IN WHICH QUEEN MAB TELLS HER STORY
On a bleak and rocky coast there once stood a little fishing town, and
on the high cliffs above it, looking seaward towards the sunrise, rose
the stately pile of an old Abbey church, which was the pride of the
place, for the folk in the little red-roofed town were poor and
struggling, and had not much in their midst that was beautiful.
Legend said that long ago a certain wicked king had set his heart upon
the Abbey treasures, and that at his command a ship had left the harbour
laden with the choicest of them, but a great storm had arisen, so that
the ship foundered, and the treasure went all to the bottom. Some said
it might still be recovered if men would but dive for it outside the
harbour bar, others declared that at night you could hear the buried
Abbey bells chiming out at sea, others again did not believe in the
story at all, and had never heard any bell ringing below water save the
bell of the buoy.
Now just beyond the harbour bar there was a great rock, and this was
said by some to be the haunt of a very evil black witch, but the people
who said this were the same people that had heard the Abbey bells by
night, and so got laughed at for their pains.
On the outskirts of the fishing town lived a poor man with one daughter,
named Yolande, who was so beautiful and gracious that the richest farmer
in all that countryside had asked her hand in marriage, but being very
avaricious, he would not take her, fair as she was, without a dowry.
Yolande herself had no wish to marry the old man, for all his fat cattle
and his comfortable farmstead, for she loved his goatherd, a youth as
poor as herself.
Now it so happened that on midsummer eve Yolande’s father went fishing,
and as he passed the witch’s rock, that towered above him like a great
black house, he thought he heard the sound of muttering, but he rowed on
quickly, and paid no heed. He caught no fish that day, and cursed his
bad fortune as he hauled in his empty nets.
“If only Yolande might marry a rich man,” he said to himself, “I should
have no more need to work for my living,” and he made his way home with
a heavy heart. The night was hot and still, and the lights of the town
winked at him from the shore like gleaming, sleepless eyes. He had to
pass below the rock outside the harbour, and as his boat entered its
shadow, he again heard mutterings up above him, only this time he caught
the words: “Amen. Malo a nos libera sed, tentationem in inducas nos ne.”
At this the fisherman grew very much afraid, for he knew that this could
be no other than the black witch, who was saying the Pater Noster
backwards, as all black witches do.
“Stop a while, friend,” cried a hoarse voice from the rock, “I know your
trouble, I know all about your daughter and the rich farmer who has
asked her in marriage. What should you say to the old Abbey treasure as
a dower for your girl?”
The black witch sprang from the rock, dived, and came up again, and
before the fisherman could so much as cross himself or utter a cry, she
was sitting opposite to him in the boat, her hands and the lap of her
dress full of the Church’s treasure.
“Ha! ha!” she laughed, “you are wondering, friend, how it is that I can
handle these holy things? Have you forgotten that it is midsummer eve,
when evil spirits are abroad, and the devil has it all his own way? See,
would not these be a fitting dower for a princess?” And she held up to
him golden cross and golden crozier, rosaries of amber and pearl and
coral, censers studded thick with gems; one precious thing after another
she flashed before his eyes, fondling them with her wicked webbed hands,
as though the shining vessels had never held the oil and wine of the
altar.
“What answer do you give me?” cried the witch, tossing them back into
the sea, “shall your daughter wed or no? Speak man, and do not stare at
me with eyes like a dead fish! I tell you the treasure shall work her no
harm; I have not strung unanswered prayers on the rosaries, I cannot
curse what was once blessed, I have but made you an offer fair and
square, and the bargain is between you and me.”
“Give me time, give me time,” cried the fisherman, sorely tempted, yet
afraid to yield; “give me time, and let me pass.”
The witch leapt laughing from the boat, and sat looking at him from the
summit of her crag. “You shall have nine months,” she called out to him.
“Ten, give me ten,” pleaded the fisherman, for he knew that he had no
right to the treasure, and that his soul was at stake in this bargain.
“Ten, then,” replied the witch with a loud laugh, “but I promise you
they shall slip through your grasp as quickly as the ten pearls that lie
side by side on a rosary.”
