VII
It was, indeed, a real lion’s tail, and not a bed-cord.
Johannes and Wistik were now sitting on the very back of the mighty beast. Above them it was all dark, but out in front—away where the lion was looking—the daylight could be seen.
They let themselves down cautiously to the ground. They were in a large cave. Johannes saw streaks of water glistening along the rocky walls.
Gently as they tried to slip past the monster, he yet discovered them, and turned his shaggy head around, watching them distrustfully.
“He will not do anything,” said Wistik. And the lion looked at them as if they were a pair of flies, not worth eating up.
They passed on into the sharp sunlight outside, and, after several blinding moments, Johannes saw before him a wide-spread, glorious mountain view.
They were standing on the slope of a high, rocky mountain. Down below, they saw deep, verdant valleys, whence the sound of babbling brooks and waterfalls ascended.
In the distance was the dazzling, blinding glitter of sunshine upon a sea of deepest, darkest blue. They could see the strand, and every now and then it grew white with the combing surf. But there was no sound; it was too far away.
Overhead, the sky was clear, but Johannes could not see the face of the sun. It was very still all around, and the blue and white flowers among the rocks were motionless. Only the rushing of the water in the valleys could be heard.
“Now, Johannes, what do you say to this? It is more beautiful than the dunes, is it not?” said Wistik, nodding his head in complete satisfaction.
Johannes was enchanted at the sight of that vast expanse before him, with the rocks, the flowers, the ravines, and the sea.
“Oh, Wistik, where are we?” asked he, softly, enraptured with the view.
“My new cap came from here,” said Wistik.
Johannes looked at him. The pretty cap that had appeared black in the twilight proved to be bright red. It was a Phrygian cap.
“Phrygia?” asked Johannes, for he knew the name of those caps well.
“Maybe,” said Wistik. “Is not this a great find? And I know, too....” Here he spoke in whispers again, very importantly, behind the back of his hand, in Johannes’ ear: “Here they know something more about the little gold key, and the book, which we are both trying to find.”
“Is the book here?” asked Johannes.
“I do not know yet,” said Wistik, a trifle disturbed. “I did not say that, but the people know about it—that is certain.”
“Are there people here?”
“Certainly there are. Human beings, and elves, and all kinds of animals. And they know all about it.”
“Is Windekind here, too, Wistik?”
“I do not doubt it, Johannes, but I have not seen him yet. Shall we try to find him?”
“Oh, yes, Wistik! But how are we going to get down there? It is too steep. We shall break our necks.”
“No, indeed, if only you are not afraid. Just let yourself float. Then you will be all right.”
At first Johannes did not dare. He was wide awake, not dreaming; and if any one wide awake were to throw himself down from a high rock, he would meet his death. If one were dreaming, then nothing would happen. If only he could know, now, whether he was awake or dreaming!
“Come, Johannes, we have only a little time.”
Then he risked it, and let himself drift downward. And it was splendid—so comfortable! He floated gently down through the mild, still air, arms and legs moving as in swimming.
“Is it only a dream, then?” he asked, looking down attentively at the beautiful, blooming world below him.
“What do you mean?” asked Wistik. “You are Johannes, just the same, and what you see, Johannes sees. Your body lies asleep, in Vrede-best, at your aunt’s. But did you ever in the daytime see anything so distinct as this?”
“No,” said Johannes.
“Well, then, you can just as well call your Aunt Seréna and Vrede-best a dream—just as much as this.”
A large bird—an eagle—swept around in stately circles, spying at them with its sharp, fierce eyes.
Below, in the dark green of the valley, a small white temple, with its columns, was visible. Close beside it a mountain stream tumbled splashing down below. Still and straight as arrows, tall cypresses, with their pale grey trunks and black-green foliage, encircled it. A fine mist rose up from the splashing water, and, crowned with an exquisite arc of color, remained suspended amidst the glossy green myrtle and magnolia. Only where the water spattered did the leaves stir; elsewhere everything was motionless.
But over all rang the warbling and chattering of birds, from out the forest shade. Finches sang their fullest strains, and the thrushes fluted their changeful tune, untiringly.
