Neighbors told Catriona that her mother had died, and her mother’s sister, and her father’s brother, and her father’s brother’s wife, and both their sons, her only cousins.
The catalogue of catastrophe was so extended that Catriona did not notice, at first, that her father’s name was not included in it — but when she did, the flicker of hope that burst forth in her frightened mind was quenched within a minute.
“Your father,” the neighbors said, “was driven mad by loss and grief. He fled into the wild forest, determined to live like a bear or a wolf — for only bears and wolves, he said, know the true joy of unselfconsciousness. Before he went he cast the bell that he had made for our church into the tarn, declaring that the spirits of the lake were welcome to roll it back and forth, so that its echoes would toll within his heart like the knell of doom. He had heard a story, it seems, about another founder of bells who went to dwell in the wild forest, among the fairy-folk.”
“He told me the story half a hundred times, when I was a child,” Catriona admitted. “But that was a tale of vaulting ambition, about a man who sought unprecedented glory in the mountain heights because he was seduced by a fairy. If what you say is true, my father has been stolen rather than seduced, by demons and not by fairies.”
“We are good Christians,” the neighbors said piously. “We know that there is no difference between demons and fairies, no matter what those with the second sight may say. The house is yours now, by right of inheritance, and the foundry too — you are welcome to make what use of them you will.” Perhaps that was honest generosity, or perhaps the villagers thought that the foundry and house were both accursed by virtue of the death and madness to which they had played host. In either case, the donation was useless; if Catriona and Handsel could not run a workshop in the city, they certainly could not run an iron-foundry in a Highland village.
“There is only one thing to be done,” Catriona told the children. “I must go into the wild forest to search for my father. If only I can find him, I might make him see sense. At least I can show him that he is not alone. Pray that the idea of meeting his grandchildren for the first time will persuade him that it is better to live as a human than run wild as a bear or a wolf.”
“Will he not be a werewolf, if he has been away too long?” Handsel asked. “There is a story, is there not …?”
“You are thinking of the tale in which an abandoned boy became king of the bears,” Catriona told him, firmly, although she knew that he was thinking of another bloodcurdling tale of Alastor’s. “He called upon their aid to reclaim his inheritance, if you remember, and they obliged. What I must do is help my father to reclaim his heritage.”
“But what shall we do,” Chanterelle asked, in the whisper that was now her voice, “if you are lost, and cannot return? What shall we do if the fairy-folk take you away, or if the werewolves eat you? What will become of us then?”
“I will return,” said Catriona, even more firmly than before. “Neither fairy nor werewolf shall prevent me.” She knew even as she spoke, however, that there were too many stories in which such promises were made and never kept — and so did Chanterelle.
Handsel had sense enough to hold his tongue, and wish his mother well, but Chanterelle was too frightened to do anything but beg her not to go. Handsel had enough of the city in him to know that stories were not always to be taken literally, but Chanterelle — perhaps because she was younger — did not. Catriona could not comfort her, no matter how hard she tried.
Catriona realized that when she had been a child she had known the reality of the wild woods as well as the stories that were told about them, while Chanterelle knew only what she had heard in stories. Alastor had overlooked that point of difference when he had insisted that the children must be told the stories that he had known when he was a boy.
“Please don’t be afraid, Chanterelle,” Catriona said, when she finally set out. “The fairy-folk never harmed me before.”
“But they will not remember you,” said Chanterelle. “You’re a stranger now. Don’t go.”
“I must,” said Catriona. “What earthly use is an iron-foundry without an iron-master?”
The two children found that the charity of their new neighbors lasted a full week. At first they were able to go from door to door, saying: “We are the grandchildren of the village iron-master and our mother has gone to search for him in the wild forest. Could you spare us a loaf of bread and a little cheese, or perhaps an egg or two, until our mother returns?”
As the days went by, however, the women who came to the door when they knocked began to say: “We have fed you once; it is someone else’s turn”—and when the children pointed out that everyone in the village who was willing had taken a turn, the women said: “We have no guarantee that your mother will ever return, and even if she does, she has no means to repay us. The parish has its own poor; you are strangers. We have done all that we must, and all that we can.”
When ten days had gone by without any sign of their mother, Handsel and Chanterelle went to the village church and said to the priest: “Advise us, please, as to what we should do. We have prayed long and hard, but our prayers have not been answered.”
“I am not surprised, alas,” said the priest. “Your grandfather was a good man once, but in casting the bell intended for our church into the dark waters of the tarn he committed an act of sacrilege as well as an act of folly. There is a story, you see, about an iron-master who was seduced away from faith and family when a church-bell he had founded was lost in a lake. Your grandfather was knowingly putting himself in that man’s place, asking for damnation. It is good of you to pray for his return, but if he does not ask forgiveness for himself, one can hardly expect Heaven to grant it, and even then—”
“Yes,” said Handsel, “we understand all that. But what shall we do?”
“There is no living for you here, alas,” said the priest with a sigh. “You must go into the forest in search of your mother, and pray with all the might of your little hearts that she can still be found. It is possible, after all, that she is still alive. The forest is full of food, for those bold enough to risk its hazards. It is the season for hazelnuts, and bramble-berries, and there are always mushrooms. It is time to commit yourself to the charity of Heaven, my little darlings. I know that Heaven will not let you down, if you have virtue enough to match your courage. There is a story about a boy named Handsel, as I recall, and his little sister, which ended happily enough — not that I, a priest, can approve of the pagan taint which such stories invariably have. In the final analysis, there is only one true story, and it is the story of the world.”
“That isn’t so, sir,” said Chanterelle. “There are hundreds of true stories — perhaps thousands. I only know a few, but my grandfather must be old enough to know far more.”
“You are only a child,” the priest said tolerantly. “When you are older, you will know what I mean. If your grandfather can recover his lost wits, he will be wise to forget all the stories he ever knew, except for the one which holds the promise of our salvation. I wish you all the luck in the world, little Gretel, and I am sure that if you deserve it, Heaven will serve you well.”
“My name is Chanterelle, not Gretel,” Chanterelle corrected him.
“Of course,” said the priest serenely, “and you can sing like a nightingale, Chanterelle, as your mother could when she was young and lovely?”