The witch doctor held up the broomstick; with a twist he flung it into the air. It circled up into the darkness and came down turning slowly. He caught it with his other hand without looking at it.
There was a murmur of approbation among the crowd. They thought that was clever. The witch doctor did a few satisfied jumps.
Miss Price laughed. ("Good," thought Carey. "She isn't fussed.")
The witch doctor glared at her. She sat quite still; curiously still, thought Carey—but something was happening. The children stared hard. There was a space between Miss Price and the ground—a space that grew. Miss Price, still in a sitting position, had risen three feet in the air.
There was a murmur of amazement. Miss Price held her position. Carey could see her teeth were clenched and her face had become red. "Go it, Miss Price," she murmured. "Hold it." She gripped Charles's arm. Miss Price came down, plonk, rather suddenly. From her pained expression Carey guessed she had bitten her tongue, but the shock had broken the creepers that bound her hands. Miss Price put her fingers in her mouth as if to feel if her tongue was still there; then she rubbed her wrists and glanced sideways at the children.
The witch doctor did a few wild turns round the circle. He leaped into the air. He shouted, he twirled the broomstick. Carey noticed that every time he came too near the audience, they shrank back a little. When he felt the onlookers were sufficiently subdued and suitably impressed, he stopped his caperings and flung Miss Price's broomstick away from him. He then sat down on his heels and stared at the broomstick. Nothing seemed to happen. The man was still. And so was the broomstick. But there was a waiting feeling in the air, something that prevented Carey from turning her eyes away toward Miss Price.
"Look," said Charles suddenly. There was a gasp among the spectators, an amazed murmur. The broomstick was moving, in little jerks as if pulled by a string, toward the witch doctor.
"Goodness!" said Charles. A funny feeling was creeping down his spine. This stirred him more than anything Miss Price had done. Miss Price, too, leaned forward. She pushed her dark glasses up on her forehead. Carey could see her expression. It was the face of one who was deeply and absorbedly interested. Steadily the broomstick moved on toward the witch doctor, who sat as still as a statue made of stone. Silently he seemed to be calling it. If there had been pins on the island, you could have heard one drop.
Miss Price stared a little longer at the broomstick, and then she pulled her glasses down over her eyes again and bent her head. She looked almost as though she had fallen into a doze. The broomstick stopped within a few feet of the witch doctor. It moved no further.
After a moment, the witch doctor raised his head. He looked round the circle, and then he looked back again at Miss Price. She still sat with head sunk forward on her chest. The witch doctor edged himself forward, on his behind, a little closer to the broomstick. "Cheating," whispered Carey furiously.
The broomstick again began to move, but this time it moved away from the witch doctor; not in little jerks, but steadily, surely, it slid toward Miss Price. The man hurriedly resumed his old position. The broomstick stopped.
"Oh, dear," exclaimed Carey. "I can't bear it!"
Then reluctantly, in jerks, it began to move once more toward the witch doctor. Miss Price bent her head still lower and clenched her hands. Carey could see her knuckles shining in the firelight. The broomstick hesitated; then, with a rush, it slid across the sandy ground straight into Miss Price's lap. She gripped it firmly. She threw up her head. The witch doctor leaped to his feet. He gave three jumps, one awful howl, and moved toward Miss Price; in his hand gleamed something long and sharp. Gripping the broomstick, Miss Price faced him sternly. Her feet were tied; she could not move.
Carey cried out and hid her eyes, but Paul, sitting up on his heels, shouted excitedly: "A frog! A yellow frog! Miss Price! You did that lying down!"
Miss Price glanced at Paul, a sideways thankful look. She gasped. Then she held out her two arms toward the witch doctor as if to ward him off with the broomstick. He stopped, with knees bent, about to jump. Then he seemed to shrink and dwindle. He sank downward into his legs as if the heat of the fire was melting him. The children held their breaths as they watched. Every part of him was shrinking at the same time. It reminded Carey of what happened to a lead soldier when you threw it on the fire, but instead of a blob of silver, the witch doctor melted into a minute blob of gold, a tiny yellowish object, barely distinguishable upon the sandy ground.
