by Joan Aiken
The girl nodded. “Oh, please be careful!” she cried. “Don’t make such a noise. For they left an old troll guarding me. He is there, in the other corner. If you bang and crash, you are likely to wake him.”
Sure enough, in another corner, Prince Coriander could see an old troll, snoring by a fire of red-hot icicles.
“I’ll be as quiet as I can,” he said. “But I have to work fast, for soon the trolls outside will discover there aren’t any ghost-deer, and then they will be coming home again.”
One by one the chains dropped off, until there were only three left. But then the prince accidentally touched Waterslenda on the back of her hand with the Norn’s tongs.
“Oh!” she shrieked. “That tickles! It’s so cold! It’s so hot!” And she burst into a peal of laughter.
And at that Uggslid, the aged troll who had been left to guard her, woke up and saw Prince Coriander.
“What in the name of all that’s trolley are you?” he growled, and made for the prince, growing as he went. Prince Coriander knew he must act fast, and he did—he leapt towards the troll, opening the tongs as wide as they would go, seized the troll’s nose, gave a tremendous tug, and pulled it off.
A troll cannot survive without his nose—down sank Uggslid, with a clap like a burst balloon, and soon shrank away to nothing at all.
Quickly Prince Coriander turned back to the chains that held Waterslenda, and pulled off the last three. But now he heard a warning shout from his friend Chanterol, who had been left to keep watch outside the deep-freeze. “Look out, prince! Make haste! The trolls are coming back.”
What had happened was quite outside the prince’s calculations.
In the middle of the dark park the hunting trolls had come across a pair of real ghost-deer and—as bad luck would have it—one of the hunted deer galloped round in a circle and, flying from the trolls, came right into the kitchen where the elves lived. Ghost-deer, of course, can go straight through any walls, doors, or windows, and often do.
Quick as a flash, Prince Coriander pulled the nixie girl out of the trolls’ lair. Clasping her in his arms he made a tremendous leap and sprang straight from the deep-freeze to the sink, where her sisters, Watersleep, Watersmoon, Watersweet, and Waterswit, were waiting to welcome her.
“Oh, dearest sister! We thought we’d never see you again.”
“Oh, how thin and pale you are!”
“Quick, we must hide from the trolls!”
Faster than light, all five girls sank down in a ribbon of water and vanished from view.
The trolls were still hurtling round and round the kitchen, raging and crackling and giving off blue fumes, in pursuit of the ghost-deer, which managed to keep just two bounds ahead of them.
Old Urd, the Norn, put her head out of her cobwebby cupboard. “What is all this commotion?” she croaked. “How is a person supposed to get any sleep around here?”
And, in a rage, she began laying about her with her three-legged broom, banging the trolls as they passed by. Urd is not afraid of any trolls—in fact she is afraid of nothing at all except her younger sister Swurd.
In the confusion, the ghost-deer managed to escape up the chimney, but the trolls did not notice that.
“Where is it, where is it?” they yelled, and, taking no notice of Urd, they began opening biscuit tins and throwing over chairs and pulling out drawers and creating the most terrible mess and chaos. “Where did the deer go?”
“He went in there,” maliciously croaked the Norn, and she pointed with one of her long claws to the round lettuce-dryer. Ten—twenty—thirty trolls instantly pulled off the lid and leapt inside, making themselves small enough to do so.
“Now’s your chance, prince!” cackled the Norn. “Put the lid back on and spin!”
Prince Coriander did not wait to be told twice. He clapped the lid back on the lettuce-dryer and began to whirl it round, faster and faster, faster and faster. The trolls inside began to scream like gulls, but being whirled round so fast robbed them of their power to grow and made them quite helpless.
Prince Coriander whirled and whirled, until his arm ached, but he dare not stop. The rest of the trolls, hovering in the air or perched on the deep-freeze, were letting out blue flames of rage and looked ready to tear him in pieces, but they, too, dared not touch him while he was whirling their friends inside the dryer. How long can I go on? wondered the prince.
