Nothing more. But I understood that he wanted me to be brave and not lie there crying and screaming like a child, even though they took my Miramis away from me. I was a knight. I was no longer the Mio that built huts in the Garden of Roses and wandered over the hills on Greenfields Island playing the flute. I was a knight, a good knight, not one like Sir Kato. And a knight must be brave and not cry.
So I didn’t cry, although I saw the spies lead Miramis down to the lake and force him on a large black boat. I didn’t cry, but Miramis neighed as if they had whipped him. I didn’t cry when the spies took the oars and I heard the oars beating across the dark water. It sounded fainter and fainter, and I heard Miramis’s last desperate neigh far out on the lake, finally the boat disappeared from sight—but I didn’t cry. Because I was a knight.
Didn’t I cry? Yes, that’s just what I did. I lay there behind the rocks with my forehead against the hard ground and cried more than I had done in all my life. A good knight must speak the truth. And it was true that I cried. For Miramis’s sake. I cried and cried and when I thought of his faithful eyes, I cried even more. The Weaver had said that the hundred white horses wept tears of blood for the foal that was stolen. Maybe it was blood that I cried for Miramis too, who knows? It was so dark that I couldn’t see. My Miramis with the golden mane! He was gone, and I might never see him again.
Pompoo bent down and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t cry any more, Mio,” he said. “We must go see the Swordsmith. You need a sword.”
There were many more tears left in me, but I held them back. I took a deep breath. And we went to find the Swordsmith.
“Go through the Dead Forest,” Eno had said. But where was the Dead Forest?
“We must find the Swordsmith before night is over,” I said to Pompoo. “The darkness hides us from the spies. We must hurry through the Dead Forest tonight.”
We climbed back over the rocks to Eno’s cottage. It stood dark and silent, and no one moaned inside any longer. We went on through the night and at last we came to the Dead Forest. It was a forest where no wind whistled and no leaves rustled, because there were no little green leaves. There were only dead, black tree trunks with dead, gnarled, black branches.
“Now we’ve reached the Dead Forest,” said Pompoo as we walked between the trees.
“Yes, we’ve entered it,” I said, “but I don’t believe we’ll ever leave it.”
It was a forest to easily become lost in. It was the type of forest in dreams, where you walk and walk and never find the way out.
We held each other’s hands, Pompoo and I, as we walked through the Dead Forest, and we felt very small and lost. The dead trees stood so close, we could hardly move.
“If only the trees hadn’t grown so close together,” said Pompoo. “If only the darkness weren’t so black and we weren’t so small and alone!”
We walked and walked. Sometimes we heard voices far away. It was the spies that we heard. What Eno had said was probably true, that Sir Kato’s spies were everywhere. The entire Dead Forest was certainly full of them. And when we heard them far away among the trees, we stood so still, Pompoo and I, and hardly dared to breathe.
We walked and walked.
“The night is certainly long here in the Dead Forest,” said Pompoo. “But the way to the Swordsmith’s cave will certainly take even longer.”
“Pompoo, do you believe we’ll find him . . .” I began. But then I fell silent. I couldn’t say a word more, because toward us, from between the trees, came a line of black spies. They came straight toward us, and I knew it was the end. Pompoo saw them too, and he squeezed my hand so hard. They hadn’t seen us yet, but soon they would be upon us, and that would be the end. I would never get to fight Sir Kato. And tomorrow night Eno would hear two new birds wailing as they flew over the lake.
Closer and closer came the spies, and we stood there and waited and they still hadn’t found us. But then something strange happened. An old black tree trunk right next to us opened up, and I saw that it was hollow. Before I knew how it happened, we crept inside the hollow trunk, Pompoo and I, and sat there trembling like two baby birds hunted by the hawk. Now the spies were close to us and we heard what they said.
“I heard someone talking in the Dead Forest,” said one of them. “Who is speaking in the Dead Forest?”
“The enemy is among us,” said another. “It must be the enemy that speaks in the Dead Forest.”
“If the enemy is in the Dead Forest, we’ll find him soon,” said another. “Search! Search everywhere!”
We heard them searching and looking among the trees. We heard their furtive steps outside, and we crouched there, feeling so small and scared.
