IN WHICH MASTER MUSTARDSEED TELLS HIS STORY
“In a mean, dingy house in the midst of a great city, there once lived a
cobbler and his apprentice, and together with them in that same house
there also lived a certain evil and malicious boggart. Now a boggart is
just the opposite of a brownie, for while a brownie tidies and sweeps
and puts things to rights, a boggart only works mischief and makes
confusion. He would break the crockery, and mislay the tools in the
workshop, and once he dropped so much salt into the soup that the
cobbler lay awake half the night with thirst. Now the cobbler, who was a
harsh, unreasonable man, suspected his apprentice of these pranks, and
soon took him roughly to task.
“Master,” said the apprentice, “you do me wrong. It is not I who have
done you this harm, but a mannikin in tattered clothes and a peaked cap.
It must be that we are living under one roof with a boggart, for more
than once have I seen him at his tricks when twilight fell.”
But the cobbler would not believe a word of what the apprentice said,
for he himself had never set eyes on the boggart, and though one day the
apprentice pointed him out, not even then could he catch so much as a
glimpse of him. It is true that the cobbler’s yellow cat, who lay
stretched upon the hearth, could see the imp plainly enough with her
green and glimmering eyes, but then it was not in her power to say so,
nor to put in a good word for the apprentice.
“You had better stop making game of me,” said the angry cobbler, each
time that a fresh mishap occurred, “for my temper is but a short one,
and I am growing tired of your fool’s tricks, and of your fool’s tales
too, for that matter, about boggarts and what not, so mark my words, and
mend your ways.”
Now one evening as the cobbler sat stitching at a neighbour’s shoes, he
said to the apprentice, “I am ready for my supper. Go and get me the
flitch of bacon from the corner cupboard.” But when the apprentice
opened the cupboard door, the bacon was nowhere to be seen.
“Master, it is gone!” he cried, “I fear the boggart has played you
another trick, and this time it is an ill turn indeed!”
“The boggart! The boggart! What’s all this talk of boggarts?” screamed
the cobbler, “so I have been teaching my trade to a thief, have I?
You’re a fine fellow to keep as an apprentice, eating a poor man out of
house and home! Get you gone from my door, or you shall have blows from
me, and not words alone.”
Again the apprentice tried to defend himself, but his master would not
listen, so he sadly put together his few belongings in a knapsack, and
set out upon his travels, with none to wish him well save only his
friend the yellow cat, who came and rubbed herself against his legs
before the house-door closed behind him. All night he paced the streets
disconsolate, and at dawn when the city gates stood open he set forth
upon the king’s highway.
As dusk fell, he entered a wild, bleak hill country, and he had not gone
far upon the lonely road when he heard a voice singing a plaintive
refrain. Eagerly he hurried onwards, wondering who the wayfarer might
be, but soon the singing ceased, and a sound of weeping took its place.
Then the apprentice caught sight of a maiden seated upon the grassy bank
by the roadside. She was beautifully dressed in silks and jewels, but
briers clung to her rich trailing robes, and the blustering wind had
disordered her golden tresses.
“Madam,” said the apprentice, “if my poor services may assist you, they
are at your command.”
“I thank you with all my heart,” said she, “let us travel on together
and seek a night’s lodging. But for you I should have been left
friendless upon this waste hillside.” So together they took the road
again, and journeyed on into the mountains.
“I am a king’s daughter,” said the maiden, “and my father and mother
have accused me of witchcraft, and have driven me from my home.”
“I too have been driven away on an unjust charge,” said the apprentice,
“and now I know not how I may earn my bread, for my master the cobbler
would not finish teaching me my trade.” After that they both fell
silent, for they were weary and sad at heart.
Now when they had gone some considerable distance, they overtook a
shepherd who was driving home his flock, and of him they begged a
night’s shelter.
“Come with me to my goodwife,” the kindly shepherd made reply, “and we
will do all in our power to serve you both.” So saying he guided them to
the sheltered hollow where his cottage stood. His wife came to greet him
at the doorway, and when she saw the strangers she welcomed them also.
In the kitchen a bright fire was burning, and supper was on the table,
broth, and bread, and a bowl of porridge. Far back in a shadowy corner
of the room sat an old, old woman, toothless and hairless, bent and
shrunken with her years.
