King Oberon's Forest

by Hilda van Stockum

  Brother Botolph sat crouched on the floor, sadly fingering his remaining eggshells, which he kept in a cardboard box under the window sill. He thought Brother Alban should have known they were there. They were always there.

  He had often begged leave to put them up on the mantelpiece, where they could be admired, but Brother Alban complained that they were too hard to dust. Brother Botolph now looked up with a frown and said bitterly, “What a fuss to make about a couple of moths. I wish you could see what I suffer from those squirrels. They don’t ask permission when they want to take anything.”

  “And how would you like to have bookworms biting off the endings to your best stories?” Brother Ubald demanded unexpectedly.

  “Listen to the two of you!” cried Brother Alban. “You’d think you really had something to worry about, the way you talk. Actually both of you do just as you please. Brother Botolph goes on making his mud pies in the garden and collecting trash, and Brother Ubald spends his life dreaming. It is I who clean up your messes and do the work here, who make your beds and wash your clothes and cook your meals—”

  “A fat lot you’d have to cook if I didn’t make my ‘mud pies’ and grow the food for you,” Brother Botolph retorted in a hurt tone.

  “And a fat lot you know about studying,” protested Brother Ubald. “I bet I could do your job with half the energy I expend on my so-called ‘dreams.’ Anyone can do menial labor. It is mental work that counts.” And he stuck his nose in his book again.

  “That’s all the thanks I get,” whimpered Brother Alban. “No one appreciates me. Oh, how my head aches!” And he sank to the floor, holding his forehead with one hand while he clutched a saucepan with the other.

  “See what you’ve done?” Brother Botolph told Brother Ubald. “Now dinner will be late.”

  “I don’t care, I don’t want any dinner,” Brother Ubald answered grumpily. “I ate too many onions yesterday.”

  “There was nothing wrong with the onions,” snapped Brother Botolph.

  “They disagreed with me,” Brother Ubald insisted.

  Brother Alban whimpered again. He looked around for sympathy, but his brothers didn’t spare him a glance. At last he got tired of sitting on the cold floor and began to prepare dinner. “It’s Halloween tonight too,” he moaned, as if this were the last straw.

  The three brothers disliked all parties, but Halloween seemed to them the worst. At Halloween it was the custom in the forest to give some of your newly gathered harvest to the creatures who knocked at your door. It was a way of taking care that even the crippled, incompetent, and lazy ones had enough to eat during the winter.

  The dwarfs did not approve of this. “Why should shiftless people benefit by our labor?” they said. “It’s only an excuse for merrymaking.”

  They had always refused to give anything. As a consequence, the forest children took a delight in playing tricks on them. They stuffed up their chimney, muddied their spotless windows, and trampled their garden. Once they had even got into the house and had made a terrible mess.

  Therefore, when the sun had gone down in a red glow behind the dark trees, the dwarfs carefully fastened their shutters and locked their door.

  “It’s no use going to bed.” Brother Alban sighed. “We won’t sleep, anyway. We may as well light us a candle.”

  Outside, in the gloaming, creatures began to stir. A gust of wind brought with it a shred of eerie laughter. An owl hooted, and a mocking whisper rustled from tree to tree.

  The three dwarfs sat gloomily around the kitchen table with its lone candle. They made a strange picture in the yellow light, which cast tall, flickering shadows on the circular wall behind them. They had the extraordinary habit of sitting with their backs to the table, letting the light shine from behind on whatever they were doing. They said it was less distracting that way, and that they saw one another’s faces often enough.

  Brother Ubald had his feet on the top rung of his chair. His knees were humped up, supporting a large book, which hid his ears.

  Brother Botolph’s back was bowed over a seed catalogue, and Brother Alban held a slate on his crossed legs. He was trying to do his household accounts.

  The grandfather clock ticked slowly. The kettle sang a plaintive song on the stove. Brother Alban’s pencil squeaked.

  “Oh, do stop that noise,” grumbled Brother Botolph. “That’s the second time I’ve lost my place.”

