“None, so far. Ickabogs like mushrooms.”
“Are you planning on eating us when your Bornding time comes?” she asked. “So your babies are born believing Ickabogs eat people? You want to turn them into people killers, don’t you? To take back your land?”
The Ickabog looked down at her. It didn’t seem to want to answer, but at last it nodded its huge, shaggy head. Behind Daisy and the Ickabog, Bert, Martha, and Roderick exchanged terrified glances by the light of the dying fire.
“I know what it’s like to lose the people you love the most,” said Daisy quietly. “My mother died, and my father disappeared. For a long time, after my father went away, I made myself believe that he was still alive, because I had to, or I think I’d have died, as well.”
Daisy got to her feet to look up into the Ickabog’s sad eyes.
“I think people need hope nearly as much as Ickabogs do. But,” she said, placing her hand over her heart, “my mother and father are both still in here, and they always will be. So when you eat me, Ickabog, eat my heart last. I’d like to keep my parents alive as long as I can.”
She walked back into the cave, and the four humans settled down on their piles of wool again, beside the fire.
A little later, sleepy though she was, Daisy thought she heard the Ickabog sniff.
After the disaster of the runaway mail coach, Lord Spittleworth took steps to make sure such a thing would never happen again. A new proclamation was issued, without the king’s knowledge, which allowed the Chief Advisor to open letters to check them for signs of treason. The proclamation notices helpfully listed all the things that were now considered treason in Cornucopia. It was still treason to say that the Ickabog wasn’t real, and that Fred wasn’t a good king. It was treason to criticize Lord Spittleworth and Lord Flapoon, treason to say the Ickabog tax was too high, and, for the first time, treason to say that Cornucopia wasn’t as happy and well fed as it had always been.
Now that everybody was too frightened to tell the truth in their letters, mail and even travel to the capital dwindled to almost nothing, which was exactly what Spittleworth had wanted, and he started on phase two of his plan. This was to send a lot of fan mail to Fred. As these letters couldn’t all have the same handwriting, Spittleworth had shut up a few soldiers in a room with a stack of paper and lots of quills, and told them what to write.
“Praise the king, of course,” said Spittleworth, as he swept up and down in front of the men in his Chief Advisor’s robes. “Tell him he’s the best ruler the country’s ever had. Praise me too. Say that you don’t know what would become of Cornucopia without Lord Spittleworth. And say you know the Ickabog would have killed many more people, if not for the Ickabog Defense Brigade, and that Cornucopia’s richer than ever.”
So Fred began to receive letters telling him how marvelous he was, and that the country had never been happier, and that the war against the Ickabog was going very well indeed.
“Well, it appears everything’s going splendidly!” beamed King Fred, waving one of these letters over lunch with the two lords. He’d been much more cheerful since the forgeries had started to arrive. The bitter winter had frozen the ground so that it was dangerous to go hunting, but Fred, who was wearing a gorgeous new costume of burnt orange silk, with topaz buttons, felt particularly handsome today, which added to his cheerfulness. It was quite delightful, watching the snow tumble down outside the window, when he had a blazing fire and his table was piled high, as usual, with expensive foodstuffs.
“I had no idea so many Ickabogs had been killed, Spittleworth! In fact — come to think of it — I didn’t even know there was more than one Ickabog!”
“Er, yes, sire,” said Spittleworth, with a furious glance at Flapoon, who was stuffing himself with a particularly delicious cream cheese. Spittleworth had so much to do, he’d given Flapoon the job of checking all the forged letters before they were sent to the king. “We didn’t wish to alarm you, but we realized some time ago that the monster had, ah —”
He coughed delicately.
“— reproduced.”
“I see,” said Fred. “Well, it’s jolly good news you’re finishing them off at such a rate. We should have one stuffed, you know, and hold an exhibition for the people!”
“Er … yes, sire, what an excellent idea,” said Spittleworth, through gritted teeth.
“One thing I don’t understand, though,” said Fred, frowning over the letter again. “Didn’t Professor Fraudysham say that every time an Ickabog dies, two grow in its place? By killing them like this, aren’t you, in fact, doubling their numbers?”
