THE WOOD BEYOND THE WORLD

THE WOOD BEYOND THE WORLD

Once upon a time a young knight, named Alois, went to dwell at the court of a mighty King until his coming of age, for he was without kinsmen, and heir to great powers and possessions. A tiny round room in the castle’s topmost tower was given him to be his very own; and from the curving sill of its one great window he could look down on the gardens of the palace, the woodland beyond, and see the older nobles walking two by two behind the King.

Now it came to pass, upon a summer eve, that the knight Alois beheld from his tower a lovely golden light moving about on a hillside in the wood.

“The elves must be dancing on the hill,” said the young knight. “I’ll ride into the wood, and watch them from afar.” And gallop-a-gallop away he rode in the dark. The night was still, the birds had gone to bed, and a young sickle-moon was sinking in the west with the old moon in her arms.

Suddenly the youth beheld the golden light approaching through the trees.

A pretty maiden in a dress of homespun green, a white apron, and a little cap was carrying a golden lantern through the wood. Her eyes were upon the ground, and every once and a while she stooped to gather a flower from the earth and thrust it into a basket by her side. Dismounting from his horse, Alois followed the maid afoot, fearful lest the snapping of a twig reveal his presence in the dark.

And now the maiden came to a little house in a moonlit forest-glade and, entering the dwelling, closed the door gently behind her. A casement window stood open to the night, the beam of the golden lantern filled the room, and presently a voice began to sing a pretty country-tune. Mingled with the lilt of the ballad was a strange sound, a purring treading sound something like the whir of a spinning wheel, but heavier and with a queer wooden click to it every tiny while.

Approaching quietly in the moonlight, Alois rose on tiptoe and gazed within the house.

A single candle in a tall candlestick was burning at each end of the mantel, candles were burning in sconces on the wall, and the golden lantern, still aglow, hung close beside the door. The maiden of the light was sitting at an oaken loom, working the treadles with her feet, and tossing the shuttle back and forth from side to side. Skeins of golden thread, and white, and rose, and mulberry, and blue lay at her fingers’ ends, and on the frame of the loom stood forth the finished labor, a noble tapestry in which the maiden had cunningly woven knights and ladies, banners and tents and men at arms, and castles moated round with quiet streams.

This maid in homespun green, I must tell you, was an orphan lass who earned her bread in the world by weaving at her loom. It was her custom to stain the weaving yarns with colors made of roots and flowers, and she had been wandering about in search of the starlight daisy when Alois had seen her lantern on the hill.

Now it came to pass that, as the youth Alois rode home in the moonlight to his tower, he could think of naught but the lovely maiden of the loom and determined to ride forth again, find her, and make her his wife. On the following morning, therefore, he rode singing down the wildwood road to the house in the glade and asked a cup of water from the maid. And so graciously and prettily did Fidella—for this was the maiden’s name—offer him the cup, that Alois thought her more than ever quite the most charming person in the world.

Months passed, the youth rode every day to the little house, and presently made so bold as to ask Fidella to marry him on the morrow’s morn. Little suspecting that Alois was aught but a simple squire of the court, the maiden answered with a nod, and promised to be ready to ride with him to the village on the hilltop, and there be wedded by the Master Villager.

And now it was the marriage morn; great clouds fled over the sun, chilling and quieting the world, yet every now and then breaking asunder and dappling the broad land with spots of sunshine, which gleamed for a moment and were gone. Dressed in her pretty country finery, and with a nosegay of posies at her throat, Fidella stood by her window waiting to hear the thunder of arriving hoofs and Alois’ joyous hail.

But, alas! little by little the morning dragged along, the wooden clock on the mantel ticked and ticked and ticked and ticked, the clouds gathered in a gray sea over the noontide sun, yet of Alois came no sign. Early in the afternoon a gentle windless rain began to fall, and presently the flowers in the garden hung their heads in the gathering gloom, as if in sorrow to see so fair a bride forsaken and forgot.

But now you must hear of what had happened at the court.

Now, after bidding farewell to the maiden of the loom and promising to return on the following morn, Alois had gone to his tower and attired himself in the magnificent costume which court ceremonial prescribed for all who were fain to speak with the King. This habit was of richest white satin, faced with gold; a sword set with splendid sapphires was belted to its side; and a short blue-velvet cape, hanging in loose folds, was secured at the breast by a golden chain. Now, as Alois was very dark and red-cheeked, you will see that this costume was really quite becoming.

Thus arrayed, the youth went boldly to the King, and spoke freely and frankly of his love for the maid of the loom and of his purpose to be married with her on the morrow’s morn.

