The Victorian Fairy Tale Book (Pantheon Fairy Tale & Folklore Library)

by Hearn, Michael Patrick

  The next moment she descried, in a corner of the cave, a little naked child, sitting on the moss. He was playing with balls of various colours and sizes, which he disposed in strange figures upon the floor beside him. And now Tangle felt that there was something in her knowledge which was not in her understanding. For she knew there must be an infinite meaning in the change and sequence and individual forms of the figures into which the child arranged the balls, as well as in the varied harmonies of their colours, but what it all meant she could not tell.* He went on busily, tirelessly, playing his solitary game, without looking up, or seeming to know that there was a stranger in his deep-withdrawn cell. Diligently as a lace-maker shifts her bobbins, he shifted and arranged his balls. Flashes of meaning would now pass from them to Tangle, and now again all would be not merely obscure, but utterly dark. She stood looking for a long time, for there was fascination in the sight; and the longer she looked the more an indescribable vague intelligence went on rousing itself in her mind. For seven years she had stood there watching the naked child with his coloured balls, and it seemed to her like seven hours, when all at once the shape the balls took, she knew not why, reminded her of the Valley of Shadows, and she spoke:

  “Where is the Old Man of the Fire?” she said.

  “Here I am,” answered the child, rising and leaving his balls on the moss. “What can I do for you?”

  There was such an awfulness of absolute repose on the face of the child that Tangle stood dumb before him. He had no smile, but the love in his large grey eyes was deep as the centre. And with the repose there lay on his face a shimmer as of moonlight, which seemed as if any moment it might break into such a ravishing smile as would cause the beholder to weep himself to death. But the smile never came, and the moonlight lay there unbroken. For the heart of the child was too deep for any smile to reach from it to his face.

  “Are you the oldest man of all?” Tangle at length, although filled with awe, ventured to ask.

  “Yes, I am. I am very, very old. I am able to help you, I know. I can help everybody.”

  And the child drew near and looked up in her face so that she burst into tears.

  “Can you tell me the way to the country the shadows fall from?” she sobbed.

  “Yes. I know the way quite well. I go there myself sometimes. But you could not go my way; you are not old enough. I will show you how you can go.”

  “Do not send me out into the great heat again,” prayed Tangle.

  “I will not,” answered the child.

  And he reached up, and put his little cool hand on her heart.

  “Now,” he said, “you can go. The fire will not burn you. Come.”

  He led her from the cave, and following him through another archway, she found herself in a vast desert of sand and rock. The sky of it was of rock, lowering over them like solid thunderclouds; and the whole place was so hot that she saw, in bright rivulets, the yellow gold and white silver and red copper trickling molten from the rocks. But the heat never came near her.

  When they had gone some distance, the child turned up a great stone, and took something like an egg from under it. He next drew a long curved line in the sand with his finger, and laid the egg in it. He then spoke something Tangle could not understand. The egg broke, a small snake came out, and, lying in the line in the sand, grew and grew till he filled it. The moment he was thus full-grown, he began to glide away, undulating like a sea-wave.

  “Follow that serpent,” said the child. “He will lead you the right way.”

  Tangle followed the serpent. But she could not go far without looking back at the marvellous Child. He stood alone in the midst of the glowing desert, beside a fountain of red flame that had burst forth at his feet, his naked whiteness glimmering a pale rosy red in the torrid fire. There he stood, looking after her, till, from the lengthening distance, she could see him no more. The serpent went straight on, turning neither to the right nor left.

  Meantime Mossy had got out of the lake of shadows, and, following his mournful, lonely way, had reached the sea-shore. It was a dark, stormy evening. The sun had set. The wind was blowing from the sea. The waves had surrounded the rock within which lay the Old Man’s house. A deep water rolled between it and the shore, upon which a majestic figure was walking alone.

  Mossy went up to him and said:

  “Will you tell me where to find the Old Man of the Sea?”

  “I am the Old Man of the Sea,” the figure answered.

  “I see a strong kingly man of middle age,” returned Mossy.

