Before, however, the moon had glided more than a soundless pace or two on her night journey, Myfanwy and her incomparable ass were safely out of sight: and the robbers had returned to their carousals. What impulse bade her turn first this way, then that, in the wandering and labyrinthine glades and tracks of the forest, she could not tell. But even though her father – not daring to raise his voice in the deep silence – ever and again stubbornly tugged upon his halter in the belief that the travellers had taken a wrong turning and were irrevocably lost, Myfanwy kept steadily on her way.
With a touch of her heel or a gentle persuasive pat of her hand on his hairy neck she did her best to reassure and to soothe him. ‘Only trust in me, dear father: I am sure all will be well.’
Yet she was haunted with misgivings. So that when at last a twinkling light, sprinkling its beams between the boughs, showed in the forest, it refreshed her heart beyond words to tell. She was reaching her journey’s end. It was as if that familiar voice in the secrecy of her heart had murmured, ‘Hst! He draws near!’
There and then she dismounted from off her father’s hairy back and once more communed with him through that long twitching ear. ‘Remain here in patience a while, dear father,’ she besought him, ‘without straying by a hair’s-breadth from where you are; for everything tells me our Stranger is not far distant now, and no human being on earth, no living creature, even, must see you in this sad and unseemly disguise. I will hasten on to assure myself that the light which I perceive beaming through the thicket yonder is his, and no other’s. Meanwhile – and this veil shall go with me in case of misadventure – meanwhile do you remain quietly beneath this spreading beech-tree, nor even stir unless you are over-wearied after our long night journey and you should feel inclined to rest a while on the softer turf in the shadow there under that bush of fragrant roses, or to refresh yourself at the brook whose brawling I hear welling up from that dingle in the hollow. In that case, return here, I pray you; contain yourself in patience, and be your tongue as dumb as a stone. For though you may design to speak softly, dearest father, that long sleek throat and those great handsome teeth will not admit of it.’
And her father, as if not even the thick hairy hide he wore could endure his troubles longer, opened his mouth as if to groan aloud. But restraining himself, he only sighed, while an owl out of the quiet breathed its mellow night-call as if in response. For having passed the last hour in a profound and afflicted reverie, this poor ass had now regained in part his natural human sense and sagacity. But pitiful was the eye, however asinine the grin, which he now bestowed as if in promise on Myfanwy who, with veil held delicately in her fingers stood there, radiant as snow, beside him in the moonlight.
And whether it was because of her grief for his own condition or because of the expectancy in her face at the thought of her meeting with the Stranger, or because maybe the ass feared in his despair and dejection that he might never see her again, he could not tell; but true it was that she had never appeared in a guise so brave and gay and passionate and tender. It might indeed be a youthful divinity gently treading the green sward beside this uncouth beast in the chequered light and shadow of that unearthly moonshine.
Having thus assured herself that all would be well until her return, Myfanwy kissed her father on his flat hairy brow, and veil in hand withdrew softly in the direction of the twinkling light.
Alas, though the Baron thirsted indeed for the chill dark waters whose song rose in the air from the hollow beneath, he could not contain himself in her absence, but unmindful of his mute promise followed after his daughter at a distance as she made her way to the light, his hoofs scarce sounding in the turf. Having come near, by peering through the dense bushes that encircled the juggler’s nocturnal retreat in the forest, he could see and hear all that passed.
As soon as Myfanwy had made sure that this Stranger sitting by his glowing watch-fire was indeed the juggler and no man else – and one strange leap of her heart assured her of this even before her eyes could carry their message – she veiled herself once more, and so, all her loveliness made thus invisible, she drew stealthily near and a little behind him, as he crouched over the embers. Then pausing, she called gently and in a still low voice, ‘I beseech you, Stranger, to take pity on one in great distress.’
The juggler lifted his dreaming face, ruddied and shadowed in the light of his fire, and peered cautiously but in happy astonishment all around him.
