Mr. Strong’nth’arm lay ill. It was just his luck. For weeks he had been
kicking his heels about the workshop, cursing Fate for not sending
him a job. And Fate--the incorrigible joker that she is--had knocked
at his door ten days ago with an order that he reckoned would keep
him going for a month, and then a week later had struck him down with
pleurisy. They told him that if he kept quiet and didn’t rave and fling
his arms about, sending the bedclothes half a dozen times a day on to
the floor, he would soon get well. But what was the good of everybody
talking? What was to become of them? This job, satisfactorily completed
and sent home, would have led to others--would have started him on his
feet again. Now it would be taken away from him and sent elsewhere to
be finished. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm made pilgrimages to the great house,
returning with hot-house grapes. Mrs. Newt came with a basket. Both she
and her husband would like to have done more; but times were bad. Even
believers were in difficulty. Mrs. Newt suggested resignation.
It was the fourth morning after Mr. Strong’nth’arm’s seizure, Anthony,
putting on for warmth his father’s overcoat, had crept down in the
faint dawn to light the kitchen fire, his mother being busy in the
bedroom. He had just succeeded, and a little blaze leapt up and threw
fantastic shadows on the whitewashed walls. Looking round, he saw the
shape of a squat hobgoblin with a tiny head. He moved his arms, and
immediately the hobgoblin responded with a gigantic gesture of delight.
From the fireplace, now behind him, there came a cheerful crackling
sound; it was just the noise that a merry old witch would make when
laughing. The child, holding high the skirts of his long coat, began
to dance; and the hobgoblin’s legs were going like mad. Suddenly the
door opened and there stood the oddest of figures. He was short and
bowlegged and had a big beard. He wore a peaked cap, and over his
shoulder he carried a bundle hooked on to a stick. Without a doubt
’twas the King of the Gnomes. He flung down his bundle and stretched
out his hands. The child ran towards him. Lord how he danced! His
little bow legs moved like lightning and his arms were so strong he
could toss little Anthony up with one hand and catch him again with the
other. The little bright flame stretched up higher and higher as if
the better to see the fun. The merry old witch laughed louder. And the
shadows on the wall got so excited that they tumbled down flat on the
ceiling.
His mother called from above to know if the kettle was boiling; and at
that the little flame turned pale and disappeared. The merry old witch
was as quiet as a mouse. The shadows ran up the chimney and the light
came in at the door.
Anthony didn’t answer his mother. He was rubbing his eyes. He thought
he must still be in bed. It was the King of the Gnomes that called up
the stairs to say that the kettle would be boiling in five minutes.
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, hearing a strange voice, came down as she was. She
found her son Anthony distraught and still rubbing his eyes. The King
of the Gnomes was pushing carefully selected pieces of wood through
the bars of the grate and blowing them with his mouth. He held one of
his enormous hands in front of his golden beard to save it from being
singed. He knew Mrs. Strong’nth’arm quite well and shook hands with
her. She looked at him as if she had seen him before--somewhere, some
time, or else had heard him described; she wasn’t sure which. She
seemed to be glad to see him without knowing why. At first she was a
bit afraid of him. But that was all gone before the tea was ready.
Anthony watched his mother with astonishment. She was one of those
bustling, restless women, constitutionally unable to keep still for a
minute. Something had bewitched her. She stood with her hands folded
and wasn’t even talking. She might have been a visitor. It was the King
of the Gnomes that made the tea and cut the bread and butter. He seemed
to know where everything was. The fire was burning brightly. As a rule
it was the devil to get going. This morning it had met its master. He
passed Mrs. Strong’nth’arm and went upstairs with the tray and still as
if in a dream she followed him.
Anthony crept to the bottom of the stairs and listened. The King of the
Gnomes was talking to his father. He had a tremendously deep voice.
Just the voice one would expect from a gentleman who lived always
underground. Anthony could feel the vibrations of it underneath his
feet. Compared with it, the voices of his father and his mother sounded
like the chorus of the little terriers when old Simon was giving tongue.
And suddenly there happened a great wonder. His mother laughed. Never
before that he could remember had he heard his mother laugh. Feeling
that strange things were in the wind, he crept out into the yard and
washed himself under the pump.
Three weeks the King of the Gnomes dwelt with them. Every morning he
and Anthony would go into the workshop. The furnace would be still
aglow with the embers of the night before. Of course the King of the
Gnomes would be at home with a forge and an anvil. But even so, Anthony
would marvel at his dexterity and strength. The great sinewy hands,
that to save time or to make a neater finish would often bend the metal
to its shape without the help of other tools, could coax to their
place the smallest screws, fix to a hair’s breadth the most delicate
adjustments. Of course he never let on that he was the King of the
Gnomes. Only the child knew that; and a warning hairy finger, or a wink
of his laughing blue eye would caution Anthony not to give away the
secret when third parties were around.
