Kabanata Kabanata 2 · THE TOPLESS TOWER

. THE TOPLESS TOWER

The children had seen the Phoenix-egg hatched in the flames in their own

nursery grate, and had heard from it how the carpet on their own nursery

floor was really the wishing carpet, which would take them anywhere they

chose. The carpet had transported them to bed just at the right

moment, and the Phoenix had gone to roost on the cornice supporting the

window-curtains of the boys’ room.

‘Excuse me,’ said a gentle voice, and a courteous beak opened, very

kindly and delicately, the right eye of Cyril. ‘I hear the slaves below

preparing food. Awaken! A word of explanation and arrangement... I do

wish you wouldn’t--’

The Phoenix stopped speaking and fluttered away crossly to the

cornice-pole; for Cyril had hit out, as boys do when they are awakened

suddenly, and the Phoenix was not used to boys, and his feelings, if not

his wings, were hurt.

‘Sorry,’ said Cyril, coming awake all in a minute. ‘Do come back! What

was it you were saying? Something about bacon and rations?’

The Phoenix fluttered back to the brass rail at the foot of the bed.

‘I say--you ARE real,’ said Cyril. ‘How ripping! And the carpet?’

‘The carpet is as real as it ever was,’ said the Phoenix, rather

contemptuously; ‘but, of course, a carpet’s only a carpet, whereas a

Phoenix is superlatively a Phoenix.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Cyril, ‘I see it is. Oh, what luck! Wake up, Bobs!

There’s jolly well something to wake up for today. And it’s Saturday,

too.’

‘I’ve been reflecting,’ said the Phoenix, ‘during the silent watches

of the night, and I could not avoid the conclusion that you were quite

insufficiently astonished at my appearance yesterday. The ancients were

always VERY surprised. Did you, by chance, EXPECT my egg to hatch?’

‘Not us,’ Cyril said.

‘And if we had,’ said Anthea, who had come in in her nightie when she

heard the silvery voice of the Phoenix, ‘we could never, never have

expected it to hatch anything so splendid as you.’

The bird smiled. Perhaps you’ve never seen a bird smile?

‘You see,’ said Anthea, wrapping herself in the boys’ counterpane, for

the morning was chill, ‘we’ve had things happen to us before;’ and she

told the story of the Psammead, or sand-fairy.

‘Ah yes,’ said the Phoenix; ‘Psammeads were rare, even in my time. I

remember I used to be called the Psammead of the Desert. I was always

having compliments paid me; I can’t think why.’

‘Can YOU give wishes, then?’ asked Jane, who had now come in too.

‘Oh, dear me, no,’ said the Phoenix, contemptuously, ‘at least--but I

hear footsteps approaching. I hasten to conceal myself.’ And it did.

I think I said that this day was Saturday. It was also cook’s birthday,

and mother had allowed her and Eliza to go to the Crystal Palace with a

party of friends, so Jane and Anthea of course had to help to make beds

and to wash up the breakfast cups, and little things like that. Robert

and Cyril intended to spend the morning in conversation with the

Phoenix, but the bird had its own ideas about this.

‘I must have an hour or two’s quiet,’ it said, ‘I really must. My nerves

will give way unless I can get a little rest. You must remember it’s two

thousand years since I had any conversation--I’m out of practice, and I

must take care of myself. I’ve often been told that mine is a valuable

life.’ So it nestled down inside an old hatbox of father’s, which had

been brought down from the box-room some days before, when a helmet was

suddenly needed for a game of tournaments, with its golden head under

its golden wing, and went to sleep. So then Robert and Cyril moved

the table back and were going to sit on the carpet and wish themselves

somewhere else. But before they could decide on the place, Cyril said--

‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s rather sneakish to begin without the girls.’

‘They’ll be all the morning,’ said Robert, impatiently. And then a thing

inside him, which tiresome books sometimes call the ‘inward monitor’,

said, ‘Why don’t you help them, then?’

