*I wrote this story years ago, and I'm glad to publish it here now. It shares the title with an essay by George MacDonald. Many of the ideas that inspired the story share elements from the imagination of both MacDonald and Kenneth Grahame, especially those found in Grahame's lesser-known work The Golden Age, in which his reminiscences about childhood are developed. MacDonald's fairy tales factored in much more than his prose, and I still return to them when my imagination needs to be refreshed.
The Fantastic Imagination
On the eve of a very important birthday for them both, for the boy and girl were twins -- though the boy had golden hair and the girl's was dark as night -- they woke with a start.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I'm sure I don't know," said she.
It was a dull sound, a muted call from the deep forest that spread itself in all directions around their stone house. Without a word more the two children rose and looked out the nursery's southern window; the clouds rushed by the waning moon that now lit up the tops of seemingly endless trees, then was covered -- and they could see the forest no longer.
It was a dull sound, a muted call from the deep forest that spread itself in all directions around their stone house. Without a word more the two children rose and looked out the nursery's southern window; the clouds rushed by the waning moon that now lit up the tops of seemingly endless trees, then was covered -- and they could see the forest no longer.
The girl grabbed her brother's still-chubby hand and smiled into his wide eyes. Neither spoke, nor did they have to -- they sprang for coats and shoes and crept into the hall.
Downstairs they heard their parents planning events for the next day, though mostly they heard their father saying things like, "Not this time, Mother," and, "They are too old for such games, don't you think?" and worst of all, "It's time for them both to put such things aside." At first, the children forgot why they came out of the nursery at all; then, when their parents stopped talking for a moment, they heard the call once more, and this time it was clearer. The children's hearts pounded and the sounds from downstairs faded.
Sparkling stars and swaying branches watched as two figures, one light, one dark, ran swiftly into the night.
Many times the children had explored the forest, though never at night. Yet their beating hearts bade them go on, and on they went, hand in hand. Over and again the sound called to them, and they plunged deeper into wood and vale. The moon watched between clouds, for the wind still swept them over her face as she strained to see what would happen.
Then, all at once and without warning, the arms of the pleasant forest began to thin, and the children were alarmed, for they thought the forest had no end.
"It's not as deep as I had thought," he said.
"Nor as tall," she whispered.
They stopped, and there they stood, afraid to see the end of the wood. Her long dark hair blew in a gust of wind that found its way through many trees, and he looked at her and held her hand tighter. On they went, though slowly now and without hearing anything but the wind above as it played between moon and forest.
Finally, the trees gave way and the children stopped and looked into darkness; the moon was now hidden behind thick clouds and nothing was visible for a long time. A cold air met them from somewhere below, and the more the two children stared into the night, the more their eyes saw what was ahead: a bottomless void that spread itself, it seemed to them, forever east and west.
"It can't be," he said, and she thought the same. They began to walk along the edge of the nearest cliff, but soon stopped, for a crumbling sound of falling rocks checked them.
"We'll fall if we go on," she said. They backed up from the edge and sat with their backs upon a tree. There they waited for the light of the moon, but it did not come. Soon, the children began to weep. They leaned upon one another and cried for the end of the wood, and cried because they knew not what to do.
Shortly, another sound met their ears: from the east a terrible cry filled the air -- it was the baying of hounds. The children had heard the hounds on a hunt many times, but never at night -- and they were frightened. They forgot their tears and ran quickly west, though when they tried to hide within the trees it seemed the hounds were closer and coming from all sides. The edge of the forest and the edge of the void fought between the twins as they ran, now under branches, now slipping dreadfully close to the dark hole. On and on they ran, and the path narrowed, and the hounds neared until they had to stop -- for the void swallowed the forest, and roots of mighty pines shot out of cold cliffs and pointed to nothing.
The children would have wept once more, but a voice, a hurried and husky voice, said, "On my back, on my back at once!" They obeyed and scrambled upon a white beast, and no fear of him entered their hearts. Immediately they flew through the forest until the baying of the hounds was louder than it ever was, and the children hid their faces in the mane of the animal as it sprang over rocks and through streams, and finally stopped in a small clearing. "The hounds are close, children," the beast said, "do you trust me?" They spoke not a word, but squeezed hands, closed their eyes, and buried their faces deeper into the wild mane.
They heard a snort, and all the muscles of the beast flexed as it turned to face the void. It charged full speed; the moon peeked between two clouds, and the children, at the same moment, peeked to see where the beast was taking them. The moon's light lit up the void and beyond it they saw a sheer wall rising ever upward. "Hold on!" the beast roared.
"We'll be smashed!" the children thought together and hid their faces. The moonbeam was gone too, for the moon could not bear to watch. For one long moment the children felt they were in the air, but their fear was all but gone. If they had been watching, they would have seen a ledge open for them in the rising wall, a small ledge that opened further as they landed and moved forward.
