Knjigice
Fairy tale · Classic fairy tales
Rip Van Winkle
The story of the man who slept twenty years in the mountains
Also in: Rip Van Winkle (Slovenian) · Rip Van Winkle (Slovak)
Under the high blue mountains stood a little village, and in it lived Rip Van Winkle. He was the kindest idler alive. He mended the neighbour's fence, split the widow's firewood and whittled whistles for the children — only at his own place did nothing get done. His house leaned, his field ran wild. "Tomorrow," said Rip with a smile. "Today is too fine a day."
1
Only one thing troubled him: his wife's sharp tongue. "Rip! The roof is leaking! The garden is full of weeds!" she called from the door. Rip sighed, took his old long-barrelled gun, whistled for his dog Wolf and set off up the mountains. "Up there," he told Wolf, "nobody scolds us for anything." The dog wagged his tail.
2
They climbed higher and higher. Autumn had painted the mountains rust and gold, and far below the river shone like a thin ribbon of silver. Rip sat down on a mossy rock and watched the shadows creep across the valleys. It was so quiet that he could hear his own breathing. The sun was going down. It was time to go home.
3
Then somebody called: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" Among the rocks stood a squat little man with a thick grey beard, in an old-fashioned doublet and a tall pointed hat. He carried a heavy keg on his shoulder and waved for Rip to help him. Rip was always ready to help. He took the keg and followed him into a narrow ravine.
4
In a hollow among the crags he saw a wonder. A company of little old men in wide breeches was playing ninepins in silence. Not one said a word, not one smiled. Only the balls rolled — and each time, thunder rumbled among the peaks. Rip stood rooted to the spot, hardly breathing. The little men nodded gravely for him to pour.
5
Rip carried them one full jug after another. The drink was sweet and fragrant, and when nobody was looking he tasted it himself. Once, twice, three times. Then his eyes closed all by themselves. He stretched out on the rusty leaves under a great tree, Wolf curled against his feet — and Rip fell asleep more deeply than ever before.
6
When he woke it was morning and the birds were singing. "Wolf!" he called. "Wolf, where are you?" But the dog was nowhere. The gun beside him was brown with rust, its stock crumbling away. Rip stood up — every bone was stiff. When he scratched his chin he took fright: his beard hung down to his waist, and it was white as snow.
7
He limped down into the village — and stopped. Where were the old houses? Instead stood new ones with bright windows. Over the inn flapped a strange flag, all stripes and stars. On the board above the door the familiar face was gone; somebody else hung there now. Everyone in the street was a stranger, and all stared at his long white beard.
8
"Where is my house? Where are my friends?" asked Rip. "We know nobody of that name," they answered. Somebody even said: "Rip Van Winkle? He vanished in the mountains twenty years ago." Rip's head swam and the crowd closed in around him. "Last night I was still myself," he whispered. "So who am I now?"
9
Then a young woman with a baby on her hip pushed through. She looked at the old man, and looked again. "Father?" she said softly. "Father, is it you?" It was Judith, his daughter — once a girl, now a mother. Rip hugged her and for the first time in twenty years he did not know if he was crying or laughing. He had slept twenty whole years.
10
From then on Rip lived with Judith's family. He mended no more fences than before, but nobody hurried him now. Every evening the villagers gathered outside the inn for his story, though they knew it by heart. And ever since, every roll of thunder in the mountains has meant the little men are playing ninepins again.
11The End
