King Oberon's Forest

by Hilda van Stockum

  “Oh, all right, all right,” grumbled Brother Botolph, resignedly cramming the alarm clock back in his pocket. But he hated the thing. He jumped like a grasshopper every time it went off, and he dreamed of it at night. He often thought wistfully of the lovely days when his only worry was a silly little quarrel with the neighbors.

  And then, suddenly, the baby developed spots all over his body—red, green, and purple spots. The dwarfs couldn’t imagine what it meant. They thought of measles, but measles spots were always uniformly red.

  Brother Ubald had to take out his book again, and he discovered that fairy babies develop a multicolored rash when they have not been bathed enough.

  “Did you know babies should be bathed?” asked Brother Ubald.

  “I wanted to bathe him all the time,” confessed Brother Alban. “Only he seemed too fragile.”

  “Well, it says here we’ve got to bathe him,” Brother Ubald observed, a big frown on his forehead. “I think I shall attempt to do so. It is an important job, Brother Alban. Leave this to me.”

  Brother Ubald was never one to undertake things lightly. First he studied three big books. One was called Ablutions and Their Effect on the Nature and Temperament of Fairies by Professor Bulldog. The other was called How to Wash Well in Ten Easy Lessons by Miss Tabby Cat; and the third had the significant title, The Dangers of Too Much Water on the Respiratory System by Lady Toad-Tadpole.

  “I think I understand the principle now,” he remarked, shutting the last volume. “The main thing is to keep the pores open and the mouth closed.” He looked around. “Now we shall have to get the accessories. Where is a bath?”

  Brother Alban brought him a dishpan and some towels. Then he brought him a cake of soap and the baby—all this while Brother Ubald sat on a chair and meditated. “What do I do now?” he asked, receiving the baby on his lap.

  “You undress him,” said Brother Alban.

  “Oh.”

  It was a wondrous sight to behold Brother Ubald undressing the baby. His scholarly face bent attentively over the squirming bundle on his lap, much as if it were an unread manuscript. His unaccustomed fingers fumbled with the knots and buttons, and his slow, learned movements were no match for the infant’s quick defenses. The two were soon at cross purposes, and a regular battle ensued, which terminated in a tearing sound as Brother Ubald forced apart Felix and his clothes. Luckily it was the dress that was torn, not Felix, but the child cried as loudly as if it had been the other way around.

  Now that the baby was naked he was twice as hard to handle. Brother Ubald had a book propped up beside him from which he read instructions. Unfortunately his attention was so much on the book that he didn’t notice how the soaped-up baby slithered from his grasp and disappeared under water. He found out just in time and retrieved the child by his two feet, the only part of his body that was still visible. But Felix’s lungs were so full of water that he could not breathe. He just sat there with a purpling face till Brother Alban saw him, grabbed him, and smacked the water out of him. Then he heaved a long breath and paled down.

  “You see,” said Brother Alban. “That’s what I was afraid of. You and your books!”

  Brother Ubald frowned. “I suppose I shall have to learn the instructions by heart,” he concluded. “And do I have to put all his clothes on again now? I just took them off.”

  “Yes, and tore the dress past mending,” Brother Alban commented. “Never mind; here is a clean one.”

  Brother Ubald sighed. “Bathing a baby is very hard,” he complained. “Do I have to do it every day?”

  Brother Botolph had entered the kitchen. “Here,” he said to Brother Ubald. “You take the alarm clock, and I’ll do the bathing.”

  Brother Ubald thought this a good exchange. It would be no trouble to feed the baby honey every hour or so. He liked to hold the little thing and watch the tiny hand curl around the spoon while the little legs crossed themselves in the air and the dark eyes opened and closed with rapture.

  Brother Botolph had a wonderful solution to the bath problem. He simply sat the baby in the sink and poured warm water on him from his watering can. Felix liked it, and Brother Alban didn’t mind as long as Brother Botolph wiped up the stray drops.

