The Marsh King's Daughter(69)

“One day the Viking came home from a long journey with a prisoner, a Christian priest,” Calypso began. “He put the priest in the dungeon so the priest could be sacrificed to the Viking gods the next day in the forest. That night, the shriveled frog sat in the corner alone. Deep silence reigned all around. At intervals, a half-stifled sigh was heard from its innermost soul: the soul of Helga. It seemed in pain, as if a new life were arising in her heart.

“She took a step forward and listened, then stepped forward again and seized with her clumsy hands the heavy bar which was laid across the door. Gently, and with much trouble, she removed the iron bolt from the closed cellar door and slipped in to the prisoner. He was slumbering. She touched him with her cold, moist hand, and as he awoke and caught sight of the hideous form, he shuddered as if he beheld a wicked apparition. She drew her knife, cut through the bonds which confined his hands and feet, and beckoned to him to follow her.”

The story sounded familiar. They told me I used to know this story. If I did, I’d forgotten.

“You really don’t remember?” Calypso asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t understand why they remembered my mother’s story and I did not.

“The shriveled frog led him through a long gallery concealed by hanging drapery to the stables and then pointed to a horse. He mounted upon it, and she sprang up also before him and held tightly by the animal’s mane. They rode forth from the thick forest, crossed the heath, and again entered a pathless wood. The prisoner forgot her hideous form, knowing that the mercy of God worked through the spirits of darkness. He prayed and sang holy songs, which made her tremble. She raised herself up and wanted to stop and jump off the horse, but the Christian priest held her tightly with all his strength and then sang a pious song, as if this could loosen the wicked charm that had changed her into the semblance of a frog.”

Calypso was right. I had heard this story before. Memories I didn’t know I possessed swirled like pond ripples at the edges of my consciousness and came into focus. My mother singing to me when I was a baby, whispering to me, cradling me in her arms. Kissing me. Hugging me. Telling me stories.

“Let me tell the next part,” Cousteau said. “The next part is my favorite.”

Calypso nodded.

I liked how Cousteau and Calypso never disagreed.

“The horse galloped on more wildly than before,” Cousteau began, waving his arms with great enthusiasm to indicate how the horse had run. His eyes sparkled and danced. His eyes were brown like mine, though his hair was yellow like my mother’s, while Calypso’s hair was brown and her eyes were blue.

“The sky painted itself red, the first sunbeam pierced through the clouds, and in the clear flood of sunlight the frog became changed. It was Helga again, young and beautiful, but with a wicked demoniac spirit. The priest held now a beautiful young woman in his arms, and he was horrified at the sight.

“He stopped the horse and sprang from its back. He imagined that some new sorcery was at work. But Helga also leaped from the horse and stood on the ground. The child’s short garment reached only to her knee. She snatched the sharp knife from her girdle and rushed like lightning at the astonished priest.

“‘Let me get at thee!’ she cried. ‘Let me get at thee, that I may plunge this knife into thy body. Thou art pale as ashes, thou beardless slave.’ She pressed in upon him. They struggled with each other in heavy combat, but it was as if an invisible power had been given to the Christian in the struggle.

“He held her fast, and the old oak under which they stood seemed to help him, for the loosened roots on the ground became entangled in the maiden’s feet and held them fast. Then he spoke to her in gentle words of the deed of love she had performed for him during the night, when she had come to him in the form of an ugly frog to loosen his bonds and to lead him forth to life and light; and he told her that she was bound in closer fetters than he had been, and that she could recover also life and light by his means. She dropped her arms and glanced at him with pale cheeks and looks of amazement.”

I was amazed as well. This story was nothing like the ones my father told.

“Helga and the priest rode forth from the thick forest, crossed the heath, and again entered a pathless wood,” Cousteau continued. “Here, toward evening, they met with robbers. ‘Where hast thou stolen that beauteous maiden?’ cried the robbers, seizing the horse by the bridle and dragging the two riders from its back. The priest had nothing to defend himself with but the knife he had taken from Helga, and with this he struck out right and left. One of the robbers raised his ax against him, but the young priest sprang on one side and avoided the blow, which fell with great force on the horse’s neck so that the blood gushed forth and the animal sunk to the ground.

“Then Helga seemed suddenly to awake from her long, deep reverie; she threw herself hastily upon the dying animal.

“The priest placed himself before her to defend and shelter her, but one of the robbers swung his iron ax against the Christian’s head with such force that it was dashed to pieces. Blood and brains were scattered about, and he fell dead upon the ground.

“Then the robbers seized beautiful Helga by her white arms and slender waist, but at that moment the sun went down, and as its last ray disappeared, she was changed into the form of a frog. A greenish white mouth spread half over her face; her arms became thin and slimy while broad hands with webbed fingers spread themselves out like fans. The robbers in terror let her go, and she stood among them, a hideous monster.”