50 Fairy Stories Page 25
Meanwhile his poor wife was at her wits, end how to feed her dear children. If it had not been that the two boys were brave, plucky little chaps, she really would have been in despair. When their father did not come back and all their efforts to find him were in vain, these boys set to work to help their mother. They could not cut down trees, but they could climb them and chop off small branches with their axes, and this they did, making up bundles of faggots and selling them to their neighbours. These neighbours were touched by the courage they showed, and not only paid them well for the wood but often gave them milk and rice and other little things to help them. In time they actually got used to being without Subha Datta, and the little girls nearly forgot all about him. Little did they dream of the change that was soon to come into their lives.
A month passed peacefully away in the depths of the forest, Subha Datta waiting on the fairies and becoming every day more selfish and bent on enjoying himself. Then he had a dream, in which he saw his wife and children in the old home with plenty of food, and evidently so happy without him that he felt quite determined to go and show them he was still alive.
When he woke he said to the fairies, “I will not stop with you any longer. I have had a good time here, but I am tired of this life away from my own people.”
The fairies saw he was really in earnest this time, so they consented to let him go, but they were kind-hearted people and felt they ought to pay him in some way for all he had done for them. They consulted together, and then one of them told him they wished to make him a present before he went away, and they would give him whatever he asked for.
Directly the woodcutter heard he could have anything he asked for, he cried, “I will have the magic pitcher.”
You can just imagine what a shock this was to the fairies! You know, of course, that fairies always keep their word. If they could not persuade Subha Datta to choose something else, they would have to give him their beloved, precious pitcher and would have to seek their food for themselves. They all tried all they could to persuade the woodcutter to choose something else. They took him to their own secret treasure house, in an old, old tree with a hollow trunk, even the entrance to which no mortal had ever been allowed to see. They blindfolded him before they started, so that he could never reveal the way to anyone, and one of them led him by the hand, telling him where the steps going down from the tree began.
When at last the bandage was taken from his eyes, he found himself in a lofty hall with an opening in the roof through which the light came. Piled up on the floor were sparkling stones worth a great deal of gold and silver money, and on the walls hung beautiful robes. Subha Datta was quite dazed with all he saw, but he was only an ignorant woodcutter and did not realize the value of the jewels and clothes. So when the fairies, said to him, “Choose anything you like here and let us keep our pitcher,” he shook his head, saying, “No! No! No! The pitcher! I will have the pitcher!” And at last they had to give it up.
So Subha Datta took the pitcher, carrying it very, very carefully, lest he should drop it and break it before he got home. He did not think at all of what a cruel thing it was to take it away from the fairies, and leave them either to starve or to seek for food for themselves. The poor fairies watched him till he was out of sight, and then they began to weep and wring their hands.
“He might at least have waited whilst we got some food out for a few days,” one of them said.
“He was too selfish to think of that,” said another. “Come, let us forget all about him and go and look for some fruit.”
So they all left off crying and went away hand in hand. Fairies do not want very much to eat. They can live on fruit and dew, and they never let anything make them sad for long at a time. They go out of this story now, but you need not be unhappy about them, because you may be very sure that they got no real harm from their generosity to Subha Datta in letting him take the pitcher.
You can just imagine what a surprise it was to Subha Datta’s wife and children when they saw him coming along the path leading to his home. He did not bring the pitcher with him, but had hidden it in a hollow tree in the wood near his cottage, for he did not mean any one to know that he had it. He told his wife that he had lost his way in the forest, and had been afraid he would never see her or his children again, but he said nothing about the fairies. When his wife asked him how he had got food, he told her a long story about the fruits he had found, and she believed all he said, and determined to make up to him now for all she thought he had suffered. When she called the little girls to come and help her get a nice meal for their father, Subha Datta said, “Oh, don’t bother about that! I’ve brought something back with me. I’ll go and fetch it, but no one is to come with me.”
Subha Datta’s wife was sorely disappointed at this, because she loved her husband so much that it was a joy to her to work for him. The children too wanted, of course, to go with their father, but he ordered them to stop where they were. He seized a big basket which was full of fuel for the fire, tumbled all the wood in it onto the floor, and went off alone to the pitcher. Very soon he was back again with his basket full of all sorts of good things, the very names of which his wife and children had no idea of.
“There!” he cried, “what do you think of that? Am I not a clever father to have found all that in the forest? Those are the ‘fruits, I meant when I told your mother about them.”
Life was now, of course, completely changed for the family in the forest. Subha Datta no longer went to cut wood to be sold, and the boys also left off doing so. Every day their father fetched food for them all, and the greatest desire of each one of the family was to find out where it came from. They never could do so, for Subha Datta managed to make them afraid to follow him when he went forth with his basket.
The secret he kept from the wife to whom he used to tell everything soon began to spoil the happiness of the home. The children who had no longer anything to do quarrelled with each other. Their mother got sadder and sadder, and at last decided to tell Subha Datta that, unless he would let her know where the food came from, she would go away from him and take her little girls with her. She really did mean to do this, but something soon happened to change everything again.