“Ah … no, sire, not really,” said Spittleworth, his cunning mind working furiously fast. “We’ve actually found a way of stopping that happening, by — er — by —”
“Banging them over the head first,” suggested Flapoon.
“Banging them over the head first,” repeated Spittleworth, nodding. “That’s it. If you can get near enough to knock them out before killing them, sire, the, er, the doubling process seems to … seems to stop.”
“But why didn’t you tell me of this amazing discovery, Spittleworth?” cried Fred. “This changes everything — we might soon have wiped Ickabogs from Cornucopia forever!”
“Yes, sire, it is good news, isn’t it?” said Spittleworth, wishing he could smack the smile off Flapoon’s face. “However, there are still quite a few Ickabogs left …”
“All the same, the end seems to be in sight at last!” said Fred joyfully, setting the letter aside and picking up his knife and fork again. “How very sad that poor Major Roach was killed by an Ickabog just before we began to turn the tables on the monsters!”
“Very sad, sire, yes,” agreed Spittleworth, who, of course, had explained away Major Roach’s sudden disappearance by telling the king he’d laid down his life in the Marshlands, trying to prevent the Ickabog coming south.
“Well, this all makes sense of something I’ve been wondering about,” said Fred. “The servants are constantly singing the national anthem, have you heard them? Jolly uplifting and all that, but it does become a bit samey. But this is why — they’re celebrating our triumph over the Ickabogs, aren’t they?”
“That must be it, sire,” said Spittleworth.
In fact, the singing was coming from the prisoners in the dungeons, not the servants, but Fred was unaware that he had fifty or so people trapped in the dungeons beneath him.
“We should hold a ball in celebration!” said Fred. “We haven’t had a ball for a very long time. It seems an age since I danced with Lady Eslanda.”
“Nuns don’t dance,” said Spittleworth crossly. He stood up abruptly. “Flapoon, a word.”
The two lords were halfway toward the door when the king commanded:
“Wait.”
Both turned. King Fred looked suddenly displeased.
“Neither of you asked permission to leave the king’s table.”
The two lords exchanged glances, then Spittleworth bowed and Flapoon copied him.
“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon,” said Spittleworth. “It’s simply that if we are to act on your excellent suggestion of having a dead Ickabog stuffed, sire, we must act quickly. It might, ah, rot, otherwise.”
“All the same,” said Fred, fingering the golden medal he wore around his neck, which was embossed with the picture of the king fighting a dragonish monster, “I remain the king, Spittleworth. Your king.”
“Of course, sire,” said Spittleworth, bowing low again. “I live only to serve you.”
“Hmm,” said Fred. “Well, see that you remember it, and be quick about stuffing that Ickabog. I wish to display it to the people. Then we shall discuss the celebration ball.”
“Well, it appears everything’s going splendidly!” beamed King Fred.
By Emily, Age 12
As soon as Spittleworth and Flapoon were out of earshot of the king, Spittleworth rounded on Flapoon.
“You were supposed to check all those letters befor
e giving them to the king! Where am I supposed to find a dead Ickabog to stuff?”
“Sew something,” suggested Flapoon with a shrug.
“Sew something? Sew something?”
“Well, what else can you do?” said Flapoon, taking a large bite of the Dukes’ Delight he’d sneaked from the king’s table.
“What can I do?” repeated Spittleworth, incensed. “You think this is all my problem?”
“You were the one who invented the Ickabog,” said Flapoon thickly, as he chewed. He was getting very bored of Spittleworth shouting at him and bossing him about.
“And you’re the one who killed Beamish!” snarled Spittleworth. “Where would you be now, if I hadn’t blamed the monster?”
Without waiting for Flapoon’s response, Spittleworth turned and headed down to the dungeons. At the very least, he could stop the prisoners singing the national anthem so loudly, so the king might think the war against the Ickabogs had taken a turn for the worse again.
