“My mother is lovely still,” Chanterelle replied, with unusual dignity in one so young, “and she can still sing — but I have never heard a nightingale, so I don’t know which of them is better.”
“When we say that a human sings like a nightingale,” the priest said, with a slightly impatient smile, “we do not mean it literally. That is to say, we do not mean it exactly.”
“Thank you,” said Handsel, taking his sister’s hand. “We shall take your excellent advice.” Even Chanterelle could tell by the way he said “excellent” that he did not mean it exactly—but the advice was taken nevertheless. On the morning of the next day, Handsel and Chanterelle set off into the wild forest to search for their mother. Their new neighbors waved goodbye to them as they went.
The priest had told them the truth, at least about the season. There were indeed hazelnuts on the hazel-trees and ripe brambleberries on the brambles. The only problems were that hazel-trees were not easy to find among all the other trees, none of which bore any edible nuts, and that brambles were equipped with ferocious thorns that snagged their clothing and left bloody trails on their hands and arms.
There were mushrooms too, but at first the two children were afraid to touch them.
“Some mushrooms are poisonous,” Handsel told his sister. “There are death-caps and destroying angels, and I do not know how to tell them apart from the ones which are safe to eat. I heard a story once which said that fairies love to squat on the heads of mushrooms, and that although those which the good fairies use remain perfectly safe to eat, those which are favored by naughty fairies become coated with an invisible poisonous slime.”
Even Chanterelle did not suppose that this story was entirely trustworthy, but she agreed with Handsel that they ought to avoid eating mushrooms, at least until the two of them became desperate with hunger. By the end of the first day they were certainly hungry, but by no means desperate, and it was not until they had been searching for a second day that desperation and its cousin despair began to set in. On their first night they had slept long and deep, but even though they were exhausted they found it more difficult to sleep on the second night. When they finally did go to sleep, they slept fitfully, and they woke up as tired as they had been when they settled down.
Unfortunately, the wild forest was not consistent in its nature. Although the lower slopes were host to hazel-trees and brambles, such plants became increasingly scarce as the two children went higher and higher. Their third day of searching brought them into a region where all the trees seemed to be dressed in dark, needlelike leaves and there was nothing at all to eat except for mushrooms. They had not yet found the slightest sign of their mother, their grandfather, or any other human soul, even though Handsel had shouted himself hoarse calling out to them.
“Well,” said Handsel as they settled down to spend a third night in the forest, bedded down on a mattress of leaf-litter, “I suppose Heaven must be on our side, else we’d have been eaten by wolves or bears before now. If we’re to eat at all tonight we must trust our luck to guide us to the most nourishing mushrooms and keep us safe from the worst.”
“I suppose so,” said Chanterelle, who had been keeping watch on all the mushrooms they passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fairy at rest. She had seen none as yet, but that did not make her any happier while they made their first meal of mushrooms, washed down with water from a spring. They found it difficult to sleep again, and tried to comfort one another by telling stories — but they found the stories comfortless and they slept badly.
They made another meal of white mushrooms, which settled their hunger after a fashion and caused their stomachs no considerable upset. As the day’s journey went higher and deeper into the forest, however, they found fewer and fewer of that kind.
Handsel continued to shout occasionally, but his throat was raw and his voice echoed mockingly back at him, as if the trees were taunting him with the uselessness of his attempts to be heard. Chanterelle helped as best she could, but her voice had never been as strong as it was sweet, even when she sang with the choir, and it seemed much feebler now.
When darkness began to fall yet again, and the two of them were badly in need of a meal, Handsel proposed that they try the red mushrooms with white patches, which were much commoner in this region than the white ones they had gathered on the lower slopes. Chanterelle did not like the look of them at all and said that she would rather go hungry.
“Oh well,” said Handsel, “I suppose the sensible thing to do would be for one of us to try them, so that their safety can be put to the proof.”
Again they found it difficult to go to sleep, but they decided to suffer in silence rather than tell discomfiting stories. The forest, of course, refused to respect their silence by falling silent itself; the wind stirred the branches of the trees restlessly — but tonight, for the first time, they heard another sound.
“Is that a nightingale?” Chanterelle asked her brother.
“I suppose so,” Handsel replied. “I never heard of any other bird that sings at night — but it’s not as sweet a singer as the birds that were kept in cages by people in the city. They had at least a hint of melody about their songs.”
“It may not have much melody,” said Chanterelle, “but I never heard a song so plaintive.”
“If it is a nightingale,” said Handsel, “I can’t begin to understand why the old man in the story thought the secret of making them sing by day so very precious.”
“I can,” whispered Chanterelle.
When she finally fell asleep, Chanterelle dreamed that an old man was chasing her through the forest, determined to make her sing again, even if he had to do to her what the old man in the story had done — first to the nightingales, and in the end to Luscignole. Usually, such nightmares continued until she woke in alarm, but this one was different. In this one, just as the old man was about to catch her, a she-wolf jumped on his back and knocked him down — and then set about devouring him while Chanterelle looked on, her anxious heart slowing all the while as her terror ebbed away.
When the wolf had finished with the bloody mess that had been the old man, she looked at Chanterelle and said: “You were right about the mushrooms. They’d been spoiled by fairies of the worst kind. You’ll have a hard job rescuing your brother, but it might be done, if only you have the heart and the voice.”
“Mother?” said Chanterelle fearfully. “Have you become a werewolf, then? Is Grandfather a werewolf too?”
“It’s not so bad,” said the she-wolf, “but Grandfather was wrong to think he’d find the solace of unselfconsciousness in the world of bears and wolves. Remember, Chanterelle—don’t eat the mushrooms.”
Having said that, the she-wolf ran away into the forest — and Chanterelle awoke.
Handsel was already up and about. He appeared much fitter than he had been the previous day, and he was much more cheerful than before, but he seemed to have lost his voice. When he spoke to Chanterelle, it was in a hoarse and grating whisper.
“You must eat something, Chanterelle,” he told her. “We must keep our strength up. The red-capped mushrooms are perfectly safe, as you can see. I’ve suffered no harm.”
Had Chanterelle not had the dream, she might have believed him, but the dream made her determined to leave the red-capped mushrooms alone.
“Did you dream last night?” Chanterelle asked her brother.
“Yes I did,” he croaked, “and rather frightening dreams they were — but they turned out all right in the end.”