The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories (62 page)

“I don’t want to think about the pleasures of memory,” said Cyril; “I want some more things to happen.”

“We’re very much luckier than any one else, as it is,” said Jane. “Why, no one else ever found a Psammead. We ought to be grateful.”

“Why shouldn’t we
go on
being, though?” Cyril asked—“lucky, I mean, not grateful. Why’s it all got to stop?”

“Perhaps something will happen,” said Anthea, comfortably. “Do you know, sometimes I think we are the sort of people that things
do
happen to.”

“It’s like that in history,” said Jane: “some kings are full of interesting things, and others—nothing ever happens to them, except their being born and crowned and buried, and sometimes not that.”

“I think Panther’s right,” said Cyril: “I think we are the sort of people things do happen to. I have a sort of feeling things would happen right enough if we could only give them a shove. It just wants something to start it. That’s all.”

“I wish they taught magic at school,” Jane sighed. “I believe if we could do a little magic it might make something happen.”

“I wonder how you begin?” Robert looked round the room, but he got no ideas from the faded green curtains, or the drab Venetian blinds, or the worn brown oil-cloth on the floor. Even the new carpet suggested nothing, though its pattern was a very wonderful one, and always seemed as though it were just going to make you think of something.

“I could begin right enough,” said Anthea; “I’ve read lots about it. But I believe it’s wrong in the Bible.”

“It’s only wrong in the Bible because people wanted to hurt other people. I don’t see how things can be wrong unless they hurt somebody, and we don’t want to hurt anybody; and what’s more, we jolly well couldn’t if we tried. Let’s get
The Ingoldsby Legends
. There’s a thing about Abra-cadabra there,” said Cyril, yawning. “We may as well play at magic. Let’s be Knights Templars. They were awfully gone on magic. They used to work spells or something with a goat and a goose. Father says so.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Robert, unkindly; “you can play the goat right enough, and Jane knows how to be a goose.”

“I’ll get Ingoldsby,” said Anthea, hastily. “You turn up the hearthrug.”

So they traced strange figures on the linoleum, where the hearthrug had kept it clean. They traced them with chalk that Robert had nicked from the top of the mathematical master’s desk at school. You know, of course, that it is stealing to take a new stick of chalk, but it is not wrong to take a broken piece, so long as you only take one. (I do not know the reason of this rule, nor who made it.) And they chanted all the gloomiest songs they could think of. And, of course, nothing happened. So then Anthea said, “I’m sure a magic fire ought to be made of sweet-smelling wood, and have magic gums and essences and things in it.”

“I don’t know any sweet-smelling wood, except cedar,” said Robert; “but I’ve got some ends of cedar-wood lead pencil.”

So they burned the ends of lead pencil. And still nothing happened.

“Let’s burn some of the eucalyptus oil we have for our colds,” said Anthea.

And they did. It certainly smelt very strong. And they burned lumps of camphor out of the big chest. It was very bright, and made a horrid black smoke, which looked very magical. But still nothing happened. Then they got some clean tea-cloths from the dresser drawer in the kitchen, and waved them over the magic chalk-tracings, and sang “The Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at Bethlehem,” which is very impressive. And still nothing happened. So they waved more and more wildly, and Robert’s tea-cloth caught the golden egg and whisked it off the mantelpiece, and it fell into the fender and rolled under the grate.

“Oh, crikey!” said more than one voice.

And every one instantly fell down flat on its front to look under the grate, and there lay the egg, glowing in a nest of hot ashes.

“It’s not smashed, anyhow,” said Robert, and he put his hand under the grate and picked up the egg. But the egg was much hotter than any one would have believed it could possibly get in such a short time, and Robert had to drop it with a cry of “Bother!” It fell on the top bar of the grate, and bounced right into the glowing red-hot heart of the fire.

“The tongs!” cried Anthea. But, alas, no one could remember where they were. Every one had forgotten that the tongs had last been used to fish up the doll’s teapot from the bottom of the water-butt, where the Lamb had dropped it. So the nursery tongs were resting between the water-butt and the dustbin, and cook refused to lend the kitchen ones.

“Never mind,” said Robert, “we’ll get it out with the poker and the shovel.”

“Oh, stop,” cried Anthea. “Look at it! Look! look! look! I do believe something
is
going to happen!”

For the egg was now red-hot, and inside it something was moving. Next moment there was a soft cracking sound; the egg burst in two, and out of it came a flame-coloured bird. It rested a moment among the flames, and as it rested there the four children could see it growing bigger and bigger under their eyes.