"Children," the beast breathed, "you may walk if you wish." The twins slid off either side of the stag, for it was a stag, and looked at him. It seemed to them he glowed in his own light, and in it they beheld his mighty antlers and furious eyes.
The boy spoke first: "Are we hunted no longer?"
"You are," said the stag.
"By whom?" the girl whispered.
"By me," was the answer. "Come." And they knew his voice.
They held his mane on either side and walked into the fissure in the rock. The walls were smooth and the children ran their hands upon them, the stag's light reflecting colors and shapes both beautiful and mysterious. They were further comforted, and the girl, turning to look in the eye of their guide, asked:
"Were the hounds real?"
"Yes, as real as you and I."
"Why did they hunt us?" the boy asked.
"The hounds hunt all children -- to give them to the void." The children asked no more questions.
They walked on beside the stag in silence, looking at the rock walls beside them, listening to the click-clack of his hooves upon the stone floor. Suddenly, they found themselves in a mist and felt the walls were gone, as though they emerged from another opening in the rock. The click-clack of the stag's hooves was gone, too, and they knew they walked on sand.
Far away, from a horizon they had not been aware of, the sun broke from the ocean before them and dried himself in the breeze of the sea. The mist lifted in the light, and the children bathed their faces in the warmth. For a long while they stood and looked upon the water and beach, and smelled the smells of sand and foam and heard the sounds of swelling tide and receding surf. Then, all of a sudden, the children heard small sounds, too, like small shouts upon the waves. They looked closer and saw, upon a hill that overlooked the water, a group of daffodils shivering in the wind; with their green slender arms they picked up tiny stones, which seemed to kick and shout, and threw them into the crashing waves below.
The children laughed, for the stones rolled themselves back to the golden flowers to be tossed, kicking and shouting, again into the sea. They would have watched this game a long while but for the sound that next met their ears -- the call that woke them from their sleep the night before, yet clearer and softer, and quite close.
"Do you wish to know who called you -- and who also calls me?" the stag asked, for he felt drawn to the sound as they were. Without an answer, the three moved down the beach.
They walked some time, and the sun grew strong; the children were thinking of the heat when the boy noticed a fluttering sound. He looked at his sister and smiled, for a swarm of crimson butterflies had shaped themselves into a crown over her head. She looked to what he smiled at, but the butterflies burst from her head and became a sword in her brother's hand. They laughed together as he swung the sword through the air and the creatures did their best to keep up the game. Many times the red-winged butterflies changed their shape to the amusement of the twins until, with the sun still hot and rising, they fell upon the sand tired and hungry.
Their new playmates became a new shape, and the children were covered by the most beautiful umbrella they had ever seen. When they looked upon it as the sun glinted through, every shade of red seemed to dance in the sky and upon their faces.
Their thoughts of food were quickly heeded as well, as a rainbow of hummingbirds brought them bowls of brimming nectar. They drank and were filled.
Behind them the stag lay in the shade of a large rock, and a beautiful woman dressed in shimmering blue brought him water from a hidden spring.
Soon they felt rested, and the sun hid himself in fluffy clouds. The butterflies began to wander down the beach, and the children watched as they flew out of sight.
"Children," the stag rose and lifted his head, pointing away from the sea. "Your way leads into the wood. Follow me." The twins were sorry to leave the beach and the green sea, but soon, having entered the shadows of pines and walked upon the floor of moss and turf, they were glad once more. And the call, though it had not newly sounded, resonated in their hearts' ears, and they knew they were on the right path.
The twins held hands as they walked and delighted themselves in one another and in what they beheld: as far as they could see, wild flowers sprang up to greet them, and the animals of the forest stopped their work to wave or nod their heads at them. The sound of flowing water was always in their path, though they never saw its source. Many other things they saw, but the most delightful came within a clearing -- in the center, a small round cottage stood. Smoke rose from the chimney, and large windows revealed a happy scene.
And it was at this place that their hearts and minds agreed: the call had led them here.
The children looked and saw this: an old man sat in an armchair with a child on his lap, and on the floor sat many more children. All of them seemed to be listening as the man spoke.
"Do we know him?" asked the twins.
"I suppose you do, though you've not seen him thus," answered the stag.
As they looked on, it seemed the old man told a multitude of wonderful tales, and they would have stood listening forever. At the end of a story about a golden key, the smallest child asked a question as though he spoke for the twins, for they thought the same question together, and the old man answered, "Why should we be able to imagine things that are not possible?" And he looked up into the eyes of the twins.
All at once, the scene before the two children began to darken and fade as though they were both lifted into the sky; they closed their eyes and held tightly to the other's hand. Soon they felt the floor of their very own room beneath their feet. It was as though they had only been up to look out the window; they looked at one another, hung up their coats, and went back to bed.
