though you could never understand mine.
So when the girl said, ‘Who are you?’ everyone understood at once, and Anthea replied:
‘We are children – just like you. Don’t be frightened. Won’t you show us where you live?’
Jane put her face right into the Psammead’s basket, and burrowed her mouth into its fur to whisper:
‘Is it safe? Won’t they eat us? Are they cannibals?’
The Psammead shrugged its fur.
‘Don’t make your voice buzz like that, it tickles my ears,’ it said rather crossly. ‘You can always get back to Regent’s Park in time if you keep fast hold of the charm,’ it said.
The strange girl was trembling with fright.
Anthea had a bangle on her arm. It was a sevenpenny-halfpenny trumpery brass thing that pretended to be silver; it had a glass heart of turquoise blue hanging from it, and it was the gift of the maid-of-all-work at the Fitzroy Street house.
‘Here,’ said Anthea, ‘this is for you. That is to show we will not hurt you. And if you take it I shall know that you won’t hurt us.’
The girl held out her hand. Anthea slid the bangle over it, and the girl’s face lighted up with the joy of possession.
‘Come,’ she said, looking lovingly at the bangle; ‘it is peace between your house and mine.’
She picked up her fish and pitcher and led the way up the narrow path by which she had come, and the others followed.
‘This is something like!’ said Cyril, trying to be brave.
‘Yes!’ said Robert, also assuming a boldness he was far from feeling, ‘this really and truly is an adventure! Its being in the Past makes it quite different from the Phoenix and Carpet happenings.’
The belt of thick, growing acacia trees and shrubs – mostly prickly and unpleasant-looking – seemed about half a mile across. The path was narrow and the wood dark. At last, ahead, daylight shone through the boughs and leaves.
The whole party suddenly came out of the wood’s shadow into the glare of the sunlight that shone on a great stretch of yellow sand, dotted with heaps of grey rocks where spiky cactus plants showed gaudy crimson and pink flowers among their shabby, sand-peppered leaves. Away to the right was something that looked like a grey-brown hedge, and from beyond it blue smoke went up to the bluer sky. And over all the sun shone till you could hardly bear your clothes.
‘That is where I live,’ said the girl pointing.
‘I won’t go,’ whispered Jane into the basket, ‘unless you say it’s all right.’
The Psammead ought to have been touched by this proof of confidence. Perhaps, however, it looked upon it as a proof of doubt, for it merely snarled:
‘If you don’t go now I’ll never help you again.’
‘Oh,’ whispered Anthea, ‘dear Jane, don’t! Think of Father and Mother and all of us getting our heart’s desire. And we can go back any minute. Come on!’
‘Besides,’ said Cyril, in a low voice, ‘the Psammead must know there’s no danger or it wouldn’t go. It’s not so over and above brave itself. Come on!’
This Jane at last consented to do.
As they got nearer to the browny fence they saw that it was a great hedge about eight feet high, made of piled-up thorn bushes.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Cyril.
‘To keep out foes and wild beasts,’ said the girl.
‘I should think it ought to, too,’ said he. ‘Why, some of the thorns are as long as my foot.’
There was an opening in the hedge, and they followed the girl through it. A little way further on was another hedge, not so high, also of dry thorn bushes, very prickly and spiteful-looking, and within this was a sort of village of huts.
There were no gardens and no roads. Just huts built of wood and twigs and clay, and roofed with great palm-leaves, dumped down anywhere. The doors of these houses were very low, like the doors of dog-kennels. The ground between them was not paths or streets, but just yellow sand trampled very hard and smooth.
In the middle of the village there was a hedge that enclosed what seemed to be a piece of ground about as big as their own garden in Camden Town.
No sooner were the children well within the inner thorn hedge than dozens of men and women and children came crowding round from behind and inside the huts.
The girl stood protectingly in front of the four children, and said:
‘They are wonder-children from beyond the desert. They bring marvellous gifts, and I have said that it is peace between us and them.’
She held out her arm with the Lowther Arcade bangle on it.
The children from London, where nothing now surprises anyone, had never before seen so many people look so astonished.
They crowded round the children, touching their clothes, their shoes, the buttons on the boys’ jackets, and the coral of the girls’ necklaces.
‘Do say something,’ whispered Anthea.
‘We come,’ said Cyril, with some dim remembrance of a dreadful day when he had had to wait in an outer office while his father interviewed a solicitor, and there had been nothing to read but the Daily Telegraph – ‘we come from the world where the sun never sets. And peace with honour is what we want. We are the great Anglo-Saxon or conquering race. Not that we want to conquer you,’ he added hastily. ‘We only want to look at your houses and your – well, at all you’ve got here, and then we shall return to our own place, and tell of all that we have seen so that your name may be famed.’
Cyril’s speech didn’t keep the crowd from pressing round and looking as eagerly as ever at the clothing of the children. Anthea had an idea that these people had never seen woven stuff before, and she saw how wonderful and strange it must seem to people who had never had any clothes but the skins of beasts. The sewing, too, of modern clothes seemed to astonish them very much. They must have been able to sew themselves, by the way, for men who seemed to be the chiefs wore knickerbockers of goat-skin or deer-skin, fastened round the waist with twisted strips of hide. And the women wore long skimpy skirts of animals’ skins. The people were not very tall, their hair was fair, and men and women both had it short. Their eyes were blue, and that seemed odd in Egypt. Most of them were tattooed like sailors, only more roughly.
‘What is this? What is this?’ they kept asking touching the children’s clothes curiously.
Anthea hastily took off Jane’s frilly lace collar and handed it to the woman who seemed most friendly.
‘Take this,’ she said, ‘and look at it. And leave us alone. We want to talk among ourselves.’
She spoke in the tone of authority which she had always found successful when she had not time to coax her baby brother to do as he was told. The tone was just as successful now. The children were left together and the crowd retreated. It paused a dozen yards away to look at the lace collar and to go on talking as hard as it could.
The children will never know what those people said, though they knew well enough that they, the four strangers, were the subject of the talk. They tried to comfort themselves by remembering the girl’s promise of friendliness, but of course the thought of the charm was more comfortable than anything else. They sat down on the sand in the shadow of the hedged-round place in the middle of the village, and now for the first time they were able to look about them and to see something more than a crowd of eager, curious faces.
They here noticed that the women wore necklaces made of beads of different coloured stone, and