The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (33 page)

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Lucy, looking down. “I could do more than that.”

“What?” he asked.

“I could unravel the carpet,” said Lucy, with deep solemnity.

“But it’s me that’s got to do it,” Philip urged.

“Every citizen is bound to help, if called in,” Lucy reminded him. “And I suppose a princess
is
a citizen.”

“Perhaps I can do it by myself,” said Philip.

“Try,” said Lucy, and sat down on the steps, her fairy skirts spreading out round her like a white double hollyhock.

He tried. He went back and looked at the great coarse cables of the carpet. He could see no end to the cables, no beginning to his task. And Lucy just went on sitting there like a white hollyhock. And time went on, and presently became, rather urgently, dinner-time.

So he went back to Lucy and said:

“All right, you can show me how to do it, if you like.”

But Lucy replied:

“Not much! If you want me to help you with
this
, you’ll have to promise to let me help in all the other things. And you’ll have to
ask
me to help—ask me politely too.”

“I shan’t then,” said Philip. But in the end he had to—politely also.

“With pleasure,” said Lucy, the moment he asked her, and he could see she had been making up what she should answer, while he was making up his mind to ask. “I shall be delighted to help you in this and all the other tasks. Say yes.”

“Yes,” said Philip, who was very hungry.

“‘In this and all the other tasks’ say.”

“In this and all the other tasks,” he said. “Go on. How can we do it?”

“It’s
crochet
,” Lucy giggled. “It’s a little crochet mat I’d made of red wool; and I put it in the hall that night. You’ve just got to find the end and pull, and it all comes undone. You just want to find the end and pull.”

“It’s too heavy for us to pull.”

“Well,” said Lucy, who had certainly had time to think everything out, “you get one of those twisty round things they pull boats out of the sea with, and I’ll find the end while you’re getting it.”

She ran up the steps and Philip looked round the buildings on the other three sides of the square, to see if any one of them looked like a capstan shop, for he understood, as of course you also have done, that a capstan was what Lucy meant.

On a building almost opposite he read, “Naval Necessaries Supply Company,” and he ran across to it.

“Rather,” said the secretary of the company, a plump sailor-doll, when Philip had explained his needs. “I’ll send a dozen men over at once. Only too proud to help, Sir Philip. The navy is always keen on helping valour and beauty.”

“I want to be brave,” said Philip, “but I’d rather not be beautiful.”

“Of course not,” said the secretary; and added surprisingly, “I meant the Lady Lucy.”

“Oh!” said Philip.

So twelve bluejackets and a capstan outside the Hall of Public Amusements were soon the centre of a cheering crowd. Lucy had found the end of the rope, and two sailors dragged it out and attached it to the capstan, and then—round and round with a will and a breathless chanty—the carpet was swiftly unravelled. Dozens of eager helpers stood on the parts of the carpet which were not being unravelled, to keep it steady while the pulling went on.

The news of Philip’s success spread like wild-fire through the city, and the crowds gathered thicker and thicker. The great doors beyond the pillars with the birds on them were thrown open, and Mr. Noah and the principal citizens stood there to see the end of the unravelling.

“Bravo!” said every one in tremendous enthusiasm. “Bravo! Sir Philip.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Philip difficultly, when the crowd paused for breath; “it was Lucy thought of it.”

“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted the crowd louder than ever. “Bravo, for the Lady Lucy! Bravo for Sir Philip, the modest truth-teller!”

“Bravo, my dear,” said Mr. Noah, waving his hat and thumping Lucy on the back.

“I’m awfully glad I thought of it,” she said; “that makes two deeds Sir Philip’s done, doesn’t it? Two out of the seven.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Noah enthusiastically. “I must make him a baronet now. His title will grow grander with each deed. There’s an old prophecy that the person who finds out how to unravel the carpet must be the first to dance in the Hall of Public Amusements.

“The clever one, the noble one,

Who makes the carpet come undone,

Shall be the first to dance a measure

Within the Hall of public pleasure.

I suppose public amusement was too difficult a rhyme even for these highly-skilled poets, our astrologers. You, my child, seem to have been well inspired in your choice of a costume. Dance, then, my Lady Lucy, and let the prophecy be fulfilled.”

So, all down the wide clear floor of the Hall of Public Amusement, Lucy danced. And the people of the city looked on and applauded, Philip with the rest.

CHAPTER VI

THE LIONS IN THE DESERT

“But why?” asked Philip at dinner, which was no painted wonder of wooden make-believe, but real roast guinea-fowl and angel pudding, “Why do you only have wooden things to eat at your banquets?”

