would shout it at the top of his voice, but when she was sleepy he would
only croon it until her eyelids began to drop.
Of course Cuthbert couldn't always be bothered to go up the river with
the girls, and on the same evening that Uncle Joe told Marian about the
apples he went by himself to have a bathe in a big pool called
Kingfisher Pool. It was still only May, so that the water was cold, but
the air above it was warm and still, and he was lying on the bank
without anything on, when he suddenly heard a splash and a gurgling cry.
He sat bolt upright, and then, looking across the pool, he saw a little
form struggling in the deep water, and rolling over in it, head
downward, and then beginning to slip out of sight. It was Liz, with all
her clothes on. She had evidently slipped down the steep bank, and if
Cuthbert couldn't save her she would be sure to drown, because Beardy
Ned was nowhere in sight.
It was so awful to see her that at first Cuthbert couldn't move; but a
moment later he was in the water and swimming across the pool as fast as
he could, and faster than he had ever swum before. He prayed to God that
he might be in time. The pool had never looked so wide. But at last he
had swum across it and made a grab at a piece of Liz's frock just under
the surface. He pulled this hard, and tried to go on swimming with his
other arm and both legs; and then it was only a second or two before his
toes touched the bottom of the river, and he was able to stand up and
lift her out of the pool.
She was quite pale, and the water was pouring from her mouth, and her
eyes were staring as if they couldn't see anything. He scrambled up the
bank, grazing his knees, and then she began to choke and take deep
breaths. Just then, too, Beardy Ned came crashing through the reeds with
great strides, for Cuthbert had shouted as loud as he could just before
he plunged into the pool. Ned's face had turned grey, and there was a
look in his eyes that made Cuthbert feel almost frightened. But when he
saw Liz sitting up and crying he gave a shout and caught her in his
arms. Then he gripped Cuthbert by the wrist, and Cuthbert could feel
that he was shaking all over; and then Beardy Ned began to cry too, so
that Cuthbert had to look the other way. But next moment both he and Liz
were laughing, and Cuthbert swam back again to put on his clothes; and
then he crossed the river upon a plank lower down, where he found Beardy
Ned and Liz waiting for him.
Beardy Ned took him by the shoulder.
"Come along," he said, "and have supper with us."
He was carrying Liz, and sticking out of one of his pockets Cuthbert
could see the tails of a brace of trout; and presently they came to a
bend of the stream, where the bank was high and there was a little
beach. From the top of the bank a great tree had fallen, with its roots
sticking up in the air, and under the trunk there was just room enough
for Beardy Ned and Liz to sleep. He had put a couple of blankets there
and an old waterproof, and standing on the beach were a cup and kettle;
and soon he had made a fire with some dry sticks, and was showing
Cuthbert how to cook trout.
It was beginning to get dark now, and the stars were shining, and the
flames of the fire made the river look like ink. But they were so
sheltered under the high bank that they might almost have been at home.
They had trout for supper, and drank tea, and Liz, who was almost
asleep, had a cup of milk; and then they ate biscuits, and jam out of a
pot, and Beardy Ned filled his pipe. He had made Liz take off her wet
clothes, of course, and these were hanging from sticks on either side of
the fire, and he had wrapped her in a blanket, and soon she was fast
asleep, lying on his knees as he sat and smoked.
He seemed to be thinking a lot, but at last he looked at Cuthbert.
"You've saved my little girl's life," he said, "and I can never pay you
back. But I'll show you a secret that no one else in the whole world
knows."
Cuthbert liked secrets, so he was rather pleased. But Beardy Ned changed
the subject.
"It was just here," he said, "just where we're sitting, that I first saw
my Liz--I mean her mother. Perhaps, in a manner of speaking, it was
where I first saw this one too, but that's neither here nor there. She
was just nineteen. She'd been paddling in the stream. I called out to
her, and she turned and looked at me. She was in an old frock, but she
looked quite the lady. Her eyes was dark, and she was smiling."
He moved his head a little.
"There goes a fox," he said.
He sucked his pipe for a moment in silence. The sound of the fire was
like somebody talking to them. But the sound of the river was like
something talking to itself.
Then Beardy Ned felt in his pocket and pulled out the end of a candle.
