The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (64 page)

He was safe now, of course, but the outside part of his window was like a frame to a picture of part of the other side of the tower. It was very pretty, with moss growing between the stones and little shiny gems; but between him and it there was the width of the tower, and nothing in it but empty air. The situation was terrible. Robert saw in a flash that the carpet was likely to bring them into just the same sort of tight places that they used to get into with the wishes the Psammead granted them.

And the others—imagine their feelings as the carpet sank slowly and steadily to the very bottom of the tower, leaving Robert clinging to the wall. Robert did not even try to imagine their feelings—he had quite enough to do with his own; but you can.

As soon as the carpet came to a stop on the ground at the bottom of the inside of the tower it suddenly lost that raft-like stiffness which had been such a comfort during the journey from Camden Town to the topless tower, and spread itself limply over the loose stones and little earthy mounds at the bottom of the tower, just exactly like any ordinary carpet. Also it shrank suddenly, so that it seemed to draw away from under their feet, and they stepped quickly off the edges and stood on the firm ground, while the carpet drew itself in till it was its proper size, and no longer fitted exactly into the inside of the tower, but left quite a big space all round it.

Then across the carpet they looked at each other, and then every chin was tilted up and every eye sought vainly to see where poor Robert had got to. Of course, they couldn’t see him.

“I wish we hadn’t come,” said Jane.

“You always do,” said Cyril, briefly. “Look here, we can’t leave Robert up there. I wish the carpet would fetch him down.”

The carpet seemed to awake from a dream and pull itself together. It stiffened itself briskly and floated up between the four walls of the tower. The children below craned their heads back, and nearly broke their necks in doing it. The carpet rose and rose. It hung poised darkly above them for an anxious moment or two; then it dropped down again, threw itself on the uneven floor of the tower, and as it did so it tumbled Robert out on the uneven floor of the tower.

“Oh, glory!” said Robert, “that was a squeak. You don’t know how I felt. I say, I’ve had about enough for a bit. Let’s wish ourselves at home again and have a go at that jam tart and mutton. We can go out again afterwards.”

“Righto!” said every one, for the adventure had shaken the nerves of all. So they all got on to the carpet again, and said—

“I wish we were at home.”

And lo and behold, they were no more at home than before. The carpet never moved. The Phoenix had taken the opportunity to go to sleep. Anthea woke it up gently.

“Look here,” she said.

“I’m looking,” said the Phoenix.

“We
wished
to be at home, and we’re still here,” complained Jane.

“No,” said the Phoenix, looking about it at the high dark walls of the tower. “No; I quite see that.”

“But we wished to be at home,” said Cyril.

“No doubt,” said the bird, politely.

“And the carpet hasn’t moved an inch,” said Robert.

“No,” said the Phoenix, “I see it hasn’t.”

“But I thought it was a wishing carpet?”

“So it is,” said the Phoenix.

“Then why—?” asked the children, altogether.

“I did tell you, you know,” said the Phoenix, “only you are so fond of listening to the music of your own voices. It is, indeed, the most lovely music to each of us, and therefore—”

“You did tell us
what
?” interrupted an Exasperated.

“Why, that the carpet only gives you three wishes a day and
you’ve had them
.”

There was a heartfelt silence.

“Then how are we going to get home?” said Cyril, at last.

“I haven’t any idea,” replied the Phoenix, kindly. “Can I fly out and get you any little thing?”

“How could you carry the money to pay for it?”

“It isn’t necessary. Birds always take what they want. It is not regarded as stealing, except in the case of magpies.”

The children were glad to find they had been right in supposing this to be the case, on the day when they had wings, and had enjoyed somebody else’s ripe plums.

“Yes; let the Phoenix get us something to eat, anyway,” Robert urged— (“If it will be so kind you mean,” corrected Anthea, in a whisper); “if it will be so kind, and we can be thinking while it’s gone.”

So the Phoenix fluttered up through the grey space of the tower and vanished at the top, and it was not till it had quite gone that Jane said—

“Suppose it never comes back.”

It was not a pleasant thought, and though Anthea at once said, “Of course it will come back; I’m certain it’s a bird of its word,” a further gloom was cast by the idea. For, curiously enough, there was no door to the tower, and all the windows were far, far too high to be reached by the most adventurous climber. It was cold, too, and Anthea shivered.

“Yes,” said Cyril, “it’s like being at the bottom of a well.”

