'Twixt Dog and Wolf (Valancourt Classics) Read online

  Then, as the mariner wakes from his death-sleep, to find that he has descended into a new world—the unsearchable depths of ocean: where gentle, wide-eyed creatures move amid forests, which are not of earth, and all the air (Is it air?) is of a weird dimness, and beats for ever with strange reverberations: so did Elizabeth now awake, no longer upon earth, nor lifted up into heaven, but wandering in a region which she had never entered before. Now she understood that solitary journey of hers to the castle; the goose-boy and goose-girl whom she had met at the entry of the forest. She understood the strange sights she had seen on the castle stairs, knew who was Godfather Death. All that journey no more seemed fraught with horrors as it had done only—when? She could not remember. Those elves, too, carrying tapers—they had been leading her on to this! All that had come and gone had been of their doing, and this, too, she understood now—she could not have said how or why.

  Still the music breathed. But now suddenly, across all this splendour of melody, came a commonplace sound. A noise of knocking, as of a hammer. Clang, clang, ting, ting, went the monotonous mechanic noise. Elizabeth, awake once more to the world about her, looked round to see if any one else showed signs of hearing it. No one did. Yet still it continued, clang, clang, ting, ting, sharp, not loud, regular, mechanic. For all that, was it indeed a sound of earth? What a change that knocking wrought in her? From the place where she stood she commanded a good view of the Lord Archbishop of Treves, partly framed by the round arch which led from the church into the choir. He sat there, raised above the heads of the singing monks. Yet how small he was, this potentate of the church! A clamant fancy seized Elizabeth that he was but a figure carved in wood.

  [1]epigraph: from Oedipus at Colonus by Sophocles. Likely Keary’s own translation. (Cf. Gilbert Murray: ‘What is the grove? And what God haunteth it? Untouched it is, untrod. Dread Virgins hold Their court here, born of Earth and Darkness old.’)

  [2] o kine: archaic plural of cow.

  [3]screech-owl: here, the archaic name of the barn owl, rather than the New World screech owl.

  [4]ban: in this context, an ecclesiastical denunciation or anathematization.

  [5]gospel-oak: According to J. G. Strutt in Sylva Britannica (1830), gospel-oaks were markers of parish boundaries. In an annual ritual before Holy Thursday, the village priest would recite passages from the Gospels at specific trees. This served to both bless the parish and also to transfer knowledge of the parish limits across generations. Strutt suggests the ritual has its basis in the pagan feast of Terminalia, which served a similar function. Keary’s use here reinforces the idea that village in the story is an outlier, on the edge of the unknown forest.

  [6]beldame: a grandmother or, pejoratively, a witch or hag.

  [7]sooth: truth.

  [8]bailey: more usually rendered ‘bailie’ in this archaic variant of bailiff, or district officer.

  [9]hist: an archaic exclamation used to attract attention or enjoin silence.

  [10]doles: alms, the distribution of charity.

  XI

  And ever since that night at Andersbach Minster, Elizabeth was changed. She went seldom into the village now except of necessity. She chose for her washing, or for drawing water at the fountain, the hours when the other gossips were at their dinner. When, each week, she took her spool of thread to barter to John Franzel, the Weaver of Andersbach, she went up by a path which skirted above the other houses, and then descended towards where Franzel stationed his cart on the farther side of the village. For all that, though she would often sit at the door of her cottage looking toward the forest and, to see her, one would have said that she was listening for something, and waiting, her heart was full of terror. She dreaded, yet expected, some day to see the Two Foresters come forth. She had dreams of seeing the boughs part, and her husband and Willebald emerge with, not the hue of life but rather, the blueness of death on their faces, and with ropes round their necks. Thus she had seen them in that fearful vision from the castle ramparts.

