THE LIONS IN THE DESERT
'But why?' asked Philip at dinner, which was no painted wonder of wooden
make-believe, but real roast guinea-fowl and angel pudding, 'Why do you
only have wooden things to eat at your banquets?'
'Banquets are extremely important occasions,' said Mr. Noah, 'and real
food--food that you can eat and enjoy--only serves to distract the mind
from the serious affairs of life. Many of the most successful caterers
in your world have grasped this great truth.'
'But why,' Lucy asked, 'do you have the big silver bowls with nothing in
them?'
Mr. Noah sighed. 'The bowls are for dessert,' he said.
'But there isn't any dessert _in_ them,' Lucy objected.
'No,' said Mr. Noah, sighing again, 'that's just it. There is no
dessert. There has never been any dessert. Will you have a little more
angel pudding?'
It was quite plain to Lucy and Philip that Mr. Noah wished to change the
subject, which, for some reason, was a sad one, and with true politeness
they both said 'Yes, please,' to the angel pudding offer, though they
had already had quite as much as they really needed.
After dinner Mr. Noah took them for a walk through the town, 'to see the
factories,' he said. This surprised Philip, who had been taught not to
build factories with his bricks because factories were so ugly, but the
factories turned out to be pleasant, long, low houses, with tall French
windows opening into gardens of roses, where people of all nations made
beautiful and useful things, and loved making them. And all the people
who were making them looked clean and happy.
'I wish we had factories like those,' Philip said. 'Our factories _are_
so ugly. Helen says so.'
'That's because all your factories are _money_ factories,' said Mr.
Noah, 'though they're called by all sorts of different names. Every one
here has to make something that isn't just money or _for_
money--something useful _and_ beautiful.'
'Even you?' said Lucy.
'Even I,' said Mr. Noah.
'What do you make?' the question was bound to come.
'Laws, of course,' Mr. Noah answered in some surprise. 'Didn't you know
I was the Chief Judge?'
'But laws can't be useful and beautiful, can they?'
'They can certainly be useful,' said Mr. Noah, 'and,' he added with
modest pride, 'my laws are beautiful. What do you think of this?
"Everybody must try to be kind to everybody else. Any one who has been
unkind must be sorry and say so."'
'It seems all right,' said Philip, 'but it's not exactly beautiful.'
'Oh, don't you think so?' said Mr. Noah, a little hurt; 'it mayn't
_sound_ beautiful perhaps--I never could write poetry--but it's quite
beautiful when people do it.'
'Oh, if you mean your laws are beautiful when they're _kept_,' said
Philip.
'Beautiful things can't be beautiful when they're broken, of course,'
Mr. Noah explained. 'Not even laws. But ugly laws are only beautiful
when they _are_ broken. That's odd, isn't it? Laws are very tricky
things.'
'I say,' Philip said suddenly, as they climbed one of the steep flights
of steps between trees in pots, 'couldn't we do another of the deeds
now? I don't feel as if I'd really done anything to-day at all. It was
Lucy who did the carpet. Do tell us the next deed.'
'The next deed,' Mr. Noah answered, 'will probably take some time.
There's no reason why you should not begin it to-day if you like. It is
a deed peculiarly suited to a baronet. I don't know why,' he added
hastily; 'it may be that it is the only thing that baronets are good
for. I shouldn't wonder. The existence of baronets,' he added musingly,
'has always seemed to the thoughtful to lack justification. Perhaps this
deed which you will begin to-day is the wise end to which baronets were
designed.'
'Yes, I daresay,' said Philip; 'but what is the end?'
'I don't know,' Mr. Noah owned, 'but I'll tell you what the _deed_ is.
You've got to journey to the land of the Dwellers by the Sea and, by any
means that may commend itself to you, slay their fear.'
Philip naturally asked what the Dwellers by the Sea were afraid of.
'That you will learn from them,' said Mr. Noah; 'but it is a very great
fear.'
'Is it something we shall be afraid of _too_?' Lucy asked. And Philip at
once said, 'Oh, then she really did mean to come, did she? But she
wasn't to if she was afraid. Girls weren't expected to be brave.'
'They _are_, here,' said Mr. Noah, 'the girls are expected to be brave
and the boys kind.'
'Oh,' said Philip doubtfully. And Lucy said:
'Of course I meant to come. You know you promised.'
So that was settled.
'And now,' said Mr. Noah, rubbing his hands with the cheerful air of one
who has a great deal to do and is going to enjoy doing it, 'we must fit
you out a proper expedition, for the Dwellers by the Sea are a very long
way off. What would you like to ride on?'
