L. Frank Baum - Oz 23

by Jack Pumpkinhead Of Oz

  “We can climb his beard,” cried Peter excitedly. “Come on, it’s almost long enough!” This was evidently what Belfaygor intended, for when they looked again, they could see him twining his beard round a huge spike on the sill. Then he waved his hand, and Peter, tightening his belt, climbed boldly aloft, looking back now and then to call encouragement to Jack Pumpkinhead. In less than a minute they were all safely inside the tower, for the Iffin had flown up with no trouble at all. The tower room was cheerless and without furniture. A spiral stairway in the center led downward. At the thought of conquering another city, Peter’s impatience and excitement grew. If only some of the boys could be along, or his grandfather! He tried to picture Belfaygor’s amazement when the pirate’s sack should come into action, and seizing the baron’s arm fairly dragged him to the stair.

  “I suppose if we go down these steps we’ll come out in the courtyard, for this certainly is the fort,” puffed Peter, clattering ahead.

  “All we do is climb up and down,” groaned Jack Pumpkinhead. “I’ll bet it’s a million steps to the bottom.”

  “Oh, not that many,” grinned Peter, looking down at Snif, who was comfortably seated on his shoulder. Quietly cutting his beard Belfaygor stepped after Peter and Jack resignedly brought up at the end of the procession.

  CHAPTER 11 In the Castle of Mogodore

  NOW to get ourselves captured,” whispered Peter eagerly, as they finally reached the bottom of the stair.

  “It should not be difficult,” answered Snif, who had flown ahead and now came back to rest on Peter’s shoulder. “Behold! Be bold! Look! Gaze and tremble!” Stepping out of the dim tower into the courtyard of the fort, Peter gave a little whistle of consternation and surprise. Drawn up in glittering rows were a thousand mounted men in armor, each holding a golden spear.

  “Something’s afoot here,” muttered Belfaygor behind his waving whiskers.

  “You mean a horse, don’t you?” corrected Jack, straightening his head and dusting a cobweb off his chin. “Is that sack quite ready Peter?” Peter nodded and as one of the armored riders caught sight of the intruders and galloped furiously forward, he called boldly,

  “Conduct us to your chief. We have important tidings to impart.”

  “Impart them to me,” ordered the horseman, lifting his visor and frowning down at the little boy. “Impart them to me, or I’ll prick ye over yon wall.”

  “If you so much as raise your spear. I’ll bite your nose, I’ll chew your ear! You’ll vanish, melt and disappear. We’re all magicians, do you hear?” shrieked the Iffin, flying in dizzy circles about the rider’s head.

  “Avaunt varlet,” rasped Belfaygor, tossing his beard over his shoulder with a lordly gesture, “our business is with your Master!” The circling little Iffin, the strange appearance of Jack Pumpkinhead and the wildly waving whiskers of Belfaygor all tended to bewilder the horseman. For a moment he hesitated, then galloping back, conferred anxiously with one of his companions. After much head shaking and arm waving, they both rode forward, and beckoning - for the travellers to follow them, trotted briskly under a stone archway that led up to the town itself.

  “That was easy,” chuckled Peter, trudging gaily after the mailed riders. “They think we’re magicians, Snif.”

  “We’ll have to be to get out of here,” muttered the little monster uneasily. “Be careful, boy, be carefuller than careful!”

  “Every step brings us nearer to the Princess,” said Belfaygor, tripping over his beard and fixing his eyes hopefully on the castle tower. But it was many weary steps to the palace, and the one cobbled street of Baffleburg was both steep and narrow. Red stone cottages perched on the cliffs at either side, and now and then a curious head was stuck out as the little procession went pounding by. But at last they came to the red gates of the castle itself, and after a short parley with the guards were admitted. Leaving their horses in the courtyard, the two warriors hustled their charges into the baronial hall of the mountain chief. Looking around the great hall, Peter decided that it was just the kind of castle he had always dreamed of owning. His eyes shone as they rested on the jewelled swords and armor that decorated the walls. But he was quickly brought back to the dangerous business in hand by the stern voice of their guide.

