Wood Magic: A Fable
the stable door so that everybody may see what a wretch you were."
"Thank you," said the weasel, very gratefully, "will you please tell the
hare and all of them that if I could only live I would do everything I
could to make up to them, for all the wickedness I have
committed--oh!--I have not got time to say all I would. Oh! Bevis,
Bevis!"
"Yes, poor thing," said Bevis, now quite melted and sorry for the
wretched criminal, whose life was ebbing so fast, "what is it you want?
I will be sure to do it."
"Then, dear Sir Bevis--how kind it is of you to forgive me, dear Sir
Bevis; when I am dead do not nail me to the door--only think how
terrible that would be--bury me, dear."
"So I will," said Bevis; "but perhaps you needn't die. Stay a little
while, and let us see if you cannot live."
"Oh, no," said the weasel, "my time is come. But when I am dead, dear,
please take me out of this cruel trap in which I am so justly caught,
as I set it for another; take me out of this cruel trap which has broken
my ribs, and lay me flat on the grass, and pull my limbs out straight,
so that I may not stiffen all in a heap and crooked. Then get your
spade, my dear Sir Bevis, and dig a hole and bury me, and put a stone on
top of me, so that Pan cannot scratch me up--oh! oh!--will you--oh!"
"Yes, indeed I will. I will dig the hole--I have a capital spade," said
Bevis; "stay a minute."
But the weasel gave three gasps and fell back quite dead. Bevis looked
at him a little while, and then put his foot on the spring and pressed
it down and took the weasel out. He stroked down his fur where the trap
had ruffled it, and rubbed the earth from his poor paws with which he
had struggled to get free, and then having chosen a spot close by the
wood-pile, where the ground was soft, to dig the hole, he put the weasel
down there, and pulled his limbs out straight, and so disposed him for
the last sad ceremony. He then ran to the summer-house, which was not
far, and having found the spade came back with it to the wood-pile. But
the weasel was gone.
There was the trap; there was the place he had chosen--all the little
twigs and leaves brushed away ready for digging--but no weasel. He was
bewildered, when a robin perched on the top of the wood-pile put his
head on one side, and said so softly and sadly: "Bevis, Bevis, little
Sir Bevis, what have you done?" For the weasel was not dead, and was not
even very seriously injured; the trap was old, and the spring not very
strong, and the teeth did not quite meet. If the rat, who was fat, had
got in, it would have pinched him dreadfully, but the weasel was
extremely thin, and so he escaped with a broken rib--the only true thing
he had said.
So soon as ever Sir Bevis's back was turned, the weasel crawled under
the wood-pile, just as he had done once before, and from there made his
way as quickly as he could up the field sheltered by the aftermath,
which had now grown long again. When Bevis understood that the weasel
had only shammed dying, and had really got away, he burst into tears,
for he could not bear to be cheated, and then threw his spade at the
robin.
CHAPTER XII.
THE OLD OAK.--THE KING'S DESPAIR.
The very same morning, after the rain had ceased, the keeper who looked
after the great woods at the other end of the Long Pond set out with his
gun and his dogs to walk round the preserves. Now the dogs he took with
him were the very best dogs he had, for that night a young gentleman,
who had just succeeded to the estate, was coming down from London, and
on the following morning would be sure to go out shooting. This young
gentleman had unexpectedly come into the property through the death of
the owner, who was shot in his bedroom by a burglar. The robber had once
been his groom, and the squirrel told Bevis how it all happened through
a flint falling out of the hole in the bottom of the waggon which
belonged to the old farmer in whose orchard Kapchack had his palace.
The heir had been kept at a distance during the old gentleman's
lifetime, for the old gentleman always meant to marry and have a son,
but did not do so, and also always meant to make a will and leave the
best part of his estate to somebody else, but he did not do so, and as
the old toad in the rhubarb patch told Bevis afterwards when he heard
the story, if you are only going to do a thing, it would be no use if
you lived a thousand years, it would always be just the same. So the
young fellow, who had been poor all his life, when he thus suddenly
jumped into such a property, was not a little elated, and wrote to the
keeper that he should come down and have some shooting.
The keeper was rather alarmed at this, for the former owner was not a
sporting man, and did not look strictly after such things, so that the
game had been neglected and had got scarce; and what was worse, the dogs
were out of training. He therefore got up early that morning, intending
to go his rounds quickly, and then take the dogs out into the stubble,
and try and thrash them into some use. Presently, as he walked along, he
came to the glade in the woods, and saw the dead hawk hanging from the
trap up in the old oak-tree. Pleased to find that his trap, so cunningly
placed, had not been prepared in vain, he went up to the oak, leaned his
gun against the trunk, ordered the dogs to lie down (which they did with
some reluctance), and then climbed up into the tree to re-set the gin.
