Tales Before Narnia

by Douglas A. Anderson

  So he agreed to do what the Owl told him and the first thing was to look about on the ground among the bones and pick up the snapped pieces of harp-string. The crows, which had eaten the rest of the Giant’s heart, had found these much too dry and stringy, so they had let them lie. He found seven of them and when he had collected them together, the Owl told him to find the Giant’s breast bone. So he found this and then, with help of the wise Owl’s advice, he bored holes in it and fastened the seven broken strings, which were all of different lengths, side by side across the breast bone, stretching them good and tight.

  “Well?” he said, as he finished doing all this.

  “I leave the rest to you!” said the Owl, and it flew away. The child sat down and could not avoid thinking sorrowfully of the many happy days he had spent in the past with the great creature, whose breast bone and heart-strings were all that he now held in his hands. As he did so, his fingers began to pluck idly at the strings, and immediately, to his great surprise, there arose from them a burst of harmony so sweet, so pure, so joyful and yet, in the same breath, so unutterably sad that it thrilled him to the very marrow of his bones. He plucked the strings again, and again there came swelling forth from them a wonderful burst of harmony—far, far more wonderful than anything the Aeolian Harp had ever given forth. For whereas that had sounded one note only, this sang many different ones, all of them mingling together in a noble union. The child sat on, plucking at the strings, like one enchanted. The Giant’s clumsy and cruel limbs might indeed be dead forever, but his childish and companionable heart seemed to live on in these waves of liquid music.

  By now the sun had sunk low in the sky, but there sat the child still plucking melody upon melody from the strings and weaving them together into one another with a skill that seemed to come less from his own fingers than from the strings on which they played. And though he did not at first notice it, every time he began to play, all the beasts and birds ceased from their movements, the insects were silent in the grass, and the grass itself stopped growing to listen. Even the restless swallows came and perched beside him, as if they had been swallows moulded from clay, and waited without stirring so much as a feather until his fingers should come to rest again and the music die away. But as soon as he ceased playing, the beasts all returned to their natural movements and occupations, and now each creature seemed to know what it was doing and to be speaking of it to the others.

  “I am crawling!” said the snake, “I like it!”

  “I am buzzing!” said the fly, “Buzz-z-zing yezz! buz-z-z-z-zing, I am!”

  “I am eating,” murmured a gazelle contentedly.

  “So am I!” roared a lion.

  “And I am being eaten!” called out the kid, which was just then between the lion’s jaws. And, whether it were the influence of the music or simply the child’s imagination, or for some other cause, the kid positively did not seem to mind being eaten at all!

  “And I am flying!” shrieked a young swallow. “Swoop! Whoop! Look out! Flyee-ing! Isn’t it lovely!”

  The child rose to his feet and gazed into the pool of water, whose surface, unruffled by any wind, reflected his own figure back to him for the first time in his life. He saw a tall man crowned with a garland of flowers and holding in his hands a lyre.

  “Why, I am a man!” he exclaimed in surprise.

  “You are a poet!” screamed the swallows circling round his head. It was they who had crowned him with the flowers.

  “One and the same thing!” said a voice behind him. It was the Owl’s, and the child, or rather the man, wondered how it was he had never noticed before that that voice was the most beautiful voice he could possibly imagine. He turned round to speak to the Owl and saw to his surprise, not a bird standing there but a tall white being with the most beautiful face in the world.

  “Who are you?” he asked, “if you are not the Owl?”

  “I am the White Fairy.”

  “Why did you do all this?” asked the man, greatly puzzled.

  “To teach you what it feels like to fly,” said the White Fairy and, as she spoke, she spread wide her beautiful wings and caught up the man with her, so that the two of them floated high over the forest together, and there they are floating still for all I know.

