Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

  Joe stopped in his tracks. ‘Dragon? Ogre?’ he said. ‘Are you seriously suggesting I should do battle with dragons and ogres?’

  ‘And whifflepooks,’ Norbert reminded him. ‘Vicious, scaly little beasts, they are,’ he said, looking round nervously.

  ‘You’re a warrior-hero, a barbarian, Joe,’ said Randalf cheerfully. ‘Savage blood courses through your veins. A stranger from a strange land, eager for adventure and utterly fearless!’

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ Joe began, but a disgusting smell assailed his nostrils before he could finish. ‘Pfwooar! What is that horrible pong?’

  Norbert pinched his nose closed. ‘De Busty Bountains,’ he said.

  ‘And mustier than ever,’ said Veronica. ‘Perhaps you should also have invested in a Clothes Peg of Destiny,’ she said to Randalf. ‘Our warrior-hero is looking a bit green.’

  It was true. Joe was feeling decidedly ill. Although not as pungent as Goblintown, the warm, stale odour drifting in on the breeze from the Musty Mountains was quite disgusting – a stomach-churning mixture of mildew, mouse droppings and mothballs. As they rounded the corner, the mountains loomed up ahead of them. They were tall, jagged, forbidding and very, very musty.

  ‘They stink!’ Joe gasped.

  ‘The Musty Mountains are extremely old, Joe,’ said Randalf sharply. ‘I daresay one day you’ll be old and smelly yourself.’

  ‘But—’ Joe began.

  ‘And how will you like it when everyone who passes you by tells you that you stink? Eh?’

  Joe shook his head. Sometimes in Muddle Earth, there was simply no point arguing.

  ‘Anyway, Joe,’ Norbert added. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll soon get used to it.’

  On and on they went. Mile after mile. With Randalf and Veronica on one shoulder, Joe on the other and Henry trotting along by his side, Norbert strode unwaveringly onwards.

  After several hours of going in a straight line, the road was becoming increasingly full of bends. It snaked its way through the valleys between the tall, jagged mountains. To Joe’s surprise, Norbert was right; he did get used to the unpleasant smell. Or rather, what with everything else about him, he forgot all about it.

  There were hairy squeak-moths that fluttered off as they approached, squeaking loudly. There were flightless scruff-birds which flapped about on the ground, chattering indignantly. There were odd thuds and spooky whooshing noises as rocks fell and the wind blew, and far in the distance Joe thought he heard an odd tinkly-tinkly sound.

  When they came to a fork in the road, Norbert stopped. ‘Which way, sir?’ he said.

  Randalf, who had dropped off for a few minutes, opened his eyes and looked round.

  ‘The Horned Baron’s castle, sir,’ said Norbert. ‘Should I turn right or left?’

  ‘Left,’ said Randalf.

  ‘Where does the other road lead to?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Randalf. He tapped the ogre softly on the head with his staff. ‘Proceed, Norbert,’ he said.

  Further on, as they rounded a sharp corner, Joe stared in awe at a chimney-stack-shaped mountain that loomed into view. Tall and imposing, it towered high above all the other mountains. From the crater at its top came little wisps of smoke which coiled up into the musty air and disappeared.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  The mountain let out a gentle, rumbling boom and a wispy smoke ring. Randalf, who had dozed off once more, grunted in his sleep.

  ‘It’s called Mount Boom,’ said Veronica.

  ‘’Cause that’s what it does,’ added Norbert helpfully. ‘It goes boom!’

  Boom.

  The feeble noise sounded again. It was accompanied by a second smoke ring. The musty smell grew slightly mustier. This time, Randalf’s eyes opened.

  ‘Did I hear something?’ he said.

  ‘It was Mount Boom, sir,’ said Norbert. ‘Booming.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Randalf. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Then we are nearly there. The Horned Baron’s castle should be just around the next corner. Charming location . . .’

  ‘Apart from the smell,’ added Veronica.

  The road curved round to the left. Randalf pointed down through the musty, dusty air to a series of tall spires and turrets which peeked up above the line of jagged mountain-tops. ‘There it is,’ he announced. ‘The castle of the Horned Baron.’

  Norbert shuddered. ‘The place gives me the creeps,’ he said. ‘It always has.’