‘I beseech you, Stranger,’ cried again the voice from the unseen, ‘to take pity on one in great distress.’
And at this it seemed to the juggler that now ice was running through his veins and now fire. For he knew well that this was the voice of one compared with whom all else in the world to him was nought. He knew also that she must be standing near, though made utterly invisible to him by the veil of his own enchantments.
‘Draw near, traveller. Have no fear,’ he cried out softly into the darkness. ‘All will be well. Tell me only how I may help you.’
But Myfanwy drew not a hair’s-breadth nearer. Far from it. Instead, she flitted a little across the air of the glade, and now her voice came to him from up the wind towards the south, and fainter in the distance.
‘There is one with me,’ she replied, ‘who by an evil stratagem has been transformed into the shape of a beast, and that beast a poor patient ass. Tell me this, sorcerer – how I may restore him to his natural shape, and mine shall be an everlasting gratitude. For it is my own father of whom I speak.’
Her voice paused and faltered on the word. She longed almost beyond bearing to reveal herself to this unknown one, trusting without the least doubt or misgiving that he would serve her faithfully in all she asked of him. ‘But that, gentle lady,’ replied the juggler, ‘is not within my power, unless he of whom you speak draws near to show himself. Nor – though the voice with which you speak to me is sweeter than the music of harp-strings twangling on the air – nor is it within my power to make promises to a bodiless sound only. For how am I to be assured that the shape who utters the words I hear is not some dangerous demon of the darkness who is bent on mocking and deluding me, and who will bring sorcery on myself?’
There was silence for a while in the glade, and then ‘No, no!’ cried the juggler. ‘Loveliest and bravest of all that is, I need not see thy shape to know thee. Thou art most assuredly the lovely Myfanwy, and all that I am, have ever been, and ever shall be is at thy service. Tell me, then, where is this poor ass that was once thy noble father?’
And at this, and at one and the same moment, Myfanwy, withdrawing the veil from her head and shoulders, disclosed her fair self standing there in the faint rosy glow of the slumbering fire, and there broke also from the neighbouring thicket so dreadful and hideous a noise of rage and anguish – through the hoarse and unpractised throat of the eavesdropper near by – that it might be supposed the clamour was not of one but of a chorus of demons – though it was merely our poor ass complaining of his fate.
‘Oh, sir,’ sighed Myfanwy, ‘my dear father, I fear, in his grief and anxiety has been listening to what has passed between us. See, here he comes.’
Galloping hoofs were indeed now audible as the Lord of Eggleyseg in ass’s skin and shape drew near to wreak his vengeance on the young magician. But being at this moment in his stubborn rage and folly more ass than human, the glaring of the watch-fire dismayed his heavy wits, and he could do no else but paw with his fore-legs, lifting his smooth nose with its gleaming teeth into the night air, snuffing his rage and defiance some twenty paces distant from the fire.
The young magician, being of a nature as courteous as he was bold, did not so much as turn his head to scan the angry shivering creature, but once more addressed Myfanwy. She stood bowed down a little, tears in her eyes; in part for grief at her father’s broken promise and the humiliation he had brought upon himself, in part for joy that their troubles would soon be over and that she was now in the very company of the stranger who unwittingly had been
the cause of them all.
‘Have no fear,’ he said, ‘the magic that has changed the noble Baron your father into a creature more blest in its docility, patience, and humbleness than any other in the wide world, can as swiftly restore him to his natural shape.’
‘Ah then, sir,’ replied the maid, ‘it is very certain that my father will wish to bear witness to your kindness with any small gift that is in our power. For, as he well knows, it was not by any design but his own that he ate of the little green apple of enchantment. I pray you, sir, moreover, to forgive me for first stealing that apple, and also the marvellous golden ball, and the silken cord from out of the air.’
