CHAPTER II

HATE HOLE

To Hate Hole, in the dark time before dawn, came the Wanderer, and found Alberich waiting and watching near the entrance. The Dwarf was fearfully enraged at the sight of the old god, whom he hated with all the strength of his wicked Nibelung soul. He burst into a torrent of abuse and anger as Wotan drew near, speaking of the broken promise of the giants and the deceit by which the Gold had been obtained from the Nibelungs, and again threatening the downfall of the gods when the Ring should come back to his hands. The Wanderer answered quietly that a hero was even then drawing near through the woods—a hero fated to kill Fafner and obtain the Gold; and, with hidden sarcasm, he bade the Dwarf attempt to use the youth for his own ends.

The King God believed in the workings of Fate. The Norns wove continually, and all that they wove came to pass. No one could change the histories wound into their golden cord, until the Dusk of the Gods had come, when they also would, in the Last Twilight, be gone forever. So, feeling as he did, it mattered very little whom he aided, whom he harmed. He even went so far as to arouse Fafner for Alberich, and ask him to give the Dwarf the Ring. The old Dragon snarled and yawned and went to sleep again. The Wanderer turned to the Nibelung, with a great laugh.

“Listen!” he said. “Remember, O Alberich, what I say. All things work in nature’s course. You can alter nothing.”

And, so saying, he vanished in the dark woods, and a faint, pale flicker of lightning shot through the forest as he went. Alberich crept hastily into a crevice in the rocks on one side, and the dawn broke just as two figures came into the little green glade by Hate Hole.

The figures were those of Siegfried and Mime; for the Nibelung, true to his word, had led the boy to the place where he was to learn to fear.

“If you do not hastily discover fear here, my dear boy, you never will anywhere,” said the Dwarf, with a chuckle. And he described at great length the means which Fafner would use to teach the art, saying that the Dragon’s breath was fire, and his twisting tail strong enough to crush any hero. But Siegfried merely laughed, and said that he would find the great worm’s heart and strike Nothung into that; and then he bade Mime be gone. The Nibelung crept away out of sight among the trees, and as he went he muttered, in an exasperated undertone:

“Fafner and Siegfried! Siegfried and Fafner! Oh, that each might kill the other!”

The boy, left alone, sat under a linden-tree, looking up through the branches. At first Mime’s figure pervaded his brain, and he could not help remembering the horrible little creature. But, after a while, thoughts of his mother crept in—very vague and formless thoughts—for this forest youth had never in his life seen a woman. Leaning back, he gave himself up to the enchantment of the summer-day, dreaming boyish dreams, and listening to the forest voices all around him.

Have you ever sat in a great, green wood and watched the soft flickering shadows from the little leaves overhead dance back and forth on the moss? Have you heard the great surge of music made of a thousand tiny sounds, the hum of little, unseen insects, the ripple of far-away brooks, the faint sigh of the wind in the tall reeds, the rustling of the trees, the melodies that seemed made by the touch of some master-hand on a great harp? That was what Siegfried saw and heard that summer day when he lay under the linden-tree and dreamed day-dreams.

After a while a little bird began to sing in the tree above him, and after listening for a moment, and wondering whether it brought him a message from his mother, he resolved to try to imitate it, remembering that Mime had once said that some people were able to talk with the birds. So he fashioned a flute out of a reed and tried to play upon it the melody that the bird sang. Finally, however, he gave it up in despair, and instead, as he began to feel lonely, he blew a loud blast on his horn—to bring him a friend, he said to himself.

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE DRAGON]

And what sort of a friend do you think it brought him?

Well, it waked Fafner, the monster worm; and he dragged his huge scaly body to the door of the cave and peered out, and you may fancy like what sort of a friend he looked.

Siegfried burst out into laughter when he saw him.

“At last!” he cried, merrily. “My call has brought me something truly lovely!”

“What is that?” growled Fafner, glaring at him as though he were a small insect of some sort.

“Hey! You can talk, can you?” cried Siegfried. “Being so wise, you should be able to teach me how to fear. I have come for that.”

Fafner laughed, and showed his teeth, bidding the boy come and be eaten.

