The Wild Girl (39 page)

‘Come, I’ll light the stove for you,’ her husband said, standing up. ‘It’s quite cosy out there. And certainly nice and quiet.’ He gave Hanne a wicked look. She smiled back over her shoulder at him as she carried Hans away, drowsy against her shoulder. ‘Mia, come with me,’ she ordered, and reluctantly Mia followed, turning back to stare at Dortchen and Wilhelm as they stood, awkward and self-conscious, to follow Johann out into the glistening, snow-draped afternoon.

The summer house was a small round building made of stone and glass. A porcelain stove in one corner was soon roaring away, and Johann brought them thick fur rugs, hot mulled wine and a small writing desk. The room was so small that Dortchen’s and Wilhelm’s knees were practically touching once they settled down on the cushioned seats. Dortchen busied herself smoothing her dress, while Wilhelm sharpened a few quills. Then he looked at her expectantly.

‘Once upon a time,’ she said, and took a deep breath. For some reason her lungs felt unable to get enough air. She went on, faltering a little at first, then strengthening as she remembered the story.

‘Once upon a time, in a certain country, there was great concern about a wild boar that was destroying the peasants’ fields, killing the cattle and ripping people apart with its tusks. The king promised a large reward to anyone who could free the land from this plague, but the beast was so large and strong that no one dared to go near the woods where it lived. Finally, the king proclaimed that whoever could capture or kill the wild boar should have his only daughter in marriage.’

Three poor brothers decided to try their luck. The elder two were clever
and shrewd and cruel. The youngest was innocent and kind. As Dortchen told Wilhelm this, she felt a sudden misgiving. Would he think she meant Ferdinand? But she had begun the story and so had to go on.

The two elder brothers stopped at an inn for some wine to embolden them. The youngest went on into the forest, where he met a dwarf who gave him an enchanted spear, as a reward for his kind heart. With the spear, the third brother was able to kill the boar. Having hoisted the huge beast onto his back, he travelled towards the palace to claim his prize. But on the way he met his brothers, who, furious and jealous, killed him as they crossed a bridge. The body of the youngest brother fell down into the stream, and the elder brothers went on with the boar to claim the reward.

‘After many long years,’ Dortchen continued, ‘a shepherd was driving his herd across the bridge when he saw a little snow-white bone lying in the sand below. Thinking that it would make a good mouthpiece, he climbed down, picked it up and carved out of it a mouthpiece for his horn. When he blew into it for the first time, to his great astonishment the bone began to sing by itself:

Oh, my dear shepherd,

You are blowing on my little bone.

My brothers killed me,

And buried me beneath the bridge,

To get the wild boar

For the daughter of the king.

‘“What a wonderful horn,” said the shepherd. “I must take it to the king.” When he brought it before the king, the horn again began to sing its little song. The king understood it well, and ordered the earth beneath the bridge to be dug up. Then the whole skeleton of the murdered man came to light. The singing bone sang and sang till his brothers could no longer deny their murderous deed. They were sewn into a sack and drowned alive. The murdered man’s bones were laid to rest in a beautiful grave in the churchyard.’

Wilhelm laid down his quill and shook his aching hand. He looked pale and troubled. ‘Do you think …’ he began.

Dortchen could not bear it. ‘No,’ she cried, seizing his hands and drawing him closer. ‘It was not your fault. It was the opium. You could have done nothing different … Oh, Wilhelm. Drinking laudanum is like dancing with the Devil. There’s no happy outcome.’

Dortchen thought of her own weary, worn-down mother, whose only joy seemed to come when she drank down her drops, and tears sprang to her eyes.

Wilhelm’s face softened. He drew Dortchen closer, and she subsided against his shoulder with a sigh. His arm was strong about her. Outside, a sudden wind shook snow against the frost-glazed windows, but inside, all was warm. She looked up at him. There was only an inch or so between them. It was natural that she lifted her face, and he lowered his. Their lips met.

It was the merest brush, yet it acted like a spark to tinder. He shifted and drew her closer. Again their mouths met, and this time the contact was closer, longer, harder. His hand crept up to cup the back of her neck. She uttered a soft sigh.