The King, who sat on his throne clad in a great scarlet robe and wearing his crown, listened to Alois with a smile when he began, but with a frown as the tale drew to an ending.

“Youth,” said the King sternly, “I have heard enough; this folly must end, and at once. Are you so far forgetful of your great inheritance that you must take a weaver’s lass to be your bride? Go to your tower, and see that you ride not beyond the castle wall until I speak the word!”

“But, sir, am I not in this my own master?” cried Alois, unafraid.

“You are my ward,” replied the King, with cold authority, “and I have other purposes for you. Sir Alois, go!”

“Do what you will,” replied the youth; “I shall have Fidella, and no other.” And holding his head high, the youth Alois quitted the audience hall, and mounted to his room.

Now when he had gone, the King, who had sat silent a moment, chin in hand, suddenly threw off his crimson robe, called for his coach, and rode through the wood to a giant tower on the brink of a wild ravine. A powerful enchanter dwelt there, whose magic aid and guileful counsel were ever at the service of the King.

And now the enchanter sat in a huge golden chair hearkening to the King. He was very old, this enchanter, and attired in a full black mantle, spangled with silver stars and golden crescent-moons; and, as he sat in his golden chair, he leaned forward and rested his two hands on a stout black cane. The high round chamber was full of a cobwebby gloom, and on shelves in the arched windows stood crystal flasks of a thousand twisted shapes and colors: deep ocean-blues, fiery scarlets, smoky purples, clear topaz yellows, and bright snake-like greens. And there was a huge black lizard with greeny-scarlet eyes, that made scaly noises as it ran about on the flagstones of the floor.

When he had heard the King’s story of Alois and Fidella, the enchanter smote the floor with his black cane, rose to his feet, saying never a word, and took from a niche in the wall a jar of blackest marble, strangely veined with gold.

“You have done well to come to me,” said the enchanter to the King, “for the youth is proud-spirited and will resist you to the end. ’Twere wisest to bend him to your will by magic guile. Within this phial dwells the water of forgetfulness; a goblin brought it me from the depths of the underworld. To-night you must pour it forth into a golden goblet, and that goblet you must stand by the youth’s place at the dinner of the court. As soon as he drinks of it, he will forget the weaver’s maid forever.”

And now it was evening, and the King and his guests were at dinner in the castle banquet-hall. There were candles everywhere, white tables and golden plates, and much coming and going of servants clad in green. From the royal table, raised above the others, the King watched Alois through the meal. Suddenly he smiled a grim smile; the youth had drunk the cup.

When it was late at night the King summoned Alois before him, stared into his eyes, and beheld that he had indeed forgotten all.

“My Lord Alois,” said the King, “your coming-of-age approaches, and you will soon find yourself the greatest lord in my dominions. Since you are my ward, it has been my duty to seek for you a bride worthy of your titles and estate. In the Kingdom of the Fields a fair Princess dwells. Melusine is she called, and to-morrow’s morn you shall go forth in state to offer her your homage and your hand.”

Thus spake the crafty King, and hid in his heart his design of adding the Kingdom of the Fields to his own dominions through the marriage of the knight and Melusine.

And now it was the morn of cloud and fleeting gleams of sun. In the little house in the glade, Fidella stood waiting and waiting at the casement window; whilst at the court, Alois drew on his jeweled gloves, bowed to the King, mounted into the golden coach, and sank back in splendor against cushions of mulberry brocade.

“Tick-tock, tock-tock, tick-tock,” said the clock in Fidella’s house, as the hands circled the hours.

And the golden coach, gleaming great golden gleams in the pools of light, rolled over the hills and far away.

It was twilight now and, in the little house in the wood, Fidella lifted the bridal wreath from her head, lit candles, and sank into a wing chair by the burnt-out embers of the fire. So great was her trust in Alois, that never a questioning doubt of him raised its voice in her heart.

“Some evil thing has surely come to pass,” said faithful Fidella. “Alas! what may it be?” And for two days she walked to and fro between the window and her loom, vainly hoping for a sign. On the third morning, no longer able to bear the burden of her fears, the maiden journeyed to court and sought news of Alois from the King.

“So you are the maid of the loom?” said the unpitying King, who owed Fidella a grudge for having endangered his precious schemes. “And ’tis your Sir Alois whom you seek? Well, find him if you can. Ho, guards of the palace, take this forward maid, put her in a coach, and drive her far beyond the bounds of my dominions!”

Over hill, over dale, bumping through puddle-holes, and tossing and swaying crazily from side to side, rolled the coach in which Fidella sat a prisoner. A rushing scurrying wind was flowing over the sunny world, shaking the manes of the galloping horses, rippling the roadside pools, and worrying the little birds who had just begun to fly. Presently Fidella found herself on a lonely moor, watching the coach fare homeward into the wind-streaked splendor of the west.

