L. Frank Baum - Oz 23

by Jack Pumpkinhead Of Oz

  “Something pleasant, this Princess for instance.” Wagarag clasped his hands and rolled his eyes upward. “A beauteous damsel, if I may be permitted to say so!”

  “But she refuses to marry me,” growled Mogodore, crossing his legs irritably.

  “What difference does that make,” sniffed Wagarag, poking the fire energetically. “Your word is law in Baffleburg. Marry her anyway!”

  “But I can’t understand it,” breathed Mogodore, taking up a mirror that lay on the arm of his chair and surveying himself long and earnestly. The reflection in the mirror stared as earnestly back, but Mogodore could see nothing amiss with the red face, bristling black whiskers and hair, small blue eyes, great nose and crooked mouth that confronted him. “No, it cannot be my looks,” grunted the baron, setting down the mirror.

  “What does this precious Princess want?” he demanded fretfully.

  “Why not ask her?” suggested Wagarag, prodding Biggen and Little vigorously in the ribs. “Here, you lazy rogues, fetch down the Princess from the tower!”

  “Mayhap the Princess sleepeth,” mumbled Biggen, rubbing his eyes and yawning terrifically.

  “Then wakeneth her and bringeneth her thither,” commanded Wagarag, giving Biggen a push and Little a poke.

  But the Princess, as you may well imagine, was far from sleeping. Pacing restlessly up and down the small tower room, she was trying to think of some way to escape, and when Biggen and Little thumped on the door and explained that her presence was desired below, she went readily enough, hoping it might give her another chance to plead with the baron for her liberty, or wheedle the guards into releasing her. But Biggen and Little paid small attention to her entreaties. Roughly thrusting back the ruby necklace she offered if they would help her slip out of the castle, they picked her up bodily and carried her down to their master.

  “Well!” exclaimed Mogodore, as Shirley Sunshine drew herself up proudly against one of the great stone pillars, “do you still refuse to marry me.

  “Of course,” answered the little Princess haughtily. “Release me at once or my father and Belfaygor will come and destroy you utterly.”

  “Destroy me!” roared the Baron, with an evil wink at Wagarag. “Do you not know that I am Mogodore the Mighty, boldest of all the barons and Lord of this mountain?”

  “Only one mountain,” said the Princess shaking back her long brown curls scornfully. “If you are as mighty as you pretend, I should think you’d conquer several.”

  “There are no more mountains worth conquering,” stormed Mogodore, thumping the arm of his chair with his fist, “and you know that well enough.”

  “Yes, but there are other countries,” said the Princess haughtily. Seeing the baron give a surprised start, and realizing that he was as vain as he was cruel, Shirley decided to flatter her villainous conqueror and delay the wedding by any trick or plan she could manage. “If I had your strength and fighting ability, I’d conquer and keep on conquering until I was a King,” said the Princess, with an imperious gesture.

  “Would you like me better if I were a King?” asked Mogodore, leaning forward eagerly. The Princess nodded so emphatically that her curls danced briskly to and fro and with a cry that shook the very rafters Mogodore leaped out of his chair.

  “Then I’ll be a King!” he shouted exuberantly. “I’ll march across the Red Mountains, capture the Emerald City, depose this foolish little fairy Ozma and proclaim myself King of “Better let well enough alone,” cautioned Wagarag, running anxiously after his master, who was striding excitedly up and down the hearth. “There is a Wizard in the Emerald City who is exceedingly powerful and Ozma herself is a practiced magician.”

  “Puff on their magic,” cried Mogodore, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

  “How can Ozma, who is small and weak, overcome a big fellow like me? Nay-argue not. I’ll conquer the Emerald City and be a King, King Mogodore the First of Oz. I wonder I never thought of it myself. You’re going to be a great help to me, my dear!” Pausing before the Princess, Mogodore patted her clumsily on the head. “And what’s more, you shall accompany me to the capitol, see this capturing done, be married in the Emerald City and crowned with Ozma’s crown,” he promised recklessly. “But now you must have some rest, for we’ll start tomorrow morning.

