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The Water of the Wondrous Isles

by William Morris · English · Gutenberg #8778 · 786,741 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Water of the Wondrous Isles

Author: William Morris


        
Release date: August 1, 2005 [eBook #8778]
                Most recently updated: April 9, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8778

Credits: David Price


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WATER OF THE WONDROUS ISLES ***




THE WATER OF THE
WONDROUS ISLES

BY WILLIAM MORRIS


LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY

MDCCCXCVII


Copyright, 1897, by Longmans, Green, and Co.




CONTENTS

The First Part: Of the House of Captivity
Chapter I. Catch at Utterhay
Chapter II. Now shall be told of the House by the Waterside
Chapter III. Of Skin-changing
Chapter IV. Of the Waxing of the Stolen Child
Chapter V. Of Birdalone, and how she is grown into Maidenhood
Chapter VI. Herein is told of Birdalone’s Raiment
Chapter VII. Birdalone hath an Adventure in the Wood
Chapter VIII. Of Birdalone and the Witch-wife
Chapter IX. Of Birdalone’s Swimming
Chapter X. Birdalone comes on New Tidings
Chapter XI. Of Birdalone’s Guilt and the Chastisement thereof
Chapter XII. The Words of the Witch-wife to Birdalone
Chapter XIII. Birdalone meeteth the Wood-woman again
Chapter XIV. Of Birdalone’s Fishing
Chapter XV. Birdalone weareth her Serpent-ring
Chapter XVI. Birdalone meeteth Habundia again; and learneth her First Wisdom of her
Chapter XVII. The Passing of the Year into Winter
Chapter XVIII. Of Springtide and the Mind of Birdalone
Chapter XIX. They bid Farewell, Birdalone and the Wood-mother
Chapter XX. Of Birdalone and the Sending Boat

The Second Part: Of the Wondrous Isles
Chapter I. The First Isle
Chapter II. Birdalone falleth in with New Friends
Chapter III. Birdalone is brought before the Witch-wife’s Sister
Chapter IV. Of the Witch’s Prison in the Wailing-tower
Chapter V. They feast in the Witch’s Prison
Chapter VI. Atra tells of how they three came unto the Isle of Increase Unsought
Chapter VII. The three Damsels take Birdalone out of the Witch’s Prison
Chapter VIII. In what Wise Birdalone was clad, and how she went her Ways from the Isle of Increase Unsought
Chapter IX. How Birdalone came to the Isle of the Young and the Old
Chapter X. Birdalone comes to the Isle of the Queens
Chapter XI. And now she comes to the Isle of the Kings
Chapter XII. Of Birdalone, how she came unto the Isle of Nothing

The Third Part: Of the Castle of the Quest
Chapter I. Birdalone comes to the Castle of the Quest
Chapter II. Of Birdalone, and how she rested the Night through in a Bower without the Castle of the Quest
Chapter III. How Birdalone dight her for meeting the Champions of the Quest
Chapter IV. And now she meets the Champions
Chapter V. Birdalone has True Tokens from the Champions of the Quest
Chapter VI. How the Champions would do Birdalone to be clad anew in the Castle of the Quest
Chapter VII. Of Birdalone, how she told the Champions all her Tale
Chapter VIII. In the Meanwhile of the Departing of the Champions, they would pleasure Birdalone with Feats of Arms and Games of Prowess
Chapter IX. Birdalone cometh before the Champions in her New Array
Chapter X. The Champions go their Ways in the Sending Boat

The Fourth Part: Of the Days of Abiding
Chapter I. Of Birdalone’s Grief; and of Leonard the Chaplain
Chapter II. Birdalone learneth Lore of the Priest. Ten Days of Waiting wear
Chapter III. Now would Birdalone ride abroad
Chapter IV. Of Birdalone’s Faring abroad
Chapter V. Sir Aymeris showeth Birdalone the Mountains afar off
Chapter VI. Birdalone heareth tell Tales of the Black Valley of the Greywethers
Chapter VII. Birdalone beguileth the Priest to help her to Outgoing
Chapter VIII. Birdalone fares on her Adventure
Chapter IX. Birdalone comes to the Black Valley
Chapter X. How Birdalone fell in with a Man in the Black Valley of the Greywethers
Chapter XI. Birdalone is led up the Black Valley
Chapter XII. How those Twain get them from out of the Black Valley of the Greywethers
Chapter XIII. Now they rest for the Night in the Strait Pass
Chapter XIV. The Black Knight tells the Truth of Himself
Chapter XV. The Black Knight brings Birdalone to the Bower in the Dale
Chapter XVI. Yet a Day and a Night they tarry in the Dale

The Fifth Part: The Tale of the Quest’s Ending
Chapter I. Of Sir Leonard’s trouble and the Coming of the Quest
Chapter II. Now ask they of Birdalone, and Sir Leonard speaks
Chapter III. How they follow the Slot of Birdalone and the Black Knight
Chapter IV. Of the Slaying of Friend and Foe
Chapter V. They come home to the Castle of the Quest
Chapter VI. Of the Talk betwixt Birdalone and Viridis
Chapter VII. Birdalone telleth the Tale of her Wandering up the Valley of the Greywethers
Chapter VIII. Atra and Birdalone talk together while the Lords sit at the Murder-council
Chapter IX. Hugh tells the Story of the Quest’s Ending
Chapter X. How it fared with the Three Ladies after the Escape of Birdalone
Chapter XI. Birdalone and the Black Squire talk together in the Hall of the Castle
Chapter XII. The Knights and their Fellows betake them to the Assaulting of the Red Hold
Chapter XIII. Birdalone bethinks her to fulfil the Promise made unto Atra
Chapter XIV. Birdalone leaves the Castle of the Quest

The Sixth Part: The Days of Absence
Chapter I. Birdalone rides to Greenford and there takes Leave of Arnold and his Men
Chapter II. Of Birdalone and her Fellowship, their Faring over the Downland
Chapter III. They come to the City of the Five Crafts, and Birdalone meets with the Poor-wife
Chapter IV. Of the Love of Gerard’s Sons and of Jacobus for Birdalone
Chapter V. Of the death of Audrey, Mother to Birdalone. She is warned in a Dream to seek the Black Squire, and is minded to depart the City of the Five Crafts, and seek again the Castle of the Quest
Chapter VI. Of the Sundering of Birdalone from Gerard and his Sons
Chapter VII. Birdalone cometh to Greenford, and hears of the Wasting of the Castle of the Quest
Chapter VIII. Birdalone cometh to the Castle of the Quest, heareth the Tale thereof from Leonard, and departeth thence by the Sending Boat
Chapter IX. Birdalone findeth the Isle of Nothing greatly bettered, and is kindly entreated there
Chapter X. Of Birdalone’s Flitting from the Isle of Nothing
Chapter XI. Coming to the Isle of Kings Birdalone findeth there a Score and Two of Fair Damsels who would fain have her Company
Chapter XII. Birdalone cometh again to the Isle of Queens, and findeth a Perilous Adventure therein
Chapter XIII. Coming to the Isle of the Young and the Old, Birdalone findeth it peopled with Children
Chapter XIV. The Sending Boat disappeareth from the Isle of Increase Unsought, and Birdalone seeketh to escape thence by Swimming
Chapter XV. Birdalone lacketh little of Drowning, but cometh latterly to the Green Eyot
Chapter XVI. Birdalone findeth her Witch-mistress dead
Chapter XVII. Birdalone layeth to Earth the Body of the Witch, and findeth the Sending Boat broken up
Chapter XVIII. The Wood-mother cometh to Birdalone and heareth her Story
Chapter XIX. Habundia hideth Birdalone’s Nakedness with Faery Raiment
Chapter XX. Birdalone telleth Habundia of her Love for Arthur, and getteth from her Promise of Help therein
Chapter XXI. How the Wood-wife entered the Cot, and a Wonder that befell thereon
Chapter XXII. Birdalone wendeth the Wildwood in Fellowship with Habundia
Chapter XXIII. The Wood-wife bringeth Birdalone to the Sight of Arthur in the Wildwood
Chapter XXIV. The Wood-mother changeth her Form to that of a Woman stricken in Years
Chapter XXV. The Wood-wife healeth and tendeth the Black Squire
Chapter XXVI. The Black Squire telleth the Wood-wife of his Doings since Birdalone went from the Castle of the Quest
Chapter XXVII. Sir Arthur cometh to the House under the Wood
Chapter XXVIII. Fair Days in the House of Love
Chapter XXIX. Those Twain will seek the Wisdom of the Wood-wife
Chapter XXX. They have Speech with Habundia concerning the Green Knight and his Fellows
Chapter XXXI. Habundia cometh with Tidings of those Dear Friends
Chapter XXXII. Of the Fight in the Forest and the Rescue of those Friends from the Men of the Red Company
Chapter XXXIII. Viridis telleth the Tale of their Seeking

The Seventh Part: The Days of Returning
Chapter I. Sir Hugh asketh Birdalone where she would have the Abode of their Fellowship to be
Chapter II. Birdalone taketh Counsel with her Wood-mother concerning the Matter of Sir Hugh
Chapter III. Of the Journeying through the Forest of Evilshaw unto the Town of Utterhay
Chapter IV. Of the Abiding in Utterhay in Love and Contentment




THE FIRST PART:
OF THE HOUSE OF CAPTIVITY.




CHAPTER I.
CATCH AT UTTERHAY.


Whilom, as tells the tale, was a walled cheaping-town hight Utterhay,
which was builded in a bight of the land a little off the great highway
which went from over the mountains to the sea.

The said town was hard on the borders of a wood, which men held to be
mighty great, or maybe measureless; though few indeed had entered it,
and they that had, brought back tales wild and confused thereof.

Therein was neither highway nor byway, nor wood-reeve nor way-warden;
never came chapman thence into Utterhay; no man of Utterhay was so poor
or so bold that he durst raise the hunt therein; no outlaw durst flee
thereto; no man of God had such trust in the saints that he durst build
him a cell in that wood.

For all men deemed it more than perilous; and some said that there
walked the worst of the dead; othersome that the Goddesses of the
Gentiles haunted there; others again that it was the faery rather, but
they full of malice and guile. But most commonly it was deemed that the
devils swarmed amidst of its thickets, and that wheresoever a man
sought to, who was once environed by it, ever it was the Gate of Hell
whereto he came. And the said wood was called Evilshaw.

Nevertheless the cheaping-town throve not ill; for whatso evil things
haunted Evilshaw, never came they into Utterhay in such guise that men
knew them, neither wotted they of any hurt that they had of the Devils
of Evilshaw.

Now in the said cheaping-town, on a day, it was market and high noon,
and in the market-place was much people thronging; and amidst of them
went a woman, tall, and strong of aspect, of some thirty winters by
seeming, black-haired, hook-nosed and hawk-eyed, not so fair to look on
as masterful and proud. She led a great grey ass betwixt two panniers,
wherein she laded her marketings. But now she had done her chaffer, and
was looking about her as if to note the folk for her disport; but when
she came across a child, whether it were borne in arms or led by its
kinswomen, or were going alone, as were some, she seemed more heedful
of it, and eyed it more closely than aught else.

So she strolled about till she was come to the outskirts of the throng,
and there she happened on a babe of some two winters, which was
crawling about on its hands and knees, with scarce a rag upon its
little body. She watched it, and looked whereto it was going, and saw a
woman sitting on a stone, with none anigh her, her face bowed over her
knees as if she were weary or sorry. Unto her crept the little one,
murmuring and merry, and put its arms about the woman’s legs, and
buried its face in the folds of her gown: she looked up therewith, and
showed a face which had once been full fair, but was now grown bony and
haggard, though she were scarce past five and twenty years. She took
the child and strained it to her bosom, and kissed it, face and hands,
and made it great cheer, but ever woefully. The tall stranger stood
looking down on her, and noted how evilly she was clad, and how she
seemed to have nought to do with that throng of thriving cheapeners,
and she smiled somewhat sourly.

At last she spake, and her voice was not so harsh as might have been
looked for from her face: Dame, she said, thou seemest to be less busy
than most folk here; might I crave of thee to tell an alien who has but
some hour to dwell in this good town where she may find her a chamber
wherein to rest and eat a morsel, and be untroubled of ribalds and ill
company? Said the poor-wife: Short shall be my tale; I am over poor to
know of hostelries and ale-houses that I may tell thee aught thereof.
Said the other: Maybe some neighbour of thine would take me in for thy
sake? Said the mother: What neighbours have I since my man died; and I
dying of hunger, and in this town of thrift and abundance?

The leader of the ass was silent a while, then she said: Poor woman! I
begin to have pity on thee; and I tell thee that luck hath come to thee
to-day.

Now the poor-wife had stood up with the babe in her arms and was
turning to go her ways; but the alien put forth a hand to her, and
said: Stand a while and hearken good tidings. And she put her hand to
her girdle-pouch, and drew thereout a good golden piece, a noble, and
said: When I am sitting down in thine house thou wilt have earned this,
and when I take my soles out thereof there will be three more of like
countenance, if I be content with thee meanwhile.

The woman looked on the gold, and tears came into her eyes; but she
laughed and said: Houseroom may I give thee for an hour truly, and
therewithal water of the well, and a mouse’s meal of bread. If thou
deem that worth three nobles, how may I say thee nay, when they may
save the life of my little one. But what else wouldst thou of me?
Little enough, said the alien; so lead me straight to thine house.

So went they forth of the market-place, and the woman led them, the
alien and the ass, out of the street through the west gate of Utterhay,
that, to wit, which looked on Evilshaw, and so into a scattering street
without the wall, the end of which neared a corner of the wood
aforesaid: the houses there were nought so evil of fashion, but whereas
they were so nigh unto the Devil’s Park, rich men might no longer away
with them, and they were become wares for poor folk.

Now the townswoman laid her hand on the latch of the door that was
hers, and threw the door open; then she put forth her palm to the
other, and said: Wilt thou give me the first gold now, since rest is
made sure for thee, as long as thou wilt? The ass-leader put it into
her hand, and she took it and laid it on her baby’s cheek, and then
kissed both gold and child together; then she turned to the alien and
said: As for thy way-beast, I have nought for him, neither hay nor
corn: thou wert best to leave him in the street. The stranger nodded a
yeasay, and the three went in together, the mother, the child, and the
alien.

Not right small was the chamber; but there was little therein; one
stool to wit, a yew-chair, a little table, and a coffer: there was no
fire on the hearth, nought save white ashes of small wood; but it was
June, so that was of no account.

The guest sat down in the yew-chair, and the poor-wife laid her child
down gently on the floor and came and stood before the stranger, as if
abiding her bidding.

Spake the alien: Nought so uncomely or strait is thy chamber; and thy
child, which I see is a woman, and therefore belike shall long abide
with thee, is lovely of shape, and fair of flesh. Now also thou shalt
have better days, as I deem, and I pray them on thine head.

She spake in a kind wheedling voice, and the poor-wife’s face grew
softer, and presently tears fell down on to the table from her, but she
spake no word. The guest now drew forth, not three nobles, but four,
and laid them on the table, and said: Lo, my friend, the three nobles
which I behight thee! now are they thine; but this other thou shalt
take and spend for me. Go up into the town, and buy for me white bread
of the best; and right good flesh, or poulaine if it may be, already
cooked and dight; and, withal, the best wine that thou mayst get, and
sweetmeats for thy baby; and when thou comest back, we will sit
together and dine here. And thereafter, when we be full of meat and
drink, we shall devise something more for thy good speed.

The woman knelt before her weeping, but might speak no word because of
the fullness of her heart. She kissed the guest’s hands, and took the
money, and then arose and caught up her child, and kissed her bare
flesh eagerly many times, and then hastened out of the house and up the
street and through the gate; and the guest sat hearkening to the sound
of her footsteps till it died out, and there was nought to be heard
save the far-off murmur of the market, and the chirrup of the little
one on the floor.

Then arose the guest and took up the child from the floor, who kicked
and screamed, and craved her mother as her broken speech might; but the
alien spake softly to her, and said: Hush, dear one, and be good, and
we will go and find her; and she gave her therewith a sugar-plum from
out of her scrip. Then she came out of doors, and spake sweetly to the
little one: See now this pretty way-beast. We will ride merrily on him
to find thy mother.

Then she laid the child in the pannier with a soft cushion under, and a
silk cloth over her, so that she lay there happily. Then she took her
ass’s rein and went her ways over the waste toward Evilshaw; for, as ye
may deem, where the houses and the street ended, the beaten way ended
also.

Quietly and speedily she went, and met but three men on the way; and
when these saw her, and that she was making for Evilshaw, they turned
their heads away, each one, and blessed themselves, and went past
swiftly. Not one sought to stay her, or held any converse with her, and
no foot she heard following after her. So in scarce more than the
saying of a low mass she was in amongst the trees, with her ass and her
wares and her prey.

No stay she made there, but held forward at her best before the night
should fall upon her. And whatsoever might be told concerning the
creatures that other folk had met in Evilshaw, of her it must needs be
said that therein she happened on nought worser than herself.




CHAPTER II.
NOW SHALL BE TOLD OF THE HOUSE BY THE WATER-SIDE.


Four days they wended the wood, and nought befell to tell of. The
witch-wife (for even such was she) fed the stolen child well and duly,
and whiles caressed her and spake sweetly unto her; whiles also she
would take her out of the pannier, and set her on the ass’s back and
hold her thereon heedfully; or, otherwhiles, when they came upon grassy
and flowery places, she would set her down on the ground and let her
roam about, and pluck the flowers and the strawberries. And whoso might
be sorry, the child was glad, so many things new and fair as she came
upon.

At last, when the fifth day was waning, and they had been a long while
wending a wood set thick with trees, it began to grow grey betwixt the
distant boles, and then from grey to white, and it was as if a new
world of light lay before them. Thitherward went they, and in a little,
and before the sun was set, came they to the shore of a great water,
and thence was no more land to be seen before them than if it had been
the main sea itself, though this was a sweet water. Albeit, less than a
half mile from the shore lay two eyots, as it might have been on the
salt sea; but one of these sat low down on the water, and was green and
well bushed, but the other, which lay east of it, and was nigher to the
shore, was high, rocky, and barren.

Now the ending of the wood left a fair green plain betwixt it and the
water, whiles more than a furlong across, whiles much less; and whiles
the trees came down close to the water-side. But the place whereas they
came from out the wood was of the widest, and there it was a broad
bight of greensward of the fashion of the moon seven nights old, and a
close hedge of thicket there was at the back of it; and the lake lay
south, and the wood north. Some deal of this greensward was broken by
closes of acre-land, and the tall green wheat stood blossoming therein;
but the most was sweet meadow, and there as now was a gallant flock of
goats feeding down it; five kine withal, and a tethered bull. Through
the widest of this meadow ran a clear stream winding down to the lake,
and on a little knoll beside a lap of the said stream, two bow-shots
from the water, was a knoll, whereon stood, amidst of a potherb garden,
a little house strongly framed of timber. Before it the steep bank of
the lake broke down into a slowly-shelving beach, whose honey-coloured
sand thrust up a tongue in amongst the grass of the mead.

Went the witch-wife straight to the door of the said house as if she
were at home, as was sooth indeed. She threw the door open, and unladed
the ass of all his wares, and first of the youngling, whom she shook
awake, and bore into the house, and laid safely on the floor of the
chamber; nor did she wait on her wailing, but set about what was to be
done to kindle fire, and milk a she-goat, and get meat upon the board.
That did she, and fed both herself and the child plenteously: neither
did she stint her of meat ever, from that time forward, however else
she dealt with her.




CHAPTER III.
OF SKIN-CHANGING.


One thing must here be told: Whenas the said dame stood forth clad
amidst of the chamber the next morning, the child ran up to her to
greet her or what not, but straightway when she saw her close, drew
aback, and stood gasping with affright; for verily she deemed this was
nowise she who had brought her last night into the fair chamber, and
given bread and milk to her and put her to bed, but someone else. For
this one had not dark hair, and hooked nose, and eyen hawk-bright;
stark and tall was she indeed, as that other one, and by seeming of the
same-like age; but there came to an end all her likeness to last
night’s housewife. This one had golden-red hair flowing down from her
head; eyes of hazel colour, long and not well-opened, but narrow and
sly. High of cheekbones she was, long-chinned and thin-lipped; her skin
was fine and white, but without ruddiness; flat-breasted she was, and
narrow-hipped.

Now she laughed at the babe’s terror, and said, but in her old voice at
least: Thou foolish little beast! I know what scares thee, to wit, that
thou deemest me changed: now I tell thee that I am the one who brought
thee here last night, and fed thee; neither is my changing a matter of
thine, since at least I am the one who shall keep thee from hunger and
weather henceforward; that is enough for thee to know as now. Now thou
hast to eat and sleep and play and cry out, that thou mayest the sooner
wax, and grow into the doing of my will.

Therewith she led her out into the sunshine, and tethered her to an ash
sapling which grew anigh the door, that the child might be safe the
while she went about her work in acre and mead.

But as for that matter of changing of aspect, the maiden came to know
thereafter that the witch durst not go into the wood in the same skin
as that which she wore at home, wherefore she had changed it for the
journey to Utterhay, and changed back again in the night-tide before
she arose.




CHAPTER IV.
OF THE WAXING OF THE STOLEN CHILD.


