Daily Short Stories - Mystery & Suspense

The Owl's Ear - Émile Erckmann

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Duration:: 23m
Broadcast on:: 28 Jun 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

Hey there, listeners. Are you ready to unlock a world of captivating stories, soothing sounds, and enlightening lectures? At Solka Media, we believe in the power of audio to enrich your life. And now we're offering you a chance to experience it all for free. For a limited time, you can get a one-month free trial to our premium, ad-free service. Imagine having unlimited access to over 500 audiobooks, meditative sounds, and exclusive shows, all at your fingertips. Just head over to Solka Media dot com and sign up to start your free trial today. No ads, no interruptions just pure, immersive audio content. Don't miss out. Transform your listening experience with Solka Media. Visit Solka Media dot com and start your free trial now. We can't wait for you to join our audio community. Happy listening. Hey there, it's Solomon from Solka Media. A lot of our listeners have asked how to get ad-free access to our podcast. You asked and we answered, we're offering an exclusive one-month free trial to our ad-free streaming platform packed with over 500 audiobooks, meditation sounds, and engaging podcasts. No strings attached. Just pure listening pleasure. Sign up today at Solka Media dot com and dive into a world of stories and sounds that inspire and relax. Don't miss out on this limited time offer. It's your gateway to unlimited audio enjoyment. That's Solka Media dot com, S-O-L-G-O-O-D-M-E-D-I-A dot com. Check it out. We hope to see you over there. The Owls Eir by Erkmann Khatrian On the 29th of July 1835, Kasper Book, a shepherd of the little village of Hirschweller, with his large felt head tipped back, his wallet of stringy sackcloth hanging at his hip, and his great, tawny dog at his heels presented himself at about nine o'clock in the evening at the house of the Bergemaster, Petros Maurer, who had just finished supper and was taking a little glass of kierchwaser to facilitate digestion. This Bergemaster was a tall, thin man and wore a bushy, grey moustache. He had seen service in the armies of the Archduke Charles. He had a jovial disposition and ruled the village, it is said, with his finger and with a rod. "Mr. Bergemaster!" cried the shepherd, in evident excitement. But Petros Maurer, without awaiting the end of his speech, found and said, "Kasper Book, begin by taking off your hat, put your dog out of the room, and then speak distinctly, intelligibly, without stammering, so that I may understand you." Hereupon the Bergemaster, standing near the table, tranquilly emptied his little glass and wiped his grey, grey moustaches indifferently. "Kasper, put his dog out, and came back with his hat off." "Well," said Petros, seeing that he was silent, "what has happened?" "It happens that the spirit has appeared again in the ruins of Gaierstein." "Ha! I doubt it. You've seen it yourself?" "Very clearly, Mr. Bergemaster." "Without closing your eyes?" "Yes, Mr. Bergemaster. My eyes were wide open, there was plenty of moonlight." "What form did it have?" "The form of a small man." "Good." "And turning toward a glass door at the left." "Karto!" cried the Bergemaster, an old serving woman opened the door. "Sir?" "I am going out for a walk on the hillside, sit up for me until ten o'clock. Here's the key." "Yes, sir." Then the old soldier took down his gun from the hook over the door, examined the priming, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he addressed Kasperbuk. "Go and tell the rural guard to meet me in the holy path, and tell him behind the mill. Your spirit must be some marauder." "But, David's a fox, I'll make a fine hoot of it, with long earlabs." Master Petosmauer and Humble Kasper then went out. The weather was superb, the stars innumerable. While the shepherd went to knock at the rural guard's door, the Bergemaster plunged among the elder bushes in a little lane that wound around behind the old church. Two minutes later Kasper and Hans Gerner, winger at his side, by running, overtook Master Petos in the holy path. All three made their way together toward the ruins of Kaoshtein. These ruins, which are twenty minutes' walk from the village, seem to be insignificant enough. They consist of the ridges of a few decrepit walls from four to six feet high, which extend among the brighter bushes. Archaeologists call them the aqueducts of Serannus, the Roman camp of Haldelach, or fastiges of Theodoric, according to their fantasy. The only thing about these ruins, which could be considered remarkable, is a stairway to a cistern cut in the rock. Inside of this spiral staircase, instead of concentric circles which twist around with each complete turn, the involutions become wider as they proceed, in such a way that the bottom of the pit is three times as large as the opening. Is it an arched bacterial freak, or did some reasonable cause determine such an odd construction? It matters little to us. The result was to cause in the cistern that vague reverberation which anyone may hear upon placing a shell at his ear, and to make you aware of steps on the gravel path, murmurs of the air, rustling of the leaves, and even distant words spoken by people passing the foot of the hill. Our three personages