The vulture-maiden

Front matter

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CHAPTER I. Joseph, the Bear-hunter

— II. Unbending . . .

— III. Outcast

— IV. Murzoll’s Child

— V. Old Luckard .

VI. A Day at Home .

— VII. “Hard Wood” .

— VIII. The Klotz Family of Rofen in

— IX. In the Wilderness

— X. The Mistress of the Sonnenplatte

— XI. At Last

— XII. In the Night

— XIII. Back to her Father

— XIV. The Message of Grace

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THE VULTURE-MAIDEN.

A TALE OF THE TYROLESE ALPS.

Far down in the depths of the Oetz valley, a traveller was passing. On the eagle heights of the giddy precipice above him, stood a maiden’s form, no bigger than an Alpine rose when seen from below, yet sharply defined against the clear blue sky, the gleaming ice-peaks of the Ferner. There she stood firm and tranquil, though the mountain gusts tore and snatched at her, and looked without dizziness down into the depths where the Ache rushed roaring through the ravine, and a sunbeam slanting across its fine spray-mist painted glimmering rainbows on the rocky wall. To her, also, the traveller and his guide appeared minutely small as they crossed the narrow bridge, which thrown high over the Ache, looked from above like a mere straw. She could not hear what the two were saying, for out of those depths no sound could reach her but the thundering roar of the waters. She could not see that the guide, a trimly-attired cha-

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mois-hunter, raised his arm threateningly, and pointing her out to the stranger said: “That is certainly the Vulture-maiden standing up yonder; no other maid would trust herself on that narrow point, so near the edge of the precipice. See, one would think that the wind must blow her over, but she always does just the contrary to what other reasonable Christian folk do.”

Now they entered a pine-forest, dark, damp, and cold. Once more the guide paused, and sent a falcon-glance upwards to where the girl stood, and the little village spread itself out smilingly on the narrow mountain plateau in the full glow of the morning sun, which as yet could hardly steal a sidelong ray into the close, grave-like twilight of the gorge. “Thou needn’t look so defiant, there’s a way up as well as down,” he muttered, and disappeared with the stranger. As though in scorn of the threat, the girl sent up a halloo, so shrilly repeated from every side, that a flying echo reached even the silent depth of the fir-wood with a ghostly ring, like the challenging cry of the chamois-hunter’s enemy, the fairy of the Oetz valley.

“Ay, thou may’st scream; I’ll soon give it back to thee,” he threatened again; and throwing himself stiffly back, and supporting his neck with both hands, he pealed forth, clear and shrill as a posthorn, a cry of mocking and defiance up the mountain-side.

“She hears that, maybe?”

“Why do you call the girl up there the Vulture-maiden?” asked the stranger down in the moist, dim, rustling forest.

“Because, Sir, when she was only a child she took a vulture’s nest, and fought the old bird,” said the Tyrolese. “She is the strongest and handsomest girl in all the Tyrol, and terribly rich, and the lads let her drive them off, so that it’s a shame to see. There’s not one of them sharp enough to master her. She is as shy as a wild cat, and so strong that the boys declare no one can conquer her: if one of them comes too near, she knocks him down. Well, if ever I went up there after her, I’d conquer her, or I’d tear the chamois-tuft and feather from my hat with my own hands.”

“Why have you not already tried your luck with her, if she is so rich and so handsome?” asked the traveller.

“Well, you see, I don’t care for girls like that — girls that are half boys. It’s true, she can’t help herself. The old man — Stromminger is his name — is a regular wicked old fellow. In his time he was the best wrestler and fighter in the mountains, and it sticks to him still. He has often beaten the

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girl cruelly and brought her up like a boy. She has no mother, and never had one, for she was such a big strong child that her mother could scarcely bring her into the world, and died of it. That’s how it is the girl has grown up so wild and masterful.” — This was what the Tyrolese down in the ravine related to the stranger, and he had not deceived himself. The maiden who stood out yonder above the precipice was Wallburga Stromminger, daughter of the powerful “chief-peasant,” also called the Vulture-maiden; and he had spoken truly, she deserved this name. Her courage and strength were boundless as though eagle’s wings had borne her, her spirit rugged and inaccessible as the jagged peaks where the eagles build their nests, and where the clouds of heaven are rent asunder.

