The man gave a hearty laugh. ‘You mischievous Undine.’
‘Undine?’
‘She is a water-spirit,’ advised he in a broad German accent.
‘A spirit? I can fly when I turn my mind to it,’ boasted I.
‘Fly, indeed! Do you have a name, little Undine?’
‘When I’m a girl, I’m Sofia-Elisabete.’ I spun round in the water. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I am Friedrich, Baron de la Motte Fouqué.’
‘Herr Fouqué, were you having deep thoughts?’
He gazed at me in astonishment. ‘Why, yes. I was recalling my sad days in the army.’
‘My papai is Colonel Fitzwilliam, and he gets deep thoughts under our Scots pine.’
‘The Colonel experiences the deepest of thoughts under a pine?’
‘Ay, when he hears his wind music.’ I sank into the water and thereafter surfaced a few feet away. ‘Ha! Ha!’ laughed I, and I repeated my clever trick several times to divert my German friend. Later, while Pico and I baked in the sun to dry ourselves, I observed Herr Fouqué sitting under a pine, thinking his deep thoughts with his eyes half-closed, no doubt listening to the wind music.
I never did get a chance to speak again with Herr Fouqué, now that the Land of Cuckoos beckoned us, or rather, an impatient Doña Marisa, who wished to quit Wildsee. While we traversed the forest, she would order the driver to stop now and again, because satisfy her every whim she must, insisted she. ‘Silencio!’ she shook her fan at us. She leant out the open window, straining to hear the cuckoos. ‘Goo-ko, goo-ko,’ the birds warbled in the forest.
‘Goo-ko,’ Doña Marisa teased her cortejo.
‘Goo-ko,’ returned he, and he gave her a broad smile.
Pico shook his head, and he whispered to me, ‘Them Spaniards act like half-wits.’
Near Hornberg, where we stopped for a small repast, Doña Marisa bought a peasant costume for me, complete with blue petticoat, red bodice, white cambric shirt and something called a bollenhut – gigantic egg-shaped red tufts of wool atop a straw hat. Pico convulsed with laughter at the sight of me in my bollenhut. Even the valet exclaimed, ‘Dios mío!’ and this from Enrico who never spoke a word to anyone, including to his master, Señor Gonzalez. Sometimes we forgot he existed, hence we called him El Fantasma – the ghost.
‘Gah!’ I stamped my feet – left, right, left, right – and I pitched the egg hat to the ground.
‘You ungrateful, querulous child,’ Doña Marisa raged at me. ‘You daren’t ruin my adventures in cuckoo-land.’
I stamped my foot again in reply.
‘Apologise. Say goo-ko,’ ordered she.
‘Não. I hate the egg hat.’
‘Goo-ko,’ returned she in ill-humour, shaking her finger at me.
‘Goooo-ko, goooo-ko, goooo-ko,’ warbled I, but she sensed my mocking tone.
‘Ay! Quita de ahí! Away with you!’ cried she. And so I was banished from her presence for the whole of the day.
In Triberg, the next morning, I tramped behind Doña Marisa from thatched cottage to thatched cottage as she indulged in her latest fancy – cuckoo clocks – for the clock-makers all worked from their own cottages. She learnt from them that a famous clock-maker, a dwarf named Otto Faller, lived outside the village. So go there we did to his humble-looking abode where she bought two cuckoo clocks and a musical clock from him. I observed Señor Gonzalez speaking with Herr Faller and his wife and handing them money from his bolsa. Apparently, we children would lodge here, while Señor Gonzalez escorted Doña Marisa to see the sights and to enjoy the cuckoos before the birds flew south for the winter. When those two would return for us in Triberg, I knew not.
The clock-maker, Otto Faller, he being the same height as Pico, had married a regular-sized person, she being Elsa Faller. They had a regular-sized son named Hubert, who served in the army far away, and a regular-sized daughter named Mechtilde, who had married a man in Baden-Baden. Frau Faller, being a gentle soul, took pity on me, for I was made to wear the crushed bollenhut with lumpy eggs as punishment. ‘Do not weep, child,’ she soothed me. ‘You needn’t wear the bollenhut.’ She bustled about to dress me in Triberg costume instead, complete with black skirt, red bodice, green apron and a chimney-pot straw hat – these things having once belonged to Mechtilde an age ago. Proud of my appearance, I believed myself a true Tribergite with my stylish straw hat.