Cyril’s ‘inward monitor’ happened to say the same thing at the same

moment, so the boys went and helped to wash up the tea-cups, and to dust

the drawing-room. Robert was so interested that he proposed to clean

the front doorsteps--a thing he had never been allowed to do. Nor was

he allowed to do it on this occasion. One reason was that it had already

been done by cook.

When all the housework was finished, the girls dressed the happy,

wriggling baby in his blue highwayman coat and three-cornered hat, and

kept him amused while mother changed her dress and got ready to take

him over to granny’s. Mother always went to granny’s every Saturday,

and generally some of the children went with her; but today they were to

keep house. And their hearts were full of joyous and delightful feelings

every time they remembered that the house they would have to keep had a

Phoenix in it, AND a wishing carpet.

You can always keep the Lamb good and happy for quite a long time if you

play the Noah’s Ark game with him. It is quite simple. He just sits on

your lap and tells you what animal he is, and then you say the little

poetry piece about whatever animal he chooses to be.

Of course, some of the animals, like the zebra and the tiger, haven’t

got any poetry, because they are so difficult to rhyme to. The Lamb

knows quite well which are the poetry animals.

‘I’m a baby bear!’ said the Lamb, snugging down; and Anthea began:

‘I love my little baby bear,

I love his nose and toes and hair;

I like to hold him in my arm,

And keep him VERY safe and warm.’

And when she said ‘very’, of course there was a real bear’s hug.

Then came the eel, and the Lamb was tickled till he wriggled exactly

like a real one:

‘I love my little baby eel,

He is so squidglety to feel;

He’ll be an eel when he is big--

But now he’s just--a--tiny SNIG!’

Perhaps you didn’t know that a snig was a baby eel? It is, though, and

the Lamb knew it.

‘Hedgehog now-!’ he said; and Anthea went on:

‘My baby hedgehog, how I like ye,

Though your back’s so prickly-spiky;

Your front is very soft, I’ve found,

So I must love you front ways round!’

And then she loved him front ways round, while he squealed with

pleasure.

It is a very baby game, and, of course, the rhymes are only meant for

very, very small people--not for people who are old enough to read

books, so I won’t tell you any more of them.

By the time the Lamb had been a baby lion and a baby weazel, and a baby

rabbit and a baby rat, mother was ready; and she and the Lamb, having

been kissed by everybody and hugged as thoroughly as it is possible to

be when you’re dressed for out-of-doors, were seen to the tram by the

boys. When the boys came back, every one looked at every one else and

said--

‘Now!’

They locked the front door and they locked the back door, and they

fastened all the windows. They moved the table and chairs off the

carpet, and Anthea swept it.

‘We must show it a LITTLE attention,’ she said kindly. ‘We’ll give it

tea-leaves next time. Carpets like tea-leaves.’

Then every one put on its out-door things, because as Cyril said, they

didn’t know where they might be going, and it makes people stare if you

go out of doors in November in pinafores and without hats.

Then Robert gently awoke the Phoenix, who yawned and stretched itself,

and allowed Robert to lift it on to the middle of the carpet, where it

instantly went to sleep again with its crested head tucked under its

golden wing as before. Then every one sat down on the carpet.

‘Where shall we go?’ was of course the question, and it was warmly

discussed. Anthea wanted to go to Japan. Robert and Cyril voted for

America, and Jane wished to go to the seaside.

‘Because there are donkeys there,’ said she.

‘Not in November, silly,’ said Cyril; and the discussion got warmer and

warmer, and still nothing was settled.

‘I vote we let the Phoenix decide,’ said Robert, at last. So they

stroked it till it woke. ‘We want to go somewhere abroad,’ they said,

‘and we can’t make up our minds where.’

‘Let the carpet make up ITS mind, if it has one,’ said the Phoenix.

‘Just say you wish to go abroad.’

So they did; and the next moment the world seemed to spin upside down,

and when it was right way up again and they were ungiddy enough to look

about them, they were out of doors.

Out of doors--this is a feeble way to express where they were. They

were out of--out of the earth, or off it. In fact, they were floating

steadily, safely, splendidly, in the crisp clear air, with the pale

bright blue of the sky above them, and far down below the pale bright

sun-diamonded waves of the sea. The carpet had stiffened itself somehow,

so that it was square and firm like a raft, and it steered itself so

beautifully and kept on its way so flat and fearless that no one was at

all afraid of tumbling off. In front of them lay land.