He never went out. When not in the workshop he was busy about the
house. Of course, when you come to think of it, there are no lady
gnomes, so that accounted for his being equally apt at woman’s work.
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm had little else to do but to nurse her husband;
and even at that he would take his turn when she went marketing; and
of evenings, while talking, he would help her with her darning. There
seemed to be nothing those great hands could not do.
Nobody knew of his coming. His mother had taken Anthony aside on the
first morning and had impressed upon him that he was not to say a word.
But he would not, even if she had not told him; for if you did the King
of the Gnomes at once vanished underground. It was not till days after
he was gone that Mrs. Strong’nth’arm mentioned his visit, and then only
to Mrs. Plumberry under oath of secrecy.
Mrs. Plumberry, being so often where there was sorrow, had met him once
herself. Wandering Peter the country folk called him. Mrs. Plumberry
marvelled at his having visited the Strong’nth’arms. It was rarely that
he came into towns. He must have heard of their trouble. He had ways of
his own of finding out where he was wanted. At lambing time, when the
snow lay deep upon the hills, they had learnt to listen for his cheery
whistling drawing nearer through the darkness. He might have been a
shepherd all his life. He would take the writhing ewes in his two big
hands, and at his touch they would cease their groaning. And when in
some lonely cottage man or child lay sick, and there was none to help,
the good wife would remember stories she had heard and, slipping out
beyond the hedge, would peer with straining eyes into the night. And
for sure and certain--so the legend ran--there would come to her the
sound of footsteps through the heather and Wandering Peter would emerge
out of the shadows and would greet her. There he would stay till there
was no longer need of him, doctoring and nursing, or taking the good
man’s place at the plough. He would take no wage beyond his food and
lodging. At his departure he would ask for a day’s rations to put into
his bundle, and from those who might have it to spare an old coat or a
pair of boots not altogether past the mending.
Where he had his dwelling none knew, but lost folk upon the moors,
when overtaken by the darkness, would call to him; and then, so it was
said, he would suddenly appear and put them on their way. They told of
an old curmudgeon who, but for a snarling cur as savage as himself,
lived alone in a shanty among the rocks. A venomous, blasphemous old
scoundrel. The country people feared and hated him. They said he had
the evil eye, and when a cow died in the calfing or a sow ate her
young, the curses would be deep and bitter against old Michael--old
Nick, as they termed him--of the quarry.
One night, poaching, old Michael stumbled and fell to the bottom of a
rocky chasm. He lay there with a broken leg and the blood flowing from
a wound in his head. His cries came back to him from the rocks, and his
only hope was in his dog. It had gone to seek help he knew, for they
cared for one another in their snarling way, these two. But what could
the brute do? His dog was known and hated as far as Mike himself. It
would be stoned from every door. None would follow it to rescue him. He
cursed it for a fool and his eyes closed.
When he opened them Wandering Peter was lifting him up in his strong
arms. The dog had not wasted his voice upon the neighbours. No cottage
or farm had been wakened by his barking. It was Wandering Peter he had
sought.
There was a girl who had “got herself into trouble,” as the saying is,
and had been turned out of her place. Not knowing where else to go she
had returned home, though she guessed her greeting would be cruel, for
her father was a hard, stern man and had always been proud of his good
name. She had climbed slowly the long road across the wolds, and the
short winter’s day was fading when she reached the farm. As she feared,
he had slammed the door in her face, and creeping away, she had lain
down in the woods thinking to die.
Her father had watched her from the house. Through the night he had
struggled with himself, and towards morning had lighted the lantern and
gone in search of her. But she had disappeared.
It was a strange story that she told when, weeks later, she reappeared
with her child at her breast. She said that Christ had come to her.
He had golden hair and a golden beard, but she knew him to be Christ
because of his kind eyes. He had lifted her up as though she had been
a child; and, warm against his breast, he had carried her through the
night till they came to a dwelling place among rocks. There he had laid
her down upon a bed of soft dry moss, and there the child had been
born, Christ tending her with hands so gentle she had felt no pain. She
did not know that she had been there for over a month. To her it had
seemed but a little time. All she could tell was that she had been very
happy and had wanted for nothing and that he had told her “beautiful
things.” One day he told her that all was well now with her and the
child and that her father longed for her. And that night he had carried
her and the child in his arms; and in the morning they came to the edge
of the wood from where she could see the farm. And there Christ had
blessed her and the child and left her. And her father had come across
the fields to meet her.