“That,” said the shepherd, “is my grandmother, and she is reputed one of
the wisest women in the countryside, but she is aged and weak, and
speaks but seldom.”
Now as soon as supper was ended, the company drew around the fire, and
the shepherd begged his guests to relate the story of their wanderings.
“My father is a mighty king,” the princess made answer, “and dwells in a
city many leagues distant. Not long ago a strange series of misfortunes
befell us. One night as I stood by my window and looked out upon the
palace garden, I saw that a fairy was pillaging the blossom of the
king’s favourite almond-tree, and I called in haste to my waiting-woman,
and pointed the strange sight out to her, but she protested that she
could see nothing, and the next morning she went and told my parents
what had taken place. The night following I stood again by my window,
looking out upon the terrace, and this time I saw a fairy luring away
the queen’s favourite peacock. Again I called to my waiting-woman, for I
was afraid, but again she declared that she could see nothing. The next
morning the faithless woman went once more to my parents, and told them
what had befallen, and this time she even dared assure them that I must
be a witch, for had there indeed been a fairy in the castle she would
certainly have seen it as well as myself. At first my parents were
unwilling to credit her charge, for, said the king my father, the
almond-tree had most assuredly been plundered, though none knew by whom,
and, said the queen my mother, that the peacock was lost there could be
no doubt. Nevertheless, they were both much disturbed, and bade the
woman watch me narrowly. Now as evening fell I was sitting in my bower,
when all at once I heard a sound behind me as of breaking flax, and
turning round I saw a fairy standing in the middle of my room, breaking
the flax that hung upon my golden spinning-wheel. Then I became
frightened, and pointed her out to my waiting-woman, but again she said
she saw nothing. The next day when my parents heard what had happened,
they summoned me to their presence and questioned me, and I could but
affirm that each time I had seen a fairy, though my waiting-woman had
seen none. Now the king my father lives in great dread of witches and
their charms, and forthwith he charged me with witchcraft, because I saw
things that were not good to see, and which were hidden from other folk,
and when my mother pleaded for me he would not listen, but said that
there was a spell upon the palace and that I must go, or else no one
could tell what might come of it, and he sent me away. But indeed, good
people, I am no witch, yet the fairies I did most assuredly see, three
several times.”
After that the apprentice also told his story, and how the cobbler had
blamed him for the boggart’s pranks, and had driven him out. “Yet I am
unjustly accused,” said he, “for I myself saw the boggart at his work,
not once nor twice.”
“These are the strangest tales that ever I heard!” cried the shepherd.
“The old grandmother is learned in fairy lore,” added his wife; “it may
be that she can solve the riddle.” When she heard that, the princess
rose, and went to the dark corner where the old crone sat, and knelt
down beside her.
“Tell me, I pray you, good mother,” said she, “how comes it that this
stranger and I both saw the fairies where others saw none?” But the old
crone only blinked at her with dull eyes, and made no reply.
“It is a king’s daughter who kneels to you, granddame,” cried the
shepherd, “will you not give her an answer?”
“A peaked cap and fernseed,” muttered the old hag, “the boggart put on
his peaked cap, and the fairies carried fernseed.”
“But whoever carries fernseed becomes invisible,” said the princess,
“and in spite of that I saw them.”
“Over those who are born on an Ember Day neither a cap of darkness nor
the fairies’ fern itself has any power,” said the crone; “both of you
must have been born in one of the four Ember Weeks.” And her voice died
away into indistinct mumblings.
“It is a dower that none need envy,” quoth the apprentice, and the
princess sighed in answer.
Now on the following morning the shepherd and his wife urged the
princess to remain with them, and she joyfully consented. “I will not be
a burden to you,” said she, “for I can spin, and I will learn to do all
manner of things about the house, and will take care of the old
grandmother.”
But the apprentice set out upon his travels again, and this time he felt
even sadder than on the previous day, for it went to his heart to part
from the princess, whom already he loved for her fair face and gentle
ways. After journeying for some distance he left the hills behind him,
and at noon he entered a deep and shady wood. There, in a mossy glade,
seated upon a bank of primroses, he caught sight of a little man dressed
all in green, who was busily mending shoes. But as the apprentice drew
nearer, the mannikin flung aside his work, and snatching up a green cap
with a sprig of fern in the brim, he set it upon his head.