‘The coast of France,’ said the Phoenix, waking up and pointing with

its wing. ‘Where do you wish to go? I should always keep one wish, of

course--for emergencies--otherwise you may get into an emergency from

which you can’t emerge at all.’

But the children were far too deeply interested to listen.

‘I tell you what,’ said Cyril: ‘let’s let the thing go on and on, and

when we see a place we really want to stop at--why, we’ll just stop.

Isn’t this ripping?’

‘It’s like trains,’ said Anthea, as they swept over the low-lying

coast-line and held a steady course above orderly fields and straight

roads bordered with poplar trees--‘like express trains, only in trains

you never can see anything because of grown-ups wanting the windows

shut; and then they breathe on them, and it’s like ground glass, and

nobody can see anything, and then they go to sleep.’

‘It’s like tobogganing,’ said Robert, ‘so fast and smooth, only there’s

no door-mat to stop short on--it goes on and on.’

‘You darling Phoenix,’ said Jane, ‘it’s all your doing. Oh, look at

that ducky little church and the women with flappy cappy things on their

heads.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said the Phoenix, with sleepy politeness.

‘OH!’ said Cyril, summing up all the rapture that was in every heart.

‘Look at it all--look at it--and think of the Kentish Town Road!’

Every one looked and every one thought. And the glorious, gliding,

smooth, steady rush went on, and they looked down on strange and

beautiful things, and held their breath and let it go in deep sighs, and

said ‘Oh!’ and ‘Ah!’ till it was long past dinner-time.

It was Jane who suddenly said, ‘I wish we’d brought that jam tart and

cold mutton with us. It would have been jolly to have a picnic in the

air.’

The jam tart and cold mutton were, however, far away, sitting quietly in

the larder of the house in Camden Town which the children were supposed

to be keeping. A mouse was at that moment tasting the outside of the

raspberry jam part of the tart (she had nibbled a sort of gulf, or bay,

through the pastry edge) to see whether it was the sort of dinner she

could ask her little mouse-husband to sit down to. She had had a very

good dinner herself. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

‘We’ll stop as soon as we see a nice place,’ said Anthea. ‘I’ve got

threepence, and you boys have the fourpence each that your trams didn’t

cost the other day, so we can buy things to eat. I expect the Phoenix

can speak French.’

The carpet was sailing along over rocks and rivers and trees and towns

and farms and fields. It reminded everybody of a certain time when all

of them had had wings, and had flown up to the top of a church tower,

and had had a feast there of chicken and tongue and new bread and

soda-water. And this again reminded them how hungry they were. And just

as they were all being reminded of this very strongly indeed, they saw

ahead of them some ruined walls on a hill, and strong and upright, and

really, to look at, as good as new--a great square tower.

‘The top of that’s just the exactly same size as the carpet,’ said Jane.

‘_I_ think it would be good to go to the top of that, because then none

of the Abby-what’s-its-names--I mean natives--would be able to take the

carpet away even if they wanted to. And some of us could go out and get

things to eat--buy them honestly, I mean, not take them out of larder

windows.’

‘I think it would be better if we went--’ Anthea was beginning; but Jane

suddenly clenched her hands.

‘I don’t see why I should never do anything I want, just because I’m

the youngest. I wish the carpet would fit itself in at the top of that

tower--so there!’

The carpet made a disconcerting bound, and next moment it was hovering

above the square top of the tower. Then slowly and carefully it began to

sink under them. It was like a lift going down with you at the Army and

Navy Stores.

‘I don’t think we ought to wish things without all agreeing to them

first,’ said Robert, huffishly. ‘Hullo! What on earth?’

For unexpectedly and greyly something was coming up all round the four

sides of the carpet. It was as if a wall were being built by magic

quickness. It was a foot high--it was two feet high--three, four, five.

It was shutting out the light--more and more.

Anthea looked up at the sky and the walls that now rose six feet above

them.