But listen! That was not a bird! That was a more knowing, more cordial song; a melody that said something—something which Johannes could feel, like the words of a friend. It was a reed, played charmingly. No bird could sing like that.
“Oh, Wistik, who is playing? It is more lovely than blackbird or nightingale.”
“Pst!” said Wistik, opening his eyes wide. “That is only the flute, yet. By and by you will hear the singing.”
They sank down upon a mountain meadow, in a wide valley. The limpid, blue-green rivulet flowed through the sunny grass-plot, between blood-red anemones, yellow and white narcissi, and deep purple hyacinths. On both sides of it were thick, round azalea-bushes, entirely covered with fragrant, brick-red flowers. White butterflies were fluttering back and forth across it. On the other side rose tall laurel, myrtle, olive, and chestnut trees; and still higher the cedars and pines—half-way up the mountain wall of red-grey granite.
It was so still and peaceful and great blue dragon-flies with black wings were rocking on the yellow narcissus flowers nodding along the stream.
Then Johannes saw a fleeing deer, springing up from the sod in swift, sinewy leaps; then another, and another.
The flute-playing sounded close by, but now there was singing also. It came from a shady grove of chestnut trees, and echoed gloriously from mountain-side to mountain-side, while the brook maintained the rhythm with its purling, murmuring flow. The voices of men and women could be heard, vigorously strong and sweetly clear; and, intermingling with these somewhat rude shouts of joy, the high-pitched voices of children.
On they came, the people, a joyous, bright-colored procession. They all bore flowers—as wreaths upon their heads, as festoons in their hands or about their shoulders-flute-players, men, women, and children. And they themselves seemed living flowers, in their clear-colored, charming apparel. They all had abundant, curling hair which gleamed like dull gold in the sunshine, that tinted everything. Their limbs and faces were tanned by the sun, but when the folds of their garments fell aside, their bodies beneath them shone white as milk. The older ones kept step, with careful dignity; the children bore little baskets, with fruit, ribbons, and green branches; but the young men and maidens danced as they went, keeping the rhythm of the music in a way Johannes had never seen before. They swayed their bodies in a swinging movement, with little leaps; sometimes even standing still, in graceful postures, their arms alternately raised above their heads, their loosened garments flowing free, and again arranging themselves in charming folds.
And how beautiful they were! Not one, Johannes noted, old or young, who had not those noble, refined features, and those clear, ardent eyes, in which was to be found the deep meaning he was always seeking in human faces—that which made a person instantly his friend—that made him long to be cordial and intimate—that which he had first perceived in Windekind’s eyes, and that he missed so keenly in all those human faces among which he had had to live. That, they all had—man and woman, grey-haired one and little child.
“Oh, Wistik,” he whispered, so moved he could scarcely speak, “are they really human beings, and not elves? Can human beings be so beautiful? They are more beautiful than flowers—and much more beautiful than the animals. They are the most beautiful of all things in this world!”
“What did I tell you?” said Wistik, rubbing his little legs in his satisfaction. “Yes, human beings rank first in nature,—altogether first. But until now we have had to do with the wrong ones—the trash, Johannes—the refuse. The right ones are not so bad. I have always told you that.”
Johannes did not remember about it, but would not contradict his friend. He only hoped that those dear and charming people would come to him, recognize him as their comrade, and receive him as one of them. That would make him very happy; he would love the people truly, and be proud of his human nature.
But the splendid train drew near, and passed on, without his having been observed by any one; and Johannes also heard them singing in a strange, unintelligible language.
“May I not speak to them?” he asked, anxiously. “Would they understand me?”
“Indeed, no!” said Wistik, indignantly. “What are you thinking about? This is not a fairy tale nor a dream. This is real—altogether real.”
“Then shall I have to go hack again to Aunt Seréna, and Daatje, and the dominie?”
“Yes, to be sure!” said Wistik, in confusion.
“And the little key, and the book, and Windekind?”
“We can still be seeking them.”
“That is always the way with you!” said Johannes, bitterly. “You promise something wonderful, and the end is always a disappointment.”
“I cannot help that,” said Wistik.
