“One twilight, when Accadee was out hunting in the woods, he shot a snow white moose; and he took off its skin and wrapped it around him. Then he went on through the woods in the starlight; and he felt so happy and light of heart that he sometimes frisked and capered about just as a real moose would do. And he was doing this when Shuben, who was also out hunting, saw him from afar and thought he was a real moose. She stole cautiously through the woods until she came to the brink of a little valley. Below her stood the snow white moose. She drew the arrow to her eye—alas, she knew the art only too well! and took careful aim. The next moment Accadee fell dead with her arrow in his heart.”
The Story Girl paused—a dramatic pause. It was quite dark in the fir wood. We could see her face and eyes but dimly through the gloom. A silvery moon was looking down on us over the granary. The stars twinkled through the softly waving boughs. Beyond the wood we caught a glimpse of a moonlit world lying in the sharp frost of the October evening. The sky above it was chill and ethereal and mystical.
But all about us were shadows; and the weird little tale, told in a voice fraught with mystery and pathos, had peopled them for us with furtive folk in belt and wampum, and dark-tressed Indian maidens.
“What did Shuben do when she found out she had killed Accadee?” asked Felicity.
“She died of a broken heart before the spring, and she and Accadee were buried side by side on the bank of the river which has ever since borne their names—the river Shubenacadie,” said the Story Girl.
The sharp wind blew around the granary and Cecily shivered. We heard Aunt Janet’s voice calling “Children, children.” Shaking off the spell of firs and moonlight and romantic tale, we scrambled to our feet and went homeward.
“I kind of wish I’d been born an Injun” said Dan. “It must have been a jolly life—nothing to do but hunt and fight.”
“It wouldn’t be so nice if they caught you and tortured you at the stake,” said Felicity.
“No,” said Dan reluctantly, “I suppose there’d be some drawback to everything, even to being an Injun.”
“Isn’t it cold?” said Cecily, shivering again. “It will soon be winter. I wish summer could last forever. Felicity likes the winter, and so does the Story Girl, but I don’t. It always seems so long till spring.”
“Never mind, we’ve had a splendid summer,” I said, slipping my arm about her to comfort some childish sorrow that breathed in her plaintive voice.
Truly, we had had a delectable summer; and, having had it, it was ours forever. “The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.” They may rob us of our future and embitter our present, but our past they may not touch. With all its laughter and delight and glamour it is our eternal possession.
Nevertheless, we all felt a little of the sadness of the waning year. There was a distinct weight on our spirits until Felicity took us into the pantry and stayed us with apple tarts and comforted us with cream. Then we brightened up. It was really a very decent world after all.
XXVIII
The Tale of the Rainbow Bridge
Felix, so far as my remembrance goes, never attained to success in the Ordeal of Bitter Apples. He gave up trying after awhile; and he also gave up praying about it, saying in bitterness of spirit that there was no use in praying when other fellows prayed against you out of spite. He and Peter remained on bad terms for some time, however.
We were all of us too tired those nights to do any special praying. Sometimes I fear our “regular” prayers were slurred over, or mumbled in anything but reverent haste. October was a busy month on the hill farms. The apples had to be picked, and this work fell mainly to us children. We stayed home from school to do it. It was pleasant work and there was a great deal of fun in it; but it was hard, too, and our arms and backs ached roundly at night. In the mornings it was very delightful; in the afternoons tolerable; but in the evenings we lagged, and the laughter and the zest of fresher hours were lacking.
Some of the apples had to be picked very carefully. But with others it did not matter; we boys would climb the trees and shake the apples down until the girls shrieked for mercy. The days were crisp and mellow, with warm sunshine and a tang of frost in the air, mingled with the woodsy odours of the withering grasses. The hens and turkeys prowled about, pecking at windfalls, and Pat made mad rushes at them amid the fallen leaves. The world beyond the orchard was in a royal magnificence of colouring, under the vivid blue autumn sky. The big willow by the gate was a splendid golden dome, and the maples that were scattered through the spruce grove waved blood-red banners over the sombre cone-bearers. The Story Girl generally had her head garlanded with their leaves. They became her vastly. Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have worn them. Those two girls were of a domestic type that assorted ill with the wildfire in Nature’s veins. But when the Story Girl wreathed her nut brown tresses with crimson leaves it seemed, as Peter said, that they grew on her—as if the gold and flame of her spirit had broken out in a coronal, as much a part of her as the pale halo seems a part of the Madonna it encircles.
