“That blasted nincompoop!” muttered Spittleworth as they squelched along. “That blithering buffoon! This is all his fault, the mouse-brained moron!”
“It’ll serve him right if that sword’s lost for good,” said Flapoon, now nearly waist-deep in marsh.
“We’d better hope it isn’t, or we’ll be here all night,” said Spittleworth. “Oh, curse this fog!”
They struggled onward. The mist would thin for a few steps, then close again. Boulders loomed suddenly out of nowhere like ghostly elephants and the rustling reeds sounded just like snakes. Though Spittleworth and Flapoon knew perfectly well that there was no such thing as an Ickabog, their insides didn’t seem quite so sure.
“Let go of me!” Spittleworth growled at Flapoon, whose constant tugging was making him think of monstrous claws or jaws fastened on the back of his coat.
Flapoon let go, but he too had been infected by a nonsensical fear, so he loosened his blunderbuss from its holster and held it ready.
“What’s that?” he whispered to Spittleworth, as an odd noise reached them out of the darkness ahead.
Both lords froze, the better to listen.
A low growling and scrabbling was coming out of the fog. It conjured an awful vision in both men’s minds, of a monster feasting on the body of one of the Royal Guard.
“Who’s there?” Spittleworth called, in a high-pitched voice.
Somewhere in the distance, Major Beamish shouted back:
“Is that you, Lord Spittleworth?”
“Yes,” shouted Spittleworth. “We can hear something strange, Beamish! Can you?”
It seemed to the two lords that the odd growling and scrabbling grew louder.
Then the fog shifted. A monstrous black silhouette with gleaming white eyes was revealed right in front of them, and it emitted a long yowl.
With a deafening, crashing boom that seemed to shake the marsh, Flapoon let off his blunderbuss. The startled cries of their fellow men echoed across the hidden landscape, and then, as though Flapoon’s shot had frightened it, the fog parted like curtains before the two lords, giving them a clear view of what lay ahead.
The moon slid out from behind a cloud at that moment and they saw a vast granite boulder with a mass of thorny branches at its base. Tangled up in these brambles was a terrified, skinny dog, whimpering and scrabbling to free itself, its eyes flashing in the reflected moonlight.
A little beyond the giant boulder, facedown in the bog, lay Major Beamish.
“What’s going on?” shouted several voices out of the fog. “Who fired?”
Neither Spittleworth nor Flapoon answered. Spittleworth waded as quickly as he could toward Major Beamish. A swift examination was enough: the major was stone-dead, shot through the heart by Flapoon in the dark.
“My God, my God, what shall we do?” bleated Flapoon, arriving at Spittleworth’s side.
“Quiet!” whispered Spittleworth.
He was thinking harder and faster than he’d thought in the whole of his crafty, conniving life. His eyes moved slowly from Flapoon and the gun, to the shepherd’s trapped dog, to the king’s boots and jeweled sword, which he now noticed, half-buried in the bog just a few feet away from the giant boulder.
Spittleworth waded through the marsh to pick up the king’s sword and used it to slash apart the brambles imprisoning the dog. Then, giving the poor animal a hearty kick, he sent it yelping away into the fog.
“Listen carefully,” murmured Spittleworth, returning to Flapoon, but before he could explain his plan, another large figure emerged from the fog: Captain Roach.
“The king sent me,” panted the captain. “He’s terrified. What happ —?”
Then Roach saw Major Beamish lying dead on the ground.
Spittleworth realized immediately that Roach must be let in on the plan and that, in fact, he’d be very useful.
“Say nothing, Roach,” said Spittleworth, “while I tell you what has happened.
“The Ickabog has killed our brave Major Beamish. In view of this tragic death, we shall need a new major, and of course, that will be you, Roach, for you’re second-in-command. I shall recommend a large pay rise for you, because you were so valiant — listen closely, Roach — so very valiant in chasing after the dreadful Ickabog, as it ran away into the fog. You see, the Ickabog was devouring the poor major’s body when Lord Flapoon and I came upon it. Frightened by Lord Flapoon’s blunderbuss, which he sensibly discharged into the air, the monster dropped Beamish’s body and fled. You bravely gave chase, trying to recover the king’s sword, which was half-buried in the monster’s thick hide — but you weren’t able to recover it, Roach. So sad for the poor king. I believe the priceless sword was his grandfather’s, but I suppose it’s now lost forever in the Ickabog’s lair.”
