by Edith Nesbit
‘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.
Slowly they came to the great gate of the castle.
‘What lots of them there are,’ said Philip; ‘where did they come from?’
‘Out of a book,’ said the parrot; ‘but the authorities were very prompt that time. Only a line and a half got out.
‘Happy troops
Of gentle islanders.
Those are the islanders.’
‘Then why,’ asked Philip naturally, ‘aren’t they on an island?’
‘The
re’s only one island, and no one is allowed on that except two people who never go there. But the islanders are happy even if they don’t live on an island — always happy, except for the great fear.’
Here the travellers began to cross one of the bridges across the moat, the bridge, in fact, which led to the biggest arch of all. It was a very rough arch, like the entrance to a cave.
And from out its dark mouth came a little crowd of people.
‘They’re savages,’ said Lucy, shrinking till she seemed only an extra hump on the camel’s back.
They were indeed of a dark complexion, sunburnt in fact, but their faces were handsome and kindly. They waved friendly hands and smiled in the most agreeable and welcoming way.
The tallest islander stepped out from the crowd. He was about as big as Philip.
‘They’re not savages,’ said Philip; ‘don’t be a donkey. They’re just children.’
‘Hush!’ said the parrot; ‘the Lord High Islander is now about to begin the state address of welcome!’
He was. And this was the address.
‘How jolly of you to come. Do get down off that camel and come indoors and have some grub. Jim, you might take that camel round to the stable and rub him down a bit. You’d like to keep the dogs with you, of course. And what about the parrot?’
‘Thanks awfully,’ Philip responded, and slid off the camel, followed by Lucy; ‘the parrot will make his own mind up — he always does.’
They all trooped into the hall of the castle which was more like a cave than a hall and very dark, for the windows were little and high up. As Lucy’s eyes got used to the light she perceived that the clothes of the islanders were not of skins but of seaweed.
‘I asked you in,’ said the Lord High Islander, a jolly-looking boy of about Philip’s age, ‘out of politeness. But really it isn’t dinner time, and the meet is in half an hour. So, unless you’re really hungry —— ?’
The children said ‘Not at all!’
‘You hunt, of course?’ the Lord High Islander said; ‘it’s really the only sport we get here, except fishing. Of course we play games and all that. I do hope you won’t be dull.’
‘We came here on business,’ the parrot remarked — and the happy islanders crowded round to see him, remarking—’these are Philip and Lucy, claimants to the Deliverership. They are doing their deeds, you know,’ the parrot ended.
Lucy whispered, ‘It’s really Philip who is the claimant, not me; only the parrot’s so polite.’
The Lord High Islander frowned. ‘We can talk about that afterwards,’ he said; ‘it’s a pity to waste time now.’
‘What do you hunt?’ Philip asked.
‘All the different kinds of graibeeste and the vertoblancs; and the blugraiwee, when we can find him,’ said the Lord High Islander. ‘But he’s very scarce. Pinkuggers are more common, and much bigger, of course. Well, you’ll soon see. If your camel’s not quite fresh I can mount you both. What kind of animal do you prefer?’
‘What do you ride?’ Philip asked.
It appeared that the Lord High Islander rode a giraffe, and Philip longed to ride another. But Lucy said she would rather ride what she was used to, thank you.
When they got out into the courtyard of the castle, they found it full of a crowd of animals, any of which you may find in the Zoo, or in your old Noah’s ark if it was a sufficiently expensive one to begin with, and if you have not broken or lost too many of the inhabitants. Each animal had its rider and the party rode out on to the beach.
‘What is it they hunt?’ Philip asked the parrot, who had perched on his shoulder.
‘All the little animals in the Noah’s ark that haven’t any names,’ the parrot told him. ‘All those are considered fair game. Hullo! blugraiwee!’ it shouted, as a little grey beast with blue spots started from the shelter of a rock and made for the cover of a patch of giant seaweed. Then all sorts of little animals got up and scurried off into places of security.
‘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.
‘If your camel’s not quite fresh I can mount you both.’
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 swat 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 to-night.’
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.