The Fairy Tales of Hermann Hesse (18 page)

But some people laughed throughout and clapped their hands and shouted, “Get them away!” even before the words of the learned man came to an end and the pictures were extinguished.

As we listened attentively, we learned that not even birth and death needed special symbols any longer, nor did love, envy, hate, or
anger, for humankind had recently tired of all these gods and realized that individual forces and qualities did not exist in the souls of human beings or in the depths of the earth and sea. Rather, there was only a primordial force, and the next great task of the human mind was to explore this essence.

Meanwhile, the hall had become dimmer and darker, and I was not certain whether it was due to the extinguishing of the pictures or to other reasons unknown to me. Whatever the cause was, I realized that the pure and eternal source of all things would not be illuminated in this temple, and I decided to flee this house in search of brighter places.

But before I was able to act on my decision, I saw the twilight in the hall become even more dismal, and the people grew restless and began to shout and push by each other as sheep do when a storm suddenly erupts and scares them. Nobody desired to listen to the words of the wise man anymore. The crowd was overcome by a terrible fear and became frantic. I heard sighs and cries and saw people forcing their way to the gates. The air became full of dust and as thick as brimstone. It was completely gloomy, but behind the high windows one could see a turbulent glow and a dim red flicker as in a fire.

I lost consciousness. I lay on the ground. Numerous people fled and stepped on me.

When I woke up and straightened myself out with my bloodied hands, I was completely alone in an empty and destroyed building, whose walls were falling and splitting apart and threatening to collapse on me. In the distance I heard noise and thunder and random sounds roaring faintly. The air that beamed through the broken walls vibrated from fires as if from a painful bleeding visage. But the suffocating gloom had vanished.

As I crawled out of the ruined temple of knowledge, I saw half the city standing in flames and the dark sky fluttering through fiery columns and trails of smoke. Dead people lay here and there in the rubble of the buildings. It was quiet all around me, although I could detect the crackling and the whispering of the distant sea of flames. And beyond it I heard a wild and dreadful howling that came from very far away, as if all the people of the earth had raised their voices in an endless cry or sob.

The world was sinking, and I was hardly surprised. It was as if I had been waiting for this a long time.

Now I saw a boy coming out of the middle of the flames and the collapsing city. He had his hands in his pockets and skipped and danced from one foot to the next. He seemed resilient and full of life. Suddenly he stood still and whistled in a particular way. It was our friendship whistle from my high school days, and the boy was my friend Gustav, who later shot himself as a university student. All of a sudden, I was like him and once again a boy of twelve, and the burning city and distant thunder and roaring and howling storm from all the corners of the world sounded wonderfully delightful to our alert ears. Oh, now everything was good, and the dark nightmare in which I had been living for so many desperate years went away and sank out of sight.

With a laugh, Gustav pointed to a castle and a high tower that had just collapsed against each other. May that junk collapse! It was no real loss. One could build new and more beautiful things. Thank God that Gustav was there again! Now life had meaning once more.

Just then, an enormous figure freed itself from a gigantic cloud that had arisen over the collapse of the majestic building. Full of expectation, we both stared at it in silence. Slowly the head of a god,
along with gigantic arms, stretched itself up into the air, and the figure stepped triumphantly into the smoke-filled world. It was the god of war, exactly as I had seen him depicted in the temple of knowledge. But he was alive and enormously large, and his flaming, illuminated face smiled proudly, like a boy who was in good spirits. Right away, without saying a word, we agreed to follow him, and we pursued him as if we were on wings, flying rapidly and tempestuously above the burning city in the wide fluttering stormy night as our hearts pounded in excitement.

The god of war stopped on the peak of the mountain. He was jubilant and shook his round shield—and behold, in the distance large holy figures raised themselves from all edges of the circle of the earth and came toward him. They were tremendous and glorious, those gods and goddesses, demons and demigods. The god of love came floating, and the god of sleep came tumbling, and the goddess of hunting was slender and severe. They kept coming, with no end in sight. And since I was blinded by their noble figures, I lowered my eyes, and soon I realized that I was no longer alone with my dear friend. All around us stood a new kind of people, and together we bowed on our knees before the gods who were returning home.

I
n one of the southern provinces of our beautiful planet there was a horrible catastrophe. An earthquake, accompanied by terrible thunderstorms and floods, caused great destruction to three large villages and all their gardens, fields, forests, and farms. Many people and animals were killed, and saddest of all, the villagers lacked enough flowers to make wreaths for the dead and adorn their graves in the appropriate way.

Of course, the people took care of everything else that had to be done. Immediately after the horrible event, messengers rushed through the neighboring regions carrying pleas for aid and charity, and from all the towers of the entire province, chanters could be heard singing those stirring and deeply touching verses known for ages as the “Salutation to the Goddess of Compassion.” It was
impossible for anyone listening to these chants to resist them. Large groups of rescuers and helpers came right away from all the towns and cities, and those unfortunate people who had lost the roofs over their heads were overwhelmed by kind invitations and took refuge in the dwellings of relatives, friends, and strangers. Food and clothes, wagons and horses, tools, stones, and wood, and many other useful things were brought from all over. The old men, women, and children were comforted, consoled, and led away to shelters by kindly hands. The injured were carefully washed and bandaged. And while some people were still searching for victims of the quake under the ruins, others had already begun to clear away the fallen roofs, to prop up the wobbly walls with beams, and to prepare everything necessary for the quick reconstruction of the villages. Still, a cloud of horror from the accident hung in the air, and the dead were a reminder to everyone that this was a time of mourning and austere silence. Yet a joyful readiness and a certain vibrant festive mood could also be detected in all the faces and voices of the people, for they were inspired by their common action and zeal and the certainty that they were all doing something unusual and necessary, something beautiful and deserving of thanks. Initially people had worked in silence and awe, but cheerful voices and the soft sounds of singing could soon be heard here and there. As one might well imagine, two ancient proverbs were among the favorites that were sung: “Blessed are those who bring help to those who have recently been overcome by need. Don’t they drink the good deed as a parched garden drinks the first rainfall, and shouldn’t they respond with flowers of gratitude?” and “The serenity of God flows from common action.”