They explained to her it was not Christ who had found her. It must
have been Wandering Peter. But she never believed them. Later, when
Anthony had grown into boyhood, he met her one day on the moors. Her
son had gone abroad and for many years he had not written. But she was
sure that it was well with him. A white-haired, sweet-faced woman. Not
quite “all there” in many ways, it was hinted, and yet with a gift
for teaching. She had her daily round among the far-off cottages and
scattered hamlets. The children looked forward to her coming. She told
them wonderful stories, so they said.
She must have learnt the trick from Wandering Peter, Anthony thought.
He remembered how, seated cross-legged upon the bench, he had listened
while Peter, when not hammering or filing, had poured forth his endless
stories of birds and beasts, of little creeping things and their
strange ways, of the life of the deep waters, of far-off lands and
other worlds, of the brave things and the sad things that happened long
ago. It was from Peter that Anthony first heard the story of Saint
Aldys.
Once upon a time, where Millsborough stands today were woods and
pleasant pastures. The winding Wyndbeck, now flowing black and
sluggish through long dark echoing tunnels past slimy walls and
wharves, was then a silvery stream splashing and foaming among
tree-crowned rocks and mossy boulders. Where now tall chimneys belch
their smoke and the slag stands piled in endless heaps around the
filthy pits, sheep browsed and cattle grazed and little piebald pigs
nuzzled for truffles in the soft sweet-smelling earth. The valley of
the Wyndbeck then would have been a fair place to dwell in but for evil
greedy men who preyed upon the people, driving off their cattle and
stealing their crops, making sport of their tears and prayers. And of
all the wicked men who harassed and oppressed them none were so cruel
and grasping as Aldys of the yellow beard--the Red Badger they called
him.
One day the Badger was returning from a foray, and beside him, on
an old gaunt pony, secured by a stirrup-leather to the Badger’s
saddle-girth, rode a little lad. A trooper had found the boy wandering
among the blackened ruins, and the Badger, attracted by the lad’s
beauty, had taken him to be his page.
The Badger rode, singing, pleased with his day’s work; and there crept
up a white mist from the sea. He did not notice for a time that he and
the lad were riding alone. Then, drawing rein, he blew a long loud
blast upon his horn. But there came no answer.
The lad was looking at him with strange eyes; and Red Aldys, seized he
knew not why by a sudden frenzy of hate, drew his sword and struck at
the little lad with all his strength.
And the sword broke in his hand; and those strange gentle eyes still
looked upon Red Aldys. And around the little lad there shone a great
light.
And fear fell upon Red Aldys of the yellow beard, and flinging himself
upon the ground, he cried in a loud voice: “Christ have mercy upon me a
sinner.”
And the child Christ laid His hands upon Red Aldys and spoke words of
comfort to him and commanded him that he should follow Him and serve
Him.
And on the spot where Christ had laid His hands upon him Aldys made for
himself a dwelling-place among the rocks beside the winding Wyndbeck.
And there for many years he laboured to bring peace and healing to the
poor folk of the valley, learning their needs that he might help them.
And the fame of him spread far and wide, and many came to him to ask
his blessing, repenting of their evil lives. And he went about among
the people teaching the love of the Lord Jesus.
Little Anthony had often passed the great church of St. Aldys just
beyond the market square, an imposing building of grey stone with a
spire one hundred and eighty feet high. They say that, forming part of
its foundations, are the very rocks among which once Saint Aldys dwelt,
on the spot where Christ had appeared to him and had forgiven him his
sins.
Having heard the story, he felt a longing to see the inside of it,
and one afternoon, instead of going to his uncle’s, he wandered
there. It was surrounded by iron railings and the great iron gates
were padlocked. But in a corner, behind a massive buttress, he found
a little door that opened. It led into a stone passage and down some
steps into a vaulted room where he fell over a chair, and a bat flew
out and fluttered silently until it disappeared into the shadows. But
he found the church at last. It was vast and high and very, very cold,
and only a faint chill light came in through the screened windows. The
silence frightened him. He had forgotten to make a note of the way by
which he had entered, and all the doors that he tried were securely
fastened. A terror seized him that he would never be able to get out.
It seemed to him that he was in a grave.
By luck he blundered back into the little vaulted chamber, and from
there groped his way out. He closed the door behind him with a bang. He
had a feeling that something was following him and might drag him back.
He ran all the way home.