Ludmila by Paul Gallico. Part 11
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There is not much more to the story. Worn out by her efforts, the little Weakling passed away in the valley before sundown that evening. Yet strangely it did not put a damper on the celebration, or the happiness of the people at having been singled out for the execution of a miracle in their midst.
They and the Canonicus saw it quite simply as the logical extension of the miracle whereby, having performed it and demonstrated her love and power via the Weakling, Saint Ludmila, the holy Notburga had taken the little animal to her as her reward and she would henceforth graze peacefully and happily in the Heavenly pastures close to the side of her loving friend and patron. And it is for this reason that the skull and horns of the Weakling were bestowed on the shrine of the saint.
The butter and cheese made from the miraculous milk of the Weakling brought their weight in gold and never again would the poor peasant Vospelt or his family want for anything.
Only one thing more remains to be told.
A week later, chief herdsman Alois suddenly appeared at Steg in the Samina Valley with the child Ludmila at his side and sought out Father Polda in the tiny chapel.
“Come,” he said to the priest. “Come with us.”
They walked, all three in silence up the path again past the shrine in the rocks to which Alois did not so much as vouchsafe a glance now, until they came to the deserted huts and barns on the Malbun slope. Here it was that the little Ludmila at her father’s behest took over the leadership, and with the sure orientation of the mountain child, led them up the path to the Betterjoch. As she had once before, she branched off from the main dark and fearsome ravine downward toward the glen of the elves, and thence through the rock path to the magic circle in the enchanted meadow, peaceful in the morning sun with only the sound of birds in the great oak, the rustling of small animals in the underbrush, and the gentle murmur of the stream resting before it resumed its plunge below.
Alois now roved about this meadow, his eyes on the ground; he went to the brook, came back, knelt near the oak tree and examined the ground, arose and went to the opposite side and did the same. And as he searched, his dark, bearded face lit up with satisfaction and at last he came over and faced Father Polda.
“Well,” asked the priest. “Why have you brought me here?
What is it you have discovered?”
“This,” said Alois. “Look there. Do you recognize that little weed with the yellow flower and the broad leaf?”
Father Polda gazed down at the plant that seemed to be growing in unusual profusion all about them. “It is the Alchemilla,” he replied. “The Mutterkraut.”
“Yes,” said the herdsman. “Have you ever seen so much at one time?”
The priest shook his head. “No. It is most unusual.”
“Ah! Then come here and look. Here under the oak tree, it grows almost solid. But see where it has been cropped, and the hoof marks of an animal. Round and about this tree it has been eaten away—”
“Well—?” said the priest.
Alois threw him a look of triumph. “It was here that Ludmila came that day with the little Weakling when I refused to take her along to the high pasture. Those are her hoofmarks. The little one in a few hours found and consumed more Mutterkraut than most Alpine cattle would in a lifetime. The whole day she grazed upon the Alchemilla. In the evening, her milk glands violently stimulated, she started to give milk.” He smiled in triumph again and looked the priest in the eye.
“There is your miracle of Saint Ludmila for you. It is explained as I always knew it must be.”
The priest remained silent and his eyes were bent to the ground where the hoofprints of the little Weakling were still plain to be seen as well as the close-to-the-ground cropped ends of many of the Alchemilla plants which somehow had flourished in this secluded place.
“Well,” asked the chief herdsman, “what have you to say?” The priest looked up, but his brow was unclouded and his eyes untroubled and clear. “Yes,” he said finally. “You are right. The miracle is indeed explained for all of those for whom the miracles must always be explained lest humans be forced to confess that they are not as important as they believe themselves to be.”
Alois said: “You admit then that now we know why all of a sudden the Weakling gave so much milk and of such high content that in the end it was like giving her heart’s blood and strength and it killed her?”
A little smile now played about the lips of the big priest.
“That is correct,” he said. “Now we know why the little one suddenly gave so much milk. Ah, yes, now we know everything.”
“Eh?” said Alois, suspiciously, struck by something in the tone of the priest. “What do you mean by everything?”
“Oh,” replied Father Polda, still smiling, “all the other miracles which you will explain to me—what made you say that day the little Weakling was praying at the shrine of Saint Ludmila, what was it that led you to decide against taking the animal to the high pasturage that day, how you came to entrust her to little Ludmila’s care-also of course how the child came to wander here to this deserted glen where no ordinary child would venture alone, and how together they discovered this marvelous patch of Mutterkraut—and finally of course the greatest wonder of all, what made you decide in one moment to listen to your child, go against the records and at the last minute name the Weakling champion cow and leader of the descent into the valley, thus setting the final stamp and seal on the miracle in which you do not believe. He paused and offered his hand to the child who took it confidingly. “Come,” he said, “let us go from here.” He turned to Alois still smiling gently, “But there will be time for those explanations later — He walked slowly hand in hand with Ludmila back the way they had come through the rocky defile. Behind them Alois walked silently, his head bent toward the ground as one in deep thought…
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