They cannot all read, and when they wish to know anything, I read it aloud to them. That is a great honor for me – a position of trust, you know."
The mannikin nodded very seriously a couple of times, and raised a tiny forefinger.
"What were you reading just now?"
"The history of Kribblegauw,4 the great hero of the spiders, who lived a long while ago. He had a web that stretched over three trees, and that caught in it millions of flies in a day. Before Kribblegauw's time, spiders made no webs, and lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribblegauw was a clever chap, and demonstrated that living things also were created for spider's food. And by difficult calculations, for he was a great mathematician, Kribblegauw invented the artful spider-web. And the spiders still make their webs, thread for thread, exactly as he taught them, only much smaller; for the spider family has sadly degenerated."
"Kribblegauw caught large birds in his web, and murdered thousands of his own children. There was a spider for you! Finally, a mighty storm arose, and dragged Kribblegauw with his web, and the three trees to which it was fastened, away through the air to distant forests, where he is now everlastingly honored because of his nimbleness and blood-thirstiness."
"Is that all true?" asked Johannes.
"It is in this book," said Wistik.
"Do you believe it?"
The goblin shut one eye, and rested his forefinger along the side of his nose.
"Whenever Kribblegauw is mentioned, in the Sacred Books of the other animals, he is called a despicable monster; but that is beyond me."
"Is there a Book of the Goblins, too, Wistik?"
Wistik glanced at Johannes somewhat suspiciously.
"What kind of being are you, really, Johannes? There is something about you so – so human, I should say."
"No, no! Rest assured, Wistik," said Windekind then. "We are elves; but Johannes has seen, formerly, many human beings. You can trust him, however. It will do him no harm."
"Yes, yes, that is well and good; but I am called the wisest of the goblins, and I studied long and hard before I learned what I know. Now I must be prudent with my wisdom. If I tell too much, I shall lose my reputation."
"But in what book, then, do you think the truth is told?"
"I have read much, but I do not believe I have ever read that book. It is not the Book of the Elves, nor the Book of the Goblins. Still, there must be such a book."
"The Book of Human Beings, perhaps?"
"That I do not know, but I should hardly think so, for the Book of Truth ought to bring great peace and happiness. It should state exactly why everything is as it is, so that no one could ask or wish for anything more. Now, I do not believe human beings have got so far as that."
"Oh, no! no!" laughed Windekind.
"Is there really such a book?" asked Johannes, eagerly.
"Yes!" whispered the goblin. "I know it from old, old stories. And hush! I know too, where it is, and who can find it."
"Oh, Wistik, Wistik!"
"Then why have you not yet got it?" asked Windekind.
"Have patience. It will happen all right. Some of the particulars I do not yet know, but I shall soon find it. I have worked for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it, life will be an endless autumnal day – blue sky above and blue haze about – but no falling leaves will rustle, no bough will break, and no drops will patter. The shadows will not waver, and the gold on the tree-tops will not fade. What now seems to us light will be as darkness, and what now seems to us happiness will be as sorrow, to him who has read that book. Yes, I know this about it, and sometime I shall find it." The goblin raised his eyebrows very high, and laid his finger on his lips.
"Wistik, if you could only teach me…" began Johannes, but before he could end he felt a heavy gust of wind, and saw, exactly above him, a huge black object which shot past, swiftly and inaudibly.
When he looked round again for Wistik, he caught just a glimpse of a little foot disappearing in a tree-trunk. Zip! – The goblin had dashed into his hole, head first – book and all. The candles burned more and more feebly, and suddenly went out. They were very queer little candles.
"What was that?" asked Johannes, in a fright, clinging fast to Windekind in the darkness.
"A night-owl," said Windekind.
They were both silent for a while. Then Johannes asked: "Do you believe what Wistik said?"
"Wistik is not so wise as he thinks he is. He will never find such a book. Neither will you."
"But does it exist?"
"That book exists the same as your shadow exists, Johannes. However hard you run, however carefully you may reach for it, you will never overtake nor grasp it; and, in the end, you will discover that it is yourself you chase. Do not be foolish – forget the goblin's chatter. I will tell you a hundred finer stories. Come with me! We will go to the edge of the woods, and see how our good Father lifts the fleecy, white dew-blankets from the sleeping meadow-lands. Come!"
Johannes went, but he had not understood Windekind's words and he did not follow his advice. And while he watched the dawn of the brilliant autumn day, he was brooding over the book wherein was stated why all is as it is, and softly repeating to himself, "Wistik!"
VI
It seemed to him during the days that followed that it was no longer so merry and cheerful as it had been – in the woods and in the dunes – with Windekind. His thoughts were no longer wholly occupied with what Windekind told or showed him. Again and again he found himself musing over that book, but he dared not speak of it. Nothing he looked at now seemed beautiful or wonderful. The clouds were so black and heavy, he feared they might fall upon him. It pained him when the restless autumn winds shook and whipped the poor, tired trees until the pale under sides of the green leaves were upturned, and yellow foliage and dry branches flew up in the air.
What Windekind related gave him no satisfaction. Much of it he did not understand, and whenever he asked one of his old questions he never received a full, clear, satisfactory answer.
Thus he was forced to think again of that book wherein everything stood so clearly and plainly written; and of that ever sunny, tranquil, autumn day which was to follow.
"Wistik! Wistik!"
Windekind heard it.
"Johannes, you will remain a human being, I fear. Even your friendship is like that of human beings. The first one after me to speak to you has carried away your confidence. Alas! My mother was quite right!"
"No, Windekind! But you are so much wiser than Wistik; you are as wise as that book. Why do you not tell me all? See, now! Why does the wind blow through the trees, making them bend and sway? Look! They can bear no more; the finest branches are breaking and the leaves are torn away by hundreds, although they are still so green and fresh. They are so tired, and yet again and again they are shaken and lashed by this rude and cruel wind. Why is it so? What does the wind want?"
"My poor Johannes. That is human language!"
"Make it be still, Windekind! I like calm and sunshine."
"You ask and wish like a human being; therefore there is neither answer nor fulfilment. If you do not learn better to ask and desire, the autumn day will never dawn for you, and you will become like the thousands of human beings who have spoken to Wistik."
"Are there so many?"
"Yes, thousands. Wistik pretended to be very mysterious, but he is a prater who cannot keep his secret. He hopes to find that book among human beings, and he shares his knowledge with any one who, perhaps, can help him. And so he has already caused a great deal of unhappiness. Many believe him, and search for that book with as much fervor as some do the secret of the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, and forget all their affairs – even their happiness – and shut themselves up among thick books, and strange implements and materials.