“You mean to say all of your men ran off and never came back?” exclaimed Peter, springing up indignantly. “Well, don’t you care. We’re here now and I’m sure Ozma would want us to help you. We’ll just fly on Snif’s back to Baffleburg and snatch her away from this bandit.”
“I’m afraid you have never heard of Mogodore,” interrupted the baron, shaking his head despairingly. “No one has ever entered the City of Baffleburg or returned alive from Mogodore’s mountain.”
“If that is so, we’ll be the first; To tame this wretch or know the worst,” roared the Iffin, coming to his feet with a bound.
“I guess you never heard of Peter,” said Jack Pumpkinhead, rising with great dignity. “This boy”-he waved impressively in Peter’s direction-“has just conquered the entire City of Scares and the last time he was in Oz he saved the Emerald City from the Gnome King.”
While Belfaygor looked incredulously at the little boy, Jack told of their morning’s experiences in Chimneyville and Scare City.
“Have you still got the pirate’s sack?” asked Belfaygor, forgetting to clip his beard in his extreme interest and astonishment. “That magic dinner bell-what is it? Do you suppose you could carry us all to Baffleburg?” Eagerly he turned to Snif. The Iffin raised both of his powerful wings and shook his head confidently, while Jack held up the dinner bell and Peter showed the famous sack.
“We’ll be there in no time,” cried Peter, “and with all this magic I don’t see how Mogodore can conquer us, do you?” Belfaygor was so cheered and encouraged by this little speech that he dropped both pairs of shears and embraced Peter upon the spot.
“You shall be knighted for this, my boy,” he promised. “You, too,” he added, pressing Jack’s wooden fingers earnestly.
“What about me?” inquired Snif, raising a claw solemnly. “If this keeps up we’ll all be knighted; Sir Jack! Sir Pete, why am I slighted?”
“You’re not,” promised Belfaygor, picking up his shears and beginning furiously. “You’ll be knighted, too.”
“Well, if you insist,” murmured the a mollified tone, “but I won’t wear armor. Come on knights,” he called gaily, “for night is coming on and if we’re to reach Baffleburg before dark we’d better start now.
The very name of Baffleburg gave Peter a thrill. More interested and excited than he had been since his arrival in Oz, he helped Jack to mount the Iffin’s back and hurriedly seated himself behind him. Belfaygor came next with his back to Peter, so his beard would not blow in the little boy’s face, and after a glance back to see that his riders were safe and comfortable, Snif spread his great wings and soared aloft, flying straight toward the red mountains Peter had seen in the distance. As they rose higher and higher
Belfaygor found it no longer necessary to ply his shears, and his bright red beard streamed like a waving banner behind them. The poor baron was glad indeed for this rest, for he had been clipping steadily since early morning and already had blisters on both thumbs. Now and then, when his beard seemed in danger of catching in a tree or winding about a castle tower, he would snip it off short again and Peter and Jack would watch it float away, like some strange red cloud.
Flying was such an exhilarating experience that Peter forgot all about the dangerous adventure that lay ahead and the forbidding aspect of Mogodore’s mountain did not trouble him at all. As they drew closer, he could see the City of Baffleburg, its turreted forts, and its castle and strong houses seeming to spring from the rock itself.
Stretching round the mountain there was a yawning chasm and at the foot was a towered fortress and drawbridge over which Mogodore and his men crossed the chasm when they made war on the barons below. Red capped warriors stood in each embrasure of the fort and guards marched stiffly to and fro upon the city walls. The grim red castle clung to the rocks, halfway up the mountain and gave Mogodore a splendid view of the whole valley beneath.
“If I fly too near, a golden spear may interrupt our flight; So let’s descend and mix a little stratagem with might.” muttered the Iffin, coasting cautiously downward. “Stratagem’s a big word,” sighed Jack Pumpkinhead. “What does it mean?”
