The Veldt

by ChilliConCharlie

Rating: everyone
Tags: Tragedy, Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 4429

Something is wrong in the nursery of the Cake's ultra-modern Happylife Home.

Something is wrong in the nursery of the Cake's ultra-modern Happylife Home. The nursery is a magical room that transforms itself into whatever the Cake Twins want it to be. Lately all they've wanted is one thing: a sinister, sun-scorched Leylands veldt inhabited by hungry lions. Mr. and Mrs. Cake are concerned. When they decide to close the nursery, their children fight back.

This is a retelling of the classic short story The Veldt by Ray Bradbury written in 1950. I feel this is an important story for people to read, not for it's overall message, but for the sheer craftsmanship of the story telling. Any like or favourite to this story will not contribute to my ego or feel like an achievement. The only achievement I will feel is knowing that I have brought this story to others.

I understand that there is a chance this story may be taken as against the rules of the site, but I believe that is foolish. This story has been told again and again and again both in the classroom, the library and across the world. There is little to no reason it doesn't belong on this site too.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-04-12 21:00:02 UTC

The World That The Children Made.

"Sweetie, I wish you'd look at the nursery."

     "What's wrong with it?"

     "I don't know."

     "Well, then."

     "I  just want you  to look at it, is all, or call Twilight Sparkle in to

look at it."

     "What would Twilight want with a nursery?"

     "You know very well what she'd want." His wife paused in the middle of

the kitchen and  watched the stove busy humming to itself, making supper for

four.

     "It's just that the nursery is different now than it was."

     "All right, let's have a look."

     They  walked down the hall of their soundproofed Happylife Home, which

had  cost them twelve-hundred bits installed, this house which clothed

and fed and rocked them to sleep and played and sang and was good to them.

Their approach sensitised a switch somewhere and the nursery light flicked

on when they came within ten feet of it. Similarly, behind them, in  the

halls, lights went on and off as they left them behind, with a soft

automaticity.

     "Well," said Mr. Cake.

     They  stood  on the  thatched floor of the nursery. It  was  forty feet

across by forty  feet long and thirty feet high;  it had cost half  again as

much as the rest  of the house. "But nothing's  too good for  our children,"

Mr. Cake had said.

     The nursery was silent. It was empty as a jungle glade at hot high

noon. The  walls  were blank  and two dimensional.  Now, as Mr. and Mrs. Cake

stood in the center of the room, the walls began to purr and recede

into crystalline distance, it seemed, and presently an Leyland veldt

appeared, in three dimensions, on all sides, in colour reproduced to the

final pebble and bit of straw. The ceiling above them became a deep sky with

a hot yellow sun.

     Mr. Cake felt the perspiration start on his brow.

     "Let's get out of this sun," he said. "This is a little too real. But I

don't see anything wrong."

     "Wait a moment, you'll see," said his wife.

     Now the hidden odorophonics were beginning to blow a wind of odor at

the two ponies in the middle of the baked veldtland. The hot straw smell of

lion grass, the cool green smell of the hidden water hole, the great rusty

smell of animals, the smell of dust like a red paprika in the hot air. And

now the sounds: the thump of distant antelope feet on grassy sod, the papery

rustling of vultures. A shadow  passed through the sky. The shadow flickered

on Mr. Cake's upturned, sweating face.

     "Filthy creatures," he heard his wife say.

     "The vultures."

     "You see, there are the lions, far over, that way. Now they're on their

way to the water hole. They've just been eating," said Mrs. Cake. "I  don't know

what."

     "Some animal." Mr. Cake put his hand up to shield  off the burning

light from his squinted eyes. "A zebra or a baby giraffe, maybe."

     "Are you sure?" His wife sounded peculiarly tense.

     "No, it's a little late to be  sure,"  be  said, amused.  "Nothing over

there I  can  see but cleaned  bone, and  the vultures dropping  for  what's

left."

     "Did you hear that scream?" she asked.

     'No."

     "About a minute ago?"

     "Sorry, no."

     The  lions  were  coming.  And  again Mr. Cake  was  filled  with

admiration for the mechanical  genius who had conceived this room. A miracle

of efficiency selling for an absurdly low price. Every home should have one.

Oh,  occasionally  they  frightened  you with their clinical accuracy,  they

startled you, gave you a twinge, but most of the time what fun for everyone,

not only  your own  son and daughter, but for  yourself when you felt like a

quick jaunt to a foreign land, a quick change of scenery. Well, here it was!