“Banquets are extremely important occasions,” said Mr. Noah, “and real food—food that you can eat and enjoy—only serves to distract the mind from the serious affairs of life. Many of the most successful caterers in your world have grasped this great truth.”

“But why,” Lucy asked, “do you have the big silver bowls with nothing in them?”

Mr. Noah sighed. “The bowls are for dessert,” he said.

“But there isn’t any dessert
in
them,” Lucy objected.

“No,” said Mr. Noah, sighing again, “that’s just it. There is no dessert. There has never been any dessert. Will you have a little more angel pudding?”

It was quite plain to Lucy and Philip that Mr. Noah wished to change the subject, which, for some reason, was a sad one, and with true politeness they both said “Yes, please,” to the angel pudding offer, though they had already had quite as much as they really needed.

After dinner Mr. Noah took them for a walk through the town, “to see the factories,” he said. This surprised Philip, who had been taught not to build factories with his bricks because factories were so ugly, but the factories turned out to be pleasant, long, low houses, with tall French windows opening into gardens of roses, where people of all nations made beautiful and useful things, and loved making them. And all the people who were making them looked clean and happy.

“I wish we had factories like those,” Philip said. “Our factories
are
so ugly. Helen says so.”

“That’s because all your factories are
money
factories,” said Mr. Noah, “though they’re called by all sorts of different names. Every one here has to make something that isn’t just money or
for
money—something useful
and
beautiful.”

“Even you?” said Lucy.

“Even I,” said Mr. Noah.

“What do you make?” the question was bound to come.

“Laws, of course,” Mr. Noah answered in some surprise. “Didn’t you know I was the Chief Judge?”

“But laws can’t be useful and beautiful, can they?”

“They can certainly be useful,” said Mr. Noah, “and,” he added with modest pride, “my laws are beautiful. What do you think of this? ‘Everybody must try to be kind to everybody else. Any one who has been unkind must be sorry and say so.’”

“It seems all right,” said Philip, “but it’s not exactly beautiful.”

“Oh, don’t you think so?” said Mr. Noah, a little hurt; “it mayn’t
sound
beautiful perhaps—I never could write poetry—but it’s quite beautiful when people do it.”

“Oh, if you mean your laws are beautiful when they’re
kept
,” said Philip.

“Beautiful things can’t be beautiful when they’re broken, of course,” Mr. Noah explained. “Not even laws. But ugly laws are only beautiful when they
are
broken. That’s odd, isn’t it? Laws are very tricky things.”

“I say,” Philip said suddenly, as they climbed one of the steep flights of steps between trees in pots, “couldn’t we do another of the deeds now? I don’t feel as if I’d really done anything today at all. It was Lucy who did the carpet. Do tell us the next deed.”

“The next deed,” Mr. Noah answered, “will probably take some time. There’s no reason why you should not begin it today if you like. It is a deed peculiarly suited to a baronet. I don’t know why,” he added hastily; “it may be that it is the only thing that baronets are good for. I shouldn’t wonder. The existence of baronets,” he added musingly, “has always seemed to the thoughtful to lack justification. Perhaps this deed which you will begin today is the wise end to which baronets were designed.”

“Yes, I daresay,” said Philip; “but what is the end?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Noah owned, “but I’ll tell you what the
deed
is. You’ve got to journey to the land of the Dwellers by the Sea and, by any means that may commend itself to you, slay their fear.”

Philip naturally asked what the Dwellers by the Sea were afraid of.

“That you will learn from them,” said Mr. Noah; “but it is a very great fear.”

“Is it something we shall be afraid of
too?
” Lucy asked. And Philip at once said, “Oh, then she really did mean to come, did she? But she wasn’t to if she was afraid. Girls weren’t expected to be brave.”

“They
are
, here,” said Mr. Noah, “the girls are expected to be brave and the boys kind.”

“Oh,” said Philip doubtfully. And Lucy said:

“Of course I meant to come. You know you promised.”

So that was settled.

“And now,” said Mr. Noah, rubbing his hands with the cheerful air of one who has a great deal to do and is going to enjoy doing it, “we must fit you out a proper expedition, for the Dwellers by the Sea are a very long way off. What would you like to ride on?”

“A horse,” said Philip, truly pleased. He said horse, because he did not want to ride a donkey, and he had never seen any one ride any animal but these two.

“That’s right,” Mr. Noah said, patting him on the back. “I
was
so afraid you’d ask for a bicycle. And there’s a dreadful law here—it was made by mistake, but there it is—that if any one asks for machinery they have to have it and keep on using it. But as to a horse. Well, I’m not sure. You see, you have to ride right across the pebbly waste, and it’s a good three days’ journey. But come along to the stables.”