On the morning of the day when the fisherman had to make his decision,
it happened that Yolande rose very early and went into the woods to
gather cowslips. Her father had lain awake all night, turning the whole
matter over and over in his mind as he had done for months past. The
winter gales had injured his boat, he was poorer than ever, and the
farmer was growing impatient. Yolande was the fairest girl in the
countryside, said he, but even she was not worth waiting for more than a
year.
Yolande herself had slept serenely, and as she went with her basket
deeper and deeper into the woods, she was glad with the gladness of the
April morning, for her thoughts were with the poor goatherd, and she
sang of love. In the heart of the forest lay a wide clearing called the
golden meadow, for every spring it was golden with cowslips, which grew
here in greater sweetness and profusion than in any other field. Yolande
picked and picked till her basket was full, and then sat down to refresh
herself with the bread and cheese and the flask of milk she had brought
with her.
She had no sooner begun eating than a little field mouse popped up out
of its hole, and watched her with bright fearless eyes. “You dear little
tame thing,” said she, “you shall have some of my bread, because you are
so venturesome for your size.” The mouse took a few crumbs of the bread
which she scattered for it, and disappeared down its hole.
Not long after, a robin hopped up to where she was sitting, and preened
its red breast with its beak. “You shall have your share too,” said
Yolande, “because you were moved with pity on Good Friday, and tried to
pluck away the nails, so that your little breast is now all stained with
red.” And since she had no more bread left, she threw a morsel of cheese
towards it. The robin pecked at the cheese, and then flew away, carrying
the rest in its beak.
Then Yolande poured out some milk into a pewter mug, and was about to
drink, when she noticed a white adder coiled at her feet. She gave a
stifled cry and drew back, but the creature did not stir.
“Poor thing,” said Yolande, “I wonder is it thirsty? I will give it some
of my milk, because it is so ugly, and people hate it, and never have a
good word for it.” The white adder drank the milk, and then coiled
itself round Yolande’s arm. At first she was afraid to move, but knowing
that she must not be late for the market where she hoped to sell her
cowslips, she at last got up and went back into the wood. She had not
gone far before she passed a spreading sycamore, beneath which stood a
small shrine. Here she placed some of her cowslips, and sprinkled
herself with water out of the holy water stoup. A few drops lighted upon
the adder, and in an instant it uncoiled itself, slipped to the ground,
and turned into a white witch.
“Do not be frightened, Yolande,” said she in a gentle voice, “I am a
white witch, and practise only white magic, which is helpful and not
hurtful to men. Listen to me; the black witch who dwells on the great
rock beyond the harbour tempted your father last midsummer eve to accept
at her hands the buried Abbey treasure, so that you might have a rich
dowry, and marry the farmer who has asked you to be his wife. To-day
your father has to make his decision. But I will give you a better
dowry, since you have given me food and drink, and are a good girl,
Yolande, worthy of my help. Come back with me a few steps into the wood.
Tell me, why do you suppose that this clearing is called the golden
meadow?”
“Is it not because of the yellow carpeting of cowslips?” asked the girl.
“No,” replied the witch, “there is another and an older reason.” She
made a movement in the air with her hand, and immediately the ground of
the meadow became transparent, so that Yolande looked through it as
through glass, and saw below it a mighty treasure rich in all manner of
jewels and trinkets, gold and silver, jade, ivory and crystal.
“This is the dwarf’s treasure,” continued the white witch, again making
the magic sign so that cowslips covered the ground as before, “but
generations ago, when man first came to live upon this coast, and built
the Abbey and the town, the dwarfs fled further inland towards the
mountains, to escape from human dwellings. And since they had more
treasure than they could carry with them, they buried this great hoard
here. I will give it to you as your dowry, so that your father may do no
hurt to his soul.”
Yolande fell at the witch’s feet to thank her, but when she had spoken
her thanks, she confessed with a blush that it was not the rich farmer
whom she loved, but his poor goatherd.
