‘What a lot he’s collected,’ cried Rogers from his point of vantage where he could see inside. ‘It all gets purified and clean in there. Wait a moment. He’s coming out again—off to make another collection.’
And then they knew the man for what he was. He shot past them into the night, carrying this time a flat and emptied sack, and singing like a blackbird as he went:—
Sweeping chimneys and cleaning flues,
That is the work I love;
Brushing away the blacks and the blues,
And letting in light from above!
I twirl my broom in your tired brain
When you’re tight in sleep up-curled,
Then scatter the stuff in a soot-like rain
Over the edge of the world.
The voice grew fainter and fainter in the distance—
For I’m a tremendously busy Sweep,
Catching the folk when they’re all asleep,
And tossing the blacks on the Rubbish Heap
Over the edge of the world…!
The voice died away into the wind among the high branches, and they heard it no more.
‘There’s a Sweep worth knowing,’ murmured Rogers, strong yearning in him.
‘There are no blacks or blues in my brain,’ exclaimed Monkey, ‘but
Jimbo’s always got some on his face.’
The impudence passed ignored. Jimbo took his cousin’s hand and led him to the opening. The ‘men’ went in first together; the other sex might follow as best it could. Yet somehow or other Monkey slipped between their legs and got in before them. They stood up side by side in the most wonderful place they had ever dreamed of.
And the first thing they saw was—Jane Anne.
‘I’m collecting for Mother. Her needles want such a chronic lot, you see.’ Her face seemed full of stars; there was no puzzled expression in the eyes now. She looked beautiful. And the younger children stared in sheer amazement and admiration.
‘I have no time to waste,’ she said, moving past them with a load in her spread apron that was like molten gold; ‘I have to be up and awake at six to make your porridge before you go to school. I’m a busy monster, I can tell you!’ She went by them like a flash, and out into the night.
Monkey felt tears in her somewhere, but they did not fall. Something in her turned ashamed—for a moment. Jimbo stared in silence. ‘What a girl!’ he thought. ‘I’d like to be like that!’ Already the light was sticking to him.
‘So this is where she always comes,’ said Monkey, soon recovering from the temporary attack of emotion. ‘She’s better out than in; she’s safest when asleep! No wonder she’s so funny in the daytime.’
Then they turned to look about them, breathing low as wild-flowers that watch a rising moon.
The place was so big for one thing—far bigger than they had expected. The storage of lost starlight must be a serious affair indeed if it required all this space to hold it. The entire mountain range was surely hollow. Another thing that struck them was the comparative dimness of this huge interior compared with the brilliance of the river outside. But, of course, lost things are ever dim, and those worth looking for dare not be too easily found.
A million tiny lines of light, they saw, wove living, moving patterns, very intricate and very exquisite. These lines and patterns the three drew in with their very breath. They swallowed light—the tenderest light the world can know. A scent of flowers—something between a violet and a wild rose—floated over all. And they understood these patterns while they breathed them in. They read them. Patterns in Nature, of course, are fairy script. Here lay all their secrets sweetly explained in golden writing, all mysteries made clear. The three understood beyond their years; and inside-sight, instead of glimmering, shone. For, somehow or other, the needs of other people blazed everywhere, obliterating their own. It was most singular.
Monkey ceased from somersaulting and stared at Jimbo.
‘You’ve got two stars in your face instead of eyes. They’ll never set!’ she whispered. ‘I love you because I understand every bit of you.’
‘And you,’ he replied, as though he were a grande personne, ‘have got hair like a mist of fire. It will never go out!’
‘Every one will love me now,’ she cried, ‘my underneath is gold.’
But her brother reproved her neatly:—
‘Let’s get a lot—simply an awful lot’—he made a grimace to signify quantity—’and pour it over Daddy’s head till it runs from his eyes and beard. He’ll write real fairy stories then and make a fortune.’
And Cousin Henry moved past them like a burning torch. They held their breath to see him. Jane Anne, their busy sister, alone excelled him in brightness. Her perfume, too, was sweeter.