You know the kind of stables they would be? The long shed with stalls such as you had, when you were little, for your little wooden horses and carts? Only there were not only horses here, but every sort of animal that has ever been ridden on. Elephants, camels, donkeys, mules, bulls, goats, zebras, tortoises, ostriches, bisons, and pigs. And in the last stall of all, which was not of common wood but of beaten silver, stood the very Hippogriff himself, with his long, white mane and his long, white tail, and his gentle, beautiful eyes. His long, white wings were folded neatly on his satin-smooth back, and how he and the stall got here was more than Philip could guess. All the others were Noah’s Ark animals, alive, of course, but still Noah’s Arky beyond possibility of mistake. But the Hippogriff was not Noah’s Ark at all.

“He came,” Mr. Noah explained, “out of a book. One of the books you used to build your city with.”

“Can’t we have
him?
” Lucy said; “he looks such a darling.” And the Hippogriff turned his white velvet nose and nuzzled against her in affectionate acknowledgment of the compliment.

“Not if you both go,” Mr. Noah explained. “He cannot carry more than one person at a time unless one is an Earl. No, if I may advise, I should say go by camel.”

“Can the camel carry two?”

“Of course. He is called the ship of the desert,” Mr. Noah informed them, “and a ship that wouldn’t carry more than one would be simply silly.”

So
that
was settled. Mr. Noah himself saddled and bridled the camel, which was a very large one, with his own hands.

“Let me see,” he said, standing thoughtful with the lead rope in his hand, “you’ll be wanting dogs—”

“I
always
want dogs,” said Philip warmly.

“—to use in emergencies.” He whistled and two Noah’s Ark dogs leaped from their kennels to their chains’ end. They were dachshunds, very long and low, and very alike except that one was a little bigger and a little browner than the other.

“This is your master and that’s your mistress,” Mr. Noah explained to the dogs, and they fawned round the children.

“Then you’ll want things to eat and things to drink and tents and umbrellas in case of bad weather, and— But let’s turn down this street; just at the corner we shall find exactly what we want.”

It was a shop that said outside “Universal Provider. Expeditions fitted out at a moment’s notice. Punctuality and dispatch.” The shopkeeper came forward politely. He was so exactly like Mr. Noah that the children knew who he was even before he said, “Well, father,” and Mr. Noah said, “This is my son: he has had some experience in outfits.”

“What have you got to start with?” the son asked, getting to business at once.

“Two dogs, two children, and a camel,” said Mr. Noah. “Yes, I know it’s customary to have two of everything, but I assure you, my dear boy, that one camel is as much as Sir Philip can manage. It is indeed.”

Mr. Noah’s son very dutifully supposed that his father knew best and willingly agreed to provide everything that was needed for the expedition, including one best-quality talking parrot, and to deliver all goods, carefully packed, within half an hour.

* * * *

So now you see Philip, and Lucy who still wore her fairy dress, packed with all their belongings on the top of a very large and wobbly camel, and being led out of the city by the usual procession, with seven bands of music all playing “See the Conquering Hero goes,” quite a different tune from the one you know, which has a name a little like that.

The c
amel and its load were rather a tight fit for the particular gateway that they happened to go out by, and the children had to stoop to avoid scraping their heads against the top of the arch. But they got through all right, and now they were well on the road which was really little more than a field path running through the flowery meadow country where the dragon had been killed. They saw the Stonehenge ruins and the big tower far away to the left, and in front lay the vast and interesting expanse of the Absolutely Unknown.

The sun was shining—there was a sun, and Mr. Noah had told the children that it came out of the poetry books, together with rain and flowers and the changing seasons—and in spite of the strange, almost-tumble-no-it’s-all-right-but-you’d-better-look-out way in which the camel walked, the two travellers were very happy. The dogs bounded along in the best of spirits, and even the camel seemed less a prey than usual to that proud melancholy which you must have noticed in your visits to the Zoo as his most striking quality.

It was certainly very grand to ride on a camel, and Lucy tried not to think how difficult it would be to get on and off. The parrot was interesting too. It talked extremely well. Of course you understand that, if you can only make a parrot understand, it can tell you everything you want to know about other animals; because it understands
their
talk quite naturally and without being made. The present parrot declined ordinary conversation, and when questioned only recited poetry of a rather dull kind that went on and on. “Arms and the man I sing” it began, and then something about haughty Juno. Its voice was soothing, and riding on the camel was not unlike being rocked in a very bumpety cradle. The children were securely seated in things like padded panniers, and they had had an exciting day. As the sun set, which it did quite soon, the parrot called out to the nearest dog, “I say, Max, they’re asleep.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Max. “But it’s all right. Humpty knows the way.”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, you young dog, can’t you?” said the camel grumpily.

