So the Water Sprite couldn’t have given him a greater treat than letting him go up on land now.
It was already dark above the mill-pond. The bushes and trees on the bank looked like shadows. Up in the sky the first stars were twinkling.
The reeds rustled as the two of them climbed on land. The Water Sprite carried his harp under his arm. The strings twanged softly when they touched a reed in passing.
Apart from that, everything was quite still.
Only the sound of crickets chirping came over from the meadows, carried on the gentle breeze. Occasionally a bird somewhere among the twigs twittered in its sleep, and then fell silent again. Far away in the distance, so far that it might have been in another world, a dog could be heard barking from time to time.
The Water Sprite went up to the old willow. He sat down in the grass under the tree. The boy sat quietly down beside him and waited.
In a little while Father Water Sprite picked up his harp. He leant back against the tree and began to play.
The music was so beautiful that the boy closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he saw the mist-fairies rising up from the damp meadow round them. They were all in white, with drifting veils.
Perhaps his father had conjured them up with his harp?
Silently they hovered over the grass. Then they began to dance, gliding to and fro on the night breeze to the sound of the Water Sprite’s harp.
Pure Silver
The little Water Sprite might have been under a spell. He sat with his eyes glued to the dancing mist-fairies.
They were always changing shape like driving clouds. Before his eyes they melted into one another and divided again. Sometimes one of them would dissolve in the middle of a graceful movement, vanishing like smoke on the wind.
The little Water Sprite watched the drifting dance, so enthralled that he didn’t notice a pale glow of light gathering slowly in the sky behind the hills.
He didn’t see it until his father broke off his harp-playing and spoke softly.
“Look over there!” said Father Water Sprite in a low voice, pointing to the glimmer on the horizon. “Soon she’ll rise.”
The little Water Sprite wanted to whisper back, “Who?” But just at that moment his father began to play again, so the boy swallowed his question. “I shall soon see what he meant,” he thought.
The glimmering streak on the horizon grew brighter and brighter the longer the little Water Sprite gazed in anticipation. The reddish glow of light climbed higher and higher, shone more and more strongly all the time. Soon the little Water Sprite could pick out every tree on the hills, the dark forms of their trunks and leaves stood out so clearly against the bright background.
Then all at once a shining disc rose into the sky, golden and glowing like a huge marigold.
The little Water Sprite couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Father!” he cried. “Look – the sun!”
The Water Sprite heard him and smiled. Still playing his harp, he answered, “No, my boy, that’s the moon rising.”
“The moon?”
“That’s right, the moon,” said Father Water Sprite.
Then he realized that the name alone would not mean much to the little Water Sprite. He began to tell the boy about the moon – how she rides across the sky on clear nights, waxing and waning and sometimes disappearing altogether, but always coming back to grow and swell to a full moon again. He talked about all the things she must have seen, all the things she still has to see, as she travels over the sky until the end of time.
Every now and then the Water Sprite would play some music on his harp, and then break off once more to go on talking.
Meanwhile the moon had climbed higher. She came gliding gently across the sky. The little Water Sprite stretched himself out on his back in the grass, so as to see her better.
Very, very slowly, the moon had changed colour. She had turned from a marigold to a glittering silver coin. And everything her rays touched gleamed silver too. She had turned to silver the sky and the meadows, the pond, the reeds and the dancing mist-fairies. The boat lying by the bank was silver, and the leaves on the trees were silver too.
“Look, she’s making straight for the old willow,” said the little Water Sprite suddenly. “Won’t she get caught in the branches?”
“Climb up and help her out again, if you like,” suggested Father Water Sprite, smiling to himself.
“That’s a good idea,” said the little Water Sprite. Quickly he climbed the old willow to untangle the moon from its branches. But it was a hopeless task – however far he stretched and strained he couldn’t touch the moon.
His father was just going to call him down, when he heard the boy ask in a surprised voice, “Have we got a moon down in the pond too?”
“Not that I know of,” said Father Water Sprite. “How could a moon get into the pond?”
“But I can see it!” cried the little Water Sprite. “I can see them both! One up in the sky, the other down in the water. Oh, I’m so glad we’ve got a moon too! If only she doesn’t swim away … I know, I’ll catch her! If I jump down I can grab her. Just think how surprised Mother will be when I suddenly put the moon on her kitchen table!”
Before his father could object to this plan (though perhaps he didn’t mean to), the little Water Sprite had jumped down from the willow into the pond. He spread his hands out as he dived, to catch the moon sparkling there in the water.
But what had happened?
As his fingertips touched the shining water, the moon dissolved into circles of silver ripples.
“Caught her?” asked Father Water Sprite, when the boy came up again, puffing and blowing.
However, he didn’t wait for an answer. He saw that the boy was swimming in the liquid silver himself, and when he shook his head silver drops flew out of his hair.
The Water Sprite liked the picture so much that he picked up his harp again, and all the time the little Water Sprite swam in silver down in the moonlit pond, the harp played for him.
This Is Too Much!
