UP and DOWN and UP AGAIN

UP AND DOWN AND UP AGAIN

Look on the cover of this book and see the bridge at Tournai, with its twin towers. In the bright moonlight, the waters of the Scheldt River are flowing through the arches. Here we have, from the low down to the high up, a true picture of the Land of Towers, Spires, and of those collections of bells, which make music in the air, and are called carillons.

Yet in very early times, in Belgium, there were no bridges, nor any towers, and no churches, except some buildings rudely put together, out of wood, or reeds and rushes, plastered with mud. Nor in the flat and sandy parts, as in Flanders, was there any stone. Few of the craftsmen understood masonry, or chisel work. Moreover, who could carry out stone from the mountains, and bring it hundreds of miles, to be cut and built into lofty campaniles, or bell towers, and splendid churches as in glorious Italy, from which teachers and missionaries came?

Now, one of these good Italian missionaries was named, in the Flemish language, Vrolyke Kwant. He was of a sunny disposition, known to all the children, and much loved by them. He had come from Italy when Belgium was a very wild country, and he greatly missed the bells, the towers and air-music of his dear, beautiful, distant land. So he was often homesick.

But when he heard how kind and well behaved the Belgian fairies were, and that they liked to help good people, he took heart, cheered up, and determined to make their acquaintance.

So he gave out that he would be glad to see them all, of every kind, and welcome them to his house. Knowing that the fairies, who keep out of sight during the day, were very busy between curfew and cock crow, that is, after sunset and before dawn, he spread abroad the notice that he would leave all the doors of his house open at night. If they would only come to see him, and talk over what could be done to make the people and their children happy, he would treat them well.

Now it is surprising how quickly the news spread in fairy land, especially when we think that fairies have no telephones, no telegraph wires, no railroads, no newspapers nor any messenger boys with blue caps.

But Vrolyke—to call him by his first name—had not long to wait. After saying his evening prayers, he went to the front of his house and opened both leaves of his double door. There could not be, at this time of night, any danger of pigs or chickens coming in, for the piggies had gone to sleep and the birds to roost long before. So he unlatched even the heck, or lower half of the door, and slammed it loudly against the wall, as a signal to the fairies outside. He had already seen tiny lights flitting about, like fireflies.

Soon there were two or three gentle taps on the lintels of the doorway, and then trooped in the funniest looking company he had ever seen. Kabouters, Wappers, Manneken, and Red Caps. These were followed by a throng of silvery little ladies, with gauzy wings on their shoulders and with stars on their foreheads. They were dressed in the loveliest, sheeniest, garments, and they seemed prettier, even, than any of the rosiest maidens, which Father Vrolyke, the missionary, had yet seen in the Tournai region. They were, each and all, of them, dressed in the garb, which all the fairies of their several kinds have worn for ages; because fairies are not slaves to fashion. Unlike our girls, who say they have “nothing to wear” and are obliged to change fashions every year, the fairies keep the same style of clothes always. It is no wonder that they are free from care, have no wrinkles on their faces and live long lives.

Then Vrolyke, smiling his best smile, bowed and offered to set out beer and cakes—all he had—on his rough table. But the fairies, one and all, laughed and waved their hands, even those of the Red Caps, which were green. They replied in chorus:

“Oh, thank you, we do not eat or drink. We came to see what we can do for you. We must keep busy, you know, or we’ll play tricks on your people. We like to do funny things with stupid people, but we always help the good ones. Command us, and we shall obey.”

While they were in such good humor, Father Vrolyke thought it best to assign them tasks.

So he said, “This flat country needs towers. Such as they have in Italy. These will add to the beauty of the country. Then we can have bells, which will call the people to worship; for, over these plains, the sound will roll far away, and everybody will hear easily.”

Then he sighed and asked, “But where can we get the stone to build and where are the copper and tin for the bells? Good fairies, tell me and help.”

“Leave that to us,” shouted the fairies.

Then all those who had no wings, Kabouters, Wappers, Red Caps, and Mannekins, stumbled out of the house, in the most merry and uproarious manner. They laughed and screamed with delight. They played leap frog over each other. Some of the Red Caps jumped on the shoulders of the Wappers and played riding piggy-back. The winged fairies, in gold, and silk, and gauze, flew out the door as quietly as if on a cloud, or in a dream.

Now for ages the solid rivers of ice, in Switzerland, had been grinding up the rocks to make clay and sand, gravel and soil for Belgium. From the heart of France, also, there rolled down the earth, which the rain washed out of the mountains. That is the reason why the river-beds in Belgium were full of just the sort of material the Kabouters liked to play in, and of which bricks could be made. They were just like two children that love to play in the soft mud and make pies and patty cakes.

Now all the fairies, especially those that had traveled in the southern countries, wondered why the northern people were so stupid, as not to make their houses and churches out of stone that would last a long time; instead of out of wood, which catches on fire so easily, or soon decays, and falls down.

