CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH MASTER MUSTARDSEED TELLS HIS STORY

“In a mean, dingy house in the midst of a great city, there once lived a cobbler and his apprentice, and together with them in that same house there also lived a certain evil and malicious boggart. Now a boggart is just the opposite of a brownie, for while a brownie tidies and sweeps and puts things to rights, a boggart only works mischief and makes confusion. He would break the crockery, and mislay the tools in the workshop, and once he dropped so much salt into the soup that the cobbler lay awake half the night with thirst. Now the cobbler, who was a harsh, unreasonable man, suspected his apprentice of these pranks, and soon took him roughly to task.

“Master,” said the apprentice, “you do me wrong. It is not I who have done you this harm, but a mannikin in tattered clothes and a peaked cap. It must be that we are living under one roof with a boggart, for more than once have I seen him at his tricks when twilight fell.”

But the cobbler would not believe a word of what the apprentice said, for he himself had never set eyes on the boggart, and though one day the apprentice pointed him out, not even then could he catch so much as a glimpse of him. It is true that the cobbler’s yellow cat, who lay stretched upon the hearth, could see the imp plainly enough with her green and glimmering eyes, but then it was not in her power to say so, nor to put in a good word for the apprentice.

“You had better stop making game of me,” said the angry cobbler, each time that a fresh mishap occurred, “for my temper is but a short one, and I am growing tired of your fool’s tricks, and of your fool’s tales too, for that matter, about boggarts and what not, so mark my words, and mend your ways.”

Now one evening as the cobbler sat stitching at a neighbour’s shoes, he said to the apprentice, “I am ready for my supper. Go and get me the flitch of bacon from the corner cupboard.” But when the apprentice opened the cupboard door, the bacon was nowhere to be seen.

“Master, it is gone!” he cried, “I fear the boggart has played you another trick, and this time it is an ill turn indeed!”

“The boggart! The boggart! What’s all this talk of boggarts?” screamed the cobbler, “so I have been teaching my trade to a thief, have I? You’re a fine fellow to keep as an apprentice, eating a poor man out of house and home! Get you gone from my door, or you shall have blows from me, and not words alone.”

Again the apprentice tried to defend himself, but his master would not listen, so he sadly put together his few belongings in a knapsack, and set out upon his travels, with none to wish him well save only his friend the yellow cat, who came and rubbed herself against his legs before the house-door closed behind him. All night he paced the streets disconsolate, and at dawn when the city gates stood open he set forth upon the king’s highway.

As dusk fell, he entered a wild, bleak hill country, and he had not gone far upon the lonely road when he heard a voice singing a plaintive refrain. Eagerly he hurried onwards, wondering who the wayfarer might be, but soon the singing ceased, and a sound of weeping took its place. Then the apprentice caught sight of a maiden seated upon the grassy bank by the roadside. She was beautifully dressed in silks and jewels, but briers clung to her rich trailing robes, and the blustering wind had disordered her golden tresses.

“Madam,” said the apprentice, “if my poor services may assist you, they are at your command.”

“I thank you with all my heart,” said she, “let us travel on together and seek a night’s lodging. But for you I should have been left friendless upon this waste hillside.” So together they took the road again, and journeyed on into the mountains.

“I am a king’s daughter,” said the maiden, “and my father and mother have accused me of witchcraft, and have driven me from my home.”

“I too have been driven away on an unjust charge,” said the apprentice, “and now I know not how I may earn my bread, for my master the cobbler would not finish teaching me my trade.” After that they both fell silent, for they were weary and sad at heart.

Now when they had gone some considerable distance, they overtook a shepherd who was driving home his flock, and of him they begged a night’s shelter.

“Come with me to my goodwife,” the kindly shepherd made reply, “and we will do all in our power to serve you both.” So saying he guided them to the sheltered hollow where his cottage stood. His wife came to greet him at the doorway, and when she saw the strangers she welcomed them also. In the kitchen a bright fire was burning, and supper was on the table, broth, and bread, and a bowl of porridge. Far back in a shadowy corner of the room sat an old, old woman, toothless and hairless, bent and shrunken with her years.

