AND BEYOND

What happened beyond the primrose ring is, perhaps, rather a crazy-quilt affair, having to be patched out of the squares and three-cornered bits of Fancy which the children remembered to bring back with them.  I have tried to piece them together into a fairly substantial pattern; but, of course, it can be easily ripped out and raveled into nothing.  So I beg of you, on the children’s account, to handle it gently, for they believe implicitly in the durability of the fabric.

Sandy remembered the beginning of it the plunge straight across the primrose ring into the River of Make-Believe; and how they paddled over like puppies one after another.  It was perfectly safe to swim, even if you had never swum before; and the only danger was for those who might stop in the middle of the river and say, or think, “A dinna believe i’ faeries.”  Whoever should do this would sink like a stone, going down, down, down until he struck his bed with a thud and woke, crying.

It was starlight in Tir-na-n’Og just as Bridget had said it would be only the stars were far bigger and brighter.  The children stood on the white, pebbly beach and shook themselves dry; while Bridget showed them how to pull down their nightshirts to keep them from shrinking, and how to wring out their faery caps to keep the wishes from growing musty or mildewed.  After that they met the faery ferryman, who according to Sandy “wore a wee kiltie o’ reeds, an’ a tammie made frae a loch-lily pad wi’ a cat-o’-nine-tail tossel, lukin’ sae ilk the brae ye wad niver ken he was a mon glen ye dinna see his legs, walkin’.”  He told them how he ferried over all the “old bodies” who had grown feeble-hearted and were too afraid to swim.

It was Pancho who remembered best about the leprechaun how they found him sitting cross-legged under the blackthorn-bush with a leather apron spread over his knees, and how he had called out just as Bridget had said he would: 

“Hello, Pancho and Susan and Sandy and all!”

“Have you any shoes got?” Pancho shouted.

The faery cobbler nodded and pointed with his awl to the branches above his head; there hung nine pairs of little green shoes, curled at the toes, with silver buckles, all stitched and soled and ready to wear.

“Will they fit?” asked Pancho, breathlessly.

“Faery shoes always fit.  Now reach them down and hand them round.”

This Pancho did with despatch.  Nine pairs of little white feet were thrust joyously into the green shoes and buckled in tight.  On looking back, Pancho was quite sure that this was the happiest moment of his life.  The children squealed and clapped their hands and cried: 

“They fit fine!”

“Shoes is grand to wear!”

“I feel skippy.”

“I feel dancy.”

Whereupon they all jumped to their feet and with arms wide-spread, hand clasping hand, they ringed about the cobbler and the thorn-bush.  They danced until there was not a scrap of breath left in their bodies; then they tumbled over and rolled about like a nest of young puppies, while the cobbler laughed and laughed until he held his sides with the aching.

It was here that everybody remembered about the faery penny; in fact, that was the one thing remembered by all.  And this is hardly strange; if you or I ever possessed a faery penny even in the confines of a primrose ring we should never forget it.

It was Bridget, however, who reminded the leprechaun.  “Ye haven’t by any chance forgotten somethin’ ye’d like to be rememberin’, have ye?” she asked, diplomatically.

“I don’t know,” and the cobbler pulled his thinking-lock.  “What might it be?”

“Sure, it might be a faery penny,” and Bridget eyed him anxiously.

The cobbler slapped his apron and laughed again.  “To be sure it might and I came near forgetting it.”

He reached, over and pulled up a tuft of sod at his side; for all one could have told, it might have been growing there, neighbor to all the other sods.  Underneath was a dark little hole in the ground; and out of this he brought a brown earthen crock.

“The crock o’ gold!” everybody whispered, awesomely.

“Aye, the crock o’ gold,” agreed the cobbler.  “But I keep it hidden, for there is naught that can make more throuble sometimes.”  He raised the lid and took out a single shining piece.  “Will one do ye?”

Nine heads nodded eloquently, while nine hands were stretched out eagerly to take it.

“Bide a bit.  Ye can’t all be carrying it at the one time.  I think ye had best choose a treasurer.”

Bridget was elected unanimously.  She took the penny and deposited it in the heel of her faery shoe.

“Mind,” said the leprechaun as they were turning to go, “ye mind a faery penny will buy but the one thing.  See to it that ye are all agreed on the same thing.”