'A horse,' said Philip, truly pleased. He said horse, because he did not
want to ride a donkey, and he had never seen any one ride any animal but
these two.
'That's right,' Mr. Noah said, patting him on the back. 'I _was_ so
afraid you'd ask for a bicycle. And there's a dreadful law here--it was
made by mistake, but there it is--that if any one asks for machinery
they have to have it and keep on using it. But as to a horse. Well, I'm
not sure. You see, you have to ride right across the pebbly waste, and
it's a good three days' journey. But come along to the stables.'
You know the kind of stables they would be? The long shed with stalls
such as you had, when you were little, for your little wooden horses and
carts? Only there were not only horses here, but every sort of animal
that has ever been ridden on. Elephants, camels, donkeys, mules, bulls,
goats, zebras, tortoises, ostriches, bisons, and pigs. And in the last
stall of all, which was not of common wood but of beaten silver, stood
the very Hippogriff himself, with his long, white mane and his long,
white tail, and his gentle, beautiful eyes. His long, white wings were
folded neatly on his satin-smooth back, and how he and the stall got
here was more than Philip could guess. All the others were Noah's Ark
animals, alive, of course, but still Noah's Arky beyond possibility of
mistake. But the Hippogriff was not Noah's Ark at all.
'He came,' Mr. Noah explained, 'out of a book. One of the books you used
to build your city with.'
'Can't we have _him_?' Lucy said; 'he looks such a darling.' And the
Hippogriff turned his white velvet nose and nuzzled against her in
affectionate acknowledgment of the compliment.
'Not if you both go,' Mr. Noah explained. 'He cannot carry more than one
person at a time unless one is an Earl. No, if I may advise, I should
say go by camel.'
'Can the camel carry two?'
'Of course. He is called the ship of the desert,' Mr. Noah informed
them, 'and a ship that wouldn't carry more than one would be simply
silly.'
So _that_ was settled. Mr. Noah himself saddled and bridled the camel,
which was a very large one, with his own hands.
'Let me see,' he said, standing thoughtful with the lead rope in his
hand, 'you'll be wanting dogs--'
'I _always_ want dogs,' said Philip warmly.
'--to use in emergencies.' He whistled and two Noah's Ark dogs leaped
from their kennels to their chains' end. They were dachshunds, very long
and low, and very alike except that one was a little bigger and a little
browner than the other.
'This is your master and that's your mistress,' Mr. Noah explained to
the dogs, and they fawned round the children.
'Then you'll want things to eat and things to drink and tents and
umbrellas in case of bad weather, and---- But let's turn down this
street; just at the corner we shall find exactly what we want.'
It was a shop that said outside 'Universal Provider. Expeditions fitted
out at a moment's notice. Punctuality and dispatch.' The shopkeeper came
forward politely. He was so exactly like Mr. Noah that the children knew
who he was even before he said, 'Well, father,' and Mr. Noah said, 'This
is my son: he has had some experience in outfits.'
'What have you got to start with?' the son asked, getting to business at
once.
'Two dogs, two children, and a camel,' said Mr. Noah. 'Yes, I know it's
customary to have two of everything, but I assure you, my dear boy, that
one camel is as much as Sir Philip can manage. It is indeed.'
Mr. Noah's son very dutifully supposed that his father knew best and
willingly agreed to provide everything that was needed for the
expedition, including one best-quality talking parrot, and to deliver
all goods, carefully packed, within half an hour.
. . . . . . .
So now you see Philip, and Lucy who still wore her fairy dress, packed
with all their belongings on the top of a very large and wobbly camel,
and being led out of the city by the usual procession, with seven bands
of music all playing 'See the Conquering Hero goes,' quite a different
tune from the one you know, which has a name a little like that.
The camel and its load were rather a tight fit for the particular
gateway that they happened to go out by, and the children had to stoop
to avoid scraping their heads against the top of the arch. But they got
through all right, and now they were well on the road which was really
little more than a field path running through the flowery meadow country
where the dragon had been killed. They saw the Stonehenge ruins and the
big tower far away to the left, and in front lay the vast and
interesting expanse of the Absolutely Unknown.
The sun was shining--there was a sun, and Mr. Noah had told the
children that it came out of the poetry books, together with rain and
flowers and the changing seasons--and in spite of the strange,
almost-tumble-no-it's-all-right-but-you'd-better-look-out way in which
the camel walked, the two travellers were very happy. The dogs bounded
along in the best of spirits, and even the camel seemed less a prey than
usual to that proud melancholy which you must have noticed in your
visits to the Zoo as his most striking quality.