Summer drew slowly to an end. The corn was cut, and harvest carts swayed from the fields to the village. Apples and pears were ripening in the orchards.
Once again the little Water Sprite had climbed up to his lookout post in the old willow. He saw a man coming along the highroad.
He was a long, thin man; he wore a smart black suit and he took big steps like a stork. He carried a rolled umbrella under his left arm, and on his nose sat something that looked like a frame of wire. It had two rings with a curved piece between them. A long wire, hooked at the end, was attached to each ring. The frame hung on the man’s ears by these hooked ends.
The little Water Sprite had never seen spectacles in his life. He didn’t even know that such things existed. “What’s that frame?” he wondered. “Shall I run across to the road and have a closer look?”
The little Water Sprite jumped quickly down in the grass and ran to the road. He waited for the man to come striding along. Then he stood in his path and took off his pointed cap.
“Good morning, man!” he said. “Tell me, what’s that thing on your nose for?”
The stranger stopped, examined the little Water Sprite through his two rings, and replied crossly, “Well, you’re a fine one to go laughing at other people, I must say!”
“What do you mean?” asked the little Water Sprite.
The man turned up his nose. “Well, I ask you! A person with dreadful green hair like that ought to keep quiet. Whoever saw a boy with green hair like yours!”
“Excuse me, please,” said the little Water Sprite. “I’m not a boy. I’m a water sprite.”
“What?” cried the tall man. “A water sprite? Don’t make me laugh! Do you really expect me to believe a silly thing like that?”
“Why is it silly? It’s true!” said the little Water Sprite.
“Well, you’re a fool – that’s true enough! You pretend you’re a water sprite? Good heavens
, a water sprite! Have you ever heard anything like it? There’s no such thing as a water sprite.”
“No such thing as what?” cried the little Water Sprite. “I’m standing here in front of you, aren’t I? You can’t deny that. Well, just have a look at me!” He was getting annoyed. But there was more to come.
“Oh, stop pestering me with your nonsense, you silly green brat!” said the man. “Clear off, will you, or I’ll have to teach you a lesson. What’s the idea – do I really look fool enough to believe in water sprites? Water sprites aren’t real, do you hear?”
“This is too much!” cried the little Water Sprite. “If you won’t believe your own eyes then – then you’re as silly as you’re tall.”
“What did you say?” cried the man furiously, threatening him with his rolled umbrella. “Just say that once more, you cheeky urchin!”
His hand shot out to grasp the little Water Sprite’s collar.
But the little Water Sprite wasn’t going to be caught so easily. In a flash he was several paces away.
“Catch me if you can, silly old man!” he shouted, poking his tongue out at the man. “Can’t catch me!”
“We’ll see about that!” snorted the tall man.
Brandishing his umbrella like a sword he set off in hot pursuit of the little Water Sprite. They ran right across the meadow towards the pond.
“I’ll show you if I’m real or not!” thought the little Water Sprite. “Just you wait! But I must get you to the right place first.” He ran not too fast and not too slow, taking a zig-zag course so that the man kept thinking, “I’ll get him next time.” And each time the man grabbed at the empty air again.
But when they reached the bank of the mill-pond, the little Water Sprite turned round as quick as lightning, seized the man’s feet, and pulled him into the water – splosh!
At first the man had no idea what had happened to him. He tried to call for help, and he waved his umbrella round despairingly. But before he could let out a single cry the little Water Sprite had ducked him again. And because the man had made him so angry, the little Water Sprite ducked him again and again and again, until the man had swallowed so much of the mill-pond that he was quite blue in the face. Then at last the little Water Sprite let him go.
The man scrambled to the shore, completely bewildered. His beautiful black suit clung soaking round his arms and legs. His hair was full of mud. There was a long trail of pond-grass and waterweeds behind him, and water squelched out of his shoes at every step he took. He was a miserable sight.
His rolled umbrella was floating in the middle of the mill-pond.
The little Water Sprite was delighted. He picked up the umbrella and threw it after the man. Then he shouted: “Hey, you beanpole with the frame on your nose! Now do you believe in water sprites?”
At that the man ran away as fast as his long, thin legs would carry him.
But the little Water Sprite laughed till it hurt, and all the fish and snails and water-fleas in the mill-pond laughed too.
Roast Stones
It was a fine, sunny autumn day. The first yellow leaves were floating on the mill-pond, skimming over the water like little golden boats. The little Water Sprite sat in front of the water sprites’ house, looking up at them and counting.
“One, two, three, four,” counted the little Water Sprite. “When there are exactly ninety-nine, I can have a wish,” he said to himself. “Ninety-nine is a lucky number, so whatever I wish is sure to come true.”
But just as he had counted the sixty-seventh leaf, he heard something tinkling softly in the distance. Now clear, now faint, the sound was carried over the water. As well as the tinkling he could hear a hollow bellowing noise. It sounded like a deep voice shouting into an empty bucket.
“Never mind that tinkling and bellowing,” the little Water Sprite told himself. “I’ve got to count.”
