Mr. Strong’nth’arm lay ill. It was just his luck. For weeks he had been kicking his heels about the workshop, cursing Fate for not sending him a job. And Fate—the incorrigible1 joker that she is—had knocked at his door ten days ago with an order that he reckoned would keep him going for a month, and then a week later had struck him down with pleurisy. They told him that if he kept quiet and didn’t rave2 and fling his arms about, sending the bedclothes half a dozen times a day on to the floor, he would soon get well. But what was the good of everybody talking? What was to become of them? This job, satisfactorily completed and sent home, would have led to others—would have started him on his feet again. Now it would be taken away from him and sent elsewhere to be finished. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm made pilgrimages to the great house, returning with hot-house grapes. Mrs. Newt came with a basket. Both she and her husband would like to have done more; but times were bad. Even believers were in difficulty. Mrs. Newt suggested resignation.
It was the fourth morning after Mr. Strong’nth’arm’s seizure3, Anthony, putting on for warmth his father’s overcoat, had crept down in the faint dawn to light the kitchen fire, his mother being busy in the bedroom. He had just succeeded, and a little blaze leapt up and threw fantastic shadows on the whitewashed4 walls. Looking round, he saw the shape of a squat5 hobgoblin with a tiny head. He moved his arms, and immediately the hobgoblin responded with a gigantic gesture of delight. From the fireplace, now behind him, there came a cheerful crackling sound; it was just the noise that a merry old witch would make when laughing. The child, holding high the skirts of his long coat, began to dance; and the hobgoblin’s legs were going like mad. Suddenly the door opened and there stood the oddest of figures. He was short and bowlegged and had a big beard. He wore a peaked cap, and over his shoulder he carried a bundle hooked on to a stick. Without a doubt ’twas the King of the Gnomes6. He flung down his bundle and stretched out his hands. The child ran towards him. Lord how he danced! His little bow legs moved like lightning and his arms were so strong he could toss little Anthony up with one hand and catch him again with the other. The little bright flame stretched up higher and higher[Pg 31] as if the better to see the fun. The merry old witch laughed louder. And the shadows on the wall got so excited that they tumbled down flat on the ceiling.
His mother called from above to know if the kettle was boiling; and at that the little flame turned pale and disappeared. The merry old witch was as quiet as a mouse. The shadows ran up the chimney and the light came in at the door.
Anthony didn’t answer his mother. He was rubbing his eyes. He thought he must still be in bed. It was the King of the Gnomes that called up the stairs to say that the kettle would be boiling in five minutes. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, hearing a strange voice, came down as she was. She found her son Anthony distraught and still rubbing his eyes. The King of the Gnomes was pushing carefully selected pieces of wood through the bars of the grate and blowing them with his mouth. He held one of his enormous hands in front of his golden beard to save it from being singed7. He knew Mrs. Strong’nth’arm quite well and shook hands with her. She looked at him as if she had seen him before—somewhere, some time, or else had heard him described; she wasn’t sure which. She seemed to be glad to see him without knowing why. At first she was a bit afraid of him. But that was all gone [Pg 32]before the tea was ready. Anthony watched his mother with astonishment8. She was one of those bustling9, restless women, constitutionally unable to keep still for a minute. Something had bewitched her. She stood with her hands folded and wasn’t even talking. She might have been a visitor. It was the King of the Gnomes that made the tea and cut the bread and butter. He seemed to know where everything was. The fire was burning brightly. As a rule it was the devil to get going. This morning it had met its master. He passed Mrs. Strong’nth’arm and went upstairs with the tray and still as if in a dream she followed him.
Anthony crept to the bottom of the stairs and listened. The King of the Gnomes was talking to his father. He had a tremendously deep voice. Just the voice one would expect from a gentleman who lived always underground. Anthony could feel the vibrations10 of it underneath12 his feet. Compared with it, the voices of his father and his mother sounded like the chorus of the little terriers when old Simon was giving tongue.
And suddenly there happened a great wonder. His mother laughed. Never before that he could remember had he heard his mother laugh. Feeling that strange things were in the wind, he crept[Pg 33] out into the yard and washed himself under the pump.
Three weeks the King of the Gnomes dwelt with them. Every morning he and Anthony would go into the workshop. The furnace would be still aglow13 with the embers of the night before. Of course the King of the Gnomes would be at home with a forge and an anvil14. But even so, Anthony would marvel15 at his dexterity16 and strength. The great sinewy17 hands, that to save time or to make a neater finish would often bend the metal to its shape without the help of other tools, could coax18 to their place the smallest screws, fix to a hair’s breadth the most delicate adjustments. Of course he never let on that he was the King of the Gnomes. Only the child knew that; and a warning hairy finger, or a wink19 of his laughing blue eye would caution Anthony not to give away the secret when third parties were around.
