He sat in a corner of the great fireplace, Tam, who came indoors upon
nights like these, lying at his feet. "Drew," said Randall, "tell them
about that night in France! He's got a curious story. He won't tell it
to everybody. But I don't know--somehow we're all at home here." His
quick song went on. "You see, my folk and Drew's are English. We're just
a generation from fields and things that we've heard about all our
lives. So when England went in, we thought we'd better go over, and we
did. We were in the same company, and this was before Verdun. Go on,
now, Drew!"
Drew began at once, without prelude, his eyes upon the blind man. "It
was something that happened to me. Sometimes I think that it was a
dream, and then I know that it wasn't. I'm more and more certain as time
goes on that it wasn't. I've got a kind of feeling about Reality, that
we are like swallows skimming it. I suppose that now and then a swallow
tumbles into it. Well, it was a big, dark wood, fairly early in the war.
A detachment, sent we did not know by whom nor for what, moved through
it from one station to another. I was second lieutenant. Well, there
came news of a trap, and most of us turned off in a hurry, out of that
wood. But--I don't to this day know how it was--as many as twenty were
away from the rest, sent to find out something, somewhere. It was night,
and there was no path. We got the warning, too, and we swung round and
tried to get back to the main body. There came a spattering of shot.
There were men besides ourselves in that wood. They rose like partridges
and struck like hawks. We struck back. There was fighting. Something
came down on my head like a falling tree. I remember that I thought it
was a falling tree. Then everything went black, and it seemed both a
long time and a short time till dawn.
"It came at last, dawn. I sat up, and it had been a falling tree. My
forehead had an aching lump and a gash, but luckily just a branch had
struck me and I had rolled clear. It was a very old oak, brought down
by the high wind. Upon the branch beside me was growing mistletoe. I
wouldn't touch it, for I thought, 'It is not for me to touch it, but
surely it saved my life!' There was gray light, and one red streak far
down the forest where, after a time, would be the sun. And then I
remembered that it was Lutwyn who had saved my life, crying out, and
pushing me away, where I had thrown myself down for one moment's rest. I
looked beyond the mistletoe and I saw that the tree had caught and
pinned down a man. I crept on hands and knees, for I was dizzy yet, and
I found Lutwyn. He lay pale and twitching, his leg and part of his body
under the trunk of the oak. It was very still and lonely in the forest,
and the first cold light made me shiver, and I was afraid of the
mistletoe, so near. I got Lutwyn from under the tree, and it took all my
strength to do it. The spring that we called Red Deer was hardly a spear
throw away. I had on a cap of otter skin, and I filled this with water
and brought it back to Lutwyn. When I had dashed it over his face and
put it between his lips, he sighed, and came to himself, opening his
eyes and trying to sit up. He said, 'I thought it would catch you, and I
tried to thrust you out of its way--'
"I said: 'Are you badly hurt? Can you walk?'
"He tried, but he could only drag himself a little way, holding by a
branch of the tree. The light had grown stronger, the red line down the
forest was a red splash. We were both thinking of Guthlac and his men,
who were after us because, being outlaws, we had set upon and stopped a
bullock wagon and helped ourselves. We had strong belief that when they
found us they would hang us. We had no great start of them.
"Lutwyn said: 'You go on, Oswy! I'll make myself at home here, by the
mistletoe.'
"That couldn't be. I couldn't carry him. He was, if anything, a little
taller and larger than I. He tried again to move, but it was not his leg
alone; his body had been hurt, terribly hurt, I now saw. He could not
make a step. It was I who drew him back to the tree. He settled down
into the hollow made by the trunk and a bough, and I looked at his
hurts, but could do little for them. I saw that they were filled with
danger. The mistletoe grew so near him. I looked at it, and I wished it
would heal. Lutwyn said: 'Now you go on, Oswy! I don't want you to be
hanged.' I said, 'Save your breath!' and sat down beside him. We rested
side by side against the tree, and he said that he was not in pain, but
only now and then drowsy. He was very clear in his mind and wanted to
talk. I listened for Guthlac and his men, and looked at the mistletoe.
The sun was up now and it was growing gold--the mistletoe--a great bunch
of it. I did not hear Guthlac. It was likely to be some time before
they found us, having to wait till day to see our track. Now and then I
felt Guthlac's rope around my neck. And then I looked at the mistletoe,
and it seemed to be growing by Woden's chair. Then Lutwyn came awake
again and we talked. We were twin brothers. We talked of when we were
boys, and of our mother, and Lutwyn the Strong, our father, and of
places we had seen and the earth we had trod. The Earth that was us, we
thought, springing up in us all toward Father Sun. And all the wrong
that we had done went away, and the mistletoe grew more golden. He
drowsed away for longer and longer times.
"Far away I heard Guthlac's horn. It blew, and another answered. They
had found our track and were drawing together. Lutwyn waked, and heard
it, too. 'But there's another horn for me,' he said. 'Don't you hear
that one?' He had slipped from the hollow of the oak and his head was on
my knee. The horn blew louder and nearer. The mistletoe was all golden.
I could feel Guthlac's rope around my neck. But I was glad they would
not hang Lutwyn. He was dead.
"The horn blew louder in the wood. I heard them shouting. The mistletoe
was burning gold. I said, 'Woden, Woden! we be brothers, Lutwyn and me!'
They broke upon us, shouting, and all went black--"
Drew stopped speaking. He sat bent over, looking at the fire. Putting
down a hand he stroked Tam. Straightening himself, he looked at Linden
and Marget. "All that was actual," he said. "Just as actual, just as
real, just as day and night and earthly and conscious as this room and
the fire and we six and the dog!"