Just then the angels were so near that Abbot Hans felt the feathery touch of their great wings, and he bowed down to earth in reverent greeting.
But when the lay brother’s words sounded, their song was hushed and the holy guests turned in flight. At the same time the light and the mild warmth vanished in unspeakable terror for the darkness and cold in a human heart. Darkness sank over the earth, like a coverlet; frost came, all the growths shriveled up; the animals and birds hastened away; the rushing of streams was hushed; the leaves dropped from the trees, rustling like rain.
Abbot Hans felt how his heart, which had but lately swelled with bliss, was now contracting with insufferable agony. “I can never outlive this,” thought he, “that the angels from heaven had been so close to me and were driven away; that they wanted to sing Christmas carols for me and were driven to flight.”
Then he remembered the flower he had promised Bishop Absalon, and at the last moment he fumbled among the leaves and moss to try to find a blossom. But he sensed how the ground under his fingers froze and how the white snow came gliding over the ground. Then his heart caused him even greater anguish. He could not rise, but fell prostrate on the ground and lay there.
When the robber folk and the lay brother had groped their way back to the cave, they missed Abbot Hans. They took brands with them and went out to search for him. They found him dead upon the coverlet of snow.
Then the lay brother began weeping and lamenting, for he understood that it was he who had killed Abbot Hans because he had dashed from him the cup of happiness which he had been thirsting to drain to its last drop.
When Abbot Hans had been carried down to Övid, those who took charge of the dead saw that he held his right hand locked tight around something which he must have grasped at the moment of death. When they finally got his hand opened, they found that the thing which he had held in such an iron grip was a pair of white root bulbs, which he had torn from among the moss and leaves.
When the lay brother who had accompanied Abbot Hans saw the bulbs, he took them and planted them in Abbot Hans’s herb garden.
He guarded them the whole year to see if any flower would spring from them. But in vain he waited through the spring, the summer, and the autumn. Finally, when winter had set in and all the leaves and the flowers were dead, he ceased caring for them.
But when Christmas Eve came again, he was so strongly reminded of Abbot Hans that he wandered out into the garden to think of him. And look! As he came to the spot where he had planted the bare root bulbs, he saw that from them had sprung flourishing green stalks, which bore beautiful flowers with silver white leaves.
He called out all the monks at Övid, and when they saw that this plant bloomed on Christmas Eve, when all the other growths were as if dead, they understood that this flower had in truth been plucked by Abbot Hans from the Christmas garden in Göinge Forest. Then the lay brother asked the monks if he might take a few blossoms to Bishop Absalon.
And when he appeared before Bishop Absalon, he gave him the flowers and said: “Abbot Hans sends you these. They are the flowers he promised to pick for you from the garden in Göinge Forest.”
When Bishop Absalon beheld the flowers, which had sprung from the earth in darkest winter, and heard the words, he turned as pale as if he had met a ghost. He sat in silence a moment; thereupon he said, “Abbot Hans has faithfully kept his word and I shall also keep mine.” And he ordered that a letter of ransom be drawn up for the wild robber who was outlawed and had been forced to live in the forest ever since his youth.
He handed the letter to the lay brother, who departed at once for the Robbers Cave. When he stepped in there on Christmas Day, the robber came toward him with axe uplifted. “I’d like to hack you monks into bits, as many as you are!” said he. “It must be your fault that Göinge Forest did not last night dress itself in Christmas bloom.”
“The fault is mine alone,” said the lay brother, “and I will gladly die for it; but first I must deliver a message from Abbot Hans.” And he drew forth the Bishop’s letter and told the man that he was free. “Hereafter you and your children shall play in the Christmas straw and celebrate your Christmas among people, just as Abbot Hans wished to have it,” said he.
Then Robber Father stood there pale and speechless, but Robber Mother said in his name, “Abbot Hans has indeed kept his word, and Robber Father will keep his.”
When the robber and his wife left the cave, the lay brother moved in and lived all alone in the forest, in constant meditation and prayer that his hard-heartedness might be forgiven him.
But Göinge Forest never again celebrated the hour of our Savior’s birth; and of all its glory, there lives today only the plant which Abbot Hans had plucked. It has been named the Christmas Rose. And each year at Christmastime she sends forth from the earth her green stalks and white blossoms, as if she never could forget that she had once grown in the great Christmas garden at Göinge Forest.
1908
THE BIRD CATCHERS
Hans Aanrud
IT IS THE MORNING BEFORE CHRISTMAS WITH CRACKLING COLD AND A sun like a large red disc sunk deep in the frost mist to the south. The valley is still dark and lies gray and cold under a smoke yellow fog, but the light is creeping down the steep, snow-covered sides of the mountain; the mist is melting, and overhead the sky is quite clear—the highest spruce tops in the horizon are touched with a faint, golden streak of sunlight.
