procession, Philbert running alongside the cart making his bows, Kroonk snaffling at the scraps that were flung in celebration, her tail wiggling madly in the excitement, people shouting out:
âThe Maus is moving a mountain! Only look! Here comes the Maus and the mountain he has moved!â
Only Hermann stayed behind in the doorway of his tent, waving solemnly as the procession passed him by for the second time, seeing Philbert in the lead with the donkey, grinning like a cockle, and Frau Fettleheimâs face wet with tears of joy. He stayed inside because Otto had lit an enormous fire of whin and wood scraps in celebration of Frau Fettleheimâs long-awaited release from incarceration, as was only right, and he could not have been happier for her. But he couldn â t step any closer to that fire, his skin would not abide it, would start its constant scritch and scratch, knowing there could be no such easy release for him. He watched the celebration s from afar, seeing the leap and crackle of flames reflected in othersâ faces, the shiver of stars becoming visible in the sudden dark drop of the night.
Only one person thought of him later, when the official Âwagon-whetting had been done and the gentle celebration descended into general riot, and that was Philbert, who came and stood by the open flap of his tent.
âEverything alright, Little Maus?â Hermann asked from his cot. And the boy came forward, proudly showing him the Âofficial wagon-whetting nail Otto had put about his neck on a thong.
âIt should be yours,â the boy said. âFor it was you came up with the whole plan.â
Hermann smiled as Philbert took the thong from his over-large head and offered it up. He took it a moment, held the nail in his hand, felt its warmth, and the warmth behind its giving, before giving it back.
âItâs yours,â Hermann said. âIt was you and Otto did all the hard work. So tell me, is the Frau pleased with her gift of freedom?â
He saw the boy nod, and saw too that the boy was crying. Hermann said nothing, just placed a single hand upon Philbertâs head which seemed enough, the boy subsiding to the floor, curling up, apparently going to sleep. Hermann rolled back onto his cot, trying not to scratch or sigh. He didnât know why Philbert was so upset but understood that sometimes a person doesnât want a crowd but doesnât want to be alone either, just wants to know someone is there, not too far away in the darkness.
He was right about that, but wrong to believe Philbert was sleeping, for he was not. Something about Ottoâs giving him the nail had brought back a memory: the sudden outline of his Papa shadowed somewhere near the fire, wiping the beer from his beard; made him think of those gifts of the little serinette that sang like a lark, the donkey with its saddle of softest silk, Philbert scanning back through every minute of every day trying to find the memory of where they lay, having the strongest feeling that if he went back slow enough and long enough, he would find them hiding in some crook and cranny of his mind. And he was thinking something else too: that the whole world of his past was deep inside him, and that sure as toad follows tadpole, something good was coming, and then would come the bad.
8
The Arrival of a Stranger
Later that same Autumn, the Fair camped on the banks of a small ox-bow lake some distance from the River Mohne. Frau Fettleheim was happier than ever, Lita had moved back into her beloved drawer. People still touched Philbertâs head for luck, for Fair folk were a superstitious bunch, but it was so commonplace an occurrence Philbert hardly noticed. He was unaware that his almost-dying with the Berliners outside Belzig had made of him a token, a figure apart from the rest, like a shadow from the one who casts it, someone who has only to reach out his hand in order to touch the other side. The goings on with
âThe Maus is moving a mountain! Only look! Here comes the Maus and the mountain he has moved!â
Only Hermann stayed behind in the doorway of his tent, waving solemnly as the procession passed him by for the second time, seeing Philbert in the lead with the donkey, grinning like a cockle, and Frau Fettleheimâs face wet with tears of joy. He stayed inside because Otto had lit an enormous fire of whin and wood scraps in celebration of Frau Fettleheimâs long-awaited release from incarceration, as was only right, and he could not have been happier for her. But he couldn â t step any closer to that fire, his skin would not abide it, would start its constant scritch and scratch, knowing there could be no such easy release for him. He watched the celebration s from afar, seeing the leap and crackle of flames reflected in othersâ faces, the shiver of stars becoming visible in the sudden dark drop of the night.
Only one person thought of him later, when the official Âwagon-whetting had been done and the gentle celebration descended into general riot, and that was Philbert, who came and stood by the open flap of his tent.
âEverything alright, Little Maus?â Hermann asked from his cot. And the boy came forward, proudly showing him the Âofficial wagon-whetting nail Otto had put about his neck on a thong.
âIt should be yours,â the boy said. âFor it was you came up with the whole plan.â
Hermann smiled as Philbert took the thong from his over-large head and offered it up. He took it a moment, held the nail in his hand, felt its warmth, and the warmth behind its giving, before giving it back.
âItâs yours,â Hermann said. âIt was you and Otto did all the hard work. So tell me, is the Frau pleased with her gift of freedom?â
He saw the boy nod, and saw too that the boy was crying. Hermann said nothing, just placed a single hand upon Philbertâs head which seemed enough, the boy subsiding to the floor, curling up, apparently going to sleep. Hermann rolled back onto his cot, trying not to scratch or sigh. He didnât know why Philbert was so upset but understood that sometimes a person doesnât want a crowd but doesnât want to be alone either, just wants to know someone is there, not too far away in the darkness.
He was right about that, but wrong to believe Philbert was sleeping, for he was not. Something about Ottoâs giving him the nail had brought back a memory: the sudden outline of his Papa shadowed somewhere near the fire, wiping the beer from his beard; made him think of those gifts of the little serinette that sang like a lark, the donkey with its saddle of softest silk, Philbert scanning back through every minute of every day trying to find the memory of where they lay, having the strongest feeling that if he went back slow enough and long enough, he would find them hiding in some crook and cranny of his mind. And he was thinking something else too: that the whole world of his past was deep inside him, and that sure as toad follows tadpole, something good was coming, and then would come the bad.
8
The Arrival of a Stranger
Later that same Autumn, the Fair camped on the banks of a small ox-bow lake some distance from the River Mohne. Frau Fettleheim was happier than ever, Lita had moved back into her beloved drawer. People still touched Philbertâs head for luck, for Fair folk were a superstitious bunch, but it was so commonplace an occurrence Philbert hardly noticed. He was unaware that his almost-dying with the Berliners outside Belzig had made of him a token, a figure apart from the rest, like a shadow from the one who casts it, someone who has only to reach out his hand in order to touch the other side. The goings on with
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