‘She saw them liddle green lights dance an’ cross till she was dizzy; she heard them liddle feet patterin’ by the thousand; she heard cruel Canterbury Bells ringing to Bulverhithe, an’ she heard the great Tide-wave ranging along the Wall. That was while the Pharisees was workin’ a Dream to wake her two sons asleep: an’ while she bit on her fingers she saw them two she’d bore come out an’ pass her with never a word. She followed ‘em, cryin’ pitiful, to the old boat on the Wall, an’ that they took an’ runned down to the sea.
‘When they’d stepped mast an’ sail the blind son speaks: “Mother, we’re waitin’ your Leave an’ Good-will to take Them over.”‘
Tom Shoesmith threw back his head and half shut his eyes.
‘Eh, me!’ he said. ‘She was a fine, valiant woman, the Widow Whitgift. She stood twistin’ the eends of her long hair over her fingers, an’ she shook like a poplar, makin’ up her mind. The Pharisees all about they hushed their children from cryin’ an’ they waited dumb-still. She was all their dependence. ‘Thout her Leave an’ Good-will they could not pass; for she was the Mother. So she shook like a aps-tree makin’ up her mind. ‘Last she drives the word past her teeth, an’ “Go!” she says. “Go with my Leave an’ Goodwill.”
‘Then I saw — then, they say, she had to brace back same as if she was wadin’ in tide-water; for the Pharisees just about flowed past her — down the beach to the boat, I dunnamany of ‘em — with their wives an’ childern an’ valooables, all escapin’ out of cruel Old England. Silver you could hear chinkin’, an’ liddle bundles hove down dunt on the bottom-boards, an’ passels o’ liddle swords an’ shields raklin’, an’ liddle fingers an’ toes scratchin’ on the boatside to board her when the two sons pushed her off. That boat she sunk lower an’ lower, but all the Widow could see in it was her boys movin’ hampered-like to get at the tackle. Up sail they did, an’ away they went, deep as a Rye barge, away into the off-shore mists, an’ the Widow Whitgift she sat down an’ eased her grief till mornin’ light.’
‘I never heard she was all alone,’ said Hobden.
‘I remember now. The one called Robin, he stayed with her, they tell. She was all too grievious to listen to his promises.’
‘Ah! She should ha’ made her bargain beforehand. I allus told my woman so!’ Hobden cried.
‘No. She loaned her sons for a pure love-loan, bein’ as she sensed the Trouble on the Marshes, an’ was simple good-willin’ to ease it.’ Tom laughed softly. ‘She done that. Yes, she done that! From Hithe to Bulverhithe, fretty man an’ maid, ailin’ woman an’ wailin’ child, they took the advantage of the change in the thin airs just about as soon as the Pharisees flitted. Folks come out fresh an’ shinin’ all over the Marsh like snails after wet. An’ that while the Widow Whitgift sat grievin’ on the Wall. She might have belieft us — she might have trusted her sons would be sent back! She fussed, no bounds, when their boat come in after three days.’
‘And, of course, the sons were both quite cured?’ said Una.
‘No-o. That would have been out o’ Nature. She got ‘em back as she sent ‘em. The blind man he hadn’t seen naught of anythin’, an’ the dumb man nature-ally he couldn’t say aught of what he’d seen. I reckon that was why the Pharisees pitched on ‘em for the ferryin’ job.’
‘But what did you — what did Robin promise the Widow?’ said Dan.
‘What did he promise, now?’ Tom pretended to think. ‘Wasn’t your woman a Whitgift, Ralph? Didn’t she ever say?’
‘She told me a passel o’ no-sense stuff when he was born.’ Hobden pointed at his son. ‘There was always to be one of ‘em that could see further into a millstone than most.’
‘Me! That’s me!’ said the Bee Boy so suddenly that they all laughed.
‘I’ve got it now!’ cried Tom, slapping his knee. ‘So long as Whitgift blood lasted, Robin promised there would allers be one o’ her stock that — that no Trouble ‘ud lie on, no Maid ‘ud sigh on, no Night could frighten, no Fright could harm, no Harm could make sin, an’ no Woman could make a fool of.’
‘Well, ain’t that just me?’ said the Bee Boy, where he sat in the silver square of the great September moon that was staring into the oast-house door.