Down there in the fog people are bustling about in last minute preparations for the holidays. On every path there are hurrying figures; at every yard the sound of chopping comes from the woodblock or the shed, as the Christmas fuel is piled up; huge baskets of hay are carried from hayloft to stable, and the sheaf for the birds—the best the granary affords—is raised on its pole. In front of the church the sexton is clearing a wider path than usual to the main door, and on the road a solitary sleigh bell tinkles where the doctor is driving homeward.
High above the church, in the shadow of the forest, lies a crofter’s low hut, almost hidden under the snow, its walls thickly bearded with frost, the light from a fire of dry twigs shooting up through the broad chimney. Two boys of thirteen or thereabouts are coming out of the door, sturdy little fellows, with their pointed caps pulled down to their eyebrows, their mittens pulled up, and their snow socks buttoned tightly around their knickerbockers.
They are the two mighty and inseparable hunters, Per of the farmhouse and Christian whose home is the crofter’s hut.
For a moment they stand still, and the eyes of both follow the road as it winds in a sinuous, slanting line upward along the fences until it is lost in a black hole in the forest.
“It isn’t going to be a good day for birds,” says Per, “it’s too clear overhead.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter today,” Christian replies.
“No, it doesn’t matter.”
They pass by the side of the house; each takes a pair of skis standing there by the wall, lays them across his shoulder and adjusts the staff slantwise under them.
“I suppose we’d better go for the grouse snares first.”
“Yes, and the hare traps. Let’s go up through the Lie pasture.”
They hunted birds together, Per and Christian, and bird catchers have their own special duty to perform on Christmas Eve. They were not out for an ordinary tour of inspection of their snares, and so were not keyed to the usual pitch of expectancy. On any other day they would have been sure of finding birds, though as a matter of fact they did not very often get anything; all they had ever caught was one white grouse and one heath cock, but that was only because birds were so awfully scarce this year, for there were not many bird catchers who could beat them at setting snares. Those intended for the grouse were hidden in the finest birch twigs, perfect thickets of them stretching for long distances; and in front of the enclosures meant to entice the larger birds the ground was swept as clean as the best room at home and garnished with fresh juniper that covered the snow fa
r and wide. The hare traps were so dainty that the hare must at least have worn spectacles to see them. So it was natural enough that under ordinary circumstances they expected to find at the very least a wood grouse or its mate at the beginning of their rounds, and they never quite lost hope of getting anyway a heath hen or a hazel grouse before they had passed the last thicket. The birds would have to come down into the forest some time!
But the trip today was altogether different, for they were out to take down their snares, large and small. At Christmas there must be peace even in the forest. Christmas brings peace to birds and running animals. Not a single snare must be set; even the sharp, brightly gleaming fox trap, they knew, had to bite a stick instead of a fox’s foot. And this was to last till the day after New Year’s. To be sure, there were people who did not set their snares again till after Twelfth Day, but there ought to be some sense in everything; on New Year’s Day the Yuletide was over, and it was nothing but papistical superstition about Twelfth Night Kari making her Christmas rounds at Twelfth Tide—so the schoolmaster had told them.
That was the reason why Per and Christian were plodding up through the pasture. It was steep, and they did not make much headway.
Hmm! Either that cap was mighty warm or else there was a change in the weather. At the edge of the forest Per stopped, pulled up his cap, and turned to look back: “Seems to me it smells like a thaw.”
Christian lifted from his scarf a nose blue with cold. “It always smells like a thaw in this hill, seems to me, but I guess a fellow can get along without mittens now.” He pulled off his mittens and stuffed them into his pocket.
They stood still a moment and looked down into the valley, where the frost mist still hung heavy. They could barely see the dark, slate-covered steeple of the church looking very long and thin where it rose from the mist. Daylight was steadily gaining ground on the shady side of the mountain, but after a while it turned into a woolly gray: the golden streak of sun along the top paled slowly; the sky lost its bright blue and sank heavily down to the spruce tops which seemed almost to pierce it.
Yes, the weather was turning.
“I think it’s going to be a good day for birds after all.”
“That would be just our luck—now we’ve got to take the snares down.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done about that.”
“No, there’s no help for it. If the birds do come down, though, maybe one or two of ’em will stay round till after New Year’s, but it’s a shame!”
They turned and presently had disappeared in the dark hole between the trees.
The forest was strangely dim and silent and bereft of life. Nothing living in sight—no trace of anything living. Even the squirrels lay still in their moss-lined nests, and the wood mice snuggled deep in their holes. Not a breath of wind stirred in the spruce standing stiff and stark under the frozen snow. Not a sound was heard except the soft, measured crunching under their feet. Involuntarily they began to step still more cautiously and cast timid glances into the dim vaults that opened under the branches of the trees.
This lasted a long time; it seemed as though the forest would never end. They drew a breath of relief when the trees parted above them and they could see the Lie pasture ahead. There they put on their skis and went in through the gate.
Here were signs of life in plenty—deep tracks where the hare had crisscrossed over the meadow and circled every bush. But now the footprints were almost obliterated by melting and frost, and there were no new marks; even the hare was probably shivering under the thickest brush.
Well, then it didn’t matter so much about taking down the hare traps.