  “I’ve got to add,” complained Brother Alban. “Two jars of preserved mushrooms and three jars of preserved beans and twelve jars of gooseberry jam makes seventeen jars—squeeeak—”

  Brother Ubald winced and pulled his book closer about his ears. There was a sound of trampling feet outside and a loud knocking at the door. A hoarse voice cried, “Tricks or treats!”

  The three brothers clenched their fists and remained silent. The door stayed shut.

  “Perhaps they’ll think we’re out,” whispered Brother Botolph.

  “Not a hope,” Brother Alban whispered back.

  There was a moment’s hush outside; then the knocking at the door started again. “Tricks or treats,” squeaked a high voice.

  “Go away,” Brother Alban growled.

  There was another silence, which made the dwarfs hope that the visitors had left. But then the house began to rock on its roots. Several pictures fell from the walls, and all the pots and pans came clattering down on the kitchen floor again.

  “Somebody must be shaking the tree, somebody big.” The dwarfs blanched with fright.

  There was more knocking at the door, while a ghostly voice sighed, “Tricks or treeeats …”

  Brother Botolph’s nerves snapped. “Tricks!” he shouted.

  “Eeeeeeeeeeeh!” squealed a chorus outside. Then there was another silence, while the three dwarfs looked anxiously at one another. Would the house be uprooted this time?

  “Serve them right, the old skinflints,” came the voice of a badger, followed by the tittering of sparrows.

  “They’ll have their hands full with this trick,” croaked a raven.

  “No more lazy days for them,” squeaked a chipmunk. “Let’s wait and see what they’ll do.”

  “It will be the wrong thing for sure.” They heard more laughter, and then silence.

  The three dwarfs trembled. Some evil had been done to them, and they couldn’t guess what.

  “They may have painted a skeleton on our door,” whispered Brother Alban.

  “Or they’ve set fire to the tree—”

  “Or they’ve flooded my garden. I’ve got to go and see,” worried Brother Botolph. He took a lantern from the shelf and lit it.

  “Don’t, on any account, open the door,” warned Brother Alban.

  But Brother Botolph had already done so, letting a stream of fresh air into the close room with its smell of candle grease. There was a screech from the animals outside, who had gathered on the dwarfs’ front lawn and now scampered off to hide. Only their glowing eyes were visible here and there among the trees.

  Brother Botolph held up his lantern and peered into the darkness. A thin thread of sound at his feet made him look down. Rolled up in a cabbage leaf, like a small sausage, lay something that moved and cried. Brother Botolph put down his lantern and examined it. It was a newborn baby of some kind or another—a little too frail for a young dwarf, not furry enough to be an animal, and too plump to be an insect. He noticed that there was a piece of paper tied to the cabbage leaf, and he was startled to see that it bore the gold seal of King Oberon. Holding it in the lantern light, he read what was written on it.

  “‘Inasmuch as this baby is left an orphan by the untimely deaths of his parents, the king hereby wishes it to be brought up by his forest, and recommends it to the mercy of his people. Signed, on this thirty-first day of October, by Prince Sylvester, secretary to King Oberon.’”

  Brother Botolph heard a suppressed tittering behind the trees. He cried angrily, “What is this? Why is this infant not looked after? The king ha
s said that the forest is to take care of it. Why is it lying here?”

  There were more titters, and a shrill voice cried, “It’s yours; it’s a present.”

  Brother Botolph stamped his foot. He picked up the baby and held it out. “Don’t trifle with the king’s order. Bring the child to the orphanage immediately, before it catches cold.”

  “The orphanage is full,” hooted an owl. “Nor have you ever supported it or given alms to anyone in the forest. It is now your turn. It’s up to you.“

  “Me? I‘m to look after it? Nonsense!” cried the dwarf. “Surely there is a mother among you who can do it better?”

  “I’ve got six of my own,” griped an indignant rabbit.

  “We’ve to work for our living,” snapped a chipmunk.

  “Too poor—” wailed a rat.

  “And so you saddle us with him,” growled Brother Botolph. “I’ll protest to the king. We’re three bachelors; we can’t—”

  “The forest has decided that you can … you can … you can …,” sang the voices, which sounded fainter and fainter, until they faded entirely. There was a rustle and a sigh, and then silence.