  ‘And as for the Horned Baron himself,’ added Veronica. ‘He can be so . . .’

  Just then, the budgie’s voice was drowned out by a loud rumbling sound which came from Elfwood. Joe turned to look. The tinkly-tinkly sound grew louder. The next moment, something curious emerged from the distant trees in a flurry of thick dust and sped towards them.

  ‘Stampede!’ Veronica squawked. ‘Cattle stampede!’

  At least that was what Joe thought she said. He squinted into the distance. ‘Cattle?’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not cattle, cloth-ears,’ said Veronica. ‘Cutlery!’

  ‘Take cover!’ Randalf cried as the stampede drew close.

  Joe ducked down behind a rock and watched in amazement as the great herd of kitchen utensils pounded past. Knives, forks and spoons, ladles and tongs, scissors and skewers, peelers, sharpeners, crushers and mashers – all hurtling on in a wild and frenetic dash towards the Musty Mountains.

  ‘There’s definitely something afoot in Elfwood,’ said Veronica darkly. ‘Some strange, potent magic is brewing, you mark my words. And you know who’s at the bottom of it. Doctor Cuddles . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Veronica!’ Randalf shouted crossly. ‘How many more times must I tell you? That name is not to be mentioned in my presence under any circumstances.’

  Joe frowned and turned to Veronica. ‘But you said—’

  ‘Shut up, Joe!’ Veronica hissed. She turned back to Randalf. ‘Don’t you think we ought to get going?’ she asked him.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Randalf. He cautiously stood up and looked round. The cutlery had gone. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘It’s safe to proceed.’

  Inside the Horned Baron’s castle at last, Randalf (with Veronica back on his head) led Norbert, Joe and Henry up a wide and winding staircase to the first floor. Randalf stopped at an imposing oak door.

  ‘Wait here,’ he instructed Joe, his voice echoing round the high vaulted ceiling. ‘I’ll introduce you to the baron when the moment is right. Timing is everything. Trust me, I’m a wizard.’

  He turned and knocked.

  ‘Enter!’ came a loud, booming voice.

  Randalf opened the door and went in. ‘My Lord Horned Baron,’ he said, and bowed low. Veronica hopped down on to his shoulder. Norbert curtsied. ‘And how good it is to see his Lordship looking so well.’

  A short, fussily dressed little man stopped his pacing and turned to Randalf. ‘Oh, it’s you again,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Randalf cheerfully.

  The Horned Baron scowled. ‘You’re late!’ he snapped. ‘I sent for a wizard last Tuesday.’

  ‘A thousand apologies for that, my Lord,’ said Randalf, ‘but you know how it is. One spell leads to another, and before you know it . . .’

  ‘Indeed I do not know “how it is”,’ said the Horned Baron, his voice just a little too shrill and high-pitched. ‘When I summon a wizard to the castle I expect him to drop whatever he’s doing and come at once. Is that understood?’

  ‘Absolutely, my Lord . . . Yes, my Lord . . . Sorry, my Lord . . .’ Randalf babbled. ‘I’ve been so busy. What with all the other wizards going . . . umm . . . on holiday . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose you’ll have to do,’ the Horned Baron sighed. ‘I’ve been at my wits’ end! Apparently, there’s a rogue ogre running amok. Great big brute of a thing it is. It’s the last thing I need. What with all the rumours that something is not quite right in Elfwood.’

  ‘Told you,’ muttered Veronica smugly.
<
br />   The mention of Elfwood turned Randalf a deep shade of red. ‘An ogre, you say. What you need,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘is a warrior-hero.’

  The Horned Baron groaned. ‘That’s what you said the last time, when I had that problem with the plumbing. What was his name? Quentin the Cake-Decorator? I’m still clearing up the mess he made.’ He shook his head. ‘The trouble is, the quality of the warrior-hero depends on the quality of the wizard who summons him, and quite frankly . . .’

  His voice trailed away as he looked Randalf up and down, eyebrows raised and top lip curling. Randalf pulled himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest.

  ‘The summoning of a warrior-hero involves hard work, prolonged study and utter dedication to the task,’ he said. ‘Only the most gifted wizards are able to carry out so demanding a spell. A wizard, I humbly suggest, such as myself.’