Every mouth was a-gape, every eye a-goggle.

The bird rose in its nest of fire, stretched its wings, and flew out into the room. It flew round and round, and round again, and where it passed the air was warm. Then it perched on the fender. The children looked at each other. Then Cyril put out a hand towards the bird. It put its head on one side and looked up at him, as you may have seen a parrot do when it is just going to speak, so that the children were hardly astonished at all when it said, “Be careful; I am not nearly cool yet.”

They were not astonished, but they were very, very much interested.

They looked at the bird, and it was certainly worth looking at. Its feathers were like gold. It was about as large as a bantam, only its beak was not at all bantam-shaped. “I believe I know what it is,” said Robert. “I’ve seen a picture.”

He hurried away. A hasty dash and scramble among the papers on father’s study table yielded, as the sum-books say, “the desired result.” But when he came back into the room holding out a paper, and crying, “I say, look here,” the others all said “Hush!” and he hushed obediently and instantly, for the bird was speaking.

“Which of you,” it was saying, “put the egg into the fire?”

“He did,” said three voices, and three fingers pointed at Robert.

The bird bowed; at least it was more like that than anything else.

“I am your grateful debtor,” it said with a high-bred air.

The children were all choking with wonder and curiosity—all except Robert. He held the paper in his hand, and he
knew
. He said so. He said—

“
I
know who you are.”

And he opened and displayed a printed paper, at the head of which was a little picture of a bird sitting in a nest of flames.

“You are the Phoenix,” said Robert; and the bird was quite pleased.

“My fame has lived then for two thousand years,” it said. “Allow me to look at my portrait.” It looked at the page which Robert, kneeling down, spread out in the fender, and said—

“It’s not a flattering likeness… And what are these characters?” it asked, pointing to the printed part.

“Oh, that’s all dullish; it’s not much about
you
, you know,” said Cyril, with unconscious politeness; “but you’re in lots of books.”

“With portraits?” asked the Phoenix.

“Well, no,” said Cyril; “in fact, I don’t think I ever saw any portrait of you but that one, but I can read you something about yourself, if you like.”

The Phoenix nodded, and Cyril went off and fetched Volume X of the old Encyclopedia, and on page 246 he found the following:—

“Phoenix—in ornithology, a fabulous bird of antiquity.”

“Antiquity is quite correct,” said the Phoenix, “but fabulous—well, do I look it?”

Every one shook its head. Cyril went on—

“The ancients speak of this bird as single, or the only one of its kind.”

“That’s right enough,” said the Phoenix.

“They describe it as about the size of an eagle.”

“Eagles are of different sizes,” said the Phoenix; “it’s not at all a good description.”

All the children were kneeling on the hearthrug, to be as near the Phoenix as possible.

“You’ll boil your brains,” it said. “Look out, I’m nearly cool now;” and with a whirr of golden wings it fluttered from the fender to the table. It was so nearly cool that there was only a very faint smell of burning when it had settled itself on the table-cloth.

“It’s only a very little scorched,” said the Phoenix, apologetically; “it will come out in the wash. Please go on reading.”

The children gathered round the table.

“The size of an eagle,” Cyril went on, “its head finely crested with a beautiful plumage, its neck covered with feathers of a gold colour, and the rest of its body purple; only the tail white, and the eyes sparkling like stars. They say that it lives about five hundred years in the wilderness, and when advanced in age it builds itself a pile of sweet wood and aromatic gums, fires it with the wafting of its wings, and thus burns itself; and that from its ashes arises a worm, which in time grows up to be a Phoenix. Hence the Phoenicians gave—”

“Never mind what they gave,” said the Phoenix, ruffling its golden feathers. “They never gave much, anyway; they always were people who gave nothing for nothing. That book ought to be destroyed. It’s most inaccurate. The rest of my body was never purple, and as for my—tail—well, I simply ask you,
is
it white?”

It turned round and gravely presented its golden tail to the children.

“No, it’s not,” said everybody.

“No, and it never was,” said the Phoenix. “And that about the worm is just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all respectable birds. It makes a pile—that part’s all right—and it lays its egg, and it burns itself; and it goes to sleep and wakes up in its egg, and comes out and goes on living again, and so on for ever and ever. I can’t tell you how weary I got of it—such a restless existence; no repose.”

“But how did your egg get
here
?” asked Anthea.

“Ah, that’s my life-secret,” said the Phoenix. “I couldn’t tell it to any one who wasn’t really sympathetic. I’ve always been a misunderstood bird. You can tell that by what they say about the worm. I might tell
you
,” it went on, looking at Robert with eyes that were indeed starry. “You put me on the fire—” Robert looked uncomfortable.

