PATCHWORK PIECES

Otago Witness, Issue 3996, 14 October 1930, Page 10

PATCHWORK PIECES

By

Eileen Service.

(Special fob the Otago Witness.)

TERRIBLE KNOWLEDGE.

He comes the prisoner to release From Satan’s bondage held. The gates of brass before him yield, The iron fetters yell. “ ‘ Yield,’ dear,” her mother admonished.

“Eh 1 ” Pippit’s singing broke off sharply. “Yield what?” “The iron fetters ‘yield,’ not ‘yell.’ And don’t say ‘eh ’ in that vacant fashion. Say ‘ I beg your pardon.’ Try again, dear.”

But Pippit displayed a sudden zest for learning. Opening a book, she frowned over its pages. By and by she slipped into the garden. There were times when an inrush of knowledge was a terrible gift. It came fiercely upon you, thrusting and jostling, and pushed away something very precious which, all unconsciously, you had hidden in yourself. It made "you lose a possession which, up till that moment, you had not known anything about, and though you tried, you could never regain that possession, because the knowledge was always there, mocking you. Now, to know that the word was “ yield ” was terrible knowledge. All at once you saw nakedly why you had liked to sing that verse—He, coming in His armour like a flash of lightning; the' great brass gates splitting open to admit Him; the prisoner, raised on his elbow, gazing in rapture, and the fetters, knowing their reign was over, yelling in hatred and terror. A thrilling picture-— Satanic regions, brazen gates, yelling chains, all lost through the intrusion of one word, by which their presence had been made known to you. For now, of course, you could never sing “ yell ” again. You would feel that you were being insincere if you did so, and would despise yourself. It had happened before. Pippit walked more slowly. Yes, it had happened before. That time when you had heard them through the window for instance —that dreadful time. They had said, “ Oh, Pippit’s a lovely child*! When she screws up her eyes "at you! She’s adorable—utterly!” And you had heard them, quite unintentionally. The knowledge had been thrust at you. You had stood still, your heart conti acted and your hand held to your throat. Then you had tip-toed away. \ou had gone to your room and sat there,. shivering. That terrible overpowering knowledge! For suddenly you could see yourself being lovely, screwing up your eyes, yes, utterly adorable —and knew, even as you thrilled at the sight, that it’s beauty was gone. You had been like that, and could never be so again. For you had been made conscious of your state and so had lost it. Terrible! Not always was it so. Pippit paused beneath a fir tree and kicked the earth with the heel of her shoe. Sometimes you acted and watched yourself act. But that was different. That time when you were given, the new sums at school and. the teacher asked the class if they could do them, and they said “No!” and then she looked at you, and you said virtuously, “Please, I’ll try!” whereupon she praised you for your spirit, while j’ou looked modest but secretly were bursting with the success of vour ges-ture—-that had been one such occasion. But it had been planned deliberately for the sake of creating a situation. It would have been different if you had spoken innocently and then been praised, very different indeed. For then, of course, you would have been given terrible knowledge, again, and been made conscious and embarrassed at yourself—as now. The way you could be so quiet and secure and suddenly find yourself in trouble! It pricked you all over, like stinging nettles. Nothing seemed smooth any more. Pippit stood on tip-toe and caught at a branch. She climbed to the top of the tree.

There was something very satisfying about that fir. It was dry and hard, and yet it left a scent of resin on your hands whenever you grappled with it. Also, al the top there was a foothold which let you emerge from the boughs and stand upright, with arms round the trunk, which was so thin and pliable, up there, that you curved and swayed every time the wind blew. You felt like a sailor m a crow’s-nest. In fact, you were a sailor.

Pippit shaded her eyes and gazed out to sea. Not a craft on the whole ocean • nothing but waves, bright blue because tlie sky was so clear. That would mean another day’s wait. When would help come? Ever since the plague had attacked the ship and, one by one, your companions had succumbed, you had been dreading this moment, when the only man left alive on the vessel, you should scan the horizon and know yourself alone. Loneliness! How overpowering it was, and how it seemed to eat into you like the plague itself!

If only help would come! How could you man a ship yourself? Probably you .would starve to death while your boat drifted round the world, the plaything of passing currents. And in the meantime you were rocked by the wind, back and forth in the vbering crow’s-nest. Pippit leaned out from the trunk. Her short hair swung backwards from her neck as she bent her head to the wind. Someone was calling <her. She straightened herself. Far below was her elder cousin, Rosa, who adored her and thought her wonderful. She sighed and

said farewell to the sea. Slowly she climbed io the ground. And Rosa exclaimed:

“Oo! How could you go up there like that ? But I love you for it, because it shows that you’re ‘ different.’ You like to be by yourself and play at makebelieve. And we all take notice of you for it. We think you’re marvellous to be so original. What were you pretending this time? Aren’t you sweet! ” Terrible knowledge, which revealed you as unusual, and made you shy of yourself and of ever playing at anything! To be unusual was desirable. But not when you knew it was so. That was to produce the feeling of nettles. Another treasure gone! Pippit looked up. Rosa was fawning on her. The little eyes were glistening with admiration; the red lips were wet. . . . “ Original. . . . Utterly adorable. . . . The iron fetters yield.” What next? What next? When would the next one come? Pippit stood tensely. Her cheeks reddened. Something seemed to struggle in her throat. She twisted her hands. She said: “ Rosa, I think I hate you.” And down her cheeks there rolled two tears.