From The Snow Goose
She was desperately frightened of the ugly man she had come to see, for
legend had already begun to gather about Rhayader, and the native wild-
fowlers hated him for interfering with their sport.
But greater than her fear was the need of that which she bore. For locked in
her child’s heart was the knowledge, picked up somewhere in the
swampland, that this ogre who lived in the lighthouse had magic that could
heal injured things.
She had never seen Rhayader before and was dose to fleeing in panic at the
dark apparition that appeared at the studio door, drawn by her footsteps- the
black head and beard, the sinister hump, and the crooked claw.
She stood there staring, poised like a disturbed marsh bird for instant flight.
But his voice was deep and kind when he spoke to her,
‘What is it, child?
She stood her ground, and then edged timidly forward. The thing she carried
in her arms was a large white bird, and it was quite still. There were stains of
blood on its whiteness and on her kirtle where she had held it to her.
The girl placed it in his arms. ‘I found it, sir. It’s hurted. Is it still alive?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think so. Come in, child, come in.’
Rhayader went inside, bearing the bird, which he placed upon a table,
where it moved feebly. Curiosity overcame fear. The girl followed and found
herself in a room warmed by a coal fire, shining with many coloured
pictures that covered the walls, and full of a strange but pleasant smell.
The bird fluttered. With his good hand Rhayader spread one of its immense
white pinions. The end was beautifully tipped with black.
Rhayader looked and marvelled, and said: ‘Child: where did you find it?’
‘In t’ marsh, sir, where fowlers had been. What -what is it, sir?’
‘It’s a snow goose from Canada. But how in all heaven came it here?’
The name seemed to mean nothing to the little girl. Her deep violet eyes,
shining out of the dirt on her thin face, were fixed with concern on the
injured bird.
She said: ‘Can’ ee heal it, sir?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Rhayader. ‘We will try. Come, you shall help me.’
There were scissors and bandages and splints on a shelf, and he was
marvelously deft, even with the crooked claw that managed to hold things.
He said; ‘Ah, she has been shot, poor thing. Her leg is broken, and the wing
tip! but not badly. See, we will clip her primaries, so that we can bandage it,
but in the spring the feathers will grow and she will be able to fly again.
We’ll bandage it close to her body, so that she cannot move it until it has set,
and then make a splint for the poor leg.’
Her fears forgotten, the child watched, fascinated, as he worked, and all the
more so because while he fixed a fine splint to the shattered leg he told her
the most wonderful story.
The bird was a young one, no more than a year old. She was born in a
northern land far, far across the seas, a land belonging to England. Flying to
the south to escape the snow and ice and bitter cold, a great storm had
seized her and whirled and buffeted her about. It was a truly terrible storm,
stronger than her great wings, stronger than anything. For days and nights it
held her in its grip and there was nothing she could do but fly before it.
When finally it had blown it self out and her sure instincts took her south
again, she was over a different land and surrounded by strange birds that she
had never seen before. At last, exhausted by her ordeal, she had sunk to rest
in a friendly green marsh, only to be met by the blast from the hunter’s gun.
A bitter reception for a visiting princess,’ concluded Rhayader. ‘We will call
her “La Princesse Perdue,” the Lost Princess. And in a few days she will be
feeling much better. See!’ He reached into his pocket and produced a
handful of grain. The snow goose opened its round yellow eyes and nibbled
at it.
The child laughed with delight, and then suddenly caught her breath with
alarm as the full import of where she was pressed in upon her, and without a
word she turned and fled out of the door.