The next day their birthday still came, and they had all the games their mother wanted for them. There were many gifts wrapped in bright packages both large and small. Yet, when all the guests were gone and the lights had burned down, their father came to them and said, "I was afraid you might think all this too childish, but your mother knows you well." He motioned for them to follow him into the library. Their father lit a light upon his desk and pulled out an old book from a drawer. "I have one last gift to give. This book has wanted reading for some time, and should never have dust upon it. It holds true fairy tales, and we shall read from it every night."
The children opened it together and read the title of the first story; it was called "The Hunt for the White Stag."
Downstairs they heard their parents planning events for the next day, though mostly they heard their father saying things like, "Not this time, Mother," and, "They are too old for such games, don't you think?" and worst of all, "It's time for them both to put such things aside." At first, the children forgot why they came out of the nursery at all; then, when their parents stopped talking for a moment, they heard the call once more, and this time it was clearer. The children's hearts pounded and the sounds from downstairs faded.
Sparkling stars and swaying branches watched as two figures, one light, one dark, ran swiftly into the night.
Many times the children had explored the forest, though never at night. Yet their beating hearts bade them go on, and on they went, hand in hand. Over and again the sound called to them, and they plunged deeper into wood and vale. The moon watched between clouds, for the wind still swept them over her face as she strained to see what would happen.
Then, all at once and without warning, the arms of the pleasant forest began to thin, and the children were alarmed, for they thought the forest had no end.
"It's not as deep as I had thought," he said.
"Nor as tall," she whispered.
They stopped, and there they stood, afraid to see the end of the wood. Her long dark hair blew in a gust of wind that found its way through many trees, and he looked at her and held her hand tighter. On they went, though slowly now and without hearing anything but the wind above as it played between moon and forest.
Finally, the trees gave way and the children stopped and looked into darkness; the moon was now hidden behind thick clouds and nothing was visible for a long time. A cold air met them from somewhere below, and the more the two children stared into the night, the more their eyes saw what was ahead: a bottomless void that spread itself, it seemed to them, forever east and west.
"It can't be," he said, and she thought the same. They began to walk along the edge of the nearest cliff, but soon stopped, for a crumbling sound of falling rocks checked them.
"We'll fall if we go on," she said. They backed up from the edge and sat with their backs upon a tree. There they waited for the light of the moon, but it did not come. Soon, the children began to weep. They leaned upon one another and cried for the end of the wood, and cried because they knew not what to do.
Shortly, another sound met their ears: from the east a terrible cry filled the air -- it was the baying of hounds. The children had heard the hounds on a hunt many times, but never at night -- and they were frightened. They forgot their tears and ran quickly west, though when they tried to hide within the trees it seemed the hounds were closer and coming from all sides. The edge of the forest and the edge of the void fought between the twins as they ran, now under branches, now slipping dreadfully close to the dark hole. On and on they ran, and the path narrowed, and the hounds neared until they had to stop -- for the void swallowed the forest, and roots of mighty pines shot out of cold cliffs and pointed to nothing.
The children would have wept once more, but a voice, a hurried and husky voice, said, "On my back, on my back at once!" They obeyed and scrambled upon a white beast, and no fear of him entered their hearts. Immediately they flew through the forest until the baying of the hounds was louder than it ever was, and the children hid their faces in the mane of the animal as it sprang over rocks and through streams, and finally stopped in a small clearing. "The hounds are close, children," the beast said, "do you trust me?" They spoke not a word, but squeezed hands, closed their eyes, and buried their faces deeper into the wild mane.
They heard a snort, and all the muscles of the beast flexed as it turned to face the void. It charged full speed; the moon peeked between two clouds, and the children, at the same moment, peeked to see where the beast was taking them. The moon's light lit up the void and beyond it they saw a sheer wall rising ever upward. "Hold on!" the beast roared.
"We'll be smashed!" the children thought together and hid their faces. The moonbeam was gone too, for the moon could not bear to watch. For one long moment the children felt they were in the air, but their fear was all but gone. If they had been watching, they would have seen a ledge open for them in the rising wall, a small ledge that opened further as they landed and moved forward.
"Children," the beast breathed, "you may walk if you wish." The twins slid off either side of the stag, for it was a stag, and looked at him. It seemed to them he glowed in his own light, and in it they beheld his mighty antlers and furious eyes.
The boy spoke first: "Are we hunted no longer?"
"You are," said the stag.
"By whom?" the girl whispered.
"By me," was the answer. "Come." And they knew his voice.
They held his mane on either side and walked into the fissure in the rock. The walls were smooth and the children ran their hands upon them, the stag's light reflecting colors and shapes both beautiful and mysterious. They were further comforted, and the girl, turning to look in the eye of their guide, asked:
"Were the hounds real?"