then followed the pathway between the vineyards and gardens of Hirschmiller. "I see nothing," the burgomaster would say, turning up his nose derisively. "Nor I either," the rural guard would repeat, imitating the other's tone. "It's down in the hole," muttered the shepherd. "We shall see, we shall see," returned the burgomaster. It was in this fashion, after a quarter of an hour, that they came upon the opening of the cistern. As I said, the night was clear, limped, and perfectly still. The moon portrayed, as far as the eye could reach, one of those nocturnal landscapes in bluish lines, studded with slim trees, the shadows of which seemed to have been drawn with a black crayon. The bluing briar and broom perfumed the air with a rather sharp odour, and the frogs of a neighboring swamp sang their oily anthem interspersed with silences. But all these details escaped the notice of our good rustics, they thought of nothing but laying hands on the spirit. When they had reached the stairway, all three stopped and listened, then gazed into the dark shadows. Nothing appeared. Nothing stirred. "That devil," said the burgomaster, "we forgot to bring a bit of candle," said the scent of a whisper, "you know the way better than I, I'll follow you." At this proposition the shepherd recoiled promptly. If he had consulted his inclinations, the poor man would have taken to flight. His pitiful expression made the burgomaster burst out laughing. "How well, Hans, since he doesn't want to go down, show me the way," he said to the game warden. "But Mr. Burgomaster," said the latter, "you know very well that steps are missing. We should risk breaking our necks." "Then what's to be done?" "Yes, what's to be done?" "Send your dog," replied Petrus. The shepherd, whistled to his dog, showed in the stairway, urged him. But he did not wish to take the chances any more than the others. At this moment a bright idea struck the rule guardsman. "Ah, Mr. Burgomaster," said he, "if you should fire your gun inside." "Faith," cried the other, "you're right, we shall catch a glimpse at least." And without hesitating, the worthy man approached the stairway and leveled his gun. But by the acoustic effect which I've already pointed out, the spirit, the marauder, the individual who chance to be actually in the cistern, had heard everything. The idea of stopping a gunshot did not strike him as amusing, for in a shrill, piercing voice he cried, "Stop, don't fire, I'm coming!" Then the three functionaries looked at each other and laughed softly, and the Burgomaster, leaning over the opening again, cried rudely, "Be quick about it, you varlet, or I'll shoot. Be quick about it." He cocked his gun, and the click seemed to hasten the ascent of the mysterious person. They heard him rolling down some stones. Nevertheless, it still took him another minute before he appeared, the cistern being at a death of sixty feet. What was this man doing in such deep darkness? He must be some great criminal. So at least thought Petros Maure and his acolytes. At last a vague form could be discerned in the dark, then slowly, by degrees, a little man, four and a half feet high at the most, frail, ragged, his face withered in yellow, his eye gleaming like a magpies, and his hair tangled, came out, shouting, "By what right do you come to disturb my studies, wretched creatures?" This grandiose apostrophe was scarcely in accord with his costume and physiognomy. Accordingly the Burgomaster indignantly replied, "Try to show that you're honest, you knave, or I'll begin by administering a correction." "A correction!" said the little man, leaping with anger, and drawing himself up under the nose of the Burgomaster. "Yes," replied the other, "who nevertheless did not fail to admire the pygmies' courage. If you do not answer the questions satisfactorily I'm going to put to you. I am the Burgomaster of Hairsvilla. Here are the rural guard, the shepherd and his dog. We are stronger than you. Be wise, and tell me peaceably who you are, what you're doing here, and why you do not dare to appear in broad daylight, then we shall see what's to be done with you." "Oh, that's none of your business," replied the little man in his cracked voice, "I shall not answer." "In that case, forward march," ordered the Burgomaster, who grasped him firmly by the name of the neck. "You're going to sleep in prison." The little man writhed like a weasel, he even tried to bite, and the dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs when, quite exhausted, he said, "Not without a certain dignity." "Let go, sir. I surrender to superior force. I'm yours." The Burgomaster, who was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became calmer. "Do you promise?" said he. "I promise." Very well, walk in front. And that is how, on the night of the 29th of July 1835, the Burgomaster took captive, a little red-haired man, issuing from the cavern of Gyoshthine. Upon arriving at Hyoshvilla, the rural guard ran to find the key of the prison, and the vagabond was locked in and double-locked, not to forget the outside, bold, and petlock. Everyone then could repose after his fatigues, and Petos Maholg went to bed and dreamt till midnight of this singular adventure. On the morrow, towards nine o'clock, Hans Gerna, the rural guard, having been ordered to bring the prisoner to the townhouse for another