Within seconds, Mr. Dovetail’s axe had smashed through the wood.
By Taarika, Age 9
The two lords dashed out into the palace courtyard to find the Ickabog Defense Brigade already mounted and armed, as Spittleworth had ordered. However, Major Prodd (the man who’d kidnapped Daisy years before, who’d been promoted after Spittleworth shot Major Roach) was looking nervous.
“My lord,” he said to Spittleworth, who was hastily mounting his horse, “there’s something happening inside the palace — we heard an uproar —”
“Never mind that now!” snapped Spittleworth.
A sound of shattering glass made all the soldiers look up.
“There are people in the king’s bedroom!” cried Prodd. “Shouldn’t we help him?”
“Forget the king!” shouted Spittleworth.
Captain Goodfellow now appeared at the king’s bedroom window. Looking down he bellowed:
“You won’t escape, Spittleworth!”
“Oh, won’t I?” snarled the lord, and kicking his thin yellow horse, he forced it into a gallop and disappeared out of the palace gates. Major Prodd was too scared of Spittleworth not to follow, so he and the rest of the Ickabog Defense Brigade charged after his lordship, along with Flapoon, who’d barely managed to get onto his horse before Spittleworth set off, bouncing along at the rear, holding on to his horse’s mane for dear life and trying to find his stirrups.
Some men might have considered themselves beaten, what with escaped prisoners taking over the palace and a fake Ickabog marching through the country and attracting crowds, but not Lord Spittleworth. He still had a squad of well-trained, well-armed soldiers riding behind him, heaps of gold hidden at his mansion in the country, and his crafty brain was already devising a plan. Firstly, he’d shoot the men who’d faked this Ickabog, and terrify the people back into obedience. Then he’d send Major Prodd and his soldiers back to the palace to kill all the escaped prisoners. Of course, the prisoners might have killed the king by that time, but in truth, it might be easier to govern the country without Fred. As he galloped along, Spittleworth thought bitterly that if only he hadn’t had to put so much effort into lying to the king, he might not have made certain mistakes, like letting that wretched pastry chef have knives and saucepans. He also regretted not hiring more spies, because then he might have found out that someone was making a fake Ickabog — a fake, by the sound of it, that was far more convincing than the one he’d seen that morning in the stables.
So the Ickabog Defense Brigade charged through the surprisingly empty cobbled streets of Chouxville and out onto the open road that led to Kurdsburg. To Spittleworth’s fury, he now saw why the Chouxville streets had been empty. Having heard the rumor that an actual Ickabog was walking toward the capital with a large crowd, the citizens of Chouxville had hurried out to catch a glimpse of it with their own eyes.
“Out of our way! OUT OF OUR WAY!” screamed Spittleworth, scattering the common people before him, furious to see them looking excited rather than scared. He spurred his horse onward until its sides were bleeding, and Lord Flapoon followed, now green in the face, because he hadn’t had time to digest his breakfast.
At last, Spittleworth and the soldiers spotted the huge crowd advancing in the distance, and Spittleworth hauled at his poor horse’s reins, so that it skidded to a halt in the road. There in the midst of the thousands of laughing and singing Cornucopians was a giant creature as tall as two horses, with eyes glowing like lamps, covered in long, greenish-brown hair like marsh weed. On its shoulder rode a young woman, and in front of it marched two young men holding up wooden signs. Every now and then, the monster stooped down and — yes — it seemed to be handing out flowers.
“It’s a trick,” muttered Spittleworth, so shocked and scared he hardly knew what he was saying. “It must be a trick!” he said more loudly, craning his scrawny neck to try and see how it was done. “There are obviously people standing on each other’s shoulders inside a suit of marsh weed — guns at the ready, men!”
But the soldiers were slow to obey. In all the time they’d been supposedly protecting the country from the Ickabog, the soldiers had never seen it, nor had they really expected to, yet they weren’t at all convinced they were watching a trick. On the contrary, the creature looked very real to them. It was patting dogs on the head, and handing out flowers to children, and letting that girl sit on its shoulder: it didn’t seem fierce at all. The soldiers were also scared of the crowd of thousands marching along with the Ickabog, who all seemed to like it. What would they do if the Ickabog was attacked?
