Lilith

by George MacDonald

  The conclusion was, that I must rise and continue my travels, in the hope of coming upon some elucidation of the fortunes and destiny of the bewitching little creatures.

  My design, however, would not so soon have passed into action, but for what now occurred.

  To prepare them for my temporary absence, I was one day telling them while at work that I would long ago have left the bad giants, but that I loved the Little Ones so much—when, as by one accord, they came rushing and crowding upon me; they scrambled over each other and up the tree and dropped on my head, until I was nearly smothered. With three very little ones in my arms, one on each shoulder clinging to my neck, one standing straight up on my head, four or five holding me fast by the legs, others grappling my body and arms, and a multitude climbing and descending upon these, I was helpless as one overwhelmed by lava. Absorbed in the merry struggle, not one of them saw my tyrant coming until he was almost upon me. With just one cry of “Take care, good giant!” they ran from me like mice, they dropped from me like hedgehogs, they flew from me up the tree like squirrels, and the same moment, sharp round the stem came the bad giant, and dealt me such a blow on the head with a stick that I fell to the ground. The children told me afterwards that they sent him “such a many bumps of big apples and stones” that he was frightened, and ran blundering home.

  When I came to myself it was night. Above me were a few pale stars that expected the moon. I thought I was alone. My head ached badly, and I was terribly athirst.

  I turned wearily on my side. The moment my ear touched the ground, I heard the gushing and gurgling of water, and the soft noises made me groan with longing. At once I was amid a multitude of silent children, and delicious little fruits began to visit my lips. They came and came until my thirst was gone.

  Then I was aware of sounds I had never heard there before; the air was full of little sobs.

  I tried to sit up. A pile of small bodies instantly heaped itself at my back. Then I struggled to my feet, with much pushing and pulling from the Little Ones, who were wonderfully strong for their size.

  “You must go away, good giant,” they said. “When the bad giants see you hurt, they will all trample on you.”

  “I think I must,” I answered.

  “Go and grow strong, and come again,” they said.

  “I will,” I replied—and sat down.

  “Indeed you must go at once!” whispered Lona, who had been supporting me, and now knelt beside me.

  “I listened at his door,” said one of the bigger boys, “and heard the bad giant say to his wife that he had found you idle, talking to a lot of moles and squirrels, and when he beat you, they tried to kill him. He said you were a wizard, and they must knock you, or they would have no peace.”

  “I will go at once,” I said, “and come back as soon as I have found out what is wanted to make you bigger and stronger.”

  “We don’t want to be bigger,” they answered, looking very serious. “We WON’T grow bad giants!—We are strong now; you don’t know how much strong!”

  It was no use holding them out a prospect that had not any attraction for them! I said nothing more, but rose and moved slowly up the slope of the valley. At once they formed themselves into a long procession; some led the way, some walked with me helping me, and the rest followed. They kept feeding me as we went.

  “You are broken,” they said, “and much red juice has run out of you: put some in.”

  When we reached the edge of the valley, there was the moon just lifting her forehead over the rim of the horizon.

  “She has come to take care of you, and show you the way,” said Lona.

  I questioned those about me as we walked, and learned there was a great place with a giant-girl for queen. When I asked if it was a city, they said they did not know. Neither could they tell how far off, or in what direction it was, or what was the giant-girl’s name; all they knew was, that she hated the Little Ones, and would like to kill them, only she could not find them. I asked how they knew that; Lona answered that she had always known it. If the giant-girl came to look for them, they must hide hard, she said. When I told them I should go and ask her why she hated them, they cried out,

  “No, no! she will kill you, good giant; she will kill you! She is an awful bad-giant witch!”

  I asked them where I was to go then. They told me that, beyond the baby-forest, away where the moon came from, lay a smooth green country, pleasant to the feet, without rocks or trees. But when I asked how I was to set out for it.

  “The moon will tell you, we think,” they said.

  They were taking me up the second branch of the river bed: when they saw that the moon had reached her height, they stopped to return.

  “We have never gone so far from our trees before,” they said. “Now mind you watch how you go, that you may see inside your eyes how to come back to us.”

  “And beware of the giant-woman that lives in the desert,” said one of the bigger girls as they were turning, “I suppose you have heard of her!”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Then take care not to go near her. She is called the Cat-woman. She is awfully ugly—AND SCRATCHES.”

