Wet Magic · Chapter 9 (1/2)

IX

The Book People

Even in the midst of war there are intervals for refreshments. Our own soldiers, no matter how fierce, must eat to live, and the same is the case with the submarine regiments. The Crustacean Brigade took advantage of the lull in hostilities which followed the defeat of the Sea Horses to march back to the Palace and have a meal. A very plain meal it was, too, and very different from the “Banquet of Ovations,” as Cathay pointed out afterward. There were no prettily spread tables decorated with bunches of seaweed, no plates or knives or forks. The food was passed around by hand, and there was one drinking horn (a sea cow’s horn) to every six soldiers. They all sat on the ground as you do at a picnic, and the Queen came and spoke a few hurried words to them when on her way to strengthen the defenses of the golden gate. And, as I said, the food was plain. However, everyone had enough to eat, which was the main thing. Baskets of provisions were sent down to the Lobsters’ guardroom.

“It is important,” said Princess Freia, “that our men should be on the spot in case they are needed, and the same with the dinner. I shall go down with the provisions and keep their hearts up.”

“Yes, dear, do,” said the Princess Maia; “but don’t do anything rash. No sorties now. You Lobsters are so terribly brave. But you know Mother said you weren’t to. Ah me! War is a terrible thing! What a state the rivers will get into with all this water going on, and the winds all loose and doing as they like. It’s horrible to think about. It will take ages to get things straight again.”

(Her fears were only too well founded. All this happened last year⁠—and you know what a wet summer that was.)

“I know, dear,” said Freia; “but I know now who broke the sky, and it is very, very sorry⁠—so we won’t rub it in, will we?”

“I didn’t mean to,” said Maia, smiling kindly at the children, and went off to encourage her Lobsters.

“And now,” said Francis, when the meal was over, “what are we going to do next?”

“We can’t do anything but wait for news,” said the Princess. “Our Scouts will let us know soon enough. I only hope the Book People won’t attack us at the same time as the Under Folk. That’s always the danger.”

“How could they get in?” Mavis asked.

“Through the golden door,” said the Princess. “Of course they couldn’t do anything if we hadn’t read the books they’re in. That’s the worst of Education. We’ve all read such an awful lot, and that unlocks the books and they can come out if anyone calls them. Even our fish are intolerably well read⁠—except the Porpoises, dear things, who never could read anything. That’s why the golden door is guarded by them, of course.”

“If not having read things is useful,” said Mavis, “we’ve read almost nothing. Couldn’t we help guard the door?”

“The very thing,” said the Princess joyously; “for you possess the only weapon that can be used against these people or against the authors who created them. If you can truthfully say to them, ‘I never heard of you,’ your words become a deadly sword that strikes at their most sensitive spot.”

“What spot?” asked Bernard. And the Princess answered, “Their vanity.”

So the little party went toward the golden door and found it behind a thick wall of Porpoises. Incessant cries came from beyond the gates, and to every cry they answered like one Porpoise, “We never heard of you. You can’t come in. You can’t come in. We never heard of you.”

“We shan’t be any good here,” said Bernard, among the thick, rich voices of the Porpoises. “They can keep anyone back.”

“Yes,” said the Princess; “but if the Book Folk look through the gate and see that they’re only Porpoises their wounded vanity will heal, and they’ll come on as strongly as ever. Whereas if they did find human beings who have never heard of them the wounds ought to be mortal. As long as you are able truthfully to say that you don’t know them they can’t get in.”

“Reuben would be the person for this,” said Francis. “I don’t believe he’s read anything!”

“Well, we haven’t read much,” said Cathay comfortably; “at least, not about nasty people.”

“I wish I hadn’t,” sighed the Princess through the noise of the voices outside the gate. “I know them all. You hear that cold squeak? That’s Mrs. Fairchild. And that short, sharp, barking sound⁠—that’s Aunt Fortune. The sort of growl that goes on all the time is Mr. Murdstone, and that icy voice is Rosamund’s mother⁠—the one who was so hateful about the purple jar.”

“I’m afraid we know some of those,” said Mavis.

“Then be careful not to say you don’t. There are heaps you don’t know⁠—John Knox and Machiavelli and Don Diego and Tippoo Sahib and Sally Brass and⁠—I must go back. If anything should happen, fling your arms round the nearest Porpoise and trust to luck. These Book People can’t kill⁠—they can only stupefy.”

“But how do you know them all?” Mavis asked. “Do they often attack you?”

“No, only when the sky falls. But they always howl outside the gate at the full moon.”

So saying she turned away and disappeared in the crowd of faithful Porpoises.

And outside the noise grew louder and the words more definite.

“I am Mrs. Randolph. Let me in!”

“I am good Mrs. Brown. Let me in!”