It was certainly very grand to ride on a camel, and Lucy tried not to
think how difficult it would be to get on and off. The parrot was
interesting too. It talked extremely well. Of course you understand
that, if you can only make a parrot understand, it can tell you
everything you want to know about other animals; because it understands
_their_ talk quite naturally and without being made. The present parrot
declined ordinary conversation, and when questioned only recited poetry
of a rather dull kind that went on and on. 'Arms and the man I sing' it
began, and then something about haughty Juno. Its voice was soothing,
and riding on the camel was not unlike being rocked in a very bumpety
cradle. The children were securely seated in things like padded
panniers, and they had had an exciting day. As the sun set, which it did
quite soon, the parrot called out to the nearest dog, 'I say, Max,
they're asleep.'
[Illustration: On the top of a very large and wobbly camel.]
'I don't wonder,' said Max. 'But it's all right. Humpty knows the way.'
'Keep a civil tongue in your head, you young dog, can't you?' said the
camel grumpily.
'Don't be cross, darling,' said the other dog, whose name was Brenda,
'and be sure you stop at a really first-class oasis for the night. But I
know we can trust _you_, dear.'
The camel muttered that it was all very well, but his voice was not
quite as cross as before.
After that the expedition went on in silence through the deepening
twilight.
A tumbling, shaking, dumping sensation, more like a soft railway
accident than anything else, awakened our travellers, and they found
that the camel was kneeling down.
'Off you come,' said the parrot, 'and make the fire and boil the
kettle.'
'Polly put the kettle on,' Lucy said absently, as she slid down to the
ground; to which the parrot replied, 'Certainly not. I wish you wouldn't
rake up that old story. It was quite false. I never did put a kettle on,
and I never will.'
Why should I describe to you the adventure of camping at an oasis in a
desert? You must all have done it many times; or if you have not done
it, you have read about it. You know all about the well and the palm
trees and the dates and things. They had cocoa for supper. It was great
fun, and they slept soundly and awoke in the morning with a heart for
any fate, as a respectable poet puts it.
The next day was just the same as the first, only instead of going
through fresh green fields, the way lay through dry yellow desert. And
again the children slept, and again the camel chose an oasis with
remarkable taste and judgment. But the second night was not at all the
same as the first. For in the middle of it the parrot awakened Philip by
biting his ear, and then hopping to a safe distance from his awakening
fists and crying out, 'Make up the camp fire--look alive. It's lions.'
The dogs were whining and barking, and Brenda was earnestly trying to
climb a palm tree. Max faced the danger, it is true, but he seemed to
have no real love of sport.
Philip sprang up and heaped dead palm scales and leaves on the dying
fire. It blazed up and something moved beyond the bushes. Philip
wondered whether those pairs of shining things, like strayed stars, that
he saw in the darkness, could really be the eyes of lions.
'What a nuisance these lions are to be sure,' said the parrot. 'No, they
won't come near us while the fire's burning, but really, they ought to
be put down by law.'
'Why doesn't somebody kill them?' Lucy asked. She had wakened when
Philip did, and, after a meditative minute, had helped with the palm
scales and things.
'It's not so easy,' said the parrot; 'nobody knows how to do it. How
would _you_ kill a lion?'
'_I_ don't know,' said Philip; but Lucy said, 'Are they Noah's Ark
lions?'
'Of course they are,' said Polly; 'all the books with lions in them are
kept shut up.'
'I know how you could kill Noah's Ark lions if you could catch them,'
Lucy said.
'It's easy enough to catch them,' said Polly; 'an hour after dawn they
go to sleep, but it's unsportsmanlike to kill game when it's asleep.'
'I'm going to think, if you don't mind,' Lucy announced, and sat down
very near the fire. 'It's just the opposite of the dragon,' she said
after a minute. The parrot nodded and there was a long silence. Then
suddenly Lucy jumped up.
'I know,' she cried, 'oh--I really _do_ know. And it won't hurt them
either. I don't a bit mind killing things, but I do hate hurting them.
There's plenty of rope, I know.'
There was.
'Then when it's dawn we'll tie them up and then you'll see.'
'I think you might tell _me_,' said Philip, injured.
'No--they may understand what we say. Polly does.'
Philip made a natural suggestion. But Lucy replied that it was not
manners to whisper, and the parrot said that it should think not indeed.
So, sitting by the fire, all faces turned to where those strange twin
stars shone and those strange hidden movements and rustlings stirred,
the expedition waited for the dawn. Brenda had given up the
tree-climbing idea, and was cuddling up as close to Lucy as possible.
