The Book of Wonder

  THE QUEST OF THE QUEEN'S TEARS

  Sylvia, Queen of the Woods, in her woodland palace, held court, andmade a mockery of her suitors. She would sing to them, she said, shewould give them banquets, she would tell them tales of legendary days,her jugglers should caper before them, her armies salute them, herfools crack jests with them and make whimsical quips, only she couldnot love them.

  This was not the way, they said, to treat princes in their splendourand mysterious troubadours concealing kingly names; it was not inaccordance with fable; myth had no precedent for it. She should havethrown her glove, they said, into some lion's den, she should haveasked for a score of venomous heads of the serpents of Licantara, ordemanded the death of any notable dragon, or sent them all upon somedeadly quest, but that she could not love them--! It was unheardof--it had no parallel in the annals of romance.

  And then she said that if they must needs have a quest she would offerher hand to him who first should move her to tears: and the questshould be called, for reference in histories or song, the Quest of theQueen's Tears, and he that achieved them she would wed, be he only apetty duke of lands unknown to romance.

  And many were moved to anger, for they hoped for some bloody quest;but the old lords chamberlain said, as they muttered among themselvesin a far, dark end of the chamber, that the quest was hard and wise,for that if she could ever weep she might also love. They had knownher all her childhood; she had never sighed. Many men had she seen,suitors and courtiers, and had never turned her head after one wentby. Her beauty was as still sunsets of bitter evenings when all theworld is frore, a wonder and a chill. She was as a sun-strickenmountain uplifted alone, all beautiful with ice, a desolate and lonelyradiance late at evening far up beyond the comfortable world, notquite to be companioned by the stars, the doom of the mountaineer.

  If she could weep, they said, she could love, they said.

  And she smiled pleasantly on those ardent princes, and troubadoursconcealing kingly names.

  Then one by one they told, each suitor prince the story of his love,with outstretched hands and kneeling on the knee; and very sorry andpitiful were the tales, so that often up in the galleries some maid ofthe palace wept. And very graciously she nodded her head like alistless magnolia in the deeps of the night moving idly to all thebreezes its glorious bloom.

  And when the princes had told their desperate loves and had departedaway with no other spoil than of their own tears only, even then therecame the unknown troubadours and told their tales in song, concealingtheir gracious names.

  And there was one, Ackronnion, clothed with rags, on which was thedust of roads, and underneath the rags was war-scarred armour whereonwere the dints of blows; and when he stroked his harp and sang his song,in the gallery above maidens wept, and even old lords chamberlainwhimpered among themselves and thereafter laughed through their tearsand said: "It is easy to make old people weep and to bring idle tearsfrom lazy girls; but he will not set a-weeping the Queen of theWoods."

  And graciously she nodded, and he was the last. And disconsolate wentaway those dukes and princes, and troubadours in disguise. YetAckronnion pondered as he went away.

  King he was of Afarmah, Lool and Haf, over-lord of Zeroora and hillyChang, and duke of the dukedoms of Molong and Mlash, none of themunfamiliar with romance or unknown or overlooked in the making ofmyth. He pondered as he went in his thin disguise.

  Now by those that do not remember their childhood, having other thingsto do, be it understood that underneath fairyland, which is, as allmen know, at the edge of the world, there dwelleth the Gladsome Beast.A synonym he for joy.

  It is known how the lark in its zenith, children at play out-of-doors,good witches and jolly old parents have all been compared--howaptly!--with this very same Gladsome Beast. Only one "crab" he has (ifI may use slang for a moment to make myself perfectly clear), only onedrawback, and that is that in the gladness of his heart he spoils thecabbages of the Old Man Who Looks After Fairyland,--and of course heeats men.

  It must further be understood that whoever may obtain the tears of theGladsome Beast in a bowl, and become drunken upon them, may move allpersons to shed tears of joy so long as he remains inspired by thepotion to sing or to make music.

