The Greatest Fantasy Tales of Edith Nesbit (Illustrated Edition). Ðдит ÐеÑбит
somewhere where we can see the Lamb and Mother and no one can see us.’
‘Except the Lamb,’ said Jane, quickly.
And the next moment they found themselves recovering from the upside-down movement – and there they were sitting on the carpet, and the carpet was laid out over another thick soft carpet of brown pine-needles. There were green pine-trees overhead, and a swift clear little stream was running as fast as ever it could between steep banks – and there, sitting on the pine-needle carpet, was Mother, without her hat; and the sun was shining brightly, although it was November – and there was the Lamb, as jolly as jolly and not whooping at all.
‘The carpet’s deceived us,’ said Robert, gloomily; ‘Mother will see us directly she turns her head.’
But the faithful carpet had not deceived them.
Mother turned her dear head and looked straight at them, and did not see them!
‘We’re invisible,’ Cyril whispered: ‘what awful larks!’
But to the girls it was not larks at all. It was horrible to have Mother looking straight at them, and her face keeping the same, just as though they weren’t there.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Jane. ‘Mother never looked at us like that before. Just as if she didn’t love us – as if we were somebody else’s children, and not very nice ones either – as if she didn’t care whether she saw us or not.’
‘It is horrid,’ said Anthea, almost in tears.
But at this moment the Lamb saw them, and plunged towards the carpet, shrieking, ‘Panty, own Panty – an’ Pussy, an’ Squiggle – an’ Bobs, oh, oh!’
Anthea caught him and kissed him, so did Jane; they could not help it – he looked such a darling, with his blue three-cornered hat all on one side, and his precious face all dirty – quite in the old familiar way.
‘I love you, Panty; I love you – and you, and you, and you,’ cried the Lamb.
It was a delicious moment. Even the boys thumped their baby brother joyously on the back.
Then Anthea glanced at Mother – and Mother’s face was a pale sea-green colour, and she was staring at the Lamb as if she thought he had gone mad. And, indeed, that was exactly what she did think.
‘My Lamb, my precious! Come to Mother,’ she cried, and jumped up and ran to the baby.
She was so quick that the invisible children had to leap back, or she would have felt them; and to feel what you can’t see is the worst sort of ghost-feeling. Mother picked up the Lamb and hurried away from the pine-wood.
‘Let’s go home,’ said Jane, after a miserable silence. ‘It feels just exactly as if Mother didn’t love us.’
But they couldn’t bear to go home till they had seen Mother meet another lady, and knew that she was safe. You cannot leave your mother to go green in the face in a distant pinewood, far from all human aid, and then go home on your wishing carpet as though nothing had happened.
When Mother seemed safe the children returned to the carpet, and said ‘Home’ – and home they went.
‘I don’t care about being invisible myself,’ said Cyril, ‘at least, not with my own family. It would be different if you were a prince, or a bandit, or a burglar.’
And now the thoughts of all four dwelt fondly on the dear greenish face of Mother.
‘I wish she hadn’t gone away,’ said Jane; ‘the house is simply beastly without her.’
‘I think we ought to do what she said,’ Anthea put in. ‘I saw something in a book the other day about the wishes of the departed being sacred.’
‘That means when they’ve departed farther off,’ said Cyril. ‘India’s coral or Greenland’s icy, don’t you know; not Bournemouth. Besides, we don’t know what her wishes are.’
‘She said’ – Anthea was very much inclined to cry – ‘she said, “Get Indian things for my bazaar;” but I know she thought we couldn’t, and it was only play.’
‘Let’s get them all the same,’ said Robert. ‘We’ll go the first thing on Saturday morning.’
And on Saturday morning, the first thing, they went.
There was no finding the Phoenix, so they sat on the beautiful wishing carpet, and said:
‘We want Indian things for Mother’s bazaar. Will you please take us where people will give us heaps of Indian things?’
The docile carpet swirled their senses away, and restored them on the outskirts of a gleaming white Indian town. They knew it was Indian at once, by the shape of the domes and roofs; and besides, a man went by on an elephant, and two English soldiers went along the road, talking like in Mr Kipling’s books – so after that no one could have any doubt as to where they were. They rolled up the carpet and Robert carried it, and they walked bodily into the town. It was very warm, and once more they had to take off their London-in-November coats, and carry them on their arms.
The streets were narrow and strange, and the clothes of the people in the streets were strange, and the talk of the people was strangest of all.
‘I can’t understand a word,’ said Cyril. ‘How on earth are we to ask for things for our bazaar?’
‘And they’re poor people, too,’ said Jane; ‘I’m sure they are. What we want is a rajah or something.’
Robert was beginning to unroll the carpet, but the others stopped him, imploring him not to waste a wish.
‘We asked the carpet to take us where we could get Indian things for bazaars,’ said Anthea, ‘and it will.’
Her faith was justified.
Just as she finished speaking a very brown gentleman in a turban came up to them and bowed deeply. He spoke, and they thrilled to the sound of English words.
‘My ranee, she think you very nice childs. She asks do you lose yourselves, and do you desire to sell carpet? She see you from her palkee. You come see her – yes?’
They followed the stranger, who seemed to have a great many more teeth in his smile than are usual, and he led them through crooked streets to the ranee’s palace. I am not going to describe the ranee’s palace, because I really have never seen the palace of a ranee, and Mr Kipling has. So you can read about it in his books. But I know exactly what happened there.
The old ranee sat on a low-cushioned seat, and there were a lot of other ladies with her – all in trousers and veils, and sparkling with tinsel and gold and jewels. And the brown, turbaned gentleman stood behind a sort of carved screen, and interpreted what the children said and what the queen said. And when the queen asked to buy the carpet, the children said ‘No.’
‘Why?’ asked the ranee.
And Jane briefly said why, and the interpreter interpreted. The queen spoke, and then the interpreter said:
‘My mistress says it is a good story, and you tell it all through without thought of time.’
And they had to. It made a long story, especially as it had all to be told twice – once by Cyril and once by the interpreter. Cyril rather enjoyed himself. He warmed to his work, and told the tale of the Phoenix and the Carpet, and the Lone Tower, and the Queen-Cook, in language that grew insensibly more and more Arabian Nightsy, and the ranee and her ladies listened to the interpreter, and rolled about on their fat cushions with laughter.
When the story was ended she spoke, and the interpreter explained that she had said, ‘Little one, thou art a heaven-born teller of tales;’ and she threw him a string of turquoises from round her neck.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ cried Jane and Anthea.
Cyril bowed several times, and then cleared his throat and