  But Brother Ubald’s quiet reading days were over. At first he didn’t hear the alarm clock at all. Then he began to wait for its shrill tinkle and could not keep his mind on his books. It was difficult not to spill honey when the baby moved his head, and sometimes the honey went in too fast, or the baby swallowed air. Then he would cry until Brother Ubald paced the floor with him, the downy head held against his ear as he patted up fairy bubbles. Even when he slept Brother Ubald would take fright suddenly and put down his book to see if perhaps the baby had been smothered in his blanket.

  At night the three dwarfs would sit around the kitchen table, stroke their tired foreheads, and complain.

  “Nothing is tidy any more; everyone thinks he can borrow my things and bump into me. Brother Ubald, you messed honey on the floor again, and I knocked my shins blue against Brother Botolph’s watering can,” Brother Alban would lament.

  “And my life, then—” Brother Ubald groaned. “I don’t remember anything I’ve read, I’m growing duller every day, all my books are sticky, and no one mends the holes in my socks.”

  “What about me?” Brother Botolph countered. “I am the one who wakes up at night and takes care Felix is covered and hasn’t a tummy ache. You both snore through everything. It all comes from dreaming of that alarm clock; it wakes me every hour of the night. In the daytime I’m so tired I fall asleep over my eggshells. Oh, for the good old days!”

  It was midwinter now, and the forest was hushed with snow. The trees stood glittering in their armor of ice. Now and again a twig would crackle and snap and ice would tinkle down.

  Animals stayed in their holes and slept as much as possible, except when hunger drove them to walk over the snow, leaving their footsteps behind like a string of beads.

  Mamma Squirrel was a good housekeeper and kept her family warm and comfortable. She relied a lot on Ross, who was a dependable youngster and a good deal more help than Scarlet and Pinkie, his empty-headed sisters.

  “Our supplies are getting low, Ross,” she remarked one evening as she put the last acorns into the soup. “I wonder, would you run out and see if we have some more hidden somewhere? Your pa is, of course, nowhere to be seen.” And Mamma Squirrel sighed. Pa had been a romantic character whom it had been exciting to marry, but the trouble was that he had stayed romantic. Domestic affairs bored him.

  “Sure, Ma, we still have the nuts in the dwarfs’ tree; we kept them for last, as they were safest. I’ll go right away,” said the good Ross, pinching his sisters as he went out.

  The snow was violet-blue against the dark brown of the oak tree. The orange squares of the lighted windows threw yellow patches on the snow. Ross knew that the dwarfs were not in the habit of burning light. He wondered what had happened. As he passed with his nuts he peeked inside.

  The old dwarf with the long beard was walking up and down with the baby, who was yelling. Another dwarf was bringing a hot-water bottle. The third one was waving a homemade rattle. All three were obviously exhausted. Drops stood on their foreheads.

  Ross chuckled. “Trouble, eh?” he said to himself. “Serves them right, the meanies.”

  He recounted what he had seen at home, where Mamma was ladling out the soup.

  “Poor thing,” she said. “Scarlet, will you please not put your tail in the soup! I don’t care if it’s hot; it isn’t manners. And, Pinkie, the table is no place to trim your nails. Look at Ross, he knows how to behave.… What was it you said, son? Oh yes, that poor baby. I always thought it was a cruel trick to play on a child—I would have taken him myself if Pinkie hadn’t come down with the mumps just at that moment.… Finish your plate, dear; there’s lots of little creatures starving in the wood this minute, so you should be grateful for your food. As I was saying, that poor bab
y, with those dreadful old dwarfs—”

  “Poor dwarfs, I say,” grumbled Mr. Squirrel, who was out of humor with the world. He had the itch in his legs, and when he had the itch in his legs he wanted to wander far, far away and liberate a captive princess. But his wife kept her eye on him, and he knew he hadn’t a chance.

  “Poor dwarfs, they were living their own lives, happy and independent, and we have to saddle them with a baby. Ugh!”

  The following weeks, as they went back and forth for nuts, the squirrels reported home what they had seen through the windows in the oak tree.

  “The baby is growing,” said Mr. Squirrel. “He’s sitting up in a chair now. I don’t think he’s a bit unhappy.”

  “Poor child,” was all Mamma Squirrel said to that.

  One day both Ross and her husband came back from their expedition, twinkling with merriment.

  “Listen to what happened—” began Ross.

