"What else happened to him?"
"He had seen the bright light which the older beetle had spoken of, and could think of nothing better to do than promptly to fly to it. Straight as a string, he flew into a room, and fell into human hands. For three long days he suffered martyrdom. He was put into cardboard boxes, threads were tied to his feet, and he was made to fly. Then he tore himself free, with the loss of a wing and a leg, and finally, creeping helplessly around on the carpet in a vain endeavor to reach the garden, he was crushed by a heavy foot.
"All creatures, Johannes, that roam around in the night are as truly children of the sun as we are. And although they have never seen the shining face of their father, still a dim remembrance ever impels them to anything from which light streams. And thousands of poor creatures of the darkness find a pitiful death through that love for the sun from whom they were long ago cut off and estranged. Thus a mysterious, irresistible tendency brings human beings to destruction in the false phantom of that Great Light which gave them being, but which they no longer understand."
Johannes looked up inquiringly into Windekind's eyes. But they were deep and mysterious—like the dark sky between the stars.
"Do you mean God?" he asked shyly.
"God?" The deep eyes laughed gently. "I know, Johannes, of what you think when you utter that name; of the chair before your bed beside which you make your long prayer every evening; of the green serge curtains of the church window at which you look so often Sunday mornings; of the capital letters of your little Bible; of the church-bag with the long handle; of the wretched singing and the musty atmosphere. What you mean by that name, Johannes, is a ridiculous phantom; instead of the sun, a great oil-lamp where hundreds of thousands of gnats are helplessly stuck fast."
"But what then is the name of the Great Light, Windekind? And to whom must I pray?"
"Johannes, it is the same as if a speck of mold turning round with the earth should ask me its bearer's name. If there were an answer to your question you would understand it no more than does the earth-worm the music of the spheres. Still, I will teach you how to pray."
Then, with little Johannes, who was musing in silent wonder over his words, Windekind flew up out of the forest, so high that beyond the horizon a long streak of shining gold became visible. On they flew—the fantastically shadowed plain gliding beneath their glance. And the band of light grew broader and broader. The green of the dunes grew dun, the grass looked grey, and strange, pale-blue plants were growing there. Still another high range of hills, a long narrow stretch of sand, and then the wide, awful sea.
That great expanse was blue as far as the horizon, but below the sun flashed a narrow streak of glittering, blinding red.
A long, fleecy margin of white foam encircled the sea, like an ermine border upon blue velvet.
And at the horizon, sky and water were separated by an exquisite, wonderful line. It seemed miraculous; straight, and yet curved, sharp, yet undefined—visible, yet inscrutable. It was like the sound of a harp that echoes long and dreamfully, seeming to die away and yet remaining.
Then little Johannes sat down upon the top of the hill and gazed—gazed long, in motionless silence, until it seemed to him as if he were about to die—as if the great golden doors of the universe were majestically unfolding, and his little soul were drifting toward the first light of Infinity.
And then the tears welled in his wide-open eyes till they shrouded the glory of the sun, and obscured the splendor of heaven and earth in a dim and misty twilight.
"That is the way to pray," said Windekind.
V
Did you ever wander through the woods on a beautiful autumn day, when the sun was shining, calm and bright, upon the richly tinted foliage; when the boughs creaked, and the dry leaves rustled about your feet?
The woods seem so weary. They can only meditate, and live in old remembrances. A blue haze, like a dream, surrounds them with a mysterious beauty, and glistening gossamer floats through the air in idle undulations—like futile, aimless meditations.
Yet, suddenly and unaccountably, out of the damp ground, between moss and dry leaves, rise up the marvelous toadstools; some thick, deformed, and fleshy; others tall and slender with ringed stems and bright-colored hoods. Strange dream-figures of the woods are they!
There may be seen also, on moldering tree-trunks, countless, small white growths with little black tops, as if they had been burnt. Some wise folk consider them a kind of fungus. But Johannes learned better.
"They are little candles. They burn in still autumn nights, and the goblin mannikins sit beside them, and read in little books."
Windekind taught him that, on such a still autumn day, while Johannes dreamily inhaled the faint odor of the forest soil.
"What makes the leaves of the sycamore so spotted with black?"
"Oh, the goblins do that, too," said Windekind. "When they have been writing nights, they throw out in the morning, over the leaves, what is left in their ink bottles. They do not like this tree. Crosses, and poles for contribution bags, are made out of sycamore wood."
Johannes was inquisitive about the busy little goblins, and he made Windekind promise to take him to one of them.
He had already been a long time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret over his promise to forget all he had left behind. There were no times of anxiety or of loneliness—times when remorse wakens. Windekind never left him, and with him he was at home in any place. He slept peacefully, in the rocking nest of the reed-bird that hung among the green stalks, although the bittern roared and the raven croaked so ominously. He felt no fear on account of pouring rains nor shrieking winds. At such times he took shelter in hollow trees or rabbit-holes, and crept close under Windekind's mantle, and listened to the voice which was telling him stories.
And now he was going to see the goblins.
It was a good day for the visit—so very still. Johannes fancied he could already hear their light little voices, and the tripping of their tiny feet, although it was yet midday.
The birds were nearly all gone—the thrushes alone were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There it hung with outstretched wings, struggling until the tightly pinioned little foot was nearly severed. Johannes quickly released it, and with a joyful chirp the bird flew swiftly away.
The toadstools were having a chatty time together.
"Just look at me," said one fat devil-fungus. "Did you ever see anything like it? See how thick and white my stem is, and see how my hood shines! I am the biggest of all. And that in one night!"
"Bah!" said the red fly-fungus. "You are very clumsy—so brown and rough. I sway on my slender stalk like a grass stem. I am splendidly red, like the thrush-berry and gorgeously speckled. I am handsomer than any of you."
"Be still!" said Johannes, who had known them well in former days. "You are both poisonous."
"That is a virtue," said the red fungus.
"Do you happen to be a human being?" grumbled the big fellow, scornfully. "If so, I would like to have you eat me up!"
Johannes did not do that, however. He took little dry twigs, and stuck them into his clumsy hood. That made him look silly, and all the others laughed—among them, a little group of tiny toadstools with small, brown heads, who in a couple of hours had sprung up together, and were jostling one another to get a peep at the world. The devil-fungus was blue with rage. That brought to light his poisonous nature.