What tales she told us on those far-away autumn days, peopling the russet arcades with folk of an elder world. Many a princess rode by us on her palfrey, many a swaggering gallant ruffled it bravely in velvet and plume adown Uncle Stephen’s Walk, many a stately lady, silken clad, walked in that opulent orchard!
When we had filled our baskets they had to be carried to the granary loft, and the contents stored in bins or spread on the floor to ripen further. We ate a good many, of course, feeling that the labourer was worthy of his hire. The apples from our own birthday trees were stored in separate barrels inscribed with our names. We might dispose of them as we willed. Felicity sold hers to Uncle Alec’s hired man—and was badly cheated to boot, for he levanted shortly afterwards, taking the apples with him, having paid her only half her rightful due. Felicity has not gotten over that to this day.
Cecily, dear heart, sent most of hers to the hospital in town, and no doubt gathered in therefrom dividends of gratitude and satisfaction of soul, such as can never be purchased by any mere process of bargain and sale. The rest of us ate our apples, or carried them to school where we bartered them for such treasures as our schoolmates possessed and we coveted.
There was a dusky, little, pear-shaped apple—from one of Uncle Stephen’s trees—which was our favourite; and next to it a delicious, juicy, yellow apple from Aunt Louisa’s tree. We were also fond of the big sweet apples; we used to throw them up in the air and let them fall on the ground until they were bruised and battered to the bursting point. Then we sucked the juice; sweeter was it than the nectar drunk by blissful gods on the Thessalian hill.
Sometimes we worked until the cold yellow sunsets faded out over the darkening distances, and the hunter’s moon looked down on us through the sparkling air. The constellations of autumn scintillated above us. Peter and the Story Girl knew all about them, and imparted their knowledge to us generously. I recall Peter standing on the Pulpit Stone, one night ere moonrise, and pointing them out to us, occasionally having a difference of opinion with the Story Girl over the name of some particular star. Job’s Coffin and the Northern Cross were to the west of us; south of us flamed Fomalhaut. The Great Square of Pegasus was over our heads. Cassiopeia sat enthroned in her beautiful chair in the north-east; and north of us the Dippers swung untiringly around the Pole Star. Cecily and Felix were the only ones who could distinguish the double star in the handle of the Big Dipper, and greatly did they plume themselves thereon. The Story Girl told us the myths and legends woven around these immemorial clusters, her very voice taking on a clear, remote, starry sound as she talked of them. When she ceased we came back to earth, feeling as if we had been millions of miles away in the blue ether, and that all our old familiar surroundings were momentarily forgotten and strange.
That night when he pointed out the stars to us from the Pulpit Stone was the last time for several weeks that Peter shared our toil and pastime. The next day he complained of heada
che and sore throat, and seemed to prefer lying on Aunt Olivia’s kitchen sofa to doing any work. As it was not in Peter to be a malingerer he was left in peace, while we picked apples. Felix alone, most unjustly and spitefully, declared that Peter was simply shirking.
“He’s just lazy, that’s what’s the matter with him,” he said.
“Why don’t you talk sense, if you must talk?” said Felicity. “There’s no sense in calling Peter lazy. You might as well say I had black hair. Of course, Peter, being a Craig, has his faults, but he’s a smart boy. His father was lazy but his mother hasn’t a lazy bone in her body, and Peter takes after her.”
“Uncle Roger says Peter’s father wasn’t exactly lazy,” said the Story Girl. “The trouble was, there were so many other things he liked better than work.”
“I wonder if he’ll ever come back to his family,” said Cecily. “Just think how dreadful it would be if our father had left us like that!”