“I am Eric, or Little by Little. I will come in!”

“I am Elsie, or Like a Little Candle. Let me in⁠—let me in!”

“I am Mrs. Markham.”

“I am Mrs. Squeers.”

“I am Uriah Heep.”

“I am Montdidier.”

“I am King John.”

“I am Caliban.”

“I am the Giant Blunderbore.”

“I am the Dragon of Wantley.”

And they all cried, again and again: “Let us in! Let me in! Let me in!”

The strain of listening for the names and calling out “I don’t know you!” when they didn’t, and saying nothing when they did, became almost unbearable. It was like that horrid game with the corners of the handkerchief, “Hold fast” and “Let loose,” and you have to remember to do the opposite. Sooner or later an accident is bound to happen, and the children felt a growing conviction that it would be sooner.

“What will happen if they do get in?” Cathay asked a neighboring Porpoise.

“Can’t say, miss, I’m sure,” it answered.

“But what will you do?”

“Obstruct them in the execution of our duty,” it answered. “You see, miss, they can’t kill; they can only stupefy, and they can’t stupefy us, ’cause why? We’re that stupid already we can’t hold no more. That’s why they trust us to defend the golden gate,” it added proudly.

The babel of voices outside grew louder and thicker, and the task of knowing when to say “I don’t know you,” and so wound the vanity of the invaders, grew more and more difficult. At last the disaster, foreseen for some time, with a growing plainness, came upon them.

“I am the Great Seal,” said a thick, furry voice.

“I don’t know you,” cried Cathay.

“You do⁠—he’s in history. James the Second dropped him in the Thames,” said Francis. “Yes, you’ve done it again.”

“Shut up,” said Bernard.

The last two remarks were made in a deep silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of the Porpoises. The voices behind the golden gate had died down and ceased. The Porpoises massed their heavy bulk close to the door.

“Remember the Porpoises,” said Francis. “Don’t forget to hold on to a Porpoise.”

Four of these amiable if unintellectual creatures drew away from their companions, and one came to the side of each child.

Every eye was fixed on the golden door, and then slowly⁠—very slowly, the door began to open. As it opened it revealed the crowd that stood without⁠—cruel faces, stupid faces, crafty faces, sullen faces, angry faces, not a single face that you ever could wish to see again.

Then slowly, terribly, without words, the close ranks of the Book People advanced. Mrs. Fairchild, Mrs. Markham, and Mrs. Barbauld led the van. Closely following came the Dragon of Wantley, the Minotaur, and the Little Man that Sintram knew. Then came Mr. Murdstone, neat in a folded white neckcloth, and clothes as black as his whiskers. Miss Murdstone was with him, every bead of her alight with gratified malice. The children found that they knew, without being told, the name of each foe now advancing on them. Paralyzed with terror, they watched the slow and terrible advance. It was not till Eric, or Little by Little, broke the silence with a whoop of joy and rushed upon them that they remembered their own danger, and clutched the waiting Porpoises. Alas! it was too late. Mrs. Markham had turned a frozen glare upon them, Mrs. Fairchild had wagged an admonitory forefinger, wave on wave of sheer stupidity swept over them, and next moment they lost consciousness and sank, each with his faithful Porpoise, into the dreamless sleep of the entirely unintelligent. In vain the main body of the Porpoises hurled themselves against the intruders; their heroism was fruitless. Overwhelmed by the heavy truisms wielded by the enemy, they turned and fled in disorder, and the conquering army entered Merland.

Francis was the first to recover consciousness. The Porpoise to which he had clung was fanning him with its fin, and imploring him, for its sake, to look up, to speak.

“All right, old chap,” said Francis. “I must have fallen asleep. Where are the others?”

They were all there, and the devoted Porpoises quickly restored them to consciousness.

The four children stood up and looked at each other.

“I wish Reuben was here,” said Cathay. “He’d know what to do.”

“He wouldn’t know any more than we do,” said Francis haughtily.

“We must do something,” said Mavis. “It’s our fault again.”

“It’s mine,” said Cathay, “but I couldn’t help it.”

“If you hadn’t, one of us would have,” said Bernard, seeking to console. “I say, why do only the nasty people come out of the books?”

“I know that,” said his Porpoise, turning his black face eagerly toward them. “The stupidest people can’t help knowing something. The Under Folk get in and open the books⁠—at least, they send the Bookworms in to open them. And, of course, they only open the pages where the enemies are quartered.”

“Then⁠—” said Bernard, looking at the golden gate, which swung open, its lock hanging broken and useless.

“Yes,” said Mavis, “we could, couldn’t we? Open the other books, we mean!” She appealed to her Porpoise.