For, already, there lay under their feet, and had lain there for ages, the stuff out of which bricks, as hard as stone, could be made, for the river had brought it to their doors. The fairies, who understand what winds mean, when they whisper, or storms say, when they howl, declared that the river clay, in the streams, was calling, calling, calling, and this is what the voices said:

“Fairies and mortals, listen to us. We were once high and mighty in the world, and lived on the tops of mountains near the sky; and we expected to be there always. But Nature drove us out of our comfortable bed of rock, like as the parent eagles push their birdies out of the nest, just to make them fly in the air, which is their true home. So, the storms, and frost, and ice and rain, split us off from the mother rock, and tumbled us down towards the valley. The snow, and ice, and rushing waters have ground and rolled and tossed us about, until we have utterly lost our first form, as part of the mountain peaks. Now, we are nothing but soft mud, or ‘slyk,’ as the Flemings say. We live low in the river beds, not able even to nourish flowers, for we are not soil.

“But we want to be again in the bright air.

“Oh, that fairies, or men, would lift us up again high in the sunlight, and in the lofty heights again, nearer to the sky.

“Or else, mix us with the sand, and then, out of our bosoms, draw flowers. Either to be blossoms, or bricks, is what we long to be.

“Oh, take us up out of this darkness, in which we dwell under water.”

To their ears, the gurgling of the water and the sounds from the rivers and streams were, to the fairies, as groans of pain. Now, they would change these to a song. All they had been waiting for, was an opportunity, or an invitation. Now they had received it, and that was the reason why they ran out of Father Vrolyke’s house so merrily, for here was their chance to do something big. An idea had struck inside their heads, and had hit so hard that they wanted to go to work instantly to relieve pressure on the brain.

So right away, they summoned every fairy in Belgic Land to come and help, and merrily they came. Thousands of the little fellows, mostly Kabouters, hauled up tons after tons of river clay. They piled it up, until it made an enormous brick yard. Then they made moulds of wood and iron, of the shape of bricks.

One set of Kabouters were appointed to mix the clay. Others stood at the dry dust tubs. From the wet clay, heaped up on a big bench, or table, a big Kabouter threw down a lump into the square wood or iron frame or mould, shaped like a brick. Then he shoved the soft brick over to the Stryker, who struck off, to a level, the extra amount of clay, just as a good cook cuts off the excess of dough, in the pie crust, that hangs over the edge of the dish, before she puts it in the oven to bake. From these benches the thousands of Manneken carried the wood or iron moulds filled with clay, over to the drying ground. They tumbled flat the clay out of the frames and laid the bricks, still soft, out to dry, for several days, in the sun. Every time, as they returned, they threw the empty iron moulds into a tub full of fine dry clay-dust, so the wet clay or bricks would not stick, but fall easily, when tumbled over, flat on the ground to dry.

Another set of Kabouters built a kiln, setting the bricks into piles, with spaces, like aisles and corridors, for the air to circulate in, and the flames to reach everywhere, and to every brick, from bottom to top. Another gang cut down wood and plugging it into these holes set the fires going, to bake the soft sun-dried bricks into “klinkers,” or burnt bricks, as hard as stone.

Every night, for a month, they worked, until millions of bricks baked in the fire, until they were hard enough to “klink,” or resound, when struck together, and were ready for the bricklayers. That’s the reason they call a well-turned brick a “klinker,” because it sounds.

Father Vrolyke now took the honorable name of Van Slyk (from the river mud, now turned into brick), and his reverend colleague took the name Stryker, and, together, they summoned masons and bricklayers from Italy. These men piled brick on brick, until walls and towers rose up toward the sky, and made some of the people think of mountains.

And, would you believe it? Some stupid folks were afraid to walk in the streets, for fear the walls, which seemed so terribly high, would fall down on them!

But the builders were not afraid of these piles of brick falling down, for they held the courses together by the “Flemish bond”; that is, wherever two bricks met, end to end, another brick was laid on top between. The middle part of the upper brick lay directly over the joining place of the under ones. Thus the whole structure was held together as tightly, as if the bricks had gone back again, to be part of the mother rock, in the high mountain, whence they came ages before.

So, inch by inch, and foot by foot, the bricks rose up toward the blue sky and nearer the sun, until, high aloft, the church tower stood, and the clouds came and kissed it. The sunrise made it rosy, and the sunset rays gilded it.

Again, in high places of the earth, where winds blow, the clay of the river bed, now turned into brick, held honored place in the tower which dominated the Belgian landscape. At night, the top seemed not far from the stars, and on the apex, or summit of some of the loftiest, men placed the golden dragon, as the symbol of power. Or, they set the weather vane to tell whence the wind was blowing and what they might expect from the wind fairies on the morrow.

Or, in honor of God, they built churches that had towers and spires—which all the world comes to Belgium to see, because they are so beautiful. On the top of many, they set the shining cross, symbol of the Heavenly Father’s love, and of the Unselfish One, who pleased not himself, but died to make men holy.

The towers became the home of the bells, the throne room of sweet music, and the abode of the carillons. And so it has come to pass, that the men of Belgium have listened to the call of the clay, that fell down from the mountain heights and lay for ages neglected in the river beds. And, hearing the call, they lifted it up again to the honor of God and the delight of men. “Up and down and up again,” is the story of what makes the belfry of Bruges, the “lady spire” of Antwerp Cathedral, and the glorious towers of Mechlin, of Ghent, of Mons, of Oudenarde, of Tournai, and hosts of Belgian towers the delight and joy of all the world.