! It streamed over the high tree tops, it glistened amid the grass-blades, and sparkled in the shadow-patches. The whole air was filled with it up to the very sky where the first exquisite sunset clouds were flecking the blue.
Beyond the meadow, between the green trees and shrubs, he saw the dunes. Red gold lay along their slopes, and in their shadows hung the blue of the heavens.
They lay stretched out reposefully in their robe of tender tints. The delicate undulations of their expanse brought a benediction—as does prayer. Johannes felt again as he had felt when Windekind taught him how to pray.
Was not that he, there, in the blue garment? Look! there in the heart of the light—shimmering in a maze of blue and gold. Was not that Windekind, beckoning him?
Johannes flew out of doors into the sunlight. For an instant he stood still. He felt the holy solemnity of the light, and scarcely dared to move where the foliage was so still.
Yet, there, in front of him, was the light figure again. It was Windekind! It surely was! His radiant face was turned toward him, and the lips were parted as if calling him. With his right hand he was beckoning. In his left he held aloft some object. In the tips of his slender fingers he held it, and it glittered and sparkled.
With a glad cry of joy and yearning, Johannes sped toward the beloved apparition. But with laughing face and waving hand, it floated before him, still beckoning him on. Sometimes it would drift low, and lingeringly skim the ground, to ascend again lightly and swiftly, and float farther off, like a feathery seed borne on by the wind.
Johannes himself longed to rise and fly as he had done long ago, in his dreams. But the earth held his feet, and his steps were heavy on the grassy ground. He was obliged to pick his way painfully through the bushes—their foliage rustling and scratching along his clothes—their branches brushing across his face. Panting with weariness he had to climb the mossy slopes of the dunes. Yet he followed untiringly—his eye never turned from Windekind’s radiant apparition—from what was gleaming in the upraised hand.
There he was, in the middle of the dunes. The wild-roses, with their thousands of pale yellow cups, were blossoming in the glowing valleys, and gazing at the sunlight. And many other flowers were blooming there—bright blue, yellow, and purple. A sultry heat filled the little hollows, cherishing the fragrant herbs. Strong, resinous odors hung in the air. Johannes smelled them as he went—he smelled the wild thyme, and the dry reindeer-moss which crackled under his feet. It was intoxicatingly delightful.
And he saw mottled field-moths fluttering in front of the lovely image he was following; also little black and red butterflies, and the sand-eye—the merry little moth with satiny wings of the most delicate blue.
Golden beetles that live on the wild-rose whirred around his head, and big bumblebees danced and hummed all about in the dry, scorched grass. How delightful it was! How happy he would be if only he were with Windekind.
But Windekind swept farther and farther away. He followed breathlessly. The big, pale-leaved thorn-bushes held him back, and hurt him with their briars. The fuzzy, silvery torch-plants shook their tall heads as he pushed them aside from his course. He scrambled up the sandy barriers, and wounded his hands with the prickly broom.
He pushed on through the low birch-wood where the grass was knee-high, and the water-birds flew up from the little pools which glistened among the shrubs. Dense, white-flowered hawthorns mingled their fragrance with that of the birch-leaves and the mint, which grew in great profusion in the swampy soil.
But there came an end to woods, and verdure, and fragrant flowers. Only the singular, pale blue sea-holly, growing amid the sear, colorless heath-grass.
On the top of the last high swell of the dunes Johannes saw Windekind’s form. There was a blinding glitter from his upraised hand. Borne over from the other side by a cool breeze, a great, unceasing roar sounded mysteriously alluring. It was the sea. Johannes felt that he was nearing it, and he slowly climbed the last ascent. At the top, he fell on his knees and gazed upon the ocean.
As he got above the ridge, a rosy glow illumined him. The sunset clouds had drawn apart from the central light. Like a wide ring of welded blocks of stone, with glowing red edges, they surrounded the sinking sun. Upon the sea was a broad path of living, crimson fire—a flaming, sparkling path leading to the distant gates of heaven.
Behind the sun, which could not yet be looked upon—in the depths of the light-grotto—were exquisite tints of intermingled blue and rose. Outside, the whole wide sky was lighted up with blood-red streaks, and dashes and fleckings of streaming fire.
Johannes watched—until the sun’s disk touched the farthest end of that glowing path which led up to him.
Then he looked down, and very near was the bright form that he had followed. A boat, clear and glistening as crystal, drifted near the shore upon the broad, fiery way. At one end of the boat stood Windekind, alert and slender, with that golden object in his hand. At the other end, Johannes recognized the dark figure of Death.
“Windekind! Windekind!” cried Johannes. But as he approached the marvelous boat, he also looked toward the horizon. In the middle of the glowing space, surrounded by great fiery clouds, he saw a small, black figure. It grew larger and larger, and a man slowly drew near, calmly walking on the tossing fiery waters.
The glowing red waves rose and fell beneath his feet, but he walked tranquilly onward.
The man’s face was pale, and his eyes were dark and deep—deep as the eyes of Windekind; but there was an infinitely gentle melancholy in their look such as Johannes had never seen in any other eyes.
“Who are you?” asked Johannes. “Are you a man?”
“I am more,” was the reply.
“Art Thou Jesus—Art Thou God?” asked Johannes.
“Speak not those names!” said the figure. “They were holy and pure as sacerdotal robes, and precious as nourishing corn; yet they have become as husks before swine, and a jester’s garb for fools. Name them not, for their meaning has become perverted, their worship a mockery. Let him who would know me cast aside those names and listen to himself.”
“I know Thee! I know Thee!” said Johannes.
“It was I who made you weep for men, while yet you did not understand your tears. It was I who caused you to love before you knew the meaning of your love. I was with you and you saw me not—I stirred your soul and you knew me not.
“Why do I first see Thee now?”
“The eyes which behold Me must be brightened by many tears. And not for yourself alone, but for Me, must you weep. Then I will appear to you and you shall recognize in Me an old friend.”
“I know Thee! I recognized Thee! I want to be with Thee!”
Johannes stretched out his hands. But the man pointed to the glittering boat that was slowly drifting out upon the fiery path.
“Look!” said he; “that is the way to all you have longed for. There is no other. Without those two shall you not find it. Take your choice. There is the Great Light; there you would yourself be what you long to know. There!”—and he pointed to the dark East—“where human nature and its sorrows arc, there lies my way. Not that errant light which has misled you, but I, will be your guide. You know now. Take your choice.”
Then Johannes slowly turned away his eyes from Windekind’s beckoning figure, and reached out his hands to the serious man. And with his guide, he turned to meet the chill night wind, and to tread the dreary road to the great, dark town where humanity was, with all its misery.
Sometime I may tell you more about Little Johannes; but it will not be like a fairy tale.