The Wilful Eye

by Isobelle Carmody

  This time he said nothing about doing the work before he took the payment, and he thrust the things he had taken from her so carelessly into his pocket that Moth remembered the panther wondering why the little man would want jewellery when he could make his own gold.

  None of this is about gold and jewels, she thought, but she said nothing and watched the little man work. Again the transition from straw to gold eluded her eyes, but bit by bit, the bales were consumed by the whirring spindle, and the bobbins of gold thread mounted. Midway through the long night, Moth was thirsty, and getting a jug of water and two glasses, she asked the little man if he would not drink and walk about to ease his back and eyes. She knew from her own experience that spinning was hard work. But he did not seem to hear her. At last, when the moon had set and the stars she could see through the high window were beginning to fade, the little man finished the last bale. He leapt up at once and vanished without a word.

  Moth looked at the great heap of bobbins in awe, thinking the little man had spun gold enough to coat the palace walls. Then she composed herself to wait for the king and the dawn. The latter arrived first and the king moments later. He widened his eyes and made a show of counting the bobbins, but Moth saw he was not surprised to find the task he had set her completed. But did he truly think she had magic that would let her spin the straw into gold? Was that all he had wanted of her?

  She told herself it did not matter and she drew herself up and said as clearly as she could, ‘I have done as you asked and I would like to go home to my parents, your majesty.’ But even as she spoke, her heart was sinking, for she remembered what the king had said about things to do with magic not coming in ones. Because they did not come in twos either. They came in threes. Sure enough, the king said, ‘Tonight you must complete the final task. If you succeed you will keep your life and have your reward.’

  ‘What is the final task?’ she asked.

  ‘Why, it is more of the same,’ said the king, and he laughed hard and long before leaving the chamber and locking the door.

  Later in the day a line of servants came bearing so many bales of straw that once they were all piled up, there was only a narrow corridor between the stacks, going from the door to the bed and the table and chair, and from them to the spindle alcove. They were careful to leave a wide area around the fire clear. Moth paced between the towering bales, half-smothered by the sweet smell, and thought the king must desire her death very badly. Yet how could it possibly serve him? Then she told herself the little man would come again but how should he spin so much straw in one night? With the best will in the world, he could not succeed. She was doomed.

  When dusk came, the panther pelt woke and once more there were golden flecks and shifting lights in his dark sorrowful eyes. Moth poured out all that had happened, begging him to help her.

  ‘I can do nothing but listen and speak,’ he said sadly.

  ‘The little man is the only one who can help me. He will come again. He must, for why would he come twice and not a third time?’ Moth asked.

  ‘I think he will come, for it seems to me that he has some particular interest in these matters, or some connection to them,’ said the panther pelt. ‘But what will you offer him?’

  ‘I might have offered him my hair if I had not been such a fool and cut it all off,’ Moth said. ‘He might have my gown. It is very finely made. The skirt is pure spider silk and the lace fichu is very old and beautiful. And there are the shoes to go with it, all crusted over with beads. Yet he may not think it is enough for so much work.’

  ‘Ask him what he will have of you,’ suggested the panther pelt. ‘Maybe he will accept a kiss.’

  ‘I would give it, and my dress and shoes, if only he will help me to get away from the king,’ Moth said. Then despair overtook her again as she looked around at the bales piled on all sides. An absurdity of straw, she thought. Then she looked at the panther pelt and shame filled her. ‘I think only of myself and yet your plight is worse by far, for there is no end to it. If I fail I will only die. How I wish I could help you.’

  ‘There is nothing that can be done,’ he said. ‘I will never leave this curst place.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Moth, in sudden excitement, as an idea struck her. She removed her slippers, hiked up her dress and climbed awkwardly up the bales of straw until she was able to look out the high window. She was startled to discover that she was looking down from a great height. Indeed it seemed to her that she was looking out of the highest window of the highest tower, for she could see the whole of the rest of the castle, which might have been a child’s model. Beyond it, the village was spread out in an apron of streets and square and cottages with light shining out of the windows. She could even make out her father’s mill hunkered darkly on the banks of the silvery Esker River and, far off on the horizon, she could see a gleam of brightness like the edge of a knife, which might be the sea. Even as she watched, the moon rose, glowing as orange as an ember in the fire.

