Elf Water by Norman Douglas. One far away among desolate peaks, in that
voiceless wilderness of stone and ice, where the clouds linger. A horde of
rivulets bursting from patches of eternal snow, joined their waters and sped away,
and the stream leaped downwards through groves of bearded fir, or glided in a
smiling flood over smooth meads of foxglove and tiger lily and marigolds, caressing their
roots with its eddies. To the country folk who lived in the valley below,
it was a living and a spiteful thing. They called it elf water.
Its ways were dull, bluish, insipid to the taste, and fraught
with unhealthy chills from the snows above. None cared to drink of them,
and its shores were encrusted with fanciful stone shapes of grass and moss elves work
like the ice crystals on the windowpanes in December, and none cared to build
houses near the water, or to own the fields on either side. For
sometimes, in the bluest days of Midsummer, the stream suddenly swelled to a
furious torrent and overlapped its flowery banks. Drowning the lush meadows far and near
the elves. The old folks would then whisper, shaking their heads. They
knew its elvish and wayward tricks, and some of them may be still believed
in such creatures. And the young men would come out to view the mischief,
and gaze into the sunny sky and up at the hills, and talk
together and look wise, secretly wondering. Only one man could foretell the floods.
He had lived on the elf Water all his life, but he is
dead long ago. His cottage is deserted, the roof has fallen in,
the wooden beams are decayed, and green moss sprouts between the planks of his
floor. He used to look up at the hs and see a small vapory
cloud anchored against one snowy peak, and say nothing. Whenever they asked him
to explain, he merely smiled, as if the elf Water kept no secrets
from him. Meanwhile, the fair meadows were flooded and the crops buried,
till only a few bright green tips showed above the seething foam. And up
in the forest where all should be still, the shriek of the torrent could
be heard from Afar. It thundered among the ravines and roared for freedom in
its narrow prison, churning the boulders with hideous din and tumbling. The tall
pines, whose painted bowls loosened at the root, shivered and rocked like the
limbs of some convulsed giant. The pale wood flowers nodded helplessly in the tawny
spray. It was unearthly in its rage, and then, with as little
show of reason, its elfin wrath melted to a smile, and it shrunk
back into a silvery thread of water, hushed and clear. It was ashamed
of its freak and weary. But the harm was done, and only this
one man's meadows were spared, for they lay out of reach of the wildest
floods. They were remote from the valley by a many hours climb, damp
sloping meads fringed by dark firs on the shady side of the stream that rushed
in a deep strid below the cottage. The folks called them elf meadows,
perhaps because in times of flood, two or three tall columns of spray could
be seen rising up from the gulf below and bearing some fancied resemblance to white
elves or fairies. The man had often watched these misty pillars swaying gracefully.
He loved the elf water. He had learned to identify himself with all its
moods. The ripple of its gray wavelets was the voice of an old friend,
a friend of his boyhood, the sound that met his ears in the
earliest morning, and that charmed him to sleep at night. And he often
thought of the days when, as a child he used to hang over the
dim forest pools and watched the bubbles, and hearkened to rare music streaming upwards
from the depths. It was the pebbles dancing in the current, But to
his childish ears it sounded like the faint songs of the water fairies disporting themselves
on the crystal floor. And if by chance he dropped anything into the stream,
the elves were sure to bring it to the surface again. Everyone,
indeed, was agreed upon that point. Sighs and axes and sickles that had
fallen into the deep pools were always churned up again and found lying on the
banks sharper than before, the folks said, And once a heavy cart loaded
with hay was overtaken by a sudden flood and borne away. Next day.
Wonderful to relate, they found it standing upright and unharmed on the bank.
If there are no elves who had done it. Even the man's old mother
was sometimes amazed at these things, although she generally scoffed at the mountaineer's beliefs,
for she came from the green plains, far beyond the hills, where
the folks are quite different. She laughed at the dull peasants and their ways.
She was no dreamer. She knew about everything and believed in nothing.
They feared her, but she feared none. She was calm and upright,
and even tempered, and prodigiously old ninety years maybe, or even a hundred.
