Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

  ‘Indeed, I am twice as glad,’ Randalf insisted.

  ‘Whatever’ said Veronica. ‘Let’s just get back to the houseboat before someone – mentioning no names, of course,’ she said, eyeing Norbert accusingly. ‘Before someone pulls out another plug.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ Norbert protested.

  ‘Never mind all that, Norbert,’ said Randalf. ‘You’re getting the basket wet. Joe, you and Henry climb into that spare kitchen sink, and Norbert will paddle us all back. Won’t you, Norbert? There’s a good fellow.’

  Everyone took their places. Norbert began paddling furiously.

  ‘And then you must tell me everything that happened,’ Randalf shouted across the foamy water. ‘Every single detail.’

  ‘He did what?’ Randalf exclaimed.

  ‘He tickled Henry’s tummy,’ Joe repeated. ‘And I could tell at once that Henry liked it. I looked round for you lot, but you’d all run off.’

  Randalf coughed with embarrassment and turned a florid shade of pink. ‘A tactical retreat, my lad,’ he said. ‘Withdrawing. Regrouping . . .’

  ‘Running for dear life,’ added Veronica.

  ‘Shut up, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘Go on, Joe.’

  ‘It was just like you said,’ said Joe, and tapped the side of his head. ‘Psychology!’

  ‘You see,’ said Randalf triumphantly. ‘Didn’t I tell you? With your Trident of Trickery and Helmet of Sarcasm . . .’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Joe interrupted. ‘It had nothing to do with them. In fact, they just got in the way, so I took them off.’ He looked up guiltily. ‘I’m afraid they got a bit squashed when Engelbert accidentally trod on them.’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ said Randalf. ‘What exactly did you mean by psychology?’

  ‘Well, it was clear that Engelbert liked Henry,’ Joe explained. ‘From the moment he picked him up and rubbed him up and down his cheek, he was a changed ogre. A real softy . . .’

  Randalf frowned. ‘He’d lost his snuggly-wuggly, hadn’t he?’ he said. ‘That’s what he was so angry about. And when he found Henry he calmed down again.’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘It’s all falling into place,’ said Randalf. ‘The fits of rage. The squeezed sheep. Norbert, you should have realized.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Norbert.

  ‘Yet Henry is with you now,’ said Randalf eyeing the dog thoughtfully. ‘How did you manage to get the ogre to give him back?’

  ‘Simple,’ said Joe. ‘I found the snuggly-wuggly he’d lost.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Randalf, intrigued.

  ‘At the Horned Baron’s castle,’ said Joe, and smiled at Randalf’s obvious confusion. ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ he said. ‘We all saw the ogre’s snuggly-wuggly earlier on,’ he said, ‘when we were heading for the Ogrehills. ‘Saw it, and heard it . . .’

  ‘Grubbers!’ Randalf exclaimed. ‘Why, he had a roll of singing material under his arm, didn’t he? I remember now, he was on his way to Goblintown to have it turned into curtains for the Horned Baron’s wife.’ He frowned. ‘Norbert, you’re an ogre. I would have expected you to recognize another ogre’s snuggly-wuggly.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Norbert once again. ‘I don’t seem to have had a very good day, do I?’ he added sadly.

  ‘Grubley, Grubley,’ said Randalf, sucking air through his teeth and shaking his head. ‘I never trusted him. What a rogue! What a scoundrel. Stealing an ogre’s snuggly-wuggly! Because of him, the whole of Muddle Earth was thrown into turmoil.’ He clapped Joe on the shoulders. ‘And so it would have remained, my lad, if you hadn’t come along.’

  ‘It . . . it was nothing,’ said Joe.

  ‘Nothing?’ Randalf cried. ‘Why, Joe the Barbarian, warrior-hero from afar, Muddle Earth will be for ever in your debt.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Joe, ‘and now, if it’s all the same with you, I really really would like to be getting home. I’ve done my bit . . .’

  ‘But, Joe,’ said Randalf. ‘Joe the Barbarian. There is one small matter . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes, I was forgetting,’ said Joe as he pulled the pouch of silver pipsqueaks from his pocket. ‘The Horned Baron gave me this. It’s my fee.’ He held it out. ‘You may as well have it. I won’t be needing it where I’m going.’

  ‘Oh, Joe,’ said Randalf. ‘Your bravery is unsurpassed, your ingenuity unequalled and now I find your generosity is also unmatched – and yet that was not the little matter to which I was referring.’

  ‘Then, what is it?’ said Joe. His heartbeat was beginning to race. ‘I’ve kept my side of the bargain. Now it’s time to keep yours. You must send me home.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t?’ said Joe. ‘What do you mean, can’t?’

  Randalf looked down. ‘I mean, I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ said Veronica. ‘He wouldn’t know where to start, I can vouch for that.’

  Joe’s stomach churned. His head spun. ‘But . . . but you brought me here,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Randalf. ‘I used my warrior-hero-summoning spell,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, it is the only spell I have to hand.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Veronica scornfully, ‘that’s because all the other spells – including the warrior-hero-returning spell are . . .’