  “Magicians with an important message to impart,” announced the first man, dipping his spear in a salute to Mogodore. In full fighting regalia, the Baron of Baffleburg sat at a long table in the center of the hall, poring over an old map of Oz and trying to decide at what point to attack the capitol. Back of him stood Wagarag, in a hastily assembled armor of iron pots and sauce pans. Next to Wagarag lounged Bragga, Captain of the Guard and Smerker, Chief Scorner of the realm.

  “Magicians!” rumbled Mogodore looking up impatiently. “That accounts for them getting into the city. Magicians, eh! Well they look like a pack of peddlars. Scorn them,” he ordered, contemptuously jerking his thumb at Smerker. Now Peter had never been scorned in his life and wanted to see how it was done. So instead of immediately opening the pirate’s sack he stood staring curiously at Smerker. Leaning forward, the Chief Scorner seized a key-like handle that seemed to be attached to his nose and turned it straight upward. At the same time he curled back his lips in a truly astonishing manner.

  “Ho! Ha! Ha!” roared Snif, holding on to Peter with both claws: “If this be scorning, we are scorned! With what a nose he is adorned.”

  Peter felt like laughing himself, but the Chief Scorner, paying no attention at all to the Iffin, now snatched a sauce box from his sleeve and opening it with a quick jerk, held it out toward the travellers, Immediately the sauce box began to scold and berate them in the most harsh and abusive terms making more noise than a dozen radios and filling the air with such a horrid racket that Peter covered his ears and the others, without meaning to, backed toward the door. Satisfied that his Chief Scorner had subdued the intruders, Mogodore motioned for Smerker to close the sauce box.

  “Now throw them out,” he barked with a wave at Bragga. “I’ve wasted too much time already.” But as Bragga stepped forward to obey this command, Belfaygor, snipping a long piece from his beard stepped boldly up to the baron and thumping his fist on the table demanded in a loud voice, “What have you done with my Princess? Where is Shirley Sunshine?” Boldened by this spirited action, Jack Pumpkinhead stepped up beside him.

  “Release this maiden at once, you rude, rash robber, you-you Princess snapper,” he cried.

  “Have the sack ready, quick,” whispered Snif to Peter, as Mogodore stared angrily at the strange pair.

  “So that’s it,” grunted the Baron of Baffleburg. “I see now that you are Belfaygor of Bourne, hiding like a coward behind false whiskers. Well, you shall not marry this Princess, for she is to marry me-Mogodore the Mighty!”

  “Mighty what?” inquired Jack Pumpkinhead curiously.

  “Mighty mighty, you impertinent fool, mighty important you ridiculous pumpkin head. Smite him,” bellowed the Baron with a wrathful wave at Jack. “Remove this whiskered pest,” he roared in the next breath with another wave at Belfaygor.

  “So you’re Mogodore the smitey. Well don’t you dare smite me,” challenged Jack, shaking his wooden fist under Mogodore’s nose. “There stands Peter, the pitcher from Philadelphia. On his shoulder sits a fabulous monster who may devour you any minute.” As Mogodore, rather startled by this long rigamarole, half rose in his chair, Jack vigorously rang the Red Jinn’s bell and down upon the table flashed the little black slave, set down his tray and vanished. Mogodore’s retainers screamed with fright, and the Baron himself blinked with astonishment, but when Jack rang the bell a second time, Biggen and Little sprang forward and seized the little slave by the wrists. In a twinkling the slave disappeared. Biggen and Little also disappeared.

  “You see,” quavered Jack in a slightly unsteady voice, “I am a great magician!” “Then bring back my guards,” yelled Mogodore, stamping his foot furiously.

  “Give back my Princess,” retorted
Belfaygor just as furiously. Thinking it about time to put an end to this dangerous discussion, Peter pulled the pirate’s sack from his shoulders and was about to unfasten the cord, when he was seized suddenly from behind and both arms pinioned closely to his sides.

  “This pitcher’s trying some more magic tricks,” panted the spearman indignantly. He had crept up quietly behind Peter, and in spite of the little boy’s struggles, Mogodore’s big soldier held him fast.

  “We hang pitchers on the wall here!” boomed Mogodore, glaring fiercely at Peter. (I regret to say the big baron did not know the difference between picture and pitcher.)