‘We’re dropping into the tower,’ she screamed. ‘THERE WASN’T ANY TOP TO

IT. So the carpet’s going to fit itself in at the bottom.’

Robert sprang to his feet.

‘We ought to have--Hullo! an owl’s nest.’ He put his knee on a jutting

smooth piece of grey stone, and reached his hand into a deep window

slit--broad to the inside of the tower, and narrowing like a funnel to

the outside.

‘Look sharp!’ cried every one, but Robert did not look sharp enough. By

the time he had drawn his hand out of the owl’s nest--there were no eggs

there--the carpet had sunk eight feet below him.

‘Jump, you silly cuckoo!’ cried Cyril, with brotherly anxiety.

But Robert couldn’t turn round all in a minute into a jumping position.

He wriggled and twisted and got on to the broad ledge, and by the time

he was ready to jump the walls of the tower had risen up thirty feet

above the others, who were still sinking with the carpet, and Robert

found himself in the embrasure of a window; alone, for even the owls

were not at home that day. The wall was smoothish; there was no climbing

up, and as for climbing down--Robert hid his face in his hands, and

squirmed back and back from the giddy verge, until the back part of him

was wedged quite tight in the narrowest part of the window slit.

He was safe now, of course, but the outside part of his window was like

a frame to a picture of part of the other side of the tower. It was very

pretty, with moss growing between the stones and little shiny gems; but

between him and it there was the width of the tower, and nothing in it

but empty air. The situation was terrible. Robert saw in a flash that

the carpet was likely to bring them into just the same sort of tight

places that they used to get into with the wishes the Psammead granted

them.

And the others--imagine their feelings as the carpet sank slowly and

steadily to the very bottom of the tower, leaving Robert clinging to the

wall. Robert did not even try to imagine their feelings--he had quite

enough to do with his own; but you can.

As soon as the carpet came to a stop on the ground at the bottom of the

inside of the tower it suddenly lost that raft-like stiffness which had

been such a comfort during the journey from Camden Town to the topless

tower, and spread itself limply over the loose stones and little earthy

mounds at the bottom of the tower, just exactly like any ordinary

carpet. Also it shrank suddenly, so that it seemed to draw away from

under their feet, and they stepped quickly off the edges and stood on

the firm ground, while the carpet drew itself in till it was its proper

size, and no longer fitted exactly into the inside of the tower, but

left quite a big space all round it.

Then across the carpet they looked at each other, and then every chin

was tilted up and every eye sought vainly to see where poor Robert had

got to. Of course, they couldn’t see him.

‘I wish we hadn’t come,’ said Jane.

‘You always do,’ said Cyril, briefly. ‘Look here, we can’t leave Robert

up there. I wish the carpet would fetch him down.’

The carpet seemed to awake from a dream and pull itself together. It

stiffened itself briskly and floated up between the four walls of the

tower. The children below craned their heads back, and nearly broke

their necks in doing it. The carpet rose and rose. It hung poised darkly

above them for an anxious moment or two; then it dropped down again,

threw itself on the uneven floor of the tower, and as it did so it

tumbled Robert out on the uneven floor of the tower.

‘Oh, glory!’ said Robert, ‘that was a squeak. You don’t know how I felt.

I say, I’ve had about enough for a bit. Let’s wish ourselves at home

again and have a go at that jam tart and mutton. We can go out again

afterwards.’

‘Righto!’ said every one, for the adventure had shaken the nerves of

all. So they all got on to the carpet again, and said--

‘I wish we were at home.’

And lo and behold, they were no more at home than before. The carpet

never moved. The Phoenix had taken the opportunity to go to sleep.

Anthea woke it up gently.

‘Look here,’ she said.

‘I’m looking,’ said the Phoenix.

‘We WISHED to be at home, and we’re still here,’ complained Jane.

‘No,’ said the Phoenix, looking about it at the high dark walls of the

tower. ‘No; I quite see that.’

‘But we wished to be at home,’ said Cyril.

‘No doubt,’ said the bird, politely.

‘And the carpet hasn’t moved an inch,’ said Robert.

