The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (35 page)

“What lots of them there are,” said Philip; “where did they come from?”

“Out of a book,” said the parrot; “but the authorities were very prompt that time. Only a line and a half got out.

“Happy troops

Of gentle islanders.

Those are the islanders.”

“Then why,” asked Philip naturally, “aren’t they on an island?”

“There’s only one island, and no one is allowed on that except two people who never go there. But the islanders are happy even if they don’t live on an island—always happy, except for the great fear.”

Here the travellers began to cross one of the bridges across the moat, the bridge, in fact, which led to the biggest arch of all. It was a very rough arch, like the entrance to a cave.

And from out its dark mouth came a little crowd of people.

“They’re savages,” said Lucy, shrinking till she seemed only an extra hump on the camel’s back.

They were indeed of a dark complexion, sunburnt in fact, but their faces were handsome and kindly. They waved friendly hands and smiled in the most agreeable and welcoming way.

The tallest islander stepped out from the crowd. He was about as big as Philip.

“They’re not savages,” said Philip; “don’t be a donkey. They’re just children.”

“Hush!” said the parrot; “the Lord High Islander is now about to begin the state address of welcome!”

He was. And this was the address.

“How jolly of you to come. Do get down off that camel and come indoors and have some grub. Jim, you might take that camel round to the stable and rub him down a bit. You’d like to keep the dogs with you, of course. And what about the parrot?”

“Thanks awfully,” Philip responded, and slid off the camel, followed by Lucy; “the parrot will make his own mind up—he always does.’

They all trooped into the hall of the castle which was more like a cave than a hall and very dark, for the windows were little and high up. As Lucy’s eyes got used to the light she perceived that the clothes of the islanders were not of skins but of seaweed.

“I asked you in,” said the Lord High Islander, a jolly-looking boy of about Philip’s age, “out of politeness. But really it isn’t dinner time, and the meet is in half an hour. So, unless you’re really hungry—?”

The children said “Not at all!”

“You hunt, of course?” the Lord High Islander said; “it’s really the only sport we get here, except fishing. Of course we play games and all that. I do hope you won’t be dull.”

“We came here on business,” the parrot remarked—and the happy islanders crowded round to see him, remarking—“these are Philip and Lucy, claimants to the Deliverership. They are doing their deeds, you know,” the parrot ended.

Lucy whispered, “It’s really
Philip
who is the claimant, not me; only the parrot’s so polite.”

The Lord High Islander frowned. “We can talk about that afterwards,” he said; “it’s a pity to waste time now.”

“What do you hunt?” Philip asked.

“All the different kinds of graibeeste and the vertoblancs; and the blugraiwee, when we can find him,” said the Lord High Islander. “But he’s very scarce. Pinkuggers are more common, and much bigger, of course. Well, you’ll soon see. If your camel’s not quite fresh I can mount you both. What kind of animal do you prefer?”

“What do you ride?” Philip asked.

It appeared that the Lord High Islander rode a giraffe, and Philip longed to ride another. But Lucy said she would rather ride what she was used to, thank you.

When they got out into the courtyard of the castle, they found it full of a crowd of animals, any of which you may find in the Zoo, or in your old Noah’s ark if it was a sufficiently expensive one to begin with, and if you have not broken or lost too many of the inhabitants. Each animal had its rider and the party rode out on to the beach.

“What
is
it they hunt?” Philip asked the parrot, who had perched on his shoulder.

“All the little animals in the Noah’s ark that haven’t any names,” the parrot told him. “All those are considered fair game. Hullo! blugraiwee!” it shouted, as a little grey beast with blue spots started from the shelter of a rock and made for the cover of a patch of giant seaweed. Then all sorts of little animals got up and scurried off into places of security.

“There goes a vertoblanc,” said the parrot, pointing to a bright green animal of uncertain shape, whose breast and paws were white, “and there’s a graibeeste.”

The graibeeste was about as big as a fox, and had rabbit’s ears and the unusual distinction of a tail coming out of his back just half-way between one end of him and the other. But there are graibeestes of all sorts and shapes.

You know when people are making the animals for Noah’s arks they make the big ones first, elephants and lions and tigers and so on, and paint them as nearly as they can the right colours. Then they get weary of copying nature and begin to paint the animals pink and green and chocolate colour, which in nature is not the case. These are the chockmunks, and vertoblancs and the pinkuggers. And presently the makers get sick of the whole business and make the animals any sort of shape and paint them all one grey—these are the graibeestes. And at the very end a guilty feeling of having been slackers comes over the makers of the Noah’s arks, and they paint blue spots on the last and littlest of the graibeestes to ease their consciences. This is the blugraiwee.

