“I … I’ll give it back …”
“Not now,” he said. “We should catch up with Micha.”
He took her hand in his, and they started to run, along the old street, sliding on the ice-covered cobblestones that lay beneath the snow. It was like they were children, two children about to enter a fairy-tale forest. It could have been Christmas, Anna thought. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see tiny silver bells hanging from the branches and maybe polished red apples, too; to hear music coming from the treetops, very quiet music; or to find Gitta’s old sled with the red stripe waiting behind one of the trunks …
“Catch me!” the third child called out, the child in the pink down jacket, as she fled into the woods, along a narrow path, through the giant columns of trees. A frozen rivulet wound its way along the path, meandering through the kitschy winter postcard scene; Micha jumped over the ice, giggling and carefree, running farther into the trees on the other side. Anna had fallen behind Abel after they’d let go of each other’s hands on the narrow path, but now he slipped and landed on the frozen brook, and she laughed and ran past him. She caught up with Micha at a fork in the path. But she didn’t stop. Instead, she ran past Micha, calling back over her shoulder, “Now you catch me!”
A short way ahead, the path disappeared into a dense thicket of hazelnut bushes, covered with snow. Maybe this wasn’t the path after all but a deer trail … Anna looked behind her as she ran. But Micha hadn’t followed; she was still standing at the fork, strangely undecided. But now, Abel was coming. Anna ran on, toward the hazelnut thicket. She could dive into it and try to hide, she thought—though of course he would find her instantly. It was all a game, a children’s game … he caught up with her just before the thicket and pulled her to the ground; they lay in the snow, panting. Anna tried to get up, to slip through his fingers, and, giggling, to run on; but he wouldn’t allow it, and his grip was so firm it hurt. She looked up at him. His eyes were golden. No, she had imagined that, they were blue, like always. “Hey!” she said, “let go!”
“This is the wrong path,” Abel said. “The woods are too dense in this direction.”
“But it’s beautiful here! In spring, it’s filled with anemones. I often come to this part …”
Abel pulled her back onto her feet. His grip was still iron. It was his right hand that held her; in his hurry to hold her back, he probably hadn’t remembered it was hurt. She could tell he was clenching his teeth with pain, but he didn’t let go. “In winter, there aren’t any anemones blossoming here,” he said. “Micha is afraid of the dark. Let’s go back; we’ll take the other path at the fork.” He was right. Micha was still there waiting for them. She hadn’t moved even a step in their direction.
When they were back with her, Abel released Anna’s arm and took Micha by the hand. Her eyes were big and frightened. “I thought Anna would go in there,” she whispered, barely audible. “Into that part of the woods. You’re not allowed to go there, Anna. Did you know that? There are fallen trees back there; the trunks are hollow, and the invisible live inside. They’ve got sharp teeth that glow like hot iron. And they can bite you.”
Anna followed them along the other path, which led back to the old street, and only when they had reached it did the fear in Micha’s eyes dissolve. “It’s much better here,” she said. “I shouldn’t ever have run down that path, I forgot … the invisibles … they bit Abel once … there was blood; his whole sleeve was covered in blood …”
“Sometimes Micha tells fairy tales, too,” Abel said, tousling her pale, snow-blond hair. “But, today, I’m not going to tell you anything about the invisibles in the woods. Instead, I’ll tell you about the island of the beggar woman.”
“The island of the beggar woman?” Micha asked.
“Yes,” he said. Then he linked arms with Anna, and, still holding Micha by the other hand—the left one this time—started wandering back through the Elisenhain as Anna tried to forget the invisibles. She didn’t feel like thinking about their sharp teeth, which could bite your arms, and make them all bloody. Not now. She just wanted to walk through the forest with Abel and Micha and listen to a story and stop worrying for a little while.
“The island of the beggar woman was the next island the ship came to,” Abel said. “There was just a single building on it: a tiny gray house that looked strangely ragged. The wind whistled through the crevices in the walls, and you could hear it far out at sea:
“‘Don’t you have some coins for me?’ it whistled. ‘This house is all I own, you see, the curtains made of waves and foam, this is the beggar woman’s home.’
“Next to the little house there was a bare tree, and the wind was whistling through its leafless branches, singing: ‘Don’t you have some bread for me? This tree is all I own, you see. It has no apples, has no pears; instead it grows a thousand cares.’
“The wind whistled in the cold chimney: ‘Don’t you have some warmth for me? This hearth is all I own, you see. There’s no coal, no flames in it, my dreams are all I’ve ever lit.’
“‘Let’s go ashore!’ the little queen exclaimed. ‘We have to bring that tree back to life and light a fire in the cold fireplace! Maybe my diamond heart can help the beggar woman! It has to be good for something, a heart of diamond!’
“So they went ashore, and the beggar woman came running out of her gray house. She couldn’t believe that anyone was visiting her. Clad in rags, thin and gray and torn, she looked ancient, though she may have still been young.
“‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’ve always wanted a queen to visit my island! I can offer you nothing, though, for nothing is all I own … Do you see the island out there, on the horizon? That’s the island of the rich man. On clear days, you can see his palace. I’ve been writing letters to him for years, putting them into the bottles that wash ashore here. I’ve thrown a hundred bottles with letters into the sea, hoping the waves would carry them over to his island … In each and every letter, I have asked him for help, but I’ve never got an answer …’
“The little queen laid her hand on the dead tree, and she asked her diamond heart to give it back its life. But the tree stayed cold. ‘It’s me,’ the beggar woman said sadly. ‘Whatever I touch turns gray and cold … I just don’t have the right touch for things.’
“‘Come aboard with us,’ the little queen said. ‘We’ll take you to the island of the rich man.’
“The beggar woman gave a deep sigh, for it is not easy to leave one’s home, even if it is only a cold hearth and dead tree.
“But finally she allowed the rose girl to help her over the rail, and the green ship cast off. The rose girl saw the sea lion shake his head as he swam along next to them. ‘We don’t have time,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t you see that the black sails are much closer again?’
“He dove down into the waves, which were full of ice splinters; through the clear water, before he disappeared, the rose girl saw a circular wound on his right flipper.
“On the island of the rich man, there was a palace made of blue glass, blue like the ice on a frozen rivulet in a winter wood. And in the windowpanes the wind was singing:
“‘What do you think this island can give? Love, joy, and light, a reason to live? Surely, there is no island that can give you more than that of the rich man.’
“Inside, in the warmth behind the thick glass of a greenhouse, orange and lemon trees were growing, along with high date palms and banana trees, in huge, delicately decorated pots. A nice warm fire danced in the fireplace, and there was a letter on the sofa, pinned down with a golden paperweight.
“‘Dear travelers,’ the lighthouse keeper read aloud. ‘Please go ahead and take some of the fruit in my greenhouse. I’ll be gone for a while. I got a message in a bottle this morning saying that there is a beggar woman living on that nearby island. I had never realized it was inhabited. Now I’m on my way there. I’ll fix the island of the beggar woman. Everything I touch becomes fertile and beautiful. I don’t know why; I just seem to have the right touch …’