The camel, who had been trembling with fear all the while, tried to
cuddle up to Philip, which would have been easier if it had been a
smaller kind instead of being, as it was, what Mr. Noah's son, the
Universal Provider, had called, 'an out size in camels.'
And presently dawn came, not slow and silvery as dawns come here, but
sudden and red, with strong level lights and the shadows of the palm
trees stretching all across the desert.
In broad daylight it did not seem so hard to have to go and look for the
lions. They all went--even the camel pulled himself together to join the
lion-hunt, and Brenda herself decided to come rather than be left alone.
The lions were easily found. There were only two of them, of course, and
they were lying close together, each on its tawny side on the sandy
desert at the edge of the oasis.
Very gently the ropes, with slip knots, were fitted over their heads,
and the other end of the rope passed round a palm tree. Other ropes
round the trees were passed round what would have been the waists of the
lions if lions had such things as waists.
'Now!' whispered Lucy, and at once all four ropes were pulled tight. The
lions struggled, but only in their sleep. And soon they were still. Then
with more and more ropes their legs and tails were made fast.
'And that's all right,' said Lucy, rather out of breath. 'Where's
Polly?'
'Here,' replied that bird from a neighbouring bush. 'I thought I should
only be in the way if I kept close to you. But I longed to lend a claw
in such good work. Can I help _now_?'
'Will you please explain to the dogs?' said Lucy. 'It's their turn now.
The only way I know to kill Noah's Ark lions is to _lick the paint off_
and break their legs. And if the dogs lick all the paint off their legs
they won't feel it when we break them.'
Polly hastened to explain to the dogs, and then turned again to Lucy.
'They asked if you're sure the ropes will hold, and I've told them of
course. So now they're going to begin. I only hope the paint won't make
them ill.'
'It never did me,' said Lucy. 'I sucked the dove quite clean one Sunday,
and it wasn't half bad. Tasted of sugar a little and eucalyptus oil like
they give you when you've got a cold. Tell them that, Polly.'
Polly did, and added, 'I will recite poetry to them to hearten them to
their task.'
'Do,' said Philip heartily, 'it may make them hurry up. But perhaps
you'd better tell them that we shall pinch their tails if they happen to
go to sleep.'
Then the children had a cocoa-and-date breakfast. (All expeditions seem
to live mostly on cocoa, and when they come back they often write to the
cocoa makers to say how good it was and they don't know what they would
have done without it.) And the noble and devoted dogs licked and licked
and licked, and the paint began to come off the lions' legs like
anything. It was heavy work turning the lions over so as to get at the
other or unlicked side, but the expedition worked with a will, and the
lions resisted but feebly, being still asleep, and, besides, weak from
loss of paint. And the dogs had a drink given them and were patted and
praised, and set to work again. And they licked and licked for hours and
hours. And in the end all the paint was off the lions' legs, and Philip
chopped them off with the explorer's axe which that experienced
Provider, Mr. Noah's son, had thoughtfully included in the outfit of the
expedition. And as he chopped the chips flew, and Lucy picked one up,
and it was _wood_, just wood and nothing else, though when they had
tied it up it had been real writhing resisting lion-leg and no mistake.
And when all the legs were chopped off, Philip put his hand on a lion
body, and that was wood too. So the lions were dead indeed.
[Illustration: It was heavy work turning the lions over.]
'It seems a pity,' he said. 'Lions are such jolly beasts when they are
alive.'
'I never cared for lions myself,' said Polly; and Lucy said, 'Never
mind, Phil. It didn't hurt them anyway.'
And that was the first time she ever called him Phil.
'All right, Lu,' said Philip. 'It was jolly clever of you to think of it
anyhow.'
And that was the first time he ever called her Lu.
. . . . . . .
They saw the straight pale line of the sea for a long time before they
came to the place of the Dwellers by the Sea. For these people had built
their castle down on the very edge of the sea, and the Pebbly Waste rose
and rose to a mountain that hid their castle from the eyes of the
camel-riders who were now drawing near to the scene of their next deed.
The Pebbly Waste was all made of small slippery stones, and the children
understood how horrid a horse would have found it. Even the camel
went very slowly, and the dogs no longer frisked and bounded, but
went at a foot's pace with drooping ears and tails.
'I should call a halt, if I were you,' said Polly. 'We shall all be the
better for a cup of cocoa. And besides----'
Polly refused to explain this dark hint and only added, 'Look out for
surprises.'
'I thought,' said Philip, draining the last of his second mug of cocoa,
'I thought there were no birds in the desert except you, and you're more
a person than a bird. But look there.'