  She was sitting one afternoon, when she could no longer see the woods, so close enfolded was she in a November mist—light and grey, cold, deadening all sound. Now and then a broken branch crashed down unseen, echoing dully. Then silence came back heavy as before. Of a sudden—Christ in Heaven!—what noise was that? Something, Elizabeth knew, for which she had been waiting. Yet after all only a common forest sound. So at least she said to herself. But was it? It was in truth nothing but a knocking, knocking. Clang, clang, ting, ting, regular, mechanic.

  Never now did Elizabeth sleep in the bed which she had been used to share with her husband. The gallery in which it stood was unvisited, and lay thick with dust. Always now she slept on the settle. This night she slept and dreamed. It seemed to her that she was standing beside a little stream in the forest. And facing her, upon the other side of the stream, was a high rock. She had never seen the place; that she recognised even in her dream: recognised it with one hand as it were, and with the other seemed to claim familiarity with the spot. There, at any rate, she knew that she had to stand and wait, even if she waited for eternity. And, as the word flashed into her thoughts, she seemed as if she could never remember the time that she had not waited there. Then she started in her sleep; for there came from inside the rocky wall a regular sound—clang, clang, ting, ting, a knocking, knocking. It seemed that a pigeon flew down from a tree bearing a golden key in its beak. Then for a moment the dream became confused. The next thing she saw was a little snake gliding along the grass towards the stream? or along the floor of her room?—which? She started broad awake, and found the light of morning stealing through the hole under the roof.

  The dreary day and its hard toil had returned. But—surely she had not over night left the chamber swept and clean, as she saw it now? Not a crust nor a bone was on the floor. And the wood, too, piled ready for the hearth. Had she cut it? She could not remember. But, if not she, who had done this thing? Was it possible that Carl had come back again? She said ‘Carl’ to herself; but her inmost thoughts were not of her husband. Had she not always been waiting for that one to return?

  Another time, Elizabeth seemed in her dreams to hear the lowing of Tecla, and to say to herself:—‘That is a good omen: all will be well.’ When she woke in the morning—behold! the milk had been drawn in the pail; and that for certain she could not have done the night before. She trembled; but in part with expectation and hope.

  Ever after that life became more and more easy to her. Unseen hands shook down the dried ferns, the litter for the cattle; they drew the milk. In the cold winter mornings the unseen house-spirit walked up to the cascade in the brook, the one place which was never frozen, but where the villagers never used to go, and filled her pail there. The neighbours, who beheld her from their fields, wondered to see a woman sitting idle at the cottage door so often when the sun shone. Sometimes she let her spinning wheel rest. Yet had she longer strands of yarn to barter with Franzel Weaver than any other woman in Lehndorf. Sometimes he paid her in silver. And this she carefully hoarded in a secret hole beneath the settle.

  Ever in her dreams and in her thoughts she saw the little serpent coming to her cottage from the way of the wood. And something within her told her that the serpent was Willebald; till one night, when she had laid down to dream, she saw in her dream, as heretofore, the house-door, which she locked at night, open of itself and the little snake come gliding through. This time he had something shining in his mouth. And, on the morrow morning, with a pang of immense desire and immense terror, behold! among the straw of her bed the woman found something glittering, and it was a piece of gold—such as she had never seen before. An inner voice spoke to her, and seemed to tell Elizabeth that this was the fatal moment of her life: that she might yet be saved, if she would not take this money, but would throw it away. And in obedience thereto,
she ran out in the cold frosty morning meaning, thinking she meant, to fling the ducat into the brook. She held the coin tight in her fist, and kept her fist behind her. But, behold, her foot slipped; in seeking to save herself she dropped the coin; and it rolled away into a crevice beneath a stone, and lay there, only one pin-point of its rim catching the light.

