CHAPTER 13 -The Cobs' Creatures
About this time the gentlemen whom the king had
left behind him to watch over the princess had each occasion to doubt the
testimony of his own eyes, for more than strange were the objects to which they
would bear witness. They were of one sort—creatures—but so grotesque and misshapen
as to be more like a child's drawings upon his slate than anything natural.
They saw them only at night, while on guard about the house. The testimony of
the man who first reported having seen one of them was that, as he was walking
slowly round the house, while yet in the shadow, he caught sight of a creature
standing on its hind legs in the moonlight, with its forefeet upon a
window-ledge, staring in at the window. Its body might have been that of a dog
or wolf, he thought, but he declared on his honour that its head was twice the
size it ought to have been for the size of its body, and as round as a ball,
while the face, which it turned upon him as it fled, was more like one carved
by a boy upon the turnip inside which he is going to put a candle than anything
else he could think of. It rushed into the garden. He sent an arrow after it,
and thought he must have struck it; for it gave an unearthly howl, and he could
not find his arrow any more than the beast, although he searched all about the
place where it vanished. They laughed at him until he was driven to hold his
tongue, and said he must have taken too long a pull at the ale-jug.
But before two nights were over he had one to side
with him, for he, too, had seen something strange, only quite different from
that reported by the other. The description the second man gave of the creature
he had seen was yet more grotesque and unlikely. They were both laughed at by
the rest; but night after night another came over to their side, until at last
there was only one left to laugh at all his companions. Two nights more passed,
and he saw nothing; but on the third he came rushing from the garden to the
other two before the house, in such an agitation that they declared—for it was
their turn now—that the band of his helmet was cracking under his chin with the
rising of his hair inside it. Running with him into that part of the garden
which I have already described, they saw a score of creatures, to not one of
which they could give a name, and not one of which was like another, hideous
and ludicrous at once, gambolling on the lawn in the moonlight. The
supernatural or rather subnatural ugliness of their faces, the length of legs
and necks in some, the apparent absence of both or either in others, made the spectators,
although in one consent as to what they saw, yet doubtful, as I have said, of
the evidence of their own eyes—and ears as well; for the noises they made,
although not loud, were as uncouth and varied as their forms, and could be
described neither as grunts nor squeaks nor roars nor howls nor barks nor yells
nor screams nor croaks nor hisses nor mews nor shrieks, but only as something
like all of them mingled in one horrible dissonance. Keeping in the shade, the
watchers had a few moments to recover themselves before the hideous assembly
suspected their presence; but all at once, as if by common consent, they
scampered off in the direction of a great rock, and vanished before the men had
come to themselves sufficiently to think of following them.
My readers will suspect what these were; but I
will now give them full information concerning them. They were, of course,
household animals belonging to the goblins, whose ancestors had taken their
ancestors many centuries before from the upper regions of light into the lower
regions of darkness. The original stocks of these horrible creatures were very
much the same as the animals now seen about farms and homes in the country,
with the exception of a few of them, which had been wild creatures, such as
foxes, and indeed wolves and small bears, which the goblins, from their
proclivity towards the animal creation, had caught when cubs and tamed. But in
the course of time all had undergone even greater changes than had passed upon
their owners. They had altered—that is, their descendants had altered—into such
creatures as I have not attempted to describe except in the vaguest manner—the
various parts of their bodies assuming, in an apparently arbitrary and
self-willed manner, the most abnormal developments. Indeed, so little did any
distinct type predominate in some of the bewildering results, that you could
only have guessed at any known animal as the original, and even then, what
likeness remained would be more one of general expression than of definable
conformation. But what increased the gruesomeness tenfold was that, from
constant domestic, or indeed rather family association with the goblins, their
countenances had grown in grotesque resemblance to the human.
No one understands animals who does not see that every
one of them, even amongst the fishes, it may be with a dimness and vagueness
infinitely remote, yet shadows the human: in the case of these the human
resemblance had greatly increased: while their owners had sunk towards them,
they had risen towards their owners. But the conditions of subterranean life
being equally unnatural for both, while the goblins were worse, the creatures
had not improved by the approximation, and its result would have appeared far
more ludicrous than consoling to the warmest lover of animal nature. I shall
now explain how it was that just then these animals began to show themselves
about the king's country house.
