Stine Madsdatter, who did “doctoring,” and could tell fortunes in cards and coffee grounds and knew more than the Lord’s Prayer. And she knew where Rasmus was. She read it in the coffee grounds. He was in a foreign city, but she couldn’t make out the name of it. There were soldiers and lovely young maidens in that city, and he was deciding whether to take up a musket or one of the girls.
Else couldn’t stand hearing that. She would gladly use her savings to ransom him, but no one must know it was her.
And old Stine promised that he would come back. She knew a magic remedy, a dangerous one for the person concerned, but it was a last resort. She would set the pot to cooking for him, and then he would have to come. No matter where in the world he was, he would have to come home, home to where the pot was cooking and his sweetheart was waiting for him. It could take months for him to come, but come he must, if he was still alive.
Night and day without peace or rest he had to travel over sea and mountains, whether the weather was fair or foul, no matter how tired his feet were. He was going home. He had to go home.
The moon was in its first quarter, and that’s how it had to be for the magic to work, said old Stine. The weather was stormy, so the old willow tree creaked. Stine cut off a branch, and tied it into a knot. This was going to help pull Rasmus home to his mother’s house. Moss and house leeks were taken from the roof and placed into the pot that was put on the fire. Else had to tear a page from a hymnal, and as it happened she tore out the last one, the one with the printing errors. “It’s all the same,” said Stine and threw it into the pot.
Many things had to go into that porridge, and it had to boil and keep boiling until Rasmus came home. Old Stine’s black rooster had to lose its red comb. It went in the pot. Else’s thick golden ring went in, and Stine told her ahead of time that she’d never get it back. That Stine was so wise! Many things that we can’t even name went into the pot. It stood on the fire continuously, or on glowing embers or hot ash. Only she and Else knew about it.
A new moon came and then waned. Every time Else came and asked, “Can you see him coming?”
“I know a great deal,” said Stine, “and I see a great deal, but I can’t see how long his road is. He’s been over the first range of mountains. He’s been on the sea in bad weather. His road is long through big forests. He has blisters on his feet, and fever in his body, but he must walk.”
“No! No!” cried Else. “I’m so sorry for him!”
“He can’t be stopped now. If we do that, he’ll fall over dead on the road.”
A long time passed. The moon was shining round and huge and the wind sighed in the old tree, and in the sky there was a rainbow in the moonlight.
“That is a sign of confirmation!” said Stine. “Now Rasmus is coming.”
But still he didn’t come.
“It’s a long wait,” said Stine.
“I’m tired of this,” said Else. She came less often to Stine and didn’t bring her any new presents.
She became happier, and one fine morning everyone in the district knew that she had accepted the rich farmer.
She went over there to look at the farm and fields, the cattle and the furniture. Everything was in good shape, and there was no reason to delay the wedding.
It was celebrated for three days with a huge party. There was dancing to the music of clarinets and violins. Everyone in the district was invited. Mother Olse was there too, and when the festivities were over, and the hosts had said good bye to the guests, and the final fanfare was blown by the trumpets, she went home with leftovers from the feast.
She had only locked the door with a latch, and it was unhooked. The door stood open, and in the room sat Rasmus. He had come home, only just arrived. But dear God, what he looked like! He was just skin and bones, his skin pale and yellow.
“Rasmus!” said his mother. “Is it you? How seedy you look! But my soul is so happy to have you back.”
And she gave him the good food she had brought home from the feast, a piece of roast, and a piece of the wedding cake.
He said that lately he had thought often of his mother, his home, and the old willow tree. It was odd how often in his dreams he had seen that tree and barefooted Johanna.
He didn’t mention Else at all. He was sick and took to his bed. But we don’t believe that the pot was at fault in this, or that it had had any power over him. Only old Stine and Else believed that, but they didn’t talk about it.
Rasmus had a fever, and his illness was contagious. No one came to the tailor’s house except Johanna, the clogmaker’s daughter. She cried when she saw how miserable Rasmus was.
The doctor gave him a prescription, but he wouldn’t take the medicine. “What good does it do?” he said.
“It will make you better,” said his mother. “Have faith in yourself and the Lord. I would gladly give my life if I could see a little meat on your bones again, and hear you whistle and sing.”
And Rasmus recovered from his illness, but his mother caught it. The Lord called her and not him.
It was lonely in the house, and it became a poorer place. “He’s worn-out,” they said in the district. “Poor Rasmus.”
He had carried on a wild life in his travels, and it was that, and not the boiling black pot that had sucked the strength out of him and made him restless. His hair grew thin and grey, and he couldn’t be bothered to engage in anything. “What good does it do?” he said. He was more often at the pub than in the pew.
One autumn evening he was walking with difficulty on the muddy road from the pub to his house, through rain and wind. His mother was long gone and buried. The swallows and starlings were gone too, those faithful creatures. But Johanna, the clogmaker’s daughter, was not gone. She caught up with him on the road and walked along with him for a while.
“Pull yourself together, Rasmus!”
“What good does it do?” he said.
