Read Online Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland, translated from the Swedish by Jill Morgan by Astrid Lindgren - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Astrid Lindgren
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me. I wish that heâd been there and could help me. I wish that I couldâve talked to him for a little while. Then I would have said to him, âI know you want me to fight Sir Kato, but wonât you please let me off? Help me get Miramis back and let us leave! You know Iâve never had my own horse before and I love him. You also know Iâve never had a father either. And if Sir Kato captures me, I will never be with you again. Help me leave! I donât want to be here any more. I want to be with you. I want to go home again to Greenfields Island with Miramis.â
As I was hiding behind the rocks, I thought I heard my father the Kingâs voice. Of course I only imagined it, but I thought that I heard his voice.
âMio, my son,â he said.
Nothing more. But I understood that he wanted me to be brave and not lie there crying and screaming like a child, even though they took my Miramis away from me. I was a knight. I was no longer the Mio that built huts in the Garden of Roses and wandered over the hills on Greenfields Island playing the flute. I was a knight, a good knight, not one like Sir Kato. And a knight must be brave and not cry.
So I didnât cry, although I saw the spies lead Miramis down to the lake and force him on a large black boat. I didnât cry, but Miramis neighed as if they had whipped him. I didnât cry when the spies took the oars and I heard the oars beating across the dark water. It sounded fainter and fainter, and I heard Miramisâs last desperate neigh far out on the lake, finally the boat disappeared from sightâbut I didnât cry. Because I was a knight.
Didnât I cry? Yes, thatâs just what I did. I lay there behind the rocks with my forehead against the hard ground and cried more than I had done in all my life. A good knight must speak the truth. And it was true that I cried. For Miramisâs sake. I cried and cried and when I thought of his faithful eyes, I cried even more. The Weaver had said that the hundred white horses wept tears of blood for the foal that was stolen. Maybe it was blood that I cried for Miramis too, who knows? It was so dark that I couldnât see. My Miramis with the golden mane! He was gone, and I might never see him again.
Pompoo bent down and put his hand on my shoulder.
âDonât cry any more, Mio,â he said. âWe must go see the Swordsmith. You need a sword.â
There were many more tears left in me, but I held them back. I took a deep breath. And we went to find the Swordsmith.
âGo through the Dead Forest,â Eno had said. But where was the Dead Forest?
âWe must find the Swordsmith before night is over,â I said to Pompoo. âThe darkness hides us from the spies. We must hurry through the Dead Forest tonight.â
We climbed back over the rocks to Enoâs cottage. It stood dark and silent, and no one moaned inside any longer. We went on through the night and at last we came to the Dead Forest. It was a forest where no wind whistled and no leaves rustled, because there were no little green leaves. There were only dead, black tree trunks with dead, gnarled, black branches.
âNow weâve reached the Dead Forest,â said Pompoo as we walked between the trees.
âYes, weâve entered it,â I said, âbut I donât believe weâll ever leave it.â
It was a forest to easily become lost in. It was the type of forest in dreams, where you walk and walk and never find the way out.
We held each otherâs hands, Pompoo and I, as we walked through the Dead Forest, and we felt very small and lost. The dead trees stood so close, we could hardly move.
âIf only the trees hadnât grown so close together,â said Pompoo. âIf only the darkness werenât so black and we werenât so small and alone!â
We walked and walked. Sometimes we heard voices far away. It was the spies that we heard. What Eno had said was
As I was hiding behind the rocks, I thought I heard my father the Kingâs voice. Of course I only imagined it, but I thought that I heard his voice.
âMio, my son,â he said.
Nothing more. But I understood that he wanted me to be brave and not lie there crying and screaming like a child, even though they took my Miramis away from me. I was a knight. I was no longer the Mio that built huts in the Garden of Roses and wandered over the hills on Greenfields Island playing the flute. I was a knight, a good knight, not one like Sir Kato. And a knight must be brave and not cry.
So I didnât cry, although I saw the spies lead Miramis down to the lake and force him on a large black boat. I didnât cry, but Miramis neighed as if they had whipped him. I didnât cry when the spies took the oars and I heard the oars beating across the dark water. It sounded fainter and fainter, and I heard Miramisâs last desperate neigh far out on the lake, finally the boat disappeared from sightâbut I didnât cry. Because I was a knight.
Didnât I cry? Yes, thatâs just what I did. I lay there behind the rocks with my forehead against the hard ground and cried more than I had done in all my life. A good knight must speak the truth. And it was true that I cried. For Miramisâs sake. I cried and cried and when I thought of his faithful eyes, I cried even more. The Weaver had said that the hundred white horses wept tears of blood for the foal that was stolen. Maybe it was blood that I cried for Miramis too, who knows? It was so dark that I couldnât see. My Miramis with the golden mane! He was gone, and I might never see him again.
Pompoo bent down and put his hand on my shoulder.
âDonât cry any more, Mio,â he said. âWe must go see the Swordsmith. You need a sword.â
There were many more tears left in me, but I held them back. I took a deep breath. And we went to find the Swordsmith.
âGo through the Dead Forest,â Eno had said. But where was the Dead Forest?
âWe must find the Swordsmith before night is over,â I said to Pompoo. âThe darkness hides us from the spies. We must hurry through the Dead Forest tonight.â
We climbed back over the rocks to Enoâs cottage. It stood dark and silent, and no one moaned inside any longer. We went on through the night and at last we came to the Dead Forest. It was a forest where no wind whistled and no leaves rustled, because there were no little green leaves. There were only dead, black tree trunks with dead, gnarled, black branches.
âNow weâve reached the Dead Forest,â said Pompoo as we walked between the trees.
âYes, weâve entered it,â I said, âbut I donât believe weâll ever leave it.â
It was a forest to easily become lost in. It was the type of forest in dreams, where you walk and walk and never find the way out.
We held each otherâs hands, Pompoo and I, as we walked through the Dead Forest, and we felt very small and lost. The dead trees stood so close, we could hardly move.
âIf only the trees hadnât grown so close together,â said Pompoo. âIf only the darkness werenât so black and we werenât so small and alone!â
We walked and walked. Sometimes we heard voices far away. It was the spies that we heard. What Eno had said was
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