‘They was the exact words she told me when we first found he wasn’t like others. But it beats me how you known ‘em,’ said Hobden.
‘Aha! There’s more under my hat besides hair?’ Tom laughed and stretched himself. ‘When I’ve seen these two young folk home, we’ll make a night of old days, Ralph, with passin’ old tales — eh? An’ where might you live?’ he said, gravely, to Dan. ‘An’ do you think your Pa ‘ud give me a drink for takin’ you there, Missy?’
They giggled so at this that they had to run out. Tom picked them both up, set one on each broad shoulder, and tramped across the ferny pasture where the cows puffed milky puffs at them in the moonlight.
‘Oh, Puck! Puck! I guessed you right from when you talked about the salt. How could you ever do it?’ Una cried, swinging along delighted.
‘Do what?’ he said, and climbed the stile by the pollard oak.
‘Pretend to be Tom Shoesmith,’ said Dan, and they ducked to avoid the two little ashes that grow by the bridge over the brook. Tom was almost running.
‘Yes. That’s my name, Mus’ Dan,’ he said, hurrying over the silent shining lawn, where a rabbit sat by the big white-thorn near the croquet ground. ‘Here you be.’ He strode into the old kitchen yard, and slid them down as Ellen came to ask questions.
‘I’m helping in Mus’ Spray’s oast-house,’ he said to her. ‘No, I’m no foreigner. I knowed this country ‘fore your mother was born; an’ — yes, it’s dry work oastin’, Miss. Thank you.’
Ellen went to get a jug, and the children went in — magicked once more by Oak, Ash, and Thorn!
* * *
A THREE-PART SONG
I’m just in love with all these three,The Weald an’ the Marsh an’ the Down countrie; Nor I don’t know which I love the most, The Weald or the Marsh or the white chalk coast!
I’ve buried my heart in a ferny hill,Twix’ a liddle low shaw an’ a great high gill. Oh, hop-bine yaller an’ woodsmoke blue, I reckon you’ll keep her middling true!
I’ve loosed my mind for to out an’ runOn a Marsh that was old when Kings begun: Oh, Romney level an’ Brenzett reeds, I reckon you know what my mind needs!
I’ve given my soul to the Southdown grass,An’ sheep-bells tinkled where you pass. Oh, Firle an’ Ditchling an’ sails at sea, I reckon you keep my soul for me!
SONG OF THE FIFTH RIVER
When first by Eden TreeThe Four Great Rivers ran, To each was appointed a Man Her Prince and Ruler to be.
But after this was ordained,(The ancient legends tell), There came dark Israel, For whom no River remained.
Then He That is Wholly JustSaid to him: ‘Fling on the ground A handful of yellow dust, And a Fifth Great River shall run, Mightier than these four, In secret the Earth around; And Her secret evermore Shall be shown to thee and thy Race.
So it was said and done.And, deep in the veins of Earth, And, fed by a thousand springs That comfort the market-place, Or sap the power of Kings, The Fifth Great River had birth, Even as it was foretold — The Secret River of Gold!
And Israel laid downHis sceptre and his crown, To brood on that River bank, Where the waters flashed and sank, And burrowed in earth and fell, And bided a season below; For reason that none might know, Save only Israel.
He is Lord of the Last — The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.He hears Her thunder past And Her song is in his blood. He can foresay: ‘She will fall,’ For he knows which fountain dries Behind which desert-belt A thousand leagues to the South. He can foresay: ‘She will rise.’ He knows what far snows melt; Along what mountain-wall A thousand leagues to the North. He snuffs the coming drought As he snuffs the coming rain, He knows what each will bring forth, And turns it to his gain.
A Prince without a Sword,A Ruler without a Throne; Israel f
ollows his quest. In every land a guest, Of many lands a lord, In no land King is he. But the Fifth Great River keeps The secret of Her deeps For Israel alone, As it was ordered to be.
* * *
The Treasure and the Law
Now it was the third week in November, and the woods rang with the noise of pheasant-shooting. No one hunted that steep, cramped country except the village beagles, who, as often as not, escaped from their kennels and made a day of their own. Dan and Una found a couple of them towling round the kitchen-garden after the laundry cat. The little brutes were only too pleased to go rabbiting, so the children ran them all along the brook pastures and into Little Lindens farm-yard, where the old sow vanquished them — and up to the quarry-hole, where they started a fox. He headed for Far Wood, and there they frightened out all the pheasants, who were sheltering from a big beat across the valley. Then the cruel guns began again, and they grabbed the beagles lest they should stray and get hurt.