This little one, who is henceforth called Birdalone, though the witch
called her but seldom so, nor indeed by any name, dwelt there betwixt
the water and the wood, and saw none save the said witch-wife, who, as
aforesaid, fed her well, but scarce meddled with her else for a long
while; so she wandered well-nigh as she had will, and much in the wood;
for she had no fear thereof, nor indeed of aught else save of the dame.
She learned of the ways and the wont of all the creatures round about
her, and the very grass and flowers were friends to her, and she made
tales of them in her mind; and the wild things feared her in no wise,
and the fowl would come to her hand, and play with her and love her. A
lovely child she was, rosy and strong, and as merry as the birds on the
bough; and had she trouble, for whiles she came across some ugly mood
of the witch-wife, she bore it all as lightly as they.

Wore the years thus, till now she was grown tall and thin, and had seen
twelve winters, and was far stronger and handier than at first sight
she looked to be. That found her mistress, and would not forego the
using of her deftness. For indeed the maiden knew all matters of wood
and field full well, and somewhat of the water also (though no boat had
she ever seen there), for she learned herself swimming, as the ducks do
belike.

But now her mistress would learn her swinking, and hard was the lesson,
for with twiggen rods and switches was she learned, and was somewhat
stubborn with this woman, who she deemed loved her not; and, however it
were, there began to grow in her an inkling that all was not well with
the dame, and howsoever she might fear her, she trusted her not, nor
worshipped her; otherwise she had learned her lesson speedily; for she
was not slack nor a sluggard, and hated not the toil, even when it
pained and wearied her, but against the anger and malice she hardened
her heart.

It is to be said, that though there she dwelt alone with the
witch-wife, she had somehow got to know that they two were not alone in
the world, and she knew of male and female, and young and old. Thereof
doubtless the witch herself had learned her, would she, would she not;
for though she were mostly few-spoken, yet whiles the tongue of her
would loosen, and she would tell Birdalone tales of men and women, and
kings and warriors and thralls, and the folk of the world beyond them,
if it were but to scare the child. Yea, and when she rated Birdalone,
or girded at her, words would come forth which the maiden stored up,
and by laying two and two together gat wisdom howso it were. Moreover,
she was of the race of Adam, and her heart conceived of diverse matters
from her mother’s milk and her father’s blood, and her heart and her
mind grew up along with her body. Herein also was she wise, to wit, how
to give wrath the go-by, so that she oft found the wood a better home
than the house: for now she knew that the witch-wife would enter it
never; wherefore she loved it much, and haunted it daily if she might.

Amidst all this she lived not unmerrily; for the earth was her friend,
and solaced her when she had suffered aught: withal she was soon grown
hardy as well as strong; and evil she could thole, nor let it burden
her with misery.




CHAPTER V.
OF BIRDALONE, AND HOW SHE IS GROWN INTO MAIDENHOOD.


Wear the years and the years amidst such days as these, and now is
Birdalone grown a dear maiden of seventeen summers; and yet was her
life not unhappy; though the mirth of her childhood was somewhat
chastened in her, and she walked the earth soberly and measurely, as
though deep thoughts were ever in her head: though, forsooth, it is not
all so sure that her serious face and solemn eyes were but a part of
the beauty which was growing with the coming forth of childhood into
youth and maidenhood. But this at least is sure, that about this time
those forebodings which had shown her that she had no call to love and
honour her mistress took clearer shape, and became a burden on her,
which she might never wholly shake off. For this she saw, that she was
not her own, but a chattel and a tool of one who not only used her as a
thrall in the passing day, but had it in her mind to make of her a
thing accursed like to herself, and to bait the trap with her for the
taking of the sons of Adam. Forsooth she saw, though dimly, that her
mistress was indeed wicked, and that in the bonds of that wickedness
was she bound.

One thing, moreover, had she noted now this long while, that once and
again, it might be once every two moons, the witch-wife would arise in
the dead of night and go forth from the house, and be away for a day,
or two or three, or whiles more, and come back again weary and fordone;
but never said she any word to Birdalone hereof. Yet oft when she arose
to go this errand, before she left the chamber would she come to
Birdalone’s truckle-bed, and stand over her to note if she were asleep
or not; and ever at such times did Birdalone feign slumber amidst of
sickening dread. Forsooth in these latter days it whiles entered the
maiden’s head that when the dame was gone she would rise and follow her
and see whither she went, and what she did; but terror constrained her
that she went not.

Now from amidst all these imaginings arose a hope in her that she might
one day escape from her thralldom: and whiles, when she was lonely and
safe in the wood, to this hope she yielded herself; but thereof came
such tumult of her soul for joy of the hope, that she might not master
her passion; the earth would seem to rise beneath her, and the woods to
whirl about before her eyes, so that she might not keep her feet, but
would sink adown to earth, and lie there weeping. Then most oft would
come the cold fit after the hot, and the terror would take her that
some day the witch would surprise the joy of that hope in her eyes, and
would know what it meant, or that some light word might bewray her; and
therewith came imaginings of what would then befall her, nor were that
hard to picture, and it would come before her over and over again till
she became weary and worn out therewith.

But though they abode ever with her, these troubling thoughts pricked
not so oft at the keenest, but were as the dull ache of little import
that comes after pain overcome: for in sooth busy and toilsome days did
she wear, which irked her in nowise, since it eased her of the torment
of those hopes and fears aforesaid, and brought her sound sleep and
sweet awaking. The kine and the goats must she milk, and plough and sow
and reap the acre-land according to the seasons, and lead the beasts to
the woodland pastures when their own were flooded or burned; she must
gather the fruits of the orchard, and the hazel nuts up the woodlands,
and beat the walnut-trees in September. She must make the butter and
the cheese, grind the wheat in the quern, make and bake the bread, and
in all ways earn her livelihood hard enough. Moreover, the bowman’s
craft had she learned, and at the dame’s bidding must fare alone into
the wood now and again to slay big deer and little, and win venison:
but neither did that irk her at all, for rest and peace were in the
woods for her.

True it is, that as she wended thicket or glade or wood-lawn, she would
at whiles grow timorous, and tread light and heedfully, lest rustling
leaves or crackling stick should arouse some strange creature in human
shape, devil, or god now damned, or woman of the faery. But if such
were there, either they were wise and would not be seen, or kind and
had no will to scare the simple maiden; or else maybe there were none
such in those days. Anyhow, nought evil came to her out of Evilshaw.




CHAPTER VI.
HEREIN IS TOLD OF BIRDALONE’S RAIMENT.


Lank and long is Birdalone the sweet, with legs that come forth bare
and browned from under her scant grey coat and scantier smock beneath,
which was all her raiment save when the time was bitter, and then,
forsooth, it was a cloak of goat-skin that eked her attire: for the
dame heeded little the clothing of her; nor did Birdalone give so much
heed thereto that she cared to risk the anger of her mistress by asking
her for aught.

But on a day of this same spring, when the witch-wife was of sweeter
temper than her wont was, and the day was very warm and kindly, though
it was but one of the last of February days, Birdalone, blushing and
shamefaced, craved timidly some more womanly attire. But the dame
turned gruffly on her and said: Tush, child! what needeth it? here be
no men to behold thee. I shall see to it, that when due time comes thou
shalt be whitened and sleeked to the very utmost. But look thou! thou
art a handy wench; take the deer-skin that hangs up yonder and make
thee brogues for thy feet, if so thou wilt.

Even so did Birdalone, and shaped the skin to her feet; but as she was
sewing them a fancy came into her head; for she had just come across
some threads of silk of divers colours; so she took them and her shoon
and her needle up into the wood, and there sat down happily under a
great spreading oak which much she haunted, and fell to broidering the
kindly deer-skin. And she got to be long about it, and came back to it
the next day and the next, and many days, whenso her servitude would
suffer it, and yet the shoon were scarce done.

So on a morning the dame looked on her feet as she moved about the
chamber, and cried out at her: What! art thou barefoot as an hen yet?
Hast thou spoilt the good deer-skin and art yet but shoeless? Nay, our
lady, said Birdalone, but the shoon are not altogether done. Show them
to me, said the dame.

Birdalone went to her little coffer to fetch them, and brought them
somewhat timorously, for she knew not how her mistress would take her
working on them so long, if perchance she would blame her, or it might
be chastise her, for even in those days the witch-wife’s hand was
whiles raised against her. But now when the dame took the shoes and
looked on them, and saw how there were oak-leaves done into them, and
flowers, and coneys, and squirrels, she but smiled somewhat grimly on
Birdalone, and said: Well, belike thou art a fool to waste thy time and
mine in such toys; and to give thee thy due would be to give thee
stripes. But thou doest herein after the nature of earthly women, to
adorn thy body, whatsoever else is toward. And well is that, since I
would have thee a woman so soon as may be; and I will help thy mind for
finery, since thou art so deft with thy needle.

Therewith she went to the big coffer and drew forth thence a piece of
fine green cloth, and another of fine linen, and said to Birdalone:
This mayest thou take, and make thee a gown thereof and a new smock,
and make them if thou wilt as gay as thy new shoon are gotten to be;
and here is wherewithal. And therewith she gave her two handfuls of
silken threads and gold, and said: Now I suppose that I must do the
more part of thy work, while thou art making thee these gaudy garments.
But maybe someone may be coming this way ere long, who will deem the
bird the finer for her fine feathers. Now depart from me; for I would
both work for thee and me, and ponder weighty matters.

Who was glad now but Birdalone; she grew red with new pleasure, and
knelt down and kissed the witch’s hand, and then went her ways to the
wood with her precious lading, and wrought there under her oak-tree day
after day, and all days, either there, or in the house when the weather
was foul. That was in the middle of March, when all birds were singing,
and the young leaves showing on the hawthorns, so that there were pale
green clouds, as it were, betwixt the great grey boles of oak and
sweet-chestnut; and by the lake the meadow-saffron new-thrust-up was
opening its blossom; and March wore and April, and still she was at
work happily when now it was later May, and the hare-bells were in full
bloom down the bent before her.

All this while the witch had meddled little with Birdalone, and had
bidden her to no work afield or in the stead which was anywise
grievous, but had done all herself; yet was she few-spoken with her,
and would oft behold her gloomily. And one evening when Birdalone came
in from the wood, the witch came close up to her and stared her in the
face, and said suddenly: Is it in thine heart to flee away from me and
leave me?

A sharp pang of fear shot through Birdalone’s heart at that word, and
she turned very red, and then pale to the lips, but stammered out: No,
lady, it is not in mine heart. The dame looked grimly on her and said:
If thou try it and fail, thou shalt rue it once only, to wit, lifelong;
and thou canst but fail. She was silent a while, and then spake in a
milder voice: Be content here a while with me, and thereafter thou
shalt be more content, and that before long.

She said no more at that time; but her word clave to Birdalone’s heart,
and for some time thereafter she was sorely oppressed with a burden of
fear, and knew not how to hold herself before the witch-wife. But the
days wore, and nought betid, and the maiden’s heart grew lighter, and
still she wrought on at her gown and her smock, and it was well-nigh
done. She had broidered the said gown with roses and lilies, and a tall
tree springing up from amidmost the hem of the skirt, and a hart on
either side thereof, face to face of each other. And the smock she had
sewn daintily at the hems and the bosom with fair knots and buds. It
was now past the middle of June, hot and bright weather.




CHAPTER VII.
BIRDALONE HATH AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOOD.


On a day she went to the wood, and sat down under her oak-tree, and it
was far and far out of sight of anyone standing in the meadow by the
lake; and in the wood Birdalone looked to see nought at all save the
rabbits and squirrels, who were, forsooth, familiar enough with her,
and fearless, so that they would come to her hand and sport with her
when she hailed them. Wherefore, as the day was exceeding hot, she put
off from her her simple raiment, that she might feel all the pleasure
of the cool shadow and what air was stirring, and the kindness of the
greensward upon her very body. So she sat sewing, covered but by a lap
of the green gown which her needle was painting.

But as she sat there intent on her work, and her head bent over it, and
it was now at the point of high noon, she heard as if some creature
were going anigh to her; she heeded it not, deeming that it would be
but some wandering hind. But even therewith she heard one say her name
in a soft voice, and she leapt up trembling, deeming at first that it
would be the witch come to fetch her: but yet more scared she was, when
she saw standing before her the shape of a young woman as naked as
herself, save that she had an oak wreath round about her loins.

The new-comer, who was now close to her, smiled on her, and said in a
kind and sweet voice: Fear nought, Birdalone, for I deem thou wilt find
me a friend, and it is not unlike that thou wilt need one ere long. And
furthermore, I will say it, said she smiling, that since I am not
afraid of thee, thou needest not be afraid of me. Said Birdalone, she
also smiling: True it is that thou art nought fearsome to look on. The
new-comer laughed outright, and said: Are we not well met then in the
wildwood? and we both as two children whom the earth loveth. So play we
at a game. At what game? said Birdalone. Spake she of the oak-wreath:
This; thou shalt tell me what I am like in thine eyes first, because
thou wert afraid of me; and then when thou art done, I will tell thee
what thou seemest to me.

Quoth Birdalone: For me that will be hard; for I have nought to liken
thee to, whereas save this sight of thee I have seen nought save her
that dwelleth in the House by the Water, and whom I serve. Nay, said
the other, then will I begin, and tell thee first whatlike thou art, so
that thou wilt know the better how to frame thy word concerning me. But
tell me, hast thou ever seen thyself in a mirror? What thing is that?
said Birdalone. It is a polished round of steel or some other white
metal, said the wood-maiden, which giveth back in all truth the image
of whatso cometh before it. Said Birdalone and reddened therewith: We
have at home a broad latten dish, which it is my work, amongst other
things, to brighten and keep bright; yet may I not make it so bright
that I may see much of mine image therein; and yet. What wouldst thou?
said the wood-woman. Said Birdalone: I shall tell thee presently when
thy part of the play is done.

Laughed the new-comer, and said: It is well; now am I to be thy mirror.
Thus it is with thee: thou standest before me a tall and slim maiden,
somewhat thin, as befitteth thy seventeen summers; where thy flesh is
bare of wont, as thy throat and thine arms and thy legs from the middle
down, it is tanned a beauteous colour, but otherwhere it is even as
fair a white, wholesome and clean, and as if the golden sunlight, which
fulfilleth the promise of the earth, were playing therein. Fairer and
rounder shall be thine arms and thy shoulders when thou hast seen five
more summers, yet scarce more lovesome, so strong and fine as now they
are. Low are thy breasts, as is meet for so young a maiden, yet is
there no lack in them; nor ever shall they be fairer than now they are.
In goodly fashion sits thine head upon thy shoulders, upheld by a long
and most well-wrought neck, that the sun hath tanned as aforesaid. The
hair of thee is simple brown, yet somewhat more golden than dark; and
ah! now thou lettest it loose it waveth softly past thy fair smooth
forehead and on to thy shoulders, and is not stayed by thy girdlestead,
but hideth nought of thy knees, and thy legs shapely thin, and thy
strong and clean-wrought ankles and feet, which are with thee as full
of thine heart and thy soul and as wise and deft as be thy wrists and
thine hands, and their very fellows. Now as to thy face: under that
smooth forehead is thy nose, which is of measure, neither small nor
great, straight, and lovely carven at the nostrils: thine eyen are as
grey as a hawk’s, but kind and serious, and nothing fierce nor
shifting. Nay, now thou lettest thine eyelids fall, it is as fair with
thy face as if they were open, so smooth and simple are they and with
their long full lashes. But well are thine eyen set in thine head, wide
apart, well opened, and so as none shall say thou mayst not look in the
face of them. Thy cheeks shall one day be a snare for the unwary, yet
are they not fully rounded, as some would have them; but not I, for
most pitiful kind are they forsooth. Delicate and clear-made is the
little trench that goeth from thy nose to thy lips, and sweet it is,
and there is more might in it than in sweet words spoken. Thy lips,
they are of the finest fashion, yet rather thin than full; and some
would not have it so; but I would, whereas I see therein a sign of thy
valiancy and friendliness. Surely he who did thy carven chin had a mind
to a master-work and did no less. Great was the deftness of thine
imaginer, and he would have all folk that see thee wonder at thy deep
thinking and thy carefulness and thy kindness. Ah maiden! is it so that
thy thoughts are ever deep and solemn? Yet at least I know it of thee
that they be hale and true and sweet.

My friend, when thou hast a mirror, some of all this shalt thou see,
but not all; and when thou hast a lover some deal wilt thou hear, but
not all. But now thy she-friend may tell it thee all, if she have eyes
to see it, as have I; whereas no man could say so much of thee before
the mere love should overtake him, and turn his speech into the folly
of love and the madness of desire. So now I have played the play, and
told thee of thee; tell me now of me, and play thy play.

For a while stood Birdalone silent, blushing and confused, but whiles
casting shy glances at her own body, what she might see of it. At last
she spake: Fair friend, I would do thy will, but I am not deft of
speech; for I speak but little, save with the fowl and wild things, and
they may not learn me the speech of man. Yet I will say that I wonder
to hear thee call me fair and beauteous; for my dame tells me that
never, nor sayeth aught of my aspect save in her anger, and then it is:
Rag! and bag-of-bones! and when wilt thou be a woman, thou lank elf
thou? The new-comer laughed well-favouredly hereat, and put forth a
hand, and stroked her friend’s cheek. Birdalone looked piteous kind on
her and said: But now I must needs believe thy words, thou who art so
kind to me, and withal thyself so beauteous. And I will tell thee that
it fills my heart with joy to know that I am fair like to thee. For
this moreover I will tell thee, that I have seen nought in field or
woodland that is as lovely to me as thou art; nay, not the fritillary
nodding at our brook’s mouth, nor the willow-boughs waving on Green
Eyot; nor the wild-cat sporting on the little woodlawn, when she saw me
not; nor the white doe rising up from the grass to look to her fawn;
nor aught that moves and grows. Yet there is another thing which I must
tell thee, to wit, that what thou hast said about the fashion of any
part of me, that same, setting aside thy lovely words, which make the
tears come into the eyes of me, would I say of thee. Look thou! I take
thine hair and lay the tress amongst mine, and thou mayst not tell
which is which; and amidst the soft waves of it thy forehead is
nestling smooth as thou saidst of mine: hawk-grey and wide apart are
thine eyen, and deep thought and all tenderness is in them, as of me
thou sayest: fine is thy nose and of due measure; and thy cheeks a
little hollow, and somewhat thin thy lovely lips; and thy round chin so
goodly carven, as it might not be better done. And of thy body else I
will say as thou sayst of mine, though I deem these hands have done
more work than thine. But see thou! thy leg and mine as they stand
together; and thine arm, as if it were of my body. Slim and slender
thou art, or it may be lank; and I deem our dame would call thee also
bag-of-bones. Now is this strange. Who art thou? Art thou my very own
sister? I would thou wert.

Spake then to Birdalone that image of her, and said, smiling kindly on
her: As to our likeness, thou hast it now; so alike are we, as if we
were cast in one mould. But thy sister of blood I am not; nay, I will
tell thee at once that I am not of the children of Adam. As to what I
am, that is a long story, and I may not tell it as now; but thou mayst
call me Habundia, as I call thee Birdalone. Now it is true that to
everyone I show not myself in this fair shape of thee; but be not
aghast thereat, or deem me like unto thy mistress herein, for as now I
am, so ever shall I be unto thee.

Quoth Birdalone, looking on her anxiously: Yea, and I shall see thee
again, shall I not? else should I grieve, and wish that I had never
seen thee at all. Yea, forsooth, said Habundia, for I myself were most
fain to see thee oft. But now must thou presently get thee back home,
for evil as now is the mood of thy mistress, and she is rueing the gift
of the green gown, and hath in her mind to seek occasion to chastise
thee.

Now was Birdalone half weeping, as she did on her raiment while her
friend looked on her kindly. She said presently: Habundia, thou seest I
am hard bestead; give me some good rede thereto.

That will I, said the wood-wife. When thou goest home to the house, be
glad of countenance, and joyous that thy gown is nigh done; and
therewith be exceeding wary. For I deem it most like that she will ask
thee what thou hast seen in the wood, and then if thou falter, or thy
face change, then she will have an inkling of what hath befallen, to
wit, that thou hast seen someone; and then will she be minded to
question thy skin. But if thou keep countenance valiantly, then
presently will her doubt run off her, and she will cease grudging, and
will grow mild with thee and meddle not. This is the first rede, and is
for to-day; and now for the second, which is for days yet unborn. Thou
hast in thy mind to flee away from her; and even so shalt thou do one
day, though it may be by way of Weeping Cross; for she is sly and wise
and grim, though sooth it is that she hateth thee not utterly. Now thou
must note that nowise she hindereth thee from faring in this wood, and
that is because she wotteth, as I do, that by this way there is no
outgoing for thee. Wherefore look thou to it that it is by the way of
the water that thou shalt fare to the land of men-folk. Belike this may
seem marvellous to thee; but so it is; and belike I may tell thee more
hereof when time serveth. Now cometh the last word of my rede. Maybe if
thou come often to the wood, we shall whiles happen on each other; but
if thou have occasion for me, and wouldst see me at once, come hither,
and make fire, and burn a hair of my head therein, and I will be with
thee: here is for thee a tress of mine hair; now thou art clad, thou
mayst take a knife from thy pouch and shear it from off me.

