III
The Old Woman and Her Hen
In the morning, however, his courage had returned; for the word Carasoyn was always saying itself in his brain.
“People in fairy stories,” he said, “always find what they want. Why should not I find this Carasoyn? It does not seem likely. But the world doesn’t go round by likely. So I will try.”
But how was he to begin?
When Colin did not know what to do, he always did something. So as soon as his father was gone to the hill, he wandered up the stream down which the fairies had come.
“But I needn’t go on so,” he said, “for if the Carasoyn grew in the fairies’ country, the queen would know how to get it.”
All at once he remembered how he had lost himself on the moor when he was a little boy; and had gone into a hut and found there an old woman spinning. And she had told him such stories! and shown him the way home. So he thought she might be able to help him now; for he remembered that she was very old then, and must be older and still wiser now. And he resolved to go and look for the hut, and ask the old woman what he was to do.
So he left the stream, and climbed the hill, and soon came upon a desolate moor. The sun was clouded and the wind was cold, and everything looked dreary. And there was no sign of a hut anywhere. He wandered on, looking for it; and all at once found that he had forgotten the way back. At the same instant he saw the hut right before him. And then he remembered it was when he had lost himself that he saw it the former time.
“It seems the way to find some things is to lose yourself,” said he to himself.
He went up to the cottage, which was like a large beehive built of turf, and knocked at the door.
“Come in, Colin,” said a voice; and he entered, stooping low.
The old woman sat by a little fire, spinning, after the old fashion, with a distaff and spindle. She stopped the moment he went in.
“Come and sit down by the fire,” she said, “and tell me what you want.”
Then Colin saw that she had no eyes.
“I am very sorry you are blind,” he said.
“Never you mind that, my dear. I see more than you do for all my blindness. Tell me what you want, and I shall see at least what I can do for you.”
“How do you know I want anything,” asked Colin.
“Now that’s what I don’t like,” said the old woman “Why do you waste words? Words should not be wasted any more than crumbs.”
“I beg your pardon,” returned Colin. “I will tell you all about it.”
And so he told her the whole story.
“Oh those children! those children!” said the old woman. “They are always doing some mischief. They never know how to enjoy themselves without hurting somebody or other. I really must give that queen a bit of my mind. Well, my dear, I like you; and I will tell you what must be done. You shall carry the silly queen her bottle of Carasoyn. But she won’t like it when she gets it, I can tell her. That’s my business, however.—First of all, Colin, you must dream three days without sleeping. Next, you must work three days without dreaming. And last, you must work and dream three days together.”
“How am I to do all that?”
“I will help you all I can, but a great deal will depend on yourself. In the meantime you must have something to eat.”
So saying, she rose, and going to a corner behind her bed, returned with a large golden-coloured egg in her hand. This she laid on the hearth, and covered over with hot ashes. She then chatted away to Colin about his father, and the sheep, and the cow, and the housework, and showed that she knew all about him. At length she drew the ashes off the egg, and put it on the plate.
“It shines like silver now,” said Colin.
“That is a sign it is quite done,” said she, and set it before him.
Colin had never tasted anything half so nice. And he had never seen such a quantity of meat in an egg. Before he had finished it he had made a hearty meal. But, in the meantime, the old woman said—
“Shall I tell you a story while you have your dinner?”
“Oh, yes, please do,” answered Colin. “You told me such stories before!”
“Jenny,” said the old woman, “my wool is all done. Get me some more.”
And from behind the bed out came a sober-coloured, but large and beautifully-shaped hen. She walked sedately across the floor, putting down her feet daintily, like a prim matron as she was, and stopping by the door, gave a cluck, cluck.
“Oh, the door is shut, is it?” said the old woman.
“Let me open it,” said Colin.
“Do, my dear.”
“What are all those white things?” he asked, for the cottage stood in the middle of a great bed of grass with white tops.
“Those are my sheep,” said the old woman. “You will see.”
Into the grass Jenny walked, and stretching up her neck, gathered the white woolly stuff in her beak. When she had as much as she could hold, she came back and dropped it on the floor; then picked the seeds out and swallowed them, and went back for more. The old woman took the wool, and fastening it on her distaff, began to spin, giving the spindle a twirl, and then dropping it and drawing out the thread from the distaff. But as soon as the spindle began to twirl, it began to sparkle all the colours of the rainbow, that it was a delight to see. And the hands of the woman, instead of being old and wrinkled, were young and long-fingered and fair, and they drew out the wool, and the spindle spun and flashed, and the hen kept going out and in, bringing wool and swallowing the seeds, and the old woman kept telling Colin one story after another, till he thought he could sit there all his life and listen. Sometimes it seemed the spindle that was flashing them, sometimes the long fingers that were spinning them, and sometimes the hen that was gathering them off the roads of the long dry grass and bringing them in her beak and laying them down on the floor.
All at once the spindle grew slower, and gradually ceased turning; the fingers stopped drawing out the thread, the hen retreated behind the bed, and the voice of the blind woman was silent.
“I suppose it is time for me to go,” said Colin.
“Yes, it is,” answered his hostess.
“Please tell me, then, how I am to dream three days without sleeping.”
“That’s over,” said the old woman. “You’ve just finished that part. I told you I would help you all I could.”
“Have I been here three days, then?” asked Colin in astonishment.
“And nights too. And I and Jenny and the spindle are quite tired and want to sleep. Jenny has got three eggs to lay besides. Make haste, my boy.”
“Please, then, tell me what I am to do next.”
“Jenny will put you in the way. When you come where you are going, you will tell them that the old woman with the spindle desires them to lift Cumberbone Crag a yard higher, and to send a flue under Stonestarvit Moss. Jenny, show Colin the way.”
Jenny came out with a surly cluck and led him a good way across the heath by a path only a hen could have found. But she turned suddenly and walked home again.