It looked like an ordinary candle, with an ordinary wick, and it was
just about an inch long.
"This was give me," he said, "by an old feller--James Parkins, that was
his name--and there's not another like it in the whole world, and there
never won't be again."
Beardy Ned held it in the palm of his hand, as though he were weighing
it, while he looked at Cuthbert.
"Have you ever wondered," he said, "where candles goes to--where they
goes to when they goes out?"
"No, I don't think so," said Cuthbert. "Where _do_ they go to?"
Liz stirred a little, and Beardy Ned bent over her.
"Well, I'll tell you," he said. "They goes into the In-between Land--the
place as is in between everything you can see. How do I know? Because
I've been there. Because James Parkins showed me how."
"That's very interesting," said Cuthbert politely, but Beardy Ned didn't
seem to hear.
"The trouble is, you see," Beardy Ned continued, "that candles, when
they goes out, can't take people with them. But James Parkins, he'd
found a candle that could take a person with it, and this is the candle.
When he first gave it me, two year ago, it was about eight inches long.
But I've used it a lot, and after you've blowed it out, and it's taken
you with it, it goes on burning. When you come back, it's an inch
shorter--an inch shorter every time. And this here bit is the last bit
as'll ever take anyone to In-between Land."
He gave it to Cuthbert.
"Do you want to go there?" he said. "You've saved my little girl's life,
and you've only to say the word."
"But it's the last bit," said Cuthbert.
"Never mind. I know what's there. That's the chief thing."
"Is it quite safe?" asked Cuthbert. "It seems rather queer."
"I'll tell you what it's like," said Beardy Ned. "It's like a dream. Or
rather it's not like a dream so much as waking up from a dream. You sees
the trees and things, all kind of misty, and the houses in the towns,
and the people in the houses. And you sees 'em quarrelling and the like,
and grieving, and you wants to tell 'em as it's only a dream. You wants
to tell 'em they're just going to wake up. That's what it seems like in
In-between Land."
Liz stirred again, and he shifted her on his knees a little.
"You see, in a manner of speaking," he went on, "there ain't no time
there, not as we reckons time. But once you've been there--well, you'll
see for yourself if you'd like to go."
Cuthbert held out the candle.
"Yes, I'd like to," he said. "It would be rather exciting."
Beardy Ned bent forward and took a stick from the fire. He lit the end
of the candle between Cuthbert's fingers.
"Now blow it out," he said, "and you'll go out with it. It'll be all
right. You'll be back in a tick."
Cuthbert's hand was shaking a little, but he blew out the candle, and
then, for a moment, he saw nothing at all. But he felt something. He
felt as if he'd been asleep for ever and ever and had suddenly opened
his eyes. He felt as if he could do anything, he was so strong. He felt
as if he could jump over the highest star. Toothache, and school, and
taking medicine--they all seemed too stupid even to bother about. He
felt like a prisoner just set free. He knew that he was really free, and
that nothing could ever hurt him. Then he began to see things--the fire
of sticks, the stream beyond, and the dusky meadows. But they looked
just like dream-sticks, and a dream-fire, and there were real things
beyond them whose names he didn't know. Then he looked round and saw
Beardy Ned with little Liz upon his knees; and it was just then that he
saw something else that was perhaps the most wonderful thing of all. For
beside Beardy Ned stood a girl of nineteen, who had been paddling in the
stream. She was in an old frock, but she looked quite the lady, and her
eyes were dark, and she was smiling.
Then she was gone. The candle had burnt away. Cuthbert was back again in
the ordinary world. He saw Beardy Ned looking at him gravely.
"Now you know," he said, "why I'm happy."
Cuthbert rose to his feet.
"I must be going home," he said. "They'll be wondering where I've been."
Beardy Ned nodded.
"Well, good night," he said.
"Good night," said Cuthbert.
He climbed the bank.
But on the top of the bank he turned round for a moment and looked down
again at Beardy Ned. He was still sitting there with Liz on his knees,
and Cuthbert saw him stoop and give her a kiss. Then he began to sing
very softly the queer song that he had made up:
The wickedest girl there was,
The wickedest girl there is,
The wickedest girl there ever will be
Is my young daughter Liz.
