L. Frank Baum - Oz 23

by Jack Pumpkinhead Of Oz

  “Were you a prisoner long?” asked Peter, as Snif flew swiftly over a bright red forest.

  “Five years,” bellowed the big beast, looking over its shoulder. Flying seemed no effort at all and it talked quite easily as it flew. “The first year,” it explained sadly, “I struggled and growled so hard in my efforts to escape that I completely lost my gu-r-r-r. See!” Clearing its throat, the Iffin attempted a growl but succeeded in producing only a faint squeak. “After I lost my gu-rr,” it went on in a melancholy voice, “I amused myself making up iffish verses, a habit I fear I shall never recover from.”

  “I like it,” said Peter after a short pause. “It reminds me of Scraps. She’s a live Patchwork Girl who lives in the Emerald City. Scraps talks in verses all the time.”

  “If the Patchwork Girl can talk in rhyme She must be ‘most as smart as I’m.” smiled Snif, with a wink at Jack Pumpkinhead.

  “She is,” laughed Peter with a reminiscent chuckle. “I say, there must have been a lot of travellers from the number of Fraid Cats in Scare City. Why did they have two heads?”

  “So they’d be forced to look at Scares which ever way they turned,” sighed the Iffin.

  “Every Scare had his cave full of statues of people who had come to Scare City by mistake and been frightened stiff. You were lucky to escape.

  “Well,” admitted Peter with pardonable pride, “it’s pretty hard to scare the Captain of a baseball team and Jack is not easily frightened either.”

  “So I see, er-saw,” observed the Iffin politely.

  “When we reach the Emerald City, Ozma will find a way to release all of these prisoners wherever they are, said Peter confidently. “But how did they capture you?”

  “I dropped into the city at night,” said the Iffin, “and before I saw how bad it was they overpowered and chained me up. They wanted me to stay and devour all travellers and even when I refused they kept me as a curiosity. And that’s all I’ll be from now on,” it wheezed heavily. “I’ll never get the taste of sulphur out of my throat, the picture of the Scares out of my mind or be able to growl again. I’m quite all wrong.

  “You seem all right to me,” said Peter, with a little sigh of content. “Wait till you see the Emerald City. You’ll forget all about the Scares and never ever want to leave again, will he Jack?”

  “Never,” answered Jack, with a solemn nod. “I have heard the capitol is very lovely,” mused the Iffin, “but my home is beautiful, too.”

  “Where do you live?” inquired Peter. Jack was too busy holding on his head to join in the conversation.

  “In the Land of the Barons, among these hills.” Pausing in mid air, the Iffin pointed with its claw to the rolling hillside below. Here and there above the trees and on the hill tops lordly castles reared their round, red towers. Flags fluttered from every turret and Peter had to admit that the Land of the Barons looked extremely interesting and gay.

  “Are these barons pleasant fellows?” he asked, putting a steadying arm around Jack Pumpkinhead. The Iffin answered in verse:

  “If they’re good, they’re good as pie, But some are bad and make things fly~even me.

  “You mean there are all kinds,” mused Peter.

  “Yes,” said the Iffin. “And they’re always fighting, but I don’t mind battles. I just fly around till they’re over and they’re quite interesting to watch.”

  “I hope we don’t land in the middle of a battle,” sighed Peter. “And I hope the first Baron we meet is a good fellow and knows the way to the Emerald City.”

  “If he is, and if he does, we’ll be as gay as never was; And if he’s not and if he don’t, we’ll find a way, swumped if we won’t!”

  “You use such funny words,” sniffed Peter, as the monster circled lower and lower. But the Iffin made no answer this time, for he was looking for a good place to land.

  Presently he found one, and next instant they dropped gently down into a peaceful valley. As Peter and Jack tumbled off in great excitement, Snif folded his wings and blinking self-consciously murmured, “Well, here we are. Do you like it?”

  Chapter 6 The Bearded Baron Appears

  AFTER Scare City almost any place would have looked beautiful to Jack and Peter, and this quiet valley overgrown with vines and sweet smelling flowers, seemed lovely indeed.