“That,” said the shepherd, “is my grandmother, and she is reputed one of the wisest women in the countryside, but she is aged and weak, and speaks but seldom.”

Now as soon as supper was ended, the company drew around the fire, and the shepherd begged his guests to relate the story of their wanderings.

“My father is a mighty king,” the princess made answer, “and dwells in a city many leagues distant. Not long ago a strange series of misfortunes befell us. One night as I stood by my window and looked out upon the palace garden, I saw that a fairy was pillaging the blossom of the king’s favourite almond-tree, and I called in haste to my waiting-woman, and pointed the strange sight out to her, but she protested that she could see nothing, and the next morning she went and told my parents what had taken place. The night following I stood again by my window, looking out upon the terrace, and this time I saw a fairy luring away the queen’s favourite peacock. Again I called to my waiting-woman, for I was afraid, but again she declared that she could see nothing. The next morning the faithless woman went once more to my parents, and told them what had befallen, and this time she even dared assure them that I must be a witch, for had there indeed been a fairy in the castle she would certainly have seen it as well as myself. At first my parents were unwilling to credit her charge, for, said the king my father, the almond-tree had most assuredly been plundered, though none knew by whom, and, said the queen my mother, that the peacock was lost there could be no doubt. Nevertheless, they were both much disturbed, and bade the woman watch me narrowly. Now as evening fell I was sitting in my bower, when all at once I heard a sound behind me as of breaking flax, and turning round I saw a fairy standing in the middle of my room, breaking the flax that hung upon my golden spinning-wheel. Then I became frightened, and pointed her out to my waiting-woman, but again she said she saw nothing. The next day when my parents heard what had happened, they summoned me to their presence and questioned me, and I could but affirm that each time I had seen a fairy, though my waiting-woman had seen none. Now the king my father lives in great dread of witches and their charms, and forthwith he charged me with witchcraft, because I saw things that were not good to see, and which were hidden from other folk, and when my mother pleaded for me he would not listen, but said that there was a spell upon the palace and that I must go, or else no one could tell what might come of it, and he sent me away. But indeed, good people, I am no witch, yet the fairies I did most assuredly see, three several times.”

After that the apprentice also told his story, and how the cobbler had blamed him for the boggart’s pranks, and had driven him out. “Yet I am unjustly accused,” said he, “for I myself saw the boggart at his work, not once nor twice.”

“These are the strangest tales that ever I heard!” cried the shepherd.

“The old grandmother is learned in fairy lore,” added his wife; “it may be that she can solve the riddle.” When she heard that, the princess rose, and went to the dark corner where the old crone sat, and knelt down beside her.

“Tell me, I pray you, good mother,” said she, “how comes it that this stranger and I both saw the fairies where others saw none?” But the old crone only blinked at her with dull eyes, and made no reply.

“It is a king’s daughter who kneels to you, granddame,” cried the shepherd, “will you not give her an answer?”

“A peaked cap and fernseed,” muttered the old hag, “the boggart put on his peaked cap, and the fairies carried fernseed.”

“But whoever carries fernseed becomes invisible,” said the princess, “and in spite of that I saw them.”

“Over those who are born on an Ember Day neither a cap of darkness nor the fairies’ fern itself has any power,” said the crone; “both of you must have been born in one of the four Ember Weeks.” And her voice died away into indistinct mumblings.

“It is a dower that none need envy,” quoth the apprentice, and the princess sighed in answer.

Now on the following morning the shepherd and his wife urged the princess to remain with them, and she joyfully consented. “I will not be a burden to you,” said she, “for I can spin, and I will learn to do all manner of things about the house, and will take care of the old grandmother.”

But the apprentice set out upon his travels again, and this time he felt even sadder than on the previous day, for it went to his heart to part from the princess, whom already he loved for her fair face and gentle ways. After journeying for some distance he left the hills behind him, and at noon he entered a deep and shady wood. There, in a mossy glade, seated upon a bank of primroses, he caught sight of a little man dressed all in green, who was busily mending shoes. But as the apprentice drew nearer, the mannikin flung aside his work, and snatching up a green cap with a sprig of fern in the brim, he set it upon his head.