“I know that,” said the white witch smiling, “but this treasure of the
dwarfs is more than the old farmer’s riches multiplied a thousandfold,
so that your father will not stand in the way of your marriage with the
man you love. But you must make haste. Go to your father, and tell him
all that I have told you. Then when the black witch comes to market to
hear his answer, he will be able to say that he will have nothing to do
with her and her treasure.”
“How shall I know her?” asked Yolande.
“She will come to market,” said the witch, “riding on a donkey that has
no cross upon its back. Moreover, when she reaches the brook that flows
hard by the market-place, she will turn and go round by another way,
since it is not lawful for an evil spirit to cross running water. Take
these two straws, and when you and your father return home together, lay
them on the ground behind you, across and across—so—and then she will
not be able to bewitch you. If you should need my help again, call your
name to the sevenfold echo on the beach, and I shall hear it and come to
you.”
All fell out as the white witch had said, and great was the joy of the
fisherman on hearing that a rich dowry was to fall to his daughter
without his having to call the black witch to his help. He was glad of
the two straws, however, for when she rode up to him and heard his
answer, she was so angry that he quailed before her; but Yolande had
seen and spoken with her lover, and both were so happy at the thought of
their approaching marriage that they felt no fear.
But the black witch lost no time in setting about her revenge. She came
to the goatherd in the guise of a peddling gipsy, and offered him for
sale the picture of a beautiful maiden. Now over this picture the black
witch had pronounced a charm, so that the goatherd could see nothing in
it aright, but fancying it as fair as it seemed, fell so deeply in love
with the beautiful face that he straightway ceased to love Yolande. The
days went by; the goatherd did not keep his trysts with his betrothed,
and when he met her he was cold and careless. Yolande wondered and wept,
but could not solve the mystery.
At last she bethought her of the kindly white witch, so one day she went
alone to the beach, and raising her voice, she called out “Yolande!
Yolande!” in the hope that the white witch would befriend her a second
time. The echo from the rocks caught up her cry and passed it on, one
echo echoing another, till it reached the ears of the white witch, who
came flying towards the coast in the form of a gull. High above the old
Abbey she soared, on strong white wings, and flew to Yolande’s side.
“Tell me your trouble, child,” said she, assuming her own shape. So
Yolande told her all that had happened.
“It is black art,” said the white witch, “your enemy has bewitched your
lover. She has shown him the picture of a maiden whom he now loves
instead of you. Look, Yolande, here is a mirror; what do you see in it?”
“I see the reflection of a maiden’s face,” replied Yolande, “and she is
very fair, fairer than I.”
The white witch then turned the other side of the mirror towards her.
“Look again, Yolande,” said she, “what is it now that you see?”
“A hideous, terrible wolf’s face!” cried Yolande, shrinking back, “old
and grey, with grinning teeth, and a mouth red and gaping, and hungry
eyes.”
“It is the face of a were-wolf,” replied the white witch, “and we must
force the black witch to remove her spell from your lover.” She stood
and considered for a moment. “Wait for me here,” she said at last, and
took flight in the shape of a gull. As twilight fell she returned. “I
have found out,” said she, “that the black witch is brewing a charm for
which she requires many herbs, and none so much as myrrh. She will
therefore go to church this evening, in the hope of snatching a little
myrrh out of the censer as it swings. If only pure prayers mount with
the incense, she will be foiled in her attempt; but if a single vengeful
or presumptuous prayer is offered, the myrrh will be within her power to
take. You must slip into the Abbey after vespers have begun, and kneel
by the north door, taking with you some dragonwort. Now evil spirits can
only leave, just as they can only enter a church, on the north side,
which is the devil’s side, and as soon as the church is empty the black
witch will hurry to the north door and try to get out. But you must
stand within a circle of dragonwort, which will protect you from her,
and not allow her to pass till she has promised to remove her wicked
spells from your lover, and to molest you and yours no longer. She will
be the more ready to promise anything you may ask, as to-night is
Walpurgis Night, and she will be in haste to join her sister witches on
the summit of the Brocken.”