  Then the Old Man looked at him more intently, and said:

  “Your sight, young man, is better than that of most who take this way. The night is stormy: come to my house and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Mossy followed him. The waves flew from before the footsteps of the Old Man of the Sea, and Mossy followed upon dry sand.

  When they had reached the cave, they sat down and gazed at each other.

  Now Mossy was an old man by this time. He looked much older than the Old Man of the Sea, and his feet were very weary.

  After looking at him for a moment, the Old Man took him by the hand and led him into his inner cave. There he helped him to undress, and laid him in the bath. And he saw that one of his hands Mossy did not open.

  “What have you in that hand?” he asked.

  Mossy opened his hand, and there lay the golden key.

  “Ah!” said the Old Man, “that accounts for your knowing me. And I know the way you have to go.”

  “I want to find the country whence the shadows fall,” said Mossy.

  “I dare say you do. So do I. But meantime, one thing is certain.—What is the key for, do you think?”

  “For a keyhole somewhere. But I don’t know why I keep it. I never could find the keyhole. And I have lived a good while, I believe,” said Mossy, sadly. “I’m not sure that I’m not old. I know my feet ache.”

  “Do they?” said the Old Man, as if he really meant to ask the question; and Mossy, who was still lying in the bath, watched his feet for a moment before he replied.

  “No, they do not,” he answered. “Perhaps I am not old either.”

  “Get up and look at yourself in the water.”

  He rose and looked at himself in the water, and there was not a grey hair on his head or a wrinkle on his skin.

  “You have tasted of death now,” said the Old Man. “Is it good?”

  “It is good,” said Mossy. “It is better than life.”

  “No,” said the Old Man; “it is only more life.—Your feet will make no holes in the water now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I will show you that presently.”

  They returned to the outer cave, and sat and talked together for a long time. At length the Old Man of the Sea rose, and said to Mossy:

  “Follow me.”

  He led him up the stair again, and opened another door. They stood on the level of the raging sea, looking towards the east. Across the waste of waters, against the bosom of a fierce black cloud, stood the foot of a rainbow, glowing in the dark.

  “This indeed is my way,” said Mossy, as soon as he saw the rainbow, and stepped out upon the sea. His feet made no holes in the water. He fought the wind, and clomb the waves, and went on towards the rainbow.

  The storm died away. A lovely day and a lovelier night followed. A cool wind blew over the wide plain of the quiet ocean. And still Mossy journeyed eastward. But the rainbow had vanished with the storm.

  Day after day he held on, and he thought he had no guide. He did not see how a shining fish under the waters directed his steps. He crossed the sea, and came to a great precipice of rock, up which he could discover but one path. Nor did this lead him farther than half-way up the rock, where it ended on a platform. Here he stood and pondered.—It could not be that the way stopped here, else what was the path for? It was a rough path, not very plain, yet certainly a path.—He examined the face of the rock. It was smooth as
glass. But as his eyes kept roving hopelessly over it, something glittered, and he caught sight of a row of small sapphires. They bordered a little hole in the rock.

  “The keyhole!” he cried.

  He tried the key. It fitted. It turned. A great clang and clash, as of iron bolts on huge brazen cauldrons, echoed thunderously within. He drew out the key. The rock in front of him began to fall. He retreated from it as far as the breadth of the platform would allow. A great slab fell at his feet. In front was still the solid rock, with this one slab fallen forward out of it. But the moment he stepped upon it, a second fell, just short of the edge of the first, making the next step of a stair, which thus kept dropping itself before him as he ascended into the heart of the precipice. It led him into a hall fit for such an approach—irregular and rude in formation, but floor, sides, pillars, and vaulted roof, all one mass of shining stones of every colour that light can show. In the centre stood seven columns, ranged from red to violet. And on the pedestal of one of them sat a woman, motionless, with her face bowed upon her knees. Seven years had she sat there waiting. She lifted her head as Mossy drew near. It was Tangle. Her hair had grown to her feet, and was rippled like the windless sea on broad sands. Her face was beautiful, like her grandmother’s, and as still and peaceful as that of the Old Man of the Fire. Her form was tall and noble. Yet Mossy knew her at once.

