by E. Nesbit
“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 camel 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 tumbling, 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?”
“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 suga
r 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.