The juggler turned and gazed strangely at Myfanwy. ‘There is only one thing I desire in all this starry universe,’ he answered. ‘But I ask it not of him – for it is not of his giving. It is for your own forgiveness, lady.’
‘I forgive you!’ she cried. ‘Alas, my poor father!’
But even as she spoke a faint smile was on her face, and her eyes wandered to the animal standing a few paces beyond the margin of the glow cast by the watch-fire, sniffing the night air the while, and twitching dismally the coarse grey mane behind his ears. For now that her father was so near his deliverance her young heart grew entirely happy again, and the future seemed as sweet with promise as wild flowers in May.
Without further word the juggler drew from out of his pouch, as if he always carried about with him a little privy store of vegetables, a fine, tapering, ripe, red carrot.
‘This, lady,’ said he, ‘is my only wizardry. I make no bargain. My love for you will never languish, even if I never more again refresh my sleepless eyes with the vision of your presence in this solitary glade. Let your noble father the Lord of Eggleyseg draw near without distrust. There is but little difference, it might be imagined, between a wild apple and a carrot. But then, when all is said, there is little difference in the long sum between any living thing and another in this strange world. There are creatures in the world whose destiny it is in spite of their gentleness and humility and lowly duty and obedience to go upon four legs and to be in service of masters who deserve far less than they deserve, while there are men in high places of whom the reverse might truly be said. It is a mystery beyond my unravelling. But now all I ask is that you bid the ass who you tell me is hearkening at this moment to all that passes between us to nibble of this humble but useful and wholesome root. It will instantly restore him to his proper shape. Meanwhile, if you bid, I will myself be gone.’
Without further speech between them, Myfanwy accepted the magic carrot, and returned once more to the ass.
‘Dear father,’ she cried softly, ‘here is a root that seems to be only a carrot; yet nibble of it and you will be at once restored, and will forget you were ever an – as you are. For many days to come, I fear, you will not wish to look upon the daughter that has been the unwilling cause of this night’s woeful experience. There lives, as I have been told, in a little green arbour of the forest yonder, a hermit. This young magician will, I am truly certain, place me in his care a while until all griefs are forgotten between us. You will of your kindness consent, dear father, will you not?’ she pleaded.
A long prodigious bray resounded dolefully in the hollows of the far-spread forest’s dells and thickets. The Lord of Eggleyseg had spoken.
‘Indeed, father,’ smiled Myfanwy, ‘I have never before heard you say “Yes” so heartily. What further speech is needed?’
Whereupon the ass, with more dispatch than gratitude, munched up the carrot, and in a few hours Owen ap Gwythock, once more restored to his former, though hardly his more appropriate shape, returned in safety to his Castle. There for many a day he mourned his woeful solitude, but learned, too, not only how true and faithful a daughter he had used so ill, but the folly of a love that is fenced about with mistrust and suspicion and is poisoned with jealousy.
And when May was come again, a prince, no longer in the disguise of a wandering juggler, drew near with his adored Myfanwy to the Lord of Eggleyseg’s ancient castle. And Own ap Gwythock, a little older but a far wiser man, greeted them with such rejoicings and entertainment, with such feastings and dancing and minstrelsy and jubilations as had never been heard of before. Indeed he would have been ass unadulterated if he had done else.
* As printed in CSC (1947).
Alice’s Godmother*
Though Alice sat steadily looking out of the small square pane of glass in the railway carriage, she was not really seeing the green and hilly country through which the train now clattered on its way. While everything near – quickening hedges, grazing cattle, galloping calves, wood, farm and stony foaming brook – swept past far too swiftly for more than a darting glance; everything in the distance – hill, tree and spire – seemed to be stealthily wheeling forward, as if to waylay the puffing engine and prevent it from reaching her journey’s end.
‘If only it would!’ sighed Alice to herself. ‘How much – much happier I should be!’ Her blue eyes widened at the fancy. Then once more a frown of anxiety drew her eyebrows together; but she said nothing aloud. She sat on in her corner gently clasping her mother’s hand and pondering in dismay on what might happen to her in the next few hours.
