Wood Magic: A Fable
little farther, he heard another grasshopper, and thought he would run
and catch him; but the grasshopper, who had heard of his tricks, stopped
singing, and hid in a bunch, so that Bevis could not see him.
Next he saw a little round hill--a curious little hill--not very much
higher than his own head, green with grass and smooth. This curious
little hill greatly pleased him; he would have liked to have had it
carried down into his garden at home; he ran up on the top of it, and
shouted at the sun, and danced round on the tumulus. A third grasshopper
called in the grass, and Bevis ran down after him, but he, too, was too
cunning; then a glossy ball of thistledown came up so silently, Bevis
did not see it till it touched him, and lingered a moment lovingly
against his shoulder. Before he could grasp it, it was gone.
A few steps farther and he found a track crossing the hill, waggon-ruts
in the turf, and ran along it a little way--only a little way, for he
did not care for anything straight. Next he saw a mushroom, and gathered
it, and while hunting about hither and thither for another, came upon
some boulder-stones, like the one he had hurled down the slope, but very
much larger, big enough to play hide-and-seek behind. He danced round
these--Bevis could not walk--and after he had danced round every one,
and peered under and climbed over one or two, he discovered that they
were put in a circle.
"Somebody's been at play here," thought Bevis, and looking round to see
who had been placing the stones in a ring, he saw a flock of rooks far
off in the air, even higher up than he was on the hill, wheeling about,
soaring round with outspread wings and cawing. They slipped past each
other in and out, tracing a maze, and rose up, drifting away slowly as
they rose; they were so happy, they danced in the sky. Bevis ran along
the hill in the same direction they were going, shouting and waving his
hand to them, and they cawed to him in return.
When he looked to see where he was he was now in the midst of long
mounds or heaps of flints that had been dug and stacked; he jumped on
them, and off again, picked up the best for throwing, and flung them as
far as he could. There was a fir-copse but a little distance farther, he
went to it, but the trees grew so close together he could not go
through, so he walked round it, and then the ground declined so gently
he did not notice he was going downhill. At the bottom there was a wood
of the strangest old twisted oaks he had ever seen; not the least like
the oak-trees by his house at home that he knew so well.
These were short, and so very knotty that even the trunks, thick as they
were, seemed all knots, and the limbs were gnarled, and shaggy with grey
lichen. He threw pieces of dead stick, which he found on the ground, up
at the acorns, but they were not yet ripe, so he wandered on among the
oaks, tapping every one he passed to see which was hollow, till
presently he had gone so far he could not see the hills for the boughs.
But just as he was thinking he would ask a bee to show him the way out
(for there was not a single bird in the wood), he came to a place where
the oaks were thinner, and the space between them was covered with
bramble-bushes. Some of the blackberries were ripe, and his lips were
soon stained with their juice. Passing on from bramble-thicket to
bramble-thicket, by-and-by he shouted, and danced, and clapped his hands
with joy, for there were some nuts on a hazel bough, and they were ripe
he was sure, for the side towards the sun was rosy. He knew that nuts do
not get brown first, but often turn red towards the south. Out came his
pocket-knife, and with seven tremendous slashes, for Bevis could not do
anything steadily, off came a branch with a crook. He crooked down the
bough and gathered the nuts, there were eight on that bough, and on the
next four, and on the next only two. But there was another stole beyond,
from which, in a minute, he had twenty more, and then as he could not
stay to crack them, he crammed them into his pocket and ceased to
reckon.
"I will take fifty up to the squirrel," he said to himself, "and the
nut-crackers, and show him how to do it properly with some salt." So he
tugged at the boughs, and dragged them down, and went on from stole to
stole till he had roamed into the depths of the nut-tree wood.
Then, as he stopped a second to step over a little streamlet that oozed
along at his feet, all at once he became aware how still it was. No
birds sang, and no jay called; no woodpecker chuckled; there was not
even a robin; nor had he seen a rabbit, or a squirrel, or a dragon-fly,
or any of his friends. Already the outer rim of some of the hazel leaves
was brown, while the centre of the leaf remained green, but there was
not even the rustle of a leaf as it fell. The larks were not here, nor
the swallows, nor the rooks; the streamlet at his feet went on without a
murmur; and the breeze did not come down into the hollow. Except for a
bee, whose buzz seemed quite loud as he flew by, there was not a moving
thing. Bevis was alone; he had never before been so utterly alone, and
he stopped humming the old tune the brook had taught him, to listen.
He lifted his crook and struck the water; it splashed, but in a second
it was still again. He flung a dead branch into a tree; it cracked as it
hit a bough, on which the leaves rustled; then it fell thump, and lay
still and quiet. He stamped on the ground, the grass gave no sound. He
shouted "Holloa!" but there was no echo. His voice seemed to slip away
from him, he could not shout so loud as he had been accustomed to. For a
minute he liked it; then he began to think it was not so pleasant; then
he wanted to get out, but he could not see the hill, so he did not know
which way to go.