The goblins, as Curdie had discovered, were mining
on—at work both day and night, in divisions, urging the scheme after which he
lay in wait. In the course of their tunnelling they had broken into the channel
of a small stream, but the break being in the top of it, no water had escaped
to interfere with their work. Some of the creatures, hovering as they often did
about their masters, had found the hole, and had, with the curiosity which had
grown to a passion from the restraints of their unnatural circumstances,
proceeded to explore the channel. The stream was the same which ran out by the
seat on which Irene and her king-papa had sat as I have told, and the goblin
creatures found it jolly fun to get out for a romp on a smooth lawn such as
they had never seen in all their poor miserable lives. But although they had
partaken enough of the nature of their owners to delight in annoying and
alarming any of the people whom they met on the mountain, they were, of course,
incapable of designs of their own, or of intentionally furthering those of
their masters.
For several nights after the men-at-arms were at
length of one mind as to the fact of the visits of some horrible creatures,
whether bodily or spectral they could not yet say, they watched with special
attention that part of the garden where they had last seen them. Perhaps indeed
they gave in consequence too little attention to the house. But the creatures
were too cunning to be easily caught; nor were the watchers quick-eyed enough
to descry the head, or the keen eyes in it, which, from the opening whence the
stream issued, would watch them in turn, ready, the moment they should leave
the lawn, to report the place clear.
CHAPTER 14 - That Night Week
During the whole of the week Irene had been
thinking every other moment of her promise to the old lady, although even now
she could not feel quite sure that she had not been dreaming. Could it really
be that an old lady lived up in the top of the house, with pigeons and a
spinning-wheel, and a lamp that never went out? She was, however, none the less
determined, on the coming Friday, to ascend the three stairs, walk through the
passages with the many doors, and try to find the tower in which she had either
seen or dreamed her grandmother.
Her nurse could not help wondering what had come
to the child—she would sit so thoughtfully silent, and even in the midst of a
game with her would so suddenly fall into a dreamy mood. But Irene took care to
betray nothing, whatever efforts Lootie might make to get at her thoughts. And
Lootie had to say to herself: 'What an odd child she is!' and give it up.
At length the longed-for Friday arrived, and lest
Lootie should be moved to watch her, Irene endeavoured to keep herself as quiet
as possible. In the afternoon she asked for her doll's house, and went on
arranging and rearranging the various rooms and their inhabitants for a whole
hour. Then she gave a sigh and threw herself back in her chair. One of the
dolls would not sit, and another would not stand, and they were all very
tiresome. Indeed, there was one would not even lie down, which was too bad. But
it was now getting dark, and the darker it got the more excited Irene became,
and the more she felt it necessary to be composed.
'I see you want your tea, princess,' said the
nurse: 'I will go and get it. The room feels close: I will open the window a
little. The evening is mild: it won't hurt you.'
'There's no fear of that, Lootie,' said Irene,
wishing she had put off going for the tea till it was darker, when she might
have made her attempt with every advantage.
I fancy Lootie was longer in returning than she
had intended; for when Irene, who had been lost in thought, looked up, she saw
it was nearly dark, and at the same moment caught sight of a pair of eyes,
bright with a green light, glowering at her through the open window. The next
instant something leaped into the room. It was like a cat, with legs as long as
a horse's, Irene said, but its body no bigger and its legs no thicker than
those of a cat. She was too frightened to cry out, but not too frightened to
jump from her chair and run from the room.
It is plain enough to every one of my readers what
she ought to have done—and indeed, Irene thought of it herself; but when she
came to the foot of the old stair, just outside the nursery door, she imagined
the creature running up those long ascents after her, and pursuing her through
the dark passages—which, after all, might lead to no tower! That thought was
too much. Her heart failed her, and, turning from the stair, she rushed along
to the hall, whence, finding the front door open, she darted into the court
pursued—at least she thought so—by the creature. No one happening to see her,
on she ran, unable to think for fear, and ready to run anywhere to elude the
awful creature with the stilt-legs. Not daring to look behind her, she rushed
straight out of the gate and up the mountain. It was foolish indeed—thus to run
farther and farther from all who could help her, as if she had been seeking a
fit spot for the goblin creature to eat her in his leisure; but that is the way
fear serves us: it always sides with the thing we are afraid of.