Wherever anything dangerous was to be done, there from her childhood upwards, was Wally to be found, putting the lads to shame. As a child even she was wild and impetuous as her father’s young bull, which she had known how to subdue. When she was scarcely fourteen years old, a peasant had descried on a rugged precipice a golden vulture’s nest with one young one, but no one in the village dared venture to seize it. Then the head-peasant, scoffing at the valiant youth of the place, declared he would make his Wallburga do it. And sure

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enough Wally was ready for the deed, to the horror of the women and the vexation of the lads. “It is a tempting of Providence,” said the men. But Stromminger must have his jest; all the world must learn by experience that the race of Stromminger down to the children’s children might seek its match in vain.

“You shall see that a Stromminger girl is worth ten of you lads,” he said laughing to the peasants, who streamed together to witness the incredible feat. Many grieved for the beautiful and stately young life that might perhaps fall a sacrifice to the father’s boasting; still, everyone wished to see. As the precipice to which the nest clung was almost perpendicular, and no human foot could tread it, a rope was fastened round Wally’s waist. Four men, foremost amongst whom was her father, held it, but it was horrible to the lookers-on to see the courageous child, armed only with a knife, walk boldly to the edge of the plateau, and with a vigorous spring let herself down into the abyss. If the knot of the rope should give way, if the vulture should tear her in pieces, if in her descent she should dash out her brains against some unnoticed crag? It was a God-forsaken act of Stromminger’s so to risk the life of his own child. Meanwhile Wally sailed fearlessly through the air, till midway down the precipice she exultingly greeted the young vulture, who ruffled his downy feathers, and piping, gnawed with his shapeless beak at his strange visitor. Hardly pausing to consider, she seized the bird which now raised a lamentable cry with her left hand and tucked it under her arm. There was a rushing sound in the air, and in the same instant a dark shadow came over her, a roaring filled her ears, and a storm of blows fell like hail upon her head. Her one thought was “The eyes — save the eyes,” and pressing her face closely against the rock, she hit blindly with the knife in her right hand at the raging bird that threw itself upon her with its sharp beak, its claws and wings. Meanwhile the men above hastily drew in the rope. Still for a time during the ascent, the battle in the air continued; then suddenly the vulture gave way, and plunged into the abyss — Wally’s knife must have wounded it. Wally however came up bleeding, her face torn by the rocks, and holding in her arms the young bird, that at no price would she have relinquished.

“But, Wally/’ cried the assembled people, “why didn’t thou let the young one go, then the vulture would have loosed its hold.” “Oh,” she said simply, “the poor thing can’t fly yet, and if I had let him go, he’d have fallen down the precipice and been killed.”

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This was the first and only time in her whole life that her father gave her a kiss; not because he was touched by Wally’s noble compassion for the helpless creature, but because she had performed an heroic action that would reflect honour on the illustrious race of Stromminger.

Such was the maiden who stood out now on the projecting rock, where the foot could hardly find room to rest, and dreamily looked down into the ravine over which she hung; for often, with all her impetuosity, a strange stillness would come over her, and she would gaze sadly before her, as though she saw something for which she longed, and which she yet might not attain. It was an image that always remained the same, whether she saw it in the grey morning twilight, or in the golden glow of noon, in the evening red, or in the pale moonlight, and for a year it had followed her wherever she went or stood, below in the valley, or above on the mountain. And when, as now, she was out and alone, and her large chamois-eyes, at once wild and shy, wandered across to the white-gleaming glaciers, or down into the shadow-filled gorge where the Ache thundered on its way, still she sought him whom the image resembled; and when now and then a traveller, minutely small in the distance, glided past below, she thought, “That may be he,”