  “See that I’m called early,” he blustered, shaking his finger at Wagarag. “See that my fighting men are roused at daybreak,” he roared, knocking the heads of Biggen and Little smartly together. “When I’m King of Oz I can open that forbidden flagon,” he confided hoarsely, leaning down to whisper in Wagarag’s ear.

  “No more of this wretched wondering. What will Baffleburg matter when I’m King of the realm? I’ll put an end to this unbearable mystery. This Princess has brought me luck. Come kiss me, little onel” But Shirley Sunshine, with a horrified glance at the boisterous Baron, picked up her skirts and fled from the room.

  “See that she does not escape,” rumbled Mogodore indulgently, and Biggen and Little, clattering after the Princess, locked her securely in the tower. Alone in the comfortless room, the captive Princess leaned against the barred windows and, fixing her eyes upon one steadfast star, wondered how long it would be before Belfaygor or her father came to rescue her. Her heart sank at the thought of this cruel baron marching upon the Emerald City, laying waste its parks and palaces and enslaving all of its gay and gentle inhabitants. Terrified by the frightful forces she had sets in motion, the tired little Princess threw herself upon the hard bed and cried herself to sleep.

  Below in the castle hall, Wagarag endeavored to turn the baron from his audacious purpose. “Listen not to this mischievous maiden,” begged the steward. “Stay here where you are known and powerful. It is better to be a ruler among fools than a fool among rulers. Many have attempted to conquer the Kingdom of Oz-not one has succeeded.”

  “Then I will be the first,” boasted Mogodore and, snatching a broad sword from the wall, he swung it expertly round his head. “Shine up your shin guards, Waggy old lad, for you’re going with me and I hereby appoint you Royal Chancellor of Oz! Keeper of the King’s Custard and Imperial Purveyor of Puddings!” Laughing uproariously, Mogodore brought the flat of his sword down with a resounding thwack upon the thin shoulders of his disapproving steward.

  “Come to bed, Dunce!” he cried good naturedly. “You mean well, but know nothing.”

  “At least I know my place,” muttered Wagarag, shaking his head gloomily. “We both belong on this mountain and no good will come of this expedition.”

  “You forget the flagon,” exulted Mogodore. “I shall at last know the secret of the forbidden flagon.”

  “Have it your own way,” sighed Wagarag,with a resigned shrug. “But don’t blame me if we’re all turned to sticks by the Wizard of Oz and thrown into the fire.”

  “Ha! Ha!” shouted Mogodore, more amused than frightened by this terrible threat.

  “You’ll make a splendid stick, old fellow.” Laughing noisely, the bad, bold baron tramped cheerfully off to bed.

  CHAPTER 10 The City of Baffleburg

  A STRANGE, shrill squeaking wakened Peter next morning, and starting up he saw that it was the Iffin. Sitting on a flat stone, the tiny monster was practising his gr-rrs. “If I could only growl again, I wouldn’t mind my size,” mourned Snif, looking sadly up at Peter. “Can’t fight! Can’t growl! A fine fix for a fabulous monster!”

  “But you can think,” answered Peter cheerfully. “And you’re free. Just wait till we’ve conquered this silly old baron and come to the Emerald City. You’ll be a sure-enough griffin then. But I kinda like you little,” he added loyally, “and I should think it would be rather an interesting experience.

  “Well,” acknowledged the Iffin, scratching his ear reflectively with his third hind claw, “at least it will be something to tell my grandchildren, if I ever have any grandchildren.” Raising his voice to a tiny roar he rushed to the front of the cave calling loudly, “What ho without!”

 
“I do not see a hoe of any kind,” answered Jack Pumpkinhead blandly. “But the sun is up and the wind is changing and unless we move away from here we’ll be buried in whiskers.” Stepping outside Peter saw a red mound as huge as ten hay stacks rolled into one.

  All night Jack had faithfully cut Belfaygor’s beard and raked the cut lengths neatly together, but now the wind was whirling the top off the stack and filling the air with a blinding tangle of red strands. Hastily waking the Baron, the four adventurers hurried to the other side of the cliff and watched the great red cloud sweep into the chasm.

