The Kitchen Warriors

by Joan Aiken

  As it happened, King Corodil, who had a seat right in front of the stands, for he was the judge and umpire of the Games, heard these boastful words.

  “Oh you would, would you?” he said rather sharply, for he was an elderly man, and the Games had been going on for several hours by now, and his feet hurt, and his crown was fidgeting him, and he wanted to have his supper and take off the crown and go to bed. “Well, if the cat Mistigris does come in, you can just do that; otherwise you shall be exiled for a hundred years.”

  At this a general hiss of horror went up from the elves; for of course the Elf King’s word is law, if he has his crown on, and even he himself can’t go back on it. Hirondel turned quite pale, but he said stoutly, “Of course I should be glad to do it, your majesty—if the cat Mistigris should chance to come in.”

  Just at that moment the cat Mistigris did come in, through his cat-flap. It had started to rain rather heavily, and his fur was all wet; he wanted to warm up and dry off.

  All the elves shot into the air like grasshoppers. Most of them landed on the kitchen table. Some hurried into the china cupboard, where their village was, behind the soup bowls.

  King Corodil, stroking his long white beard and settling his crown more firmly on his head, said, with great briskness: “Well, Hirondel! Now it’s up to you! Sling up the cat—otherwise you are due for a hundred years’ exile.”

  Poor Hirondel turned white as the table cloth. Elf years are not so long as human years—but just the same a dismal prospect lay ahead of him. Nor did he have the least notion in the world how to rig up a crane and sling and hoist the cat Mistigris into the air. But he gulped and said, “Yes sir, naturally I’ll do my best.”

  His girl friend Ilthra gave his hand a squeeze and said, “I’ll help you.” And so did his friend Dibdin, who had in fact begun the boasting and felt rather bad about it. Dibdin’s girl friend Chraselas also offered to help. So the four of them sat on the edge of the kitchen table, with their legs dangling, and thought hard, while, on the black-and-white tiled floor below them, the cat Mistigris, who was gray all over, began to wash the wet off himself with his rough pink tongue. Mistigris took no notice of the elves so long as they didn’t interfere with him. He knew they were not very good to cat. He preferred mice; or tins of Kittigoo.

  Mistigris leaned over backwards, propping himself on his two front legs, and stuck up a back foot in the air like a leg of mutton. Then he started work on licking it dry and clean.

  “First we need a tea cloth,” said Dibdin.

  “I can get that,” said Ilthra. She was a marvelous jumper and had won a laurel wreath in the high-jump event. She sprang up in the air to where the tea cloths hung on the Dutch airer, tweaked one loose, and returned to the kitchen table, with the tea cloth falling down behind her like half the sky.

  “Now, we need a lot of rope,” said Chraselas.

  Rope was soon produced. The elves make it out of twisted human hair, which they find on carpets. The hair is soaked in hippocras, and doubled and plaited and twisted; it makes a particularly strong rope.

  “Now we need a hook,” said Ilthra.

  Dibdin knew where a cup-hook had been left by one of THEM at the back of the china cupboard; it lay behind a pile of saucers. He went and fetched it. It was too heavy for him to carry without help, so Prince Coriander came to his aid. The prince had been longing to do something for the four friends, since the Games were being held in his honor. He felt sad about this upsetting incident, and very sorry that King Corodil had lost his temper.

  The hook was lowered by a long rope from the china cupboard to the kitchen table.

  “Now we have to screw it into the underside of the kitchen table,” said Dibdin. “How in the world are we going to do that?”

  Another friend, Chanterol, who was a noted climber, volunteered to screw in the hook. He descended the table leg, driving in little tiny sharp pegs at each step to make holds for his feet; then he climbed up inside under the table top, using the same method. He took with him a high-speed drill, made from wasps’ teeth, with which he rapidly bored a hole in the underside of the table. The cup-hook, slung on a rope which passed from side to side of the table, was then lowered down, and he pulled it along until it dangled just beneath the hole he had bored.