  Now Ackronnion pondered in this wise: that if he could obtain thetears of the Gladsome Beast by means of his art, withholding him fromviolence by the spell of music, and if a friend should slay theGladsome Beast before his weeping ceased--for an end must come toweeping even with men--that so he might get safe away with the tears,and drink them before the Queen of the Woods and move her to tears ofjoy. He sought out therefore a humble knightly man who cared not forthe beauty of Sylvia, Queen of the Woods, but had found a woodlandmaiden of his own once long ago in summer. And the man's name wasArrath, a subject of Ackronnion, a knight-at-arms of the spear-guard:and together they set out through the fields of fable until they cameto Fairyland, a kingdom sunning itself (as all men know) for leaguesalong the edges of the world. And by a strange old pathway they cameto the land they sought, through a wind blowing up the pathway sheerfrom space with a kind of metallic taste from the roving stars. Evenso they came to the windy house of thatch where dwells the Old Man WhoLooks After Fairyland sitting by parlour windows that look away fromthe world. He made them welcome in his star-ward parlour, telling themtales of Space, and when they named to him their perilous quest hesaid it would be a charity to kill the Gladsome Beast; for he wasclearly one of those that liked not its happy ways. And then he tookthem out through his back door, for the front door had no pathway noreven a step--from it the old man used to empty his slops sheer on tothe Southern Cross--and so they came to the garden wherein hiscabbages were, and those flowers that only blow in Fairyland, turningtheir faces always towards the comet, and he pointed them out the wayto the place he called Underneath, where the Gladsome Beast had hislair. Then they manoeuvred. Ackronnion was to go by the way of thesteps with his harp and an agate bowl, while Arrath went round by acrag on the other side. Then the Old Man Who Looks After Fairylandwent back to his windy house, muttering angrily as he passed hiscabbages, for he did not love the ways of the Gladsome Beast; and thetwo friends parted on their separate ways.

  Nothing perceived them but that ominous crow glutted overlong alreadyupon the flesh of man.

  The wind blew bleak from the stars.

  At first there was dangerous climbing, and then Ackronnion gained thesmooth, broad steps that led from the edge to the lair, and at thatmoment heard at the top of the steps the continuous chuckles of theGladsome Beast.

  He feared then that its mirth might be insuperable, not to be saddenedby the most grievous song; nevertheless he did not turn back then, butsoftly climbed the stairs and, placing the agate bowl upon a step,struck up the chaunt called Dolorous. It told of desolate, regrettedthings befallen happy cities long since in the prime of the world. Ittold of how the gods and beasts and men had long ago loved beautifulcompanions, and long ago in vain. It told of the golden host of happyhopes, but not of their achieving. It told how Love scorned Death, buttold of Death's laughter. The contented chuckles of the Gladsome Beastsuddenly ceased in his lair. He rose and shook himself. He was stillunhappy. Ackronnion still sang on the chaunt called Dolorous. TheGladsome Beast came mournfully up to him. Ackronnion ceased not forthe sake of his panic, but still sang on. He sang of the malignity oftime. Two tears welled large in the eyes of the Gladsome Beast.Ackronnion moved the agate bowl to a suitable spot with his foot. Hesang of autumn and of passing away. Then the beast wept as the frorehills weep in the thaw, and the tears splashed big into the agatebowl. Ackronnion desperately chaunted on; he told of the gladunnoticed things men see and do not see again, of sunlight beheldunheeded on faces now withered away. The bowl was full. Ackronnion wasdesperate: the Beast was so close. Once he thought that its mouth waswatering!--but it was only the tears that had run on the lips of theBeast. He felt as a morsel! The Beast was ceasing to weep! He sang ofworlds that had disappointed the gods. And all o
f a sudden, crash! andthe staunch spear of Arrath went home behind the shoulder, and thetears and the joyful ways of the Gladsome Beast were ended and overfor ever.

  And carefully they carried the bowl of tears away, leaving the body ofthe Gladsome Beast as a change of diet for the ominous crow; and goingby the windy house of thatch they said farewell to the Old Man WhoLooks After Fairyland, who when he heard of the deed rubbed his handstogether and mumbled again and again, "And a very good thing, too. Mycabbages! My cabbages!"

  And not long after Ackronnion sang again in the sylvan palace of theQueen of the Woods, having first drunk all the tears in his agatebowl. And it was a gala night, and all the court were there andambassadors from the lands of legend and myth, and even some fromTerra Cognita.

  And Ackronnion sang as he never sang before, and will not sing again.O, but dolorous, dolorous, are all the ways of man, few and fierce arehis days, and the end trouble, and vain, vain his endeavour: andwoman--who shall tell of it?--her doom is written with man's bylistless, careless gods with their faces to other spheres.

  Somewhat thus he began, and then inspiration seized him, and all thetrouble in the beauty of his song may not be set down by me: there wasmuch of gladness in it, and all mingled with grief: it was like theway of man: it was like our destiny.

  Sobs arose at his song, sighs came back along echoes: seneschals,soldiers, sobbed, and a clear cry made the maidens; like rain thetears came down from gallery to gallery.

  All round the Queen of the Woods was a storm of sobbing and sorrow.

  But no, she would not weep.