Far away across the desert a moving speck showed, high up in the blue
air. It grew bigger and bigger, plainly coming towards the camp. It was
as big as a moth now, now as big as a teacup, now as big as an eagle,
and----
'But it's got four legs,' said Lucy.
'Yes,' said the parrot; 'it would have, you know. It is the Hippogriff.'
It was indeed that magnificent wonder. Flying through the air with long
sweeps of his great white wings, the Hippogriff drew nearer and nearer,
bearing on his back--what?
'It's the Pretenderette,' cried Lucy, and at the same moment Philip
said, 'It's that nasty motor thing.'
It was. The Hippogriff dropped from the sky to the desert below as
softly as a butterfly alighting on a flower, and stood there in all his
gracious whiteness. And on his back was the veiled motor lady.
'So glad I've caught you up,' she said in that hateful voice of hers;
'now we can go on together.'
'I don't see what you wanted to come at all for,' said Philip
downrightly.
'Oh, _don't_ you?' she said, sitting up there on the Hippogriff with her
horrid motor veil fluttering in the breeze from the now hidden sea.
'Why, of course, I have a right to be present at all experiments. There
ought to be some responsible grown-up person to see that you really do
what you're sure to say you've done.'
'Do you mean that we're liars?' Philip asked hotly.
'I don't mean to _say_ anything about it,' the Pretenderette answered
with an unpleasant giggle, 'but a grown-up person ought to be present.'
She added something about a parcel of birds and children. And the parrot
ruffled his feathers till he looked twice his proper size.
Philip said he didn't see it.
'Oh, but _I_ do,' said the Pretenderette; 'if you fail, then it's my
turn, and I might very likely succeed the minute after you'd failed. So
we'll all go on comfortably together. _Won't_ that be nice?'
A speechless despair seemed to have fallen on the party. Nobody spoke.
The children looked blank, the dogs whined, the camel put on his
haughtiest sneer, and the parrot fidgeted in his fluffed-out feather
dress.
'Let's be starting,' said the motor lady. 'Gee-up, pony!' A shiver ran
through every one present. That a Pretenderette should dare to speak so
to a Hippogriff!
Suddenly the parrot spread its wings and flew to perch on Philip's
shoulder. It whispered in his ear.
'Whispering is not manners, I know,' it said, 'but your own generous
heart will excuse me. "Parcel of birds and children." Doesn't your blood
boil?'
Philip thought it did.
'Well, then,' said the bird impatiently, 'what are we waiting for?
You've only got to say the word and I'll take her back by the ear.'
'I wish you would,' said Philip from the heart.
'Nothing easier,' said the parrot, 'the miserable outsider! Intruding
into _our_ expedition! I advise you to await my return here. Or if I am
not back by the morning there will be no objection to your calling,
about noon, on the Dwellers. I can rejoin you there. Good-bye.'
It stroked his ear with a gentle and kindly beak and flew into the air
and circled three times round the detested motor lady's head.
'Get away,' she cried, flapping her hands furiously; 'call your silly
Poll-parrot off, can't you?' And then she screamed, 'Oh! it's got hold
of my ear!'
'Oh, don't hurt her,' said Lucy.
'I will not hurt her;' the parrot let the ear go on purpose to say this,
and the Pretenderette covered both ears with her hands. 'You person in
the veil, I shall take hold again in a moment. And it will hurt you much
less if the Hippogriff and I happen to be flying in the same direction.
See? If I were you I should just say "Go back the way you came, please,"
to the Hippogriff, and then I shall hardly hurt you at all. Don't think
of getting off. If you do, the dogs will have you. Keep your hands over
your ears if you like. I know you can hear me well enough. Now I am
going to take hold of you again. Keep your hands where they are. I'm not
particular to an ear or so. A nose will do just as well.'
The person on the Hippogriff put both hands to her nose. Instantly the
parrot had her again by the ear.
'Go back the way you came,' she cried; 'but I'll be even with you
children yet.'
The Hippogriff did not move.
'Let go my ear,' screamed the lady.
'You'll have to say please, you know,' said Philip; 'not to the bird, I
don't mean that: that's no good. But to the Hippogriff.'
'_Please_ then,' said the lady in a burst of temper, and instantly the
white wings parted and spread and the Hippogriff rose in the air. Polly
let the ear go for the moment to say:
'I shan't hurt her so long as she behaves,' and then took hold again and
his little grey wings and the big white wings of the Hippogriff went
sailing away across the desert.
'What a treasure of a parrot?' said Philip. But Lucy said:
'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.