“Jesus Christ!” she cried to him, and kissed the frog-child on her lap. At that moment the frog disappeared and Helga stood before her, as beautiful as ever; but kind and gentle as she had never been before. Helga kissed the hands of her foster mother and thanked her for all the love and care that she had given her. She blessed her for the thoughts that she had sown in her heart, which now bore fruit. The Viking woman said aloud, once more, the name of the “New God,” as people called him in the north: “Jesus Christ.” Helga became a great swan. She spread out her wings and flew away and the beat of her wings woke the sleeping woman.
As she opened her eyes, she heard still the sound of the feathered blows from her dream. She knew that now was the time that the storks flew south. She rose from her bed and walked outside to see them fly and wish them farewell. The air was filled with storks, flying in great circles; but in the yard by the well, where Helga had frightened her so often with her wild tricks, stood two swans. They looked at her and the dream was still real within her; she recalled how she had seen Helga change into a swan. Then she remembered the face of the young priest as she had seen it in her dream, and she felt a sudden joy that she could not explain.
The swans flapped their big wings and bent their slender necks as if they were greeting her. The Viking woman spread out her arms toward them and smiled, though tears ran from her eyes.
At that moment the last of the storks flew up. The whole sky resounded with the noise of their wings beating and the clatter of their bills.
“We won’t wait for the swans,” declared the mother stork. “If they want to come along it has to be now. We can’t wait any longer. I think it is very cozy to fly together in a family. The way the finches fly, males and females separately, is, in my eyes, indecent! And I don’t like the way the swans flap their wings. What formation do they fly in?”
“Everyone flies in his own manner,” said her husband patiently. “The swans fly in a slanted line, the cranes in a triangle, and the plover in a winding line, like a snake.”
“Don’t mention the word ‘snake’ while we are in the air,” admonished his wife. “It will awaken desires in the young ones that can’t be satisfied!”
“Are those the high mountains that I have heard about?” asked Helga, who was flying in her swanskin.
“They are thunder clouds drifting by underneath us,” answered the mother.
“What are those tall white clouds ahead?” Helga asked a little while later.
“They are the tops of the great mountains where the snow never melts,” said her mother; and they flew over the Alps and across the blue Mediterranean.
“Africa, Egypt!” Jubilantly the daughter of the Nile said the words as she, in the feathered dress of a swan, saw below her the yellow-white sandy coast of her home. The storks, too, flew faster when they saw it.
“I can smell the mud of the Nile and the frogs!” said the mother stork to her young ones who were seeing Egypt for the first time. “It tickles my stomach! Oh! You’ll see how good everything is going to taste! You will meet the marabou, cranes, and the ibis. They all belong to our family, but they are not nearly as handsome or beautiful as we are. They believe that they are something, especially the ibis, who has been spoiled by the Egyptians. They make a mummy out of him when he dies, and stuff him full of spices, so he won’t smell. I prefer stuffing myself with live frogs, and so will you, my children. Better a full stomach while one is alive than a lot of glory after one is dead. That is my opinion and I am always right!”
“Now the stork has come,” the servants said in the palace by the Nile.
On a couch covered by leopard skins their royal master lay, neither dead nor alive, waiting, hoping for the lotus flower from the north that would bring his health back to him. Into the great hall flew two white swans; they had come with the storks. They cast off their shiny feathers and there stood instead two beautiful women, as alike as two drops of dew. They bent over the withered shape of the old man on the couch, and as Helga touched her grandfather, blood flowed to his cheeks, his eyes gained luster again, and his lifeless limbs moved. He stood up, well and rejuvenated, and embraced his daughter and his grandchild, like a man happily greeting the dawn after a long dark dream.
There was great joy in the palace and in the storks’ nest, too; but in the latter it was mostly over the food: the place was swarming with frogs. While the learned and wise men quickly wrote down the story of the two princesses and the flower of health, which was such a blessing for the royal house and the whole country, the two storks told the story in their own way to their family and friends. But not before everyone had eaten their fill; after all, that was more important than listening to stories.
“Now you must become something,” whispered the mother stork to her husband. “You deserve a reward!”
“What should I become?” said her husband. “And what have I really done? It was nothing!”
“You have done more than anyone else. Without you and our youngsters, the princesses would never have seen Egypt again. I am sure you will become something! I think they will give you a doctor’s degree, and our children will inherit it, as will their children in turn. You already look like a doctor of philosophy—in my eyes!”
The learned and wise men developed the fundamental idea and moral that ran through the story: “Love breeds life!” It could be explained in several ways: “The warm sunlight was the Egyptian princess and she entered the darkness of the bog; in the meeting between light and dark—the latter being the bog king—the flower sprang …”
“I can’t remember it word for word,” said the father stork, who had been listening from the top of the roof to the learned and wise men discuss the matter, and now was telling about it at home in his nest. “Everything that was said was very complicated and so intelligent that they all were decorated immediately by the king. Even the cook got a medal, but I think that was because of the soup.”