So saying, Spittleworth pressed the sword into Roach’s large hands. The newly promoted major looked down at its jeweled hilt, and a cruel and crafty smile to match Spittleworth’s own spread over his face.
“Yes, a great pity that I wasn’t able to recover the sword, my lord,” he said, sliding it out of sight beneath his tunic. “Now, let’s wrap up the poor major’s body, because it would be dreadful for the other men to see the marks of the monster’s fangs upon him.”
“How sensitive of you, Major Roach,” said Lord Spittleworth, and the two men swiftly took off their cloaks and wrapped up the body while Flapoon watched, heartily relieved that nobody need know he’d accidentally killed Beamish.
“Could you remind me what the Ickabog looked like, Lord Spittleworth?” asked Roach, when Major Beamish’s body was well hidden. “For the three of us saw it together and will, of course, have received identical impressions.”
“Very true, Roach,” said Lord Spittleworth. “Well, according to the king, the beast is as tall as two horses, with eyes like lamps.”
“In fact,” said Flapoon, pointing, “it looks a lot like this large boulder, with a dog’s eyes gleaming at the base.”
“Tall as two horses, with eyes like lamps,” repeated Roach. “Very well, my lords. If you’ll assist me to put Beamish over my shoulder, I’ll carry him to the king and we can explain how the major met his death.”
Tangled up in these brambles was a terrified, skinny dog.
By Clara, Age 7
When the fog cleared at last, it revealed a very different party of men than those who’d arrived at the edge of the marsh an hour earlier.
Quite apart from their shock at the sudden death of Major Beamish, a few of the Royal Guard were confused by the explanation they’d been given. Here were the two lords, the king, and the hastily promoted Major Roach, all swearing that they’d come face-to-face with a monster that all but the most foolish had dismissed for years as a fairy tale. Could it really be true that beneath the tightly wrapped cloaks, Beamish’s body bore the tooth and claw marks of the Ickabog?
“Are you calling me a liar?” Major Roach growled into the face of a young private.
“Are you calling the king a liar?” barked Lord Flapoon.
The private didn’t dare question the word of the king, so he shook his head. Captain Goodfellow, who’d been a particular friend of Major Beamish’s, said nothing. However, there was such an angry and suspicious look on Goodfellow’s face that Roach ordered him to go and pitch the tents on the most solid bit of ground he could find, and be quick about it, because the dangerous fog might yet return.
In spite of the fact that he had a straw mattress, and that blankets were taken from the soldiers to ensure his comfort, King Fred had never spent a more unpleasant night. He was tired, dirty, wet, and, above all, frightened.
“What if the Ickabog comes looking for us, Spittleworth?” the king whispered in the dark. “What if it tracks us by our scent? It’s already had a taste of poor Beamish. What if it comes looking for the rest of the body?”
Spittleworth attempted to soothe the king.
“Do not fear, Your Majesty, Roach has ordered Captain Goodfellow to keep watch outsi
de your tent. Whoever else gets eaten, you will be the last.”
It was too dark for the king to see Spittleworth grinning. Far from wanting to reassure the king, Spittleworth hoped to fan the king’s fears. His entire plan rested on a king who not only believed in an Ickabog, but who was scared it might leave the marsh to chase him.
The following morning, the king’s party set off back to Jeroboam. Spittleworth had sent a message ahead to tell the Mayor of Jeroboam that there had been a nasty accident at the marsh, so the king didn’t want any trumpets or corks greeting him. Thus, when the king’s party arrived, the city was silent. Townsfolk pressing their faces to their windows, or peeking around their doors, were shocked to see the king so dirty and miserable, but not nearly as shocked as they were to see a body wrapped in cloaks, tied to Major Beamish’s steel-gray horse.
