The Book of Wonder by Edward J. M. D. Plunkett, Lord Dunsany
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Edward J. M. D. Plunkett, Lord Dunsany >> The Book of Wonder
There was nothing about it in the daily Press, the policy of her
father's party had no provision for it, there was no hint of it in
conversation at evening parties to which Miss Cubbidge went: there was
nothing to warn her at all that a loathsome dragon with golden scales
that rattled as he went would have come up clean out of the prime of
romance and gone by night (so far as we know) through Hammersmith, and
come to Ardle Mansion, and then had turned to his left, which of
course brought him to Miss Cubbidge's father's house.
There sat Miss Cubbidge at evening on her balcony quite alone, waiting
for her father to be made a baronet. She was wearing walking-boots and
a hat and a lownecked evening dress; for a painter was but just now
painting her portrait and neither she nor the painter saw anything odd
in the strange combination. She did not notice the roar of the
dragon's golden scales, nor distinguish above the manifold lights of
London the small, red glare of his eyes. He suddenly lifted his head,
a blaze of gold, over the balcony; he did not appear a yellow dragon
then, for his glistening scales reflected the beauty that London puts
upon her only at evening and night. She screamed, but to no knight,
nor knew what knight to call on, nor guessed where were the dragons'
overthrowers of far, romantic days, nor what mightier game they
chased, or what wars they waged; perchance they were busy even then
arming for Armageddon.
* * * * *
Out of the balcony of her father's house in Prince of Wales' Square,
the painted dark-green balcony that grew blacker every year, the
dragon lifted Miss Cubbidge and spread his rattling wings, and London
fell away like an old fashion. And England fell away, and the smoke of
its factories, and the round material world that goes humming round
the sun vexed and pursued by time, until there appeared the eternal
and ancient lands of Romance lying low by mystical seas.
You had not pictured Miss Cubbidge stroking the golden head of one of
the dragons of song with one hand idly, while with the other she
sometime played with pearls brought up from lonely places of the sea.
They filled huge haliotis shells with pearls and laid them there
beside her, they brought her emeralds which she set to flash among the
tresses of her long black hair, they brought her threaded sapphires
for her cloak: all this the princes of fable did and the elves and the
gnomes of myth. And partly she still lived, and partly she was one
with long-ago and with those sacred tales that nurses tell, when all
their children are good, and evening has come, and the fire is burning
well, and the soft pat-pat of the snowflakes on the pane is like the
furtive tread of fearful things in old, enchanted woods. If at first
she missed those dainty novelties among which she was reared, the old,
sufficient song of the mystical sea singing of faery lore at first
soothed and at last consoled her. Even, she forgot those
advertisements of pills that are so dear to England; even, she forgot
political cant and the things that one discusses and the things that
one does not, and had perforce to contend herself with seeing sailing
by huge golden-laden galleons with treasure for Madrid, and the merry
skull-and-cross-bones of the pirateers, and the tiny nautilus setting
out to sea, and ships of heroes trafficking in romance or of princes
seeking for enchanted isles.
It was not by chains that the dragon kept her there, but by one of the
spells of old. To one to whom the facilities of the daily Press had
for so long been accorded spells would have palled--you would have
said--and galleons after a time and all things out-of-date. After a
time. But whether the centuries passed her or whether the years or
whether no time at all, she did not know. If any thing indicated the
passing of time it was the rhythm of elfin horns blowing upon the
heights. If the centuries went by her the spell that bound her gave
her also perennial youth, and kept alight for ever the lantern by her
side, and saved from decay the marble palace facing the mystical sea.
And if no time went by her there at all, her single moment on those
marvellous coasts was turned as it were to a crystal reflecting a
thousand scenes. If it was all a dream, it was a dream that knew no
morning and no fading away. The tide roamed on and whispered of master
and of myth, while near that captive lady, asleep in his marble tank
the golden dragon dreamed: and a little way out from the coast all
that the dragon dreamed showed faintly in the mist that lay over the
sea. He never dreamed of any rescuing knight. So long as he dreamed,
it was twilight; but when he came up nimbly out of his tank night fell
and starlight glistened on the dripping, golden scales.
There he and his captive either defeated Time or never encountered him
at all; while, in the world we know, raged Roncesvalles or battles yet
to be--I know not to what part of the shore of Romance he bore her.