Then one of the youngest soldiers lost his head completely.
“That’s not a trick. I’m off.”
Before anybody could stop him, he’d galloped away.
Flapoon, who had at last found his stirrups, now rode up front to take his place beside Spittleworth.
“What do we do?” asked Flapoon, watching the Ickabog and the joyful, singing crowd drawing nearer and nearer.
“I’m thinking,” snarled Spittleworth, “I’m thinking!”
But the cogs of Spittleworth’s busy brain seemed to have jammed at last. It was the joyful faces that upset him most. He’d come to think of laughter as a luxury like Chouxville pastries and silk sheets, and seeing these ragged people having fun frightened him more than if they’d all been carrying guns.
“I’ll shoot it,” said Flapoon, raising his gun and taking aim at the Ickabog.
“No,” said Spittleworth, “look, man, can’t you see we’re outnumbered?”
But at that precise moment, the Ickabog let out a deafening, bloodcurdling scream. The crowd that had pressed around it backed away, their faces suddenly scared. Many dropped their flowers. Some broke into a run.
With another terrible screech the Ickabog fell to its knees, almost shaking Daisy loose, though she clung on tightly.
And then a huge dark split appeared down the Ickabog’s enormous, swollen belly.
“You were right, Spittleworth!” bellowed Flapoon, raising his blunderbuss. “There are men hiding inside it!”
And as people in the crowd began to scream and flee, Lord Flapoon took aim at the Ickabog’s belly, and fired.
And then a huge dark split appeared down the Ickabog’s enormous, swollen belly.
By Jasper, Age 11
And now several things happened at almost the same time, so nobody watching could possibly keep up, but luckily, I can tell you about all of them.
Lord Flapoon’s bullet went flying toward the Ickabog’s opening belly. Both Bert and Roderick, who’d sworn to protect the Ickabog no matter what, flung themselves into the path of that bullet, which hit Bert squarely in the chest, and as he fell to the ground, his wooden sign, bearing the message THE ICKABOG IS HARMLESS, shattered into splinters.
Then a baby Ickabog, which was already taller than a horse, came struggling out of its Icker’s belly. Its Bornding had been a dreadful one, because it had come into the world full of its parent’s fear of the gun, and the first thing it had ever seen was an attempt to kill it, so it sprinted straight at Flapoon, who was trying to reload.
The soldiers who might have helped Flapoon were so terrified of the new monster bearing down upon them that they galloped out of its path without even trying to fire. Spittleworth was one of those who rode away fastest, and he was soon lost to sight. The baby Ickabog let out a terrible roar that still haunts the nightmares of those who witnessed the scene, before launching itself at Flapoon. Within seconds, Flapoon lay dead upon the ground.
All of this had happened very fast; people were screaming and crying, and Daisy was still holding on to the dying Ickabog, which lay in the road beside Bert. Roderick and Martha were bending over Bert, who, to their amazement, had opened his eyes.
“I — I think I’m all right,” he whispered, and feeling beneath his shirt, he pulled out his father’s huge silver medal. Flapoon’s bullet was buried in it. The medal had saved Bert’s life.
Seeing that
Bert was alive, Daisy now buried her hands in the hair on either side of the Ickabog’s face again.
“I didn’t see my Ickaboggle,” whispered the dying Ickabog, in whose eyes there were again tears like glass apples.
“It’s beautiful,” said Daisy, who was also starting to cry. “Look … here …”
A second Ickaboggle was wriggling out of the Ickabog’s tummy. This one had a friendly face and wore a timid smile, because its Bornding had happened as its parent was looking into Daisy’s face, and had seen her tears, and understood that a human could love an Ickabog as though it was one of their own family. Ignoring the noise and clamor all around it, the second Ickaboggle knelt beside Daisy in the road and stroked the big Ickabog’s face. Icker and Ickaboggle looked at each other and smiled, and then the big Ickabog’s eyes gently closed, and Daisy knew that it was dead. She buried her face in its shaggy hair and sobbed.
“You mustn’t be sad,” said a familiar booming voice, as something stroked her hair. “Don’t cry, Daisy. This is the Bornding. It is a glorious thing.”