The princess was soon out of breath with running
uphill; but she ran on, for she fancied the horrible creature just behind her,
forgetting that, had it been after her such long legs as those must have
overtaken her long ago. At last she could run no longer, and fell, unable even
to scream, by the roadside, where she lay for some time half dead with terror.
But finding nothing lay hold of her, and her breath beginning to come back, she
ventured at length to get half up and peer anxiously about her. It was now so
dark she could see nothing. Not a single star was out. She could not even tell
in what direction the house lay, and between her and home she fancied the
dreadful creature lying ready to pounce upon her. She saw now that she ought to
have run up the stairs at once. It was well she did not scream; for, although
very few of the goblins had come out for weeks, a stray idler or two might have
heard her. She sat down upon a stone, and nobody but one who had done something
wrong could have been more miserable. She had quite forgotten her promise to
visit her grandmother. A raindrop fell on her face. She looked up, and for a
moment her terror was lost in astonishment. At first she thought the rising
moon had left her place, and drawn nigh to see what could be the matter with
the little girl, sitting alone, without hat or cloak, on the dark bare
mountain; but she soon saw she was mistaken, for there was no light on the
ground at her feet, and no shadow anywhere. But a great silver globe was
hanging in the air; and as she gazed at the lovely thing, her courage revived.
If she were but indoors again, she would fear nothing, not even the terrible
creature with the long legs! But how was she to find her way back? What could
that light be? Could it be—? No, it couldn't. But what if it should be—yes—it
must be—her great-great-grandmother's lamp, which guided her pigeons home
through the darkest night! She jumped up: she had but to keep that light in
view and she must find the house. Her heart grew strong. Speedily, yet softly,
she walked down the hill, hoping to pass the watching creature unseen. Dark as
it was, there was little danger now of choosing the wrong road. And—which was
most strange—the light that filled her eyes from the lamp, instead of blinding
them for a moment to the object upon which they next fell, enabled her for a
moment to see it, despite the darkness. By looking at the lamp and then
dropping her eyes, she could see the road for a yard or two in front of her,
and this saved her from several falls, for the road was very rough. But all at
once, to her dismay, it vanished, and the terror of the beast, which had left
her the moment she began to return, again laid hold of her heart. The same
instant, however, she caught the light of the windows, and knew exactly where
she was. It was too dark to run, but she made what haste she could, and reached
the gate in safety. She found the house door still open, ran through the hall,
and, without even looking into the nursery, bounded straight up the stair, and
the next, and the next; then turning to the right, ran through the long avenue
of silent rooms, and found her way at once to the door at the foot of the tower
stair.
When first the nurse missed her, she fancied she
was playing her a trick, and for some time took no trouble about her; but at
last, getting frightened, she had begun to search; and when the princess
entered, the whole household was hither and thither over the house, hunting for
her. A few seconds after she reached the stair of the tower they had even begun
to search the neglected rooms, in which they would never have thought of
looking had they not already searched every other place they could think of in
vain. But by this time she was knocking at the old lady's door.
CHAPTER 15 - Woven and Then
Spun
'Come in, Irene,' said the silvery voice of her
grandmother.
The princess opened the door and peeped in. But
the room was quite dark and there was no sound of the spinning-wheel. She grew
frightened once more, thinking that, although the room was there, the old lady
might be a dream after all. Every little girl knows how dreadful it is to find
a room empty where she thought somebody was; but Irene had to fancy for a
moment that the person she came to find was nowhere at all. She remembered,
however, that at night she spun only in the moonlight, and concluded that must
be why there was no sweet, bee-like humming: the old lady might be somewhere in
the darkness. Before she had time to think another thought, she heard her voice
again, saying as before: 'Come in, Irene.' From the sound, she understood at
once that she was not in the room beside her. Perhaps she was in her bedroom.
She turned across the passage, feeling her way to the other door. When her hand
fell on the lock, again the old lady spoke:
'Shut the other door behind you, Irene. I always
close the door of my workroom when I go to my chamber.'
Irene wondered to hear her voice so plainly
through the door: having shut the other, she opened it and went in. Oh, what a
lovely haven to reach from the darkness and fear through which she had come!