Alice and her mother a little prided themselves on being just ‘two quiet ordinary people’, happy in each other’s company, and very seldom going out or paying calls and visits. And the particular visit that Alice was about to make when they reached the little country station of Freshing, she was to make alone. It was this that alarmed her. The invitation in that queer scrabbling handwriting had been to herself only. So though her mother was with her now, soon they would be parting. And every now and again Alice would give the hand she held in hers a gentle squeeze of self-reassurance. It was the good-bye – though it would be only for a few hours – that she dreaded.
And yet their plans had all been talked over and settled again and again. Alice must, of course, take a fly from the station – whatever the expense. After telling the cabman when she would need him again, she would get into it and her mother would wait for her in a room at the village Inn until she herself returned in the early evening from her visit. Then everything would be safely over. And to imagine the joy of seeing all these fields and woods come racing back the other way round almost made Alice ill.
It was absurd to be so nervous. Alice had told herself that a hundred times. But it was no use. The very thought of her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother filled her heart with a continuous foreboding. If only she were a little stronger-minded; if only this old old lady, who was also her godmother, had asked her mother to come with her; if only her heart would stop beating so fast; if only a wheel would come off the engine!
But then, after all, Alice had never before so much as seen her godmother. Even now she could not be quite certain that she had the number of ‘greats’ to the ‘grandmama’ quite right. Not even strong-minded people, she supposed, are often suddenly invited to tea with relatives aged three-hundred-and-forty-nine. And not only that either; for this day – this very Saturday – was her godmother’s birthday: her three-hundred-and-fiftieth!
Whenever Alice remembered this, a faint smile stole into her face. At seventeen a birthday is a real ‘event’. Life is galloping on. You are sprouting up like a beanstalk. Your hair is ‘put up’ (or at least it was when Alice was a girl), your skirts ‘come down’, and you’re soon to ‘come out’. In other words you are beginning to be really and truly ‘grown-up’. But three-hundred-and-fifty! Surely by that time… It must be difficult even to be certain you have the total right. Surely there can’t be any kind of a change by then! Surely not!
Still, Alice thought, it is perhaps the name of the number that chiefly counts. She herself had known what an odd shock it had been to slip into her teens, and could guess what the shivers would be like of the plunge into her twenties. Yet even if it were only the name of the number – why, at the end of three centuries you must be
beginning to be getting accustomed to birthdays.
It was a little odd that her godmother had never asked to see her before. Years ago she had sent her a squat parcel-gilt mug – a mug that her godmother herself used to drink her beer out of when she was a child of ten in Queen Elizabeth’s reign. A little sheepskin, illuminated Prayer Book, too, that had once been given to her godmother by Charles the First, and a few exquisite little old gold trinkets had come too. But receiving presents is not the same thing as actually meeting and talking with the mysterious giver of them. It is one thing to imagine the unknown; another thing altogether to meet it face to face. What would her godmother look like? What could she look like? Alice hadn’t the faintest notion. Old ladies of eighty and upwards are not unusual; but you can’t just multiply eighty by four as if growing older were merely a sum in arithmetic.
Perhaps when you are very old indeed, Alice suspected, you have no wish to sit for a portrait or to be photographed. It is a petrifying experience even when you are young. When you are – well, very old indeed, you may prefer to – well, to keep yourself to yourself. She would.
‘Mamma dear,’ she suddenly twisted round on her hard seat, her straight ribboned straw-coloured hair slipping over in one smooth ripple on her shoulder as she did so; ‘Mamma dear, I can’t think even now what I ought to do when I go into the room. Will there be anybody there, do you think? Do I shake hands? I suppose she won’t kiss me? I simply can’t think what I ought to do. I shall just hate leaving you – being left, I mean.’
Short Stories for Children Page 23