Little Tom

by Václav Tille

It was a rare and precious piece of work, which the herb woman had been told was a relic of olden times, having come from the castle in the wood above the hut, to which it had been brought by one of the knights from the Holy Land.

All day long, the herb woman had much to do in caring for her house, fetching and drying her herbs and brewing her medicines. From one week's end to the other, she was never idle. But, on Sunday afternoons, when her work was done, she would take the little altar and place it on the press between the windows. Sitting down before it in a comfortable leather armchair, she would read to herself from a very old book, ornamented with hammered brass and with colored stones set in the covers. Her book told all about the patient Griselda, the siege of Troy, about Siegfried, Brunswick, Blanik, and many other brave heroes. Around the first letter of each story, were painted knights, princesses, men-at-arms, magic castles, and scenes from strange, oversea countries.

Looking at the pictures in her book and at the little figures of the altar, the old woman would think of bygone days when she was a bright little child, playing with her friends in make-believe weddings and christenings before this same little altar; and when her grandmother, sitting in the same old chair, would read to them stories from the old book and tell them of the former fame of their knightly home; of how the knights fared forth to the Holy Land, while their wives sat at home in the great castle, embroidering silks and cambrics, and the little children played in the castle garden.

Her thoughts travelled back to herself, growing into beautiful girlhood; then, as a bride and the happy wife of a good husband; later, as the mother of two beautiful babies; then, sad memories crowded her weary head. Her husband and the two little children had died and she was left alone, without any relatives and without money, and with only this little hut in the shadow of the wood where she might live and earn her food.

Often she sat like this, until the shadows of night had gathered around her; and the older she grew, the more heavily these sad thoughts weighed upon her. Each year, she felt herself growing weaker and began to be fearful that she could not manage to work at home and to gather the herbs in the woods and fields. In the winter, when the garden was covered with snow and the great drifts kept her from the village, she became even more sad to think how alone she was, the last of her race, with no one to whom she could tell her troubles and who would be a companion to her.

Now, one year, it was the day before Christmas. The snow had drifted against the little house clear to the eaves. As was her custom, she had brought from the forest a little Christmas tree and, having set it in a box, in earth carried from the wood, began to trim it. She hung from the branches gilded nuts and draped the tree with festoons of colored paper. Then, she fastened tiny, wax candles to the branches and then she peeled some apples and, finally, lighted the little candles, thinking of the used to dance and play olden days at home when they danced and played around the Christmas tree. The fire burned cheerily in the broad hearth with its green glass tiles. The room was warm and filled with the odor of mint and of lavender. As she sat thus, alone before the tree, presently, her head fell forward upon her hands which rested upon the linen press, and she slept.

The old lady dreamed she was a girl again, in her Sunday dress and with her braided hair held by a red ribbon, kneeling before the little altar. Suddenly, she saw the Holy Virgin smiling at her and the little Baby stretching out its tiny hands and handing the golden apple to her; the sheep began to bleat, the shepherds were bowing, and the three kings swung their burning censers and walked toward her over the shining surface of the linen press. She even heard them call her by name and speak to her.

The old lady woke with a start, but the voices seemed to call to her faintly, as if from a great distance. She looked about her, but saw no one. The same faint sound of voices was still to be heard, and, now, right under the tree, she perceived a tiny little man in a red coat, just as if one of the three kings had really come from the altar and wakened her. Not one whit surprised, she bent toward him. It seemed to her that she had always known him.

The little man scrambled up to the edge of the old book which still lay upon the press, bowed, stroked his black beard, and spoke: »Honored lady, my people send me to ask of you, in the name of our king, a favor. A prince has been born to us and we should like to celebrate his christening here before this little altar, which is most precious to us. Our kingdom lies in the corridors under the old castle and extends to the well by the little chapel, and even to your hut. Our forefathers were true servants of your ancestors, the knights of the castle, and guarded for them their treasure. In this little altar are pictured the faces of our former kings.«

The old lady was pleased that the gnomes wished thus to honor her little altar and readily gave her consent, that they might come to it in order to celebrate the christening of their prince. The messenger bowed and, running quickly down her dress to the floor, disappeared through a little hole by the hearth. Immediately, from behind the great hearth, came the most wonderful procession she had ever seen.