And now began the wayfaring of Fidella in quest of Alois, for the King had forbidden the maid to return again into her own land. Down the highway of the Golden Plain she fared and beheld the grain tossing about her like a sea; through the silence of the Adamants she passed, and on into the Kingdom by the peaks; yet never a word of Alois brought joy to her ear.

Now it fortuned on a spring morning, as Fidella wandered in a pleasant land of wooded hills and little singing brooks, she came to the strangest palace that was ever to be seen. Of earth o’ergrown with grass were its mighty walls and lofty battlements; flowers grew in the crannies; blossoming vines swayed from its heights; and, when the maiden peered within, she beheld there a woodsy hall, whose giant columns were the trunks of living trees. At the far end of the hall, on a throne of living wood, sat a dark and stately queen. Twelve maidens stood beside her, three robed in summer scarlet, three in winter white, three in springtide emerald, and three in russet gold.

The lady of the palace was Airda, the great Earth Queen. Four sons had she, and each son was master of a season of the year.

“My faithful Fidella,” said the Earth Queen, when she had heard the maiden’s story, “be of good cheer, for all that hath been hid from you shall now be known. An enchanted torrent through my palace flows; its waters possess the gift of speech, and to every mystery it hath a secret key. Follow, Fidella, to the grotto of the stream.”

Now rose the Earth Queen from her throne and led the way through the cool sweet-smelling chambers of the palace to a strange dark grotto, half cave, half vine-hung hall. At the darker end of the leafy cave a lovely waterfall, whose torrent was full of a pale mysterious light, was leaping from some height overhead into a chasm so profound that only the faintest watery murmur rose in whispers from below. Kneeling upon the brink of the chasm, Fidella gazed down into the palely glowing depths of the abyss and asked of Alois and his fate.

For a moment or two, the waters far below seemed to gather themselves into a faint echoing roar, which slowly ebbed to a whisper; and presently this whisper became a voice, and dissolved into delicate and silvery words. And the voice of the enchanted chasm told Fidella of Alois’ true faith, of the enchanter and the water of forgetfulness, and of the youth’s journey to the court of the Kingdom of the Fields.

“Ah, me! Is there no way in which the spell may be broken?” said Fidella.

“In the wood beyond the world,” answered the torrent, “under trees which are older than the stars, the fountain of memory pours its crystal stream. If the youth shall drink a golden goblet of this water, the chain of the spell will break.” And the silvery voice grew faint, and died away.

And now Airda, the Earth Queen, gave the maiden a fair golden goblet with a golden cover, and bade her sail upon the giant ship of the earth to the wood beyond the world.

When the maiden arrived at the sea, the sun had vanished below mountains to the west, the waves were breaking gently along a darkening shore, and ragged hulks of cloud were lying becalmed in the deep and starry sky. Far, far out to sea, rising from the waters like the blue bulwark of another land and bridging the vast horizon from west unto the south, stood the giant ship of Airda, the Queen. So high were its masts that their tops could scarce be seen in the dome of the heavens, clouds swept through the royal yards, and the lights within the rigging floated like stars upon the sky.

Three days’ journey long, and close upon a day’s journey wide, was the giant ship. Its sails were the size of towns, and a sailor on horseback carried the captain’s orders to the crew. And there were villages aboard, and wide fields in which men were ploughing, and grazing cattle, and highways, and inns wherein travelers might rest.

Now came the dark, a wind rose upon the sea, the black clouds moved through the stars, and a little boat came to take Fidella to the ship. Once aboard, the maiden was given a pretty cottage with a garden to be her very own.

And, sailing by night and by day, furrowing vast and lonely seas, the giant ship came to the wood beyond the world.

The fountain of memory lay at the foot of the noblest of the trees, and the silvery music of its falling water was the only sound to be heard in all the wood. A hooded figure of worn and ancient stone, standing with head bowed low, held aloft the jar from which it flowed, an endless crystal stream.

And Fidella, stooping to fill her cup in the basin of stone below, saw mirrored in the water there, gathering and dissolving one into the other, memories of all the years of her life which had been.

Once more through the lonely seas sailed the giant ship of Airda the Queen, Fidella again beheld the land, and presently she fared over hill and dale to the Kingdom of the Fields.

The winter was over and gone, and all the towns and villages of the realm were decked with bannerets and wreaths of early flowers, for in three days’ time the Lord Alois was to wed the Princess Melusine.

Presently Fidella, journeying through the land, arrived on the crest of a hill overlooking the royal city and, pausing there a while, took counsel with herself as to how she might best make her way to Alois and offer him the cup of memory.