  ‘Are elsewhere,’ Randalf interrupted hurriedly.

  ‘Can’t you fetch it?’ said Joe.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Randalf.

  ‘You mean to say, I’m stuck here!’ said Joe indignantly.

  ‘For the time being,’ Randalf confirmed.

  ‘No, no, I’ve got to get back . . .’ said Joe. ‘Why can t you fetch it?’ he demanded. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . because . . .’ Randalf faltered. ‘Go on, tell him,’ said Veronica. ‘You know where it is. After all, there’s only one place it could be!’

  ‘Where?’ said Joe.

  Randalf grimaced. ‘Giggle Glade,’ he said.

  ‘Giggle Glade?’ said Joe.

  ‘It’s in the middle of Elfwood,’ said Randalf.

  ‘Elfwood?’ said Joe. Veronica had mentioned Elfwood before.

  ‘It’s the residence of . . .’ He shuddered violently. ‘Dr Cuddles.’

  ‘Dr Cuddles . . .’ said Joe slowly.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Veronica. ‘He’s more of a parrot than I am, and that’s saying something for a budgie!’

  ‘Dr Cuddles is . . . is the one who stole Roger the Wrinkled’s Great Book of Spells,’ Randalf confessed. ‘He’s been using it ever since. You remember the flying cupboards?’

  ‘And the stampeding cutlery?’ said Norbert.

  Joe nodded. Randalf shuddered again.

  ‘That was no doubt the work of Dr Cuddles,’ he said. ‘If anything goes wrong in Muddle Earth, you can bet your last pipsqueak, somewhere at the bottom of it all, you’ll find Dr Cuddles of Giggle Glade!’

  ‘That’s it!’ Veronica exclaimed.

  ‘He’s power mad!’ said Randalf. ‘He’ll stop at nothing to take control of Muddle Earth and become its absolute ruler. And if that should ever happen,’ he went on, ‘then all the denizens of Muddle Earth would be forced to dance to his evil tune . . .’

  ‘That’s it!’ squawked Veronica a second time.

  ‘What’s it?’ said Randalf irritably.

  ‘It wasn’t Grubley who stole the ogre’s snuggly-wuggly,’ said Veronica. ‘He was telling the truth when he said he obtained it from one of his contacts. The question is, who was that contact?’

  Randalf shook his head. ‘You don’t mean . . .’ he said.

  Veronica tutted impatiently. ‘Just think about it. Who stood to gain from Engelbert destroying the Horned Baron’s castle in his rage?’ she asked. ‘Who would have welcomed a bit of argy-bargy between the goblins and the ogres? And where was Grubley coming from with that roll of singing material? Elfwood! And who lives in Elfwood?’

  ‘Dr Cuddles,’ said Randalf, Norbert and Veronica i
n hushed unison. ‘Stealing an ogre’s snuggly-wuggly! What will he think of next!’ They all shook their heads.

  It was Joe who broke the long silence that followed. ‘That’s handy,’ he said.

  Randalf looked at him quizzically. ‘Handy?’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be able to find out when we pay him a visit to ask him to return the Great Book of Spells,’ he said.

  Randalf laughed nervously. ‘Joe, my dear boy, nobody pays a visit to Giggle Glade. You can’t just ask Dr Cuddles to return the spell book. That’s what Roger the Wrinkled and the other wizards thought.“We’ll discuss it over a nice pot of tea, Randalf,” they said – and look what happened to them!’

  ‘What?’ said Joe.

  ‘Well, I don’t actually know,’ admitted Randalf. ‘But they didn’t come back!’

  Joe shrugged. ‘If going to see Dr Cuddles of Giggle Glade is my only chance of returning home, then it’s a risk I’m prepared to take. Besides,’ he said, before Randalf – or Veronica – could speak, ‘you’re forgetting something very important.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ asked Randalf.

  Joe smiled. ‘I am JOE THE BARBARIAN!’ he proclaimed in his biggest voice.

  ‘I . . . I know that,’ said Randalf uncertainly. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Joe. ‘I’m a warrior-hero.’

  A chill wind whistled through the trees of Elfwood. The leaves rustled, the boughs creaked. At its very centre, the dappled light illuminating Giggle Glade was fading fast.

  ‘We failed, master,’ came the nasal voice of Dr Cuddles’s assistant.

  ‘Yes,’ came the squeaky reply, followed by high-pitched giggles. ‘We failed.’

  ‘And we planned the singing curtains scam so well! The fake advertisement in the catalogue. The theft of Engelbert the Enormous’s snuggly-wuggly – ooh, those ogres can be so stupid! The haggling with that odious little goblin, Grubley . . . It was all going so well.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Cuddles giggled unpleasantly, ‘by now, Muddle Earth should have been in chaos! And I would have been its ruler. I didn’t think my old friend, Randalf the Apprentice, had it in him to use that spell a second time.’ The sinister giggles grew louder. ‘Curse that warrior-hero!’

  ‘My thoughts entirely,’ his assistant agreed.