“And what did you get?” asked his wife. “Don’t tell me they have forgotten the most important person of all, namely, you? The learned ones have only clattered their bills. But maybe they will remember you later?”
When night fell and the peace of sleep reigned over the house there was one who was still awake. It was not the stork who stood guard on one leg at his nest, for he was sleeping soundly. No, it was Helga who was not asleep; she was standing on the balcony of her room, looking up at the stars. They seemed so much clearer and brighter here than in the north, and yet they were the same. She thought about her foster mother, the Viking woman, who lived near the great bog. She remembered her sweet, gentle eyes and the tears they had shed over the wretched frog-child who had now become a princess and was standing in the warm night by the waters of the Nile and dreaming. She thought about how full of love that woman’s heart must have been, for her to be able to feel affection for a creature so miserable that when she wore a human shape she was an evil beast, and when she became an animal was ugly to look at and repulsive to touch. A bright star reminded her of how the wound in the dead priest’s head had glittered when they rode through the night. She thought of the words he had spoken on their first ride together, how he had talked of the origin of love and its greatest expression, which is the love of all living things.
So much had been given her, so much had she won, so much had she accomplished. Helga’s thoughts dwelled both day and night upon this great sum of her good fortune. She was like a child who quickly turns from the giver to the gift. She felt certain that even greater happiness would come, gifts even more splendid than the ones she had already received. Was she not fortune’s child for whom miracles had been performed? One day these feelings of exuberance became so overwhelming that she forgot the giver completely. The arrogance of youth possessed her, and her eyes sparkled with a wild courage. Suddenly she heard a great noise from the courtyard below her. She saw two ostriches running in circles around each other. She had never seen this animal before, this great bird, so plump and heavy with i
ts short wings that looked as though they had been clipped. She wondered whether some misfortune might have happened to it and asked someone why it looked like that. And she heard, for the first time, the old Egyptian legend about the ostrich.
Once he had been a very beautiful bird with big strong wings. One evening the other big birds of the forest had said to him: “Brother, should we not tomorrow—if God wills—fly down to the river to bathe and drink?”
And the ostrich had answered, “Yes, I will it!”
Next morning they flew high up in the sky toward the sun, which is the eye of God. Higher and higher they went. The ostrich flew faster and higher than all the others. Arrogantly he flew toward the light, trusting his own strength and not the Superior Being who had given it to him. He would not say “if God wills.” The chastising angel drew the veil from the fiery sun and the hot flames burned the wings of the ostrich. The wretched bird sank down to the earth. Never again would his wings carry him high up in the air. He and his kind were condemned to stay forever on the ground. Frightened, the ostrich runs in meaningless circles to remind us human beings to say, as we set out on a journey: “If God wills.”
Helga bent her head thoughtfully; then she looked down at the running bird. She sensed its fear and foolish joy in seeing its own shadow cast on the sunlit white wall. In her mind—in her soul—grave, serious thoughts struck root. A life so rich, so happy, had been won, what would the future bring? The best—“if God wills.”
In the early spring, when the storks got ready to fly north, Helga took a golden ring and scratched her name in it. She beckoned to the stork and he came. She asked the stork to take it to her foster mother, that the Viking woman might know that the child she had cared for was still alive and well, and had not forgotten her.
“It is uncomfortable,” said the stork who was wearing the ring around his neck, “but gold and honor one does not throw in the ditch. Now they will know, up there in the north, that the stork brings good luck.”
“You lay gold and I lay eggs,” said his wife, “but see if we get any thanks for it. I think it is humiliating!”
“But one has one’s good conscience, my dear!” answered her husband.
“You can’t hang that around your neck,” replied his wife. “And no one has ever grown fat on it.”
And away they flew!
The little nightingale that sang among the tamarisk bushes would soon be leaving for the north too. Near the wild bog, Helga had often heard it sing. She would send a message with it; the language of the birds she knew because she had once flown in a swanskin. She had kept in practice by talking to the storks and the swallows. The nightingale would surely understand her. She asked him to fly to the place in the forest in Jutland where the grave of branches and stones was, and there to sing a song and ask the other little birds to do the same.
And the nightingale flew; and so did time!
At harvest the eagle, from the top of a pyramid, saw a caravan of richly loaded camels traveling across the desert. Magnificently clad soldiers, on white Arabian horses, with pink soft muzzles and nostrils, and long manes and tails, guarded it. Important guests were coming. A royal prince from Arabia, who was as handsome as princes ought to be, was making his way to the royal palace.
The stork nests were empty, for the owners had not returned yet, but they were expected. And by chance and good fortune, they did arrive later that day. It was a day of festivity and joy. A wedding was to take place, and Helga was the bride. Clad in silk and jewels, she sat at the head of the table with her bridegroom, the young prince of Arabia. On one side of them sat Helga’s mother, and on the other her grandfather.