Even so did Birdalone, and set the tress in her pouch; and therewith
they kissed and embraced each other, and Birdalone went her ways home
to the house, but Habundia went back into the wood as she had come.




CHAPTER VIII.
OF BIRDALONE AND THE WITCH-WIFE.


It went with Birdalone as Habundia had foretold, for she came home to
the house glad of semblance, flushed and light-foot, so that she was
lovely and graceful beyond her wont. The dame looked on her doubtfully
and grimly a while, and then she said: What ails thee, my servant, that
thou lookest so masterful? Nought ails me, lady, said Birdalone, save
that I am gay because of the summer season, and chiefly because of thy
kindness and thy gift, and that I have well-nigh done my work thereon,
and that soon now I shall feel these dainty things beating about my
ankles. And she held up and spread abroad the skirt with her two hands,
and it was indeed goodly to look on.

The witch-wife snorted scornfully and scowled on her, and said: Thine
ankles forsooth! Bag-o’-bones! thou wisp! forsooth, thou art in love
with thy looks, though thou knowest not what like a fair woman is.
Forsooth, I begin to think that thou wilt never grow into a woman at
all, but will abide a skinny elf thy life long. Belike I did myself
wrong to suffer thee to waste these three or four months of thy
thrall’s work, since for nought but thrall’s work shalt thou ever be
meet.

Birdalone hung her head adown, and blushed, but smiled a little, and
swayed her body gently, as a willow-bough is swayed when a light air
arises in the morning. But the witch stood so scowling on her, and with
so sour a look, that Birdalone, glancing at her, found her heart sink
so within her, that she scarce kept countenance; yet she lost it not.

Then said the witch sharply: Wert thou in the wood to-day? Yea, lady,
said the maiden. Then said the dame fiercely: And what sawest thou?
Quoth Birdalone, looking up with an innocent face somewhat scared:
Lady, I saw a bear, one of the big ones, crossing a glade. And thou
without bow and arrow or wood-knife, I warrant me, said the witch. Thou
shalt be whipped, to keep thee in mind that thy life is mine and not
thine. Nay, nay, I pray thee be not wroth! said the maid; he was a long
way down the glade, and would not have followed me if he had seen me:
there was no peril therein. Said the witch-wife: Didst thou see aught
else? Yea, said Birdalone, and was weeping somewhat now; which forsooth
was not hard for her to do, over-wrought as she was betwixt hope and
fear: yea, I saw my white doe and her fawn, and they passed close by
me; and two herons flew over my head toward the water; and . . . But
the witch turned sharply and said: Thrall! hast thou seen a woman
to-day in the wood? A woman? said Birdalone, and what woman, my lady,
said Birdalone. Hath any woman come to the house, and passed forth into
the wood?

The dame looked on her carefully, and remembered how she had faltered
and changed countenance that other day, when she had charged her with
being minded to flee; and now she saw her with wondering face, and in
no wise confused or afraid of guilt, as it seemed; so she believed her
tale, and being the more at ease thereby, her wrath ran off her, and
she spake altogether pleasantly to Birdalone, and said: Now I have had
my gird at thee, my servant, I must tell thee that in sooth it is not
all for nothing that thou hast had these months of rest; for verily
thou hast grown more of a woman thereby, and hast sleekened and rounded
much. Albeit, the haysel will wait no longer for us, and the day after
to-morrow we must fall to on it. But when that is done, thou shalt be
free to do thy green gown, or what thou wilt, till wheat harvest is
toward; and thereafter we shall see to it. Or what sayest thou?

Birdalone wondered somewhat at this so gracious word, but not much; for
in her heart now was some guile born to meet the witch’s guile; so she
knelt down and took the dame’s hands and kissed them, and said: I say
nought, lady, save that I thank thee over and over again that thou art
become so good to me; and that I will full merrily work for thee in the
hay-field, or at whatsoever else thou wilt.

And indeed she was so light-hearted that she had so escaped from the
hand of the witch for that time, and above all, that she had gotten a
friend so kind and dear as the wood-woman, that her heart went out even
toward her mistress, so that she went nigh to loving her.




CHAPTER IX.
OF BIRDALONE’S SWIMMING.


Full fair was the morrow morn, and Birdalone arose betimes before the
sun was up, and she thought she would make of this a holiday before the
swink afield began again, since the witch was grown good toward her. So
she did on her fair shoes, and her new raiment, though the green gown
was not fully done, and said to herself that she would consider what
she would do with her holiday when she was amidst of her bathing.

So she went down to the water-side, and when she was standing knee-deep
in the little sandy bight aforesaid, she looked over to Green Eyot, and
was minded to swim over thither, as oft she did. And it was a windless
dawn after a hot night, and a light mist lay upon the face of the
water, and above it rose the greenery of the eyot.

She pushed off into the deep and swam strongly through the still water,
and the sun rose while she was on the way, and by then she had laid a
hand on the willow-twigs of the eyot, was sending a long beam across
the waters; and her wet shoulders rose up into the path of it and were
turned into ruddy gold. She hoisted herself up, and climbing the low
bank, was standing amongst the meadow-sweet, and dripping on to its
fragrance. Then she turned about to the green plain and the house and
the hedge of woodland beyond, and sighed, and said softly: A pity of
it, to leave it! If it were no better otherwhere, and not so fair?

Then she turned inward to the eyot, which had done her nought but good,
and which she loved; and she unbound her hair, and let it fall till the
ends of the tresses mingled with the heads of the meadow-sweet, and
thereafter walked quietly up into the grassy middle of the isle.

She was wont to go to a knoll there where the grass was fine, and
flowery at this time with white clover and dog violet, and lie down
under the shade of a big thorn with a much-twisted bole: but to-day
some thought came across her, and she turned before she came to the
thorn, and went straight over the eyot (which was but a furlong over at
that place) and down to the southward-looking shore thereof. There she
let herself softly down into the water and thrust off without more ado,
and swam on and on till she had gone a long way. Then she communed with
herself, and found that she was thinking: If I might only swim all the
water and be free.

And still she swam on: and now a light wind had been drawn up from the
west, and was driving a little ripple athwart the lake, and she swam
the swiftlier for it awhile, but then turned over on her back and
floated southward still. Till on a sudden, as she lay looking up toward
the far-away blue sky, and she so little and low on the face of the
waters, and the lake so deep beneath her, and the wind coming ever
fresher from the west, and the ripple rising higher against her, a
terror fell upon her, and she longed for the green earth and its
well-wrought little blossoms and leaves and grass; then she turned over
again and swam straight for the eyot, which now was but a little green
heap far away before her.

Long she was ere she made land there, and the sun was high in the
heavens when she came, all spent and weary, to the shadow of the
hawthorn-tree; and she cast herself down there and fell asleep
straightway. Forsooth her swim was about as much as she had might for.

When she awoke it lacked but an hour of noon-tide, and she felt the
life in her and was happy, but had no will to rise up for a while; for
it was ajoy to her to turn her head this way and that to the dear and
dainty flowers, that made the wide, grey, empty lake seem so far away,
and no more to be dealt with than the very sky itself.

At last she arose, and when she had plucked and eaten some handfuls of
the strawberries which grew plenteously on the sweet ground of the
eyot, she went down to the landward-looking shore, and took the water,
and swam slowly across the warm ripple till she came once more to the
strand and her raiment. She clad herself, and set her hand to her pouch
and drew forth bread, and sat eating it on the bank above the smooth
sand. Then she looked around, and stood up with her face toward the
house, to see if the dame would call to her. But she saw the witch come
out of the porch and stand there looking under the sharp of her hand
toward her, and thereafter she went back again into the house without
giving any sign. Wherefore Birdalone deemed that she had leave that
day, and that she might take yet more holiday; so she stepped lightly
down from her place of vantage, turned her face toward the east, and
went quietly along the very lip of the water.




CHAPTER X.
BIRDALONE COMES ON NEW TIDINGS.


Soon she had covered up the house from her, for on that eastern end,
both a tongue of the woodland shoved out west into the meadow, and,
withal, the whole body of the wood there drew down to the water, and
presently cut off all the greensward save a narrow strip along by the
lake, off the narrowest whereof lay the rocky eyot aforesaid, nigher
unto the shore than lay Green Eyot.

Now never had Birdalone gone so far east as to be over against Rock
Eyot. In her childish days the witch had let her know that she might go
where she would, but therewith had told her a tale of a huge serpent
which dwelt in the dark wood over against Rock Eyot, whose wont it was
to lap his folds round and round living things that went there, and
devour them; and many an evil dream had that evil serpent brought to
Birdalone. In after days belike she scarce trowed in the tale, yet the
terror of it abode with her. Moreover the wildwood toward that side, as
it drew toward the water, was dark and dreary and forbidding, running
into black thickets standing amidst quagmires, all unlike to the sweet,
clean upland ridges, oak begrown and greenswarded, of the parts which
lay toward the north, and which she mostly haunted.

But this summer day, which was so bright and hot, Birdalone deemed she
might harden her heart to try the adventure; and she had a mind to
enter the wood thereby, and win her way up into the oakland whereas she
had met Habundia, and perchance she might happen on her; for she would
not dare to summon her so soon after their first meeting. And if she
met her, there would be the holiday worthily brought to an end!

On went Birdalone, and was soon at the narrowest of the greensward, and
had the wood black on her left hand, for the trees of it were mostly
alder. But when she was come just over against Rock Eyot, she found a
straight creek or inlet of the water across her way; and the said creek
ran right up into the alder thicket; and, indeed, was much overhung by
huge ancient alders, gnarled, riven, mossy, and falling low over the
water. But close on the mouth of the creek, on Birdalone’s side
thereof, lay a thing floating on the dull water, which she knew not how
to call a boat, for such had she never seen, nor heard of, but which
was indeed a boat, oarless and sailless.

She looked on it all about, and wondered; yet she saw at once that it
was for wending the water, and she thought, might she but have a long
pole, she might push it about the shallow parts of the lake, and belike
take much fish. She tried to shove it somewhat toward the lake, but
with her little might could make nothing of the work; for the craft was
heavy, like a barge, if there were nothing else that withstood her.

About this new thing she hung a long while, wondering that she had
never heard thereof, or been set to toil therewith. She noted that it
was mostly pale grey of hue, as if it had been bleached by sun and
water, but at the stem and stern were smears of darker colour, as
though someone had been trying the tints of staining there.

Now so much did this new matter take up all her mind, that she thought
no more of going up into the wood; but though she had fain abided there
long to see whatever might be seen, she deemed it would go ill with her
did the witch happen on her there; wherefore she turned about, and went
back the way she had come, going very slowly and pondering the tidings.
And ever she called to mind what Habundia had said to her, that it was
by water she must flee, and wondered if she had sent her this thing
that she might escape therein; so different as her going would be
thereby to swimming the lake with her wet body. Then again she thought,
that before she might let herself hope this, it were best, if she
might, to find out from the witch what was the thing, and if she knew
thereof. Yet at last she called to mind how little patient of questions
was her mistress, and that if she were unheedful she might come to
raise an evil storm about her. Wherefore she took this rede at the
last, that she would keep all hidden in her own breast till she should
see Habundia again; and meanwhile she might steal down thither from
time to time to see if the thing still abode there; which she might the
easier do by swimming if she chose her time heedfully, and go thither
from Rock Eyot, which now and again she visited.




CHAPTER XI.
OF BIRDALONE’S GUILT AND THE CHASTISEMENT THEREOF.


By this she was come back to the sandy bight, and the sun was
westering; and she looked up toward the house and saw that it was the
time of their evening meal, for the blue smoke of the cooking fire was
going up into the air. So she went thither speedily, and entered gay of
seeming. The witch looked on her doubtfully, but presently fell to
speaking with her graciously as yesterday, and Birdalone was glad and
easy of mind, and went about the serving of her; for always she ate
after the dame; and the mistress asked her of many matters concerning
the house, and the gathering of stuff.

So came the talk on the fishing of the brook that ran before their
door, and how the trouts therein were but little, and not seldom none
at all; and even therewith came these words into Birdalone’s mouth, she
scarce knew how: My lady, why do we not fish the lake, whereas there be
shoal places betwixt us and the eyots where lie many and great fish, as
I have seen when I have been swimming thereover? And now in that same
creek whereas the serpent used to lurk when I was little, we have a
thing come, which is made to swim on the water; and I, could I have a
long pole to shove withal.

But no time she had to make an end, ere the witch-wife sprang up and
turned on her with a snarl as of an evil dog, and her face changed
horribly: her teeth showed grinning, her eyes goggled in her head, her
brow was all to-furrowed, and her hands clenched like iron springs.

Birdalone shuddered back from her and cringed in mere terror, but had
no might to cry out. The witch hauled her up by the hair, and dragged
her head back so that her throat lay bare before her all along. Then
drew the witch a sharp knife from her girdle, and raised her hand over
her, growling and snarling like a wolf. But suddenly she dropped the
knife, her hand fell to her side, and she fell in a heap on the floor
and lay there hushed.

Birdalone stood gazing on her, and trembling in every limb; too
confused was she to think or do aught, though some image off light
through the open door passed before her: but her feet seemed of lead,
and, as in an evil dream, she had no might to move her limbs, and the
minutes went by as she stood there half dead with fear.

At last, (and belike it was no long while) the witch-wife came to
herself again, and sat up on the floor, and looked all about the
chamber, and when her eyes fell upon Birdalone, she said in a weak
voice, yet joyfully; Hah! thou art there still, my good servant! Then
she said: A sickness fell upon me suddenly, as whiles it is wont; but
now am I myself again; and presently I have a word for thee.

Therewith she rose up slowly, Birdalone helping her, and sat in her big
chair silent awhile, and then she spake: My servant, thou hast for the
more part served me well: but this time thou hast done ill, whereas
thou hast been spying on my ways; whereof may come heavy trouble but if
we look to it. Well is it for thee that thou hast none unto whom thou
mightest babble; for then must I needs have slain thee here and now.
But for this first time I pardon thee, and thou hast escaped the wrath.

Her voice was soft and wheedling; but for Birdalone the terror had
entered into her soul, and yet abode with her.

The witch-wife sat a while, and then arose and went about the chamber,
and came to a certain aumbry and opened it, and drew forth a little
flasket of lead and a golden cup scored over with strange signs, and
laid them on the board beside her chair, wherein she now sat down
again, and spake once more, still in the same soft and wheedling voice:
Yet, my servant, thy guilt would be required of me, if I let this pass
as if to-day were the same as yesterday; yea, and of thee also would it
be required; therefore it is a part of the pardon that thou be
corrected: and the correction must be terrible to thee, that thou mayst
remember never again to thrust thyself into the jaws of death. And what
may I do to correct thee? It shall be in a strange way, such as thou
hast never dreamed of. Yet the anguish thereof shall go to thine
heart’s root; but this must thou needs bear, for my good and thine, so
that both we may live and be merry hereafter. Go now, fill this cup
with water from the spring and come back with it. Birdalone took the
cup with a sinking heart, and filled it, and brought it back, and stood
before the witch more dead than alive.

Then the witch-wife took up the flasket and pulled out the stopple and
betook it to Birdalone, and said: Drink of this now, a little sip, no
more. And the maiden did so, and the liquor was no sooner down her
gullet than the witch-wife and the chamber, and all things about her,
became somewhat dim to her; but yet not so much so as that she could
not see them. But when she stretched out her arm she could see it not
at all, nor her limbs nor any other part of her which her eyes might
fall upon. Then would she have uttered a lamentable wail, but the voice
was sealed up in her and no sound came from her voice. Then she heard
the witch-wife how she said (and yet she heard it as if her voice came
from afar), Nay, thou canst not speak, and thou canst not see thyself,
nor may any other, save me, and I but dimly. But this is but part of
what I must lay upon thee; for next I must give thee a new shape, and
that both thyself and all other may see. But, before I do that, I must
speak a word to thee, which thy new shape would not suffer the sense
thereof to reach to thine heart. Hearken!




CHAPTER XII.
THE WORDS OF THE WITCH-WIFE TO BIRDALONE.


Said the witch-wife: When thou comest to thyself (for it is not my will
that thou shouldest never have thine own shape again), doubtless the
first thing which thou shalt do with thy new-gained voice and thy
new-gained wit shall be to curse me, and curse me again. Do as thou
wilt herein; but I charge thee, disobey me not, for that shall bring
thee to thy bane. For if thou do not my bidding, and if thou pry into
my matters, and lay bare that which I will have hidden, then will it be
imputed unto thee for guilt, and will I, will I not, I must be avenged
on thee even to slaying: and then is undone all the toil and pain I
have had in rearing thee into a deft and lovely maiden. Deem thou,
then, this present anguish kind to thee, to keep thee that thou come
not to nought.

Now since I have begun speaking, I will go on; for little heretofore
have I spoken to thee what was in mine heart. Well I wot that thou
thinkest of me but as of an evil dream, whereof none can aught but long
to awake from it. Yet I would have thee look to this at least; that I
took thee from poverty and pinching, and have reared thee as faithfully
as ever mother did to child; clemming thee never, smiting thee not so
oft, and but seldom cruelly. Moreover, I have suffered thee to go
whereso thou wouldest, and have compelled thee to toil for nought but
what was needful for our two livelihoods. And I have not stayed thy
swimmings in the lake, nor thy wanderings in the wood, and thou hast
learned bowshot there, till thou art now a past-master in the craft:
and, moreover, thou art swift-foot as the best of the deer, and mayest
over-run any one of them whom thou wilt.

Soothly a merry life hast thou had as a child, and merry now would be
thy life, save for thine hatred of me. Into a lovely lily-lass hast
thou grown. That I tell thee now, though my wont has been to gird at
thee for the fashion of thy body; that was but the word of the mistress
to the thrall. And now what awaiteth thee? For thou mayst say: I am
lonely here, and there is no man to look on me. Of what avail,
therefore, is my goodliness and shapeliness? Child, I answer thee that
the time is coming when thou shalt see here a many of the fairest of
men, and then shalt thou be rather rose than lily, and fully come to
womanhood; and all those shall love and worship thee, and thou mayst
gladden whom thou wilt, and whom thou wilt mayst sadden; and no lack
soever shalt thou have of the sweetness of love, or the glory of
dominion.

Think of it then! All this is for thee if thou dwell here quietly with
me, doing my will till thy womanhood hath blossomed. Wherefore I
beseech and pray thee put out of thy mind the thought of fleeing from
me. For if thou try it, one of two things shall be: either I shall
bring thee back and slay thee, or make thee live in misery of torment;
or else thou wilt escape, and then what will it be? Dost thou know how
it shall go with thee, coming poor and nameless, an outcast, into the
world of men? Lust shalt thou draw unto thee, but scarce love. I say an
outcast shalt thou be, without worship or dominion; thy body shall be a
prey to ribalds, and when the fine flower thereof hath faded, thou
shalt find that the words of thy lovers were but mockery. That no man
shall love thee, and no woman aid thee. Then shall Eld come to thee and
find thee at home with Hell; and Death shall come and mock thee for thy
life cast away for nought, for nought. This is my word to thee: and now
I have nought to do to thee save to change thee thy skin, and therein
must thou do as thou canst, but it shall be no ugly or evil shape at
least. But another time maybe I shall not be so kind as to give thee a
new shape, but shall let thee wander about seen by none but me. Then
she took the cup and took water in the hollow of her hand and cast it
into Birdalone’s face, and muttered words withal; and presently she saw
herself indeed, that she was become a milk-white hind; and she heard
and saw again, but not as she, the maiden, was wont to hear and see;
for both her hearing and seeing and her thought was of a beast and not
of a maiden.

Said the witch-wife: It is done now, till I give thee grace again; and
now be off into the field; but if thou stray more than half a bowshot
from the brook, it shall be the worse for thee. And now the day was
done and night was come.




CHAPTER XIII.
BIRDALONE MEETETH THE WOOD-WOMAN AGAIN.


It was fifteen days thereafter that Birdalone awoke lying in her bed on
a bright morning, as if all this had been but a dream. But the
witch-wife was standing over her and crying out: Thou art late,
slug-a-bed, this fair-weather day, and the grass all spoiling for lack
of the scythe. Off! and down to the meadow with thee.

Birdalone waited not for more words, but sprang out of bed, and had her
work-a-day raiment on in a twinkling, and stayed but to wash her in a
pool of the brook, and then was amidst the tall grass with the swathe
falling before her. As she worked she thought, and could scarce tell
whether joy at her present deliverance, or terror of the witch-wife,
were the greatest. Sore was her longing to go see her friend in the
wood, but the haysel lasted more than a week, and when that was done,
whether it were of set purpose or no, the dame forgat her other
promise, to give Birdalone more holiday, and kept her close to her work
about meadow and acre. Otherwise her mistress nowise mishandled or
threatened her, though she had gone back to the surliness and railing
which was her wont. At last, on a morning when the dame had bidden her
to nought of work, Birdalone took her bow in her hand and cast her
quiver on her back, and went her ways into the wood, and forgat not the
tress of Habundia’s hair; but she had no need to use it, for when she
was come to the Oak of Tryst, straightway came Habundia forth from the
thicket, and now so like to Birdalone that it was a wonder, for as her
friend she bare bow and quiver, and green gown trussed up till her
knees were naked.