In between the things we know,
Touch and handle, taste and see,
Lies the land where lovers go
At their life's end quietly.
There, in that untroubled place,
There, with eyes amused, they scan,
Cradled still in time and space,
This, the infant world of man.
THE MAGIC SONG
[Illustration: The Magic Song]
VI
THE MAGIC SONG
About a month after Cuthbert had been lucky enough to save Beardy Ned's
little girl, the weather grew so hot that all the people in the town
became rather discontented. It is always easier for people in towns to
become discontented than it is for other people, because instead of
fields to walk on they have only pavements; and instead of hills to look
at they have only chimneys; and instead of bean-flowers to smell they
have only dust-bins and the stale air that trickles down the streets. So
the men in the ironworks were discontented because they thought that the
men who owned the ironworks didn't give them enough money; and the men
in the cotton-mills were discontented because they thought that the men
who owned the cotton-mills made them work too hard; and the girls in Mr
Joseph's refreshment shops thought him a cruel old beast; and the
policemen thought that nobody loved them.
Also, the men who owned the ironworks thought that their men were
greedy; and the men who owned the cotton-mills were afraid of becoming
poor; and Mr Joseph was feeling depressed; and the policemen still
thought that nobody loved them. Even dear Miss Plum, the head of the
school, had a frown on her forehead, and the French mistress slapped
Doris so hard that she left a red mark on Doris's cheek. Of course Doris
was very angry about it, and her little brothers wanted to know exactly
where the mark was. But it had faded away by the time she arrived home,
and her mother only said that it had probably served her right. Doris
was rather fond, you see, of cheeking the French mistress, and asking
her silly questions to make the other girls laugh; and since she had had
her hair bobbed the week before, she was even cheekier than usual.
Doris, as you may remember, lived in John Street, which was the next
street to Peter Street, where Marian and Cuthbert lived. But the houses
in it were smaller than the houses in Peter Street, and most of the
people in them were rather poor. Doris's mother was poor, because
Doris's daddy was dead, and Doris had five little brothers--Teddy and
George, who were the twins, and Jimmy and Jocko and Christopher Mark.
They were much too poor to be able to have a maid, and so Doris's mother
had to do most of the work. She had to be cook and housemaid and nurse
and governess and Mummy darling all in one. Now that Doris was ten she
was able to help her mother sometimes, and she used to take Christopher
Mark out in his push-cart; and since she had been to the Arctic Circle
with Cuthbert and Captain Jeremy her mother had begun to lean upon her a
little more.
But oh, it was hot! The people in the streets lagged along with pale
faces. They talked about the trouble in the ironworks, and the trouble
in the cotton-mills, and what would Mr Joseph do if his girls went on
strike, and didn't the policemen look ill-tempered? And Miss Plum
couldn't make her accounts come right; and the French mistress went home
to her boarding-house; and there she told everybody that she was going
to be ill, and that the ham was tepid and the milk-pudding sour.
Even in John Street it was almost as bad, though it was a quiet street
with a field at the other end of it. For the sun poured right into it,
so that there wasn't any shade, and the stones of the pavement shone
like martyrs, and the drains at Number Fifteen were out of order, and
there was half a haddock lying in the middle of the road. So Doris went
into the garden when they had all finished tea, but it was as hot in the
garden as it was anywhere else; and the lady next door was grumbling to
the lady beyond about one of her husband's collars that had been spoilt
in the wash. Doris played about a bit and made Jocko cry, because he was
silly and wanted to read a book; and then she went round to Peter Street
to see Cuthbert and Marian, and found that they had gone into the
country to see their Uncle Joe.
So she came back and teased the twins, and at last it was time to go to
bed; and it was almost as hot after the sun had gone down as it had been
in the middle of the day. She slept in the same room with Jimmy and
Jocko, and they all turned and twisted and kicked off their bedclothes;
and as the daylight faded the moonlight grew, so that it was past ten
before they fell asleep. That was when their mother came and kissed
them, and she was so tired that she could hardly stand; and then she
went to bed and fell asleep too, and the church clock struck eleven
times. Happy was Beardy Ned then, sleeping by the stream, with little
Liz and his beautiful secret; and happy was Gwendolen in her farmhouse
bedroom smelling of lavender and last year's apples. But sorrowful and
sticky were the people of the town, and troubled were their slumbers.