He never went out. When not in the workshop he was busy about the house. Of course, when you come to think of it, there are no lady gnomes, so that accounted for his being equally apt at woman’s work. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm had little else to do but to nurse her husband; and even at that he would take his turn when she went marketing20; and of evenings, while talking, he would help[Pg 34] her with her darning. There seemed to be nothing those great hands could not do.
Nobody knew of his coming. His mother had taken Anthony aside on the first morning and had impressed upon him that he was not to say a word. But he would not, even if she had not told him; for if you did the King of the Gnomes at once vanished underground. It was not till days after he was gone that Mrs. Strong’nth’arm mentioned his visit, and then only to Mrs. Plumberry under oath of secrecy21.
Mrs. Plumberry, being so often where there was sorrow, had met him once herself. Wandering Peter the country folk called him. Mrs. Plumberry marvelled22 at his having visited the Strong’nth’arms. It was rarely that he came into towns. He must have heard of their trouble. He had ways of his own of finding out where he was wanted. At lambing time, when the snow lay deep upon the hills, they had learnt to listen for his cheery whistling drawing nearer through the darkness. He might have been a shepherd all his life. He would take the writhing23 ewes in his two big hands, and at his touch they would cease their groaning24. And when in some lonely cottage man or child lay sick, and there was none to help, the good wife would remember stories she had heard and, slipping out[Pg 35] beyond the hedge, would peer with straining eyes into the night. And for sure and certain—so the legend ran—there would come to her the sound of footsteps through the heather and Wandering Peter would emerge out of the shadows and would greet her. There he would stay till there was no longer need of him, doctoring and nursing, or taking the good man’s place at the plough. He would take no wage beyond his food and lodging25. At his departure he would ask for a day’s rations11 to put into his bundle, and from those who might have it to spare an old coat or a pair of boots not altogether past the mending.
Where he had his dwelling26 none knew, but lost folk upon the moors27, when overtaken by the darkness, would call to him; and then, so it was said, he would suddenly appear and put them on their way. They told of an old curmudgeon28 who, but for a snarling29 cur as savage30 as himself, lived alone in a shanty31 among the rocks. A venomous, blasphemous32 old scoundrel. The country people feared and hated him. They said he had the evil eye, and when a cow died in the calfing or a sow ate her young, the curses would be deep and bitter against old Michael—old Nick, as they termed him—of the quarry33.
One night, poaching, old Michael stumbled and[Pg 36] fell to the bottom of a rocky chasm34. He lay there with a broken leg and the blood flowing from a wound in his head. His cries came back to him from the rocks, and his only hope was in his dog. It had gone to seek help he knew, for they cared for one another in their snarling way, these two. But what could the brute35 do? His dog was known and hated as far as Mike himself. It would be stoned from every door. None would follow it to rescue him. He cursed it for a fool and his eyes closed.
When he opened them Wandering Peter was lifting him up in his strong arms. The dog had not wasted his voice upon the neighbours. No cottage or farm had been wakened by his barking. It was Wandering Peter he had sought.
There was a girl who had “got herself into trouble,” as the saying is, and had been turned out of her place. Not knowing where else to go she had returned home, though she guessed her greeting would be cruel, for her father was a hard, stern man and had always been proud of his good name. She had climbed slowly the long road across the wolds, and the short winter’s day was fading when she reached the farm. As she feared, he had slammed the door in her face, and creeping away, she had lain down in the woods thinking to die.
[Pg 37]
Her father had watched her from the house. Through the night he had struggled with himself, and towards morning had lighted the lantern and gone in search of her. But she had disappeared.
It was a strange story that she told when, weeks later, she reappeared with her child at her breast. She said that Christ had come to her. He had golden hair and a golden beard, but she knew him to be Christ because of his kind eyes. He had lifted her up as though she had been a child; and, warm against his breast, he had carried her through the night till they came to a dwelling place among rocks. There he had laid her down upon a bed of soft dry moss36, and there the child had been born, Christ tending her with hands so gentle she had felt no pain. She did not know that she had been there for over a month. To her it had seemed but a little time. All she could tell was that she had been very happy and had wanted for nothing and that he had told her “beautiful things.” One day he told her that all was well now with her and the child and that her father longed for her. And that night he had carried her and the child in his arms; and in the morning they came to the edge of the wood from where she could see the farm. And there Christ had blessed her and the child and left[Pg 38] her. And her father had come across the fields to meet her.
They explained to her it was not Christ who had found her. It must have been Wandering Peter. But she never believed them. Later, when Anthony had grown into boyhood, he met her one day on the moors. Her son had gone abroad and for many years he had not written. But she was sure that it was well with him. A white-haired, sweet-faced woman. Not quite “all there” in many ways, it was hinted, and yet with a gift for teaching. She had her daily round among the far-off cottages and scattered37 hamlets. The children looked forward to her coming. She told them wonderful stories, so they said.
