harvest was stored safely in the great stone mill. The night the storm descended he climbed into his bed early, pulled the cover over his head to shut out the noise of the tempest and the raging river, prayed that the tiles would not fly off his roof, and sank into a restless slumber. Then he dreamed he was a boy again, playing in the meadow with his brothers, and he dreamed that in anger he struck his younger brother and flung him in the grass, where he lay in a heap and cried pitifully. And in his dream he felt in his heart a tinge of remorse for the loveless blow he had dealt his small brother. And in that instant he awoke, and heard indeed a child crying, over the tumult of the storm.
He lay huddled in his warm bed listening, and a tumult arose in his heart. What was he, an old man, to do? Risk his limbs in such a storm? And what child would be abroad in such a night? Had he lost his wits? But then the crying came again, pitiful and weak, and smote his heart anew. So he rose and rushed to his door. The wind buffeted against it and the rain poured in torrents, but he pushed it open and let it slam to behind him. Then in the wild dark he listened for the cry, and it came again, down the path; and on his knees so that he could feel his way he crawled, calling out, “Little one, little one, I am coming! Do not fear. I am coming.” And at length, when his knees were torn and aching and his hands bruised, and his voice hoarse with calling, he found a rock by the path and clinging to it a little huddled form, sobbing and sobbing. At the touch of his hands the small arms went around him, the wet wild head was on his shoulder, and he felt the sobs that shook the pitiful frame. “Never fear, little one, you are safe,” he crooned, and rose to his feet, for the path was strangely clear now, and the wind and rain ceased to buffet him. So he carried the boy safely home, and once in, laid him tenderly on his bed, stripped off his wet clothes, and wrapped him in his blanket. He carefully wiped the blood from a long thorn-scratch that lay across the little boy’s brow, then he brought him broth to sip. The child sat with his head against the miller’s shoulder. Gradually his sobs ceased and his breath that had come in shuddering gasps came evenly again. Then he looked into the miller’s face and smiled, and with that smile the sound of the wind died away, and the rain passed, and a peace fell on the world. Then the child lay down, and snuggled in the blanket to sleep. The miller watched by his side for a long time, and then lay down on his own hearth, with his cloak rolled up under his head, and slept, out of exhaustion of body and soul.
When he awoke, the door stood wide and the sunlight of all the world streamed in; the birds sang in the fresh, new-made morning. The miller leaped up and rushed to the bed, but the child had vanished; the little garments hung up to dry were gone; there was nothing but the imprint of his form on the bed, and a bloodstained rag, and an empty cup. Then he ran to the door and cried, “Little one, little one, where are you?” But the only answer was the song of the bird. Then he saw the devastation of the storm, and he thought of the flattened and ruined grain of the villagers, and the fat harvest that had been gathered safe in his mill, and a great pity filled his heart. And he saw the path before him, the path to the village, and he set off at a run, with strong hands and a newly beating heart.
The ferryman had grumbled for days. The river had been running wild and sullen and dark, almost at flood crest, and he had pulled his ferry far up the bank and lashed it to the stoutest trees. Then for no amount of money would he take any across. He sat on his doorstep and studied the sky and counted his losses and felt sour and discontent. The night the storm descended, he went indoors early, bolted the heavy shutters, and sat over a flagon of beer, listening to the roar of the river and the wild wind, and the beating of the rain.
He thought of his brothers and wondered how they were faring, if they were safe as he. Then he thought of the village and the peasants with their little fields now being beaten and pummeled. And he remembered the man and his wife who had stood on the far bank but yesterday and called to him to fetch them across, for they had been to the town to a wedding, and now wished to get home to their children before the foul weather broke. But he in hard-heartedness had not heeded them and had gone inside, and at length they had gone away, up river. With a pang he wondered where they were, and how their children fared; in his heart he felt a stir of remorse that he had been so cold and hard and careful for his own skin. And in that instant he heard a child crying.
He set his flagon down and listened, straining his ears, and again the cry came. He leaped to his feet in terror then, for indeed the cry came, not from near at hand, but borne by the wind from across the water, from the far bank. He stood rooted to his floor thinking, “What cry is this? What child is abroad on such a night? Am I, an old man, to risk all, crossing the river on such a night? Impossible! I cannot! I would be out of my wits!” But the cry came again, desperate and clear. He stood, in his heart a battleground, then he pounded with his fist on the table and shouted, “Fool that I am!” and rushed out into the wild and roaring dark.
In the swirl and tumult he pressed his way to the bank and stood waiting for the cry again, and when it came he judged its source – down river near the bend; it came thin and clear and lost. He strained his eyes staring into the pitchy dark, and then, as if the moon glowed for an instant through the flying clouds, he caught the faintest glimmer of a small form, downstream, clinging to the overhanging willow near the bend.
“Blessed God,” he gasped, “the little one will be drowned if I do not hasten.”
Up the bank he plunged then, to where the ferry was securely tied. In the dark his fingers struggled with the ropes and freed them one by one, then he dragged the ferry down the bank, pushing it into the raging river and leaping aboard, pole in hand. Down the rushing torrent he was borne, thrusting in his pole to ease the tossing craft across the river if he could; as he poled he gave thanks each time he felt the sturdy pole strike the bottom, and he shouted, “Little one, hold on! Little one, I am coming!” His shoulders ached, his chest burned, and his breath came in gasps; he struggled to keep on his feet, and to keep the pole in his hands. But he would not give up, and a final lunge took him against the far bank, where the ferry caught in a snag and swung round beneath the willow; he caught the body of the child; the little arms let go and the child dropped down fainting. The ferryman sat on the slippery, rocking deck of his ferry with the rescued boy in his arms and he wept, for joy and relief and exhaustion. The weeping hurt him, so unaccustomed was it to him, who had not wept since childhood; the tears rained down on the little white face that lay against his breast, and the child stirred and woke from his swoon. He looked up in amazement, and then he smiled into the eyes of the ferryman. And with that smile the wild wind died away, and the rain ceased, faint stars shone through the clouds, and the ferry rested peacefully on a quiet river.
“Now to get thee home, little one,” breathed the ferry-
man. “The river is at peace, by some miracle, and there is such a glow in the sky that I can see the way easily.” He laid the child gently on the deck and seized the pole again, thrusting the craft off from the shore and pushing with sure strokes across stream till they lodged on the bank. Then he stooped and gathered up the wet and shivering child, hurried up the bank, and carried the light body home.
There he laid him on a pallet by the fire and stripped him of his wet clothes, wrapped him in his warm cloak, and tenderly wiped away the streak of blood from a long scratch across his brow. The child slept quietly then, and the ferryman knelt by his side for a long while, gazing into his face. Then at length he sighed and became aware of his own aching weariness; he sank down on his cot, and slept.
When he woke, the door stood open wide, the sunlight of a new morning flooded in. He heard the kingfisher calling over the river and the singing of a lark. He leaped up then and ran to the hearth, but the child had vanished. By the pallet lay the bloodstained rag with which he had cleaned the wound. The little garments that had been hung to dry were gone. He ran to the doorway then and cried aloud to the new day, “Little one, little one, where are you?” But nothing answered. The ducks paddled peaceably in a little backwater by the shore, and the kingfisher on the far bank rattled. He stood looking at the devastation of the storm, his ruined garden, the broken trees. He thought then of his brothers, if they were still alive, and of the stricken village, and his heart ached