Then Doris sat up suddenly, for out in the street was the biggest din
that she had ever heard. She jumped from her bed and ran to the window,
and there she saw nine of the strangest-looking people. There was a big
sailor with a concertina, and a stout lady with a tambourine, and a
soldier with a pair of cymbals, and an elderly greengrocer, who was very
thin. They were standing in a row, and sitting on the ground behind them
were five men, each with a drum. Doris leaned out, and when they saw her
they all sang louder than ever; but the funny thing was that nobody else
in the whole street seemed to hear them. The blinds were all down, the
moonlight lay on the road, and there wasn't a head at anybody's window.
When Doris first listened they had been singing about the lady, but now
they began to sing about the sailor, and the sailor stepped forward,
playing his concertina, and singing the loudest of them all. He had a
tenor voice with a great smack in it, like the smack of a wave against a
jetty, and when he sang softly without taking a breath it was like water
running through seaweed. The soldier sang bass, like a motor-lorry in a
hurry to get home over a rough road, and the stout lady sang soprano,
and the elderly greengrocer only squeaked. This is what they sang:
Here's a sailor come home from the Guineas,
His face is as black as a leaf,
His eyes are like forests of darkness,
His heart is a hotbed of grief,
His arms are like roots of the jungle,
He has ladies tattooed on his skin,
And his clothes smell of cinnamon--cardamom--tar.
Oh, mother, must I let him in?
Bang! Bang! [went the drums],
Oh, mother, must I let him in?
Then there was a chorus and the queerest sort of dance, and it all
seemed somehow to be just wrong; and when they stopped and looked up at
her window Doris really didn't know what to make of them. Then the
sailor coughed, and scratched the back of his head, and said, "Beg
pardon, miss, but are you ten years old?"
Doris said that she was.
"And have you five brothers younger than yourself?"
Doris said that she had.
"And have you five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot?"
Doris laughed and said that they could come and count them if they
didn't believe her word.
They looked at one another with a peculiar expression, while the five
drummers stared at the ground; and then the stout lady asked her if she
would come downstairs and let them count her eyelashes.
"Why do you want to count my eyelashes?" asked Doris.
"It's most important," said the greengrocer.
"If you'll come downstairs," said the soldier, "we shall be most happy
to tell you why."
Doris pulled her head in and glanced round the bedroom. Jimmy and Jocko
were still fast asleep. She put on her dressing-gown, but not her
slippers, in case they should want to count her toes. Then she opened
the door and ran softly downstairs, and drew back the bolts, and went
into the street.
"Wouldn't it be better," said the stout lady, "if we went to a quieter
place?"
"Well, there's a field," said Doris, "at the end of the street. Of
course, we might go along there."
"You're sure you're not frightened?" asked the sailor.
The five drummers still stared at the ground.
"Not very much," said Doris. "You aren't going to hurt me, are you?"
"God forbid!" said the elderly greengrocer.
So they went up the street to the field at the end, and there they all
crouched under the hedge; and the sailor, whose name was Lancelot, did
most of the talking, because he was the biggest.
"You see, we've all lost something," he said, "so we went to see an old
man as lives in the middle of Brazil. He's the wisest old geezer as ever
lived, and we all of us told him what we had lost. This here lady has
lost her husband and has been trying to find him for years and years;
and this here soldier has lost his character and can't find a general to
give him a job; and this here greengrocer has lost his appetite and is
getting thinner and thinner; and as for me, I've lost my temper and
can't find a ship to sail in."
"That's very sad," said Doris. "And what have these drummers lost?"
"Their senses," said Lancelot. "Each of these here drummers has been and
lost one of his senses. The first can't see, and the second can't hear,
and the third can't smell, and the fourth can't taste, and the fifth
can't feel."
"I see," said Doris. "And what did the old man tell you?"
