The Story of the Amulet, E. Nesbit [me reader .TXT] 📗

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.

“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.”

Then Anthea pulled herself together. All her muscles tightened, and the muscles of her mind and soul, if you can call them that, tightened too.

“UR HEKAU SETCHEH,” she cried in a fervent voice. “Oh, Nisroch, servant of the Great Ones, come and help us!”

There was a waiting silence. Then a cold, blue light awoke in the corner where the straw was—and in the light they saw coming towards them a strange and terrible figure. I won’t try to describe it, because the drawing shows it, exactly as it was, and exactly as the old Babylonians carved it on their stones, so that you can see it in our own British Museum at this day. I will just say that it had eagle’s wings and an eagle’s head and the body of a man.

It came towards them, strong and unspeakably horrible.

“Oh, go away,” cried Anthea; but Cyril cried, “No; stay!”

The creature hesitated, then bowed low before them on the damp floor of the dungeon.

“Speak,” it said, in a harsh, grating voice like large rusty keys being turned in locks. “The servant of the Great Ones is your servant. What is your need that you call on the name of Nisroch?”

“We want to go home,” said Robert.

“No, no,” cried Anthea; “we want to be where Jane is.”

Nisroch raised his great arm and pointed at the wall of the dungeon. And, as he pointed, the wall disappeared, and instead of the damp, green, rocky surface, there shone and glowed a room with rich hangings of red silk embroidered with golden water-lilies, with cushioned couches and great mirrors of polished steel; and in it was the Queen, and before her, on a red pillow, sat the Psammead, its fur hunched up in an irritated, discontented way. On a blue-covered couch lay Jane fast asleep.

“Walk forward without fear,” said Nisroch. “Is there aught else that the Servant of the great Name can do for those who speak that name?”

“No—oh, no,” said Cyril. “It’s all right now. Thanks ever so.”

“You are a dear,” cried Anthea, not in the least knowing what she was saying. “Oh, thank you thank you. But do go now!”

She caught the hand of the creature, and it was cold and hard in hers, like a hand of stone.

“Go forward,” said Nisroch. And they went.

“Oh, my good gracious,” said the Queen as they stood before her. “How did you get here? I knew you were magic. I meant to let you out the first thing in the morning, if I could slip away—but thanks be to Dagon, you’ve managed it for yourselves. You must get away. I’ll wake my chief lady and she shall call Ritti-Marduk, and he’ll let you out the back way, and—”

“Don’t rouse anybody for goodness’ sake,” said Anthea, “except Jane, and I’ll rouse her.”

She shook Jane with energy, and Jane slowly awoke.

“Ritti-Marduk brought them in hours ago, really,” said the Queen, “but I wanted to have the Psammead all to myself for a bit. You’ll excuse the little natural deception?—it’s part of the Babylonish character, don’t you know? But I don’t want anything to happen to you. Do let me rouse someone.”

“No, no, no,” said Anthea with desperate earnestness. She thought she knew enough of what the Babylonians were like when they were roused. “We can go by our own magic. And you will tell the King it wasn’t the gaoler’s fault. It was Nisroch.”

“Nisroch!” echoed the Queen. “You are indeed magicians.”

Jane sat up, blinking stupidly.

“Hold It up, and say the word,” cried Cyril, catching up the Psammead, which mechanically bit him, but only very slightly.

“Which is the East?” asked Jane.

“Behind me,” said the Queen. “Why?”

“Ur Hekau Setcheh,” said Jane sleepily, and held up the charm.

And there they all were in the dining-room at 300, Fitzroy Street.

“Jane,” cried Cyril with great presence of mind, “go and get the plate of sand down for the Psammead.”

Jane went.

“Look here!” he said quickly, as the sound of her boots grew less loud on the stairs, “don’t let’s tell her about the dungeon and all that. It’ll only frighten her so that she’ll never want to go anywhere else.”

“Righto!” said Cyril; but Anthea felt that she could not have said a word to save her life.

“Why did you want to come back in such a hurry?” asked Jane, returning with the plate of sand. “It was awfully jolly in Babylon, I think! I liked it no end.”

“Oh, yes,” said Cyril carelessly. “It was jolly enough, of course, but I thought we’d been there long enough. Mother always says you oughtn’t to wear out your welcome!”