Of course, the neighbours in the wood, who had bought the fuel from the boys and helped them by giving them fruit and rice, heard of the return of their father and of the wonderful change in their lot. Now the whole family had plenty to eat every day, though none of them knew where it all came from. Subha Datta was very fond of showing off what he could do, and sometimes asked his old friends amongst the woodcutters to come and have a meal with him. When they arrived they would find all sorts of good things spread out on the ground and different kinds of wines in beautiful bottles.
This went on for some months, Subha Datta getting prouder and prouder of all that he could do, and it seemed likely that his secret would never be discovered. Everybody tried to find it out, and many followed him secretly when he set forth into the woods, but he was very clever at dodging them, hiding his treasure in a new place in the dead of the night. If he had only been content with getting food out of his pitcher and drinking pure water, all would most likely have been well with him. But that was just what he could not do. Till he had his pitcher he had never drunk anything but water, but now he often took too much wine.
He began to boast of his cleverness, telling his friends there was nothing they wanted that he could not get for them, and one day when he had given them a very grand feast, in which were several rare kinds of food they had asked for, he drank too much wine – so much that he no longer knew what he was saying.
This was the chance his guests wanted. They began teasing him, telling him they believed he was really a wicked robber, who had stolen the food or the money to buy it. He got angry, and at last was actually silly enough to tell them all to come with him, and he would show them he was no robber.
When they all got very near the place, however, some idea began to come int
o Subha Datta’s head that he was doing a very foolish thing. He stopped suddenly, turned round facing the crowd that followed him, and said he would not go a step further till they all went back to the cottage. His wife begged him to let her at least go with him, and the children all clamoured not to be sent back, but it was no good. Back they all had to go, the woodcutter watching till they were out of sight.
When the woodcutter was quite sure that everyone was gone and nobody could see where he had hidden the pitcher, he took it from the hole in which it lay and carried it carefully to his home. You can imagine how everybody rushed out to meet him when he came in sight, and crowded round him, so that there was danger of the pitcher being thrown to the ground and broken. Subha Datta however managed to get into the cottage without any accident, and then he began to take things out of the pitcher and fling them on the ground, shouting, “Am I a robber? Am I a robber? Who dared to call me a robber?”
Then, getting more and more excited, he picked up the pitcher, and holding it on his shoulder began to dance wildly about. His wife called out to him, “Oh, take care, take care! You will drop it!” But he paid no attention to her. Suddenly, however, he began to feel giddy and fell to the ground, dropping the pitcher as he did so. It was broken to pieces, and a great cry of sorrow went up from all who saw the accident. The woodcutter himself was broken hearted, for he knew that he had done the mischief himself, and that if only he had resisted the temptation to drink the wine he would still have his treasure.
He was going to pick up the pieces to see if they could be stuck together, but to his very great surprise he could not touch them. He heard a silvery laugh, and what sounded like children clapping their hands, and he thought he also heard the words, “Our pitcher is ours again!”
One by one the friends went away, leaving Subha Datta alone with his family.
This is the end of the story of the magic pitcher, but it was the beginning of a new chapter in the lives of Subha Datta and his family. They never forgot the wonder-working pitcher, and the children were never tired of hearing the story of how their father came to get it. They often wandered about in the forest, hoping that they too would meet with some wonderful adventure, but they never saw the fairies or found a magic pitcher. By slow degrees the woodcutter returned to his old ways, but he had learnt one lesson. He never again kept a secret from his wife, because he felt sure that if he had told her the truth about the pitcher when he first came home, she would have helped him to save the precious treasure.
The Laird and the Man of Peace
By Juliana Horatia Gatty Ewing
READING TIME: 10 MINUTES
In Scotland, fairies were often called Daoiné Shi (pronounced dheen-ya-shee), meaning men of peace. A laird is an important landowner, always known by the name of his estate. Cairngorms are a type of smoky quartz, much prized for making jewellery, especially in Scotland, where kilt pins are often decorated with them.
In the Highlands of Scotland there once lived a Laird of Brockburn, who would not believe in fairies. Not that he bore any ill-will to the Good People, or spoke uncivilly of them. Indeed he always denied any feeling of disrespect towards them if they existed, saying that he was a man of peace himself, and anxious to live peaceably with whatever neighbours he had, but that till he had seen one he could not believe in them.
Now one afternoon, between Hallowmas and Yule, it chanced that the laird, being out on the hills looking for some cattle, got parted from his men and dogs and was overtaken by a mist, in which, familiar as the country was to him, he lost his way.
In vain he raised his voice high, and listened low, no sound of man or beast came back to him through the thickening vapour.
Then night fell, and darkness was added to the fog, so that Brockburn needed to sound every step with his stick before he took it.
Suddenly light footsteps pattered beside him, then something rubbed against him, then ran between his legs. The delighted laird was sure that his favourite collie had found him once more.
