Chapter Nine: The Philosopher’s Stone
But he walked back and forth, here and there, his hair grew gray, his legs became unsteady. He went from land to land, and yet he never found the Philosopher’s Stone. So another nine years passed, when one evening, like he did every night, he went to a public inn. Krahirius cleaned his glasses as usual and then hopped into the kitchen to beg for his supper. Hinzelmeier went into the room and leaned his staff on the corner of the tiled stove, then sat still and tired in the big armchair. The innkeeper put a jug of wine in front of him and said gently, “You seem tired, my dear. Drink. It will make you stronger.”
“Yeah,” said Hinzelmeier and grabbed the bottle with both of his hands, “very tired. I’ve been walking for a very long time. He closed his eyes and took a thirsty gulp from the wine bottle.
“If you’re the master of the bird, as I believe, you have been inquired about,” said the host. “What is your name, dear sir?”
“My name is Hinzelmeier.”
“Now,” said the host, “your grandson, the husband of the beautiful Mrs. Abel, I know quite well.”
“That’s my father,” said Hinzelmeier, “and the beautiful Mrs. Abel is my mother.”
The host shrugged his shoulders and while he turned himself back toward the tavern, he said, “The poor man has become childish.”
Hinzelmeier let his head sink on his chest and inquired who asked after him.
“It was only a poor wench,” said the host, “she wore a white dress and walked on bare feet.” Then Hinzelmeier smiled and said softly, “That was the Rose maiden. Now it will soon be better. Where did she go?”
“It seemed to be a flower girl,” said the host. “If you want to talk to her, she’ll be easy to find on the street corners.”
“I must sleep a little while,” said Hinzelmeier. “Give me a room and when the cock crows, knock on my door.”
The host gave him a room, and Hinzelmeier lied down to rest. He dreamed of his beautiful mother. He smiled. She spoke to him in a dream. Then Krahirius flew through the open window and sat at his head on the bed. He bristled his black feathers and picked the glasses off his beak with his claws. Then he stood motionless on one leg and looked down at the sleeping man. He dreamed, and his mother said to him, “Don’t forget the rose.” The sleeper quietly nodded his head, but the raven let the glasses fall on his nose.
He dreams thus changed. His sunken cheeks began to twitch, he stretched out long and began to groan. So came the night.
When at the first light the cock had crowed, the host knocked on the bedroom door. Krahirius stretched his wings and plucked his coat of feathers into order. Then he screamed, “Krahira! Krahira!” Hinzelmeier sat up with difficulty and looked around him. He saw through the glasses that sat on his nose out the bedroom door to a wide, deserted field, then further on to a gradually rising hill. On this, under the trunk of an old willow, lay a gray, flat stone. The area was deserted, no person within sight.
“That is the Philosopher’s Stone!” said Hinzelmeier to himself. “At last, at last will it become mine!”
He hastily threw on his clothes, took his staff and knapsack, and walked out the door. Krahirius flew at his head, clapping with his beak and flying summersaults in the air. Thus they wandered several hours. At last they seemed closer to their goal, but Hinzelmeier was exhausted, his chest panted, the sweat dripped from his white hair, he stood still and leaned on his staff. There came from far away, behind him, at quite a distance, almost like a dream, a song to him:
Rinke, ranke, rosy light!
Don’t let it out of sight!
Hold it fast, hold it tight!
Rinke, ranke, rosy light!
It spun like a golden net around him. He let his head sink on his chest, but Krahirius screamed, “Krahira! Krahira!” The song was forgotten, and as Hinzelmeier opened his eyes he stood at the foot of the hill.
“Just a little while yet,” he said to himself and let his tired feet walk again. But as he looked at all the great, wide stone nearby he thought, “You’ll never be able to lift it.”
At last they reached the top. Krahirius flew forward with outstretched wings and settled on the tree trunk. Hinzelmeier tottered trembling behind. As he reached the tree he collapsed, the staff slipped out of his hand, and his head fell back on the stone. But at the same moment the glasses fell of his nose. He saw deep on the horizon, on the edge of the deserted plain that he had wandered, the white figure of the rose maiden, and once more he heard from the far distance:
Rinke – ranke – rosy light.
He wanted to get up, but he was no longer capable of that. He outstretched his arms, but a chill ran down his limbs. The sky became grayer and grayer, the snow began to fall, flake by flake, it shimmered and sparkled and drew a white veil between him and the distant, misty figure. He dropped his arms, his eyes fell, and his breathing stopped. On the willow stump to his head the raven put his beak under the cover of its wing to sleep. The snow fell over them both.
The night came, and after the night came morning, and with the morning came the sun that melted away the snow, and with the sun came the rose maiden, who loosened her braids, knelt beside the dead so that her blond hair completely covered his pale face, and cried until the day passed. But when the sun went out, the raven cooed in her sleep and rustled its feathers. The delicate shape of the maiden straightened on the ground, she grabbed the raven by the wings with her white hand and threw him into the air. As he croaked and flew into the gray sky, she planted the red rose at the stone and sang:
Now sink your root with all your might,
Now throw your leaves over the gravesite,
And if the wind sings in the twilight,
Then speak a word to coming night,
With rinke, ranke, rosy light.
Then she tore her white dress from the hem to the waist and went back to perpetual confinement in the rose garden.
Fairy Tales & Ghost Stories by Theodor Storm Page 11