No!"
"If you did not, you would not mind it so much that they are not like yourself; and it would not matter what they said. You must concern yourself less about human beings."
"I want my key. I want to show it to them."
"You must not do that; they would not believe you even if you did. What would be the use of it?"
"I want my little key—under the rose-bush. Do you know how to find it?"
"Yes, indeed! Near the pond, is it not? Yes, I know."
"Then take me to it, Wistik."
Wistik climbed up to Johannes' shoulder, and pointed out the way. They walked the whole day long. The wind blew, and now and then showers fell; but at evening the clouds ceased driving, and lengthened themselves out into long bands of gray and gold.
When they came to Johannes' own dunes, he felt deeply moved, and he whispered again and again: "Windekind! Windekind!"
There was the rabbit-hole, and the slope against which he had once slept. The grey reindeer-moss was tender and moist, and did not crackle beneath his feet. The roses were withered, and the yellow primroses with their faint, languid fragrance held up their cups by hundreds. Higher still rose the tall, proud torch-plants, with their thick, velvety leaves.
Johannes tried to trace the delicate, brownish leaves of the wild-rose.
"Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it."
"I know nothing about it," said Wistik. "You hid the key—I didn't."
The field where the rose had blossomed was full of primroses, staring vacantly. Johannes questioned them, and also the torch-plants. They were much too proud, however, for their tall flower-clusters reached far up above him; so he asked the small, tri-colored violets on the sandy ground.
But no one knew anything of the wild-rose. They all were newly-come flowers—even the arrogant torch-plant, tall though it was.
"Oh! where is it? Where is it?"
"Have you, too, served me a trick?" cried Wistik. "I expected it—that is always the way with human beings!"
He slipped down from Johannes' shoulder, and ran away into the tall grass.
Johannes looked hopelessly around. There stood a small rose-bush.
"Where is the big rose?" asked Johannes, "the big one that used to stand here?"
"We do not speak to human beings," said the little bush.
That was the last sound he heard. Every living thing kept silence. Only, the reeds rustled in the soft, evening wind.
"Am I a human being?" thought Johannes. "No, that cannot—cannot be. I will not be a human being. I hate human beings."
He was tired and faint-hearted, and went to the border of the little field to lie down upon the soft, grey moss with its humid, heavy fragrance.
"I cannot turn back now, nor ever see Robinetta again. Shall I not die without her? Shall I keep on living, and be a man—a man like those who laughed at me?"
Then, all at once, he saw again the two white butterflies that flew up to him from the way of the setting sun. In suspense, he followed their flight. Would they show him the way? They hovered above his head—then floated apart to return again—whirling about in fickle play. Little by little they left the sun, and finally fluttered beyond the border of the dunes—away to the woods. There, only the highest tips were still touched by the evening glow that shone out red and vivid from under the long files of sombre clouds.
Johannes followed the butterflies. But when they had flown above the nearest trees, he saw a dark shadow swoop toward them in noiseless flight, and then hover over them. It pursued and overtook them. The next moment they had vanished. The black shadow darted swiftly up to him, and he covered his face with his hands, in terror.
"Well, little friend, why do you sit here, crying?" rang a sharp, taunting voice close beside him.
Johannes had seen a huge bat coming toward him, but when he looked up, a swarthy mannikin, not much taller than himself, was standing on the dunes. It had a great head, with big ears, that stood out—dark—against the bright evening sky, and a lean little body with slim legs. Of his face Johannes could see only the small, glittering eyes.
"Have you lost anything, little fellow? If so, I will help you seek it," said he. But Johannes silently shook his head.
"Look! Would you like these?" he began again, opening his hand. Johannes saw there something white, that from time to time barely stirred. It was the two white butterflies—dead—with the torn and broken little wings still quivering. Johannes shivered, as though some one had blown on the back of his neck, and he looked up in alarm at the strange being.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Would you like to know my name, Chappie? Well, just call me Pluizer[1]—simply Pluizer. I have still prettier names, but that you do not yet understand."
"Are you a human being?"
"Better yet! Still, I have arms and legs and a head—just see what a head! And yet the boy asks if I'm a human being! Well, Johannes, Johannes!" And the mannikin laughed with a shrill, piercing sound.
"How do you know who I am?" asked Johannes.
"Oh, that is a trifle for me! I know a great deal more. I know where you came from, and what you came here to do. I know an astonishing lot—almost everything."
"Ah! Mr. Pluizer. … "
"Pluizer—Pluizer. No ceremony!"
"Do you know then? … " But Johannes suddenly stopped. "He is a human being," thought he.
"About your little key, do you mean?" asked the mannikin.
"Yes, indeed I do."
"But I did not think human beings could know anything about that."
"Silly boy! And Wistik has babbled to so many about it!"
"Do you know Wistik, too?"
"Oh, yes—one of my best friends, and I have a great many of them. But I know about the little key, without the help of Wistik. I know a great deal more than Wistik. Wistik is a good enough fellow, but stupid—uncommonly stupid. Not I—far from it!" And Pluizer tapped his big head with his lean little hand in a very pert way.
"Do you know, Johannes," he continued, "a great defect in Wistik? But you never must tell him, for he would be very angry."
"Well, what is it?" asked Johannes.
"He does not exist. That is a great shortcoming, but he will not admit it. And he says of me that I do not exist—but that is a lie. I not exist? The mischief—I do!"
And Pluizer, thrusting