  There, then, let it lie! Elizabeth went back to her cottage with a heavy heart. She had, she hoped, she feared, taken the decisive step. No more would unseen hands do half her household drudgery, nor would they spin at night while she lay cosily abed. That little heap of silver in the hole would never grow larger now. Never again in her life should she possess a coin of gold. What, perhaps (she could not tell), was worse than all, never again would she dream of the friendly coming of that little snake whom in her thoughts she had christened Willebald. She tried to think that morning that she could not, if she wished, find the precise spot where she had fallen down, or the exact stone under which the ducat had rolled. She tried to pray and to occupy herself with pious thoughts. But in the midst of these efforts she remembered that some snow had been on the ground when she walked towards the brook, so that her footsteps would be preserved. At that she started from her seat by the hearth and opened the door. Ah! It was snowing again now: soon those footsteps would be obliterated. It was Our Lady herself who had sent the snow—the feathers from her bed.

  ‘Not so,’ said a voice, ‘but Frau Hilda!’ She started, and looked round the room. There was no one in it. But she did not always know whether the voices she heard were from inside her or from outside. ‘Quick, quick,’ said the voice again. ‘She sent the snow for you in the night: but she sends it against you this morning. You may lose your luck for ever.’ And, indeed, the footsteps leading from the door were already half effaced.

  Elizabeth hesitated no more. She went back along the steps she had made that morning, and behold! not yet hidden by the snow, for it lay under the ridge of the stone, the edge of gold shone out like a star in the whiteness. All her struggles were over: the Peace of the Wicked fell upon her soul. She cherished the gold coin as if it had been a child, and placed it among her little hoard of silver. How radiantly it showed, like a queen among her subjects! Twenty times that day did Elizabeth stoop down under the settle, and lift the stone in the wall which concealed her treasury.

  A week after she dreamed the same dream again, and in the morning another golden ducat was hidden in the straw. Then it was twice a week, and before the summer was come, no morning passed but she found one. And full of a wonderful new experience, the possession of a treasure, did she go about in those days, as the year dropped to its close.

  XII

  In Lehndorf village folk had begun to say that Elizabeth had the Evil Eye. Once she had a quarrel with Peter Pinner’s wife; and the next day the woman fell sick and soon died. Black Riechen’s boy had, as ill-taught boys will, thrown a stone at Elizabeth from behind a hedge. She seemed not to so much as turn and discover who was the delinquent. For all that, ere the New Moon came round, the child fell into his mother’s well, and was drowned. Wherefore, all men greeted kindly Carl’s widow of the Corner. But few of them, and that seldom, came up the path to her door. And when she went forth to wash or to draw water, the people in the Place would slink away one by one. But she recked[1] little of these things. She held her head high among her neighbours. One thing was ever in her thoughts, the growing pile of golden ducats, which made a treasure great enough to buy up all the houses in Lehndorf.

  The boys followed her at a distance, and peered at her round the corners of houses, from the edges of the wood, snatching a fearful joy. ‘There she goes,’ they said one to another, ‘Elizabeth the Out-born.’ Now this name was almost always bestowed on her. Her nearest neighbours, Peter Ploughman and his wife, saw her go past their door, which was ajar, the firelight shining out upon the snow: she, a black figure mounting up in the night greyness towards her cottage, which stood apart from the others, and dominated most of them. ‘But how,’ said Peter’s wife, ‘doth not the Devil come, and carry her away, when she still dares to come to Mass?’ ‘Nay, nay,’ said Peter, more charitably. For he had been friends with Carl and his wife in days gone by.

