“No, of course not,” said Diana—far too indignantly to be quite certain. “They just groan and moan and clank chains—and talk sometimes in deep, ghastly tones.”
By this time they had reached the line of bushes at which they had stopped on the previous night.
Joanna paused in front of them for a moment, and then, almost by an effort, pushed past and out into the little valley beyond. After a few steps she stopped to look round her, while Diana, who had no special reason for interest, sat down to rest with her back against a tree.
The narrow valley opened out here into a little green glade with banks that became almost like cliffs by reason of their steepness, and were fringed with trees and trailed across with brambles and ivy. The big trees higher up the gentle slope, which began when the steep banks had risen about twelve or fifteen feet, arched over the glade, leaving only a narrow strip of blue sky above the little stream which tinkled gaily out of sight among the bushes and ferns in front of them. Immediately behind these the steep embankment rose up, all grown over with brambles and thorn bushes, with great trees rising thickly near the top—a slope so steep and lofty that only its straightness and its regularity supported the children’s conviction that it was indeed an embankment and not merely an outlying spur of the hill.
“Come along!” said Joanna suddenly, and without waiting for the other two she walked quickly across the little open patch of grass, and disappeared among the bushes at the upper end.
“What’s all the mystery?” asked Diana, getting up slowly. “I’m sure you two are up to something you haven’t told me. All this business about coming here and nowhere else, and then you not saying anything for such a long time—I do think you might tell me.”
“Well,” answered Barbara slowly, “last night Jo and I came here late in the evening, and we thought we heard someone singing down by the place where the stream disappears under the embankment.”
“Why didn’t you look and see who it was?” asked Diana.
“Somehow we just couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t? Why not?”
“It was just sort of mysterious and ghostly. No, not ghostly exactly—I can’t explain what it felt like,” said Barbara, trying her hardest. “You know you felt as if there was a ghost about just when we came through those bushes a few minutes ago.”
Diana was rather impressed, but decided not to seem too ready to believe such an improbable story.
“I expect it was only a bird singing,” she said, “or else someone away on the road. What did it sound like?”
“It was definitely a person,” said Barbara, “because the song had words to it. And, anyhow, there isn’t a road within miles! It began far away, and then became so near that it must have been only just over the bushes—right out here on this open bit of grass in fact.”
“Why ever didn’t you look over the bushes and see who was there?” was Diana’s very natural question. But Barbara was quite unable to answer, and fortunately at that moment they heard Joanna calling them.
“Barbara! Diana!” she shouted in a breathless, excited voice. “Come here! There is a way under the bank! Quite a big, long tunnel, with the stream running through it. And there’s a lovely wood beyond it on the other side. Do come quickly!”
Eagerly they ran forward, pushed through the last few bushes, and found themselves standing on the very edge of the steam and in front of a low stone archway grown all over with creeper and jasmine. The stream here was about eight feet wide, and the top of the arch four or five feet above the water. Joanna was standing on a stone in the middle of the stream, balancing insecurely, and waving her arms to them in great excitement.
“I’m sure we can get through!” she exclaimed breathlessly as they came to the edge of the water. “It’s not very deep, and all of the bottom I can see is flat and pebbly.”
“Let’s take off our shoes and stockings and wade through,” Diana suggested, forgetting all about her grievances; and there and then she sat down and began removing her shoes.
Joanna scrambled back, only putting one foot in the water as she did so, and began following Diana’s example. Barbara, however, had other plans. She had retreated a little way up the bank, and was busily engaged in cutting herself a stick from a bunch of willow saplings that grew there. When she had done this, and not before, she followed the example of the other two, pushing her socks into her shoes and tying the laces of these together, which done she slung them triumphantly from the fork which she had left at the top of her stick, and followed them down into the water.
It was not at all deep—seldom up to their knees, indeed—and the bed of the stream was made of such firm gravelly sand that walking was extremely easy. This was fortunate, for in spite of the sunshine outside either end of the tunnel, it seemed absolutely dark before even they reached the middle, being indeed almost a quarter of a mile in length.
“This is exciting!” remarked Barbara, and her voice boomed eerily along the stone arch. “We always wished that we could find a cave in the wood.”
“What a pity it doesn’t turn a few corners,” said Joanna, “then it would be quite dark, and much more exciting. Then we could make a little boat and go sailing away down the underground river—into the Unknown, just like in Allan Quatermain.”
“There is one like that which runs under part of Oxford,” said Diana. “I was taken through it years ago. It’s much smaller than this, only a great deal longer, and all twisty and windy—you have to go through it in a canoe, because a punt won’t fit round the corners.”
“I wish we had a canoe here—we could go right up the Waingunga for miles and miles, and down the other way to the place quite near the lake, where the stream goes under those willow trees,” said Joanna.
“What’s going to happen now when we get to the other side?” asked Diana. “Is there another wood, or what?”
“I don’t know at all,” said Joanna. “We’ve been along the road beyond the Wood—but that’s miles and miles away, and the Wood comes down to it in a steep slope, and there’s a thorn hedge about twenty feet high and so thick that you can’t see anything through it at all—even in the winter.”
