“Oh,” he answered, “that’s all the better, really. Mr. Noah steers much better when there’s no land in sight. It’s all practice, you know.”
“And when we come in sight of land, will he steer badly then?”
“Oh, anybody can steer then,” said Billy; “you if you like.” So it was Lucy who steered the ark into harbour, under Mr. Noah’s directions. Arks are very easy to steer if you only know the way. Of course arks are not like other vessels; they require neither sails nor steam engines, nor oars to make them move. The very arkishness of the ark makes it move just as the steersman wishes. He only has to say “Port,” “Starboard,” “Right ahead,” “Slow” and so on, and the ark (unlike many people I know) immediately does as it is told. So steering was easy and pleasant; one just had to keep the ark’s nose towards the distant domes and pinnacles of a town that shone and glittered on the shore a few miles away. And the town grew nearer and nearer, and the black streak that was the people of the town began to show white dots that were the people’s faces. And then the ark was moored against a quay side, and a friendly populace cheered as Mr. Noah stepped on to firm land, to be welcomed by the governor of the town and a choice selection of eminent citizens.
“It’s quite an event for them,” said Mr. Perrin. “They don’t have much happening here. A very lazy lot they be, almost as bad as Somnolentia.”
“What makes them lazy?” Lucy asked.
“It’s owing to the onions and potatoes growing wild in these parts, I believe,” said the Lord High Islander. “They get enough to eat without working. And the onions make them sleepy.”
They talked apart while Mr. Noah was arranging things with the Governor of the town, who had come down to the harbour in a hurry and a flurry and a furry gown.
“I’ve arranged everything,” said Mr. Noah at last. “The islanders and the M.A.’s and the animals are to be allowed to camp in the public park till we’ve consulted the oracle and decided what’s to be done with them. They must live somewhere, I suppose. Life has become much too eventful for me lately. However there are only three more deeds for the Earl of Ark to do, and then perhaps we shall have a little peace and quietness.”
“The Earl of Ark?” Lucy repeated.
“Philip, you know. I do wish you’d try to remember that he’s an earl now. Now you and I must take camel and be off.”
And now came seven long days of camel travelling, through desert and forest and over hill and through valley, till at last Lucy and Mr. Noah came to the Hidden Place where the oracle is, and where that is I may not tell you—because it’s one of the eleven mysteries. And I must not tell you what the oracle is because that is another of the mysteries. But I may tell you that if you want to consult the oracle you have to go a long way between rows of round pillars, rather like those in Egyptian tombs. And as you go it gets darker and darker, and when it is quite dark you see a little, little light a very long way off, and you hear very far away, a beautiful music, and you smell the scent of flowers that do not grow in any wood or field or garden of this earth. Mixed with this scent is the scent of incense and of old tapestried rooms, where no one has lived for a very long time. And you remember all the sad and beautiful things you have ever seen or heard, and you fall down on the ground and hide your face in your hands and call on the oracle, and if you are the right sort of person the oracle answers you.
Lucy and Mr. Noah waited in the dark for the voice of the oracle, and at last it spoke. Lucy heard no words, only the most beautiful voice in the world speaking softly, and so sweetly and finely and bravely that at once she felt herself brave enough to dare any danger, and strong enough to do any deed that might be needed to get Philip out of the clutches of the base Pretenderette. All the tiredness of her long journey faded away, and but for the thought that Philip needed her, she would have been content to listen forever to that golden voice. Everything else in the world faded away and grew to seem worthless and unmeaning. Only the soft golden voice remained and the grey hard voice that said, “You’ve got to look after Philip, you know!” And the two voices together made a harmony more beautiful than you will find in any of Beethoven’s sonatas. Because Lucy knew that she should follow the grey voice, and remember the golden voice as long as she lived.
But something was tiresomely pulling at her sleeve, dragging her away from the wonderful golden voice. Mr. Noah was pulling her sleeve and saying, “Come away,” and they turned their backs on the little light and the music and the enchanting perfumes, and instantly the voice stopped and they were walking between dusky pillars towards a far grey speck of sunlight.
It was not till they were once more under the bare sky that Lucy said:
“What did it say?”
“You must have heard,” said Mr. Noah.
“I only heard the voice and what it meant. I didn’t understand the words. But the voice was like dreams and everything beautiful I’ve ever thought of.”
“I thought it a wonderfully straightforward businesslike oracle,” said Mr. Noah briskly; “and the voice was quite distinct and I remember every word it said.”
(Which just shows how differently the same thing may strike two people.)
“What did it say?” Lucy asked, trotting along beside him, still clutching Philip’s bundle, which through all these days she had
