Outside, not far from the house, was a hill filled with red hawthorn and laburnum. There’s an old tombstone there that had come from the churchyard in the market town. It was carved to honor one of the town’s councilmen. His wife and his five daughters, all with folded hands and ruffed collars, were standing around him, chiseled from stone. If you looked at it long enough, it somehow affected your thoughts, and those thoughts in turn affected the stone so that it told about the old times. Anyway, that’s how it happened for the man searching for the fairy tale. As he arrived here now, he saw a liv ing butterfly sitting on the forehead of the carved councilman. It fluttered its wings, flew a short distance, and then landed again right by the tombstone as if to show him what was growing there. It was a four-leaf clover, and there were seven of them, side by side. When luck comes, it comes in earnest! He picked the clovers and put them in his pocket. Good luck is just as good as ready money, although a new lovely fairy tale would have been even better, thought the man. But he didn’t find it there.
The sun set, red and huge. Fog rose from the meadow. The bog witch was brewing.
It was late in the evening. He stood alone in his room, looking out over the garden and meadow, the moor and the seashore. The moon was shining clearly and there was a mist hanging over the meadow as if it were a big lake. There had been one there once, according to legend, and in the moonlight you could see for yourself. Then the man thought about what he had read in town, how William Tell and Holger the Dane had not existed, but in folklore they became, like the sea out there, living visions for legend. Yes, Holger the Dane would return!
As he was standing there and thinking, something hit the window quite strongly. Was it a bird? A bat or an owl? Well, you don’t let them in if they knock! The window sprang open by it self, and an old woman looked in at the man.
“What’s this?” he said. “Who is she? She’s looking right into the second story. Is she standing on a ladder?”
“You have a four-leaf clover in your pocket,” she said. “You actually have seven, one of which is a six-leaf clover!”
“Who are you?” asked the man.
“The bog witch!” she said. “The bog witch, and I’m brewing. I was in the process of doing that, and the tap was in the barrel, but one of the frisky little bog children drew the tap out in fun and flung it up here against the house where it hit the window. Now the beer’s running out of the barrel, and that’s not a good thing for anyone!”
“Well, but tell me—” said the man.
“Wait a moment,” said the bog witch. “I have other things to attend to,” and then she was gone.
The man was about to close the window, and then she reappeared.
“Now that’s done,” she said, “but half of the beer I’ll have to brew again tomorrow if the weather holds. Now what did you want to ask about? I came back because I always keep my word, and you have seven four-leaf clovers in your pocket, one of which has six-leaves and that earns respect. They’re badges that grow by the road, but aren’t found by everyone. What did you want to ask about? Don’t just stand there like a silly sap. I have to get back to my barrel and tap.”
And the man asked about the fairy tale, asked if the bog witch had seen it on her way.
“Oh, for brewing sassafras!” said the witch. “Haven’t you had enough of fairy tales yet? I do believe that most people have. There are other things to take care of and be concerned about. Even the children have outgrown them. Give the little boys a cigar and the little girls a new petticoat—they care more about that! Listen to fairy tales? No, there are other things to attend to, more important things to do!”
“What do you mean by that?” the man said. “And what do you know of the world? You only see frogs and will-o’-the-wisps!”
“Well, watch out for the will-o’-the-wisps!” said the witch. “They’re out! They’re on the loose. We should talk about them. Come to me in the bog, where I need to be now. I’ll tell you all about it, but hurry while your seven four-leaf clovers with the one sixer are fresh, and the moon is still up!”
And the bog witch was gone.
The clock struck twelve on the tower clock, and before it struck the quarter hour the man was out of the yard, out of the garden and standing in the meadow. The fog had lifted, and the bog witch had stopped brewing.
“It took a long time for you to get here,” said the bog witch. “Trolls get around faster than people, and I’m glad I was born of troll folk.”
“What do you have to tell me?” asked the man. “Is it something about the fairy tale?”
“Can’t you think of anything but that?” said the witch.
“Well, can you tell me about the poetry of the future then?” asked the man.
“Don’t be so hifalutin,” said the witch, “and I’ll answer you. You only think about poetry, and ask about the fairy tale, as if she’s the one who gets everything going. But she’s just the oldest, although she is always taken for the youngest. I certainly know her. I have been young too, and that’s not a childhood illness. I was once quite a pretty elf maiden, and danced with the others in the moonlight, listened to the nightingale, walked in the forests and met the fairy tale maiden, who was always out gadding about. Sometimes she spent the night in a partly opened tulip or in a globe flower. Sometimes she slipped into the church and wrapped herself in the mourning crepe that hung from the altar candles.”
“You have a lot of lovely information,” said the man.
“Well, I should hope I know as much as you do anyway!” said the bog witch. “Fairy tales and poetry—Well, they’re two of a kind. They can go lie down wherever they want. All their work and talk can be brewed both better and cheaper than they do it. You can get them from me for nothing. I have a whole cupboard full of poetry in bottles. It’s the essence of it, the best, the actual herb, both the sweet and the bitter. I have bottles of all the poetry people need, so they can put some on their handkerchiefs to smell on Sundays and holidays.”
“You’re saying some really strange things,” said the man. “You have bottled poetry?”
“More than you can stand!” said the witch. “You must know the story about the girl who stepped on bread to avoid dirtying her new shoes? It’s been both written and printed.”
“I wrote that story myself,” said the man.
“Well, then you know it.” said the witch, “And you know that the girl sank right down into the ground to the bog witch just as the devil’s great-grandmother was visiting to see the brewery. She saw the girl who sank and requested her for a pedestal, a souvenir of her visit. She got her, and I got a gift that I have no use for: a portable apothecary, a whole cupboard of poetry in bottles. Great-grandmother decided where it was to stand, and it’s still standing there. Just look! You have your seven four-leaf clovers, one of which is a six-leaf clover, in your pocket so I’m sure you’ll be able to see it.”
And truly, right in the middle of the bog there was a sort of big hollow alder stump, and that was great-grandmother’s cupboard. It was open to her and to everyone in all countries and in all times, the bog witch said, as long as they knew where the cupboard was. It could be opened in the front and the back, and on all sides and corners. It was a real work of art, but just looked like an old alder stump. The poets of all countries, especially our own, were copied there. Their essence was figured out, reviewed, cleaned up, concentrated and bottled. With sure instinct (as it’s called when one doesn’t want to say “genius” ) great-grandmother had taken the taste of this and that poet from nature, added a little witchcraft, and then she had his poetry bottled for eternity.