Geoffrey's window; more children in the wood stories

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I Thanksgiving Dinner 5

II The Odd Man

Chapter I Thanksgiving Dinner

MI Um! wasn’t that a good Thanksgiving dinner!” sighed Douglas, patting himself on the stomach.

“Couldn’t have been better,” agreed little Dicky who was always interested in food.

“Aunt Jan’s turkey was the biggest turkey I ever saw!” exclaimed Mary, giving the collie Arrow a hug.

“Had to be,” said studious Paul, “to feed all us children!”

“It was stuffed with chestnuts,” explained Alice.

“The gravy and the sweet potatoes were fine!” said Ferris.

“And the green string beans Aunt Jan canned last summer and the pumpkin pie and the mince pie and the cranberry sauce!” Little Janet spoke rapidly getting things very much mixed up, her bright face red and excited in the dancing light of the big old-fashioned fireplace.

“I’d rather skate than eat!” said Alice, who was very fond of outdoor sports.

“Wasn’t it beautiful out there in the starlight skating on that smooth ice!” said Belle thoughtfully.

“I’d have liked it better,” said Paul, “if my tooth hadn’t ached a little.”

“I say it was the end of a perfect day!” sighed chubby Mary, still breathless from the long rapid skating.

The ringing of their skates had been like music; the frosty air not too cold, the sound of their happy voices had chimed in with the ringing of the skates. Now after their wonderful Thanksgiving Day with its bountiful dinner and an early evening of skating on the pond they were beginning to feel sleepy. Little four year old Eleanor was already asleep, her head in Belle’s lap.

Aunt Jan came into the room with a big sandwich tray heaped with sandwiches of all

THANKSGIVING DINNER 7

sorts, followed by a servant carrying ten glasses and a huge flagon of milk.

“Happy?” asked Aunt Jan.

“Oh, Aunt Jan, it was just the best day that ever was!” piped Dicky.

“Penny Whistle had a bully dinner,” said Douglas, teasing Dicky by imitating his piping voice.

“Now for our sandwich supper about the fire,” said Aunt Jan, “and then to bed!”

“Couldn’t we have a story before we go to bed?” asked Paul, whose tooth ached enough so that he did not want to go to bed.

“Just one, please!” begged Alice politely.

“Well, yes,” said Aunt Jan, “but we’ll have it while we’re eating our picnic supper and it must be a short one, for I don’t want little children cross as bears to-morrow!”

“What’s Thanksgiving anyhow?” piped Dicky.

“That’s a good question to ask,” said Aunt Jan, as she went around with the sandwiches once more and then sat down in a chair by the fire. “It used to be a day of Thanksgiving for the crops our forefathers gathered, the potatoes and beans and peas, the corn and pumpkins, the onions and cabbages, oats and wheat, the apples and other vegetables and fruits gathered in the harvests and which fed our ancestors through the long cold northern winter.”

“Then that’s where our pumpkin pies and mince pies came from!” said Janet, tasting again the delicious pies she had had at Aunt Jan’s Thanksgiving table.

“Yes, our forefathers used to have pumpkin pie away back in the early eighteenth century but I imagine the mince pie was a custom brought from England and continued here!”

“I wish all their old English customs were as good as that!” came from Douglas who had a rude way of saying things.

“We owe most of what is best in our lives to our English inheritance,” said Aunt Janet quietly. “I often think that inheritance is like a Great Palace stored full of precious things, — a palace in which there are a thousand golden doors and windows, doors and windows that open in beautiful rooms and on gardens and balconies, treasures more beautiful than anything the world has ever seen before.”

THANKSGIVING DINNER

“Are the doors and windows really of gold?” asked Mary.

“Not really in any literal sense, nevertheless of gold,” came the quiet answer.

“Could I go through one of those doors and see through one of those windows?” piped Dicky.

“Yes, if you wanted to go, dear,” said Aunt Jan. “And at night you would find those rooms lighted by magic lamps so bright they cast a glow over the whole world. And these lamps — these precious treasures that have come to us — hang by chains the ends of which cannot be seen, just as Pryderi was not able to see the ends of the hanging golden chains in the palace he entered.”

“Who was Pryderi, Aunt Jan?” asked Paul.

“That story is too long to tell to-night, but you shall hear it to-morrow, if you wish.”