  “And now to beard this baron in his den,” proposed Snif, swinging himself gaily back and forward on the branches of a small tree.

  “Yes, let us be off at once,” sighed Belfaygor, taking the shears from Jack and starting in on his weary work of clipping.

  “Let’s have breakfast,” suggested Peter, who was always hungriest in the morning. “Ring the old bell Jack.”

  “Then goodbye,” quavered Snif, flying into the air. “I’ll be back when those trays have disappeared and not before. No more magic repasts for me!” While Peter and Belfaygor breakfasted royally on beef steak and fried potatoes, Snif nibbled daintily at the red honeysuckle that clung to the rocks and muttered little iffish verses to himself.

  “Have you ever been to Baffleburg,” asked Peter, after the trays had vanished and Snif came back to perch upon his shoulder. “Is it so very dangerous?”

  “I have flown over Mogodore’s mountain many times,” said Snif thoughtfully, “and from what I have seen, it must be pretty bad.

  “But if we stick together and most bravely persevere, This mountain’s dangers we’ll surmount and tweak yon bandit’s ears!”

  “No tweaking,” advised Jack Pumpkinhead nervously. “Let us just sack the city and leave.”

  “All right,” agreed Snif good naturedly, but we can’t leave till we start, so let’s get started.” He looked inquiringly at Belfaygor and Belfaygor, after a nervous glance across the chasm, stepped to a tree on the edge of the ravine and walked solemnly three times round, till his beard was securely fastened. Now that the time for action had come, the adventurers said little. Belfaygor stood proudly erect, waiting for his beard to grow long enough to stretch across the chasm and soon it did, and Snif, taking the ends in his claws, flew over the deep ravine and fastened the beard tightly to a tree on the other side. Now, all was ready and Peter, dropping boldly over the edge, swung himself skillfully across on the swinging red cable. He dared not look down and once safely over watched uneasily while Jack pulled himself across.

  “Whatever you do, don’t lose your head,” breathed Peter, leaning forward nervously. Halfway over, Jack’s wooden fingers almost lost their hold, and his pumpkin head spun about upon its peg, but Snif, flying valiantly to the rescue, held it in place and, when at last Jack came near enough for Peter to reach, he clutched both wooden arms and dragged Jack thankfully to safety. Belfaygor now clipped off his beard close to the chin and crossed himself without mishap or difficulty.

  The first step of the dangerous undertaking had been made in safety but straight ahead was a steep wall of rock. If it had not been for Belfaygor’s beard they would never have been able to scale this dreadful precipice. But Snif, taking the beard in his claws, flew up till he found a boulder or sturdy sapling. Then, winding the beard several times round, he would signal to Belfaygor who would immediately snip off his end of the beard and climb expertly up the swinging rope. Peter, hoisting himself up after him, could not help but think what a splendid Alpine guide the baron would make. But Jack, tremblingly following Peter, resolved that if ever he reached the Emerald City again he would stay peaceably at home for the rest of his unnatural life.

  In this interesting but perilous fashion they finally reached the top of the cliff, only to find the gates of the city still farther up. A rocky opening into a narrow tunnel apparently led directly to Baffleburg and, with many misgivings, the travellers entered the tunnel. Although it was dark and clammy inside and exceedingly rough underfoot, they reached the end without trouble. In the dim murky light Peter saw a wooden door with an iron ring in the center. He was about to grasp the ring, when the tunnel, without any warning, tipped downward and shot them headlong from the opening. Snatching at a tree just in time, Peter saved himself from pitching over the precipice. Belfaygor’s beard, catching on a jagged rock saved him and fortunately the baron had hold of Jack. His head did bounce off, but by some miracle rolled into a hollow in the rocks. Snif went over the edge of the cliff, but spreading his wings flew back to safety.

  “Something else to tell my grandchildren, grumbled the Iffin, shaking himself angrily, while Peter hastily recovered Jack’s pumpkin head and put it back where it belonged. “I’ll pay him up for that slide. Come on boys, let’s try it again. Can a trick tunnel hold us back now?” Peter looked inquiringly at Belfaygor and Belfaygor clipping a length from his beard looked doubtfully at Peter but Jack, holding his head with both hands, expressed in no uncertain terms his complete unwillingness to ever enter the treacherous tunnel again.

