The Wood Beyond the World by William Morris (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📗

done! of what!  Fool, she is the murderer! she hath slain the Lady that was our Lady, and that made us; she whom all we worshipped and adored.  O impudent fool!”

Therewith he nocked and loosed another arrow, which would have smitten Walter in the face, but that he lowered his head in the very nick of time; then with a great shout he rushed up the bent, and was on the Dwarf before he could get his sword out, and leaping aloft dealt the creature a stroke amidmost of the crown; and so mightily be smote, that he drave the heavy sword right through to the teeth, so that he fell dead straightway.

Walter stood over him a minute, and when be saw that he moved not, he went slowly down to the stream, whereby the Maid yet lay cowering down and quivering all over, and covering her face with her hands.  Then he took her by the wrist and said: “Up, Maiden, up! and tell me this tale of the slaying.”

But she shrunk away from him, and looked at him with wild eyes, and said: “What hast thou done with him?  Is he gone?”

“He is dead,” said Walter; “I have slain him; there lies he with cloven skull on the bent-side: unless, forsooth, he vanish away like the lion I slew! or else, perchance, he will come to life again!  And art thou a lie like to the rest of them? let me hear of this slaying.”

She rose up, and stood before him trembling, and said: “O, thou art angry with me, and thine anger I cannot bear.  Ah, what have I done?  Thou hast slain one, and I, maybe, the other; and never had we escaped till both these twain were dead.  Ah! thou dost not know! thou dost not know!  O me! what shall I do to appease thy wrath!”

He looked on her, and his heart rose to his mouth at the thought of sundering from her.  Still he looked on her, and her piteous friendly face melted all his heart; he threw down his sword, and took her by the shoulders, and kissed her face over and over, and strained her to him, so that he felt the sweetness of her bosom.  Then he lifted her up like a child, and set her down on the green grass, and went down to the water, and filled his hat therefrom, and came back to her; then he gave her to drink, and bathed her face and her hands, so that the colour came aback to the cheeks and lips of her: and she smiled on him and kissed his hands, and said: “O now thou art kind to me.”

“Yea,” said he, “and true it is that if thou hast slain, I have done no less, and if thou hast lied, even so have I; and if thou hast played the wanton, as I deem not that thou hast, I full surely have so done.  So now thou shalt pardon me, and when thy spirit has come back to thee, thou shalt tell me thy tale in all friendship, and in all loving-kindness will I hearken the same.”

Therewith he knelt before her and kissed her feet.  But she said: “Yea, yea; what thou willest, that will I do.  But first tell me one thing.  Hast thou buried this horror and hidden him in the earth?”

He deemed that fear had bewildered her, and that she scarcely yet knew how things had gone.  But he said: “Fair sweet friend, I have not done it as yet; but now will I go and do it, if it seem good to thee.”

“Yea,” she said, “but first must thou smite off his head, and lie it by his buttocks when he is in the earth; or evil things will happen else.  This of the burying is no idle matter, I bid thee believe.”

“I doubt it not,” said he; “surely such malice as was in this one will be hard to slay.”  And he picked up his sword, and turned to go to the field of deed.

She said: “I must needs go with thee; terror hath so filled my soul, that I durst not abide here without thee.”

So they went both together to where the creature lay.  The Maid durst not look on the dead monster, but Walter noted that he was girt with a big ungainly sax; so he drew it from the sheath, and there smote off the hideous head of the fiend with his own weapon.  Then they twain together laboured the earth, she with Walter’s sword, he with the ugly sax, till they had made a grave deep and wide enough; and therein they thrust the creature, and covered him up, weapons and all together.

CHAPTER XXIII: OF THE PEACEFUL ENDING OF THAT WILD DAY

Thereafter Walter led the Maid down again, and said to her: “Now, sweetling, shall the story be told.”

“Nay, friend,” she said, “not here.  This place hath been polluted by my craven fear, and the horror of the vile wretch, of whom no words may tell his vileness.  Let us hence and onward.  Thou seest I have once more come to life again.”

“But,” said he, “thou hast been hurt by the Dwarf’s arrow.”

She laughed, and said: “Had I never had greater hurt from them than that, little had been the tale thereof: yet whereas thou lookest dolorous about it, we will speedily heal it.”

Therewith she sought about, and found nigh the stream-side certain herbs; and she spake words over them, and bade Walter lay them on the wound, which, forsooth, was of the least, and he did so, and bound a strip of his shirt about her arm; and then would she set forth.  But he said: “Thou art all unshod; and but if that be seen to, our journey shall be stayed by thy foot-soreness: I may make a shift to fashion thee brogues.”

