She had a hundred questions to ask him, and he a hundred more to ask her. They told each other all their adventures, and were as happy as man and woman could be. For they were younger and better, and stronger and wiser, than they had ever been before.
It began to grow dark. And they wanted more than ever to reach the country whence the shadows fall. So they looked about them for a way out of the cave. The door by which Mossy entered had closed again, and there was half a mile of rock between them and the sea. Neither could Tangle find the opening in the floor by which the serpent had led her thither. They searched till it grew so dark that they could see nothing, and gave it up.
After a while, however, the cave began to glimmer again. The light came from the moon, but it did not look like moonlight, for it gleamed through those seven pillars in the middle, and filled the place with all colours. And now Mossy saw that there was a pillar beside the red one, which he had not observed before. And it was of the same new colour that he had seen in the rainbow when he saw it first in the fairy forest. And on it he saw a sparkle of blue. It was the sapphires round the keyhole.
He took his key. It turned in the lock to the sounds of Æolian music. A door opened upon slow hinges, and disclosed a winding stair within. The key vanished from his fingers. Tangle went up. Mossy followed. The door closed behind them. They climbed out of the earth; and, still climbing, rose above it. They were in the rainbow. Far abroad, over ocean and land, they could see through its transparent walls the earth beneath their feet. Stairs beside stairs wound up together, and beautiful beings of all ages climbed along with them.
They knew that they were going up to the country whence the shadows fall.
And by this time I think they must have got there.
LEWIS CARROLL
Jabberwocky
Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, 1832–1898), born in Daresbury in Cheshire, was one of eleven children and became a mathematician, author, and Anglican deacon. Carroll ended up at Christ Church, Oxford and obtained first-class honors in Mathematics. He remained at Christ Church as a lecturer until his death. Carroll is widely considered to be one of the most notable of all children’s writers for his classic books, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871). His influence extends beyond children’s literature, or even fantasy literature, into any literature or other medium interested in the imagination—into surrealism in painting, for example, and magical realism around the world, and more.
Carroll wrote and published the nonsense poem “Jabberwocky” in 1871 in Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There. The first stanza was written as early as 1855 and published in Mischmasch, a periodical Carroll wrote and published for his family. “Jabberwocky” is a parody of older heroic fantasy narratives and the most famous example of nonsense in English literature.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“You seem very clever at explaining words, sir,” said Alice. “Would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem called ‘Jabberwocky’?” “Let’s hear it,” said Humpty Dumpty. “I can explain all the poems that were ever invented—and a good many that haven’t been invented just yet.” This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse:
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“That’s enough to begin with,” Humpty Dumpty interrupted: “there are plenty of hard words there. ‘Brillig’ means four o’clock in the afternoon—the time when you begin broiling things for dinner.”
“That’ll do very well,” said Alice: “and ‘slithy’?”
“Well, ‘slithy’ means ‘lithe and slimy.’‘Lithe’ is the same as ‘active.’You see it’s like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up into one word.”
“I see it now,”Alice remarked thoughtfully: “and what are ‘toves’?”
“Well, ‘toves’ are something like badgers—they’re something like lizards— and they’re something like corkscrews.”
“They must be very curious-looking creatures.”
“They are that,” said Humpty Dumpty: “also they make their nests under sun-dials—also they live on cheese.”
“And what’s to ‘gyre’ and to ‘gimble’?”
“To ‘gyre’ is to go round and round like a gyroscope. To ‘gimble’ is to make holes like a gimlet.”
“And ‘the wabe’ is the grass-plot round a sun-dial, I suppose?” said Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity.
“Of course it is. It’s called ‘wabe,’ you know, because it goes a long way before it, and a long way behind it—”
“And a long way beyond it on each side,” Alice added.
“Exactly so. Well, then, ‘mimsy’ is ‘flimsy and miserable’ (there’s another portmanteau for you). And a ‘borogove’ is a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round—something like a live mop.”
“And then ‘mome raths’?” said Alice. “I’m afraid I’m giving you a great deal of trouble.”
“Well, a ‘rath’ is a sort of green pig: but ‘mome’ I’m not certain about. I think it’s short for ‘from home’—meaning that they’d lost their way, you know.”
“And what does ‘outgrabe’ mean?”
“Well, ‘outgrabing’ is something between bellowing and whistling, with a kind of sneeze in the middle: however, you’ll hear it done, maybe—down in the wood yonder—and when you’ve once heard it you’ll be quite content. Who’s been repeating all that hard stuff to you?”
“I read it in a book,” said Alice.
