The voice of love

Dear friend of mine,
Once upon a time there was a large village in a pleasant valley. This valley was famous for its abundant fields and pastures, for woods and waters rich with game and fish, and for its dreadful quagmire.
At a distance from the village, down the hill, there was a rich mill homestead, now a dilapidating one.
Here, at the bed of the river, near the decrepit dam, embracing a melancholic overgrown pond, I picked up the story.

I

Then, many years ago, the homestead flourished. The Miller, a young muscular giant, toiled incessantly around his home and business with the help and support of his affable wife. The price, the Miller asked for his skill and labor, was higher than others of the valley, but in the trade he was incomparable, so the peasants preferred to wait to get their grain processed by the Miller.

***

Years of hard work had piled up a fortune for the Miller and his wife, as well as the wealth of their barns and coffers. Yet their success was marred by a lack of children. The couple was persistently looking for any possible help, yet nothing good came about.
Finally they visited a voodoo man who lived by the quagmire. He told them that some envious neighbors had cast the evil eye over the wife. With that revelation, the Miller became furious and ceased to trust people. From now on all of his thoughts and feelings became dominated by suspicion and belligerence. The number of his enemies began to grow and widen.
Yet, the following winter brought relief: the wife became pregnant and delivered a charming baby-girl with hair of golden autumn. The delivery, unfortunately, did not go right, and three days after the birth of her daughter the woman passed away. As a result of his wife’s sudden death, the Miller became despondent; his grief grew to the point of near insanity, and only the necessity of taking care of the newborn, saved his life. Woe, nevertheless, had crushed his spirit, and pain never left his soul.
The Miller commenced avoiding people. He became glum and tacit, not trusting his loyal clients. In response to his new demeanor, many of his patrons decided to seek other millers. Despite the lack of business, however, none of the villagers heard the Miller complain; he just grew more alienated to the community life. From now on, his life would be devoted solely to his lovely daughter.

***

The girl grew up mostly alone. Her father did not forbid her from playing with the village children; nevertheless, she did not look for their company, preferring to help her father or wander alone along the river, where her beautiful golden hair, kissed by the wind, would jingle like strings.
Here, my reader, you expect me to indicate that the girl was a beauty, don’t you? Sorry, I cannot. She was a girl like many others, a nice one, with a kind and tender heart. She did, however, possessed a remarkable feature: a silver bell lived in her throat; and, in time, she developed a sublime singing voice.
In her leisure moments, she would come to her favorite place under the birch-tree at the river bank, sit on the silky grass, and sing. She didn’t know many songs: who could she get them from? Sometimes she made up her own words, but mostly she sang without words, just tunes. She picked them up listening to the whisper of the flowers in the meadow; the birds’ chirping magnetized her; the winds shared with her their fancy harmonies; the rain taught her rhythm; and an old cricket gave her some lessons on metric.
When she would sing, the grass would caress her legs, the river would stop murmuring, and the fish would rise to the surface, forgetting to breath in amazement of what sounds they were hearing. The birch-tree would lean over, shrouding her shoulders in a soft shade; the bush would stroke her hair; and wild animals, listening to the girl, would forget their perpetual fights and animosities.
At the furthest corners of the valley, where easily flew in her inspired voice, people would stop working and listen, letting the enchanting waves of beauty saturate their hearts and desires.

II

Now I have to move over the mountain ridge and into another valley, a lesser one, where the farms were much smaller and the land was not as fertile. Many residents there were involved with additional trades. And here we find the house of our interest.
This squatty log house on the skirt of the village belonged to an industrious family, a farmer-widower and his seven sons. Needing additional income, the men undertook woodworking and lumberjacking.
A saddest event happened in the house: delivering their last son, the Farmer’s wife died. It was the same year as the Miller’s wife passed away.
A span of sixteen years passed between this son and the previous one. Either due to this gap or any other reason, the baby was weak and expected to follow his mother. Nevertheless, he miraculously survived. Later on it was found out, that in addition to all the woes, the boy was born blind.