“That would be great!” piped Dicky and all the children with him except little Eleanor who lay fast asleep.

They were trying to make their sandwiches last as long as possible, for they knew that as soon as they were eaten, that would be a signal for Aunt Jan to send them to bed.

io GEOFFREY’S WINDOW

“It is not only great crops of wheat, corn, and potatoes our bodies have to be thankful for, but our minds should be very thankful for this Great Palace with its beautiful lamplighted rooms of story and song. Even Aladdin’s Lamp, magic as it was, could never bring as much beauty and power into human lives as these wonderful songs and stories of English Literature.”

“Is that from a book?” asked Janet, who did not like books.

She was getting very sleepy. Her eyes had almost closed while she was actually biting into a sandwich. But she opened them very wide now and stared suspiciously at Aunt Jan.

“Men have written books about this Great Palace,” said Aunt Jan, “but the palace itself is not a book. It is simply the lives of men and women and boys and girls, what they did and what they dreamed many, many years ago.”

“Oh,” said Paul, “then it’s just as real as whai people might say about us hundreds of years from now!”

“Just as real,” said Aunt Jan, “only it is

THANKSGIVING DINNER u likely that our names will be forgotten and some of their names will never be forgotten as long as English is spoken. That Great Palace is a sort of fairyland ; in it are giants and monsters . .

“I just adore monsters,’’ broke in Dicky sleepily, his head nodding nearer and nearer his sandwich.

“In it, too,” continued Aunt Jan, “are great warrior heroes like Beowulf and saintly heroes like Cuthbert; in it are noble boys like Alfred, poets, princes, lovely ladies, little children, spirited horses . .

“Aren’t there any ponies?” asked Janet. In her half-asleep state she had just caught the word horses and that made her think of ponies which she loved.

“Yes, many ponies and many faithful dogs.”

“If there are dogs there, then I want to go to that palace,” said Mary. “I guess Arrow would like it.” She patted the big handsome collie lying sound asleep beside her.

“Yes,” said Aunt Jan, watching the children who were growing sleepier and sleepier, “and in that Palace is the sound of singing, the beat of dancing feet . . .”

“Was there any skating?” asked Alice, jerking up her nodding head.

“Lots of skating,” answered Aunt Jan, “and the laughter of running Water, and cries of gladness and cries of sorrow, birds and jolly winds and flowers and fruits . .

“It sounds like a Thanksgiving dinner,” whispered Mary, cuddling her head on Arrow’s side.

“Some of the names are Beowulf and the monster Grendel . .

“I know about Grendel,” said Paul, trying to separate a dream he had been having of a very solemn turkey dripping gravy and dancing on skates and some green string beans that were tying a string about his tooth, from what he had somehow just heard Aunt Jan say.

“There are many other names there; a little radiant-browed Welsh boy called Taliesin ; the warriors and friends, Cuchulain and Ferdiad; Caedmon the cowherd, even some seals who loved St. Cuthbert; the young Prince Alfred; Havelock the son of a king who lived with a common fisherman; red and white dragons, a werewolf, all the marvels of Geoffrey of Monmouth . . .”

THANKSGIVING DINNER 13

“Geoffrey, who’s Geof . . began Paul.

But his head nodded and fell over before he could finish the sentence.

Aunt Jan paused, smiled and looked about her. There lay nine happy children, big and little, sound asleep, dreaming no doubt of Thanksgiving dinners, golden windows and doors and skating.

“Children, it’s time for bed.”

Not a voice answered. There they lay, sound asleep, Dicky making some funny little bubbles with his lips, Mary whispering something in her sleep, Paul’s hand twitching as if the pain of his tooth hurt him.

Aunt Jan went to the mantelpiece where in a row stood twelve old-fashioned brass candlesticks with their broad saucers and their snuffers. It was where those old candlesticks had stood since time was. It suited Aunt Jan that they should stand there still.

Nine of these candles she lighted and as each little golden wick flame caught, she spoke a name: Paul, Douglas, Belle, Alice, Mary, Ferris, Dicky, Janet, Eleanor. In lighting Eleanor’s candle, she accidentally knocked off the mantelpiece a piece of quartz rock one of the boys had brought in. It made a loud bang on the bare floor.

Then with the first candle she went back to wake Paul.