Blinking, Daisy looked up at the baby, which was speaking with exactly the voice of its Icker.
“You know my name,” she said.
“Well, of course I do,” said the Ickaboggle kindly. “I was Bornded knowing all about you. And now we must find my Ickabob,” which, Daisy understood, was what Ickabogs called their siblings.
Daisy stood up and saw Flapoon lying dead in the road, and the firstborn Ickaboggle surrounded by people holding pitchforks and guns.
“Climb up here with me,” said Daisy urgently to the second baby, and hand in hand the two of them mounted the wagon. Daisy shouted at the crowd to listen. As she was the girl who’d ridden through the country on the shoulder of the Ickabog, the nearest people guessed that she might know things worth hearing, so they shushed everyone else, and at last Daisy was able to speak.
“You mustn’t hurt the Ickabogs!” were the first words out of her mouth, when at last the crowd was silent. “If you’re cruel to them, they’ll have babies who are born even crueller!”
“Bornded cruel,” corrected the Ickaboggle beside her.
“Bornded cruel, yes,” said Daisy. “But if they’re Bornded in kindness, they will be kind! They eat only mushrooms and they want to be our friends!”
The crowd muttered, uncertain, until Daisy explained about Major Beamish’s death on the marsh, how he’d been shot by Lord Flapoon, not killed by an Ickabog, and that Spittleworth had used the death to invent a story of a murderous monster on the marsh.
Then the crowd decided that they wanted to go and talk to King Fred, so the bodies of the dead Ickabog and Lord Flapoon were loaded onto the wagon, and twenty strong men pulled it along. Then the whole procession set off for the palace, with Daisy, Martha, and the kind Ickaboggle arm in arm at the front, and thirty citizens with guns surrounding the fierce, firstborn Ickaboggle, which otherwise would have killed more humans, because it had been Bornded fearing and hating them.
But after a quick discussion, Bert and Roderick vanished, and where they went, you’ll find out soon.
This one had a friendly face.
By Violet, Age 9
When Daisy entered the palace courtyard, at the head of the people’s procession, she was amazed to see how little it had altered. Fountains still played and peacocks still strutted, and the only change to the front of the palace was a single broken window, up on the second floor.
Then the great golden doors were flung open, and the crowd saw two ragged people walking out to meet them: a white-haired man holding an axe and a woman clutching an enormous saucepan.
And Daisy, staring at the white-haired man, felt her knees buckle, and the kind Ickaboggle caught her and held her up. Mr. Dovetail tottered forward, and I don’t think he even noticed that an actual live Ickabog was standing beside his long-lost daughter. As the two of them hugged and sobbed, Daisy spotted Mrs. Beamish over her father’s shoulder.
“Bert’s alive!” she called to the pastry chef, who was looking frantically for her son, “but he had something to do … he’ll be back soon!”
More prisoners now came hurrying out of the palace, and there were screams of joy as loved ones found loved ones, and many of the orphanage children found the parents they’d thought were dead.
Then a lot of other things happened, like the thirty strong men who surrounded the fierce Ickaboggle, dragging it away before it could kill anyone else, and Daisy asking Mr. Dovetail if Martha could come and live with them, and Captain Goodfellow appearing on a balcony with a weeping King Fred, who was still wearing his pajamas, and the crowd cheering when Captain Goodfellow said he thought it was time to try life without a king.
However, we must now leave this happy scene, and track down the man who was most to blame for the terrible things that had happened to Cornucopia.
Lord Spittleworth was miles away, galloping down a deserted country road, when his horse suddenly went lame. When Spittleworth tried to force it onward, the poor horse, which had had quite enough of being mistreated, reared and deposited Spittleworth onto the ground. When Spittleworth tried to whip it, the horse kicked him, then trotted away into a forest where I am pleased to tell you, it was later found by a kind farmer, who nursed it back to health.
Lord Spittleworth was therefore left to jog alone down the country lanes toward his country estate, holding up his Chief Advisor’s robes lest he trip over them, and looking over his shoulder every few yards for fear that he was being followed. He knew perfectly well that his life in Cornucopia was over, but he still had that mountain of gold hidden in his wine cellar, and he intended to load up his carriage with as many ducats as would fit, then sneak over the border into Pluritania.