“That much trouble you might have spared yourself,” laughed the apprentice, “for I was born on an Ember Day, they tell me.”

“Is that so?” said the mannikin, and he resumed his cobbling.

“And who may you be?” asked the apprentice.

“I am the fairies’ cobbler,” replied the little green man.

“Then I pray you teach me my trade,” said the apprentice, “for I am a cobbler’s apprentice, but I have not served my full time, since my master has sent me away on a wrongful charge.”

“Where did your master live?” asked the mannikin.

“Over the hills yonder,” replied the apprentice pointing, but when he turned round again the fairies’ cobbler was nowhere to be seen. On the instant he felt himself pelted by a shower of acorns from above, and looking up he saw a squirrel, perched among the oak boughs overhead.

“You are a fine fellow for letting your opportunities slip,” said the squirrel; “do you not know that when you meet the fairies’ cobbler you should never take your eyes off him for a moment? So long as you keep on looking at him, he is bound to give you whatever you may ask, though you should demand of him all the crocks of gold in Fairyland, but he will try to startle or deceive you, and then your chance is lost.”

“I will remember your good advice another time,” said the apprentice, and he went on into the wood. At sunset he came to another glade, and there he once more caught sight of the fairies’ cobbler, seated upon a tree-stump.

“This time you shall not escape me,” he cried, and fixing his eyes upon the mannikin he repeated his request, “I pray you, teach me my trade.”

“The cobbler’s craft is not an easy one,” replied the little man surlily, “the fairies dance so much and so often that it is all I can do to keep them in shoes. Only look at this pair now—it was new at moonrise.”

“They are indeed much worn,” said the apprentice, but even as he spoke he became aware that the fairies’ cobbler had once more disappeared. The next moment he heard a soft chuckle behind him, and looking round he noticed a large white owl perched upon a bush hard by.

“He had you that time,” said the owl; “why ever did you look down at the shoes? The safest way to make sure of the fairies’ cobbler is to steal up from behind and catch hold of him, and should he seem unwilling to grant your request you have but to hold him over running water, and he will give you all you ask.”

“I will remember your good advice another time,” said the apprentice, and he went further into the wood. Now after a while he heard the sound of a waterfall, and came upon yet another glade that lay all silvered in the light of the moon, and he was just debating within himself whether this were not a good place in which to spend the night, when for the third time he caught sight of the fairies’ cobbler, seated upon a toadstool. Softly he crept up behind him, and took hold of the mannikin firmly by the lappets of his green coat.

“You shall not escape me again,” said he.

“That is as may be,” quoth the fairies’ cobbler morosely; “pray what reason is there that I should teach the tricks of my trade to a mortal?”

“We shall see about that,” said the apprentice, “for if I am not mistaken there is a waterfall close at hand.” And with the mannikin under his arm he made his way among the trees till he came to where the cascade ran white over the rocks. Then the fairies’ cobbler began to utter small, shrill cries of protest.

“Come away! Come away!” he cried, piteously, as the apprentice held him over the foaming torrent, “only take me back into the glade, and I will teach you all I know.”

Now the apprentice knew that the fairies are no promise-breakers, so he carried the little green mannikin back into the glade, and all that night the fairies’ cobbler taught him the utmost that may be known about the art of making and mending shoes. Therefore as soon as the sun rose, the newly-made cobbler said to the mannikin, “I am truly grateful for what you have taught me, and if there be any favour which a poor craftsman like myself can do to one of the Good People, I pray you tell it me.”

“There is one favour then which I would ask of you,” the fairies’ cobbler made reply; “promise me that you will never break off any blackthorn or bring it into your house, for it is our tree, and we are offended when it is tampered with.” This the cobbler promised faithfully, and when he had once more thanked the little green man, he went upon his way.

