by E. Nesbit
She was awakened by the fact that she was not lying in her own bed—was not, indeed, lying at all—by the fact that she was standing and that her feet had pins and needles in them. Her arms, too, held out in that odd way, were stiff and tired. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and remembered. She had been a statue a statue inside the stone dinosaurus.
“Now I’m alive again,” was her instant conclusion, “and I’ll get out of it.”
She sat down, put her feet through the hole that showed faintly grey in the stone beast’s underside, and as she did so a long, slow lurch threw her sideways on the stone where she sat. The dinosaurus was moving!
“Oh!” said Kathleen inside it, “how dreadful! It must be moonlight, and it’s come alive, like Gerald said.
It was indeed moving. She could see through the hole the changing surface of grass and bracken and moss as it waddled heavily along. She dared not drop through the hole while it moved, for fear it should crush her to death with its gigantic feet. And with that thought came another: where was Mabel? Somewhere—somewhere near? Suppose one of the great feet planted itself on some part of Mabel’s inconvenient length? Mabel being the size she was now it would be quite difficult not to step on some part or other of her, if she should happen to be in one’s way—quite difficult, however much one tried. And the dinosaurus would not try: Why should it? Kathleen hung in an agony over the round opening. The huge beast swung from side to side. It was going faster; it was no good, she dared not jump out. Anyhow, they must be quite away from Mabel by now. Faster and faster went the dinosaurus. The floor of its stomach sloped. They were going downhill. Twigs cracked and broke as it pushed through a belt of evergreen oaks; gravel crunched, ground beneath its stony feet. Then stone met stone. There was a pause. A splash! They were close to water—the lake where by moonlight Hermes fluttered and Janus and the dinosaurus swam together. Kathleen dropped swiftly through the hole on to the flat marble that edged the basin, rushed sideways, and stood panting in the shadow of a statue’s pedestal. Not a moment too soon, for even as she crouched the monster lizard slipped heavily into the water, drowning a thousand smooth, shining lily pads, and swam away towards the central island.
“Be still, little lady. I leap!” The voice came from the pedestal, and next moment Phoebus had jumped from the pedestal in his little temple, clearing the steps, and landing a couple of yards away.
“You are new,” said Phoebus over his graceful shoulder. “I should not have forgotten you if once I had seen you.”
“I am,” said Kathleen, “quite, quite new. And I didn’t know you could talk.”
“Why not?” Phoebus laughed. “You can talk.”
“But I’m alive.”
“Am not I?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Kathleen, distracted, but not afraid; “only I thought you had to have the ring on before one could even see you move.”
Phoebus seemed to understand her, which was rather to his credit, for she had certainly not expressed herself with clearness.
“Ah! that’s for mortals,” he said. “We can hear and see each other in the few moments when life is ours. That is a part of the beautiful enchantment.”
“But I am a mortal,” said Kathleen.
“You are as modest as you are charming,” said Phoebus Apollo absently; “the white water calls me! I go,” and the next moment rings of liquid silver spread across the lake, widening and widening, from the spot where the white joined hands of the Sun-god had struck the water as he dived.
Kathleen turned and went up the hill towards the rhododendron bushes. She must find Mabel, and they must go home at once. If only Mabel was of a size that one could conveniently take home with one! Most likely, at this hour of enchantments, she was. Kathleen, heartened by the thought, hurried on. She passed through the rhododendron bushes, remembered the pointed painted paper face that had looked out from the glossy leaves, expected to be frightened and wasn’t. She found Mabel easily enough, and much more easily than she would have done had Mabel been as she wished to find her. For quite a long way off in the moonlight, she could see that long and worm-like form, extended to its full twelve feet—and covered with coats and trousers and waistcoats. Mabel looked like a drain-pipe that has been covered in sacks in frosty weather. Kathleen touched her long cheek gently, and she woke.
“What’s up?” she said sleepily.
“It’s only me,” Kathleen explained.
“How cold your hands are!” said Mabel.
“Wake up,” said Kathleen, “and let’s talk.”
“Can’t we go home now? I’m awfully tired, and it’s so long since tea-time.”
“You’re too long to go home yet,” said Kathleen sadly, and then Mabel remembered.
She lay with closed eyes then suddenly she stirred and cried out:
“Oh! Cathy, I feel so funny—like one of those horn snakes when you make it go short to get it into its box. I am—yes—I know I am—”
She was; and Kathleen, watching her, agreed that it was exactly like the shortening of a horn spiral snake between the closing hands of a child. Mabel’s distant feet drew near Mabel’s long, lean arms grew shorter Mabel’s face was no longer half a yard long.
“You’re coming right—you are! Oh, I am so glad!” cried Kathleen.
“I know I am,” said Mabel; and as she said it she became once more Mabel, not only in herself which, of course, she had been all the time, but in her outward appearance.
“You are all right. Oh, hooray! hooray! I am so glad!” said Kathleen kindly; “and now we’ll go home at once, dear.”
“Go home?” said Mabel, slowly sitting up and staring at Kathleen with her big dark eyes. “Go home like that?”