‘He’s an old hand at this game,’ Monkey said in French.
‘But Jinny’s never done anything else since she was born,’ replied her brother proudly.
And they all three fell to collecting, for it seemed the law of the place, a kind of gravity none could disobey. They stooped—three semi- circles of tender brilliance. Each lost the least desire to gather for himself; the needs of others drove them, filled them, made them eager and energetic.
‘Riquette would like a bit,’ cried Jimbo, almost balancing on his head in his efforts to get it all at once, while Monkey’s shining fingers stuffed her blouse and skirts with sheaves of golden gossamer that later she meant to spread in a sheet upon the pillow of Mademoiselle Lemaire.
‘She sleeps so little that she needs the best,’ she sang, realising for once that her own amusement was not the end of life. ‘I’ll make her nights all wonder.’
Cousinenry, meanwhile, worked steadily like a man who knows his time is short. He piled the stuff in heaps and pyramids, and then compressed it into what seemed solid blocks that made his pockets bulge like small balloons. Already a load was on his back that bent him double.
‘Such a tiny bit is useful,’ he explained, ‘if you know exactly how and where to put it. This compression is my own patent.’
‘Of course,’ they echoed, trying in vain to pack it up as cleverly as he did.
Nor were these three the only gatherers. The place was full of movement. Jane Anne was always coming back for more, deigning no explanations. She never told where she had spent her former loads. She gathered an apron full, sped off to spend and scatter it in places she knew of, and then came bustling in again for more. And they always knew her whereabouts because of the whiter glory that she radiated into the dim yellow world about them.
And other figures, hosts of them, were everywhere—stooping, picking, loading one another’s backs and shoulders. To and fro they shot and glided, like Leonids in autumn round the Earth. All were collecting, though the supply seemed never to grow less. An inexhaustible stream poured in through the narrow opening, and scattered itself at once in all directions as though driven by a wind. How could the world let so much escape it, when it was what the world most needed every day. It ran naturally into patterns, patterns that could be folded and rolled up like silken tablecloths. In silence, too. There was no sound of drops falling. Sparks fly on noiseless feet. Sympathy makes no bustle.
‘Even on the thickest nights it falls,’ a voice issued from a robust patch of light beside them that stooped with huge brown hands all knotted into muscles; ‘and it’s a mistake to think different.’ His voice rolled on into a ridiculous bit of singing:—
It comes down with the rain drops,
It comes down with the dew,
There’s always ‘eaps for every one—
For ‘im and me and you.
They recognised his big face, bronzed by the sun, and his great neck where lines drove into the skin like the rivers they drew with blunt pencils on their tedious maps of Europe. It was several faces in one. The Head Gardener was no stranger to their imaginations, for they remembered him of old somewhere, though not quite sure exactly where. He worked incessantly for others, though these ‘others’ were only fl
owers and cabbages and fruit-trees. He did his share in the world, he and his army of queer assistants, the under-gardeners.
Peals of laughter, too, sounded from time to time in a far away corner of the cavern, and the laughter sent all the stuff it reached into very delicate, embroidered patterns. For it was merry and infectious laughter, joy somewhere in it like a lamp. It bordered upon singing; another touch would send it rippling into song. And to that far corner, attracted by the sound, ran numberless rivulets of light, weaving a lustrous atmosphere about the Laugher that, even while it glowed, concealed the actual gatherer from sight. The children only saw that the patterns were even more sweet and dainty than their own. And they understood. Inside-sight explained the funny little mystery. Laughter is magical—brings light and help and courage. They laughed themselves then, and instantly saw their own patterns wave and tremble into tiny outlines that they could squeeze later even into the darkest, thickest head.
Cousinenry, meanwhile, they saw, stopped for nothing. He was singing all the time as he bent over his long, outstretched arms. And it was the singing after all that made the best patterns—better even than the laughing. He knew all the best tricks of this Star Cave. He remained their leader.