“That much trouble you might have spared yourself,” laughed the
apprentice, “for I was born on an Ember Day, they tell me.”
“Is that so?” said the mannikin, and he resumed his cobbling.
“And who may you be?” asked the apprentice.
“I am the fairies’ cobbler,” replied the little green man.
“Then I pray you teach me my trade,” said the apprentice, “for I am a
cobbler’s apprentice, but I have not served my full time, since my
master has sent me away on a wrongful charge.”
“Where did your master live?” asked the mannikin.
“Over the hills yonder,” replied the apprentice pointing, but when he
turned round again the fairies’ cobbler was nowhere to be seen. On the
instant he felt himself pelted by a shower of acorns from above, and
looking up he saw a squirrel, perched among the oak boughs overhead.
“You are a fine fellow for letting your opportunities slip,” said the
squirrel; “do you not know that when you meet the fairies’ cobbler you
should never take your eyes off him for a moment? So long as you keep on
looking at him, he is bound to give you whatever you may ask, though you
should demand of him all the crocks of gold in Fairyland, but he will
try to startle or deceive you, and then your chance is lost.”
“I will remember your good advice another time,” said the apprentice,
and he went on into the wood. At sunset he came to another glade, and
there he once more caught sight of the fairies’ cobbler, seated upon a
tree-stump.
“This time you shall not escape me,” he cried, and fixing his eyes upon
the mannikin he repeated his request, “I pray you, teach me my trade.”
“The cobbler’s craft is not an easy one,” replied the little man
surlily, “the fairies dance so much and so often that it is all I can do
to keep them in shoes. Only look at this pair now—it was new at
moonrise.”
“They are indeed much worn,” said the apprentice, but even as he spoke
he became aware that the fairies’ cobbler had once more disappeared. The
next moment he heard a soft chuckle behind him, and looking round he
noticed a large white owl perched upon a bush hard by.
“He had you that time,” said the owl; “why ever did you look down at the
shoes? The safest way to make sure of the fairies’ cobbler is to steal
up from behind and catch hold of him, and should he seem unwilling to
grant your request you have but to hold him over running water, and he
will give you all you ask.”
“I will remember your good advice another time,” said the apprentice,
and he went further into the wood. Now after a while he heard the sound
of a waterfall, and came upon yet another glade that lay all silvered in
the light of the moon, and he was just debating within himself whether
this were not a good place in which to spend the night, when for the
third time he caught sight of the fairies’ cobbler, seated upon a
toadstool. Softly he crept up behind him, and took hold of the mannikin
firmly by the lappets of his green coat.
“You shall not escape me again,” said he.
“That is as may be,” quoth the fairies’ cobbler morosely; “pray what
reason is there that I should teach the tricks of my trade to a mortal?”
“We shall see about that,” said the apprentice, “for if I am not
mistaken there is a waterfall close at hand.” And with the mannikin
under his arm he made his way among the trees till he came to where the
cascade ran white over the rocks. Then the fairies’ cobbler began to
utter small, shrill cries of protest.
“Come away! Come away!” he cried, piteously, as the apprentice held him
over the foaming torrent, “only take me back into the glade, and I will
teach you all I know.”
Now the apprentice knew that the fairies are no promise-breakers, so he
carried the little green mannikin back into the glade, and all that
night the fairies’ cobbler taught him the utmost that may be known about
the art of making and mending shoes. Therefore as soon as the sun rose,
the newly-made cobbler said to the mannikin, “I am truly grateful for
what you have taught me, and if there be any favour which a poor
craftsman like myself can do to one of the Good People, I pray you tell
it me.”
“There is one favour then which I would ask of you,” the fairies’
cobbler made reply; “promise me that you will never break off any
blackthorn or bring it into your house, for it is our tree, and we are
offended when it is tampered with.” This the cobbler promised
faithfully, and when he had once more thanked the little green man, he
went upon his way.