But she was lithe and strong, and her back was straight as a
lance. Her husband had died long ago, she had lived in that lonely
cottage with her son all his life. Two Will she live forever? He
often wondered. He hoped she would die, and that soon, for they
hated one another, and yet strangely enough, both were just and honest,
and even kind according to their lights. And they lived together, both thinking
that they were performing a duty towards each other. In that low ceilinged room,
with its wooden wainscoting, stained and blackened by age, they often sat
and looked at one another for many hours without speaking a word. You are
your father's child, she would at last say, regretfully. She never reproached
him with aught else, for he was a good son, and he never
dreamed of vexing her, for she was his mother. And then she would
look at him again, and he would look back and say nothing. What
should he say? It was true enough. He was like his father in
all things, short and heavy, chested, indifferent to cold and heat,
with dark eyes and crafty features that reflected in their harshness the crags and chasms
of his home. Slow to laugh, slow to speak, slow to decide,
superstitious, gentle, but pitiless in resolve, a peculiar compound of strength
and weakness. She would have wished to herself another son, tall, gay,
ambitious, instead of this contented and crooked creature of the mountains. And
perhaps she thought of her own home in the rich plains, with their white
domed cities and laughing merchant folk. Did she regret having exchanged them for a
hard life among the mountains, doubtless, but she was never heard to complain
of her lot, and much as they disliked her, none could find an
evil word to say of her. She had a sense of duty and an
unbending will, such as would have driven her in other times and places to
seek a martyr's death rather than yield in her conviction. She had served her
husband faithfully up to the day of his death, and although she exacted blind
obedience from the child, she never treated him with harshness. But from his
earliest youth he had never understood his mother, and after his father's death he
smiled seldom. He soon learned to close the channels of his heart, to
retire within himself, wondering and dismayed, and leaving unspoken many thoughts. Even
in the olden days, it had been a strange love that they bore to
one another. There was little charity in that house. The old woman,
accustomed to have her own way, treated him like a child long after he
was grown to manhood, and such was his piety that he seldom dared to
cross her wishes. Her mind was stronger than his, but he was warmer
of heart. Why then, do you not leave me and return to your
own home, he would sometimes ask. He longed for her to take him
at his word, but she never left him. She evidently thought this a
passing whim on his part. Indeed what vexed him most of all, she
seldom entered seriously into any of his ideas, regarding him rather as an idle
visionary whose fancies must be humored, or if mischievous, repressed. Leave you.
Leave you, my son, And why leave you? My folks are
all dead, and what would befall you without me? She seemed to doubt
whether the man of fifty could provide for himself. And yet she was not
wholly insincere. There was something of pity mingled with her contempt. He was
her son, her weak son. How else could he suggest such a thing?
You drove her away, he once dared to reply, trembling with rage.
If she were here, there would be no need for you. Since
that day I have suffered. He spoke of his life long grief, and
wondered at his own boldness in thus reproaching his mother. These are foolish words,
my son. She looked bravely into his eye. Foolish words, But
she feared inwardly, for he spoke the truth. The matter of the man's
wife was the only one she dreaded to discuss with him. The old woman
knew that she had made a mistake, but it was against her nature ever
to acknowledge a fault, and she therefore affected to ignore his grief, And
in truth, she could not easily bring herself to comprehend such an enduring affection.
Twenty years have passed since then, she mused, why does he not
forget? No son of hers would think so long of one and the same
woman In this one thing. The man had thwarted his mother and brought home
a bride who was not to her liking. But the victory had sapped his
energy, and he was too weak, or maybe too pious a common enough
story to profit by it, and bid the old woman begone. There followed
a few short years, during which the mother regained her power over her son
and tormented in a thousand ways the young wife, who finally fled in despair,
never to return. The cottage remained the same, with its cool meadows
and dark belt of forest, but the light of love was gone out,
and an undying hatred kindled. That terrible morning when he found himself deserted.
The elf water was in flood, convulsed in its deep bed, and howling
in the hollow caverns that it had torn itself into the mountain's side. He
climbed up to a certain little knoll there where the earth slopes away in a
steep ledge above the thundering cataract, and where he had often sat with her,
who was now departed. The current below this point was so fast that
it might well have carried away the strongest man. Had she perished in the
water, surely not. It was his friend. It restored to him all
that he ever lost. He looked down the stream. There was sunshine and
peace in the valley below, but here all was gray, desolation and loneliness,
the torn clouds stuck among the pines and ever and anon. A ghost
like pillar of spray rose up from the noisy depths and drenched the meadows with
its dew. Sometimes one remained upright, swaying in the wind, like a
shrouded human form. She cannot be dead, he thought, she will return
in the course of time. Disquieting rumors of her. The absent one had
reached the valley. The folks said that she well deserved all that she may
have suffered, since she deserted a good husband for no cause. But the
man cared nothing for evil reports. He knew the truth, and that it
was all his mother's work. He thought of the picture as he had seen
it, and each time he looked upon his mother's face, an hundred times
daily, he was reminded of that other one who had suffered through her.