“Quiet — QUIET!” bellowed Spittleworth, as he entered the dungeon, because the place was ringing with noise. There was singing and laughter, and Cankerby the footman was running between the cells fetching and carrying kitchen equipment for all the different prisoners, and the smell of Maidens’ Dreams, fresh from Mrs. Beamish’s oven, filled the warm air. The prisoners all looked far better fed than the last time Spittleworth had been down here. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all. He especially didn’t like to see Captain Goodfellow looking as fit and strong as ever he had. Spittleworth liked his enemies weak and hopeless. Even Mr. Dovetail looked as though he’d trimmed his long white beard.
“You are keeping track, aren’t you,” he asked the panting Cankerby “of all these pots, and knives, and whatnots you’re handing out?”
“Of — of course, my lord,” gasped the footman, not liking to admit that he was so confused by all the orders Mrs. Beamish was giving him, that he had no idea which prisoner had what. Spoons, whisks, ladles, saucepans, and baking trays had to be passed between the bars, to keep up with the demand for Mrs. Beamish’s pastries, and once or twice Cankerby had accidentally passed one of Mr. Dovetail’s chisels to another prisoner. He thought he collected everything in at the end of each night, but how on earth was he to be sure? And sometimes Cankerby worried that the warder of the dungeons, who was fond of wine, might not hear the prisoners whispering to one another, if they took it into their heads to plot anything after the candles were snuffed out at night. However, Cankerby could tell that Spittleworth was in no mood to have problems brought to him, so the footman held his tongue.
“There will be no more singing!” shouted Spittleworth, his voice echoing through the dungeons. “The king has a headache!”
In fact, it was Spittleworth whose head was beginning to throb. He forgot the prisoners as soon as he turned his back on them, and fell back to pondering how on earth he was going to make a convincing stuffed Ickabog. Perhaps Flapoon was on to something? Might they take the skeleton of a bull, and kidnap a seamstress to stitch a dragonish covering over the bones, and pad it out with sawdust?
Lies upon lies upon lies. Once you started lying, you had to continue, and then it was like being captain of a leaky ship, always plugging holes in the side to stop yourself sinking. Lost in thoughts of skeletons and sawdust, Spittleworth had no idea that he’d just turned his back on what promised to be his biggest problem yet: a dungeon full of plotting prisoners, each of whom had knives and chisels hidden beneath their blankets, and behind loose bricks in their walls.
Up in the Marshlands, where the snow still lay thick upon the ground, the Ickabog was no longer pushing the boulder in front of the cave mouth when it went out with its baskets. Instead, Daisy, Bert, Martha, and Roderick were helping it collect the little marsh mushrooms it liked to eat, and during these outings they also prized more frozen food from the abandoned wagon, which they took back to the cave for themselves.
All four humans were growing stronger and healthier by the day. The Ickabog too was growing fatter and fatter, but this was because its Bornding time was drawing ever closer. As the Bornding was when the Ickabog said it intended on eating the four humans, Bert, Martha, and Roderick weren’t very happy about the Ickabog’s growing belly. Bert, in particular, was certain the Ickabog meant to kill them. He now believed he’d been wrong about his father having an accident. The Ickabog was real, so clearly, the Ickabog had killed Major Beamish.
Often, on their mushrooming trips, the Ickabog and Daisy would draw a little ahead of the others, having their own private conversation.
“What d’you think they’re talking about?” Martha whispered to the two boys, as they searched the bog for the small white mushrooms the Ickabog particularly liked.
“I think she’s trying to make friends with it,” said Bert.
“What, so it’ll eat us instead of her?” said Roderick.
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” said Martha sharply. “Daisy looked after everyone at the orphanage. Sometimes she took punishments for other people too.”
Roderick was taken aback. He’d been taught by his father to expect the worst of everybody he met and that the one way to get on in life was to be the biggest, the strongest, and the meanest in every group. It was hard to lose the habits he’d been taught, but with his father dead, and his mother and brothers doubtless in prison, Roderick didn’t want these three new friends to dislike him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, and Martha smiled at him.