The soft light made her feel as if she were going into the heart of the
milkiest pearl; while the blue walls and their silver stars for a moment
perplexed her with the fancy that they were in reality the sky which she had
left outside a minute ago covered with rainclouds.
'I've lighted a fire for you, Irene: you're cold
and wet,' said her grandmother.
Then Irene looked again, and saw that what she had
taken for a huge bouquet of red roses on a low stand against the wall was in
fact a fire which burned in the shapes of the loveliest and reddest roses,
glowing gorgeously between the heads and wings of two cherubs of shining
silver. And when she came nearer, she found that the smell of roses with which
the room was filled came from the fire-roses on the hearth. Her grandmother was
dressed in the loveliest pale blue velvet, over which her hair, no longer
white, but of a rich golden colour, streamed like a cataract, here falling in
dull gathered heaps, there rushing away in smooth shining falls. And ever as
she looked, the hair seemed pouring down from her head and vanishing in a
golden mist ere it reached the floor. It flowed from under the edge of a circle
of shining silver, set with alternated pearls and opals. On her dress was no
ornament whatever, neither was there a ring on her hand, or a necklace or
carcanet about her neck. But her slippers glimmered with the light of the Milky
Way, for they were covered with seed-pearls and opals in one mass. Her face was
that of a woman of three-and-twenty.
The princess was so bewildered with astonishment
and admiration that she could hardly thank her, and drew nigh with timidity,
feeling dirty and uncomfortable. The lady was seated on a low chair by the side
of the fire, with hands outstretched to take her, but the princess hung back
with a troubled smile.
'Why, what's the matter?' asked her grandmother.
'You haven't been doing anything wrong—I know that by your face, though it is
rather miserable. What's the matter, my dear?'
And she still held out her arms.
'Dear grandmother,' said Irene, 'I'm not so sure
that I haven't done something wrong. I ought to have run up to you at once when
the long-legged cat came in at the window, instead of running out on the
mountain and making myself such a fright.'
'You were taken by surprise, my child, and you are
not so likely to do it again. It is when people do wrong things wilfully that
they are the more likely to do them again. Come.'
And still she held out her arms.
'But, grandmother, you're so beautiful and grand
with your crown on; and I am so dirty with mud and rain! I should quite spoil
your beautiful blue dress.'
With a merry little laugh the lady sprung from her
chair, more lightly far than Irene herself could, caught the child to her
bosom, and, kissing the tear-stained face over and over, sat down with her in
her lap.
'Oh, grandmother! You'll make yourself such a
mess!' cried Irene, clinging to her.
'You darling! do you think I care more for my
dress than for my little girl? Besides—look here.'
As she spoke she set her down, and Irene saw to
her dismay that the lovely dress was covered with the mud of her fall on the
mountain road. But the lady stooped to the fire, and taking from it, by the
stalk in her fingers, one of the burning roses, passed it once and again and a
third time over the front of her dress; and when Irene looked, not a single
stain was to be discovered.
'There!' said her grandmother, 'you won't mind
coming to me now?'
But Irene again hung back, eying the flaming rose
which the lady held in her hand.
'You're not afraid of the rose—are you?' she said,
about to throw it on the hearth again.
'Oh! don't, please!' cried Irene. 'Won't you hold
it to my frock and my hands and my face? And I'm afraid my feet and my knees
want it too.'
'No, answered her grandmother, smiling a little
sadly, as she threw the rose from her; 'it is too hot for you yet. It would set
your frock in a flame. Besides, I don't want to make you clean tonight.
I want your nurse and the rest of the people to
see you as you are, for you will have to tell them how you ran away for fear of
the long-legged cat. I should like to wash you, but they would not believe you
then. Do you see that bath behind you?'
The princess looked, and saw a large oval tub of
silver, shining brilliantly in the light of the wonderful lamp.
'Go and look into it,' said the lady.
Irene went, and came back very silent with her
eyes shining.
'What did you see?' asked her grandmother.
'The sky, and the moon and the stars,' she
answered. 'It looked as if there was no bottom to it.'
The lady smiled a pleased satisfied smile, and was
silent also for a few moments. Then she said:
'Any time you want a bath, come to me. I know YOU
have a bath every morning, but sometimes you want one at night, too.'