But the old woman always knew the direction of his thoughts and stared back at
him fearlessly, though without unkindness. She knew her power over him, and
exerted it freely, returning his look so steadfastly that he often felt the strength
oozing out of his bones, as after a long illness. Often they sat
thus in that dark room, confronting one another. They stared for long,
long hours, striving for the mastery, and never a word was spoken.
He longed for her to yield, to confess with her eyes at least,
but she never admitted any fault, and there was nothing to be read out
of her eyes. They were pale, blue, cold and lively as the
ripples of a mountain river, and fringed with bristly white lashes. Her long
curls drooped over them, for her oval forehead was overhung down to the nose,
with thick locks white as driven snow, and stiff hairs curled over her
lips and out of her nostrils. She had a strange, deep voice,
gruff as a cracked bell, and a complexion clearer than a child's. Under
its transparent skin could be seen the veins wandering about like little red rivers.
And even in her old age, she was taller than her son. Likely
enough, she had been comely in her youth, but now she was grown
monstrous. She used to say, look you, what could you do without
me? I must care for you like a little child. Do not I
work for you, make your food and clothing. It was true enough,
like everything that she said, he had grown idle and listless in latter years.
But he thought how different it might have been, how happy I was,
and how little would have contented me. Then he would sigh to himself,
grief laden, and the customary look of reproach which she was awaiting,
did not come. For he left the room silently with bowed head, and
as often as he returned he found her sitting upright on her bench beside the
stove, with her long fingers working at her wool, ever ready to take
up the mute challenge to the man. Thus peering into her glassy eyes,
they seemed to swell till they dominated his whole being. He clenched his fists
and looked away. Sometimes, after such a struggle, a strange feeling of
rage and power entered into him. It made his whole body tremble. He
thought it was an evil spirit tempting him. It used to whisper in his
ear, but he could not understand the words. And as the years went
on, they spoke less with one another. Silence and hatred lay heavy upon
that home. The man's black, curly hair was already streaked with gray.
As for the woman, she grew old old, but she never changed three
Will she live forever? He wondered. Aye, we are a long lived
race, she said aloud, for even when he was yet a child,
she always guessed his thoughts as correctly as if he had spoken them aloud.
I am old. I have lost count of the time, but I shall
live yet many years and work for you. Be thankful. We are a
strong race. Our blood is good. We live long. Too long,
he thought, and would have said it aloud, but the impious words stuck
in his throat and choked him. The old woman meanwhile fixed her eyes upon
him, knowing his thoughts, Surely, she said, trying to sweeten the
gruff tones of her voice into persuasive pleading. Surely you would not drive your
mother out in her old age die by the roadside. Surely not, he
replied, moved by a return of his natural piety. But how different it
might have been. As he stepped out of the doorway, he found lying
upon the threshold a log of wood with some bloodstains upon it, and a
bunch of gaudy feathers. He recognized the feathers there were those of a j
doubtless the old familiar bird that visited the cottage at times. His mother must
have killed it after waiting for her opportunity all these many years. She hated
it on account of its history, for it was the young woman, the
absent one, who had thought and tamed it during her short life at the
elf meadow. The man, although generally callous to the sufferings of the wild
things of nature, was strangely affected in his present exasperation by the sight of
these poor remains. His mother had chosen an evil moment. He carried in
the feathers and held them before her eyes. Look, I see why have
you killed it? Because it was thievish, and because I disliked it?
She added truthfully. She was never so sure of her ascendancy over him.
But he was enraged at the hard words he thought of the absent one.
It was as if a link between himself and her had been cruelly severed.
He said fiercely, you killed it, even as you killed her. This
cannot endure. All this is foolish talk. Will you never be reasonable?
