Fundvogel

Once on a late summer afternoon she was sleeping under the willows near a dark gloomy brook that her geese were swimming in. The old gander was keeping watch, she called him Philipp. He was her good friend and she shared her noon bread with him.

She awoke frightened when a hot breath hit her in the face. When she opened her eyes a giant head was looming over her, it was brown and white underneath with a powerful mouth full of yellow teeth. Warm slobber dripped onto her face.

She screamed loudly, gripped the yielding nostrils with both hands and clawed tightly in her terror. The old nag threw her head back ripping her high off the ground. She let go, sprang back and hid behind the trunk of a willow tree to save herself.

“Philipp!” She howled. “Philipp!”

With outstretched wings, raging hisses, honking and spitting the gander climbed out of the water and attacked the leg of the horse. In a moment all the geese were there, flying out of the water and up the slope. The young ones attacked with their bills and held on flapping their wings. The older ones beat the horse with their heavy wings, cackling, crackling and ratcheting.

The horse shied, tried to jump high out of the quarrel and sprang to the side. The rider lost his stirrup and had all kinds of trouble trying to stay in the saddle.

But then the storm broke just as quickly as it had started. The gander was clever, he recognized the horse. Oh yes, it was old Lene whom he had gotten along well with for years. He had many times slept on the straw in her stall when he was tired of the foolishness of the geese folk!

Instantly he pushed with his wings and hissed loudly for the others to hear and then stretched his neck over the mare’s feet, almost caressing them. Immediately the noise of the excited geese died away. It was deeply peaceful as if nothing had happened. Only the young geese still flew around but he hunted them down and drove them back into the brook.

“Come out from behind your tree,” cried a light voice.

On top of old Lene sat a blond youth only six years older than her, but he seemed much larger.

“Are you Fundvogel?” He asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I am your cousin Jan,” he said. “I’m here at Woyland for the Holidays. Grandmother said I was supposed to bring you home.”

“No,” said the little girl. “I must take care of the geese. I will come home in the evening.”

“It’s already evening!” The youth cried. “Look around you some more barefoot!”

She looked around and saw how low the sun was in the sky. Had she been sleeping that long? She gave the boy her willow switch and tried to get up on the horse but it was not easy. She tried climbing on the mare’s forelegs while holding onto the mane. The good-natured mare turned its head to look at her.

She slid down a couple of times but didn’t give up. She kept trying. Finally she was hanging with her right hand on the stirrup and the left on the mane. The youth bent over, grabbed and pulled her the rest of the way up. At last she sat astride the horse in the saddle in front of him panting and very out of breath.

She was glad she had made it to the top. The boy was also glad and the old mare didn’t mind. No other mare would have taken such abuse.

They rode very slowly taking the leisurely strides that old Lene loved. The goose girl sighed. It was not easy to drive geese when you were so high in the air. They always tried to go the wrong way when she was not watching. But Philipp helped, wanting to prove to old Lene that he was in charge of his flock of geese.

When they reached the stable the youth reached into his pocket and took out a piece of sugar. The girl took it. She had no fear of the large animal at all and shoved her entire hand deep into the mare’s mouth.

Lene shook her head in disapproval. She couldn’t eat sugar that way and she was certainly not a willow tree for children to clamber around on!

Jan showed the girl how to do it, how to lay the sugar on the open palm of the hand so the mare could take it.

Outside in the yard Philipp was walking around. He never went to bed with the other geese folk. The gray cat went by, a mouse in its mouth. Immediately Philipp was by her, pretending to be very furious, very frightening. The cat let the little mouse fall. Snap! The gander had it in its beak and gulped it down. He saw no reason why only cats should eat mice.

Jan pointed his finger at her, “Go! Look how dirty you are! You need to wash your neck too. Who looks after you?”

“Katherine,” said Fundvogel.

The youth raised his voice and screamed across the yard, “Katherine! Katherine!”

The large flaxen haired maid came up to them in hurried strides but it wasn’t fast enough for the boy.

“Run,” he cried to her. “Run, you lazy Katherine! Lift your skirts and run when I call!”

The rascal pointed at the girl. “Take her with you Katherine,” he commanded. “Get her ready. Grandmother said she will be eating at the table tonight with us. Look at her neck, it hasn’t been washed for three weeks. You better take care of this child for me, hands, feet, everything! Do you hear me Katherine?”

“Yes, young Sir,” answered the maid.

Jan left and went straight to the castle. They both stared after him with open mouths and wide open eyes.

“Come Fundvogel,” said Katherine and grabbed her little hand.

The barefoot girl tugged and pulled at her hand until she was free.

“No, I don’t like it,” she yelled. “I won’t do it and I don’t like it. You shouldn’t lead me by the hand. I can go by myself.”

Would Katherine lead her cousin Jan by the hand? She would never dare! Young Sir is what the maid had called him!

* *

*

She sat in the great hall that night, the three of them were alone at the long table. Grandmother sat at the head of the table. Further down and on the other side sat the youth. She sat across from him and even further down.

She was washed very clean; it had cost many tears and heated arguments with Katherine. Her hair was parted down the middle and braided in little pink-banded plaits. They were so tightly braided that they stood out like little pigtails. She wore a light green dress that was freshly starched and ironed. It scratched her neck. On her feet were white stockings that were pressed into black shoes.

Grandmother laughed.

The little one sat on one of the big chairs with her nose scarcely peeping over the edge of the table. The tall butler, Klaus, waited on them with white cotton gloves pulled over his powerful paws. He pushed a pair of pillows underneath her compassionately to lift her up.

He wanted to cut her meat too but Grandmother said, “Leave her, Klaus. She should do it by herself.”

She was hungry and ready for everything that he put on her plate but something was missing. Nothing tasted right that evening, not without her milk. It was better in the barn.

* *

*

The youth told her, “Grandmother said I should give the blessing.”

Fundvogel nodded and waited. The two sat in a thicket high up on the Katzenbuckel. He didn’t know what to say. Finally he asked her.

“Can you pray?”

She nodded again, she could do that. Someone had taught her long ago, yes, her mother. But now she had forgotten.

He considered, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate. “As far as I’m concerned we don’t need to pray,” he told her. “I don’t do it anymore.”

Then she asked if he knew any fairytales. He told her they were silly but he stammered and painfully told her some, inventing parts that he didn’t know.

Once he broke off a red and white striped Field Bindweed flower.

“What does it look like?” He asked her.

“Like a glass,” said the little girl. “Maybe the elves drink out of it, or the dwarves.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I have never heard of it. It is Our Lady’s Little Glass and Our Lady drinks out of it. Sometimes she goes for a walk and gets very thirsty. When you meet her and give her some water out of one of these she will be very happy and grant you a wish.”

“I would wish that the geese don’t run so far away,” the little girl said.

The youth laughed, “She would be happy to do that. But you know Fundvogel; you shouldn’t be with the geese so much. Maybe they are little girls like you that have been enchanted.”

Andrea thought about it.

“But not Philipp,” she decided.

“No, not him,” agreed Jan. “He’s much to clever for that.”