Once upon a time, in a magical valley lived a little girl named Maya. She had discovered this wonderland later in the afternoon while wandering home from school. As she entered the valley, she was amazed to find stones of all shapes and sizes. Some were tall and thin, while others were low and wide. What was even more surprising, however, was that when Maya sat down beside them, they began to sing.
Now, Maya loved music. Each morning, she would sing at school, pour out her heart, and move her little companions to tears. But the moment she held her little voice in that valley, the stones were quiet, maintaining their melodic silence and not even noticing her presence. This made Maya sad, so she left the valley with a heavy heart, wishing with all her soul that she could sing to those wonderful stones like the birds in the trees or the flowers in the meadow.
The next day, she returned with a little basket full of fruit and a jar of still milk and asked the stones gently:
“Won’t you sing to me now if I give you some of these nice things?”
But the stones did not answer.
On the third day, Maya said: “Well, anyway, I will sing for you.”
And she sang a little, merry song:
With the wind, my hair flies,
With my heart, my song flies,
With the love, my heart flies,
With the world, my love flies.
“Gently, gently,” whispered an old gray stone, shaking his spiky top that looked like a man’s beard.
“There she stood singing to us,” said a small brown stone in the shape of an ice-cream cone.
“Listen, listen,” said an elongated green stone with a golden top: “do you not feel as if the rocks were talking to each other? The mist is spreading like a giant’s hand over the valley. Now the hour has come for me to play upon my golden trumpet.”
Then the long-stone began blowing in a very low voice, and all the other stones gradually increased the volume of their playing until they produced a loud sound that echoed through the whole valley.
“He–ho!” boomed a low-voiced stone that looked like a horn: “Why didst thou leave us yesterday? We should have liked to play for thee.”
“That’s true,” said the green stone, “today she brings us some naughty fruit and some sour milk.”
“No, I wanted to share my bread with you, poor stones!” said Maya, throwing herself on the ground, so angry was she that she could have wept: “You surely would have heard it if you had only listened in silence.”
“That is true,” said the old, gray stone softly: “But that’s the whole art—to listen patiently when others are speaking.”
“A most tiresome trick, I assure you,” said another stone that looked like a fat pigeon.
“When one listens, one gets weary,” said the cone-shaped stone.
“One gets weary because one is bored!”
“So be it,” replied the old gray stone; “but one thing is quite certain: this poor child whom you despise is an excellent friend, and wanted to share her bread with you.”
He then begged Maya for pardon in kind tones, but she did not hear him, for she was absorbed in thought, or even asleep.
The stones stood around her and whispered to one another:
“She is so kind, she certainly will forgive us.”
Then one spoke to the other:
“I certainly have honey in my head, but I certainly do not warm my heart,” said an elongated stone with a very ugly face.
“I saw two puppies whose tails had become entangled while playing together,” said the round and smooth stone, “after a long time, they left off playing, for they no longer had strength, poor things.”
“Yes, these are two good boys to be pleased at anything,” said the old gray stone with a thoughtful countenance.
“I never would have dispatched them. It is far easier to break down than to build up,” replied the other stones.
Gradually, little Maya awoke. She looked around her with terror. The stones, of course, ceased singing, and it was very still in the valley. She did not wish to remain there; she feared the stones, they were so strange, and so unsympathetic.
“Well, anyway, I will sing now,” she thought. And she began to sing:
With the wind, my hair flies,
With my heart, my song flies,
With the love, my heart flies,
With the world, my love flies.
But one after the other the stones that had become tired of listening crept silently away, so that before long Maya was quite alone.
“That was an excellent folk-song,” said the old gray stone as he approached: “That’s a little like the tales of yestermorn.”
“Yes, I know it,” she sighed, “but you have learned it very badly.”
“No, no,” said an inflated stone with silver streaks, and a red hat with a golden tuft on his top: “Do, id est, say nothing unless it is better than silence.”
“Well, I am now very unhappy,” said Maya.
