know,” the parrot ended.
Lucy whispered, “It’s really Philip who is the claimant, not me; only the parrot’s so polite.”
The Lord High Islander frowned. “We can talk about that afterwards,” he said; “it’s a pity to waste time now.”
“What do you hunt?” Philip asked.
“All the different kinds of graibeeste and the vertoblancs; and the blugraiwee, when we can find him,” said the Lord High Islander. “But he’s very scarce. Pinkuggers are more common, and much bigger, of course. Well, you’ll soon see. If your camel’s not quite fresh I can mount you both. What kind of animal do you prefer?”
“What do you ride?” Philip asked.
It appeared that the Lord High Islander rode a giraffe, and Philip longed to ride another. But Lucy said she would rather ride what she was used to, thank you.
When they got out into the courtyard of the castle, they found it full of a crowd of animals, any of which you may find in the Zoo, or in your old Noah’s ark if it was a sufficiently expensive one to begin with, and if you have not broken or lost too many of the inhabitants. Each animal had its rider and the party rode out on to the beach.
“What is it they hunt?” Philip asked the parrot, who had perched on his shoulder.
“All the little animals in the Noah’s ark that haven’t any names,” the parrot told him. “All those are considered fair game. Hullo! blugraiwee!” it shouted, as a little grey beast with blue spots started from the shelter of a rock and made for the cover of a patch of giant seaweed. Then all sorts of little animals got up and scurried off into places of security.
“There goes a vertoblanc,” said the parrot, pointing to a bright green animal of uncertain shape, whose breast and paws were white, “and there’s a graibeeste.”
The graibeeste was about as big as a fox, and had rabbit’s ears and the unusual distinction of a tail coming out of his back just half-way between one end of him and the other. But there are graibeestes of all sorts and shapes.
You know when people are making the animals for Noah’s arks they make the big ones first, elephants and lions and tigers and so on, and paint them as nearly as they can the right colours. Then they get weary of copying nature and begin to paint the animals pink and green and chocolate colour, which in nature is not the case. These are the chockmunks, and vertoblancs and the pinkuggers. And presently the makers get sick of the whole business and make the animals any sort of shape and paint them all one grey—these are the graibeestes. And at the very end a guilty feeling of having been slackers comes over the makers of the Noah’s arks, and they paint blue spots on the last and littlest of the graibeestes to ease their consciences. This is the blugraiwee.
“Tally Ho! Hark forrad! Yoicks!” were some of the observations now to be heard on every side as the hunt swept on, the blugraiwee well ahead. Dogs yapped, animals galloped, riders shouted, the sun shone, the sea sparkled, and far ahead the blugraiwee ran, extended to his full length like a grey straight line. He was killed five miles from the castle after a splendid run. And when a pinkugger had been secured and half a dozen graibeeste, the hunt rode slowly home.
“We only hunt to kill and we only kill for food,” the Lord High Islander said.
“But,” said Philip, “I thought Noah’s ark animals turned into wood when they were dead?”
“Not if you kill for food. The intention makes all the difference. I had a plum-cake intention when we put up the blugraiwee, the pinkugger I made a bread and butter intention about, and the graibeestes I intended for rice pudding and prunes and toffee and ices and all sorts of odd things. So, of course, when we come to cut them up they’ll be what I intended.”
“I see,” said Philip, jogging along on his camel. “I say,” he added, “you don’t mind my asking—how is it you’re all children here?”
“Well,” said the Lord High Islander, “it’s ancient history, so I don’t suppose it’s true. But they say that when the government had to make sure that we should always be happy troops of gentle islanders, they decided that the only way was for us to be children. And we do have the most ripping time. And we do our own hunting and cooking and wash up our own plates and things, and for heavy work we have the M.A.’s. They’re men who’ve had to work at sums and history and things at College so hard that they want a holiday. So they come here and work for us, and if any of us do want to learn anything, the M.A.’s are handy to have about the place. It pleases them to teach anything, poor things. They live in the huts. There’s always a long list waiting for their turn. Oh yes, they wear the seaweed dress the same as we do. And they hunt on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. They hunt big game, the fierce ambergris who is grey with a yellow stomach and the bigger graibeestes. Now we’ll have dinner the minute we get in, and then we must talk about It.”
The game was skinned and cut up in the courtyard, and the intentions of the Lord High Islander had certainly been carried out. For the blugraiwee was plum-cake, and the other animals just what was needed.
And after dinner the Lord High Islander took Lucy and Philip up on to the top of the highest tower, and the three lay in the sun eating toffee and gazing out over the sea at the faint distant blue of the island.
“The island where we aren’t allowed to go,” as the Lord High Islander sadly pointed out.
“Now,” said Lucy gently, “you won’t mind telling us what you’re afraid of? Don’t mind telling us. We’re afraid too; we’re afraid of all sorts of things quite often.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Philip, but not unkindly. “I’m not so jolly often afraid as you seem to think. Go ahead, my Lord.”
“You might as well call me Billy,” said the Lord High Islander; “it’s my name.”
“Well, Billy, then. What is it you’re afraid of?”
“I hate being afraid,” said Billy angrily. “Of course I know no true boy is afraid of anything except doing wrong. One of the M.A.’s told me that. But the M.A.’s are afraid too.”
“What of?” Lucy asked, glancing at the terrace below, where already the shadows were lengthening; “it’ll be getting dark soon. I’d much rather know what you’re afraid of while it’s daylight.”
“What we’re afraid of,” said Billy abruptly, “is the sea. Suppose a great wave came and washed away the castle, and the huts, and the M.A.’s and all of us?”
“But it never has, has it?” Lucy asked.
“No, but everything must have a beginning. I know that’s true, because another of the M.A.’s told it me.”
“But why don’t you go and live somewhere inland?”
“Because we couldn’t live away from the sea. We’re islanders, you know; we couldn’t bear not to be near the sea. And we’d rather be afraid of it, than not have it to be afraid of. But it upsets the government, because we ought to be happy troops of gentle islanders, and you can’t be quite happy if you’re afraid. That’s why it’s one of your deeds to take away our fear.”
“It sounds jolly difficult,” said Philip; “I shall have to think,” he added desperately. So he lay and thought with Max and Brenda asleep by his
