Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland, translated from the Swedish by Jill Morgan by Astrid Lindgren Read Free Book Online Page B

knows?”
    â€œYes,” said Pompoo. “Sorrowbird knows it. The Weaver knows it. The hundred white horses know it. The entire Forest of Moonbeams knows it, the trees whisper it, and the grass and the apple blossoms outside, they all know it.”
    â€œDo they?” I said.
    â€œAll the shepherds on Greenfields Island know it and play of it on their flutes at night. Nonno knows it. His grandmother and Totty and his sisters and brothers know it. The Well That Whispers at Night knows it. I tell you, they all know it.”
    â€œAnd my father the King . . .?” I whispered.
    â€œYour father the King has always known it,” said Pompoo.
    â€œDoes he want me to go?” I asked, and I couldn’t help the little quaver in my voice.
    â€œYes, he wants it,” said Pompoo. “He mourns, but he wants you to go.”
    â€œYes, but I’m so scared,” I said and I began to cry. Now, for the first time, I realized just how scared I was. I took Pompoo’s arm.
    â€œPompoo, I can’t,” I said. “Why does my father the King want me to do it?”
    â€œA boy of royal blood is the only person who can,” said Pompoo. “Only a boy of royal blood can do it.”
    â€œBut what if I die?” I said, gripping Pompoo’s arm.
    He didn’t answer.
    â€œDoes my father the King want me to go, no matter what happens?”
    The Weaver had finished weaving and the cottage was silent. Sorrowbird was silent. The trees didn’t rustle their leaves. Not a sound was heard. Silence was everywhere.
    Pompoo nodded.
    â€œYes,” he said, faintly so that I scarcely heard it. “Your father the King wants you to go, no matter what happens.”
    I was heartbroken. “I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t! I can’t!”
    Pompoo said nothing. He only looked at me without saying a word. But Sorrowbird began singing again, a song that almost stopped my heart from beating.
    â€œHe is singing about my little daughter,” said the Weaver and her tears fell over the cloth and turned into pearls.
    I clenched my hands. “Pompoo,” I said, “I’m going at once. I’m going to Outer Land.”
    A sigh passed through the Forest of Moonbeams and from Sorrowbird came a song that had never been heard in any forest in the world.
    â€œI know that,” said Pompoo.
    â€œGood-bye, Pompoo,” I said as I nearly began to cry. “Good-bye, dear Pompoo.”
    He looked at me, and his eyes were so kind and just like Ben’s. Then he smiled a little.
    â€œI’m coming with you,” he said.
    Pompoo was my friend, he was a true friend. I was so glad, when he said that he wanted to come with me. But I didn’t want him to run into danger.
    â€œNo, Pompoo,” I said. “You can’t come with me now, where I’m going.”
    â€œI am coming,” said Pompoo. “A boy of royal blood riding on a white horse with golden mane, and accompanied by his best friend—it’s been foretold. You can’t change what has been foretold for thousands and thousands of years.”
    â€œFor thousands and thousands of years,” repeated the Weaver. “I remember the wind singing of it the night I planted my apple trees, and much time has passed. Thousands and thousands of years.” She nodded her head. “Come, Mio, I’ll fix your cloak,” she said.
    She cut the cloth from her loom and took a piece of it and fixed the tear in my cloak, which happened when I had been riding through the forest. Yes, she lined my cloak too, with the shimmering cloth, and it hung lightly, soft and warm, over my shoulders.
    â€œI give my finest cloth to the one who will save my little daughter,” said the Weaver. “And you shall have bread, the Bread That Satisfies Hunger. Eat it sparingly! For you will travel on the path of hunger.”
    She gave me the bread and I thanked her. Then I turned to