THE STORY OF A MOTHER - PART I

A mother was sitting by her small child, she was so sorrowful, so afraid that it was going to die. It was so pale, its small eyes had closed, its breathing was so shallow, and occasionally it gave a deep heave as if sighing; and the mother looked even more mournfully at the little soul.
There was a knock at the door, and a poor old man stood there, wrapped in something rather like a large horse blanket, for it warmed him, and warmth was what he needed in the winter’s cold. Everything outside was covered in ice and snow, and the wind cut like a knife in people’s faces. And since the old man was shivering with cold, and the small child had dozed off for a moment, the mother poured some beer into a small pot and placed it on the stove so it could be warmed and given him, and the old man sat there rocking and the mother sat down on the chair next to him, gazed at her sick child that was breathing so deeply and she lifted its tiny hand. ‘Don’t you think I’ll be able to keep him?’ she said, ‘surely the Good Lord won’t take him away from me?’ And the old man, who was Death himself, he nodded in such a strange way – it could just as easily mean yes as no.
And the mother gazed down into her lap and the tears streamed down her cheeks – her head felt so heavy, she hadn’t slept a wink for three days and three nights, and now she dozed off, but only for an instant, then she gave a start and shivered with cold: ‘What’s this?’ she said and looked around her everywhere, but the old man was gone and her little child was gone, he had taken it with him; and over in the corner the old clock whirred and whirred, the great lead clockweight slid straight down to the floor, boom! and the clock too stood silent.
But the poor mother ran out of the house and called for her child. Out there, in all the snow, sat a woman in long, black clothes, and she said: ‘Death has been in your house, I saw him hurry off with your small child – he travels faster than the wind, he will never return what he has taken!’ ‘Just tell me which way he went!’ the mother said, ‘tell me which way and I will find him!’ ‘I know the way!’ the woman in the black clothes said, ‘but before I tell you, you must first sing to me all the songs you have sung to your child! I am fond of them, I have heard them before – I am Night, I saw your tears while you sang them!’ I’ll sing all of them, all of them!’ the mother said, ‘but don’t hold me back, so I can reach him, so I can find my child!’ But Night sat there, silent and still, then the mother wrung her hands, sang and wept, and there were many songs, but even more tears; and then Night said: ‘take to the right, into the dark pine forest, that is where I saw death go with your small child!’
Deep in the forest the paths crossed each other and she no longer knew which way to go; there a thorn bush stood that had neither leaves nor flowers on it, for it was winter now and cold, and its branches were glazed with ice. ‘Haven’t you seen Death pass by with my small child?’ ‘Yes, I have!’ the thorn bush said, ‘but I won’t tell you which way he went until you warm me up close to your heart! I am freezing to death and will turn completely to ice!’ And she clasped the thorn bush to her breast, so tightly, so that it could get really warm, and the thorns went right into her flesh and her blood flowed in large drops, but the thorn bush grew fresh green leaves and came into flower on that cold winter’s night, there was so much warmth at a sorrowful mother’s heart – and the thorn bush told her which way to take.
Then she came to a big lake where there were neither ship nor boat. The lake was not frozen over enough to be able to bear her, and not open and shallow enough for her to be able to wade through it, but she had to get across it if she wanted to find her child; so she lay down so as to drink the lake dry – and that is impossible for a human being, but the sorrowful mother thought that perhaps a miracle would happen...