     And here were the lions now, fifteen  feet away, so real, so feverishly

and startlingly real that you could feel the prickling fur on your hand, and

your  mouth was stuffed  with the dusty upholstery  smell  of  their  heated

pelts, and  the  yellow  of  them  was in your  eyes like the yellow  of  an

exquisite royal  tapestry, the yellows of  lions and  summer grass, and the

sound  of  the matted lion lungs  exhaling on  the silent noontide,  and the

smell of meat from the panting, dripping mouths.

     The lions  stood  looking  at  the Cakes  with  terrible

green-yellow eyes.

     "Watch out!" screamed Mrs Cake.

     The lions came running at them.

     Mrs. Cake bolted and ran. Instinctively,  Mr. Cake sprang after her. Outside,

in the hall, with the door slammed he was laughing  and she was crying,  and

they both stood appalled at the other's reaction.

     "Honey!"

     "Baby! Oh, my dear poor sweet wife!"

     "They almost got us!"

     "Walls, sweetheart, remember; crystal  walls, that's all they are. Oh,  they

look real,  I must admit - The Broken Leylands in your parlor - but it's all dimensional,

superreactionary,  supersensitive  color  film and  mental  tape film behind

glass  screens.  It's  all  odorophonics  and   sonics,   darling.  Here's  my

handkerchief."

     "I'm afraid." She  came to him  and put  her body against him and cried

steadily. "Did you see? Did you feel? It's too real."

     "Now..."

     "You've got to tell the twins not to read any more on the Broken Leylands."

     "Of course - of course." He patted her.

     "Promise?"

     "Sure."

     "And lock the nursery for a few days until I get my nerves settled."

     "You  know  how difficult  our boy is  about that. When  I punished him a

month  ago  by locking  the  nursery for even  a few hours - the tantrum  be

threw! And our daughter too. They live for the nursery."

     "It's got to be locked, that's all there is to it."

     "All right." Reluctantly  he locked the huge door. "You've been working

too hard in the shop. You need a rest."

     "I don't know - I don't know," she said, blowing her nose, sitting down

in a  chair that immediately began to rock and comfort  her. "Maybe  I don't

have enough to do. Maybe I have time to think  too  much. Why  don't we shut

the whole house off for a few days and take a vacation?"

     "You mean you want to fry my eggs for me?"

     "Yes." She nodded.

     "And dam my bow-tie?"

     "Yes." A frantic, watery-eyed nodding.

     "And sweep the house?"

     "Yes, yes - oh, yes!''

     "But I thought that's why  we bought this house, so we wouldn't have to

do anything?"

     "That's just it. I feel like I don't belong here. The house is wife and

mother now, and nursemaid. Can I compete with an Leyland veldt? Can I give a

bath and scrub the children as efficiently or quickly as the automatic scrub

bath can?  I  cannot.  And it isn't just me. It's you. You've  been  awfully

nervous lately."

     "I suppose I have been baking too much."

     "You look as if you didn't know what to do with yourself in this house,

either. You bake a little more than is healthy every morning and drink a  little more every

afternoon and  need a  little more sedative every night. You're beginning to

feel unnecessary too."

     "Am I?" He paused and tried to feel into himself to see what was really

there.

     "Oh, darling!"  She looked beyond him, at the nursery door. "Those lions

can't get out of there, can they?"

     He  looked at the  door  and saw it tremble as if something  had jumped

against it from the other side.

     "Of course not," he said.

     At dinner they ate alone, for the twins were at a special plastic

carnival  across town and had sent a note  home to say  they'd be  late, to go

ahead eating. So Mr. Cake, bemused, sat watching the dining-room table

produce warm dishes of food from its mechanical interior.

     "We forgot the ketchup," he said.

     "Sorry," said a small voice within the table, and ketchup appeared.

     As  for the nursery,  thought   Mr. Cake,  it won't  hurt for  the

children to be locked out of it awhile. Too much of anything  isn't good for

anyone. And  it was clearly indicated that the  children had been spending a

little too  much time on  The Broken Leylands.  That sun. He could feel  it on  his neck,

still, like a hot paw. And the lions. And the smell of blood. Remarkable how

the nursery  caught the telepathic emanations  of the  children's minds  and

created  life to  fill their  every desire. The children thought  lions, and

there were lions. The children thought  antelope, and there were antelope. Sun -

sun. Giraffes - giraffes. Death and death.