After some days’ journey he came to a great city, and here he remained and worked at his craft. It was not long before he discovered that it was in this city that the princess’s parents ruled as king and queen, and he soon learnt from the talk of the people about him, that the fairies were still wreaking their vengeance on the palace. Only the other day, said the gossips, the king and the queen had made ready to receive the ambassador of a foreign prince, but when the court entered the throne-room in state, all the wreaths and garlands with which it had been festooned were torn down, withered, and trampled upon. As soon as he heard this, the cobbler hastened to the palace, and begged for an audience from the king, but the haughty servants to whom he addressed himself refused admission to so humble a suitor, and the cobbler had to return to his cobbling, and bide his time till a better opportunity should offer.

All this while the princess had remained behind in the shepherd’s cottage. The good man and his wife treated her as a daughter, and even the old crone seemed glad of her company, and loved to finger with her palsied hands the princess’s beautiful embroidered cloak and sparkling gems, and more especially she fancied a certain jewelled cross that the king’s daughter wore about her neck. “Keep it, good mother, since it pleases you,” said the kind-hearted princess one day, and she laid it in the old woman’s lap, who after that would sit contented by the hour, counting the stones and holding them up to the light.

Now among the mountains in the neighbourhood of the cottage lay a deep and lonely tarn, where waterfowl made their nests, and bulrushes grew in profusion, and often the princess would go and gather these rushes, which she plaited into mats and baskets and sold in the hamlets near by. One day when she was thus picking rushes by the lakeside, she heard a plashing close at hand, and looking up she saw a beautiful black horse standing knee-deep in the water, gazing at her intently. At first she was frightened, but since the creature seemed gentle and harmless she soon regained courage, and when it waded out of the water and came and stood beside her, she began to fondle it and to stroke its glossy mane. After that the beautiful black steed came to greet her every time that she went to the tarn, but when she spoke of it to the shepherd, he said that he had heard tell of no riderless horse in those parts.

One evening when autumn was drawing on, the shepherd and his wife were absent at a fair in one of the neighbouring villages, but the princess had remained at home with the old grandmother and sat spinning in the firelight.

“Daughter, what ails you?” asked the crone from her corner by the hearth, for she had heard the princess draw a deep, sad sigh.

“I am troubled for my parents’ sake,” replied the king’s daughter; “would that I knew the cause of ill-will which the fairies have against them, and how they might be appeased.”

“Samhain,” muttered the old woman, “Samhain.”

“What is the meaning of Samhain?” asked the princess, but the crone had fallen silent again, and nothing more was to be got out of her. Then the princess went and stood in the doorway, watching for the return of the shepherd and his wife, for it was growing late, and as she stood there the nightwind hurried past her.

“O wind,” said the princess, “you are the greatest of all travellers, therefore if you know it, tell a forlorn king’s daughter what is meant by Samhain.”

“Samhain is the feast of All Fairies,” said the wind.

“And when do they keep it?” asked the princess.

“On All Hallows’ E’en,” the wind made answer.

“And where do they keep it?” asked the princess.

“In the brown bog country,” said the wind, “where you may see a myriad pools, and each pool bathes one star.” And when he had said that he sped away, for the wind is ever in haste.

Therefore as soon as the shepherd and his wife returned, the princess told them that she could remain with them no longer, but must set out upon her quest, and though they were loath to part with her, the good people let her go. So the next morning she bade them farewell, and as she went along the road that led to the mountain tarn, the beautiful black horse came trotting to meet her.

“It may be that I shall have far to go,” said the princess, “and that this gallant horse will consent to carry me.” So she mounted upon its back and rode onwards, but when they reached the tarn the black horse plunged straightway into the ice-cold water, and began to swim across, and as soon as it gained the centre of the lake, it dived under. Then the princess cried out and struggled, and the black horse threw her, and in that moment she knew that it was no real horse at all, but a kelpie, a wicked water-sprite that assumes at times the form of a horse.

“All the summer through have I loved and watched you, king’s daughter,” said the kelpie, as he stood before her in his proper shape, “and now you must live with me in my palace, and be my wife.”

Pearly white and very fair to see was the palace of the water-kelpie, with its towers and minarets, and a great white dome in the midst, and within, the walls were hung with iridescent tapestries. Here the princess was held a prisoner, and day after day she would sit under the magical milk-white dome, and weep till she had no more tears to shed. But wed the water-kelpie she would not. Her happiest hours were when he left her to roam the hills under the shape of the black horse, and then she would pace to and fro in her beautiful prison-house and call to mind the peaceful days in the shepherd’s cottage, and the young apprentice whom in her secret heart she loved, though because she was a king’s daughter she was too proud to own it to anybody but herself.

