The Phoenix and the Carpet - E. Nesbit (best pdf reader for ebooks .txt) 📗

hesitation the four children turned and ran back along the forest path; the only pause was Anthea’s. She stood back to let Cyril pass, because he was carrying the Lamb, who screamed with delight. (He had not whooping-coughed a single once since the carpet landed him on the island.)

“Gee-up, Squirrel; gee-gee,” he shouted, and Cyril did gee-up. The path was a shorter cut to the beach than the creeper-covered way by which they had come, and almost directly they saw through the trees the shining blue-and-gold-and-opal of sand and sea.

“Stick to it,” cried Cyril, breathlessly.

They did stick to it; they tore down the sands⁠—they could hear behind them as they ran the patter of feet which they knew, too well, were copper-coloured.

The sands were golden and opal-coloured⁠—and bare. There were wreaths of tropic seaweed, there were rich tropic shells of the kind you would not buy in the Kentish Town Road under at least fifteen pence a pair. There were turtles basking lumpily on the water’s edge⁠—but no cook, no clothes, and no carpet.

“On, on! Into the sea!” gasped Cyril. “They must hate water. I’ve⁠—heard⁠—savages always⁠—dirty.”

Their feet were splashing in the warm shallows before his breathless words were ended. The calm baby-waves were easy to go through. It is warm work running for your life in the tropics, and the coolness of the water was delicious. They were up to their armpits now, and Jane was up to her chin.

“Look!” said the Phoenix. “What are they pointing at?”

The children turned; and there, a little to the west was a head⁠—a head they knew, with a crooked cap upon it. It was the head of the cook.

For some reason or other the savages had stopped at the water’s edge and were all talking at the top of their voices, and all were pointing copper-coloured fingers, stiff with interest and excitement, at the head of the cook.

The children hurried towards her as quickly as the water would let them.

“What on earth did you come out here for?” Robert shouted; “and where on earth’s the carpet?”

“It’s not on earth, bless you,” replied the cook, happily; “it’s under me⁠—in the water. I got a bit warm setting there in the sun, and I just says, ‘I wish I was in a cold bath’⁠—just like that⁠—and next minute here I was! It’s all part of the dream.”

Everyone at once saw how extremely fortunate it was that the carpet had had the sense to take the cook to the nearest and largest bath⁠—the sea, and how terrible it would have been if the carpet had taken itself and her to the stuffy little bathroom of the house in Camden Town!

“Excuse me,” said the Phoenix’s soft voice, breaking in on the general sigh of relief, “but I think these brown people want your cook.”

“To⁠—to eat?” whispered Jane, as well as she could through the water which the plunging Lamb was dashing in her face with happy fat hands and feet.

“Hardly,” rejoined the bird. “Who wants cooks to eat? Cooks are engaged, not eaten. They wish to engage her.”

“How can you understand what they say?” asked Cyril, doubtfully.

“It’s as easy as kissing your claw,” replied the bird. “I speak and understand all languages, even that of your cook, which is difficult and unpleasing. It’s quite easy, when you know how it’s done. It just comes to you. I should advise you to beach the carpet and land the cargo⁠—the cook, I mean. You can take my word for it, the copper-coloured ones will not harm you now.”

It is impossible not to take the word of a Phoenix when it tells you to. So the children at once got hold of the corners of the carpet, and, pulling it from under the cook, towed it slowly in through the shallowing water, and at last spread it on the sand. The cook, who had followed, instantly sat down on it, and at once the copper-coloured natives, now strangely humble, formed a ring round the carpet, and fell on their faces on the rainbow-and-gold sand. The tallest savage spoke in this position, which must have been very awkward for him; and Jane noticed that it took him quite a long time to get the sand out of his mouth afterwards.

“He says,” the Phoenix remarked after some time, “that they wish to engage your cook permanently.”

“Without a character?” asked Anthea, who had heard her mother speak of such things.

“They do not wish to engage her as cook, but as queen; and queens need not have characters.”

There was a breathless pause.

“Well,” said Cyril, “of all the choices! But there’s no accounting for tastes.”

Everyone laughed at the idea of the cook’s being engaged as queen; they could not help it.

“I do not advise laughter,” warned the Phoenix, ruffling out his golden feathers, which were extremely wet. “And it’s not their own choice. It seems that there is an ancient prophecy of this copper-coloured tribe that a great queen should some day arise out of the sea with a white crown on her head, and⁠—and⁠—well, you see! There’s the crown!”

It pointed its claw at cook’s cap; and a very dirty cap it was, because it was the end of the week.

“That’s the white crown,” it said; “at least, it’s nearly white⁠—very white indeed compared to the colour they are⁠—and anyway, it’s quite white enough.”

Cyril addressed the cook. “Look here!” said he, “these brown people want you to be their queen. They’re only savages, and they don’t know any better. Now would you really like to stay? or, if you’ll promise not to be so jolly aggravating at home, and not to tell anyone a word about today, we’ll take you back to Camden Town.”

“No, you don’t,” said the cook, in firm, undoubting tones. “I’ve always wanted to be the Queen, God bless her! and I always thought what a good one I should make; and now I’m going to. If it’s only in a dream, it’s well worth while. And I don’t go back to