And the stuff no hands picked up ran on and on, seeking a way of escape for itself. Some sank into the ground to sweeten the body of the old labouring earth, colouring the roots of myriad flowers; some soaked into the rocky walls, tinting the raw materials of hills and woods and mountain tops. Some escaped into the air in tiny drops that, meeting in moonlight or in sunshine, instantly formed wings. And people saw a brimstone butterfly—all wings and hardly any body. All went somewhere for some useful purpose. It was not in the nature of star-stuff to keep still. Like water that must go down-hill, the law of its tender being forced it to find a place where it could fasten on and shine. It never could get wholly lost; though, if the place it settled on was poor, it might lose something of its radiance. But human beings were obviously what most attracted it. Sympathy must find an outlet; thoughts are bound to settle somewhere.
And the gatherers all sang softly—’Collect for others, never mind yourself!’
Some of it, too, shot out by secret ways in the enormous roof. The children recognised the exit of the separate brilliant stream they had encountered in the sky—the one especially that went to the room of pain and sickness in La Citadelle. Again they understood. That unselfish thinker of golden thoughts knew special sources of supply. No wonder that her atmosphere radiated sweetness and uplifting influence. Her patience, smiles, and courage were explained. Passing through the furnace of her pain, the light was cleansed and purified. Hence the delicate, invariable radiation from her presence, voice, and eyes. From the bed of suffering she had not left for thirty years she helped the world go round more sweetly and more easily, though few divined those sudden moments of beauty they caught flashing from her halting words, nor guessed their source of strength.
‘Of course,’ thought Jimbo, laughing, ‘I see now why I like to go and tell her everything. She understands all before I’ve said it. She’s simply stuffed with starlight—bursting with inside-sight.’
‘That’s sympathy,’ his cousin added, hearing the vivid thought. And he worked away like an entire ant-heap. But he was growing rather breathless now. ‘There’s too much for me,’ he laughed as though his mouth were full. ‘I can’t manage it all!’ He was wading to the waist, and his coat and trousers streamed with runnels of orange-coloured light.
‘Swallow it then!’ cried Monkey, her hair so soaked that she kept squeezing it like a sponge, both eyes dripping too.
It was their first real experience of the joy of helping others, and they hardly knew where to begin or end. They romped and played in the stuff like children in sand or snow—diving, smothering themselves, plunging, choking, turning somersaults, upsetting each other’s carefully reared loads, and leaping over little pyramids of gold. Then, in a flash, their laughter turned the destroyed heaps into wonderful new patterns again; and once more they turned sober and began to work.
But their cousin was more practical. ‘I’ve got all I can carry comfortably,’ he sang out at length. ‘Let’s go out now and sow it among the sleepers. Come on!’
A field of stars seemed to follow him from the roof as he moved with difficulty towards the opening of the cave.
Some one shot out just in front of him. ‘My last trip!’ The words reached them from outside. His bulging figure squeezed somehow through the hole, layers of light scraping off against the sides. The children followed him. But no one stuck. All were beautifully elastic; the starlight oiled and greased their daring, subtle star-bodies. Laden to the eyes, they sped across the woods that still slept heavily. The tips of the pines, however, were already opening a million eyes. There was a faint red glimmer in the east. Hours had passed while they were collecting.
‘The Interfering Sun is on the way. Look out!’ cried some one, shooting past them like an unleashed star. ‘I must get just a little more—my seventeenth journey to-night!’ And Jane Anne, the puzzled look already come back a little into her face, darted down towards the opening. The waking of the body was approaching.
‘What a girl!’ thought Jimbo again, as they hurried after their grown- up cousin towards the village.
And here, but for the leadership of Cousin Henry, they must have gone astray and wasted half their stores in ineffective fashion. Besides, the east was growing brighter, and there was a touch of confusion in their little star-bodies as sleep grew lighter and the moment of the body’s waking drew nearer.