When they reached the inn, Spittleworth took the landlord aside.
“We require some cold, secure place, perhaps a cellar, where we can store a body for the night, and I shall need to keep the key myself.”
“What happened, my lord?” asked the innkeeper, as Roach carried Beamish down the stone steps into the cellar.
“I shall tell you the truth, my good man, seeing as you have looked after us so well, but it must go no further,” said Spittleworth in a low, serious voice. “The Ickabog is real and has savagely killed one of our men. You understand, I’m sure, why this must not be widely broadcast. There would be instant panic. The king is returning with all speed to the palace, where he and his advisors — myself, of course, included — will begin work at once on a set of measures to secure our country’s safety.”
“The Ickabog? Real?” said the landlord, in astonishment and fear.
“Real and vengeful and vicious,” said Spittleworth. “But, as I say, this must go no further. Widespread alarm will benefit nobody.”
In fact, widespread alarm was precisely what Spittleworth wanted, because it was essential for the next phase of his plan. Just as he’d expected, the landlord waited only until his guests had gone to bed, then rushed to tell his wife, who ran to tell the neighbors, and by the time the king’s party set off for Kurdsburg the following morning, they left behind them a city where panic was fermenting as busily as the wine.
Spittleworth sent a message ahead to Kurdsburg, warning the cheesemaking city not to make a fuss of the king either, so it too was dark and silent when the royal party entered its streets. The faces at the windows were already scared. It so happened that a merchant from Jeroboam, with an especially fast horse, had carried the rumor about the Ickabog to Kurdsburg an hour previously.
Once again, Spittleworth requested the use of a cellar for Major Beamish’s body, and once again, confided to the landlord that the Ickabog had killed one of the king’s men. Having seen Beamish’s body safely locked up, Spittleworth went upstairs to bed.
He was just rubbing ointment into the blisters on his bottom when he received an urgent summons to go and see the king. Smirking, Spittleworth pulled on his pantaloons, winked at Flapoon, who was enjoying a cheese and pickle sandwich, picked up his candle, and proceeded along the corridor to King Fred’s room.
The king was huddled in bed wearing his silk nightcap, and as soon as Spittleworth closed the bedroom door, Fred said:
“Spittleworth, I keep hearing whispers about the Ickabog. The stable boys were talking, and even the maid who just passed by my bedroom door. Why is this? How can they know what happened?”
“Alas, Your Majesty,” sighed Spittleworth, “I’d hoped to conceal the truth from you until we were safely back at the palace, but I should have known that Your Majesty is too shrewd to be fooled. Since we left the marsh, sire, the Ickabog has, as Your Majesty feared, become much more aggressive.”
“Oh, no!” whimpered the king.
“I’m afraid so, sire. But after all, attacking it was bound to make it more dangerous.”
“But who attacked it?” said Fred.
“Why, you did, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth. “Roach tells me your sword was embedded in the monster’s neck when it ran — I’m sorry. Your Majesty, did you speak?”
The king had, in fact, let out a sort of hum, but after a second or two, he shook his head. He’d considered correcting Spittleworth — he was sure he’d told the story differently — but his horrible experience in the fog sounded much better the way Spittleworth told it now: that he’d stood his ground and fought the Ickabog, rather than simply dropping his sword and running away.
“But this is awful, Spittleworth,” whispered the king. “What will become of us all, if the monster has become more ferocious?”
“Never fear, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth, approaching the king’s bed, the candlelight illuminating his long nose and his cruel smile from below. “I intend to make it my life’s work to protect you and the kingdom from the Ickabog.”
“Th-thank you, Spittleworth. You are a true friend,” said the king, deeply moved, and he fumbled to extract a hand from the eiderdown, and clasped that of the cunning lord.
The king was huddled in bed wearing his silk nightcap.
By Isla, Age 11
By the time the king set out for Chouxville the following morning, rumors that the Ickabog had killed a man had not only traveled over the bridge into Baronstown, they’d even trickled down to the capital, courtesy of a cluster of cheesemongers, who’d set out before dawn.