  A KING’S LESSON

  by William Morris

  * * *

  As a youth, Lewis first encountered one of the prose romances of William Morris on the bookshelf of his friend Arthur Greeves, and after finishing it Lewis read all the Morris he could obtain. “The growth of the new delight,” he wrote, “is marked by my sudden realization, almost with a sense of disloyalty, that the letters of WILLIAM MORRIS were coming to have at least as potent a magic in them as WAGNER.” Like Wagner, Morris was steeped in Northernness, and not only in his prose romances—Morris himself had translated some of the Icelandic sagas and retold their stories in verse. Additionally, he was an artist and craftsman, and a founder of the socialist movement in England.

  Lewis was pleased in 1930 to acquire a set of the twenty-four volumes of The Collected Works of William Morris (1910–15), edited by his daughter May Morris. Lewis noted: “I am delighted with the Morris, tho it seems to be rather carelessly printed.” Lewis’s mature evaluation of Morris, read to the Martlet Society in November 1937, can be found in his Selected Literary Essays.

  The story “A King’s Lesson” is one of the few works by Morris in which he explicitly mixed his political views in with his fantasy writing. It was originally published in The Commonweal for September 18, 1886.

  * * *

  It is told of Matthias Corvinus, king of Hungary—the Alfred the Great of his time and people—that he once heard (once only?) that some (only some, my lad?) of his peasants were over-worked and under-fed. So he sent for his Council, and bade come thereto also some of the mayors of the good towns, and some of the lords of land and their bailiffs, and asked them of the truth thereof; and in diverse ways they all told one and the same tale, how the peasant carles were stout and well able to work and had enough and to spare of meat and drink, seeing that they were but churls; and how if they worked not at the least as hard as they did, it would be ill for them and ill for their lords; for that the more the churl hath the more he asketh; and that when he knoweth wealth, he knoweth the lack of it also, as it fared with our first parents in the Garden of God. The King sat and said but little while they spake, but he misdoubted them that they were liars. So the Council brake up with nothing done; but the King took the matter to heart, being, as kings go, a just man, besides being more valiant than they mostly were, even in the old feudal time. So within two or three days, says the tale, he called together such lords and councillors as he deemed fittest, and bade busk them for a ride; and when they were ready he and they set out, over rough and smooth, decked out in all the glory of attire which was the wont of those days. Thus they rode till they came to some village or thorpe of the peasant folk, and through it to the vineyards where men were working on the sunny southern slopes that went up from the river: my tale does not say whether that were Theiss, or Donau, or what river. Well, I judge it was late spring or early summer, and the vines but just beginning to show their grapes; for the vintage is late in those lands, and some of the grapes are not gathered till the first frosts have touched them, whereby the wine made from them is the stronger and sweeter. Anyhow there were the peasants, men and women, boys and young maidens, toiling and swinking; some hoeing between the vine-rows, some bearing baskets of dung up the steep slopes, some in one way, some in another, labouring for the fruit they should never eat, and the wine they should never drink. Thereto turned the King and got off his horse and began to climb up the stony ridges of the vineyard, and his lords in like manner followed him, wondering in their hearts what was toward; but to the one who was following next after him he turned about and said with a smile, “Yea, lords, this is a new game we are playing today, and a new knowledge will come from it.” And the lord smiled, but somewhat sourly.r />
  As for the peasants, great was their fear of those gay and golden lords. I judge that they did not know the King, since it was little likely that any one of them had seen his face; and they knew of him but as the Great Father, the mighty warrior who kept the Turk from harrying their thorpe. Though, forsooth, little matter was it to any man there whether Turk or Magyar was their over-lord, since to one master or another they had to pay the due tale of labouring days in the year, and hard was the livelihood that they earned for themselves on the days when they worked for themselves and their wives and children.

  Well, belike they knew not the King; but amidst those rich lords they saw and knew their own lord, and of him they were sore afraid. But nought it availed them to flee away from those strong men and strong horses—they who had been toiling from before the rising of the sun, and now it wanted little more than an hour of noon: besides, with the King and lords was a guard of crossbowmen, who were left the other side of the vineyard wall,—keen-eyed Italians of the mountains, straight shooters of the bolt. So the poor folk fled not; nay they made as if all this were none of their business, and went on with their work. For indeed each man said to himself, “If I be the one that is not slain, to-morrow I shall lack bread if I do not work my hardest to-day; and maybe I shall be headman if some of these be slain and I live.”