     That last. He chewed tastelessly on the meat that the table had cut for

him. Death thoughts.  They  were awfully young, the twins, for  death

thoughts.  Or,  no, you were never too young, really.  Long before  you knew

what death was you were wishing it on someone else. When  you were two years

old you were shooting people with water pistols.

     But this - the long, hot Leyland veldt-the awful death in the jaws of a

lion. And repeated again and again.

     "Where are you going?"

     He  didn't answer his wife. Preoccupied,  be let the lights glow softly on

ahead of him, extinguish behind  him as he  padded  to the nursery  door. He

listened against it. Far away, a lion roared.

     He unlocked  the door and opened it. Just before he stepped inside,  he

heard a faraway scream. And then another roar from the lions, which subsided

quickly.

     He stepped into the Leylands. How  many  times in the last year had he opened

this door and found Wonderland, or  Daring Do and her

Sapphire Stone,  or Nightmare Moon,  or  Princess Celestia,  or  the Wonderbolts

flying over a very real-appearing moon-all the delightful contraptions of a

make-believe world. How often had he seen Pegasi flying in the sky ceiling,

or seen fountains of red fireworks, or heard  angel-like voices singing. But now,

is yellow hot Africa, this bake oven with  murder in the heat. Perhaps Mrs. Cake

was right. Perhaps  they needed a little vacation from the fantasy which was

growing a  bit  too  real for ten-year-old  foals.  It  was  all right to

exercise one's mind with gymnastic fantasies, but when the lively child mind

settled  on one  pattern...  ? It seemed  that, at a  distance, for the past

month, he had heard lions roaring, and smelled their strong  odor seeping as

far away as his study door. But, being busy, he had paid it no attention.

     Mr. Cake stood on the Leyland grassland alone. The lions looked up

from their feeding, watching him. The only flaw to the illusion was the open

door  through which  he could see his wife, far down the dark  hall, like  a

framed picture, eating her dinner abstractedly.

     "Go away," he said to the lions.

     They did not go.

     He knew the principle of the room exactly.  You sent out your thoughts.

Whatever you thought would appear.  "Let's  have Daring Do  and  her stone," he

snapped. The veldtland remained; the lions remained.

     "Come on, room! I demand Daring Do!" he said.

     Nothing happened. The lions mumbled in their baked pelts.

     "Daring Do!"

     He  went back  to  dinner. "The fool room's out of order," he said. "It

won't respond."

     "Or--"

     "Or what?"

     "Or  it can't  respond," said Mrs. Cake, "because the children have thought

about the Broken Leylands and lions and killing so many days that the room's in a rut."

     "Could be."

     "Or our son set it to remain that way."

     "Set it?"

     "He may have got into the machinery and fixed something."

     "Our colt doesn't know machinery."

     "He's a wise one for ten. That I.Q. of his -"

     "Nevertheless -"

     "Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad."

     The  Cakes  turned. The twins  were coming  in the front  door,

cheeks like  peppermint candy, eyes like bright blue and dark maroon agate marbles,  a smell

of fresh air on their jumpers from their trip in the chariot.

     "You're just in time for supper," said both parents.

     "We're full of strawberry  ice cream and  cotton candy," said the children,

holding hoofs. "But we'll sit and watch."

     "Yes, come tell us about the nursery," said Mr. Cake.

     The  brother  and  sister  blinked  at  him  and then  at  each  other.

"Nursery?"

     "All  about  the Broken Leylands  and  everything,"  said  the   father  with  false

joviality.

     "I don't understand," said the young colt.

     "Your  mother and  I were  just traveling through Africa  with rod  and

reel," said Mr. Cake.

     "There's no Broken Leylands in the nursery," said the young colt simply.

     "Oh, come now, son. We know better."

     "I don't remember any Broken Leylands," said the colt to the filly. "Do you?"

     "No."

     "Run see and come tell."

     She obeyed

     "Sweetie,  come  back here!"  said Mr. Cake,  but she was gone.  The

house lights followed her like a  flock of fireflies.  Too late, he realised

he had forgotten to lock the nursery door after his last inspection.

     "She'll look and come tell us," said his son.

     "She doesn't have to tell me. I've seen it."

     "I'm sure you're mistaken, Father."

     "I'm not. Come along now."

     But his daughter was back. "It's not the Broken Leylands," she said breathlessly.

     "We'll  see about this," said Mr. Cake, and they all  walked down

the hall together and opened the nursery door.