Even as you killed her? He repeated hoarsely. There was a tingling in
his ears, and the veins in his forehead suddenly swelled. Then the evil
spirit came it had come often of late, and spoke to him. He
understood what it said. It said, now you killed her. This cannot
endure. One of us two shall die even as you killed her. Ah,
Do you understand? Do you confess you killed her? Ah? And
I will kill you. And for the first time in his life, he
seized her in a grip of steel and shook her till the white curls danced
over her face. A rain of fiery sparks was falling before his eyes,
and he shook on regardless of her shrieks. How light she was. She
reeled under his arm, and he would assuredly have shaken the last breath out
of her old body. But that something in the touch of her cold,
dry skin brought him abruptly to his senses. Again, let me go,
she growled as boldly as she could, gasping with rage and breathlessness. Would
you raise your hand against your mother? You are no man, But he
was inwardly glad for the spell he thought was broken. He used to fear
her, but now he had seen her weakness. She is only a woman,
only a weak woman. Nevertheless, his energy soon melted away, and
like after his marriage, he lacked courage to bid her begone. He had
felt his strength, but he feared to use it, and the woman had
felt her weakness, but she sought to hide it. She would show no
signs of defeat. Yet whenever she spoke to him, she was sensible of
a strange twitching in her jaw, and a new tone in her voice,
the sound of fear, which she tried to conceal but could not. Therefore,
she wisely ceased to speak altogether, and the man likewise preferred silence,
since he foresaw that he could no longer reckon upon his self control in the
event of a dispute. Thus neither trusting themselves to speak to the other,
many days and many months would pass without a word being said, although they
looked at one another from time to time in a way that left little to
be misinterpreted. In his dumb contests with those relentless eyes, the man was
worsted. The old woman, without a word, gradually cowed him into submission
and re established her empire, and the man now only clung with luxurious self
torture to the bitter sweet remembrance of other days. The absent one at that
distance of time had become invested with a sacred and well nigh supernatural character.
He would not believe in her death she will return to me. His superstitious
mind would have deemed it little of a miracle to have encountered her in saintly
guise during his wanderings in the forest or on the banks of the stream,
where they had often lingered together. She was no longer a human creature,
but a shadowy being crowned with a halo of immortality. As for the old
woman, she lived on for many years. Will she live forever? I
She was clearly fated to live forever, and he no longer cherished any hope.
He would repeat this cannot endure. One of us two must die.
But it endured. You are no man. It was true enough, like
everything that she said, you are no man. He laughed at his own
weakness, a bitter laugh. Would he kill her? He shuddered at the
idea. Besides, he dared not once. Indeed, after an unhappy day
and many hours of sleepless torments, the evil spirit came again and spoke to
him in the same manner as before, and he crept up to where she
slept, hardly knowing what he was about to do. It was midnight.
She lay with folded palms, half reclining in her accustomed attitude, on the
bench beside the stove. She breathed softly, but her eyes were not shut.
They were open and glowed like lamps in the dark. The man stepped
back, awe stricken. I see you, she said, calmly, without
moving so much as a finger. Hated words that haunted him ever afterwards.
She was satisfied with her triumph and said nothing, But the man's last spark
of courage was crushed out of him. Thenceforth he walked with downcast head and
averted look. Never again would he raise his hand or even his voice against
her. At times, to escape from his care, he descended into the
valley and drank fiercely. But more often he wandered through the lonely forests,
loudly, praying for forgiveness, for guidance, and for release from those awful
eyes that vampire like sucked out the strength of his body. His soul was
humbled to the dust. The trees, the rocks, and the wild waters
were witnesses of his heart felt supplications. He prayed thus for many years,
and in the end his prayer was heard. Four For the old woman grew
blind. The blue fire faded out of her eyes. They became milky as
it were two white opals, though the flame still burned dimly within. For
a long time she hid it from her son, but he found out in
the end and thanked the great being who had heard his prayer. You wax
blind, mother, your eyes are filmy. Nay you mistake I see well,
she answered, looking boldly towards him, for she knew that he was
watching her. Steadfastly, she struggled on with an iron will. Whenever his
glance fell upon her. She must have felt it, for she at once
stared back into his face, and so steadily that he often wondered whether he
was indeed not mistaken. But her task became harder every day, and she
began to fear mightily, for although her old body was healthy and tough as
an oak, she foresaw that with the darkening of her sight, her power
over him would wane. The film grows upon you, mother, I think
not, I see my wool, she croaked back, but slowly the crystal
of her eye clouded to dull horn. Again, he insisted, you see
me, less plainly than before, strangling as best he could the joy that
quivered in his voice. I see you well enough. But she saw him
at all. She was stone blind, and when she spoke with her son
there resounded a horrible note of triumph and menace in his voice. She thought,
he will kill me if he discovers the truth. For thus she interpreted
his crooked, peasant nature. Yet she still contrived to hide her fear,
even as he hid his joy, casting about meanwhile for some new device to
overawe him. At last she hit upon a cunning and bold deceit worthy of
her fearless mind. I am not blind. I see you. I see
every hair on your head, and I look into your eyes. I pierce
them through. He turned aside from her fixed stare. Is it possible,
he wondered, I see this film of which you speak is in your own
eyes. I can see into your very heart and read your evil thoughts and
wishes? Are you not ashamed? Such words she often repeated, and each
time the man heard them, it was as though a lash had struck him.
