He rose to his feet and looked about him.
"Of course, those leaves," he said, "were only a year old, and all thatthey remembered was just those birds. But look at this,"--he picked up apiece of wood--"this is the core of an old tree. This was a saplingthree hundred years ago." He sprinkled the rest of the powder on it andthrew it on the fire.
For a minute or two nothing happened, and then, high up, they saw somemore birds hovering; but presently, as they looked, they saw the figureof a man, with his hair in ringlets hanging down over his shoulders. Hewore a plumed hat, and his sleeves were frilled, and there was a swordat his belt, and he wore knee-breeches and stockings and jewelledbuckles upon his shoes. He stood in mid-air, looking about him, and thenhe was joined by the figure of a girl. He took her in his arms, and thenthey faded away; and there instead was a peasant in a smock.
They saw him lean forward and carve something in the air, as though hewere cutting somebody's name upon a tree-trunk; and then he too wasgone, and there were two children playing hide-and-seek in the wreathingsmoke. One was a little girl, and she wore a mob cap and a long skirtdropping almost to her ankles; and the other was a boy with a very shortjacket and trousers that looked as if they had shrunk.
Then they saw a fox, with his ears pricked, and one of his front pawslifted; and then there was nothing again but the sides of the quarry andthe deepening shadows of the elms.
"That's all," said Tod, "because I've no more powder. All the rest's upthere."
He jerked his thumb toward the top of the hill, hidden away from them bythe trees.
"Why is it up there?" asked Cuthbert.
Tod stared at them as if he were trying to read their hearts.
"Have you courage?" he asked.
It was a difficult question. They told him that they hoped so, but thatthey weren't quite sure.
"Well, if you have," he said, "and you'd like to come back hereto-night, just about half-past twelve, you'll be able to see somethingthat nobody alive has ever seen or will see again."
Cuthbert and Edward looked at one another. It would be a six-mile walk,and they would have to start about eleven o'clock, and they would haveto go to bed first and creep out of their houses without anybodyknowing. The moon would have sunk, too, so that it would be quite dark.They both felt a little queer inside. But they promised to come, andagreed to meet at eleven o'clock near St Peter's Church.
Cuthbert was there first, just before the clock struck. Everybody was inbed, and he had slipped out unnoticed. But his heart sank a little as heran down the empty street and saw no Edward at the corner waiting forhim. But Edward came just as the clock struck, and the night seemed lessdark now that there were two of them, and soon they were out of the townand running close together between the hedges of the country road. Oncea motor-car came travelling toward them, almost blinding them with theglare of its head-lamps; but after they had left the road and struckacross the fields the night was so still that they could almost haveheard a star drop.
It was so still that they spoke in whispers, and so dark that theysometimes tripped; and once when they stopped for a moment to takebreath, a star did drop, and they almost heard it. Presently, when theireyes became used to the darkness, they could see the dim outline of thehills, and the faint ribbon of the Milky Way rising like smoke fromCaesar's Camp. At the edge of the bracken they found Tod waiting forthem.
"Come along," he said, "only don't go too fast," and they began to climbthrough the belt of trees out on to the hillside beyond. The grass wasshort here and slippery with dew, with glimmers of chalk beneath itwhere the turf was broken; and it was so steep that half-way up Todstopped to fight for his breath.
"It's all right," he said. "I'll be better in a moment," and as theystood waiting for him and looking back, the country behind them seemedto have vanished into a lake of darkness. Then they began to climbagain, their boots slipping, and suddenly as they climbed they smelt anew smell--a strange sort of acrid, sweet smell, as of turf-firesburning above them.
"Yes," said Tod. "I was up there an hour ago. I've lit half a dozenfires."
At the top of the hill he dropped down for a moment close to a largewhite stone. He lit a match and looked at his watch.
"Ten minutes to one," he said. "We're just in time."