First they went to the hayloft, where they had a double trap right in the door, and fastened up the noose carefully so as to leave the passage free. Now the hare could run in and out as much as he pleased. From there they went along the fence—they had a trap at every fence post—and did the same.
Let all go free at Christmas!
On they went straight across the high pasture to the edge of the mountain tarn, where low willows grew. There they had prepared enclosures for the grouse; almost invisible they were with every twig covered by thick, furry frost. It was not worthwhile to take them all apart—just a poke here and there with the ski staff was enough to make them collapse and the nooses drop down so that no grouse could possibly get his head into them. They walked along the thicket twice to make sure that not a single clump of brush was forgotten. No, everything was all right, and at that they started to go back the way they had come, down toward the edge of the forest.
They were headed for the big bird snares.
The silence no longer seemed so oppressive; they were getting used to it and no longer jumped whenever a mass of snow slid down from the branches of a spruce as they passed.
The sky was getting darker; the woolly gray color had spread all over it, and now and then a large, loose flake of snow came slowly sailing down through the air, but the fog had lifted—yes, the weather was turning. They hardly noticed it, for they were walking quickly, winding in and out among the spruce, in the direction of the part of the forest where the snares were set. They had no thought for anything except that the snares had to come down. Shouting and laughing, they leaped down the steepest places, tumbled and were buried in the drift, sprang up, shaking the heaviest snow from their caps, then pressed on again like snow men in the woods. Today there was no reason why they should be quiet.
Now there was only one enclosure left, the large one out on the knoll where they could look out over the valley. Usually they would take a roundabout way, but today they headed straight down.
Suddenly there was a loud rustling in the trees. A great blackbird flew up, circled out over the knoll on widespread wings against a gray sky, swung around again and swept back into the forest, leaving a broad black wake where it brushed the snow from the branches.
Both boys stood stock-still, almost crouching, their faces pale and tense, their eyes following the flight of the bird and staring at the point where it had vanished. Then they started as from a trance, looked at each other, but did not speak for a few moments. Involuntarily their eyes turned again to the black track through the forest.
When Per tried to speak, he drew in his breath till he almost choked on the words. “The devil!”
“It must have been a wood grouse.”
“If we’d come a minute sooner we might have caught it.”
“Maybe it’s broken the noose!”
They crept forward. All the tense caution of the woods had come over them again, and they advanced as stealthily as if there had been a bird in every bush. Ah, there were the tracks, like huge paws in the snow; there it had settled, had walked right up to the snare, but had flown up, apparently frightened, just at the moment when it was going to go in. The noose hung round and perfect—they surely had been near to catching it.
In their vexation they looked up at the sky and for the first time noticed that it was beginning to snow. So now it was going to be just the right kind of weather; now the big birds would come down.
“Isn’t that the darndest”—Per’s voice was trembling.
“That fellow will come back all right now he’s got a taste of the juniper,” said Christian.
“He sure will, and he won’t wait longer than till tomorrow either.”
“There isn’t a finer place in all the forest.”
They discussed the matter from every angle, went over the tracks again, beat the snow down from the nearest branches as if by accident, and shook the pine and juniper twigs in the thicket till they stood fresh and green; angrily they tore off a few handfuls of juniper needles and threw them, as if in spite, in the direction of the snare. The juniper needles looked very green and inviting as they lay there on the white snow.
After a few minutes of this, they paused, and looked down over the valley, where the thickly falling snow drifted down in light, feathery masses. Both were silent as though each were waiting for th
e other to say something.
Finally Per spoke. “Well, I suppose we’d better get started.”
Christian looked at him uncertainly. “Ye-es, I suppose we’d better. Do you want to go first?”
“No, you can go first.”
Christian still lingered as though waiting for something; then he dug his staff deep down in the snow, took a start, and slid rapidly down the hill.
Per waited a moment and stood looking back over his shoulder at the bird thicket. Ah, Christian was out of sight already; he had better get started too.
That last snare they forgot to take down.
“Strange how quiet Per is today,” said his mother in the afternoon. “Is anything the matter, Per?”
No, nothing was the matter.
Per went about looking pale and dejected; he could not settle down to anything, but glanced at the weather every few minutes.
It was getting milder, and the snow fell evenly and thickly. Now and then Per would start for his skis, but each time he put them back to the wall again.
At last, while the others were at their dinner, he seemed to take a sudden resolve. Noiselessly he took down his skis, fastened them to his feet, and started across the field. When he had got behind the fence where he could not be seen from the house, he turned up the mountain. It was too steep for skis, so he took them off and, holding one in each hand, used them as paddles; in this way he crawled up the mountain, leaving a deep track in the loose snow behind him. When he had gained the level of the crofter’s hut, he stopped and peeped over the fence.
He wondered if Christian had gone out; his skis were not in their usual place by the wall. Perhaps he had gone down to get something at the store. In that case Per could have spared himself this roundabout way. But it might be that Christian had taken his skis in only to bend them. It was just as well to be on the safe side and keep to the way where he could not be seen from the window.
A Very Scandinavian Christmas Page 7