She must have learnt the trick from Wandering Peter, Anthony thought. He remembered how, seated cross-legged upon the bench, he had listened while Peter, when not hammering or filing, had poured forth38 his endless stories of birds and beasts, of little creeping things and their strange ways, of the life of the deep waters, of far-off lands and other worlds, of the brave things and the sad things that happened long ago. It was from Peter that Anthony first heard the story of Saint Aldys.
Once upon a time, where Millsborough stands today were woods and pleasant pastures. The[Pg 39] winding39 Wyndbeck, now flowing black and sluggish40 through long dark echoing tunnels past slimy walls and wharves41, was then a silvery stream splashing and foaming42 among tree-crowned rocks and mossy boulders43. Where now tall chimneys belch44 their smoke and the slag45 stands piled in endless heaps around the filthy46 pits, sheep browsed47 and cattle grazed and little piebald pigs nuzzled for truffles in the soft sweet-smelling earth. The valley of the Wyndbeck then would have been a fair place to dwell in but for evil greedy men who preyed48 upon the people, driving off their cattle and stealing their crops, making sport of their tears and prayers. And of all the wicked men who harassed49 and oppressed them none were so cruel and grasping as Aldys of the yellow beard—the Red Badger50 they called him.
One day the Badger was returning from a foray, and beside him, on an old gaunt pony51, secured by a stirrup-leather to the Badger’s saddle-girth, rode a little lad. A trooper had found the boy wandering among the blackened ruins, and the Badger, attracted by the lad’s beauty, had taken him to be his page.
The Badger rode, singing, pleased with his day’s work; and there crept up a white mist from the sea. He did not notice for a time that he and the lad[Pg 40] were riding alone. Then, drawing rein52, he blew a long loud blast upon his horn. But there came no answer.
The lad was looking at him with strange eyes; and Red Aldys, seized he knew not why by a sudden frenzy53 of hate, drew his sword and struck at the little lad with all his strength.
And the sword broke in his hand; and those strange gentle eyes still looked upon Red Aldys. And around the little lad there shone a great light.
And fear fell upon Red Aldys of the yellow beard, and flinging himself upon the ground, he cried in a loud voice: “Christ have mercy upon me a sinner.”
And the child Christ laid His hands upon Red Aldys and spoke54 words of comfort to him and commanded him that he should follow Him and serve Him.
And on the spot where Christ had laid His hands upon him Aldys made for himself a dwelling-place among the rocks beside the winding Wyndbeck. And there for many years he laboured to bring peace and healing to the poor folk of the valley, learning their needs that he might help them. And the fame of him spread far and wide, and many came to him to ask his blessing55, repenting56 of their[Pg 41] evil lives. And he went about among the people teaching the love of the Lord Jesus.
Little Anthony had often passed the great church of St. Aldys just beyond the market square, an imposing57 building of grey stone with a spire58 one hundred and eighty feet high. They say that, forming part of its foundations, are the very rocks among which once Saint Aldys dwelt, on the spot where Christ had appeared to him and had forgiven him his sins.
Having heard the story, he felt a longing59 to see the inside of it, and one afternoon, instead of going to his uncle’s, he wandered there. It was surrounded by iron railings and the great iron gates were padlocked. But in a corner, behind a massive buttress60, he found a little door that opened. It led into a stone passage and down some steps into a vaulted61 room where he fell over a chair, and a bat flew out and fluttered silently until it disappeared into the shadows. But he found the church at last. It was vast and high and very, very cold, and only a faint chill light came in through the screened windows. The silence frightened him. He had forgotten to make a note of the way by which he had entered, and all the doors that he tried were securely fastened. A terror seized him[Pg 42] that he would never be able to get out. It seemed to him that he was in a grave.
By luck he blundered back into the little vaulted chamber62, and from there groped his way out. He closed the door behind him with a bang. He had a feeling that something was following him and might drag him back. He ran all the way home.
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1
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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2
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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3
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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4
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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6
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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7
singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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8
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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9
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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10
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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11
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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12
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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13
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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14
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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15
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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16
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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17
sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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18
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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19
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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20
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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21
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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22
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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24
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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25
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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26
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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27
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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28
curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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29
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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30
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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31
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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32
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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33
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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34
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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35
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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36
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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37
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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40
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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41
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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42
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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43
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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44
belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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45
slag
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| n.熔渣，铁屑，矿渣；v.使变成熔渣，变熔渣 | |
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46
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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47
browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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48
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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49
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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51
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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52
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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53
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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56
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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57
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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58
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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59
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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60
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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61
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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62
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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