  “You hush up and let your father talk,” Mr. Squirrel told him. “We saw a most amusing thing. The fairy child said ‘Papa’ today to one of the dwarfs. You should have seen how tickled he was; he grew pink from the beard up. The other dwarfs were jealous, of course.”

  “Yes,” Ross chipped in. “They kept asking him to say ‘Papa’ to them, but he wouldn’t, and he pulled the old one with the long beard by the nose. Oh, I had to laugh.”

  “I must go and look some time,” said Mamma, “when it’s a little warmer.”

  There were others who peeked through the windows—the dwarfs often had an audience, but they were so busy with the baby that they never suspected it.

  3. Growth

  As Felix grew, so did trouble grow with him. Before the winter was out, he was walking. Then the dwarfs realized what an easy time they had had while he was still lying in his clothes basket.

  Now he was all over the place—you’d scarcely hear his merry little voice in one corner than you’d see him in another. He climbed all over Brother Ubald’s books, getting himself black with dust, and then he’d fall asleep on Brother Alban’s newly washed and ironed linen. He awoke early in the morning, singing with the sparrows (a lovely little voice he had, too), and if the dwarfs didn’t get up right away to make him some pollen porridge he’d climb on their beds and tickle their noses till they sneezed. If one of the dwarfs pulled an angry face, Felix would look this way, and then that way, and peer through his fingers. Finally he would stand on his head and look at the dwarf from below. When the dwarf couldn’t help smiling, Felix would clap his hands.

  But it wasn’t only the walking that was troublesome; the talking became almost worse.

  First it was “What? What? What?” all the time. Brother Alban and Brother Botolph answered his questions—“That’s a spoon there.… That’s a knife, don’t touch.… That’s fire.… That’s water.… That’s a flower.” But when Felix asked, “Who made me?” Brother Alban referred him to Brother Ubald. He remembered that long, long ago his mother had told him something of that nature, but he wouldn’t know how it went any more. Brother Ubald took a dusty fairy Bible from the shelf and found the answer.

  “The great Pan made you.”

  “Who is Pan?”

  “He is the god of Fairyland.”

  “And where is he? When can I see him?”

  “You are seeing him.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are—you see me, and this room, and the sky and the trees. Everything is in Pan, and Pan is in everything.”

  “But I want to see him the way he is.“

  “No, we can’t see him that way because he hasn’t a body—he is a spirit. The person most like him, here in the forest, is King Oberon.”

  “I want to see the king.”

  “Well, perhaps someday you will.”

  “Why did Pan create me?”

  “Because he loves making things. He is at it all the time, especially in the spring. Right now it is winter, and he is taking a bit of a rest.”

  “Can I make things too?”

  “Yes, you may make a paper boat. I’ll teach you how.”

  And so Felix was put to work, which stopped the questions for a while, but not for long. Before Brother Ubald was properly back in his studies Felix asked, “Why is Mr. Book-worm so dull?”

  “Is he dull, my dear?”

  “Yes, he went right through your fattest book, and when he came out all he could talk about was a tummy ache. Isn’t that dull?”

  Brother Ubald chuckled. “It’s all in the mind, my dear, it’s all in the mind. You can devour many books and not be a whit the wiser.”

  “Have I got a mind?”

  “Yes, I am afraid you have,” said Brother Ubald with a sigh. He had reached a very interesting part in his book.

  “Then teach me how to eat books and be wiser.”

  “All right, dear, we’ll start on the alphabet …”

  That was how Brother Ubald acquired a pupil. Every morning Felix knocked at the library door, armed with a pencil, a sheaf of paper, and a determined frown. His tongue was as busy as his fingers while he learned to write. The other dwarfs were delighted; it gave them some peace.

  And then one day Felix’s wings suddenly grew strong and bright and itched so terribly that he had to spread them.

  “What are you doing?” cried Father Ubald in alarm. Felix didn’t know what he was doing.

  “It’s my wings,” he said. The next minute he was up in the air, plunging about like a top-heavy kite.

  “Brother Alban, Brother Botolph—” screamed Brother Ubald. “Come and help! Felix is trying to fly!”

  The other dwarfs came running.

