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Page 7
'"Isn't there any way for you to get back to Valhalla, or wherever you
come from?" I said.
'"I'm afraid not," he said, rasping away at the hoof. He had a wonderful
touch with horses. The old beast was whinnying on his shoulder. "You may
remember that I was not a gentle God in my Day and my Time and my Power.
I shall never be released till some human being truly wishes me well."
'"Surely," said I, "the farmer can't do less than that. You're shoeing
the horse all round for him."
'"Yes," said he, "and my nails will hold a shoe from one full moon to
the next. But farmers and Weald clay," said he, "are both uncommon cold
and sour."
'Would you believe it, that when that farmer woke and found his horse
shod he rode away without one word of thanks? I was so angry that I
wheeled his horse right round and walked him back three miles to the
Beacon, just to teach the old sinner politeness.'
'Were you invisible?' said Una. Puck nodded, gravely.
'The Beacon was always laid in those days ready to light, in case the
French landed at Pevensey; and I walked the horse about and about it
that lee-long summer night. The farmer thought he was bewitched--well,
he _was_, of course--and began to pray and shout. _I_ didn't care! I was
as good a Christian as he any fair-day in the County, and about four
o'clock in the morning a young novice came along from the monastery that
used to stand on the top of Beacon Hill.'
'What's a novice?' said Dan.
'It really means a man who is beginning to be a monk, but in those days
people sent their sons to a monastery just the same as a school. This
young fellow had been to a monastery in France for a few months every
year, and he was finishing his studies in the monastery close to his
home here. Hugh was his name, and he had got up to go fishing
hereabouts. His people owned all this valley. Hugh heard the farmer
shouting, and asked him what in the world he meant. The old man spun him
a wonderful tale about fairies and goblins and witches; and I _know_ he
hadn't seen a thing except rabbits and red deer all that night. (The
People of the Hills are like otters--they don't show except when they
choose.) But the novice wasn't a fool. He looked down at the horse's
feet, and saw the new shoes fastened as only Weland knew how to fasten
'em. (Weland had a way of turning down the nails that folks called the
Smith's Clinch.)
'"H'm!" said the novice. "Where did you get your horse shod?"
'The farmer wouldn't tell him at first, because the priests never liked
their people to have any dealings with the Old Things. At last he
confessed that the Smith had done it. "What did you pay him?" said the
novice. "Penny," said the farmer, very sulkily. "That's less than a
Christian would have charged," said the novice. "I hope you threw a
'Thank you' into the bargain." "No," said the farmer; "Wayland-Smith's a
heathen." "Heathen or no heathen," said the novice, "you took his help,
and where you get help there you must give thanks." "What?" said the
farmer--he was in a furious temper because I was walking the old horse
in circles all this time--"What, you young jackanapes?" said he. "Then
by your reasoning I ought to say 'Thank you' to Satan if he helped me?"
"Don't roll about up there splitting reasons with me," said the novice.
"Come back to the Ford and thank the Smith, or you'll be sorry."
'Back the farmer had to go. I led the horse, though no one saw me, and
the novice walked beside us, his gown swishing through the shiny dew and
his fishing-rod across his shoulders, spear-wise. When we reached the
Ford again--it was five o'clock and misty still under the oaks--the
farmer simply wouldn't say "Thank you." He said he'd tell the Abbot that
the novice wanted him to worship heathen Gods. Then Hugh the novice lost
his temper. He just cried, "Out!" put his arm under the farmer's fat
leg, and heaved him from his saddle on to the turf, and before he could
rise he caught him by the back of the neck and shook him like a rat till
the farmer growled, "Thank you, Wayland-Smith."'
'Did Weland see all this?' said Dan.
'Oh yes, and he shouted his old war-cry when the farmer thudded on to
the ground. He was delighted. Then the novice turned to the oak tree and
said, "Ho, Smith of the Gods! I am ashamed of this rude farmer; but for
all you have done in kindness and charity to him and to others of our
people, I thank you and wish you well." Then he picked up his
fishing-rod--it looked more like a tall spear than ever--and tramped off
down your valley.'
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