examination, repaired to the cooler with four husky daredevils. They opened the door, all of them curious to look upon the will of the wisp. But imagine their astonishment upon seeing him hanging from the bars of the window by his neck-tie. Some say that he was still arriving, others that he was already stiff. However, that may be, they ran to Petos Maholg's house to inform him of the fact, and what is certain is that upon the latter's arrival the little man had breathed his last. The justice of the peace and the doctor of Hirschwele drew up a formal statement of the catastrophe. Then they buried the unknown in a field of meadow-graz, and it was all over. Now, about three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin, Petos Maholg, whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his heir. This circumstance sustained an intimate acquaintance between us. We were at dinner, talking in different matters, when the burger-master recounted the foregoing little story, as I have just reported it. "This strange cousin," said I, "truly strange. And you have no other information concerning the unknown?" "None." "And you have found nothing which could give you a clue as to his purpose?" "Absolutely nothing, Christian. But as a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the cistern, on what did he give?" The burger-master shrugged his shoulders, refilled our glasses, and replied with, "To your health, cousin. To yours." We remained silent a few minutes. It was impossible for me to accept the abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and, in spite of myself, I am used with some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear and disappear in this world like the grass of the field without leaving the least memory or the least regret. "Cousin," I resumed, "how far may it be from here to the ruins of Gaioshdine?" "Twenty minutes' walk at the most?" "Why?" "Because I should like to see them." "You know that we have a meeting of the Municipal Council, and that I can't accompany you." "Oh, I can find them by myself." "No, the rural guard will show you the way. He is nothing better to do." And my worthy cousin, having wrapped on his glass, called his servant. "Cato, go and find Hans Gurna, let him hurry, and get here by two o'clock. I must be going." The servant went out, and the rural guard was not tardy and coming. He was directed to take me to the ruins. While the burger-master proceeded gravely toward the hall of the Municipal Council, we were already climbing the hill. Hans Gurna, with a wave of the hand, indicated the remains of the aqueduct. At the same moment, the rocky rips of the plateau, the blue distances of Hunsruk, the sad, crumbling walls covered with somber ivy, the tolling of the Hirschweiler bell, summoning the notables to the council, the rural guardsmen panting and catching at the brambles, assumed in my eyes a sad and severe tinge, for which I could not account. It was the story of the hanged man which took the collar out of the prospect. The cistern staircase struck me as being exceedingly curious, with its elegant spiral. The bushes, bristling in the fissures at every step, the deserted aspect of its surroundings, all harmonized with my sadness. We descended, and soon the luminous point of the opening, which seemed to contract more and more, and to take the shape of a star with curved rays, alone sent us its pale light. When we attained the very bottom of the cistern, we found a superb sight was to be heard of all those steps, lighted from above, and cutting off their shadows with marvellous precision. I then heard the hum of which I've already spoken. The immense granite conge had as many echoes as stones. Has nobody been down here since a little man? I asked the rural guardsmen. "No, sir, the peasants are afraid. The imagine that the hanged man will return." "Can't you?" "Aye." "Ah, I'm not curious. But the jesters of the peace, his duty was to—" "Ha! What could you have come to the owl's ear for?" "They call this the owl's ear?" "Yes." "That's pretty near it," said I, raising my eyes. This reversed vault forms the pavilion well enough. The underside of the steps makes the covering of the tympanum, and the winding of the staircase, the cochlea, the labyrinth, and the vestibule of the ear. "That is the cause of the murmur which we hear. We are at the back of a colossal ear." "It's very likely," said Hans Gerner, who did not seem to have understood my observations. We started up again, and I had ascended the first steps when I felt something crush under my foot. I stopped to see what it could be, and at that moment perceived a wide object before me. It was a torn sheet of paper. As for the hard object, which I had felt grinding up, I recognized it as a sort of glazed earthen-wear jug. "Ah-ha," I said to myself, "this may clear up the Bergomassus' story." I rejoined Hans Gerner, who was now waiting for me at the edge of the pit. "And how, sir," cried he, "where would you like to go?" "First, let's sit down for a while. We shall see presently." I sat down on a large stone, while the rural guard cast its falcon eyes over the village to see if a chance to be any trespassers in the gardens. I carefully examined the glazed vase, of which nothing but splinters remained. These fragments presented the appearance of a fennel, lined with wool. It was impossible for me