The Story of the Amulet, E. Nesbit [free ebook reader for iphone txt] 📗

much indeed, thank you!” added Anthea politely.

The beautiful light faded slowly. The great darkness and silence came and these suddenly changed to the dazzlement of day and the great soft, rustling sound of London, that is like some vast beast turning over in its sleep.

The children rubbed their eyes, the Psammead ran quickly to its sandy bath, and the others went down to tea. And until the cups were actually filled tea seemed less real than the beautiful voice and the greeny light.

After tea Anthea persuaded the others to allow her to hang the charm round her neck with a piece of string.

“It would be so awful if it got lost,” she said: “it might get lost anywhere, you know, and it would be rather beastly for us to have to stay in the Past forever and ever, wouldn’t it?”

IV Eight Thousand Years Ago

Next morning Anthea got old Nurse to allow her to take up the “poor learned gentleman’s” breakfast. He did not recognize her at first, but when he did he was vaguely pleased to see her.

“You see I’m wearing the charm round my neck,” she said; “I’m taking care of it⁠—like you told us to.”

“That’s right,” said he; “did you have a good game last night?”

“You will eat your breakfast before it’s cold, won’t you?” said Anthea. “Yes, we had a splendid time. The charm made it all dark, and then greeny light, and then it spoke. Oh! I wish you could have heard it⁠—it was such a darling voice⁠—and it told us the other half of it was lost in the Past, so of course we shall have to look for it there!”

The learned gentleman rubbed his hair with both hands and looked anxiously at Anthea.

“I suppose it’s natural⁠—youthful imagination and so forth,” he said. “Yet someone must have⁠ ⁠… Who told you that some part of the charm was missing?”

“I can’t tell you,” she said. “I know it seems most awfully rude, especially after being so kind about telling us the name of power, and all that, but really, I’m not allowed to tell anybody anything about the⁠—the⁠—the person who told me. You won’t forget your breakfast, will you?”

The learned gentleman smiled feebly and then frowned⁠—not a cross-frown, but a puzzle-frown.

“Thank you,” he said, “I shall always be pleased if you’ll look in⁠—any time you’re passing you know⁠—at least⁠ ⁠…”

“I will,” she said; “goodbye. I’ll always tell you anything I may tell.”

He had not had many adventures with children in them, and he wondered whether all children were like these. He spent quite five minutes in wondering before he settled down to the fifty-second chapter of his great book on The Secret Rites of the Priests of Amen-Rā.

It is no use to pretend that the children did not feel a good deal of agitation at the thought of going through the charm into the Past. That idea, that perhaps they might stay in the Past and never get back again, was anything but pleasing. Yet no one would have dared to suggest that the charm should not be used; and though each was in its heart very frightened indeed, they would all have joined in jeering at the cowardice of any one of them who should have uttered the timid but natural suggestion, “Don’t let’s!”

It seemed necessary to make arrangements for being out all day, for there was no reason to suppose that the sound of the dinner-bell would be able to reach back into the Past, and it seemed unwise to excite old Nurse’s curiosity when nothing they could say⁠—not even the truth⁠—could in any way satisfy it. They were all very proud to think how well they had understood what the charm and the Psammead had said about Time and Space and things like that, and they were perfectly certain that it would be quite impossible to make old Nurse understand a single word of it. So they merely asked her to let them take their dinner out into Regent’s Park⁠—and this, with the implied cold mutton and tomatoes, was readily granted.

“You can get yourselves some buns or sponge-cakes, or whatever you fancy-like,” said old Nurse, giving Cyril a shilling. “Don’t go getting jam-tarts, now⁠—so messy at the best of times, and without forks and plates ruination to your clothes, besides your not being able to wash your hands and faces afterwards.”

So Cyril took the shilling, and they all started off. They went round by the Tottenham Court Road to buy a piece of waterproof sheeting to put over the Psammead in case it should be raining in the Past when they got there. For it is almost certain death to a Psammead to get wet.

The sun was shining very brightly, and even London looked pretty. Women were selling roses from big baskets-full, and Anthea bought four roses, one each, for herself and the others. They were red roses and smelt of summer⁠—the kind of roses you always want so desperately at about Christmas-time when you can only get mistletoe, which is pale right through to its very scent, and holly which pricks your nose if you try to smell it. So now everyone had a rose in its buttonhole, and soon everyone was sitting on the grass in Regent’s Park under trees whose leaves would have been clean, clear green in the country, but here were dusty and yellowish, and brown at the edges.

“We’ve got to go on with it,” said Anthea, “and as the eldest has to go first, you’ll have to be last, Jane. You quite understand about holding on to the charm as you go through, don’t you, Pussy?”

“I wish I hadn’t got to be last,” said Jane.

“You shall carry the Psammead if you like,” said Anthea. “That is,” she added, remembering the beast’s queer temper, “if it’ll let you.”

The Psammead, however, was unexpectedly amiable.

“I don’t mind,” it said, “who carries me, so long as it doesn’t drop me. I can’t bear being dropped.”

Jane with