  Brother Botolph stood alone in the starlight, holding his lantern with one hand and a squirming baby with the other. He stood and stared until Brother Alban pulled him inside, closing the door behind him.

  “What’s the matter, Brother Botolph?” he asked anxiously. “Did they put a spell on you?”

  “No, look—it’s this.” And Brother Botolph showed his burden.

  “Don’t touch it! It’s a trick! Throw it into the fire!” cried Brother Alban.

  “It may be a trick, but it’s also a baby.” Brother Botolph sighed. “As a matter of fact, it’s an orphan whom the king has entrusted to us.”

  “Good heavens,” exclaimed Brother Ubald, putting on his glasses and examining the infant, “you’d better be careful! It’s a fairy-nestling of the variety of Felix hilaris spiritus. Look at its dragonfly wings! Don’t, I beg of you, hurt a hair on its head, or you’ll bring all of Fairyland down on us, not to mention the king.”

  “Well, why don’t they take care of their own, then?” grumbled Brother Alban. “Have they no orphanages? It would be far too much trouble for me to look after. I’m not getting any younger. It would mean more clothes to wash, more food to prepare, more mending to do. But, of course, that does not matter. I work and slave and nobody cares.”

  He stopped, hoping to hear his brothers protest that they did care, and that they had no intention of allowing him to be thus burdened.

  Instead, they were tickling the baby.

  “All right, melt over him, keep him if you like, but we’ll never have a moment’s peace again, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. Before this the noise was at least outside the house; now it’s inside. Listen to him squalling!”

  “That may be because Brother Botolph is holding him upside down,” Brother Ubald pointed out sagely. “I believe sideways would be better.”

  “Tulips are held this way,” Brother Botolph defended himself. But he did as Brother Ubald had suggested, and, indeed, the baby stopped crying. It lay perfectly still for a moment and then it gave an enchanting smile.

  “The creature …” murmured Brother Botolph, looking at it with the tenderness he usually reserved for his eggshells. “Won’t it be fun to see him grow?”

  “And how will he grow?” asked Brother Alban. “Do you know how to take care of a baby?”

  That was, indeed, the difficulty. None of the dwarfs had any idea. It had been too long since they had been babies themselves. But Brother Ubald went to his library and consulted a book called Fairies and How They Grow. Scientific Observations Made at King Oberon’s Nurseries by Andrew McTavish, Court Physician. He came back with his finger in a passage, which read, “Keep fairy babies in a warm, dry bed; feed them a spoonful of honey every hour; and soothe them with melodious tunes.”

  Brother Alban grumpily fetched a laundry basket, in which he placed a folded blanket. This made a warm, dry bed. Then Brother Botolph extracted some honey from potted plants and fed it to the baby. Now came the most difficult part: the melodious tunes. They hadn’t a phonograph, or piano, or even a canary.

  Later that night several mischievous spirits, returning from their revelries, felt curious to see what the dwarfs were doing with their foundling. So they went to the oak-tree house and peeped through the hole in the shutters.

  What they saw amused them greatly.

  The three brothers were gathered around the improvised cradle, singing with all their might. Brother Ubald’s voice squeaked on the high notes, and Brother Alban’s croaked on the low ones, while Brother Botolph’s was scratchy all over.

  But the baby was fast asleep.

  2. Troubles

  The next morning, when the first gray mists still floated between dreaming trees, there were groans from many nests and holes as the forest children awoke.

  “Oh my head!” said Mr. Red Squirrel. “Mamma, bring me some coffee.” When she had gone, he asked, “Ross, what did we do last night?”

  “I can’t remember,” said Ross. “Except that you were dancing all the time with Miss Rosie Chipmunk.”

  “Oooooooh,” groaned his father, pulling his blanket over his ears. “Don’t tell Mamma, or we’ll never hear the end of it. What else did we do?”

  “You drank too much elderberry wine and sang the song Mamma doesn’t like,” Ross went on, with a certain pleasure in his father’s confusion.

  “Don’t tell her,” his father pleaded hurriedly.