"Yes, as real as you and I."
"Why did they hunt us?" the boy asked.
"The hounds hunt all children -- to give them to the void." The children asked no more questions.
They walked on beside the stag in silence, looking at the rock walls beside them, listening to the click-clack of his hooves upon the stone floor. Suddenly, they found themselves in a mist and felt the walls were gone, as though they emerged from another opening in the rock. The click-clack of the stag's hooves was gone, too, and they knew they walked on sand.
Far away, from a horizon they had not been aware of, the sun broke from the ocean before them and dried himself in the breeze of the sea. The mist lifted in the light, and the children bathed their faces in the warmth. For a long while they stood and looked upon the water and beach, and smelled the smells of sand and foam and heard the sounds of swelling tide and receding surf. Then, all of a sudden, the children heard small sounds, too, like small shouts upon the waves. They looked closer and saw, upon a hill that overlooked the water, a group of daffodils shivering in the wind; with their green slender arms they picked up tiny stones, which seemed to kick and shout, and threw them into the crashing waves below.
The children laughed, for the stones rolled themselves back to the golden flowers to be tossed, kicking and shouting, again into the sea. They would have watched this game a long while but for the sound that next met their ears -- the call that woke them from their sleep the night before, yet clearer and softer, and quite close.
"Do you wish to know who called you -- and who also calls me?" the stag asked, for he felt drawn to the sound as they were. Without an answer, the three moved down the beach.
They walked some time, and the sun grew strong; the children were thinking of the heat when the boy noticed a fluttering sound. He looked at his sister and smiled, for a swarm of crimson butterflies had shaped themselves into a crown over her head. She looked to what he smiled at, but the butterflies burst from her head and became a sword in her brother's hand. They laughed together as he swung the sword through the air and the creatures did their best to keep up the game. Many times the red-winged butterflies changed their shape to the amusement of the twins until, with the sun still hot and rising, they fell upon the sand tired and hungry.
Their new playmates became a new shape, and the children were covered by the most beautiful umbrella they had ever seen. When they looked upon it as the sun glinted through, every shade of red seemed to dance in the sky and upon their faces.
Their thoughts of food were quickly heeded as well, as a rainbow of hummingbirds brought them bowls of brimming nectar. They drank and were filled.
Behind them the stag lay in the shade of a large rock, and a beautiful woman dressed in shimmering blue brought him water from a hidden spring.
Soon they felt rested, and the sun hid himself in fluffy clouds. The butterflies began to wander down the beach, and the children watched as they flew out of sight.
"Children," the stag rose and lifted his head, pointing away from the sea. "Your way leads into the wood. Follow me." The twins were sorry to leave the beach and the green sea, but soon, having entered the shadows of pines and walked upon the floor of moss and turf, they were glad once more. And the call, though it had not newly sounded, resonated in their hearts' ears, and they knew they were on the right path.
The twins held hands as they walked and delighted themselves in one another and in what they beheld: as far as they could see, wild flowers sprang up to greet them, and the animals of the forest stopped their work to wave or nod their heads at them. The sound of flowing water was always in their path, though they never saw its source. Many other things they saw, but the most delightful came within a clearing -- in the center, a small round cottage stood. Smoke rose from the chimney, and large windows revealed a happy scene.
And it was at this place that their hearts and minds agreed: the call had led them here.
The children looked and saw this: an old man sat in an armchair with a child on his lap, and on the floor sat many more children. All of them seemed to be listening as the man spoke.
"Do we know him?" asked the twins.
"I suppose you do, though you've not seen him thus," answered the stag.
As they looked on, it seemed the old man told a multitude of wonderful tales, and they would have stood listening forever. At the end of a story about a golden key, the smallest child asked a question as though he spoke for the twins, for they thought the same question together, and the old man answered, "Why should we be able to imagine things that are not possible?" And he looked up into the eyes of the twins.
All at once, the scene before the two children began to darken and fade as though they were both lifted into the sky; they closed their eyes and held tightly to the other's hand. Soon they felt the floor of their very own room beneath their feet. It was as though they had only been up to look out the window; they looked at one another, hung up their coats, and went back to bed.
The next day their birthday still came, and they had all the games their mother wanted for them. There were many gifts wrapped in bright packages both large and small. Yet, when all the guests were gone and the lights had burned down, their father came to them and said, "I was afraid you might think all this too childish, but your mother knows you well." He motioned for them to follow him into the library. Their father lit a light upon his desk and pulled out an old book from a drawer. "I have one last gift to give. This book has wanted reading for some time, and should never have dust upon it. It holds true fairy tales, and we shall read from it every night."
The children opened it together and read the title of the first story; it was called "The Hunt for the White Stag."
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