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and a strange joy came to her in the fancy that she had seen him, even though she could distinguish nothing but a human form, no bigger than a moving image in a peep-show. And now as those two wayfarers passed along, of whom the one enquired about her, and the other threatened her, she thought again, “It may be he.” Her bosom seemed too tight for her beating heart, her lips parted, and like a lark set free, her joy soared up in a pealing song. And as the hunter in the wood below heard its dying echo, so an echo of his reply reached her, and she listened with an intoxicated ear — it might be his voice! and a blushing reflection of her warm rush of feeling spread itself over the wild, defiant face. She could not hear that the song was a song of scorn and defiance. Had she known it, she would have clenched her sinewy fist, she would have tried the strength of her arm, and over her face dark shadows would have passed, till it grew pale as the glaciers after sunset. But now she sat down on the stone that supported her, and swinging her feet as they hung over the abyss, she rested her graceful head on her hands, and gave herself up to dreaming over again all the strange things that had happened that first time that she ever saw him.

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CHAPTER 1.

Joseph, the Bear-hunter.

It was at Whitsuntide, just a year before, that her father had taken her to Solden for the confirmation; thither the bishop came every other year, because there is a high-road that leads to Solden. She felt a little ashamed, for she was already sixteen years old, and so tall. Her father would not let her be confirmed before; he thought that with it would come at once love-makings and suitors — and time enough for that! Now she was afraid that the others would laugh at her. But no one took any notice: the whole village when they arrived was in excitement, for it was said that Joseph Hagenbach of Solden had slain the bear that had shown itself up in Vintschgau, and for which the young men in all the country round had watched in vain. Then Joseph had set out across the mountains, and by Friday last he had already got him. The messenger from Schnalser had brought the news early, and Joseph himself was soon to follow. The peasants of Solden, who were waiting in front of the Church, were full of pride that it should be a Soldener that

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had performed the dangerous deed, and talked of nothing but Joseph, who was indisputably the finest and strongest lad in all the mountains, and a shot without a rival. The girls listened admiringly to the tales of Joseph’s heroic deeds, how no mountain was too steep for him, no road too long, no gulf too wide, and no danger too great; and when a pale, sickly-looking woman came towards them across the village-green, they all rushed up to her and wished her joy of the son who had won such glory.

“He’s a good one, thy Joseph,” said the men cordially; “he’s one from whom all may take example.” “If only thy husband had lived to see this day, how rejoiced he would have been,” said the women.

“No, no one would ever believe,” cried one quaintly, “that such a fine fellow was thy son — not looking at thee.”

The woman smiled, well-pleased. “Yes, he’s a fine-grown lad, and a good son, there can’t be a better. And yet, if you’ll believe it, I never have an hour’s peace for him; there’s not a day that I don’t expect to see him brought home with his limbs all broken. It’s a cross to bear!”

The religious procession now appeared upon the place, and put an end to the talk. The people thronged into the little church with the white-

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robed, gaily-wreathed children, and the sacred office began.

But the whole time Wally could think of nothing but Joseph, the bear-slayer, and of all the wonderful things he must have done, and of how splendid it was to be so strong and so courageous, and to be held in such great respect by every one, so that no one could get the better of him. If only he would come now, whilst she was in Solden, so that she also might see him; she was really quite burning to see him.