‘No,’ said the Phoenix, ‘I see it hasn’t.’

‘But I thought it was a wishing carpet?’

‘So it is,’ said the Phoenix.

‘Then why--?’ asked the children, altogether.

‘I did tell you, you know,’ said the Phoenix, ‘only you are so fond

of listening to the music of your own voices. It is, indeed, the most

lovely music to each of us, and therefore--’

‘You did tell us WHAT?’ interrupted an Exasperated.

‘Why, that the carpet only gives you three wishes a day and YOU’VE HAD

THEM.’

There was a heartfelt silence.

‘Then how are we going to get home?’ said Cyril, at last.

‘I haven’t any idea,’ replied the Phoenix, kindly. ‘Can I fly out and

get you any little thing?’

‘How could you carry the money to pay for it?’

‘It isn’t necessary. Birds always take what they want. It is not

regarded as stealing, except in the case of magpies.’

The children were glad to find they had been right in supposing this to

be the case, on the day when they had wings, and had enjoyed somebody

else’s ripe plums.

‘Yes; let the Phoenix get us something to eat, anyway,’ Robert urged--’

[‘If it will be so kind you mean,’ corrected Anthea, in a whisper); ‘if

it will be so kind, and we can be thinking while it’s gone.’

So the Phoenix fluttered up through the grey space of the tower and

vanished at the top, and it was not till it had quite gone that Jane

said--

‘Suppose it never comes back.’

It was not a pleasant thought, and though Anthea at once said, ‘Of

course it will come back; I’m certain it’s a bird of its word,’ a

further gloom was cast by the idea. For, curiously enough, there was

no door to the tower, and all the windows were far, far too high to be

reached by the most adventurous climber. It was cold, too, and Anthea

shivered.

‘Yes,’ said Cyril, ‘it’s like being at the bottom of a well.’

The children waited in a sad and hungry silence, and got little stiff

necks with holding their little heads back to look up the inside of the

tall grey tower, to see if the Phoenix were coming.

At last it came. It looked very big as it fluttered down between the

walls, and as it neared them the children saw that its bigness was

caused by a basket of boiled chestnuts which it carried in one claw.

In the other it held a piece of bread. And in its beak was a very large

pear. The pear was juicy, and as good as a very small drink. When the

meal was over every one felt better, and the question of how to get home

was discussed without any disagreeableness. But no one could think

of any way out of the difficulty, or even out of the tower; for the

Phoenix, though its beak and claws had fortunately been strong enough

to carry food for them, was plainly not equal to flying through the air

with four well-nourished children.

‘We must stay here, I suppose,’ said Robert at last, ‘and shout out

every now and then, and some one will hear us and bring ropes and

ladders, and rescue us like out of mines; and they’ll get up a

subscription to send us home, like castaways.’

‘Yes; but we shan’t be home before mother is, and then father’ll take

away the carpet and say it’s dangerous or something,’ said Cyril.

‘I DO wish we hadn’t come,’ said Jane.

And every one else said ‘Shut up,’ except Anthea, who suddenly awoke the

Phoenix and said--

‘Look here, I believe YOU can help us. Oh, I do wish you would!’

‘I will help you as far as lies in my power,’ said the Phoenix, at once.

‘What is it you want now?’

‘Why, we want to get home,’ said every one.

‘Oh,’ said the Phoenix. ‘Ah, hum! Yes. Home, you said? Meaning?’

‘Where we live--where we slept last night--where the altar is that your

egg was hatched on.’

‘Oh, there!’ said the Phoenix. ‘Well, I’ll do my best.’ It fluttered on

to the carpet and walked up and down for a few minutes in deep thought.

Then it drew itself up proudly.

‘I CAN help you,’ it said. ‘I am almost sure I can help you. Unless I

am grossly deceived I can help you. You won’t mind my leaving you for an

hour or two?’ and without waiting for a reply it soared up through the

dimness of the tower into the brightness above.

‘Now,’ said Cyril, firmly, ‘it said an hour or two. But I’ve read

about captives and people shut up in dungeons and catacombs and things

awaiting release, and I know each moment is an eternity. Those people

always do something to pass the desperate moments. It’s no use our

trying to tame spiders, because we shan’t have time.’