Wow, Jock, man!” he cried, “but ye needn’t throw me on my face. What’s got ye this night, that you should lose your way in a bit of mist?”
To this a voice from the level of his elbow replied, in piping but patronizing tones:
Never did I lose my way in a mist since the night that Finn crossed over to Ireland in the dawn of history. Eh, laird! I’m well acquainted with every little path on the hillside these hundreds of years, and I’ll guide ye safe home, never fear!”
The hairs on Brockburn’s head stood on end till they lifted his broad bonnet, and a damp chill broke out over him that was not the fog. But, for all that, he stoutly resisted the evidence of his senses, and only felt about him for the collie’s head to pat, crying:
“Bark! Jock, my mannie, bark! Then I’ll recognize your voice, ye ken. It’s not canny to hear ye speak like a Christian, my wee doggie.”
“I’m nae your doggie, I’m a man of peace,” was the reply. “Don’t miscall your betters, Brockburn – why will ye not credit our existence, man?”
Seeing’s believing,” said the laird, stubbornly, “but the mist’s over thick for seeing this night, ye ken.”
“Turn round to your left, man, and ye’ll see,” said the dwarf, and catching Brockburn by the arm, he twisted him swiftly round three times, when a sudden blaze of light poured through the mist, and revealed a crag of the mountain well known to the laird, and which he now saw to be a kind of turret, or tower.
Lights shone gaily through the crevices or windows of the tower, and sounds of fiddling came forth. Blinded by the light, and amazed at what he saw, the laird staggered, and was silent. Then stepping up to the door of the tower, the strange man stood so that the light from within fell full upon him, and the astonished laird saw a tiny, well-proportioned man, with delicate features, and golden hair flowing over his shoulders. He wore a cloak of green cloth, lined with daisies. His beautiful face quivered with amusement, and he cried triumphantly, “D’ye see me? D’ye see me now, Brockburn?”
“Aye, aye,” said the laird, “and seeing’s believing.”
“Then round with ye!” shouted the man of peace, and once more seizing the laird by the arm, he turned him swiftly round – this time, to the right – and at the third turn the light vanished, and Brockburn and the man of peace were once more alone together in the mist.
“Aweel, Brockburn,” said the man of peace, “I’ll allow yere honest, and have a convincible mind. I’m not ill disposed towards ye, and ye shall get safe home, man.”
As he spoke he stooped down, and picking up half-a-dozen big stones from the mountainside, he gave them to the laird, saying, “If the goodwife asks ye about the stones, say ye got them as a compliment.”
Brockburn put them into his pocket, briefly saying, “I’m obliged to ye,” but as he followed the man of peace down the hillside, he found the obligation so heavy, that from time to time he threw a stone away, unobserved, as he hoped, by his companion. When the first stone fell, the man of peace looked sharply round, saying:
“What’s that?”
“It’ll be me striking my rung upon the ground,” said the laird.
“You’re mad,” said the man of peace, and Brockburn felt sure that he knew the truth, and was displeased. But as they went on, the stones were so heavy, and bumped his side so hard, that he threw away a second, dropping it as gently as he could. But the sound of its fall did not escape the ears of the man of peace, who cried as before:
“What’s that?”
“It’s just a nasty cough that I have,” said the laird.
“‘Man, you’re daft,” said the dwarf, contemptuously, “that’s what ails ye.”
The laird now resolved to be prudent, but the heaviness of his burden was so great that after a while he resolved to risk the displeasure of the man of peace once more, and gently slipped a third stone to the ground.
‘Third time’s lucky,, he thought. But the proverb failed him, for the dwarf turned as before, shou
ting:
“What’s that?”
“It’ll be my new shoes that ye hear stumbling upon the big stones,” said the laird.
“Ye’re drunk, Brockburn, I tell ye so. Ye’re drunk!” growled the man of peace, angrily, and the laird dared not drop any more of the gifts. After a while his companion’s good humour seemed to return, and he became talkative and generous.
“Ye shall not have to say that ye’ve been with the Daoiné Shi and are not the better for it,” he said. “I’m thinking I’ll grant ye three wishes. But choose wisely, man, and don’t throw them away.”
The laird at once began to cast about in his mind for three wishes sufficiently comprehensive to secure his lifelong prosperity, but the more he beat his brains the less could he satisfy himself.
How many miles he wandered thus, the dwarf keeping silently beside him, he never knew, before he sank exhausted on the ground, saying:
“I’m thinking, man, that if ye could bring home to me, in place of bringing me home, I’d doubt your powers no more. It’s a far cry to Loch Awe, ye know, and it’s a weary long road to Brockburn.”
“Is this your wish?” asked the man of peace.
“This is my wish,” said the laird, striking his rung upon the ground.
The words had scarcely passed his lips when the whole homestead of Brockburn, house and farm buildings, was planted upon the bleak hillside.
The astonished laird now began to bewail the rash wish which had removed his home from the sheltered and fertile valley where it originally stood to the barren side of a bleak mountain.