IN WHICH THE TWIN SISTERS TELL A STORY BETWEEN THEM
It was August still, and early evening; an evening of balmy airs and
dappled skies. Philomène, bedded in bracken, lay nestling at the foot of
a mighty pine-tree on the outskirts of the woods, separated only by a
haha from the garden of the Cushats, and the twin fairies were with her.
Speedwell was seated in a swinging hammock of green tendrils, in among
the undergrowth, and was busy making herself some intricate spider’s web
lace, while Spirea, on a fallen pine-cone, stitched away industriously
at a dainty patchwork coverlet of sweetpea petals for the bed in the
dove-cot.
“I do wonder,” Philomène was saying, “whether my merman knew the merman
who was Carey’s godfather. Perhaps they were old friends, like Godmother
and my mother, only of course at the bottom of the sea.”
“That reminds me,” said Speedwell, “that neither of us has ever yet told
you a story. We seem always to have had so many other things to talk
about. Would you like one now?”
“Why, yes, I should, ever so much,” replied Philomène, “and I think I
should like it to be about water, and about trees and ferns and mosses,
just like these here, if you don’t mind.”
“If it’s a fresh-water story she wants,” observed Spirea, “you might as
well tell her the one about the pixie’s nursling.”
“So I might,” said Speedwell, and she began:—
“In the heart of a certain forest there was a deep pool, still and
green, where waterlilies rocked in the summer time. Now it happened that
a woodcutter had daily to pass this pool as he went to and fro from his
work, and one evening as he came by he heard a sweet voice calling to
him from the water, saying; “Good master woodcutter, I pray you make me
a cradle.” Then, because he was under the spell of the sweet voice, the
woodcutter went home and sat up all night, making an oaken cradle.
“What are you about?” asked his wife, “why will you not come to bed?”
“I met a stranger in the forest,” replied her husband, “and she begged
me of my charity to make her a cradle for her newborn child.”
When morning broke, the woodcutter went back to his work, and as he
passed the pool he set down the cradle upon its mossy bank; and that
same evening when he came by again, he heard the cradle rocking under
water, and the sweet voice called to him a second time, and said; “Of
what use to me is a cradle except I know a lullaby also? Good master
woodcutter, I pray you teach me a lullaby.” So the woodcutter went home
and said to his wife; “Tell me now, wife, what are the words of the
cradle-song which you sing to our little son?”
“They are but an idle jingle,” returned his wife.
“Tell me them notwithstanding,” persisted her husband, “for the tune
runs in my head, but the words I have forgotten.”
“These are the words then,” said she.
“The hermit has tolled his bell,
And the wizard moon rides high;
Ah me, the bell and the moon!
Bye, bye, little sweeting, bye, bye;
Sing-song; ding-dong;
And so good-night to the moon.”
“It is but a meaningless jingle, as you said,” quoth the woodcutter.
But the next day when he went to his work in the forest, he stood still
among the rushes by the pool, and sang the lullaby aloud; and that same
evening as he came by he heard the cradle rocking under water, and the
sweet voice singing the cradle-song; but as he drew nearer it broke off,
and called to him the third time, and said; “Of what use to me are a
cradle and a lullaby, except I have a baby also? Good master woodcutter,
I pray you bring me a baby.” Then, because he was bewitched, the
woodcutter went home and said to his wife, “Wife, there is a fair
to-morrow at the town. Would you like to go?”
“I should like nothing half so well,” said she, “but I cannot leave the
little one.”
“Give the child to me,” said her husband, “and I promise you that no
harm shall befall him.”
So when it was morning the woodcutter took his little son, and went and
laid him down on a bed of sorrel by the pool, and hurried on into the
forest; and that same evening as he came by again, he heard the cradle
rocking under water, and the sweet voice singing the lullaby and the
happy cooing of a baby. But when he reached home he told his wife that
as he had been hewing timber in one of the forest glades, a kite had
swooped down and carried off the child. Then the poor mother wept
bitterly, and would not be consoled.
Now within the pool there dwelt a beautiful pixie, fair and white as any
swan, with radiant golden hair, and eyes clearer than crystal. Yet for
all she was so fair, and had her home in among the white and yellow
waterlilies, the pixie hated her life and was weary of it, for she had
lived already through unnumbered years.
“Did I not know the world when it was young?” sighed she to herself,
“ah, would that I might grow old along with it.”
[Illustration:
“KISSED IT SO THAT IT MIGHT BE ABLE TO LIVE UNDER WATER.”
