The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (34 page)

“Here,” replied that bird from a neighbouring bush. “I thought I should only be in the way if I kept close to you. But I longed to lend a claw in such good work. Can I help
now?
”

“Will you please explain to the dogs?” said Lucy. “It’s their turn now. The only way I know to kill Noah’s Ark lions is to
lick the paint off
and break their legs. And if the dogs lick all the paint off their legs they won’t feel it when we break them.”

Polly hastened to explain to the dogs, and then turned again to Lucy.

“They asked if you’re sure the ropes will hold, and I’ve told them of course. So now they’re going to begin. I only hope the paint won’t make them ill.”

“It never did me,” said Lucy. “I sucked the dove quite clean one Sunday, and it wasn’t half bad. Tasted of sugar a little and eucalyptus oil like they give you when you’ve got a cold. Tell them that, Polly.”

Polly did, and added, “I will recite poetry to them to hearten them to their task.”

“Do,” said Philip heartily, “it may make them hurry up. But perhaps you’d better tell them that we shall pinch their tails if they happen to go to sleep.”

Then the children had a cocoa-and-date breakfast. (All expeditions seem to live mostly on cocoa, and when they come back they often write to the cocoa makers to say how good it was and they don’t know what they would have done without it.) And the noble and devoted dogs licked and licked and licked, and the paint began to come off the lions’ legs like anything. It was heavy work turning the lions over so as to get at the other or unlicked side, but the expedition worked with a will, and the lions resisted but feebly, being still asleep, and, besides, weak from loss of paint. And the dogs had a drink given them and were patted and praised, and set to work again. And they licked and licked for hours and hours. And in the end all the paint was off the lions’ legs, and Philip chopped them off with the explorer’s axe which that experienced Provider, Mr. Noah’s son, had thoughtfully included in the outfit of the expedition. And as he chopped the chips flew, and Lucy picked one up, and it was
wood
, just wood and nothing else, though when they had tied it up it had been real writhing resisting lion-leg and no mistake. And when all the legs were chopped off, Philip put his hand on a lion body, and that was wood too. So the lions were dead indeed.

“It seems a pity,” he said. “Lions are such jolly beasts when they are alive.”

“I never cared for lions myself,” said Polly; and Lucy said, “Never mind, Phil. It didn’t hurt them anyway.”

And that was the first time she ever called him Phil.

“All right, Lu,” said Philip. “It was jolly clever of you to think of it anyhow.”

And that was the first time he ever called her Lu.

* * * *

They saw the straight pale line of the sea for a long time before they came to the place of the Dwellers by the Sea. For these people had built their castle down on the very edge of the sea, and the Pebbly Waste rose and rose to a mountain that hid their castle from the eyes of the camel-riders who were now drawing near to the scene of their next deed. The Pebbly Waste was all made of small slippery stones, and the children understood how horrid a horse would have found it. Even the camel went very slowly, and the dogs no longer frisked and bounded, but went at a foot’s pace with drooping ears and tails.

“I should call a halt, if I were you,” said Polly. “We shall all be the better for a cup of cocoa. And besides—”

Polly refused to explain this dark hint and only added, “Look out for surprises.”

“I thought,” said Philip, draining the last of his second mug of cocoa, “I thought there were no birds in the desert except you, and you’re more a person than a bird. But look there.”

Far away across the desert a moving speck showed, high up in the blue air. It grew bigger and bigger, plainly coming towards the camp. It was as big as a moth now, now as big as a teacup, now as big as an eagle, and—

“But it’s got four legs,” said Lucy.

“Yes,” said the parrot; “it would have, you know. It is the Hippogriff.”

It was indeed that magnificent wonder. Flying through the air with long sweeps of his great white wings, the Hippogriff drew nearer and nearer, bearing on his back—what?

“It’s the Pretenderette,” cried Lucy, and at the same moment Philip said, “It’s that nasty motor thing.”

It was. The Hippogriff dropped from the sky to the desert below as softly as a butterfly alighting on a flower, and stood there in all his gracious whiteness. And on his back was the veiled motor lady.

“So glad I’ve caught you up,” she said in that hateful voice of hers; “now we can go on together.”

“I don’t see what you wanted to come at all for,” said Philip downrightly.

“Oh,
don’t
you?” she said, sitting up there on the Hippogriff with her horrid motor veil fluttering in the breeze from the now hidden sea. “Why, of course, I have a right to be present at all experiments. There ought to be some responsible grown-up person to see that you really do what you’re sure to say you’ve done.”

“Do you mean that we’re liars?” Philip asked hotly.

“I don’t mean to
say
anything about it,” the Pretenderette answered with an unpleasant giggle, “but a grown-up person ought to be present.” She added something about a parcel of birds and children. And the parrot ruffled his feathers till he looked twice his proper size.

