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

scowled thoughtfully at the little blue image.

Anthea outside thought the explanation was taking a very long time. She was so busy trying to cheer and comfort the little black girl that she never noticed the Psammead who, roused from sleep by her voice, had shaken itself free of sand, and was coming crookedly up the stairs. It was close to her before she saw it. She picked it up and settled it in her lap.

“What is it?” asked the black child. “Is it a cat or a organ-monkey, or what?”

And then Anthea heard the learned gentleman say⁠—

“Yes, I wish we could find a home where they would be glad to have her,” and instantly she felt the Psammead begin to blow itself out as it sat on her lap.

She jumped up lifting the Psammead in her skirt, and holding Imogen by the hand, rushed into the learned gentleman’s room.

“At least let’s keep together,” she cried. “All hold hands⁠—quick!”

The circle was like that formed for the Mulberry Bush or Ring-o’-Roses. And Anthea was only able to take part in it by holding in her teeth the hem of her frock which, thus supported, formed a bag to hold the Psammead.

“Is it a game?” asked the learned gentleman feebly. No one answered.

There was a moment of suspense; then came that curious upside-down, inside-out sensation which one almost always feels when transported from one place to another by magic. Also there was that dizzy dimness of sight which comes on these occasions.

The mist cleared, the upside-down, inside-out sensation subsided, and there stood the six in a ring, as before, only their twelve feet, instead of standing on the carpet of the learned gentleman’s room, stood on green grass. Above them, instead of the dusky ceiling of the Fitzroy Street floor, was a pale blue sky. And where the walls had been and the painted mummy-case, were tall dark green trees, oaks and ashes, and in between the trees and under them tangled bushes and creeping ivy. There were beech-trees too, but there was nothing under them but their own dead red drifted leaves, and here and there a delicate green fern-frond.

And there they stood in a circle still holding hands, as though they were playing Ring-o’-Roses or the Mulberry Bush. Just six people hand in hand in a wood. That sounds simple, but then you must remember that they did not know where the wood was, and what’s more, they didn’t know when then wood was. There was a curious sort of feeling that made the learned gentleman say⁠—

“Another dream, dear me!” and made the children almost certain that they were in a time a very long while ago. As for little Imogen, she said, “Oh, my!” and kept her mouth very much open indeed.

“Where are we?” Cyril asked the Psammead.

“In Britain,” said the Psammead.

“But when?” asked Anthea anxiously.

“About the year fifty-five before the year you reckon time from,” said the Psammead crossly. “Is there anything else you want to know?” it added, sticking its head out of the bag formed by Anthea’s blue linen frock, and turning its snail’s eyes to right and left. “I’ve been here before⁠—it’s very little changed.”

“Yes, but why here?” asked Anthea.

“Your inconsiderate friend,” the Psammead replied, “wished to find some home where they would be glad to have that unattractive and immature female human being whom you have picked up⁠—gracious knows how. In Megatherium days properly brought-up children didn’t talk to shabby strangers in parks. Your thoughtless friend wanted a place where someone would be glad to have this undesirable stranger. And now here you are!”

“I see we are,” said Anthea patiently, looking round on the tall gloom of the forest. “But why here? Why now?”

“You don’t suppose anyone would want a child like that in your times⁠—in your towns?” said the Psammead in irritated tones. “You’ve got your country into such a mess that there’s no room for half your children⁠—and no one to want them.”

“That’s not our doing, you know,” said Anthea gently.

“And bringing me here without any waterproof or anything,” said the Psammead still more crossly, “when everyone knows how damp and foggy Ancient Britain was.”

“Here, take my coat,” said Robert, taking it off. Anthea spread the coat on the ground and, putting the Psammead on it, folded it round so that only the eyes and furry ears showed.

“There,” she said comfortingly. “Now if it does begin to look like rain, I can cover you up in a minute. Now what are we to do?”

The others who had stopped holding hands crowded round to hear the answer to this question. Imogen whispered in an awed tone⁠—

“Can’t the organ monkey talk neither! I thought it was only parrots!”

“Do?” replied the Psammead. “I don’t care what you do!” And it drew head and ears into the tweed covering of Robert’s coat.

The others looked at each other.

“It’s only a dream,” said the learned gentleman hopefully; “something is sure to happen if we can prevent ourselves from waking up.”

And sure enough, something did.

The brooding silence of the dark forest was broken by the laughter of children and the sound of voices.

“Let’s go and see,” said Cyril.

“It’s only a dream,” said the learned gentleman to Jane, who hung back; “if you don’t go with the tide of a dream⁠—if you resist⁠—you wake up, you know.”

There was a sort of break in the undergrowth that was like a silly person’s idea of a path. They went along this in Indian file, the learned gentleman leading.

Quite soon they came to a large clearing in the forest. There were a number of houses⁠—huts perhaps you would have called them⁠—with a sort of mud and wood fence.

“It’s like the old Egyptian town,” whispered Anthea.

And it was, rather.

Some children, with no clothes on at all, were playing what looked like Ring-o’-Roses or Mulberry Bush. That is to say, they were dancing round in a ring, holding hands. On a grassy bank several women, dressed in blue and white robes and tunics of beast-skins sat