50 Fairy Stories Page 22

  Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that was in her, but when he looked again, he saw that she was crying, and that there was the trace of tears in her eyes. “It can’t be,” said Guleesh, “that there’s grief in her, when everybody round her is so full of merriment.”

  “She is grieved,” said the little man, “for it’s against her own will she’s marrying, and she has no love for the husband she is to marry. She is eighteen years old tonight, and it’s time for her to marry, but, indeed,” said he, and he crooked his mouth in an ugly way, “it’s no king’s son she’ll marry, if I can help it.”

  Guleesh pitied the young lady greatly when he heard that, and he was heartbroken to think that it would be necessary for her to marry a man she did not like, or, what was worse, to take a nasty sheehogue for a husband. However, he did not say a word, though he could not help giving a curse to his ill luck to be helping the people that were to snatch her away.

  He began thinking what it was he ought to do to save her. He was looking on when the king’s son came up to her and asked her for a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Guleesh had such pity for her then, when he saw the lad taking her by the hand, drawing her out to dance. They went round in the dance near where Guleesh was, and he could see that there were tears in her eyes.

  When the dancing was over, the old king, and her mother the queen, came up and said that the bishop was ready, and it was time to put the wedding-ring on her and give her to her husband.

  When they came near the altar, the little sheehogue stretched out his foot before the girl, and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he said a couple of words, and upon the moment the maiden was gone from amongst the grand folk, for the words had made her invisible. Out of the door of the palace they went, without being stopped or hindered, for nobody saw them, and, “My horse, my bridle and saddle!” said every man of them.

  “My horse, my bridle and saddle!” said Guleesh, and on the moment the horse was standing ready before him.

  “Now, jump up, Guleesh,” said the little man, “and put the lady behind you, and we will be going.”

  Guleesh raised her up on the horse’s back, and leaped up himself before her. “Rise, horse,” said he, and his horse, and the other horses with him, went in a full race until they came to the sea.

  “Hie over cap!” said every man of them.

  “Hie over cap!” said Guleesh, and the moment the horse rose under him, and cut a leap in the clouds, they came down in Erin. They did not stop there, but rode to Guleesh’s house and the rath. And when they came as far as that, Guleesh turned and caught the young girl in his arms, and leaped off the horse.

  “I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!” said he, and on the spot, before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and what was it but the beam of a plough.

  The good people called out together when they heard what Guleesh said:

  “Oh! Guleesh, isn’t that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to you? What good have we now out of our journey to France. You’ll pay us another time for this. Believe us, you’ll repent it.”

  But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Guleesh had consecrated her to himself.

  “He’ll have no good to get out of the young girl,” said the little man that was talking to him before that, and as he said the word he moved over to her and struck her on the side of the head. “Now,” said he, “she’ll be without talk anymore. It’s time for us to go – but you’ll remember us, Guleesh!”

  When he said that he stretched out his two hands, and he and the rest of them were gone into the rath out of his sight, and he saw them no more.

  He turned to the young woman and said to her:

  “Thanks be to God, they’re gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them?” She gave him no answer.

  ‘There’s trouble and grief on her yet,, said Guleesh in his own mind, and he spoke to her again:

  “I am afraid that you must spend this night in my father’s house, lady, and if there is anything that I can do for you, tell me, and I’ll be your servant.”

  The beautiful girl remained silent, but there were tears in her eyes.

  “It cannot be,” said Guleesh, “that you are dumb. Did I not hear you speaking to the king’s son in the palace tonight? Or has that devil made you really dumb, when he struck his nasty hand on your jaw?”

  The girl raised her white smooth hand, and laid her finger on her tongue, to show him that she had lost her voice and power of speech, and the tears ran out of her two eyes like streams, and Guleesh’s own eyes were not dry.

  He began thinking with himself what he ought to do, and he did not like to bring her home with himself to his father’s house, for he knew well that they would not believe him, that he had brought back with him the king of France’s daughter.

  “Glory be to God,” said he, “I’ll bring her to the priest’s house, and he won’t refuse me to keep the lady and care her.” He turned to the lady again and told her that he was loth to take her to his father’s house, but that there was an excellent priest very friendly to himself, who would take good care of her.

  She bent her head, to show him she was obliged, and gave him to understand that she was ready to follow him any place he was going.

  They went together accordingly to the priest’s house, and the sun was just rising when they came to the door. Guleesh beat it hard, and as early as it was the priest was up, and opened the door himself.

  “Father,” said Guleesh, “I came to you now to ask you, to give a lodging in your house to this young lady.”

  The priest looked at him as though he had ten heads on him, but without putting any other question to him, he desired him to come in, himself and the maiden, and when they came in, he shut the door, brought them into the parlour, and put them sitting.

  “Now, Guleesh,” said he, “tell me truly who is this young lady.”