  “You’re a whiz, Snif,” exclaimed the little boy, looking around appreciatively.

  “Why, you travel faster than an aeroplane. You’re even better than one, for you can walk and talk as well as fly.”

  “Swim, too,” grunted the Iffin, panting a little from the exertion of the journey.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll run along and find some geraniums. They grow wild around here and I’m wild about ‘em.”

  “Don’t get lost,” begged Jack Pumpkinhead, for this accommodating new steed seemed almost too precious to let out of their sight. “Shall I go with him?” he whispered hurriedly to Peter.

  “It might hurt his feelings,” said Peter, dropping luxuriously into the long fine grass. “Let’s rest till he comes back and then we can hunt up one of these barons and inquire the way to the Emerald City.” Rolling over on his back and looking up at the drifting summer clouds, Peter gave a long sigh of content. “Why, this is almost as interesting as my last trip to Oz, Jack-travelling around with you this way and meeting an Iffin, and everything. No matter what happens we’re not so badly off for we have a sack to swallow our enemies, a magic dinner bell to supply us with food and an enchanted steed to carry us wherever we wish to go. Gee, I wish some of the fellows were along! I wish my Grandfather had been with us in Scare City. You were great, Jack, to think of that dinner bell!”

  “Was I?” Leaning against a tall young beech, Jack beamed down at Peter. “You were great, too,” he insisted generously. “I never saw anyone throw so straight and so hard.”

  “Playing baseball does that,” explained Peter, clasping his arms behind his head.

  “We’ll have to have a game when we reach the capitol. Say look! Here are some wild strawberries.” Scooping them up by the handful, Peter began to eat hungrily. “Did you ever see such large ones?”

  “The Quadling Country is noted for its red fruits,” answered Jack proudly, “its strawberries, apples, cherries and red bananas. Sometimes I wish I were made to enjoy eating,” he finished, looking rather wistfully at Peter.

  “You do miss a lot,” agreed the little boy sympathetically, “but then on the other hand, you never suffer from hunger and could never starve to death. But here comes Snif.” Swallowing the last of the strawberries Peter ran to meet the Iffin. Several geraniums still drooped from the corners of his mouth and he was loping along humming cheerfully to himself.

  “All aboard for the Emerald City,” he called merrily, as he came closer. “That ought to please your long-legged friend, there. He’s all board from his neck down, anyway.” Smiling at Snifs little joke, Peter picked up the pirate’s sack, helped Jack to mount and sprang nimbly up behind him.

  Are we going to fly or walk,” he asked curiously. “Waddle,” puffed the Iffin with a droll wink. “I’m so full of geraniums I’d simply sink if I tried to fly, so if you’re all ready we’ll waddle along.”

  “I’m afraid waddling won’t be at all good for my head,” objected Jack, as the Iffin started off with swinging, uneven strides. Peter laughed as Jack continued to protest against waddling, but the Iffin was too busy practising gu-rrs to pay any attention to the Pumpkinhead.

  “It’s funny,” it muttered between its teeth. “I can say gu-rr but I can’t growl it, and until I can growl, I’m no griffin.”

  “Oh, what do you care,” said Peter. “Any old grouch can growl, but not many can fly, swim, waddle and make verses like you do. I’d rather be an Iffin than a griffin, any day.”

  “That’s because you never were either,” sighed the big monster with a little shake of his head, and quickening his pace he galloped along so swiftly that Peter and Jack had all they could
do to hang on. Once out of the valley, the country spread before them, like a gay and enchanting map. Little patches of shadow lay on the velvety hills, small wooded parks dotted the hollows and many castles were visible in the distance. Beyond, a huge range of red mountains lifted their craggy heads to the sky.

