The Wood-Pigeons and Mary

Mary felt a tiny bit frightened, and this made her interrupt again —

“I wouldn’t mind if you were with me,” she exclaimed. “Why can’t you stay with me now? You might perch on my shoulders, both of you – or I will carry you very carefully if you like.”

“No,” said both the wood-pigeons together, so that their voices sounded like one, “that would not do. There are rules, you see, Mary. You must do part of it for yourself. Don’t be afraid – the darkness won’t hurt you, and after a bit you will get out of it, and then – ”

“Then, what?”

“You will see us, and – a good deal more,” was the reply, followed by a slight flutter, and when Mary looked up, both her friends had disappeared!

Chapter Eight.

“A Little White Gate.”

Mary stood still for a moment or two, gazing after them, or rather gazing at the place where they had been. She felt, as she would have said herself, “rather funny”; not frightened exactly, and certainly very curious to see what was going to happen next, but just a little timid about making the plunge into the dark mysterious depths of the forest.

But it was now or never.

“If I let myself get silly and run back home, or anything like that,” she thought, “I daresay the Cooies will never care for me again, or come to see me or show me things. For I can see they are rather obstinate, and of course if they are fairies, or partly fairies, they like to be obeyed – fairies always do. And godmother too – I believe she understands about fairies much more than she says – and she always is sure no harm can come to me in the forest. So I’d better be quick and look out carefully for the little grey feather.”

She walked on therefore, not too fast, for fear of passing the signal, and with her eyes fixed on the bushes on the left. But it seemed to her that she had walked a good long way, farther than she expected, before she felt satisfied that she had got to the place where Miss Verity and she had stood the day before.

“Can I have passed it?” she asked herself, “and can I possibly have missed the feather, or can it have blown away?” and she stopped short, feeling a little anxious.

But just then a very faint “coo” reached her ears; it was scarcely to be heard, more like the shadow of the sound, but still it was plainly in front of her, and it encouraged Mary. She had not come too far, and stepping on again, she soon recognised the spot, and – a little bit on again, and she gave a tiny cry – there, safely nestling among the branches, within reach of her hand – was the wee grey, or rather “dove-coloured” feather.

“I might have known it would be all right – and of course anything fairy-ish couldn’t blow away,” she thought.

She picked up the feather, and took off her little fur cap, into which she fastened it without any difficulty, for though she had no pin – it isn’t often, is it, that little girls have pins “handy” when wanted? – it seemed to catch into the skin of the fur, all of itself.

“It reminds me,” thought Mary, “of ‘Up the airy mountain – ’ that part about bed jacket, green cap, and white owl’s feather – though I certainly don’t want to be stolen away, like little Bridget, for seven years long, even by the Cooies. But I can trust them.”

Then she placed her foot exactly below the branch where she had found the feather and stepped forward carefully, one, two, three, four – up to seven, and then stood still again.

At first she really thought for a moment or two that the wood-pigeons had been playing her a trick. The bushes and trees on both sides seemed to have got so very thick and close; she could not see the least sign of an opening for even a rabbit to get through on either the left or the right! And it felt so cold; so much colder, suddenly, it had become.

“I must go home,” thought Mary, feeling ready to cry. “I believe the Cooies are imps after all, and not nice fairies. Yes, I’d better go home,” and just at that moment came the sound of the big bell, not very loud, but quite distinct Pleasance had not forgotten to ring it. “Three o’clock,” thought Mary, “I had no idea I had been so long. Yes, I must turn back.”

But – what was that other sound? Again, from among the bushes on the left, came the soft, encouraging little voice, “coo-coo,” – “don’t be so distrustful, Mary; try again,” it seemed to say, and as the little girl still hesitated a sudden glimmer of light flickered for a moment through the branches somehow, down to the ground, and then faded as quickly as it had come.

Mary stooped, and with her hands, well protected in their thick winter gloves, tried to push back some of the leaves. To her surprise they, or rather the branches on which they were growing, yielded to her touch in a wonderful way, as if they had been waiting to be put aside, and then she saw before her a very narrow, very dark little path, but a path, though it scarcely looked as if even a little doggie could have made its way along it! But her spirits had got up again by this time, and she pressed on bravely. It took some courage – it was like walking through the very high corn in a very fully grown corn-field, if ever you have done such a mischievous thing? – only with dark trees overhead, and no light anywhere scarcely – all gloom instead of golden, sunlight yellow. Still it could be done, and though Mary’s heart was beating very fast, she persevered.

And before long she was rewarded. As the Cooies had promised, a few minutes were enough to bring her to the end of the chilly dark path, then she saw before her, close at hand, a little white gate.

When I say a little white gate, I do not mean a low one. On the contrary it was high, a good deal higher than the top of Mary’s head, but quite narrow, and it seemed closely barred or wired, so that she could scarcely see through it. She had not time, however, to judge as to this, for almost as soon as she came to a stop in front of it she heard a swish and rustle in the air, and down came from she knew not where a whole flight, or flights of birds, in great excitement, who settled themselves on the gate, inside and outside, so to say, as if to defend it.

They did not chirp or chatter or even coo – “cooing” indeed would not have seemed to suit the state they were in, though she very quickly saw that they were all pigeons, or doves, or birds of that family, though of very varying sizes and colour, but so many, and all so plainly intending to prevent her trying to open the gate that she would have been quite afraid to try to do so. There was perfect silence, however.