They were now in a sort of trench or grassy moat that encircled thegreat mound, and they had climbed into this over a smaller mound thathad once been a barricade. In this trench Tod had dug half a dozenholes, and in each of these holes there was a turf-fire smouldering; andnow he turned and lifted the white stone, and took from under it alittle bag.
"This is the rest of the powder," he said, "all there is, and all thereever will be, for the secret will die with me."
He rose to his feet and began to sprinkle it thickly over the burningturf in each of the little holes. Then he came back and spoke to the twoboys.
"There are great memories," he said, "stored in this hill, but they arefierce ones, and you'll need all your courage."
Then he moved away from them toward the farthest of the fires, andCuthbert felt a sort of change coming over the hill. He could seenothing, but it felt different, as if it were surrounded by a differentsort of country--a savage country, with no railways in it, or roads, orparliaments, or policemen. Even the stars seemed to have grown younger,and nearer the earth, and more lawless; and then he heard voices fillingthe air about him, and a man shouting hoarse commands.
He turned with a start and found himself among a crowd of naked andhalf-naked men--small men, with hair hanging over their shoulders, andbearded chins, and glittering eyes. Some of them were painted withcurious patterns, shining in dull colours from their skins; and theywere all pointing toward the darkness that lay like a sea round thesides of the hill. Then some of them spoke to him and asked him who hewas, and he found that he understood them and could answer them; and theman who had been shouting, and who seemed to be their leader, came andlooked into his eyes. He laid his hands on Cuthbert's shoulders.
"Son of my sons," he said, "are you ready to fight with us?" AndCuthbert suddenly felt himself burning with anger, because he knew thatthey were going to be attacked.
"Of course I am," he said, and then there was a great shout, andeverybody rushed to the barricade; and there all round them, prickingout of the darkness, they could see helmets and the rims of shields.
Cuthbert somehow knew that these belonged to the Romans, and that hehated them for invading his country; and he was so excited that he hadforgotten to notice what had happened to Edward Goldsmith. He only knewthat he had disappeared.
As for Edward, he had forgotten all about Cuthbert. For he had suddenlynoticed that there were now trees growing half-way up the hillside, andhe had jumped over the barricade and run down to explore them. When hegot there, he had found himself among an army of men marching up thehill behind locked shields, and a young centurion with merry eyes hadstooped and gripped him by the arm.
"Hullo!" he said; "son of my sons, are you going to fight with usagainst these barbarians?" And Edward tingled all over with pride, andsaid, "Rather, you bet I am." Then a great stone from the top of thebarricade came leaping down the hillside and crushed one of the men inthe front rank, but the others closed together and never stoppedmarching.
When Cuthbert saw them he was blind with anger, but he knew in his heartthat they were bound to win; and next moment they were over the parapetlike a wave of hot and breathing iron. He heard groans and cries and theshouts of the British chief, and his eyes were full of tears as he beatat the Roman shields; and then he saw Edward and hit him in the face,and made his nose bleed, and knocked out two of his teeth. Edward struckback, and gave Cuthbert a black eye, and the night was full of hewingsand the flashings of swords; and then everything was still again, andthe hill was empty, and the stars were the same stars that they hadalways known.
Squatting on the barricade, with his arms round his knees, they saw Todthe Gipsy laughing at them; and Cuthbert rubbed his eye, a
nd Edwardsniffed hard to try and stop the blood running from his nose. Tod roseand stretched himself.
"Well, you've had it out," he said, "and so has the hill, and now you'dbetter be off home."
So they said good-bye to him, and they never saw him again; and nextmorning when Edward came down to breakfast, his father scolded him forexplaining that an ancient Briton had hit him on the nose. ButCuthbert's daddy only stroked his chin when he heard that the Romans hadgiven Cuthbert a black eye, because that was just the sort of thing, hesaid, that the Romans sometimes did, though they had many goodqualities.
Down the dead centurions' way, Tod the Gipsy drives his shay.
Roman, Briton, Saxon, Dane, Tod the Gipsy hears them plain.