"Well," said Lancelot, "that's just what I'm coming to. He told us he'd
thought of a magic song. There was four verses to it, and the words
didn't matter, he said, so long as they was each sung by somebody as had
lost something. After each verse there was a chorus, and in between the
verses there was a dance. When we'd told him our troubles, he made up
some words for us, and then he lent us these here drummers. But what
you've got to find, he said, is a little girl as can play this here
flute, for until you've found her you can sing as loud as you like, but
you won't sing right, and nobody won't hear you. But when you've found
her--that's what the old man said--she'll be able to blow this here
flute, for this here flute can play by itself if you find the right
little girl to blow it. Well, of course we was interested, so we asked
him to go on, and he said that it would play for just about an hour, and
by the end of that time, he said, it would have settled all our troubles
and all the troubles of the people as heard it. Only, first of all, he
said, you must find the right little girl, and the time must be
midnight, and the moon must be full."
"Dear me!" said Doris, "that sounds rather odd."
"That's what _we_ thought," said the stout lady.
"Well," said Lancelot, "naturally we asked him where this here girl was
to be found. But he shook his head, and he said as he didn't know, and
that all we could do was to go and look for her. You must travel about,
he said, and sing this here music, but the only people as'll be able to
hear you will be little girls twice five years old, with five brothers
younger than theirselves, and with five fingers on each hand, and five
toes on each foot. And of them, he says, the only little girl as'll be
able to play this here flute must have a hundred and five eyelashes on
her right upper eyelid."
He felt in his pocket and pulled out a magnifying glass.
"So that's why we want to count your eyelashes."
They looked at her anxiously, all except the drummers, and they were
still looking at the ground.
"All right," said Doris, "count away. I'm sure I don't know how many
I've got."
She closed her eyes, and they stared through the magnifying glass, and
began to count her right upper eyelashes. She became quite excited as
they went on.
"A hundred and three," they said, "a hundred and four, a hundred and
five," and then they gave a great shout.
"You're the one," they cried, "you're the very one! You've exactly a
hundred and five!"
She opened her eyes again and saw them dancing about.
"Where's the flute?" she asked.
The soldier gave it to her.
"And the moon's full," said the greengrocer, "and it's a quarter to
twelve. Perhaps we shall soon find my appetite."
"And my character," said the soldier.
"And my husband," said the stout lady.
"And my temper," said Lancelot.
But the drummers had lost hope, and still stared at the ground.
"Now," said Lancelot, "we'd better go to the market-place. This here
little girl will show us the way. And when the clocks have struck twelve
we'll sing our song and see what happens."
So they went to the market-place, where the Town Hall was, and where all
the tram-lines criss-crossed; and the policeman on duty outside the Bank
stared at them sleepily, but didn't say anything. There were also two
dustmen with a cart clearing up rubbish and bits of newspaper, and a
water-man watering the asphalt, and some postmen outside the Post Office
loading a mail-van. Then the deep bell in the old abbey tower began to
toll the hour of midnight, and the moon looked down on them with her
silver face, and they stood in a row and began their song.
Doris's hands were shaky, as you can imagine, when she lifted the flute
to her lips. But when she began to blow, the flute began to play; and
oh, the difference it made to the song! For it was now a song with the
maddest and sweetest and most beguiling melody that anybody in the world
had ever imagined, or ever imagined that anybody could imagine. It began
very softly, like a boy whistling, and the cracking of sticks in a deep
wood, and then it sounded like birds singing, and water falling, and
ripe fruit dropping from trees. Then it grew louder, until it sounded
like thunder and sea-waves shattering on the beach; and then it grew
softer again, like leaves rustling, and crickets chirping in the grass.
Before the stout lady had sung half the first verse, Doris could hardly
stand still enough to play the flute. She could scarcely believe that it
was possible for anybody in the world to feel so happy. She saw the
policeman running toward them, and the postmen, and the man from the
water-cart; and she saw the windows above the shops in the market-place
thrown up, and people looking out. Then came the chorus, like the
pealing of great bells, and the policeman and the postmen began to join
in, and people in their nightdresses and pyjamas came running out of
their front doors, singing at the tops of their voices.
Before the chorus was over there were nearly a hundred people singing
and shouting and beating time, and the cymbals were clashing, and the
concertina was groaning, and the five drummers were hitting like mad.
But it was the flute, it was Doris's flute, that soared up and up and
led the whole music; and when the dance came, it was the magic of
Doris's flute that stole into the feet of all who heard it.