It being noon-time, the dinner hour, Frau Faller beckoned us to the kitchen with its peculiar-looking round table and round chairs, all set lower to the ground for the clock-maker.
‘Herr Faller, I’m glad you’re a dwarf,’ said I.
‘Oh? Why is that?’ asked he.
‘I can see over the table on my own,’ reasoned I.
Frau Faller smiled as she placed a large pot of potato soup in the centre of the table. She served us up black bread with butter, and cold milk that had been stored in a nearby stream to keep it fresh and sweet. Herr Faller led us in a short prayer, and when he had done, he dipped his spoon into the soup pot. He praised the soup, and he nodded to his wife, who dipped her spoon into the soup pot. She nodded to Pico who did the same, and then I took my turn at the soup pot. Round and round we went until I could no longer eat another spoonful. When the soup had disappeared, Herr Faller led us in a short prayer again.
‘Children, go off and play. Do not go far. You must always be able to see our house,’ Frau Faller led Pico and me out of doors. ‘Farmer Dilger has a new horse.’
‘Yes, go and see the horse,’ urged Herr Faller. ‘When I sound my horn three times, you must return, understand?’
Pico and I met up with three children from the Dilger farm, and the five of us gambolled in the dale, walking on logs, sliding down a straw-stack, chasing each other and thereafter racing to the hay loft located in the attic of their farm house. I asked to see their new horse, and to my surprise, I discovered that the stables and the barn stood next to the rooms used by the family. In this manner, the farmer’s family and their animals lived in peace and warmth under the large, sloping straw roof of the farmhouse.
Paaah paaaa raaaah. Of a sudden, Herr Faller’s horn blared three times. ‘The horn,’ cried Pico, and we raced back to the clock-maker’s house. I asked Herr Faller if I could beat my drum, and he allowed me ten minutes with my drum but no more. I reached into my strap pocket for my drum sticks, but something felt odd. Ai de mim! Both of the drum sticks had been broken in two.
‘Little Sofia,’ Frau Faller pronounced my name in a broad German accent. ‘Why do you weep?’
Her concern and kindness made me cry louder. I handed her my poor drum sticks, the drum sticks my papai had gifted me with. The remembrance of the day, when papai had bought me my drum, made me miserable with home-sickness.
Pico started at the sight of my mangled drum sticks. ‘That Josefina is a rum ’un.’
I choked on a sob. ‘Jo…se…fina?’
‘Do not worry, child.’ Herr Faller examined the drum sticks, and using the various tools of his trade, he began to fashion new drum sticks using solid oak.
‘My Otto is a genius. He can make anything,’ Frau Faller assured me.
Like magic, the drum sticks slowly took shape in Herr Faller’s hands. ‘Everything is solvable once you put your heart and mind to it,’ advised he.
Everything is solvable. Inspired by Herr Faller’s maxim, I wiped the tears from my face with my apron. I determined then that if I wished my papai to find me and join us in our search for a moon world, I would need to beat a drum signal every afternoon – the secret drum signal that only he and I knew – using my magic drum sticks. In the loudest voice I could muster, I began to sing our special song.
Pico groaned when he recognised ‘Tree on the Hill’. ‘Canna yer sing summat else?’
After feeling cast off by Doña Marisa, I found myself in a loving home with the Fallers where the days passed with almost perfect happiness. Pico and I rose early, helped the Fallers with their work making clocks
and plaiting straw, ate spätzle – an odd-looking maccaroni – and gambolled in the dale until the horn sounded.
In the evening, we sat before the kitchen hearth. Herr Faller would tell us a story – The Elves and the Shoemaker being my favourite – whereupon we children retired in a state of contentment on our straw mattress, a murmur of rushing water in the distance soothing us to sleep in the warmth of the Fallers’ room. I dreamt once that the Fallers needed help in their clock-making business, and so two elves sneaked into their house late at night to finish the clocks for Herr Faller. To thank the elves, Frau Faller sewed little black breeches and jackets and red vests for them to wear.