***

The six elder brothers were copies of their father: tacit, sullen bearded giants, similar like raindrops.
There was a funny habit the family had between them, the brothers preferred to call each other by numbers: First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth. They were a tightly knit, hard working family. The older brothers followed the Father in his trades. Each day, shortly after dawn, they would to go in the forest to cut timber. During fits of an inclement weather, they toiled on rough ascetic furniture for low income customers. No one was skilful enough, so that in spite of all the great efforts the family barely made ends meet.


***

When Seventh had grown up strong enough to hold a tool, he picked up a knife and started carving a piece of wood. His hands happened to be agile showing a unique perception. It appeared as if his fingers could talk with the wood. Having no visual experience, he let his cutter fly freely. It was not clear how either his fingers found the shapes inside the wood or they brought around some fantasies out from his mysterious inner world.
The brothers observed his works with a real interest, raised their eyebrows but did not object. Besides, growing up, Seventh took upon himself his fare share of the chores around the household: cooking, washing, cleansing, and cattle carrying. Later on, the brothers began bringing the youngest fanciful pieces of roots and branches from the woods that resembled people, animals, just tricky ones. Sometimes it took Seventh one or two touches of his smart knife to turn a formless object into a piece of work.
Next summer taking some of their furniture to the yearly fair, the Father picked up several of Seventh’s work just for fun. It did not take long, as some connoisseurs expressed a greater attention to the figurines. They acknowledged them as works of art, bought every item without bargaining, and began inquiring who was the artist, if he had anything else, and would it be possible to order something specific. The Father evaded the questions, but promised to be back with new items.
Not before long, the passion of Seventh, which the family had taken as a hobby, had become a steady source of significant income. The Father was able to save some money and start looking for brides for the older sons.

***

At 18 years of age Seventh was still ailing and weak. His narrow chest was sagged and overfilled with a chronic cough. He could appear tall, if only his back would not had been hunched down by the countless hours at the workbench. For an occasional rest, Seventh liked walking outside the village. Sometimes he would wander too far. For such case the brothers hung a bell, the sound of which pointed Seventh into the right direction.

***

One day Seventh asked his brothers about a beautiful voice, he was able to hear while wandering by the ridge at the other side of the valley. They explained that according to rumors, he probably heard the Miller daughter’s singing, a girl who lived over the ridge in the neighboring valley.
Next day Seventh went towards the voice. Of course, it was not easy, yet he managed the way. When he emerged from behind a bush, his soul was brimming with happiness; and words of heartfelt acknowledgement, readied to fly out, were trembling on his lips.
Poor dear fellow, he did not know, and no one cautioned him, that the girl kept away from people and did not sing in front of them. The neighbors knew that and didn’t disturb her.
When the Miller’s daughter had spotted a poorly dressed stranger, crooked, breathing hotly and passionately, with the burning eyes looking into nowhere, naturally, she got scared,
“Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want from me?”
“I am a farmer’s son. My brothers call me Seventh. I came from the neighboring valley across the ridge to tell you that I admire your voice and would like to be your friend.” His trembling humble voice was so soft and tender.
His funny name and his confession touched the girl’s heart.
“May I touch your hand, please?” asked Seventh and, after hesitation, the girl stretched her arm towards him. He did not take it and asked again, “May I have your hand? Please!” and extended his palm toward her. Surprised (she had never dealt with a blind person), the Miller’s daughter frowned but laid her hand onto his palm. As all blind do, he commenced palpating her hand. She watched him in embarrassment. “Please, may I look at your face,” asked Seventh and raised his hand. It was more than she expected and could explain. Scared, she cried,
“Help, help! Go away. My father is coming, he’ll kill you. Go away!”
The young man was shocked. What harm was done? What did he do wrong? Saddened, he turned away and walked back where he came from.