Chapter II The Odd Man

P AUL could not imagine how the autumn had so suddenly changed to spring or why he was standing by an odd beautiful old window beside an odd quiet man who was writing in a great book. The sun was setting, the wind blowing gently, the air was as sweetsmelling as if it rose from fields of lilies, and it was the springtime of the world some two thousand years ago.

He did not have to pinch himself to make it all seem real. It must be real enough, for here beside him stood Mary, and there below the odd window in a quaint little street stood the children: Eleanor, Janet, and Paul, Ferris and Belle and Douglas, little Dicky and Alice. They looked very much like themselves and yet different, with a strange sort of green light on them. He looked at his own hand. Yes, that was somewhat green, too. 15 i6

Paul’s eyes stared. Yes, it was the children. Their costumes, and his, too, were amazing, little short smocks, bare legs, sandals, and such queer caps for the boys and long gowns and wimples for the girls.

“Truly, my son,” said the Odd Man, “thy look is surprised.”

Paul continued to stare. He seemed to be tongue-tied.

“How be that ye came here?” continued the Odd Man kindly. “And who are ye?”

“We can’t just remember,” Paul heard Mary say, and her voice sounded at a great distance off.

“Are these the Green Children come again?” said the Odd Man, as if talking to himself.

“Please, sir,” said Paul, “who are the Green Children?”

Master Geoffrey left that question unanswered and stared, too.

“Please, sir, who are you?” asked Mary.

“I, forsooth, am, — well — plain Geoffrey and this is Geoffrey’s Window in Monmouth.”

“Oh,” said Paul, “and what shall we call you?”

“It must be real enough, for beside him stood Mary”

1 1 ;

THE ODD MAN i7

“Call me Master Geoffrey, ’tis a good enough title for any pinch of dust.”

“Yes, Master Geoffrey,” Paul heard Mary say.

“And who are those children yonder?” he asked, putting down a big goose quill pen with which he wrote and pointing to Douglas and the others who stood restlessly on the quaint street watching every thing that passed. . . . Truly, Geoffrey might play tricks with Time in his tales but here was a trick Time had played on him.

“Those are my brothers and sisters,” answered Paul rubbing his head, “but I’m not sure we are here and they look so green like leaves or grass and I don’t know how we got here. We were spending Thanksgiving with Aunt Jan and . . .”

And what? thought Paul. Just what had happened?

“And who may Aunt Jan be?” asked the strange man.

“Aunt Jan!” exclaimed Mary, surprised that every one did not know who Aunt Jan was. “Why she’s Aunt Jan and she’s our aunt and she writes books and things.”

“Truth, I see, a chronicler like unto myself,” said Geoffrey nodding his head up and down like one of those Chinese mandarin figures which stood on Aunt Jan’s mantelpiece.

“What time is it?” asked Paul.

“ ’Tis evening,” said Geoffrey, looking out the little casement window.

“No,” said Paul, “I mean is it the same year?”

“What year, my son?”

“The present, you know, the year 1920.”

“1920, my son? What fable is this! This is the twelfth century in which we live.”

To the studious Paul it seemed that he had heard Geoffrey of Monmouth’s name before. Yes, he had it: Shakespeare had taken the material of his play King Lear in part from the Chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth!

“Do you know Shakespeare?” asked Paul, although he knew Shakespeare died in 1616. It was the only thing he could think of to ask.

The Odd Man shook his head. “Shakespeare? Nay, of such a name have I never heard.”

“I do,” said Mary.

“What are you doing?” asked Paul.

THE ODD MAN i9

“Writing in my Chronicles whereof I know more than I set down on these pages.”

“What do you set down?” asked Paul, feeling somewhat rude to ask so many questions.

“Fables, chiefly Welsh fables. But I know many others not Welsh.”

Paul saw Geoffrey’s keen, humorous eyes studying him and knew that the Chronicler was wondering whose boy he was and whose those children were outside.

“Are you writing in Welsh?” asked Mary.

“No, in Latin.”

“I have just finished with my Latin Grammar and begun Caesar,” said Paul.

“So old and but finished with thy Grammar!” exclaimed Geoffrey. “Ah, I was not much more than out of my mother’s arms before I was well into Latin Grammar.”

