The Water of the Wondrous Isles, William Morris [funny books to read .txt] 📗

thy new shoon are gotten to be; and here is wherewithal.  And therewith she gave her two handfuls of silken threads and gold, and said: Now I suppose that I must do the more part of thy work, while thou art making thee these gaudy garments.  But maybe someone may be coming this way ere long, who will deem the bird the finer for her fine feathers.  Now depart from me; for I would both work for thee and me, and ponder weighty matters.

Who was glad now but Birdalone; she grew red with new pleasure, and knelt down and kissed the witch’s hand, and then went her ways to the wood with her precious lading, and wrought there under her oak-tree day after day, and all days, either there, or in the house when the weather was foul.  That was in the middle of March, when all birds were singing, and the young leaves showing on the hawthorns, so that there were pale green clouds, as it were, betwixt the great grey boles of oak and sweet-chestnut; and by the lake the meadow-saffron new-thrust-up was opening its blossom; and March wore and April, and still she was at work happily when now it was later May, and the hare-bells were in full bloom down the bent before her.

All this while the witch had meddled little with Birdalone, and had bidden her to no work afield or in the stead which was anywise grievous, but had done all herself; yet was she few-spoken with her, and would oft behold her gloomily.  And one evening when Birdalone came in from the wood, the witch came close up to her and stared her in the face, and said suddenly: Is it in thine heart to flee away from me and leave me?

A sharp pang of fear shot through Birdalone’s heart at that word, and she turned very red, and then pale to the lips, but stammered out: No, lady, it is not in mine heart.  The dame looked grimly on her and said: If thou try it and fail, thou shalt rue it once only, to wit, lifelong; and thou canst but fail.  She was silent a while, and then spake in a milder voice: Be content here a while with me, and thereafter thou shalt be more content, and that before long.

She said no more at that time; but her word clave to Birdalone’s heart, and for some time thereafter she was sorely oppressed with a burden of fear, and knew not how to hold herself before the witch-wife.  But the days wore, and nought betid, and the maiden’s heart grew lighter, and still she wrought on at her gown and her smock, and it was well-nigh done.  She had broidered the said gown with roses and lilies, and a tall tree springing up from amidmost the hem of the skirt, and a hart on either side thereof, face to face of each other.  And the smock she had sewn daintily at the hems and the bosom with fair knots and buds.  It was now past the middle of June, hot and bright weather.

p. 22CHAPTER VII.  BIRDALONE HATH AN ADVENTURE IN THE WOOD.

On a day she went to the wood, and sat down under her oak-tree, and it was far and far out of sight of anyone standing in the meadow by the lake; and in the wood Birdalone looked to see nought at all save the rabbits and squirrels, who were, forsooth, familiar enough with her, and fearless, so that they would come to her hand and sport with her when she hailed them.  Wherefore, as the day was exceeding hot, she put off from her her simple raiment, that she might feel all the pleasure of the cool shadow and what air was stirring, and the kindness of the greensward upon her very body.  So she sat sewing, covered but by a lap of the green gown which her needle was painting.

But as she sat there intent on her work, and her head bent over it, and it was now at the point of high noon, she heard as if some creature were going anigh to her; she heeded it not, deeming that it would be but some wandering hind.  But even therewith she heard one say her name in a soft voice, and she leapt up trembling, deeming at first that it would be the witch come to fetch her: but yet more scared she was, when she saw standing before her the shape of a young woman as naked as herself, save that she had an oak wreath round about her loins.

The new-comer, who was now close to her, smiled on her, and said in a kind and sweet voice: Fear nought, Birdalone, for I deem thou wilt find me a friend, and it is not unlike that thou wilt need one ere long.  And furthermore, I will say it, said she smiling, that since I am not afraid of thee, thou needest not be afraid of me.  Said Birdalone, she also smiling: True it is that thou art nought fearsome to look on.  The new-comer laughed outright, and said: Are we not well met then in the wildwood? and we both as two children whom the earth loveth.  So play we at a game.  At what game? said Birdalone.  Spake she of the oak-wreath: This; thou shalt tell me what I am like in thine eyes first, because thou wert afraid of me; and then when thou art done, I will tell thee what thou seemest to me.

Quoth Birdalone: For me that will be hard; for I have nought to liken thee to, whereas save this sight of thee I have seen nought save her that dwelleth in the House by the Water, and whom I serve.  Nay, said the other, then will I begin, and tell thee first whatlike thou art, so that thou wilt know the better how to frame thy word concerning me.  But tell me, hast thou ever seen thyself in a mirror?  What thing is that? said Birdalone.  It is a polished round of steel or some other white metal, said the wood-maiden, which giveth back in all truth the image of whatso cometh before it.  Said Birdalone and reddened therewith: We have at home a broad latten dish, which it is my work, amongst other things, to brighten and keep bright; yet may I not make it so bright that I may see much of mine image therein; and yet.  What wouldst thou? said the wood-woman.  Said Birdalone: I shall tell thee presently when thy part of the play is done.