to perceive its purpose. I then read the piece of a letter, written in an easy running and firm hand. I transcribe it here below, word for word. It seems to follow the other half of the sheet, for which I looked vainly all about the runes. My microacoustic air-trampet thus has a double advantage of infinitely multiplying the intensity of sounds, and of introducing them into the air, without causing the observer the least discomfort. You would never have imagined, dear master, the charm which one feels in perceiving these thousands of imperceptible sounds which are confounded on a fine summer day in an immense murmuring. The Bumblebee has his song, as well as the Nightingale. The Honeybee is the warbler of the mosses, the cricket is the lark of the tall grass, the maggot is the wren, it is only a sigh, but a sigh is melodious. This discovery, from the point of view of sentiment which makes us live in the universal life, surpasses in its importance all that I could say on the matter. After so much suffering, privations, and weariness, how happy it makes one to reap the rewards of all his labours, how the soul sores towards the divine author of all these microscopic worlds, the magnificence of which is revealed to us. Where now are the long hours of anguish, hunger, contempt which overwhelmed us before? Gone, sir, gone, tears of gratitude moisten our eyes, one is proud to have achieved through suffering new joys for humanity, and to have contributed to its mental development. But how so ever vast, how so ever admirable, may be he defers fruits of my microacoustic ear trumpet, these do not delimit its advantages. There are more positive ones, more material, and ones which may be expressed in figures. Just as a telescope brought the discovery of merits of worlds performing their harmonious revolutions in infinite space, so also will my microacoustic ear trumpet extend the sense of the unbearable beyond all possible bounds. Thus, sir, the circulation of the blood and the fluids of the body will not give me pause. You shall hear them flow with the impatriosity of cataracts; you shall perceive them so distinctly as to startle you. The slightest irregularity of the pulse, the least obstacle, is striking, and produces the same effect as a rock against which the waves of a torrent are dashing. It is doubtless an immense conquest in the development of our knowledge of physiology and pathology, but this is not the point on which I would emphasize. Upon applying your ear to the ground, sir, you may hear the mineral waters springing up at immeasurable deaths. You may judge of their volume, their occurrence, and the obstacles which they meet. Do you wish to go further? Enter a subterranean vault which is so constructed as to gather a quantity of loud sounds. Then, at night, when the world sleeps, when nothing will be confused with the interior noises of our globe, listen. Sir, all that it is possible for me to tell you at the present moment, for in the midst of my profound misery, of my privations, and often of my despair, I am left only a few lucid instances to pursue my geological observations. All that I can affirm is that the seething of glow-worms, the explosions of boiling fluids, is something terrifying and sublime, which can only be compared to the impression of the astronomer whose glass fathoms deaths of limitless extent. Nevertheless, I must avow that these impressions should be studied further and classified in a methodical manner, in order that definite conclusions may be derived therefrom. Likewise, as soon as you shall have dained dear and noble master to transmit the little sum for use at noistat, as I asked, to supply my first needs, we shall see our way to an understanding in regard to the establishment of three great subterranean observatories—one in the valley of Catania, another in Iceland, then a third in Capac Eun, Songai, or Cayenne Mayuren, the deepest of the cordilaries, and consequently—here, the latter stop. I let my hands fall and stupefaction. That I read the conceptions of an idiot, or the inspirations of a genius which have been realized—what am I to say, to think? So this man, this miserable creature, living at the bottom of a barrel like a fox, dying of hunger, had had perhaps one of those inspirations which the supreme being sense on earth to unlighten future generations. And this man had hanged himself in disgust, despair. No one had answered his prayer, though he asked only for a crust of bread in exchange for his discovery. It was horrible. Long, long I sat there dreaming, thanking Heaven for having limited my intelligence to the needs of ordinary life, for not having desired to make me a superior man in the community of martyrs. At length the rule guardsmen, seeing me with fixed gaze and mouth agape, made so bold as to touch me on the shoulder. "Mr. Christian," said he, "see, it's getting late. The burger-master must have come back from the council." "Ah, that's a fact," cried I, crumpling up the paper, "come on. We descended the hill. My worthy cousin met me with a smiling face at the threshold of his house." "Well, well, Christian, so you found no trace of the imbecile who hanged himself?" "No." "I thought as much. He was some lunatic who escaped from Stefan's felt, or somewhere. Faith, he did well to him himself. When one is good for nothing, that's the simplest way for it."