***

A bitter sorrow nested in the Seventh’ heart. He couldn’t put his hands to work anymore and was straying senselessly around, sharing his pain with the meadows and hills, with the sun, the moon, and the stars. When a fit of the pain would grow unbearable, he would kneel and pray hotly and passionately: and the heaven poured the sweet water of placation into his heart.
After several days of absence, he returned home and, as if for the sake of salvation of his soul, plummeted into the work again. He worked earnestly days and nights. The Father gave a sign to the brothers, and they left him alone.

***

One morning the men woke up to work and found their youngest soundly asleep at the workbench; beside him laid a strange thing.
“Isn’t it a kind of a strange box?” asked First.
“It might very well be,” remarked Second, “yet to me it looks as a body of a beautiful woman.”
“You right,” supported Third, “a beautiful woman with a swan neck.”
“And look, what a gorgeous head!” noticed Forth.
Fifth lifted the piece,
“It is weightless,” exhaled he, “and she has a voice if one touches her.”
Only Sixth said nothing.

***

Over the next days, Seventh often would suddenly put aside his work and walked over to the mill. He approached the Miller’s daughter from inside the forest and, surrounded by the wild animals, he soaked in every note of her enchanting voice. The animals admitted him as a brother and often would lead him out of the forest. Later on a tight bond developed between Seventh and a giant moose. The Moose would come over at the Farmer’s house to take his man-brother to the mill and bring him back.
At night, when everyone slept, the Seventh would take his last strange creation to a meadow and talked to it as to a beloved woman.

III

Then came some events which changed the quiet life of the valleys drastically. During last week Seventh approached the mill several times, but heard no singing anymore. Suspecting that something horrible had happened, he turned to his brothers.
They told him that there was a rumor, according to which the singing girl with golden hair disappeared. Some said that she was kidnapped by the Miller’s enemies. Some believed that she was captured by the wood-goblin, the dreadful spirit of the forest.
The Father added that a girl with golden hair was spotted at the sinister quagmire in the forest depth. By her spellbind voice she lured the stray into the treacherous muddy waters. No one saw either of them alive any longer. People around the place lived in fear and were afraid to enter the forest.

***

The Father’s words set the young master’s heart on fire. Saying no word, he picked up his cane and set out for the forest.
It was long after midnight when Seventh reached the forest skirt and called the moose. The noble animal rode Seventh at the bog. All at once a blurred woman figure showed white in the darkness, the moose stopped. The dear familiar voice touched Seventh’ heart. The voice engulfed him in a serene cloud of felicity, and lured him in. However, Seventh had no fear. He approached the girl and she recalled him,
“Why have you come? Don’t you know that I bring death and destruction to human beings? Get away immediately, while you can, poor fellow!”
“I cannot leave alone. I’ve come to take you with me.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I love you.”
“Is it a good reason to risk your live for anyone you barely know?”
“I love you. What a better reason does one need?”
“You cannot save me.”
“I can’t. My love can.”
“No human being is able to help me. Do you see the damnable monster behind me? I am under his mother’s curse. He is my master from now on.”
“I’m blind. I can see nothing.”
“Oh, I did not know. I realize now how unjustly I mistreated you. Forgive me, please. Anyway, now you have to leave. Run away as fast as you can, otherwise you will be dead.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not leaving without you. Give me your hand.”
“I cannot. I have no power.”
“Yes, you can. In the name of the almighty love where is your hand?” Seventh stretched his arms toward her voice, fumbling around. He touched her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out from the bog. Seventh picked up the girl into his arms and seated her upon the moose.

