by Edith Nesbit
‘By all means. I’ll call my scribe.’
‘Oh, I can scribe right enough, thanks,’ said Cyril, finding the pencil and licking its point. He even had to bite the wood a little, for it was very blunt.
‘Oh, you clever, clever boy!’ said the Queen. ‘DO let me watch you do it!’
Cyril wrote on a leaf of the book — it was of rough, woolly paper, with hairs that stuck out and would have got in his pen if he had been using one, and ruled for accounts.
‘Hide IT most carefully before you come here,’ he wrote, ‘and don’t mention it — and destroy this letter. Everything is going A1. The Queen is a fair treat. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
‘What curious characters, and what a strange flat surface!’ said the Queen. ‘What have you inscribed?’
‘I’ve ‘scribed,’ replied Cyril cautiously, ‘that you are fair, and a — and like a — like a festival; and that she need not be afraid, and that she is to come at once.’
Ritti-Marduk, who had come in and had stood waiting while Cyril wrote, his Babylonish eyes nearly starting out of his Babylonish head, now took the letter, with some reluctance.
‘O Queen, live for ever! Is it a charm?’ he timidly asked. ‘A strong charm, most great lady?’
‘YES,’ said Robert, unexpectedly, ‘it IS a charm, but it won’t hurt anyone until you’ve given it to Jane. And then she’ll destroy it, so that it CAN’T hurt anyone. It’s most awful strong! — as strong as — Peppermint!’ he ended abruptly.
‘I know not the god,’ said Ritti-Marduk, bending timorously.
‘She’ll tear it up directly she gets it,’ said Robert, ‘That’ll end the charm. You needn’t be afraid if you go now.’
Ritti-Marduk went, seeming only partly satisfied; and then the Queen began to admire the penny account-book and the bit of pencil in so marked and significant a way that Cyril felt he could not do less than press them upon her as a gift. She ruffled the leaves delightedly.
‘What a wonderful substance!’ she said. ‘And with this style you make charms? Make a charm for me! Do you know,’ her voice sank to a whisper, ‘the names of the great ones of your own far country?’
‘Rather!’ said Cyril, and hastily wrote the names of Alfred the Great, Shakespeare, Nelson, Gordon, Lord Beaconsfield, Mr Rudyard Kipling, and Mr Sherlock Holmes, while the Queen watched him with ‘unbaited breath’, as Anthea said afterwards.
She took the book and hid it reverently among the bright folds of her gown.
‘You shall teach me later to say the great names,’ she said. ‘And the names of their Ministers — perhaps the great Nisroch is one of them?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Cyril. ‘Mr Campbell Bannerman’s Prime Minister and Mr Burns a Minister, and so is the Archbishop of Canterbury, I think, but I’m not sure — and Dr Parker was one, I know, and—’
‘No more,’ said the Queen, putting her hands to her ears. ‘My head’s going round with all those great names. You shall teach them to me later — because of course you’ll make us a nice long visit now you have come, won’t you? Now tell me — but no, I am quite tired out with your being so clever. Besides, I’m sure you’d like ME to tell YOU something, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Anthea. ‘I want to know how it is that the King has gone—’
‘Excuse me, but you should say “the King may-he-live-for-ever”,’ said the Queen gently.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Anthea hastened to say—’the King may-he-live-for-ever has gone to fetch home his fourteenth wife? I don’t think even Bluebeard had as many as that. And, besides, he hasn’t killed YOU at any rate.’
The Queen looked bewildered.
‘She means,’ explained Robert, ‘that English kings only have one wife — at least, Henry the Eighth had seven or eight, but not all at once.’
‘In our country,’ said the Queen scornfully, ‘a king would not reign a day who had only one wife. No one would respect him, and quite right too.’
‘Then are all the other thirteen alive?’ asked Anthea.
‘Of course they are — poor mean-spirited things! I don’t associate with them, of course, I am the Queen: they’re only the wives.’
‘I see,’ said Anthea, gasping.