Faint beneath the noonday chalk, Tod can overhear them talk.
Fiercer than the stars at night, Chin to chin, he sees them fight.
ST UNCUS
Doris and St Uncus]
IX
ST UNCUS
It was now November, and even in the country the last of the leaves hadfallen from the trees, and the bushy hollows between the roots of thedowns were grey with old man's beard. Some people like November, becauseit is the quietest month of the year--as quiet as somebody tired, whohas just fallen asleep--and they love to see the fields lying dark andstill, and the empty branches against the sky. But some people hate it,especially people who live in towns, because of its fogs and fallingrains, and they turn up their coat-collars, and blow their noses, andcall it the worst month of the year.
Doris hated it too, and she hated this particular November more than anyother that she could recall, because it had rained and rained andrained, and because her mummy was so ill that she had had to go tohospital. She was also angry with Cuthbert, because she thought that itwasn't fair for him to have taken Edward to see Tod the Gipsy, and nevereven have offered to take her, although she had asked him to over andover again.
So she hadn't spoken to him for nearly a month, not even after her mummyhad been taken to the hospital; and she hated Auntie Kate, who had cometo look after the home, because she kept asking her how her littleboy-friend was. Auntie Kate had a face like a hen's, with a beaky noseand bobbly eyes, and she always counted people's pieces of bread andbutter, and wondered what income their father and mother had. Herhusband was a clergyman, so she went to church a lot, on week-days aswell as on Sundays; and now she had gone to a bazaar at St Peter'sChurch, just when Doris had meant to go to tea with Gwendolen.
So Doris was very angry, because she had to stay at home and take careof her five brothers; and the only happy thing that she had to thinkabout was that Mummy would be home next week. But at half-past three ona wet Saturday afternoon next week seems a horribly long way off, andJimmy and Jocko were being as naughty as ever they knew how. Jimmy wassix and Jocko was five, and they were playing water games in thebathroom; and Doris knew that they would be soaking their clothes andmaking an awful mess, but she didn't care.
"At any rate they're quiet," she thought to herself, "and I don't seewhy I should fight with them any more," and then she pressed her noseagainst the front-door glass and looked dismally into the street.
But there was nothing to see except the falling rain, and the dirtybrown fronts of the opposite houses, and a strip of mud-coloured sky,and the milkman's cart with its yellow pony. Behind her, in a darkcupboard under the stairs, Teddy and George, the twins, were playing atHell; and every now and then she could hear a faint clicking sound, asthey practised gnashing their teeth. As for Christopher Mark, who wasthree and a half, she had forgotten all about him; and by now, if ithadn't been for Auntie Kate, she might have been playing in Gwendolen'sbig barn. Then she thought of Cuthbert again and of his excitingadventure on the top of Caesar's Camp, and she breathed on the glass, anddrew a picture of Cuthbert, making him as ugly as she could.
"I hate him," she thought, "and I hate Auntie Kate, and I hate thetwins, and I hate everybody," and then she turned round, and her heartstood still--or at least she felt as if it did--and her cheeks becamewhite. For there was Christopher Mark at the top of the stairs, with arabbit under one arm and an engine under the other; and she suddenly sawhim slip and begin to pitch head-long down, with a sickening thud, thud,thud.
For a moment she was so frightened that she could hardly breathe, butjust as she sprang forward an odd thing happened, for he stopped short,almost as if somebody had caught him, and didn't even begin to cry.
"My goodness!" she said, and then she stopped short too, for squattingdown on the topmost stair was the strangest little man that she had everseen, hanging on to Christopher Mark. He was a little man with a baldhead and a big mouth and a crooked back; and his right arm was only astump, with a very long hook at the end of it. His left arm was odd too,almost as crooked as his back, and he had curled it round one of thebanisters, while he hooked Christopher Mark up with the other.
"Good afternoon," he said. "I see you have recognized me. That's veryclever of you. Most people don't."
