Will-O-The-Wisp by Swann Thomas Burnett

Author:Swann, Thomas Burnett [Swann, Thomas Burnett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, NewBook
ISBN: 9780552103589
Amazon: 0552103586
Goodreads: 4528470
Publisher: Corgi Books
Published: 1976-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Here a little child I stand,

Heaving up my either hand;

Cold as paddocks though they be,

Here I lift them up to thee,

For a benizon to fall

On our meat, and on us all. Amen.

‘I’m nine,’ she reminded him, ‘though of course I’m little in size. Yes, I think that’s worthy of Mother Goose. She’s one of our saints, you know. The patron of poets. I especially like the paddocks, I had one when I was young.’ In Devonshire, ‘paddock’ was another name for ‘frog’.

And so the meal proceeded from dish to delight to dish .. , . Peas and sparrow grass to keep a big man from running to fat. West Country Tarts to plumpen a peeked boy. Firelight; candles; conversation; ”Tis not the food but the content that makes the table’s merriment… .’

Finishing the last cake, Aster said with a meaningful look at Robin:

‘Mama used to serve such meals to my father in Exeter. Her husband. You don’t eat so well in your vicarage, I expect.’

Robin for once was caught at a loss for words, but Nicholas hurried to agree with Aster. (Tomorrow, Stella thought, I will see to healing his leg.)

‘Every man needs a cook, and these days it’s more economical to marry one than to hire one. That way, they’re always at hand. They can cook and sweep and clean and what-have you whenever you like.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Robin to Nicholas when Stella busied herself with removing the dishes - he seemed to forget the acuteness of her hearing - ‘and they always expect conversation. A man can’t get any work done. Sermons, now and then; poetry, never, except to them.’ He spoke not unkindly but with conviction. Then, when Stella returned to the wainscot table chair and raised the table portion into the back of a chair and settled Robin among its constellation of cushions and sat with Aster and Nicholas on stools, he asked her a question which had nothing at all to do with cooks or wives.

‘I still don’t understand. The Gubbings are Puritans. But are all Puritans Gubbings?’

‘Oh, no. Only a very few. We were the first, though. You see, when those gloomy old missionaries - Augustus and his flock - came from Rome in 597 A.D., ~ey found us a fallen race. Literally. Feather Blight had moulted our feathers and most of them hadn’t come back, even to later generations. The Celts had continued to be respectful. Once they had worshipped us as gods. They were still putting us into their stories as kings and queens. But the missionaries took one look at our useless wings and stormed ‘fallen angels’, and we believed them. We actually believed them, it had been so long since we lost the power of flight. We had angered God, they said. He had thrown us out of heaven along with Lucifer. Thus, they explained our past - flight and Heaven - and our present - Hell on earth. There was only one thing to do, they said. Repent. We listened and repented.

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