The children waited in a sad and hungry silence, and got little stiff necks with holding their little heads back to look up the inside of the tall grey tower, to see if the Phoenix were coming.

At last it came. It looked very big as it fluttered down between the walls, and as it neared them the children saw that its bigness was caused by a basket of boiled chestnuts which it carried in one claw. In the other it held a piece of bread. And in its beak was a very large pear. The pear was juicy, and as good as a very small drink. When the meal was over every one felt better, and the question of how to get home was discussed without any disagreeableness. But no one could think of any way out of the difficulty, or even out of the tower; for the Phoenix, though its beak and claws had fortunately been strong enough to carry food for them, was plainly not equal to flying through the air with four well-nourished children.

“We must stay here, I suppose,” said Robert at last, “and shout out every now and then, and some one will hear us and bring ropes and ladders, and rescue us like out of mines; and they’ll get up a subscription to send us home, like castaways.”

“Yes; but we shan’t be home before mother is, and then father’ll take away the carpet and say it’s dangerous or something,” said Cyril.

“I
do
wish we hadn’t come,” said Jane.

And every one else said “Shut up,” except Anthea, who suddenly awoke the Phoenix and said—

“Look here, I believe
you
can help us. Oh, I do wish you would!”

“I will help you as far as lies in my power,” said the Phoenix, at once. “What is it you want now?”

“Why, we want to get home,” said every one.

“Oh,” said the Phoenix. “Ah, hum! Yes. Home, you said? Meaning?”

“Where we live—where we slept last night—where the altar is that your egg was hatched on.”

“Oh, there!” said the Phoenix. “Well, I’ll do my best.” It fluttered on to the carpet and walked up and down for a few minutes in deep thought. Then it drew itself up proudly.

“I
can
help you,” it said. “I am almost sure I can help you. Unless I am grossly deceived I can help you. You won’t mind my leaving you for an hour or two?” and without waiting for a reply it soared up through the dimness of the tower into the brightness above.

“Now,” said Cyril, firmly, “it said an hour or two. But I’ve read about captives and people shut up in dungeons and catacombs and things awaiting release, and I know each moment is an eternity. Those people always do something to pass the desperate moments. It’s no use our trying to tame spiders, because we shan’t have time.”

“I
hope
not,” said Jane, doubtfully.

“But we ought to scratch our names on the stones or something.”

“I say, talking of stones,” said Robert, “you see that heap of stones against the wall over in that corner. Well, I’m certain there’s a hole in the wall there—and I believe it’s a door. Yes, look here—the stones are round like an arch in the wall; and here’s the hole—it’s all black inside.”

He had walked over to the heap as he spoke and climbed up to it—dislodged the top stone of the heap and uncovered a little dark space.

Next moment every one was helping to pull down the heap of stones, and very soon every one threw off its jacket, for it was warm work.

“It
is
a door,” said Cyril, wiping his face, “and not a bad thing either, if—”

He was going to add “if anything happens to the Phoenix,” but he didn’t for fear of frightening Jane. He was not an unkind boy when he had leisure to think of such things.

The arched hole in the wall grew larger and larger. It was very, very black, even compared with the sort of twilight at the bottom of the tower; it grew larger because the children kept pulling off the stones and throwing them down into another heap. The stones must have been there a very long time, for they were covered with moss, and some of them were stuck together by it. So it was fairly hard work, as Robert pointed out.

When the hole reached to about halfway between the top of the arch and the tower, Robert and Cyril let themselves down cautiously on the inside, and lit matches. How thankful they felt then that they had a sensible father, who did not forbid them to carry matches, as some boys’ fathers do. The father of Robert and Cyril only insisted on the matches being of the kind that strike only on the box.

“It’s not a door, it’s a sort of tunnel,” Robert cried to the girls, after the first match had flared up, flickered, and gone out. “Stand off—we’ll push some more stones down!”

They did, amid deep excitement. And now the stone heap was almost gone—and before them the girls saw the dark archway leading to unknown things. All doubts and fears as to getting home were forgotten in this thrilling moment. It was like Monte Cristo—it was like—

“I say,” cried Anthea, suddenly, “come out! There’s always bad air in places that have been shut up. It makes your torches go out, and then you die. It’s called fire-damp, I believe. Come out, I tell you.”

The urgency of her tone actually brought the boys out—and then every one took up its jacket and fanned the dark arch with it, so as to make the air fresh inside. When Anthea thought the air inside “must be freshened by now,” Cyril led the way into the arch.