Although Paul was younger than Douglas, he was ahead of him in his studies. But now instead of feeling proud, he felt ashamed, and thought the subject of conversation needed a slight change.

He moved about uncomfortably.

“Can you tell any stories in English?” he

asked.

“Many, though I have writ none in English.”

“Aunt Jan tells stories,” said Mary.

“Call in thy brothers and sisters and I will tell thee an English tale in English. It shall not be said that Geoffrey of Monmouth was outdone by any she-chronicler. I will tell thee the oldest story there is in English, a story of a monster and a dragon and a great hero Beowulf, and I will tell it thee in English.”

Paul called to the children and they came trooping up the narrow carved stairway to the quaint room above, taking Geoffrey’s window and the little town of Monmouth as naturally as if they had lived there all their lives. It was only that they did look so surprisingly greenish, — as if at any moment they might turn into little trees walking.

Dicky was wild with joy when he heard v that it was to be a story about a monster and a . dragon and a hero, for he loved them all.

“It’s a golden window and door! A golden window and door!” Paul heard him pipe in . his shrill voice.

“A what?” said the Odd Man looking at the children with kind puzzled eyes.

THE ODD MAN

“If you please, sir,” answered Alice very politely, “Dicky means it is in the Palace.”

That did not make matters any better for the Odd Man, but he said politely, “My palace is not here.”

That set them to wondering whether he really had a palace.

“Come, little ones, shall we begin?”

“Yes, yes,” they cried, gathering about the spacious plain old fireplace.

“Here in the story of Beowulf is an old and rude story but it is very precious, my children. Sometimes the pictures are beautiful. Sometimes they are cruel and without pity. Only the Scop, the man who sang songs and told stories in those days so many years ago on the edge of that wild north sea, knows how pitiless life was then.”

“Please, sir,” said Mary who hated school books, “is this to be a book?”

“No, my child, this story has Geoffrey never written nor will he ever. . . . That Scop who played the harp and who sang stories knew how to bind all men and all beasts with his song, — even better than I, Geoffrey of Monmouth. Not alone the fish and worms forgot their tasks, but the cattle stopped grazing, and, when he passed, men and children paused to listen. This Scop was on his way to the Great Hall to have a sight of the hero, Beowulf. Now, listen well!”

Chapter III

THE MONSTER GRENDEL S they sat about the spacious, plain firexjL place, Paul felt as if his eyes blinked first on Aunt Jan’s fireplace, then on that which he had never seen before. What made him wink and blink so hard? He thought he must be dreaming but he did not pinch himself. Paul looked at his hand; it was not green any longer.

“My children, I have a great life, small man though I be,” came the voice of Master Geoffrey. “The great life is the life I live in my stories, for there will always be men to retell these stories after me. Now listen well, my children, to the greatest of all English stories: When our English ancestors came to England they brought this story with them. Mayhaps ’twas then in the form of short poems. And these, it may be, a Christian Northumbrian poet in the eighth century, or thereabouts, did weave together. But, I will tell thee the brave strong tale as Geoffrey heard it when a little lad.

“Behind the Scop I told ye of, he who bound all men and beasts by his song, lay the sea and the coast guard pacing up and down. Before him, landward, rose a long, highroofed hall. It had gable ends, from which towered up huge stag horns. And the roof shone only less brightly than the sun, for it was covered with metal.”

“Please, sir,” said Mary, “was it the city hall?”

“The what, little one?”

“City hall, sir, please.”

“Forsooth of that have I never heard. It was the hall of Hrothgar the old king whose subjects the monster Grendel was tearing to pieces and devouring.”

“Pooh,” exclaimed Douglas, “no old monster could tear me to pieces!”

“Douglas, be still. Don’t be so rude!” said Belle.

“Wouldst hear my story, children?” asked Geoffrey.

“Yes, Yes,” came in a chorus.

“Well, my children, about the Great Hall towards which the Scop was traveling, was a village made up of tiny houses, each in its own patch of tilled ground and apple trees, and with fields in which sheep and oxen and horses were pastured. Narrow paths wound in and out everywhere. In front of the Hall was a broad meadow across which the King and Queen and their lords and ladies were wont to walk.

“There was much going on that day in Heorot. Flocks of children played about the pretty paths. Mothers and aunts and older sisters sat spinning in the open doorways. Beyond the wide meadow young men and boys were leading or riding spirited horses up and down to exercise them.

