Ludmila by Paul Gallico. Part 9.
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And thus it was that the poor little Weakling, whose hopes of realizing her desire to be decorated with her milking stool had seemed so utterly impossible of fulfillment, was led forth the next day, cleaned, washed, brushed, so that thin and emaciated as she was, her dun-colored hide glistened. Hoofs and horns were polished until they sparkled in the sunlight and at last came the moment when she felt the seat of the milking stool pressed against her head between the horns by rough but kind hands and lashed there with gaily-colored ribbons.
Streamers were fastened to the stool’s leg, paper flowers and cockades attached to her headstall and about her ears; garlands of flowers hung about her neck. Small-boned, and lacking the stalwart maturity of the older animals, her head graced by the decorations, her sweetness of expression gave her the air of a young girl going to her first ball. She became suddenly innocently beautiful and heart-warmingly radiant.
Now, word of the event that had taken place on the high pasturage had also reached to the village of Vaduz, which heard the rumor of how the poor peasant Vospelt’s animal that had been last in yield of dairy products had in the final three days, by the intervention of Saint Ludmila, poured forth a miraculous stream of milk.
Outside the tunnel, the crowds gathered to wait in twice the number they ever had before. They came up from Vaduz, the capital, and Schaan and Triesen, Mäls and Balzers, Nendeln and Eschen, to climb the lofty Triesenberg on foot and take up their position of vantage at Gnalp, to see for themselves whether there was any truth in the strange marvel that had been reported from the fastnesses of the high pasturage.
Because it might be an ecclesiastical affair, if true, the Herr Canonicus Josef from the big church in Vaduz was there with lesser members of the clergy from the vicinity, and since if it were actually so it would redound to the eternal credit of Liechtenstein, a member of the ruling family from the Schloss below arrived, incognito of course.
Spontaneously, and without invitation, the brass band from Schaanwald appeared, the Männerchor from Planken and the girl singers from Mauren and Ruggell. The Bürgermeister of Vaduz came in his robes as did the president of the council and the ministers from Switzerland and Austria.
Naturally the attraction was likewise to see which would be the lead cow this year, but behind the huge turnout lay excitement of perhaps witnessing a marvel of some sort. It could of course hardly be true that the poor, sickly little animal they all remembered as belonging to peasant Vospelt, and which few had deemed worth even sending up to the high pasturage, could really have won a prize, much less the decoration of the milking stool, but if there was any truth in the rumors, they were all there and prepared to see.
In Malbun the cavalcade was ready for the descent. Cattle, horses, men, women, children, dogs, all were groomed and dressed in their best and decorated in every manner possible to mark the wonderful occasion.
An hour after sunup the procession gathered on the meadow nearby the little community of huts, sheds, and barns where they had all lived together during the long summer and the doors and windows of which were now boarded up.
Father Polda stood upon a drinking trough and blessed them, as was his eustom, and sent up a prayer of gratitude to Saint Ludmila for the miracle she had created for them. Then with cries from the herders, the cracking of whips, the barking of dogs, and the gay singing of the women and children, they started down the Malbun, next the roaring torrent to Steg.
First in the line, the silver elapper of the great brazen bell about her neck booming her approach, came Schädler’s great champion Luzerner, winning beast the second year in succession, milk stool worn proudly as one who was used to such articles borne upon her head. Then came Gruber’s Frisian, and Wohlmayr’s Züricher champion in second and third place, followed by several others that had ranked high. Thereafter proudly heading the last division of the mixed herd belonging to many poor peasants tottered the little Weakling with her gay decorations and sweet exalted expression, looking like a mixture of half saucepan, half angel. At her head marched Ludmila, cornflowers the color of her eyes braided in her brown hair. At her side walked Father Polda.
The three came eventually to the shrine of the holy Notburga by the torrent Malbun, and here they paused and turned to her as though by mutual understanding and consent, the huge man in the black cassock, the brown, barelegged child, and the Weakling. No word was spoken. Ludmila had her arm about the neck of the animal, and together they stood by the wooden rail that guarded people from falling into the stream and looked across the silvery waters to the figure in the niche, the sweet little doll with the tender expression on her carved and painted countenance.
On the child’s face was wonder. In the eyes of the Weakling was deathless love. On the lips of Father Polda was a prayer.
There they remained thus for a long time, so long that chief herdsman Alois returned to see what was holding up the procession and thus he found them.
When her father came up, the child suddenly left the little cow and ran to him, put her arms around his neck and began to cry, causing him to say: “Now now, Ludmila, what is the matter? Why are you crying?”
“Because of my little cow who is so beautiful. Saint Ludmila wishes her to lead all the others.”
The chief herdsman was much less hardheaded when it came to his daughter and he smiled at her and said: “She does, does she? And how would you know this?”
Ludmila stopped crying and took her father’s hand and led him to the rail, looked across to Saint Ludmila and replied:
“Because she spoke to me, and told me so. Please, papa, let her be the first.”
Alois looked from his daughter to the Weakling, to Father Polda standing at her side and said harshly: “What is this nonsense? Have you been putting ideas into the child’s head?
What does she mean the saint spoke to her? Did you hear anything?”
Father Polda smiled, and gently shook his head. “I heard nothing,” he said. “But sometimes little children can hear things that we cannot.”
For a moment the big, bearded herdsman stood there staring at the statue. Then he picked up the child on his arm and strode away down the path. Man and beast followed.