The windfairies, and other tales

by Mary De Morgan

“Poor Othmar, poor Othmar!” croaked the raven who had kept close to Othmar, and flew overhead, but Hulda did not understand it, only she wept to see his grief.

“Never fear, Othmar,” she said tenderly, “your voice will soon come back; it was the long cold night, and the fear that has driven it away. Come home with me, and let me nurse you, and you shall soon be well.”

Othmar shook his head, and the tears fell from his eyes, but he let her take his hand and lead him into the village where his old mother sat and waited for him; but still, although she sprang forward to greet him, and put her arms around his neck, he could not speak, and his deep sobs gave no sound. At first the villagers said he was ill, and soon he would be well again, but as the days passed and he never spoke, they knew that he was struck dumb. Some said it was the cold, and some that he had been frightened; only Hulda said to herself, “it was the wicked little man.”

So the days passed, and Othmar remained silent and worked with the other young men of the village without speaking, and no longer could he sing or call the birds to him. Always he looked white and sad, but saddest of all when there was any village merry-making, and the villagers sang and danced together. Then when he heard them he would put his fingers in his ears and hide his eyes so as not to see them and run afar off by himself; for the sound of any music was quite horrible to him after the singing of the travelling musicians. So a year passed, and Othmar never spoke, and instead of calling him the bird-boy, the village people called him “dumb Othmar.”

It was midsummer-night, and the villagers had been having a merry-making and dancing cheerily on the green in the village. Othmar was not with them; he had left the village and went and sat apart on the top of a rocky hill, from where afar the sea could be seen when the weather was clear. The moon was wonderfully bright, and the country was almost as light as by day. Othmar could hear the sound of their laughter, but he never laughed, and as he sat with his head bowed upon his knees he wept silently. So he remained alone till far into the night when all the singing and dancing was done, and the villagers had gone home, but just when the clocks struck twelve he saw Hulda, who came slowly to him, and he saw that she too was crying.

“Othmar,” she said, “I have thought and thought, and I know that the little man with the fiddles was a wicked fairy.” Othmar nodded. “So I am going into the big world to find him, for if he has done you this ill he will know how to cure you, and I have saved all my money for a year.”

Then Othmar took her hand, and kissed it, but still wept, as he shook his head and made signs to her that she must not go, as it would be all in vain. But Hulda did not heed him.

“And now,” she said, “I am going, Othmar, and it may be long years before I return, so you must do three things. First, you must give me a long curl of your brown hair, that I may lay it next my heart and wear it day and night, not to forget you. Then you must kiss me on my lips to say good-bye; and then you must promise that my name shall be the first words your lips say when they again can speak.” Then Othmar took his knife and cut from his head the longest, brightest curl of his hair, and drew her to him and kissed her thrice upon the lips, and then he took her hand and with it wrote upon his lips her name, “Hulda,” as a promise that her name should be the first thing they said.

“Good-bye, Othmar,” she said; “you will wait for me.” Then she turned away and started alone to go down the mountain-side, and she looked back as she went and called back, “Good-bye, Othmar,” as long as he could see or hear her.

She went straight down the hill and journeyed for a long way, till the dawn began to show red in the sky, and she lay under a tree and slept soundly till the sun had risen and woke her.