  “I’m not telling a word of lie, nor making a joke of you,” said Guleesh, “but it was from the palace of the king of France I carried off this lady, and she is the daughter of the king of France.”

  He began his story then, and told the whole of it to the priest, and the priest was so much surprised that could not help calling out at times.

  When Guleesh said from what he saw he thought the girl was not satisfied with the marriage that was going take place in the palace before the sheehogue broke it up, there came a red blush into the girl’s cheek and he was more certain than ever that she had sooner be as she was – badly as she was – than be the married wife of the man she hated. When Guleesh said that he would be very thankful to the priest if he would keep her in his own house, the kind man said he would do that. They made it up then that the priest should let on that it was his brother’s daughter he had, who was come on a visit to him from another county, and that he should tell everybody that she was dumb. Guleesh went home then, and when his people asked him where he had been, he said that he had been asleep at the foot of the ditch.

  It was seldom the day went by but Guleesh would go to the priest’s house, and have a talk with him, and as often as he would come he used to hope to find the young lady well again, but, alas! She remained dumb and silent, without relief or cure. Since she had no other means of talking, she carried on a sort of conversation by moving her hands and fingers, winking her eyes, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing or smiling, and a thousand other signs, so that it was not long until they understood each other very well. Guleesh was always thinking how he should send her back to her father, but he did not know what road to go, for he had never been out of his own country before the night he brought her away with him. Nor had the priest any better knowledge than he, but when Guleesh asked him, he wrote three or four letters to the king of France, and gave them to buyers and sellers of wares, who used to be going from place to place across the sea, but they all went astray, and never a one came to the king’s hand.

 
This was the way they were for many months, and Guleesh was falling deeper and deeper in love with her every day, and it was plain to himself and the priest that she liked him. The boy feared greatly at last, lest the king should really hear where his daughter was, and take her back from himself, and he besought the priest to write no more, but to leave the matter to God.

  So they passed the time for a year, until there came a day when Guleesh was lying by himself on the grass, on the last day of the last month in autumn, and he was thinking over again in his own mind of everything that happened.

  He said to himself, “We have November night again today, and I’ll stand in the same place I was last year, until I see if the good people come again. Perhaps I might see or hear something that would be useful to me, and might bring back her talk again to Mary” – that was the name himself and the priest called the king’s daughter, for neither of them knew her right name.

  Guleesh accordingly went to the old rath when the night was darkening, and he stood with his bent elbow leaning on a grey old flag, waiting till the middle of the night should come. The moon rose slowly, and it was like a knob of fire behind him, and there was a white fog which raised up over the fields of grass and all damp places. There were a thousand, thousand bright stars shining over his head, and there was a little frost out, which left the grass under his foot white and crisp.

  He was thinking, in his own mind, at last, that the sheehogues would not come that night, when he heard a sound far away from him, coming towards him, and he recognized what it was at the first moment. The sound increased, and at first it was like the beating of waves on a stony shore, and then it was like the falling of a great waterfall, and at last it was like a loud storm in the tops of the trees, and then the whirlwind burst into the rath and the sheehogues were in it.

  It all went by him so suddenly that he lost his breath with it, but he came to himself on the spot, and listened to what they would say.

  Scarcely had they gathered into the rath till they all began shouting, and talking amongst themselves, and then each one of them cried out, “My horse, and bridle and saddle! My horse, and bridle and saddle!”

  And Guleesh took courage, and called out as loudly as any of them. But before the word was well out of his mouth, another man cried out:

  “Guleesh, my boy, are you here with us again? There’s no use in your calling for your horse tonight. You won’t play such a trick on us again.”

  “Isn’t he a prime lad, to take a woman with him that never said as much to him as, ‘How do you do?, since this time last year!” said the second man.

  “And if the he only knew that there’s an herb growing up by his own door, and if he were to boil it and give it to her, she’d be well,” said another voice.

  “Don’t bother your head with him, we’ll be going.”

  And with that they rose up into the air, and they left poor Guleesh standing where they found him, looking after them and wondering.

  He did not stand long till he returned back, thinking in his own mind on all he saw and heard, and wondering whether there was really a herb at his own door that would bring back the talk to the king’s daughter.

  “It can’t be,” said he to himself, “that they would tell it to me, if there was any virtue in it, but perhaps the sheehogue didn’t observe himself when he let the word slip out of his mouth. I’ll search well as soon as the sun rises.”

  He went home, and as tired as he was he did not sleep a wink until the sun rose on the morrow. He got up then, and it was the first thing he did to go out and search through the grass round about the house. And, indeed, he was not long searching till he observed a large strange herb that was growing up just by the gable of the house.

  He went over to it, saw that there were seven little branches coming out of the stalk, and seven leaves growing on every branch of them and that there was a white sap in the leaves.