“I must find me a loom,” said faithful Fidella, “and weave upon it a wedding gift so worthy that the lords of the castle will suffer me to go with it to Alois.”

And she sought out a house and a loom in a village by the city, and paid for them with a penny of gold. And from one neighbor she had silver yarn; and from another, blue; and from others, all the colors of the world.

Fidella knelt at the edge of the pool, and filled her golden cup with the waters of memory

And now Fidella began to weave a fair tapestry picture of the story she had lived, beginning the tale with the golden light in the wood and the coming of Alois to the glade. Thread by thread, inch by inch, the grass-palace of Airda grew on the loom, the cave of the talking waters, the giant ship with its masts above the clouds, and the fountain of memory in the wood beyond the world. The sun set behind the high towers of the city, and still Fidella labored at the loom; candles melted low, and still the sound of the weaving hummed upon the air.

In the dark of the second night, as Fidella rose to toss a brand upon the fire, she heard, through the quiet of the room, the distant beat of galloping hoofs and the thundering rumble of a coach. Louder and louder grew the sound, and presently there passed the maiden’s dwelling a huge coach speeding from the city. Strange to tell, its lanterns were unlit and its curtains closely drawn.

“Perchance some noble guest hath been summoned posthaste to his realm,” thought Fidella.

And now it was the morn, the marriage morn of the Knight Alois and the Princess Melusine. Alas, still unfinished was the picture tapestry! Fearing to risk a single moment more, however, the maiden unbound the picture from the loom and, carrying the gift and her golden cup, joined the merrymakers thronging to the city. The streets were already full of soldiers in gayest uniforms, strolling musicians, young nobles, larking pages, good countryfolk, and sober burgesses in velvet gowns. Those who brought gifts for Alois and Melusine were faring into the castle through the eastern gate.

The bells of the castle were ringing as they never rang before.

Fidella approached to the portal with her gift. A haughty chamberlain, with a silver chain about his shoulders, stood there by the thresh-hold and suffered only those to enter in whom he thought well worthy of the boon.

“But my good young woman,” said the chamberlain severely to Fidella, “your tapestry is unfinished still. Go to your home and weave it to an end ere you return again. You may not enter.”

“Oh, sir,” cried poor Fidella, “do not thrust me back! Let me enter, I pray; oh, let me go within!”

“What I have said, I have said,” replied the chamberlain, shouting at Fidella through the deafening clangor of the bells. “Young woman, I forbid—”

Suddenly the bells stopped in the middle of a peal, and everything grew very strangely still. People began to look questioningly at one another.

The Princess Melusine was not to be found! She had fled during the night with her cousin, the King of the Golden Hill. The coach, which Fidella had seen, had borne the runaway bride. As for the knight Alois, some said that he had already left the realm, whilst others murmured that he was hiding for shame in a tower. And many laughed.

Thrust from the portal by the guards, Fidella returned to her cottage in the fields.

And now it was night, the air was sweet with the fragrance of earth beneath the plough, and a sickle moon hung in the cloudy west with the old moon in her arms. Within her silent house Fidella kindled a yellow fire, threw the tapestry picture over the loom, and stood by the hearth gazing deep into the flame.

Suddenly a knocking sounded at the door, and Fidella, answering the summons, found herself standing face to face with the young knight, Alois. His pride touched to the quick, the forsaken youth had lingered in the castle till the dark, and then fled with his people from the town. And, because he had fled in haste and was athirst, the youth had paused at the first light shining in the fields.

Standing on the threshold in the moonlight, the youth asked a cup of water of the maid. With a beating heart, Fidella lifted to his hands the cup of memory.

And now there came an end to the enchanter’s wicked spell and the long years of danger and faithful questing. Letting fall the golden cup, the young knight uttered a great cry and stretched out his arms to the faithful maid for whose sake he had braved the anger of the King, the loyal maid who had loved him with a loving faith and braved many a peril for him through the kingdoms of the world.

“Dear Fidella,” said Alois, “to-day is the day of my coming-of-age, and I am free forever of the King. Now shall you be the Lady of my land. Come; my people and my coach are at the door.”

So now Fidella quenched the taper, leaving only a flickering brand to light the empty room, and walked with Alois to the coach. A little breeze was stirring in the grass, and somewhere in a glen beyond the fields a bird awoke, sang a few sweet piping notes, and then was still.

“I am glad I did not finish my tapestry,” whispered Fidella; “for now I can weave it to a merry close.”

And the coach rolled away, over hill, over dale, in the golden light of the moon.

The Parson Capen House

Topsfield, Massachusetts