They kissed again, separated, then swayed back together. Involuntarily, their mouths opened. Dortchen felt like she might swoon. There was the lightest touch of tongue against tongue. Wilhelm groaned, and the sound made Dortchen press herself closer. Slowly, with absolute daring, his hand found her waist and traced its curve. They kissed again, drew away, then fell back against each other, hands finding skin at the nape of the neck, the modest dip of the neckline, the soft blue-veined wrist.

It was overwhelming. They had to fall apart, panting, staring at each other with wide eyes. Neither could speak.

‘I did not want him to kiss me,’ Dortchen said at last.

‘I know … I’m sorry … If you could but know how it hurt me to see you in his arms.’

‘I thought you were angry.’

‘I was. But not with you.’ He kissed her again, swift and hard, then fell back, flushing. ‘That’s not true. I was so angry with you. And I did not know why.’

She nestled against his shoulder. The stove roared and spat. It was so hot in the summer house now that the windows were running with condensation. He bent his head and kissed her behind her ear. She had never known how much the soft, sensitive skin there had longed to be kissed. He nuzzled lower, and she turned her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. For a moment there was absolute stillness between them. She felt dazed, drunk, exultant. He kissed her back and one finger grazed the curve of her breast. At once, both backed away, flushed and embarrassed.

Dortchen could not look at him. ‘I know a beautiful love story,’ she said.

He cleared his throat and turned away to fuss with his paper and ink and quills. ‘Will you tell me?’ he asked.

So she began the tale of the six brothers who were turned into swans, and their young sister who could not speak or laugh for six years, till she had woven shirts from nettles to save them from their enchantment.

‘After she had already spent a long time there, it happened that the king of the land was hunting in these woods. His huntsmen came to the tree in which the girl was sitting. They called to her, “Who are you?” But she did not answer.

‘“Come down to us,” they said. “We will not harm you.”

‘She only shook her head. When they pressed her further with questions, she threw her golden necklace down to them, thinking that this would satisfy them. But they did not stop, so she then threw down her belt, then her garters, and then – one thing at a time – everything that she had on and could do without. Finally, she had nothing left but her shift.’

As she spoke, Dortchen loosened her collar, her skin flushed with heat. Wilhelm’s gaze dwelt on the small triangle of skin she had exposed.

Dortchen cast down her eyes and continued. ‘The huntsmen, however, not letting themselves be dissuaded, climbed the tree, lifted the girl down and took her to the king. The king asked, “Who are you? What were you doing in that tree?”

‘But she did not answer. He asked her in every language that he knew, but she remained as speechless as a fish. Because she was so beautiful, the king’s heart was touched, and he fell deeply in love with her. He put his
cloak around her, lifted her onto his own horse and took her to his castle. There, he had her dressed in rich garments, and she glistened in her beauty like bright daylight, but no one could get a word from her. At the table he seated her by his side. Her modesty pleased him so much that he said, “My desire is to marry her, and no one else in the world.”’

Dortchen’s throat closed over and she could not speak a word. Flushing, she moved away from Wilhelm. There was a long, strained silence.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘She had a cruel mother-in-law,’ Dortchen said. ‘The king’s mother stole away all the queen’s babies while she was sleeping, and smeared the queen’s mouth with blood and proclaimed that she must have eaten them. At last the king could no longer protect his beloved. She was condemned to be burnt at the stake.’

‘But couldn’t he help her?’ Wilhelm asked, incredulous. ‘Surely he’d not let his beloved die so horribly?’

‘He believed the lies against her,’ Dortchen said. ‘When the day came for the sentence to be carried out, it was also the last day of the six years during which she had not been permitted to speak or to laugh; she had thus delivered her dear brothers from the magic curse. The six shirts were all but finished – only the left sleeve of the last one was missing. When she was led to the stake, she laid the shirts on her arm.

‘When the fire was about to be lit, she looked around and saw six swans flying through the air. Knowing that their redemption was near, her heart leapt with joy. The swans rushed towards her, swooping down so that she could throw the shirts over them. As soon as the shirts touched them, their swan-skins fell off and her brothers stood before her, vigorous and handsome. However, the youngest was missing his left arm. In its place he had a swan’s wing.’

‘What a beautiful, strange tale,’ Wilhelm said. ‘What about the queen? Was she saved?’