  “It’s very wonderful,” said he to himself, “that I never noticed this herb before.”

  He drew out his knife, cut the plant, and carried it into his own house, stripped the leaves off it and cut up the stalk, and there came a thick, white juice out of it. He put it in a little pot and a little water in it, and laid it on the fire until the water was boiling, and then he took a cup, filled it half up with the juice, and put it to his own mouth. It came into his head then that perhaps it was poison that was in it, and that the good people were only tempting him that he might kill himself with that trick. It was not bitter, and, indeed, had a sweet, agreeable taste. He grew bolder then, and drank a thimble of it.

  He went over to the priest’s house with the drink in his hand, and he never felt himself so bold and valiant, and spirited and light, as he was that day, and he was quite certain that it was the drink he drank which made him so hearty.

  When he came to the house, he found the priest and the young lady within, and he told them all his news, and said that he was certain that there was great power in that herb, and that it would do the lady no hurt, for he tried it himself and got good from it, and then he made her taste it, for he vowed and swore that there was no harm in it.

  Guleesh handed her the cup, and she drank half of it, and then fell back on her bed and a heavy sleep came on her.

  Guleesh and the priest sat up the entire night with her, waiting till she should awake, and they between hope and unhope, between expectation of saving her and fear of hurting her.

  She awoke at last when the sun had gone half its way through the heavens. She rubbed her eyes and looked like a person who did not know where she was.

  The two men were in great anxiety waiting to see – would she speak, or would she not speak, and when they remained silent for a couple of minutes, the priest said to her, “Did you sleep well, Mary?”

  And she answered him, “I slept well, thank you.”

  No sooner did Guleesh hear her talking than he put a shout of joy out of him, and ran over to her and fell on his knees saying, “Lady of my heart, speak again to me.”

  The lady answered him that she was obliged to him from her heart for all the kindness he showed her, and that he might be certain that she never would forget it.

  Guleesh was ready to die with satisfaction and delight. Then they brought her food, and she ate with a good appetite, and was merry and joyous, and never left off talking while she was eating.

  Guleesh used after that to come to the house from day to day, and the friendship that was between him and the king’s daughter increased, because she had no one to speak to except Guleesh and the priest, and she liked Guleesh best.

  So they married one another, and it was a fine wedding they had, and I heard that there was neither sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune on them till the hour of their death, and may the same be with me, and with us all!

  Beautiful as the Day

  From Five Children and It by E Nesbit

  READING TIME: 20 MINUTES

  The house was three miles from the station, but before the dusty hired fly had rattled along for five minutes the children began to put their heads out of the carriage window to say, “Aren’t we nearly there?” And every time they passed a house, which was not very often, they all said, “Oh, is this it?” But it never was, till they reached the very top of the hill, just past the chalk quarry and before you come to the gravel pit. And then there was a white house with a green garden and an orchard beyond, and mother said, “Here we are!”

  “How white the house is,” said Robert.

  “And look at the roses,” said Anthea.

  “And the plums,” said Jane.

  “It is rather decent,” Cyril admitted.

  The baby said, “Wanty go walky.”

  Everyone got their legs kicked or their feet trodden on in the scramble to get out of the carriage that very minute, but no one seemed to mind. The children had explored the gardens and the outhouses thoroughly before they were caught and cleaned for tea, and they saw quite well that they were certain to be happy at t
he White House. The best part of it all was that there were no rules about not going to places and not doing things. In London almost everything is labelled ‘You mustn’t touch,, and though the label is invisible, it’s just as bad, because you know it’s there.

  Now that I have begun to tell you about the place, I feel that I could go on and make this into a most interesting story about all the ordinary things that the children did – just the kind of things you do yourself, you know – and you would believe every word of it. But children will believe almost anything, and I daresay you will find it quite easy to believe that before Anthea and Cyril and the others had been a week in the country they had found a fairy. At least they called it that, because that was what it called itself, but it was not at all like any fairy read about.

  It was at the gravel pits. Father had to go away suddenly on business, and mother had gone away to stay with Granny, who was not very well. They both went in a great hurry, and when they were gone the house seemed dreadfully quiet and empty. It was Cyril who said:

  “I say, let’s take our spades and go and dig in the gravel pits. We can pretend it’s seaside.”

  “Father said it was once,” Anthea said, “he says there are shells there thousands of years old.”

  So they went. Of course they had been to the edge of the gravel pit and looked over, but they had not gone down into it for fear father should say they mustn’t play there.

  Each of the children carried its own spade, and took it in turns to carry the Lamb. He was the baby, and they called him that because ‘Baa, was the first thing he ever said. They called Anthea ‘Panther,, which sounds silly when you read it, but when you say it it sounds a little like her name.

  The children built a castle, of course, but castle-building is rather poor fun when you have no hope of the swishing tide ever coming in to fill up the moat.