And he looked at her, and, evering to read the truth out
of her calm face, and his superstitious mind grew afraid. I see you,
she repeated, and she dissembled so well that he began to believe.
His blood curdled with fear. Was it possible? He took to prowling stealthily
as a lynx, hoping to avoid her glance, and by taking her unawares,
to satisfy himself of her blindness. But she was too quick for him.
Her pearly eyes always discovered his whereabouts, and her words sunk into his
heart, I see you, I see everything. She growled with well simulated
joy. She had duped him. But a nameless dread fell upon the man.
He went out of the door and passed through the forest, and never
returned for many weeks. Five one sunless morning in the early spring, he
staggered home from the village. His gait was unsteady, but there sat a
steady purpose in his heart. The old woman lay in her accustomed attitude on
the broad bench beside the stove. She never moved, She slept. She
slept much in these latter days. The man crept nearer, craving to look
into her face. She slept on, and her sharp ears never heard his
approach, for the elf water was in flood, writhing and screeching in its
narrow channel, till the cottage trembled with the fury of the water. As
he bent down to look at her, the door was burst open by a
sudden gust of wind, but she slept on. He turned back to shut
it, and as he did so, he looked out upon the landscape.
There was sunshine and peace in the valley below, but here all was gray,
desolation and loneliness. The torn clouds stuck among the pines and ever and
anon, a ghost like pillar of spray rose up from the noisy depths and
drenched the meadows with its dew. It was on such a morning he remembered
how long he had waited. Surely she the absent one, would come soon.
And he returned to look down upon the old woman, the cause of
all she slept on. Then the evil spirit drew near and spoke to him.
It said, now and already his teeth were set to the work.
But at that moment she awoke of her own accord and opened her eyes.
They were like disks of polished lead. And when she had done so,
and never so much as took notice of him, he knew the truth.
She was blind, blind as a stone. He stepped back a pace,
breathing heavily with the weight of unexpected joy, and then an immense wave of
love and compassion swept over him, submerging every other thought or feeling. He
pitied her misfortune, and would fain have forgiven her all. He would love
her doubly, he would humble himself in ministering to all the wants of her
old age. But the woman soon felt the human presence, and in mingled
fear and defiance. Shrieked aloud, little dreaming what effect the words would have.
I see you, I see everything, hated, words that turned his
love to very madness. For immediately it was as if a crimson flame leapt
up before him, burning away the remembrance of all that is or had been.
And he held her gently and said his words sounded like a lesson learned
beforehand. Enough come be gone full? Will you raise your hand against your
mother? Leave me? But he only drew her nearer to him. Then
the truth flashed upon her, and her voice broke from its troubled depths to
a scream that drowned the howl of the wild waters. Out upon you monster.
You wish to kill me, but I wish to live. Are you
not satisfied with my blindness? She thought, by this confession to appease his
wrath, But it was too late, and her words were lost. Perhaps
he would have obeyed if he had heard, for his piety was fervent,
But he saw and heard nothing. There was a din in his ears,
as of crashing thunders, and a mighty curtain of blood swayed heavily to and
fro before his eyes. He merely uttered that one word come. It sounded
dream like and distant, as though another man, not himself, were speaking.