So they kissed and embraced, and Birdalone wept upon her friend’s
bosom, but was ashamed of the words which would have told her of her
case. Then Habundia set her down upon the greensward, and sat down
beside her, and caressed her and soothed her; then she smiled on
Birdalone, and said: Thy tale is partly told without words, and I would
weep for thee if I might shed tears. But thou mayest tell me wherefore
thou didst suffer this; though forsooth I have an inkling thereof. Hast
thou happened on the witch’s ferry?

Even so it was, sister, quoth Birdalone. And therewith she plucked up
heart, and told her all the tale of the vanishing of her body and the
skin-changing. And Habundia answered: Well then, there is this to be
said, that sooner or later this must have happened, for thereby lieth
thy road of escape; wherefore it is better sooner than later. But tell
me again: was she fierce and rough in words with thee? for what she
said to thee thou hast not yet told me. Said Birdalone: In her first
fury, when she was like to have slain me, she had no words, nought but
wolfish cries. But thereafter she spake unto me strangely, yet neither
fiercely nor roughly; nay, it seemed to me as if almost she loved me.
And more than almost she besought me rather than commanded me not to
flee from her. And wert thou beguiled by her soft speech? said
Habundia. Nowise to cast aside my hope of escape, nay, not even in that
hour, said Birdalone; but amidst all the confusion and terror somewhat
was I moved to compassion on her.

Spake Habundia, looking anxiously on her: Dost thou deem that thou art
somewhat cowed by what she hath done to thee? Said Birdalone, and
flushed very red: Oh no, no! Nought save death or bonds shall come
betwixt me and my utmost striving for escape. That is better than well,
said Habundia; but again, canst thou have patience a little, and be
wary and wise the while? So meseemeth, said the maiden. Said Habundia:
Again it is well. Now is the summer beginning to wane, and by my rede
thou shalt not try the flight until May is come again and well-nigh
worn into June; for thou wilt be bigger then, little sister, and
tidings are waxing that shall get matters ready for thy departure:
moreover, thou must yet learn what thou hast to do meanwhile, and
thereof shall I tell thee somewhat as now. For that boat, the thing
which thou didst find, and for which thou didst suffer, is called the
Sending Boat, and therein thy mistress fareth time and again, I deem to
seek to some other of her kind, but I know not unto whom, or whereto.
Hast thou noted of her that whiles she goeth away privily by night and
cloud? Yea, verily, said Birdalone, and this is one of the things which
heretofore hath made me most afraid. Said Habundia: Well now, that she
wendeth somewhither in this ferry I wot; but as I wot not whither, so
also I know not what she doth with the Sending Boat to make it obey
her; whereas, though I know all things of the wood, I know but little
of the lake. Wherefore, though there be peril to thee therein, follow
her twice or thrice when she riseth up for this faring, and note
closely what is her manner of dealing with the said Sending Boat, so
that thou mayst do in like wise. Wilt thou risk the smart and the
skin-changing, or even if it were the stroke of the knife, to gather
this wisdom? And thereafter thou shalt come hither and tell me how thou
hast sped. With a good heart will I, dear sister, said Birdalone.

Then Habundia kissed her and said: It is a joy to me to see thee so
valiant, but herein may I help thee somewhat; here is a gold
finger-ring, see thou! fashioned as a serpent holding his tail in his
mouth; whenso thou goest on this quest, set thou this same ring on the
middle finger of thy left hand, and say thou above thy breath at least:

To left and right,
Before, behind,
Of me be sight
As of the wind!


And nought then shall be seen of thee even by one who standeth close
beside. But wear not the ring openly save at such times, or let the
witch have sight thereof ever, or she will know that thou hast met me.
Dost thou understand, and canst thou remember?

Laughed Birdalone, and took the ring and set it on her finger, and
spake aloud even as Habundia had given her the words. Then quoth
Habundia, laughing: Now have I lost my friend and sister, for thou art
gone, Birdalone. Take off the ring, sweetling, and get thee to thine
hunting, for if thou come home empty-handed there will be flyting
awaiting thee, or worse.

So Birdalone took off the ring and came back to sight again laughing;
then the wood-woman kissed her and turned her heels to her, and was
gone; but Birdalone strung her bow, and got to her woodcraft, and
presently had a brace of hares, wherewith she went back home to the
dame; who indeed girded at her for her sloth, and her little catch in
so long a while; but there it ended.




CHAPTER XIV.
OF BIRDALONE’S FISHING.


Now were the days wearing toward wheat-harvest, and nought befel to
tell of, save that on a morn the witch-wife called Birdalone to her,
and said: Now is little to be done till the wheat is ready for the
hook, and thy days are idle; or what is that word that fell from thee
that other day, that there be good swims for fish about the eyots?
Canst thou swim across bearing thine angle, and back again therewith,
and thy catch withal? Yea, certes, said Birdalone gaily; with one hand
I may swim gallantly, or with my legs alone, if I stir mine arms ever
so little. I will go straightway if thou wilt, lady; but give me a
length of twine so that I may tie my catch about my middle when I swim
back again.

Therewith she went forth lightly to fetch her angle, which was in a
shed without; but just as she took it in her hand, a sudden thought
came to her, so wary as she was grown. She undid the bosom of her gown,
and took forth her serpent-ring; for she bore it next to her skin, made
fast to the bosom of her smock; but now she hid it carefully in the
thickest of her brow-hair, which was very thick and soft. Withal the
tress of Habundia’s hair she bore ever mingled with her own.

No sooner had she done it, but she was glad; for she heard the dame
calling her, who, when she came to the house-door, spake and said: Now
shall I fare with thee down to the water, and look to thy garments lest
they be fouled by some straying beast. And therewith she looked
curiously on Birdalone, and knit her brows when she saw that the maiden
changed countenance in nowise.

Down to the water went they, and the witch sat down close to where
Birdalone should take the water, and watched her do off her raiment,
and eyed her keenly when she was bare, but said nought. Birdalone
turned her head as she stood knee-deep, and said: How long shall I
abide, lady, if I have luck? As long as thou wilt, said the dame: most
like I shall be gone by then thou comest back, even if thou be away no
long while.

Fell Birdalone to swimming then, and when she was more than half over,
the witch, stirring no more than need was, got hold of her raiment,
which was but the old grey coat over a smock, and ransacked it, but
found nought, as well ye may wot. And when she had done, she sat down
again in heavy mood as it seemed, and watched Birdalone swimming, and
when she beheld her body come forth out of the water, and pass out of
sight amongst the flowers of the eyot, she arose and went her ways
home.

Birdalone looked through the willow-boughs, and saw her turn away; then
she fared to her fishing with a smile, and soon had plenteous catch
from under the willow-boughs. Then, whereas the day was very calm and
fair, and the dame had given her holiday, she wandered about the eyot,
and most in a little wood of berry-trees, as quicken and whitebeam and
dog-wood, and sported with the birds, who feared her not, but came and
sat on her shoulders, and crept about her feet. She went also and stood
a while on the southern shore, and looked on the wide water dim in the
offing under the hot-weather haze, and longed to be gone beyond it.
Then she turned away, and to the other shore, and gat her fish and
strung them on the string, and made them fast to her middle, and so
took the water back again to the yellow strand, where now was no one
awaiting her. But before she did on her garments, she looked on them,
and saw that they lay not as she had left them, whereby she knew well
that the witch-wife had handled them.

Amidst all this the day was wearing to an end, and again she saw the
smoke of the cooking-fire going up into the air from the chimney of the
house; and she smiled ruefully, thinking that the witch might yet find
an occasion for ransacking her raiment. But she plucked up heart, and
came home with her catch, and the dame met her with a glum face, and
neither praised her nor blamed her, but took the fish silently. Such
ending had that day.




CHAPTER XV.
BIRDALONE WEARETH HER SERPENT-RING.


After this she went once and again fishing on to Green Eyot by the
bidding of the dame, who went not again to the shore with her. These
times she had half a mind to go see the Sending Boat, but durst not,
lest the thing itself might have life enough to tell of her.

And now was come the time of wheat-harvest, and Birdalone must wear her
days swinking in the acre-land, clad but in smock and shoes; and the
toil was hard, and browned her skin and hardened her hands, but it
irked her not, for the witch let her work all alone, and it was holiday
unto the maiden if her mistress were not anigh, despite those words
which had somewhat touched her heart that other day.

But when wheat-getting was done, there was again rest for her body, and
swimming withal and fishing from the eyot by the witch’s leave. And
again by her own leave she went to seek Habundia in the wood, and spent
a happy hour with her, and came back with a fawn which she had shot,
and so but barely saved her skin from the twig-shower. Then yet again
she went into the wood on the witch’s errand as well as her own, and
was paid by her friend’s sweet converse, and by nought else save the
grudging girding of her mistress.

But on a night when September was well in, and the sky was moonless and
overcast, somewhat before midnight the dame came and hung over
Birdalone as she lay abed, and watched to see if she waked; forsooth
the witch’s coming had waked her; but even so she was wary, and lay
still, nor changed her breathing. So the witch turned away, but even
therewith Birdalone made a shift to get a glimpse of her, and this she
saw thereby, that the semblance of her was changed, and that she bore
the self-same skin wherewith she had come to Utterhay, and which she
had worn twice or thrice afterwards when she had an errand thither.

The witch now glided swiftly to the door, and out into the night.
Birdalone lay still a little, lest she should fall into a trap, and
then arose very quietly and did on her smock, which lay ever under her
pillow with the ring sewn thereto again, and so went out adoors also,
and deemed she saw the witch some way on ahead; but it was nothing for
her light feet to overtake her. So she stayed to take the ring from her
smock, and set it on her finger; then in a low voice she said:

To left and right,
Before, behind,
Of me be sight
As of the wind!


Then boldly she sped on, and was soon close on the heels of the witch,
who made her way to the edge of the lake, and then turned east, and
went even as Birdalone had gone when she came across the Sending Boat.

So fared the witch-wife straight to the creek-side, and Birdalone must
needs stick close to her, or she had known nought, so black was the
night amongst the alder-boughs. But the witch-wife fumbled about a
while when she was stayed by the creek, and presently drew somewhat
from under her cloak, and the maiden saw that she was about striking
flint upon steel, and quaked somewhat, lest her charm had played her
false. Presently the tinder quickened, and the dame had lighted a
lantern, which she held up, peering all about; and full she looked on
the place whereas was Birdalone, and made no show of seeing her, though
well-nigh the maiden looked for it to see her drop the lantern and
spring on her.

Now the witch, holding the lantern aloft, steps over the gunwale of the
boat, and sits down on the thwart; and it was a near thing but that
Birdalone followed her into the boat, but she feared the getting forth
again, so she but hung over it as close as she might. Then she saw the
witch draw out of her girdle that sharp little knife which Birdalone
had seen raised against her own throat; and then the witch bared her
arm, and pricked it till the blood sprang from that barren white skin;
thereat she stood up, and went to the bows of the craft and hung over
them, and drew her arm to and fro over the stem to bloody it; and went
thereafter to the stern, and took blood into her right hand and passed
it over the place of the steerage (for there was no rudder) and came
back and sat down on the thwart again; and, so far as Birdalone might
see, busied herself in staunching the little wound on her arm. Then
deemed Birdalone that she knew what manner of paint was that which had
made the rusty smears which she had seen on the boat by daylight.

But now as the witch sat there, a harsh voice began to stir in her
throat, and then words came out of her, and she sang in a crow’s croak:

The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;
Then wake and awake
And the wonted way take!
The way of the Wender forth over the flood,
For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.


Therewithal began the boat to stir, and anon it glided forth out of the
creek into the waters of the lake, and the light of the lantern died,
and it was but a minute ere Birdalone lost all sight of it. She abode a
little longer, lest perchance boat and witch might come back on her
hands, and then turned and went swiftly back again. She would have
drawn off her ring straightway, but the thought came on her, that she
had seen the witch depart in her second semblance; how if she were
abiding her at home in her wonted skin? So she came to the house even
as she was, and opened the door, and looked in, quaking; but there was
no image of a child of Adam therein, and no living thing, save the cat
drowsing before the fire; wherefore Birdalone took the ring from her
finger and went to the hearth, and stirred up the cat with her foot
till he arose and fell to rubbing himself against her legs, and she was
fain of him.

Thereafter she made her ring fast to her smock again, and set the smock
under her pillow as her wont was, and betook herself to bed, and fell
asleep sweetly, leaving all troublous thoughts for the morrow; and that
the more as she was free of the witch-wife for that night at least.




CHAPTER XVI.
BIRDALONE MEETETH HABUNDIA AGAIN; AND LEARNETH HER FIRST WISDOM OF HER.


When morning was, Birdalone arose, and longed sore to go into the wood
to seek Habundia again, but durst not, lest the witch-wife should come
to hand again earlier than might be looked for. So she abode quiet and
did what was toward near about the house. All that day the witch came
not back, nor the next; but the morrow thereafter, when Birdalone
arose, she found the wonted aspect of her mistress in the wonted place,
who, when she saw the maiden, greeted her, and was somewhat blithe with
her; and Birdalone would have asked her leave to go to the wood, but
she trusted little in her unwonted soft mood; which yet lasted so long
that on the third day she herself bade Birdalone go take her pleasure
in the wood, and bear back with her what of venison she might.

Forthwith went Birdalone as glad as might be, and met her friend at the
Oak of Tryst, and told her closely how all had betid; and Habundia
said: Here, then, thou hast learned how to sail the lake. But hast thou
learned enough to try the adventure and not to fail? Even so I deem,
said Birdalone; but this I would say, that meseemeth it better that I
follow the witch down to the boat one more time at least; for this
first time it was dark; and moreover shall I not be surer of the spell
if I hear it said oftener, lest it be not ever the same words? What
sayest thou? She said: Thou art right herein, and, since the adventure
may not be tried till next June is at hand, there is time enough and to
spare. And now for this hour that is we need talk no more of it. Only,
my sweet, I beseech thee be wary; and above all suffer not the
witch-wife to set eye or hand on the ring. Truly mine heart oft aches
sorely for thy peril; for therein the image of thee abideth rather as
of my daughter than my friend. Yea, now thou laughest, but kindly, so
that the sound of thy laughter is as sweet music. But know that though
thou art but a young maiden, and I in all wise like unto thee of
aspect, yet have I dwelt many and many a year upon the earth, and much
wisdom have learned. Trowest thou me?

Yea, yea, said Birdalone, with all my heart. Then she hung her head a
while and kept silence, and thereafter looked up and spake: I would ask
thee a thing and crave somewhat of thee, as if thou wert verily my
mother; wilt thou grant it me? Yea, surely, child, said Habundia. Said
Birdalone: This it is then, that thou wilt learn me of thy wisdom.
Habundia smiled full kindly on her, and said: This of all things I
would have had thee ask; and this day and now shall we begin to open
the book of the earth before thee. For therein is mine heritage and my
dominion. Sit by me, child, and hearken!

So the maiden sat down by her likeness under the oak, and began to
learn her lesson. Forsooth forgotten is the wisdom, though the tale of
its learning abideth, wherefore nought may we tell thereof.

When it was done, Birdalone kissed her wood-mother and said: This is
now the best day of my life, this and the day when first I saw thee. I
will come hither now many times before the day of my departure. Yea,
but, sweet child, said Habundia, beware of the witch and her cruelty; I
fear me she shall yet be grim toward thee. So will I be wary, said
Birdalone, but I will venture some little peril of pain but if thou
forbid me, mother. And I pray thee by thy love to forbid me not. And
this I pray thee the more, because after one of these grim times then
mostly doth she meddle the less with me for a while, wherefore I shall
be the freer to come hither. Habundia kissed her and embraced her, and
said: Valiant art thou for a young maiden, my child, and I would not
refrain thee more than a father would refrain his young son from the
strokes of the tilt-yard. But I pray thee to forget not my love, and my
sorrow for thy grief.

Therewith they sundered, and it was drawing toward evening. Birdalone
sought catch, and brought home venison to the dame, who was yet blithe
with her, and spake that evening as she eyed her: I cannot tell how it
is, but thou seemest changed unto me, and lookest more towards thy
womanhood than even yesterday. I mean the face of thee, for wert thou
stripped, lean enough I should see thee, doubtless. But now look to it,
I beseech thee, to be both deft and obedient, so that I may be as kind
to thee as I would be, and kinder than I have been heretofore.




CHAPTER XVII.
THE PASSING OF THE YEAR INTO WINTER.


Wore the days now, till on a night of October, toward the end thereof,
the witch went a-night-tide to the Sending Boat, and Birdalone followed
her as erst. This time the night was wild and windy, but the moon was
high aloft and big, and all cloud save a few flecks was blown from off
the heavens; so that the night was as light as could be; and even at
the tree-hung creek it was easy to see all that was done. And so it was
that the witch did and spake in all wise as she did before.

Another time, when November was well-nigh out, the dame arose for her
lake-faring; but this night the snow lay deep betwixt house and water,
and Birdalone thought that it would scarce do to follow. Forsooth she
knew not whether her feet would the less leave their print in the snow
because they were not to be seen. When she asked Habundia thereof, she
laughed and said: Once more thou hast been wise, my child, for though
it had been no harder to put this might into thy ring, that whoso wore
it should not touch the ground, yet it hath not been done.

It must be told, that in this while Birdalone went oft to the Trysting
Tree, and called on her mother (as now she called her) to come to her,
and ever more and more of wisdom she won thereby. Though the witch was
oft surly with her, and spared not her girding, yet, the needful work
done, she meddled little with her. But on a day she straightly banned
her the wood, and Birdalone went notwithstanding, and when she was
there with the wood-mother nought she told her thereof, but was blithe
and merry beyond her wont. She came back home thereafter empty handed,
and stepped into the chamber proudly and with bright eyes and flushed
cheeks, though she looked for nought save chastisement; yea, it might
be even the skin-changing. Forsooth the witch was sitting crouched in
her chair with her hands on the elbows and her head thrust forward,
like a wild beast at point to spring; but when her eye fell on
Birdalone, she faltered and drew back into herself again, and muttered
somewhat unheard; but to Birdalone spake nought of good or bad.

Now was winter-tide upon them, when there was nought to do in field and
acre, and but a little in the byre. In years bygone, and even in the
last one, the witch had not spared Birdalone toil any the more, but had
made errands for her amidst the snow and biting winds, or over the lake
when it was laid with ice. But now she bade her to nought save what she
had a will to; whereby she lost but little, whereas Birdalone was well
willing to strive against wind and weather and the roughness of the
winter earth, and overcome if she might, so that all were well done
that had to be done about the stead.

Still did the witch give her hard words and rail at her for the most
part, but from the teeth outward only, and because she was wont
thereto. Inwardly indeed she began to fear Birdalone, and deemed that
she would one day have the mastery; and this led her into fierce and
restless moods; so that she would sit staring at the maiden’s beauty
handling her knife withal, and scarce able to forbear her. And in such
a mood she once made occasion to chastise her as her wont had been
erst, and looked to see Birdalone rebel against her; but it fell out
otherwise, for Birdalone submitted herself to her meekly and with a
cheerful countenance. And this also was a terror to the witch, who
deemed, as indeed it was, that the purpose was growing in her thrall.
So from that time she meddled with her no more. All this while, as may
be thought, Birdalone went yet oftener to the Oak of Tryst, despite
frost and snow and wind, and gat much lore of her wood-mother, and
learned wisdom abundantly. And her days were happy.




CHAPTER XVIII.
OF SPRING-TIDE AND THE MIND OF BIRDALONE.


Now was the winter gone and the spring-tide come again, and with the
blossoming of the earth blossomed Birdalone also. Nought sweeter of
flesh might she be than erst, but there was now a new majesty grown
into her beauty; her limbs were rounded, her body fulfilled, her skin
sleeked and whitened; and if any mother’s son had beheld her feet as
they trod the meadow besprinkled with saffron and daffodil, ill had it
gone with him were he gainsaid the kisses of them, though for the
kissing had he fared the worse belike.

That spring-tide, amidst of April, she followed the witch-wife down to
the Sending Boat for the third time; and there went everything as erst,
and she deemed now that the lesson was well learned, and that she was
well-nigh as wise as the witch herself therein.

But the day after she went about somewhat pensive, as though a
troublous thought were on her; and when, three days thereafter, she met
the wood-mother, she spake to her even as they parted, and said:
Mother, much wisdom hast thou learned me, and now this at the last
withal, that hitherto there has been shame in my life; and now fain
were I to be done with it. Fair child, said Habundia, little is the
shame though this woman hath had the upper hand of thee and hath used
thee cruelly: how mightest thou, a child, strive with her? But now I
see and know that there is an end of that; that she feareth thee now,
and will never again raise a hand against thee save thou fall wholly
into her power; as thou shalt not, my child. Be comforted then for what
is gone by! Nay, mother, said Birdalone, it is not that which troubleth
me; for, as thou sayest, what else might I do? But thy wisdom which
thou hast set in my heart hath learned me that for these last months I
have been meeting guile with guile and lies with lies. And now will I
do so no more, lest I become a guileful woman, with nought good in me
save the fairness of my body. Wherefore hearken, sweet mother! What is
done, is done; but when it cometh to the day, which is speedily drawing
nigh, that I must part from thee, it may be for a long while, then will
I not fare to the Sending Boat by night and cloud and with hidden head,
but will walk thither in broad day, and let that befall which must
befall.