Perhaps she became one of those princesses of whom fable loves to
tell, but let it suffice that there she lived by the sea: and kings
ruled, and Demons ruled, and kings came again, and many cities
returned to their native dust, and still she abided there, and still
her marble palace passed not away nor the power that there was in the
dragon's spell.
And only once did there ever come to her a message from the world that
of old she knew. It came in a pearly ship across the mystical sea; it
was from an old school-friend that she had had in Putney, merely a
note, no more, in a little, neat, round hand: it said, "It is not
Proper for you to be there alone."
THE QUEST OF THE QUEEN'S TEARS
Sylvia, Queen of the Woods, in her woodland palace, held court, and
made a mockery of her suitors. She would sing to them, she said, she
would give them banquets, she would tell them tales of legendary days,
her jugglers should caper before them, her armies salute them, her
fools crack jests with them and make whimsical quips, only she could
not love them.
This was not the way, they said, to treat princes in their splendor
and mysterious troubadours concealing kingly names; it was not in
accordance with fable; myth had no precedent for it. She should have
thrown her glove, they said, into some lion's den, she should have
asked for a score of venomous heads of the serpents of Licantara, or
demanded the death of any notable dragon, or sent them all upon some
deadly quest, but that she could not love them--! It was unheard
of--it had no parallel in the annals of romance.
And then she said that if they must needs have a quest she would offer
her hand to him who first should move her to tears: and the quest
should be called, for reference in histories or song, the Quest of the
Queen's Tears, and he that achieved them she would wed, be he only a
petty duke of lands unknown to romance.
And many were moved to anger, for they hoped for some bloody quest;
but the old lords chamberlain said, as they muttered among themselves
in a far, dark end of the chamber, that the quest was hard and wise,
for that if she could ever weep she might also love. They had known
her all her childhood; she had never sighed. Many men had she seen,
suitors and courtiers, and had never turned her head after one went
by. Her beauty was as still sunsets of bitter evenings when all the
world is frore, a wonder and a chill. She was as a sun-stricken
mountain uplifted alone, all beautiful with ice, a desolate and lonely
radiance late at evening far up beyond the comfortable world, not
quite to be companioned by the stars, the doom of the mountaineer.
If she could weep, they said, she could love, they said.
And she smiled pleasantly on those ardent princes, and troubadours
concealing kingly names.
Then one by one they told, each suitor prince the story of his love,
with outstretched hands and kneeling on the knee; and very sorry and
pitiful were the tales, so that often up in the galleries some maid of
the palace wept. And very graciously she nodded her head like a
listless magnolia in the deeps of the night moving idly to all the
breezes its glorious bloom.
And when the princes had told their desperate loves and had departed
away with no other spoil than of their own tears only, even then there
came the unknown troubadours and told their tales in song, concealing
their gracious names.
And there was one, Ackronnion, clothed with rags, on which was the
dust of roads, and underneath the rags was war-scarred armour whereon
were dints of blows; and when he stroked his harp and sang his song,
in the gallery above maidens wept, and even old lords chamberlain
whimpered among themselves and thereafter laughed through their tears
and said: "It is easy to make old people weep and to bring idle tears
from lazy girls; but he will not set a-weeping the Queen of the
Woods."
And graciously she nodded, and he was the last. And disconsolate went
away those dukes and princes, and troubadours in disguise. Yet
Ackronnion pondered as he went away.
King he was of Afarmah, Lool and Haf, over-lord of Zeroora and hilly
Chang, and duke of the dukedoms of Molong and Mlash, none of them
unfamiliar with romance or unknown or overlooked in the making of
myth. He pondered as he went in his thin disguise.
Now by those that do not remember their childhood, having other things
to do, be it understood that underneath fairyland, which is, as all
men know, at the edge of the world, there dwelleth the Gladsome Beast.
A synonym he for joy.
It is known how the lark in its zenith, children at play out-of-doors,
good witches and jolly old parents have all been compared--how
aptly!--with this very same Gladsome Beast. Only one "crab" he has (if
I may use slang for a moment to make myself perfectly clear), only one
drawback, and that is that in the gladness of his heart he spoils the
cabbages of the Old Man Who Looks After Fairyland,--and of course he
eats men.
It must further be understood that whoever may obtain the tears of the
Gladsome Beast in a bowl, and become drunken upon them, may move all
persons to shed tears of joy so long as he remains inspired by the
potion to sing or to make music.