‘Yes,’ Dortchen said. ‘The king realised that she had kept mute to break the curse on her brothers, and he forgave her and freed her and they lived happily ever after.’

Something in her heart cried out,
Can you not see that I too am kept mute?
But she could not speak.

Wilhelm wiped the end of his quill on a rag. ‘That story was extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Dortchen …’

He leant forward and kissed her. She wound her arms about his neck and drew him down to her. Long moments passed. Each grew bolder, daring to touch, to creep their fingers across the other’s bared skin, to undo a button here and a ribbon there. Dortchen’s breath came faster and she moaned deep in her throat, shifting her hips. Wilhelm stilled, holding himself away from her.

‘I must stop,’ he said. ‘We should not be doing this. What would your father say?’

She froze and sat up, buttoning up her bodice with trembling fingers, unable to look at him. He groaned and caught her hands. ‘Dortchen, Dortchen,’ he whispered, then bent to kiss her palms. ‘Don’t go. I’m sorry. This is wrong, I know, yet … Dortchen …’ He tried to kiss her lips but she turned away.

‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘If you go, the spell will be broken. We shall have to return to everyday life. Stay here, just for a while.’

‘I could tell you another story,’ she said, turning back to him, lifting one hand to stroke back the lock of hair falling over his forehead, as she had longed to do so many times. ‘As long as I am telling stories, we are outside time.’

He sighed and bent to kiss her. Their lips met, their breath mingled, and they felt again the irresistible force that drew them to each other like magnetised iron.

‘Dortchen, I … I wish …’

‘Shh,’ she said. ‘Listen to my story.’

Wilhelm sighed, looking at her with a kind of wild longing in his eyes, but the duty and habit of work was too strong in him. He drew another ragged quill towards him, and a fresh piece of paper, and began to write as she spoke.

Dortchen told him the tale of Sweetheart Roland, who helped his
beloved escape from a house of hatred and murder, but then forgot her and left her standing at a red boundary stone in a field.

By now the light was fading from the translucent sky outside. Darkness was closing in. Sweetheart Roland prepared to marry another, but the girl came heartsore to his wedding and sang. Hearing her voice, he remembered her and cast off the false bride, swearing his love to her again.

As Dortchen finished the tale, Wilhelm threw down his quill, caught her in his arms and kissed her. Despite herself, Dortchen fell back beneath him. Her mouth opened, her hands tangled in his hair and she welcomed his weight upon her. They kissed as if the world were about to end and this was all the chance of life left to them. They kissed as if they were starving and the other was all sustenance. Dortchen lost all sense of herself. There were only their mouths and their shy hands, and the brush of flesh against flesh.

It was Wilhelm who came back to himself. ‘I must stop,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Dortchen, I’m sorry, I’m all in a daze. I hardly know what I’m doing. We must stop.’

‘No,’ she groaned, pressing her mouth against his throat.

‘No, no, we must. I … any moment now … Dortchen, I cannot.’

He lifted himself away from her, and she realised that her bodice was unbuttoned. She sat up, flushing, her hands flying to close her bodice. She looked up at him and at once he bent his mouth to hers, and the strange, sweet delirium swept over her again. She moaned. His hand swept up her skirts and found bare flesh. He groaned and pressed closer to her.

A knocking on the door drove them apart. Mia’s voice called plaintively, ‘Are you never coming in for dinner?’

Dortchen and Wilhelm could hardly breathe. Their eyes fell away from each other. He turned and pressed his forehead against the cold, foggy glass, trying to compose himself. Dortchen again did up her bodice, blushing and confused.

‘Are you there?’ Mia called.

‘Coming, sweetling,’ Dortchen replied. ‘Just a moment.’

Mia opened the door and barged in, curious and bright-eyed. ‘Dinner’s
been ready for ever so long,’ she said. ‘Whatever have you been doing?’

‘Telling stories,’ Dortchen replied, then rushed her sister out into the snowy night. Overhead were ten thousand stars, filling the arch of the night sky. She saw the faint trail of fire from the comet along the horizon and heard Wilhelm come out behind her, rustling his sheaf of pages. She risked a glance at him and he smiled at her; she could not help but smile back.