“Now, something may be done,” continued the round stone: “But my wisdom teaches me that thou who feelest the wound will always be pleased with that which perfume the heart from without.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“No more do I myself,” replied the old gray stone. “But rest assured, if thou throws a stone in the water, it will make it boil.”
The little heart of poor Maya was glad that somebody would be sorry if she was unhappy. So she feared not to ask:
“Hear, stone, thy rough skin will feel compassion. Wilt thou not conceal from me what thou hast in thy kind heart?”
“Well, I certainly have a heavy heart,” said the old stone, “for there is something wrong with me. With soft words, one may grow hard through sadness.”
“Ah, do not hope for too much happiness,” replied the other stones. “There are cold winds in the open air, which cause pain in the joints, free places, troublesome ones, big and little.”
“Enough of complaining,” cried the rose-colored stone from the North Cape. “Only sing a merry song. One should plant thine oak-tree at the time when the sea is in motion, and one laughs at the distressed man.”
“Go; you false friends are as much unworthy creatures as you,” said the old gray stone worthy of sympathy, “but you have a good heart, and give me shelter,” said an outlying stone.
Maya could hardly catch the last words, for she had already taken her basket and her pitcher, and was disappearing from the valley.
“Do stay one moment!” shouted the remainder of the stones.
But the distant echo swelled the farewell of the little girl until her last tone was an almost imperceptible murmur.
So the stones stood speechless. . .
“I transport a heavier burden than she does,” said the old gray stone. “My heart aches when I think of the stone-vault named Procession, at Petersburgh. So many heavy stones must surely weigh upon me there.”
“Yes, all is vanity,” growled the outlying stone.
“It would soon become unbearable if there were not water in between,” said another stone.
“Water is good. Johannes Wise said that. Surely the whole city consists of his rivers,” said the smooth stone raised high and built upon another.
Happily, he had entirely forgotten the city of Petersburgh, whilst it was desert; but even over his long ingleness and the desolate grating of the burying-vaulta still existed, the shadow of a joyful earth. The whole party had become so very pale; they were afraid and trembled. An empty waggon as it rolls through a town never fails to excite attention. But a large, heavy cart with stones had hung on all its dragging-loade trappings as if it were going to the place of execution.
At the moment of their arrival, a snowed rendering of heaven began to sprinkle down, but the stones could not rejoice about the beautiful celestial miracle words left them no time or inclination. An uncovered cart was emptied, then came their turn, one after the other, never in double-quick time, then a little pause, then they were taken one after the other at a dexter one-off trot, but up into the church up the first step, then the second, lastly into the gloomy place of confinement.
Whether a sonorous maiden was installed over them, or whether they fared even more ill in the interior, they could never ascertain; but when they sniffed the dry air as they lay there, they were all glad they were now gazing down at a great wilderness with its gigantic stones and its large trees:
“Ah!” sighed an old and tottering stone, “I feel that our escape was a miracle, more especially when I think of the little girl. No, we were never SO miserable even over and behind there. Our spirit rejoiced every day. When she was present, we were even once more something of what we have not been now for many thousand years.”
And then a stone recounted the whole history, ugly and glittering to make our hair grow gray. And now we were told again how the first stone appeared above the surface of the water. They described everything in detail, the most beautiful of which. the first thing they said, remained always the same:
She had it at her command, and that was her hapless destiny. Make you a friend, or purchase your happiness.
“But didn’t she find happiness here?” said the outlying and most longstanding stone.
“On my word and honour. ‘Tis an excellent person. She said she forgave free persons everything, if they wished her only well by their presence.”
But that lasted only until the crisis recommenced.
On the following day still a few more stones accompanied the first. This continued undaunted for many hundred years longer, when the lady ceased speaking.
In the meantime, little Maya awoke. She looked around her with terror. The stones, of course, ceased singing, and it was very still in the valley. She did not wish to remain there; she feared the stones, they were so strange, and so unsympathetic.