'Thank you, grandmother; I will—I will indeed,'
answered Irene, and was again silent for some moments thinking. Then she said:
'How was it, grandmother, that I saw your beautiful lamp—not the light of it
only—but the great round silvery lamp itself, hanging alone in the great open
air, high up? It was your lamp I saw—wasn't it?'
'Yes, my child—it was my lamp.'
'Then how was it? I don't see a window all round.'
'When I please I can make the lamp shine through
the walls—shine so strong that it melts them away from before the sight, and
shows itself as you saw it. But, as I told you, it is not everybody can see
it.'
'How is it that I can, then? I'm sure I don't
know.'
'It is a gift born with you. And one day I hope
everybody will have it.'
'But how do you make it shine through the walls?'
'Ah! that you would not understand if I were to
try ever so much to make you—not yet—not yet. But,' added the lady, rising,
'you must sit in my chair while I get you the present I have been preparing for
you. I told you my spinning was for you. It is finished now, and I am going to
fetch it. I have been keeping it warm under one of my brooding pigeons.'
Irene sat down in the low chair, and her
grandmother left her, shutting the door behind her. The child sat gazing, now
at the rose fire, now at the starry walls, now at the silver light; and a great
quietness grew in her heart. If all the long-legged cats in the world had come
rushing at her then she would not have been afraid of them for a moment. How
this was she could not tell—she only knew there was no fear in her, and
everything was so right and safe that it could not get in.
She had been gazing at the lovely lamp for some
minutes fixedly: turning her eyes, she found the wall had vanished, for she was
looking out on the dark cloudy night. But though she heard the wind blowing,
none of it blew upon her. In a moment more the clouds themselves parted, or
rather vanished like the wall, and she looked straight into the starry herds,
flashing gloriously in the dark blue. It was but for a moment. The clouds
gathered again and shut out the stars; the wall gathered again and shut out the
clouds; and there stood the lady beside her with the loveliest smile on her
face, and a shimmering ball in her hand, about the size of a pigeon's egg.
'There, Irene; there is my work for you!' she
said, holding out the ball to the princess.
She took it in her hand, and looked at it all
over. It sparkled a little, and shone here and there, but not much. It was of a
sort of grey-whiteness, something like spun glass.
'Is this all your spinning, grandmother?' she
asked.
'All since you came to the house. There is more
there than you think.'
'How pretty it is! What am I to do with it,
please?'
'That I will now explain to you,' answered the
lady, turning from her and going to her cabinet. She came back with a small
ring in her hand. Then she took the ball from Irene's, and did something with
the ring—Irene could not tell what.
'Give me your hand,' she said. Irene held up her right
hand.
'Yes, that is the hand I want,' said the lady, and
put the ring on the forefinger of it.
'What a beautiful ring!' said Irene. 'What is the
stone called?'
'It is a fire-opal.' 'Please, am I to keep it?'
'Always.' 'Oh, thank you, grandmother! It's
prettier than anything I ever saw, except those—of all colours-in your—Please,
is that your crown?'
'Yes, it is my crown. The stone in your ring is of
the same sort—only not so good. It has only red, but mine have all colours, you
see.'
'Yes, grandmother. I will take such care of it!
But—' she added, hesitating.
'But what?' asked her grandmother.
'What am I to say when Lootie asks me where I got
it?'
'You will ask her where you got it,' answered the
lady smiling.
'I don't see how I can do that.'
'You will, though.'
'Of course I will, if you say so. But, you know, I
can't pretend not to know.'
'Of course not. But don't trouble yourself about
it. You will see when the time comes.'
So saying, the lady turned, and threw the little
ball into the rose fire.
'Oh, grandmother!' exclaimed Irene; 'I thought you
had spun it for me.'
'So I did, my child. And you've got it.'
'No; it's burnt in the fire!'
The lady put her hand in the fire, brought out the
ball, glimmering as before, and held it towards her. Irene stretched out her
hand to take it, but the lady turned and, going to her cabinet, opened a
drawer, and laid the ball in it.
'Have I done anything to vex you, grandmother?'
said Irene pitifully.
'No, my darling. But you must understand that no one
ever gives anything to another properly and really without keeping it. That
ball is yours.'
