Part 6

Far otherwise, alas, were the fortunes of Ailinda! Scolded to work at the earliest dawn and kept at some task till well into the night, the poor maiden had hardly a moment’s time to call her own. Whenever he could and as often, Aileel came to help her with her toil; he drew water from the well, carried in the wood, and aided her in the garden in the cool of the golden day.

In spite of this hard life, I am glad to tell you, Ailinda grew up to be as fine a lass as Aileel a lad. Her eyes were as blue as the waters of the bright September sea, the glance they gave was full of patience and courage, her long golden hair was as splendid as a queen’s. Everybody loved her and helped her--all save Tharbis’s only son, her jealous foster-brother, Potpan.

Squat, round-nosed, and leering-eyed, there was no spiteful trick in all the world which this wretch was not prepared to try. He would slyly nip the buds from flowers Ailinda had planted, so that they might not bloom; he would drive the cows at twilight back into the fields; he would roll the clean milk-pans in the mire. Left to his own counsel, Aileel would soon have taught the wretch a lasting lesson, but as Ailinda feared lest after such a battle Aileel be forbidden the house, she endured much, saying naught.

But presently came matters to a head.

Now it chanced upon a May Day, that a fair blue kerchief had been chosen as the wrestler’s prize, and this prize Aileel won gallantly, and offered to Ailinda. Gathering the kerchief together again in the folds in which it had already lain, the maiden, for fear of Potpan, hid the kerchief in a cranny of a room. Presently arrived the sunny morn of the year’s midsummer holiday. At high noon, her thankless toil for a moment o’er, Ailinda went to take the kerchief from its nook.

The kerchief was no longer there!

Suddenly she heard a loud ill-natured guffaw, and turning, found Potpan at a window, watching all. He was dressed in his best festival finery, and Ailinda’s pretty kerchief was knotted at his neck. The maiden’s heart sank; her brave eyes filled with tears, yet she ran forth and confronted the robber face to face.

“Give me my kerchief, Potpan,” said she, “Oh, give me my kerchief, Potpan!”

“Your kerchief?” answered Potpan with another rude guffaw. “Ha! Ha! That’s a good one! Your kerchief, indeed! I found this kerchief myself, and I mean to keep it, too.”

“It is mine, Potpan,” replied poor Ailinda. “Give me my kerchief, Potpan.”

“I suppose you would wear it at the festival,” jeered Potpan. “The notion of your going to the festival! Go back to your kettles and pails!”

A pause of quiet now followed, and all at once Ailinda heard through the stillness the sound of a closing gate. Suddenly Aileel came striding swiftly to her side.

“Come, Potpan,” said Aileel sternly, “Give Ailinda my kerchief!”

“At your command, you wanderers’ brat?” cried Potpan, furious with rage. “Be off or I’ll teach you how I--” but here his speech came to an end; Aileel, turning swiftly as the wind, caught him in a wrestler’s grasp, held him fast, and undid the kerchief from his neck. This done, the young smith freed him and pushed him contemptuously aside. Hardly had he done this, however, when Potpan caught up a great stone and flung it, striking Aileel with it upon the hand.

And now there came a real tussle, for Potpan, though squat, was no mean antagonist. A real tussle it was, but a short one, for suddenly Aileel’s handsome face cleared, he laughed a little merry laugh even, and catching up Potpan in all his finery, held him high for all his kicking, walked with him a little space, and tossed him splash into the duck pond! You should have heard the squawking and the quacking of the ducks, and seen the scrambling, and the paddling, and the indignant tail-feather-shaking as Potpan fell into the mud-brown pool. One yellow duckling with cold wet feet walked on his ear.

But what an uproar awaited Aileel and Ailinda on their return from the festival!

Telling a wicked and lying story, Tharbis and Potpan had gone about among the villagers, picturing Aileel as a violent and dangerous ruffian whom it was unsafe to have about, and urging that the wanderers’ lad be sent away from the village. Now Tharbis was very rich, and there were many in his debt who dared not disagree with him; a dispute arose, the village took sides, and the partisans of Tharbis and Potpan snatched the victory. At the head of a crew of hangers-on armed with sticks and scythes, Tharbis and Potpan came in triumph to the smithy, held Braulio and his foster son to the wall, and bade the latter leave the village at once, never to return.