  “Hold that pitcher-seize that whiskered rascal and behead that pumpkinheaded dunce! Enough of this nonsense. When I return from the Emerald City I’ll make them produce Biggen and Little and behead them all!” promised Mogodore, striding up and down with a great clash and clatter of armor. “Is Princess Shirley ready? I wait for no man and precious few women!”

  “I will see, your Highness!” Touching the iron pot he was wearing for a helmet, Wagarag hurried from the hall and while Peter in helpless rage looked on, Bragga seized Belfaygor, the other spearman caught Jack and flung him across the center table and unfeelingly struck off his head. Such was the force of blow, Jack’s pumpkin bounced to the floor, rolled through a tapestry-curtained door and disappeared. At this dreadful turn of affairs, Peter gave a groan and Snif almost succeeded in growling, but being unable to open the pirate’s sack they were completely at the mercy of Mogodore and his men.

  “Lock them up on the North tower till my return, and know that I will return a King,” boasted Mogodore, placing his hand proudly upon the hilt of his sword. “We march upon the Emerald City this very morning, I’ll marry Shirley Sunshine in the capitol and be crowned King of Oz before night fall.”

  “What!” gasped Peter, scarcely believing his ears. “You’ll be sorry for this,” bawled Belfaygor, slashing with his shears at the Captain of the Guard. Poor Jack said nothing, for without a head what could he say? Threatening and struggling, Peter and Belfaygor were dragged off to the dungeons in the North tower, Snif doing what he could to release them by biting and scratching the hands and faces of the guards, but he was too little to help much and both were securely locked up. In his struggle with the spearman, Peter had dropped the pirate sack, and exhausted and discouraged he sank down on the stone bench in his dark little dungeon. The window was high above his head and let in only a feeble ray of light and the stone cell so small he could touch both sides by extending his arms.

  Snif had come with him, but Belfaygor had been locked in a dungeon higher up in the tower. Things certainly had not gone as planned-in fact they were in worse plight than anyone could have imagined.

  “Isn’t this doggone?” groaned Peter glumly. “Jack’s lost his head, I’ve lost the sack and Belfaygor will probably smother in whiskers! If someone doesn’t warn Ozma, the Emerald City will be taken in no time. There’s only one Knight and one soldier in the palace and the soldier can’t fight at all. If Ozma doesn’t know Mogodore is coming, so that she and the Wizard can start up their magic, they’ll all be captured and the whole city destroyed. I wonder whatever put the notion of conquering Oz in Mogodore’s head?

  Darn! Doggone! I wish I could get out of here!” Doubling up his fists, Peter pounded on the dungeon door.

  “Maybe I can squeeze through the bars and fly off to warn Ozma of this villain’s coming,” said the Iffin, but the bars were so close together that even Snif could not slip through and in great discouragement the two prisoners sat side by side on the hard stone bench. Presently ten shrill blasts from the bugles and the clatter of hoofs on the cobbles below told that Mogodore had really started for the Emerald City.

  “Now I’ll never have any grandchildren,” choked the Iffin, a tear trickling off the end of his nose.

  “And I’ll never get back to Philadelphia, or be an air mail pilot,” sighed Peter, clasping his hands behind his head and starting gloomily at the wall. And I am sure each of you would have felt gloomy, if you had been in Peter’s plight.

  CHAPTER 12 The Escape from Baffleburg

  AS THE rattle of hoofs and sound of bugles died away, Peter, looking down at Snif noticed that his eyes were growing larger and larger.

  “Stop!” breathed Peter, nervously edging away and brushing his hand across his forehead. “Stop what?” grunted the Iffin crossly. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “But your eyes,” screamed Peter, edging still further away, “and your ears! Why your ears are as big as you are. Help! Help! Look out. Are you going to explode?” Before Snif could touch his ear with his claw or wonder what Peter was yelling about, he expanded like a balloon, filling the entire dungeon and squeezing Peter flat against the wall. The effect of the shrinking violets had worn off at last, and with the Iffin rapidly reaching his former size and strength, there was no room in the box-like cell. To keep from crushing Peter, he pressed against the bars of the dungeon. The force with which he shot up to his full and former size tore the door from its hinges and bent out the bars like wax. While Snif stood terrified and trembling with surprise, Peter, with great presence of mind, pressed past him, slipped through the bent bars and unlocked the dungeon door.