After some days’ journey he came to a great city, and here he remained
and worked at his craft. It was not long before he discovered that it
was in this city that the princess’s parents ruled as king and queen,
and he soon learnt from the talk of the people about him, that the
fairies were still wreaking their vengeance on the palace. Only the
other day, said the gossips, the king and the queen had made ready to
receive the ambassador of a foreign prince, but when the court entered
the throne-room in state, all the wreaths and garlands with which it had
been festooned were torn down, withered, and trampled upon. As soon as
he heard this, the cobbler hastened to the palace, and begged for an
audience from the king, but the haughty servants to whom he addressed
himself refused admission to so humble a suitor, and the cobbler had to
return to his cobbling, and bide his time till a better opportunity
should offer.
All this while the princess had remained behind in the shepherd’s
cottage. The good man and his wife treated her as a daughter, and even
the old crone seemed glad of her company, and loved to finger with her
palsied hands the princess’s beautiful embroidered cloak and sparkling
gems, and more especially she fancied a certain jewelled cross that the
king’s daughter wore about her neck. “Keep it, good mother, since it
pleases you,” said the kind-hearted princess one day, and she laid it in
the old woman’s lap, who after that would sit contented by the hour,
counting the stones and holding them up to the light.
Now among the mountains in the neighbourhood of the cottage lay a deep
and lonely tarn, where waterfowl made their nests, and bulrushes grew in
profusion, and often the princess would go and gather these rushes,
which she plaited into mats and baskets and sold in the hamlets near by.
One day when she was thus picking rushes by the lakeside, she heard a
plashing close at hand, and looking up she saw a beautiful black horse
standing knee-deep in the water, gazing at her intently. At first she
was frightened, but since the creature seemed gentle and harmless she
soon regained courage, and when it waded out of the water and came and
stood beside her, she began to fondle it and to stroke its glossy mane.
After that the beautiful black steed came to greet her every time that
she went to the tarn, but when she spoke of it to the shepherd, he said
that he had heard tell of no riderless horse in those parts.
One evening when autumn was drawing on, the shepherd and his wife were
absent at a fair in one of the neighbouring villages, but the princess
had remained at home with the old grandmother and sat spinning in the
firelight.
“Daughter, what ails you?” asked the crone from her corner by the
hearth, for she had heard the princess draw a deep, sad sigh.
“I am troubled for my parents’ sake,” replied the king’s daughter;
“would that I knew the cause of ill-will which the fairies have against
them, and how they might be appeased.”
“Samhain,” muttered the old woman, “Samhain.”
“What is the meaning of Samhain?” asked the princess, but the crone had
fallen silent again, and nothing more was to be got out of her. Then the
princess went and stood in the doorway, watching for the return of the
shepherd and his wife, for it was growing late, and as she stood there
the nightwind hurried past her.
“O wind,” said the princess, “you are the greatest of all travellers,
therefore if you know it, tell a forlorn king’s daughter what is meant
by Samhain.”
“Samhain is the feast of All Fairies,” said the wind.
“And when do they keep it?” asked the princess.
“On All Hallows’ E’en,” the wind made answer.
“And where do they keep it?” asked the princess.
“In the brown bog country,” said the wind, “where you may see a myriad
pools, and each pool bathes one star.” And when he had said that he sped
away, for the wind is ever in haste.
Therefore as soon as the shepherd and his wife returned, the princess
told them that she could remain with them no longer, but must set out
upon her quest, and though they were loath to part with her, the good
people let her go. So the next morning she bade them farewell, and as
she went along the road that led to the mountain tarn, the beautiful
black horse came trotting to meet her.
“It may be that I shall have far to go,” said the princess, “and that
this gallant horse will consent to carry me.” So she mounted upon its
back and rode onwards, but when they reached the tarn the black horse
plunged straightway into the ice-cold water, and began to swim across,
and as soon as it gained the centre of the lake, it dived under. Then
the princess cried out and struggled, and the black horse threw her, and
in that moment she knew that it was no real horse at all, but a kelpie,
a wicked water-sprite that assumes at times the form of a horse.
“All the summer through have I loved and watched you, king’s daughter,”
said the kelpie, as he stood before her in his proper shape, “and now
you must live with me in my palace, and be my wife.”
Pearly white and very fair to see was the palace of the water-kelpie,
with its towers and minarets, and a great white dome in the midst, and
within, the walls were hung with iridescent tapestries. Here the
princess was held a prisoner, and day after day she would sit under the
magical milk-white dome, and weep till she had no more tears to shed.