“Our father is a King,” said Felicity loftily, “and Peter’s father was only a Craig. A member of our family couldn’t behave like that.”
“They say there must be a black sheep in every family,” said the Story Girl.
“There isn’t any in ours,” said Cecily loyally.
“Why do white sheep eat more than black?” asked Felix.
“Is that a conundrum?” asked Cecily cautiously. “If it is I won’t try to guess the reason. I never can guess conundrums.”
“It isn’t a conundrum,” said Felix. “It’s a fact. They do—and there’s a good reason for it.”
We stopped picking apples, sat down on the grass, and tried to reason it out—with the exception of Dan, who declared that he knew there was a catch somewhere and he wasn’t going to be caught. The rest of us could not see where any catch could exist, since Felix solemnly vowed, ’cross his heart, white sheep did eat more than black. We argued over it seriously, but finally had to give it up.
“Well, what is the reason?” asked Felicity.
“Because there’s more of them,” said Felix, grinning.
I forget what we did to Felix.
A shower came up in the evening and we had to stop picking. After the shower there was a magnificent double rainbow. We watched it from the granary window, and the Story Girl told us an old legend, culled from one of Aunt Olivia’s many scrapbooks.
“Long, long ago, in the Golden Age, when the gods used to visit the earth so often that it was nothing uncommon to see them, Odin made a pilgrimage over the world. Odin was the great god of the northland, you know. And wherever he went among men he taught them love and brotherhood and skilful arts; and great cities sprang up where he had trodden, and every land through which he passed was blessed because one of the gods had come down to men. But many men and women followed Odin himself, giving up all their worldly possessions and ambitions; and to these he promised the gift of eternal life. All these people were good and noble and unselfish and kind; but the best and noblest of them all was a youth named Ving; and this youth was beloved by Odin above all others, for his beauty and strength and goodness. Always he walked on Odin’s right hand, and always the first light of Odin’s smile fell on him. Tall and straight was he as a young pine, and his long hair was the colour of ripe wheat in the sun; and his blue eyes were like the northland heavens on a starry night.
“In Odin’s band was a beautiful maiden named Alin. She was as fair and delicate as a young birch tree in spring among the dark old pines and firs, and Ving loved her with all his heart. His soul thrilled with rapture at the thought that he and she together should drink from the fountain of immortality, as Odin had promised, and be one thereafter in eternal youth.
“At last they came to the very place where the rainbow touched the earth. And the rainbow was a great bridge, built of living colours, so dazzling and wonderful that beyond it the eye could see nothing, only far away a great, blinding, sparkling glory, where the fountain of life sprang up in a shower of diamond fire. But under the Rainbow Bridge rolled a terrible flood, deep and wide and violent, full of rocks and rapids and whirlpools.
“There was a Warder of the bridge, a god, dark and stern and sorrowful. And to him Odin gave command that he should open the gate and allow his followers to cross the Rainbow Bridge, that they might drink of the fountain of life beyond. And the Warder set open the gate.
“ ‘Pass on and drink of the fountain,’ he said. ‘To all who taste of it shall immortality be given. But only to that one who shall drink of it first shall be permitted to walk at Odin’s right hand forever.’
“Then the company passed through in great haste, all fired with a desire to be the first to drink of the fountain and win so marvellous a boon. Last of all came Ving. He had lingered behind to pluck a thorn from the foot of a beggar child he had met on the highway, and he had not heard the Warder’s words. But when, eager, joyous, radiant, he set his foot on the rainbow, the stern, sorrowful Warder took him by the arm and drew him back.
“ ‘Ving, strong, noble, and valiant,’ he said, ‘Rainbow Bridge is not for thee.’
“Very dark grew Ving’s face. Hot rebellion rose in his heart and rushed over his pale lips.
“ ‘Why dost thou keep back the draught of immortality from me?’ he demanded passionately.
“The Warder pointed to the dark flood that rolled under the bridge.