The children chorused an assent and skipped merrily away.  And here is where Peter’s patch joins Pancho’s.

They had not gone far over the silvery-green meadow three shadow-lengths, perhaps when they saw something coming toward them.  It was coming as fast as half-legs could carry it; and it was wagging a long, stand-up tail.  Everybody guessed in an instant that it was Peter’s “black dorg wiv yeller spots.”

“Who der thunk it?  Who der thunk it?” shouted Peter, jumping up and down; and then he knelt on the grass, his arms flung wide open, while he called:  “Toby, Toby!  Here’s me!”

Of course Toby knew Peter that goes without saying.  He barked and wagged his tail and licked Peter’s face; in fact, he did every dog-thing Peter had longed for since Peter’s mind had first fashioned him.

“Well,” and Bridget put both arms akimbo and smiled a smile of complete satisfaction, “what was I a-tellin’ ye, anyways?  Faith, don’t it beat all how things come thrue when ye think ’em pleasant an’ hard enough?”

Peter remembered the wonderful way their feet skimmed over the ground “’most like flyin’.”  Not a blade of grass bent under their weight, not a grain of sand was dislodged; and more marvelous than all there was no tiredness, no aching of joint or muscle.  All of which was bound to happen when feet were shod with faery shoes.

“See me walk!” cried some one.

“See me run!” cried some one else.

“See me hop and jump!”

And Bridget added, “Faith, ‘tis as easy as lyin’ in bed.”

They were no longer alone; hosts of Little People passed them, going in the same direction.  Peter said most of them rode “straddle-legs” on night birds or moths, while some flew along on a funny thing that was horse before and weeds behind.  I judge this must have been the buchailin buidhe or benweed, which the faeries bewitch and ride the same as a witch mounts her broomstick.

And everybody who passed always called out in the friendliest way, “Hello, Peter!” or “Hello, Bridget!” or “The luck rise with ye!” which is the most common of all greetings in Tir-na-n’Og.

“Gee!” was Peter’s habitual comment after the telling, “maybe it wasn’t swell havin’ ’em know us names an’ all.  Betcher life we wasn’t cases to them no, siree!”

It was Susan who remembered best how everything looked Susan, who had never been to the country in all her starved little life that is, if one excepts the times Margaret MacLean had taken her on the Ward C “special.”  She told so well how all the trees and flowers were fashioned that it was an easy matter putting names to them.

In the center of Tir-na-n’Og towered a great hill; but instead of its being capped with peak or rocks it was gently hollowed at the top, as though in the beginning, when it was thrown up molten from the depths of somewhere, a giant thumb had pressed it down and smoothed it round and even.  All about the brim of it grew hawthorns and rowans and hazel-trees.  In the grass, everywhere, were thousands and millions of primroses, heart’s-ease, and morning-glories; all crowded together, so Susan said, like the patterns on the Persian carpet in the board-room.  It was all so beautiful and faeryish and heart-desired that “yer’d have said it wasn’t real if yer hadn’t ha’ knowed it was.”

The children stood on the brink of the giant hollow and clapped their hands for the very joy of seeing it all; and there a little man stepped up to them and doffed his cap.  The queen wanted them she was waiting for them by the throne that very minute; and the little man was to bring them to her.

Now that throne according to Susan was nothing like the thrones one finds in stories or Journeys through palaces to see.  It was not cold, hard, or forbidding; instead, it was as soft and green and pillowy as an inflated golf-bunker might be, and just high and comfortable enough for the baby faeries to discover it and go to sleep there whenever they felt tired.  The throne was full of them when the children looked, and some one was tumbling them off like so many kittens.

“That is the queen,” said the little man, pointing.

The children stood on tiptoes and craned their necks the better to see; but it was not until they had come quite close that they saw that her dress was gray, and her hair was gray, and she was small, and her face was like

“Bless me if it ain’t!” shouted Susan in amazement.  “It’s Sandy’s wee creepity woman!”

The queen smiled when she saw them.  She reached out her hands and patted theirs in turn, asking, “Now what is your name, dearie?”

“Are ye sure ye’re the queen?” gasped Bridget.