  “We’ll stop at the first castle,” decided the Iffin, jumping without effort a tall timber fence that enclosed one of the parks. Red deer scattered right and left, as the huge monster rushed by and they were progressing finely when, from the center of the park where the trees were thickest, came a sharp, shrill wail. “Perhaps we’d better try the second castle,” panted the Iffin, flattening back his ears:

  “If that looks like it sounds, I prefer not to look; It’s either a Snort or a sort of Gazook.” Before Jack could inquire what a Snort or Gazook might be, before the Iffin could even turn, steps came pattering toward them, and out through the trees rushed a tall, trembling old man in a red cloak.

  “I am a mess! I am a mess! I am a mess!” he croaked, flinging out both arms desperately.

  “Tut! Tut!” reproved the Iffin, putting up his ears. If you don’t shout it so loud, maybe no one will find you out. Keep it quiet, I beg of you.”

  “I am a mess, I am a mess, a miserable mesmerizer,” insisted the old man, drawing his hand wearily across his brow and leaning heavily against a tree.

  “It’s against the law to mes, to mes-I mean to mesmerize,” said Jack, staring severely at the strange apparition. “Ozma has forbidden the practise of magic in Oz. Don’t you know that?”

  “I know no law but the law of Belfaygor of Bourne,” said the old man haughtily. “And who is Belfaygor,” inquired Peter, standing up on the Iffin’s back to get a better view of this curious person.

  “Lord of these Lands, and my illustrious Master. Alas! Alas! What have I done! Unhappy him! Unhappy I! Unhappy us. I am a mess! I am a mess! A most mis-er-able mesmerizer. Burying his face in his hands, the old man rushed blindly past them, and long after he had gone his piercing groans came echoing back to them.

  “Now what do you suppose he did do?” asked Peter, settling himself thoughtfully between the Iffin’s wings.

  “Belfaygor, Belfaygor,” mused Snif, repeating the name over several times. “I remember now-he’s one of the good barons. Let’s go on to his castle and see what has happened to him.” But they did not have to wait till they reached the castle to find out, for halfway through the park, they came upon the baron himself. His ruby crown, magnificent red boots, richly embroidered cape, proclaimed his rank at once, but it was his beard that Peter saw first and never forgot afterward-a red beard that flashed and flowed down his breast and swirled around his feet in an angry red tide. With his head thrown back, a pair of shears in each hand, Belfaygor was clipping desperately at the shining waves that seemed to pour in a steady torrent from his chin. At each clip he groaned and at each groan he clipped.

  “My beard!” choked the baron. “My bride and my beard!” My bride and my beard!” And so engrossed and distressed was the unhappy gentleman that he neither saw nor heard the Iffin’s approach.

  “So this is what comes of mesmerizing,” snorted Snif, stopping so suddenly he almost unseated his riders. “His beard is running away with him. What can we do about it?”

  “Can we be of any help?” called Peter, more practically. “Is there anything we can do Mr. Baron?” At Peter’s question, Belfaygor gave a great start; then blinking up half-seeingly at the strange company, gloomily shook his head.

  “Nothing can help me,” moaned the baron, clipping furiously, “for nothing can stop this beard from growing. And that’s not the worst, Mogodore the Mighty has stolen the Princess I was to marry and each time I try to run to rescue her my beard trips me up. Woe, woe, woe! Was ever a man so unhappy-so unlucky as I?”

  “Where are your men,” asked Snif, wrinkling up his nose anxiously.

  “Gone,” said the Baron dully. “Frightened off by my beard, they have deserted me down to the smallest train bearer.”

  “You don’t need a train bearer. What you need is a beard bearer,” puffed Jack Pumpkinhead, dismounting stiffly and stepped as close as he dared to the baron. “If you throw your beard over your shoulder, it will grow the other way,” he suggested amiably. For a moment Belfaygor stared slowly at Jack, then flinging the red beard over one shoulder he extended both arms.

  “That’s the only sensible thing I’ve heard since I was mesmerized,” he shouted hoarsely. “I hereby appoint you Royal Bearer of the beard.”

  “Thanks,” murmured Jack, looking doubtfully at Peter.

  “Who are you?” demanded the baron in growing excitement and appreciation. “This Griffin I have seen before, but you, my good fellow are most odd and curious.