At length the confirmation was over, and the children received the final blessing. Suddenly, on the green outside in front of the church, there was a sound of wild shouting and hurrahs. “He has him, he has the bear!” Scarcely had the bishop spoken the last words of the blessing when every one rushed out, and joyfully surrounded a young chamois-hunter, who, accompanied by a troop of fine and handsome lads from the Schnalser valley and from Vintschgau, was striding across the green. But handsome as his comrades might be, there was not one of them that came near him. He towered above them all, and was so beautiful — as beautiful as a picture. It seemed almost as though he shone with light from afar; he looked like the St. George in the church. Across his shoulders he carried the

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bear’s fell, whose grim paws dangled over his broad chest. He walked as grandly as the emperor, and never took but one step when the others took two, and yet he was always ahead of them; and they made as much ado about him as though he had been the emperor indeed, dressed in a chamoishunter’s clothes. One carried his gun, another his jacket; all was wild excitement, shouting and huzzaing — he alone remained composed and tranquil.

He went modestly up to the priest, who came towards him from the church, and took off his garlanded hat. The bishop, who was a stranger, made the sign of the cross over him and said, “The Lord was mighty in thee, my son! With his help thou hast performed what none other could accomplish. Men must thank thee — but thou, thank thou the Lord!”

All the women wept with emotion, and even Wally had wet eyes. It was as though the spirit of devotion that had failed her in church, first came to her now, as she saw the stately hunter bow his proud head beneath the priest’s benedictory hand. Then the bishop withdrew, and now Joseph’s first enquiry was, “Where is my mother? Is she not here?”

“Yes, yes,” she cried, “here am I,” and fell into her son’s arms.

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Joseph clasped her tightly. “See, little mother,” he said, “I should have been sorry for thy sake not to come back again. Thou dear little mother, thou’d never have known how to get on without me, and I too should have been loth to die without giving thee one more kiss.”

Ah, it was beautiful, the way he said it! Wally had quite a strange feeling — a feeling as though she could envy the mother who rested so contentedly in the loving embrace of the son, and clung so tenderly to the powerful man. All eyes rested with delight on the pair, but an unutterable sensation filled Wally’s heart.

“But tell us now, tell us how it all happened.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll tell you,” he said laughing, and flung the bearskin on to the ground, so that all might see it. They made a circle round him, and the village landlord had a cask of his best ale brought out and tapped on the green; for one must drink after church, and above all on such an extra occasion as this, and the little inn-parlour could never have held such an unusual concourse of people. The men and women naturally pressed close round the speaker, and the newly-confirmed children climbed on to benches, and up into trees, that they might see over their heads. Wally was foremost of all in a fir-tree, where she' could look straight down upon Joseph; but the others wanted her place; there was some noise and struggling because she would not give way, and “Saint George” looked up at them. His sparkling eyes fell upon Wally’s face, and remained smilingly fixed on it for a moment. All Wally’s blood rushed to her head, and she could hear her heart beating in her very ears with her intense fright. In all her life before she had never been so frightened, and she had not an idea why! She heard only the half of what Joseph was relating, there was such a singing in her ears; all the while she was thinking, “Suppose he were to look up again?” And she could not have told whether she. wished it or dreaded it most. And yet, when in the course of his story it did once happen again, she turned away quickly and ashamed, as though she had been found out in something wrong. Was it wrong to have looked at him so? It might be, and yet she could not leave off, though she trembled so incessantly that she was afraid he might notice it. But he noticed nothing; what did he care for the child up there in the tree? He had looked up once or twice as he might have looked at a squirrel — nothing further. She said so to herself, and a strange sorrow stole over her. Never before had she felt as she did to-day; she was only thankful that she had drunk no wine on the road;

she might have thought that it had got into her head.

In her confusion she began playing with her rosary. It was a beautiful new one of red coral, with a chased cross of pure silver, that her father had given her for her confirmation. All of a sudden as she turned and twisted it, the string broke and, like drops of blood, the red beads rolled down from the tree. “That is a bad sign,” an inner voice whispered to her, “old Luchard doesn’t like it — that anything should break when one is thinking of something!” Of something! Of what then had she been thinking? She turned it over in her mind, but she could not discover. Precisely she had been thinking of nothing in particular. Why then should she be so troubled by the string breaking just at that moment? She felt as though the sun had suddenly paled, and a cold wind were blowing over her; but not a leaf was stirring, and the icebound horizon glittered in the radiant sunlight. The shadow of a cloud had passed — within her — or without her? How could she tell?