They went farther, both of them silent and somewhat discouraged. Then they came to human habitations amid the verdure. They were simple structures of dark wood and white stone, artistically decorated and colored. Vines were growing against the pillars, and from the roofs hung the branches of a strange, thickly leaved plant having red flowers, so that the walls looked as if they were bleeding. Birds were everywhere making their nests, and little golden statues could be seen resting in marble niches. There were no doors nor barriers—only here and there a heavy, many-colored rug hanging before an entrance. It seemed very silent and lonely there, for everybody was away; yet nothing was locked up, nor concealed. An exquisite perfume was smoldering in bronze basins in front of the houses, and columns of blue smoke coiled gently up into the still air.
Then they ventured farther into the forest that lay behind the houses. It was dusky twilight there, and all was solemnly and mysteriously silent. The moss grew thick upon the massive rocks between which the mighty chestnut and cedar trees took root. Foaming rivulets were flowing down; and frequently it seemed to Johannes as if he saw some creature—a deer or other animal—peep at him, and then dart away between the tree-trunks. “What are they? Deer?” asked Johannes.
“Indeed, no!” said Wistik, lifting a finger. “Only listen! They are laughing. Deer do not laugh.”
Truly, Johannes heard every now and then, as he saw a figure disappear in the twilight of the woods, a soft peal of laughter—clearly, human laughter.
“Now! now we are going to see him!” said Wistik.
“Who?” asked Johannes.
“Pst!” said Wistik, very mysteriously, pointing toward an open place in the forest.
Johannes saw there such a pretty and captivating spectacle that he stood speechless, with only a light laugh of joy and amazement.
The forest was more open there, and the sun shone in upon a grassy, flower-covered spot. In the centre stood a single, extraordinarily large chestnut tree. About its foot, bordered with white narcissi, a little stream of purest water was winding. On every side tall rhododendrons stood out in all their beauty of dark foliage, and hundreds of hemispherical clusters of purple flowers.
At the foot of the tree, in the shade of its leaves, a strange figure, dark and shaggy, was sitting in a circle of exquisite, fair-skinned beings. Johannes did not know what to think of them, they were so light and so delicate. And they lay in all sorts of graceful attitudes amid the tall grass and the narcissus flowers. They seemed to be human beings, but they were so small; and they were as white as the foam of the brook. Their long hair was so feathery light, it seemed to float about their heads in the motionless air.
In the centre sat the dark, shaggy figure, with his arms upon his knees, and his hands extended. He had a long, grey beard, an old, wrinkled, friendly face, large gold earrings, a wreath of leaves upon his head, a red flower-festoon adorned with living yellow butterflies about his shoulders, bare, brown arms, a deep, broad, hairy chest, and legs entirely covered with a growth of red-brown fleece. On each hand rested a bird—a finch—and each bird sang, in turn, his longest strain. Then the old figure laughed, and nodded his approval, and the fair little beings joined in the laugh. On his shoulder sat a squirrel, shucking chestnuts so that the shells fell upon his beard.
“Oh, Wistik!” cried Johannes, half laughing, half crying, with rapture, “I know who that is—I know him. That is Pan—Father Pan!”
“Very likely!” said Wistik, with a knowing look. “Now he will listen to us. Let’s try!”
Diffidently, Johannes went nearer. At the first step he took in the open space, the little white nymphs sped apart in a trice—as swiftly and softly as if they had been turned into newts—and there was nothing to be heard save their light, mocking laughter, and a slight rustling in the dark shadow of the rhododendrons. The two finches flew away and the yellow butterflies, also, from their flower-festoon; and the squirrel shot into the tree—his little nails clattering as he went. But Pan remained sitting, with head bent forward, down-dropping hands, and peering, friendly eyes.
“I know you all right!” came from the wide mouth of Pan, while he nodded to Johannes, and looked at him with his large head a little to one side.
“Oh, Father Pan!” exclaimed Johannes, quivering with awe and suspense, “do you know me? Will you answer me? Tell me where we are, then!”
Continuing to nod in a quieting, affable manner, Pan replied: “Phrygia! Golden Era—to be sure!”
“And do you know Wistik, too? And Windekind? And do you know about the little key, and the book?”