The lights were low in the Abbey church when Yolande came to kneel by
the north door. The censer swung to and fro, and the prayers of the
faithful rose heavenward with the incense. There were many holy prayers,
but one evil prayer rose with the rest. Straightway a magpie swooped
down from the rood-screen, and, snatching a grain of myrrh as the
acolyte swung the censer to right and to left, flew back to its perch.
When the service was over and the church empty, the magpie fluttered to
the north door, and with a hoarse cry turned into the black witch, who
stamped and raved, coaxed and cursed, but Yolande stood firm within her
sheltering circle of dragonwort, till the witch at last, afraid lest she
should miss the tryst on the Brocken, angrily promised to molest the
young couple no more. Then Yolande stood aside, and the black witch
hurried out of the church.
So Yolande and the goatherd were married, and at their wedding a
snow-white gull hovered about the porch of the Abbey, waiting till the
bridal procession should pass out, and when it came, the bird flew on
before it to Yolande’s new home, and perched upon the roof in token of
welcome. And that same night she fancied she heard the ringing of
joy-bells, far out at sea.
“Do you know, Queen Mab,” said Philomène, “though I was a little bit
afraid when I first heard about you, having thought of you all these
years as just a pussy, I was really more frightened when I heard about
the White Létiche. Sweet William told me that she would appear on All
Souls’ Eve, if I liked, but after that I don’t quite know what to do.
Will she speak to me?”
“No, certainly not,” replied Queen Mab, “a spirit never speaks first.
You must begin.”
[Illustration:
“THE FAIRIES HAD ALREADY BEGUN TO ASSEMBLE.”
_Page 198_
_The Fairy Latchkey._
]
“I suppose Sweet William will be keeping Samhain that evening,” said
Philomène, and her eyes grew wide with longing. “Oh, I do so wish I
could go with him, and yet I don’t want to miss the White Létiche.”
“Well, be a good child then,” said Queen Mab, “and go to sleep, and I
will see what I can do for you in the way of a dream, so that you may
know how All Fairies is kept. White magic is not much talked about, but
it has its uses.”
So Philomène slept, and in her dream she saw a wide, waste bog land,
studded with numberless little pools, each a round, bright mirror framed
in rushes, large enough to bathe the reflection of just one star, so
that the bog was called the Bog of Stars. The fairies had already begun
to assemble; elves and goblins, leprechauns, kobolds and dwarfs. There
were so many little men dressed in green, and so many elves in cocoon
silk, that from a distance Philomène failed to distinguish the twin
sisters or Sweet William, but she recognised Master Mustardseed in his
bright yellow coat, with a moss green cap upon his curls, for he, with
Moth and Cobweb and Peasblossom, surrounded the fairy queen.
“How glad I am,” thought Philomène, “that they have allowed him to go
back to Fairyland just for to-night. I am sure he would have hated to
spend Samhain all by himself in his cage.”
In her dream he nodded to her, and she nodded back and smiled. At first
the fairies danced, and mystic, fantastic dances they were; Philomène
tried to follow their mazes till her eyes ached, so rapidly, so airily,
did the groups dissolve and re-unite and dissolve again. And all the
while sweet joy-peals chimed from unseen foxglove bells. But when the
moon was near its setting, a herald blew upon a trumpet-daffodil, and
after that there was silence, and Puck was bidden by the queen to read
out the roll of the names of those who still kept their faith in the
fairies.
“The number lessens,” said Oberon, “but there is still a goodly company
left, and we have many secret believers.”
Then Puck began to read; name after name, name after name. Philomène was
already growing confused and wearied when her own name rang out, clear
and unexpected, “Philomène Isolde.”
She sat up in bed, dazed and wondering, but no one had called her. The
firelight was playing upon Joan of Arc’s picture, and the red glare
brightened and broadened among the branches of the oak-tree. Queen Mab
lay curled up at the foot of the bed, but she seemed to be fast asleep,
so Philomène turned on her side and fell fast asleep also, and this time
her sleep was deep and sound, and uncoloured by dreams.