They looked and looked, but they didn’t find us. Their voices sounded farther and farther away. At last it was silent. The hollow tree had saved us.
Why had the tree saved us? I didn’t understand it. Was it because the entire Dead Forest hated Sir Kato and would gladly help the one who had come to fight him? Maybe this dead tree had once been a healthy young tree covered with small green leaves that rustled as the wind swept through its branches. Sir Kato’s evilness must have made them wither and die. I don’t think a tree can ever forgive someone who has killed its small green leaves. That’s probably why this tree wanted to help the one who had come to fight Sir Kato.
“Thank you, kind tree,” I said, as we crept out of the hollow trunk.
But the tree stood silent and dead and didn’t answer.
We walked and walked through the Dead Forest.
“Dawn is here,” said Pompoo, “and we haven’t found the Swordsmith’s cave.”
Yes, night was over. But the dawn wasn’t light and bright as it was at home. The dawn here was an ugly gray which was almost like the night. I remembered the sunrise at home on Greenfields Island when we rode on Miramis and the grass was wet with dew, so that every little blade glittered. I walked and thought of Miramis and almost forgot where I was. So I wasn’t at all surprised or frightened when I heard the sound of approaching hooves. “Here comes Miramis,” I thought. But Pompoo grabbed my arm and whispered, “Listen! The spies are riding through the Dead Forest.”
Then I knew the end had come. No one could save us now. Soon we would see the black spies coming from between the trees, and they would see us. They would come riding like the wind, and just bend down and seize us and throw us up on their horses and sweep on to Sir Kato’s castle. I would never get to fight him. And tomorrow night Eno would hear two new birds wailing as they flew over the lake.
This was the end. I knew it. Closer and closer came the hoofbeats. But then something strange happened. A hole in the ground opened before us, and I saw a burrow there. Before I knew how it happened, Pompoo and I crawled down in a crowded heap into the burrow, trembling like two baby rabbits hunted by the fox.
We were just in time. We heard hoofbeats coming closer. We heard the spies riding above us, right over our burrow. We heard the trampling of hooves, we heard the horses’ heavy feet thunder across the earth above our heads. A little bit of the dirt loosened and trickled down on us. And we crouched there feeling so small and scared.
But it became quiet. As quiet as if there weren’t any spies in the Dead Forest. We waited longer.
“I think we can crawl out now,” I said at last.
But just then we heard the horrible sound of hooves again. The spies were coming back. Once more the hooves thundered over our heads, and we heard the spies shouting and yelling. They jumped off their horses and sat down on the ground just outside the burrow. We could see them through the opening. They were so close we could’ve touched them. And we could hear them talking.
“Orders from Sir Kato that the enemy must be captured,” said one of them. “The enemy who rode on the white colt must be captured tonight. It’s Sir Kato’s command.”
“The enemy is in our midst,” said another, “and we’ll certainly capture him. Search! Search every-where!”
&n
bsp; They were sitting very close to us, speaking about how they would catch us. Dark and terrifying, they sat there in the sinister gray light, with all the dead trees around them and their black horses snapping wildly and stamping the ground.
“Search! Search everywhere!” said a spy. “What is that hole in the ground there?”
“A burrow,” said another. “Maybe the enemy is inside there. Search everywhere!”
Pompoo and I held each other tightly. This was the end, I knew it.
“I’ll prod with my spear,” said one of the spies. “If the enemy is in there I’ll pierce him with my spear.”
We saw a black spear coming through the entrance. We had crept as far back into the burrow as we could go. But the spear was long, the sharp point came closer and closer. The spear thrust and thrust. But it didn’t hit us. It hit the wall of the burrow between Pompoo and me, but it didn’t hit us.
“Search! Search the entire Dead Forest,” said the spies outside. “Orders from Sir Kato that the enemy must be caught. But he isn’t here. Search everywhere!”
So the spies mounted their black horses and rode away.
We were safe. The burrow had rescued us, and I wondered why. Was it because even the earth and the ground hated Sir Kato and would gladly help the one who had come to fight him? Maybe soft green grass had once grown on this ground, wet from the dew at dawn. Sir Kato’s evilness must have made it wither and die. I don’t believe the ground can ever forgive anyone who has killed the soft green grass that once grew there. That must be why the earth protected the one who had come to fight Sir Kato.
