The Sword in the Stone. T. H. White

it the wrong way round, and gave one gulp. He looked round at the company with the tail hanging out of the corner of his mouth – as much as to say, “I wish you would not all stare at me so” – turned his head away, politely swallowed the tail, scratched his sailor’s beard with his left toe, and began to ruffle out his feathers.

      “Let him alone,” said Merlyn, “now. For perhaps he does not want to be friends with you until he knows what you are like. With owls, it is never easy-come and easy-go.”

      “Perhaps he will sit on my shoulder,” said the Wart, and with that he instinctively lowered his hand, so that the owl, who liked to be as high as possible, ran up the slope and stood shyly beside his ear.

      “Now breakfast,” said Merlyn.

      The Wart saw that the most perfect breakfast was laid out neatly for two, on the table before the window. There were peaches. There were also melons, strawberries and cream, rusks, brown trout piping hot, grilled perch which were much nicer, chicken devilled enough to burn one’s mouth out, kidneys and mushrooms on toast, fricassee, curry, and a choice of boiling coffee or best chocolate made with cream in large cups.

      “Have some mustard,” said Merlyn, when they had got to the kidneys.

      The mustard-pot got up and walked over to his plate on thin silver legs that waddled like the owl’s. Then it uncurled its handles and one handle lifted its lid with exaggerated courtesy while the other helped him to a generous spoonful.

      “Oh, I love the mustard-pot!” cried the Wart. “Where ever did you get it?”

      At this the pot beamed all over its face and began to strut a bit; but Merlyn rapped it on the head with a teaspoon, so that it sat down and shut up at once.

      “It’s not a bad pot,” he said grudgingly. “Only it is inclined to give itself airs.”

      The Wart was so much impressed by the kindness of the old magician, and particularly by all the lovely things which he possessed, that he hardly liked to ask him personal questions. It seemed politer to sit still and speak when he was spoken to. But Merlyn did not speak very much, and when he did speak it was never in questions, so that the Wart had little opportunity for conversation. At last his curiosity got the better of him, and he asked something which had been puzzling him for some time.

      “Would you mind if I ask you a question?”

      “It is what I am for,” said Merlyn sadly.

      “How did you know to set the breakfast for two?”

      The old gentleman leaned back in his chair and lit an enormous meerschaum pipe – Good gracious, he breathes fire, thought the Wart, who had never heard of tobacco – before he was ready to reply. Then he looked puzzled, took off his skull-cap – three mice fell out – and scratched in the middle of his bald head.

      “Have you ever tried to draw in a looking-glass?” asked Merlyn.

      “I don’t think I have,” said the Wart.

      “Looking-glass,” said the old gentleman, holding out his hand. Immediately there was a tiny lady’s vanity-glass in his hand.

      “Not that kind, you fool,” said Merlyn angrily. “I want one big enough to shave in.”

      The vanity-glass vanished, and in its place there was a shaving mirror about a foot square. Merlyn then demanded pencil and paper in quick succession; got an unsharpened pencil and the Morning Post; sent them back; got a fountain-pen with no ink in it and six reams of brown-paper suitable for parcels; sent them back; flew into a passion in which he said by-our-lady quite often, and ended up with a carbon pencil and some cigarette papers which he said would have to do.

      He put one of the papers in front of the glass and made five dots on it like this:

      “Now,” he said, “I want you to join those five dots up to make a W, looking only in the glass.”

      The Wart took the pen and tried to do as he was bid, but after a lot of false starts the letter which he produced was this:

      “Well, it isn’t bad,” said Merlyn doubtfully, “and in a way it does look a bit like an M.”

      Then he fell into a reverie, stroking his beard, breathing fire, and staring at the paper.

      “About the breakfast?” asked the Wart timidly, after he had waited five minutes.

      “Ah, yes,” said Merlyn. “How did I know to set breakfast for two? That was why I showed you the looking-glass. Now ordinary people are born forwards in Time, if you understand what I mean, and nearly everything in the world goes forward too. This makes it quite easy for the ordinary people to live, just as it would be easy to join those five dots into a W if you were allowed to look at them forwards instead of backwards and inside out. But I unfortunately was born at the wrong end of time, and I have to live backwards from in front, while surrounded by a lot of people living forwards from behind. Some people call it having second sight.”

      Merlyn stopped talking and looked at the Wart in an anxious way.

      “Have I told you this before?” he inquired suspiciously.

      “No,” said the Wart. “We only met about half an hour ago.”

      “So little time to pass as that?” said Merlyn, and a big tear ran down to the end of his nose. He wiped it off with his pyjama tops and added anxiously, “Am I going to tell it you again?”

      “I don’t know,” said the Wart, “unless you haven’t finished telling me yet.”

      “You see,” said Merlyn, “one gets confused with Time, when it is like that. All one’s tenses get muddled up, for one thing. If you know what’s going to happen to people, and not what has happened to them, it makes it so difficult to prevent it happening, if you don’t want it to have happened, if you see what I mean? Like drawing in a mirror.”

      The Wart did not quite see, but was just going to say that he was sorry for Merlyn if these things made him unhappy, when he felt a curious sensation at his ear. “Don’t jump,” said Merlyn, just as he was going to do so, and the Wart sat still. Archimedes, who had been standing forgotten on his shoulder all this time, was gently touching himself against him. His beak was right against the lobe of his ear, which its bristles made to tickle, and suddenly, a soft hoarse little voice whispered, “How d’you do,” so that it sounded right inside his head.

      “Oh, owl!” cried the Wart, forgetting about Merlyn’s troubles instantly. “Look, he has decided to talk to me!”

      The Wart gently leant his head against the soft feathers, and the brown owl, taking the rim of his ear in its beak, quickly nibbled right round it with the smallest nibbles.

      “I shall call him Archie!” exclaimed the Wart.

      “I trust you will do nothing of the sort,” cried Merlyn instantly, in a stern and angry voice, and the owl withdrew to the farthest corner of his shoulder.

      “Is it wrong?”

      “You might as well call me Wol, or Olly,” said the owl sourly, “and have done with it.

      “Or Bubbles,” added the owl in a bitter voice.

      Merlyn took the Wart’s hand and said kindly, “You are only young, and do not understand these things. But you will learn that owls are the politest and the most courteous, single-hearted and faithful creatures living. You must never be familiar, rude or vulgar with them, or make them to look ridiculous. Their mother is Athene, the goddess of wisdom, and, though they are often ready to play the buffoon for your amusement, such conduct is the prerogative of the truly wise. No owl can possibly