Meanwhile the cobbler had won for himself a great reputation by his skill in shoe-making, for those who wore his shoes could walk for leagues or dance for whole nights together without growing tired, so that before long his fame reached the ears of the king, who summoned him to the palace. Now, as soon as the cobbler found himself in the presence of the king and queen, he made haste to tell them of his meeting with the princess, and of what the old crone had told them.

“It may be as you say,” said the king, “and glad indeed should I be to think that my child is no witch, but only dowered above other mortals, for so great is my fear of witchcraft that I would sooner have my palace pillaged from end to end than suffer any about me who have eyes for uncanny sights.”

“I fear we have done our daughter a great wrong,” said the queen sorrowfully, “and none of us knows the cause of the fairies’ displeasure, nor the remedy for it. We have called in the Prime Minister, and the Lord High Chamberlain, and the Keeper of the Great Seal, and the Lords and Ladies of the Bedchamber, but they are all utterly at a loss.”

Then an idea came to the cobbler. “Madam,” said he, “was there by chance any blackthorn brought into the palace last spring?”

“I do not know,” replied the queen, “but it shall be inquired into.”

So the entire court and household were assembled, and a strict inquiry was made. Then it was that the lowest scullery-maid in the royal kitchen confessed that she had broken off a spray from a blackthorn hedge in the foregoing spring, and had placed it in her attic room. So the king, at the cobbler’s advice, published a proclamation, forbidding the breaking of blackthorn throughout the realm, but to the cobbler himself he said; “Do you go and fetch my daughter back, for we will receive her with due honour, and if she be willing you shall have her hand in marriage. As for the waiting-woman who accused her to me, she shall be dismissed the kingdom.”

Then the cobbler set out and made his way back to the shepherd’s cottage, but when he reached it the good man and his wife told him of how the princess had left them, and that they had had no tidings of her since. “But if you are in search of her,” said the shepherd’s wife, “take with you this jewelled cross and restore it to her, for she gave it to the old granddame who is now dead, and it is not ours that we should keep it.” So the cobbler took the cross, and continued his journey.

Now as he passed by the lonely tarn he heard a voice singing, and recognised that same plaintive refrain which the princess had sung when first he met her on the hillside.

“Alas! Alas!” he cried aloud, “my dear lady is drowned in this desolate pool.”

“Would that I were, good friend,” the princess’s voice made answer, “it had been better than this my sad captivity, for I am in the power of a wicked water-kelpie who woos me for his wife.”

When he heard these words, the cobbler fell to thinking how he might deliver his princess from her sorrowful fate, and soon he bethought him of the jewelled cross. This he took and flung it far into the tarn, and as the saving sign touched the surface the evil, wine-dark water began to seethe and boil in its depths, and the stately pearl-white palace of the kelpie broke up and dissolved upon the instant. So the princess was released and came forth from the tarn. Then the cobbler hastened to tell her of the discovery of the blackthorn, and of how he had come to bring her home to her parents.

“Tell me first,” said she, “what day it is, for I have lost all count of time.”

“It is All Hallows’ E’en,” replied the cobbler.

At that the princess began to lament bitterly, for she feared lest she might be too late to reach the bog country where the fairies would keep their feast.

“Do not be sorrowful, princess,” replied the cobbler, “I promise you we shall both see Samhain kept to-night, and to-morrow I will restore you to your home.”

“How is that to be?” asked she.

“I will make shoes of swiftness,” said the cobbler, “which will carry us more fleetly than the swallows.” And immediately he set to work and made her a pair of fairy shoes, and next he began making a pair for himself. But while he was still working at the second shoe, there came a sound of hoof-beats far away.

“O hasten, hasten!” cried the princess, wringing her hands, “for the kelpie is returning.” Nearer and nearer drew the sound of the thundering hoofs upon the road, faster and faster stitched the cobbler.