“A plan to confuse the enemy,” explained Peter as the Iffin’s feet touched the rocky ground on the other side of the chasm. “We must find the best place to drop into the city, the best way to use the pirate’s sack and the quickest plan for finding the Princess.” Belfaygor was the first to dismount. Throwing his beard impatiently over his shoulder, he frowned gloomily up at the Mogodore’s mountain. Now that they were really before the City of Baffleburg, the cheerful plans and hopes of Peter and the Iffin seemed wild and impractical. The longer he looked the more impossible they seemed, and resting his hand heavily on Peter’s shoulder he begged the little boy to continue his journey to the Emerald City and leave him to deal with the wicked mountain chief.
“The Iffin can carry me into the city,” sighed Belfaygor, “but I cannot let you share in the awful perils of this undertaking. ” If Peter had not been in Oz, or addressing a baron, he might have answered, “Applesauce.” But feeling that such a word would only puzzle this dignified nobleman, he seated himself on the nearest rock and looked curiously across the chasm.
“I should think,” mused Peter, “that the best plan would be to fly into the city under cover of darkness and drop into the castle courtyard. Once inside, I will open the pirate’s sack and when it has swallowed Mogodore and all the fighting men we can safely search for the Princess and escape.
“How do you know the sack won’t swallow her too?” questioned Belfaygor uneasily.
“Because,” said Peter looking up at the tallest tower in the castle, “I believe she’s locked up there. They always lock the Princess up in the tower,” he finished confidently.
“You think of everything. ” Jack Pumpkinhead stared down at the little boy admiringly and Snif, who had been scouting around for a stray geranium, waved an approving claw at Peter.
“If that’s the plan, let’s have a bite; And quietly stay here till night!”
“But what shall we eat?” said Belfaygor, clipping at his whiskers despondently. Jack chuckled at this, and drawing out the Red Jinn’s bell rang it imperiously. At once the little black slave, bearing his silver tray, appeared before them. Placing the tray on Peter’s knees he faded out of sight so suddenly that Belfaygor dropped his shears with a clatter.
Though he had heard about the magic dinner bell the unexpected appearance of the dinner quite upset him.
“You take this one,” said Peter generously, “and if you sit with your back to the chasm and throw your beard over your shoulder it will grow down into the opening and let you eat in peace.
“How can I ever thank you?” exclaimed the baron, seating himself as the little boy suggested. “Odds pasties, this looks most tempting!” With a long, tremulous sigh, Belfaygor fell upon the appetizing repast of roast beef and plum pudding. Then Jack rang the bell again and the slave appeared with a tray for Peter. He was about to ring up another dinner for Snif but the Iffin shook his head.
“I’ve had enough for one day,” he told them firmly, “and if Peter will give me that bunch of violets, everything will be perfectly perk!” As an extra touch a small bunch of violets had been placed beside Peter’s dinner plate. Tossing them gaily to the Iffin and thinking as he did so how curious it was here for so huge a beast to dine upon flowers, Peter started in on his own dinner. With both hands clasped behind him, Jack watched the sun sink down behind the grim red mountain, and Peter and Belfaygor were so hungry that neither spoke till all the plates on their trays were empty. Then, with a satisfied sigh, Peter stood up and as the trays disappeared began looking around for Snif. But there was no sign of the Iffin anywhere!
“Oh!” gasped Peter anxiously, forgetting for the moment that Snif could fly, “he must have fallen into the chasm.” Calling to Jack and the baron, he started to run along the edge of the ravine, striking impatiently at a small creature that kept beating its win
gs in his face. He thought he had brushed it aside when, with an angry screech, it fastened its claws in his shoulder.
“If you hit me again, I’ll bite your ear; Attention! Pause! Stop! Look and hear!” At the familiar verses, Peter did stop, and glancing down he saw a creature no bigger than a squirrel perched on his shoulder.
“It’s me,” wailed a desperate voice, as the tiny beast leaned over and rubbed its head against his cheek.
“Those violets,” it choked bitterly, “those violets were shrinking violets, Peter. Look at me! I’ve shrunk! I might just as well throw myself away.
“Don’t,” gulped Peter, as the Iffin started to hurl itself from his shoulder. “I like you little-” “Well I like him big,” announced Jack unfeelingly. “And who’s to carry us over the chasm now, may I ask?”
