CHAPTER XIX

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.”

“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.