Now Ackronnion pondered in this wise: that if he could obtain the
tears of the Gladsome Beast by means of his art, withholding him from
violence by the spell of music, and if a friend should slay the
Gladsome Beast before his weeping ceased--for an end must come to
weeping even with men--that so he might get safe away with the tears,
and drink them before the Queen of the Woods and move her to tears of
joy. He sought out therefore a humble knightly man who cared not for
the beauty of Sylvia, Queen of the Woods, but had found a woodland
maiden of his own once long ago in summer. And the man's name was
Arrath, a subject of Ackronnion, a knight-at-arms of the spear-guard:
and together they set out through the fields of fable until they came
to Fairyland, a kingdom sunning itself (as all men know) for leagues
along the edges of the world. And by a strange old pathway they came
to the land they sought, through a wind blowing up the pathway sheer
from space with a kind of metallic taste from the roving stars. Even
so they came to the windy house of thatch where dwells the Old Man Who
Looks After Fairyland sitting by parlour windows that look away from
the world. He made them welcome in his star-ward parlour, telling them
tales of Space, and when they named to him their perilous quest he
said it would be a charity to kill the Gladsome Beast; for he was
clearly one of these that liked not its happy ways. And then he took
them out through his back door, for the front door had no pathway nor
even a step--from it the old man used to empty his slops sheer on to
the Southern Cross--and so they came to the garden wherein his
cabbages were, and those flowers that only blow in Fairyland, turning
their faces always towards the comet, and he pointed them out the way
to the place he called Underneath, where the Gladsome Beast had his
lair. Then they manoeuvered. Ackronnion was to go by the way of the
steps with his harp and an agate bowl, while Arrath went round by a
crag on the other side. Then the Old Man Who Looks After Fairyland
went back to his windy house, muttering angrily as he passed his
cabbages, for he did not love the ways of the Gladsome Beast; and the
two friends parted on their separate ways.
Nothing perceived them but that ominous crow glutted overlong already
upon the flesh of man.
The wind blew bleak from the stars.
At first there was dangerous climbing, and then Ackronnion gained the
smooth, broad steps that led from the edge to the lair, and at that
moment heard at the top of the steps the continuous chuckles of the
Gladsome Beast.
He feared then that its mirth might be insuperable, not to be saddened
by the most grievous song; nevertheless he did not turn back then, but
softly climbed the stairs and, placing the agate bowl upon a step,
struck up the chaunt called Dolorous. It told of desolate, regretted
things befallen happy cities long since in the prime of the world. It
told of how the gods and beasts and men had long ago loved beautiful
companions, and long ago in vain. It told of the golden host of happy
hopes, but not of their achieving. It told how Love scorned Death, but
told of Death's laughter. The contented chuckles of the Gladsome Beast
suddenly ceased in his lair. He rose and shook himself. He was still
unhappy. Ackronnion still sang on the chaunt called Dolorous. The
Gladsome Beast came mournfully up to him. Ackronnion ceased not for
the sake of his panic, but still sang on. He sang of the malignity of
time. Two tears welled large in the eyes of the Gladsome Beast.
Ackronnion moved the agate bowl to a suitable spot with his foot. He
sang of autumn and of passing away. The the beast wept as the frore
hills weep in the thaw, and the tears splashed big into the agate
bowl. Ackronnion desperately chaunted on; he told of the glad
unnoticed things men see and do not see again, of sunlight beheld
unheeded on faces now withered away. The bowl was full. Ackronnion was
desperate: the Beast was so close. Once he thought that its mouth was
watering!--but it was only the tears that had run on the lips of the
Beast. He felt as a morsel! The Beast was ceasing to weep! He sang of
worlds that had disappointed the gods. And all of a sudden, crash! and
the staunch spear of Arrath went home behind the shoulder, and the
tears and the joyful ways of the Gladsome Beast were ended and over
for ever.
And carefully they carried the bowl of tears away leaving the body of
the Gladsome Beast as a change of diet for the ominous crow; and going
by the windy house of thatch they said farewell to the Old Man Who
Looks After Fairyland, who when he heard of the deed rubbed his hands
together and mumbled again and again, "And a very good thing, too. My
cabbages! My cabbages!"