“Thank you, kind earth,” I said, when we left. But the earth didn’t answer. It lay silent, and the burrow was gone.
We walked and walked, and reached the end of the Dead Forest. Mountains and cliffs rose up in front of us. I felt hopeless. We had come back to the rocks around the Dead Lake. We felt so hopeless, Pompoo and I. It was no good going on. We would never find the Swordsmith. We had been walking through the Dead Forest for the whole night, and now we were back exactly where we had started. Eno’s cottage stood there, small and gray and shabby. It leaned against the cliff so it wouldn’t fall down. It was a tall, jet black cliff that it leaned against.
“This must be the blackest mountain in the world,” said Pompoo.
The blackest mountain—yes, of course that’s where the Swordsmith was supposed to have his cave! “The Deepest Cave in the Blackest Mountain,” Eno had said.
“Oh, Pompoo,” I began. “You’ll see . . .”
I stopped. And I knew that the end had come, because now a long, long line of black spies came storming out of the Dead Forest. Some came running, some came charging on black horses, and they all came straight toward us. They had seen us, and they shouted loudly with their horrible raspy voices.
“The enemy is in our midst. There he is! Capture him! Capture him! Orders from Sir Kato that the enemy must be caught.”
We stood there, Pompoo and I, with our backs against the cliff and we saw the spies coming closer and closer. Yes, the end had come! I would never fight Sir Kato. I became very sad. I wanted to lie down on the ground and cry. Tomorrow night Eno would hear a bird flying over the lake, a bird that wailed louder and more sorrowfully than all the others. And Eno would stand by his window, murmuring to himself, “Out there flies Prince Mio.”
The Deepest Cave in the Blackest Mountain
BUT THEN SOMETHING strange happened. The cliff we were pressing against gave way and before we knew how it happened, we were standing inside the mountain, Pompoo and I, trembling like two lambs hunted by the wolf.
We didn’t need to be scared. We were inside the mountain and the spies were outside. The cliff had closed, there was no opening. They could never catch us here. But we heard them raging outside.
“Search! Search everywhere!” they shouted. “The enemy was in our midst, but now he’s vanished. Search everywhere!”
“Yes, you search,” I said. “You’ll never find us here.”
We were so glad, Pompoo and I, and we laughed loudly inside the mountain. But I thought of Miramis and then I didn’t laugh anymore.
We looked around. We were in a big cave. It was dark, but not completely dark. We saw a faint light, but couldn’t tell where it came from. Many dark passages led from the cave farther into the mountain.
“In the Deepest Cave in the Blackest Mountain lives the Swordsmith,” Eno had said. Maybe one of the dark passages led to the Swordsmith, but which one? We didn’t know. We would probably have to walk for a long time before we found him.
“Well anyway, now we’re inside the Blackest Mountain,” said Pompoo.
“We’re definitely inside,” I said, “but I don’t think we’ll ever find the way out again.”
Because it was a mountain to easily become lost in, it was the kind of mountain you dream about sometimes. You walk and you walk in strange, dark passages and never find the way out.
Hand in hand Pompoo and I walked farther into the mountain. We felt so small and confused, and it was probably a long way to the Deepest Cave.
“If only the mountain weren’t so scary,” said Pompoo. “If only the passages weren’t so dark and if we weren’t so small and alone.”
We walked and walked. The passage divided. It branched out in every direction. A whole network of dark passages led into the mountain. Sometimes the faint light grew a bit stronger, so we could see a few yards in front of us, but sometimes it was so dark we couldn’t see anything at all. Sometimes the passage was so low that we couldn’t stand straight, sometimes the ceiling was as high as in a church. The mountain walls were damp with water, it was cold, and we wrapped our cloaks tighter around us so we wouldn’t freeze.
“Maybe we’ll never find the way out and never find the Swordsmith’s cave,” said Pompoo.
We were hungry and we ate a little of the Bread That Satisfies Hunger. We only ate a little, because we didn’t know how long it must last.