So he stroked a knotted oak with his hand, smoothing it down, and said:
"Oak, oak, tell me which way to go!" and the oak tried to speak, but
there was no wind, and he could not, but he dropped just one leaf on
the right side, and Bevis picked it up, and as he did so, a nut-tree
bough brushed his cheek.
He kissed the bough, and said: "Nut-tree bough, nut-tree bough, tell me
the way to go!" The bough could not speak for the same reason that the
oak could not; but it bent down towards the streamlet. Bevis dropped on
one knee and lifted up a little water in the hollow of his hand, and
drank it, and asked which way to go.
The stream could not speak because there was no stone to splash against,
but it sparkled in the sunshine (as Bevis had pushed the bough aside),
and looked so pleasant that he followed it a little way, and then he
came to an open place with twisted old oaks, gnarled and knotted, where
a blue butterfly was playing.
"Show me the way out, you beautiful creature," said Bevis.
"So I will, Bevis dear," said the butterfly. "I have just come from your
waggon, and your papa and the bailiff have been calling to you, and I
think they will soon be coming back to look for you. Follow me, my
darling."
So Bevis followed the little blue butterfly, who danced along as
straight as it was possible for him to go, for he, like Bevis, did not
like too much straightness. Now the oak knew the butterfly was there,
and that was why he dropped his leaf; and so did the nut-tree bough, and
that was why he drooped and let the sun sparkle on the water, and the
stream smiled to make Bevis follow him to where the butterfly was
playing. Without pausing anywhere, but just zig-zagging on, the blue
butterfly floated before Bevis, who danced after him, the nuts falling
from his crammed pockets; knocking every oak as he went with his stick,
asking them if they knew anything, or had anything to tell the people in
the copse near his house. The oaks were bursting with things to tell
him, and messages to send, but they could not speak, as there was no
breeze in the hollow. He whipped the bramble bushes with his crook, but
they did not mind in the least, they were so glad to see him.
He whistled to the butterfly to stop a moment while he picked a
blackberry; the butterfly settled on a leaf. Then away they went again
together till they left the wood behind and began to go up the hill.
There the butterfly grew restless, and could scarce restrain his pace
for Bevis to keep up, as they were now in the sunshine. Bevis raced
after as fast as he could go uphill, but at the top the butterfly
thought he saw a friend of his, and telling Bevis that somebody would
come to him in a minute, away he flew. Bevis looked round, but it was
all strange and new to him; there were hills all round, but there was no
waggon, and no old trench or rampart; nothing but the blue sky and the
great sun, which did not seem far off.
While he wondered which way to go, the wind came along the ridge, and
taking him softly by the ear pushed him gently forward and said: "Bevis,
my love, I have been waiting for you ever so long; why did you not come
before?"
"Because you never asked me," said Bevis.
"Oh yes, I did; I asked you twenty times in the copse. I beckoned to you
out of the great oak, under which you went to sleep; and I whispered to
you from the fir-trees where the squirrel played, but you were so busy,
dear, so busy with Kapchack, and the war, and Choo Hoo, and the court,
and all the turmoil, that you did not hear me."
"You should have called louder," said Bevis.
"So I did," said the wind. "Don't you remember I whirled the little
bough against your window, and rattled the casement that night you saw
the owl go by?"
"I was so sleepy," said Bevis, "I did not know what you meant; you
should have kissed me."
"So I did," said the wind. "I kissed you a hundred times out in the
field, and stroked your hair, but you would not take any notice."
"I had so much to do," said Bevis; "there was the weasel and my
cannon-stick."
"But I wanted you very much," said the wind, "because I love you, and
longed for you to come and visit me."
"Well, now I am come," said Bevis. "But where do you live?"
"This is where I live, dear," said the wind. "I live upon the hill;
sometimes I go to the sea, and sometimes to the woods, and sometimes I
run through the valley, but I always come back here, and you may always
be sure of finding me here; and I want you to come and romp with me."
"I will come," said Bevis; "I like a romp, but are you very rough?"
"Oh no, dear; not with you."
"I am a great big boy," said Bevis; "I am eating my peck of salt very
fast: I shall soon get too big to romp with you. How old are you, you
jolly Wind?"
The wind laughed and said: "I am older than all the very old things. I
am as old as the brook."
"But the brook is very old," said Bevis. "He told me he was older than
the hills, so I do not think you are as old as he is."
"Yes I am," said the wind; "he was always my playfellow; we were
children together."
"If you are so very, very old," said Bevis, "it is no use your trying to
romp with me, because I am very strong; I can carry my papa's gun on my
shoulder, and I can run very fast; do you know the stupid old bailiff
can't catch me? I can go round the ricks ever so much quicker than he
can."
"I can run quick," said the wind.
"But not so quick as me," said Bevis; "now see if you can catch me."
Away he ran, and for a moment he left the wind behind; but the wind blew
a little faster, and overtook him, and they raced along together, like
two wild things, till Bevis began to pant. Then down he sat on the turf
and kicked up his heels and shouted, and the wind fanned his cheek and
cooled him, and kissed his lips and stroked his hair, and caressed him
and played with him, till up he jumped again and danced along, the wind
always pushing him gently.