But wed the water-kelpie she would not. Her happiest hours were when he
left her to roam the hills under the shape of the black horse, and then
she would pace to and fro in her beautiful prison-house and call to mind
the peaceful days in the shepherd’s cottage, and the young apprentice
whom in her secret heart she loved, though because she was a king’s
daughter she was too proud to own it to anybody but herself.
Meanwhile the cobbler had won for himself a great reputation by his
skill in shoe-making, for those who wore his shoes could walk for
leagues or dance for whole nights together without growing tired, so
that before long his fame reached the ears of the king, who summoned him
to the palace. Now, as soon as the cobbler found himself in the presence
of the king and queen, he made haste to tell them of his meeting with
the princess, and of what the old crone had told them.
“It may be as you say,” said the king, “and glad indeed should I be to
think that my child is no witch, but only dowered above other mortals,
for so great is my fear of witchcraft that I would sooner have my palace
pillaged from end to end than suffer any about me who have eyes for
uncanny sights.”
“I fear we have done our daughter a great wrong,” said the queen
sorrowfully, “and none of us knows the cause of the fairies’
displeasure, nor the remedy for it. We have called in the Prime
Minister, and the Lord High Chamberlain, and the Keeper of the Great
Seal, and the Lords and Ladies of the Bedchamber, but they are all
utterly at a loss.”
Then an idea came to the cobbler. “Madam,” said he, “was there by chance
any blackthorn brought into the palace last spring?”
“I do not know,” replied the queen, “but it shall be inquired into.”
So the entire court and household were assembled, and a strict inquiry
was made. Then it was that the lowest scullery-maid in the royal kitchen
confessed that she had broken off a spray from a blackthorn hedge in the
foregoing spring, and had placed it in her attic room. So the king, at
the cobbler’s advice, published a proclamation, forbidding the breaking
of blackthorn throughout the realm, but to the cobbler himself he said;
“Do you go and fetch my daughter back, for we will receive her with due
honour, and if she be willing you shall have her hand in marriage. As
for the waiting-woman who accused her to me, she shall be dismissed the
kingdom.”
Then the cobbler set out and made his way back to the shepherd’s
cottage, but when he reached it the good man and his wife told him of
how the princess had left them, and that they had had no tidings of her
since. “But if you are in search of her,” said the shepherd’s wife,
“take with you this jewelled cross and restore it to her, for she gave
it to the old granddame who is now dead, and it is not ours that we
should keep it.” So the cobbler took the cross, and continued his
journey.
Now as he passed by the lonely tarn he heard a voice singing, and
recognised that same plaintive refrain which the princess had sung when
first he met her on the hillside.
“Alas! Alas!” he cried aloud, “my dear lady is drowned in this desolate
pool.”
“Would that I were, good friend,” the princess’s voice made answer, “it
had been better than this my sad captivity, for I am in the power of a
wicked water-kelpie who woos me for his wife.”
When he heard these words, the cobbler fell to thinking how he might
deliver his princess from her sorrowful fate, and soon he bethought him
of the jewelled cross. This he took and flung it far into the tarn, and
as the saving sign touched the surface the evil, wine-dark water began
to seethe and boil in its depths, and the stately pearl-white palace of
the kelpie broke up and dissolved upon the instant. So the princess was
released and came forth from the tarn. Then the cobbler hastened to tell
her of the discovery of the blackthorn, and of how he had come to bring
her home to her parents.
“Tell me first,” said she, “what day it is, for I have lost all count of
time.”
“It is All Hallows’ E’en,” replied the cobbler.
At that the princess began to lament bitterly, for she feared lest she
might be too late to reach the bog country where the fairies would keep
their feast.
“Do not be sorrowful, princess,” replied the cobbler, “I promise you we
shall both see Samhain kept to-night, and to-morrow I will restore you
to your home.”
“How is that to be?” asked she.
“I will make shoes of swiftness,” said the cobbler, “which will carry us
more fleetly than the swallows.” And immediately he set to work and made
her a pair of fairy shoes, and next he began making a pair for himself.
But while he was still working at the second shoe, there came a sound of
hoof-beats far away.
“O hasten, hasten!” cried the princess, wringing her hands, “for the
kelpie is returning.” Nearer and nearer drew the sound of the thundering
hoofs upon the road, faster and faster stitched the cobbler.