‘I HOPE not,’ said Jane, doubtfully.

‘But we ought to scratch our names on the stones or something.’

‘I say, talking of stones,’ said Robert, ‘you see that heap of stones

against the wall over in that corner. Well, I’m certain there’s a hole

in the wall there--and I believe it’s a door. Yes, look here--the stones

are round like an arch in the wall; and here’s the hole--it’s all black

inside.’

He had walked over to the heap as he spoke and climbed up to

it--dislodged the top stone of the heap and uncovered a little dark

space.

Next moment every one was helping to pull down the heap of stones, and

very soon every one threw off its jacket, for it was warm work.

‘It IS a door,’ said Cyril, wiping his face, ‘and not a bad thing

either, if--’

He was going to add ‘if anything happens to the Phoenix,’ but he didn’t

for fear of frightening Jane. He was not an unkind boy when he had

leisure to think of such things.

The arched hole in the wall grew larger and larger. It was very, very

black, even compared with the sort of twilight at the bottom of the

tower; it grew larger because the children kept pulling off the stones

and throwing them down into another heap. The stones must have been

there a very long time, for they were covered with moss, and some of

them were stuck together by it. So it was fairly hard work, as Robert

pointed out.

When the hole reached to about halfway between the top of the arch

and the tower, Robert and Cyril let themselves down cautiously on the

inside, and lit matches. How thankful they felt then that they had a

sensible father, who did not forbid them to carry matches, as some boys’

fathers do. The father of Robert and Cyril only insisted on the matches

being of the kind that strike only on the box.

‘It’s not a door, it’s a sort of tunnel,’ Robert cried to the girls,

after the first match had flared up, flickered, and gone out. ‘Stand

off--we’ll push some more stones down!’

They did, amid deep excitement. And now the stone heap was almost

gone--and before them the girls saw the dark archway leading to unknown

things. All doubts and fears as to getting home were forgotten in this

thrilling moment. It was like Monte Cristo--it was like--

‘I say,’ cried Anthea, suddenly, ‘come out! There’s always bad air in

places that have been shut up. It makes your torches go out, and then

you die. It’s called fire-damp, I believe. Come out, I tell you.’

The urgency of her tone actually brought the boys out--and then every

one took up its jacket and fanned the dark arch with it, so as to

make the air fresh inside. When Anthea thought the air inside ‘must be

freshened by now,’ Cyril led the way into the arch.

The girls followed, and Robert came last, because Jane refused to tail

the procession lest ‘something’ should come in after her, and catch at

her from behind. Cyril advanced cautiously, lighting match after match,

and peering before him.

‘It’s a vaulting roof,’ he said, ‘and it’s all stone--all right,

Panther, don’t keep pulling at my jacket! The air must be all right

because of the matches, silly, and there are--look out--there are steps

down.’

‘Oh, don’t let’s go any farther,’ said Jane, in an agony of reluctance

(a very painful thing, by the way, to be in). ‘I’m sure there are

snakes, or dens of lions, or something. Do let’s go back, and come some

other time, with candles, and bellows for the fire-damp.’

‘Let me get in front of you, then,’ said the stern voice of Robert, from

behind. ‘This is exactly the place for buried treasure, and I’m going

on, anyway; you can stay behind if you like.’

And then, of course, Jane consented to go on.

So, very slowly and carefully, the children went down the steps--there

were seventeen of them--and at the bottom of the steps were more

passages branching four ways, and a sort of low arch on the right-hand

side made Cyril wonder what it could be, for it was too low to be the

beginning of another passage.

So he knelt down and lit a match, and stooping very low he peeped in.

‘There’s SOMETHING,’ he said, and reached out his hand. It touched

something that felt more like a damp bag of marbles than anything else

that Cyril had ever touched.

‘I believe it IS a buried treasure,’ he cried.

And it was; for even as Anthea cried, ‘Oh, hurry up, Squirrel--fetch it

out!’ Cyril pulled out a rotting canvas bag--about as big as the paper

ones the greengrocer gives you with Barcelona nuts in for sixpence.