“I go, Potpan,” replied Aileel, the same strange little smile on his lips, “but I shall return some day, and I shall toss you into the duck pond once again.”

“Enough! Be off, wanderers’ brat!” cried Potpan’s crew. “Begone, and never let us see your face again!”

So now Aileel bade his dear foster-father farewell, entrusted Ailinda to his care, and fared over hill, over dale, to the Kingdom of Iron in the Land of the Fiery Mountains.

When Aileel arrived there, it was twilight; the east behind him was already dark and blossoming with stars, and the immense plain at his feet lay full of earthy vapor and vague gloom. Night was gathering behind, night was gathering below, but beyond the vast sweep of dark the western sky was still aglow with a great splendor of the purest emerald-green. Rising steep and solitary, each one, from the dark of the plain, a thousand black mountains towered to the green light, their heads crowned with rosy glows of fire. Some from their burning craters tossed great showers of golden sparks; some were crowned with huge tongues of many-colored flames; some poured forth rolling smoke; and over others hung clouds illumined with the red of fire deep below. Presently the green of the sky deepened and died, and night came to the Land of Fire.

These Fiery Mountains, I must tell you, were the forges of the people of the kingdom, who were sturdy smiths, armorers, and artificers, one and all. Their royal city stood half upon the plain, half upon the slope of the greatest of the burning heights, and everything within it was of iron made. Of iron were the king’s palace and his throne, of iron the royal crown, of iron the money, of iron the houses, of iron the walls and towers, and of iron the motionless and shrill-tongued trees along the way.

And now Aileel took service with the Lord of the Royal Forge that he might learn from him all the world’s wisdom of iron and of fire. The great iron halls of the royal forge were built in the caves of the Fiery Mountains, and within them toiled Aileel from daylight to the dark, his ears half deafened with the music of a thousand anvils, and the rumbling-grumbling of the great forge-fire. Presently the Lord of the Forge became so pleased with the skill, the industry, and the good spirit of the comely young smith, that he took him to lodge in his huge iron house.

One morn Aileel said to his friend and master, “Honored sir, it is in my mind to fashion something never yet seen in the Kingdom of Iron. Grant me, I pray, the great chamber beyond the black cave to be my very own.”

“It shall be yours, worthy Aileel,” replied the Lord of the Royal Forge. “Here is the key.”

From morn till night, behind the locked door, the people of the royal forge heard Aileel toiling at his secret task. Now they heard him at his anvil, now they heard him carrying his iron to melt in the fires of the mountain, now they heard him whistling snatches of a tune.

“What can he be making?” said they, and they peeked through the keyhole, but could see nothing at all.

But now you must hear of Potpan and Ailinda.

* * * * *

At first, with Aileel driven from the village and venturing afar, the poor maiden had gone about in deadly fear of Potpan and Tharbis; but as both of them had a wholesome respect for Braulio, it had fortuned that her lot was neither worse nor better than before. Tharbis still scolded her to work, shirking Potpan gave her oft a heavy task, yet day by day, in spite of all their ugly tricks, brave and patient Ailinda grew to be quite the loveliest maid in all the land. Finally even Potpan himself began to see her loveliness, and told her one evening that they were to be married in a fortnight’s time! Wild with anxiety and determined to run away rather than enter into any such hateful alliance, Ailinda sought out Braulio and told him of her plight.

“Fear not, Ailinda,” said the brave smith. “Though a fortnight be but a little time, and the Kingdom of Iron a week’s journey down the world, yet shall Aileel be here before this wedding comes to pass. I will fetch him myself and at once!”

And now Braulio climbed to the saddle of his huge white horse, and galloped off on the road to the Fiery Mountains. Alas, just as the smith was descending the slope to a glass bridge over a river, the white horse stumbled and fell, throwing Braulio over his head and laming him severely. Hobbling along, lame horse, lame master, the pair made so slow an advance to the Kingdom of Iron, that it was not until midnight of the thirteenth day that Braulio knocked at the iron door of the Lord of the Royal Forge.