  Then the two girls, who were both expert tightrope walkers, approached the hook from each end of the rope, turned it the other way up, and helped Chanterol screw it into the hole he had bored.

  Now the rope was attached to the hook and hung down to the ground, dangling beside the cat Mistigris, who took no notice of it at all. Mistigris had dried off both hind legs and was hard at work on his ears, rubbing them with the back of his front paws.

  “Now we have to fasten the tea cloth to the rope,” said Hirondel. “Who ties the best knots?”

  Prince Coriander did. While he was away, learning the trade of a prince with the Garden Elves, he had spent a year in the navy, sailing about on the garden pond in ships made of walnut shells. He and Hirondel descended to ground level and fastened one corner of the tea cloth to the end of the rope. Then they stood scratching their heads, looking at the cat Mistigris, who towered above them like an elephant.

  “How are we going to get the tea cloth underneath him?” said Coriander.

  “If we could just make him stand up for a moment,” said Hirondel, “I could run through from one side to the other carrying the end of the cloth that’s tied to the rope. Then, even if he sat down again, we might all be able to pull it through.”

  “If we bother him too much, he might bite us.”

  This was true. Mistigris had a hasty temper and didn’t care to be touched. He had been known to do bad damage to elves who accidentally got in his way.

  “He is not going to like this,” said Chanterol, who had joined them.

  “No he isn’t,” said Ilthra. She sounded very worried.

  “I’ll run through under his stomach,” said Dibdin bravely. “It was my fault all this got started.”

  “Perhaps if we peeled an onion close beside him, he would stand up,” said Chraselas. “Mistigris hates the smell of onion.”

  She went to the pantry and found a small onion. Ilthra helped her strip off the skin; then, with an axe, they hacked the onion in half. All the elves in the kitchen began to stream with tears and wipe their eyes. The onion was frightfully strong.

  Mistigris shook his head angrily, and shook it again. The onion smell was getting among his whiskers, and he hated it. Then he stood up.

  Dibdin, giving a huge sniff, choking back his tears, bolted through between the cat’s front and back legs, hauling the heavy corner of the tea cloth after him. It was like pulling the corner of a thick carpet—almost heavier than he could drag.

  Hirondel bolted round behind the cat—leaping over his tail—and was there to help his friend pull the cloth halfway through the gap.

  “For heaven’s sake, girls, take the onion away!” he called. “Or we shan’t be able to see what we are doing.”

  Gulping and gasping the two girls put the onion back together again and wrapped its peel around it. Then they returned it to the vegetable rack.

  Mistigris sat down again, twisted his head round, and began to dry his shoulder blades.

  Chanterol seized the rope that was fastened to the corner of the tea cloth and clambered back up the table leg. He passed the end of the rope over the cup-hook and dropped it down to his friends below, who fastened it to the opposite corner of the tea cloth. Dibdin climbed up with the rope again, which was passed over the cup-hook and the free end dropped down.

  “Now we must all pull,” said Hirondel.

  The girls had returned from the pantry, dodging the tail of the dog Garm (still fast asleep, thank goodness) and tiptoeing past the broom cupboard where the savage Norn stirred and growled in her dusty corner.

  There was a lot of slac
k rope on the floor, so they all took hold of it—Dibdin, Hirondel, Chanterol, Ilthra, Chraselas, and Prince Coriander. They pulled and pulled and pulled, until the slack was all taken up, and the tea cloth began to creep along the floor, under the cat Mistigris, who was now lying on his side, and licking one of his elbows.

  He turned his head sharply, as the cloth slipped along the polished floor under his stomach.

  “Now we must be ready for one strong, fast pull!” hissed Prince Coriander. “For the cat Mistigris is not going to like it at all when he suddenly feels himself hoisted up into the air. And that will be the worst danger point—before his feet are off the ground, while he is still able to spring at us.”

  Above, on the kitchen table, and on the shelves, and the counter by the sink, and on every level spot, the kitchen elves were clustered, breathless, watching, all this time.

  “Oh, if only my boy hadn’t made that silly boast,” mourned Mopsa, the mother of Hirondel.