“And all, men, women and children alike, were talking about Beowulf, who had come to kill the monster, Grendel, and free the people of Heorot.”

Janet looked a little as if she were going to cry until Ferris gave her a nudge and whispered that this all happened long ago.

“That depends,” said Alice, a little tearfully, “on just when we’re living. If we’re living now, it doesn’t matter but if we’re living long ago, the monster might come get us.”

“Have no fear, little one,” said Geoffrey, “but listen well. This hero Beowulf had not much more than entered the Hall when the Scop, or singer, entered too. In those days singers were welcome everywhere. They saw Beowulf stride mightily across the many-colored floor of Heorot and go up to the old King. And they heard his voice which sounded like the rumble of a heavy sea on their rock-bound coast.

“‘Hrothgarl’ he said to the old King, ‘across the sea’s way have I come to help thee.’

“ ‘Of thee, Beowulf, have we need,’ replied the old King in tears, ‘for Heorot has suffered much from this monster.’

“ ‘I will deliver thee, Hrothgar,’ said Beowulf in his great voice, ‘thee and all who dwell in Heorot.’

“ ‘Steep and stony are the sea cliffs, joyless our woods and wolf-haunted, robbed is our Heorot, for to Grendel can no man do aught,’ answered the King. ‘He breaks the bones of my people. And those of my people he cannot eat in Heorot he drags away onto the moor and devours alive.’

“And the old, bald-headed King, seated on his high seat in the Hall between his pretty daughter and his tired queen, sighed as he thought of the on-coming night. Yet, now that Beowulf had come, he hoped.”

“Did he hope,” piped Dicky, the cold shivers going up and down his back, “that the hero Beowulf would kill the monster?”

“Yes, little master, that was it, else would the monster have devoured not only his subjects but also the old King himself and the queen and the pretty daughter. But now there was hope, together they gathered about the banquet. Beowulf sat among the sons of the old King. The walls inside were as bright as the roof and gold-gilded, and the great fires from which smoke poured out through openings in the roof were cheerful and warm.

“Then the Scop was called up, and the harp was placed for him. Clear rose the song from the Scop’s lips and all the company was still. For awhile they forgot the monster which, even now with the falling dusk, was striding up from the sea, perhaps by the same path Beowulf and Widsith and the Scop had come.”

Ferris had got very near Paul. He was frightened. He could almost have cried and he wanted his Aunt Jan.

“Already it had grown dark under heaven and darker in the Hall,” went on the deep, pleasant voice, “and the place was filled with shadowy shapes.

“And now came Grendel stalking from the cloudy cliffs towards the Gold Hall. It would have been hard for four men to have carried his huge head, so big it was. The nails of his hands were like iron, and large as the monstrous claws of a wild beast. And since there was a spell upon him, no sword or spear could harm him.

“While others slept, Beowulf lay awake, ready with his naked hands to fight Grendel.”

“Oh cricky,” said Douglas, looking at his own big hands, “didn’t he have even a rifle?”

“A what?” asked Master Geoffrey.

“You know, something to shoot with.”

“Ah, a fusil? No, nothing but his hands did he fight with this night. Suddenly the monster smote the door of Heorot and it cracked asunder. In he strode, flame in his eyes, and before Beowulf could spring upon him or any one awake, he snatched a sleeping warrior and tore him to pieces.”

“Oh,” said chubby Mary, her eyes as big as saucers, “my dog Arrow got hold of another dog and tried to do that, and I cried and Uncle came and whipped them both. It must be much much worse seeing two human beings fight like that, even if one was a hero!”

“They weren’t both human,” explained Paul. “One was a monster, wasn’t he, Master Geoffrey?”

“Indeed yes, and a terrible monster. And Beowulf, who had the strength of thirty men in his body, gripped Grendel the monster, and the dreadful battle and noise began. The benches were overturned, the walls cracked, the fires were scattered, and dust rose in clouds from the many-colored floor as Beowulf wrestled with Grendel.

“The Scop had seized his harp and was playing a great battle-song, but music has no power over such evil as Grendel’s. Beowulf himself, who was struggling to break the bone-house of the monster, in the din of the mighty battle, did not hear it either. And the song was lost in the noise and dust which rose together in Heorot.