"You see!" screamed Paul. "She did it! She couldn't do it quickly, but she did it!"
Carey leaned forward, trying to see better. Suddenly the blob jumped. Carey shrieked. Paul laughed. He was very excited. "It's only a frog," he crowed, "a tuppenny-ha'penny little frog ... a silly old frog." Carey slapped him.
"Be quiet," she hissed. "We're not safe yet."
There was a strange silence among the savages. They seemed afraid—afraid of the frog, afraid of Miss Price, afraid even of the children.
"Carey!" called Miss Price. She was untying the creepers that bound her feet. Carey ran to her. Charles and Paul followed.
"You'll all have to hold on to the broomstick. It will be hard, but it won't be for long. We must get to the bed. When I shriek, you must all shriek, and that will help the broomstick to rise."
"Four people on a broomstick," gasped Carey.
"I know. It's dangerous, but it's our only hope. Paul can come on my knee, but you and Charles must just hang on. Now don't forget: when I shriek, you all shriek."
Miss Price took Paul on her knee. She gripped the tip of the broomstick with both hands. Carey and Paul took hold of the wood. Miss Price shut her eyes a moment as if she were trying to recall the spell. The frog had disappeared, but the natives, watching them suspiciously, suddenly began to move forward. Hurriedly Miss Price gabbled her verse:
"Frog's spawn; toad's eye.
Newts swim, bats fly..."
As she said "fly," her voice rose to a resounding shriek. The children joined in. The broomstick rose a little off the ground. Carey and Charles were hanging by their hands.
"Bats fly——y——y" shrieked Miss Price again as a hint to the broomstick. It made a valiant effort. It wobbled slowly upward. The natives ran forward. Knives flashed, but Carey and Charles were just out of reach, dangling. Then Carey saw a man was fitting an arrow to a bow.
"Fly——y——y," shrieked Miss Price again.
"For goodness' sake!" added Charles. His pajama trousers were slipping off. He felt very vulnerable.
Whether or not this unexpected addition to the spell acted as a spur, it is hard to say, but the broomstick gave a sudden leap forward and upward.
The circle of firelight and the gesticulating savages dropped away below them, and they were above the moonlit trees, and there ahead lay the glimmer of the sea. The broomstick swayed and plunged but kept its course, making for the point of the reef. Carey and Charles hung on for dear life. Their arms felt numb and almost pulled from their sockets, and a cold wind whistled through their nightclothes.
Above the lagoon, the broomstick swerved; sickeningly it began to circle downward. Carey and Charles floated up sideways as the broomstick dived. Carey strained her eyes. She could only see breakers, breakers and spray and moonlit waters. Was the bed submerged? "Oh," she cried, as the broomstick gathered speed, making straight for the waves. Then suddenly she saw the bed. It was not yet under water. It stood just where they had left it on the rising strip of sand. But as they landed, she saw a great wave swell up, gather height, and curl.
"Wish, Paul, wish," shrieked Carey madly. Then the wave broke over them. Gasping, spluttering, soaked to the skin, they clung to the slippery bed rails.
Paul must have wished. The bed rolled and lurched, then spun into space. The darkness thinned as they whistled through it. A pale light grew around them, deepening to gold, and rose and blue and yellow—flowers, twisted into nosegays and tied with blue ribbon.... Carey stared, and then she recogni
zed the pattern. It was the early sunlight shining on Paul's wallpaper....
9. Account Rendered
They were home, but what a mess! All their pajamas were ragged and dirty, their dressing gowns lost, and the bed was soaked. Poor Miss Price was a sorry sight. Her sun helmet was soft and soggy. She had no shoes or stockings, and her coat and skirt dripped puddles on the floor. Of her belongings, all she had left was the broomstick. Haggardly, she peered out of the window.
"It's too light to fly," she muttered. Then an awful thought seemed to strike her. "It must be after nine o'clock." She sat down limply on a chair. As she sat, she squelched. "Goodness me, Carey, here's a nice to-do!"
Charles went to the window. It was open, just as they had left it.
"There's no one about," he said. "Just use the broomstick as far as the ground and then make a run for it."
