_But now her nose is thin,
And it resteth on her chin
Like a staff.
And a crook is in her tack,
And a melancholy crack
In her laugh._
O. WENDEL HOLMES.
Faith had finished her story, and looked up. It was surely some time
since Martin had moved away? She looked round and found she did not
recognise her surroundings: wandering along with Martin, she was
accustomed to leave the leadership to him. Now that she was alone
she had not the smallest idea which way led to her father’s cottage;
so she called Martin’s name. Out it went upon the soft September
air, the long-drawn “Martin” of her call. Then again, and again. And
at the third or fourth time of hearing her own voice wandering far
into the deep, still woods, Faith began to fear. To fully realise
your loneliness, if you are feeling lonely, you have only to call
aloud some familiar name several times, and receive no reply. It is
curious how uncomfortable the silence following may grow. Faith soon
was looking over her shoulder, then hastening her steps, stopping
altogether, only to break into a little run; and soon her thoughts
were filled with stories of these very woods. Wasn’t it here that
Dan’l Widdon, and Harry Hawk, had been walking on their way home
from the fair, when they heard the sound of skirling and groans? and
surely it was by this dark stream that her old Grandmother had seen
the wan face of a drowned babe, float up beneath her pitcher, like
some pale lily, while she stooped to draw water from the stream? Oh,
why had she let Martin wander away? surely it is in these thick woods
that Mother Midnight has her dwelling, she who can change into a hare
if she will, who flies out when the wind huffles, and flaps her cloak
at your window pane? She keeps toads in her bosom--yes, the children
say so, and she gathers sparks from her black cat to make charms....
Faith’s heart was pounding in her ears, and she stood petrified, for
now a figure flitted by among the trees. There was not so much as
the snap of a dry twig beneath the tread to reassure her, and it was
a cloaked figure; yes, there it was again. A cloaked figure, deeply
hooded, leaning on a stick; now Saints and Martyrs preserve us! it is
the witch herself.
“Who be you, my dear?”
It was said in a voice that had the sound of a wicket gate with a
rusty hinge to it.
“I be main glad to see but a little maid before me--I, who have to
live among the shadows, and to hide from the light. When I heard your
footfall on the dead leaves I had to shrink away, for how should I
know if it might not be the persecutors? but it’s you that seem to be
feared, my dear, it’s you that seem to be feared.”
Faith was reassured, although still frightened. “Arn’t you Mother
Midnight?” she asked.
“Well, by some called Mother Midnight, it be true. But only poor old
Granny Gather-stick all the time.”
Her nose and chin almost met, and her face was a network of tiny
wrinkles. Her mouth was like the hole to a wren’s nest, except when
it was closed, and then it shut down into a straight, hard line. Her
eyes were set deep under a furrowed brow, and her grey elf-locks blew
about her.
Not a very pleasant appearance you will say; perhaps not, but then
her voice was another matter.
It sounded to me as though, cracked and rude,
Years had but softened, nor made it shrill,
As a time-worn flute makes the music crude,
Yet the spirit of music haunt it still.
When Faith listened to her talking, her fear disappeared. And Granny
Gather-stick liked to talk.
“Do’ee come up here, my dear, and tell me where ye d’ live, and you
can sit before my fire,” she said.
“Is your cottage near here, then?”
“Only a step or two across the water, but not my own cottage, child,
that you see from the road. No, this to which I be going is just one
of my homes. For those who live in hiding must make a shelter where
they can.”
“Why do you live in hiding?” asked Faith.
“Because of the evil in men’s hearts, my dear. Not content with
killing each other, and quarrelling, and drinking, and all the many
sports and wickednesses that inflame the hearts of men, they must
even turn aside from their gay paths to hunt a poor old woman, and
to spin lies about her like a net.”
As Granny Gather-stick said these words, Faith saw she had her
hand against the hole of a tree that grew beside a thick tangle of
underwood. And drawing a little bolt aside, a tiny door opened that
appeared like a hurdle set thick with bramble and autumn leaves.
Faith stepped after Granny into the opening, and found herself in
the dearest little room imaginable. It was about the size of a
large cupboard, and the walls were hurdles with brambles and leaves
outside, but hung with rough matting within. A hole in the roof let
out the smoke of the log fire, burning low in a heap of grey ashes
on the ground. The floor was swept clean and bare, showing the brown
earth hard and trodden, and a log or two served for chairs; and in
the middle was a little round table, holding a cup and a plate. A
tripod held the kettle, and on the plate upon the table lay a great
golden piece of honeycomb, its sweetness stealing slowly from its
sides.
Faith exclaimed with pleasure and sat down upon a log. “Granny, what
a lovely little house.” As she spoke she heard Martin’s voice calling
her. Nearer and nearer the sound travelled, till soon he was by the
door.
“Now call to him, my dear, and let us see if the birds have given
Granny a good hiding lesson.”
“Here I am!” called Faith.
“Where?”
“Here!”
“Where?”
“Find me.”
Martin’s steps went hither and thither through the wood, till at last
Faith opened the door, and soon they were all three in the tiny hut
with very little room surrounding, but happy, listening to Granny’s
talk. She sat at her table sorting herbs. “Milkwort or Hedge-hyssop
against the cough. Borage brings courage for purging melancholy, and
to fortify the heart. The Plantain for its healing juices. St. John’s
Wort against lightning and evil charms. Colchicum for rheumatism,
and the like.... Here are Black Archangel and Key-of-Spring,
Love-in-a-tangle, and Witch’s-tree; Grave-of-the-Sea and Golden
Greeting, Lad’s-love, and Rue.
“Here be Arum roots; I put these aside--they be for stiffening lawn
with the starch I make from them--starch to stiffen the fine ruffs of
the great lords and ladies; and the Arums themselves we call Lords
and Ladies hereabout, though some call them Wake Robin, too.
“Hedge Woundwort or Sickleweed, or Carpenter’s Herb, that has ‘All
Heal’ for a name. The Iris, called by the gipsies the Eye of Heaven,
pleasant to the skin when made into a paste, as I know how. And
here’s Corn Fever-few to cool the blood, and Rest Harrow to restore
reason.”
The children watched her dividing and tying them into bunches with
thread, then suspending the fragrant sprigs against the hurdled walls
to dry. Her hands moved nimbly, and her voice sounded pleasantly, as
she murmured the names of the flowers, while she worked.
And so it came to be a happy custom with the children to seek her
out in her cottage, or in her wren-houses, as they came to call her
little hidden huts. And she would have a story for them. Sometimes
they were rhymed ballads, of the kind such as Tamlane, or the Merry
Goshawk, sometimes they were the stories of her dreams.
She would say, “You midden believe all that old Granny tells, my
dear, when she tells her dreams. Sometimes I d’ think they may be
what happened to me long ago, but what can I know about it? Why,
once I was given King Solomon’s Seal for my wisdom, in a dream.”
“When was that?” cried the children; “please tell us!”
And in the next chapter you may read the story in her dream.