“Wistik? Certainly! Would that I knew all, though!—You know how to ask questions, Vraagal. Know-all and Ask-all! A pretty pair you are!”
And Pan laughed heartily, showing his great white teeth in an astonishingly large mouth.
“But tell me, Father Pan! Who is Windekind?”
“My dearest dear! My darling, clever little son! That is who he is. We are two yolks of one egg, although I am old, rough, and shaggy, and he is sleek, and fine, and beautiful.”
“Shall I ever see him again?”
“Why not? He comes here often; and you also like it here, do you not?”
“But Wistik said I could not stay.”
“You cannot do so—now; but why could you not come back again sometime?”
“Could I?”
Pan’s face took on a most amused, astonished look, and he puffed out his cheeks.
“You dear little Vraagal! Give me your hand.” Johannes laid his small hand trustfully in the broad open palm. The large hand was dark and shaggy on the outside, but white, and smooth, and firm on the inside. “Do you not know that yet? Then let Father Pan make you happy with a word. Do not forget it, mind! Vraagal can do whatever he wills to do—everything—if he will only be patient! But tell me now,—how did you know me?”
“I have seen statues and engravings of you.”
“Do I look like them?”
“No!” said Johannes. “I think you are much nicer. In the prints you look like the Devil.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Pan, raising his heavy hands above his head, and clapping them together. “That is who I am, Vraagal. They have made a devil of me, so as to drive people away. But do you believe, now, that I am bad? Give me your paddy again! And now the other one!”
This time Johannes laid both his own in Pan’s two giant hands, and said: “I know who you are. You are good. You are Nature!”
“Hold your tongue, little hypocrite, with your conceited platitudes! Are you not ashamed of yourself?”
Johannes blushed deeply; tears fell from his eyes, and he wished he could sink out of sight. But Pan drew him up closer and stroked his cheek.
“Now, do not cry! It is not so bad. You have come, too, out of a dreary nest. I am not evil—neither is Wistik. Only trust us.”
“I have told him that, too,” said Wistik, earnestly and emphatically.
“Little Vraagal,” continued Pan, looking very serious, “there is, indeed, an evil Devil, but he is far more ugly than I am. Is it not so, Wistik? You know him. Is he not much uglier? Tell us!”
Johannes never forgot the look on Wistik’s face as Father Pan asked him this in a loud voice, with a keen, serious regard. The little fellow grew as pale as death, his mouth dropped open, he pressed both hands upon his stomach, and from his trembling lips came the almost inaudible word: “Horrible!”
“Oh, indeed!” said Pan. “Well, I am not that. Sometime Wistik must point him out to you. He looks much more like those foolish people you have just come from than like me.”
“Aunt Seréna?” asked Johannes, astounded. “Is she, then, not good and first-rate? Is she a foolish person?”
“Now, now, you dear little Vraagal!” said Pan, in palliation. “Everything is relative. But it is a fact that she looks more like the Devil than I do.”
“How can that be?” asked Johannes, in amazement.
Pan grew a little impatient. “Does that puzzle you? Then ask her to show you the little tree she has in her safe, with the golden apples growing on it. Do not forget!”
“Good, good!” shouted Wistik, clapping his hands with delight.
At this moment there came suddenly from the distance an alarming sound—a short, hoarse, resounding roar that echoed through the forest.
“The lion!” cried Wistik; and away he went, as fast as he could run.
Johannes also was greatly frightened. He knew it was time to leave, but he would not go quite yet. He asked, imploringly:
“Father Pan, shall I find the book?”
“Remember what I said to you,” replied Pan. “Vraagal can do what Vraagal wills to do. To will is to do. But it must be the right sort of will.”
Again that frightful roar resounded, this time much nearer. Johannes stretched out his hand, hesitating between his mounting fears, and his desire to make use of an instant more.
“One more question!” he cried. “Who is Markus?”
At that, he saw Pan’s eyes distend, and stare at him with a look full of intense emotion. He seemed as fiercely sorrowful as a wounded animal; and, until now, Johannes had not observed what beautiful great eyes he had. He lifted up his outspread hands—then covered his face with them, and began to weep and wail, loudly. The air grew dense and dark, and a heavy shower descended.
Then, for the third time, the lion roared....