Seated in a great chair of wrought black iron, Braulio poured forth his unhappy story to Aileel, the Lord of the Royal Forge, and the latter’s good wife. Strange to say, an odd little smile gathered on Aileel’s lips as he heard the tale, even such a smile as he had worn when he had tossed Potpan in the pool.

“The wedding morn of Potpan and Ailinda?” said Aileel. “That shall never be! Come, take heart, good friends, and quick, all of us to the chamber in the cave!”

The night was clear and windless, but only the brightest stars were to be seen, for the great Fire Mountain above the city was crowned with an immense whirl of gold and orange flame which flooded town and sky with flaring light. Up a broad iron stair, along the slope, and into the mountain through a mighty iron portal, fled the little company. Bright torches gleamed in the iron halls and caves, the roar of the great forge shook the earth, and the iron floors were warm beneath their feet. And now as Aileel unlocked his door and flung it open wide, his friends uttered together a great cry of joy and surprise.

The young smith had fashioned a wonderful flying bird of iron! Its wings, which it flapped like a real bird, were of iron tempered a lovely jewel-blue, its breast was of iron forged to a silver-gray, and its beak and claws and living round eyes were of iron as red as fire. Within it a spring of iron lay, which one wound up with a huge black key; one steered it by pulling shiny iron chains attached to a collar round its neck. And there was a great comfortable seat, too, in the body between the wings--a seat with a huge high back in the fashion of a splendid sleigh, cushions of sunniest larkspur-blue, and just enough room for three.

So Aileel wound up the spring, clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack, bundled Braulio into the seat, swung back a lofty door he had opened in the side of the mountain, waved farewell, and flew out into the golden glow of the fiery night. Over the forges of iron he fled, and saw their flaming deeps and felt their hot breath; he winged his way over woodlands and mountains and rivers and gleaming lakes. Braulio, beside him, hung on to his hat all the time, and only once in a while looked over the side. On and on went Aileel and Braulio, yet the sunrise found them far away from the land of the Blue Hills.

* * * * *

And now it was the wedding morn and the wedding hour; the sun was shining, bells were ringing, and music was sounding in the street. Fearful of her running away, Potpan had locked Ailinda in her chamber, first advising her to put on a merry countenance lest she be well slapped. Presently women of the village came to attire her in wedding finery, and Ailinda, her heart sunken in a despairing dream, suffered them to do their will.

The bells were ringing now their loudest peals, and presently Potpan pushed Ailinda rudely up to a place on the seat of the gay cart which was to carry them to the wedding festival. This bridal cart was painted a fine bright blue, its sides and the spokes of its two great wheels were garlanded with flowers, an arch of flowers had been built over the seat, and the two snow-white oxen who drew it brandished horns gilded with bright gold.

Clang! clang! ding dong dong! went the village bells. Swaying their huge heads from side to side, and ringing golden bells upon their yoke, the white oxen slowly drew Potpan and Ailinda down the village street.

And now all at once there were cries and shouts of alarm. “Run! run, everybody! Run! Run! The bird! Oh, see the bird!” Soon one and all were scrambling here and there into houses, down cellars, under tables, into clothes-closets and up trees till there was not a soul in sight. Never stopping to take thought of Ailinda, cowardly Potpan leaped from his seat at her side, and ran and hid in a plum tree.

All, all alone stood the gay cart in the deserted street, all, all alone sat the deserted bride. The oxen came to a halt. A bell somewhere on their harness jangled, and then the world was very still.

Nearer and nearer and lower and lower through the sky came the giant bird, flapping its shining wings. Suddenly its shadow fell across the cart. Ailinda sank in a swoon against the arch of flowers. But now the great bird settled to earth on its claws of red iron, and tall Aileel, leaping forth, gathered Ailinda in his strong arms, and waked her from her sleep. Closed now were the gates of unhappiness; open were the gates of joy.

