King Oberon's Forest

by Hilda van Stockum

  He was less and less with the dwarfs now, and they were complaining.

  “Wouldn’t you rather be here,” they asked, “with your papas, instead of gallivanting all over the forest?”

  They did not understand about the itch in his wings. He tried to explain it. “I like it here very much,” he would tell them. “But the sky is so blue, and there are delightful little clouds up there, softer than a bed. It’s fun, too, to sit on the treetops. You meet interesting people. Do you know what Jack Crow told me?”

  And he would launch into the latest forest gossip.

  “Poor Mrs. Powderpuff’s son is ill. He ate a poisonous mushroom, and they are very worried. She has too many children to mind, she says, but Jack Crow says it’s because she reads comic books instead of doing her duty. Mr. Hoot has been made an honorary doctor by King Oberon. The king’s messenger came himself, in a gold uniform, and the diploma was tied with scarlet ribbons and had a gold seal. I wish I had seen him. The mice say it’s quite undeserved, but I don’t think so, for he looks like a wise old owl. And the king should know, shouldn’t he?”

  Willy-nilly, the dwarfs grew interested and would sometimes ask of their own accord, “Did Mrs. Powderpuff’s son recover? How is Dr. Hoot today?”

  But not even the flying about and making friends quite succeeded in curing the itch in Felix’s wings. No one who has not experienced it can understand what it feels like. It is a thirst, an appetite, a longing, and yet none of these things. For there is no food, nor drink, nor possession that can fill it. It seems to push at you, and pull at you, but you don’t know where it wants you to go. And the strangest thing is that you know that what you want is not something new, but something very, very old; not something foreign, but very, very familiar—only you’ve forgotten what it is.

  Poor Felix suffered with it. He no longer sought friends; he avoided them. He went for long walks in the wood, hoping that perhaps if he smelled the right smell, he’d remember—for our noses have the best memory of all.

  There are woods and woods. Some are like halls, or churches with russet carpets of dead leaves—smooth columns of trees holding up a stately vaulted roof. Then there are scrappy brushwoods, young and green and sappy, harboring little snakes and many nests, like new, suburban villas. Or there are the dense pine jungles, protected by the spikes of dead branches, with never a bit of green to relieve the gray—the favorite haunts of spiders, who stretch out their webs and sit there, waiting for foolish little flies. Those woods are like the financial section of a big metropolis.

  Felix knew all the different parts of the forest, yet one day, mysteriously, he got lost.

  He was following a scent—he was smelling something that reminded him of what he was looking for. He wandered on and on. It seemed to him that the scent was getting stronger. He came to where he had never been before—a deep cavern of foliage growing darker and darker and more silent as the moss grew thicker and vines slung themselves more luxuriantly from tree to tree, hindering the sun. No matter where Felix turned, he met strangeness, mystery. It seemed as if the air grew colder, thinner, stiller. There were no more throbbing insects. Even the twigs refused to crackle. Felix had never been frightened before. He forgot the scent in his panic to get back to familiar surroundings. But the more he tried to break away, the deeper he seemed to penetrate into the eerie darkness.

  Felix began to feel less and less real. He wondered whether he were dreaming. He was shivering.

  There was a rustling as of an enormous snake, and Felix almost screamed as he saw two red fiery eyes gleam from the darkness and heard a sudden hiss as steaming breath left a wide nostril surrounded by green scales.

  Felix closed his eyes for a moment and gave himself up for lost. It was the dragon that sometimes invaded the forest, its most dangerous enemy. Felix had heard of him but never met him. What could he do alone, unarmed, against this monster? He thought of the dwarfs, of King Oberon. The dragon opened his enormous mouth, and a red glare lit up the trees.

  “Pan, help me,” whimpered Felix.

  And then the most beautiful sound Felix had ever heard thrilled through the forest—the clarion call of a horn, the horn of King Oberon’s knights. There was a thundering sound of many hoofs, the clash of steel. The dragon closed his mouth. His fiery eye disappeared as with a slithering sound he gently retreated. And as he went, the light came back into the forest—a beautiful, silvery light, a magic light. Felix stood leaning forward, his arm around a small birch tree. His heart beat joyfully. All around him insects began to hum, birds began to sing, and animals came pattering on hurried feet.