JULIANA HORATIA EWING
The Ogre Courting
Juliana Horatia Ewing (1841–1885) was an English children’s author born in Ecclesfield, Sheffield. She was also a talented illustrator and editor of children’s magazines such as the Nursery Magazines, the Monthly Packet, and Aunt Judy’s Magazine. Although now seldom read, she was an influential writer in the field of children’s literature in her time.
Ewing’s “The Ogre Courting” was first published in Aunt Judy’s Magazine in June 1871, then later in the collection Old Fashioned Fairy Tales, published in London by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. It is a fine example of a Victorian “fairy tale” as practiced in the then-ubiquitous children’s magazines of the period, which were crucial repositories and promoters of fantasy literature in that age.
In days when ogres were still the terror of certain districts, there was one who had long kept a whole neighbourhood in fear without any one daring to dispute his tyranny.
By thefts and exactions, by heavy ransoms from merchant
s too old and tough to be eaten, in one way and another, the Ogre had become very rich; and although those who knew could tell of huge cellars full of gold and jewels, and yards and barns groaning with the weight of stolen goods, the richer he grew the more anxious and covetous he became. Moreover, day by day, he added to his stores; for though (like most ogres) he was as stupid as he was strong, no one had ever been found, by force or fraud, to get the better of him.
What he took from the people was not their heaviest grievance. Even to be killed and eaten by him was not the chance they thought of most. A man can die but once; and if he is a sailor, a shark may eat him, which is not so much better than being devoured by an ogre. No, that was not the worst. The worst was this—he would keep getting married. And as he liked little wives, all the short women lived in fear and dread. And as his wives always died very soon, he was constantly courting fresh ones.
Some said he ate his wives; some said he tormented, and others, that he only worked them to death. Everybody knew it was not a desirable match, and yet there was not a father who dare refuse his daughter if she were asked for. The Ogre only cared for two things in a woman—he liked her to be little, and a good housewife.
Now it was when the Ogre had just lost his twenty-fourth wife (within the memory of man) that these two qualities were eminently united in the person of the smallest and most notable woman of the district, the daughter of a certain poor farmer. He was so poor that he could not afford properly to dower his daughter, who had in consequence remained single beyond her first youth. Everybody felt sure that Managing Molly must now be married to the Ogre. The tall girls stretched themselves till they looked like maypoles, and said, “Poor thing!” The slatterns gossiped from house to house, the heels of their shoes clacking as they went, and cried that this was what came of being too thrifty.
And sure enough, in due time, the giant widower came to the farmer as he was in the field looking over his crops, and proposed for Molly there and then. The farmer was so much put out that he did not know what he said in reply, either when he was saying it, or afterwards, when his friends asked about it. But he remembered that the Ogre had invited himself to sup at the farm that day week.
Managing Molly did not distress herself at the news.
“Do what I bid you, and say as I say,” said she to her father, “and if the Ogre does not change his mind, at any rate you shall not come empty-handed out of the business.”
By his daughter’s desire the farmer now procured a large number of hares, and a barrel of white wine, which expenses completely emptied his slender stocking, and on the day of the Ogre’s visit, she made a delicious and savoury stew with the hares in the biggest pickling tub, and the wine-barrel was set on a bench near the table.
When the Ogre came, Molly served up the stew, and the Ogre sat down to sup, his head just touching the kitchen rafters. The stew was perfect, and there was plenty of it. For what Molly and her father ate was hardly to be counted in the tubful. The Ogre was very much pleased, and said politely:
“I’m afraid, my dear, that you have been put to great trouble and expense on my account. I have a large appetite, and like to sup well.”
“Don’t mention it, sir,” said Molly. “The fewer rats the more corn. How do you cook them?”
“Not one of all the extravagant hussies I have had as wives ever cooked them at all,” said the Ogre; and he thought to himself, “Such a stew out of rats! What frugality! What a housewife!”
When he broached the wine, he was no less pleased, for it was of the best.
“This, at any rate, must have cost you a great deal, neighbour,” said he, drinking the farmer’s health as Molly left the room.
“I don’t know that rotten apples could be better used,” said the farmer; “but I leave all that to Molly. Do you brew at home?”
“We give our rotten apples to the pigs,” growled the Ogre. “But things will be better ordered when she is my wife.”
The Ogre was now in great haste to conclude the match, and asked what dowry the farmer would give his daughter.
“I should never dream of giving a dowry with Molly,” said the farmer, boldly. “Whoever gets her, gets dowry enough. On the contrary, I shall expect a good round sum from the man who deprives me of her. Our wealthiest farmer is just widowed, and therefore sure to be in a hurry for marriage. He has an eye to the main chance, and would not grudge to pay well for such a wife, I’ll warrant.”