The girls followed, and Robert came last, because Jane refused to tail the procession lest “something” should come in after her, and catch at her from behind. Cyril advanced cautiously, lighting match after match, and peering before him.

“It’s a vaulting roof,” he said, “and it’s all stone—all right, Panther, don’t keep pulling at my jacket! The air must be all right because of the matches, silly, and there are—look out—there are steps down.”

“Oh, don’t let’s go any farther,” said Jane, in an agony of reluctance (a very painful thing, by the way, to be in). “I’m sure there are snakes, or dens of lions, or something. Do let’s go back, and come some other time, with candles, and bellows for the fire-damp.”

“Let me get in front of you, then,” said the stern voice of Robert, from behind. “This is exactly the place for buried treasure, and I’m going on, anyway; you can stay behind if you like.”

And then, of course, Jane consented to go on.

So, very slowly and carefully, the children went down the steps—there were seventeen of them—and at the bottom of the steps were more passages branching four ways, and a sort of low arch on the right-hand side made Cyril wonder what it could be, for it was too low to be the beginning of another passage.

So he knelt down and lit a match, and stooping very low he peeped in.

“There’s
something
,” he said, and reached out his hand. It touched something that felt more like a damp bag of marbles than anything else that Cyril had ever touched.

“I believe it
is
a buried treasure,” he cried.

And it was; for even as Anthea cried, “Oh, hurry up, Squirrel—fetch it out!” Cyril pulled out a rotting canvas bag—about as big as the paper ones the greengrocer gives you with Barcelona nuts in for sixpence.

“There’s more of it, a lot more,” he said.

As he pulled the rotten bag gave way, and the gold coins ran and span and jumped and bumped and chinked and clinked on the floor of the dark passage.

I wonder what you would say if you suddenly came upon a buried treasure? What Cyril said was, “Oh, bother—I’ve burnt my fingers!” and as he spoke he dropped the match. “
And it was the last
!” he added.

There was a moment of desperate silence. Then Jane began to cry.

“Don’t,” said Anthea, “don’t, Pussy—you’ll exhaust the air if you cry. We can get out all right.”

“Yes,” said Jane, through her sobs, “and find the Phoenix has come back and gone away again—because it thought we’d gone home some other way, and—Oh, I
wish
we hadn’t come.”

Every one stood quite still—only Anthea cuddled Jane up to her and tried to wipe her eyes in the dark.

“D-
don’t
,” said Jane; “that’s my
ear
—I’m not crying with my ears.”

“Come, let’s get on out,” said Robert; but that was not so easy, for no one could remember exactly which way they had come. It is very difficult to remember things in the dark, unless you have matches with you, and then of course it is quite different, even if you don’t strike one.

Every one had come to agree with Jane’s constant wish—and despair was making the darkness blacker than ever, when quite suddenly the floor seemed to tip up—and a strong sensation of being in a whirling lift came upon every one. All eyes were closed—one’s eyes always are in the dark, don’t you think? When the whirling feeling stopped, Cyril said “Earthquakes!” and they all opened their eyes.

They were in their own dingy breakfast-room at home, and oh, how light and bright and safe and pleasant and altogether delightful it seemed after that dark underground tunnel! The carpet lay on the floor, looking as calm as though it had never been for an excursion in its life. On the mantelpiece stood the Phoenix, waiting with an air of modest yet sterling worth for the thanks of the children.

“But how
did
you do it?” they asked, when every one had thanked the Phoenix again and again.

“Oh, I just went and got a wish from your friend the Psammead.”

“But how
did
you know where to find it?”

“I found that out from the carpet; these wishing creatures always know all about each other—they’re so clannish; like the Scots, you know—all related.”

“But, the carpet can’t talk, can it?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“How did I get the Psammead’s address? I tell you I got it from the carpet.”

“
Did
it speak then?”

“No,” said the Phoenix, thoughtfully, “it didn’t speak, but I gathered my information from something in its manner. I was always a singularly observant bird.”

It was not till after the cold mutton and the jam tart, as well as the tea and bread-and-butter, that any one found time to regret the golden treasure which had been left scattered on the floor of the underground passage, and which, indeed, no one had thought of till now, since the moment when Cyril burnt his fingers at the flame of the last match.

“What owls and goats we were!” said Robert. “Look how we’ve always wanted treasure—and now—”