She said: “I may well go barefoot.  And in any case, I entreat thee that we tarry here no longer, but go away hence, if it be but for a mile.”

And she looked piteously on him, so that he might not gainsay her.

So then they crossed the stream, and set forward, when amidst all these haps the day was worn to midmorning.  But after they had gone a mile, they sat them down on a knoll under the shadow of a big thorn-tree, within sight of the mountains.  Then said Walter: “Now will I cut thee the brogues from the skirt of my buff-coat, which shall be well meet for such work; and meanwhile shalt thou tell me thy tale.”

“Thou art kind,” she said; “but be kinder yet, and abide my tale till we have done our day’s work.  For we were best to make no long delay here; because, though thou hast slain the King-dwarf, yet there be others of his kindred, who swarm in some parts of the wood as the rabbits in a warren.  Now true it is that they have but little understanding, less, it may be, than the very brute beasts; and that, as I said afore, unless they be set on our slot like to hounds, they shall have no inkling of where to seek us, yet might they happen upon us by mere misadventure.  And moreover, friend,” quoth she, blushing, “I would beg of thee some little respite; for though I scarce fear thy wrath any more, since thou hast been so kind to me, yet is there shame in that which I have to tell thee.  Wherefore, since the fairest of the day is before us, let us use it all we may, and, when thou hast done me my new foot-gear, get us gone forward again.”

He kissed her kindly and yea-said her asking: he had already fallen to work on the leather, and in a while had fashioned her the brogues; so she tied them to her feet, and arose with a smile and said: “Now am I hale and strong again, what with the rest, and what with thy loving-kindness, and thou shalt see how nimble I shall be to leave this land, for as fair as it is.  Since forsooth a land of lies it is, and of grief to the children of Adam.”

So they went their ways thence, and fared nimbly indeed, and made no stay till some three hours after noon, when they rested by a thicket-side, where the strawberries grew plenty; they ate thereof what they would: and from a great oak hard by Walter shot him first one culver, and then another, and hung them to his girdle to be for their evening’s meal; sithence they went forward again, and nought befell them to tell of, till they were come, whenas it lacked scarce an hour of sunset, to the banks of another river, not right great, but bigger than the last one.  There the Maid cast herself down and said: “Friend, no further will thy friend go this even; nay, to say sooth, she cannot.  So now we will eat of thy venison, and then shall my tale be, since I may no longer delay it; and thereafter shall our slumber be sweet and safe as I deem.”

She spake merrily now, and as one who feared nothing, and Walter was much heartened by her words and her voice, and he fell to and made a fire, and a woodland oven in the earth, and sithence dighted his fowl, and baked them after the manner of wood-men.  And they ate, both of them, in all love, and in good-liking of life, and were much strengthened by their supper.  And when they were done, Walter eked his fire, both against the chill of the midnight and dawning, and for a guard against wild beasts, and by that time night was come, and the moon arisen.  Then the Maiden drew up to the fire, and turned to Walter and spake.

CHAPTER XXIV: THE MAID TELLS OF WHAT HAD BEFALLEN HER

“Now, friend, by the clear of the moon and this firelight will I tell what I may and can of my tale.  Thus it is: If I be wholly of the race of Adam I wot not nor can I tell thee how many years old I may be.  For there are, as it were, shards or gaps in my life, wherein are but a few things dimly remembered, and doubtless many things forgotten.  I remember well when I was a little child, and right happy, and there were people about me whom I loved, and who loved me.  It was not in this land; but all things were lovely there; the year’s beginning, the happy mid-year, the year’s waning, the year’s ending, and then again its beginning.  That passed away, and then for a while is more than dimness, for nought I remember save that I was.  Thereafter I remember again, and am a young maiden, and I know some things, and long to know more.  I am nowise happy; I am amongst people who bid me go, and I go; and do this, and I do it: none loveth me, none tormenteth me; but I wear my heart in longing for I scarce know what.  Neither then am I in this land, but in a land that I love not, and a house that is big and stately, but nought lovely.  Then is a dim time again, and sithence a time not right clear; an evil time, wherein I am older, wellnigh grown to womanhood.  There are a many folk about me, and they foul, and greedy, and hard; and my spirit is fierce, and my body feeble; and I am set to tasks that I would not do, by them that are unwiser than I; and smitten I am by them that are less valiant than I; and I know lack, and stripes, and divers misery.  But all that is now become but a dim picture to me, save that amongst all these unfriends is a friend to me; an old woman, who telleth me sweet tales of other life, wherein all is high and goodly,