As he came nearer, he noticed a living b.u.t.terfly sitting on the forehead of the sculptured councillor. The b.u.t.terfly flapped its wings, and flew a little bit farther, and then returned fatigued to sit upon the grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there.
Four-leaved shamrocks grew there; there were seven specimens close to each other. When fortune comes, it comes in a heap. He plucked the shamrocks and put them in his pocket.
"Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be better still," thought the man; but he could not find it here.
And the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered with vapor. The moor-woman was at her brewing.
It was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon the sea, over the meadow, over moor and coast. The moon shone bright, a mist was over the meadow, making it look like a great lake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend tells--and in the moonlight the eye realizes these myths.
Then the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that William Tell and Holger Danske never really lived, but yet live in popular story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for such myths.
Yes, Holger Danske will return again!
As he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly against the window. Was it a bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not let in, even when they knock. The window flew open of itself, and an old woman looked in at the man.
"What"s your pleasure?" said he. "Who are you? You"re looking in at the first floor window. Are you standing on a ladder?"
"You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket," she replied.
"Indeed, you have seven, and one of them is a six-leaved one."
"Who are you?" asked the man again.
"The Moor-woman," she replied. "The Moor-woman who brews. I was at it. The bung was in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled it out in his mischief, and flung it up into the yard, where it beat against the window; and now the beer"s running out of the cask, and that won"t do good to anybody."
"Pray tell me some more!" said the man.
"Yes, wait a little," answered the Moor-woman. "I"ve something else to do just now." And she was gone.
The man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood before him again.
"Now it"s done," she said; "but I shall have half the beer to brew over again to-morrow, if the weather is suitable. Well, what have you to ask me? I"ve come back, for I always keep my word, and you have seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a six-leaved one. That inspires respect, for that"s an order that grows beside the sandy way; but that every one does not find. What have you to ask me? Don"t stand there like a ridiculous oaf, for I must go back again directly to my bung and my cask."
And the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the Moor-woman had met it in her journeyings.
"By the big brewing-vat!" exclaimed the woman, "haven"t you got stories enough? I really believe that most people have enough of them.
Here are other things to take notice of, other things to examine. Even the children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and the little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen to stories! No, indeed, there are more important things to be done here, and other things to notice!"
"What do you mean by that?" asked the man, "and what do you know of the world? You don"t see anything but frogs and Will-o"-the-Wisps!"
"Yes, beware of the Will-o"-the-Wisps," said the Moor-woman, "for they"re out--they"re let loose--that"s what we must talk about!
Come to me in the moor, where my presence is necessary, and I will tell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your seven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still fresh, and the moon stands high!"
And the Moor-woman was gone.
It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had died away, the man was out in the yard, out in the garden, and stood in the meadow. The mist had vanished, and the Moor-woman stopped her brewing.
"You"ve been a long time coming!" said the Moor-woman. "Witches get forward faster than men, and I"m glad that I belong to the witch folk!"
"What have you to say to me now?" asked the man. "Is it anything about the Story?"
"Can you never get beyond asking about that?" retorted the woman.
"Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?" resumed the man.
"Don"t get on your stilts," said the crone, "and I"ll answer you. You think of nothing but poetry, and only ask about that Story, as if she were the lady of the whole troop. She"s the oldest of us all, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I know her well. I"ve been young, too, and she"s no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty elf-maiden, and have danced in my time with the others in the moonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone into the forest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out there, running about. Sometimes she took up her night"s lodging in a half-blown tulip, or in a field flower; sometimes she would slip into the church, and wrap herself in the mourning c.r.a.pe that hung down from the candles on the altar."
"You are capitally well-informed," said the man.
"I ought at least to know as much as you," answered the Moor-woman. "Stories and poetry--yes, they"re like two yards of the same piece of stuff; they can go and lie down where they like, and one can brew all their prattle, and have it all the better and cheaper.
You shall have it from me for nothing. I have a whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. It makes essences; and that"s the best of it--bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything that people want of poetry, in bottles, so that I can put a little on my handkerchief, on holidays, to smell."
"Why, these are wonderful things that you"re telling!" said the man. "You have poetry in bottles?"
"More than you can require," said the woman. "I suppose you know the history of "the Girl who Trod on the Loaf, so that she might not soil her shoes"? That has been written, and printed too."
"I told that story myself," said the man.
"Yes, then you must know it; and you must know also that the girl sank into the earth directly, to the Moor-woman, just as Old Bogey"s grandmother was paying her morning visit to inspect the brewery. She saw the girl gliding down, and asked to have her as a remembrance of her visit, and got her too; while I received a present that"s of no use to me--a travelling druggist"s shop--a whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. Grandmother told me where the cupboard was to be placed, and there it"s standing still. Just look! You"ve your seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, one of which is a six-leaved one, and so you will be able to see it."
