The Treasury Of The Fantastic

by David Sandner

  The next morning, before the birds were stirring, before the sun had climbed high enough to look in at their bedroom window, or the flowers had wiped their eyes ready for the day, the children got up and crept out of the cottage and ran across the fields.

  They did not think the village girl would be up so very early, but their hearts had ached so much at the sight of the mother’s sad face that they had not been able to sleep, and they longed to know if they had been naughty enough, and if they might just once hear the peardrum and see the little man and woman, and then go home and be good for ever.

  To their surprise they found the village girl sitting by the heap of stones, just as if it were her natural home. They ran fast when they saw her, and they noticed that the box containing the little man and woman was open, but she closed it quickly when she saw them, and they heard the clicking of the spring that kept it fast.

  “We have been very naughty,” they cried. “We have done all the things you told us; now will you show us the little man and woman?” The girl looked at them curiously, then drew the yellow silk handkerchief she sometimes wore round her head out of her pocket, and began to smooth out the creases in it with her hands.

  “You really seem quite excited,” she said in her usual voice. “You should be calm; calmness gathers in and hides things like a big cloak, or like my shawl does here, for instance;” and she looked down at the ragged covering that hid the peardrum.

  “We have done all the things you told us,” the children cried again, “and we do so long to hear the secret”; but the girl only went on smoothing out her handkerchief.

  “I am so very particular about my dress,” she said. They could hardly listen to her in their excitement.

  “But do tell if we may see the little man and woman,” they entreated again. “We have been so very naughty, and mother says she will go away to-day and send home a new mother if we are not good.”

  “Indeed,” said the girl, beginning to be interested and amused. “The things that people say are most singular and amusing. There is an endless variety in language.” But the children did not understand, only entreated once more to see the little man and woman.

  “Well, let me see,” the girl said at last, just as if she were relenting. “When did your mother say she would go?”

  “But if she goes what shall we do?” they cried in despair. “We don’t want her to go; we love her very much. Oh! what shall we do if she goes?”

  “People go and people come; first they go and then they come. Perhaps she will go before she comes; she couldn’t come before she goes. You had better go back and be good,” the girl added suddenly; “you are really not clever enough to be anything else; and the little woman’s secret is very important; she never tells it for make-believe naughtiness.”

  “But we did do all the things you told us,” the children cried, despairingly.

  “You didn’t throw the looking-glass out of the window, or stand the baby on its head.”

  “No, we didn’t do that,” the children gasped.

  “I thought not,” the girl said triumphantly.

  “Well, good day. I shall not be here to-morrow. Good day.”

  “Oh, but don’t go away,” they cried. “We are so unhappy; do let us see them just once.”

  “Well, I shall go past your cottage at eleven o’clock this morning,” the girl said. “Perhaps I shall play the peardrum as I go by.”

  “And will you show us the man and woman?” they asked.

  “Quite impossible, unless you have really deserved it; make-believe naughtiness is only spoilt goodness. Now if you break the looking-glass and do the things that are desired—”

  “Oh, we will,” they cried. “We will be very naughty till we hear you coming.”

  “It’s waste of time,I fear,” the girl said politely; “but of course I should not like to interfere with you. You see the little man and woman, being used to the best society, are very particular. Good day,” she said, just as she always said, and then quickly turned away, but she looked back and called out, “Eleven o’clock, I shall be quite punctual; I am very particular about my engagements.”

  Then again the children went home, and were naughty, oh, so very very naughty that the dear mother’s heart ached, and her eyes filled with tears, and at last she went upstairs and slowly put on her best gown and her new sun bonnet, and she dressed the baby all in its Sunday clothes, and then she came down and stood before Blue-Eyes and the Turkey, and just as she did so the Turkey threw the looking-glass out of the window, and it fell with a loud crash upon the ground.

  “Good-bye, my children,” the mother said sadly, kissing them. “Good-bye, my Blue-Eyes; good-bye, my Turkey; the new mother will be home presently. Oh, my poor children!” and then weeping bitterly the mother took the baby in her arms and turned to leave the house.

  “But, mother,” the children cried, “we are—” and then suddenly the broken clock struck half-past ten, and they knew that in half an hour the village girl would come by playing on the peardrum. “But, mother, we will be good at half-past eleven, come back at half-past eleven,” they cried, “and we’ll both be good, we will indeed; we must be naughty till eleven o’clock.” But the mother only picked up the little bundle in which she had tied up her cotton apron and a pair of old shoes, and went slowly out at the door. It seemed as if the children were spellbound, and they could not follow her. They opened the window wide, and called after her: “Mother! mother! oh, dear mother, come back again! We will be good, we will be good now, we will be good for evermore if you will come back.”

  But the mother only looked round and shook her head, and they could see the tears falling down her cheeks.

  “Come back, dear mother!” cried Blue-Eyes; but still the mother went on across the fields.

  “Come back, come back!” cried the Turkey; but still the mother went on. Just by the corner of the field she stopped and turned, and waved her handkerchief, all wet with tears, to the children at the window; she made the baby kiss its hand; and in a moment mother and baby had vanished from their sight.