“Oh!” groaned Belfaygor, tripping over his whiskers after one horrified look at the little monster, “everything is over! Everything is over now!”
“So’s your old beard,” mumbled Jack in an annoyed voice. Picking up the shears Belfaygor had dropped he cut length after length from the enchanted red beard, while the baron continued to wring his hands and groan and Peter tried in vain to comfort the Iffin.
CHAPTER 8 A Way to Cross the Chasm
I’LL WAGER that old Jinn did this on purpose,” declared Jack indignantly. “I’ll ring that dumbbell again and the boy’s neck, tool”
“It wasn’t his fault,” put in Peter, lifting Snif from his shoulder and thoughtfully stroking the small red head. “I don’t suppose those violets were meant to be eaten.”
“If I only hadn’t eaten them,” wailed the Iffin, as two tears rolled down his cheeks. “You’ve no idea how it feels to shrink, boys.
“Why did I eat those violets. I feel so silly and small! I’m just an elf, I’m not myself, I’m just no one at all!”
“Oh, yes you are,” Peter reassured him hastily. “Why look, you’ll fit right in my pocket and I’ll carry you for a change and when we reach the Emerald City the Wizard of Oz will soon make you large again.”
“Are we to reach the Emerald City?” inquired Jack, looking up from snipping Belfaygor’s beard. “And how do you know you won’t shrink yourself?” Peter turned a little pale at Jack’s question. “The baron and I didn’t eat any violets,” he answered, swallowing hastily.
“Yes, but how are we to cross the chasm?” Belfaygor, taking the shears from Jack, rolled his eyes sadly at Peter.
“We’ll just have to think of some other way, said Peter, staring off at Mogodore’s mountain. “Let’s all think.”
“I can only think of poor little Shirley Sunshine, locked up in that dismal tower,” retorted Belfaygor despondently.
“I can only think how far it must be to the bottom of this crevice,” muttered Jack, looking sadly down into the ravine.
“It looks to me as if we’d have to do all the thinking for this party,” murmured Snif, flying up on Peter’s shoulder. “Never mind, I still can think, even if I am little.
“If I do a little thinking and I think a little bit, If there’s any way to cross it, why I’ll surely think of it!”
“I’m glad you can still make verses,” said Peter with a sigh. “It helps, and makes things seem a little less awful.”
“Yes,” said the Iffin, resting his cheek against Peter’s. The sun had dropped down behind the red castle and in the gray light of early evening the grim city on the rocks looked more forbidding than ever. Great black crows circled about the towers and turrets and their hoarse crys drifted like threatening jeers across the chasm.
“If we had an ax,” said Peter gloomily, “we might chop down a tree on the edge of the chasm so it would fall across.” He was just wondering whether the ravine was narrow enough to jump at any point, when Snif gave a little bounce and, flying off his shoulder, announced shrilly: “I have thought of a way! We’ll cross on the baron’s beard!”
“You mean grow across?” asked Jack Pumpkinhead doubtfully.
“Impossible!” roared Belfaygor, throwing up his shears and hands indignantly. “Wouldst jerk out my whiskers? Besides they grow down and not up.”
“Pause!” Holding up one claw, the Iffin looked solemnly from one to the other.
“First,” explained Snif quietly, “Belfaygor must walk three times around a tree. That will make his beard fast and keep it from pulling. Then I will take the end of the beard in my claws, fly across the chasm and fasten it to a tree on the other side. Then when Peter and Jack have crossed, the Baron can snip off the beard close to his chin and cross himself in safety. What think you of that, my brave comrades?”
“Why, that’s a perfectly splendid idea!” cried Peter, jumping up enthusiastically.
“How ever did you think of it?”
“Well,” Snif reminded him gaily, “for five years I did nothing but think-so thinking comes easy to me. How about it Baron, will you lend us your beard?”
“Yes,” answered Belfaygor readily enough, now that he had heard the Iffin’s plan, “even if it hurts I will do it. I’ll do anything to save Shirley Sunshine from that villainous bandit.”
