broadens out and then narrows down to a sharp point."
Here he paused once more and looked rather quizzically at his companion to see
how he took this assertion. But the young man kept right on eating and nodded to
him to continue.
"As soon as the butterfly had been changed into a limestone rock, many different
kinds of seeds of herbs and trees came travelling along with the winds, and
wanted to take root on it. It was a long time before anything but sedge could
grow there. Then came sheep-sorrel, the rock-rose and the thorn-brush. But even
to-day there is not so much that grows on Alvaret that the mountain is well
covered, for it is barren here and there. And no one would think of ploughing
and sowing up here, where the earth-crust is so thin. But if you will grant that
Alvaret and the strongholds around it are made of the butterfly-body, then you
may well have the right to ask what that land which lies beneath the strongholds
is."
"Yes, it is just that," said he who was eating. "That I should indeed like to
know."
"Well, you must remember that Öland has lain in the sea a good many years, and
meantime all the things which tumble around with the waves ­ seaweed and sand
and clams ­ have gathered around it, and have stayed there. Then, too, stone and
gravel have fallen down from both the eastern and western strongholds. In this
way the island has acquired wide shores, where grain and flowers and trees can
grow.
"Up here, on the hard butterfly-back, only sheep and cows and ponies go about.
The only birds that live here are humble lapwings and plover, and there are no
buildings except windmills and a few stone huts, where we shepherds crawl in.
But down on the coast lie big villages and churches and parishes and fishing
hamlets and a whole city."
He looked searchingly at his comrade, who had finished his meal, and was tying
up the food-sack. "I wonder where you will end with all this," said he.
"It is only this that I would know," insisted the shepherd, lowering his voice
so that he almost whispered the words, and peering into the mist with his small
eyes, which appeared to be worn out from spying after all that which does not
exist ­ "Only this: If the peasants who live on the built-up farms below the
strongholds, or the fishermen who take the small herring from the sea, or the
merchants in Borgholm, or the bathing guests who come here every summer, or the
tourists who wander around in Borgholm's old castle ruin, or the sportsmen who
come here in the fall to hunt partridges, or the painters who sit here on
Alvaret and paint the sheep and windmills ­ I should like to know if any of them
understand that this island has been a butterfly which once flew about with
great shimmery wings."
"Surely it must have occurred to some of them," the young shepherd put in, "as
they sat at the edge of the stronghold of an evening, and heard the nightingales
trill in the groves below them, and looked over Kaimar Sound, that this island
could not have come into existence in the same way as the others."
"I want to ask," said the old one, "if no one has felt a desire to give wings to
the windmills ­ so large that they could reach to heaven; so large that they
could lift the whole island out of the sea, and let it fly like a butterfly
among butterflies."
"It may be possible that there is something in what you say," returned the young
man; "for on summer nights when the heavens widen and open over the island, I
have sometimes thought that it was as if it wanted to raise itself from the sea,
and fly away."
But when the old man had finally gotten the young man to talk, he didn't listen
to him very much. "I should like to know," resumed the old man in a low tone,
"if any one can explain why one feels such a sense of longing up here on
Alvaret. I have felt it every day of my life; and I think it preys upon each and
every one who must go about here. I want to know if no else has understood that
all this wistfulness is due to the fact that the whole island is a butterfly
that longs for its wings."
[Next]
Chapter XIII.
"Chapter XIII." by Selma Lagerlöf (1858-1940), translated by Velma Swanston
Howard.
From: The Wonderful Adventures of Nils. by Selma Lagerlöf. New York: Doubleday,
Page & Company, 1922, pp. 154-168.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LITTLE KARL'S ISLAND
THE STORM
Friday, April eighth.
THE wild geese had spent the night on Öland's northern point, and were now on
their way to the continent. A strong south wind blew over Kalmar Sound, and they
had been swept northward. Still they worked their way toward land with good
speed. But when they were nearing the first islands a powerful rumbling was
heard, as if throngs of strong-winged birds were approaching; and all at once
the water under them became perfectly black. Akka drew in her wings so suddenly
that she almost stood still in the air. Thereupon, she sank down to light on the
surface of the sea. But before the geese reached the water, the storm had caught
up with them. It drove before it fogs, salt scum, and small birds; it also
caught the wild geese, threw them on end, and cast them out to sea.
It was a rough storm. The wild geese tried time and again to turn back, but
couldn't do it, instead they were driven farther and farther out. The storm had
already blown them past Öland, and the sea lay before them ­ empty and desolate.
There was nothing for them to do but keep out of the water.
"'SEALS! SEALS! SEALS!' CRIED AKKA."
When Akka observed that they were unable to turn back, she thought it needless
to let the storm drive them over the entire Baltic. Therefore she sank down to
the water. Now the sea was raging, and increasing in violence every second. The
sea-green billows rolled forward with seething foam on their crests. Each one
surged higher than the last. It was as if they raced with each other to see
which could foam the wildest. But the wild geese were not afraid of the swells.
On the contrary, these seemed to afford them much pleasure. They did not strain
themselves swimming, but lay and let themselves be washed up with the swells and
down in the water-dales, and had just as much fun as children in a swing. Their
only anxiety was that the flock might be separated. The few land-birds who drove
by, up in the storm, cried with envy: "There is no danger for you who can swim."
But the wild geese were certainly not out of all danger. In the first place, the
rocking made them helplessly sleepy. Time and again they wanted to turn their
heads, poke their bills under their wings, and go to sleep. Nothing can be more
dangerous than to fall asleep in that way; and Akka kept calling out all the
while: "Don't go to sleep, wild geese! He that falls asleep will get away from
the flock. He that gets away from the flock is lost."