“We must look at it on the Ordnance Map when we get in,” suggested Barbara.
“That’s no good,” said Joanna. “I’ve looked, and it just says ‘Wood Arnold Park’ all over!”
“Look here,” suggested Diana, “if it’s such an unknown wood, couldn’t we make a map of our own, and fill in each bit as we explore it?”
“That’s a good idea,” agreed Joanna, “only if no one has been in it before, there won’t be any paths, which means there’ll be nothing to put on the map except the stream and the edge of the wood.”
By this time they were getting near to the other side of the bank, and a feeling of excitement began to grow on each of them, silencing all conversation. A few more steps, and they were out of the tunnel and in the sunshine again, standing in a shallow stream with low banks grown closely to the edge with willow and elder. The channel stretched in front of them for a little way under its green arch of leaves, and then disappeared round a slight bend fifty yards or so ahead of them. They came out under a stone archway exactly like that on the other side of the embankment, and as on the other side the thick thorn bushes and brambles came right down to the edge of it.
Barbara, by virtue of her stick, was leading the way: “There’s no sign of a path up the bank,” she said in a hushed voice that was almost a whisper, “and I don’t think we could get through that undergrowth even if we tried; so I think the right way must be straight along the stream.” And without waiting for a reply, on she went, walking quite fast, for the water was as clear as ever and the bottom as flat and as pleasant to walk on.
“At least we can’t get lost if we follow the stream,” said Diana, “but don’t you think it would be more exciting if we got out and pushed through the bushes?”
“Let’s keep on a bit longer,” suggested Barbara. “I’m sure we
shall find a path or something in a minute. I mean—the person we heard singing must have come some proper way, and would never have pushed through all that undergrowth.”
Diana said nothing, but she looked as if she wanted to say a great deal: only, somehow, there was just the slightest feeling about this new Wood as if it were a little strange and out of the ordinary—as Joanna remarked a little later, it felt as if one could believe anything while one was in that Wood.
Round the bend in the stream went Barbara, and then stopped suddenly—so suddenly that Diana bumped into her.
“What’s the matter?” asked Joanna splashing quickly up to them.
“Look!” whispered Barbara.
There before them was an open glade sloping gently down to the very edge of the stream. Two old stone steps led up out of the water, and from them ran a little path winding away up the bank. The branches of tall trees laced thinly overhead, and all the glade was bright, though still shady.
Barbara led the way up the steps and along the path, the others following her in complete silence. Up the bank it went, twisting and turning between the trunks of trees, occasionally between the moss-covered mounds where great trees had once been.
Presently Barbara stopped at a place where the path went between two trees about three feet apart. She stepped off to one side, and sat down with her back against one of the trees, while she put on her socks and shoes again. The other two followed her example, and when this was done, Diana said in a low voice:
“What shall we do now?”
“Follow the path?” suggested Joanna: “we might get lost if we just wandered off—it’s such a big wood. Look over there, can you see how far it goes?”
They were a little way up a slope, and there was hardly any undergrowth below them, so it was possible to see for quite a long way up the stream. The wood extended as far as they could see along the bank, sloping gradually away into the distance; the trees were tall and fairly far apart, and round about them grew high green ferns and bracken, with little bare patches of grass or moss, covered with marsh marigolds and bluebells.
“Look!” exclaimed Barbara suddenly and excitedly. She had been sitting against the tree, and had turned so that it was beside her rather than behind her. Now she was pointing to something carved on the bark at about two feet above the ground. The others crowded round.
“It’s quite freshly carved!” said Diana.
“Yes, but whatever does it mean?” asked Joanna. “Those must be letters, but they’re not English ones, surely?”
“They’re not Greek, either!” said Diana in a tone of rather self-conscious superiority. Neither of the others contradicted her. But Barbara hauled a notebook out of her pocket, found a pencil, after another struggle, and settled herself carefully to copy down the mysterious letters. And this is what she wrote, with some difficulty and a lot of rubbing out:
“It can’t be the person we heard singing!” exclaimed Joanna suddenly.
“Why not?” asked Diana.
“Because the words of the song were in perfectly good English.” Barbara nodded slowly: not that she could remember a single one of those words (nor could Joanna, for that matter), but she was equally certain that she had understood the song perfectly.
“It’s all very mysterious!” said Diana, shaking her head wisely.
“Come on!” exclaimed Barbara, jumping up suddenly. “It must be getting late already. Let’s go up this path as quickly as possible and see if we can find where it goes!”
She pushed the notebook back into her pocket, seized her stick, and set off along the path up the gentle slope behind them, the others following her willingly enough.
The path curved up the hill and through the trees, but it did not seem to lead anywhere in particular.
“We must be going parallel to the stream,” remarked Barbara after a while.
“Of course we aren’t!” exclaimed Diana. “We are going directly away from it, up the hill and over the top!”
“The stream is over there!” said Joanna, pointing.
“Nonsense!” said Barbara. “The embankment is in that direction.”
“What embankment?” asked Diana blankly. “The one we came under is exactly behind us!”