  “Will you let me go off, then, on that hike with Jimmy Woodchuck?” asked Ross.

  “Sure, sure,” said his father. “Oooooooh, my head. You are certain that is all we did?”

  “You did, you mean,” said Ross priggishly. “I didn’t do anything, except peer through the windows at the dwarfs.”

  “Oh, and what did you see?” asked Mr. Squirrel.

  “I saw them sing,” said Ross, with a grin. “Oh Papa, you missed something.”

  “Hm,” mused his father. “It’s all very well for the first night, but I wonder how they are going to manage.”

  That was what the dwarfs were wondering too, as they looked down on the fairy infant and realized that he wasn’t a dream after all.

  “We must get rid of him,” decided Brother Alban. “It’s preposterous.”

  The other two didn’t answer. They gazed at the baby, and into their old faces stole an expression that could have been a smile if their wrinkles hadn’t pointed the other way.

  “We must get rid of him as soon as we find a good home for him,” Brother Alban repeated, and he began to polish furniture industriously.

  It was all very well, he muttered to himself, babies were delightful, sweet, and all that; helpless too; in need of care—true. But what did it all amount to except trouble—trouble for Brother Alban? So he refused to be charmed, and treated the infant as an unwelcome and temporary guest.

  Surprisingly, the little creature showed a decided preference for Brother Alban: it favored no one else with such smiles and gurgles and outstretched arms; and though Brother Alban’s stern face did not relax, he did admit that the baby was no fool. But then he immediately pointed out how right he had been in his prediction that peace would fly with the baby’s arrival. For one thing there was constant knocking at the door. Those impudent squirrels who had trespassed on their oak tree had come to ask after the baby, and a Mrs. Mole they’d never even heard of wanted to know if they’d like to borrow her baby buggy. Then there was a Mrs. Powderpuff, cousin to Jack Rabbit, who had the effrontery to offer them a bowl of soup—as if Brother Alban weren’t capable of making his own! These were all pretexts, of course, to satisfy their curiosity and gloat over the dwarfs’ trouble. Well, the dwarfs sent them about their business with ringing words, and slammed the door after them—good riddance!

  But they could not enjoy their peace, for they found the baby tossing about and wailing with a high
fever. You could feel it right through the blanket.

  “He has caught a cold; the door has been open too many times,” said Brother Alban.

  “Nothing of the sort,” contradicted Brother Ubald, who had consulted his book on fairy babies. “It’s the noise. We’ve been shouting and slamming the door. That gives fairy babies a fever.”

  It was quite extraordinary how softly the dwarfs moved after that, and how gently they reproached one another. The baby recovered immediately, to their great joy.

  Brother Alban didn’t mention getting rid of him again. He treated him now with the same consideration he showed his pots and pans. He even called him by his fairy name, Felix hilaris spiritus, which was soon shortened to just Felix. The baby was enough trouble without adding a long name.

  The dwarfs wondered how such a small creature could make such a big difference to their lives—but he did. For one thing, he was the only responsibility they held in common, and this led to a lot of friction (though they didn’t dare shout any more).

  It was Brother Botolph’s job to feed Felix, but one day when he was planting some particularly valuable bulbs, he forgot. The baby made such a commotion that Brother Ubald and Brother Alban thought he was going to die of convulsions. Brother Alban didn’t get the dishes washed that day, and Brother Ubald held his books upside down and never even noticed. Both dwarfs were furious with Brother Botolph, and made him carry an alarm clock in his pocket so he would not forget again. Brother Botolph complained that the heavy clock got in his way and tore off his pockets and scared him out of his wits every time it went off; but his brothers told him it was just too bad, he’d have to bear it.

  “Why doesn’t Brother Alban feed the baby? He is in the kitchen, and it would be much easier for him,” Brother Botolph protested.

  This made Brother Alban very angry. “Who brought the baby into this house in the first place?” he hissed (very softly). “And who is always playing with him and tickling him and calling him ‘sugar-plum’ and ‘honeybunch’? So you want all the fun and none of the work, eh? You’d better do your share, or I’ll give him to the first witch that passes the house.”