On Sunday, we walked out with the Fallers to a gigantic waterfall, its seven cascades roaring and foaming in a wondrous rage, bringing to my mind Doña Marisa and her bad temper. Nearby stood calm pools with moss-covered rocks, the peacefulness of them reminding me of my patient and loving mamãe in Scarborough. A sudden weight upon my spirits made me gloomy. I knelt to dip my hand into the pool of calm water, staring at my sad reflection therein. Frau Faller called out to me in her gentle voice, and I wonder now if she had sensed my troubled soul.
‘Little Sofia, come and plait straw with me.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, it’s always good to work.’
We followed another trail deep into the forest, plaiting straw as we walked. A bell of grace began to chime at the ancient church where the Fallers worshipped and where pilgrims came to pray to Maria in der Tanne – Mary in the Fir.
After Sunday service, while the parishioners gathered round to exchange greetings and news, I wandered down a shady path to an ancient fir tree, where I came upon a little peasant girl dressed in the peculiar fashion of long ago. She said her name was Barbara Franz, and once upon a time, she disobeyed her mother and took a parchment image of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception that had fallen from one of the branches of the fir tree. Later, she became struck with an eye disease.
A dream came to her that she must return the image to the fir tree, and thus she and her parents set out to do just that. ‘See it there?’ She pointed to the parchment image on one of the lower branches. Her parents washed her eyes with water from the spring that bubbled from a rock near the fir tree, and a miracle occurred in that her eye healed and she didn’t go blind.
‘You must wash your hands in this spring,’ Barbara Franz instructed me, ‘and wash away the bitterness growing in your heart for Doña Marisa.’
I stamped my foot in protest. ‘Why should I like her when she doesn’t like me?’
‘We must love one another,’ advised she.
‘Please tell me. Is this a moon world where everyone lives in peace and harmony?’
She shook her head. ‘This is Triberg.’
‘Ai de mim!’ exclaimed I, my moon hopes crushed yet again. Hot tears began to form in my eyes.
‘Listen to me,’ urged she. ‘You must attend Doña Marisa until she reaches her destination. When your heart is pure, only then will your papai find you.’
And so I knelt to wash my hands with the water from the bubbling spring, and I gave a thousand thank-you’s to God for sending this Barbara Franz to speak with me. Holla! God! I shall think of others besides myself. My prayer done, and my mind resolved to go rightly in this world, I rose to thank my new friend, but the girl had gone, as had the spring and the image on the branch.
Chapter Eight
The Beau
MY FIRST BEAU, thinks I, was not a pretty moon boy, but rather, a Swiss named Denzler – a true manly man, just like my papai. I hear you cry, ‘How could you wish for romantick adventure – you, the girl who always exclaimed “gah!” whenever she suspected her parents of romanticking themselves?’ Well, I still say ‘gah!’ to them and all things romantick-y. Denzler and I shared a true friendship, a true affection, one that defied all gah-ness and silliness, unlike everyone else I observed when they romanticked each other.
In Triberg, the inevitable leave-taking of the Fallers and the Black Forest arrived sooner than I wished. But push on we must. Herr Faller chuckled at the sight of me, for I was dressed now as an English boy of quality in my nankeen breeches and red jacket. We shook hands, and he surprised me with a cuckoo clock of my very own. Que maravilha! What a wonder it was. When the hour struck, the trap-door at the top opened, and a little wooden drummer girl popped out.
‘Ha! Ha!’ I jumped with joy at having my very own cuckoo clock.
‘God bless you, Sofia. God bless you, Pico. Be good.’ Frau Faller wiped her eyes with her apron.
The glass having been let down in our carriage, Frau Faller kissed me and Pico one last time, and the sorrow of it pierced my heart and made me sob. I awaited Pico’s unmerciful teasing, but now that I think on it, he never did call me a namby-pamby girl when I had wept. And that is how boys hide their own misery, thinks I; they become terribly quiet of a sudden.
As we drove down the dirt road past the Dilger Farm, the familiar paaah paaaa raaaah of Herr Faller’s horn bid us a final farewell.
‘The horn!’ Pico grinned as he leant out of the window to wave his cap at the Fallers, now two specks in the distance.
‘Ha, ha, you look like a cuckoo bird who popped out the trap-door,’ teased I.
‘Ha, ha, yer look like a blockhead.’ He hit me on the crown of my head with his cap. And that is how boys become cheerful again, thinks I; they call you a blockhead and give you a rap on the head, while pretending to be disagreeable.