‘But oh, my dears,’ the Queen went on, ‘such a to-do as there’s been about this last wife! You never did! It really was TOO funny. We wanted an Egyptian princess. The King may-he-live-for-ever has got a wife from most of the important nations, and he had set his heart on an Egyptian one to complete his collection. Well, of course, to begin with, we sent a handsome present of gold. The Egyptian king sent back some horses — quite a few; he’s fearfully stingy! — and he said he liked the gold very much, but what they were really short of was lapis lazuli, so of course we sent him some. But by that time he’d begun to use the gold to cover the beams of the roof of the Temple of the Sun-God, and he hadn’t nearly enough to finish the job, so we sent some more. And so it went on, oh, for years. You see each journey takes at least six months. And at last we asked the hand of his daughter in marriage.’
‘Yes, and then?’ said Anthea, who wanted to get to the princess part of the story.
‘Well, then,’ said the Queen, ‘when he’d got everything out of us that he could, and only given the meanest presents in return, he sent to say he would esteem the honour of an alliance very highly, only unfortunately he hadn’t any daughter, but he hoped one would be born soon, and if so, she should certainly be reserved for the King of Babylon!’
‘What a trick!’ said Cyril.
‘Yes, wasn’t it? So then we said his sister would do, and then there were more gifts and more journeys; and now at last the tiresome, black-haired thing is coming, and the King may-he-live-for-ever has gone seven days’ journey to meet her at Carchemish. And he’s gone in his best chariot, the one inlaid with lapis lazuli and gold, with the gold-plated wheels and onyx-studded hubs — much too great an honour in my opinion. She’ll be here tonight; there’ll be a grand banquet to celebrate her arrival. SHE won’t be present, of course. She’ll be having her baths and her anointings, and all that sort of thing. We always clean our foreign brides very carefully. It takes two or three weeks. Now it’s dinnertime, and you shall eat with me, for I can see that you are of high rank.’ She led them into a dark, cool hall, with many cushions on the floor. On these they sat and low tables were brought — beautiful tables of smooth, blue stone mounted in gold. On these, golden trays were placed; but there were no knives, or forks, or spoons. The children expected the Queen to call for them; but no. She just ate with her fingers, and as the first dish was a great tray of boiled corn, and meat and raisins all mixed up together, and melted fat poured all over the tray, it was found difficult to follow her example with anything like what we are used to think of as good table manners. There were stewed quinces afterwards, and dates in syrup, and thick yellowy cream. It was the kind of dinner you hardly ever get in Fitzroy Street.
After dinner everybody went to sleep, even the children.
The Queen awoke with a start.
‘Good gracious!’ she cried, ‘what a time we’ve slept! I must rush off and dress for the banquet. I shan’t have much more than time.’
‘Hasn’t Ritti-Marduk got back with our sister and the Psammead yet?’ Anthea asked.
‘I QUITE forgot to ask. I’m sorry,’ said the Queen. ‘And of course they wouldn’t announce her unless I told them to, except during justice hours. I expect she’s waiting outside. I’ll see.’
Ritti-Marduk came in a moment later.
‘I regret,’ he said, ‘that I have been unable to find your sister. The beast she bears with her in a basket has bitten the child of the guard, and your sister and the beast set out to come to you. The police say they have a clue. No doubt we shall have news of her in a few weeks.’ He bowed and withdrew.
The horror of this threefold loss — Jane, the Psammead, and the Amulet — gave the children something to talk about while the Queen was dress
ing. I shall not report their conversation; it was very gloomy. Everyone repeated himself several times, and the discussion ended in each of them blaming the other two for having let Jane go. You know the sort of talk it was, don’t you? At last Cyril said —
‘After all, she’s with the Psammead, so SHE’S all right. The Psammead is jolly careful of itself too. And it isn’t as if we were in any danger. Let’s try to buck up and enjoy the banquet.’
They did enjoy the banquet. They had a beautiful bath, which was delicious, were heavily oiled all over, including their hair, and that was most unpleasant. Then, they dressed again and were presented to the King, who was most affable. The banquet was long; there were all sorts of nice things to eat, and everybody seemed to eat and drink a good deal. Everyone lay on cushions and couches, ladies on one side and gentlemen on the other; and after the eating was done each lady went and sat by some gentleman, who seemed to be her sweetheart or her husband, for they were very affectionate to each other. The Court dresses had gold threads woven in them, very bright and beautiful.
