Legends from River & Mountain

by Carmen Sylva; Alma Strettell

Now might it indeed have been thought that young Dietrich the third would avoid the fatal lake and river; but from the time he had lain, a rosy babe, in the oaken cradle, he had always been a merry, fearless little fellow, and the shadow that so long had darkened the cottage above the river seemed unable to touch him. He became a fisherman; and when the neighbours shook their heads meaningly, and reminded him that both his father and grandfather had perished in those waters, he would answer, with a cheery smile, that this was no reason why harm should befall him; the luck would turn the third time, he believed; and besides, he would know how to take care of himself, for his mother’s sake. There was no denying that he loved the water, and was successful in his calling, for the fish flocked to his nets as though they had been driven into them. He was fond of the different creatures that dwelt among the reedy banks—the water-fowl, the rats, and even the snakes—and many of them he tamed, so that they would come at his call. His delight was to sit idly rocking in his boat, as the twilight fell and the stars came out above the hill, and to listen to the rush of the river, and the mysterious sounds and calls that echoed across the lake. Then all sorts of strange fancies filled his mind, and amid the voices of the night, he thought he could hear one that called his name, in low, sweet tones, over and over again. This did not frighten him, but rather brought a throb of joy to his heart; and the voice at last grew familiar and dear to him, so that he missed it when storm and cold kept him away from the water for a while. The country-folk told tales, which his mother tried to keep from his ears, of how his grandfather had been driven distraught with terror by the voices that he had heard thus calling from the lake; and he wondered how this might be, and why such things should frighten one. At last he questioned his mother about it, and she replied quietly, for she was a cheery woman, and it was easy to see whence Dietrich got his sunny temper:

“’Tis true thy grandfather was a prey to his fears and fancies, my son, but methinks these fears were all in his own mind, and that nothing from without need have terrified him, if his spirit had but been firm and cheerful within. Thy father had something of the same sad temper, and so men said he too was bewitched; but I have this notion, that the water-folk would hurt none that did not first hurt themselves by their own timid mind. And so I have never withheld thee from the water, for I think thou art of different stuff from thy father, my boy.”

Dietrich nodded his head. “Thou art right, mother,” he said; “and perhaps these beings that call us are but as ourselves, and need our pity and our love.”

A few evenings after this, as he came home through the woods overhanging the river, he was aware of a rustling among the reeds and willows beneath him, and a voice—a voice that sounded strangely familiar to his ear—called from the water: “Ah, Dietrich, Dietrich, save me!”

He dashed down to the river’s brink, and, parting the boughs, saw through the dusk a lovely face gazing up at him—a face with a bloom upon it like a rose, and surrounded by tresses of red-gold hair, that had escaped the comb and floated far out upon the water. Two white hands clung to the branches above, and in an instant Dietrich had waded into the stream, and clasping the hands in his own, had drawn to a safe place upon the bank a slender maiden, who stood leaning against a tree, as she panted for breath and wrung the water-drops from her long tresses.

“Dietrich, I thank thee, for thou knowest no fear,” she presently said in the sweet, low tones that seemed so familiar.

“Fear!” rejoined the lad, with a laugh, though his voice trembled a little; “there was no time for that. What had to be done was to save thee from drowning.”

“Yet others have felt fear,” said the maiden, raising her deep, clear eyes to his. He could see them gleam through the deepening twilight, though he could but indistinctly make out her dress, which seemed rather different from that of the maidens he was wont to meet in the district.

“That is not the sort of fellow I am,” replied Dietrich, with a bold air; “it were strange if one should pause before giving a helping hand to any creature in need, let alone so fair a one as thou.”

He blushed as he spoke, and a strange fancy shot into his mind; but the maiden’s hapless plight, as she stood wringing the water from her garments, dismissed all other thoughts, and he continued: “Let me take thee quickly to my mother, who will dry thy garments and give thee shelter.”