shrunken old man, and threw back their long hair. And as little Helga leaned over her grandfather, his cheeks grew rosy, his eyes regained their luster, and life returned to the stiff limbs. The old man rose up healthy and rejuvenated. His daughter and granddaughter embraced him in their arms as if they were giving him a morning greeting after a long heavy dream.
There was joy in the entire court and in the stork nest too, but there it was mostly because of the good food. The place was teeming with frogs. And while the learned ones quickly wrote a hasty story of the two princesses and about the flower of health that was such a great occurrence and blessing for house and country, the stork parents told the story in their way and for their family. But not until everyone was full, because otherwise they would have other things to do than listen to stories.
“Now you’ll become something!” whispered stork mother. “Nothing else is fair!”
“And what should I become?” said stork father, “and what have I done? Nothing!”
“You’ve done more than any of the others! Without you and the children the two princesses would never have seen Egypt again, or cured the old man. You’ll become something! You’ll definitely get a doctor’s degree, and our children will inherit it and then their children and so on! And you already look like an Egyptian doctor—in my eyes!”
The learned and wise ones explained the basic idea, as they called it, that ran through the whole course of events: “Love brings forth life!” It could be explained in different ways. “The warm sunbeam was Egypt’s princess who went down to the bog king and from their meeting the blossom sprang forth—”
“I can’t repeat the words exactly,” said stork father, who had listened from the roof and was telling about it in the nest. “What they said was so complicated, and it was so wise that right away they received high rank and gifts, even the cook got a big medal, but I think it was for the soup.”
“And what did you get?” asked stork mother. “They certainly didn’t forget the most important one, which is you? The learned men only talked about everything! But you will get your reward too, I’m sure.”
Late at night when the peace of sleep was resting over the rich and happy house, there was one who was still awake, and it wasn’t stork father, even though he stood up in the nest on one leg, sleeping watch. It was little Helga who was awake. She leaned out from the balcony and looked at the clear sky with the big shining stars, bigger and clearer in their radiance here than she had seen them in the north, but yet the same. She thought about the Viking woman by the great wild bog, about her foster mother’s gentle eyes and the tears she had shed over the poor frog-child who was now standing in radiance and starry splendor in the lovely spring air by the waters of the Nile. She thought about the love in the pagan woman’s heart, the love that she had shown a pathetic creature, who was an evil animal in human form and in animal form nasty to see and touch. She looked at the shining stars and remembered the radiance from the forehead of the dead, when they flew over the woods and swamps. Strains rang in her memory, words she had heard spoken when they rode away, and she had sat there as one possessed. Words about love’s great source: the greatest love that encompassed all things.
Oh, how much had not been given, won, and gained! Little Helga’s thoughts encompassed, day and night, her entire sum of happiness, and she looked at it like the child who turns quickly from the giver to the given—all the lovely gifts. She was completely absorbed in the increasing bliss that could come, would come. She had been brought to always greater joy and happiness through miracles, and one day she lost herself so completely in that that she didn’t think about the giver any longer. It was her youthful daring spirit making its rapid spring, and her eyes were alight with it. But she was torn from her thoughts by a loud noise down in the courtyard below her. She saw two powerful ostriches running hurriedly in tight circles. She had never seen this animal before, such a large bird and so clumsy and heavy. The wings looked like they were clipped, and the bird itself looked like it had been injured. She asked what had happened to it, and for the first time she heard the legend that the Egyptians tell about the ostrich.
His kind had once been beautiful with large, strong wings. Then one evening the forest’s other powerful birds had said to it, “Brother, should we fly down to the river tomorrow and drink, if God wills it?” And the ostrich answered, “I will it!” The next morning they flew away, first high up towards the sun, God’s eye. They flew always higher and higher, with the ostrich way ahead of the others. He flew proudly towards the light. He trusted in his powers, not the giver of them. He did not say, “If God wills it.” So a punishing angel drew the veil away from the flaming rays, and in that instant the ostrich’s wings were burned, and it sank miserably to earth. He and his kind will never be able to rise up again. He runs in fright, rushes around in circles in a narrow space. This is a reminder for us humans in all our thoughts and with each act to say, “God willing!”
And Helga bent her head thankfully and looked at the chasing ostrich. She saw his fear and his foolish joy at the sight of his big shadow on the wide sunlit wall. And gravity sank its deep roots in her mind and thoughts. A life so rich, so full of blessings had been given and won—what would happen? What would still come? The best: “God willing!”
Early in the spring, when the storks headed north again, little Helga took her golden bracelet, carved her name inside it, and beckoned to stork father. She placed the bracelet around his neck and asked him to take it to the Viking woman. She would understand from it that her foster daughter was alive and happy and remembered her.
“It’s heavy to carry,” thought the stork, when it was placed around his neck, “but you can’t throw gold and honor on the road. Now they’ll know up there that the stork brings good fortune!”
“You lay gold, and I lay eggs!” said stork mother. “But you only lay once, while I do it every year! But neither of us gets any appreciation! That hurts!”
“We are aware of it, mother,” said stork father.
“Well you can’t decorate yourself with that,” said stork mother. “It gives neither a fair wind nor a meal!”
And then they flew away.
The little nightingale who sang in the tamarind bush would soon fly north too. Little Helga had often heard it up there by the great bog. She would send a message with it. She knew the language of the birds which she learned when she flew in the swan-skin and had often talked to the stork and swallows since then. The nightingale would understand her, and she asked it to fly to the beech forest on the peninsula of Jutland where the grave of rock and branches was raised. She asked it to request all the small birds there to stand guard over the grave and sing a song and yet another.
And the nightingale flew away—and time flew too!