  ‘Humph,’ said the Horned Baron sceptically. ‘We’ll need more than a cake-decorator this time, Randalf. There’s an angry ogre on the loose and his temper is getting worse by the day. According to my sources he goes by the name of Engelbert the Enormous. It’s been absolute murder, I tell you. He’s been ripping the thatch off cottages, trampling fields and orchards, and squeezing sheep . . .’

  ‘Doesn’t sound good,’ said Randalf, and tutted sympathetically.

  ‘He squeezed a whole flock only last night!’ the Horned Baron went on. ‘Something must be done!’

  ‘And something shall be done!’ Randalf announced. ‘For I bear news that, after long and painstaking experimentation, I have managed to summon to Muddle Earth a great warrior-hero from afar. He is bold. He is brave. Sharp in intellect and valiant in battle. A warrior-hero whose reputation goes before him. A legend in his own lunchtime . . .’

  ‘Get on with it!’ said the Horned Baron irritably.

  ‘Allow me to introduce, Joe the Barbarian!’ Randalf said, and turned to the doorway expectantly.

  No one appeared.

  ‘Well?’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘One moment, my Lord,’ said Randalf, and cleared his throat. ‘I give you . . .’ He turned back to the door and bellowed at the top of his voice, ‘JOE THE BARBARIAN!’

  Before the echo had even died away, there came the sound of excited barking and scurrying claws, and Henry dashed into the chamber, ears flapping, tongue lolling and lead dragging along behind him.

  The Horned Baron s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘What in Muddle Earth is that?’ he exclaimed. He turned on the wizard. ‘Barbarian is right, Randalf!’ he said sarcastically. ‘Don’t they believe in haircuts where he comes from?’

  Randalf smiled. ‘His Lordship has misunderstood,’ he said. ‘This is not the warrior-hero of whom I spoke, but rather his faithful battle-hound.’

  ‘Henry the Hairy,’ Veronica murmured, and chuckled to herself.

  ‘The real warrior-hero is about to enter,’ said Randalf. ‘Joe the Barbarian,’ he announced again. His face creased up with irritation. ‘JOE! Will you get in here. Now!’

  Joe’s pale face appeared nervously round the edge of the door. ‘Did you call?’ he said.

  ‘He’s not deaf, is he?’ asked the Horned Baron. ‘I don’t give much for his chances if he is.’

  ‘Of course he’s not deaf,’ said Randalf. ‘That said, all the senses of this particular warrior-hero are so acute, so sensitive, so finely tuned that he could lose two or three and still remain completely invincible.’

  Joe clattered into the chamber and stood next to the others. The Horned Baron glanced his way and sniffed dismissively. ‘He doesn’t look up to much,’ he said. He nodded towards Henry. ‘Are you quite sure he’s not the warrior-hero after all?’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Randalf. ‘Take yourself, for instance. We know you’re a great and noble Horned Baron, yet look at you . . .’

  ‘What . . . what . . . what are you suggesting?’ blustered the affronted Baron. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!’

  Joe smiled nervously. For all his grand title and stately surroundings, the Horned Baron was, it had to be said, rather short. He was also weasel-faced, skinny and with scrawny arms and legs. Even his name was a bit misleading. Joe had assumed that the Horned Baron would have huge curling horns sprouting from the top of his head. Instead, he had to admit he was a little disappointed to see that the baron’s name came from the oversized horns on his helmet, which kept slipping down over his eyes.

  In short, the Horned Baron was a big let-down.

  ‘What I meant, your Lordship, is this,’ Randalf was saying. ‘Your greatness and nobility are all the more impressive for being so . . . well concealed.’

  ‘Humph!’ snorted the Horned Baron, unsure how to take the wizard’s words. He returned his attention to Joe and sighed wearily. ‘I suppose that if this is all that’s on offer, he’ll have to do.’

  Randalf smiled again. ‘You know what they say,’ he said. ‘A barbarian in the hand is worth two cake-decorators in anyone’s money.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘And talking of money, if we could perhaps move on to the delicate matter of my fee.’

  ‘Your fee?’ asked the Horned Baron, his eyebrows arching alarmingly.

  ‘Yes, two golden big ’uns, wasn’t it?’ Randalf ventured.

