In the mountains at night
by Jürgen-Thomas Ernst, he spent two weeks on a remote alpine pasture in the middle of the Gesäuse National Park as a scholarship holder of the National Parks Austria Media Scholarship 2021.
He had been lying in bed most of the time for days. His left knee hurt so much that he could barely make it across to the kitchen. But he was not alone. A bumblebee had strayed into the hunting lodge and often buzzed around the room. Sometimes it kept quiet, only to start buzzing again with fresh energy. Mostly he looked out of the window while lying down. Far ahead on the horizon, mist crept down a rock face. He couldn't help but think of vanilla cream slowly trickling down the side of a bowl. Between the rock face and the hut stretched a sparse sea of conifers. Grasses and mountain flowers grew between them. Through the window of the hut, which stood at the top of a hill, he saw just nearby the top of a spruce tree swaying back and forth in the wind. And sometimes a butterfly would appear behind the footrest of the bed, quickly disappear, return and disappear again.
"It's like being on a roller coaster," he thought.
And so the day passed. As dawn broke, he heard the barking of a roebuck. A jay cawed and later, just before dark, several titmice sang in the crown of the spruce. Between wakefulness and sleep, he heard the birds still chirping. Then their song faded into the distance. He had fallen asleep.
Sometime that night he woke up. It had started to rain. He heard the water ticking from the end of the wooden gutter onto the eaves stones. His left knee still hurt and suddenly he asked himself:
"How long will the supplies last?"
"Bread," he whispered. "Butter, half a cucumber, Ennstal cheese, a side of bacon, noodles, rice and two tins of tomatoes."
On his outstretched fingers he counted the days he would still be here.
"Seven, eight, nine. That won't work out," he said without thinking for long.
If his knee did not improve, he would have to starve for the last three days. Only then would he be picked up from here.
The worst thing was that he couldn't ask anyone for help, because here in the hunting lodge and in the immediate vicinity his mobile phone was completely useless. He would have had to march for an hour to reach a knoll that looked down into the valley. Only from there would it have been possible to reach someone.
"No chance," he said. "Totally impossible to get there."
The rain had increased. A stream roared in the distance. His heartbeat was steady. He did not yet know what was to happen that night and what was already waiting for him in the near future.
© Lennart Horst
He stretched his left leg and groaned. Then he slipped a pillow under his knee, because that eased the pain.
"You will have to reduce your rations and make salads from the herbs that grow outside the hut."
He was just thinking about a plate of steaming beef soup when he sank back into a daze. The rain had increased further. From far away, the pattering penetrated his thoughts. He had been on the verge of dozing off again when he was suddenly startled and found himself wide awake in his bed again. He heard the rain, the splashing on the eaves stones and the roaring of the stream. He heard the rain rushing into the deep grass and drumming on the roof. But between these sounds he had suddenly heard something else. And what he had heard did not belong here, he knew immediately. But they were there, faded, but still very clear. Music. Yes, it was definitely music and voices, human voices.
"That can't be," he whispered. "Completely impossible." Because for at least an hour's walk around the hunting lodge there was nothing. No other hut, no people, no electricity, nothing.
"Crazy," he said. "Completely crazy." And at the same time he felt his heart begin to hammer.
He heard violins, tubas, an accordion. He heard clapping and he heard singing voices of women and men.
Yes, down on the cart path a group of musicians passed by.
"There's no such thing," he whispered. "It's impossible."
As he said it, he rose from the bed. His left knee hurt with every step. But he had to go to the window now. He had to hear it more clearly now. He opened the casement and listened intently outside. There was not the slightest doubt. That was music. It was definitely music. He heard violins, tubas, an accordion. And yes, he even heard the bells of a devil's violin.
He looked out of the window, although it was impossible to see the way, for there was that dark night wall, there was the dense rain and there were, above all, the trees that would have blocked his view even in the best light.
"Where to?" he wondered. "Where are you going? And above all, where are they coming from?"
The next place was far away. At least four hours away. Impossible that they could have walked up here in this rain.
© Heinz Peterherr
He listened behind the rain curtain and into the night. The spruce in front of the hut was now completely still. He could see its outline quite clearly. Suddenly he was jolted. Down below, someone had cried out. As if someone's heart was about to burst with joy. In his mind's eye he saw a man in lederhosen and a Styrian hat and his beaming face. A man who could hardly grasp his happiness in life and had to shout it out to the world. And above it all, the violins, tubas, accordion and devil's violin continued to sound. Pale as a sheet, he heard a drummer beating his drumsticks softly and with a high rhythm on the leather.
"This is unbelievable," he said. He had to pinch the skin on his wrist with his thumb and forefinger nail. No, he was not dreaming. He was wide awake and once again he heard a whoop.
"Where are they going?" he asked. "Across the meadows, scree fields and mountain pine carpets further into the mountains? Where to? Now, in this rain."
The music got louder. Now they were very close. Now he could also hear them singing very clearly.
"Something is clear," he whispered. "No one will believe that story. No one. They'd think you were crazy." He would have liked to go down to the cart path now. But he knew he couldn't, for the pain in his knee was almost unbearable. Slowly he turned away from the open window and shuffled back to the bed.
"No one," he whispered as he covered himself and fluffed his pillow, then rested his head on it.
"Nobody believes you. Nobody believes you."
Outside, someone was still playing his violin. And the accordion and the tubas were still sounding. The voices had become a little paler, but they could still be heard clearly.
He lay there for a moment and listened.
"So," he then said suddenly and rose again. "I want to see this now."
Quickly he slipped on his trousers and shoes, threw on his rain jacket, unlocked the door and stepped out into the rain with a torch. His left knee hurt and it hurt even more as he limped down the steep, slippery path between the stones and the tall grass to the path. Down there, on the cart path, they had to be, because that was the only way. He could feel his shoes getting waterlogged. His knee hurt more and more, but still he quickened his steps. He had to see it. When he finally reached the path and switched off the torch, he stopped and listened inwards the valley. And then he saw it. One, two, three, ten lanterns lit up. Lanterns like those used to be carried by night watchmen or railway guards. In the light of the lanterns sometimes the gleam of a brass instrument flashed. He saw old costumes, heard singing and listened to the boisterous laughter of women's voices, and moments later a violin complained painfully about the time that passed so quickly in these wonderful hours of celebration and singing. He no longer felt the rain beating down on him or the aching knee. Ahead, after a bend in the path, they disappeared. One light after another. One instrument after another. And then he shook his head in disbelief. A man in leather trousers suddenly stopped and turned around. The man even raised his Styrian hat briefly and gave a whoop. In the darkness he only saw a silhouette and how the man put the hat back on his head and slowly walked away.
"No one will believe you," he whispered. Then he fell silent and gazed speechlessly for minutes at the cart path and into the darkness. He could hear the rain pelting down. Sometimes snatches of singing reached his ears, the sound of a tuba and the torn jingle of a devil's violin.
"No one will believe you," he whispered again as he limped slowly back to the hut. In the light of the torch he saw wisps of rain, the wet grass, the yellow of flowers, bright stones, trees and wandering shadows.
His heart was still pounding with excitement as he sat at the kitchen table later in the candlelight, rubbing his aching knee. Sleep was out of the question. And there was not the slightest doubt. He had just seen it all. The lanterns, the people in their old costumes, the instruments and he had heard their music.
"Unbelievable," he kept saying. "Unbelievable. Just unbelievable."
Jürgen-Thomas Ernst, 4.8.2021 - Bregenz