Changed then Habundia’s face and became haggard and woeful, and she
cried out: O if I could but weep, as ye children of Adam! O my grief
and sorrow! Child, child! then will betide that falling into her hands
which I spake of e’en now; and then shall this wretch, this servant of
evil, assuredly slay thee there and then, or will keep thee to torment
thee till thy life be but a slow death. Nay, nay, do as I should do,
and fare with hidden head, and my ring on thy finger. Or else, O child,
how wilt thou hurt me!

Birdalone wept; but presently she fell to caressing the mother’s hand,
and said: This is thy doing, wherein thou hast made me wise. Yet fear
not: for I deem that the witch-wife will not slay me, whereas she
looketh to have some gain of me; moreover, in the evil of her heart is
mingled some love toward me, whereof, as erst I told thee, I have a
morsel of compassion. Mother, she will not slay me; and I say that she
shall not torment me, for I will compel her to slay me else. It is my
mind that she will let me go. Said the mother: Yea, mayhappen, yet but
as a bird with a string to its leg. If it be so, said Birdalone, then
let my luck prevail over her guile; as well it may be, since I have
known thee, O wise mother!

The wood-wife hung her head and spake nought for a while; then she
said: I see that thou wilt have it so, and that there is something in
thine heart which we, who are not children of Adam, may not understand;
yet once wert thou more like unto us. Now all I may say is, that thou
must rule in this matter, and that I am sad.

Then she looked down again and presently raised a brighter face, and
said: Belike all shall be better than I thought. Then she kissed
Birdalone and they parted for that time.




CHAPTER XIX.
THEY BID FAREWELL, BIRDALONE AND THE WOOD-MOTHER.


Now April was gone, and May was come with the thorn a-blossoming, and
there was Birdalone waxing still in loveliness. And now the witch had
left all girding at her even, and spake to her but little, save when
she needs must. But to Birdalone it seemed that she watched her
exceeding closely.

Birdalone went oft to the wood, and learned yet more of lore: but of
the matter of the Departure, how it was to be gone about they spake no
more, and great was the love betwixt them.

At last when May was worn nigh to June came Birdalone to the Oak of
Tryst, and found the wood-mother there; and when they had talked a
while, but ever from the teeth out, spake Habundia: Though thou be now
the wiser of us two maybe, yet have I wisdom to wot that this is the
hour of our sundering, and that to-morrow thou wilt try the adventure
of the Sending Boat: is it not so? Yea, mother, said Birdalone; I bid
thee farewell now: woe is me therefor! Said Habundia: And thou wilt
deliver thyself into the hands of the witch, wilt thou, as thou saidst
that other day? Quoth Birdalone: Is it not wisdom, dear mother, if I
trust in my goodhap? Alas, said the mother, it may be so when all is
said. But O my sad heart! and how I fear for thee!

My mother, my mother! said Birdalone, that I should make the days
grievous unto thee! and thou who hast made my days so joyous! But now
canst thou not say of thy wisdom that we shall meet again?

The wood-woman sat down, and let her head fall over her knees, and was
silent a long while; then she rose up and stood before Birdalone, and
said: Yea, we shall meet again, howsoever it may be. Let us depart with
that sweet word in the air between us. Yet first thou shalt give me a
tress of thine hair, as I did to thee when first we met; for by means
of it may I know to-morrow how thou hast sped.

Even so did Birdalone, and this was the end of their talk, save broken
words of lamentation as they said farewell. And therewith for that
while they sundered.




CHAPTER XX.
OF BIRDALONE AND THE SENDING BOAT.


Birdalone woke up in the morning, and arose and clad herself, and she
saw not the witch-wife in the chamber, though her bed looked as if it
had been slept in. Birdalone accounted little thereof, whereas the dame
would oft go on one errand or another much betimes in the morning. Yet
was she somewhat glad, for she was nowise wishful for a wrangle with
her. Withal, despite her valiancy, as may well be thought, she was all
a-flutter with hopes and fears, and must needs refrain her body from
overmuch quaking and restlessness if she might.

Now she mingled the tress of the wood-mother’s hair with her own hair,
but deemed it nought perilous to leave the ring yet sewn to her smock:
she set some deal of bread and flesh in her scrip, lest her voyage
should be long, and then all simply stepped over the threshold of the
House of her Captivity.

She went straight to the strand aforesaid, seeing nought of the
witch-wife by the way; and when she came there, was about to turn
straightway to her left hand down to the creek, when it came into her
mind that she would first swim over to Green Eyot for this last of
times. For the eyot indeed she loved, and deemed it her own, since
never had her evil dream, the witch, set foot thereon. Moreover, she
said to herself that the cool lake would allay the fever of her blood,
and make her flesh firmer and less timorous for the adventure. And
again, that if the witch should see her from afar, as she could scarce
fail to do, she would deem the maiden was about her wonted morning
swimming, and would be the less like to spy on her.

So now, when she had let her garments slip from off her on to the sand
close to the water’s edge, she stood a while, with her feet scarce
covered by the little ripple of the bight, to be a token of safety to
her mistress. To say sooth, now it was come so nigh to the deed, she
shrank aback a little, and was fain to dally with the time, and, if it
might be, thrust something of no import betwixt her and the terror of
the last moment.

Now she took the water, and rowed strongly with her lovely limbs till
she came to the eyot, and there she went aland, and visited every place
which had been kind to her; and kissed the trees and flowers that had
solaced her, and once more drew the birds and rabbits to sport with
her; till suddenly it came into her head that the time was wearing
overfast. Then she ran down to the water and plunged in, and swam over
to the strand as fast as she might, and came aland there, thinking of
nothing less than what had befallen.

For lo! when she looked around for her raiment and her scrip, it was
nowhere to be seen; straightway then it came into her mind, as in one
flash, that this was the witch’s work; that she had divined this deed
of the flight, and had watched her, and taken the occasion of her
nakedness and absence that she might draw her back to the House of
Captivity. And this the more as the precious ring was sewn to
Birdalone’s smock, and the witch would have found it there when she
handled the raiment.

Birdalone wasted no time in seeking for the lost; she looked down on to
the smooth sand, and saw there footprints which were not her own, and
all those went straight back home to the house. Then she turned, and
for one moment of time looked up toward the house, and saw plainly the
witch come out adoors, and the sun flashed from something bright in her
hand.

Then indeed she made no stay, but set off running at her swiftest along
the water-side toward the creek and the Sending Boat. As is aforesaid
she was as fleet-foot as a deer, so but in a little space of time she
had come to the creek, and leapt into the boat, panting and breathless.
She turned and looked hastily along the path her feet had just worn,
and deemed she saw a fluttering and flashing coming along it, but some
way off; yet was not sure, for her eyes were dizzy with the swiftness
of her flight and the hot sun and the hurry of her heart. Then she
looked about a moment confusedly, for she called to mind that in her
nakedness she had neither knife, nor scissors, nor bodkin to let her
blood withal. But even therewith close to hand she saw hanging down a
stem of half-dead briar-rose with big thorns upon it; she hastily tore
off a length thereof and scratched her left arm till the blood flowed,
and stepped lightly first to stem and then to stern, and besmeared them
therewith. Then she sat down on the thwart and cried aloud:

The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;
Then wake and awake
And the wonted way take!
The way of the Wender forth over the flood,
For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.


Scarce had she time to wonder if the boat would obey her spell ere it
began to stir beneath her, and then glided out into the lake and took
its way over the summer ripple, going betwixt Green Eyot and the
mainland, as if to weather the western ness of the eyot: and it went
not a stonecast from the shore of the said mainland.

Hither to meet it now cometh the witch, running along the bank, her
skirts flying wild about her, and a heavy short-sword gleaming in her
hand. Her furious running she stayed over against the boat, and cried
out in a voice broken for lack of breath:

Back over the flood
To the house by the wood!
Back unto thy rest
In the alder nest!
For the blood of the Sender lies warm on thy bow,
And the heart of the Wender is weary as now.


But she saw that the Sending Boat heeded her words nothing, whereas it
was not her blood that had awakened it, but Birdalone’s. Then cried out
the witch: O child, child! say the spell and come back to me! to me,
who have reared thee and loved thee and hoped in thee! O come back!

But how should Birdalone heed her prayer? She saw the sax; and withal
had her heart forgotten, her flesh might well remember. She sat still,
nor so much as turned her head toward the witch-wife.

Then came wild yelling words from the witch’s mouth, and she cried: Go
then, naked and outcast! Go then, naked fool! and come back hither
after thou hast been under the hands of the pitiless! Ah, it had been
better for thee had I slain thee! And therewith she whirled the sax
over her head and cast it at Birdalone. But now had the boat turned its
head toward the ness of Green Eyot and was swiftly departing, so that
Birdalone but half heard the last words of the witch-wife, and the sax
fell flashing into the water far astern.

There the witch stood tossing her arms and screaming, wordless; but no
more of her saw Birdalone, for the boat came round about the ness of
Green Eyot, and there lay the Great Water under the summer heavens all
wide and landless before her. And it was now noon of day.

Here ends the First Part of the Water of the Wondrous Isles, which is
called Of the House of Captivity. And now begins the Second Part, which
is called Of the Wondrous Isles.




THE SECOND PART:
OF THE WONDROUS ISLES




CHAPTER I.
THE FIRST ISLE.


So glided Birdalone over the lake and was come forth from the House of
Captivity; it might well be that she was but swimming unto death; naked
as she was, fireless, foodless, and helpless, at the mercy of mere
sorcery. Yet she called to mind the word of the wood-mother that they
should meet again, and took heart thereby; and she was glad in that she
had had her will, and shaken off the guile and thraldom of the witch.
Much she thought of the wood-mother, and loved her, and wondered had
she yet sought into and seen her welfare by the burning of a hair of
that tress of hers; and therewith she looked on that tress of
Habundia’s hair and kissed it.

All day the Sending Boat sped on, and she saw no land and nought to
tell of. It was but wave and sky and the familiar fowl of the lake, as
coot, and mallard, and heron, and now and then a swift wood-dove going
her ways from shore to shore; two gerfalcons she saw also, an osprey,
and a great ern on his errand high up aloft.

Birdalone waked in her loneliness till the day was spent, and somewhat
worn of the night; then she fell asleep for weariness; but so it was,
that before dusk she had deemed that a blue cloud lay before her in the
offing which moved not.

She slept the short night through, and was awakened by the boat smiting
against something, and when her eyes opened she saw that she was come
aland and that the sun was just risen. She stood up, and for the first
minute wondered where she was, and she beheld her nakedness and knew
not what it meant; then she loosened her hair, and shook its abundance
all about her, and thereafter she turned her eyes on this new land and
saw that it was fair and goodly. The flowery grass came down to the
very water, and first was a fair meadow-land besprinkled with big
ancient trees; thence arose slopes of vineyard, and orchard and garden;
and, looking down on all, was a great White House, carven and glorious.
A little air of wind had awakened with the sunrise, and bore the garden
sweetness down to her; and warm it was after the chill of the wide
water. No other land could she see when she looked lakeward thence.

She stepped ashore, and stood ankle-deep in the sweet grass, and looked
about her for a while, and saw no shape of man astir. She was yet
weary, and stiff with abiding so long amongst the hard ribs of the
boat, so she laid herself down on the grass, and its softness solaced
her; and presently she fell asleep again.




CHAPTER II.
BIRDALONE FALLETH IN WITH NEW FRIENDS.


When she next awoke, the sun was not yet high, and the morning young,
yet she stood upon her feet much refreshed by that short slumber. She
turned toward the hill and the gay house, and saw one coming over the
meadow to her, a woman to wit, in a shining golden gown, and as she
drew nigh Birdalone could see that she was young and fair, tall,
white-skinned and hazel-eyed, with long red hair dancing all about her
as she tripped lightly and merrily over the greensward.

Now she comes up to Birdalone with wonder in her eyes, and greets her
kindly, and asked her of her name, and Birdalone told it all simply;
and the new-comer said: What errand hast thou hither, that thou art
come thus naked and alone in this ill-omened ferry? Birdalone trembled
at her words, though she spake kindly to her, and she said: It is a
long story, but fate drave me thereto, and misery, and I knew not
whither I was bound. But is there no welcome for me in this lovely
land? I lack not deftness wholly; and I will be a servant of servants,
and ask no better if it must be so. Said the new-comer: Unto that mayst
thou come, but sore will be thy servitude. I fear me thy welcome here
may be but evil. Said Birdalone: Wilt thou not tell me how so? Quoth
that lady: We know thy ferry here, that it is the craft wherein cometh
hither now and again the sister of our lady the Queen, into whose realm
thou art now come, and who liveth up in the white palace yonder, and
whom we serve. And meseems thou wilt not have come hither by her leave,
or thou wouldst be in other guise than this; so that belike thou wilt
be the runaway of thy mistress. Wherefore I fear that thou wilt be sent
back to thy said mistress after a while, and that that while will be
grievous to thee, body and soul.

Birdalone’s heart sank, and she was pale and trembling; but she said: O
dear lady, might I then depart as I have come hither, without the
wotting of this Queen! after thou hast given me a morsel of bread, for
I am hungry. Said the gold-clad one, looking on her pitifully: Nay,
maiden, I cannot choose but bring thee before our mistress, whereas
most like she hath already seen thee from above there. For she is
far-sighted beyond the wont of folk who be more manlike. But as for the
bread, see thou! I have brought a manchet in my pouch, and cheese
withal, as I came hurrying; for I thought, she will be hungry. And she
reached the victual out to her. And Birdalone took it and kissed the
golden lady’s hands, and she might not refrain her tears, but wept as
she ate.

Meanwhile the golden lady spake unto her and said: Nevertheless, thou
poor maiden, somewhat may be done for thine helping, and I will
presently speak to my sisters thereon, who are, both of them, wiser
than I. Sisters by blood are we not, but by love and fellowship. And I
doubt not but that as we go up into the house we shall happen upon them
in the garden. But now I look upon thee, how fair a woman art thou!

Thou art kind and friendly, said Birdalone, smiling amidst of her
tears, might I know by what name to call so dear a woman? Thou shalt
call me Aurea, said the other; and my next sister is Viridis, and the
third, Atra; for that is according to the hues of our raiment, and
other names we have not now. And lo! here cometh Viridis over the
meadow.

Birdalone looked, and saw a woman coming toward them clad all in green,
with a rose-wreath on her head. And she drew nigh, and greeted
Birdalone kindly, and she also was a very beauteous woman; not great of
body, whereas Aurea was tall and big-made, though excellently shapen.
Light brown and goodly waved of hair was Viridis, her eyes brown, and
rather long than great; her lips full and ruddy, her cheeks soft and
sweet and smooth, and as rosy-tinted pearl; her hands small and
delicate of fashion; her whole body soft-shapen as an egg; a kind,
wheedling look her face bore.

When she had looked a while on Birdalone, she kissed her, and said: I
would thou wert happier, for thou art beauteous, and all but the evil
must love thee. Therewith she drew a cate from her pouch, and said: Eat
somewhat, for thou wilt be hungry; and let us go meet our other sister,
who is wiser than we.

So they went, all three of them, and came from off the meadow on to the
garden-slopes, and at the entry thereof was come Atra to meet them; she
was clad all in black, a tall, slim woman, with the grace of the
willow-bough in the wind, with dark plenteous hair and grey hawk-eyes;
her skin privet-white, with but little red in her cheeks. She also
greeted Birdalone kindly, but sadly withal. She gave her strawberries
to eat laid on a big kale-blade; and she said: Sisters, here are we
hidden by the trees, and cannot be seen from the house; therefore we
may sit here for a minute or two, while we talk together as to what may
perchance be done for the helping of this unhappy maiden, who is so
fair and lovely, and hath strayed into so ugly a trap. Then she said to
Birdalone: Thou must know, poor wanderer, that this Queen, our
mistress, who is sister to the Witch Under the Wood, is big and strong,
well-made, and white-skinned, so that she deems herself a Queen of all
beauty: keen-eyed is she to see a fly where others would see nought
smaller than a coney; fine-eared withal; wise in wizardry; not
altogether dull-witted, though she be proud, and crueller than the
cruellest. But herein she faileth, that her memory is of the shortest
for matters of the passing hour, albeit she remembers her spells and
witch-songs over well. But other matters will scarce abide in her head
for four and twenty hours. Wherefore, sisters, if we may keep this
maiden out of her sight (after she hath seen her and given doom upon
her) till the dead of to-morrow night, we may perchance do some good
for her; and it is in my mind that then she may do good for us also.

Now they rejoiced in this word of Atra the wise; and Atra prayed
Birdalone to tell them somewhat more of her story; and she told them
much; but, whyso it were, she said nought concerning the wood-wife,
whose outward semblance was the same as hers. Then they pitied her, and
caressed her; but Atra said: We must tarry here no more, but go
straight up to the lady, or maybe we shall lose all.

So they went their ways and came into the pleasance, and trod the sweet
greensward betwixt the garland flowers and the beauteous trees; which
now indeed, though Birdalone saw them all clear and over-clear, were
become nought to her. Those three also spake gently to her, and now and
then asked her somewhat, as if to show her that she was one of
themselves; but she spake not, or answered at random, and to say sooth
scarce heard their words: forsooth she was now become heart-sick, and
was half dead for fear; and her nakedness, which would have troubled
her little across the water, was now grown a shame and a terror unto
her, and every deal of her body quivered with the anguish thereof.




CHAPTER III.
BIRDALONE IS BROUGHT BEFORE THE WITCH-WIFE’S SISTER.


So came they at last to the very house, and whereas it stood high on
the bent, a great stair or perron of stone went up to it, and was of
much majesty. They went through the porch, which was pillared and
lovely, and into a great hall most nobly builded, and at the other end
thereof, on a golden throne raised upon a dais, sat a big woman clad in
red scarlet. The three damsels led Birdalone to some four paces of the
great lady, and then stood away from her, and left her standing there
alone, the scarlet-clad woman before her; on the right and the left the
tall pillars going up gleaming toward the roof, and about her feet the
dark polished pavement, with the wallowing of strange beasts and great
serpents and dragons all done on the coal-blue ground.

When she was so left alone, at first she tottered, and went nigh to
falling; but then came back some little heart to her, as she said to
herself that now she should verily die once for all, and that no long
while would be the passing from life into death. She looked up and
beheld the lady-witch, that she was somewhat like to her sister,
white-skinned and of plenteous golden-hair as was she, but younger of
aspect, and nowise so ill-looked as that other had now become; for
somewhat well-shapen of body she was; but her face forbidding; her
lower lip thrust out, her cheeks flaggy and drooping, her eyes little
more than half open; to be short, a face both proud, foolish, and
cruel; terrible indeed, sitting in judgment in that place on a
shrinking naked creature.

Now she spake; and if there were no majesty or solemnity in the voice,
there was ugly glee and malice therein; but she said to those damsels:
Is this the woman that my keen eyes beheld come aland from my sister’s
Sending Boat e’en now? Aurea knelt on one knee, and said: Yea, so
please you, my lady.

Then said the witch: Ho thou! Wilt thou plead some errand hither from
my sister? Dost thou deem me so witless as not to know that if she had
sent thee hither thou wouldst not have come in this plight? Nay, I
know; thou hast stolen thyself from her: thou art a thief, and as a
thief shalt thou be dealt with.

Spake Birdalone in a clear voice: No errand do I feign from thy sister,
lady: when I could bear my life there no longer, I took occasion to
flee from her: this is all the tale. Yet once and again it hath been in
my mind that it was thy sister who stole me from them that loved me.

Hah, thrall! said the lady, thou art bold; thou art over-bold, thou
naked wretch, to bandy words with me. What heed I thy tale now thou art
under my hand? Her voice was cold rather than fierce, yet was there the
poison of malice therein. But Birdalone spake: If I be bold, lady, it
is because I see that I have come into the House of Death. The dying
may well be bold.

The House of Death! cried the stupid lady; and wilt thou call my noble
house the House of Death? Now art thou no longer bold, stripped thrall,
but impudent.

Scorn rose into Birdalone’s heart at this word, but she refrained her,
and spake: I meant that I have stirred the wrath in thee, and that thou
wilt slay me therefor; and that it availeth not to crave mercy of thee.

Laughed the lady: Thou art a fool, thrall, said she; if a sparrow fled
hither from my sister, I should not wring its neck, but keep it for
her. So shall I do with thee. I shall not slay thee, and so destroy my
sister’s chattel; nor shall I spoil thee, and spoil her possession. I
shall send thee back unto her, the stolen thrall in the stolen boat,
when I have learned thee a lesson here. Forsooth it was for that cause
meseemeth that she let thee slip through her fingers, for she is wise
enough to have stayed thee from this holiday had she willed it. But she
is tender-hearted, and kind, and soft, and might well deem that if thy
chastisement were done to her hand here, it were better done than by
her mercy. Now, thrall, I have spoken enough to thee, or more than
enough: get thee back out of earshot!




CHAPTER IV.
OF THE WITCH’S PRISON IN THE WAILING-TOWER.


Birdalone did as she was bidden, and the witch called unto her Atra,
who came and stood humbly on the footpace beside her, and held converse
with her mistress a while. Then she went backward from her a little,
and then came to Birdalone, and in a somewhat harsh voice bade her come
with her. Birdalone followed her, quaking, and they came out of the
hall and into a long passage, which led to a wide stair winding round a
newel; and all was builded exceeding fair, had Birdalone’s heart
suffered her eyes to see it; but her flesh was weak, and quaked before
the torment to come, so that her knees well-nigh failed her.