  “Oh, if only you hadn’t been so sharp with the lad and told him he’d have to go into exile,” whispered the queen to King Corodil, and he looked at her crossly.

  “Well, it’s too late now. I did tell him. You can’t plant a daisy once it has been chopped down.”

  “One!” called Prince Coriander, “TWO! THREE!”

  All six of them pulled on the rope until their muscles twanged like guitar strings. And the cat Mistigris—to everybody’s amazement—suddenly rose six inches in the air; to his own huge astonishment and disgust.

  “They’ve done it, they’ve done it!” shrieked Mopsa.

  “But will they ever be able to get him any higher?” muttered the king doubtfully. For Mistigris had begun to struggle and kick, and he was slipping backwards in the sling of tea cloth that supported him; in another minute he would be out of the sling, and the valiant six who had hoisted him up would be in deadly danger. For Mistigris was looking very angry indeed. No cat likes to be treated with disrespect. His ears were back and his eyes were slits and his whiskers were flattened back against his head.

  Then—at that very moment—everybody heard a sound in the garden outside. A loud, wild caterwauling: Morow-wow-wow, wow, wow, wow, graaaaatch!

  “That’s the big white cat from next door,” muttered Queen Corasin. “And the yellow striped one from three houses along.”

  With two rapid kicks, Mistigris got himself out of the sling. He didn’t waste a single glance at the elves, but shot across the kitchen, out through his cat-flap, and away.

  A long sigh of relief went up from everybody in the kitchen. Except Garm the dog, who was still asleep.

  King Corodil said, “Since all four paws of the cat Mistigris were definitely seen to be off the ground, I declare the threat of banishment null and void. The Games will be concluded tomorrow night. It is time that everybody went to bed. But please tidy up all that mess first; otherwise THEY will be sure to notice something.”

  And he stumped away to his palace.

  Coriander, Hirondel, Dibdin, Chanterol, Chraselas, and Ilthra quickly tidied away the rope and bits of onion peel, untied the tea cloth, and put it back on the Dutch airer. They had to do this by hauling it up on the rope; it was a long and tiring job. Dawn was breaking by the time they had finished, and so they were obliged to leave the cup-hook. It is still screwed to the underside of the kitchen table. But so far THEY have not noticed this.

  “I hope that will cure you of silly bragging,” Hirondel’s mother said to him.

  And Queen Corasin said to her husband, “Don’t you think perhaps it is time you retired, dear?”

  3. The Nixie’s Rescue

  “I AM GOING TO RESCUE that poor nixie girl who got taken by the trolls,” said Prince Coriander. “That is, if they haven’t eaten her already.”

  “What?” shrieked his mother the queen. “How can you go and do a dangerous thing like that, when you have only just come home after so long?”

  “I do not consider it at all necessary to go and rescue a nixie girl,” said King Corodil. “The nixies never do anything for us. They just sit in the sink and sing silly songs and play with the water. Why should we do anything for them?”

  “I like their singing,” said Prince Coriander. “And they are very sad about their sister. I want to help them.”

  Off he went to talk to the nixies who live in the sink. They are green all over, and their eyes and hair are golden, and they have voices like liquid moonlight.

  “I want to try and rescue your sister from the trolls in the deep-freeze,” said Coriander. “Is she still there?”

  “Oh yes!” chorused the other four sisters, Watersleep, Watersmoon, Waterswit, and Watersweet. “We can hear her weeping and crying at sunrise and at moonrise. The trolls are keeping her for their great feast on Trolls’ Night.”

  “When is that?”

  “When the old moon has gone and before the new moon has come. But how can you possibly rescue her? The trolls are terribly powerful. They could turn you to ice-dust, or chew you up on the spot, or many other terrible things. And there are so many of them—ever so many more than there used to be!”

  “How many?”

  “We don’t exactly know, but many, many,” replied the nixies, shivering.

  “Do they never leave the deep-freeze?”

  “Oh yes, when they go out hunting ghost-deer.”