He tried hard not to listen. But of course that made him want to listen even more. He kept wondering what the sounds could be. Suddenly he forgot whether the next number should be seventy-two or seventy-three. He had got mixed up listening to the noise and wondering what it was.
“Bother!” thought the little Water Sprite. “There goes my wish. Still, perhaps there wouldn’t have been ninety-nine leaves after all, so it would have been no good, anyway. But I do want to know what’s going on up there!”
He pushed off from the bottom with both feet and rose to the surface. When his head came out above water, he discovered that the bellowing and tinkling was coming from the meadow behind the pond. He swam to the bank and parted the reeds with his hands, so that he could peep through them at the meadow, as though through a pair of curtains.
But what he saw disappointed him. He had expected something really remarkable – and it was just a few cows. They were wandering slowly round the meadow grazing.
Whenever they took a step the bells round their necks tinkled. Sometimes one of the animals lifted her head and mooed. Then the other cows mooed back. For a little while after that there would be no sound but the tinkling of the bells and the contented munching and breathing of the cows.
“So that’s all I swam up here for,” thought the little Water Sprite. “Cows, just ordinary cows!” He was going to swim home again, when he noticed something very strange.
Three human children were sitting at the side of the meadow. They had built a small fire, and from time to time they were throwing in yellow stones as big as a clenched fist. After a while, they would rake the stones out again with sticks, scrape off the ashes and eat the stones.
The little Water Sprite was astonished. He knew that men had all kinds of strange ways, but he had had no idea that they ate roast stones.
Quickly making up his mind, he left the shelter of the reeds, crossed the meadow and asked the boys round the fire, “Can I have a taste? I’ve never eaten roast stones in my life.”
“Neither have we!” replied the boys.
“But I saw you eating them with my own eyes,” the little Water Sprite insisted. “You’re roasting them in that fire. I suppose they’re a special sort of stones?”
Then the children knew what he meant. It made them laugh so much that the cows lifted their heads and gazed round in surprise.
“Did you hear that?” cried one of the boys. “Roast stones!”
“Those are potatoes!” said the other two. “Haven’t you ever had potatoes?”
“No – how could I?” asked the little Water Sprite. “Those things are called potatoes?”
“Look here, are you trying to tease us? Who are you, anyway?”
“Me? I’m the little Water Sprite, can’t you see that?”
“Oh, well!” said the boys. “You should have said so before. If you’re a water sprite of course you haven’t had potatoes. Here, have one to taste.”
One of the boys poked a potato out of the hot ash with his stick, the second scraped off the black peel, and the third passed the little Water Sprite a bag of salt.
“You sprinkle it on the potato,” he explained kindly.
The little Water Sprite was not sure if it was safe to bite. He sniffed at the potato first. But as it smelt so good he thought, “If it doesn’t do the men’s children any harm it won’t hurt me either. I’ll try it …”
Cautiously he bit the potato.
“Well, what does it taste like?” asked the boys.
“Wonderful!” said the little Water Sprite, smacking his lips. “Who’d have thought roast stones tasted so good!”
The Box of Lightning
The three children liked the little Water Sprite, and the little Water Sprite liked the three children. When they parted that evening they were firm friends.
After this the boys came to the mill-pond almost every day. As soon as the little Water Sprite heard them whistle he swam up to say hello.
Sometimes he sat in the branches of the old willow and waved when he saw them coming over the meadow.
The boys always brought something for
the little Water Sprite – apples and pears mostly, a piece of bread with cream cheese or honey on it, sometimes a biscuit or a lump of sugar. Once he even got a piece of fresh baked cake.
The little Water Sprite thought it all tasted wonderful. He decided that men’s food was good, almost as good as water sprites’ food. And he thought of showing his gratitude by bringing the boys a present in return – a few choice morsels from Mother Water Sprite’s larder. They would be sure to like that.
But unfortunately, it turned out that the three boys had no appetite for baked toad-spawn with pickled water-fleas. They even refused the stewed frog-spawn which Mother had collected and preserved that spring. The little Water Sprite was no more successful with salads and boiled waterweeds. He couldn’t persuade his friends to try a single spoonful, whatever he offered them.
In the end the little Water Sprite gave up. He stopped bringing the children things to eat; instead, he brought them the prettiest mussel shells and snail shells he could find. And sometimes he gave them shiny stones, difficult to find outside a pond.
The boys were delighted with these presents. And the little Water Sprite was happy too. At last he had found a way to thank his friends.
When the four of them were together they were never bored. They played ducks-and-drakes on the pond, counting to see whose stone jumped most times. They played hide-and-seek in the bushes on the bank. Or they cut whistles from the stems of reeds and had a whistling competition to see whose breath held out longest.
The boys showed the little Water Sprite how to stand on his head and turn cart-wheels and do back somersaults, and the little Water Sprite copied them. In return he let the three boys watch him slide down the mill-race. He assured them that there was nothing to it, and they ought to try it too. However, they said it wouldn’t work – they were only humans, worse luck, and humans would never get over the mill-wheel without broken bones. Only water sprites could do that safely. Still, it was a good game, even if they couldn’t join in.
The Little Water Sprite Page 5