  As soon as the bigger ones stopped, the smaller had begun to run back. The others now looked at me gravely for a moment, and then walked slowly away. Last to leave me, Lona held up the baby to be kissed, gazed in my eyes, whispered, “The Cat-woman will not hurt YOU,” and went without another word. I stood a while, gazing after them through the moonlight, then turned and, with a heavy heart, began my solitary journey. Soon the laughter of the Little Ones overtook me, like sheep-bells innumerable, rippling the air, and echoing in the rocks about me. I turned again, and again gazed after them: they went gamboling along, with never a care in their sweet souls. But Lona walked apart with her baby.

  Pondering as I went, I recalled many traits of my little friends.

  Once when I suggested that they should leave the country of the bad giants, and go with me to find another, they answered, “But that would be to NOT ourselves!”—so strong in them was the love of place that their country seemed essential to their very being! Without ambition or fear, discomfort or greed, they had no motive to desire any change; they knew of nothing amiss; and, except their babies, they had never had a chance of helping any one but myself:—How were they to grow? But again, Why should they grow? In seeking to improve their conditions, might I not do them harm, and only harm? To enlarge their minds after the notions of my world—might it not be to distort and weaken them? Their fear of growth as a possible start for gianthood might be instinctive!

  The part of philanthropist is indeed a dangerous one; and the man who would do his neighbour good must first study how not to do him evil, and must begin by pulling the beam out of his own eye.

  CHAPTER XV. A STRANGE HOSTESS

  I travelled on attended by the moon. As usual she was full—I had never seen her other—and to-night as she sank I thought I perceived something like a smile on her countenance.

  When her under edge was a little below the horizon, there appeared in the middle of her disc, as if it had been painted upon it, a cottage, through the open door and window of which she shone; and with the sight came the conviction that I was expected there. Almost immediately the moon was gone, and the cottage had vanished; the night was rapidly growing dark, and my way being across a close succession of small ravines, I resolved to remain where I was and expect the morning. I stretched myself, therefore, in a sandy hollow, made my supper off the fruits the children had given me at parting, and was soon asleep.

  I woke suddenly, saw above me constellations unknown to my former world, and had lain for a while gazing at them, when I became aware of a figure seated on the ground a little way from and above me. I was startled, as one is on discovering all at once that he is not alone. The figure was between me and the sky, so that I saw its outline well. From where I lay low in the hollow, it seemed larger than human.

  It moved its head,
and then first I saw that its back was toward me.

  “Will you not come with me?” said a sweet, mellow voice, unmistakably a woman’s.

  Wishing to learn more of my hostess,

  “I thank you,” I replied, “but I am not uncomfortable here. Where would you have me go? I like sleeping in the open air.”

  “There is no hurt in the air,” she returned; “but the creatures that roam the night in these parts are not such as a man would willingly have about him while he sleeps.”

  “I have not been disturbed,” I said.

  “No; I have been sitting by you ever since you lay down.”

  “That is very kind of you! How came you to know I was here? Why do you show me such favour?”

  “I saw you,” she answered, still with her back to me, “in the light of the moon, just as she went down. I see badly in the day, but at night perfectly. The shadow of my house would have hidden you, but both its doors were open. I was out on the waste, and saw you go into this hollow. You were asleep, however, before I could reach you, and I was not willing to disturb you. People are frightened if I come on them suddenly. They call me the Cat-woman. It is not my name.”

  I remembered what the children had told me—that she was very ugly, and scratched. But her voice was gentle, and its tone a little apologetic: she could not be a bad giantess!

  “You shall not hear it from me,” I answered, “Please tell me what I MAY call you!”

  “When you know me, call me by the name that seems to you to fit me,” she replied: “that will tell me what sort you are. People do not often give me the right one. It is well when they do.”

  “I suppose, madam, you live in the cottage I saw in the heart of the moon?”

  “I do. I live there alone, except when I have visitors. It is a poor place, but I do what I can for my guests, and sometimes their sleep is sweet to them.”

  Her voice entered into me, and made me feel strangely still.

  “I will go with you, madam,” I said, rising.

  She rose at once, and without a glance behind her led the way. I could see her just well enough to follow. She was taller than myself, but not so tall as I had thought her. That she never turned her face to me made me curious—nowise apprehensive, her voice rang so true. But how was I to fit her with a name who could not see her? I strove to get alongside of her, but failed: when I quickened my pace she quickened hers, and kept easily ahead of me. At length I did begin to grow a little afraid. Why was she so careful not to be seen? Extraordinary ugliness would account for it: she might fear terrifying me! Horror of an inconceivable monstrosity began to assail me: was I following through the dark an unheard of hideousness? Almost I repented of having accepted her hospitality.