“Maybe I am and maybe I’m not,” was the answer.

“Then ye been’t the wee gray woman back yonder?” asked Sandy.

“Maybe I’m not and maybe I am.”  And then she laughed.  “Dear children, it doesn’t matter in the least who I am.  I look a hundred different ways to a hundred different people.  Now let me see I think you wanted some clothes.”

A long, rapturous sigh was the only answer.  It lasted while the queen got down on her knees just like an every-day, ordinary person and pulled from under the throne a great carved chest.  She threw open the lid wide; and there, heaped to the top and spilling over, were dresses and mantles and coats and trousers and caps.  They were all lengths, sizes, and fashions just what you most wanted after you had been in bed for years and never worn anything but a hospital shirt; and everything was made of cloth o’ dreams and embroidered with pearls from the River of Make-Believe.

“You can choose whatever you like, dearies,” said the queen.  And that according to Susan was the best of all.

Next came the dancing; the Apostles remembered about that co-operatively.  They had donned pants of pink and yellow, respectively, with shirts of royal purple and striked stockings, when the pipers began to play.  James said it sounded like soldiers marching; John was certain that it was more like a circus; but I am inclined to believe that they played “The Music of Glad Memories” and “What-is-Sure-to-Come-True,” for those are the two popular airs in Tir-na-n’Og.

Away and away must have danced pairs of little feet that had never danced before, and pairs of old feet that had long ago forgotten how; and millions of faery feet, for no one can dance half as joyously as when faeries dance with them.  And I have heard it said that the pipers there can play sadness into gladness, and tears into laughter, and old age young again; and that those who have ever danced to the music of faery pipes never really grow heavy-hearted again.

Needless to say, the Apostles danced together, and Peter danced with Toby; and it must have been the maddest, merriest dance, for they never told about it afterward without bursting into peal after peal of laughter.  Truth to tell, the Apostles’ patch of fancy ended right there all raveling out into smiles and squirms of delight.

Another memory of Sandy’s adjoins that of the Apostles’; and he told it with great precision and regard for the truth.

Ever since crossing the River of Make-Believe Sandy had been able to think of nothing but the story Bridget had told the very last thing in Ward C and ever since he had left the leprechaun’s bush behind he had been wondering and scheming how he could get rid of his hump.  He was the only person in Tir-na-n’Og that night who did not dance.  Unnoticed, he climbed into a corner of the throne among the sleeping baby faeries and there he thought hard.  As he listened to the pipers’ music he shook his head mournfully.

“A canna make music mair bonny nor that a canna,” he said; and he set about searching through the scraps of his memory for what music he did know.  There were the hymns they sang every Sunday at Saint Margaret’s; but he somewhat doubted their appropriateness here.  Then there were the songs his mother had sung to him home in Aberdeen.  Long ago the words had been forgotten; but often and often he had hummed the music of them over to himself when he was going to sleep it was good music for that.  One of the airs popped into his mind that very minute; it was a Jacobite song about “Charlie,” and he started to hum it softly.  Close on the humming came an idea a braw one; it made him sit up in the corner of the throne and clap his hands, while his toes wriggled exultantly inside his faery shoes.

“A can do’t a can!” He shouted it so loud that the baby faeries woke up and asked what he was going to do, and gathered about him to listen the better.

The pipers played until there were no more memories left and everything had come true; and the queen came back to her throne to find Sandy waiting, eager-eyed, for her.

“A have a bonny song made for ye.  Wull ye tak it frae me noo?”

“Take what?”

“The hump.  Ye tuk it frae the ither loonie gien he made ye some guid music; an’ a ha’ fetched ye mair here.”  And he tapped his head to signify that it was not written down.

“Is the song ready, now?”

Sandy nodded.

“Then turn about and sing it loud enough for all to hear; they must be the judges if the song is worth the price of a hump.”  And the queen smiled very tenderly.