  There was a cry of “King Oberon! King Oberon!”

  Felix had forgotten the dragon. He pulled himself into the birch tree to see better. More and more animals appeared, forming a line. There was another trumpet call, and then, to the music of cymbals and bells, the flower fairies came into view, dressed in the tenderest of pastel colored gowns, with wreaths in their long silky hair, as they danced along, scattering flower petals.

  Next came the king’s pages, fairies no older than Felix in little white suits with gold capes. They played on small reed flutes. And then came the knights on prancing white-winged horses, with silver armor that seemed to cast a glow around it. They carried swords and spears and banners; their shields carried King Oberon’s crest; the plumes on their helmets were white and gold. Then came the heralds in crimson velvet on black horses, and finally, drawn by four white ponies in a crystal coach, the king and the queen.

  The forest echoed and re-echoed with the cheers of the spectators. The king was noble and handsome. Long brown curls flowed from under his crown; his eyes were clear and blue; his brown beard partly hid a warm smile. The queen sat beside him, her small head held high on a long neck, which was adorned with glittering jewels. A small diadem perched on her dark hair. The scarlet of the king’s robes against the gold and white of the queen’s gown made a gay splash, and all the colors glittered and shone in the rainbow reflections from the crystal carriage.

  The itch in Felix’s wings had grown very bad.

  The king held up his hand, and suddenly the procession stopped. “Felix,” said the king. “Come here.”

  Wondering mightily, Felix slid out of the tree and came forward. All the animals looked at him. The horses tossed their heads and champed on their bits.

  “Do not be afraid,” said King Oberon. “Come here.” Felix came as close to the coach as he dared. He suddenly realized that his hands and knees were dirty, that there were twigs in his uncombed hair, and that his tunic was torn.

  “Tell me,” asked the king, “are you happy?”

  “Yes, oh yes, Your Majesty,” stammered Felix. “My papas are good to me and I have many friends. I am very happy but just now I was afraid. I saw a dragon—”

  The king’s face grew grim. “I know,” he said. “My knights will deal with him presently. Now we are concerned about you. You are sure you are happy?”

  “Yes, when my wings don’t itch.”

  The king looked at him tenderly. “Do they itch sometimes?”

  “A little,” confessed Felix. “Flying helps.”

  King Oberon put his hand on Felix’s shoulders where the wings were fastened, and a gentle, glowing warmth stole through Felix’s body. The itching stopped. “If it should get unbearable, and flying does not help any more, you may use this,” the king told him, handing him a little gold key. “It will open the palace door. You will be welcome.”

  Felix now dared to look up at the smiling face of King Oberon. Behind him the queen nodded graciously. He could smell the soft perfume from her hair. Felix wanted to be there forever and ever, with the two of them, but already the king had made the signal for his procession to continue.

  “Where is the palace?” asked Felix hurriedly. “How can I find it—and when?”

  “That will be shown to you later,” the king promised. “As soon as you need it.” The coachman cracked his whip, the heralds blew their horns,
the forest folk cheered, and the procession was on its way again, soon vanishing among the trees. The last they heard was the sound of hoofs and the tinkle of bells, slowly fading.

  Felix had to answer some questions from bystanders who were curious as to what the king had said. He did not tell them much, because he wanted to think over quietly what had happened. Most of the animals were hurrying to another point of vantage where they might see the procession again, and Felix soon stood alone.

  He was overwhelmed with the honor done to him. He stared at the little key in his hands. It was made of exquisite filigree, a truly royal key. Looking up, he saw that the fairy light was fading. Every moment the forest was looking more normal. Fingering his key, he walked confidently and soon recognized his surroundings. How could he have got lost like that? Thoughtfully he walked on. It had seemed to him that he had been gone for a long time, yet the sun slanted at almost the same degree through the trees. Could it be that hardly any time had elapsed?

  Or had he fallen asleep and dreamed it all?