“I’m no churl myself,” said the Ogre, who was anxious to secure his thrifty bride at any price; and he named a large sum of money, thinking, “We shall live on rats henceforward, and the beef and mutton will soon cover the dowry.”
“Double that, and we’ll see,” said the farmer, stoutly.
But the Ogre became angry, and cried; “What are you thinking of, man? Who is to hinder my carrying your lass off, without ‘with your leave’ or ‘by your leave,’ dowry or none?”
“How little you know her!” said the farmer. “She is so firm that she would be cut to pieces sooner than give you any benefit of her thrift, unless you dealt fairly in the matter.”
“Well, well,” said the Ogre, “let us meet each other.” And he named a sum larger than he at first proposed, and less than the farmer had asked. This the farmer agreed to, as it was enough to make him prosperous for life.
“Bring it in a sack to-morrow morning,” said he to the Ogre, “and then you can speak to Molly; she’s gone to bed now.”
The next morning, accordingly, the Ogre appeared, carrying the dowry in a sack, and Molly came to meet him.
“There are two things,” said she, “I would ask of any lover of mine: a new farmhouse, built as I should direct, with a view to economy; and a feather-bed of fresh goose feathers, filled when the old woman plucks her geese. If I don’t sleep well, I cannot work well.”
“That is better than asking for finery,” thought the Ogre; “and after all the house will be my own.” So, to save the expense of labour, he built it himself, and worked hard, day after day, under Molly’s orders, till winter came. Then it was finished.
“Now for the feather-bed,” said Molly. “I’ll sew up the ticking, and when the old woman plucks her geese, I’ll let you know.”
When it snows, they say the old woman up yonder is plucking her geese, and so at the first snowstorm Molly sent for the Ogre.
“Now you see the feathers falling,” said she, “so fill the bed.”
“How am I to catch them?” cried the Ogre.
“Stupid! don’t you see them lying there in a heap?” cried Molly; “get a shovel, and set to work.”
The Ogre accordingly carried in shovelfuls of snow to the bed, but as it melted as fast as he put it in, his labour never seemed done. Towards night the room got so cold that the snow would not melt, and now the bed was soon filled.
Molly hastily covered it with sheets and blankets, and said: “Pray rest here to-night, and tell me if the bed is not comfort itself. To-morrow we will be married.”
So the tired Ogre lay down on the bed he had filled, but, do what he would, he could not get warm.
“The sheets must be damp,” said he, and in the morning he woke with such horrible pains in his bones that he could hardly move, and half the bed had melted away. “It’s no use,” he groaned, “she’s a very managing woman, but to sleep on such a bed would be the death of me.” And he went off home as quickly as he could, before Managing Molly could call upon him to be married; for she was so managing that he was more than half afraid of her already.
When Molly found that he had gone, she sent the farmer after him.
“What does he want?” cried the Ogre, when they told him the farmer was at the door.
“He says the bride is waiting for you,” was the reply.
“Tell him I’m too ill to be married,” said the Ogre.
But the messenger soon returned:
“He says she wants to know what you will give her to make up for the disappointment.”
&nbs
p; “She’s got the dowry, and the farm, and the feather-bed,” groaned the Ogre; “what more does she want?”
But again the messenger returned:
“She says you’ve pressed the feather-bed flat, and she wants some more goose feathers.”
“There are geese enough in the yard,” yelled the Ogre. “Let him drive them home; and if he has another word to say, put him down to roast.”
The farmer, who overheard this order, lost no time in taking his leave, and as he passed through the yard he drove home as fine a flock of geese as you will see on a common.
It is said that the Ogre never recovered from the effects of sleeping on the old woman’s goose feathers, and was less powerful than before.
As for Managing Molly, being now well dowered, she had no lack of offers of marriage, and was soon mated to her mind.
J. SHERIDAN LE FANU
Carmilla
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (J. Sheridan, 1814–1873) was born in Dublin, Ireland, and was a great nephew to the famous playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan. He studied law at Trinity College in Dublin and passed the bar, but never practiced. Instead, Le Fanu began working in journalism. He owned several newspapers in the 1840s, including the Dublin Evening Mail and the Warder, and in 1861 owned and edited the Dublin University Magazine.
“Carmilla” is Le Fanu’s tale of a female vampire set in Styria, Austria. It was first published in the magazine The Dark Blue in 1872 and then collected that same year in In a Glass Darkly. “Carmilla” influenced and inspired many authors and artists, not least, Bram Stoker. It is an atmospheric tour-de-force charged with mystery and sexuality by its eponymous vampire femme fatale.
The Treasury Of The Fantastic Page 20