  “Take care, you’ll hurt yourself!” exclaimed Brother Alban.

  “You’re going straight for the ceiling,” warned Brother Botolph.

  But Felix began to get the hang of it. He learned to steer himself about in the air. He found it very interesting to see everything from above. He flew through the door and up the stairs into the living room, where he surveyed the top of the table and mantelpiece. He finally got tired and took a rest on the grandfather clock.

  The dwarfs had followed him. They felt uneasy.

  “Don’t you want to stay with us, here, safe on the ground?” they begged. “Why do you sit there? That clock hasn’t been dusted for years, and you’ll catch a germ, and you might fall. Besides, we get a crick in the neck looking at you.”

  But, like all young people, Felix disregarded those anxious cries and did exactly as nature bade him, leaning comfortably against the gold dwarf on top of the clock and swinging his legs.

  Winter was over. The sun was melting the snow and coaxing back the greens. All the little streams rushed merrily downhill to spread the news that they had been let out of their prison of ice.

  This was the busiest season for the forest. No one had time now to peek idly through windows and watch fairy babies grow. Mothers were airing their houses and reupholstering nests. Fathers were building and foraging. Young couples were setting up house. Courtesy was in the air. Gentlemen walked around with bouquets of primroses or forget-me-nots for the ladies. It was the time when the itch in Mr. Squirrel’s legs had become unbearable, and he had suddenly vanished, leaving poor Mamma with three new babies. Luckily she had Ross, who looked after her. Scarlet and Pinkie were mad about dancing, and no use at all in the house.

  Birds were arriving from the South every day; the Forest Gazette bristled with important names:

  Miss Jenny Nightingale has arrived from Palm Beach with her nephew Lionel. She is scheduled to give her first public recital on Friday night.

  Mr. and Mrs. Woodlark arrived with the evening flight. Mrs. Woodlark, née Meadowlark, wore the new French bonnet with purple strings and was much admired.

  Lord and Lady Warbler will be singing their famous duet at the opera house tonight.…

  And so forth and so forth.

  The best people attended the concerts and admired the new southern fashions. All day long the forest wa
s gladdened with the sound of practicing birds.

  The dwarfs opened their windows, which had been closed all winter.

  At first Felix was startled at the fresh air. He drew back behind the curtains. Then he jumped on the window sill, taking deep breaths. Never had he smelled anything sweeter, more delicious, than the spring air with its scent of hyacinths and hawthorn and lilacs. The woods beckoned him; young green leaves trembled against silvery tree trunks; white dogwood starred the mysterious depths where Felix had never been; a thrush was singing on a branch.

  Felix’s dark eyes glowed and shone; his cheeks reddened; and he laughed and stretched out his arms, which were already losing their chubbiness. Then he spread his gauzy wings and flew into the forest.

  “Felix, Felix!” cried the dwarfs, frantic with fear. Were there not hawks and bears and wolves and eagles—all manner of dangerous creatures—abroad? And Felix, when he flew, looked a little like a dragonfly.

  But Felix paid no attention. He was in ecstasy. He had discovered what he had been made for. He shot like a sunbeam through the branches, his wings shimmering and his blond curls waving about his face. Then he heard the anguish in the voices of the dwarfs, and he returned, to be scolded and slapped and kissed and told that it wasn’t safe to go into the forest.

  “Safe?” asked Felix.

  Brother Alban shook his head. “He doesn’t understand. You tell him, Brother Ubald.”

  Brother Ubald tried, but danger was a thing Felix found it hard to comprehend. Quick as he had been about other things, here he was slow. Brother Ubald fingered his long beard and went to his library. From a neglected shelf he brought forth several volumes of fairy tales, and he read them to Felix.

  Felix loved them, but he was not frightened of the bad wolf, nor of the bad witch, nor even of Bluebeard.

  “The wolf ate the pigs, but he was nice to the little wolves, I’m sure,” he said. “Perhaps the little wolves loved him very much. And the witch couldn’t help being a witch when Pan made her one, could she? She had to behave like one too, poor thing. Bluebeard was bad, of course. But maybe he was going to reform, and if his wife had obeyed him they might have lived happily ever after.”