Sandy did as he was bid; he clasped his hands tightly in front of him.  “’Tis no for the faeries,” he explained.  “Ye see they be hardly needin’ ony music, wi’ muckle o’ their ain.  ’Tis for the children the children i’ horspitals a bonny song for them to sleepit on.”  He marked the rhythm a moment with his foot, and hummed it through once to be sure he had it.  Then he broke out clearly into the old Jacobite air with words of his own making: 

  “Ye weave a bonny primrose ring;
    Ye hear the River callin’;
  Ye ken the Land whaur faeries sing
    Whaur starlicht beams are fallin’. 
  ’Tis there the pipers play things true;
    ’Tis there ye’ll gae my dearie
  The bonny Land ’at waits for you,
    Whaur ye’ll be nae mair weary.

  “A wee man by a blackthorn-tree
    Maun stitchit shoes for dancin’,
  An theres a pair for ye an me
    To set our feet a-prancin’. 
  ’Tis muckle gladness ’at ye’ll find
    In Tir-na-n’Og, my dearie;
  The bonny Land ’at’s aye sae kind,
    Whaur ye’ll be nae mair weary.

  “Ye’ll ken the birdeen’s blithie song,
    Ye’ll hark till flo’ers lauchen;
  An’ see the faeries trippit long
    By brook an’ brae an’ bracken. 
  Sae doon your heid an’ shut your een;
    Gien yed be away, my dearie
  An’ the bonny sauncy faery queen
    Wull keep ye nae mair weary.”

You may think it uncommonly strange that Sandy could make a song like this, by himself; but, you see, he was not entirely alone there were the baby faeries.  They helped a lot; as fast as ever he thought out the words they rhymed them for him this being a part of the A B C of faery education.

When the song was finished Sandy turned to the queen again.  “Aighe wull it do?”

“If the faeries like it, and think it good enough to send down to the children, they will have it all learned by heart and will sing it back to you in a minute.  Listen!  Can you hear anything?”

For a moment only the rustle of the trees could be heard.  Sandy strained his ears until he caught a low, sobbing sound coming through the hazel-leaves.

“’Tis but the wind greetin’,” he said, wistfully.

“Listen again!”

The sound grew, breaking into a cadence and a counter-cadence, and thence into a harmony. “‘Tis verrà ilk the grand pipe-organ i’ the kirk, hame in Aberdeen.”

“Listen again!”

Mellow and sweet came the notes of the Jacobite air a bar of it; and then the faeries began to sing, sending the song back to Sandy like a belated echo: 

  “Ye weave a bonny primrose ring;
    Ye hear the River callin’;
  Ye ken the Land whaur faeries sing
    Whaur starlicht beams are fallin’.”

“For the love o’ Mike!” laughed Sandy.  “A’m unco glad a am.”  He dropped to his knees beside the queen and nestled his cheek in the hand that was resting in her lap. “’Tis aricht noo.”  And he sighed contentedly.

And it was.  The queen leaned over and lifted off the hump as easily as you might take the cover from a box.  Sandy stretched himself and yawned after the fashion of any one who has been sleeping a long time in a cramped position; and without being in the least conscious of it, he sidled up to the arm of the throne and rubbed his back up and down to test the perfect straightness of it.

“’Tis gone guid!  Wull it nae mair coom back?” And he eyed the queen gravely.

“Never to be burdensome, little lad.  Others may think they see it there, but for you the back will be straight and strong.”

Rosita came back empty-handed; she was so busy holding tight to Bridget’s hand and getting ready to be afraid that she forgot everything else.  As for Michael, he gave his patch into Bridget’s keeping; which brings us to what Bridget remembered.

From the moment that the penny had been given over to her she had been weighed down with a mighty responsibility.  The financier of any large syndicate is bound to feel harassed at times over the outcome of his investments; and Bridget felt personally accountable for the forthcoming happiness due the eight other stockholders in her company.  She was also mindful of what had happened in the past to other persons who had speculated heedlessly or unwisely with faery gifts.  There was the case of the fisherman and his wife, and the aged couple and their sausage, and the old soldier; on the other hand, there was the man from Letterkenny who had hoarded his gold and had it turn to dry leaves as a punishment.  She must neither keep nor spend foolishly.

“Sure I’ll think all round a thing twict afore I have my mind made to anythin’; then I’ll keep it made for a good bit afore I give over the penny.”

She repeated this advice while she considered all possible investments, but she found nothing to her liking.  The children made frequent suggestions, such as bagpipes and clothes-chests, and contrivances for feast-spreading and transportation; and Susan was strongly in favor of a baby faery to take back to Miss Peggie.  But to all of these Bridget shook an emphatic negative.