Philip said he didn’t see it.

“Oh, but
I
do,” said the Pretenderette; “if you fail, then it’s my turn, and I might very likely succeed the minute after you’d failed. So we’ll all go on comfortably together.
Won’t
that be nice?”

A speechless despair seemed to have fallen on the party. Nobody spoke. The children looked blank, the dogs whined, the camel put on his haughtiest sneer, and the parrot fidgeted in his fluffed-out feather dress.

“Let’s be starting,” said the motor lady. “Gee-up, pony!” A shiver ran through every one present. That a Pretenderette should dare to speak so to a Hippogriff!

Suddenly the parrot spread its wings and flew to perch on Philip’s shoulder. It whispered in his ear.

“Whispering is not manners, I know,” it said, “but your own generous heart will excuse me. ‘Parcel of birds and children.’ Doesn’t your blood boil?”

Philip thought it did.

“Well, then,” said the bird impatiently, “what are we waiting for? You’ve only got to say the word and I’ll take her back by the ear.”

“I wish you would,” said Philip from the heart.

“Nothing easier,” said the parrot, “the miserable outsider! Intruding into
our
expedition! I advise you to await my return here. Or if I am not back by the morning there will be no objection to your calling, about noon, on the Dwellers. I can rejoin you there. Good-bye.”

It stroked his ear with a gentle and kindly beak and flew into the air and circled three times round the detested motor lady’s head.

“Get away,” she cried, flapping her hands furiously; “call your silly Poll-parrot off, can’t you?” And then she screamed, “Oh! it’s got hold of my ear!”

“Oh, don’t hurt her,” said Lucy.

“I will not hurt her;” the parrot let the ear go on purpose to say this, and the Pretenderette covered both ears with her hands. “You person in the veil, I shall take hold again in a moment. And it will hurt you much less if the Hippogriff and I happen to be flying in the same direction. See? If I were you I should just say ‘Go back the way you came, please,’ to the Hippogriff, and then I shall hardly hurt you at all. Don’t think of getting off. If you do, the dogs will have you. Keep your hands over your ears if you like. I know you can hear me well enough. Now I am going to take hold of you again. Keep your hands where they are. I’m not particular to an ear or so. A nose will do just as well.”

The person on the Hippogriff put both hands to her nose. Instantly the parrot had her again by the ear.

“Go back the way you came,” she cried; “but I’ll be even with you children yet.”

The Hippogriff did not move.

“Let go my ear,” screamed the lady.

“You’ll have to say please, you know,” said Philip; “not to the bird, I don’t mean that: that’s no good. But to the Hippogriff.”

“
Please
then,” said the lady in a burst of temper, and instantly the white wings parted and spread and the Hippogriff rose in the air. Polly let the ear go for the moment to say:

“I shan’t hurt her so long as she behaves,” and then took hold again and his little grey wings and the big white wings of the Hippogriff went sailing away across the desert.

“What a treasure of a parrot?” said Philip. But Lucy said:

“Who
is
that Pretenderette? Why is she so horrid to us when every one else is so nice?”

“I don’t know,” said Philip, “hateful old thing.”

“I can’t help feeling as if I knew her quite well, if I could only remember who she is.”

“Do you?” said Philip. “I say, let’s play noughts and crosses. I’ve got a notebook and a bit of pencil in my pocket. We might play till it’s time to go to sleep.”

So they played noughts and crosses on the Pebbly Waste, and behind them the parrot and the Hippogriff took away the tiresome one, and in front of them lay the high pebble ridge that was like a mountain, and beyond that was the unknown and the adventure and the Dwellers and the deed to be done.

CHAPTER VII

THE DWELLERS BY THE SEA

You soon get used to things. It seemed quite natural and homelike to Philip to be wakened in bright early out-of-door’s morning by the gentle beak of the parrot at his ear.

“You got back all right then,” he said sleepily.

“It was rather a long journey,” said the parrot, “but I thought it better to come back by wing. The Hippogriff offered to bring me; he is the soul of courteous gentleness. But he was tired too. The Pretenderette is in gaol for the moment, but I’m afraid she’ll get out again; we’re so unused to having prisoners, you see. And it’s no use putting
her
on her honour, because—”

“Because she hasn’t any,” Philip finished.

“I wouldn’t say
that
,” said the parrot, “of anybody. I’d only say we haven’t come across it. What about breakfast?”

“How meals do keep happening,” said Lucy, yawning; “it seems only a few minutes since supper. And yet here we are, hungry again!”

“Ah!” said the parrot, “that’s what people always feel when they have to get their meals themselves!”

When the camel and the dogs had been served with breakfast, the children and the parrot sat down to eat. And there were many questions to ask. The parrot answered some, and some it didn’t answer.