  “But we must go on,” said Snif stubbornly: “If we will just consider, we’ll find some simple way To tread this tipsy tunnel, and we’ll try it, come what may!”

  “Well I’m not May, and I think the way we came was simple enough,” complained Jack. “I never felt more simple in my life, and look at the dent in my head!”

  “Maybe if we run through as fast as we can and get hold of the iron ring in the door before the tunnel tilts we won’t spill out,” suggested Peter, examining a long scratch on his knee. “I’ll go first,” he volunteered gamely, “and all of you can hold on to me.” Snif and Belfaygor immediately approved of this plan and Jack finally, not desiring to be left, consented to go. First Peter put Snif in his pocket, then Belfaygor caught hold of Peter’s coat tails and Jack caught hold of Belfaygor’s. Taking a long breath, Peter dashed into the tunnel and never, even when he was making a home run, had he sprinted along any faster, Jack and the Baron clattering along as best they could behind him.

  Just as Peter reached the tunnel end and grasped the iron ring, the tunnel tipped a second time. But Peter hung on to the ring and others hung on to Peter. Several coat seams ripped, but when the tunnel finally righted itself they were still inside. Before it could tilt again, Peter turned the ring, opened the wooden door and stepped into a large cobble-stone courtyard.

  Straight ahead rose the grim gray walls and buttressed towers of Baffleburg. As they tiptoed nearer, they could hear the sharp ring of horses’ hoofs on the other side of the wall.

  “Shall I fly over and see what’s going on?” asked Snif, fluttering excitedly out of Peter’s pocket.

  “No! No!” begged the little boy hurriedly. “Let’s all stay together. I’ll ring that bell over the city gates and when the guards carry us to Mogodore we’ll open the sack as we planned!” Running forward, Peter seized the chain attached to a huge bell over the gates and gave it a tremendous pull. It was impossible to see into Baffleburg, as the gates were backed with panels of wood and the walls themselves were high as sky scrapers. As the wild clanging of the bell died away, the four adventurers drew closer together. But nothing at all happened. -Again Peter jerked the iron chain but still no one came to open the gates.

  “They refuse to admit us,” puffed Belfaygor, with a furious clip at his whiskers.

  “What now?” Before they had time to decide upon any plan, four towers rising from the city’s walls suddenly tilted downward, and shooting from their tops came a perfect shower of golden spears. Throwing themselves flat upon the cobbles, Peter and his companions managed to escape injury. Time and again the tilting towers rose and fell, spraying the courtyard with spears. By crawling close to the walls and lying perfectly flat, the four adventurers were able to keep out of their way, but as Peter reflected gloomily, they could not lie under the wall forever. He was considering whether or not to open the pirate’s sack and see if it would swallow th
e spears, when Belfaygor touched him on the shoulder.

  “When the tower nearest me tilts again, I shall jump in the window,” whispered the baron. “You and Jack must follow. By keeping directly under the tower you will avoid the spears.

  “Wait!” gasped Peter, horrified at Belfaygor’s daring scheme. But Belfaygor, shaking his head determinedly, leaped to his feet, and as the tower came tilting down he plunged headfirst into the window nearest to the ground.

  “Hooka-ma-roosters!” choked the Iffin. “How did he do that?”

  “How are we to do it?” panted Peter, as all four towers shot up into place again. Motionless and terrified they waited for them to descend, but the Baffleburghers, evidently deciding that their visitors were utterly routed, had turned off the machinery and all four towers stopped tilting.

  There was no possible way into the city now, and completely baffled Peter stared angrily up at the thick gray walls.

  “Now I’ll have to fly over,” muttered Snif nervously. “Maybe I can open the gates.”

  “A signal!” called Jack suddenly. “A signal! Squash and turnip tops! It’s Belfaygor’s beard!” Looking where Jack pointed, Peter and the Iffin saw Belfaygor himself outlined in the window of the nearest tower. And pouring over the sill and growing steadily downward were the wonderful and ever dependable red whiskers.