  He had come to a rather wild and uncivilized part of the forest, which he had not visited often, as the dwarfs had told him he might meet unpleasant creatures there. It was the favorite spot of the more mischievous fairies, and it was rumored that witches held a sort of fair there, frequented by the lower kind of animals. Others said that this was not true at all—that, on the contrary, it was a dull place.

  Felix now came upon it accidentally, as he was finding his way home. He looked about curiously but saw nothing unusual. A field mouse was industriously cleaning the front of her house, two moles were gossiping over their market baskets, and an old witch was gathering herbs. Felix felt slightly disappointed. Then a sound aroused his curiosity. Someone was singing. This is what he heard.

  “Rumty-um, I am a bad man,

  A bad, wicked man am I.

  I left my wee wife and my babies three

  To go rioting on the sly—

  Oh why?

  To go rioting on the sly.”

  Felix could not see the singer until he had rounded a clump of holly. Then he halted in surprise. He saw Mr. Red

  Squirrel lying on his back under a beech tree, his legs crossed and one foot kicking up and down as he sang.

  Felix felt shocked. He remembered Mamma Squirrel’s grief, and here was her wretch of a husband singing. Would it be better to pretend not to see him? Or was it his duty to deliver Mamma’s message—though Mr. Squirrel seemed scarcely in the humor to appreciate it?

  “Hullo,” he said.

  “Oh, hullo, hullo, hullo.” Mr. Squirrel scrambled into a sitting position. “Oh, it’s the little orphan! Humph. Please excuse me—I—er—didn’t comb my fur this morning. Do sit down. The moss here is soft.”

  Felix, however, remained standing. “Ross is very anxious about you,” was all he said.

  “Ah, er—yes—Ross—.” Mr. Squirrel toyed with his tail.

  “So are Scarlet and Pinkie,” Felix continued. “And Mamma and the triplets.”

  “Yes, yes, no doubt.” Mr. Squirrel cleared his throat. “I—er—played hooky—Got fed up. Happens sometimes. You’re too young to know.” He shifted his position.

  “Don’t you think you ought to come home?”

  “Perhaps I should … perhaps I should.…” Mr. Squirrel agreed. “There are times when the forest palls too. I may as well confess to you that I am a failure,” he added in a burst of confidence.

  Felix sat down with his arms around humped knees.

  “What is that—a failure?”

  “A failure is a person who does not live up to his own expectations,” said Mr. Squirrel.

  “And what were your expectations?” asked Felix.

  “Aaaaaah!” Mr. Squirrel stretched himself on his back again and shut his eyes. “I had wonderful expectations,” he admitted. “I wanted to be a knight in armor and kill a dragon. I wanted to marry a princess. None of these things did I do. So, you see, I am a failure.”

  Felix’s eyes glittered. “Have you ever seen a dragon?” he asked in a low voice, glancing behind him for a moment.

  “Not exactly,” said Mr. Squirrel, “but I know what they’re like. The thing to do is to hit them in the eye—that’s their vulnerable spot—and then—ker-bing!” And he lunged with a stick.

  Felix remembered a terrible red eye and shuddered. “Dragons are dangerous,” he said with awe in his voice. “And knights have to be very brave and splendid.”

  “Naturally, naturally,” agreed Mr. Squirrel, chewing on a blade of grass. “Why else do you think I want to be one?” And he flicked a bit of moss from his coat.

  “But you’re a squirrel,” protested Felix. “Squirrels don’t become knights, and they couldn’t slay dragons and marry princesses.”

  “Couldn’t they?” asked Mr. Squirrel. “If they wanted to very badly, couldn’t they?”

  “Well, I don’t believe so,” said Felix.

  “Then why do I want to do it; why do I keep thinking about it and thinking about it—seeing myself in armor, charging on a horse, gallumpity, gallumpity, till I meet a monster, a big scaly monster, and out comes my sword.… The monster is clasping a beautiful little squirrel … her eyes are wet with tears.… Then she sees me … her eyes light up … I come … the monster opens his mouth, but I pierce his tongue with my sword. He collapses in a pool of blood. I look around for the lady squirrel … she has fainted.… Aaaah.” Mr. Squirrel sank back onto the moss after excited gesticulations. “Why does it never happen?”