Joseph meanwhile had finished relating his adventure, and had shown round the purse containing the forty florins paid by the Tyrolese government as the reward for shooting a bear, and there was no end to the handshakings and congratulations.

Only Wally’s father held sullenly aloof. It angered him that any one should accomplish a great and heroic deed; no one in the world had any right to be strong but himself and his daughter. During thirty years he had been esteemed, without dispute, the strongest man in the whole range of mountains, and he could not bear now to find himself growing old, and obliged to make way for a younger generation. When, however, someone said to Joseph that it was no wonder he should be such a strong fellow — he had it from his father who had been the best shot and the best wrestler in the whole place — then the old man could contain himself no longer, but broke in with a thundering “Oho! no need to bury a man before he’s dead!”

Everyone fell back at the threatening voice. “It’s Stromminger!” they said, half-frightened.

“Ay, it is Stromminger, who’s alive still, and who never knew till this moment that Hagenbach had been the best wrestler in the place. With his tongue, if you like, but with nothing else!”

Joseph turned round like a wounded wild cat, glaring at Stromminger with flaming eyes. “Who says that my father was a boaster?”

“I say it, the head-peasant of the Sonnenplatte, and I know what I’m saying, for I’ve laid him flat a dozen times, like a sack.”

“It is false,” cried Joseph, “and no man shall blacken my father’s name.”

“Joseph, be quiet,” the people whispered about him, “it’s the head-peasant — thou mustn’t make a quarrel with him.”

“ Head-peasant here, head-peasant there! If God in Heaven were to come down to blacken my father’s name, I wouldn’t put up with it. I know very well, my father and Stromminger had many a wrestling-bout together, because he was the only one who could stand up with Stromminger. And he threw Stromminger just as often as Stromminger threw him.”

“It’s not true!” shouted Stromminger, “thy father was a weak fool compared to me. If any of you old fellows have a spark of honour, you’ll say so too — and thou, if thou doesn’t believe it after that, I’ll knock it into thee!” At the word “fool” Joseph had sprung like a madman, close up to Stromminger. “Take thy words back, or — ”

“Heavens above us!” shrieked the women. “Let be, Joseph,” said his mother soothingly, “he’s an old man, thou mustn’t lay hands on him.”

“Oho!” cried Stromminger, purple with rage, “you’d make me out an old dotard, would you? Stromminger is none so old and weak yet but he can fight it out with a half-fledged stripling. Only come on, I’ll soon show thee I’ve some marrow left in my bones. Fm not afraid of thee yet awhile, not if thou’d shot ten bears.”

And like an enraged bull the strong old man threw himself on the young hunter, who in spite of himself gave way under the sudden L and heavy spring. But he only staggered for a moment; his slender form was so firmly knit, was so supple in yielding, so elastic in rising again — like the lofty pines of his native soil, that grow with roots of iron in the naked rock, buffeted by all the winds of heaven and bearing up against their mountain-load of snow. As easily might Stromminger have uprooted one of these trees, as have flung Joseph to the ground. And in fact, after a short struggle, Joseph’s arms closely clasped Stromminger, tightening round and almost choking him, till a deep groan came with his shortening breath, and he could not stir a hand. And now the young giant began to shake the old man, bending first on one side, then on the other, striving steadily, slowly but surely to force first one foot and then the other from under him, and so loosen his foothold by degrees. The bystanders hardly dared to breathe as they watched the strange scene — almost as though they dared not look on at the felling of so old a tree. Now — now Stromminger has lost his footing — now

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*9 he must fall — but no; Joseph held him up, bore him in his strong arms to the nearest bench and set him down on it. Then he quietly took out his handkerchief and dried the beads of sweat from Stromminger’s brow.