  Then the children felt their hearts ache with sorrow, and they cried bitterly just as the mother had done, and yet they could not believe that she had gone. Surely she would come back, they thought; she would not leave them altogether; but, oh, if she did—if she did—if she did. And then the broken clock struck eleven, and suddenly there was a sound—a quick, clanging, jangling sound, with a strange discordant one at intervals; and they looked at each other, while their hearts stood still, for they knew it was the peardrum. They rushed to the open window, and there they saw the village girl coming towards them from the fields, dancing along and playing as she did so. Behind her, walking slowly, and yet ever keeping the same distance from her, was the man with the dogs whom they had seen asleep by the Blue Lion, on the day they first saw the girl with the peardrum. He was playing on a flute that had a strange shrill sound; they could hear it plainly above the jangling of the peardrum. After the man followed the two dogs, slowly waltzing round and round on their hind legs.

  “We have done all you told us,” the children called, when they had recovered from their astonishment. “Come and see; and now show us the little man and woman.”

  The girl did not cease her playing or her dancing, but she called out in a voice that was half speaking half singing, and seemed to keep time to the strange music of the peardrum.

  “You did it all badly. You threw the water on the wrong side of the fire, the tin things were not quite in the middle of the room, the clock was not broken enough, you did not stand the baby on its head.”

  Then the children, still standing spellbound by the window, cried out, entreating and wringing their hands, “Oh, but we have done everything you told us, and mother has gone away. Show us the little man and woman now, and let us hear the secret.”

  As they said this the girl was just in front of the cottage, but she did not stop playing. The sound of the strings seemed to go throug
h their hearts. She did not stop dancing; she was already passing the cottage by. She did not stop singing, and all she said sounded like part of a terrible song. And still the man followed her, always at the same distance, playing shrilly on his flute; and still the two dogs waltzed round and round after him—their tails motionless, their legs straight, their collars clear and white and stiff. On they went, all of them together.

  “Oh, stop!” the children cried, “and show us the little man and woman now.”

  But the girl sang out loud and clear, while the string that was out of tune twanged above her voice.

  “The little man and woman are far away. See, their box is empty.”

  And then for the first time the children saw that the lid of the box was raised and hanging back, and that no little man and woman were in it.

  “I am going to my own land,” the girl sang, “to the land where I was born.” And she went on towards the long straight road that led to the city many many miles away.

  “But our mother is gone,” the children cried; “our dear mother, will she ever come back?”

  “No,” sang the girl; “she’ll never come back, she’ll never come back. I saw her by the bridge: she took a boat upon the river; she is sailing to the sea; she will meet your father once again, and they will go sailing on, sailing on to the countries far away.”

  And when they heard this, the children cried out, but could say no more, for their hearts seemed to be breaking.

  Then the girl, her voice getting fainter and fainter in the distance, called out once more to them. But for the dread that sharpened their ears they would hardly have heard her, so far was she away, and so discordant was the music.

  “Your new mother is coming. She is already on her way; but she only walks slowly, for her tail is rather long, and her spectacles are left behind; but she is coming, she is coming—coming—coming.”

  The last word died away; it was the last one they ever heard the village girl utter. On she went, dancing on; and on followed the man, they could see that he was still playing, but they could no longer hear the sound of his flute; and on went the dogs round and round and round. On they all went, farther and farther away, till they were separate things no more, till they were just a confused mass of faded colour, till they were a dark misty object that nothing could define, till they had vanished altogether,—altogether and for ever.

  Then the children turned, and looked at each other and at the little cottage home, that only a week before had been so bright and happy, so cosy and so spotless. The fire was out, and the water was still among the cinders; the baking-dish and cake-tin, the fish-slice and the saucepan lid, which the dear mother used to spend so much time in rubbing, were all pulled down from the nails on which they had hung so long, and were lying on the floor. And there was the clock all broken and spoilt, the little picture upon its face could be seen no more; and though it sometimes struck a stray hour, it was with the tone of a clock whose hours are numbered. And there was the baby’s high chair, but no little baby to sit in it; there was the cupboard on the wall, and never a sweet loaf on its shelf; and there were the broken mugs, and the bits of bread tossed about, and the greasy boards which the mother had knelt down to scrub until they were white as snow. In the midst of all stood the children, looking at the wreck they had made, their hearts aching, their eyes blinded with tears, and their poor little hands clasped together in their misery.

  “Oh, what shall we do?” cried Blue-Eyes. “I wish we had never seen the village girl and the nasty, nasty peardrum.”

  “Surely mother will come back,” sobbed the Turkey. “I am sure we shall die if she doesn’t come back.”

  “I don’t know what we shall do if the new mother comes,” cried Blue-Eyes. “I shall never, never like any other mother. I don’t know what we shall do if that dreadful mother comes.”

  “We won’t let her in,” said the Turkey.

  “But perhaps she’ll walk in,” sobbed Blue-Eyes.

  Then Turkey stopped crying for a minute, to think what should be done.

  “We will bolt the door,” she said, “and shut the window; and we won’t take any notice when she knocks.”