***

A cadaverous witch loomed up over the mire,
“My son, why are you so slow? What are you waiting for? I brought you a bride you were dreaming of. Don’t let the creatures escape. Stop them right away. “
“Dear mother, I’m unable. I have put into action all my power you have taught me. This man is stronger than I. His heart is full of love. It is the real love. It makes him unstoppable. Our sorcery is powerless over such feeling.”
“Ugh-ugh… Rubbish, my son. Don’t you know what kind of misery is the human love? Only empty promises, a bunch of bluffs. No sincerity. A lie upon a lie. Today they love one, tomorrow another.”
“No, my dear mother, his love is pure and honest. His self-denial is accomplished and makes him invincible. Try it for yourself.”
The witch put force in all her best and yet was unable to stop our fugitives. She grabbed her broom, hopped into the mortar and flew up in front of the Moose. Furious and frenzied, with skeletal fingers and blazing eyes, she was so formidable that the Moose dropped to its knees.
“Hey, Miller’s daughter,” screeched the Witch, “I cannot stop him, but I still have enough power over you, ha-ha-ha my dear. It is your last chance, and it is your only option: either you stay with us and be a crowned sovereign of my lands and waters or I strip you off your voice.”
The Miller’s daughter was dumbfounded. She turned away and fainted. Seventh tapped the Moose, and the animal moved past the witch.
When the three stopped by the Miller’s house, the Daughter was still unconscious. Seventh took her in his arms, seated her at the porch, then he knocked on the door and left.

IV

Some days later, the brothers brought home another rumor that a handsome prince brought the Miller’s daughter home on a white winged horse.
No one knew where she had been and what had happened to her actually. One thing was for sure, from now on she was plodding through the chores of her days uttering not a word. Hiding at her favorite place, she was weeping bitterly and hopelessly.
Some people insisted that the Miller’s daughter lost her beautiful voice; others argued that her voice reduced to the roar of a wild bear.
The gossip saddened Seventh and broke him down. He lost his sleep. Days and nights he did not let out from his hands his unusual creation. He talked to that beautiful and bizarre figure, fondled it with his rough calloused palms and the thing responded in a quiet plaintiff voice. Sixth approached him,
“Listen, brother, you know, I was thinking a lot of the piece, it reminds me a kind of a musical instrument I had once seen at the earl castle.”
The idea somewhat awoke Seventh’ oppressed imagination,
“Thank you, brother. I know what I have to do!” exclaimed he. He wrapped the figure in a soft cloth and left the house hurriedly.

***

No doubt, Seventh went straight to the mill.
To keep direction was much harder today. Usually, the girl’s tunes were his acoustic beacon. Now, without it, his inner world became estranged. He had to fight his way through the hostile silence of the outer world, and the eternal night inside of him was denser than ever. Still he made it. Yes, he made it! He came out onto the bank on the sound of her tears.
“Here, take it,” Seventh said to the Miller’s daughter, “it is about you and it is for you.”
She rose towards him,
“What is it? I…” Her voice was harsh and hard to bear, and she broke down and started crying again. Seventh unwrapped the gift,
“This is your voice. I have made it for you.” In bewilderment the Miller’s daughter was looking at him. Pain and suffering were quivering in her tearful eyes.
“Let me have some of your golden hairs,” asked Seventh. She pulled out and handed to him some. The young man stretched several of them tightly along the sensitive body. The rest he tensed between the ends of a bowed branch. He laid the thing onto his shoulder and brought the bow to the instrument.
As soon as the strings kissed each other the divine voice was reborn and as a free wide-winged bird soared into the sky. It flew far, far away. It descended onto the grounds and waters. The pensive tune penetrated every heart. People ceased working. They stopped talking. They were only listening.
“The Miller’s daughter got her voice back,” said croppers in the meadow.
“Now she is singing like an angel,” noticed harvesters in the orchards.
“It is a song of love,” said a musician.
And a poet added,
“It is about self-sacrifice and devotion. It is about faith and hope. It is about life.”
The girl put her hand onto Seventh’ shoulder.
“I love you,” said she, “let me be your eyes.”
He stopped playing and a childish happy smile broke his lips,
“And I will be your voice.”
“To the very end,” said she.
“To the very end,” echoed he.

V

As you have noticed, my friend, the characters of the story bear unusual names. I made them up. The story did not save for us their real names.
What little else is known, the Miller’s daughter and Seventh got married and lived happily until the end. They had many children. All became musicians. The children have brought into our world a new musical instrument, which we call violin. But for them it was the voice of their parents’ love.

***

May God bless you, my beloved.