'Oh! I'm not to take it with me! You are going to
keep it for me!'
'You are to take it with you. I've fastened the
end of it to the ring on your finger.'
Irene looked at the ring.
'I can't see it there, grandmother,' she said.
'Feel—a little way from the ring—towards the
cabinet,' said the lady.
'Oh! I do feel it!' exclaimed the princess. 'But I
can't see it,' she added, looking close to her outstretched hand.
'No. The thread is too fine for you to see it. You
can only feel it. Now you can fancy how much spinning that took, although it
does seem such a little ball.'
'But what use can I make of it, if it lies in your
cabinet?'
'That is what I will explain to you. It would be
of no use to you—it wouldn't be yours at all if it did not lie in my cabinet.
Now listen. If ever you find yourself in any danger—such, for example, as you
were in this same evening—you must take off your ring and put it under the pillow
of your bed. Then you must lay your finger, the same that wore the ring, upon
the thread, and follow the thread wherever it leads you.'
'Oh, how delightful! It will lead me to you,
grandmother, I know!'
'Yes. But, remember, it may seem to you a very roundabout
way indeed, and you must not doubt the thread. Of one thing you may be sure,
that while you hold it, I hold it too.'
'It is very wonderful!' said Irene thoughtfully.
Then suddenly becoming aware, she jumped up, crying:
'Oh, grandmother! here have I been sitting all
this time in your chair, and you standing! I beg your pardon.'
The lady laid her hand on her shoulder, and said:
'Sit down again, Irene. Nothing pleases me better
than to see anyone sit in my chair. I am only too glad to stand so long as
anyone will sit in it.'
'How kind of you!' said the princess, and sat down
again.
'It makes me happy,' said the lady.
'But,' said Irene, still puzzled, 'won't the
thread get in somebody's way and be broken, if the one end is fast to my ring,
and the other laid in your cabinet?'
'You will find all that arrange itself. I am
afraid it is time for you to go.'
'Mightn't I stay and sleep with you tonight,
grandmother?' 'No, not tonight. If I had meant you to stay tonight, I should
have given you a bath; but you know everybody in the house is miserable about
you, and it would be cruel to keep them so all night. You must go downstairs.'
'I'm so glad, grandmother, you didn't say "Go
home," for this is my home. Mayn't I call this my home?'
'You may, my child. And I trust you will always
think it your home. Now come. I must take you back without anyone seeing you.'
'Please, I want to ask you one question more,'
said Irene. 'Is it because you have your crown on that you look so young?'
'No, child,' answered her grandmother; 'it is
because I felt so young this evening that I put my crown on. And I thought you
would like to see your old grandmother in her best.'
'Why do you call yourself old? You're not old,
grandmother.'
'I am very old indeed. It is so silly of people—I
don't mean you, for you are such a tiny, and couldn't know better—but it is so
silly of people to fancy that old age means crookedness and witheredness and
feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism and forgetfulness! It is so
silly! Old age has nothing whatever to do with all that. The right old age
means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear eyes and strong
painless limbs. I am older than you are able to think, and—'
'And look at you, grandmother!' cried Irene,
jumping up and flinging her arms about her neck. 'I won't be so silly again, I
promise you. At least—I'm rather afraid to promise—but if I am, I promise to be
sorry for it—I do. I wish I were as old as you, grandmother. I don't think you
are ever afraid of anything.'
'Not for long, at least, my child. Perhaps by the
time I am two thousand years of age, I shall, indeed, never be afraid of
anything. But I confess I have sometimes been afraid about my
children—sometimes about you, Irene.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry, grandmother! Tonight, I
suppose, you mean.'
'Yes—a little tonight; but a good deal when you
had all but made up your mind that I was a dream, and no real
great-great-grandmother. You must not suppose I am blaming you for that. I dare
say you could not help it.'
'I don't know, grandmother,' said the princess,
beginning to cry. 'I can't always do myself as I should like. And I don't
always try. I'm very sorry anyhow.'
The lady stooped, lifted her in her arms, and sat
down with her in her chair, holding her close to her bosom. In a few minutes
the princess had sobbed herself to sleep. How long she slept I do not know.
When she came to herself she was sitting in her own high chair at the nursery
table, with her doll's house before her.
