Croatian Tales of Long Ago. Ivana Brlic-Mazuranic
Not that they felt sorry for their brother because they could not grieve for anybody while the goblins were about them.
But at that moment their goblins began to wriggle, because they could hear that one of their own kind was in trouble. Now there is no sort that sticks more closely together and none more faithful in trouble than the hobgoblins were. In the osier clump they would fight and squabble all day; but if there was trouble each would give the skin off his shins for the other!
So they wriggled and they worried; they pricked up their ears, and then peered out, the one from the pouch and the other from the shirt. And as they peered they at once saw a brother of theirs rolling about with somebody or something—rolling and writhing, and nothing to be seen but the fur flying.
“A wild beast is worrying him!” cried the terrified goblins. They jumped out, one out of Careful’s pouch and the other out of Bluster’s bosom, and scuttled off to help their friend.
But when they reached him, he would still do nothing but roll about on the skin and howl:
“The boy is dead!—the boy is dead!” The other two goblins tried to quiet him, and thought: “Maybe a thorn has got into his paw, or a midge into his ear”—because they had never lived with a righteous man, and did not know what it means to lament for others.
But the first goblin went on wailing so that you couldn’t hear yourself speak, and he wouldn’t be comforted either.
So the other goblins were in a fine taking as to what they were to do with him? Nor could they leave him there in his sore trouble. At last they had an idea. Each laid hold of the sheep-skin coat by one sleeve, and so they dragged along the coat with their brother inside, scuttled away into the woods, and out of the woods into the osier clump and home to Rampogusto.
So for the first time for a year and a day Bluster and Careful were quit of their goblins. When the imps hopped away from them, the brothers felt as though they had walked the world like blind men for a year and a day, and were seeing it plainly again now for the first time there on the rocky ledge.
First they looked at each other in a maze, and then they knew at once what a terrible wrong they had done their grandfather.
“Brother! kinsman!” each cried to the other, “let us fly and save our grandfather.” And they flew as if they had falcon’s wings, home to the clearing.
When they came to the glade the cabin was roofless. Flames were rising like a column from the hut. Only the walls and the door were still standing, and the door was still tightly wedged.
The brothers hurried up, tore out the wedge, rushed into the cabin, and carried out the old man in their arms from amid the flames, which were just going to take hold on his feet.
They carried him out and laid him on the cool green turf, and then they stood beside him and neither dared speak a word.
After a while old Witting opened his eyes, and as he saw them he asked nothing about them. The only question he put was:
“Did you find Quest anywhere in the mountain?”
“No, grandfather,” answered the brothers. “Quest is dead. He was drowned this morning in the well-spring. But, grandfather, forgive us, and we will serve you and wait upon you like slaves.”
As they were speaking thus, old Witting arose and stood upon his feet.
“I see that you are already forgiven, my children,” said he, “since you are standing here alive. But he who was the most upright of you three had to pay with his life for his fault. Come, children, take me to the place where he died.”
Humbly penitent, Careful and Bluster supported their grandfather as they led him to the ledge.
But when they had walked a little while they saw that they had gone astray, and had never been that way before. They told their grandfather; but he just bade them keep on in that path.
So they came to a steep slope, and the road led up the slope right to the crest of the mountain.
“Our grandfather will die,” whispered the brothers, “with him so feeble and the hillside so steep.”
But old Witting only said: “On, children, on—follow the path.”
So they began to climb up the track, and the old man grew ever more grey and pallid in the face. And on the mountain’s crest there was something fair that rustled and crooned and sparkled and shone.
And when they reached the crest, they stood silent and stone still for very wonder and awe.
For before them was neither hill nor dale, nor mountain nor plain, nor anything at all, but only a great white cloud stretched out before them like a great white sea—a white cloud, and on the white cloud a pink cloud. Upon the pink cloud stood a glass mountain, and on the glass mountain a golden castle with wide steps leading up to the gates.
That was the Golden Castle of All-Rosy. A soft light streamed from the Castle—some of it from the pink cloud, some from the glass mountain, and some from the pure gold walls; but most of all from the windows of the Castle itself. For there sit the guests of All-Rosy, drinking from golden goblets health and welcome to each new-comer.
But All-Rosy does not enjoy the company of such as harbour any guilt in their souls, nor will he let them into his Castle. Wherefore it is a noble and chosen company that is assembled in his courts, and from them streams the light through the windows.
Upon the ridge stood old Witting with his grandsons, all speechless as they gazed at the marvel. They looked—and of a sudden they saw someone sitting on the steps that led to the Castle. His face was hidden in his hands and he wept.
The old man looked and knew him—knew him for Quest.
The old man’s soul was shaken within him. He roused himself and called out across the cloud:
“What ails you, my child?”
“I am here, grandfather,” answered Quest. “A great light lifted me up out of the well-spring and brought me here. So far have I come; but they won’t let me into the Castle, because I have sinned against you.”
Tears ran down the old man’s cheeks. His hands and heart went out to caress his dear child, to comfort him, to help him, to set his darling free.
Careful and Bluster looked at their grandfather, but his face was altogether changed. It was ashen, it was haggard, and not at all like the face of a living man.
“The old man will die of these terrors,” whispered the brothers to each other.
But the old man drew himself up to his full height, and already he was moving away from them, when he looked back once more and said:
“Go home, children, back to the glade, since you are forgiven. Live and enjoy in all righteousness what shall fall to your part. But I go to help him to whom has been given the best part at the greatest cost.”
Old Witting’s voice was quite faint, but he stood before them upright as a dart.
Bluster and Careful looked at one another. Had their grandfather gone crazy, that he thought of walking across the clouds when he had no breath even for speech?
But already the old man had left them. He left them, went on and stepped out upon the cloud as though it were a meadow. And as he stepped out he went forward. On he walked, the old man, and his feet carried him as though he were a feather, and his cloak fluttered in the wind as if it were a cloud upon that cloud. Thus he came to the pink cloud, and to the glass mountain, and to the broad steps. He flew up the steps to his grandson. Oh the joy of it, when the old man clasped his grandson! He hugged him and he held him close as if he would never let him go. And Careful and Bluster heard it all. Across the cloud they could hear the old man and his grandchild weeping in each other’s arms for pure