Ah! the exquisite adjustment that exists between the night and day bodies of children! It is little wonder that with the process of growing-up there comes a coarsening that congeals the fluid passages of exit, and finally seals the memory centres too. Only in a few can this delicate adjustment be preserved, and the sources of inspiration known to children be kept available and sweet—in the poets, dreamers, and artists of this practical, steel-girdled age.
‘This way,’ called Cousinenry. ‘Follow me.’ They settled down in a group among Madame Jequier’s lilacs. ‘We’ll begin with the Pension des Glycines. Jinny is already busy with La Citadelle.’
They perched among the opening blossoms. Overhead flashed by the Sweep, the Dustman, and the Laugher, bound for distant ports, perhaps as far as England. The Head Gardener lumbered heavily after them to find his flowers and trees. Starlight, they grasped, could be no separate thing. The rays started, indeed, from separate points, but all met later in the sky to weave this enormous fairy network in which the currents and cross-currents and criss-cross-currents were so utterly bewildering. Alone, the children certainly must have got lost in the first five minutes.
Their cousin gathered up the threads from Monkey’s hair and Jimbo’s eyes, and held them in one hand like reins. He sang to them a moment while they recovered their breath and forces:—
The stars in their courses
Are runaway horses
That gallop with Thoughts from the Earth;
They collect them, and race
Back through wireless space,
Bringing word of the tiniest birth;
Past old Saturn and Mars,
And the hosts of big stars,
Who strain at their leashes for joy.
Kind thoughts, like fine weather,
Bind sweetly together
God’s suns—with the heart of a boy.
So, beware what you think;
It is written in ink
That is golden, and read by His Stars!
‘Hadn’t we better get on?’ cried Monkey, pulling impatiently at the reins he held.
‘Yes,’ echoed Jimbo. ‘Look at the sky. The “rapide” from Paris comes past at six o’clock.’
CHAPTER XVI
..................
Aus den Himmelsaugen droben
Fallen zitternd goldne Funken
Durch die Nacht, und meine Seele
Dehnt s
ich liebeweit und weiter.
O ihr Himmelsaugen droben,
Weint euch aus in meine Seele,
Dass von lichten Sternentranen
Uberfliesset meine Seele!
Heine.
They rose, fluttered a moment above the lilac bushes, and then shot forward like the curve of a rainbow into the sleeping house. The next second they stood beside the bed of the Widow Jequier.
She lay there, so like a bundle of untidy sticks that, but for the sadness upon the weary face, they could have burst out laughing. The perfume of the wistaria outside the open window came in sweetly, yet could not lighten the air of heavy gloom that clothed her like a garment. Her atmosphere was dull, all streaked with greys and black, for her mind, steeped in anxiety even while she slept, gave forth cloudy vapours of depression and disquietude that made impossible the approach of—light. Starlight, certainly, could not force an entrance, and even sunlight would spill half its radiance before it reached her heart. The help she needed she thus deliberately shut out. Before going to bed her mood had been one of anxious care and searching worry. It continued, of course, in sleep.
‘Now,’ thought their leader briskly, ‘we must deal with this at once’; and the children, understanding his unspoken message, approached closer to the bed. How brilliant their little figures were—Jimbo, a soft, pure blue, and Monkey tinged faintly here and there with delicate clear orange. Thus do the little clouds of sunset gather round to see the sun get into bed. And in utter silence; all their intercourse was silent—thought, felt, but never spoken.
For a moment there was hesitation. Cousinenry was uncertain exactly how to begin. Tante Jeanne’s atmosphere was so very thick he hardly knew the best way to penetrate it. Her mood had been so utterly black and rayless. But his hesitation operated like a call for help that flew instantly about the world and was communicated to the golden threads that patterned the outside sky. They quivered, flashed the message automatically; the enormous network repeated it as far as England, and the answer came. For thought is instantaneous, and desire is prayer. Quick as lightning came the telegram. Beside them stood a burly figure of gleaming gold.
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 78