“Tally Ho! Hark forrad! Yoicks!” were some of the observations now to be heard on every side as the hunt swept on, the blugraiwee well ahead. Dogs yapped, animals galloped, riders shouted, the sun shone, the sea sparkled, and far ahead the blugraiwee ran, extended to his full length like a grey straight line. He was killed five miles from the castle after a splendid run. And when a pinkugger had been secured and half a dozen graibeeste, the hunt rode slowly home.

“We only hunt to kill and we only kill for food,” the Lord High Islander said.

“But,” said Philip, “I thought Noah’s ark animals turned into wood when they were dead?”

“Not if you kill for food. The intention makes all the difference. I had a plum-cake intention when we put up the blugraiwee, the pinkugger I made a bread and butter intention about, and the graibeestes I intended for rice pudding and prunes and toffee and ices and all sorts of odd things. So, of course, when we come to cut them up they’ll
be
what I intended.”

“I see,” said Philip, jogging along on his camel. “I say,” he added, “you don’t mind my asking—how is it you’re all children here?”

“Well,” said the Lord High Islander, “it’s ancient history, so I don’t suppose it’s true. But they say that when the government had to make sure that we should always be
happy
troops of gentle islanders, they decided that the only way was for us to be children. And we do have the most ripping time. And we do our own hunting and cooking and wash up our own plates and things, and for heavy work we have the M.A.’s. They’re men who’ve had to work at sums and history and things at College so hard that they want a holiday. So they come here and work for us, and if any of us do wan
t to learn anything, the M.A.’s are handy to have about the place. It pleases them to teach anything, poor things. They live in the huts. There’s always a long list waiting for their turn. Oh yes, they wear the seaweed dress the same as we do. And they hunt on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. They hunt big game, the fierce ambergris who is grey with a yellow stomach and the bigger graibeestes. Now we’ll have dinner the minute we get in, and then we must talk about It.”

The game was skinned and cut up in the courtyard, and the intentions of the Lord High Islander had certainly been carried out. For the blugraiwee was plum-cake, and the other animals just what was needed.

And after dinner the Lord High Islander took Lucy and Philip up on to the top of the highest tower, and the three lay in the sun eating toffee and gazing out over the sea at the faint distant blue of the island.

“The island where we aren’t allowed to go,” as the Lord High Islander sadly pointed out.

“Now,” said Lucy gently, “you won’t mind telling us what you’re afraid of? Don’t mind telling us.
We’re
afraid too; we’re afraid of all sorts of things quite often.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Philip, but not unkindly. “I’m not so jolly often afraid as you seem to think. Go ahead, my Lord.”

“You might as well call me Billy,” said the Lord High Islander; “it’s my name.”

“Well, Billy, then. What is it you’re afraid of?”

“I hate being afraid,” said Billy angrily. “Of course I know no true boy is afraid of anything except doing wrong. One of the M.A.’s told me that. But the M.A.’s are afraid too.”

“What of?” Lucy asked, glancing at the terrace below, where already the shadows were lengthening; “it’ll be getting dark soon. I’d much rather know what you’re afraid of while it’s daylight.”

“What we’re afraid of,” said Billy abruptly, “is the sea. Suppose a great wave came and washed away the castle, and the huts, and the M.A.’s and all of us?”

“But it never
has
, has it?” Lucy asked.

“No, but everything must have a beginning. I know that’s true, because another of the M.A.’s told it me.”

“But why don’t you go and live somewhere inland?”

“Because we couldn’t live away from the sea. We’re islanders, you know; we couldn’t bear not to be near the sea. And we’d rather be afraid of it, than not have it to be afraid of. But
it upsets the government, because we ought to be
happy
troops of gentle islanders, and you can’t be quite happy if you’re afraid. That’s why it’s one of your deeds to take away our fear.”

“It sounds jolly difficult,” said Philip; “I shall have to think,” he added desperately. So he lay and thought with Max and Brenda asleep by his side and the parrot preening its bright feathers on the parapet of the tower, while Lucy and the Lord High Islander played cat’s cradle with a long thread of seaweed.

“It’s supper time,” said Billy at last. “Have you thought of anything?”

“Not a single thing,” said Philip.

“Well, don’t sweat over it any more,” said Billy; “just stay with us and have a jolly time. You’re sure to think of something. Or else Lucy will. We’ll act charades tonight.”

They did. The rest of the islanders were an extremely jolly lot, and all the M.A.’s came out of their huts to be audience. It was a charming evening, and ended up with hide-and-seek all over the castle.