But now Atra lays a hand kindly on her shoulder and stays her, and
says: Now meseems the walls of the Wailing-Tower, for so it hight, have
no ears to hear, and we may talk together. Wottest thou why I have
brought thee hither? Said Birdalone in a faint voice: Hast thou been
bidden to whip me? And if I had been so bidden, dear maiden, said Atra
laughing, nowise would I do it. Hold up thine heart! For all hath gone
well so far, and now meseems betwixt us three we shall save thee.

Birdalone’s spirit came back to her at that word, and she put her hands
to her face and fell a-weeping. But Atra was kind to her and made much
of her; and she kissed her and wiped her tears, and Birdalone smiled
again amidst her sobs, and she thanked Atra; who said to her: First of
all I must tell thee that I am taking thee to prison by the witch’s
bidding. Yea, said Birdalone, and what is prison? Said Atra: A prison
is a grim place where poor folk who have done that which pleaseth not
rich folk are shut up, that they may be grieved and tormented by not
being able to fare abroad, or go where they would; and by suffering
whatsoever their masters may lay upon them, as darkness, and cold, and
hunger, and stripes. Somewhat so, or worse, our lady would have it for
thee; but so would not we. Therefore for thee shall this prison be a
place where thou shalt be safe till we may bring thee forth when the
night hath worn towards its ending. For she will have forgotten thee by
to-morrow; and this she knoweth; wherefore just now, when thou stoodest
out of earshot, she was bidding me, amongst other matters, to bring
thee before her to-morrow morning, and tell her the tale of thee, that
she might call it to mind then what she had will to this morning.

Yea, said Birdalone, but will she not remember that she hath given thee
a charge concerning me? But little thereof, said Atra, and with a few
words I may easily confuse her memory so that speech thereon will fail
her. Keep up thine heart, sweetling; but let us up this stair now
forthwith, for I were fain to have thee hid away in this prison, and
then will I down to her and tell her that thou art lying therein in all
misery and terror, lest it come into her head to send for thee ere her
memory is grown dim.

Again did Birdalone take heart, and they hastened a long way up the
stair, till Atra stayed at last at a door all done with iron, endlong
and over-thwart. Then she took a leash of keys from her girdle, one big
and two little, and set the big one in the lock and turned it, and
shoved the heavy door and entered thereby a chamber four-square and
vaulted; and the vault was upheld by a pillar of red marble, wherein,
somewhat higher than a man’s head, were set stanchions of latten, that
could be clasped and unclasped. This chamber was in a way goodly, but
yet grim to look on; for the walls were all of black ashlar stone
close-jointed, and the floor black also, but of marble polished so
wholly that it was as dark water, and gave back the image of
Birdalone’s dear feet and legs as she went thereon. The windows were
not small, and the chamber was light in every corner because of them,
but they were so high up under the vaulting that none might see
thereout aught save the heavens. There was nought in the chamber save a
narrow bench of oak and three stools of the same, a great and stately
carven chair dight with cushions of purple and gold, and in one corner
a big oaken coffer.

Now spake Atra: This is our lady’s prison, and I fear me we cannot make
it soft for thee, dear stranger. Yea, I must tell thee (and she
reddened therewith) that it is part of my charge to set thee in irons.
Birdalone smiled on her, and was over weary to ask what that meant,
though she knew not. But Atra went to the big coffer and opened it and
thrust in her hands, and there was a jangling therewith, and when she
turned about to Birdalone again she had iron chains in her hands, and
she said: This shameth me, dear friend; yet if thou wouldst wear them
it might be well, for she may have a mind to go visit her prison, and
if she find thee there unshackled she shall be wroth, and oftenest her
wrath hath a whip in its hand. And these are the lightest that I might
find.

Birdalone smiled again, and spake not, for she was very weary, and Atra
did the irons on her wrists and her ankles; and said thereafter: Yet
bear in mind that it is a friend that hath the key of these things. And
now I will go away for a little, but I shall be on thine errands; for
first I shall tell the mistress that thou art lying here shackled and
in all wanhope; and next, by the will and command of her, I am to see
that thou be well fed and nourished to-day that thou mayst be the
stronger for to-morrow. Now if I may give thee rede, it is that thou
forbear to open the coffer yonder; for ugly things shalt thou find
there, and that may dishearten thee again.

Therewith she kissed her kindly on the cheek and went her ways, and the
great key turned in the lock behind her.

There then was Birdalone left to herself; and she was over weary even
to weep; true it is that she made a step or two towards the coffer, but
reframed her, and took two of the pillows from the great chair and
turned aside into the other corner, her chains jingling as she went.
There she laid herself down, and nestled into the very wall-nook, and
presently fell asleep, and slumbered dreamlessly and sweetly a long
while.




CHAPTER V.
THEY FEAST IN THE WITCH’S PRISON.


Birdalone was awakened by the sound of the key in the lock, and the
door opened, and there was Atra bearing dishes and platters, and behind
her Viridis with the like gear, and beakers and a flagon to boot, and
both they were smiling and merry.

Birdalone’s heart leapt up to meet them, and in especial was she
gladdened by the coming of Viridis, who had seemed to be the kindest of
them all.

Viridis spake: Now is come the meat for the dear sister, and it is
time, for surely thou art famished, and it is now long past high noon.
Do off her irons, Atra. Said Atra: Maybe it were well to let the
fetters abide on her ankles, lest the mistress should come; but for the
wrists, reach out thine hands, wayfarer. So did Birdalone, and Atra
laid her things on the ground, and unlocked the hand-shackles, and did
them off: and meanwhile Viridis spread forth the banquet, partly on the
floor, and partly on that ill-omened coffer. Then she went up to
Birdalone and kissed her, and said: Now shalt thou sit in our lady’s
throne, and we shall serve thee, and thou shalt deem thee a great one.

Nought else would they have, and Birdalone laid her nakedness on the
purple cushions, and then they fell all three to the feast. The victual
was both plenteous and dainty, of venison and fowl, and cream and
fruits and sweetmeats, and good wine they had withal: never had
Birdalone feasted in like manner, and the heart came back unto her, and
her cheeks grew rosy and her eyes glittered. But she said: How if your
lady were to come upon us here, and we so merry? Said Atra: Out of the
chair must thou when thou hearest the key in the lock, and then is all
well, and she would have nought against us; for she herself bade us,
and me in special, to keep thee company here, and talk with thee; and
Aurea also would have been here, but that she is serving the lady as
now. Hath she then some pity on me, said Birdalone, that she hath
bidden thee do by me what is most to my pleasure?

Laughed Viridis thereat, and Atra said: She hath no pity, nor ever
shall have; but so hard of heart is she, that she may not deem that we
could love thee, a stranger, and unhappy, who can serve us in nowise;
so she feareth not the abatement of thy grief from any compassion of
us. Rather she hath sent us, and me in especial, not to comfort thee,
but to grieve thee by words; for she biddeth me tell thee fair tales,
forsooth, of what to-morrow shall be to thee, and the day after; and of
how she shall begin on thee, and what shall follow the beginning, and
what thou mayst look for after that. For by all this she deemeth to
lower thy pride and abate thy valour, and to make every moment of
to-day a terror to thy flesh and thy soul, so that thereby thou mayest
thole the bitterness twice over. Such is her pity for thee! And yet
belike this cruelty hath saved thee, for but for that she had not
refrained her from thee to-day, and to-morrow thou shalt be far away
from her.

Meanwhile, said Viridis, in her soft sweet voice, none of all these
things will we talk over with thee, but things comfortable and kind;
and we will tell each to each of our story. Will we not, Atra? Yea,
verily, said she.

Birdalone looked upon them and said: Wondrous is your compassion and
loving-kindness unto me, and scarce do I know how to bear the burden
thereof. But tell me one thing truly; will ye not suffer in my place
when this witch cometh to know that ye have stolen me away from her?

Nay, said Atra, I have told thee that by to-morrow she will have
altogether, or at least almost, forgotten thee and thy coming hither.
Moreover, she is foreseeing, and hath come to know that if she raise a
hand against any of us three, it will lead her to her bane, save it be
for heavy guilt clearly proven against us. Forsooth, in the earlier
days of our captivity such a guilt we fell into, and did not wholly
escape, as Viridis can bear me witness. But we are now grown wiser, and
know our mistress better, and will give her no such joy.

Viridis cast her eyes down at those words and Atra’s smile, and turned
red and then pale, and Birdalone looked on her wondering what ailed
her; then she said: Do ye sisters work in the field and the garden? I
mean at milking the kine and the goats, and digging the earth, and
sowing and reaping, and the like. Nay, said Atra; either our mistress
or someone else who is of marvellous might, hath so ordained, that here
everything waxeth of itself without tillage, or sowing or reaping, or
any kind of tending; and whatso we need of other matters the mistress
taketh it for us from out of her Wonder-coffer, or suffereth us to take
it for ourselves. For thou must know that this land is one of the Isles
of the Lake, and is called the Isle of Increase Unsought.

Meseemeth then, said Birdalone, were the mistress of you to gainsay you
the gifts of the Wonder-coffer, ye were undone. Yea, verily, said Atra;
then would be but the fruits of the earth and the wild creatures for
our avail, and these, we have not learned how to turn them into dinner
and supper. And they all laughed thereat; but Birdalone said: See ye
then how I was right to offer myself unto you as a servant, for in all
matters of the house and the byre and the field have I skill. But since
ye would not or could not have me, I wonder not that ye be ill at ease
here, and long to be gone, for as plenteous and lovely as the isle is,
and though ye live here without present mishandling or pining. For,
sooth to say, ye have over you a tyrant and a fool.

Viridis answered: Yet is there something else, dear friend, that whets
our longing to depart. Tell her thereof, Atra.

Atra smiled and said: Simple it is: there are they who long for us and
for whom we long, and we would be together. Said Birdalone: Be these
kinsfolk of yours, as fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, or the like?

Reddened Viridis again; but Atra spake, and she also blushed somewhat,
though she smiled: Those whom we love, and who love us, be not queans,
but carles; neither be they of our blood, but aliens, till love
overcometh them and causeth them to long to be of one flesh with us;
and their longing is beyond measure, and they desire our bodies, which
they deem far fairer than belike they be. And they would bed us, and
beget children on us. And all this we let them do with a good will,
because we love them for their might, and their truth, and the hotness
of their love toward us.

Looked up Viridis thereat, and her eyes gleamed amidst the flushing of
her cheeks, and she said: Sister, sister! even in such wise, and no
other, as they desire us do we desire them; it is no mere good will
toward them from us, but longing and hot love.

Now must Atra blush no less than Viridis; yet she but said: I have told
thee hereof, Birdalone, because I deem that thou hast lived simply and
without the sight of men; but it is what all know in the world of the
sons of Adam. Said Birdalone: Thou sayest sooth concerning me. Yet
about this love have I learned somewhat even ere to-day, and now, as ye
speak and I, meseems the lore of it comes pouring in on me and fills my
heart with its sweetness. And O, to have such love from any, and with
such love to be loved withal!

Dear sister, said little Viridis, fear not; such as thou shall not fail
of the love of some man whom thou must needs love. Is it not so, sister
Atra? Said Atra: Yea; such love shall come unto her as surely as death.

They were silent now a little, and it was as if some sweet incense had
been burned within the chamber. For Birdalone the colour came and went
in her cheeks, her flesh quaked, her heart beat quick, and she was
oppressed by the sweetness of longing. More daintily she moved her
limbs, and laid foot to foot and felt the sleekness of her sides; and
tender she was of her body as of that which should one day be so sorely
loved.

Now she spake timidly to the others, and said: Each one of you then has
a man who loves her, and longs for her and for none else? So it is,
said Viridis. How sweet that shall be! said Birdalone; and now all the
more I wonder that ye could trouble yourselves over me, or think of me
once; and the kinder I think it of you.

Said Atra smiling on her: Nay, now must the cat be out of the bag, and
I must tell thee that thou art to think of us as chapmen who with our
kindness would buy something of thee, to wit, that thou wouldst do an
errand for us to those three lovers of ours. Surely, said Birdalone, it
were a little payment to set against your saving of my life and my
soul; and had I to go barefoot over red gleeds I would do it. And yet,
if I may go hence to your lovers, why not all three of you along with
me?

Said Atra: For this reason; thy ferry, the Sending Boat, wherein ye
came hither, is even somewhat akin to thy mistress and ours; and the
mistress here hath banned it against bearing us; and now, were we so
much as to touch it, such sore turmoil would arise, and such hideous
noise as if earth and heaven were falling together; and the lady would
be on us straightway, and we should be undone; and, as thou shalt hear
presently, this hath been proved. But thou, thou art free of the said
ferry. Forsooth I wot not why thy mistress banned it not against thee;
maybe because she deemed not that thou wouldst dare to use it or even
go anigh it.

Birdalone considered, and thought that even so it was; that the witch
deemed that she would not dare use the Sending Boat, nor know how to,
even if she came upon it, and that if she did so find it, she would
sicken her of the road thereto. So now she told her friends the whole
tale thereof more closely than she had afore, save again what pertained
to Habundia; withal she told every word of what her mistress had said
to her at that time when she changed her into a hind. And Viridis heard
and wondered, and pitied her. But Atra sat somewhat downcast a while.
Then she said: However this may be, we will send thee forth to-morrow
in the dawn, and take the risk of what may befall thereafter; and thou
shalt bear a token for each of those three that love us. For we deem
that they have not forgotten aught, but are still seeking us.

Birdalone said: Whatsoever ye bid me; that will I do, and deem me your
debtor still. But now I pray you, pleasure a poor captive somewhat
more. Wherein? said they both; we be all ready thereto. Said the
maiden: Would ye do so much as to tell me the tale of how ye came
hither, and then how it hath been with you from your first coming until
now? With a good will, said Atra; hearken!




CHAPTER VI.
ATRA TELLS OF HOW THEY THREE CAME UNTO THE ISLE OF INCREASE UNSOUGHT.


We were born and bred in the land that lies south-west along this Great
Water, and we waxed happily, and became fellows when we were yet but
children, and thus grew up dear friends into maidenhood and womanhood.
We were wooed by many men, but our hearts turned to none of them save
unto three, who were goodly, kind, and valiant; and thou mayst call
them the Golden Knight, who is Aurea’s man; the Green Knight, who is
man of Viridis; and my man, the Black Squire. But in this was unhap,
that because of certain feuds which had endured from old time, this
love was perilous unto them and us; so that we lived in doubt and
unrest.

Came a day, now three years ago, when the king of the whole land
brought his folk into our lakeside country, and there held a court and
a mote in a fair great meadow anigh to the water. But even as the mote
was hallowed, and the Peace of God proclaimed at the blast of the
war-horn, came we three woeful ladies clad in black and knelt before
the lord king, and prayed him hearken us. And he deemed that we were
fair, so he had compassion on us, and raised us up, and bade us speak.

So we told our tale, how that strife and wounds and death stood betwixt
us and love; and we wept, and bewailed it, that our love must be slain
because men were wroth with each other and not with us.

The king looked on us kindly, and said: Who be the swains for whom
these lovely damsels make such a piece of work? So we named them, and
said that they were there in the mote; and the king knew them for
valiant men who had done him good service; and he cried out their
names, and bade them stand forth out of the throng. So forth they
stood, the Golden Knight, the Green Knight, and the Black Squire (and
he also was now a knight); but now were they all three clad in black,
and they were unarmed, save for their swords girt to their sides,
without which no man amongst us may come to the mote, be he baron or
earl or duke, or the very lord king himself.

So the king looked upon us and them, and laughed and said: Fair ladies,
ye have got me by the nose, so needs must my body follow. Do ye three
knights, whom I know for valiant men and true, take each his love by
the hand, and let the weddings be to-morrow. Who then were joyful but
us? But even at the word the king spake arose great turmoil in the
mote, for they smote the feud and contention awake, and men thronged
forward against each other, and swords were drawn and brandished. But
the king arose in his place and spake long and deftly, and waxed
exceeding wroth, while none heeded him nor hearkened. And there stood
our three men, who laid no hand to hilt, but abode heart-whole by
seeming amid the tumult. And lovely they were to look on. At last the
wise men and old barons went between, and by fair words appeased the
trouble, and the mote grew hushed. Then spake the king: What is this,
my thanes? I had deemed that my foemen were far away, and that ye that
here are were all friends unto me and unto each other. But now must we
try another rede. Therewith he turned unto our men and said: Ye
champions, are ye so much in love with Love that ye will fight for him?
They all yeasaid that, and then the king said: Then do I declare that
these three will hold the field against all comers from matins till
high noon, and that he who vanquisheth any one of them shall have his
lady and wed her if he will, and, if he will, shall ransom her. And
this field shall be foughten after two months’ frist in these fair
meadows, when I return from the outermost marches of the south, whereto
I am now wending. But when the battle is done, then let all men bow to
the judgment of God, whether he be well content or not, and this on
peril of life and limb. And now let there be deep peace between all men
meanwhile; and if any break the peace, be he high or low, rich or
unrich, churl or earl, I swear it by the souls of my fathers that he
shall lose nought save his life therefor.

At these words was there a rumour of yeasay, and all men were content,
save we three poor maidens, into whose hearts had now entered fear of
loss and death.

But our kindreds on both sides were glad and proud, and they were not
so bitter against us as they had been; they put hand to pouch, and let
rear for us a fair pavilion of painted timber, all hung with silk and
pictured cloths and Saracen tapestry, by the very lake-side; and gay
boats gaily bedight lay off the said pavilion for our pleasure; and
when all was done, it yet lacked a half month of the day of battle, and
thither were we brought in triumph by the kindreds on a fair day of
May, and there was not a sword or a spear amongst the whole company,
and peaceful and merry was all by seeming. But we were not suffered to
meet our lovers all this while, from the time when the mote was.

Now on a day came a messenger on the spur, and did us to wit that the
king would be with us on the morrow, and that the day after, the
fateful field should be foughten. Then, though the coming of this day
had been so longed for by us, yet now it was at hand it cast us into
all unrest and trouble, so that we scarce knew whether to go, or stand,
or sit, or what to do with our bodies. Our folk, and all other men
withal, were so busy making ready for the morrow of to-morrow, that
they left us alone to wear through the day as we might.

Now it was afternoon, and the day hot and hazy, and we stood on the
very lip of the land wearied with hope and fear, and striving to keep
good countenance to each other; and there came a boat unto the shore
gaily painted and gilded, and bedight with silken cloths and cushions;
and the steerer thereof was a woman, not young, by seeming of fifty
winters; red-haired she was, thin-lipped and narrow-eyed, flat-breasted
and strait-hipped; an ungoodly woman, though her skin was white and
smooth as for her age. Hast thou ever seen such an one, guest? Said
Birdalone, smiling: Forsooth that have I; for such an one is my
mistress to behold.

Well, said Atra, this dame stretched out her hands to us, and said:
Will not the pretty ladies, the dear ladies, who have nought on hand
this afternoon, come into my boat and look on the face of the water, so
calm and fair as it is, and let their lovely hands go over the gunwale
and play with the ripple, and so beguile this heavy time for a two
hours; and then give a little gift of a piece or two of silver to a
poor carline, who loveth all fair ladies and bright warriors, and who
needeth a little livelihood?

Now the woman seemed nought lovely unto us, and to me forsooth she
seemed hateful; but we looked on each other, and we found that we were
utterly weary of going up and down on the meadow, and lying about in
the pavilion, and it seemed as if this would give us a little rest;
withal we saw not that the woman could do us any hurt, whereas we were
three, and strong enough as women go; nor were we mariners so evil but
that we might sail or steer a boat at a pinch. So we stepped into the
boat straightway, and the woman sat aft and paddled deftly with the
steering oar, and we glided away from the land.

Soon we were come so far that we could but just see our pavilion
through the haze, which had somewhat thickened, and we said to the
woman that she should go about and make for the shore, and that then we
would go to and fro a while along by our stead. She nodded yeasay, and
began by seeming to dight the craft for return. But therewith the haze
was grown suddenly into a low cloud, which came down upon us from the
south-west in the arms of a cold breeze, that grew stronger every
minute, so no wonder it was though the steerer might not keep head to
wind; and then who was afraid and ashamed save ourselves?

But the woman said, and there seemed to be a mock in her voice: Ill
luck, pretty ladies! Now is there nought for it but to drive, if we
would not drown. But belike this duskiness will clear presently, and
then at least we shall know whither we be going; and we may either turn
back, or seek some other shelter, for I know the lake well; I know, I
know.

We were too terror-stricken to speak, for we felt that still the wind
grew stronger, and the lake began to rise into waves, and the craft to
wallow; but well-nigh therewith was the dusk and the mist gone; the sky
was bright blue overhead, and the westering sun shone cloudless; but on
no land it shone, or on aught save the blue waters and the white
wave-crests.

Then wept Aurea, and this Viridis here, but as to me, I grew wroth and
cried out to the steerer: Accursed carline! thou hast betrayed us;
never now may we get back to our pavilion till the fight is foughten,
and our lovers will deem that we have forsaken them, and we are shamed
for ever. Well, well, said the carline, what remedy save patience for
the winds and waves? And she laughed mockingly. Quoth I: There is this
remedy, that we three arise and lay hands on thee, and cast thee
outboard, save thou straightway turn the boat’s head and back to the
main. Forsooth I doubt not but that as thou hast raised this foul wind
against us, thou canst raise a fair wind for us.