  Now comes the King amongst them and says: “Good fellows, which of you is the headman?”

  Spake a man, sturdy and sunburnt, well on in years and grizzled: “I am the headman, lord.”

  “Give me thy hoe, then,” says the King; “for now shall I order this matter myself, since these lords desire a new game, and are fain to work under me at vine-dressing. But do thou stand by me and set me right if I order them wrong: but the rest of you go play!”

  The carle knew not what to think, and let the King stand with his hand stretched out, while he looked askance at his own lord and baron, who wagged his head at him grimly as one who says, “Do it, dog!”

  Then the carle lets the hoe come into the King’s hand; and the King falls to, and orders his lords for vine-dressing, to each his due share of the work: and whiles the carle said yea and whiles nay to his ordering. And then ye should have seen velvet cloaks cast off, and mantles of fine Flemish scarlet go to the dusty earth; as the lords and knights busked them to the work.

  So they buckled to; and to most of them it seemed good game to play at vine-dressing. But one there was who, when his scarlet cloak was off, stood up in a doublet of glorious Persian web of gold and silk, such as men make not now, worth a hundred florins the Bremen ell. Unto him the King with no smile on his face gave the job of toing and froing up and down the hill with the biggest and the frailest dung-basket that there was; and thereat the silken lord screwed up a grin, that was sport to see, and all the lords laughed; and as he turned away he said, yet so that none heard him, “Do I serve this son’s son of a whore that he should bid me carry dung?” For you must know that the King’s father, John Hunyad, one of the great warriors of the world, the Hammer of the Turks, was not gotten in wedlock, though he were a king’s son.

  Well, they sped the work bravely for a while, and loud was the laughter as the hoes smote the earth and the flint stones tinkled and the cloud of dust rose up; the brocaded dung-bearer went up and down, cursing and swearing by the White God and the Black; and one would say to another, “See ye how gentle blood outgoes churls’ blood, even when the gentle does the churl’s work: these lazy loons smote but one stroke to our three.” But the King, who worked no worse than any, laughed not at all; and meanwhile the poor folk stood by, not daring to speak a word one to the other; for they were still sore afraid, not now of being slain on the spot, but this rather was in their hearts: “These great and strong lords and knights have come to see what work a man may do without dying: if we are to have yet more days added to our year’s tale of lords’ labour, then are we lost without remedy.” And their hearts sank within them.

  So sped the work; and the sun rose yet higher in the heavens, and it was noon and more. And now there was no more laughter among those toiling lords, and the strokes of the hoe and mattock came far slower, while the dung-bearer sat down at the bottom of the hill and looked out on the river; but the King yet worked on doggedly, so for shame the other lords yet kept at it. Till at last the next man to the King let his hoe drop with a clatter, and swore a great oath. Now he was a strong black-bearded man in the prime of life, a valiant captain of that famous Black Band that had so often rent the Turkish array; and the King loved him for his sturdy valour; so he says to him, “Is aught wrong, Captain?”

  “Nay, lord,” says he, “ask the headman carle yonder what ails us.”

  “Headman,” says the King, “what ails these strong knights? Have I ordered them wrongly?”

  “Nay, but shirking ails them, lord,” says he, “for they are weary; and no wonder, for they have been playing hard, and are of gentle blood.”

  “Is that so, lord,” says the King, “that ye are weary already?”

  Then the rest hung their heads and said nought, all save that captain of war; and he said, being a bold man and no liar: “King, I see what thou wouldst be at; thou hast brought us here to preach us a sermon from that Plato of thine; and to say sooth, so that I may swink no more, and go eat my dinner, now preach thy worst! Nay, if thou wilt be priest I will be thy deacon. Wilt thou that I ask this labouring carle a thing or two?”