‘There’s more of it, a lot more,’ he said.

As he pulled the rotten bag gave way, and the gold coins ran and span

and jumped and bumped and chinked and clinked on the floor of the dark

passage.

I wonder what you would say if you suddenly came upon a buried treasure?

What Cyril said was, ‘Oh, bother--I’ve burnt my fingers!’ and as he

spoke he dropped the match. ‘AND IT WAS THE LAST!’ he added.

There was a moment of desperate silence. Then Jane began to cry.

‘Don’t,’ said Anthea, ‘don’t, Pussy--you’ll exhaust the air if you cry.

We can get out all right.’

‘Yes,’ said Jane, through her sobs, ‘and find the Phoenix has come back

and gone away again--because it thought we’d gone home some other way,

and--Oh, I WISH we hadn’t come.’

Every one stood quite still--only Anthea cuddled Jane up to her and

tried to wipe her eyes in the dark.

‘D-DON’T,’ said Jane; ‘that’s my EAR--I’m not crying with my ears.’

‘Come, let’s get on out,’ said Robert; but that was not so easy, for no

one could remember exactly which way they had come. It is very difficult

to remember things in the dark, unless you have matches with you, and

then of course it is quite different, even if you don’t strike one.

Every one had come to agree with Jane’s constant wish--and despair was

making the darkness blacker than ever, when quite suddenly the floor

seemed to tip up--and a strong sensation of being in a whirling lift

came upon every one. All eyes were closed--one’s eyes always are in the

dark, don’t you think? When the whirling feeling stopped, Cyril said

‘Earthquakes!’ and they all opened their eyes.

They were in their own dingy breakfast-room at home, and oh, how light

and bright and safe and pleasant and altogether delightful it seemed

after that dark underground tunnel! The carpet lay on the floor, looking

as calm as though it had never been for an excursion in its life. On

the mantelpiece stood the Phoenix, waiting with an air of modest yet

sterling worth for the thanks of the children.

‘But how DID you do it?’ they asked, when every one had thanked the

Phoenix again and again.

‘Oh, I just went and got a wish from your friend the Psammead.’

‘But how DID you know where to find it?’

‘I found that out from the carpet; these wishing creatures always know

all about each other--they’re so clannish; like the Scots, you know--all

related.’

‘But, the carpet can’t talk, can it?’

‘No.’

‘Then how--’

‘How did I get the Psammead’s address? I tell you I got it from the

carpet.’

‘DID it speak then?’

‘No,’ said the Phoenix, thoughtfully, ‘it didn’t speak, but I gathered

my information from something in its manner. I was always a singularly

observant bird.’

It was not till after the cold mutton and the jam tart, as well as the

tea and bread-and-butter, that any one found time to regret the golden

treasure which had been left scattered on the floor of the underground

passage, and which, indeed, no one had thought of till now, since the

moment when Cyril burnt his fingers at the flame of the last match.

‘What owls and goats we were!’ said Robert. ‘Look how we’ve always

wanted treasure--and now--’

‘Never mind,’ said Anthea, trying as usual to make the best of it.

‘We’ll go back again and get it all, and then we’ll give everybody

presents.’

More than a quarter of an hour passed most agreeably in arranging what

presents should be given to whom, and, when the claims of generosity had

been satisfied, the talk ran for fifty minutes on what they would buy

for themselves.

It was Cyril who broke in on Robert’s almost too technical account of

the motor-car on which he meant to go to and from school--

‘There!’ he said. ‘Dry up. It’s no good. We can’t ever go back. We don’t

know where it is.’

‘Don’t YOU know?’ Jane asked the Phoenix, wistfully.

‘Not in the least,’ the Phoenix replied, in a tone of amiable regret.

‘Then we’ve lost the treasure,’ said Cyril. And they had.

‘But we’ve got the carpet and the Phoenix,’ said Anthea.

‘Excuse me,’ said the bird, with an air of wounded dignity, ‘I do SO

HATE to seem to interfere, but surely you MUST mean the Phoenix and the

carpet?’