So the days passed, and Othmar remained silent and worked with the other young men of the village without speaking, and no longer could he sing or call the birds to him. Always he looked white and sad, but saddest of all when there was any village merrymaking, and the villagers sang and danced together. Then when he heard them he would put his fingers in his ears and hide his eyes so as not to see them and run afar off by himself; for the sound of any music was quite horrible to him after the singing of the travelling musicians. So a year passed, and Othmar never spoke, and instead of calling him the bird-boy, the village people called him “dumb Othmar.”
It was midsummer-night, and the villagers had been having a merrymaking and dancing cheerily on the green in the village. Othmar was not with them; he had left the village and went and sat apart on the top of a rocky hill, from where afar the sea could be seen when the weather was clear. The moon was wonderfully bright, and the country was almost as light as by day. Othmar could hear the sound of their laughter, but he never laughed, and as he sat with his head bowed upon his knees he wept silently. So he remained alone till far into the night when all the singing and dancing was done, and the villagers had gone home, but just when the clocks struck twelve he saw Hulda, who came slowly to him, and he saw that she too was crying.
“Othmar,” she said, “I have thought and thought, and I know that the little man with the fiddles was a wicked fairy.” Othmar nodded. “So I am going into the big world to find him, for if he has done you this ill he will know how to cure you, and I have saved all my money for a year.”
Then Othmar took her hand, and kissed it, but still wept, as he shook his head and made signs to her that she must not go, as it would be all in vain. But Hulda did not heed him.
“And now,” she said, “I am going, Othmar, and it may be long years before I return, so you must do three things. First, you must give me a long curl of your brown hair, that I may lay it next my heart and wear it day and night, not to forget you. Then you must kiss me on my lips to say goodbye; and then you must promise that my name shall be the first words your lips say when they again can speak.” Then Othmar took his knife and cut from his head the longest, brightest curl of his hair, and drew her to him and kissed her thrice upon the lips, and then he took her hand and with it wrote upon his lips her name, “Hulda,” as a promise that her name should be the first thing they said.
“Goodbye, Othmar,” she said; “you will wait for me.” Then she turned away and started alone to go down the mountainside, and she looked back as she went and called back, “Goodbye, Othmar,” as long as he could see or hear her.
She went straight down the hill and journeyed for a long way, till the dawn began to show red in the sky, and she lay under a tree and slept soundly till the sun had risen and woke her.
She sat and thought which way she should go. “I must seek out some wise man who knows about fairies and wicked witches,” she said to herself, “and who will tell me where to search. And I will ask everyone I meet where the wisest person is to be found.” So she went on for many days till she came to a tiny village, outside which, in a field, she saw a shepherd minding sheep. Hulda stopped and asked if he could tell her where she could find a very wise man who could answer her question.
The shepherd thought a bit, and then he said, “The wisest man in these parts lives up in the little cottage on the other side of the village. He cured my sheep two years back when all the flock were sick and many died—a little cottage with a red gate.” Hulda thanked the shepherd, and went on till she came to the little cottage with the red gate. When she had knocked at the door a tall man came out, and she asked him if ’twas he who had cured the shepherd’s sheep, and as he was so clever, if he would tell her what to do. She told him she wanted to find a dwarf who led a donkey covered with musical instruments, and whom she knew to be a wicked sorcerer, since he struck folk dumb.
The tall man looked at her and said, “My business is to cure sheep, cows, and horses, and I know it right well; but I know nothing of dwarfs and witches, and how can I tell you which way he has gone, or anything about him?”
“Then of whom had I best ask?” said Hulda. “Tell me who is the wisest and most learned man in these parts, and I will go to him.”
The tall man rubbed his head and considered. “I suppose,” quoth he, “that the old schoolmaster at the village school yonder would be said to be the most learned man hereabouts, for he teaches the children all sorts of things that they forget when they grow up. That is the schoolhouse on the hill.” So on went Hulda again to the school.
As she came near she could hear the children calling out their lessons, and
