by E. Nesbit
“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 want 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 dashed 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.
“Would 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 hoisting 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.
The children were not allowed to help, but they loved looking on, and almost felt that, if they looked on earnestly enough, they must, in some strange mysterious way, be actually helping. You know the feeling, I daresay.
The Hippogriff, who was stabled in the castle, flew up to wherever he was wanted, to assist in the hauling. Mr. Noah only had to whisper the magic word in his ear and up he flew. But what that magic word was the children did not know, though they asked often enough.
And now at last the ark was finished, the scaffolding was removed, and there was the great Noah’s ark, firmly planted on the topmost tower. It was a perfect example of the ark-builder’s craft. Its boat part was painted a dull red, its sides and ends were blue with black windows, and its roof was bright scarlet, painted in lines to imitate tiles. No least detail was neglected. Even to the white bird painted on the roof, which you must have noticed in your own Noah’s ark.
A great festival was held, speeches were made, and every one who had lent a hand in the building, even the humblest M.A., was crowned with a wreath of fresh pink and green seaweed. Songs were sung, and the laureate of the Sea-Dwellers, a young M.A. with pale blue eyes and no chin, recited an ode beginning—
Now that we have our Noble Ark
No more we tremble in the dark
When the great seas and the winds cry out,
For we are safe without a doubt.
At undue risings of the tide
Within our Ark we’ll safely hide,
And bless the names of those who thus
Have built a painted Ark for us.
There were three hundred and seventeen more lines, very much like these, and every one said it was wonderful, and the laureate was a genius, and how did he do it, and what brains, eh? and things like that.
And Philip and Lucy had crowns too. The Lord High Islander made a vote of thanks to Philip, who modestly replied that it was nothing, really, and anybody could have done it. And a spirit of gladness spread about among the company so that every one was smiling and shaking hands with everybody else, and even the M.A.’s were making little polite old jokes, and slapping each other on the back and calling each other “old chap,” which was not at all their habit in ordinary life. The whole castle was decorated with garlands of pink and green seaweed like the wreaths that people were wearing, and the whole scene was the gayest and happiest you can imagine.
And then the dreadful thing happened.
Philip and Lucy were standing in their seaweed tunics, for of course they had, since the first day, worn the costume of the country, on the platform in the courtyard. Mr. Noah had just said, “Well, then, we will enjoy this enjoyable day to the very end and return to the city tomorrow,” when a shadow fell on the group. It was the Hippogriff, and on its back was—some one. Before any one could see who that some one was, the Hippogriff had flown low enough for that some one to catch Philip by his seaweed tunic and to swing him off his feet and on to the Hippogriff’s back. Lucy screamed, Mr. Perrin said, “Here, I say, none of that,” and Mr. Noah said, “Dear me!” And they all reached out their hands to pull Philip back. But they were all too late.
“I won’t go. Put me down,” Philip shouted. They all heard that. And also they heard the answer of the person on the Hippogriff—the person who had snatched Philip on to its back.
“Oh, won’t you, my Lord? We’ll soon see about that,” the person said.
Three people there knew that voice, four counting Philip, six counting the dogs. The dogs barked and growled, Mr. Noah said “Drop it;” and Lucy screamed, “Oh no! oh no! it’s that Pretenderette.” The parrot, with great presence of mind, flew up into the air and attacked the ear of the Pretenderette, for, as old books say, it was indeed that unprincipled character who had broken from prison and once more stolen the Hippogriff. But the Pretenderette was not to be caught twice by the same parrot. She was ready for the bird this time, and as it touched her ear she caught it in her motor veil which she must have loosened beforehand, and thrust it into a wicker cage that hung ready from the saddle of the Hippogriff who hovered on his wide white wings above the crowd of faces upturned.
“Now we shall see her face,” Lucy thought, for she could not get rid of the feeling that if she could
only see the Pretenderette’s face she would recognise it. But the Pretenderette was too wily to look down unveiled. She turned her face up, and she must have whispered the magic word, for the Hippogriff rose in the air and began to fly away with incredible swiftness across the sea.
“Oh, what shall I do?” cried Lucy, wringing her hands. You have often heard of people wringing their hands. Lucy, I assure you, really did wring hers. “Oh! Mr. Noah, what will she do with him? Where will she take him? What shall I do? How can I find him again?”
“I deeply regret, my dear child,” said Mr. Noah, “that I find myself quite unable to answer any single one of your questions.”
“But can’t I go after him?” Lucy persisted.
“I am sorry to say,” said Mr. Noah, “that we have no boats; the Pretenderette has stolen our one and only Hippogriff, and none of our camels can fly.”
“But what can I do?” Lucy stamped her foot in her agony of impatience.
“Nothing, my child,” Mr. Noah aggravatingly replied, “except to go to bed and get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow we will return to the city and see what can be done. We must consult the oracle.”
“But can’t we go now,” said Lucy, crying.
“No oracle is worth consulting till it’s had its night’s rest,” said Mr. Noah. “It is a three days’ journey. If we started now—see it is already dusk—we should arrive in the middle of the night. We will start early in the morning.”
But early in the morning there was no starting from the castle of the Dwellers by the Sea. There was indeed no one to start, and there was no castle to start from.
A young blugraiwee, peeping out of its hole after a rather disturbed night to see whether any human beings were yet stirring or whether it might venture out in search of yellow periwinkles, which are its favourite food, started, pricked its spotted ears, looked again, and, disdaining the cover of the rocks, walked boldly out across the beach. For the beach was deserted. There was no one there. No Mr. Noah, no Lucy, no gentle islanders, no M.A.’s—and what is more there were no huts and there was no castle. All was smooth, plain, bare sea-combed beach.