  “How beautiful you are, Tangle!” he said, in delight and astonishment.

  “Am I?” she returned. “Oh, I have waited for you so long! But you, you are like the Old Man of the Sea. No. You are like the Old Man of the Earth. No, no. You are like the oldest man of all. You are like them all. And yet you are my own old Mossy! How did you come here? What did you do after I lost you? Did you find the keyhole? Have you got the key still?”

  She had a hundred questions to ask him, and he a hundred more to ask her. They told each other all their adventures, and were as happy as man and woman could be. For they were younger and better, and stronger and wiser, than they had ever been before.

  It began to grow dark. And they wanted more than ever to reach the country whence the shadows fall. So they looked about them for a way out of the cave. The door by which Mossy entered had closed again, and there was half a mile of rock between them and the sea. Neither could Tangle find the opening in the floor by which the serpent had led her thither. They searched till it grew so dark that they could see nothing, and gave it up.

  After a while, however, the cave began to glimmer again. The light came from the moon, but it did not look like moonlight, for it gleamed through those seven pillars in the middle, and filled the place with all colours. And now Mossy saw that there was a pillar beside the red one, which he had not observed before. And it was of the same new colour that he had seen in the rainbow when he saw it first in the fairy forest. And on it he saw a sparkle of blue. It was the sapphires round the keyhole.

  He took his key. It turned in the lock to the sound of Aeolian music. A door opened upon slow hinges, and disclosed a winding stair within. The key vanished from his fingers. Tangle went up. Mossy followed. The door closed behind them. They climbed out of the earth; and, still climbing, rose above it. They were in the rainbow. Far abroad, over ocean and land, they could see through its transparent walls the earth beneath their feet. Stairs beside stairs wound up together, and beautiful beings of all ages climbed along with them.

  They knew that they were going up to the country whence the shadows fall.

  And by this time I think they must have got there.

  1867

  * I think I must be indebted to Novalis for these geometrical figures.

  The Stolen Child

  WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

  Where dips the rocky highland

  Of Slewth Wood in the lake.

  There lies a leafy island

  Where flapping herons wake

  The drowsy water-rats;

  There we’ve hid our fairy vats

  Full of berries

  And of reddest stolen cherries.

  Come away, O human child!

  To the woods and waters wild

  With a fairy, hand in hand,

  For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

  Where the wave of moonlight glosses

  The dim grey sands with light,

  Far off by furthest Rosses

  We foot it all the night,

  Weaving olden dances,

  Mingling hands and mingling glances

  Till the moon has taken flight;

  To and fro we leap

  And chase the frothy bubbles.

  While the world is full of troubles

  And is anxious in its sleep.

  Come away, O human child!

  To the woods and waters wild

  With a fairy, hand in hand,

  For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

  Where the wandering water gushes

  From the hills above Glen-Car,

  In pools among the rushes

  That scarce could bathe a star,

  We seek for slumbering trout,

  And whispering in their ears

  We give them evil dreams,

  Leaning softly out

  From ferns that drop their tears

  Of dew on the young streams.

  Come, O human child!

  To the woods and waters wild

  With a fairy, hand in hand,

  For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

  Away with us he’s going,

  The solemn-eyed—

  He’ll hear no more the lowing

  Of the calves on the warm hill-side,

  Or the kettle on the hob

  Sing peace into his breast,

  Or see the brown mice bob

  Round and round the oatmeal chest.

  For he comes, the human child,

  To the woods and waters wild

  With a fairy, hand in hand,

  For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

  1889

  The Selfish Giant

  OSCAR WILDE

  Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant’s garden.

  It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the springtime broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.

  One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.

  “What are you doing there?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

  “My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “anyone can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a high wall all around it, and put up a notice-board.

  TRESPASSERS

  WILL BE

  PROSECUTED

  He was a very selfish Giant.

  The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we were there,” they said to each other.

  Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-boa
rd it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year round.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask the Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.

  “I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”

  But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too selfish,” she said. So it was always winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

  One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.