However, it was just then that they discovered they did not have enough flowers for the burials. To be sure, the first dead bodies to be
found had been buried and adorned with flowers and branches gathered from the destroyed gardens. Then the people began fetching all the flowers in the vicinity. But as luck would have it, they were in a special dilemma because the three destroyed villages had been the ones with the largest and most beautiful gardens of flowers during this time of year. It was here that visitors came each year to see the narcissus and crocuses because they could not be found anywhere else in such immense quantities. Moreover, they were always cultivated with great care in remarkably different colors. Yet all this had now been devastated and ruined. So the people were in a quandary—they did not know how to follow the customary rites regarding the burial of the dead. Tradition required that before burial each human being and each animal be adorned lavishly with flowers of the season, and that the burial ritual be all the richer and more resplendent, the more sudden and more sorrowful that death had struck.

The Chief Elder of the province, who was one of the first to appear with help in his wagon, soon found himself so overwhelmed by questions, requests, and complaints that he had difficulty keeping his composure. But he took heart. His eyes remained bright and friendly; his voice was clear and polite; and under his white beard his lips never lost the silent, kind smile for one moment—something that suited him as a wise councilor.

“My friends,” he said, “a calamity has struck that was most likely sent by the gods to test us. Of course, whatever has been destroyed here, we shall be able to rebuild for our brothers and give it all back to them, and I thank the gods that I’ve been able to experience in my old age how you all stopped whatever you were doing and came here to help. But where are we going to find the flowers to adorn all these dead people and celebrate their transformation
in a beautiful and reverent manner? As long as we are alive and well, we must make sure that not a single one of these weary pilgrims be buried without their rightful floral tribute. Don’t you all agree?”

“Yes,” they cried. “We all agree.”

“I knew it,” said the Elder in his fatherly voice. “Now I want to tell you, my friends, what we must do. We must carry all the remains that cannot be buried today to the large summer temple high in the mountains, where snow is still on the ground. They will be safe there and will not decompose before we can fetch flowers for them. Only one person can really help us obtain so many flowers at this time of the year, and that is the King. Therefore one of us must be sent to the King to request his assistance.”

And again the people all nodded and cried out, “Yes, yes, to the King!”

“So be it,” the Elder continued, and everyone was pleased to see his pleasant smile glistening from beneath his white beard. “But whom shall we send to the King? He must be young and robust because he shall travel far on our best horse. Furthermore, he must be handsome and kind and have sparkling eyes, so that the King’s heart will not be able to resist him. He needn’t say much, but his eyes must be able to speak. Clearly, it would be best if we sent a child, the handsomest child in the community. But how could he possibly undertake such a journey? You must help me, my friends, and if there is anyone here who wants to volunteer to be the messenger, or if you know somebody suitable for this task, please tell me.”

The Elder stopped and looked around with his bright eyes, but nobody stepped forward. Not a single voice could be heard. When he repeated his question a second and then a third time, a young man suddenly emerged from the crowd. He was sixteen years old, practically
still a boy, and he fixed his eyes on the ground and blushed as he greeted the Elder.

As soon as the Elder looked at him, he realized that the young man was the perfect messenger. So he smiled and said, “It’s wonderful that you want to be our messenger. But why is it that, among all those people, you should be the one to volunteer?”

The young man raised his eyes to the old man and said, “If there is no one else here who wants to go, then I should be the one to go.”

Someone from the crowd shouted, “Send him, Elder. We know him. He comes from our village, and the earthquake destroyed his flower garden, which was the most beautiful in the region.”

The Elder gave the young man a friendly look and asked, “Are you sad about what happened to your flowers?”

The young man responded very softly, “Yes, I’m sorry, but that is not why I’ve volunteered. I had a dear friend and also a splendid young horse, my favorite, and both were killed by the earthquake. Now they are lying in our hall, and we must have flowers so that they can be buried.”

The Elder blessed the young man by placing his hands on his head, and the best horse was soon brought out for him. Immediately the young man sprang onto the horse’s back, slapped it on the neck, and nodded farewell to the people. Then he dashed out of the village and headed straight across the wet and ravaged fields.

The young man rode the entire day, and in order to reach the distant capital and see the King as soon as he could, he took the path over the mountains. In the evening, as it began to turn dark, he led his horse by the reins up a steep path through the forest and rocks.

A large dark bird, a kind that the young man had never seen
before, flew ahead of him, and he followed it until the bird landed on the roof of a small open temple. The young man left; his horse and walked through wooden pillars into the simple sanctuary. There he found a sacrificial altar, but it was only a solid block made of a black stone not usually found in that region. On it was an obscure symbol of a deity that the messenger did not recognize—a heart that was being devoured by a wild bird.