“Like what?” Kathleen asked impatiently.
“Why, you,” was Mabel’s odd reply.
“I’m all right,” said Kathleen. “Come on.”
“Do you mean to say you don’t know?” said Mabel. “Look at yourself—your hands—your dress—everything.”
Kathleen looked at her hands. They were of marble whiteness. Her dress, too—her shoes, her stockings, even the ends of her hair. She was white as new-fallen snow.
“What is it?” she asked, beginning to tremble. “What am I all this horrid colour for?”
“Don’t you see? Oh, Cathy, don’t you see? You’ve not come right. You’re a statue still.”
“I’m not—I’m alive—I’m talking to you.”
“I know you are, darling,” said Mabel, soothing her as one soothes a fractious child. “That’s because it’s moonlight.”
“But you can see I’m alive.”
“Of course I can. I’ve got the ring.”
“But I’m all right; I know I am.”
“Don’t you see,” said Mabel gently, taking her white marble hand, “you’re not all right? It’s moonlight, and you’re a statue, and you’ve just come alive with all the other statues. And when the moon goes down you’ll just be a statue again. That’s the difficulty, dear, about our going home again. You’re just a statue still, only you’ve come alive with the other marble things. Where’s the dinosaurus?”
“In his bath,” said Kathleen, “and so are all the other stone beasts.”
Well,” said Mabel, trying to look on the bright side of things, “then we’ve got one thing, at any rate, to be thankful for!”
CHAPTER X
“If,” said Kathleen, sitting disconsolate in her marble, “if I am really a statue come alive, I wonder you’re not afraid of me.”
“I’ve got the ring,” said Mabel with decision. “Cheer up, dear! you will soon be better. Try not to think about it.”
She spoke as you speak to a child that has cut its finger, or fallen down on the garden path, and rises up with grazed knees to which gravel sticks
intimately.
“I know,” Kathleen absently answered.
“And I’ve been thinking,” said Mabel brightly, “we might find Out a lot about this magic place, if the other statues aren’t too proud to talk to us.”
“They aren’t,” Kathleen assured her; “at least, Phoebus wasn’t. He was most awfully polite and nice.”
“Where is he?” Mabel asked.
“In the lake—he was,” said Kathleen.
“Then let’s go down there,” said Mabel. “Oh, Cathy! it is jolly being your own proper thickness again.” She jumped up, and the withered ferns and branches that had covered her long length and had been gathered closely upon her as she shrank to her proper size fell as forest leaves do when sudden storms tear them. But the white Kathleen did not move.
The two sat on the grey moonlit grass with the quiet of the night all about them. The great park was still as a painted picture; only the splash of the fountains and the far-off whistle of the Western express broke the silence, which, at the same time, then deepened.
“What cheer, little sister!” said a voice behind them—a golden voice. They turned quick, startled heads, as birds, surprised, might turn. There in the moonlight stood Phoebus, dripping still from the lake, and smiling at them, very gentle, very friendly.
“Oh, it’s you!” said Kathleen.
“None other,” said Phoebus cheerfully. “Who is your friend, the earth-child?”
“This is Mabel,” said Kathleen.
Mabel got up and bowed, hesitated, and held out a hand.
“I am your slave, little lady,” said Phoebus, enclosing it in marble fingers. “But I fail to understand how you can see us, and why you do not fear.”
Mabel held up the hand that wore the ring.
“Quite sufficient explanation,” said Phoebus; “but since you have that, why retain your mottled earthy appearance? Become a statue, and swim with us in the lake.”
“I can’t swim,” said Mabel evasively.
“Nor yet me,” said Kathleen.
“You can,” said Phoebus. “All statues that come to life are proficient in all athletic exercises. And you, child of the dark eyes and hair like night, wish yourself a statue and join our revels.”
“I’d rather not, if you will excuse me,” said Mabel cautiously. “You see…this ring…you wish for things, and you never know how long they’re going to last. It would be jolly and all that to be a statue now, but in the morning I should wish I hadn’t.”
“Earth-folk often do, they say,” mused Phoebus. “But, child, you seem ignorant of the powers of your ring. Wish exactly, and the ring will exactly perform. If you give no limit of time, strange enchantments woven by Arithmos the outcast god of numbers will creep in and spoil the spell. Say thus: “I wish that till the dawn I may be a statue of living marble, even as my child friend, and that after that time I may be as before Mabel of the dark eyes and night-coloured hair.”
“Oh, yes, do, it would be so jolly!” cried Kathleen. “Do, Mabel! And if we’re both statues, shall we be afraid of the dinosaurus?”
“In the world of living marble fear is not,” said Phoebus. “Are we not brothers, we and the dinosaurus brethren alike wrought of stone and life?”
“And could I swim if I did?”
“Swim, and float, and dive—and with the ladies of Olympus spread the nightly feast, eat of the food of the gods, drink their cup, listen to the song that is undying, and catch the laughter of immortal lips.”
“A feast!” said Kathleen. “Oh, Mabel, do! You would if you were as hungry as I am.”