Laughed the new-comer, and said: It is well; now am I to be thy mirror.  Thus it is with thee: thou standest before me a tall and slim maiden, somewhat thin, as befitteth thy seventeen summers; where thy flesh is bare of wont, as thy throat and thine arms and thy legs from the middle down, it is tanned a beauteous colour, but otherwhere it is even as fair a white, wholesome and clean, and as if the golden sunlight, which fulfilleth the promise of the earth, were playing therein.  Fairer and rounder shall be thine arms and thy shoulders when thou hast seen five more summers, yet scarce more lovesome, so strong and fine as now they are.  Low are thy breasts, as is meet for so young a maiden, yet is there no lack in them; nor ever shall they be fairer than now they are.  In goodly fashion sits thine head upon thy shoulders, upheld by a long and most well-wrought neck, that the sun hath tanned as aforesaid.  The hair of thee is simple brown, yet somewhat more golden than dark; and ah! now thou lettest it loose it waveth softly past thy fair smooth forehead and on to thy shoulders, and is not stayed by thy girdlestead, but hideth nought of thy knees, and thy legs shapely thin, and thy strong and clean-wrought ankles and feet, which are with thee as full of thine heart and thy soul and as wise and deft as be thy wrists and thine hands, and their very fellows.  Now as to thy face: under that smooth forehead is thy nose, which is of measure, neither small nor great, straight, and lovely carven at the nostrils: thine eyen are as grey as a hawk’s, but kind and serious, and nothing fierce nor shifting.  Nay, now thou lettest thine eyelids fall, it is as fair with thy face as if they were open, so smooth and simple are they and with their long full lashes.  But well are thine eyen set in thine head, wide apart, well opened, and so as none shall say thou mayst not look in the face of them.  Thy cheeks shall one day be a snare for the unwary, yet are they not fully rounded, as some would have them; but not I, for most pitiful kind are they forsooth.  Delicate and clear-made is the little trench that goeth from thy nose to thy lips, and sweet it is, and there is more might in it than in sweet words spoken.  Thy lips, they are of the finest fashion, yet rather thin than full; and some would not have it so; but I would, whereas I see therein a sign of thy valiancy and friendliness.  Surely he who did thy carven chin had a mind to a master-work and did no less.  Great was the deftness of thine imaginer, and he would have all folk that see thee wonder at thy deep thinking and thy carefulness and thy kindness.  Ah maiden! is it so that thy thoughts are ever deep and solemn?  Yet at least I know it of thee that they be hale and true and sweet.

My friend, when thou hast a mirror, some of all this shalt thou see, but not all; and when thou hast a lover some deal wilt thou hear, but not all.  But now thy she-friend may tell it thee all, if she have eyes to see it, as have I; whereas no man could say so much of thee before the mere love should overtake him, and turn his speech into the folly of love and the madness of desire.  So now I have played the play, and told thee of thee; tell me now of me, and play thy play.

For a while stood Birdalone silent, blushing and confused, but whiles casting shy glances at her own body, what she might see of it.  At last she spake: Fair friend, I would do thy will, but I am not deft of speech; for I speak but little, save with the fowl and wild things, and they may not learn me the speech of man.  Yet I will say that I wonder to hear thee call me fair and beauteous; for my dame tells me that never, nor sayeth aught of my aspect save in her anger, and then it is: Rag! and bag-of-bones! and when wilt thou be a woman, thou lank elf thou?  The new-comer laughed well-favouredly hereat, and put forth a hand, and stroked her friend’s cheek.  Birdalone looked piteous kind on her and said: But now I must needs believe thy words, thou who art so kind to me, and withal thyself so beauteous.  And I will tell thee that it fills my heart with joy to know that I am fair like to thee.  For this moreover I will tell thee, that I have seen nought in field or woodland that is as lovely to me as thou art; nay, not the fritillary nodding at our brook’s mouth, nor the willow-boughs waving on Green Eyot; nor the wild-cat sporting on the little woodlawn, when she saw me not; nor the white doe rising up from the grass to look to her fawn; nor aught that moves and grows.  Yet there is another thing which I must tell thee, to wit, that what thou hast said about the fashion of any part of me, that same, setting aside thy lovely words, which make the tears come into the eyes of me, would I say of thee.  Look thou!  I take thine hair and lay the tress amongst mine, and thou mayst not tell which is which; and amidst the soft waves of it thy forehead is nestling smooth as thou saidst of mine: hawk-grey and wide apart are thine eyen, and deep thought and all tenderness is in them, as of me thou sayest: fine is thy nose and of due measure; and thy cheeks a little hollow, and somewhat thin thy lovely lips; and thy round chin so goodly carven, as it might not be better done.  And of thy body else I will say as thou sayst of mine, though I deem these hands have done more work than thine.  But see thou! thy leg and mine as they stand together; and thine arm, as if it were of my body.  Slim