“Then everything’s settled!” cried Peter, who hated delay or inactivity of any kind.
“Let’s start!” “Not now,” said the Iffin, shaking his little head seriously. “We must wait till morning Peter. As I cannot carry you all up to the castle itself, you will have to climb over the rocks and cliffs to the city gates. This will be bad enough by daylight, but impossible at night.”
“That’s so,” agreed Peter regretfully.
“And what’s to become of us when we reach the city gates?” quavered Jack in a hollow voice. “Will not these Baffleburghers impale us upon their spears?”
“Oh, I hope not,” muttered the Iffin, settling down on Peter’s shoulder, “but we’ll have to take a chance on it. My guess is that the guards will seize and carry you to Mogodore. Once in Mogodore’s presence, Peter can open the sack, and after the sack swallows everyone, we’ll find the Princess and return to the capitol on foot.”
“What about my beard?” asked Belfaygor nervously. “If they make us prisoners and take away my shears, we’ll all be smothered.”
“Well, so will they,” Snif reminded him philosophically, “and that will be some comfort.” Already Snif seemed to have forgotten his dreadful mishap and to have recovered his former good spirits, and under the influence of the merry little monster the whole party grew quite cheerful and gay.
“Come along,” he called, flying on ahead, “Let’s find some place to sleep. Is that a cave I see over there?” Back among the rocks at the foot of a tall cliff there was a cave, sure enough, and Peter, after a little exploring, decided it would be just the place in which to spend the night. Lengths cut from Belfaygor’s beard and piled on the floor made splendid mattresses and, as Jack Pumpkinhead required no rest, he offered to stand guard at the entrance. The baron himself lay with his head just outside the cave, and the obliging Pumpkinhead promised to cut his beard from time to time and see that it did not choke up the opening, nor suffocate the sleepers. So much had happened since Peter fell into the pumpkin field, he was weary as a walrus and glad enough to rest. By the time the moon had climbed to the top of Mogodore’s mountain, he was fast asleep, the Iffin curled cozily in the bend of his arm, and soon only the snores of Belfaygor and the snip of Jack’s shears broke the deep dark silence of the night.
CHAPTER 9 The Forbidden Flagon
WHILE Peter and his friends rested in their hidden cave, the lights in the castle across the chasm burned far into the night, as the Baron of Baffleburg sat in converse with Wagarag, his chief steward and Major Domo. Biggen and Little, the baron’s body guards, dozed stiffly at their posts behind his chair, while the huge hunting dogs snored upon the hearthstones. Flaring torches, set in stone holders in the wall, flung a flickering light into the dim corners of the great stone hall. Bear rugs were strewn about the flagged floor; swords, daggers and glittering armor hung upon th
e walls and the furniture, the carved chests, tables and chairs were big and clumsy, like the owner of the castle himself.
With his chin resting in the palm of his hand, Mogodore stared moodily into the fire, but Wagarag, a thin anxious little Baffleburgher, moved about restlessly, straightening a tapestry here, a table cover there, and never still for a moment.
“If I only I knew what was in that miserable flagon,” muttered the baron for about the fiftieth time. “If I only knew! Why must it be hidden? Why is it forbidden? What would happen if I broke the seal?”
“Buttered billygoats,” spluttered Wagarag impatiently. “On the very eve of your wedding must you still worry about that wretched flask? Can you think of nothing but that miserable flagon?” Flicking at a bit of gold dust on the mantel, Wagarag paused in exasperation before his master.
“If your father and grandfather before you were able to guard and keep it safely why cannot you let it rest where no one will discover its secret? Is it not written in the Book of Baffleburg that if aught disturbs the seal on the forbidden flagon, or one drop of the contents spills, a dreadful disaster will befall? Are you not Mogodore the Mighty, slayer of an hundred bears, subduer of an hundred barons and Lord of this mountain?
Have you not stolen for your bride the loveliest Princess in the valley? Pray dismiss this mischievous flagon from your mind. Think of something else,” begged Wagarag earnestly.
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