  Neither spoke, and the silence grew unbearable. I MUST break it!

  “I want to find my way,” I said, “to a place I have heard of, but whose name I have not yet learned. Perhaps you can tell it me!”

  “Describe it, then, and I will direct you. The stupid Bags know nothing, and the careless little Lovers forget almost everything.”

  “Where do those live?”

  “You are just come from them!”

  “I never heard those names before!”

  “You would not hear them. Neither people knows its own name!”

  “Strange!”

  “Perhaps so! but hardly any one anywhere knows his own name! It would make many a fine gentleman stare to hear himself addressed by what is really his name!”

  I held my peace, beginning to wonder what my name might be.

  “What now do you fancy yours?” she went on, as if aware of my thought. “But, pardon me, it is a matter of no consequence.”

  I had actually opened my mouth to answer her, when I discovered that my name was gone from me. I could not even recall the first letter of it! This was the second time I had been asked my name and could not tell it!

  “Never mind,” she said; “it is not wanted. Your real name, indeed, is written on your forehead, but at present it whirls about so irregularly that nobody can read it. I will do my part to steady it. Soon it will go slower, and, I hope, settle at last.”

  This startled me, and I was silent.

  We had left the channels and walked a long time, but no sign of the cottage yet appeared.

  “The Little Ones told me,” I said at length, “of a smooth green country, pleasant to the feet!”

  “Yes?” she returned.

  “They told me too of a girl giantess that was queen somewhere: is that her country?”

  “There is a city in that grassy land,” she replied, “where a woman is princess. The city is called Bulika. But certainly the princess is not a girl! She is older than this world, and came to it from yours—with a terrible history, which is not over yet. She is an evil person, and prevails much with the Prince of the Power of the Air. The people of Bulika were formerly simple folk, tilling the ground and pasturing sheep. She came among them, and they received her hospitably. She taught them to dig for diamonds and opals and sell them to strangers, and made them give up tillage and pasturage and build a city. One day they found a huge snake and killed it; which so enraged her that she declared herself their princess, and became terrible to them. The name of the country at that time was THE LAND OF WATERS; for the dry channels, of which you have crossed so many, were then overflowing with live torrents; and the valley, where now the Bags and the Lovers have their fruit-trees, was a lake that received a great part of them. But the wicked princess gathered up in her lap what she could of the water over the whole country, closed it in an egg, and carried it away. Her lap, however, would not hold more than half of it; and the instant she was gone, what she had not yet taken fled away underground, leaving the country as dry and dusty as her own heart. Were it not for the waters under it, every living thing would long ago have perished from it. For where no water is, no rain falls; and where no rain falls, no springs rise. Ever since then, the princess has lived in Bulika, holding the inhabitants in constant terror, and doing what she can to keep them from multiplying. Yet they boast and believe themselves a prosperous, and certainly are a self-satisfied people—good at bargaining and buying, good at selling and cheating; holding well together for a common interest, and utterly treacherous where interests clash; proud of their princess and her power, and despising every one they get the better of; never doubting themselves the most honourable of all the nations, and each man counting himself better than any other. The depth of their worthlessness and height of their vainglory no one can understand who has not been there to see, who has not learned to know the miserable misgoverned and self-deceived creatures.”

  “I thank you, madam. And now, if you please, will you tell me something about the Little Ones—the Lovers? I long heartily to serve them. Who and what are they? and how do they come to be there? Those children are the greatest wonder I have found in this world of wonders.”

  “In Bulika you may, perhaps, get some light on those matters. There is an ancient poem in the library of the palace, I am told, which of course no one there can read, but in which it is plainly written that after the Lovers have gone through great troubles and learned their own name, they will fill the land, and make the giants their slaves.”

  “By that time they will have grown a little, will they not?” I said.

  “Yes, they will have grown; yet I think too they will not have grown. It is possible to grow and not to grow, to grow less and to grow bigger, both at once—yes, even to grow by means of not growing!”

  “Your words are strange, madam!” I rejoined. “But I have heard it said that some words, because they mean more, appear to mean less!”

  “That is true, and such words HAVE to be understood. It were well for the princess of Bulika if she heard what the very silence of the land is shouting in her ears all day long! But she is far too clever to understand anything.”

  “Then I suppose, when the little Lovers are grown, their land will have water again?”

 
; “Not exactly so: when they are thirsty enough, they will have water, and when they have water, they will grow. To grow, they must have water. And, beneath, it is flowing still.”