“Sure ye’d be tired o’ the lot afore ye’d gone half-way back.  Like as not we’ll never have another penny to spend as long as we live, an’ I’m goin’ to see that ye’ll all get somethin’ that will last.”

She was beginning to fear that theirs would be the fate of the man from Letterkenny, when she chanced upon Peter and Toby performing for the benefit of the pipers.

“Them trusters will never be lettin’ Pether take that dog back to the horspital,” she thought, mindful of the sign in Saint Margaret’s yard that dogs were not allowed.  “He’d have to be changin’ him back into a make-believe dog to get him in at all; an’ Pether’d never be satisfied wi’ him that way, now afther havin’ him real.”

Her trouble took her to the queen.  “Is there any way of buyin’ a dog into a horspital?” she asked, solemnly.

“I think it would be easier to buy a home to put him in.”

“Could ye could ye get one for the price of a penny?” Bridget considered her own question, and coupled it with something she remembered Sandy had been wishing for back in Ward C.  “Wait a minute; I’ll ask ye another.  Could ye be buyin’ a home for childher an’ dogs for the price of a penny?”

The queen nodded.

“Would it be big enough for nine childher an’ one dog; an’ would it be afther havin’ all improvements like Miss Peggie an’ the House Surgeon?”

Again the queen nodded.

Bridget lowered her voice.  “An’ could we put up a sign furninst, ’No Trusters Allowed’?”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Then,” said Bridget, with decision, “I’ve thought all round it twict an’ my mind’s been made to stay; we’ll buy a home.”

She made a hollow of her two hands and called, “Whist whist there, all o’ yez!  Pether an’ Pancho Michael Susan do ye hear!” And when she had them rounded up, she counted them twice to make sure they were all present.  “Now ye listen.”  Bridget raised a commanding finger to the circle about her while she exhibited the golden penny.  “Is there any one objectin’ to payin’ this down for a home?”

“What kind of a home?” asked Susan, shrewdly.

“Sure the kind ye live in same as other folks have that don’t live in horspitals or asylums.”

“Hurrah!” chorused everybody, and Bridget sighed with relief.

“Faith, spendin’ money’s terrible easy.”

She put the penny in the queen’s out-stretched hand.  “Do I get a piece o’ paper sayin’ I paid the money on it?” she demanded, remembering her responsibility.

This time the queen shook her head.  “No; I give you only my promise; but a promise made across a primrose ring is never broken.”

“And Toby?” Peter asked it anxiously.

“You must leave him behind.  You see, if you took him back over the River of Make-Believe he would have to turn back into a make-believe dog again; but I promise he shall be waiting in the home for you.”

The queen led them down the hill to the shore again; and there they found the ferry-man ready, waiting.  It is customary, I believe, for every one to be ferried home.  The river, that way, is treble as wide, and the sandman is always wandering up and down the brink, scattering his sand so that one is apt to get too drowsy to swim the whole distance.  The children piled into the boat all but Michael; he stood clinging fast to the queen’s gray dress.

“Don’t you want to go back?” she asked, gently.

“Nyet; the heart by me no longer to bump here,” and Michael pointed to the pit of his stomach.

“Aw, come on,” called Peter.

But Michael only shook his head and clung closer to the gray dress.

“All right, ferryman; he may stay,” said the queen.

“Good-by!” shouted the children.  “Don’t forget us, Michael.”

“Nyet; goo’-by,” Michael shouted back; and then he laughed.  “You tell Mi’ Peggie I say Go’ blees you!”

And this was Michael’s patch.

The ferryman stood in the stem and swung his great oar.  Slowly the boat moved, scrunching over the white pebbles, and slipped into the water.  The children saw Michael and the queen waving their hands until they had dwindled to shadow-specks in the distance; they watched the wake of starshine lengthen out behind them; they listened to the ripples lapping at the keel.  To and fro, to and fro, swayed the ferryman to the swing of his oar.  “Sleep sleep sleep,” sang the river, running with them.  Bridget stretched her arms about as many children as she could compass and held them close while eight pairs of eyes slowly slowly shut.