He took the hawk from the trap (his feathers were all draggled and wet
from the rain), and threw the dead bird down; and, whether it was that
the act of throwing it caused an extra strain upon the bough, or whether
the storm had cracked it in the night, or whether it had rotted away
more than appeared on the surface, or whether it was all of these things
together, certain it is the bough broke, and down came the keeper thud
on the sward. The bough fell down with him, and as it fell it struck
the gun, and the gun exploded, and although the dogs scampered aside
when they heard the crack, they did not scamper so quick but one of them
was shot dead, and the other two were mortally wounded.
For a while the keeper lay there stunned, with the wet grass against his
face. But by-and-by, coming to himself, he sat up with difficulty, and
called for assistance, for he could not move, having sprained one ankle,
and broken the small bone of the other leg. There he sat and shouted,
but no one came for some time, till presently a slouching labourer (it
was the very same who put up the wire by the copse in which the hare was
caught) chanced to pass by outside the wood. The keeper saw him, but
hoarse with shouting, and feeling faint too (for a sprained ankle is
extremely painful), he could not make him hear. But he bethought him of
his gun, and dragging it to him, hastily put in a cartridge and fired.
The report drew the labourer's attention, and peering into the wood, he
saw some one on the ground waving a white handkerchief. After looking a
long time, he made up his mind to go and see what it was; but then he
recollected that if he put his foot inside the wood he should be
trespassing, and as he had got a wire in his pocket that would be a
serious matter. So he altered his mind, and went on.
Very likely the keeper was angry, but there was no one to hear what he
said except the dead hawk. He would have fired off fifty cartridges if
he had had them, but as he did not like a weight to carry he had only
two or three, and these did not attract attention. As for the labourer,
about midday, when he sat down to lunch in the cart-house at the farm
where he worked with the other men, he did just mention that he thought
he had seen something white waving in the wood, and they said it was
odd, but very likely nothing to speak of.
One of the wounded dogs ran home, bleeding all the way, and there crept
into his kennel and died; the other could not get so far, but dropped in
a hedge. The keeper's wife wondered why he did not come home to dinner,
but supposed, with a sigh, that he had looked in at an alehouse, and
went on with her work.
The keeper shouted again when his throat got less hoarse, but all the
answer he obtained was the echo from the wood. He tried to crawl, but
the pain was so exquisite he got but a very little way, and there he had
to lie. The sun rose higher and shone out as the clouds rolled away, and
the rain-drops on the grass glistened bright till presently they dried
up.
With the gleaming of the sun there was motion in the woods: blackbirds
came forth and crossed the glades; thrushes flew past; a jay fluttered
round the tops of the firs; after a while a pheasant came along the
verge of the underwood, now stepping out into the grass, and now back
again into the bushes. There was a pleasant cawing of rooks, and several
small parties of wood-pigeons (doubtless from Choo Hoo's camp) went
over. Two or three rabbits hopped out and fed; humble-bees went buzzing
by; a green woodpecker flashed across the glade and disappeared among
the trees as if an arrow had been shot into the woods.
The slow hours went on, and as the sun grew hotter the keeper, unable to
move, began to suffer from the fierceness of the rays, for anything
still finds out the heat more than that which is in movement. First he
lifted his hat from time to time above his head, but it was not much
relief, as the wind had fallen. Next he tried placing his handkerchief
inside his hat. At last he took off his coat, stuck the barrels of his
gun into the ground (soft from the rain), and hung the coat upon it.
This gave him a little shadow. The dead oak-tree having no leaves cast
but a narrow shade, and that fell on the opposite side to where he was.
In the afternoon, when the heat was very great and all the other birds
appeared to have gone, a crow came (one of Kauc's retainers) and perched
low down on an ash-tree not more than fifty yards away. Perhaps it was
the dead dog; perhaps it was the knowledge that the man was helpless,
that brought him. There he perched, and the keeper reviled him, wishing
that he had but saved one of his cartridges, and forgetting that even
then the barrels of his gun were too full of earth. After a while the
crow flew idly across to the other side of the glade, and went out of
sight; but it was only for a short time, and presently he came back
again. This the crow did several times, always returning to the ash.
The keeper ran over in his mind the people who would probably miss him,
and cause a search to be made. First there was his wife; but once, when
he had been a long time from home, and she in a great alarm had sought
for him, she found him drunk at the alehouse, and he beat her for her
trouble. It was not likely that she would come. The lad who acted as his
assistant (he had but one, for, as previously stated, the former owner
did not shoot) was not likely to look for him either, for not long
since, bringing a message to his superior, he discovered him selling
some game, and was knocked down for his pains. As for his companions at
the alehouse, they would be all out in the fields, and would not
assemble till night: several of them he knew were poachers, and though
glad enough to share his beer would not have looked towards him if in
distress.
The slow hours wore on, and the sun declining a little, the shadow of
the dead oak moved round, and together with his coat sheltered him
fairly well. Weary with the unwonted labour of thinking, the tension of
his mind began to yield, and by-and-by he dropped asleep, lying at full
length upon his back. The crow returned once more to the ash, and looked
at the sleeping man and the dead dog, cleaned his beak against the
bough, and uttered a low croak. Once he flew a little way out towards