The Complete Works: Fantasy & Sci-Fi Novels, Religious Studies, Poetry & Autobiography. C. S. Lewis
doubt, no doubt,” said MacPhee. “But not in our kitchen.”
“Ivy, my dear,” said Ransom, “you must be very firm. Go into the kitchen and tell the strange bear I want to see her. You wouldn’t be afraid, would you?”
“Afraid? Not me. I’ll show her who’s the Director here. Not that it isn’t only natural for her.”
“What’s the matter with that Jackdaw?” said Dr. Dimble.
“I think it’s trying to get out,” said Denniston. “Shall I open the window?”
“It’s warm enough to have the window open, anyway,” said the Director. And as the window was opened Baron Corvo hopped out and there was a scuffle and a chattering just outside.
“Another love affair,” said Mrs. Dimble. “It sounds as if Jack had found a Jill. . . . What a delicious night!” she added. For as the curtain swelled and lifted over the open window, all the freshness of a midsummer night seemed to be blowing into the room. At that moment, a little farther off, came a sound of whinnying.
“Hullo!” said Denniston, “the old mare is excited, too.”
“’Sh! Listen!” said Jane.
“That’s a different horse,” said Denniston.
“It’s a stallion,” said Camilla.
“This,” said MacPhee with great emphasis, “is becoming indecent!”
“On the contrary,” said Ransom, “decent, in the old sense, decens, fitting, is just what she is. Venus herself is over St. Anne’s.”
“She comes more near the Earth than she was wont,” quoted Dimble, “to make men mad.”
“She is nearer than any astronomer knows,” said Ransom. “The work at Edgestow is done, the other gods have withdrawn. She waits still, and when she returns to her sphere I will ride with her.”
Suddenly in the semi-darkness Mrs. Dimble’s voice cried sharply, “Look out! Look out! Cecil! I’m sorry. I can’t stand bats. They’ll get in my hair!” Cheep cheep went the voices of the two bats as they flickered to and fro above the candles. Because of their shadows they seemed to be four bats instead of two.
“You’d better go, Margaret,” said the Director. “You and Cecil had better both go. I shall be gone very soon now. There is no need of long good-byes.”
“I really think I must go,” said Mother Dimble. “I can’t stand bats.”
“Comfort Margaret, Cecil,” said Ransom. “No. Do not stay. I’m not dying. Seeing people off is always folly. It’s neither good mirth nor good sorrow.”
“You mean us to go, sir?” said Dimble.
“Go, my dear friends. Urendi Maleldil.”
He laid his hands on their heads: Cecil gave his arm to his wife and they went.
“Here she is, sir,” said Ivy Maggs, re-entering the room a moment later, flushed and radiant. A bear waddled at her side, its muzzle white with junket and its cheeks sticky with gooseberry jam. “And—oh, sir!” she added.
“What is it, Ivy?” said the Director.
“Please, sir, it’s poor Tom. It’s my husband. And if you don’t mind——”
“You’ve given him something to eat and drink, I hope?”
“Well, yes, I have. There wouldn’t have been nothing if those bears had been there much longer.”
“What has Tom got, Ivy?”
“I give him the cold pie and the pickles (he always was a great one for pickles) and the end of the cheese and a bottle of stout, and I’ve put the kettle on so as we can make ourselves—so as he can make himself a nice cup of tea. And he’s enjoying it ever so, sir, and he said would you mind him not coming up to say how d’you do because he never was much of a one for company if you take my meaning.”
All this time the strange bear had been standing perfectly still with its eyes fixed on the Director. Now he laid his hand on its flat head. “Urendi Maleldil,” he said. “You are a good bear. Go to your mate—but here he is,” for at that moment the door, which was already a little ajar, was pushed further open to admit the enquiring and slightly anxious face of Mr. Bultitude. “Take her, Bultitude. But not in the house. Jane, open the other window, the French window. It is like a night in July.” The window swung open and the two bears went blundering out into the warmth and the wetness. Everyone noticed how light it had become.
“Are those birds all daft that they’re singing at quarter to twelve?” asked MacPhee.
“No,” said Ransom. “They are sane. Now, Ivy, you want to go and talk to Tom. Mother Dimble has put you both in the little room half-way up the stairs, not in the lodge, after all.”
“Oh, sir,” said Ivy, and stopped. The Director leaned forward and laid his hand on her head. “Of course you want to go,” he said. “Why, he’s hardly had time to see you in your new dress yet. Have you no kisses to give him?” he said, and kissed her. “Then give him mine, which are not mine but by derivation. Don’t cry. You are a good woman. Go and heal this man. Urendi Maleldil—we shall meet again.”
“What’s all yon squealing and squeaking?” said MacPhee. “I hope it’s not the pigs got loose. For I tell you there’s already as much carrying on about this house and garden as I can stand.”
“I think it’s hedgehogs,” said Grace Ironwood.
“That last sound was somewhere in the house,” said Jane.
“Listen!” said the Director, and for a short time all were still. Then his face relaxed into a smile. “It’s my friends behind the wainscot,” he said. “There are revels there, too—
“So geht es in Snützepützhaüsel Da singen und tanzen die Maüsel!”
“I suppose,” said MacPhee drily, producing his snuff-box from under the ash-coloured and slightly monastic-looking robe in which, contrary to his own judgement, the others had seen fit to clothe him, “I suppose we may think ourselves lucky that no giraffes, hippopotami, elephants, or the like have seen fit to—God almighty, what’s that?” For as he spoke, a long grey flexible tube came in between the swaying curtains and, passing over MacPhee’s shoulder, helped itself to a bunch of bananas.
“In the name of Hell, where’s all them beasts coming from?” he said.
“They are the liberated prisoners from Belbury,” said the Director. “She comes more near the Earth than she was wont to—to make Earth sane. Perelandra is all about us and Man is no longer isolated. We are now as we ought to be—between the angels who are our elder brothers and the beasts who are our jesters, servants, and playfellows.”
Whatever MacPhee was attempting to say in reply was drowned by an ear-splitting noise from beyond the window.
“Elephants! Two of them,” said Jane weakly. “Oh, the celery! And the rose beds!”
“By your leave, Mr. Director,” said MacPhee sternly, “I’ll just draw these curtains. You seem to forget there are ladies present.”
“No,” said Grace Ironwood in a voice as strong as his, “there will be nothing unfit for anyone to see. Draw them wider. How light it is! Brighter than moonlight: almost brighter than day. A great dome of light stands over the whole garden. Look! The elephants are dancing. How high they lift their feet. And they go round and round. And oh, look!—how they lift their trunks. And how ceremonial they are. It is like a minuet of giants. They are not like the other animals. They are a sort of good daemons.”
“They are moving away,” said Camilla.
“They