The Treasure of the Isle of Mist Part 7

"That's what makes me such a charming companion," said the centipede.

"You never know what to expect. So I never pall."

"I want to know where the Urchin is, and how I am to find him," said Fiona.

"Is that all?" said the centipede. "Fancy interrupting my breakfast on account of that boy. Well, one question at a time. We'll have the last one first; I'm in that sort of mood to-day."

"How can I find the Urchin, then, please?" asked Fiona.

"Well, you've been told _that_ already," said the centipede. "Haven't you a memory?"

Fiona thought and thought, but could make nothing of it.

"My friend the bookworm was there at the time," said the centipede, "and heard the sh.o.r.e lark tell you that the last man went up a hill.

Very well. Go up a hill."

"But that was for something quite different," said Fiona. "That was for my treasure. I am not thinking of any treasure now."

"Silly of you, then," said the centipede. "I would be. Ever studied philosophy?"

"No," said Fiona.

"That's a pity," said the centipede. "Then you've never heard of Hegel and the unity of opposites? Black and white are only different aspects of the same thing, you know. And as soon as you begin to think about it, you see at once how sensible it is. Well, a treasure-hunt and a boy-hunt are only different aspects of a hunt, aren't they?

Therefore they are the same thing. Therefore what does for one does for the other. Therefore you go up a hill. There's logic for you," and once more he swelled proudly.

"Thank you very much," said Fiona. "And now will you please tell me where the Urchin is?"

"Tell you!" exclaimed the centipede. "Why, it was you told me. You prophesied the whole thing."

"I'm sure I don't remember it, then," said Fiona.

"What's the matter with _you_," said the centipede, "is that you refuse to exert your intelligence, such as it is. You should take a lesson by me. You humans are all forgetting nowadays that the spoken word is an instrument of great power, and that once it is launched it goes on and on, and can work magic on its own account, quite independently of you. If you say a thing will happen, it frequently does happen."

"But what did I say?" asked Fiona.

"You told the Urchin that if he hurt the sh.o.r.e lark the Little People would take him. Well, they've taken him. That's all."

And the centipede slid down on to the ground, and with something like a chuckle vanished. He had evidently learned from his philosophy to bear with resignation the misfortunes of others.

But Fiona did not set off up a hill at once. After breakfast she went to the bookroom and spoke to her father.

"I have found out where the Urchin is, daddy," she said. "He was carried off by the fairies."

The Student showed no surprise.

"You have not been long finding out, Fiona," he said. "I thought you had ways and means of your own."

"But, daddy," she said, "I don't _really_ believe it, you know. It sounds so absurd nowadays. Do you believe it?"

"I believe it, yes," said the Student. "I knew yesterday. Now that you know, I may talk to you about it, so far."

"I don't know that I do really know," she said. "Things like that don't _really_ happen, do they? Whoever heard of it?"

"You and I have heard of it," he answered. "And that is enough. The proposition that people are not carried off by fairies is a mere working hypothesis, liable to be overthrown by any one case to the contrary. Well, we've got a case to the contrary, and that's the end of the hypothesis."

"I'm arguing against myself, daddy, you know," she said. "I want to believe that we do know where he is."

"No difficulty at all," said the Student, "to anyone with a properly trained mind, like yours and mine. Take it this way. No one has ever crossed the South Arabian desert or explored the snow ranges of New Guinea, have they? Well, for all anyone can say to the contrary, people may be carried off by fairies every day of the week in New Guinea or South Arabia, mayn't they? It may even be the rule there. It may be a working hypothesis among the pygmies of New Guinea that such a thing _always_ happens--at death, for instance. It would be just as good a working hypothesis as it is that it _never_ happens."

"But, daddy, it would be so extraordinary, wouldn't it?"

"Not a bit more extraordinary," he said, "than the inside of a bit of radium, or the inside of an egg, for that matter. It is probably simpler for the Urchin to become a fairy than for an egg to become a bird, or a caterpillar a b.u.t.terfly. It would not be nearly as strange as it is that there is a water beast which can shed its gills and become a land beast, or that Ura.n.u.s moons go round the wrong way. You can't knock it out by any reasoning of that kind, Fiona. It's merely a matter of fact; and if we have found a case we _have_ found a case."

"Then you knew yesterday, daddy?" she said.

"I had a very fair idea," he answered. "That is why I was tapping in the cave with a hammer. Can you guess why?"

Fiona saw.

"To find the rest of the cave," she said. "That is where he would be."

"Just so," said the Student. "These caves cannot end in a wall, as that one seems to. I thought the wall must ring hollow somewhere, and the hollow is in the recess where the stone nearly fell on me. The apparent end of the cave is not in the line of the true cave at all."

"It is the same place where the stones fell on Mr. Johnson," said Fiona.

"That is strange," said the Student.

And then Fiona told about the hand she had seen.

"Of course, of course," said the Student. "That explains the whole thing. They threw the stone down on me too. They did not wish me to know that the wall was hollow just there. They must use it as a doorway. They will have carried the boy through at the moment that you turned your back, of course. I suppose he invited them in some way; they could have no power otherwise."

"He said he would go _anywhere_ to find his treasure," said Fiona.

"That would be quite sufficient for them to act on," said the Student.

"Then the stories about the cruelty of the Little People are true,"

asked Fiona.

"Only in part," said the Student. "I take it that they are all sorts, like ourselves. They are, as you know, the vanished debris of all the peoples that have helped to make this planet what it is. Good people, many of them. But they cannot altogether love those who have driven them under the ground."

"And who is the old hawker, daddy," she asked, "and what has he to do with it all?"

"I can't talk about anything except what you already know," said the Student. "Have you found out yet how to start?"

"I am to go up a hill," said Fiona. "And I am going up Heleval now.

And I came to see if you would come with me."

"I wish I could; I wish very much I could," said the Student. "I do not know what you may find; but I know well that if I went with you, you would find nothing but gra.s.s and rock. I am too old to see the things you can see, you know. You have to do it alone, little daughter."