Doris was too surprised at first to be able to answer him. But he didn'tseem to mind, and went on smiling; while as for Christopher Mark, heclimbed upstairs again, just as if the little man hadn't been there.
"I'm afraid I don't recognize you," said Doris at last; "but I'mfrightfully obliged to you for saving Christopher Mark."
"Not at all," he said. "That's what I'm for. I'm St Uncus."
Doris frowned a little.
"St Uncus?" she asked.
"Latin for hook," he said. "Excuse me half a moment."
For a flicker of an eyelid he disappeared.
"Just been to China," he said, "to hook another one."
Doris opened her eyes.
"But are you a _real_ saint?" she asked.
The little man flushed.
"Why, of course I am. I'm a patron saint. I'm the patron saint ofstaircases."
"But I didn't know," said Doris, "that staircases had patron saints."
"They don't," he said. "They have only one."
"I mean," said Doris--"it's frightfully rude, I'm afraid--but I didn'tknow that they had even one."
He smiled again.
"Very likely not," he said. "Lots of people don't. But they have."
He disappeared once more.
"Baby in Jamaica," he said, "just beginning to fall from the toplanding."
Then he stroked his chin and looked at her thoughtfully.
"I suppose you've been left here," he said, "to look after thechildren."
Doris nodded.
"Well, then, you ought to know," he said, "that there are two thingsthat children love more than anything else. One of them's water and theother's staircases. And they're both a bit dangerous. So they each havea patron saint."
"I see," said Doris. "And who's the patron saint of water?"
"Fellow called Fat Bill," he said. "He's my younger brother."
"That seems a queer name," said Doris, "for a saint."
"Well, he's a queer fellow," said St Uncus, "but we've both been lucky."
Doris couldn't help looking at his crooked back, and his deformed leftarm, and his right stump.
"Ah, yes," he said; "but you mustn't judge by those. That's the verymistake that I made. You see, I once fell down a staircase myself, twoor three years after staircases were invented."
He looked at Doris and nodded his head.
"It was when I was a small boy," he said, "as small as your littlebrother; and that's why I grew up crooked and deformed. I was veryunhappy about it. It was thousands of years ago. But I can stillremember how unhappy I was. I used to watch the other children playinggames, and when I grew up I watched the men go hunting. And I had tostay at home, and the women despised me; and at last I died, and then Isaw how silly I had been."
"Why had you been silly?" asked Doris.
"Well, I'd wasted the whole of my life, you see, thinking about thestaircase and how miserable I was; and so when the good Lord God askedme what I wanted to do next, there was hardly
anything that I could turnmy hand to. But I told you I was lucky, and so I was, for as it happenedI had a great idea; and that was to try and save as many children as Icould from being as miserable as I had been. Of course, I couldn'texpect much of a job, seeing how I'd thrown away all my chances, so Iasked the good Lord God if He would allow me to look after the world'sstaircases."
He disappeared again.
"Been to Port Jacobson," he said. "Well, the good Lord God thought thatit was rather a fine idea; and so He laid His hand upon me and gave me anew name; and my new name was St Uncus."
"Shall I have a new name too?" asked Doris.
St Uncus beamed.
"Why, of course," he said. "Everybody has a new name, only it generallydepends, to a certain extent, upon what they did with their old ones."
Doris thought for a moment.
"But wouldn't you rather be in Heaven," she said, "than sitting about onthese silly old staircases?"
St Uncus laughed.
"But Heaven's not a place, my dear. Heaven's being employed by the goodLord God."
Then he looked at his watch.
"And now I wonder," he said, "if you'd mind doing me a good turn?"
"Oh, I should love to!" said Doris; "but how can I?"
"Well, you see," he said, "the worst of my job is that I can never get achance of seeing my brother Bill. He's always busy by the edges of pondsand things, and I'm always stuck on somebody's staircase; and I thoughtperhaps, if you wouldn't mind taking my hook for a bit, I could slip offfor a moment and have a talk to him."
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