And really in the midst of the moor lay something like a great knotted block of alder, and that was the old grandmother"s cupboard.
The Moor-woman said that this was always open to her and to every one in the land, if they only knew where the cupboard stood. It could be opened either at the front or at the back, and at every side and corner--a perfect work of art, and yet only an old alder stump in appearance. The poets of all lands, and especially those of our own country, had been arranged here; the spirit of them had been extracted, refined, criticised and renovated, and then stored up in bottles. With what may be called great apt.i.tude, if it was not genius the grandmother had taken as it were the flavor of this and of that poet, and had added a little devilry, and then corked up the bottles for use during all future times.
"Pray let me see," said the man.
"Yes, but there are more important things to hear," replied the Moor-woman.
"But now we are at the cupboard!" said the man. And he looked in. "Here are bottles of all sizes. What is in this one? and what in that one yonder?"
"Here is what they call may-balm," replied the woman. "I have not tried it myself. But I have not yet told you the "more important" thing you were to hear. THE WILL-O"-THE-WISP"S IN THE TOWN!
That"s of much more consequence than poetry and stories. I ought, indeed, to hold my tongue; but there must be a necessity--a fate--a something that sticks in my throat, and that wants to come out. Take care, you mortals!"
"I don"t understand a word of all this!" cried the man.
"Be kind enough to seat yourself on that cupboard," she retorted, "but take care you don"t fall through and break the bottles--you know what"s inside of them. I must tell of the great event. It occurred no longer ago than the day before yesterday. It did not happen earlier.
It has now three hundred and sixty-three days to run about. I suppose you know how many days there are in a year?"
And this is what the Moor-woman told:
"There was a great commotion yesterday out here in the marsh!
There was a christening feast! A little Will-o"-the-Wisp was born here--in fact, twelve of them were born all together; and they have permission, if they choose to use it, to go abroad among men, and to move about and command among them, just as if they were born mortals. That was a great event in the marsh, and accordingly all the Will-o"-the-Wisps, male and female, went dancing like little lights across the moor. There are some of them of the dog species, but those are not worth mentioning. I sat there on the cupboard, and had all the twelve little new-born Will-o"-the-Wisps upon my lap. They shone like glow-worms; they already began to hop, and increased in size every moment, so that before a quarter of an hour had elapsed, each of them looked just as large as his father or his uncle. Now, it"s an old-established regulation and favor, that when the moon stands just as it did yesterday, and the wind blows just as it blew then, it is allowed and accorded to all Will-o"-the-Wisps--that is, to all those who are born at that minute of time--to become mortals, and individually to exert their power for the s.p.a.ce of one year.
"The Will-o"-the-Wisp may run about in the country and through the world, if it is not afraid of falling into the sea, or of being blown out by a heavy storm. It can enter into a person and speak for him, and make all the movements it pleases. The Will-o"-the-Wisp may take whatever form he likes, of man or woman, and can act in their spirit and in their disguise in such a way that he can effect whatever he wishes to do. But he must manage, in the course of the year, to lead three hundred and sixty-five people into a bad way, and in a grand style, too. To lead them away from the right and the truth; and then he reaches the highest point. Such a Will-o"-the-Wisp can attain to the honor of being a runner before the devil"s state coach; and then he"ll wear clothes of fiery yellow, and breathe forth flames out of his throat. That"s enough to make a simple Will-o"-the-Wisp smack his lips. But there"s some danger in this, and a great deal of work for a Will-o"-the-Wisp who aspires to play so distinguished a part. If the eyes of the man are opened to what he is, and if the man can then blow him away, it"s all over with him, and he must come back into the marsh; or if, before the year is up, the Will-o"-the-Wisp is seized with a longing to see his family, and so returns to it and gives the matter up, it is over with him likewise, and he can no longer burn clear, and soon becomes extinguished, and cannot be lit up again; and when the year has elapsed, and he has not led three hundred and sixty-five people away from the truth and from all that is grand and n.o.ble, he is condemned to be imprisoned in decayed wood, and to lie glimmering there, without being able to move; and that"s the most terrible punishment that can be inflicted on a lively Will-o"-the-Wisp.
"Now, all this I know, and all this I told to the twelve little Will-o"-the-Wisps whom I had on my lap, and who seemed quite crazy with joy.
"I told them that the safest and most convenient course was to give up the honor, and do nothing at all; but the little flames would not agree to this, and already fancied themselves clad in fiery yellow clothes, breathing flames from their throats.
""Stay with us," said some of the older ones.
""Carry on your sport with mortals," said the others.