  “Yea,” said the King. And there came, as it were, a cloud of thought over his face.

  Then the captain straddled his legs and looked big, and said to the carle: “Good fellow, how long have we been working here?”

  “Two hours or thereabout, judging by the sun above us,” says he.

  “And how much of thy work have we done in that while?” says the captain, and winks his eye at him withal.

  “Lord,” says the carle, grinning a little despite himself, “be not wroth with my word. In the first half-hour ye did five-and-forty minutes’ work of ours, and in the next half-hour scant a thirty minutes’ work, and the third half-hour a fifteen minutes’ work, and in the fourth half-hour two minutes’ work.” The grin now had faded from his face, but a gleam came into his eyes as he said: “And now, as I suppose, your day’s work is done, and ye will go to your dinner, and eat the sweet and drink the strong; and we shall eat a little rye-bread, and then be working here till after the sun has set and the moon has begun to cast shadows. Now for you, I wot not how ye shall sleep nor where, nor what white body ye shall hold in your arms while the night flits and the stars shine; but for us, while the stars yet shine, shall we be at it again, and bethink ye for what! I know not what game and play ye shall be devising for tomorrow as ye ride back home; but for us when we come back here to-morrow, it shall be as if there had been no yesterday and nothing done therein, and that work of that to-day shall be nought to us also, for we shall win no respite from our toil thereby, and the morrow of to-morrow will all be to begin again once more, and so on and on till no to-morrow abideth us. Therefore, if ye are thinking to lay some new tax or tale upon us, think twice of it, for we may not bear it. And all this I say with the less fear, because I perceive this man here beside me, in the black velvet jerkin and the gold chain on his neck, is the King; nor do I think he will slay me for my word since he hath so many a Turk before him and his mighty sword!”

  Then said the captain: “Shall I smite the man, O King? or hath he preached thy sermon for thee?”

  “Smite not, for he hath preached it,” said the King. “Hearken to the carle’s sermon, lords and councillors of mine! Yet when another hath spoken our thought, other thoughts are born therefrom, and now have I another sermon to preach; but I will refrain me as now. Let us down and to our dinner.”

  So they went, the King and his gentles, and sat down by the river under the rustle of the poplars, and they ate and drank and were merry. And the King bade bear up the broken meats to the vine-dressers, and a good draught of the archer’s wine, and to
the headman he gave a broad gold piece, and to each man three silver pennies. But when the poor folk had all that under their hands, it was to them as though the kingdom of heaven had come down to earth.

  In the cool of the evening home rode the King and his lords. The King was distraught and silent; but at last the captain, who rode beside him, said to him: “Preach me now thine after-sermon, O King!”

  “I think thou knowest it already,” said the King, “else hadst thou not spoken in such wise to the carle; but tell me what is thy craft and the craft of all these, whereby ye live, as the potter by making pots, and so forth?”

  Said the captain: “As the potter lives by making pots, so we live by robbing the poor.”

  Again said the King: “And my trade?”

  Said he, “Thy trade is to be a king of such thieves, yet no worser than the rest.”

  The King laughed.

  “Bear that in mind,” said he, “and then shall I tell thee my thought while yonder carle spake. ‘Carle,’ I thought, ‘were I thou or such as thou, then would I take in my hand a sword or a spear, or were it only a hedge-stake, and bid others do the like, and forth would we go; and since we would be so many, and with nought to lose save a miserable life, we would do battle and prevail, and make an end of the craft of kings and of lords and of usurers, and there should be but one craft in the world, to wit, to work merrily for ourselves and to live merrily thereby.’”

  Said the captain: “This then is thy sermon. Who will heed it if thou preach it?”

  Said the King: “They who will take the mad king and put him in a king’s madhouse, therefore do I forbear to preach it. Yet it shall be preached.”

  “And not heeded,” said the captain, “save by those who head and hang the setters forth of new things that are good for the world. Our trade is safe for many and many a generation.”