“O make haste, make haste!” cried the princess; “see, he is in sight!”
Fleetly down the steep hillside the black horse came galloping, with
streaming mane and glaring eyes.
“We are lost!” cried the princess, and indeed the horse was already upon
them, and had caught the fringe of her cloak in its mouth. But in that
same instant the cobbler slipped on his second shoe, and he and the
princess sped away together like birds upon the wing. But the
embroidered cloak they left behind between the horse’s teeth.
Over land and ocean they went, yet felt no weariness, and at nightfall
they reached the brown bog country, studded with innumerable pools, and
every pool bathed a star. The moon was rising, and from all the four
winds the fairies came trooping, elves and gnomes and pixies, brownies
and hobgoblins, with the fairy queen and her retinue in their midst, and
at a little distance the cobbler and the princess stood and watched them
assemble. At last one dainty elf came towards them, in dress of pearly
gossamer, and in her yellow hair a wreath of starry white flowers, such
as you may see for yourself on the window-pane any frosty day.
“I owe you thanks for many a past kindness,” said she to the cobbler.
“Yet I have never seen you till this moment, elf lady,” he replied.
“Are you so sure of that?” laughed she; “look well, look well at my
eyes.” Then the cobbler looked long and earnestly, and indeed they were
wondrous eyes, green and glimmering, nor were they like the eyes of any
mortal.
“Every hundred years,” said the elf, “we fairies must take the shape of
some beast or bird or fish for the space of a year and a day, and if we
die during that time we perish, for we have no souls. Now I was the
cobbler’s yellow cat when my turn came, and you befriended me in my
exile. But follow me, and I will take you to the fairy queen, that you
may tell her on what errand you are come to-night.”
Then she led them through a throng of fairies, amongst whom the cobbler
recognised his enemy the boggart, and the princess the three fairies who
had filched the almond blossom, and lured away the peacock, and broken
the flax. Presently they reached the steps of the elfin throne, and here
both knelt to the fairy queen.
“For what purpose have you sought us out?” asked she.
“I come to appease your displeasure, greatest of all queens,” replied
the princess, “for in the spring time a spray of blackthorn was
heedlessly broken and brought into our palace, and since that day the
fairies have borne us a grudge. How may we turn away their anger?”
“Say to the king your father, and to the queen your mother,” the fairy
queen made answer, “that if at the next full moon they will deliver up
their throne-room to us for an elfin bridal, we shall bear them ill-will
no longer, for my people love nothing better than to feast and make
merry in a human dwelling.” Then the queen made them sit down upon the
steps of the throne, and commanded that the revels should begin.
“You have done me credit, Master Apprentice,” piped a voice at the
cobbler’s elbow, as a train of fairies swept past, and looking round he
caught sight of the little green man, who nodded and smiled at him. But
when the cobbler and the princess had watched the dancing till the moon
rode high in the heavens, the fairy queen laid a hand upon both their
heads, and soon a great drowsiness overcame them. Soundly they slept,
and when they woke it was to find themselves stretched upon a patch of
heather, while all around them the brown bog country lay very still in
the light of the paling stars. Then they rose and made haste homewards,
and when they reached the palace there were great rejoicings to welcome
them back; the king and queen received their daughter with much
affection, and besought her pardon for the wrong they had done her, and
when the cobbler made bold to ask her hand in marriage, she willingly
consented.
So the wedding was celebrated with great pomp and splendour; the city
saw nothing but festivities and illuminations for seven days and seven
nights, and from far and near the crowds poured in to share in the
merry-making. Amongst these came the shepherd and his wife, and the
cobbler’s former master, and upon all three the bride and bridegroom
showered gifts and benefits.
Now the night after the wedding it was full moon, so the throne-room was
garlanded with fresh flowers, and left to the fairies till cock-crow.
None saw them come nor go, but in the morning there was found a little
golden casket, wrought by the dwarf goldsmiths of the elfin court, and
inside the casket was a clump of four-leaved clover. This was the fairy
queen’s wedding present, and the bridal couple planted it below their
window, and it grew and throve, and brought them untold happiness and
good fortune.
Philomène had some difficulty in making out the last word of the story,
for Master Mustardseed had half turned it into a trill, and began
singing at the top of his voice. The schoolroom door opened; the doctor
had come home.