“But it won’t be real food,” urged Mabel.
“It will be real to you, as to us,” said Phoebus; “there is no other realness even in your many-coloured world.”
Still Mabel hesitated. Then she looked at Kathleen’s legs and suddenly said:—
“Very well, I will. But first I’ll take off my shoes and stockings. Marble boots look simply awful—especially the laces. And a marble stocking that’s coming down—and mine do!”
She had pulled off shoes and stockings and pinafore. “Mabel has the sense of beauty,” said Phoebus approvingly. “Speak the spell, child, and I will lead you to the ladies of Olympus.”
Mabel, trembling a little, spoke it, and there were two little live statues in the moonlit glade. Tall Phoebus took a hand of each.
“Come—run!” he cried. And they ran.
“Oh—it is jolly!” Mabel panted. “Look at my white feet in the grass! I thought it would feel stiff to be a statue, but it doesn’t.”
“There is no stiffness about the immortals,” laughed the Sun-god. “For tonight you are one of us.”
And with that they ran down the slope to the lake.
“Jump!” he cried, and they jumped, and the water splashed up round three white, gleaming shapes.
“Oh! I can swim!” breathed Kathleen.
“So can I,” said Mabel.
“Of course you can,” said Phoebus. “Now three times round the lake, and then make for the island.”
Side by side the three swam, Phoebus swimming gently to keep pace with the children. Their marble clothes did not seem to interfere at all with their swimming, as your clothes would if you suddenly jumped into the basin of the Trafalgar Square fountains and tried to swim there. And they swam most beautifully, with that perfect ease and absence of effort or tiredness which you must have noticed about your own swimming—in dreams. And it was the most lovely place to swim in; the water-lilies, whose long, snaky stalks are so inconvenient to ordinary swimmers, did not in the least interfere with the movements of marble arms and legs. The moon was high in the clear sky-dome. The weeping willows, cypresses, temples, terraces, banks of trees and shrubs, and the wonderful old house, all added to the romantic charm of the scene.
“This is the nicest thing the ring has brought us yet,” said Mabel, through a languid but perfect side-stroke.
“I thought you’d enjoy it,” said Phoebus kindly; “now once more round, and then the island.”
They landed on the island amid a fringe of rushes, yarrow, willow-herb, loose-strife, and a few late, scented, powdery, creamy heads of meadow-sweet. The island was bigger than it looked from the bank, and it seemed covered with trees and shrubs. But when, Phoebus leading the way, they went into the shadow of these, they perceived that beyond the trees lay a light, much nearer to them than the other side of the island could possibly be. And almost at once they were through the belt of trees, and could see where the light came from. The trees they had just passed among made a dark circle round a big cleared space, standing up thick and dark, like a crowd round a football field, as Kathleen remarked.
First came a wide, smooth ring of lawn, then marble steps going down to a round pool, where there were no water-lilies, only gold and silver fish that darted here and there like flashes of quicksilver and dark flames. And the enclosed space of water and marble and grass was lighted with a clear, white, radiant light, seven times stronger than the whitest moonlight, and in the still waters of the pool seven moons lay reflected. One could see that they were only reflections by the way their shape broke and changed as the gold and silver fish rippled the water with moving fin and tail that steered.
The girls looked up at the sky, almost expecting to see seven moons there. But no, the old moon shone alone, as she had always shone on them.
“There are seven moons,” said Mabel blankly, and pointed, which is not manners.
“Of course,” said Phoebus kindly; “everything in our world is seven times as much so as in yours.”
“But there aren’t seven of you,” said Mabel.
“No, but I am seven times as much,” said the Sun-god. “You see, there’s numbers, and there’s quantity, to say nothing of quality. You see that, I’m sure.”
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“Not quite,” said Kathleen.
“Explanations always weary me,” Phoebus interrupted. “Shall we join the ladies?”
On the further side of the pool was a large group, so white that it seemed to make a great white hole in the trees. Some twenty or thirty figures there were in the group—all statues and all alive. Some were dipping their white feet among the gold and silver fish, and sending ripples across the faces of the seven moons. Some were pelting each other with roses—roses so sweet that the girls could smell them even across the pool. Others were holding hands and dancing in a ring, and two were sitting on the steps playing cat’s-cradle—which is a very ancient game indeed—with a thread of white marble.
As the new-comers advanced a shout of greeting and gay laughter went up.
“Late again, Phoebus!” someone called out. And another: “Did one of your horses cast a shoe?” And yet another called out something about laurels.
“I bring two guests,” said Phoebus, and instantly the statues crowded round, stroking the girls hair, patting their cheeks, and calling them the prettiest love-names.
“Are the wreaths ready, Hebe?” the tallest and most splendid of the ladies called out. “Make two more!”
And almost directly Hebe came down the steps, her round arms hung thick with rose-wreaths. There was one for each marble head.
Everyone now looked seven times more beautiful than before, which, in the case of the gods and goddesses, is saying a good deal. The children remembered how at the raspberry vinegar feast Mademoiselle had said that gods and goddesses always wore wreaths for meals.
