“Alice?”
He stood still. All he could hear was the rain. So intent on making his way along this supposed path that now he’d lost her. And surely he had lost the path too, if there had ever been one. He called out again, a confident, no-nonsense call, no reason to get excited. He got no reply, but just then saw between two trees a true path, quite patent, an easy winding way. She must have found it and just got quickly on ahead while he floundered in the creepers. He took the path and went along, pretty well wet now. Alice should any moment appear before him, but she didn’t. The path led him deeper and deeper beneath the crackling forest; it seemed to unroll before his feet, he couldn’t see where it led, but it was always there to follow. It brought him eventually (long or short time he couldn’t tell, what with the rain and all) to the edge of a wide, grassy glade all ringed with forest giants slick and black with wet.
Down in the glade, seeming insubstantial in the dripping mist, was the oddest house he had ever seen. It was a miniature of one of Drinkwater’s crazy cottages, but all colored, with a bright red tile roof and white walls encumbered with decoration. Not an inch of it hadn’t been curled or carved or colored or blazoned in some way. It looked, odder still, brand new.
Well, this must be it, he thought, but where was Alice? It must have been she, not he, who had got lost. He started down the hill toward the house, through a crowd of red and white mushrooms that had come out in the wetness. The little round door, knockered and peepholed and brass-hinged, was flung open as he came close, and a sharp small face appeared around its edge. The eyes were glittering and suspicious, but the smile was broad.
“Excuse me,” Smoky said, “is this the Woods’?”
“Indeed it is,” the man said. He opened the door wider. “And are you Smoky Barnable?”
“Well I am!” How did he know that?
“Won’t you come right on in.”
If there are more than the two of us in there, Smoky thought, it’ll be crowded. He passed by Mr. Woods, who seemed to be wearing a striped nightcap, and was presenting the interior to Sthoky with the longest, flattest, knobbiest hand Smoky had ever seen. “Nice of you to take me in,” he said, and the little man’s grin grew wider, which Smoky wouldn’t have thought possible. His nutbrown face would split right in two at the ears if it went on growing.
Inside it seemed much larger than it was, or was smaller than it looked, he couldn’t tell which. He felt laughter for some reason rise up in him. There was room in here for a grandfather clock with a cunning expression, a bureau on which pewter candlesticks and mugs stood, a high fluffy bed with a patchwork quilt more varied and comical than any he had ever seen. There was a round, much polished table with a splinted leg, and a domineering wardrobe. There were moreover three more people, all quite comfortably disposed: a pretty woman busy at a squat stove, a baby in a wooden cradle who cooed like a mechanical toy whenever the woman gave the cradle a push, and an old, old lady, all nose and chin and spectacles, who rocked in a corner and knitted quickly on a long striped scarf. All three of these noticed his arrival, but seemed to take no notice.
“Sittee down,” said Mr. Woods. “And tell us your history.”
Somewhere in the blue joyful surprise that filled Smoky to the chin a small voice was trying to say What on earth, but it exploded at that moment like a stepped-on puff-ball and went out. “Well,” he said, “I seem to have lost my way—that is Daily Alice and I had—but now I’ve found you, and I don’t know what’s become of her.”
“Right,” said Mr. Woods. He had put Smoky in a highbacked chair at the table, and now he took from a cupboard a stack of blue-flowered plates which he dealt out around the table like cards. “Take some refreshment,” he said.
As though on cue, the woman drew out from the oven a tin sheet on which a single hot-cross bun steamed. This Mr. Woods put on Smoky’s plate, watching him expectantly. The cross on the bun was not a cross, but a five-pointed star drawn in white icingsugar. He waited a moment for others to be served, but the smell of the bun was so rich and curranty that he picked it up and ate it without pause. It was as good as it smelled.
“I’m just married,” he said then, and Mr. Woods nodded. “You know Daily Alice Drinkwater.”
“We do.”
“We think we’ll be happy together.”
“Yes and no.”
“What?”
“Well what would you say, Mrs. Underhill? Happy together?”
“Yes and no,” said Mrs. Underhill.
“But how…” Smoky began. An immense sadness flew over him.
“All part of the Tale,” Mrs. Underhill said. “Don’t ask me how.”
“Be specific,” Smoky said challengingly.
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Woods. “It’s not like that, you know.” His face had grown long and contemplative, and he rested his chin in the great cup of one hand while the long fingers of the other strummed the table. “What gift did she give you, though? Tell us that.”
That was very unfair. She had given him everything. Herself. Why should she have to give him any other gift? And yet even as he said it, he remembered that she had on their wedding night offered him a true gift. “She gave me,” he said proudly, “her childhood. Because I didn’t have one of my own. She said I could use it any time I liked.”
Mr. Woods cocked an eye at him. “But,” he said slyly, “did she give you a bag to put it in?” His wife (if that’s who she was) nodded at this stroke. Mrs. Underhill rocked smugly. Even the baby seemed to coo as though it had scored a point.
“It’s not a matter of that,” Smoky said. Since he had eaten the hot-star bun, emotions seemed to sweep him alternately like swift changes of season. Autumnal tears rose to his eyes. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I couldn’t take the gift. You see”—this was difficult to explain—“when she was young she believed in fairies. The whole family did. I never did. I think they still do. Now that’s crazy. How could I believe in that? I wanted to—that is, I wanted to have believed in them, and seen therh, but if I never did—if the thought never occurred to me—how can I take her gift?”
Mr. Woods was shaking his head rapidly. “No, no,” he said. “It’s a perfectly fine gift.” He shrugged. “But you have no bag to put it in is all. See here! We’ll give you gifts. Real ones. No holding back on essential parts.” He flung open a humpbacked chest bound with black iron. It seemed to glow within. “See!” he said, drawing out a long snake of a necklace. “Gold!” The others there looked at Smoky, smiling in approval of this gift, and waiting for Smoky’s amazed gratitude.
“It’s… very kind,” Smoky said. Mr. Woods draped the glowing coils around Smoky’s neck, once, again, as though he meant to strangle him. The gold was not cold as metal should be but warm as flesh. It seemed to weight his neck, so heavy it was, to bend his back.
“What more?” Mr. Woods said, looking around him, finger to his lips. Mrs. Underhill with one of her needles pointed to a round leather box on top of the cupboard. “Right!” Mr. Woods said. “How about this?” He fingered the box from its high place till it fell into his arms. He popped open the lid. “A hat!”
It was a red hat, high-crowned and soft, belted with a plaited belt in which a white owl’s feather nodded. Mr. Woods and Mrs. Underhill said Aaaaah, and watched closely as Mr. Woods fitted it to Smoky’s head. It was as heavy as a crown. “I wonder,” Smoky said, “what became of Daily Alice.”
“Which reminds me,” Mr. Woods said with a smile, “last but not least but best…” From under the bed he drew out a faded and mouse-chewed Gladstone carpetbag. He brought it to the table and placed it tenderly before Smoky. A sadness seemed to have entered him too. His great hands stroked the bag as though it were beloved. “Smoky Barnable,” he said. “This is in my gift. She couldn’t give it, no matter that she wanted to. It’s old but all the more capacious for that. I bet there’s room in it for…” A doubt came over him, and he snapped open the crossbones catch of the bag and looked inside. He grinned. “Ah, plenty of room. Not only for her gift, but pockets too for your unbelief, and whatever else. It’ll come in handy.”