it was the chill that woke the boy, or in his heart the knowledge that a presence was gone. For he suddenly jerked awake, and with wide eyes looked into the dim room, where dawn was already striking at the windows. He stared, leaped to his feet, and rushed to the hearth.
“Master!” he cried. “Thou art gone. I slept. I did not watch by thee!” And he bent his head upon his knees, and wept. But then his sobs suddenly ceased. He raised his head and took his hands from his eyes and looked around.
“But I see!” he gasped. “I see!” He seized the crust of bread left upon the trencher and the crumbs of cheese. “Look, where he ate!” And he felt the fur robe with wondering fingers. “And see where he has lain.” Then he saw the staff. “And this, this he leaned upon.” He leaped up then, holding the old staff, and ran to the chest in the corner. “And these are his shoes, and this his cloak. Here are the rents I felt last night…but now I see…I see!” He stood dumbstruck, panting, and stared around the room, the tears upon his cheeks. “But oh where, where has he gone?” Then he rushed to the door and flung it wide and looked out upon the world. He stood thus, clutching the frame, while the blue and rose and gold of the first dawn grew and blossomed in the east.
“Hast lost thy wits, stupid boy!” thundered his father, in the dark, cold room behind him. “Shut the door! Put wood upon the fire and hasten. This day ye know full well the draper and all his clan feasts here. ’Tis Christmas and more to do than we have hands to manage. Shut the door, thou fool!” He pulled the boy back and slammed the door to in a fury. “Now the room is icy. We must start the fire afresh before we set up the trestles and lay the cloth. Look lively! Nay, I wonder at thee.”
He went to the bin behind the settle and brought out a log, lugging it to the hearth. In the shadows he stumbled over the fur rug and with a tinkle of glass the bottle of mead toppled over and smashed. The innkeeper dropped the log and stared about him in dismay, and with an oath turned to face his son. The boy stood staring at him with wide, dark eyes, his face stricken.
“Is this the way ye served that beggar last night? Mead!” He nudged the trencher with his foot. “White bread! The best robe! Are ye bewitched, crazed?”
The boy stood, wordless. Then the father went up and seized him by the shoulder. “Fool, blind fool,” he shouted into his face. “Without sight and without wit also. What have I done to deserve such misfortune!” He gave him a shove, then, in a calmer voice – “Fetch kindling from the bin and stir the fire. And don’t cut thy stupid knees on that glass. I’ll get the broom to sweep it up. The next stranger that comes I’ll deal with myself, and give him short shrift!” And he went out muttering into the kitchen.
The boy looked after him, his face pale, the tears welling out of his eyes. For a long moment he stood, trembling, the silence of the empty room pounding in his ears. He raised his hands and pressed them over his eyes, and whispered: “Oh, Master, who has given me sight, now I must serve thee, and follow thee, even to the ends of the earth. But where, where has he gone?”
Then he lifted his head, listening. Words came back to him, spoken half in disbelief, yet with a core of truth. “La-
Croche,” he whispered. “Terminaison…perhaps there. At
least I would find others who have seen him also, and believed.”
He went across the room. With sure and steady hand he took the stranger’s shoes and put them on his own feet. He flung the man’s cloak across his shoulders, and he held the old staff in his hands. Then without a backward glance he strode to the door, opened it, and disappeared into the morning, and the door swung shut behind him.
THE MASTER
He who has come to men
dwells where we cannot tell
nor sight reveal him,
until the hour has struck
when the small heart does break
with hunger for him;
those who do merit least,
those whom no tongue does praise
the first to know him,
and on the face of the earth
the poorest village street
blossoming for him.
j.t.c.
The King
of the Land in
the Middle
ONCE UPON A TIME, not so long ago but that the dragons had already become legendary and the last unicorn had vanished into the forests, and one could no longer go into the world to seek one’s fortune with some likelihood of finding it, there was a king of a certain kingdom. Now this kingdom was neither north nor south, east nor west, but more or less in the middle of things. And this king was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, thin nor stout, wise nor foolish, wicked nor good, but just about middling in all of these qualities. He had about the ordinary amount of courage, humor, agility, intelligence, greed, unselfishness, and anything else one might think of.
Now this was a period in the childhood of the world when the time of fairy tales was drawing imperceptibly to a close. If we are living in a time of change we seldom know it – unless we are extraordinarily wise and gifted, as this king was not. It is only later, when the path already trod is all laid out behind us, that the historians look back and nod their heads sagely, and set names to this stretch or that. When this king lived, the kind of magic the fairy tales tell us of had all but faded away – no touch of a wand could transform a loathsome frog into a handsome prince, no secret chant open an unknown cave in a mountainside where treasure gleamed. What spells there were, were of a more subtle nature, and treasure could go unrecognized.
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