Miss Price stared at him blankly. "Oh, dear," she exclaimed, "this is terrible."
"Yes, Miss Price, you must," urged Carey, "make a run for it."
Miss Price looked at her naked bony feet. "If I should meet the gardener..." she pointed out helplessly.
"You must risk it," said Carey.
"Listen!" whispered Charles, raising his head.
Yes. Unmistakably there were footsteps coming upstairs.
"Quick, Miss Price." Carey pushed the broomstick into Miss Price's unwilling hand. They helped her over the sill.
"Oh, dear," Miss Price muttered to herself as gingerly she clung to the coping. "This is not the way to do things."
"I know," whispered Carey, giving Miss Price a little shove, "but it can't be helped."
They watched Miss Price float slowly down; then they watched her pick up her skirts and the broomstick and make for the shelter of the bushes. They drew a sharp breath of relief as she reached cover, and then they turned—to face the eyes of Elizabeth.
"Breakfast," said Elizabeth, standing in the doorway, "has been on the table this half hour—" She paused. Then her mouth fell open. She was staring at the floor. Carey, looking downward, saw a large black puddle spreading slowly from the bed toward Elizabeth's feet. Elizabeth's eyes followed the stream to its source. Her mouth opened wider, and her gaze traveled slowly from the bed to the children. It took in their appearance from top to toe, the smudged faces, the wet hair, the peeling noses, the torn pajamas clinging limply to the sun-scorched limbs.
"Well—" said Elizabeth slowly, "I never!" Then she shut her mouth with a snap. Her eyes glared. Color mounted slowly to her pallid cheeks. "This," said Elizabeth, "is the end."
Deliberately she looked round once more. She picked up a corner of the eiderdown. It was dark red instead of pale pink. It hung heavily between her thumb and forefinger. Regular clocklike drips drummed gently on the polished floor. She let it fall. She stared at it a moment unbelievingly, and then once more she looked at Paul and Carey. She smiled, a grim, menacing little smile that did not reach her eyes. "All right," she said calmly and, turning, left the room.
The three children stood quiet. In silence and misery they stood while the puddles deepened round their feet and the drips from the eiderdown
ticked off the heavy seconds. At last Carey moved. She pushed back her wet hair.
"Come, Paul," she said huskily. "Let's go to the bathroom and wash."
***
"What I don't understand," said Aunt Beatrice for the fourth time, "is from where you got the water. The bathroom's right down the passage, and there isn't a jug."
The children gazed back at her. They were in the study. Aunt Beatrice sat at her desk turning a little sideways so that she could face them as they stood in a row on the carpet. There was a closed look in their faces, though their eyes were round and candid. "Whatever happens," Carey had warned them, "we mustn't give away Miss Price. Except for that, it doesn't matter what we say because nothing could be worse."
Carey cleared her throat. She did not reply but stood staring unwaveringly at her aunt's face.
"The charitable attitude to adopt, Carey," said Aunt Beatrice in her precise, cutting voice, "is that you are not quite right in your head. This story about a South Sea island, cannibals ... lagoons ... If it were necessary to lie, a child of three could do better."
Carey swallowed.
"A magic bed..." Aunt Beatrice smiled acidly. "It might interest you to know, Carey, that I bought that bed myself in 1903, quite new, from Baring & Willow's—a most reputable firm," she added, "and not given to innovations."
Carey changed her weight from her left foot to her right.
"What I still don't understand," reiterated Aunt Beatrice, "is from where you got the water."
"From the sea," said Paul suddenly. "Carey told you."
Aunt Beatrice raised her almost hairless eyebrows. She picked up her pen and turned back to her desk. Her thin smile was far from reassuring.
"No matter," she said. "I have wired your mother, and Elizabeth is packing your things—the last service Elizabeth will perform for me. After all these years she has given me notice."
"But it's true, Aunt Beatrice," Carey burst out. "It was the sea. You can prove it."
Aunt Beatrice half turned, the pen delicately suspended in her birdlike hand.
"How, may I ask?" she inquired ironically.
"By licking the blanket, Aunt Beatrice," said Carey politely.