“I come, growler!” said the young Volsung; and, drawing his sword, he sprang boldly at the great, hideous creature at the cave’s opening. Fafner reared to receive him, and the combat began. It was fierce, but not very long, for the boy was strong and Nothung was sharp, and soon Alberich’s spell had again worked its misery; and, indeed, it could be said of the dying Dragon that his death was sad—his life had been a failure.

Before he died he told Siegfried to beware of Mime, and then spoke slowly and sadly of the race of giants that had come to an end.

“Siegfried,” he began once more—but he never finished, poor old Dragon; for, just at the word, he rolled over and died. And that was the end of the race of giants.

Stooping down, the young warrior drew his sword from out the Dragon’s heart. In so doing, a drop of blood fell on his hand. It burned like the cruellest fire. He raised it quickly to his mouth to relieve the smarting; and, as the blood touched his lips, a strange thing happened—he could understand the language of birds. Yes, as the same little singer that he had heard before began to twitter, he could understand what it was saying to him.

“Hey! Siegfried will have now the Nibelung’s hoard! He will find the hoard in the hole. The Tarnhelm would aid him through wonderful deeds; but the Ring would give him might over the world.”

With a laugh and a word of thanks to the little singer, the boy stepped into the cave to look for the treasure. At the same minute Mime crept near from behind the clump of bushes. Alberich sprang out from his rocky crevice, and the two little Nibelungs met, snarling, capering, and making faces with rage.

Each claimed the Ring, and called the other names, and each proved himself a marvel in wickedness and greed, and they were nearing a point when blows were not far off when the hero himself stepped out from the cave with the Tarnhelm thrust into his belt, and the Rhinegold Ring upon his finger. The dwarfs hastened out of sight.

The heaped-up hoard of the Nibelungs, Siegfried had left, for he knew little of its use, and he cared nothing for wealth. Indeed, both Helm and Ring he had taken only because the bird had so advised him. He could not fancy what good either of them would do him.

“Hey! Siegfried has now the Helm and the Ring!” sang the wood-bird in the tree. “Trust not in Mime! The Dragon’s blood will tell Siegfried what the treacherous Dwarf really means.”

At this point, Mime himself appeared, smiling and bowing, and holding in his hands a horn of wine for Siegfried. He said that it would refresh the boy after his labors, but we know that it was poisoned. Thanks to the Dragon’s blood, Siegfried knew it too, and read all the cruel thoughts that were passing through Mime’s brain, and, in a burst of anger, he finally raised his sword and killed the treacherous Dwarf with one blow.

So that was the end of the Nibelung Mime, the cleverest smith, they say, that ever lived in the world—even though he could not fashion Nothung, the sword. From a black crevice in the rocks came Alberich’s laugh, loud and mocking—the echo of his own wicked thoughts.

Siegfried turned away wearily, and, seating himself under the linden, listened for the bird’s song again. As it did not come at once, he looked up into the branches and spoke:

“You seem very happy, flying among your brothers and sisters, birdie. But I am all alone. I have no brothers nor sisters, and my father and mother are both dead. Tell me where I may find a loving friend. I have called one so often, but none ever comes.” He sighed. “Sing now, sing,” he begged; and again the bird’s twitter sounded from among the leaves above him.

“Hey! Siegfried has slain now the wicked Dwarf. I know where he’ll find a glorious bride. On a rock she sleeps amid fire. If he passed through the blaze and awakened her, Brünnhilde would then be his.”

Wild with excitement and joy, Siegfried sprang to his feet and asked if he would really be able to do this.

“Brünnhilde is won only by him who knows not fear,” said the wood-bird, and flew off before him, guiding him through the woods.

In a transport of joy Siegfried followed, and, shouting with delight, he began his journey to the far-away rock in its circle of flame, where the Walküre, in her long penance of sleep, waited for the hero brave enough to pass through the fire and awaken her.

[Music: Song of the Wood-Bird

“Hey! Siegfried has slain now the wicked dwarf! I know where he’ll find a glorious bride.”]

[Music: Motif of the Wanderer]

[Music: Erda Motif]