Now, as it happened, Bert was quite right. Daisy was making friends with the Ickabog, but her plan wasn’t only to save herself, or even her three friends. It was to save the whole of Cornucopia.
As she and the monster walked through the bog on this particular morning, drawing ahead of the others, she noticed that a few snowdrops had managed to force their way up through a patch of melting ice. Spring was coming, which meant soldiers would soon be returning to the edge of the marsh. With a funny seasick feeling in her stomach, because she knew how important it was that she got this right, Daisy said:
“Ickabog, you know the song you sing every night?”
The Ickabog, who was lifting a log to see whether there were any mushrooms hiding beneath it, said:
“If I didn’t know it, I couldn’t sing it, could I?”
It gave a wheezy little chuckle.
“Well, you know how you sing that you want your children to be kind, and wise, and brave?”
“Yes,” agreed the Ickabog, and it picked up a small silvery-gray mushroom and showed it to Daisy. “That’s a good one. You don’t get many silver ones on the marsh.”
“Lovely,” said Daisy, as the Ickabog popped the mushroom into its basket. “And then, in the last chorus of your song, you say you hope that your babies will kill people,” said Daisy.
“Yes,” said the Ickabog again, reaching up to pull a small bit of yellowish fungus off a dead tree, and showing it to Daisy. “This is poisonous. Never eat this kind.”
“I won’t,” said Daisy, and drawing a deep breath she said, “but d’you really think a kind, wise, brave Ickabog would eat people?”
The Ickabog stopped in the act of bending to pick up another silvery mushroom and peered down at Daisy.
“I don’t want to eat you,” it said, “but I have to, or my children will die.”
“You said they need hope,” said Daisy. “What if, when the Bornding time comes, they saw their mother — or their father — I’m sorry, I don’t quite know —”
“I will be their Icker,” said the Ickabog. “And they’ll be my Ickaboggles.”
“Well, then, wouldn’t it be wonderful if your — your Ickaboggles saw their Icker surrounded by people who love it, and want it to be happy, and to live with them as friends? Wouldn’t that fill them with more hope than anything else could do?”
The Ickabog sat down on a fallen tree trunk, and for a long time it said nothing at all. Bert, Martha, and Roderick stood watching from a distance. They coul
d tell something very important was happening between Daisy and the Ickabog, and although they were extremely curious, they didn’t dare approach.
At last the Ickabog said:
“Perhaps … perhaps it would be better if I didn’t eat you, Daisy.”
This was the first time the Ickabog had called her by her name. Daisy reached out and placed her hand in the Ickabog’s paw, and for a moment the two smiled at each other. Then the Ickabog said:
“When my Bornding comes, you and your friends must surround me, and my Ickaboggles will be Bornded knowing you’re their friends too. And after that, you must stay with my Ickaboggles here on the marsh, forever.”
“Well … the problem with that is,” said Daisy cautiously, still holding the Ickabog’s paw, “that the food on the wagon will run out soon. I don’t think there are enough mushrooms here to support the four of us and your Ickaboggles too.”
Daisy found it strange to be talking like this about a time when the Ickabog wouldn’t be alive, but the Ickabog didn’t seem to mind.
“Then what can we do?” it asked her, its big eyes anxious.
“Ickabog,” said Daisy cautiously, “people are dying all over Cornucopia. They’re starving to death, and even being murdered, all because some evil men made everyone believe you wanted to kill people.”
“I did want to kill people, until I met you four,” said the Ickabog.
“But now you’ve changed,” said Daisy. She got to her feet and faced the Ickabog, holding both of its paws. “Now you understand that people — most people, anyway — aren’t cruel or wicked. They’re mostly sad, and tired, Ickabog. And if they knew you — how kind you are, how gentle, how all you eat is mushrooms, they’d understand how stupid it is to fear you. I’m sure they’d want you and your Ickaboggles to leave the marsh, and go back to the meadows where your ancestors lived, where there are bigger, better mushrooms, and for your Ickaboggles to live with us as our friends.”
“You want me to leave the marsh?” said the Ickabog. “To go among men, with their guns and their spears?”
The Ickabog Page 17