Night had fallen by the time Spittleworth reached his mansion, and his feet were terribly sore. Hobbling inside, he bellowed for his butler, Scrumble, who so long ago had pretended to be Nobby Buttons’s mother and Professor Fraudysham.
“Down here, my lord!” called a voice from the cellar.
“Why haven’t you lit the lamps, Scrumble?” bellowed Spittleworth, feeling his way downstairs.
“Thought it best not to look like anyone was home, sir!” called Scrumble.
“Ah,” said Spittleworth, wincing as he limped downstairs. “So you’ve heard, have you?”
“Yes, sir,” said the echoing voice. “I imagined you’d be wanting to clear out, my lord?”
“Yes, Scrumble,” said Lord Spittleworth, limping toward the distant light of a single candle, “I most certainly do.”
He pushed open the door to the cellar where he’d been storing his gold all these years. The butler, whom Spittleworth could only make out dimly in the candlelight, was once again wearing Professor Fraudysham’s costume: the white wig and the thick glasses that shrank his eyes to almost nothing.
“Thought it might be best if we travel in disguise, sir,” said Scrumble, holding up old Widow Buttons’s black dress and ginger wig.
“Good idea,” said Spittleworth, hastily pulling off his robes and pulling on the costume. “Do you have a cold, Scrumble? Your voice sounds strange.”
“It’s just the dust down here, sir,” said the butler, moving farther from the candlelight. “And what will Your Lordship be wanting to do with Lady Eslanda? She’s still locked in the library.”
“Leave her,” said Spittleworth, after a moment’s consideration. “And serve her right for not marrying me when she had the chance.”
“Very good, my lord. I’ve loaded up the carriage and a couple of horses with most of the gold. Perhaps Your Lordship could help carry this last trunk?”
“I hope you weren’t thinking of leaving without me, Scrumble,” said Spittleworth suspiciously, wondering whether, if he’d arrived ten minutes later, he might have found Scrumble gone.
“Oh no, my lord,” Scrumble assured him. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving without Your Lordship. Withers the groom will be driving us, sir. He’s ready and waiting in the courtyar
d.”
“Excellent,” said Spittleworth, and together they heaved the last trunk of gold upstairs, through the deserted house, and out into the courtyard behind, where Spittleworth’s carriage stood waiting in the darkness. Even the horses had sacks of gold slung over their backs. More gold had been strapped onto the top of the carriage, in cases.
As he and Scrumble heaved the last trunk onto the roof, Spittleworth said:
“What is that peculiar noise?”
“I hear nothing, my lord,” said Scrumble.
“It is an odd sort of grunting,” said Spittleworth.
A memory came back to Spittleworth as he stood here in the dark: that of standing in the icy-white fog on the marsh all those years before, and the whimpers of the dog struggling against the brambles in which it was tangled. This was a similar noise, as though some creature were trapped and unable to free itself, and it made Lord Spittleworth quite as nervous as it had last time when, of course, it had been followed by Flapoon firing his blunderbuss and starting both of them onto the path to riches, and the country down the road to ruin.
“Scrumble, I don’t like that noise.”
“I don’t expect you do, my lord.”
The moon slid out from behind a cloud and Lord Spittleworth, turning quickly toward his butler, whose voice sounded very different all of a sudden, found himself staring down the barrel of one of his own guns. Scrumble had removed Professor Fraudysham’s wig and glasses, to reveal that he wasn’t the butler at all, but Bert Beamish. And for just a moment, seen by moonlight, the boy looked so like his father that Spittleworth had the crazy notion that Major Beamish had risen from the dead to punish him.
Then he looked wildly around him and saw, through the open door of the carriage, the real Scrumble, gagged and tied up on the floor, which was where the odd whimpering was coming from — and Lady Eslanda sitting there, smiling and holding a second gun. Opening his mouth to ask Withers the groom why he didn’t do something, Spittleworth realized that this wasn’t Withers, but Roderick Roach. (When he’d spotted the two boys galloping up the drive, the real groom had quite rightly sensed trouble, and stealing his favorite of Lord Spittleworth’s horses, had ridden off into the night.)
The Ickabog Page 19