We continued walking while we ate. When I had finished my bread, we came to a place where the passage split into three different paths.
Water ran down the wall of the passage and I was thirsty. I stopped and drank the water. It didn’t taste good, but there wasn’t any other. When I was done I turned to Pompoo. But Pompoo wasn’t there. He was gone. Maybe he hadn’t noticed that I stopped for a drink and so he continued along one of the passages, thinking I was close behind him.
At first I wasn’t scared. I stood there at the fork and wondered which way Pompoo had gone. He couldn’t have gone more than a few steps, and all I had to do was shout to him.
“Pompoo, where are you?” I shouted as loudly as I could. But my cry only sounded like a ghostly whisper, I didn’t know what kind of strange mountain this was. The rock walls deadened the sound of my voice and silenced it, so that it became a whisper. And the whispers came back, the whispers echoed in the mountain.
“Pompoo, where are you?” whispered the dark passages. “Pompoo, where are you . . . Pompoo, where are you?”
Then I became so scared. I tried to scream even louder, but the mountain only kept on whispering. I couldn’t believe that it was my own voice I heard, but another’s. One who was sitting far inside the mountain and mocking me.
“Pompoo, where are you . . . Pompoo, where are you . . . Pompoo, where are you?” it whispered.
Oh! I became so scared! I rushed into the left passage and ran a few steps, then I rushed back to the fork and ran to the right, turned back again, and rushed into the middle passage. “Pompoo, which way have you gone?” I dared not shout, because the whispering was so awful. But I thought that Pompoo would know how terribly I missed him and wanted him to come back to me.
The passage divided again. There were new dark passages in every direction, and I ran here and there, looking and looking. I tried not to cry, because I was a knight. But I didn’t have the energy to be a knight just then. I thought of Pompoo running somewhere else on another path, so worried and calling to
me, and I laid down on the rough rocky floor and cried as much as when the spies took Miramis. Now I had no Miramis, and no Pompoo. I was all alone. I lay crying and regretting I had come here, and I didn’t know how my father the King could have ever wanted me to go off and fight Sir Kato. I wished my father the King were here so that I could talk to him.
“Look, I’m all alone,” I would have said. “Pompoo is gone and you know he’s my best friend now that I don’t have Ben any more. Now I don’t have Pompoo either. I am all alone and it’s only because you want me to fight Sir Kato.”
For the first time I almost thought that my father the King had been a little unfair wanting me to take such risks. But as I lay there crying it was like I really heard my father the King’s voice. I know it was my imagination, but I really thought I heard him.
“Mio, my son,” he said.
No more. But it sounded as if he meant there was nothing to be sad about. I thought that maybe I could find Pompoo, after all.
I rose up from the ground and something fell out of my pocket. It was the little wooden flute that Nonno had carved for me. My flute, that I had played around the campfire on Greenfields Island.
“I’ll play my flute,” I thought. “I’ll play the old melody that Nonno taught us.” I remembered what Pompoo and I had promised each other, “If we ever become separated, we’ll play the old melody.”
I put the flute to my mouth, but I hardly risked playing it. I was afraid nothing except an awful ghostly sound would come out, like when I shouted. But I thought I had to try. So I began to play the melody.
Oh! It sounded so clear! It sounded pure and clear and beautiful inside the dark mountain, almost better than it had on Greenfields Island.
I played the whole melody, and then I listened. From far, far away in the mountain clear notes came in reply. They sounded faint, but I knew it was Pompoo who answered me. I’ve never been so glad.
I kept on playing, and although I was so happy, I couldn’t stop crying. I went through the mountain, playing and crying a little. I only cried a little, little bit as I went through there and played, and I ran toward the sound of Pompoo’s flute. Sometimes it sounded closer, and I tried to follow the direction that the notes came from. Closer and closer it sounded. Clearer and clearer, louder and louder I heard the old melody from the other flute like mine. And right then Pompoo stood in front of me in the dark passage. I stretched out my hand and touched him. I laid my arm on his shoulder. I wanted to make sure that it was really him. And it was. It was my very best friend.
Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland, translated from the Swedish by Jill Morgan Page 6