“Where is Potpan?” said Aileel sternly. Ailinda, recovering from her swoon, made faint motions in the direction of the plum tree.

And now Aileel disappeared for a little while, and all at once there was a yell, a terrible splash, and a loud chorus of the most indignant squawking and quacking. Aileel had tossed Potpan once more into the duck pond!

Then Aileel came back, tall and handsome as could be, and lifted pretty Ailinda to the seat in the iron bird. Then he got in himself, set the wings to flapping, and guided the iron bird into the air and home to the wonderful Kingdom of Iron.

And there, in the house of the Lord of the Royal Forge and amid great rejoicing, Aileel and Ailinda were wed. Good Braulio, I am glad to say, remained with them, and all three lived happily together all their days.

THE WONDERFUL TUNE

Once upon a time, a young minstrel wandered over hill, over dale, through the world, earning his bread as he strayed by piping on a penny-pipe to all who cared for a tune. Young was he and little of stature, his eyes and his hair were brown, and in bright blue was he clad.

Now it came to pass that, as he wandered through the world, the little minstrel said to himself one morn, “If some tunes make people merry, and others make them sad, whilst still others make them dance, why should there not be a tune so wondrously pleasant and gay that all who chance to hear it must remain joyous of heart, and can never be sad or bad or unhappy again? Down the roads of the world I shall seek the wonderful tune.”

And, with this new thought in his mind, the little minstrel continued on his way through the world, bidding good-morrow to all, questioning all. And some there were who thought him mad and were scarcely civil; others pushed him aside as a jesting vagabond; and there were even those who would have cast him into prison as a disturber of the public mind and a wandering rogue. But there were others, too, and these were the brave and the merciful and the kind and the merry, who speeded him on his way and wished him luck in his quest.

The summer ripened and came to an end; the crackled leaves tumbled and fled before a howling wind; snow covered the lonely fields; and still the little minstrel roamed the world, seeking the wonderful tune.

Now it fortuned that, as the little minstrel turned his steps to the west, he arrived in the city of a king whose court musician was said to know all the tunes in the world. Travel-worn, brown of face, and humbly clad as he was, the youth made his way through the palace and, cap in hand, knocked gently at the great musician’s door.

From behind the little green door, long runs and wiggles and cascades of tinkling notes came dancing out into the quiet of the deserted marble corridor. The youth knocked yet again. Presently the notes ceased, and, opening the door with a stately bow, the court musician invited the young wanderer within.

And now the youth found himself in a pleasant room, painted a fair apple-green and set about with panels edged with gold; the furniture, too, was painted green and gold, and there were flowered curtains, a dozing cat, and a china bowl. As for the court musician, he was clad in a superb costume of the most fashionable lavender brocade.

“Honored Master,” said the little minstrel respectfully, “I am roaming the world for a tune so pleasant and merry that, once men have heard it, they can never be sad or bad or unhappy again. Pray do you know this wonderful tune?”

“Yes, indeed, I know many a wonderful tune,” replied the court musician. “Listen, now, was it this?” And, seating himself at a gay green-and-gold harpsichord, the court musician played a merry song full of the most elegant tinkles and trills.

“No, I am sure that is not the wonderful tune,” said the little minstrel, looking through an open window at tiny clouds sailing the sunny sky of a mild midwinter day.

“Then surely this is it,” said the court musician, playing a second merry tune.

But the little minstrel shook his head once more.

“Dear me, dear me! Not the wonderful tune?” exclaimed the court musician, wrinkling his brow and pursing his lips. “Ah! Wait! I think I have it!” And this time he lifted the cover of the green-and-gold harpsichord so that the minstrel could see the little picture of frolicking shepherds painted upon it, and played a long, harmonious, and majestical strain.

But the little minstrel shook his head again.

“My young friend,” said the court musician, with something of a fatherly air, closing the harpsichord as he spoke, “I have played for you the only three tunes I know which might be the wonderful tune. Are you quite sure you are not wasting your life upon this quest? Perhaps such a tune as you tell of was once known in the world, and is only hidden away; yet again, perhaps it is all only a dream. You should go to the Kingdom of Music, and inquire.”