  “We’re free,” gasped the little boy, as Snif tumbled head first from their cell.

  “We’re free and you’re big and strong again. We can fly to the Emerald City right away and save Ozma and everybody.”

  “If-I~ever-get-my~breath, you mean, wheezed Snif, leaning against the wall and puffing like a porpoise. “Wh~ew! Growing up is almost as bad as shrinking down.”

  “Did it hurt,” asked Peter, eyeing his friend with lively curiosity. “Well, not exactly,” explained the Iffin, raising first one foot and then the other, “but I’ve had lots more pleasant experiences. Did I hurt you?”

  “Not much,” said Peter, feeling a bruise on his elbow where he had been pressed against the wall. “Say, it’s great to have you a monster again. Don’t ever eat another violet as long as you live.”

  “I never will,” shuddered the Iffin, shaking his head solemnly. “Out of my way, lump!” Pushing over a startled jailer who had run out to see what was the matter, Snif rushed along the corridor.

  “First we’ll find Belfaygor, then we’ll hunt Jack’s head and the pirate’s sack and next we’ll fly to the capitol and put an end to Mogodore’s mischief. I can outfly a thousand horses without even trying,” boasted Snif, pushing over another guard who darted out to intercept them.

  “If I’d only opened that pirate’s sack right away,” puffed Peter running to catch up with Snif, “if I only had, all this would never have happened. Goodness, what’s this?”

  “Good news to me,” chuckled Snif galloping along gaily. “It is Belfaygor’s beard and will lead us straight to his dungeon.” Snif was right. Trailing the flowing red whiskers of the baron, they came to the topmost cell in the tower. Out from the dungeon bars poured the enchanted beard of Belfaygor. Belfaygor, himself was leaning against the door, too discouraged and unhappy to even clip them once. But when Peter called him by name, and he saw Snif grown to full size and power again, he snapped his shears joyfully and in a trembling voice demanded to know how they had come there.

  “We burst our bars,” cried Peter exuberantly. “At least Snif did.” While the Iffin brushed the torrent of whiskers aside, the little boy unlocked the dungeon door, and after a hearty embrace told the baron all that had happened. Overjoyed at his release, Belfaygor followed them down the grim tower corridors. Each jailer who appeared was scornfully pushed aside by Snif, and when they came to the bottom Belfaygor and Peter seated themselves on his back and Snif rushed into the great stone hall of the castle. The few guards who had been left behind took to their heels as the Iffin flew screaming over their heads, and with no one to bother them the three began a systematic search for Jack’s head. Jack”s body was still sprawled over the center table. The top of his peg neck had been chopped off wi
th his head, but whittling another point on the end, Peter gently dragged the headless figure to a chair and sat him down. Snif soon found the famous sack behind a screen, and remembering Jack’s pumpkin had rolled through the door, Peter pushed aside the hanging and tiptoed into a long dim entry. It slanted slightly and Peter hurried along looking anxiously to the right and left, but the pumpkin head was nowhere to be seen. The hallway was growing narrower every minute, curving round and round like a spiral slideway and leading continuously downward. Peter was about to go back and call the others, when the moist nose of Snif appeared round one of the curves back of him.

  “What’s this?” demanded the Iffin. “And whither doth it lead?”

  “I don’t know,” said Peter, “but Jack’s head must have rolled down here and be lying somewhere at the bottom.”

  “Then let us join it by all means,” chuckled the Iffin sitting down and sliding calmly after Peter. “Look out, here I come, and take this pirate’s sack will you? It makes me positively shudder.” Peter reached back and relieved Snif of the sack. Above they could hear Belfaygor treading cautiously down the hallway, but the curved passage soon grew so steep, Peter and Snif began to slip, roll and finally coast like children on a playground slide. “Now you’ve done it,” coughed the Iffin as they finally somersaulted into a dark cellarway, lit by one feeble lantern. “Out of one dungeon into another!”