“ ‘The path of the rainbow is not for thee,’ he said, ‘but yonder way is open. Ford that flood. On the further bank is the fountain of life.’
“ ‘Thou mockest me,’ muttered Ving sullenly. ‘No mortal could cross that flood. Oh, Master,’ he prayed, turning beseechingly to Odin, ‘thou didst promise to me eternal life as to the others. Wilt thou not keep that promise? Command the Warder to let me pass. He must obey thee.’
“But Odin stood silent, with his face turned from his beloved, and Ving’s heart was filled with unspeakable bitterness and despair.
“ ‘Thou mayest return to earth if thou fearest to essay the flood,’ said the Warder.
“ ‘Nay,’ said Ving wildly, ‘earthly life without Alin is more dreadful than the death which awaits me in yon dark river.’
“And he plunged fiercely in. He swam, he struggled, he buffetted the turmoil. The waves went over his head again and again, the whirlpools caught him and flung him on the cruel rocks. The wild, cold spray beat on his eyes and blinded him, so that he could see nothing, and the roar of the river deafened him so that he could hear nothing; but he felt keenly the wounds and bruises of the cruel rocks, and many a time he would have given up the struggle had not the thought of sweet Alin’s loving eyes brought him the strength and desire to struggle as long as it was possible. Long, long, long, to him seemed that bitter and perilous passage; but at last he won through to the further side. Breathless and reeling, his vesture torn, his great wounds bleeding, he found himself on the shore where the fountain of immortality sprang up. He staggered to its brink and drank of its clear stream. Then all pain and weariness fell away from him, and he rose up, a god, beautiful with immortality. And as he did there came rushing over the Rainbow Bridge a great company—the band of his fellow travellers. But all were too late to win the double boon. Ving had won to it through the danger and suffering of the dark river.”
The rainbow had faded out, and the darkness of the October dusk was falling.
“I wonder,” said Dan meditatively, as we went away from that redolent spot, “what it would be like to live for ever in this world.”
“I expect we’d get tired of it after awhile,” said the Story Girl. “But,” she added, “I think it would be a good while before I would.”
XXIX
The Shadow Feared of Man
We were all up early the next morning, dressing by candle-light. But early as it was we found the Story Girl in the kitchen when we went down, sitting on Rachel Ward’s blue chest and looking important.
“What do you think?” she exclaimed. “Peter has the measles! He was dreadfully sick all n
ight, and Uncle Roger had to go for the doctor. He was quite light-headed, and didn’t know any one. Of course he’s far too sick to be taken home, so his mother has come up to wait on him, and I’m to live over here until he is better.”
This was mingled bitter and sweet. We were sorry to hear that Peter had the measles; but it would be jolly to have the Story Girl living with us all the time. What orgies of story telling we should have!
“I suppose we’ll all have the measles now,” grumbled Felicity. “And October is such an inconvenient time for measles—there’s so much to do.”
“I don’t believe any time is very convenient to have the measles,” Cecily said.
“Oh, perhaps we won’t have them,” said the Story Girl cheerfully. “Peter caught them at Markdale, the last time he was home, his mother says.”
“I don’t want to catch the measles from Peter,” said Felicity decidedly. “Fancy catching them from a hired boy!”
“Oh, Felicity, don’t call Peter a hired boy when he’s sick,” protested Cecily.
During the next two days we were very busy—too busy to tell tales or listen to them. Only in the frosty dusk did we have time to wander afar in realms of gold with the Story Girl. She had recently been digging into a couple of old volumes of classic myths and northland folklore which she had found in Aunt Olivia’s attic; and for us, god and goddess, laughing nymph and mocking satyr, norn and valkyrie, elf and troll, and “green folk” generally, were real creatures once again, inhabiting the orchards and woods and meadows around us, until it seemed as if the Golden Age had returned to earth.
Then, on the third day, the Story Girl came to us with a very white face. She had been over to Uncle Roger’s yard to hear the latest bulletin from the sick room. Hitherto they had been of a non-committal nature; but now it was only too evident that she had bad news.
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