‘I wouldn’t be a pheasant — in November — for a lot,’ Dan panted, as he caught Folly by the neck. ‘Why did you laugh that horrid way?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Una, sitting on Flora, the fat lady-dog. ‘Oh, look! The silly birds are going back to their own woods instead of ours, where they would be safe.’
‘Safe till it pleased you to kill them.’ An old man, so tall he was almost a giant, stepped from behind the clump of hollies by Volaterrae. The children jumped, and the dogs dropped like setters. He wore a sweeping gown of dark thick stuff, lined and edged with yellowish fur, and he bowed a bent-down bow that made them feel both proud and ashamed. Then he looked at them steadily, and they stared back without doubt or fear.
‘You are not afraid?’ he said, running his hands through his splendid grey beard. ‘Not afraid that those men yonder’ — he jerked his head towards the incessant pop-pop of the guns from the lower woods — ’will do you hurt?’
‘We-ell’ — Dan liked to be accurate, especially when he was shy — ’old Hobd — a friend of mine told me that one of the beaters got peppered last week — hit in the leg, I mean. You see, Mr Meyer will fire at rabbits. But he gave Waxy Garnett a quid — sovereign, I mean — and Waxy told Hobden he’d have stood both barrels for half the money.’
‘He doesn’t understand,’ Una cried, watching the pale, troubled face. ‘Oh, I wish — — ’
She had scarcely said it when Puck rustled out of the hollies and spoke to the man quickly in foreign words. Puck wore a long cloak too — the afternoon was just frosting down — and it changed his appearance altogether.
‘Nay, nay!’ he said at last. ‘You did not understand the boy. A freeman was a little hurt, by pure mischance, at the hunting.’
‘I know that mischance! What did his Lord do? Laugh and ride over him?’ the old man sneered.
‘It was one of your own people did the hurt, Kadmiel.’ Puck’s eyes twinkled maliciously. ‘So he gave the freeman a piece of gold, and no more was said.’
‘A Jew drew blood from a Christian and no more was said?’ Kadmiel cried. ‘Never! When did they torture him?’
‘No man may be bound, or fined, or slain till he has been judged by his peers,’ Puck insisted. ‘There is but one Law in Old England for Jew or Christian — the Law that was signed at Runnymede.’
‘Why, that’s Magna Charta!’ Dan whispered. It was one of the few history dates that he could remember. Kadmiel turned on him with a sweep and a whirr of his spicy-scented gown.
‘Dost thou know of that, babe?’ he cried, and lifted his hands in wonder.
‘Yes,’ said Dan firmly.
‘Magna Charta was signed by John, That Henry the Third put his heel upon.
And old Hobden says that if it hadn’t been for her (he calls everything “her”, you know), the keepers would have him clapped in Lewes Gaol all the year round.’
Again Puck translated to Kadmiel in the strange, solemn-sounding language, and at last Kadmiel laughed.
‘Out of the mouths of babes do we learn,’ said he. ‘But tell me now, and I will not call you a babe but a Rabbi, why did the King sign the roll of the New Law at Runnymede? For he was a King.’
Dan looked sideways at his sister. It was her turn.
‘Because he jolly well had to,’ said Una softly. ‘The Barons made him.’
‘Nay,’ Kadmiel answered, shaking his head. ‘You Christians always forget that gold does more than the sword. Our good King signed because he could not borrow more money from us bad Jews.’ He curved his shoulders as he spoke. ‘A King without gold is a snake with a broken back, and’ — his nose sneered up and his eyebrows frowned down — ’it is a good deed to break a snake’s back. That was my work,’ he cried, triumphantly, to Puck. ‘Spirit of Earth, bear witness that that was my work!’ He shot up to his full towering height, and his words rang like a trumpet. He had a voice that changed its tone almost as an opal changes colour — sometimes deep and thundery, sometimes thin and waily, but always it made you listen.
‘Many people can bear witness to that,’ Puck answered. ‘Tell these babes how it was done. Remember, Master, they do not know Doubt or Fear.’