And not long after Ackronnion sang again in the sylvan palace of the
Queen of the Woods, having first drunk all the tears in his agate
bowl. And it was a gala night, and all the court were there and
ambassadors from the lands of legend and myth, and even some from
Terra Cognita.
And Ackronnion sang as he never sang before, and will not sing again.
O, but dolorous, dolorous, are all the ways of man, few and fierce are
his days, and the end trouble, and vain, vain his endeavor: and
woman--who shall tell of it?--her doom is written with man's by
listless, careless gods with their faces to other spheres.
Somewhat thus he began, and then inspiration seized him, and all the
trouble in the beauty of his song may not be set down by me: there was
much of gladness in it, and all mingled with grief: it was like the
way of man: it was like our destiny.
Sobs arose at his song, sighs came back along echoes: seneschals,
soldiers, sobbed, and a clear cry made the maidens; like rain the
tears came down from gallery to gallery.
All round the Queen of the Woods was a storm of sobbing and sorrow.
But no, she would not weep.
THE HOARD OF THE GIBBELINS
The Gibbelins eat, as is well known, nothing less good than man. Their
evil tower is joined to Terra Cognita, to the lands we know, by a
bridge. Their hoard is beyond reason; avarice has no use for it; they
have a separate cellar for emeralds and a separate cellar for
sapphires; they have filled a hole with gold and dig it up when they
need it. And the only use that is known for their ridiculous wealth is
to attract to their larder a continual supply of food. In times of
famine they have even been known to scatter rubies abroad, a little
trail of them to some city of Man, and sure enough their larders would
soon be full again.
Their tower stands on the other side of that river known to Homer--_ho
rhoos okeanoio_, as he called it--which surrounds the world. And where
the river is narrow and fordable the tower was built by the Gibbelins'
gluttonous sires, for they liked to see burglars rowing easily to
their steps. Some nourishment that common soil has not the huge trees
drained there with their colossal roots from both banks of the river.
There the Gibbelins lived and discreditably fed. Alderic, Knight of
the Order of the City and the Assault, hereditary Guardian of the
King's Peace of Mind, a man not unremembered among makers of myth,
pondered so long upon the Gibbelins' hoard that by now he deemed it
his. Alas that I should say of so perilous a venture, undertaken at
dead of night by a valourous man, that its motive was sheer avarice!
Yet upon avarice only the Gibbelins relied to keep their larders full,
and once in every hundred years sent spies into the cities of men to
see how avarice did, and always the spies returned again to the tower
saying that all was well.
It may be thought that, as the years went on and men came by fearful
ends on that tower's wall, fewer and fewer would come to the
Gibbelins' table: but the Gibbelins found otherwise.
Not in the folly and frivolity of his youth did Alderic come to the
tower, but he studied carefully for several years the manner in which
burglars met their doom when they went in search of the treasure that
he considered his. _In every case they had entered by the door_.
He consulted those who gave advice on this quest; he noted every
detail and cheerfully paid their fees, and determined to do nothing
that they advised, for what were their clients now? No more than
examples of the savoury art, and mere half-forgotten memories of a
meal; and many, perhaps, no longer even that.
These were the requisites for the quest that these men used to advise:
a horse, a boat, mail armour, and at least three men-at-arms. Some
said, "Blow the horn at the tower door"; others said, "Do not touch
it."
Alderic thus decided: he would take no horse down to the river's edge,
he would not row along it in a boat, and he would go alone and by way
of the Forest Unpassable.
How pass, you may say, the unpassable? This was his plan: there was a
dragon he knew of who if peasants' prayers are heeded deserved to die,
not alone because of the number of maidens he cruelly slew, but
because he was bad for the crops; he ravaged the very land and was the
bane of a dukedom.
Now Alderic determined to go up against him. So he took horse and
spear and pricked till he met the dragon, and the dragon came out
against him breathing bitter smoke. And to him Alderic shouted, "Hath
foul dragon ever slain true knight?" And well the dragon knew that
this had never been, and he hung his head and was silent, for he was
glutted with blood. "Then," said the knight, "if thou would'st ever
taste maiden's blood again thou shalt be my trusty steed, and if not,
by this spear there shall befall thee all that the troubadours tell of
the dooms of thy breed."
And the dragon did not open his ravening mouth, nor rush upon the
knight, breathing out fire; for well he knew the fate of those that
did these things, but he consented to the terms imposed, and swore to
the knight to become his trusty steed.
