The Rainmaker had his hut close by the village pond, and Knecht looked for the runaway in this direction. He searched and tried to lure her out of hiding with coaxing, reassuring hums, and singsongs and clucks, using the voice that women use to call chickens, sweet, long drawn-out notes, intent on enchantment. “Ada,” he called and sang. “Ada, little Ada, come here, Ada, here I am, Knecht.” He sang again and again, and before he had heard a sound from her or caught a glimpse of her he suddenly felt her small soft hand force its way into his. She had been standing by the path, pressed against the wall of a hut, and been waiting for him since hearing his first call. With a sigh of relief she moved close to him; he seemed to her as tall and strong as a man.
“Were you frightened?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be, no one will hurt you, everyone likes Ada. Come, we’ll go home.” She was still trembling and sobbing a little, but was already calmer, and went gratefully and trustfully along with him.
Dim red light filtered through the doorway of the hut. Inside, the Rainmaker sat stooped by the hearth. Yellow and red light gleamed through his flowing hair. The hearth-fire was lit and he was boiling something in two small pots. Before entering with Ada, Knecht watched curiously from outside for a few moments. He could see at once that whatever was being boiled was not food; that was done in different pots, and besides it was already much too late to prepare a meal. But the Rainmaker had already heard him. “Who is standing at the door?” he called out. “Step forward, come in! Is it you, Ada?” He placed lids on his pots, raked glowing embers up against them, and turned around.
Knecht was still peering at the mysterious little pots; he felt curiosity, awe, and a sense of oppression all at once, as he always did whenever he entered this hut. He came here as often as he could, made up all sorts of pretexts for coming, but once he was here he always felt this half-thrilling, half-warning sensation of slight uneasiness, of eager curiosity and pleasure warring with fear. The old man knew that Knecht had long been trailing after him, turning up as he did at odd moments and unlikely places. The boy was pursuing him like a hunter following a spoor, and mutely offering his services and his company.
Turu, the Rainmaker, looked at him with his bright hawk’s eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked coolly. “This is no time of day for visits to strange huts, my boy.”
“I’ve brought Ada home, Master Turu. She was listening to the Mother tell stories about witches and all of a sudden she was so frightened she screamed, so I walked her home.”
The Rainmaker turned to his daughter. “You’re too timid, Ada. Sensible little girls need not fear witches. You’re a sensible little girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but the witches know all sorts of wicked tricks, and if you don’t have a boar’s tooth…”
“I see, you’d like to have a boar’s tooth. All right. But I know something even better, a special root I’ll give you. We’ll look for it in the autumn. It protects sensible girls from all kinds of magic and even makes them prettier.”
Ada smiled happily; she was already reassured, now that the smell of the hut and the familiar firelight surrounded her. Shyly, Knecht asked: “Couldn’t I help look for the root? If you would only describe the plant to me…”
Turu’s eyes narrowed. “A good many little boys would like to know that,” he said, but his voice did not sound angry, only slightly mocking. “There’s time for that. Perhaps in the autumn.”
Knecht slipped away and went to the youth house where he slept. He had no parents; he was an orphan; for that reason, too, he was entranced by Ada and her hut.
