But the women—who all wore green tunics of the same stiff shape as the men’s—were not quite so sleepy as their husbands. They brought Lucy fresh pineapples to eat, and were dreamily interested in the cut of her clothes and the begging accomplishments of Brenda. And from the women she learned several things about the Somnolentians. They all wore the same shaped tunics, only the colours differed. The women’s were green, the drawers of water wore red, the attendants of the Great Sloth wore black, and the pineapple gatherers wore yellow.
And as Lucy sat at the door of the hut and watched the people in these four colours going lazily about among the ruins she suddenly knew what they were, and she exclaimed:
“I know what you are; you’re Halma men.”
Instantly every man within earshot made haste to get away, and the women whispered, “Hush! It is death to breathe that name.”
“But why?” Lucy asked.
“Halma was the great captain of our race,” said the woman, “and the Great Sloth fears that if we hear his name it will rouse us and we shall break from bondage and become once more a free people.”
Lucy determined that they should hear that name pretty often; but before she could speak it again the woman sighed, and remarking “The Great Sloth sleeps,” fell asleep then and there over the pineapple she was peeling. A vast silence settled on the city, and next moment Lucy also slept. She slept for hours.
It took her some time to find the keeper of the padlock key, and when she had found him he refused to use it. Nothing would move him, not even the threat of the fierceness of Brenda.
At last, almost in despair, Lucy suddenly remembered a word of power.
“I command you to open the well and let down the bucket,” she said. “I command you by the great name of Halma.”
“It is death to speak that name,” said the keeper of the key, looking over his shoulder anxiously.
“It is life to speak that name,” said Lucy. “Halma! Halma! Halma! If you don’t open that well I’ll carve the name on a pineapple and send it in on the golden tray with the Great Sloth’s dinner.”
“It would have the lives of hundreds for that,” said the keeper in horror.
“Open the well then,” said Lucy.
They all held a council as soon as Philip and Max had been safely drawn up in the bucket, and Lucy told them all she knew.
“I think whatever we do we ought to be quick,” said Lucy; “that Great Sloth is dangerous. I’m sure it is. It’s sent already to say I am to be brought to its presence to sing songs to it while it goes to sleep. It doesn’t mind me because it knows I’m not the Deliverer. And if you’ll let me, I believe I can work everything all right. But if it knows you’re here, it’ll be much harder.”
The degraded Halma men were watching them from a distance, in whispering groups.
“I shall go and sing to the Great Sloth,” she said, “and you must go about and say the name of power to everyone you meet, and tell them you’re the Deliverer. Then if my idea doesn’t come off, we must overpower the Great Sloth by numbers and. … You just go about saying ‘Halma!’—see?”
“While you do the dangerous part? Likely!” said Philip.
“It’s not dangerous. It never hurts the people who sing—never,” said Lucy. “Now I’m going.”
And she went before Philip could stop her.
“Let her go,” said the parrot; “she is a wise child.”
The temple of the Great Sloth was built of solid gold. It had beautiful pillars and doorways and windows and courts, one inside the other, each paved with gold flagstones. And in the very middle of everything was a large room which was entirely featherbed. There the Great Sloth passed its useless life in eating, sleeping and listening to music.
Outside the moorish arch that led to this inner room Lucy stopped and began to sing. She had a clear little voice and she sang “Jockey to the Fair,” and “Early one morning,” and then she stopped.
And a great sleepy slobbery voice came out from the room and said:
“Your songs are in very bad taste. Do you know no sleepy songs?”
“Your people sing you sleepy songs,” said Lucy. “What a pity they can’t sing to you all the time.”
“You have a sympathetic nature,” said the Great Sloth, and it came out and leaned on the pillar of its door and looked at her with sleepy interest. It was enormous, as big as a young elephant, and it walked on its hind legs like a gorilla. It was very black indeed.
“It is a pity,” it said; “but they say they cannot live without drinking, so they waste their time in drawing water from the wells.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” said Lucy, “if you had a machine for drawing water. Then they could sing to you all day—if they chose.”
“If I chose,” said the Great Sloth, yawning like a hippopotamus. “I am sleepy. Go!”
“No,” said Lucy, and it was so long since the Great Sloth had heard that word that the shock of the sound almost killed its sleepiness.
“What did you say?” it asked, as if it could not believe its large ears.
“I said ‘No,’ ” said Lucy. “I mean that you are so great and grand you have only to wish for anything and you get it.”
“Is that so?” said the Great Sloth dreamily and like an American.
“Yes,” said Lucy with firmness. “You just say, ‘I wish I had a machine to draw up water for eight hours a day.’ That’s the proper length for a working day. Father says so.”
“Say it all again, and slower,” said the creature. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
Lucy
