it was Jane who spoke.
‘Were the Babylon people savages, were they always fighting and throwing things about?’ For she had read the thoughts of the others by the unerring light of her own fears.
‘The Babylonians were certainly more gentle than the Assyrians,’ said the learned gentleman. ‘And they were not savages by any means. A very high level of culture,’ he looked doubtfully at his audience and went on, ‘I mean that they made beautiful statues and jewellery, and built splendid palaces. And they were very learned – they had glorious libraries and high towers for the purpose of astrological and astronomical observation.’
‘Er?’ said Robert.
‘I mean for – star-gazing and fortune-telling,’ said the learned gentleman, ‘and there were temples and beautiful hanging gardens—’
‘I’ll go to Babylon if you like,’ said Jane abruptly, and the others hastened to say ‘Done!’ before she should have time to change her mind.
‘Ah,’ said the learned gentleman, smiling rather sadly, ‘one can go so far in dreams, when one is young.’ He sighed again, and then adding with a laboured briskness, ‘I hope you’ll have a – a – jolly game,’ he went into his room and shut the door.
‘He said “jolly” as if it was a foreign language,’ said Cyril. ‘Come on, let’s get the Psammead and go now. I think Babylon seems a most frightfully jolly place to go to.’
So they woke the Psammead and put it in its bass-bag with the waterproof sheet, in case of inclement weather in Babylon. It was very cross, but it said it would as soon go to Babylon as anywhere else. ‘The sand is good thereabouts,’ it added.
Then Jane held up the charm, and Cyril said:
‘We want to go to Babylon to look for the part of you that was lost. Will you please let us go there through you?’
‘Please put us down just outside,’ said Jane hastily; ‘and then if we don’t like it we needn’t go inside.’
‘Don’t be all day,’ said the Psammead.
So Anthea hastily uttered the word of power, without which the charm could do nothing.
‘Ur – Hekau – Setcheh!’ she said softly, and as she spoke the charm grew into an arch so tall that the top of it was close against the bedroom ceiling. Outside the arch was the bedroom painted chest-of-drawers and the Kidderminster carpet, and the washhand-stand with the riveted willow-pattern jug, and the faded curtains, and the dull light of indoors on a wet day. Through the arch showed the gleam of soft green leaves and white blossoms. They stepped forward quite happily. Even Jane felt that this did not look like lions, and her hand hardly trembled at all as she held the charm for the others to go through, and last, slipped through herself, and hung the charm, now grown small again, round her neck.
The children found themselves under a white-blossomed, green-leafed fruit-tree, in what seemed to be an orchard of such trees, all white-flowered and green-foliaged. Among the long green grass under their feet grew crocuses and lilies, and strange blue flowers. In the branches overhead thrushes and blackbirds were singing, and the coo of a pigeon came softly to them in the green quietness of the orchard.
‘Oh, how perfectly lovely!’ cried Anthea. ‘Why, it’s like home exactly – I mean England – only everything’s bluer, and whiter, and greener, and the flowers are bigger.’
The boys owned that it certainly was fairly decent, and even Jane admitted that it was all very pretty.
‘I’m certain there’s nothing to be frightened of here,’ said Anthea.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jane. ‘I suppose the fruit-trees go on just the same even when people are killing each other. I didn’t half like what the learned gentleman said about the hanging gardens. I suppose they have gardens on purpose to hang people in. I do hope this isn’t one.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Cyril. ‘The hanging gardens are just gardens hung up – I think on chains between houses, don’t you know, like trays. Come on; let’s get somewhere.’
They began to walk through the cool grass. As far as they could see was nothing but trees, and trees, and more trees. At the end of their orchard was another one, only separated from theirs by a little stream of clear water. They jumped this, and went on. Cyril, who was fond of gardening – which meant that he liked to watch the gardener at work – was able to command the respect of the others by telling them the names of a good many trees. There were nut-trees and almond-trees, and apricots, and fig-trees with their big five-fingered leaves. And every now and then the children had to cross another brook.
‘It’s like between the squares in “Through the Looking-glass,”’ said Anthea.
At last they came to an orchard which was quite different from the other orchards. It had a low building in one corner.
‘These are vines,’ said Cyril superiorly, ‘and I know this is a vineyard. I shouldn’t wonder if there was a wine-press inside that place over there.’
At last they got out of the orchards and on to a sort of road, very rough, and not at all like the roads you are used to. It had cypress-trees and acacia-trees along it, and a sort of hedge of tamarisks, like those you see on the road between Nice and Cannes, or near Littlehampton, if you’ve only been as far as that.
And now in front of them they could see a great mass of buildings. There were scattered houses of wood and stone here and there among green orchards, and beyond these a great wall that shone red in the early morning sun. The wall was enormously high – more than half the height of St. Paul’s – and in the wall were set enormous gates that shone like gold as the rising sun beat on them. Each gate had a solid square tower on each side of it that stood out from the wall and rose above it. Beyond the wall were more towers and houses, gleaming with gold and bright colours. Away to the left ran the steel-blue swirl of a great river. And the children could see, through a gap in the trees, that the river flowed out from the town under a great arch in the wall.
‘Those feathery things along by the water are palms,’ said Cyril instructively.
‘Oh, yes; you know everything,’ Robert replied. ‘What’s all that grey-green stuff you see away over there, where it’s all flat and sandy?’
‘All right,’ said Cyril loftily, ‘I don’t want to tell you anything. I only thought you’d like to know a palm-tree when you saw it again.’
‘Look!’ cried Anthea; ‘they’re opening the gates.’
And indeed the great gates swung back with a brazen clang, and instantly a little crowd of a dozen or more people came out and along the road towards them.
The children, with one accord, crouched behind the tamarisk hedge.
‘I don’t like the sound of those gates,’ said Jane. ‘Fancy being inside when they shut. You’d never get out.’
‘You’ve got an arch of your own to go out by,’ the Psammead put its head out of the basket to remind her. ‘Don’t behave so like a girl. If I were you I should just march right into the town and ask to see the king.’
There was something at once simple and grand about this idea, and it pleased everyone.
So when the work-people had passed (they were work-people, the children felt sure, because they were dressed so plainly – just one long blue shirt thing – of blue or yellow) the four children marched boldly up to the brazen gate between the towers. The arch above the gate was quite a tunnel, the walls were so thick.
‘Courage,’ said Cyril. ‘Step out. It’s no use trying to sneak past. Be bold!’
Robert