“See, Stromminger,” he said, “I’ve got the better of thee, and I might have thrown thee; but God forbid that I should bring an old man to shame. And now we will be good friends again; we bear no malice, Stromminger?”

He held out his hand, smiling goodhumouredly, but Stromminger struck it back with an angry scowl. “ The devil pay thee out — thou scoundrel,” he cried. “And you, all you Soldeners who have amused yourselves with seeing Stromminger made a laughing-stock for the children — you shall learn by experience who Stromminger is. I’ll have nothing more to do with you, and grant no more time for payments — not if half Solden were to starve for it.”

He went up to the tree, where Wally still sat as in a nightmare, and pulled her by the gown. “Come down,” he said, “thou’ll get no dinner there. Not a Soldener shall ever see another kreuzer of mine.” But Wally, who had rather fallen than got down from the tree, stood as if spell-bound with her eyes fixed almost beseechingly on Joseph. She thought he must see how it pained her to go away; she felt

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as though he must take her hand in his, and say, “Only stay with me: thou belong’st to me, and I to thee, and to no other !” But he stood still in the midst of a knot of men who were whispering together in dismay, for many in the village owed money to Stromminger, whose wealth circulated in the very veins of the whole neighbourhood.

“Well — wilt thou go on?” said Stromminger, giving the girl a push, and she had to obey him whether for weal or woe; but her lips trembled, her breast heaved painfully; she flung a glance of powerless anger at her father; he drove her before him like a calf. So they went on for a few steps; then they heard some one following them, and turning round, there stood Joseph with a couple of peasants behind him.

“Stromminger,” he said, “don’t be so headstrong. You can never go, you and the girl, all that long way to the Sonnenplatte, without eating anything.”

He stood close to Wally; she felt his breath as he spoke, his eyes rested on her, his hand lay compassionately on her shoulder; she knew not how it happened — he was so good, so dear — and she felt as she did when, taking the vulture’s nest, the rushing sound of its wings suddenly filled her ears, and sight and hearing went from her. Even so, some-

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thing overwhelming to her young heart, lay in his presence, in his touch. She had not trembled when the mighty bird hovered above her, darkening the sun with his broad pinions, she had known how to defend herself calmly and bravely; but now she trembled from head to foot, and stood bewildered and confused.

“Get off!” cried Stromminger, and clenched his fist at Joseph, “I’ll hit thee in the face if thou doesn’t let me be — I will, if it cost me my life.”

“Well — if you won’t, you won’t, and so let it be, — but you’re a fool, Stromminger,” said Joseph calmly, and he turned round and went back with the others.

Now no one tried to detain them; they walked on unmolested, farther — at each step farther away from Joseph. Wally looked round, and still for a time she could see his head towering above the others, she could still hear the confused sound of voices and of laughter on the green before the church. She could not yet believe that she was really gone, that she should not see Joseph again — perhaps never again. Now they turned a corner of the rock and all was hidden, the village green with all the people and Joseph — and every thing, every thing was gone. Then suddenly there came

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upon her, as it were, a revelation of a great joy of which she had had 'one glimpse, and which was lost to her for ever now. She looked around as though imploring help in her soul’s need, in this new, this unknown anguish. And there was none to answer her and to say, “Be patient, presently all will be well!” Dead and motionless were the rocks and cliffs all around, dead and motionless the Ferner looked down upon her. What did they care, they who had seen worlds come and worlds pass away, for this poor little trembling woman’s heart? Her father walked on at her side, silent as though he were a moving rock. And he it was that was guilty of all. He was a wicked, hard, cruel man; there was not a creature in the world that took any interest in her. And while she thought all this, struggling with herself, she walked on mechanically farther and farther in advance of her father, up hill and down hill, as though she wished to walk off her heart’s pain. The scorching sun glared on the blank wall of rock, she strove for breath, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, all her veins throbbed; suddenly her strength gave way, she threw herself on the ground and broke into loud sobs.