Several days later we crossed into a country they call die Schweiz, or Switzerland. In the town of Schaffhausen, Señor Gonzalez discovered that the northern shore of the Rhine here abounded with vineyards – an unexpected pleasure for him, to be sure. At mid-night, the dog in him howled at the bright white moon in what had become his nightly ritual whenever he got monstrously drunk.
‘Silencio!’ cried Doña Marisa.
‘Olé! Olé!’ He stamped about, ignoring his lady’s warning that dancing was forbidden in Schaffhausen.
The following day we travelled as far as Winterthur, a picturesque village surrounded by hilly pastures where fat sheep and horned cows grazed in a leisurely manner. Entranced, I thought it a waking dream, the lush pastures glowing green in my mind. Oh, how I wished to roll down a hillock to see if everything was real. Upon hearing my urgent pleas, Doña Marisa agreed to give us children exercise. ‘Twenty minutes then,’ said she.
Pico jumped out of the carriage first. With a whoop, I followed on his heels, and we gambolled and roistered in the pasture. Everything seemed so perfect, so pure in this fuzzy green paradise, until we came upon a cottage with its heap of stinking manure by the door, reminding us of the Dilger Farm in Triberg with its heaps of manure near the house. ‘Pugh!’ Pico wrinkled his nose. We raced back to where Doña Marisa awaited us by the carriage.
‘How came you to be a swift runner?’ asked she, brushing away bits of clover and trefoil from my hair.
I shrugged. ‘My papai can run fast. He ran riot in London, where his papai never caught him…’
‘Ay!’ Doña Marisa frowned.
‘…I heard him say so once,’ revealed I with pride.
‘Humph, ran riot…’ muttered Señor Gonzalez from where he sat within, scribbling with his pencil in a small journal-book.
In Zürich, while Doña Marisa rested at our inn, we children accompanied Señor Gonzalez on a stroll. Pico counted fifty-four sails drifting on a shimmering blue-green lake, while I counted twenty peaks in the snow-topped alps that rose in the distance – twenty being the highest number I could count up to then. On our return, we passed by a hospital, where we came upon a curious sort of people lazing in the sun, one of whom was being fed by his mother. Señor Gonzalez recalled seeing similar-looking cretins in the mountains of Spain. He explained to us that these unfortunate souls were imbeciles, oftentimes deaf, and one could always tell a cretin by their enormous goitres, splay features and olive-tinted skin. On a sudden, one of the cretins uttered a s
hrill cry like that of a wild animal.
‘Gad zookers,’ Pico half-whispered in astonishment.
Señor Gonzalez shook his head. ‘It is a cruel condition and without cure.’
I stood there and stared. How was it that a country with a charming landscape – its lakes that reflected the heavens, its majestic mountains that boasted seas of ice, its velvety green pastures that turned cow’s milk into nectar – could also produce such shockingly deformed people? With mingled feelings of terror and pity, I wondered what could be done for these tragic souls. This place, this country, could not be a moon world, I thought to myself, because no one would suffer so in a perfect world.
At the inn, a cheerful Doña Marisa greeted us in her sitting room. ‘Tengo hambre,’ said she, rubbing her belly, and she requested that I fetch her something to eat called Emmental. I scampered away to the dining room where the staff at the inn gave me an unsightly cheese with holes in it. Ai de mim! What to do? Surely Doña Marisa would be angry with me if I brought her defective cheese. Struck with panic, I stuffed the holes the best I could with bits of apples and nuts and – oh yes – a wooden button that had been lying on the floor. Josefina, who stood like a sentry in the passage, gaped at the patched-up wedge of cheese I presented to her. ‘Tonta!’ cried she, tossing the button and other hole stuffings to me.
Later that night, when I told Pico of the cheese ridden with holes, he convulsed with laughter. That is when I learnt that Emmental comes with holes in it, though, I still couldn’t understand why the Swiss took the trouble to carve out holes in their cheese and what exactly they did afterwards with the bits of cheese they carved out.
‘Yer blockhead! The Swiss dunna carve out holes in the cheese.’ Pico hit me with his feather pillow, for we had remained bedfellows ever since our sojourn in Triberg.
I, Sofia-Elisabete, Love Child of Colonel Fitzwilliam Page 10