  The bars were widely set in the window frame and she was able to fit her head through them. She waited impatiently until she saw what she had been seeking. A tiny bat of the sort that fluttered about in the trees catching insects in the confusion of night and day that was dusk.

  ‘Little bat, can you hear me?’ she called. The bat swerved towards her and asked what she wanted of it. Its blind eyes were very bright.

  ‘I can hear you,’ it said in its high-pitched voice. ‘No other creature can hear half so well as a bat.’

  ‘A bat’s hearing is justly famous,’ said Moth gravely. ‘But I think I have made a mistake in calling you, for you are so small and it is a very difficult and heavy thing I would ask of you. You might beg the help of your brothers and sisters, of course, but to manage it they would have to be able to work together and most creatures do not co-operate very well.’ She let her voice sound regretful, for she knew from listening to the bats that roosted in the plum trees beside the mill that bats were very prideful, and what they were most proud of, after their hearing, was their solidarity.

  Indeed the little bat squeaked, ‘You have asked exactly the right creature to help you, for no creatures co-operate so well as bats!’ She let herself be convinced and told the bat exactly what she wanted done, exaggerating the difficulties and her doubts until the bat was in a frenzy of desire to prove himself. He flew away to fetch his brothers and sisters and cousins, and Moth scrambled down to the pelt. To her regret, it had fallen silent, but she told herself it did not matter if they said goodbye. She heaved and shoved and dragged it up onto the bales of straw by the window. The bats were waiting, and after plucking off several tufts of fur, she fed the pelt out carefully through the bars to them until hundreds of them had their tiny claws hooked into it. Last of all she eased the head out and the bats rose in a chittering cloud and bore it away towards the mountains.

  ‘I cannot restore you to life, but the bats will bring you to the border of the Mountain Kingdom and maybe your son will find you there,’ Moth said softly. She climbed back down the bales and smoothed her dress and picked the bits of straw from her hair. Finally, she took the tufts of fur plucked from the pelt, went to the fireplace and scattered them at the edge of the fire to singe in case she needed to explain the disappearance of the pelt.

  The hearth looked very bare now, and while she was happy to have freed the panther from the castle, she felt her own loneliness and fear all the more keenly. A desolate tear slipped down her cheeks.

  There was a flash of brightness and the little man stood looking at her. There was a spot of colour on each of his cheeks. ‘Why do you weep so miserably, girl?’ he asked.

  ‘All of this straw you see must be spun into gold thread before dawn,’ said Moth, getting to her feet. ‘Will you help me again? Can you?’

  ‘I can spin all the straw I see to gold,’ he said with a sly sideways look at her. ‘But what will you give me?’

  ‘I have no more jewellery,’ Moth said. ‘I have only this dress and m
y shoes.’ She put out a dainty foot in its sparkling beaded slipper.

  ‘That is not enough,’ said the little man.

  ‘What would you have of me?’ asked Moth.

  ‘I would have your firstborn child,’ said the little man.

  Moth stared at him aghast, for of all the things he might have said this was not one she would ever have guessed. ‘What would you do with a child?’ she asked.

  ‘That is none of your affair,’ cried the little man, flying into a sudden rage. ‘Now decide, for I have more to do with my time than stay and listen to a snot-nosed maid dither!’

  Moth knew there was nothing she could do but agree, if she wished to live, and life seemed very precious to her now. ‘It shall be as you say. You shall have my firstborn child,’ she vowed, swearing to herself that she would never wed, never bear a child. Sadness lodged in her throat, but what else could she have done, she wondered. To be childless was better than being dead; better than bearing a child that would be taken from her and used in some foul and unimaginable way.

