THE SAND AT THE BOTTOM OF the gravel pit shifted and heaved, and out popped the furry, brown head of a most extraordinary creature. His eyes were long stalks, like the horns of a snail, and they shot out to stare at the astonished faces of the Lamb and Edie. It was a grey, blustery day in October; the two youngest children had come to the large, sandy hollow at the bottom of the garden to escape from the fussing inside the house while lunch was being made.
For a moment, they stared at each other in breathless silence.
The creature’s whiskers quivered. ‘What is the meaning of this? Where am I?’
‘It spoke!’ whispered Edie. ‘Did you hear?’
‘I think this must be a dream,’ the Lamb said slowly. ‘But I have an odd feeling I’ve seen an animal like this before – maybe in another dream—’
‘I am NOT an animal!’ the creature snapped. ‘I’m a senior sand fairy – and you have blundered into my sacred sleeping place. Well, it must have been a mistake, so I’ll forgive you. Shut the door on your way out.’
‘This is our garden,’ Edie said, wondering why she wasn’t frightened. ‘It doesn’t have a door.’
‘I don’t understand. I should be asleep in the baking sands of the desert, and this place is freezing my blood to a sorbet!’ He shivered and wrapped his long arms around his stout little body.
Edie and the Lamb stared at his peculiar pucker of a mouth, his sprawling arms and legs and swivelling eyes, and felt a strange stirring in their deepest memories.
‘It’s the Psammead!’ the Lamb cried out suddenly, his freckled face glowing with excitement. ‘Edie, it’s him – from all the stories!’
‘But Anthea just made those up,’ Edie said doubtfully. ‘Didn’t she?’
‘I think I sort of knew the stories were real. I think I almost remember the Psammead – but last time he came I was only a baby.’
‘And I wasn’t even born.’ Edie was annoyed. ‘Everything interesting happened before I was born. It’s not fair. I hate being the youngest!’
‘Anthea,’ the Psammead said slowly. ‘One of the little girls I used to know was called Anthea.’
‘She’s not a little girl now,’ Edie said. ‘She’s twenty and she goes to art school.’
‘Art school? What’s that?’
‘It’s where you learn to be an artist. She draws people with no clothes on.’
‘I simply don’t understand,’ the Psammead said. ‘What strange civilisation is this? Why have I shot back into the future? Where on earth am I?’
‘I’m surprised you don’t recognise it,’ the Lamb said. ‘You’ve been here before. This is the White House in Kent – we moved back here when I was little. We’re in the famous gravel pit where you first appeared.’
‘But – but—’ the Psammead’s long whiskers stiffened with alarm, ‘you’re the wrong children! Where are MY children?’
‘You mean our big brothers and sisters,’ the Lamb said. ‘Cyril, Anthea, Robert and Jane – they’re all here – and I’m the Lamb.’
‘What – you?’ The Psammead was bewildered. ‘Nonsense, the Lamb is only a baby – a very sticky, grizzly baby, as I recall.’
The Lamb chuckled. ‘I’ve grown a bit since then. I’m eleven now, and I’m a day scholar at St Anselm’s. It’s 1914.’
‘Nineteen hundred and fourteen ad!’ the Psammead sighed. ‘I swore I’d have nothing more to do with this GHASTLY new century. If you’re the Lamb, who is this freckly little girl?’
‘I’m Edie, short for Edith.’ Edie was so enchanted by the Psammead’s cross, faraway voice that she didn’t mind being called ‘freckly’. ‘I’m nine, and I wasn’t born when you had all those adventures.’ Now that she was getting over the first shock, Edie was starting to realise how wonderful this was – the stories she’d loved so much when she was little had come to life. ‘I’ve always wished I could see you and talk to you, and you’re so sweet – may I stroke you?’
‘Hmmm.’ The Psammead was vain and (as the others could have told them) fond of compliments. For the first time, there was a hint of a smile around the furry lips. ‘If you must, but please ensure that your hands are completely DRY – if I come into contact with the smallest drop of moisture, I’m poorly for weeks.’
‘I’ll wipe them on my skirt to be sure.’ Edie carefully wiped her hands on the skirt of her blue sailor dress, and reached out to stroke the Psammead’s little round ball of a head. His fur was as soft as mist and as dry as the desert.
‘You have a nice gentle touch,’ the Psammead said. ‘You rather remind me of Anthea.’
‘Poor thing, you’re shivering. Would you like to sit in my lap?’