“Yes,” it said, “perhaps you could. Human children can open books, I believe. Porpoises can’t. And Mer-people can’t open the books in the Cave of Learning, though they can unlock them. If they want to open them they have to get them from the Public Mer Libraries. I can’t help knowing that,” it added. The Porpoises seemed really ashamed of not being thoroughly stupid.

“Come on,” said Francis, “we’ll raise an army to fight these Book People. Here’s something we can do that isn’t mischief.”

“You shut up,” said Bernard, and thumping Cathay on the back told her to never mind.

They went toward the golden gate.

“I suppose all the nasty people are out of the books by now?” Mavis asked her Porpoise, who followed her with the close fidelity of an affectionate little dog.

“I don’t know,” it said, with some pride. “I’m stupid, I am. But I can’t help knowing that no one can come out of books unless they’re called. You’ve just got to tap on the back of the book and call the name and then you open it, and the person comes out. At least, that’s what the Bookworms do, and I don’t see why you should be different.”

What was different, it soon appeared, was the water in the stream in the Cave of Learning, which was quite plainly still water in some other sense than that in which what they were in was water. That is, they could not walk in it; they had to swim. The cave seemed dark, but enough light came from the golden gate to enable them to read the titles of the books when they had pulled away the seaweed which covered many of them. They had to hold on to the rocks⁠—which were books⁠—with one hand, and clear away the seaweed with the other.

You can guess the sort of books at which they knocked⁠—Kingsley and Shakespeare and Marryat and Dickens, Miss Alcott and Mrs. Ewing, Hans Andersen and Stevenson, and Mayne Reid⁠—and when they had knocked they called the name of the hero whose help they desired, and “Will you help us,” they asked, “to conquer the horrid Book People, and drive them back to cover?”

And not a hero but said, “Yes, indeed we will, with all our hearts.”

And they climbed down out of the books, and swam up to the golden gate and waited, talking with courage and dignity among themselves, while the children went on knocking at the backs of books⁠—which are books’ front doors⁠—and calling out more and more heroes to help in the fight.

Quentin Durward and Laurie were the first to come out, then Hereward and Amyas and Will Cary, David Copperfield, Rob Roy, Ivanhoe, Caesar and Anthony, Coriolanus and Othello; but you can make the list for yourselves. They came forth, all alive and splendid, with valor and the longing to strike once more a blow for the good cause, as they had been used to do in their old lives.

“These are enough,” said Francis, at last. “We ought to leave some, in case we want more help later.”

You see for yourselves what a splendid company it was that swam to the golden gate⁠—there was no other way than swimming, except for Perseus⁠—and awaited the children. And when the children joined them⁠—rather nervous at the thought of the speeches they would have to make to their newly recruited regiment⁠—they found that there was no need of speeches. The faithful Porpoises had not been too stupid to explain the simple facts of danger and rescue.

It was a proud moment for the children when they marched toward the Palace at the head of the band of heroes whom they had pressed into the service of the Merland. Between the clipped seaweed hedges they went, and along the paths paved with pearl and marble, and so, at last, drew near the Palace. They gave the watchword “Glory.”

“Or Death,” said the sentry. And they passed on to the Queen.

“We’ve brought a reinforcement,” said Francis, who had learned the word from Quentin Durward as they came along. And the Queen gave one look at her reinforcement’s faces and said simply:

“We are saved.”

The horrible Book People had not attacked the Palace; they had gone furtively through the country killing stray fish and destroying any beautiful thing they happened to find. For these people hate beauty and happiness. They were now holding a meeting in the Palace gardens, near the fountain where the Princesses had been wont to do their source-service, and they were making speeches like mad. You could hear the dull, flat murmur of them even from the Palace. They were the sort of people who love the sound of their own silly voices.

The newcomers were ranged in orderly ranks before the Queen, awaiting her orders. It looked like a pageant or a fancy-dress parade. There was St. George in his armor, and Joan of Arc in hers⁠—heroes in plumed hats and laced shirts, heroes in ruffs and doublets⁠—brave gentlemen of England, gallant gentlemen of France. For all the differences in their dress, there was nothing motley about the band which stood before the Queen. Varied as they were in dress and feature, they had one quality in common, which marked them as one company. The same light of bravery shone on them all, and became them like a fine uniform.

“Will you,” the Queen asked of their leader⁠—a pale, thin-faced man in the dress of a Roman⁠—“will you do just as you think best? I would not presume,” she added, with a kind of proud humility, “to teach the game of war to Caesar.”

“Oh, Queen,” he answered, “these brave men and I will drive back the intruders, but, having driven them back, we must ourselves return through those dark doors which we passed when your young defenders called our names. We will drive back the men⁠—and by the look of them ’twill be an easy task. But Caesar wars not with women, and the women on our side are few, though each, I doubt not, has the heart of a lioness.”