  Elizabeth on her side went untroubled by thoughts of the gossips. She had little work to do now. There stood the wood stacked for the firing, there was the iron pot ready for use, the grain was there, and the milk to mix therewith. Tecla gave twice as much as heretofore. If in those days it had been possible to turn milk into money, Elizabeth would have spared to use but a little of it for her porridge. But such a thing was not possible, so she ate royally of milk and porridge and cheese. Though there was little to do, she grew impatient of what had to be done, and could scarce bring herself to light the fire and warm up the supper. For all that it must be said that she put thus much restraint upon herself that she would not touch it till the supper was done. Then, but not till then, she drew it from its retreat. To lengthen out the joy of her task, she always first enforced herself to count the silver pieces, though for many days their number had remained the same. There were thirty-nine. How deliciously each piece rang ting, ting, as she tinkled it on the hearth-stone! Instinctively she parted the hoard into little heaps, thirteen in each. Then at last she set to work upon the gold, and the ducats glanced like a company of princes in the glow of the fire, and rang like the mailed feet of knights upon the hearth. And of these there were one hundred and sixty-nine, and they made thirteen companies of thirteen. Clang, clang, they had sounded as she dropped them on the slab. And now it seemed to Elizabeth that she heard an answering clang, clang, from underground. Her heart glowed with delight. It meant that they were forging her fresh pieces!

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. . . . She counted them all over again. Thirteen whole companies; thirteen in each. The room was as full of shadows as of light, as it must be when the sole illumination comes from a wood fire. Looking up, she was scarce surprised to see a shadow moving (it seemed) slowly along the wall. Yes; the light was fitful, yet not so fitful but that she could be sure the shadow had moved out of its place in the corner, and noiselessly slid along the wall toward the stool on which she sat.

  Now, for a moment the firelight leapt up into bright flame. During one instant Elizabeth still beheld the shadow, not moving now, but more distinct than ever. It had the shape of a woman with long hair, and as it were a helm upon her head. Then the flame fell for ever; the fire had died out. All the shadows in the room assembled together to make a complete darkness.

  XIII

  The night after, no serpent came to her in her dreams. Nor did she find any gold piece in her bed. In the morning she turned over every straw and looked in every corner. Then she took out her hoard, and counted it twice over. For, she thought, maybe the serpent had found his way directly thereto from under ground. She listened for the clang of the elfin hammers, but in lieu thereof her ear was vexed by the sound of a bell. Now, as long as a bell tolls, the Spirits of Earth and Air are powerless. Nor did Elizabeth once remember that this one was tolling the Christ made flesh upon the altar, and that she had stayed in her cottage, nor ever gone to Mass, that Sunday morning.

  ‘What will Gebhard, the Priest, do now?’ said the folk of Lehndorf. For now there were few in Lehndorf but deemed it certain that there dwelt among them one who was in league with the Evil Spirit.

  In sleep the ensuing night, Elizabeth the Out-born once more saw her serpent. Yet was he changed. He bore no piece of money in his mouth; but, as it seemed, a bright spark flamed in his forehead. And now for the first time—but still sleeping—she spoke to the serpent. ‘O, Willebald!’ she called out. ‘Is that indeed you?’ ‘It is I,’ answered the snake. And she knew the voice. ‘Come,’ next spake the serpent, ‘and follow me.’

  Whether it were in the flesh or no, Elizabeth rose from her settle and passed in his wake out under the stars. How brightly they gleamed! N
ot in one colour neither, but white and green and blue, red and yellow. It must have been very cold. But Elizabeth did not feel it. Now they had entered a portion of the forest unknown to her. The little snake went quickly on before. At length they came to a brook: perhaps the same brook which flowed not far from Elizabeth’s cottage, and from which the villagers had a tradition that it was unlucky to draw water. She looked upon the grass; and there, mildewed and rusted, lay Carl’s old boar-spear, the one which he had left behind when he suddenly ran away after hearing Willebald’s dream; and by its means the serpent, who had declared that he was indeed Willebald, crossed the stream, and Elizabeth walked through the water after him. And she knew the place for the same that she had seen in her dream. The bare rock rose before her, and barred her path. Now her companion, the serpent, disappeared in a crevice of the rock, and she stood there alone. Thereupon, behold! a pigeon flew down to her, as she had seen it in her dream—bearing a golden key in its beak. And, ‘Fit this key into the wall of rock,’ said the bird. ‘There,’ and it showed a hole, ‘and it will open.’