‘I suppose that might help.’
To Edie’s great delight, the sand fairy allowed her to pick him up – he was heavier than he looked, and his body was lukewarm. She sat him carefully on her lap, wrapping the skirt of her dress around his shoulders.
‘If you’re real and not a story after all,’ she said, ‘that means the magic adventures were real too, doesn’t it? Please could I have a go at flying, like the others did?’ This story had always been Edie’s favourite. ‘When I was little, Anthea drew a picture of me with wings, just like they had. And I wished and wished it was true.’
‘They made rather a mess of having wings,’ the Lamb said, grinning. ‘Don’t you remember? They forgot the magic ran out at sunset, and ended up trapped on top of a church tower. Gosh – to think of that really happening! What d’you think, Edie – shall we make having wings our first wish?’
‘Excuse me,’ the Psammead said frostily, ‘I will NOT be granting any more wishes.’
This was very disappointing – to get the famous Psammead without the wishes.
‘But that’s not fair,’ the Lamb said. ‘It’s not my fault I was a baby the last time you came – and it’s not Edie’s fault she wasn’t born yet. I reckon you owe us at least a wish each.’
The Lamb was a great one for arguing; Father called him the barrack-room lawyer.
‘My dear Lamb, can’t you see this is an EMERGENCY?’ the Psammead groaned. ‘I don’t even have enough power to get myself home! For some infernal reason I’ve been de-magicked and dumped here.’
Far away, from the other end of the garden, Mother’s voice called: ‘Hilary! Edith!’
‘That means it’s nearly lunch and we have to go,’ Edie said, gently stroking the top of the Psammead’s head with one finger. ‘It’s a special lunch, a sort of goodbye party for Cyril.’
‘For Cyril? Where’s he going?’
‘He’s Lieutenant Cyril now,’ the Lamb said casually (trying to sound as if this wasn’t the most thrilling thing in the world). ‘He’s going to the war.’
‘War? What are you talking about?’
‘Our country is at war with Germany. They’ve got this beastly little tick of an emperor called Kaiser Wilhelm, and they’ve invaded France and Belgium.’
‘Some men from the government took all the horses from the farm next door because they’re needed to pull the big guns,’ Edie said.
‘Hilary! Edith!’ Mother called again.
‘I seem to have turned over two pages at once,’ the Psammead said. ‘Who is “Hilary?”’
‘Me.’ The Lamb pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid it’s my real name. Please ignore it – Mother’s the only person who uses it.’ He stood up, brushing his knees. ‘You’d better get back into the sand. We’ll dig you out again later.’
‘Don’t you dare leave me!’ The little creature was horrified. ‘I REFUSE to have anything to do with this freezing damp sand! If I have to stay in this dreadful place, I’ll make do with the sand bath under Anthea’s bed. Take me there AT ONCE!’
The Lamb and Edie looked at each other helplessly.
‘Awfully sorry,’ the Lamb said. ‘Anthea doesn’t keep a bath full of sand under her bed these days.’
‘I’ve told you, I can’t stay here. I need someone who knows about looking after sand fairies.’
‘We’ll have to tell the Bigguns sometime,’ Edie said (this was the family name for the four eldest children). ‘Won’t they be happy to see the Psammead again?’
‘Hmm, I don’t know about that,’ the Lamb said. ‘He hasn’t exactly popped out at the most convenient time.’
‘I could run and fetch them now—’
‘They won’t believe you.’ The Lamb was old enough to know that their big brothers and sisters were far too busy and impatient to listen to stuff about the old stories – especially today, when everything was at sixes and sevens.
‘Hilary! Edith!’
‘Nothing else for it – we’ll have to take him up to the house. They’ll have to listen when they actually see him. Can you carry him in your skirt?’
‘No, he’s too heavy – and his legs are too long.’
The Lamb shrugged off his tweed jacket. ‘I’ll wrap him in this and carry him in my arms.’ He spread it out on the sand beside Edie.
‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’ The Psammead hopped from Edie’s lap onto the jacket, and yelped angrily. ‘Ouch! I’m sitting on something knobbly!’
‘Sorry,’ the Lamb said. ‘The pockets are full of conkers.’
The Psammead pulled his eyes back into his head, until his face was nothing but a crease of crossness. ‘Hurry up – I’m freezing!’
The Lamb carefully wrapped the creature in his jacket, so that not one hair of him was visible. He picked him up and cradled the strange tweed bundle in his arms.
