Legend of the Hoppelberg
Many and mighty tribes, as the Wenden, Katten, and Sassen, once dwelt in the Harz. Bloody battles have been fought for the possession of this district, whose dense forests and impassable valleys afforded not only defence, but the pleasures of the chase.
We find proofs of their existence here in huge mounds filled with human skulls and bones, and in the names of some of her villages, as, for example, Dorf Kattenstedt.
These primeval mountaineers were most disturbed by a wild and powerful monastic tribe of giant size and strength, who frequently broke into the mountains, plundered their huts, murdered children, women, and old men, and led away the strong men into slavery.
Sometimes they only came in small numbers, but the terror of their name went before them, and caused the inhabitants, despite their peculiar bravery, without opposition, to flee into the ravines and caves, while the enemy took possession of all they could lay hands on.
One called these giant people the Huns. No other race possessed such immense size and terrible strength. They were held to be unconquerable, and mighty magicians. Nevertheless, it happened that once when a body of these giants broke into these mountains, the bravest of the inhabitants united in defence against them; clad in steel, with shield and spear, they marched to meet the advancing foe.
The Huns, surprised at opposition, and the sight of the huge weapons of the mountaineers, hesitated to begin the attack.
Then the king of the Huns came forward and cried in scorn, "Do you fear these dwarf figures? Tarry here; I alone will fight their whole army, which extends itself beyond our view. As the storm-wind breaks in pieces the trees of the mountains, so shall these fall before my strong arm."
He seized his lance and battle-axe, hurled his javelin into the thickest ranks of the enemy, his arrow to that point where their leader stood, and stormed after them down the hill like a rock suddenly broken from the mountain's side, crushing and destroying all on his way, defending himself against the cloud of arrows that met his advance with his huge shield.
His followers remained on the summit of the hill, and followed with flashing eyes their hero king, that they might be ready to hasten to his aid if in danger.
The crashing of his sword, as it rent helmet of oak and coat of mail resounded above the wild cry of the combatants and the clashing of shields.
Unceasing was his way through the ranks, and dying and maimed marked his path. At last he reached the spot where the commander stood surrounded by his braves, and here his progress was arrested.
Stubborn is the conflict, surrounded and shut in, his position seems terrible, and the onlooking Huns cry out, "Shall we hasten to his aid?"
And others answer, "No, no, he would be enraged if we deprived him of the glory of being the sole conqueror. But see! see! the enemy grows weak; now he totters, our king wields more quickly more mightily his arm! They sink! They fly! Victory! Victory! Great is the glory of our tribe, and of our mighty champion."
They raise the song of triumph and march to meet the royal conqueror, who leans upon his spear, and looks upon his advancing army without going forward to receive it.
He gives them a sign; they raise his helmet and loosen the coat of mail; and the hero sinks lifeless on his bloody shield.
Strong and deep is the sorrow of his people, and loud are the lamentations of woe.
At length one of the elders of the tribe exclaims, "Why do we lament the fallen? Is not death the destiny of all, and is there a more glorious death than that of the conqueror in the hour of victory? Let us make a grave for our king on the field of his victory, a grave that shall not only receive his ashes, but proclaim his victory to the most distant centuries."
And they did so. They made a funeral pile, and laid the victor, borne upon his shield, upon it, and the Huns formed a circle around the burning wood and sang the death-song, led by the bards.
"The people shall see their king no more. And the halls of his palace must remain for ever desolate. Never again shall the people hear his voice, but in their hearts he shall dwell for ever."
The flames grow less, the death-song ceases. In silence they gather the ashes in the sacred urn, lay the shield on the ground, the urn upon it, and his armour above it.
Many lay upon the sacred heap what is held most dear, hunting spear or battle-axe. And now the whole tribe sets hand to the work.
"We will build," they said, "a grave which neither man can destroy nor storms and tempests wash away."
And they heaped rock on rock, and levelled whole hills to the plain to pile up the giant grave to a giant king, and called it the Hero's Grave.
And that is the Sargberg, or Coffin mountain.