“Best get back to your cave, trolls!” shrieked the Norn. “Sun rises in ninety seconds. If you stay out, my sister Swurd will be after you!”
Then the trolls panicked. True enough, the hunt had lasted so long that outside the windows the sky was turning pink; night was nearly over. And any troll who is outside his cave when the sun rises is immediately turned to stone. All the trolls perched about the kitchen made for the deep-freeze and there was a furious battle just outside the door as they kicked and fought and scuffled to get in. Some managed to squeeze through in time, but there was a terrible chorus of wails and groans abruptly cut short as the sun rose, and the trolls who were left outside changed to blocks of black stone, and dropped heavily on to the floor. And Prince Coriander, feverishly spinning the lid of the lettuce-dryer with an arm that felt ready to come away from its shoulder, heard inside the dryer a series of sharp thuds which meant that the trolls in there, also, had turned to pebbles.
“Well, that’s rid the place of a lot of them. But what a mess!” grumbled the Norn, glancing about the untidy kitchen, where tins had been emptied, drawers turned upside down, chairs knocked over, and tea cloths tossed on the floor. “You elves had best tidy it up before THEY come down. That’s your business. And give me back my tongs, Prince!”
Prince Coriander gratefully gave the Norn her tongs. Then he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. Right away, half a hundred elves came dropping out of the china cupboard, and began busily wiping and sweeping and putting everything to rights.
“We really ought to be given overtime pay—having to work like this in daylight,” remarked one of them. “Danger money, too!”
“Stow your row, thickhead!” said another. “Hasn’t Prince Coriander got rid of goodness knows how many trolls, who were a danger to the entire kitchen community? You ought to be grateful to him.”
Disposing of the trolls on the floor who had turned to stone proved quite an awkward task. In the end the elves solved it by shoving the stones on to sheets of newspaper and then dragging the newspaper out of doors; the stones were left on the pavement, where they puzzled a great many people.
“I want to marry that nixie girl,” said Prince Coriander to his father next day.
“What? Marry a nixie? Have you gone clean off your head? Elves never marry nixies,” said King Corodil.
“Why not?”
“Well because—because—because they are different, that’s why! Elves are warm-blooded, nixies are cold-blooded. It just wouldn’t do. Nixies have never married elves.”
“She is very beautiful,” said Prince Coriander obstinately, “and I love her, and I am going to ask her to marry me.”
“If you do,” said his father, “I shall disinherit you! My brother Corofin has twenty sons—I shall offer the Elf Crown to one of my twenty nephews.”
“Oh, Corodil, you can’t do that!” cried his wife anxiously. “Don’t you remember that if an Elf King decides to disinherit his son, there has to be a contest, and the crown goes to the winner?”
“Very well; then there will have to be a contest,” growled Corodil. “For I’m not leaving the Elf Crown to a besotted boy who wants to marry a green nixie.”
“I shall ask her tomorrow,” said Prince Coriander. “But,” he added sadly, “who knows? Perhaps she won’t have me.”
4. The Furnace Dragon
“THERE SHALL BE A CONTEST to decide who is going to be the new King of the Elves,” said King Corodil. “I’m g
etting old and tired. It’s time I retired. And it can’t be too soon. I don’t feel a bit well.”
He coughed and the queen looked at him anxiously, for he had never said such a thing before.
“But why can’t our dear son Coriander be king?”
“Because the young idiot wants to marry a nixie. Imagine a nixie as Queen of the Elves? No,” said the king firmly, “I shall hold a contest among all my nephews.”
“You can’t stop Coriander from going in for the contest. That would be against elf law.”
“No. But I daresay he won’t win. After all, I have twenty nephews.”
However, when the terms of the contest were announced, only two of the twenty nephews were able to apply. It turned out that twelve of the rest were still under fifteen, so they were not eligible. And, of the other six, four were doing their naval service, and one was in prison for stealing a horse.