“Don’t be cross, darling,” said the other dog, whose name was Brenda, “and be sure you stop at a really first-class oasis for the night. But I know we can trust
you
, dear.”

The camel muttered that it was all very well, but his voice was not quite as cross as before.

After that the expedition went on in silence through the deepening twilight.

A tumbli
ng, shaking, dumping sensation, more like a soft railway accident than anything else, awakened our travellers, and they found that the camel was kneeling down.

“Off you come,” said the parrot, “and make the fire and boil the kettle.”

“Polly put the kettle on,” Lucy said absently, as she slid down to the ground; to which the parrot replied, “Certainly not. I wish you wouldn’t rake up that old story. It was quite false. I never did put a kettle on, and I never will.”

Why should I describe to you the adventure of camping at an oasis in a desert? You must all have done it many times; or if you have not done it, you have read about it. You know all about the well and the palm trees and the dates and things. They had cocoa for supper. It was great fun, and they slept soundly and awoke in the morning with a heart for any fate, as a respectable poet puts it.

The next day was just the same as the first, only instead of going through fresh green fields, the way lay through dry yellow desert. And again the children slept, and again the camel chose an oasis with remarkable taste and judgment. But the second night was not at all the same as the first. For in the middle of it the parrot awakened Philip by biting his ear, and then hopping to a safe distance from his awakening fists and crying out, “Make up the camp fire—look alive. It’s lions.” The dogs were whining and barking, and Brenda was earnestly trying to climb a palm tree. Max faced the danger, it is true, but he seemed to have no real love of sport.

Philip sprang up and heaped dead palm scales and leaves on the dying fire. It blazed up and something moved beyond the bushes. Philip wondered whether those pairs of shining things, like strayed stars, that he saw in the darkness, could really be the eyes of lions.

“What a nuisance these lions are to be sure,” said the parrot. “No, they won’t come near us while the fire’s burning, but really, they ought to be put down by law.”

“Why doesn’t somebody kill them?” Lucy asked. She had wakened when Philip did, and, after a meditative minute, had helped with the palm scales and things.

“It’s not so easy,” said the parrot; “nobody knows how to do it. How would
you
kill a lion?”

“
I
don’t know,” said Philip; but Lucy said, “Are they Noah’s Ark lions?”

“Of course they are,” said Polly; “all the books with lions in them are kept shut up.”

“I know how you could kill Noah’s Ark lions if you could catch them,” Lucy said.

“It’s easy enough to catch them,” said Polly; “an hour after dawn they go to sleep, but it’s unsportsmanlike to kill game when it’s asleep.”

“I’m going to think, if you don’t mind,” Lucy announced, and sat down very near the fire. “It’s just the opposite of the dragon,” she said after a minute. The parrot nodded and there was a long silence. Then suddenly Lucy jumped up.

“I know,” she cried, “oh—I really
do
know. And it won’t hurt them either. I don’t a bit mind killing things, but I do hate hurting them. There’s plenty of rope, I know.”

There was.

“Then when it’s dawn we’ll tie them up and then you’ll see.”

“I think you might tell
me
,” said Philip, injured.

“No—they may understand what we say. Polly does.”

Philip made a natural suggestion. But Lucy replied that it was not manners to whisper, and the parrot said that it should think not indeed.

So, sitting by the fire, all faces turned to where those strange twin stars shone and those strange hidden movements and rustlings stirred, the expedition waited for the dawn. Brenda had given up the tree-climbing idea, and was cuddling up as close to Lucy as possible. The camel, who had been trembling with fear all the while, tried to cuddle up to Philip, which would have been easier if it had been a smaller kind instead of being, as it was, what Mr. Noah’s son, the Universal Provider, had called, “an out size in camels.”

And presently dawn came, not slow and silvery as dawns come here, but sudden and red, with strong level lights and the shadows of the palm trees stretching all across the desert.

In broad daylight it did not seem so hard to have to go and look for the lions. They all went—even the camel pulled himself together to join the lion-hunt, and Brenda herself decided to come rather than be left alone.

The lions were easily found. There were only two of them, of course, and they were lying close together, each on its tawny side on the sandy desert at the edge of the oasis.

Very gently the ropes, with slip knots, were fitted over their heads, and the other end of the rope passed round a palm tree. Other ropes round the trees were passed round what would have been the waists of the lions if lions had such things as waists.

“Now!” whispered Lucy, and at once all four ropes were pulled tight. The lions struggled, but only in their sleep. And soon they were still. Then with more and more ropes their legs and tails were made fast.

“And that’s all right,” said Lucy, rather out of breath. “Where’s Polly?”