The middle of the room was left clear, and different people came and did amusing things. There were conjurers and jugglers and snake-charmers, which last Anthea did not like at all.
When it got dark torches were lighted. Cedar splinters dipped in oil blazed in copper dishes set high on poles.
Then there was a dancer, who hardly danced at all, only just struck attitudes. She had hardly any clothes, and was not at all pretty. The children were rather bored by her, but everyone else was delighted, including the King.
‘By the beard of Nimrod!’ he cried, ‘ask what you like girl, and you shall have it!’
‘I want nothing,’ said the dancer; ‘the honour of having pleased the King may-he-live-for-ever is reward enough for me.’
And the King was so pleased with this modest and sensible reply that he gave her the gold collar off his own neck.
‘I say!’ said Cyril, awed by the magnificence of the gift.
‘It’s all right,’ whispered the Queen, ‘it’s not his best collar by any means. We always keep a stock of cheap jewellery for these occasions. And now — you promised to sing us something. Would you like my minstrels to accompany you?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Anthea quickly. The minstrels had been playing off and on all the time, and their music reminded Anthea of the band she and the others had once had on the fifth of November — with penny horns, a tin whistle, a tea-tray, the tongs, a policeman’s rattle, and a toy drum. They had enjoyed this band very much at the time. But it was quite different when someone else was making the same kind of music. Anthea understood now that Father had not been really heartless and unreasonable when he had told them to stop that infuriating din.
‘What shall we sing?’ Cyril was asking.
‘Sweet and low?’ suggested Anthea.
‘Too soft — I vote for “Who will o’er the downs”. Now then — one, two, three.
‘Oh, who will o’er the downs so free,
Oh, who will with me ride,
Oh, who will up and follow me,
To win a blooming bride?
Her father he has locked the door,
Her mother keeps the key;
But neither bolt nor bar shall keep
My own true love from me.’
Jane, the alto, was missing, and Robert, unlike the mother of the lady in the song, never could ‘keep the key’, but the song, even so, was sufficiently unlike anything any of them had ever heard to rouse the Babylonian Court to the wildest enthusiasm.
‘More, more,’ cried the King; ‘by my beard, this savage music is a new thing. Sing again!’
So they sang:
‘I saw her bower at twilight gray,
’Twas guarded safe and sure.
I saw her bower at break of day,
’Twas guarded then no more.
The varlets they were all asleep,
And there was none to see
The greeting fair that passed there
Between my love and me.’
Shouts of applause greeted the ending of the verse, and the King would not be satisfied till they had sung all their part-songs (they only knew three) twice over, and ended up with ‘Men of Harlech’ in unison. Then the King stood up in his royal robes with his high, narrow crown on his head and shouted —
‘By the beak of Nisroch, ask what you will, strangers from the land where the sun never sets!’
‘We ought to say it’s enough honour, like the dancer did,’ whispered Anthea.
‘No, let’s ask for IT,’ said Robert.
‘No, no, I’m sure the other’s manners,’ said Anthea. But Robert, who was excited by the music, and the flaring torches, and the applause and the opportunity, spoke up before the others could stop him.
‘Give us the half of the Amulet that has on it the name UR HEKAU SETCHEH,’ he said, adding as an afterthought, ‘O King, live-for-ever.’
As he spoke the great name those in the pillared hall fell on their faces, and lay still. All but the Queen who crouched amid her cushions with her head in her hands, and the King, who stood upright, perfectly still, like the statue of a king in stone. It was only for a moment though. Then his great voice thundered out —
‘Guard, seize them!’
Instantly, from nowhere as it seemed, sprang eight soldiers in bright armour inlaid with gold, and tunics of red and white. Very splendid they were, and very alarming.
‘Impious and sacrilegious wretches!’ shouted the King. ‘To the dungeons with them! We will find a way, tomorrow, to make them speak. For without doubt they can tell us where to find the lost half of It.’