  The little man had gone immediately to the spindle and now he began to spin at a furious speed. Hour after hour the spindle whirred and bobbin after bobbin was filled and set aside. His hands moved in a blur and the straw bales began to disappear. But there were so many. As the sky grew steadily lighter and the stars winked out, Moth could only clasp her hands and pray the little man would be done by dawn.

  ‘There!’ he cried at last, and she saw, with a relief that made her dizzy, that there was not a straw left in the room, and the sky was still a dark blue which meant the sun had yet to rise.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said numbly.

  ‘I do not need your thanks. I will return for the child in a year,’ said the little man.

  Moth looked at him, uncomprehending. ‘But . . . I am a husbandless virgin. I do not know if I will be wed and with child in a single year.’

  ‘Oh you will be,’ sneered the little man. ‘For now that your task is completed, you will have your reward.’

  Moth stared at him in dawning horror. The king and her father had spoken of a reward, but she had thought only that they meant she would have her life.

  ‘Why do you look like that? Is it not the desire of every girl to wed and bed a prince, and you have gone one better. You will have a king!’

  ‘Better to be dead!’ Moth cried passionately.

  ‘That will be your sincere prayer, if you defy him,’ said the little man savagely.

  ‘Please,’ Moth cried, falling to her knees. ‘Help me!’

  The little man looked down at her with a blank, almost puzzled expression. Then his face cleared and delighted mischief filled his queer eyes. ‘I will offer you a bargain. If you can tell me my name before the king weds you at dawn in three days, I will prevent the wedding and any child you bear in the future will be yours to keep.’

  ‘Your name?’ Moth echoed stupidly, too shattered to think.

  ‘Each night I will come to you after the sun has set and I will hear your guesses until the dawn or until you have no more to offer,’ said the little man. ‘If you fail, there will be no talk of suicide or refusal. You will marry the king and smile at the wedding. You will be sweet and willing and obedient to him, no matter what he requires of you, and when the child is born, you will give it freely to me. Swear it now and you will have your chance to escape your fate.’

  Once again, Moth knew she had no choice but to agree, and as soon as she had given her word, the little man vanished. Moments later, the sun rose and the key turned in the lock. The door flew open to admit the king. His eyes swept the room, taking in the hundreds of bobbins piled on the table, all filled with gold thread. He smiled his hooded, secretive smile and said, ‘Well, little Moth. You have won this time. Now you will have your reward.’ He leaned forward and took her hand, pressing his hot lips into her palm. ‘You will become my bride.’ He looked at her the whole time, his eyes very dark. ‘I will dress you in fine white silk from across the sea, all sewn over with Orandan pearls. All shall see how the moth has become a butterfly. Then I will bring you into my bedchamber and we will see what you will become there.’ All the words he spoke were uttered with an undertone of mockery.

  ‘Please, your majesty, let us be wed in three days, for I need time to make my preparations and say goodbye to my parents,’ Moth said.

  The king beamed at her, his eyes dancing. ‘Of course. Time enough for your wedding dress to be made.’ Then, incredibly, he took her hand and led her through the castle to the blood-red audience room.

  ‘Flutter away, little Moth, and in three days, I will send my carriage for you and your parents an hour before dawn. Then we will be wed in splendour under the newly risen sun.’

  ‘My dearest girl!’ shrieked her mother, smothering her with kisses. ‘I feared I would never see you again! And yet here you are all in triumph, to be wed to the king!’

  ‘I knew it all the time,’ said her father, beaming. ‘Wait till I tell that Camber. Didn’t I say my daughter would wed a king and no other?’

  As they babbled and laughed and congratulated one another, they did not ask about the test of magic nor did they seem to notice the wan silence of their daughter. She thought they did not see her at all, but then her mother suddenly put a silk-clad arm about her shoulders and said she looked dirty and weary and should have a bath and a hot toddy and be put to bed.