“But there’s one thing,” said Lucy, “I do most awfully want to know. About the Hippogriff. How did it get out of the book?”

“It’s a long story,” said the parrot, “so I’ll tell it shortly. That’s a very good rule. Tell short stories longly and long stories shortly. Many years ago, in repairing one of the buildings, the masons removed the supports of one of the books which are part of the architecture. The book fell. It fell open, and out came the Hippogriff. Then they saw something struggling under the next page and lifted it, and out came a megatherium. So they shut the book and built it into the wall again.”

“But how did the megawhatsitsname and the Hippogriff come to be the proper size?”

“Ah! that’s one of the eleven mysteries. Some sages suppose that the country gave itself a sort of shake and everything settled down into the size it ought to be. I think myself that it’s the air. The moment you breathe this enchanted air you become the right size.
You
did, you know.”

“But why did they shut the book?”

“It was a book of beasts. Who knows what might have come out next? A tiger perhaps. And ravening for its prey as likely as not.”

“I see,” said Philip; “and of course beasts weren’t really
needed
, because of there being all the Noah’s Ark ones.”

“Yes,” said the parrot, “so they shut the book.”

“But the weather came out of books?”

“That was another book, a poetry book. It had only one cover, so everything that was on the last page got out naturally. We got a lot out of that page, rain and sun and sky and clouds, mountains, gardens, roses, lilies, flowers in general, ‘Blossoms of delight’ they were called in the book and trees and the sea, and the desert and silver and iron—as much of all of them as anybody could possibly want. There are no limits to poets’ imaginations, you know.”

“I see,” said Lucy, and took a large bite of cake. “And where did you come from, Polly, dear?”

“I,” said the parrot modestly, “came out of the same book as the Hippogriff. We were on the same page. My wings entitled me to associate with him, of course, but I have sometimes thought they just put me in as a contrast. My smallness, his greatness; my red and green, his white.”

“I see,” said Lucy again, “and please will you tell us—”

“Enough of this,” said the parrot; “business before pleasure. You have begun the day with the pleasures of my conversation. You will have to work very hard to pay for this privilege.”

So they washed up the breakfast things in warm water obligingly provided by the camel.

“And now,” said the parrot, “we must pack up and go on our way to destroy the fear of the Dwellers by the Sea.”

“I wonder,” Brenda said to Max in an undertone, “I wonder whether it wouldn’t be best for dear little dogs to lose themselves? We could turn up later, and be so
very
glad to be found.”

“But why?” Max asked.

“I’ve noticed,” said Brenda, sidling up to him with eager affectionateness, “that wherever there’s fear there’s something to be afraid of, even if it’s only your fancy. It would be dreadful for dear little dogs to be afraid, Max, wouldn’t it? So undignified.”

“My dear,” said Max heavily, “I could give seven noble reasons for being faithful to our master. But I will only give you one. There is nothing to eat in the desert, and nothing to drink.”

“You always were so noble, dearest,” said Brenda; “so different from poor little me. I’ve only my affectionate nature. I know I’m only a silly little thing.”

So when the camel lurched forward and the parrot took wing, the dogs followed closely.

“Dear faithful things,” said Lucy. “Brenda! Max! Nice dogs!”

And the dogs politely responding, bounded enthusiastically.

The journey was not long. Quite soon they found a sort of ravine or gully in the cliff, and a path that led through it. And then they were on the beach, very pebbly with small stones, and there was the home of the Dwellers by the Sea; and beyond it, broad and blue and beautiful, the sea by which they dwelt.

The Dwelling seemed to be a sort of town of rounded buildings more like lime-kilns than anything else, with arched doors leading to dark insides. They were all built of tiny stones, such as lay on the beach. Beyond the huts or houses towered the castle, a vast rough structure with towers and arches and buttresses and bastions and glacis and bridges and a great moat all round it.

“But I never built a city like that, did you?” Lucy asked as they drew near.

“No,” Philip answered; “at least—do you know, I do believe it’s the sand castle Helen and I built last summer at Dymchurch. And those huts are the moulds I made of my pail—with the edges worn off, you know.”

Towards the castle the travellers advanced, the camel lurching like a boat on a rough sea, and the dogs going with cat-like delicacy over the stones. They skirted large pools and tall rocks seaweed covered. Along a road broad enough for twelve chariots to have driven on it abreast, slowly they came to the great gate of the castle. And as they got nearer, they saw at every window heads leaning out; every battlement, every terrace, was crowded with figures. And when they were quite near, by throwing their heads very far back, so that their necks felt quite stiff for quite a long time afterwards, the children could see that all those people seemed quite young, and seemed to have very odd and delightful clothes—just a garment from shoulder to knee made, as it seemed, of dark fur.