Edie giggled. ‘Now it looks like you’re holding a baby!’
‘Hilary! Edith! Where are you?’
‘Come on.’ Holding his bundle as tightly as he dared, the Lamb managed to scramble out of the gravel pit, and Edie helped him through the hedge into the garden.
The garden of the White House was a long lawn surrounded by a deep shrubbery, and the two children were able to get to the kitchen door through the dripping branches without being seen from the windows. They halted in the shelter of the nearest rhododendron, a few yards from the back of the house. Mother was on the terrace outside the sitting room, flustered from calling them.
‘She mustn’t see me,’ the Lamb whispered. ‘You’ll have to create a diversion.’
‘But will she be able to see the Psammead?’ Edie whispered back. ‘Wasn’t he always invisible to grown-ups?’
‘I can smell damp evergreens,’ said the muffled voice of the Psammead from the tweedy depths of his bundle. ‘Now I KNOW I’m back in wretched England.’
‘Anthea darling, do go and find the little ones,’ Mother said.
Inside the sitting room they heard Anthea saying something.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Mother said. ‘I told them not to go anywhere – Mrs Field will be so cross if we’re late sitting down.’ She went into the house through the French windows and shut them behind her.
‘Good-oh,’ said the Lamb. He gave the Psammead a gentle squeeze. ‘Anthea’s the exact person we need. She’ll know what to do.’
A moment later the kitchen door opened and Anthea came out into the garden. Because this was a special occasion she had left off what Mother called her ‘arty smocks’ and was looking very grown up in her smart green dress, with her curly brown hair pinned up in a bun.
When she saw the Lamb and Edie scuttling out of the shrubbery she frowned at them. ‘There you are – where on earth have you been?’
‘We were in the gravel pit,’ Edie said. ‘And you’ll never guess who we found – the Psammead!’
‘Go and wash your hands,’ Anthea said. ‘I can’t imagine how you managed to get so filthy. Granny’s here and Mrs F is muttering darkly about gravy.’
‘Wait – didn’t you hear me? We met the Psammead!’
‘Oh, Edie – there’s no time for those old stories now.’
‘This isn’t a story!’ Edie scowled; a couple of years ago she would have stamped her foot. ‘Why won’t you listen?’
‘We brought him with us,’ the Lamb said. ‘He’s wrapped in my jacket.’
For the first time, their eldest sister looked at them properly. ‘What on earth have you got there? Honestly, Lamb – of all the days to sneak in one of your smelly animals.’
‘For the last time, I am NOT an animal,’ the muffled voice of the Psammead said. ‘And I’m most certainly NOT “smelly”.’
The effect on Anthea was dramatic and rather alarming; her lips went white and she looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
‘What—?’ she asked faintly.
‘Panther, darling.’ Edie grabbed her hand. ‘Please listen to us.’ ‘Panther’ was Anthea’s old childhood nickname. Cyril’s was ‘Squirrel’, Robert’s was ‘Bobs’ and Jane had been ‘Puss’, though she’d refused to answer to it for years. ‘It really is IT and he can’t get home to his temple and he can’t stay in the gravel pit and we don’t know what to do with him.’
The Lamb gently unfolded his jacket to uncover the Psammead’s little head with its soft, floppy ears all squashed out of shape; his eyes shot out on their stalks.
Anthea stared; the colour surged into her pale face and she beamed with astonished joy. ‘It’s really you – oh, how lovely!’ Her eyes filled with tears and she laughed softly. ‘But I mustn’t cry, or you won’t let me touch you.’
‘Certainly not,’ the Psammead said. ‘Tears are more painful to me than any other form of dampness – but surely you can’t be Anthea, you’re far too old.’
‘You dear, furry thing, how wonderful to see you again.’ She scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘See? I’m as dry as a bone now – I’m going to give you a kiss.’
Edie and the Lamb shot grins of relief at each other – this was the old Panther of the games and stories, and not the serious grown-up Anthea who drew naked people and argued with Father about art.
‘Ugh – don’t you dare! Kisses are wet, sloppy things – oh, well – perhaps occasionally.’
Anthea leaned forward and gently kissed the top of the Psammead’s head, and though he was still trying to look cross, a smile flickered across his furry mouth.
‘Now I know I haven’t slipped into a dream,’ Anthea said. ‘But dear old Psammead, why have you come back?’ She frowned slightly. ‘And what on earth are we going to do with you?’