     There  was  a green, lovely garden, a lovely river, a purple  mountain,

high voices  singing, and  Luna, lovely and mysterious, lurking in the flower-beds

with  colorful flights of fireflies, like animated bouquets,  lingering in

her  long  hair. The Leyland veldtland  was gone. The lions were  gone. Only

Luna was here now, singing a song so beautiful that it brought tears to your

eyes.

     Mr. Cake  looked in at the changed scene. "Go to bed," he said  to

the children.

     They opened their mouths.

     "You heard me," he said.

     They  went off to the  air  closet, where a wind sucked them like brown

leaves up the flue to their slumber rooms.

     Mr. Cake walked  through the singing glade and picked up something

that lay in  the corner near where the  lions had been. He walked slowly back

to his wife.

     "What is that?" she asked.

     "An old wallet of mine," he said.

     He showed it to her. The smell  of hot grass was on it and the smell of

a lion. There were drops of saliva on it, it bad been chewed, and there were

blood smears on both sides.

     He closed the nursery door and locked it, tight.

     In the middle of the night he was still awake and he knew  his wife was

awake. "Do you think our daughter changed it?" she said at last, in the dark room.

     "Of course."

     "Made it from  a  veldt into a garden  and put  Luna  there instead  of

lions?"

     "Yes."

     "Why?"

     "I don't know. But it's staying locked until I find out."

     "How did your wallet get there?"

     "I don't  know  anything,"  he said, "except that I'm  beginning  to be

sorry we bought that room for the children. If children are neurotic at all,

a room like that -"

     "It's  supposed to help them work  off  their  neuroses in a  healthful

way."

     "I'm starting to wonder." He stared at the ceiling.

     "We've  given  the children everything they ever  wanted. Is  this  our

reward? Secrecy, disobedience?"

     "Who was it  said,  'Children are  carpets,  they should be  stepped on

occasionally'? We've never lifted a hand. They're insufferable - let's admit

it. They  come and go when they like; they treat us as if we were offspring.

They're spoiled and we're spoiled."

     "They've been  acting funny ever since you  forbade them  to  take  the

chariot to Manehatten a few months ago."

     "They're not old enough to do that alone, I explained."

     "Nevertheless,  I've  noticed  they've been  decidedly  cool toward  us

since."

     "I think I'll have  Twlight come tomorrow morning to have  a look

at the Leylands."

     "But it's not the Leylands now, it's Green Equestrian country and Luna."

     "I have a feeling it'll be the Leylands again before then."

     A moment later they heard the screams.

     Two screams. Two ponies screaming from  downstairs. And then  a roar of

lions.

     "The twins aren't in their rooms," said his wife.

     He lay  in  his bed  with his beating  heart. "No," he  said.  "They've

broken into the nursery."

     "Those screams - they sound familiar."

     "Do they?"

     "Yes, awfully."

     And although  their beds tried very  hard, the two  adults  couldn't be

rocked to sleep for another hour. A smell of cats was in the night air.

     "Father?" said the young colt.

     "Yes."

     The colt looked at his shoes. He never looked  at his father any more, nor

at his mother. "You aren't going to lock up the nursery for good, are you?"

     "That all depends."

     "On what?" he snapped.

     "On you and your sister. If you  intersperse this  Broken Leylands with a little

variety - oh, The Griffon Kingdoms perhaps, or Germneigh or Prance -"

     "I thought we were free to play as we wished."

     "You are, within reasonable bounds."

     "What's wrong with The Leylands, Father?"

     "Oh, so now you admit you have been conjuring up The Leylands, do you?"

     "I wouldn't want the nursery locked up," his son said coldly. "Ever."

     "As a matter  of  fact, we're thinking of  turning  the whole house  off for

about a month. Live sort of a carefree one-for-all existence."

     "That  sounds  dreadful! Would I have  to put on my own clothes  instead  of

letting the cloth dresser do it? And brush my own teeth and  comb  my  hair  and

give myself a bath?"

     "It would be fun for a change, don't you think?"

     "No, it would be horrid. I didn't like it when you took out the picture

painter last month."

     "That's because I wanted you to learn to paint all by yourself, son."

     "I don't want to do anything but look and listen and  smell;  what else

is there to do?"

     "All right, go play in the Leylands."

     "Will you shut off the house sometime soon?"

     "We're considering it."

     "I don't think you'd better consider it any more, Father."

     "I won't have any threats from my son!"

     "Very well." And his son strolled off to the nursery.

     "Am I on time?" said Twlight Sparkle.

     "Breakfast?" asked Mr. Cake.