So the contenders for the kingship were Prince Coriander and his two cousins, Borodig and Finpair.
Borodig was a fat, cheerful boy, not very bright. Coriander liked him, but couldn’t honestly feel that he would make a very good Elf King, defending his subjects against all the perils they have to live with: trolls, witches, dragons, kelpies, and savage dogs and cats.
Finpair was thin and quiet and rather sly-looking; Prince Coriander knew nothing against him except that, many years ago when they were both boys, Finpair had stolen a pair of Coriander’s magic skates and then said he hadn’t. But that was a long time in the past. By now he was probably a very good sort of fellow.
“The terms of the contest are this,” said King Corodil. “I shall set each of you a task. The one who completes his task first and best will win ten points. The second and third get five points and one point respectively. Then there will be a running race, again for ten, five, and one points. Then you will each have to make some suggestion for a Good Idea. Another ten points. And the one who does best will become king. I shall resign.”
Finpair, who had brightened at the sound of the race, for he was a very fast runner, looked a bit thoughtful at the Good Idea. Borodig became very downcast.
“Good Idea?” he mumbled. “How shall I ever think of one?”
“These are the tasks,” said King Corodil. “My son Coriander must go to the cellar, subdue the Furnace dragon, and bring back the silver apples from the apple tree that grows there.”
All the listeners gasped with horror. For the Furnace dragon was the most dangerous peril the elves have to face. No one—no one ever went into the cellar unless it was a matter of life and death. And then generally it proved a matter of death.
“Oh, Corodil!” wailed the queen.
But the king said grandly: “It is right that my son should have the most dangerous task.”
The other tasks were almost as bad, however. Finpair had to climb into the dishwasher, braving the horrible kelpies who live in its slimy depths, and rescue Queen Corasin’s ring, which had once accidentally been left lying in a salt-cellar and tossed in by one of THEM.
Hearing this announcement, Finpair looked first thoughtful, then surprisingly confident.
Borodig’s task was to climb into the refrigerator (braving the young trolls who go to school in that place) and bring back a supply of jam turnover, which was King Corodil’s favorite food. “How shall I ever do that?” he wailed despondently.
“I’ll help you!” whispered Finpair. “Anything to keep out Coriander!”
The prince was not paying attention to the other two contestants. He wandered off, deep in thought, to ask the advice of the Norn in the broom cupboard, who had helped him once before. That evening he knocked on her cupboard door.
“Who’s there?” she snarled.
“It’s I, Prince Coriander. I want to ask your advice. I have brought you a leaf covered with runes from your sister Verd.”
The Norn opened her cobwebby door, looked at the leaf, sniffed it, ate it, and then demanded, “What’s the trouble this time, Prince? What do you want?”
“I have to go to the cellar, and subdue the Furnace dragon, and bring back the silver apples.”
“The Furnace dragon! What next? How long do you expect to live? Well,” said the Norn, “you will need to use cunning there. You can’t overcome him by force.”
“Oh?” said the prince, disappointed. “I hoped I could kill him and then we’d never have to fear him again.”
“No, no, you can’t do that. There will always be a Furnace dragon. You must ask him a riddle. And while he’s trying to think of the answer, be picking your apples. You must take an ash flower with you, so that the sweet scent will make the dragon drowsy. Otherwise he would probably swallow you before you can even ask your riddle.”
“Where do I find an ash flower?”
“Growing out of the hearthstone at moonrise,” said the Norn. “Now don’t bother me any more, I’m tired. Mind you take care to pick all the silver apples. That’s important.”
“Why?”
But she had gone in and closed the door.
Though the prince didn’t know it, Finpair and Borodig had hidden behind a dustpan and listened to this conversation. Finpair thought it would be worth his while to learn Coriander’s plans.