Nobody felt inclined to argue, because each was so certain that she was right, that it didn’t seem worth it.
“We’d better go back,” Joanna said at last. “There’s something funny about this Wood.”
No one said anything to this, but they followed Joanna back along the path quite willingly.
It was getting dark now, rather quickly and unpleasantly.
“There’s going to be a thunderstorm!” said Diana. “Hurry up, Jo, and we shall reach the tunnel in time to shelter there.”
Almost running, they came round a corner of the path and found themselves at the top of the glade by the steam where they had found the mysterious writing on the tree.
“I told you it was this direction!” cried Joanna triumphantly.
“You said nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Barbara indignantly. “You said it was right over there—the way we’ve just come.”
But before more argument or mystification could ensue the first big drops of rain came pattering through the leaves, and the three children raced down to the stone steps by the stream edge, pulled shoes and socks hastily off, and stepping into the water waded down to the tunnel arch as fast as they could, reaching it just as the storm burst over them with a deluge of rain.
There was hardly any thunder, but the rain fell heavily for a long time, though gradually the sky became lighter and lighter.
The three children said very little as they stood there in the stream a foot or two down the tunnel.
“It’s going to stop,” said Diana at last. “There’s a bright patch in the tiny bit of sky I can see from here. You see! the sun is shining right up the stream—oh my gracious, look!”
They followed the direction of her hand, and gazed down the green archway of the stream. As the sunbeam grew and spread it lit up the bank which they could see exactly opposite them, where the stream curved out of sight.
“There’s someone there!” whispered Diana.
Slowly as the bright beam grew, shining straight down through the branches, a figure seemed to grow into being with it, a figure hardly distinguishable from the silver-grey of the tall willow stems on the bank.
For a moment, when the sunbeam was at its brightest, they all saw, or seemed to see, a tall and lovely girl standing there quite still. She wore a long dress that was either grey or light green, with the skirt gathered up over her arm, showing her feet and legs, which seemed to be encased in tight-fitting brown chamois leather boots. Around her waist was a broad brown belt, studded with gold or silver, and even at that distance everyone could see that a knife hung from it. Her hair, which was thick, and of a golden-brown colour, fell to her shoulders, and was held back from her face by a narrow brown band, from the centre of which something flashed brightly. Her face was turned three parts towards them, and the sunbeam shone full upon it, yet none of the three who saw her could quite describe that face. It was very calm, a little sad, and yet the lips smiled pleasantly, and the eyes shone with a frank openness that suggested a happy, eager disposition. But deep in them (though the watchers never knew how they could see all this at such a distance) dwelt a suggestion of mystery, of knowledge such as no one so young in seeming could have possessed, a haunting memory of a long grief that had yet, through all the years, never quite swallowed up the hope that was to end it. In spite of this, however, she seemed very young, eighteen or twenty perhaps, but hardly any more.
For a long, breathless moment they saw her standing there absolutely motionless; then as the sunbeam faded, so she seemed to fade, merging into the background of light grey stem and silvery-green leaves, fading into it and yet never moving at all, until all was grey again, and she had gone absolutely.
A moment passed, and then the sun shone out suddenly and bright
ly down the embankment over the tunnel entrance, the clouds began to roll back and melt away, and soon all they could see of the stream was lit by the clear golden light of the evening sun. But of the girl on the bank there was no sign, though they had never for a moment taken their eyes from the place where she had stood only a few minutes before.
Silently they went back through the tunnel, and with scarcely a word put on their shoes again and hastened along the well-known paths to the house.
THE DREAM DUST FACTORY
by William Lindsay Gresham
* * *
William Lindsay Gresham and Joy Davidman were married in 1942 and divorced in 1954, following Gresham’s infidelity and his wife’s move from America to England with their two sons. Through a register office marriage (so that she and her sons could remain in England legally), Joy Davidman became C. S. Lewis’s wife in April 1956; a marriage by a clergyman followed in March 1957.
Lewis is known to have exchanged some letters with his wife’s ex-husband, and after her death in 1960, Gresham went to England to see Lewis and his sons. Gresham brought as a gift a recently published book by his friend Martin Gardner, The Annotated Alice, and asked Lewis on behalf of Gardner whether he had ever read any of the Oz books by L. Frank Baum. (Lewis had not.)
Gresham was well known for his first novel, Nightmare Alley (1946), which was made into a film the following year. He published several other books and a number of essays and short stories. “The Dream Dust Factory” was originally published in The Atlantic Monthly for October 1947. It was reprinted in the December 1953 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, a magazine Lewis read and to which, beginning in 1956, he contributed poems and short stories. (We know that Lewis read the December 1953 issue in particular because in “Unreal Estates”—a transcription of a discussion among Lewis, Kingsley Amis, and Brian Aldiss—Lewis described without naming a story by Zenna Henderson, “Food to All Flesh,” which at that time had only been published in that specific issue.) The style of Gresham’s tale is very different from anything by Lewis, but the content, the dream-flight of a prisoner, is more Lewisian, and the book that the main character had read so often provides a surprising sympathetic connection with Lewis.
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