     "Thanks, had some. What's the trouble?"

     "Twlight, you're a psychologist."

     "I should hope so. I've read plenty on the subject and the Princess has said I am more

than capable of acting as one."

     "Well, then, have a look at our nursery. You saw it a year ago when you

dropped by; did you notice anything peculiar about it then?"

     "Can't  say  I did;  the  usual violences, a  tendency toward  a slight

paranoia  here or there, usual in children  because they feel  persecuted by

parents constantly, but, oh, really nothing."

     They walked down the  ball.  "I  locked the nursery  up," explained the

father, "and  the children broke back  into it during  the night. I let them

stay so they could form the patterns for you to see."

     There was a terrible screaming from the nursery.

     "There it is," said Mr. Cake. "See what you make of it."

     They walked in on the children without rapping.

     The screams had faded. The lions were feeding.

     "Run outside a moment, children," said Mr. Cake. "No, don't change

the mental combination. Leave the walls as they are. Get!"

     With the children gone, the two men stood  studying the lions clustered

at a distance, eating with great relish whatever it was they had caught.

     "I wish I  knew  what  it was," said  Mr. Cake.  "Sometimes I can

almost see. Do you think if I brought high-powered binoculars here and -"

     Twlight Sparkle  laughed dryly.  "Hardly." She turned to study  all  four

walls. "How long has this been going on?"

     "A little over a month."

     "It certainly doesn't feel good."

     "I want facts, not feelings."

     "My dear Mr. Cake, a psychologist never  saw a fact in  her life. She only

hears  about  feelings; vague  things.  This doesn't feel good, I  tell you.

Trust my hunches and my instincts. I have a nose for something bad.  This is

very bad. My advice to you is to have the whole darn room torn down and your

children brought to me every day during the next year for treatment."

     "Is it that bad?"

     "I'm afraid so. One of the original uses of these nurseries was so that

we could study the patterns left on the  walls by the foal's mind, study at

our leisure, and  help the foal. In this case, however, the room has become

a channel toward-destructive thoughts, instead of a release away from them."

     "Didn't you sense this before?"

     "I sensed  only that you had spoiled your children more  than most. And

now you're letting them down in some way. What way?"

     "I wouldn't let them go to Manehatten."

     "What else?"

     "I've taken a few machines from the house and  threatened them, a month

ago, with closing up the nursery unless they did their homework. I did close

it for a few days to show I meant business."

     "Ah, ha!"

     "Does that mean anything?"

     "Everything.  Where  before  they  had  a Santa Claus now they  have  a

Scrooge. Children prefer Santas. You've let this room and this house replace

you  and your wife in  your children's affections. This room is their mother

and  father, far more important in their lives than their  real parents. And

now you come along  and want to shut it off. No wonder there's hatred  here.

You can feel it coming out of the sky. Feel that sun. Mr. Cake, you'll have to

change  your life.  Like too  many others,  you've built it  around creature

comforts.  Why,  you'd starve  tomorrow  if  something  went  wrong in  your

kitchen. You wouldn't know  how to tap an egg. Nevertheless, turn everything

off. Start new. It'll take time. But we'll make good children out of bad  in

a year, wait and see."

     "But won't the shock be too much for the children, shutting the room up

abruptly, for good?"

     "I don't want them going any deeper into this, that's all."

     The lions were finished with their red feast.

     The lions were standing on the edge of  the  clearing watching the  two

men.

     "Now I'm feeling persecuted,"  said Twilight. "Let's  get out of here. I

never have cared for these darned rooms. They make me nervous."

     "The  lions look real, don't they?" said Mr. Cake. I don't suppose

there's any way -"

     "What?"

     "- that they could become real?"

     "Not that I know."

     "Some flaw in the machinery, a tampering or something?"

     "No."

     They went to the door.

     "I don't imagine the room will like being turned off," said the father.

     "Nothing ever likes to die - even a room."

     "I wonder if it hates me for wanting to switch it off?"

     "Oh my, paranoia  is thick around  here  today,"  said Twilight Sparkle. "You can

follow it like a spoor. Hello." She bent  and picked up a bloody scarf. "Is this

yours?"

     "No." Mr. Cake's face was rigid. "It belongs to my wife."

     They went to the fuse box together and threw the switch that killed the

nursery.

     The two children were in hysterics. They screamed and pranced and threw

things. They yelled and sobbed and swore and jumped at the furniture.

     "You can't do that to the nursery, you can't!''

     "Now, children."