Hearken to the lovely lady! quoth the carline, how she deemeth me to be
none other than the great God himself, to hold the winds in the hollow
of my hand, and still the waves with a word! What! am I wrought
somewhat after his image, kind ladies? And she grinned horribly
therewith. Then she said again: As to thy remedy, sweetling, meseemeth
it nought. For how shall ye sail this stormy water when your captain is
gone, and ye but holiday sailors belike?

As she spake, a great wave came up from the windward, and brake over
us, and half filled the craft, and lifted her bows up towering, and
then down we went into the trough; and I sat cowed and quaking, and
spake never another word.

Now began the sun to sink, and the wind abated, and the sea went down,
but the boat sped on as swift as ever over the landless waters.

Now the sun was down, and dusk was at hand, and the carline spake, and
drew a bright-gleaming sax from under her raiment: Damsels, I warn you
that now it were best that ye obey me in all things; for though ye be
three and I one, yet whereas I have here an edge-friend, I may take the
life of any one of you, or of all three, as simply as I could cut a
lamb’s throat. Moreover it will serve you better in the house whereto
ye are wending, that I make a good tale of you rather than a bad. For
the mistress of that house is of all might; and I must say it of her,
though she is my very sister, yet she is not so sweet-tempered and kind
of heart as I am, but somewhat rough and unyielding of mood, so that it
is best to please her. Wherefore, maidens, I rede you be sage.

Our unhappy hearts were now so sunken in wan-hope, that we had no word
wherewith to answer her, and she spake: Now obey ye my bidding and eat
and drink, that ye may come hale and sound to your journey’s end, for I
would not give starvelings to my dear sister. Therewith she brought
forth victual for us, and that nought evil, of flesh and bread, and
cheese and cakes, and good wine withal; and we were hunger-weary as
well as sorrow-weary; and hunger did at that moment overcome sorrow, so
we ate and drank, and, would we, would we not, something of heart came
back to us thereby. Then again spake the carline: Now my will is that
ye sleep; and ye have cushions and cloths enough to dight you a fair
bed; and this bidding is easy for you to obey. Forsooth, so weary were
we with sorrow, and our hunger was now quenched, that we laid us down
and slept at once, and forgat our troubles.

When we awoke it was after the first dawn, and we were come aland even
where thou didst this morning, guest. And thou mayst deem it wondrous,
but so it was, that close to where our boat took land lay the ferry
which brought thee hither.

Now the carline bade us get ashore, and we did so, and found the land
wondrous fair, little as that solaced us then. But she said unto us:
Hearken! now are ye come home; and long shall ye dwell here, for never
shall ye depart hence save by the will of my sister and me, wherefore,
once more, I rede you be good, for it will be better for you. Go forth
now unto yonder house, and on the way ye shall meet the Queen of this
land, and ye have nought to do but to say to her that ye are the Gift;
and then shall she see to your matter.

Therewith she gat into her own craft, the Sending Boat, and therein did
the deed and spake the words ye wot of, and was gone north-away; and
when we turned to seek for our boat wherein we had come hither, it was
gone.

We stood miserably for a while on the lip of the land, and then I said
that we might as well go meet our fate as die there of grief and
hunger. So we went, and came into those fair gardens, and as we went
slowly up toward the house came on us a woman clad in red scarlet and
grandly dight. A big woman she was, and like to her that beguiled us,
but far younger and fairer of favour, foolish and proud of visage. She
stared on us, and seemed half afeard of us at first, but asked us what
we were, and I answered that we were the Gift. The Gift? said she, what
meaneth that? Will ye obey me in all things? If ye gainsay it, ye will
perish, unless ye can eat grass; for on this isle everything cometh
from my hand.

What might we do? We all knelt down before her, and swore to do her
will. Then she said, after she had stared on us a while: Now I know: ye
are they of whom my sister spake, that she would fetch me a gift of a
leash of damsels for my service. Now I take the Gift and thank her good
heart. But if ye would do my will, then . . . But she broke off here
and stared at us a long while, and then she said: Now I know; she bade
me treat you well, and hold my hand from you, or evil would come of it,
belike at last my bane. So go ye home to the house, and I will give you
meat and drink, and show you my stores and the Wonder-coffer, and ye
shall serve me in honour.

Even so did we; and we ate and drank and rested, and nought we lacked,
save leave to depart home to our lovers, and some mistress better than
this stupid and proud lump of flesh. But the next morning when we came
before the lady, she knew nought of what we were; and again we had to
tell her that we were the Gift, and again she glared at us balefully,
and again she called to mind her sister and her rede concerning us. And
this went on for many days, till at last she got to know what we were;
and she followed her sister’s rede in that she never mishandled us,
though we could see that it irked her to forbear, nor did she speak to
us more roughly than her fool’s wont was; and we had in our hands all
that was needed for our sustenance, and lived easily enough.

Now our coming hither betid three years ago, and a month thereafter
comes thy witch hither in her ferry, and she greeted us when we met,
and asked us, grinning, had she not been kind to win us such good days?
Yea, and over kind, said she, ye would deem me, knew ye what would have
betid you save for my good word. Forsooth we deemed it no kind deed to
steal us from our lovers; but we kept good tongues in our heads, for
thralls must needs kiss the rod.

She went away in two days, but came again many times thereafter, till
we won the secret of the Sending Boat, and her spell therewith; but we
knew not that was banned against us. Wherefore on a day in the grey of
the morning, when we had been on this isle somewhat less than a year,
we went down to it and stepped in, and reddened stem and stern and said
the spell-words. But straightway arose an hideous braying and clatter,
and thunder came therewith, and trembling of the earth, and the waters
of the lake arose in huge waves; nor might we move from our seats in
the boat till the two witches came running down to us, and haled us out
ashore, and had us up into the house, and into this very
prison-chamber, wherein we are now sitting so merry. And here we bore
what was laid upon us, whereof, dear guest, we shall tell thee nought.
But this came of it, that never thereafter durst we try the adventure
of the Sending Boat, but have lived on in lazy sorrow and shameful
ease, till thou, dear guest and sister, wert sent hither by heaven for
our helping.

Now what became of the king’s court, and the hazelled field of our
champions, we wot not, or whether they be yet alive we cannot tell
thee; but if they be alive, it is to them that we would have thee do
our errand, and thereof will we tell thee closely to-morrow. And so,
sweetling, an end of my tale.




CHAPTER VII.
THE THREE DAMSELS TAKE BIRDALONE OUT OF THE WITCH’S PRISON.


Birdalone thanked Atra much for her tale, and strange it was to her to
hear of such new things and the deeds of folk; but the dealing of the
witches with those three was familiar to her and was of her world.

Now they talked merrily, till there came a footstep to the door and one
without knocked. Viridis paled thereat, and a pang of fear smote
Birdalone, and she swiftly got from out the chair and sat down on a
stool; but when Atra opened, it was but Aurea come from her service to
bid Atra take her place. So she went, and again was there pleasant
converse betwixt Aurea and the other twain; and certain matters did
Aurea tell Birdalone which had been left untold by Atra. And chiefly,
when Birdalone asked if any other folk had come into the isle while
they dwelt there, she said yea; once had come a knight with a lady, his
love, fleeing from war and mishap, and these had the witch overcome by
wizardry, and destroyed them miserably: and that again another had
strayed thither, and him also the witch undid, because he would not do
her will and lie in her bed. Withal had come drifting there a young
damsel, a castaway of the winds and waves; her the witch kept as a
thrall, and after a while took to mishandling her so sorely, that at
last, what for shame and what for weariness of life, she cast herself
into the water and was drowned. None of these folk might the damsels
help so as to do them any good, though they tried it, and went nigh to
suffer therefor themselves.

Now the day wore, and in a while Atra came back, and Viridis must
serve. At last the dusk and the dark was come. Then said Atra: Now must
we twain begone to wait upon our lady, as the wont is: and that is now
for our good hap, for if we be with her all three, and especially, to
say sooth, if I be with her, we may well keep her from visiting thee
here; since belike she shall yet dimly remember that thou art in her
prison. Therefore thou must forgive it if I shackle thy wrists again.
And now if thou wilt follow my rede, thou shalt try to sleep some deal,
and it were well if thou might’st sleep till we come for thee in the
grey dawn.

Therewith they left her there, and she nestled in the corner once more,
and there did verily fall asleep, and slept till the key in the lock
and the opening door awakened her, and Atra came stealing soft-footed
into the prison. Eager she was and panting, and she kneeled before
Birdalone and unlocked her leg-shackles, and then stood up and did the
like by the irons on her wrists. Then she said: Look up, dear friend,
to thy prison windows, and behold the dawn beginning to break on the
day of thy deliverance, and ours maybe. But come now at once: and
again, wilt thou pardon me, that we clothe thee not here for thy
journey? For from our own bodies must we clothe thee, and if by any hap
our lady were to see any one of us more or less unclad, it might draw
her on to see what was toward, and we might yet be found out, for our
undoing.

Therewith she took her hand, and led her forth of the prison, and
locked the door behind her; and then downstairs they went, and
out-a-doors by a little wicket at the stair-end. The dawn drew on apace
now, and Birdalone saw at once the other twain lurking in the wall-nook
hard by. No word was spoken between them, and with noiseless feet they
went forth into the orchard, where the blackbirds and thrushes were
beginning their first morning song, and ere they came out on to the
meadow the full choir of them was a-singing.




CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHAT WISE BIRDALONE WAS CLAD, AND HOW SHE WENT HER WAYS FROM THE
ISLE OF INCREASE UNSOUGHT.


When they were all clear of the orchard trees the three damsels kept
Birdalone between them closely, so that her white body should not be
seen if the lady were awake and looking forth. Thus they brought her to
where a few thorn-bushes made a cover for them close to the water’s
edge, some twenty yards from the Sending Boat. There they stood
together, and Atra said:

Now, dear guest, and dearest messenger, it is our matter to clothe thee
from our very bodies; and do thou, Viridis, begin.

Viridis came forward blushing, as her wont was, and took off her green
gown and laid it on the grass; then she set her hand to her smock, and
did it off, and stood naked, knee set to knee, and swaying like the
willow branch; and then was seen all the dainty fashion of her body,
and how lovely of hue and sweet of flesh she was.

But she said: Dear sister Birdalone, here is my smock, which I lend
thee, but as to my love, I give it thee therewith; therefore grudge it
not, though thou give me back the linen, for happy will be the day to
me when I have it again; for now none may do it on me save the Green
Knight, my own love. Therewith she gave her the smock, and kissed her,
and Birdalone did it on, and felt the valianter and mightier when she
had a garment upon her.

Then Aurea did off her golden gown, and stood in smock alone, so that
her naked arms shone more precious than the golden sleeves that had
covered them. And she spake: Birdalone, dear messenger, take now my
golden gown, and send it back to me when thou hast found the man unto
whom it is due; and think meanwhile that, when thou wearest it, thou
wearest my love, and that when thou pullest it off, thou art clad with
my love instead of it.

So Birdalone did on the gown, and became to look on as the daintiest of
the queens of the earth; and she turned her head about to look on her
gold-clad flanks, and wondered.

Thereafter Atra knit up her skirts into her girdle, and then did off
her shoon, so that her slim feet shone like pearls on the green grass;
and she said:

Birdalone, sweet friend! wilt thou be my messenger to bear these shoon
to my Black Squire, and meanwhile put my love for thee under thy feet,
to speed thee and to bear thee up? Wherefore be good to me.

Birdalone then shod herself, and though pity it were to hide her feet
from the eyes of Earth, yet felt she the stouter-hearted thereby, and
her cheeks flushed and her eyes brightened.

Thereafter Aurea gave her withal a golden collar for the neck, and
Viridis a girdle of silver well-wrought, and Atra a gold finger-ring
set with a sapphire stone; and all these she did on her; but yet she
knew that they were tokens to be delivered to the three lovers
according as was due.

Then spake Atra: Lo, sister, we pray thee to bear these lendings on thy
body in such wise that when thou comest to the mainland they may be
seen by knights seeking adventures, and that thou mayst answer to any
who may challenge thee thereof and say that thou bearest this raiment
and these jewels from Aurea and Viridis and Atra to Baudoin the Golden
Knight, and to Hugh the Green Knight, and to Arthur the Black Squire.
And if thou deem that thou hast found these, then shall they tell thee
a token, such as we shall tell thee, that they be truly these and none
other; and thereafter, when thou art made sure, they shall take of thee
the raiment, the gems, and the Sending Boat, and come hither if they
may. And God look to the rest! But as for the token to be told
aforesaid, we have determined that each of us shall tell thee privily
what question thou shalt ask for her, and what answer thou must look
for.

When she had done speaking, each came up to Birdalone and spake
something into her ear amidst blushes enough forsooth. And what they
said will be seen hereafter. Then again said Atra: Now by this errand
shall we be well paid for the care we have had of thee. It may be,
forsooth, that thou shalt not find our speech-friends; for they may be
dead, or they may deem us untrue, and may have forsaken us and their
land; and in any such case thou art free of our errand; but whatsoever
may betide us, God speed thee!

Then Viridis drew forth a basket from under a bush, and said: We know
not how long thy voyage may be, but some little provision for the way
we may at least give thee: now wilt thou bear this aboard thyself; for
we dare not touch thy craft, nay, nor come nigh it, no one of us. And
she set down the basket and cast her arms about her, and kissed her and
wept over her; and the other twain, they also kissed her lovingly.
Birdalone wept even as Viridis, and said: May ye do well, who have been
so kind to me; but now am I both so glad and so sorry, that the voice
of me will not make due words for me. O farewell!

Therewith she took up her basket, and turned and went speedily to the
Sending Boat; and they beheld her how she stepped aboard and bared her
arm, and drew blood from it with the pin of her girdle-buckle, and
therewith reddened stem and stern; and a pang of fear smote into their
hearts lest their lady had banned it for Birdalone as for them. But
Birdalone sat down on the thwart, and turned her face south, and spake:

The red raven-wine now
Hast thou drunk, stern and bow;
Awake then, awake!
And the southward way take:
The way of the Wender forth over the flood,
For the will of the Sender is blent with the blood.


No cloud barred the gateway of the sun as she spoke; no wave rose upon
the bosom of the lake; no clatter nor tumult was there; but the Sending
Boat stirred, and then shot out swiftly into the wide water; and the
sun arose as they looked, and his path of light flashed on Birdalone’s
golden gown for a moment, and then it grew grey again, and presently
she was gone from before their eyes.

So they turned up into the orchard: and now was Viridis of good cheer,
and Aurea no less; but Atra lagged behind, and as she went, some
passion took her, she knew not wherefore; her bosom swelled, her
shoulders heaved therewith, and she wept.




CHAPTER IX.
HOW BIRDALONE CAME TO THE ISLE OF THE YOUNG AND THE OLD.


All went well with Birdalone when she had left the Isle of Increase
Unsought, much as it had on her first voyage, save that now she was
both clad and victualled, and her heart, if yet it harboured fear, was
also full of new and strange hope; and oft, even as she sat there
amidst the waste of waters, she wondered what new longing this was
which wrought so sweet a pain in her, that it made her cheeks burn, and
her eyes dim, and her hands and her limbs restless. And then would she
set her mind to her friends and their errand, and would hope and pray
for them; but again would she fall to picture to herself what manner of
men they were who were so sore longed for by those three beauteous
women; and she deemed that since they were thus desired, they must be
fairer even than her friends of the isle; and again the nameless
longing overtook her, and held her till it wearied her into sleep.

When she awoke again the boat had stayed, and she was come aland; but
the dawn was not yet come, and the night was moonless, yet was there
light enough to see, from the water and the stars, that the bows of the
boat were lying safe on a little sandy beach. So she stepped out and
looked around, and deemed she could see great trees before her, and
imagined also dark masses of she knew not what. So she walked warily up
the said strand till she came on to soft grass, and smelled the scent
of the clover as her foot-soles crushed it. There she sat down, and
presently lay along and went to sleep.

After a while she awoke, and felt happy and well at ease, and had no
will to move: the sun was shining brightly, but had not been up long:
the song of birds was all about her, but amidst it she deemed she heard
some speech of man, though it were not like to what she had heard in
her life before. So she raised herself on her elbow, and looked up and
saw a new thing, and sat up now, and beheld and wondered.

For there stood before her, gazing wide-eyed on her, two little
children, some three winters of age, a man and a woman as it seemed.
The man-child with light and fine white-golden hair, falling straight
down and square over his brow, and blue-grey eyes which were both kind
and merry, and shyly seeking as it were. Plump and rosy he was, sturdy
and stout-limbed. No less fair was the woman; her hair golden-brown, as
oft it is with children who grow up dark-haired, and curling in fair
little rings all over her head; her eyes were big and dark grey; she
was thinner than the lad, and somewhat taller.

These two babes had between them a milk-white she-goat, and had been
playing with her, and now she turned her head to this and that one of
them, bleating, as if to crave more of the game; but they had no eyes
for her, but stood staring with might and main on the new-comer and her
shining golden gown.

Birdalone laughed with joy when she saw the little ones, and a dim
memory of the days of Utterhay passed before her: she stretched out a
hand to them, and spake softly and caressingly, and the little lad came
forward smiling, and took her hand, and made as if he would help her up
for courtesy’s sake. She laughed on him, and arose; and when she stood
up, tall and golden, he seemed somewhat afeard of so big a creature,
but stood his ground valiantly. Then she stooped down to him and kissed
him, and he naysaid her not, but seemed rather glad when it was over;
but when Birdalone went to the little maid, and kissed her, the child
clung to her as if she were her mother, and babbled to her.

Then comes the lad to her, and takes her hand, and would draw her away,
and speaks to her in his prattle, and she understood him to mean that
she should come with him to see the father. So she went, wondering what
should next betide; and the little maiden went on the other side of
her, holding by a fold of her skirt. Forsooth the goat followed
bleating, not well pleased to be forgotten.

Now had Birdalone time to look about her, though the two babes fell to
prattling with her in their way, and she thought it sweet to look down
on the two little faces that looked up to her so pleased and merry.

She was in a grassy plain, somewhat over rough and broken to be called
a meadow, and not enough be-timbered to be called a wood; it rose up a
little and slowly as they left the water, but scarce so much as one
might call it a hill. Straight before her on the way that they were
going went up into the air great masses of grey stone builded by man’s
hand, but looking, even from this way off, ragged and ruinous. It may
well be thought that Birdalone wondered what things might lie betwixt
the trees and the towers.

Now as they went they came on other goats, who seemed tame, and these
joined them to their fellow, and suffered the younglings to play with
them. Moreover there were rabbits great plenty scuttling in and out of
the brakes and the rough ground upon the way, and the younglings beheld
them, and the little lad said, after his fashion: Why do the rabbits
run away from us, and the goats follow us? Now, sooth to say, Birdalone
scarce knew why, and had no word ready for the child; but she said at
last: Mayhappen they will come to me; so it was once when I dwelt away
from here. Shall I go fetch thee one? The little ones yeasaid that,
though somewhat shyly and doubtfully. Then said Birdalone: Do ye,
sweetlings, abide me here, and go not away. They nodded their heads
thereat, and Birdalone kilted her skirts and went her ways to some
broken bushed ground, where was a many rabbits playing about; but she
went not out of eye-shot of the babes. Before she was well-nigh to the
little beasts, she fell to talking to them in a low sweet voice, as had
been her wont when she was little; and when they heard it, those who
had not scuttled away at first glance of her, fell to creeping little
short creeps one to the other, as their manner is when they be alone
together and merry; and they suffered her to come quite amongst them,
and crept about her feet while she stood, still talking unto them. Then
she stooped down and took up one in her arms and caressed it, and then
laid him down and took up another, and so with three or four of them;
and she fell to pushing them, and rolling them over with her foot; then
she turned a little away from them toward the children, and then a
little more, and the rabbits fell to following her, and she turned and
took up one in her arms, and went straight on toward the children, but
turning and talking to the rabbits now and again.

As to the babes, she saw the goats, of whom were now a dozen, or
thereabouts, standing together in a kind of ring, and the little ones
going from one to the other playing with them happily. But presently
the lad turned and saw her coming with her tail of little beasts, and
he cried out a great Oh and ran toward her straightway, and the maiden
after him; and he held out his arms to have the rabbit she bore, and
she gave it to him smiling, and said: Lo now! here be pretty playmates;
but look to it that ye be soft and kind with them, for they are but
feeble people. So the younglings fell to sporting with their new
friends, and for a little forgat both goats and golden lady; but the
goats drew nigh, and stood about them bleating, nor durst they run at
the rabbits to butt them, because of Birdalone and the little ones.

There then stood the slim maiden, tall and gleaming above her little
flock; and her heart was full of mirth and rest, and the fear was all
forgotten. But as she looked up toward the grey walls, lo, new tidings
to hand! For she saw an old man with a long white beard slowly coming
toward them: she started not, but abode his coming quietly, and as he
drew nigh she could see of him that he was big and stark, and, old as
he was, not yet bowed with his many years. He stood looking on this
Queen and her court silently a while, and then he spake: Such a sight I
looked not to see on this Isle of the Young and the Old. She said: But
meseemeth it is full meet that these younglings should sport with the
creatures. He smiled and said: Such a voice I looked not to hear on the
Isle of the Young and the Old.