  ‘Three silver pipsqueaks,’ said the Horned Baron, jingling some coins in his pocket. ‘And I’m being robbed blind!’

  Randalf groaned. So little money to go such a long way. The trouble was, with his recent record, he was in no position to bargain. ‘Three silver pipsqueaks it is,’ he said and reached out for the money.

  The Horned Baron abruptly withdrew his hand. ‘But then, there was that incident with the exploding elf, wasn’t there?’ he said. ‘I shall have to make a slight deduction. Oh, and then there’s the matter of the melting silver goblet. And that terrible infestation of galloping green mould in the castle bathrooms . . . very nasty . . . In fact, after all the deductions, I calculate that you owe me.’

  ‘But that’s not fair . . .’ Randalf began.

  ‘Life isn’t fair,’ came the reply. ‘Ye t, for all that, I am a generous Horned Baron,’ he said. ‘Here, take this brass muckle.’

  ‘You’ve got to stand up to him,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Shut up, Veronica,’ Randalf hissed as, swallowing both his words and his pride, he pocketed the single coin. Who knows, perhaps his luck was about to change. Maybe Joe the Barbarian – warrior-hero extraordinaire – might just surprise him. He wouldn’t count on it, but he’d just have to do what he always did in these situations and make the best of it.

  ‘Go, then!’ said the Horned Baron addressing Joe directly. ‘Journey south, seek out Engelbert the Enormous and put a stop to his destructive behaviour once and for all. And when you have slain the fiend, I want you to bring me his head. There’s a pouch of silver pipsqueaks for you when you do.’

  ‘His head?’ said Joe, horrified. ‘Ugh!’

  ‘Just a figure of speech,’ said Randalf hurriedly, as he seized Joe by the arm and steered him towards the door. ‘Any proof will do’ He turned back to the Horned Baron. ‘Consider it done, my Lord.’

  Just then, the relative calm was destroyed by a heart-stopping screech. ‘WALTER!’

  Paling slightly, the Horned Baron smiled weakly.

  ‘Walter! Where are my new singing curtains? The ones I showed you in that catalogue. You promised me them ages ago. You’re all talk, you are!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know, call yourself a Horned Baron!’

  ‘It’s all in hand, my little songbird,’ he called back. ‘I’m having them sent over. Made of the finest material, they are, and with the voice of an angel guaranteed. They’re costing me the earth.’

  ‘WAL-ter!’ Ingrid screeched indignantly.

  ‘But worth every last brass muckle, of course,’ he hastily added.

  Before the Horned Baron had a chance to remember precisely where his last brass muckle had actually gone, Randalf bustled the
others out of the door, down the stairs and across the courtyard. He paused on the steps of the castle by the outer gate.

  ‘All things considered,’ he said, ‘I think that went very well.’

  ‘If being humiliated and swindled counts as doing well, then you’re right,’ said Veronica drily.

  ‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf. He turned to Joe and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘And so, Joe the Barbarian, the time is almost upon us,’ he announced, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. ‘We’ll rest up here for the night. Then, as the sun rises over Muddle Earth tomorrow morning, so shall the quest begin!’

  The following day dawned bright and early – unlike the day before, when it had been an hour late, and the previous Wednesday when it hadn’t dawned until one-twenty in the afternoon. There were unconfirmed rumours flying about that Dr Cuddles was responsible. Whatever, on this particular morning the sun rose when it should – which was just as well, because if it hadn’t, Randalf and the rest would have stood no chance of travelling to the Ogrehills in one day.

  ‘Look lively,’ Randalf said, several times, as he scuttled about getting everyone ready. Finally, they were off.

  Swaying to and fro on Norbert’s left shoulder, Joe was far from happy. Quite apart from the ogre-sickness which had returned with a vengeance the moment they’d set off, he was decidedly uneasy about the forthcoming quest.

  ‘All this talk of ogres and squeezed sheep,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t like the sound of it one little bit. I’m not a warrior-hero, I’m just an ordinary schoolboy – and I want to go home.’

  Randalf leaned across from Norbert’s right shoulder and patted Joe reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Everything’s going to be just fine! Trust me, I’m a wizard.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said Joe. ‘But look at the size of Norbert – and he’s Norbert the Not-Very-Big! What on earth is this . . . this Engelbert the Enormous going to be like?’