WHEN THE BRIGHT NIGHTS WERE
The summer had been hot. The moss in the forest was faded and dry, and between the sparse blades of grass one could see the grey ground. Beside the piles of dried pine needles on the floor of the forest, lay dead ants and beetles. The stones in the bed of the river were dry and white as ivory. Fish and frogs were dying in the little round pools that were occasionally visible between the stones.
The air was heavy, and the mountains—even the near ones—were blue. When the sun arose it was as red as the autumn leaf of a beech tree, then, later, pallid and dull, so that one could look straight at it. It crawled lifelessly across the grey desert of the sky; the people began to hope for rain, but a little breeze sprang up, and when morning came, the clouds had disappeared and even the dew was not to be seen.
Down in the village they appointed a day of prayer for rain. From all the forest the people came in crowds. Only old Markus and I remained at home in the empty house, and the old servant said to me; “If fine weather comes, it will rain—so of what use is the day of prayer? If the Lord God made us and put us here, he hasn’t the foolish head to forget us. And if he hasn’t any head at all but just made the world with his hands and feet, then he hasn’t any ears,
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