The Water of the Wondrous Isles

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Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

THE WATER OF THE WONDROUS ISLES

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.

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