However, Chouxville was not only the farthest away from the northern marsh, it also held itself to be far better informed and educated than the other Cornucopian towns, so when the wave of panic reached the capital, it met an upswell of disbelief.
The city’s taverns and markets rang with excited arguments. Skeptics laughed at the preposterous idea of the Ickabog existing, while others said that people who’d never been to the Marshlands ought not to pretend to be experts.
The Ickabog rumors had gained a lot of color as they traveled south. Some people said that the Ickabog had killed three men, others that it had merely torn off somebody’s nose.
In the City-Within-The-City, however, discussion was seasoned with a little pinch of anxiety. The wives, children, and friends of the Royal Guard were worried about the soldiers, but they reassured one another that if any of the men had been killed, their families would have been informed by messenger. This was the comfort that Mrs. Beamish gave Bert, when he came looking for her in the palace kitchens, having been scared by the rumors circulating among the schoolchildren.
“The king would have told us if anything had happened to Daddy,” she told Bert. “Here, now, I’ve got you a little treat.”
Mrs. Beamish had prepared Hopes-of-Heaven for the king’s return, and she now gave one that wasn’t quite symmetrical to Bert. He gasped (because he only ever had Hopes-of-Heaven on his birthday), and bit into the little cake. At once, his eyes filled with happy tears, as paradise wafted up through the roof of his mouth and melted all his cares away. He thought excitedly of his father coming home in his smart uniform, and how he, Bert, would be center of attention at school tomorrow, because he’d know exactly what had happened to the king’s men in the faraway Marshlands.
Dusk was settling over Chouxville when at last the king’s party rode into view. This time, Spittleworth hadn’t sent a messenger to tell people to stay inside. He wanted the king to feel the full force of Chouxville’s panic and fear when they saw His Majesty returning to his palace with the body of one of the Royal Guard.
The people of Chouxville saw the drawn, miserable faces of the returning men, and watched in silence as the party approached. Then they spotted the wrapped-up body slung over the steel-gray horse, and gasps spread through the crowd like flames. Up through the narrow cobbled streets of Chouxville the king’s party moved, and men removed their hats and women curtsied, and they hardly knew whether they were paying their respects to the king or the dead man.
Daisy Dovetail was one of the first to realize who was missing. Peering between the legs of grown-ups, sh
e recognized Major Beamish’s horse. Instantly forgetting that she and Bert hadn’t talked to each other since their fight of the previous week, Daisy pulled free of her father’s hand and began to run, forcing her way through the crowds, her brown pigtails flying. She had to reach Bert before he saw the body on the horse. She had to warn him. But the people were so tightly packed that, fast as Daisy moved, she couldn’t keep pace with the horses.
Bert and Mrs. Beamish, who were standing outside their cottage in the shadow of the palace walls, knew there was something wrong because of the crowd’s gasps. Although Mrs. Beamish felt somewhat anxious, she was still sure that she was about to see her handsome husband, because the king would have sent word if he’d been hurt.
So when the procession rounded the corner, Mrs. Beamish’s eyes slid from face to face, expecting to see the major’s. And when she realized that there were no more faces left, the color drained slowly from her own. Then her gaze fell upon the body strapped to Major Beamish’s steel-gray horse, and, still holding Bert’s hand, she fainted clean away.
Spittleworth noticed a commotion beside the palace walls and strained to see what was going on. When he spotted the woman on the ground, and heard the cries of shock and pity, he suddenly realized that he’d left a loose end that might yet trip him up: the widow! As he rode past the little knot of people in the crowd who were fanning Mrs. Beamish’s face, Spittleworth knew that his longed-for bath must be postponed, and his crafty brain began to race again.
Once the king’s party was safely in the courtyard, and servants had hurried to assist Fred from his horse, Spittleworth pulled Major Roach aside.
“The widow, Beamish’s widow!” he muttered. “Why didn’t you send her word about his death?”
The Ickabog Page 5