  “He is a Pumpkinhead, magically brought to life,” volunteered Peter. “And some pumpkins,” he finished, with a wink at the Iffin.

  “No, only one,” corrected Jack modestly. “I am a subject of Ozma of Oz and this boy is from America. As we are all on our way to the Emerald City, I cannot bear your beard.”

  “Neither can I,” mourned the Baron, dropping his arms wearily. “Oh! Oh! Who will save poor little Shirley Sunshine?” The Baron looked so tired and dejected that Peter felt sorry for him.

  “Is Shirley Sunshine the Princess you are to marry?” he asked curiously. “Who is this Mogodore? Why not tell us the whole story, maybe we can help you?”

  “If wings will help and a magic sack, You’ll soon have your little Princess back,” promised the Iffin, sitting on his haunches beside Peter. “Speak,” he urged, raising his claw imperiously. “Speak, for we are all attention.”

  CHAPTER 7 Belfaygor’s Strange Story

  WITH a gusty sigh, the red baron looked from one to another and then, fixing his eyes sadly on Peter, he began to speak. Since the extremely sensible suggestion of Jack Pumpkinhead, his beard no longer poured round his ankles but, sweeping over his shoulder, disappeared in a red streak between the trees. Every little while he would cut it off, and the steady snip-snip of the shears ran like a sharp punctuation all through the strange story of his misfortune.

  “This morning,” confided Belfaygor in a mournful voice, “this morning I was the happiest Lord in the Land, for my marriage with Shirley Sunshine, whose father lives on the next hillside, had been satisfactorily arranged. My palace had been redecorated to please the Princess and all my retainers newly outfitted for the wedding. Everything, in fact, was in readiness to receive her, and I myself was about to start for her father’s castle, when I became suddenly dissatisfied with my appearance.” Overcome by his feelings the baron paused for a full moment, and Peter stood up on Snif’s back to see how far the red beard had grown since the last clip. With a little gasp he saw it shoot through the branches of a tall tulip tree, and as he sat down Belfaygor tearfully continued his recital.

  “So I sent for my chief mesmerizer,” he said sorrowfully, “a good old man and exceedingly well versed in necromancy. I asked him if it would be possible to grow a beard, as I felt that a fine long beard would greatly improve my appearance. There was not time to grow one naturally, so this mesmerizer”

  “This miserable mesmerizer,” corrected the Iffin, switching his tail furiously.

  “Miserable mesmerizer,” repeated the baron dully, “caused a long red beard to grow upon my chin.” Snipping off a silky length of the offending whiskers, he tossed the ends over one shoulder and with a deep sigh proceeded. “When the beard had grown to my waist I bade the mesmerizer stop it, but in spite of all his incantations and magic powders, it continued to grow. It grew and grew till it filled the throne room, ran down the stairs into the pantry, shot up the stairs into the bed rooms and finally filled every room in the palace. In real danger of suffocation, my knights and servants took to their heels, and my mesmerizer, after forcing these shears upon me and bidding me cut for dear life, ran off and left me, also.”

  “Then how did you get out of the castle,” asked Peter,
lurching forward, while Jack leaned over so far his head fell off and had to be replaced by the Iffin.

  “Jumped out a window,” explained the Baron with a little shudder. “The beard kept me from breaking any bones. Cutting myself loose from the terrible tangle, I ran into the middle of the road and called loudly for help. As I did, a commotion on the next hillside attracted my attention. A band of armed riders were galloping toward me. As they drew nearer, I recognized the plumed hats and golden spears of Mogodore’s retainers, and as they came nearer still I saw that Mogodore himself was carrying off my bride, who lay unconscious across his saddle bow. I tried to scream, but the red beard enveloped me. I tried to run; it tripped me at every step. Without even seeing me, the calvacade thundered by. As they disappeared, I heard two of the riders boasting that Mogodore would marry Shirley Sunshine tomorrow morning.”

  “When was that? Where did he take her?” gasped Peter. “How long ago was it?” “This morning,” choked Belfaygor. “He has carried her to his castle in Baffleburg.”