“O make haste, make haste!” cried the princess; “see, he is in sight!” Fleetly down the steep hillside the black horse came galloping, with streaming mane and glaring eyes.

“We are lost!” cried the princess, and indeed the horse was already upon them, and had caught the fringe of her cloak in its mouth. But in that same instant the cobbler slipped on his second shoe, and he and the princess sped away together like birds upon the wing. But the embroidered cloak they left behind between the horse’s teeth.

Over land and ocean they went, yet felt no weariness, and at nightfall they reached the brown bog country, studded with innumerable pools, and every pool bathed a star. The moon was rising, and from all the four winds the fairies came trooping, elves and gnomes and pixies, brownies and hobgoblins, with the fairy queen and her retinue in their midst, and at a little distance the cobbler and the princess stood and watched them assemble. At last one dainty elf came towards them, in dress of pearly gossamer, and in her yellow hair a wreath of starry white flowers, such as you may see for yourself on the window-pane any frosty day.

“I owe you thanks for many a past kindness,” said she to the cobbler.

“Yet I have never seen you till this moment, elf lady,” he replied.

“Are you so sure of that?” laughed she; “look well, look well at my eyes.” Then the cobbler looked long and earnestly, and indeed they were wondrous eyes, green and glimmering, nor were they like the eyes of any mortal.

“Every hundred years,” said the elf, “we fairies must take the shape of some beast or bird or fish for the space of a year and a day, and if we die during that time we perish, for we have no souls. Now I was the cobbler’s yellow cat when my turn came, and you befriended me in my exile. But follow me, and I will take you to the fairy queen, that you may tell her on what errand you are come to-night.”

Then she led them through a throng of fairies, amongst whom the cobbler recognised his enemy the boggart, and the princess the three fairies who had filched the almond blossom, and lured away the peacock, and broken the flax. Presently they reached the steps of the elfin throne, and here both knelt to the fairy queen.

“For what purpose have you sought us out?” asked she.

“I come to appease your displeasure, greatest of all queens,” replied the princess, “for in the spring time a spray of blackthorn was heedlessly broken and brought into our palace, and since that day the fairies have borne us a grudge. How may we turn away their anger?”

“Say to the king your father, and to the queen your mother,” the fairy queen made answer, “that if at the next full moon they will deliver up their throne-room to us for an elfin bridal, we shall bear them ill-will no longer, for my people love nothing better than to feast and make merry in a human dwelling.” Then the queen made them sit down upon the steps of the throne, and commanded that the revels should begin.

“You have done me credit, Master Apprentice,” piped a voice at the cobbler’s elbow, as a train of fairies swept past, and looking round he caught sight of the little green man, who nodded and smiled at him. But when the cobbler and the princess had watched the dancing till the moon rode high in the heavens, the fairy queen laid a hand upon both their heads, and soon a great drowsiness overcame them. Soundly they slept, and when they woke it was to find themselves stretched upon a patch of heather, while all around them the brown bog country lay very still in the light of the paling stars. Then they rose and made haste homewards, and when they reached the palace there were great rejoicings to welcome them back; the king and queen received their daughter with much affection, and besought her pardon for the wrong they had done her, and when the cobbler made bold to ask her hand in marriage, she willingly consented.

So the wedding was celebrated with great pomp and splendour; the city saw nothing but festivities and illuminations for seven days and seven nights, and from far and near the crowds poured in to share in the merry-making. Amongst these came the shepherd and his wife, and the cobbler’s former master, and upon all three the bride and bridegroom showered gifts and benefits.

Now the night after the wedding it was full moon, so the throne-room was garlanded with fresh flowers, and left to the fairies till cock-crow. None saw them come nor go, but in the morning there was found a little golden casket, wrought by the dwarf goldsmiths of the elfin court, and inside the casket was a clump of four-leaved clover. This was the fairy queen’s wedding present, and the bridal couple planted it below their window, and it grew and throve, and brought them untold happiness and good fortune.

Philomène had some difficulty in making out the last word of the story, for Master Mustardseed had half turned it into a trill, and began singing at the top of his voice. The schoolroom door opened; the doctor had come home.