“Even the warriors, who struck Grendel with their swords could not help Beowulf, for neither sword nor spear could injure the monster. Only the might of the hero, himself, could do aught.”

“What I want to know,” growled Douglas, “is why if the warriors had swords, Beowulf didn’t borrow one?”

“That can I not tell thee. But at last, with the strength of thirty men, Beowulf gripped the monster. And Grendel, with rent sinews and bleeding body, fled away to the ocean cave where he had lived. And there in the cave, with the sea blood-stained and boiling above him, he died, outlawed for evil.”

“Jiminy, I’m glad he got him I” piped Dicky.

“Wouldn’t it have been just awful,” sighed Mary, “if he hadn’t, for then he would have eaten them all in time!”

“Yea, little one, the monster would have devoured them all in time, — even unto the last one.”

They were silent, thinking of what Master Geoffrey had told them and listening to the coming and going of the passing feet on the cobbles outside. Even Douglas was still and for once did not brag of what he would have done, for he knew very well that big as his hands were they were not strong enough to tear off the claw of such a monster.

At last Belle who had a turn for reflection broke the stillness. “And then, sir, I suppose they all lived happily ever afterwards?”

“Nay, little mistress, in life ’tis not often thus, and they say that this tale which our ancestors brought from the northern coast did not end happily. Beowulf, the hero, went back to his own land and lived there as a king, great and brave. But a huge old dragon who was guarding a treasure was robbed. So angry was the dragon that he left his heap of treasure and came down upon the land of King Beowulf, burning it and terrifying the people. Then Beowulf, who by this time had become an old man, felt that he must fight to save his people. He went out and slew the dragon, but was himself scorched to death by the fiery breath of the dragon.”

“And he really died!” said little Dicky, trying to sniff back some tears.

“Course he did, you little goose!” answered Douglas.

“But, my children,” Paul heard Master Geoffrey say, “we should be thankful that behind us we have ancestors who, like the hero Beowulf, are brave.”

“That’s what Aunt Jan says,” said Ferris.

“Many and brave are the heroes to which the English people have fallen heir. There is the Song of Roland which William the Conqueror brought over when he«came to conquer England.”

“That,” said Ferris proudly, “was in the year 1066, — almost a thousand years ago.”

“What is that?” exclaimed Master Geoffrey, startled. “Thou dost mean a hundred years instead of a thousand. Before the soldiers of that William, the minstrel, Taillefer, rode singing of Charlemagne, and of Roland, and of Oliver, and the vassals who fell at Roncevaux.”

“And were they killed ?” asked Mary.

“Aye, little one, they died fighting. Beowulf was the battle song of the Anglo-Saxons, The Song of Roland that of the Normans. Melancholy was the poem of Beowulf . White and clear, stirring and flashing in the sunshine was the Song of Roland, even as Roland’s beloved sword Durendal.”

Paul saw Master Geoffrey get up, go to the dusky window and look out.

“Where is thy Aunt Jan?” he asked. “Is she below in the street waiting for thee?”

The children looked rather frightened. Paul answered that they did not know where Aunt Jan was or how they themselves had got here. Paul saw Master Geoffrey staring at him with big round eyes and he felt as if his own eyes must be as large as those looking at him. Below in the streets they could hear doors closing as if people were going to bed and voices calling good-night to and fro and some one farther away chanting strange words of which Paul could hear distinctly:

“Dark is the land

Where they dwell: windy nesses, and holds of the wolf:

The wild path of the fen where the stream of the wood Through the fog of the sea-cliffs falls downward in flood.”

He felt as if he were hearing something he had learned in school. But then he heard the voice of Master Geoffrey speaking as if he were puzzled, and Paul knew he was somehow very far away from school and everything he had ever known.

“Well then, my children, who brought thee here if not this she-chronicler Aunt Jan of whom ye speak?”

Eleanor, as usual, was sound asleep already. But Belle, in whose lap the little sister’s head lay, looked much troubled. Ferris who was given to crying for his Auntie, wiped away some tears with the back of his hand.

“Nobody brought us here, Master Geofrey,” said Paul, “and we do not know how we got here.”

“Time, another trick of time,” muttered Geoffrey. “Green were those children from the wool pits and at every point of their body. But it was harvest time and this is spring.”