“The Kingdom of Music,” cried the youth. “I’ve never heard of such a realm. Pray, sir, by what road does one go?”

“Come!” said the court musician, taking the youth by the arm and leading him to the open window. “See you that land of blue cloud-capped hills at the world’s edge, and the broad and winding river which disappears among them? You have but to follow that stream. Farewell, young friend, the world is before you, and may you find the wonderful tune!”

League after league and day after day, the little minstrel followed the winding river, till spring stood upon the hills. And now, with the first sight of the new leaves, the little minstrel arrived in the land of melody. It was a goodly land, this Kingdom of Music--a rolling land of great fields, sweeping cloud-shadows, and ancient oaken groves: a land of pleasant murmurs and sweet sounds. Only birds with pretty songs dwelt in the Kingdom of Music, and they sang more sweetly there than in any other kingdom of the world; the very crickets had a more tuneful chirp, the river a more various music, and even the winds blew merry tunes as they whistled through the trees.

Rejoicing in the kingdom and its sounds, the little minstrel was strolling along, half in a dream, when of a sudden sky and land were filled with a strange, huge, earth-shaking sound, a sound of the scraping of thousands of fiddles; of the blowing of thousands of horns, flutes, trumpets, trombones, and clarinets; of the clashing and clanging and thumping and bethumping of thousands of bass drums, kettle-drums, and cymbals; indeed, in all his wanderings the little minstrel had never heard such a din.

The King of the Kingdom of Music was rehearsing his orchestra.

Every single person in the kingdom, whether man, woman, or child, was a member of this orchestra. Babies alone were excepted, though on one occasion the King had made use of a gifted child with a musical howl!

Now, when the rehearsal had come to an end and quiet had returned to the land, the little minstrel made his way to the royal city, obtained an audience with the King, and asked for news of the wonderful tune.

“The wonderful tune,” said the King from his throne, nodding gravely. “Yes, once there was even such a wonderful tune! In those days peace and plenty reigned in the world, and everyone was happy at his task beneath the sun. One luckless eve, alas! the tune in some manner happened to get broken up into notes; and before anyone could help it, these notes were scattered and lost through all the kingdoms of the world. Young man, I fear your search is in vain; never more shall the sons and daughters of men hear the wonderful tune.”

“But perhaps someone might gather the notes together again,” said the little minstrel eagerly.

“Many have tried to do so,” replied the King. “Of those who fared away, some returned weary in the days of their youth, others crept back in old age, and others yet were lost forevermore. And never a one returned with a single note of the wonderful tune.”

“Then is the time come for a new search,” cried out the little minstrel bravely. “Farewell, O King of the Kingdom of Music, for I must be off gathering the notes in the highways of the world.”

“Farewell, good youth,” answered the King. “Return to us when your quest is ended; and may you come piping the wonderful tune.”

And now the little minstrel found himself on the roads of the world again, strolling from the first chill gold-and-gray of laggard dawns to the twilight world of meadows in the gathering dark and village bells sounding faintly afar.

Seven long years rolled over the world; the little minstrel searched diligently and far and wide, yet never a trace could he find of a single note of the wonderful tune. His blue coat, which had been so gay, was now sadly tattered and torn; even his penny-pipe had a dent in it, and his shoes, alas! were scarce worth the putting-on in the morn.

Now it came to pass, on a day in the early winter, that the little minstrel arrived in a northern land and followed a woodland road through the silence and the cold. The sky was overcast with a wide tent of dull gray cloud, through which a sun swam, cold as a moon; and the whole world was very still--so still indeed that the only sound the little minstrel could hear was the scattering of the leaves beneath his feet. Twilight came, and found the little minstrel far from a house or village; a cold wind arose, and presently a thick snow began to fall. And now the night and the snow closed in upon the wanderer. Huddled in his ragged cloak, the little minstrel trudged bravely on into the whirling storm; but little by little the cold crept into his body and bones, a weariness and a hunger for sleep overcame him, and suddenly he sank unknowing in the brambles by the road.