“The rest of us made the fire of sweet-scented woods and gums, though,” said Cyril.

“And—and it was an accident my putting you on the fire,” said Robert, telling the truth with some difficulty, for he did not know how the Phoenix might take it. It took it in the most unexpected manner.

“Your candid avowal,” it said, “removes my last scruple. I will tell you my story.”

“And you won’t vanish, or anything sudden will you? asked Anthea, anxiously.

“Why?” it asked, puffing out the golden feathers, “do you wish me to stay here?”

“Oh
yes
,” said every one, with unmistakable sincerity.

“Why?” asked the Phoenix again, looking modestly at the table-cloth.

“Because,” said every one at once, and then stopped short; only Jane added after a pause, “you are the most beautiful person we’ve ever seen.” “You are a sensible child,” said the Phoenix, “and I will
not
vanish or anything sudden. And I will tell you my tale. I had resided, as your book says, for many thousand years in the wilderness, which is a large, quiet place with very little really good society, and I was becoming weary of the monotony of my existence. But I acquired the habit of laying my egg and burning myself every five hundred years—and you know how difficult it is to break yourself of a habit.”

“Yes,” said Cyril; “Jane used to bite her nails.”

“But I broke myself of it,” urged Jane, rather hurt, “You know I did.”

“Not till they put bitter aloes on them,” said Cyril.

“I doubt,” said the bird, gravely, “whether even bitter aloes (the aloe, by the way, has a bad habit of its own, which it might well cure before seeking to cure others; I allude to its indolent practice of flowering but once a century), I doubt whether even bitter aloes could have cured
me
. But I
was
cured. I awoke one morning from a feverish dream—it was getting near the time for me to lay that tiresome fire and lay that tedious egg upon it—and I saw two people, a man and a woman. They were sitting on a carpet—and when I accosted them civilly they narrated to me their life-story, which, as you have not yet heard it, I will now proceed to relate. They were a prince and princess, and the story of their parents was one which I am sure you will like to hear. In early youth the mother of the princess happened to hear the story of a certain enchanter, and in that story I am sure you will be interested. The enchanter—”

“Oh, please don’t,” said Anthea. “I can’t understand all these beginnings of stories, and you seem to be getting deeper and deeper in them every minute. Do tell us your
own
story. That’s what we really want to hear.”

“Well,” said the Phoenix, seeming on the whole rather flattered, “to cut about seventy long stories short (though
I
had to listen to them all—but to be sure in the wilderness there is plenty of time), this prince and princess were so fond of each other that they did not want any one else, and the enchanter—don’t be alarmed, I won’t go into his history—had given them a magic carpet (you’ve heard of a magic carpet?), and they had just sat on it and told it to take them right away from every one—and it had brought them to the wilderness. And as they meant to stay there they had no further use for the carpet, so they gave it to me. That was indeed the chance of a lifetime!”

“I don’t see what you wanted with a carpet,” said Jane, “when you’ve got those lovely wings.”

“They
are
nice wings, aren’t they?” said the Phoenix, simpering and spreading them out. “Well, I got the prince to lay out the carpet, and I laid my egg on it; then I said to the carpet, ‘Now, my excellent carpet, prove your worth. Take that egg somewhere where it can’t be hatched for two thousand years, and where, when that time’s up, some one will light a fire of sweet wood and aromatic gums, and put the egg in to hatch;’ and you see it’s all come out exactly as I said. The words were no sooner out of my beak than egg and carpet disappeared. The royal lovers assisted to arrange my pile, and soothed my last moments. I burnt myself up and knew no more till I awoke on yonder altar.”

It pointed its claw at the grate.

“But the carpet,” said Robert, “the magic carpet that takes you anywhere you wish. What became of that?”

“Oh,
that
?” said the Phoenix, carelessly—“I should say that that is the carpet. I remember the pattern perfectly.”

It pointed as it spoke to the floor, where lay the carpet which mother had bought in the Kentish Town Road for twenty-two shillings and ninepence.

At that instant father’s latch-key was heard in the door.

“
Oh
,” whispered Cyril, “now we shall catch it for not being in bed!”

“Wish yourself there,” said the Phoenix, in a hurried whisper, “and then wish the carpet back in its place.”

No sooner said than done. It made one a little giddy, certainly, and a little breathless; but when things seemed right way up again, there the children were, in bed, and the lights were out.

They heard the soft voice of the Phoenix through the darkness.