A wall of scarlet and white and steel and gold closed up round the children and hurried them away among the many pillars of the great hall. As they went they heard the voices of the courtiers loud in horror.
‘You’ve done it this time,’ said Cyril with extreme bitterness.
‘Oh, it will come right. It MUST. It always does,’ said Anthea desperately.
They could not see where they were going, because the guard surrounded them so closely, but the ground under their feet, smooth marble at first, grew rougher like stone, then it was loose earth and sand, and they felt the night air. Then there was more stone, and steps down.
‘It’s my belief we really ARE going to the deepest dungeon below the castle moat this time,’ said Cyril.
And they were. At least it was not below a moat, but below the river Euphrates, which was just as bad if not worse. In a most unpleasant place it was. Dark, very, very damp, and with an odd, musty smell rather like the shells of oysters. There was a torch — that is to say, a copper basket on a high stick with oiled wood burning in it. By its light the children saw that the walls were green, and that trickles of water ran down them and dripped from the roof. There were things on the floor that looked like newts, and in the dark corners creepy, shiny things moved sluggishly, uneasily, horribly.
Robert’s heart sank right into those really reliable boots of his. Anthea and Cyril each had a private struggle with that inside disagreeableness which is part of all of us, and which is sometimes called the Old Adam — and both were victors. Neither of them said to Robert (and both tried hard not even to think it), ‘This is YOUR doing.’ Anthea had the additional temptation to add, ‘I told you so.’ And she resisted it successfully.
‘Sacrilege, and impious cheek,’ said the captain of the guard to the gaoler. ‘To be kept during the King’s pleasure. I expect he means to get some pleasure out of them tomorrow! He’ll tickle them up!’
‘Poor little kids,’ said the gaoler.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve got kids of my own too. But it doesn’t do to let domestic sentiment interfere with one’s public duties. Good night.’
The soldiers tramped heavily off in their white and red and steel and gold. The gaoler, with a bunch of big keys in his hand, stood looking pityingly at the children. He shook his head twice and went out.
&n
bsp; ‘Courage!’ said Anthea. ‘I know it will be all right. It’s only a dream REALLY, you know. It MUST be! I don’t believe about time being only a something or other of thought. It IS a dream, and we’re bound to wake up all right and safe.’
‘Humph,’ said Cyril bitterly. And Robert suddenly said —
‘It’s all my doing. If it really IS all up do please not keep a down on me about it, and tell Father — Oh, I forgot.’
What he had forgotten was that his father was 3,000 miles and 5,000 or more years away from him.
‘All right, Bobs, old man,’ said Cyril; and Anthea got hold of Robert’s hand and squeezed it.
Then the gaoler came back with a platter of hard, flat cakes made of coarse grain, very different from the cream-and-juicy-date feasts of the palace; also a pitcher of water.
‘There,’ he said.
‘Oh, thank you so very much. You ARE kind,’ said Anthea feverishly.
‘Go to sleep,’ said the gaoler, pointing to a heap of straw in a corner; ‘tomorrow comes soon enough.’
‘Oh, dear Mr Gaoler,’ said Anthea, ‘whatever will they do to us tomorrow?’
‘They’ll try to make you tell things,’ said the gaoler grimly, ‘and my advice is if you’ve nothing to tell, make up something. Then perhaps they’ll sell you to the Northern nations. Regular savages THEY are. Good night.’
‘Good night,’ said three trembling voices, which their owners strove in vain to render firm. Then he went out, and the three were left alone in the damp, dim vault.
‘I know the light won’t last long,’ said Cyril, looking at the flickering brazier.
‘Is it any good, do you think, calling on the name when we haven’t got the charm?’ suggested Anthea.
‘I shouldn’t think so. But we might try.’
So they tried. But the blank silence of the damp dungeon remained unchanged.
‘What was the name the Queen said?’ asked Cyril suddenly. ‘Nisbeth — Nesbit — something? You know, the slave of the great names?’
‘Wait a sec,’ said Robert, ‘though I don’t know why you want it. Nusroch — Nisrock — Nisroch — that’s it.’