Despite all attempts at resistance one after another fell asleep; and Akka
herself came pretty near dozing off, when she suddenly saw something round and
dark rise to the top of a wave. "Seals! Seals! Seals!" cried Akka in a high,
shrill voice, and rose into the air with resounding wing-strokes. It was just at
the crucial moment. Before the last wild goose had time to come up from the
water, the seals were so close to her that they made a grab for her feet.
Then the wild geese were once more up in the storm which drove them before it
out to sea. No rest did it allow either itself or the wild geese; and no land
did they sight ­ only desolate sea.
They lit on the water again, as soon as they dared venture. But after rocking
upon the waves for a while, they grew sleepy again. And when they fell asleep,
the seals came swimming. If old Akka had not been so wakeful, not one of the
geese would have escaped.
All day the storm raged; and it caused fearful havoc among the crowds of little
birds, which at this time of year were migrating. Some were driven from their
course to foreign lands, where they died of starvation; others became so
exhausted that they sank down to the sea and were drowned. Many were crushed
against the cliff-walls, and many became a prey to the seals.
The storm continued all day, and, at last, Akka began to wonder if she and her
flock would perish. They were now dead tired, and nowhere did they see any place
where they might rest. At the approach of evening she no longer dared lie down
on the sea, for now it filled up all of a sudden with large ice-cakes, which
struck against each other, and she feared they would be crushed between the
floes. A couple of times the wild geese tried to stand on the ice-crust; but the
first time the wild storm swept them into the water; the second time, the
merciless seals came creeping up on the ice.
At sundown the wild geese were once more up in the air. They flew on ­ fearful
of the night. The darkness seemed to come upon them much too quickly this night
­ which was so full of danger.
It was terrible. As yet they could see no land. How would it go with them if
they were forced to stay out on the sea all night? They would either be crushed
between ice-floes or devoured by seals, or else separated by the storm.
The heavens were cloud-bedecked, the moon hid itself, and the darkness came
suddenly. At the same time all nature was filled with a horror which caused the
most courageous hearts to quail. Distressed bird-travellers' cries had sounded
over the sea all day long without any one having paid the slightest attention to
them; but now, when those who uttered them were no longer seen, they seemed
mournful and terrifying. Down on the sea, the ice-drifts crashed against each
other with a loud rumbling noise. The seals tuned up their wild hunting songs.
It was as though heaven and earth were about to clash.
THE SHEEP
THE boy sat for a moment and looked down into the sea. Suddenly he thought it
began to roar louder than ever. He glanced up. Right in front of him ­ only a
couple of metres away ­ loomed a rugged and bare mountain-wall. At its base the
waves dashed into a foam-like spray. The wild geese flew straight toward the
cliff, and the boy did not see how they could avoid being dashed to pieces
against it. No sooner had he wondered that Akka hadn't seen the danger in time
than they were over by the mountain. Then he also noticed that before them was
the arched entrance to a grotto, into which the geese steered. The next moment
they were safe.
The first thing the wild geese thought of ­ before they gave themselves time to
rejoice over their safety ­ was to see if all their comrades were also
harboured. Yes, there were Akka, Iksi, Kolmi, Neljä, Viisi, Kuusi, all the six
goslings, the goosey-gander, Dunfin and Thumbietot; but Kaksi from Nuolja, the
first left-hand goose, was missing ­ and none knew anything about her fate.
When the wild geese discovered that no one but Kaksi had been separated from the
flock, they took the matter lightly. Kaksi was old and wise. She knew all their
ways and habits, and she, of course, would know how to find her way back to
them.
Now the geese began to look around in the cave. Enough daylight came in through
the opening so that they could see the grotto was both deep and wide. They were
congratulating themselves on having found such a fine night harbour, when one of
the flock caught sight of some shining, green dots, that glittered in a dark
corner. "Those are eyes!" cried Akka. "There are big animals in here." They
rushed toward the opening, but Thumbietot called to them: "There is nothing to
run away from! It's only a few sheep lying alongside the grotto wall."
When the wild geese had accustomed themselves to the dim daylight in the cave,
they could see the sheep very distinctly. The grown-up sheep might be about as
many as there were geese; but beside these there were a few little lambs. An old
ram, with long, twisted horns, appeared to be the most lordly one of the flock.
The wild geese stepped up to him with much bowing and scraping. "Well met in the
wilderness!" they greeted, but the big ram lay still, and did not speak a word
of welcome.
Then the wild geese thought that the sheep were displeased because they had
taken shelter in their grotto. "Our coming here is not agreeable perhaps?" said
Akka. "But we cannot help it, for we are wind-driven. We have wandered about in
the storm all day, and it would be very good to be allowed to stop here
to-night." After that there was a long pause before any of the sheep answered
with words; but, on the other hand, it could be heard distinctly that one or two
of them heaved deep sighs. Akka knew, to be sure, that sheep are always shy and
peculiar; but these seemed to have no idea as to how they should conduct
themselves. Finally an old ewe, who had a long and pathetic face and a doleful
voice, said: "There isn't one among us that would refuse to let you stay; but
this is a house of mourning, and we cannot receive guests, as in former days."
"You needn't let that worry you," said Akka. "If you knew what we have endured
this day, you would surely understand that we are satisfied if we only get a
safe spot to sleep on."
When Akka said that, the old ewe raised herself. "I believe it would be better
for you to fly about in the worst kind of storm than to stop here. But, at least
you shall not go from here before we have had the privilege of offering you the
best hospitality which the house affords."
She conducted them to a hollow in the ground, which was filled with water.
Beside it lay a pile of bait and husks and chaff; and she bade them make the
most of these. "This year we have had a severe snow-winter on the island," said