To wake next morning on a bed of soft, dry, sweet-smelling seaweed, and to know that the day was to be spent in having a good time with the jolliest set of children she had ever met, was delightful to Lucy. Philip’s delight was das
hed by the knowledge that he must, sooner or later,
think
. But the day passed most agreeably. They all bathed in the rock pools, picked up shell-fish for dinner, played rounders in the afternoon, and in the evening danced to the music made by the M.A.’s who most of them carried flutes in their pockets, and who were all very flattered at being asked to play.

So the pleasant days went on. Every morning Philip said to himself, “Now today I really
must
think of something,” and every night he said, “I really ought to have thought of something.” But he never could think of anything to take away the fear of the gentle islanders.

It was on the sixth night that the storm came. The wind blew and the sea roared and the castle shook to its very foundations. And Philip, awakened by the noise and the shaking, sat up in bed and understood what the fear was that spoiled the happiness of the Dwellers by the Sea.

“Suppose the sea did sweep us all away,” he said; “and they haven’t even got a boat.”

And then, when he was quite far from expecting it, he did think of something. And he went on thinking about it so hard that he couldn’t sleep any more.

And in the morning he said to the parrot:

“I’ve thought of something. And I’m not going to tell the others. But I can’t do it all by myself. Do you think you could get Perrin for me?”

“I will try with pleasure,” replied the obliging bird, and flew off without further speech.

That afternoon, just as a picnic tea was ending, a great shadow fell on the party, and next moment the Hippogriff alighted with Mr. Perrin and the parrot on its back.

“Oh,
thank
you,” said Philip, and led Mr. Perrin away and began to talk to him in whispers.

“No, sir,” Mr. Perrin answered suddenly and aloud. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t think of it.”

“Don’t you know
how?
” Philip asked.

“I know everything as is to be known in my trade,” said Mr. Perrin, “but carpentry’s one thing, and manners is another. Not but what I know manners too, which is why I won’t be a party to no such a thing.”

“But you don’t understand,” said Philip, trying to keep up with Mr. Perrin’s long strides. “What I want to do is for you to build a Noah’s ark on the top of the highest tower. Then when the sea’s rough and the wind blows, all the Sea-Dwellers can just get into their ark and then they’ll be quite safe whatever happens.”

“You said all that afore,” said Mr. Perrin, “and I wonder at you, so I do.”

“I
thought it was
such
a good idea,” said poor Philip in gloom.

“Oh, the
idea’s
all right,” said Mr. Perrin; “there ain’t nothing to complain of ’bout the
idea
.”

“Then what
is
wrong?” Philip asked impatiently.

“You’ve come to the wrong shop,” said Mr. Perrin slowly. “I ain’t the man to take away another chap’s job, not if he was to be in the humblest way of business; but when it comes to slapping the government in the face, well, there, Master Pip, I wouldn’t have thought it of you. It’s as much as my place is worth.”

“Look here,” said Philip, stopping short in despair, “will you tell me straight out why you won’t help me?”

“I’m not a-going to go building arks, at my time of life,” said Mr. Perrin. “Mr. Noah’d break his old heart, so he would, if I was to take on his job over his head.”

“Oh, you mean I ought to ask him?”

“’Course you ought to ask him. I don’t mind lending a hand under his directions, acting as foreman like, so as to make a good job of it. But it’s him you must give your order to.”

The parrot and the Hippogriff between them managed to get Mr. Noah to the castle by noon of the next day.

“Wo
uld you have minded,” Philip immediately asked him, “if I’d had an ark built without asking you to do it?”

“Well,” said Mr. Noah mildly, “I might have been a little hurt. I have had some experience, you know, my Lord.”

“Why do you call me that?” Philip asked.

“Because you are, of course. Your deed of slaying the lions counts one to you, and by virtue of it you are now a Baron. I congratulate you, Lord Leo,” said Mr. Noah.

He approved of Philip’s idea, and he and Perrin were soon busy making plans, calculating strains and selecting materials.

Then Philip made a speech to the islanders and explained his idea. There was a great deal of cheering and shouting, and every one agreed that an ark on the topmost tower would meet a long-felt want, and that when once that ark was there, fear would for ever be a stranger to every gentle island heart.

And now the great work of building began. Mr. Perrin kindly consented to act as foreman and set to work a whole army of workmen—the M.A.’s of course. And soon the sound of saw and hammer mingled with the plash of waves and cries of sea-birds, and gangs of stalwart M.A.’s in their seaweed tunics bent themselves to the task of shaping great timbers and hois
ting them to the top of the highest tower, where other gangs, under Mr. Noah’s own eye, reared a scaffolding to support the ark while the building went on.