“Now give it back,” the little girl said timidly. “You’ve played with it long enough. How did you catch it?”
Egle looked up and dropped the yacht, for Assol’s excited voice had broken the stillness so unexpectedly. For a moment the old man gazed at her, smiling and slowly running his beard through his large, curled hand. An oft-washed little cotton dress just barely covered the girl’s skinny, sunburned knees. Her thick dark hair tied up in a lace kerchief had got undone and fell to her shoulders. Every one of Assol’s features was finely-chiselled and as delicate as a swallow’s flight. There was a sad, questioning look in her dark eyes which seemed older than her face; its irregular oval was touched with the lovely sunburn peculiar to a healthy whiteness of the skin. Her small parted lips were turned up in a gentle smile.
“I swear by the Brothers Grimm, Aesop and Andersen,” Egle said, looking from the girl to the yacht, “that there’s something very special here! Listen, you, flower! This is yours, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I ran all the way down along the stream after it; I thought I’d die. Did it come here?”
“Right to my feet. The shipwreck has made it possible for me, acting as an off-shore pirate, to present you with this prize. The yacht, abandoned by its crew, was tossed up on the beach by a three-inch wave – landing between my left heel and the tip of my stick.” He thumped his stick. “What’s your name, child?”
“Assol,” the girl replied, tucking the toy Egle had handed her into the basket.
“That’s fine.” The old man continued his obscure speech, never taking his eyes, in the depths of which a kindly, friendly chuckle glinted, from her. “Actually, I shouldn’t have asked you your name. I’m glad it’s such an unusual one, so sibilant and musical, like the whistle of an arrow or the whispering of a seashell; what would I have done if your name had been one of those pleasant but terribly common names which are so alien to Glorious Uncertainty? Still less do I care to know who you are, who your parents are, or what sort of life you lead. Why break the spell? I was sitting here on this stone comparing Finnish and Japanese story plots… when suddenly the stream washed up this yacht, and then you appeared. Just as you are. I’m a poet at heart, my dear, even though I’ve never written anything. What’s in your basket?”
“Boats,” Assol said, shaking the basket, “and a steamship, and three little houses with flags. Soldiers live in them.”
“Excellent. You’ve been sent to sell them. And on the way you stopped to play. You let the yacht sail about a bit, but it ran off instead. Am I right?”
“Were you watching?” Assol asked doubtfully as she tried to recall whether she had not told him about it herself. “Did somebody tell you? Or did you guess?”
“I knew it.”
“How?”
“Because I’m the greatest of all magicians.”
Assol was embarrassed; the tension she felt at these words of Egle’s overstepped fear. The deserted beach, the stillness, the tiring adventure of the yacht, the strange speech of the old man with the glittering eyes, the magnificence of his beard and hair now seemed to the child as a brew of the supernatural and reality. If Egle had grimaced or shouted now, the child would have raced off, weeping and faint from fear. However, upon noticing how wide her eyes had grown, Egle made a sharp turn.
“You’ve no reason to be afraid of me,” he said in a serious voice. “On the contrary, I want to have a heart-to-heart talk with you.”
Now at last did he see what it was in her face that had struck him so. “An unwitting expectation of the beautiful, of a blissful fate,” he decided. “Ah, why wasn’t I born a writer? What a wonderful theme for a story.”
“Now then,” Egle continued, trying to round off his original thesis (a penchant for myth-making – the result of his everyday work – was greater than the fear of tossing seeds of great dreams upon unknown soil), “now then, Assol, listen carefully. I’ve just been in the village you are probably coming from; in a word, in Kaperna. I like fairy-tales and songs, and I spent the whole day in that village hoping to hear something no one had heard before. But no one in these parts tells fairy-tales. No one here sings songs. And if they do tell stories and sing songs, you know, they are tales about conniving peasants and soldiers, with the eternal praise of roguery, they are as filthy as unwashed feet and as crude as a rumbling stomach, these short, four-line ditties sung to a terrible tune… Wait, I’ve got carried away. I’ll start again.”
He was silent for a while and then continued thus:
“I don’t know how many years will pass, but a fairy-tale will blossom in Kaperna and will remain in the minds of the people for long. You’ll be grown-up then, Assol. One morning a crimson sail will gleam in the sun on the far horizon. The shimmering pile of crimson sails on a white ship will head straight towards you, cutting through the waves. This wonderful ship will sail in silently; there will be no shouting or salvoes; a great crowd will gather on the beach. Everyone will be amazed and astounded; and you’ll be there, too. The ship will sail majestically up to the very shore to the strains of beautiful music; a swift boat decked out in rugs, flowers and gold will be lowered from the ship. ‘Why have you come? Whom are you searching for?’ the people on the beach will say. Then you’ll see a brave and handsome prince; he’ll be standing there and stretching forth his hands towards you. ‘Hello, Assol!’ he’ll say. ‘Far, far away from here I saw you in a dream and have come to take you away to my kingdom forever. You will live with me there in a deep rose valley. You shall have everything your heart desires; we shall be so happy together your soul will never know the meaning of tears or sadness.’ He’ll take you into his boat, bring you to the ship, and you’ll sail away forever to a glorious land where the sun comes up and where the stars will descend from the sky to greet you upon your arrival.”
“And will it all be for me?” the girl asked softly.
Her grave eyes became merry and shone trustingly. Obviously, no dangerous magician would ever speak thus; she came closer.
“Maybe it’s already come… that ship?”
“Not so fast,” Egle objected. “First, as I’ve said, you have to grow up. Then… what’s the use of talking? It will be, and that’s all there is to it. What will you do then?”
“Me?” She looked into the basket but apparently did not find anything there worthy of being a suitable reward. “I’d love him,” she said quickly and then added rather hesitantly, “if he won’t fight.”
“No, he won’t,” the magician said, winking at her mysteriously. “He won’t. I can vouch for it. Go, child, and don’t forget what I’ve told you between two sips of flavoured vodka and my musings over the songs of convicts. Go. And may there be peace for your fluffy head!”
Longren was working in his small garden, hilling the potato plants. Raising his head, he saw Assol, who was running towards him with a joyous, impatient look on her face.
“Listen…” she said, trying to control her rapid breathing and clutching her father’s apron with both hands. “Listen to what I’m going to tell you… On the beach there, far away, there’s a magician… ”
She began her tale by telling him of the magician and his wonderful prophesy. Her excitement made it hard for her to recount the events coherently. She then proceeded to describe the magician and, in reverse order, her chase after the runaway yacht.
Longren listened to her story without once interrupting and without a smile, and when she ended it his imagination quickly conjured up a picture of the stranger, an old man holding a flask of flavoured vodka in one hand and the toy in the other. He turned away, but recalling that at momentous times of a child’s life one had to be serious and amazed, nodded solemnly and uttered:
“I see… It looks like he really is a magician. I’d like to have a look at him… But when you go again, don’t turn off the road: it’s easy to get lost in the woods.”