Aunt Beatrice's pink-rimmed eyes became like agates.
"You are not my children," she said coldly, "and I am not as young as I was; there is no reason at all why I should put up with this sort of thing! Your mother, job or no job, must make other arrangements for you. I have finished. You may go."
They crept to the door. At the threshold they paused; Aunt Beatrice was speaking again. "As there are no taxis," she was saying, "Mr. Bisselthwaite, the milkman, has very kindly consented to pick you up at eleven forty-five at the end of the lane. Your train leaves at twelve."
Gently, gently they closed the door.
10. Farewell
The milkman was late. "Perhaps," said Carey, as they stood in the grass by the side of the lane, "we could just run in and say good-bye to Miss Price."
"One of us had better stay," said Charles, "to look after the bags and wait for the milk cart. You and Paul go."
Carey hesitated. "All right," she said, after a moment. "And you can come along in the cart."
Miss Price was in her front garden. When she saw Carey and Paul in coats and hats, she looked surprised. She set down her wheelbarrow and waited between the shafts. Carey ran up to her.
"Miss Price," she said, "we're going."
"Going where?" asked Miss Price. Her face looked tired and rather pale except for the sunburn on her long thin nose.
"Home. To London."
"Oh, dear," said Miss Price. She looked distressed. She began to pull off her gardening gloves.
"It was the bed and the water and everything. We're being sent away. But we did keep our promise, Miss Price. We never told about you."
"Oh, dear," said Miss Price again. She sat down on the edge of the wheelbarrow.
Paul, very subdued, began to collect dead flower heads from the rubbish.
"We came to say good-bye," went on Carey.
"Oh, dear," said Miss Price for the third time. "I feel very much to blame. We shouldn't have gone to that island, but," she went on, "I thought a nice quiet day, a breath of sea air..." She paused.
"Look," Paul broke in. "A pink cabbage."
Carey looked down. There it lay among the rubbish, Miss Price's giant rosebud!
"Oh, Miss Price—" exclaimed Carey, staring at it. It must have weighed a couple of pounds.
Miss Price colored. "I have done a lot of thinking since yesterday, Carey. I've been thinking about last night and what you said about the flower show—" She glanced at Paul as if to include him in her observations. "I've been thinking that magic may be a kind of cheating. It looks good to start with, but perhaps it doesn't bring good results in the end."
Paul fr
owned. "I've had wonderful results from cheating," he said stubbornly.
"I don't suppose I'll give it up altogether," went on Miss Price, ignoring Paul and holding on to her gentle smile. "But I thought I'd try to give it up for a while."
They were all silent. "Oh, Miss Price," murmured Carey rather sadly. She shared Paul's disappointment.
"It gets such a hold on one," said Miss Price.
There was an awful pause. Paul had turned back the leaves of the pink cabbage. A sweet dry smell of sun-warmed deadness rose from the barrow.
"I have decided," went on Miss Price, watching Paul's fingers, "in future to regard witchcraft—not as a hobby"—she paused—"but as a weakness."
"Darling Miss Price," cried Carey suddenly, "you're such a good sport." She flung her arms round Miss Price's neck. She felt the wetness of a tear on Miss Price's long nose. "Thank you, Miss Price, for everything, even the cannibals."
It was a moving moment. Paul looked glum, a little bewildered. He had an uneasy feeling that Miss Price was turning over a new leaf before he had finished with the old one. It was almost a relief when the milk cart rattled up to the gate. Miss Price wiped her eyes.
"Now you must go," she said, straightening her hat as Charles jumped down off the milk cart to shake her hand. She tried to smile. "Good luck, dear children, and good-bye. Keep your warm hearts, your gentleness, and your courage. These will do," said Miss Price, sniffing audibly, "just as well as magic."
She turned away hurriedly; squaring her shoulders, she picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow and trundled it off toward the rubbish heap.
The milkman cracked his whip, and they clattered away amid the cheerful jangle of empty cans.
"She won't keep it up," said Paul, who, unobserved, had edged himself into the place nearest the pony.
In the train, Charles frowned through the narrow square of window. Carey had told him of the conversation with Miss Price.