  So they bolted the door, and shut the window, and fastened it. And then, in spite of all they had said, they felt naughty again, and longed after the little man and woman they had never seen, far more than after the mother who had loved them all their lives.

  But then they did not really believe that their own mother would not come back, or that any new mother would take her place.

  When it was dinner-time, they were very hungry, but they could only find some stale bread, and they had to be content with it.

  “Oh, I wish we had heard the little woman’s secret,” cried the Turkey; “I wouldn’t have cared then.”

  All through the afternoon they sat watching and listening for fear of the new mother; but they saw and heard nothing of her, and gradually they became less and less afraid lest she should come. Then they thought that perhaps when it was dark their own dear mother would come home; and perhaps if they asked her to forgive them she would. And then Blue-Eyes thought that if their mother did come she would be very cold, so they crept out at the back door and gathered in some wood, and at last, for the grate was wet, and it was a great deal of trouble to manage it, they made a fire. When they saw the bright fire burning, and the little flames leaping and playing among the wood and coal, they began to be happy again, and to feel certain that their own mother would return; and the sight of the pleasant fire reminded them of all the times she had waited for them to come from the post-office, and of how she had welcomed them, and comforted them, and given them nice warm tea and sweet bread, and talked to them. Oh, how sorry they were they had been naughty, and all for that nasty village girl! They did not care a bit about the little man and woman now, or want to hear the secret.

  They fetched a pail of water and washed the floor; they found some rag, and rubbed the tins till they looked bright again, and, putting a footstool on a chair, they got up on it very carefully and hung up the things in their places; and then they picked up the broken mugs and made the room as neat as they could, till it looked more and more as if the dear mother’s hands had been busy about it. They felt more and more certain she would return, she and the dear little baby together, and they thought they would set the tea-things for her, just as she had so often set them for her naughty children. They took down the tea-tray, and got out the cups, and put the kettle on the fire to boil, and made everything look as home-like as they could. There was no sweet loaf to put on the table, but perhaps the mother would bring something from the village, they thought.

  At last all was ready, and Blue-Eyes and the Turkey washed their faces and their hands, and then sat and waited, for of course they did not believe what the village girl had said about their mother sailing away.

  Suddenly, while they were sitting by the fire, they heard a sound as of something heavy being dragged along the ground outside, and then there was a loud and terrible knocking at the door. The children felt their hearts stand still. They knew it could not be their own mother, for she would have turned the handle and tried to come in without any knocking at all.

  “Oh, Turkey!” whispered Blue-Eyes, “if it should be the new mother, what shall we do?”

  “We won’t let her in,” whispered the Turkey, for she was afraid to speak aloud, and again there came a long and loud and terrible knocking at the door.

  “What shall we do? oh, what shall we do?” cried the children, in despair. “Oh, go away!” they called out. “Go away; we won’t let you in; we will never be naughty any more; go away, go away!”

  But again there came a loud and terrible knocking.

  “She’ll break the door if she knocks so hard,” cried Blue-Eyes.

  “Go and put your back to it,” whispered the Turkey, “and I’ll peep out of the window and try to see if it is really the new mother.”

  So in fear and trembling Blue-Eyes put her
back against the door, and the Turkey went to the window, and, pressing her face against one side of the frame, peeped out. She could just see a black satin poke bonnet with a frill round the edge, and a long bony arm carrying a black leather bag. From beneath the bonnet there flashed a strange bright light, and Turkey’s heart sank and her cheeks turned pale, for she knew it was the flashing of two glass eyes.

  She crept up to Blue-Eyes. “It is—it is—it is!” she whispered, her voice shaking with fear, “it is the new mother! She has come, and brought her luggage in a black leather bag that is hanging on her arm!”

  “Oh, what shall we do?” wept Blue-Eyes; and again there was the terrible knocking.

  “Come and put your back against the door too,Turkey,” cried Blue-Eyes; “I am afraid it will break.”

  So together they stood with their two little backs against the door. There was a long pause. They thought perhaps the new mother had made up her mind that there was no one at home to let her in, and would go away, but presently the two children heard through the thin wooden door the new mother move a little, and then say to herself—“I must break open the door with my tail.”

  For one terrible moment all was still, but in it the children could almost hear her lift up her tail, and then, with a fearful blow, the little painted door was cracked and splintered.

  With a shriek the children darted from the spot and fled through the cottage, and out at the back door into the forest beyond. All night long they stayed in the darkness and the cold, and all the next day and the next, and all through the cold, dreary days and the long dark nights that followed.

  They are there still, my children. All through the long weeks and months have they been there, with only green rushes for their pillows and only the brown dead leaves to cover them, feeding on the wild strawberries in the summer, or on the nuts when they hang green; on the blackberries when they are no longer sour in the autumn, and in the winter on the little red berries that ripen in the snow. They wander about among the tall dark firs or beneath the great trees beyond. Sometimes they stay to rest beside the little pool near the copse where the ferns grow thickest, and they long and long, with a longing that is greater than words can say, to see their own dear mother again, just once again, to tell her that they’ll be good for evermore—just once again.