  Moth was exhausted and would have given in mindlessly to her mother’s cosseting, but she was all too conscious that she had only three days to save herself. There was no use in asking her mother and father to help her, for if she told them everything, they would be bewildered and frightened and what could they do to help her? She must help herself. Somehow, she must learn the name of the little man. She begged her parents’ pardon and ran out to see Dougal. The old man was elated to see her, and tears ran down his grizzled old face. ‘I was feart for ee,’ he whispered when she kissed him.

  ‘You did well to fear, and I am not out of danger yet,’ she told him, but not aloud.

  The old man patted her shoulder awkwardly and insisted on getting a glass of honey mead for her, for she looked pale and shaken. When he had gone, her tears would not be held back and as they slipped down her cheeks, the bees came buzzing out in a coil that wound around her, for bees find the scent of tears intoxicating. On impulse, she told them what she could tell no one else. In this she did what any lass or old crone would do, for it was well known that one could tell secrets to the bees. They would be kept, for she alone heard the songs bees made of the secrets entrusted to them.

  She heard a step on the path and turned, but the smile she had been trying to paste on her face faded, for it was not Dougal with a mug of honey mead but a tall, handsome young man with heavy, beautifully shaped brows and fine dark eyes. He wore a deep brown cloak and green breeches and, even as she realised he must be the traveller from the Mountain Kingdom, he bowed gracefully.

  ‘Forgive me for not waiting to be introduced but I know who you are. I am in your debt and you must let me repay you.’

  ‘No one can help me,’ Moth said, unable to stop the words. The young man’s eyes looked into hers, a question forming in them. She saw that they were not black as she had first thought, but a very dark dense green. Dougal returned but suddenly Moth could not bear to sit there anymore. She felt half out of her mind with fear and weariness. ‘I cannot linger. I am just returned from the palace and I . . . I am to be wed.’ She swallowed a great gulp of terror and the young man reached out and took her hands as if he thought she might faint. She looked into his beautiful eyes and said, ‘I am doomed to be shut up in the black castle unless I can learn the name of a little magical man who dwells there in secret. If you would repay me for praising your candles, then make me a list of all the names you have ever heard in your travels and send it to my father’s house.’ She could say no more; tears blocked her throat and blinded her. She took her hands back and fled to the barn and wept a storm of tears a
gainst Lavender’s warm and willing flank.

  ‘There, there,’ the cow said tenderly.

  By the time she returned to the house she had got herself under control and she submitted bonelessly to her mother’s ministrations. She was bathed and her hair combed and she scarcely heard her mother’s excited plans for the wedding. She slept awhile and then her mother woke her with a glass of warm honeyed milk at dusk and the puzzled news that Dougal had sent a list of names over with a pot of honey to welcome her home. Moth’s heart began to beat harder as she took the list from her mother and carried it into the garden. She sipped the honeyed milk and prayed that the little man’s name was on the list.

  When night fell, she refused her mother’s plea to come inside, saying that it was a warm sweet night and she would sit awhile. Her mother had only just gone in when the little man appeared in a soft flash of ruby light. Moth did not hesitate, and read out the names one at a time.

  ‘Is your name Izander? Neil, Oran, Torvald, Tom?’ He shook his head over and over. ‘Is it Exon? It is Volander? Is it Matthew?’ No, no and no. ‘Is it William? Is it Rook? Is it Tristram?’ No and no again. A hundred names she read and the little man shook his head to all of them. When she had finished the list, Moth said the name of every villager she knew, and then the name of every man and boy in every story. But it was always no. Finally, she could not think of another name, and the little man said she must try again the next night.

  She went inside and forced herself to eat, knowing she must be strong and clear-headed now. Pushing her despair away, she pretended to consider the names that might be given to the children she would bear the king, and she emptied her mother and father of all the names they knew. She wrote them in a list and then she went to bed and slept. More names came to her in her dreams, and in the morning she wrote them all down, then she went into the village ostensibly to buy shoes and a veil and a nightdress, and culled more names from the villagers who wished to curry favour since the news had spread that she would wed the king.