“It’s a good thing we listened,” he told Borodig. “You can pick one of those ash flowers too, and use it to put the troll children to sleep while you take a piece of jam turnover. Take a good big piece,” he suggested craftily, knowing how greedy Borodig was, “and then you and I can have a bit of it before you take the rest to the king.”
Prince Coriander went to the hearthstone at moonrise and picked one of the nine great white flowers that suddenly sprang up in bloom, straight out of the stone. The flower smelt sweet as honey, and drowsy too; it made the prince yawn, as he walked along.
“This won’t do,” he thought, and he strapped it on his back, where the scent would drift off behind him as he walked along.
Then he climbed down into the cellar, which took him two days of hard travel in the dark. He had a glowworm to light his way, but even so the dark was dreadful. Lower and lower he climbed, down the stone stairs, and at last he could see the dragon’s eye glow red, and hear its snoring breath.
Then there was a loud huffing roar, as the dragon smelt him and heard him and came to sudden life; it spread open black steel wings, and shot out a fearful claw. But Prince Coriander, waving the ash flower in front of him until its sweet scent spread over the cellar, called out:
“Purple yellow red and green
The king can’t touch me nor the queen
See me wet, see me dry
Who can tie a bow in the sky?”
The Furnace dragon can never resist riddles. He began to think about this one, wrinkling his cast-iron forehead, grinding his aluminum teeth.
“See me wet, see me dry,” he mumbled and muttered to himself.
Meanwhile Prince Coriander, without wasting a moment, sprang across, past the dragon and his furnace, to the far corner of the cellar where a tiny apple tree could be seen; there were the silver apples, which were the size of currants, gleaming faintly in the light of the dragon’s red eye.
The prince had brought a silk bag tied to his belt. He picked the apples and packed them into the bag with feverish speed. The ash flower began to droop and wilt in the dragon’s fiery heat; anyway, ash flowers last for only three days.
Having picked all the apples—or he thought he had picked them all—Prince Coriander scampered back up the steps, taking them in terrific grasshopper leaps. Only just in time …
“I give up!” roared the dragon. “What’s the answer?”
“A rainbow!” called the prince, and then he flung himself through the cellar door, just before a blast of white-hot heat followed him. One of his heels was badly singed, and the ash flower turned to silver cinders.
When C
oriander returned to the palace, he found that the other two competitors had arrived before him. Borodig had brought an enormous piece of jam turnover. It would have been bigger still, but he had stopped on the way to eat half himself. And he would have come sooner still, but his greedy feast had made him fall asleep for a day and a night. So Finpair had arrived first with his gold ring.
“It was a dreadful business fighting off those unpleasant kelpies,” he said modestly. “But the thought of your majesty’s pleasure at getting the ring back spurred me on.”
“Oh, my dear, dear ring!” cried Queen Corasin. “It has my name engraved inside it, just as I remember. And a good-luck rune. Oh, how pleased I am to get it back.”
King Corodil was busily eating the rest of the jam turnover. It was his favorite food. So Prince Coriander’s bag of silver apples did not cause much excitement. The bag was put on a shelf, and the king said, “Tomorrow we will hold the running race and the rest of the contest.”
However in the middle of the night King Corodil had such terrible pains that the queen became seriously alarmed.
“Oh, I shall die, I shall die!” he groaned. “I shall die before my successor has been appointed.”
The queen sent a palace page running for the doctor, who had trained for five years under Urd the Norn, and was very wise. He said at once: “The king has been eating much too much jam turnover. I can tell that from the color of his eyes. He is gravely ill and may even die. I’m afraid the remedy is a difficult one: he needs applesauce made from the silver apples that grow in the cellar.”
“Oh, but that is no problem at all!” cried the queen joyously. “For my dear son Coriander has just brought a whole bagful.”
“Did he pick the whole crop?”
“Yes, every one.”
“Then that should just save the king.”
So the silver apples were made into applesauce, and the king swallowed it, and began to feel a little, just a little better. But still he was not quite better.