It was on a saddle upon this dragon's back that Alderic afterwards
sailed above the unpassable forest, even above the tops of those
measureless trees, children of wonder. But first he pondered that
subtle plan of his which was more profound than merely to avoid all
that had been done before; and he commanded a blacksmith, and the
blacksmith made him a pickaxe.
Now there was great rejoicing at the rumour of Alderic's quest, for
all folk knew that he was a cautious man, and they deemed that he
would succeed and enrich the world, and they rubbed their hands in the
cities at the thought of largesse; and there was joy among all men in
Alderic's country, except perchance among the lenders of money, who
feared they would soon be paid. And there was rejoicing also because
men hoped that when the Gibbelins were robbed of their hoard, they
would shatter their high-built bridge and break the golden chains that
bound them to the world, and drift back, they and their tower, to the
moon, from which they had come and to which they rightly belonged.
There was little love for the Gibbelins, though all men envied their
hoard.
So they all cheered, that day when he mounted his dragon, as though he
was already a conqueror, and what pleased them more than the good that
they hoped he would do to the world was that he scattered gold as he
rode away; for he would not need it, he said, if he found the
Gibbelins' hoard, and he would not need it more if he smoked on the
Gibbelins' table.
When they heard that he had rejected the advice of those that gave it,
some said that the knight was mad, and others said he was greater than
those what gave the advice, but none appreciated the worth of his
plan.
He reasoned thus: for centuries men had been well advised and had gone
by the cleverest way, while the Gibbelins came to expect them to come
by boat and to look for them at the door whenever their larder was
empty, even as a man looketh for a snipe in a marsh; but how, said
Alderic, if a snipe should sit in the top of a tree, and would men
find him there? Assuredly never! So Alderic decided to swim the river
and not to go by the door, but to pick his way into the tower through
the stone. Moreover, it was in his mind to work below the level of the
ocean, the river (as Homer knew) that girdles the world, so that as
soon as he made a hole in the wall the water should pour in,
confounding the Gibbelins, and flooding the cellars, rumoured to be
twenty feet in depth, and therein he would dive for emeralds as a
diver dives for pearls.
And on the day that I tell of he galloped away from his home
scattering largesse of gold, as I have said, and passed through many
kingdoms, the dragon snapping at maidens as he went, but being unable
to eat them because of the bit in his mouth, and earning no gentler
reward than a spurthrust where he was softest. And so they came to the
swart arboreal precipice of the unpassable forest. The dragon rose at
it with a rattle of wings. Many a farmer near the edge of the worlds
saw him up there where yet the twilight lingered, a faint, black,
wavering line; and mistaking him for a row of geese going inland from
the ocean, went into their houses cheerily rubbing their hands and
saying that winter was coming, and that we should soon have snow. Soon
even there the twilight faded away, and when they descended at the
edge of the world it was night and the moon was shining. Ocean, the
ancient river, narrow and shallow there, flowed by and made no murmur.
Whether the Gibbelins banqueted or whether they watched by the door,
they also made no murmur. And Alderic dismounted and took his armour
off, and saying one prayer to his lady, swam with his pickaxe. He did
not part from his sword, for fear that he meet with a Gibbelin. Landed
the other side, he began to work at once, and all went well with him.
Nothing put out its head from any window, and all were lighted so that
nothing within could see him in the dark. The blows of his pickaxe
were dulled in the deep walls. All night he worked, no sound came to
molest him, and at dawn the last rock swerved and tumbled inwards, and
the river poured in after. Then Alderic took a stone, and went to the
bottom step, and hurled the stone at the door; he heard the echoes
roll into the tower, then he ran back and dived through the hole in
the wall.
He was in the emerald-cellar. There was no light in the lofty vault
above him, but, diving through twenty feet of water, he felt the floor
all rough with emeralds, and open coffers full of them. By a faint ray
of the moon he saw that the water was green with them, and easily
filling a satchel, he rose again to the surface; and there were the
Gibbelins waist-deep in the water, with torches in their hands! And,
without saying a word, _or even smiling_, they neatly hanged him on
the outer wall--and the tale is one of those that have not a happy
ending.
HOW NUTH WOULD HAVE PRACTISED HIS ART UPON THE GNOLES