_Page 153_
_The Fairy Latchkey._
]
Now it had been told her that a draught of the elixir of death could
alone release her, and that both the elixirs of death and of life were
in the keeping of a mighty wizard, who lived in a great castle
surrounded by a golden wall. In this wall was a golden gate which would
open only to one who had no love for gold, while the little glass
postern door that led into the castle would open only to him who had no
love for lies, and across the doorway of the wizard’s chamber hung a
silken curtain which could be drawn aside only by one who had never
loved a woman. Now the pixie knew very well that it would be all but
impossible for any man brought up among his kind to stand these three
tests, so she resolved to rear a human child in the safe, secluded pool,
and send it forth upon her quest. Already she had had three nurslings,
who had grown to manhood and gone forth into the world, but not one of
them had returned to bring her the elixir.
“Three generations have failed me,” said the pixie to herself, “but I
will try yet once again.” So she cast a spell upon the woodcutter, and
took his child and kissed it, so that it might be able to live under the
water, and drew it down into the pool; and she gave it the name of
Sorrel because of the bed of wood-sorrel upon which she had found it.
Every night she sang to him his mother’s lullaby, and little Sorrel
would look up through the crystal clear water at the mirrored moon, and
would bid it good-night. Then when he grew older, the pixie taught him
to play most sweetly upon a bulrush pipe, and many a wondrous story did
she tell him of the early days before men lived upon the earth.
At last when Sorrel had grown to be a tall, strong youth, the pixie said
to him; “The time has come, my son, when you should go forth into the
upper world for my sake, and ask the elixir of death from a great wizard
who lives far from here, for I am weary of my long, long life.”
At first Sorrel was much grieved at her words, for he loved the pixie
dearly, as though she had been his own mother, but when he saw that it
was indeed her heart’s desire, he promised that he would not rest till
he had found the elixir. Then he bade her a tender farewell and set out,
and as he walked through the great forest that was a new, strange world
to him, he played a sweet air upon his bulrush pipe to keep up his
spirits.
Beyond the forest lay a populous city which Sorrel reached at sundown,
and as he wandered through it he gazed curiously at the many streets and
houses, and at the fountains that played in the great squares. Now it
happened that the king and queen of the country lived in that city, and
as they sat together at one of the windows of their palace, they caught
the strains of Sorrel’s pipe as he passed in the street below. So
enchanted were they by its music, that they at once gave orders that he
should Be brought before them.
“Who taught you to play so melodiously upon a bulrush pipe?” asked the
king.
“Sire, it was my mother,” replied Sorrel.
“Will you remain with us and be our court musician?” asked the queen.
“Madam, that I cannot,” returned Sorrel, “for my mother has sent me upon
a very urgent quest. But I will gladly play to you now, it if so please
you.” So Sorrel played to the king and queen, and after that they led
him into the great banqueting-hall, where there was much feasting and
merry-making.
Now it was in this very palace that all the pixie’s former nurslings had
loitered and remained. The first had soon grown covetous of money, and
became so skilful in the management of it that he was made Lord High
Treasurer. He was now a very old man, and his one delight was to handle
the gold pieces in the royal exchequer, which he did every day. The
second had quickly learnt the art of lying, and soon flattered so
adroitly that he was appointed court chaplain, and in every one of his
sermons he told the king and queen what an excellent influence they
exerted upon the court. “My dear,” said each to the other, “we are
indeed fortunate to have secured so eloquent a preacher and so wise a
man.” As for the third, he had fallen in love with the king’s daughter,
and had married her, and now lived in the greatest pomp as the king’s
son-in-law. Thus it came about that not one of the three nurslings had
given another thought to the pixie, who had longed hourly for their
homecoming.
But Sorrel took no delight in the splendours which he saw about him, for
it seemed to him that the yellow gold was not half so pleasant to look
at as the yellow waterlilies at home. The courtiers paid him well turned
compliments upon his skill in music, but he noticed that for all their
flattery they looked at him askance as soon as he began to speak about
his mother and his life in the forest pool. As for the court ladies, so
far from falling in love with any one of them, he thought them all quite
ugly when he compared them with the beautiful pixie. The very next day
he again set out upon his travels, and would not linger at the palace,
because he had his mother’s quest at heart.
“And now, sister,” said Speedwell, breaking off suddenly, “I have come
to the most difficult part in all my pattern, where one mistake would
spoil the lace, so you had better tell the rest.”
“Willingly,” said Spirea, and she continued:—
“Beyond the city lay another great forest in which Sorrel wandered all
day long without finding a way out. At last night fell, and he was just
wondering whether he would have to seek shelter under a tree, when he
heard the sound of a bell tolling near by, and soon came upon a
hermitage which stood upon the edge of the forest, with a bare and
lonely heath stretching away in front of it. Sorrel knocked at the door
of the hut, whereupon an old hermit at once opened to him, and greeted
him kindly.
