Imaginary tales

Three hundred years ago, when the sun cast its golden rays over the gentle heights of Hohenhameln and bathed the vast Hildesheimer Börde stretching to the Harz Mountains in warm light, there lived a devout pastor named Schrekker. His house stood upon a hill, from which one could survey the wide land — fields spreading out like a carpet and forests that vanished into the horizon.

One evening, as the pastor entered his storeroom, the door remained open for a moment. Two lively frogs, having wandered from the nearby ponds, hopped in curiously. Searching for a hiding place, they found themselves inside a large milk churn filled to the brim. They splashed about, only to find themselves trapped in the cold, smooth depths. No shore, no support — only the white, endless liquid.

“It is in vain!” croaked one frog. “We are lost. No matter how hard we try, there is no way out.” He gave up, let himself drift, and sank with a final bubble into the depths.

But the second frog refused to be discouraged. He recalled the old tales told by the villagers — stories of those who, despite all adversity, did not give up but changed their fate through perseverance and willpower. So he struggled, kicked with his legs, flailed his small feet, and fought throughout the entire night. He thought of the wide fields that stretched like liquid gold beneath the morning sun, of the gentle breeze that swept over the heights of Hohenhameln. He wanted to live; he wanted to see this world once more.

And as the first light of morning fell upon the edge of the churn, he suddenly felt something firm beneath his feet. Through his tireless movements, he had churned the milk into butter! Now he had solid ground — one last, powerful leap, and he perched upon the edge of the churn. Freedom lay before him!
With a joyful croak, he sprang out, hopped through the open door, and out into the world sparkling in the morning sun. He had learned that patience and perseverance can bring salvation even in the direst of circumstances — a wisdom that, like the gentle hills of Hohenhameln, extends over life itself.

Long ago, when the gentle hills of Hohenhameln were still steeped in tales and legends, a traveller journeyed southwards along the “High Way.” Suddenly, before his eyes, there unfolded a sight scarcely dreamed of: the Hildesheim Börde lay in all its splendour before him, a mosaic of blooming fields, dark forests, and villages nestled within orchards. On the horizon rose majestically the Hildesheim hills, lending a dignified frame to the vibrant landscape.

Amidst this sublime scenery, the twin towers of the Hohenhameln church soared into the sky. Proud and stately, it greeted the land far and wide, its spires visible as far as Hildesheim. Yet not far away, in Borsum, stood another architectural jewel: a slender, artfully designed church tower, whose extraordinary form had long inspired admiration. The inhabitants of both places were proud of their edifices, yet within the hearts of the people of Borsum there stirred a hint of envy—they would not have the fame of Hohenhameln outshine their own.

Thus it came to pass that one day a plan was devised to bring an end to the proud twin towers of Hohenhameln. Fate sent a giant who journeyed through Borsum. Towering and of immeasurable strength, he was famed for his playful delight in contests of skill. A cunning Borsum resident stepped forward and spoke with a flattering voice:
“Great giant, we have heard much of your strength. Near our village lies a mighty boulder, so heavy that not even many horses can move it. Many doubt that you can lift it. Would you not prove them wrong?”

Honoured by the challenge, the giant did not hesitate. With ease he lifted the stone, but before he could throw it, he asked, “Where shall I hurl it?” The Borsum man pointed with a secretive smile towards Hohenhameln: “There, at those twin towers that our neighbouring village boasts.”

The giant flexed his enormous arms and flung the boulder with unrestrained force towards the heavens. With thunderous roar, the stone sped through the air, heading for the venerable edifice. Yet, whether by divine providence or the good fortune of Hohenhameln, the stone missed its mark by the narrowest margin. It flew between the towers, lightly brushing the top of one before crashing with a dull rumble to the ground on the other side.

The people of Hohenhameln sighed in relief— their proud emblem was saved! Since that day the towers have stood steadfast, though those who look closely may discern that one spire is slightly shorter than the other—a silent witness to that wondrous event. And the giant’s stone? It remained in place for many years, until one day it vanished without trace. Whether the earth swallowed it or some other power carried it away—no one knows to say.
Today, upon the Hohenhameln “Zimmerplatz,” stands a work of art commemorating the stone thrower.

For further details see: http://rosenthal-peine.de/rosenthal_html/sagenschatz_indexa.html 

A Long Time Ago, When the Gentle Hills of Hohenhameln Were Still Interwoven with Legends and Myths
A mighty giant wandered along his long path from the Harz Mountains to the Hämelerwald. With every step, the earth trembled beneath his heavy boots, within which stones and soil had gradually accumulated.

At first, he barely noticed the pressure, but as he reached the heights of Hohenhameln, it became unbearable. Sighing, he paused and looked around.

Before him stretched the Hildesheimer Börde in all its splendour — a mosaic of blooming fields, dark forests, and villages nestled among orchards. On the horizon rose majestically the Hildesheimer Hills, which lent a dignified frame to the landscape’s palette. Yet what caught the giant’s eye most was the towering double steeple of the Hohenhameln church. "An excellent boot servant!" he muttered contentedly.

The inhabitants of Hohenhameln, who were busy with their daily tasks, came to an abrupt halt as the giant approached. A vast shadow fell over the village as he cautiously pressed one foot against the church tower and removed his first boot. A dreadful moan passed through the crowd as an unbearable odour wafted through the streets. Horrified, the people covered their noses and fled to their homes while the giant also took off his second boot.

Relieved, the giant sighed deeply, shook out his boots vigorously, and carelessly let the earth and small stones within them fall to the ground.
Satisfied, he put his boots back on, resumed his journey to the Hämelerwald, and soon vanished into the distance.

When the people of Hohenhameln cautiously emerged from their homes, they could hardly believe their eyes. Where the giant had shaken out his boots, the ground had been heaped up. Hohenhameln now rested upon a gentle, fertile hill — composed of soil the giant had brought from distant lands. Soon the farmers noticed that this earth was richer than any other in the region. The fields bore magnificent harvests, and the land became the finest farmland far and wide.

Thus it came to pass that Hohenhameln became renowned not only for its proud towers but also for its extraordinary fertility — a gift owed to the weary giant who once relieved himself of his pressing boots here.

(Written down by Uwe Könneker, based on a tradition from his great-aunt Helmi Freers