  “Do you really want it to happen?” asked Felix, who had listened, enthralled. “Or do you just want to think about it? For if you only want to think about it you must be a poet—that’s what poets do. Why don’t you write a book?”

  Mr. Squirrel sat up. His hair bristled. He breathed fast. His eyes twinkled like anthracite. “That’s it; you’ve got it!” he said. “I always knew I was not like the others! Now I do not have to be a failure. I shall rescue my lady and fight my battles in books. It’s more convenient too—it takes less out of one, in a manner of speaking. All I need now is paper.”

  “You can get that off the birch trees,” said Felix.

  Mr. Squirrel rubbed his paws together with satisfaction. “Yes, my boy, we’ll write, we’ll write,” he muttered, delighted with himself. “That’s it, of course—a poet. I am a poet. Why did I not think of it before? If Mamma says, ‘Why did you go away, Red?’ I shall answer, ‘To compose poetry.’ Beautiful.”

  “That would not be quite true, would it?” asked Felix.

  “It would, and it wouldn’t. I went away to slay a dragon, and you have just told me yourself that that is poetry. Very well, poetry it is.”

  Mr. Squirrel was in high good humor. There wasn’t a trace of the penitent about him. He accompanied Felix home, and whenever they were not chattering Mr. Squirrel hummed and twirled his stick.

  Mamma Squirrel saw her husband from afar and ran to meet him. She fell on his neck and kissed him. Not one word of reproach did she utter. Mr. Squirrel was touched. He had tears in his eyes. The triplets had run after their mother and stood staring at him, their tails in their mouths. Ross, Scarlet, and Pinkie came shyly behind.

  Mr. Squirrel patted his wife, and then he patted his children. “So, rumpty-um,” he said. “So—so. Glad to be home and all that. Humph. Very glad indeed.” And he put his arm around Mamma Squirrel’s shoulders. Then the happy, reunited family filed into their hole to celebrate.

  Felix spread his wings and flew home, smiling.

  The summer slowly faded, and autumn came again, stripping the trees. It was a colder, sadder autumn this year. There was more of brown and gray in it and less of scarlet. Many of the nutshells were empty, the toadstools had queer shapes, and spiders abounded.

  But Mamma Squirrel felt happy.

  Mr. Squirrel did not go roving any more. He had built himself a study and sat writing there all day. It was true that when she came to bring him his coffee he barely noticed her and she
had to watch that he did not dip his pen in the coffee and drink the ink; it was also true that she had to keep the children quiet and away from their father. But at least she knew where he was and that he was happy, and there was always Ross—dear Ross—to do the chores for her. Also, there were the wonderful moments when Mr. Squirrel would come into her living room, fling himself on the sofa, and groan, “I’m a failure, I’m a failure,” and allow her to pet him.

  So she was very, very grateful to Felix for having suggested that Mr. Squirrel write a book. His writing must be good, for he’d had two poems accepted by the Gazette. He was now writing the memoirs of his travels. Mamma Squirrel was very curious as to what there could be to write about. She would have liked very much to read them, but he would not allow it. The only bits she could find were the crumpled sheets in the wastepaper basket, which she smoothed out and read. These astonished her exceedingly and made her wish she could read the in-between bits. This was the sort of thing she found:

  “‘Knave,’ I hissed between my teeth, ‘put down that dagger, or I’d fain pierce thee.’ The villain glared at me between lowered brows. Well did I know his breed, and I drew the sword from my scabbard. The villain lunged at me with his dagger, but my sword was longer. When I had disposed of him I wiped my sword and went on.”

  Or:

  “‘Prithee, have mercy, sire,’ the damsel said. She was passing fair to look upon, and my heart was moved.

  ‘Nay, grieve not,’ I told her. ‘I am a knight, not a monster. Come and sup with me.’ But she blushed modestly and whispered, ‘Sire—my mother is ill.’

  ‘Well, then, go in peace,’ I told her with a sigh.”