The woman, undeceived as to his intent, struck out bravely with her
arms, fighting like a mountain cat. But he gathered energy from her resistance
and picked her up as he would a child, for though tall, she
was thin and light, and carried her out of the cottage and across the
damp meadow. Her white locks were driven by the wind about his face.
The elf water shouted for gladness. He returned alone and sat still awhile,
pondering painfully. It cost an effort to collect his thoughts, for he was
still drunken and dazed with the shock of the last hour. Slowly, reluctantly,
one by one, the memories crept back, building themselves up into the
hideous fabric of his crime. Ah. He remembered it all, but a
pallid fear shook him. What if she had not died, and if the
elf water yielded her up again, even as it yielded up all else,
God, if she were still alive, she was strong and active. His
teeth chattered, and his eyes remained fixed upon the half open door for he
dreaded every minute to see her return with dripping garments to the accustomed seat and
then turning to confront him with that leaden stare. But as she never returned,
he finally crept across the meadows to the water's edge, peering into the
misty depths below. Then he looked down the stream. There was nothing in
sight. Puffs of wet breath came up at times from the torrent and cooled
his heated head. And then suddenly he saw, or thought he saw a
pale gray shape moving in the water far away. Soon it reached the shore
and disengaged itself from among the boulders. It stood upright how tall it was.
Its garments were long and clinging, and it climbed slowly towards him,
stumbling often among the stones. Slowly it wound itself aloft. It seemed to
be weak, for it paused at times to gather strength or to bethink itself.
Was it a specter? Surely not? Surely it was his mother escaped
alive from the whirlpools of the elf water. The man raised his hand to
his head, where the moist perspiration had gathered. He was unnerved with fear,
But the shape had reached the narrow path, and, after resting a
while, suddenly stretched out its arms as though feeling the way, and seemed
to drift straight towards him at a rapid pace. It had evidently made up
its mind it came nearer. He waited no longer. He was seized with
a blind, unreasoning panic, and fled upwards past the cottage into the deepest
shades of the dripping forest, and never so much as stopped to look behind
him, for he felt that it was pressing upon his heels, and there,
sheltered under a huge fur, he remained many hours, terror stricken.
Evening closed in upon him, But at last he reasoned away his fear and
turned his steps homewards in a quieter frame of mind. And yet he could
not rid himself of the notion that the horror was somewhere near at hand,
lurking in the darkling shades. He would gladly have shouted to reassure himself,
but he dreaded lest the sound of his voice might start it up before his
very face. And as he silently walked on, his alarms grew apace like
a startled child. He dared not turn his head, but walked faster and
faster through the dark trees, till on the meadows his pace increased to a
run, a horrible, breathless race. He entered his home and looked around
him, fearful of some unspeakable calamity. The shape had arrived before him.
It sat upright and stern on the accustomed bench, and its eyes, those
awful eyes, stared at him with fixed determination across the darkened room. They
seemed to say, one of us two shall die. He felt his hair
raise itself under his thick fur cap. He would have fled, but his
feet refused to move, and there began a strange throbbing in his head.
He was constrained to stand still and gaze. Aye. It was his own
corporeal mother. Her clothes were dripping, and a little pool of water had
collected on the floor. She remained immovable as a rock, save for an
occasional spasm of shivering. She had apparently not yet heard him. There was
a line of human suffering about the mouth, as of one who would weep
but cannot, And the man saw a small stream of blood oozing from a
wound on her head. It trickled slowly and stained her white locks with crimson
drops. At that sight, there fled across his disordered mind a shadow,
a fleeting mockery of the former feeling of love and contrition. But the old
woman made a slight movement. She must have become aware of the human presence,
and she deliberately opened her mouth to speak, no doubt the hated words.
Her spirit was unbroken. Then the man, by a last effort of
will, tottered forth, vanquished his temples, ached fiercely, bereft of reason,
he strayed into the gray twilight, to the water's edge, and lo
not far away from a certain little knoll, there where the earth slopes away
in a steep ledge above the thundering patter act, Another frail white shape floated
lovingly towards him. It came nearer, delicately, and enveloped him in its
dewy shroud. At last the spray fell in showers upon his burning head.
But his arms sought the yielding form, and he fell prone into the void,
meeting its chill caresses with a responsive kiss, and of elf water