  “Then I’ll pick a night when they do that, and try to slip in and rescue your sister while they are gone.”

  “You’ll need something to cut through her chains,” said the nixies, “for the troll chains are made of ice and fire and no ordinary blade will cut them.”

  “Where could I find something that will?”

  “Well,” they said doubtfully, “the old Norn in the broom cupboard, Urd, has a pair of tongs made from light. She uses them to pull out the quills of her porcupine when they grow too long. If you could borrow those … But the Norn herself is a very dreadful person, and if she were to lay hold of you in her talons, you’d be done for.”

  “Well, I will see if I can borrow her tongs,” resolved Prince Coriander. And he crossed the kitchen and, quaking a little inside himself but not letting it show, tapped on the door of the broom cupboard.

  “Who’s there?” croaked a rusty voice.

  “Prince Coriander. I want to ask if I can borrow your tongs.”

  “What can you do for me in return?” croaked the voice, and suddenly the door flew open. Inside was a cobwebby old lady who looked half witch, half skeleton; she clutched in one of her taloned hands a three-legged broom. At her feet squatted a prickly porcupine. She and the porcupine stared at Prince Coriander as if they would like nothing better than to sink their teeth in him. But he said boldly:

  “I can bring you some news of your sister Verd, who lives out in the garden.”

  “How is my dear sister?” croaked the Norn, looking interested at once. For it is a rule that the three Norns, who are sisters, may never meet. One of them lives in the present, one in the past, and one in the future.

  “Your sister Verd is well, and has a trail of green mossy hair down to her ankles. And the birds are building nests on her shoulders.”

  “Very well,” said the Norn, “for that piece of news I shall allow you to borrow my tongs. But you must let me have them back by tomorrow, or I shall send my porcupine to spike you with his prickles.” At which Ferd the porcupine rattled his prickles fiercely.

  The Norn handed over her tongs, which were made of white light, and Prince Coriander, tucking them under his belt, went in search of his friend Chanterol, who had a little pipe made of clay and shaped like a deer’s antler, on which he could play beautiful tunes, and, as well, imitate the noise made by any animal or bird.

  “Can you imitate the call of a ghost-deer?” said Prince Coriander.

  “Easy!” replied Chanterol, and he blew on his pipe, as
hard as he could, and the kitchen filled with a sound like the call of ghost-deer as they run through the woods and over the moors. The dog Garm stirred in his sleep, for it sounded as if there were a whole forest full of them right there, between the china cupboard and the sink and the gas cooker and the deep-freeze.

  By and by Coriander and Chanterol, who had hidden themselves behind the bread bin, heard the voices of trolls inside their lair.

  “Come out, brothers, let us go out and hunt! There must be a whole herd of deer passing by. We need more meat for our feast on Trolls’ Night.”

  Soon the door of the deep-freeze opened and a whole crowd of trolls came trooping out. As soon as they were outside they began to grow, for trolls can take any size that is convenient to them. They were dreadful in appearance, for they gave off blue light, and deadly cold, and their eyes spun round in their heads like wheels. At the sight of them the nixies in the sink dived under water, and even the kelpies in the dishwasher retired into the Black Pit. The trolls rushed off, yelling their hunting cry, waving their spears, after the ghost-deer they hoped to catch and kill.

  Then Prince Coriander bounded up, and opened the deep-freeze, and leapt inside. There he saw the poor nixie girl, right at the back, tied down in a corner by a hundred heavy chains. The trolls could not freeze her, for nixies are cold-blooded to begin with, but they had starved her, and she was so miserable that the sight of Prince Coriander was just another terror.

  “Oh, who are you?” she gasped.

  “I am Prince Coriander, of the elves, and I have come to rescue you. Keep still.” And the prince set to work with old Urd’s tongs, pulling apart the chains of ice and fire that held the nixie down. They were riveted to a huge block of ice, and the job was a great deal harder, and took much longer, than he had expected. “Are you Waterslenda?” he asked the green girl, as he tugged and beat at the chains.