“Come in,” said he, “all strangers are welcome here.” And he made Sorrel
sit down, and gave him some rye bread and salt fish for his supper, with
a mug of sour wine to drink.
“Have you come from far?” asked the old man.
“My home is in the forest on the other side of the city,” replied
Sorrel.
“Are you a forester’s son then?” asked the hermit.
“No, good father,” replied Sorrel, and he began telling the old man all
about his beautiful mother and his home, but no sooner had he uttered
the first word about living under water, than the hermit started to his
feet, and trembled all over with rage.
“You must be the son of a witch!” he screamed, “get out of my house!”
And he took Sorrel by the shoulders and thrust him out into the night.
“These men are a strange race,” thought Sorrel, greatly bewildered, “I
was happier under the water.” And feeling somewhat disconsolate, he went
out upon the waste heath and stood looking about him. Just then the moon
broke through a cloud.
“Good-night,” said the moon.
“Good-night,” said Sorrel.
“It is not everyone who bids me good-night as regularly as you did when
you were a child,” said the moon, “is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can light me across this heath if you will,” replied Sorrel.
“With all my heart,” the moon made answer.
So Sorrel set out across the wide expanse of heath, and all the while
the moon went on before him and showed him the way, till at last they
came to a deep ravine, at the bottom of which stood the wizard’s
splendid castle, while on either hand there rose steep walls of rock, as
sheer as the side of any house, so that Sorrel looked down into the
chasm with dismay.
“Catch!” cried the moon, and flung him a ladder of moonbeams, by the
help of which he descended the precipice in safety.
No sooner had he reached the golden gate of the castle than it opened of
itself, and crossing the great courtyard, he saw that the little glass
postern door stood open already. Then Sorrel mounted flight upon flight
of marble steps, till he came upon an arched doorway. He drew aside the
silken curtain that hung across it, and with a bold step entered the
room where the mighty wizard sat, among his phials and talismans and all
manner of magical appliances.
“What is your errand?” asked the wizard in a harsh voice.
“I seek the elixir of death,” replied Sorrel fearlessly.
“Many desire the elixir of life,” said the wizard, “the other is sought
but seldom. Here they are, both together. Choose.” So saying he handed
Sorrel two tall crystal vases, each filled with a clear colourless
fluid.
Then Sorrel dipped his bulrush pipe into one of the vases, and it
blossomed, but when he dipped it into the other it withered and died. So
he took the elixir of death with him, and left the castle, and scaled
the steep cliff by the help of the ladder. His friend the moon was still
high in the heavens, and lighted him back across the trackless heath.
With all possible speed Sorrel hastened onwards, but when he reached the
forest in which his home lay, he became very thirsty, and wandered to
and fro among the thickets seeking for a brook or a spring. At last,
faint and weary with his fruitless search, he lay down under a spreading
tree, but the crystal vase he placed beyond his reach, lest in his great
thirst he should be tempted to drink the deadly elixir. Soon there came
by a fair young pixie, gathering mosses and ferns for her grotto, and
Sorrel begged her for some water.
“Water is close at hand,” said she, “for we pixies may not stray far
from our springs,” and she went and fetched some water in a shell and
gave it to him.
“But tell me now,” she said, “is there not water in yonder vase?”
“That is the elixir of death,” replied Sorrel, and he told her of his
quest, and as they sat together under the tree, they loved one another
and plighted their troth.
“Only first I must go back to my mother,” said Sorrel, “and after that I
will return to you.”
So she brought him to a mossgrown path which led him at last to the
pool, and when the pixie saw him she rejoiced. “O Sorrel, you were
rightly named,” said she, “for does not wood-sorrel betoken mother’s
joy?”
Then she drank the elixir of death and straightway dissolved into a
brook which gushed forth out of the pool, and flowed babbling through
the forest. But Sorrel sat down by the brookside and lamented. Now it
happened that the woodcutter’s wife was passing that way, and she
stopped to ask him the cause of his sorrow.
“I am mourning for my mother,” he replied.
“As for me, I have mourned a son these twenty years,” said the
woodcutter’s wife.
But Sorrel was not attending to what she said, for his thoughts were
full of his own grief. Yet because he was young, he soon called to mind
the starry eyes of his newly betrothed, and when he had gone back to her
he found her waiting for him by the same spreading tree. Then they made
their way to a bubbling spring close at hand, and together they went
down into her grotto.