Helga was not looking at her bridegroom’s brown handsome face, nor did she notice his passionate glances. She was looking through the big window out at the night sky where the bright stars sparkled in the heavens.
Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of the beating of storks’ wings. Although the old stork couple were tired from their long flight and certainly deserved to rest, they flew first to the balcony of Helga’s room and perched there on the railing. They had already heard about the feast and knew in whose honor it was being held. They had also been told, as soon as they entered the country, that they had been depicted in a mural that told the story of Helga’s life.
“That was very thoughtful of them,” said the male stork.
“I don’t think it was so much,” disagreed his wife. “They could hardly have done less.”
Helga rose from the table and went to her balcony. She knew the storks would be there. Affectionately, she stroked their backs, and the old storks bent their necks. Their young children, who had come with them, felt themselves greatly honored.
Helga looked again up at the clear, star-filled sky. She saw a figure floating near her. It was the dead young priest. He had also wanted to see her on this her wedding day; he had come from paradise.
“The splendor, the glory, is far greater than anything found on this earth,” he said.
Helga pleaded so sweetly and so fervently—as she never before had begged for anything—to be allowed to look into paradise—if only for a moment, to see the face of God.
The young priest lifted her up into the glory which cannot be described, to see that which cannot be imagined. And she herself felt transformed so that the splendor which she saw before her was also within her.
“Now we must return,” said the young priest.
“Just one more glance,” begged Helga. “One short minute more.”
“We must return to the earth, all the guests are leaving,” he warned.
“One last glance, the very last!”
Helga was back on the balcony, but all the lights had been put out. The great hall was empty and the storks were gone. Where was her bridegroom? In three short minutes, everything had disappeared.
Frightened, Helga walked through the great hall into the smaller room next to it. There she found some strange foreign soldiers sleeping. She opened another door, which should have led to her own room, but now it led out into the garden. The sun was just rising. Three minutes and a whole night was gone!
She saw some storks and called to them in their own language. A male stork looked at her and came nearer.
“You speak our language,” he said, “but who are you and where do you come from?”
“It is me, it is Helga! Don’t you know me? We spoke together three minutes ago up on the balcony.”
“You are mistaken,” said the stork. “It must have been something you dreamed.”
“No! No!” protested Helga, and reminded him of the Viking hall near the great bog, and how he had brought her the swanskins.
The stork blinked with its eyes. “That is an old, old story. It happened so long ago that my great-great-great-grandmother was alive then. It is true that such a princess once lived here in Egypt, but she disappeared on her wedding night and never returned. It happened hundreds of years ago. You can read the story on the monument in the garden. There are pictures of swans and storks, and on top stands a statue of the princess herself.” Finally Helga understood what had happened and she fell on her knees.
The sun was ascending in the sky and its strong rays fell on the kneeling girl; and just as the rays of the sun in time past had changed the ugly frog into the beautiful princess, so did they now change Helga into one single beautiful ray of light, that shot upward to God.
Her body disappeared, became dust; and where she had knelt lay a withered lotus flower.
“That was a new ending to an old story,” said the male stork. “I hadn’t expected it, but I rather liked it.”
“I wonder what the children will think of it?” asked his wife.
“Yes, that is most important,” agreed her husband.
87
The Winners
The winner of the annual prize was to be announced; as a matter of fact, there were two prizes: a big one and a little one. They were awarded to those who ran the fastest, not in a sin
gle race, but for general, all-year-round running.
“I won the first prize,” declared the hare. “And it is only just; after all, I have both family and friends on the committee. But that the snail should be given the second prize, I think, is an insult.”
“No!” argued the fence post, who had witnessed the awards being presented. “One has to consider diligence, industry, and perseverance as well; several very sensible people have said that and I agree with them. It took the snail half a year to get across the threshold, and he broke his hipbone in the rush. He has lived for and thought about nothing else but his running and this race. Besides, he ran with his house on his back, which is very praiseworthy. That is why he was given second prize.”
“They might have thought of me,” interrupted the swallow. “No one is faster than I, and that both in forward flight and in turns. If there is someone, I have never seen him, and I have traveled far and wide.”
“Yes, that is what is the matter with you,” answered the fence post. “Always traveling, always ready to leave your country. You are not a patriot, you can’t be considered.”
“What if I stayed in the swamp all winter?” asked the swallow. “If I slept half the year, would I qualify then?”
“Get a signed certificate from the bog witch that you have slept half the year in your native land, and I promise you that you will be eligible next year.”
“I really think I deserved first prize, not second,” mumbled the snail. “Everyone knows that the hare only runs because he is such a coward. He is afraid of his own shadow! But I have made running into my occupation, my life’s work! And I have become an invalid in its service. If anyone should have won first prize, it should have been me! But I don’t make a fuss, I despise people who do.”