‘So I saw in their faces when we met,’ said Kadmiel. ‘Yet surely, surely they are taught to spit upon Jews?’
‘Are they?’ said Dan, much interested. ‘Where at?’
Puck fell back a pace, laughing. ‘Kadmiel is
* * *
Doors shut, candle lit.
thinking of King John’s reign,’ he explained. ‘His people were badly treated then.’
‘Oh, we know that.’ they answered, and (it was very rude of them, but they could not help it) they stared straight at Kadmiel’s mouth to see if his teeth were all there. It stuck in their lesson-memory that King John used to pull out Jews’ teeth to make them lend him money.
Kadmiel understood the look and smiled bitterly.
‘No. Your King never drew my teeth: I think, perhaps, I drew his. Listen! I was not born among Christians, but among Moors — in Spain — in a little white town under the mountains. Yes, the Moors are cruel, but at least their learned men dare to think. It was prophesied of me at my birth that I should be a Lawgiver to a People of a strange speech and a hard language. We Jews are always looking for the Prince and the Lawgiver to come. Why not? My people in the town (we were very few) set me apart as a child of the prophecy — the Chosen of the Chosen. We Jews dream so many dreams. You would never guess it to see us slink about the rubbish-heaps in our quarter; but at the day’s end — doors shut, candles lit — aha! then we became the Chosen again.’
He paced back and forth through the wood as he talked. The rattle of the shot-guns never ceased, and the dogs whimpered a little and lay flat on the leaves.
‘I was a Prince. Yes! Think of a little Prince who had never known rough words in his own house handed over to shouting, bearded Rabbis, who pulled his ears and filliped his nose, all that he might learn — learn — learn to be King when his time came. Hé! Such a little Prince it was! One eye he kept on the stone-throwing Moorish boys, and the other it roved about the streets looking for his Kingdom. Yes, and he learned to cry softly when he was hunted up and down those streets. He learned to do all things without noise. He played beneath his father’s table when the Great Candle was lit, and he listened as children listen to the talk of his father’s friends above the table. They came across the mountains, from out of all the world, for my Prince’s father was their counsellor. They came from behind the armies of Sala-ud-Din: from Rome: from Venice: from England. They stole down our alley, they tapped secretly at our door, they took off their rags, they arrayed themselves, and they talked to my father at the wine. All over the world the heathen fought each other. They brought news of these wars, and while he played beneath the table, my Prince heard these meanly dressed ones decide between themselves how, and when, and for how long King should draw sword against King, and People rise up against People. Why not? There can be no war without gold, and we Jews know how the earth’s gold
moves with the seasons, and the crops, and the winds; circling and looping and rising and sinking away like a river — a wonderful underground river. How should the foolish Kings know that while they fight and steal and kill?’
The children’s faces showed that they knew nothing at all as, with open eyes, they trotted and turned beside the long-striding old man. He twitched his gown over his shoulders, and a square plate of gold, studded with jewels, gleamed for an instant through the fur, like a star through flying snow.
‘No matter,’ he said. ‘But, credit me, my Prince saw peace or war decided not once, but many times, by the fall of a coin spun between a Jew from Bury and a Jewess from Alexandria, in his father’s house, when the Great Candle was lit. Such power had we Jews among the Gentiles. Ah, my little Prince! Do you wonder that he learned quickly? Why not?’ He muttered to himself and went on: —
‘My trade was that of a physician. When I had learned it in Spain I went to the East to find my Kingdom. Why not? A Jew is as free as a sparrow — or a dog. He goes where he is hunted. In the East I found libraries where men dared to think — schools of medicine where they dared to learn. I was diligent in my business. Therefore I stood before Kings. I have been a brother to Princes and a companion to beggars, and I have walked between the living and the dead. There was no profit in it. I did not find my Kingdom. So, in the tenth year of my travels, when I had reached the Uttermost Eastern Sea, I returned to my father’s house. God had wonderfully preserved my people. None had been slain, none even wounded, and only a few scourged. I became once more a son in my father’s house. Again the Great Candle was lit; again the meanly apparelled ones tapped on our door after dusk; and again I heard them weigh out peace and war, as they weighed out the gold on the table. But I was not rich — not very rich. Therefore, when those that had power and knowledge and wealth talked together, I sat in the shadow. Why not?
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 411