“They must be all the uncles and aunts and cousins and relations of the Cooies,” thought Mary. “I expect I shall have to go home, after all, without seeing the secret of the forest, as they certainly don’t seem to want to let me pass in.” She was again mistaken.

Another little rustle in the air, quite a tiny one this time, and Mary felt something alight on each of her shoulders. She glanced up – yes, it was her own friends.

“Coo-coo,” they whispered to her. Then one of them or both – she was often not sure if only one, or the two together, were speaking – turned to the mass of birds clinging to the gate.

“How inhospitable you are!” they said. “What a welcome to a friend! Don’t you see she is a friend? She has the Queen’s feather, and she has learnt our language,” and then Mary felt that all the pairs of eyes of all the many birds were looking at her, and scarcely knowing that she did so, she raised her hand to her head, and touched the little grey feather nestling in her cap.

Instantly there came another flutter, and in the twinkling of an eye the gate was cleared. Still more, in some way which she could not see, it was opened, or opened itself, dividing, narrow though it was, in the middle, and the birds, as if by magic, arranged themselves in two long rows on each side, seeming to mark a path for her to step along, for of actual path there was none. Inside the gate there was just the very softest, shortest, greenest grass you could imagine, like lovely springy velvet or plush to walk on, and Mary stepped forward, feeling as if each time she put down her foot a sort of pleasure came through it.

Just at first, she scarcely took in all the wonderful things that had happened since she passed through the white gate. The rows of birds made her feel a little shy, for she saw that all their round eyes were fixed on her. But by degrees she began to notice everything more closely.

She seemed still to hear a sort of flutter and rustle that kept on steadily, and yet the birds were quite motionless – those in front of her, that is to say, but after a moment or two she turned round to see if she could find out the cause of the sounds she heard, and then she discovered that as soon as she had passed, the birds rose in couples and flew off, as if to say, “we have received her politely, and now we have other things to attend to.”

On the whole Mary was rather glad of this. The numbers of birds made her, as I have said, feel rather shy and confused.

“I only want my own Cooies,” she thought, “and not all their uncles and aunts and cousins,” and she glanced forward again, trying to see how many more she would have to pass, and at that moment, to her great delight, she caught sight of something she had not seen before.

Right in front of her was another gate, but this time it was quite a low one, she could almost have jumped over it, she fancied, and it was not white, but green – grass green, which was perhaps the reason she had not seen it till she was quite near it. And the rows of birds stopped on this side of it, and, best of all, her Cooies flew down from her shoulders and perched themselves on the gate, which opened as the other had done, for her to pass through, the last of the stranger birds fluttering off as she did so, leaving her alone with her own two friends.

“Oh, I’m so glad they’ve all gone except you two,” she said, with a little sigh of satisfaction. “What quantities of relations you have, Cooies! Do you know, they made me feel quite giddy? I shall have you all to myself now, and you can explain everything to me, and show me all over this beautiful place.”

“Suppose you sit down and rest for a few minutes first,” said Mr Coo. His manners became doubly polite and kind, now that Mary was his guest. “You have walked a good way, farther than you think, and you can see a great many things you may like to ask about, from where you are.”

“Where,” began Mary, “where shall I sit down?” she was going to say, but before she got further she found this was a question she did not need to ask, for just at one side of where she was standing she caught sight of the dearest and queerest arm-chair you ever saw. It was made of moss, or at least covered in moss, green and fresh, but not at all damp-looking. Nor was it so; on the contrary it was deliciously dry and springy.

Mary seated herself with great satisfaction, and the Cooies settled themselves on each arm of her chair and looked at her, their heads well on one side, which she had come to know meant that they were in high good humour.

Then she gazed about her.

She seemed to be in a very, very large bower, all carpeted with the same lovely short grass that she had noticed on first entering, and with smaller bowers opening, like cloisters, on all sides. Up above, it was very high, so high that she could not clearly see if there was any kind of roof or ceiling, or only the interlacing branches of the great tall trees meeting overhead. These trees walled it all in very thickly, it was easy to see, and thus made the dark, almost black look which this innermost spot of the forest had when seen from the outside.

But indeed everything was different from what Mary could have had any expectation of.

To begin with, the air was deliciously mild and warm, though not too hot, or with the shut-in feeling of a conservatory. On the contrary, little breezes were fluttering about, bearing the sweet fresh scents of a garden in late spring or early summer. And the light?

Where did it come from?

Mary gazed about for a minute or two before she spoke. She felt content for a little just to sit and look, and then she was rather afraid of asking any “silly” questions, for she had found out that the Cooies were far cleverer than any one could have imagined, which she explained to her own satisfaction by deciding that they were half, if not whole, fairies!

And this she felt more sure of than ever before, now that she had been led by them into this wonderful bower.

But where did the light come from?

It did not seem like sunshine; it was almost too soft and mellow, and yet it was certainly not moonlight, which is always cold and thin. It was more like sunshine coming through some gently tinted glass, or even silk, but it was different from any light that Mary could liken it to, in her own mind. So this seemed a sensible question to ask.

“Cooies, dear,” she began, “I do feel so happy, and I do thank you for having brought me here to this lovely place. I really feel as if I never wanted to go away. But – it is very, very strange. My head is full of puzzles. And you did say I might ask questions?”

“Certainly,” Mr Coo replied, “ask any you like, though you must understand that we cannot promise you answers to all. Or at least not the kind of answers you want, exactly.”

Mary nodded her head. A feeling came over her that perhaps she would not really want answers to all, that it might spoil the nice part of the puzzles. Still, some things she did want to know.