Birdalone became somewhat troubled, and said: Am I welcome here? for if
I be not, I will pray thy leave to depart. He said: Thou art as welcome
as the very spring, my child; and if thou have a mind to abide here,
who shall naysay thee? For surely thou art young; nay, in regard to me
thou art scarce older than babes. All blessings be with thee. But
though thou art true and kind, as is clear to be seen by thy playing
with these children and the landward beasts in peace and love, yet it
may be so that thou hast brought hither somewhat less than peace. And
he smiled upon her strangely.

She looked somewhat scared at his last words, and said: But how so? If
I might I would bear nought but peace and happiness to any place. The
old carle laughed outright now, and said: How so, dear child? because
ladies so sweet and lovesome as thou be sent by love, and love rendeth
apart that which was joined together.

She wondered at his word, and was bewildered by it, but she held her
peace; and he said: Now we may talk hereof later on; but the matter to
hand now is the quenching of thine hunger; for I will not ask thee
whereby thou camest, since by water thou needs must have come.
Wherefore now I bid thee to our house, and these little ones shall go
with us, and the three of these horned folk whom we are wont to tether
amidst the wrack and ruin of what once was fair; the rest have our
leave to depart, and these nibblers also; for we have a potherb garden
by our house, and are fain to keep the increase of the same for
ourselves. Birdalone laughed, and shook her skirts at the coneys, and
they all scuttled away after the manner of their kind. Thereat the
little lad looked downcast and well-nigh tearful, but the maid stamped
her foot, and roared well-favouredly.

Birdalone did her best to solace her, and plucked a bough from a
hawthorn bush far above the little ones’ reach whereon was yet some
belated blossom, and gave it to her and stilled her. But the old man
picked out his milch-goats from the flock (whereof was the white), and
drave them before him, while the two babes went on still beside
Birdalone, the little carle holding her hand and playing with the
fingers thereof; the maiden sometimes hanging on to her gown, sometimes
going loose and sporting about beside her.

So came they to where the ground became smoother, and there was a fair
piece of greensward in a nook made by those great walls and towers,
which sheltered it from the north. The said walls seemed to be the
remnant of what had once been a great house and castle; and up aloft,
where was now no stair to come at them, were chimneys and hearths here
and there, and windows with fair seats in them, and arched doors and
carven pillars, and many things beautiful, but now was all ruined and
broken, and the house was roofless and floorless: withal it was
overgrown with ash-trees and quicken-beam, and other berry-trees and
key-trees, which had many years ago seeded in the rent walls, and now
grew there great and flourishing. But in the innermost nook of this
mighty remnant, and using for its lowly walls two sides of the ancient
ashlar ones, stood a cot builded not over trimly of small wood, and now
much overgrown with roses and woodbine. In front of it was a piece of
garden ground, wherein waxed potherbs, and a little deal of wheat; and
therein was a goodly row of bee-skeps; and all without it was the
pleasant greensward aforesaid, wherein stood three great ancient oaks,
and divers thorns, which also were ancient after their kind.

The elder led his guest into the cot, which had but simple plenishing
of stools and benches, and a table unartful, and then went to tether
his goats in the ruined hall of the house, and the children must needs
with him, though Birdalone had been glad of one of them at least; but
there was no nay, but that they must go see their dear white goat in
her stall. Howsoever all three came back again presently, the old carle
with a courteous word in his mouth, and he took Birdalone’s hand, and
kissed it and bade her welcome to his house, as though he had been a
great lord at home in his own castle. Therewith must the little ones
also kiss her hand and be courteous; and Birdalone suffered it,
laughing, and then caught them up in her arms, and clipped and kissed
them well-favouredly; wherewith belike they were not over-well pleased,
though the boy endured it kindly. Thereafter the elder set forth his
banquet, which was simple enough: upland cheer of cream and honey, and
rough bread; but sweet it was to Birdalone to eat it with good welcome,
and the courtesy of the old man.

When they were done, they went out-a-doors, and Birdalone and the old
man laid them down under an oak-tree, and the children sported about
anigh them. Then spake Birdalone: Old man, thou hast been kind unto me;
but now wouldest thou tell me about thee, what thou art, and what are
these walls about us here? Said he: I doubt if I may do so, this day at
least. But belike thou shalt abide with us, and then some day the word
may come into my mouth. She held her peace, and into her mind it came
that it would be sweet to dwell there, and watch those fair children
waxing, and the lad growing up and loving her; yea, even she fell to
telling up the years which would make him a man, and tried to see
herself, how she would look, when the years were worn thereto. Then she
reddened at the untold thought, and looked down and was silent. But the
elder looked on her anxiously, and said: It will be no such hard life
for thee, for I have still some work in me, and thou mayst do something
in spite of thy slender and delicate fashion. She laughed merrily, and
said: Forsooth, good sire, I might do somewhat more than something; for
I am deft in all such work as here ye need; so fear not but I should
earn my livelihood, and that with joy. Merry days shall we have then,
said he.

But therewith her eye caught the gleam of her golden sleeve, and she
thought of Aurea, and her heart smote her for her errand; then she laid
her hand on her girdle and called to mind little Viridis, and the
glitter of the ring on her finger brought the image of Atra before her;
then she rose up and said: Thou art kind, father, but I may not; I have
an errand; this day must I depart from thee. He said: Thou hast broken
my heart; if I were not so old, I would weep. And he hung adown his
head.

She stood before him abashed, as if she had done him a wrong. At last
he looked up and said: Must it be to-day? Wilt thou not abide with us
night-long, and go thy ways in the early morning?

Now she scarce knew how to gainsay him, so wretched as the old carle
looked; so it came to this, that she yeasaid the abiding till
to-morrow. Then suddenly he became gay and merry, and he kissed her
hand, and fell to much speaking, telling tales of little import
concerning his earlier days. But when she asked him again of how he
came there, and what meant the great ruined house, then he became
foolish and wandering, and might scarce answer her; whereas otherwise
he was a well-spoken old carle of many words, and those of the
grandest.

Then changed his mood again, and he fell to bewailing her departure,
and how that henceforth he should have none to speak to him with
understanding. Then she smiled on him and said: But yonder babes will
grow up; month by month they will be better fellows unto thee. Fair
child, he said, thou dost not know. My days to come are but few, so
that I should see but little of their waxing in any case. But
furthermore, wax they will not; such as they be now, such shall they be
till I at least see the last of them and the earth.

Birdalone wondered at this word, and the place seemed changed to her,
yea, was grown somewhat dreary; but she said to the carle: And thou,
dost thou change in any wise, since these change not? He laughed
somewhat grimly, and said: The old that be here change from old to
dead; how could I change to better? Yea, the first thing I had to do
here was to bury an old man. Quoth she: And were there any children
here then? Yea, said he; these same, or I can see no difference in
them. Said Birdalone: And how long ago is that? And how camest thou
hither? His face became foolish, and he gibbered rather than spake: No,
I wot not; no, no, no, not a whit, a whit. But presently after was he
himself again, and telling her a tale of a great lady of the earl-folk,
a baron’s dame, and how dear he was unto her. He lay yet on the grass,
and she stood before him, and presently he put forth a hand to her
gown-hem and drew her to him thereby, and fell to caressing her feet;
and Birdalone was ashamed thereat, and a little angry. He was nought
abashed, but sat up and said: Well, since thou must needs depart
to-morrow, be we merry to-day. And I pray thee talk much with me, fair
child, for sweet and sweet is thy voice to hearken. Then he arose and
said: Now will I fetch thee somewhat to eke the joy of us both. And he
turned therewith and went into the house.

Birdalone stood there, and was now perplexed and downhearted; for now
the look of the elder scarce liked her, and the children began to seem
to her as images, or at the best not more to her than the rabbits or
the goats; and she rued her word that she would abide there the night
through. For she said to herself: I fear some trap or guile; is the
witch behind this also? for the old man is yet stark, and though he be
foolish at whiles, yet may wizardry have learned him some guile.

With that cometh out the carle again, bearing a little keg and a mazer
roughly wrought; and he came to Birdalone, and sat down, and bade her
sit by him, and said to her: Maybe I shall hear more of thy sweet voice
when thy sweet lips have been in the cup. Therewith he poured forth
into the mazer, and handed it to Birdalone, and lo! it was clear and
good mead. She sipped thereof daintily, and, to say sooth, was
well-pleased therewith, and it stirred the heart in her. But then she
gave back the cup to the elder, and would no more of it. As for him, he
drank what was left in the cup, looking over the rim thereof meanwhile;
and then filled himself another, and another, and yet more. But whereas
it might have been looked for that his tongue should be loosened by the
good mead into foolishness and gibbering, he became rather few-spoken,
and more courteous and stately even than he had been at the first. But
in the end, forsooth, he was forgetting Birdalone, what she was, and he
fell a-talking, always with much pomp and state, as if to barons and
earls, and great ladies; till suddenly his head fell back, he turned
over on his face, and all wit was gone from him.

At first, then, Birdalone was afraid that he was dead, or nigh unto
death, and she knelt down and raised his head, and fetched water and
cast it over his face. But when she saw that he was breathing not so
ill, and that the colour was little changed in his lips and cheeks, she
knew that it was but the might of the mead that had overcome him.
Wherefore she laid him so that he was easy, and then stood up and
looked about her, and saw the children playing together a little way
off; and nought else anigh her, save the birds in the brake, or flying
on their errands eagerly from place to place. Then, as it were, without
her will being told them, her limbs and her feet turned her about to
the shore where lay the Sending Boat, and she went speedily but quietly
thitherward, her heart beating quick, for fear lest something should
yet stay her, and her eyes glancing from brake to bush, as if she
looked to see some enemy, old or new, come out thence.

So now her will was clear enough to her feet, and they brought her down
to the water-side and the long strand, past which the wide water lay
windless and gleaming in the hot afternoon. Then lightly she stepped
aboard, and awoke the Sending Boat with blood-offering, and it obeyed
her, and sped swiftly on the way to the southward.




CHAPTER X.
BIRDALONE COMES TO THE ISLE OF THE QUEENS.


Birdalone awoke the next morning while the boat was yet speeding over
the water, and the sun was up: but she was hard on the land, which sat
low and green, like a meadow exceeding fair, on the bosom of the water,
and many goodly trees were sprinkled about the greenland. But from
amidst the trees, no great way from the water’s edge, rose a great
house, white and fair, as if it were new-builded, and all glorious with
pinnacles, and tabernacles set with imagery.

Presently the boat’s bows ran into the reed and rush at the brim of the
water, and Birdalone stepped ashore without more ado, and the scent of
the meadow-sweet amongst which she landed brought back unto her the
image of Green Eyot that while agone.

But now when she was ashore the dread took hold of her again, and her
knees trembled under her, so that she might scarce stand, so fearful
was she of walking into some trap; especially when she beheld that
goodly house, lest therein awaited her some proud and cruel lady, and
no kind damsels to deliver her.

She looked about her, and saw in all the fair meadow neither man nor
woman, nor draught-beast nor milch-beast, nought but the little
creatures of the brake and the bent-grass, which were but as the
blossoms thereof; and the birds running in the herbage or singing
amidst the tree-boughs.

Then she thought that she must needs go forward, or belike her errand
would not speed; that the Sending Boat might not obey her, unless she
saw through the adventure to the end; so she went on toward the house
quaking.

Soon was she at the porch of the white palace, and had seen no man nor
heard any voice of men; much she marvelled, despite her dread, at the
beauty of the said house, and the newness thereof; for it was as one
flower arisen out of the earth, and every part of it made the beauty of
the other parts more excellent; and so new it was, that it would have
seemed as if the masons thereof had but struck their scaffold
yesterday, save that under the very feet of the walls the sweet garden
flowers grew all uncrushed.

Now comes Birdalone through the porch unto the screens of the great
hall; and she stopped a little to recover her breath, that she might be
the quieter and calmer amongst the great folk and mighty whom she
looked to find therein. So she gathered heart; but one thing daunted
her, to wit, that she heard no sound come from that great and goodly
hall, so that she doubted if it were perchance left desert by them who
had been its lords.

She raised her hand to the door of the screen, and it opened easily
before her, and she entered, and there indeed she saw new tidings. For
the boards end-long and over-thwart were set, and thereat were sitting
a many folk, and their hands were reached out to knife and to dish, and
to platter and cup; but such a hush there was within, that the song of
the garden birds without sounded to her as loud as they were the voices
of the children of Adam.

Next she saw that all that company, from the great folk on the dais
down to those who stood about the hall to do the service, were women,
one and all; not one carle might she see from where she stood: lovely
were they many of them, and none less than comely; their cheeks were
bright, and their eyes gleamed, and their hair flowed down fair of
fashion. And she stood, and durst not move a long while, but expected
when someone would speak a word, and all should turn their heads toward
the new-comer. But none moved nor spake. And the fear increased in her
amidst that hush, and weighed so heavy on her heart, that at last she
might endure it no longer, but fell swooning to the floor.

When she came to herself; and the swoon-dreams had left her, she saw by
the changing of the sun through the hall-windows, that she had lain
there long, more nearly two hours than one; and at first she covered
her face with her hands as she crouched there, that she might not see
the sight of the silent hall, for yet was it as hushed as before. Then
slowly she arose, and the sound of her raiment and her stirring feet
was loud in her ears. But when she was upright on her feet, she
hardened her heart, and went forth into the hall, and no less was her
wonder than erst. For when she came close to those ladies as they sat
at table, and her raiment brushed the raiment of the serving-women as
she passed by, then saw she how no breath came from any of these, and
that they neither spake nor moved, because they were dead.

At first, then, she thought to flee away at once, but again she had
mind of her errand, and so went up the hall, and so forth on to the
dais; and there again, close by the high table, she saw new tidings.
For there was set a bier, covered with gold and pall, and on it was
laid a tall man, a king, belted and crowned; and beside the said bier,
by the head of the king, knelt a queen of exceeding goodly body, clad
all in raiment of pearl and bawdekin; and her hands were clasped
together, and her mouth was drawn, and her brow knit with the anguish
of her grief. But athwart the king’s breast lay a naked sword all
bloody; and this Birdalone noted, that whereas the lady was of skin and
hue as if she were alive, the king was yellow as wax, and his cheeks
were shrunken, and his eyes had been closed by the wakers of the dead.

Long Birdalone looked and wondered; and now if her fear were less, her
sorrow was more for all that folk sitting there dead in their ancient
state and pomp. And was not the thought clean out of her head, that yet
they might awake and challenge her, and that she might be made one of
that silent company. Withal she felt her head beginning to fail her,
and she feared that she might swoon again and never waken more, but lie
for ever beside that image of the dead king.

So then she refrained her both of fear and sorrow, and walked speedily
down the hall, looking neither to the right nor left: and she came
forth into the pleasance, but stayed there nought, so nigh it seemed to
that hushed company. Thence came she forth into the open meadow, and
sweet and dear seemed its hot sunshine and noisy birds and rustling
leaves. Nevertheless, so great was the tumult of her spirits, that once
more she grew faint, and felt that she might scarce go further. So she
dragged herself into the shade of a thorn-tree, and let her body sink
unto the ground, and lay there long unwitting.




CHAPTER XI.
AND NOW SHE COMES TO THE ISLE OF THE KINGS.


When Birdalone came to herself it was drawing toward the glooming, and
she rose up hastily, and went down to the Sending Boat, for she would
not for aught abide the night in that fearful isle, lest the flock of
the hall should come alive and walk in the dusk and the dark. She
stepped aboard lightly, and yielded her blood to the pride of that
ferry, and it awoke and bore her forth, and she went through the night
till she fell asleep.

When she awoke it was broad day and the sun just arising, and lo!
before her, some half mile off, an isle rugged and rocky, and going up
steep from the shore; and then, held as it were by the fangs of the
rocks and pikes of the higher land, was a castle, white, high, and
hugely builded, though, because of the rock-land belike, it spread not
much abroad. Like to the lovely house of yesterday, it seemed
new-builded; and, little as Birdalone knew of such matters, her heart
told her that this new house was fashioned for battle.

She was downcast when she saw the isle so rugged and forbidding, but
when the boat came aland in a stony bight, whence the ground went up
somewhat steeply toward the heights, she went ashore straightway, and
toiled up toward the white battlement. Presently she found herself in a
strait and rugged path betwixt two walls of rock, so that she lost
sight of the castle a while, till she came out on to a level place
which looked down from aloft on to the blue water, but all over against
her close at hand were the great towers and walls. She was worn by the
rough road, and over helpless she felt her, and all too little to deal
with that huge morsel of the world; and her valiancy gave way, and her
trust in her errand. She sat down on a stone and wept abundantly.

After a while she was amended, and she looked up and saw the huge hold,
and said: Yea, but if it were less by the half than it is, it would
still be big enough to cow me. Yet she stood not up. Then she put forth
a foot of her, and said aloud: Sorely hath this rough road tried Atra’s
shoon and their goodly window-work; if they are to be known I must be
speedy on my journey or go barefoot.

As she spoke she stood up, and the sound of her own voice frighted her,
though nought noiseless was the place; for the wind was there, and beat
to and fro the castle and the rock, and ran baffled into every corner
of that market-place of nothing. For in that garth was neither knight
nor squire nor sergeant; no spear-head glittered from the wall, no
gleam of helm showed from the war-swales; no porter was at the gate;
the drawbridge over the deep ghyll was down, the portcullis was up, and
the great door cast wide open.

Birdalone steeled her heart and went forward swiftly, and over the
bridge, and entered the basecourt, and came without more ado to the
door of the great hall, and opened it easily, as with the door of
yesterday, looking to find another show like unto that one; and even so
it fell out.

Forsooth the hall was nought light and lovely, and gay with gold and
bright colours, as that other, but beset with huge round pillars that
bore aloft a wide vault of stone, and of stone were the tables; and the
hallings that hung on the wall were terrible pictures of battle and
death, and the fall of cities, and towers a-tumbling and houses
a-flaming.

None the less there also were the shapes of folk that moved not nor
spake, though not so thronged was that hall as the other one; and it
seemed as if men were sitting there at a council rather than a feast.
Close by Birdalone’s right hand as she entered were standing in a row
along the screen big men-at-arms all weaponed, and their faces hidden
by their sallets; and down below the dais on either side of the high
table was again a throng of all-armed men; and at the high-table
itself; and looking down the hall, sat three crowned kings, each with
his drawn sword lying across his knees, and three long-hoary wise men
stood before them at the nether side of the board.

Birdalone looked on it all, striving with her fear: but yet more there
was, for she deemed that needs must she go through the hall up to the
dais, lest the Sending Boat deny its obedience. Up toward the dais she
went then, passing by weaponed men who sat as if abiding the council’s
end at the end-long tables. And now, though no shape of man there spake
or breathed, yet sound lacked not; for within the hall went the wind as
without, and beat about from wall to wall, and drave clang and clash
from the weapons hung up, and waved the arras, and fared moaning in the
nooks, and hummed in the vault above.

Came she up to the dais then, and stood beside one of the wise men, and
looked on the kings, and saw the mightiness which had been in them, and
quaked before them. Then she turned from them and looked down to the
floor, and lo! there, just below the dais, lay a woman on a golden
bier; exceeding fair had she been, with long yellow hair streaming down
from her head; but now waxen white she was, with ashen lips and sunken
cheeks. Clad was she in raiment of purple and pall, but the bosom of
her was bared on one side, and therein was the road whereby the steel
had fared which had been her bane.

Now when Birdalone had gazed thereon a while, she deemed that if she
tarried there long amidst those fierce men by the dead woman, she
should lose her wit full soon, so sore the fear, held back, beset her
now. Wherefore she turned and went hastily down the hall, and
out-a-doors, and over the bridge, and ran fleet-foot down the rocky way
whereby she had come, till she could run no further, and lay down under
a great stone breathless and fordone; yet her heart upheld her and
suffered her not to swoon, belike because she had given her limbs such
hard work to do.

There she lay awake and troubled for an hour or more, and then she fell
asleep, and slept till the day was worn toward sunset, and nought
meddled with her. She arose and went to her ship somewhat downhearted,
wondering how many such terrors should befall her; nay, whether the
Sending Boat would so lead her that henceforth she should happen on no
children of Adam but such as were dead images of the living. Had all
the world died since she left the Isle of the Young and the Old?

Howsoever, she had nought to do save to board her ferry, and content
its greedy soul with her blood, and drive it with the spell-words. And
thereafter, when it was speeding on, and the twilight dusking apace,
she looked aback, and seemed to see the far-off woodland in the
northern ort, and the oak-clad ridge, where she had met her
wood-mother; and then it was as if Habundia were saying to her: Meet
again we shall. And therewith straightway became life sweeter unto her.

Deepened then the dusk, and became night, and she floated on through
it, and was asleep alone on the bosom of the water.




CHAPTER XII.
OF BIRDALONE, HOW SHE CAME UNTO THE ISLE OF NOTHING.


Long before sunrise, in the very morn-dusk, she awoke and found that
her ferry had taken land again. Little might she see what the said land
was like; so she sat patiently and abode the day in the boat; but when
day was come, little more was to see than erst. For flat was the isle,
and scarce raised above the wash of the leeward ripple on a fair day;
nor was it either timbered or bushed or grassed, and, so far as
Bi

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