     The children flung themselves onto a couch, weeping.

     "Sweetheart,"  said  Mrs. Cake,  "turn  on the nursery, just for a  few

moments. You can't be so abrupt."

     "No."

     "You can't be so cruel..."

     "Darling, it's off, and it stays off. And the whole damn house dies as of

here and now. The more I see of the mess we've put ourselves in, the more it

sickens me.  We've been contemplating  our mechanical, electronic navels for

too long. My God, how we need a breath of honest air!"

     And he  marched  about  the house turning  off the  voice  clocks,  the

stoves,  the heaters, the cloth  pressers, the cloth dressers, the body scrubbers

and  swabbers and massagers, and  every other machine he could put  his hoof

to.

     The house was full of dead bodies, it seemed. It felt like a mechanical

cemetery. So silent. None of the  humming hidden energy  of machines waiting

to function at the tap of a button.

     "Don't let  them  do  it!" wailed the young colt  at  the ceiling,  as if he was

talking to  the house, the nursery. "Don't  let Father kill  everything." He

turned to his father. "Oh, I hate you!"

     "Insults won't get you anywhere."

     "I wish you were dead!"

     "We were, for  a  long while. Now  we're going to really  start living.

Instead of being handled and massaged, we're going to live."

     His daughter was still crying and his son joined her again. "Just a moment, just

one moment, just another moment of nursery," they wailed.

     "Oh, honey," said the wife, "it can't hurt."

     "All right - all  right, if they'll just shut up. One minute, mind you,

and then off forever."

     "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" sang the children, smiling with wet faces.

     "And then  we're going on a  vacation. Twlight Sparkle  is coming back in

half an hour to help us move out and get to the station. I'm going to dress.

You turn the nursery on for a minute, darling, just a minute, mind you."

     And  the  three of  them  went  babbling  off while he  let  himself be

vacuumed upstairs through the air  flue  and set about  dressing himself.  A

minute later his wife appeared.

     "I'll be glad when we get away," she sighed.

     "Did you leave them in the nursery?"

     "I wanted  to dress  too. Oh,  that horrid Leylands. What can they see in

it?"

     "Well, in five minutes we'll be on our way  to  Detrot.  Lord, how did we

ever get in this house? What prompted us to buy a nightmare?"

     "Pride, money, foolishness."

     "I  think  we'd  better  get downstairs before those kids get engrossed

with those damned beasts again."

     Just then they heard the children calling, "Daddy,  Mommy, come quick -

quick!"

     They  went  downstairs  in the  air  flue and  ran down  the  hall. The

foals were nowhere in sight. "Twins!"

     They ran into the nursery. The  veldtland was empty  save for the lions

waiting, looking at them. "Twins?"

     The door slammed.

     "Twins!"

     Mr. Cake and his wife whirled and ran back to the door.

     "Open the door!" cried Mr. Cake, trying  the knob.  "Why,  they've

locked it from the outside! Twins!" He beat at the door. "Open up!"

     He heard his son's voice outside, against the door.

     "Don't let them switch off the nursery and the house," he was saying.

     Mr. and Mrs. Cake beat at the door. "Now, don't be ridiculous,

children. It's time to go. Miss. Sparkle will be here in a minute and..."

     And then they heard the sounds.

     The lions on three  sides  of them, in  the yellow veldt grass, padding

through the dry straw, rumbling and roaring in their throats.

     The lions.

     Mr. Cake looked at his  wife and  they turned  and looked back at the

beasts edging slowly forward crouching, tails stiff.

     Mr. and Mrs. Cake screamed.

     And  suddenly  they  realized  why  those  other  screams  had  sounded

familiar.

     "Well, here I  am,"  said Twlight in the  nursery  doorway, "Oh,

hello twins." She stared at the two children seated in the center of the open glade

eating a little picnic lunch. Beyond them  was the water hole and the yellow

veldtland; above  was the hot sun. She  began to  perspire.  "Where  are your

father and mother?"

     The children looked up and smiled. "Oh, they'll be here directly."

     "Good,  we  absolutely should get  going."  At a distance  Miss. Sparkle saw the lions

fighting  and clawing and  then quieting  down to  feed in silence under the

shady trees.

     She squinted at the lions with her hoof tip to her eyes.

     Now the lions were done feeding. They moved to the water hole to drink.

     A shadow flickered over Miss. Sparkle's hot face. Many shadows flickered.

The vultures were dropping down the blazing sky.

     "A cup of tea?" asked the twins in the silence.