  ‘But our work shall continue. I shall devise an even better plan! One that cannot fail! I shall destroy the warrior-hero once and for all!’ he shouted, each word interspersed with the hideous giggling. ‘I shall conquer the Horned Baron!’

  All round the clearing, the woodland creatures were troubled by the sound of the raised voice. As it reached its terrifying crescendo, stiltmice tottered, tree rabbits fell out of their trees, while the roosting batbirds – already wary after an attacking flock of cupboards had left them battered and uneasy – deserted their perches and flapped off across the sky.

  ‘That all sounds absolutely super,’ said his assistant. ‘Now, how about a nice cup of tea and a snuggle-muffin. I’ve decorated one specially with your face . . .’

  ‘What would I do without you, Quentin?’ said Dr Cuddles. ‘Now, I need to get down to my plan.’ He stroked his chin. ‘I must cover every angle. Allow for every possibility.’ He looked up. ‘I’m thinking dragons. I’m thinking mangel-wurzel marmalade. I’m thinking small, tinkly teaspoons . . .’ He giggled and rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘It’s going to be perfect, Quentin.’

  ‘Ooh, you’re so evil, master,’ Quentin purred.

  The giggles grew menacing. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet, believe me, Quentin,’ he said. His voice (and giggles) became louder. ‘And there is not a thing that Randalf, or anyone else, can do to stop me! I, DOCTOR CUDDLES OF GIGGLE GLADE, SHALL BECOME LORD AND MASTER OF MUDDLE EARTH!!!’ he roared, and he threw back his head in crazed triumph.

  ‘Tee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee . . .!’

  It was night-time in Muddle Earth and the air was still. High up in the sky, its three moons – one purple, one yellow and one green – were dotted about the dark, cloudless sky. They shone down brightly, like three spotlights, casting multicoloured light and shadow on buildings, trees and the Enchanted Lake, which floated at the top of a waterfall. They glinted on the massed ranks of shiny cutlery which stood in a broad semicircle at the entrance to a vast mountain cave.

  To the left was the knife section. Several neat rows of knives – some smooth, some serrated, some straight, some curved – ascended in size, from modest butter knives at the front, through steak knives, bread knives and carving knives, to a line of hefty meat cleavers at the back.

  To the right were the spoons, also standing in neat rows; first egg spoons, then teaspoons, then dessertspoons and tablespoons, and finally a somewhat rowdy collection of tall ladles, all jockeying for a good position.

  Between these sections were the rest. Everything from forks, whisks, skewers and spatulas, to grinders and graters, egg slicers, nutcrackers and garlic crushers.

  They all seemed to be waiting. But waiting for what? Nobody seemed to know. There was a rumour that a small teaspoon had gone missing and that they shouldn’t begin until it showed up. The hanging around, however, was taking its toll. Tempers were fraying. The forks were fidgeting, the spoons were pushing and shoving among themselves, while the steak knives – never ones to be messed with – were beginning to throw their weight about, jostling the ladles and trying to pick fights with everyone apart from the meat cleavers. At the front of the central section – primly keeping itself to itself – the egg slicer pinged and twanged impatiently.

  When was it all going to begin?

  Just then, there was a movement from the front. A pair of sugar tongs strode pompously across the dusty ground and climbed on to a small boulder. The coloured moons glinted on its highly polished whorls and curlicues. It raised a single tong and tapped sharply on the rock.

  Apart from the egg slicer, which had instantly fallen into expectant silence, none of the cutlery had noticed the newcomer at the front. It tapped again, more insistently this time.

  A couple of spoons near the front nudged each other and shushed the others. A group of cheese knives cut their communication short, cocked their curved blades to one side and turned to face the front.

  One by one, the individual pieces of cutlery fell still, until it was so quiet that you could have heard a toothpick drop.

  There was a dull thud at the front of the central section as a silver toothpick dropped to the ground, followed by an apologetic murmur when it picked itself up again.

  The sugar tongs tapped on the rock a third time, and raised one tong high into the air. Then, having satisfied itself that everyone was paying attention, it waved its tong with a flourish.

  As one, the cutlery began playing and the air filled with a strange and haunting percussion. Jingling and jangling, clinking and clanking, the cutlery followed the commands of the conducting sugar tongs – now playing softly, melodically; now rising up, little by little, towards a glorious clashing crescendo.

  Just as it was about to reach its loudest, the music was suddenly joined by another sound. It was deep and gravelly. It made the ground tremble. It was coming from the entrance to the cave.

  The sugar tongs nodded approvingly, and urged the cutlery to play louder still. The cutlery obliged.

  The next moment, a tendril of smoke – glittering in the coloured light of the moons – came coiling out from the inky darkness of the entrance to the cave. It looped and spiralled, and floated away. It was replaced by another, as the deep, rumbling roar grew louder.

  Something was stirring.

  The sky lightened, the moons set and the sun rose on another day in Muddle Earth. At the Horned Baron’s castle, there was the sound of heavy footsteps and angry muttering as the Horned Baron himself ran down the castle steps and out into the garden.

  ‘Where are they?’ he grumbled. ‘Where can they possibly be? I— Ooof! Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me, sir,’ came a small voic
e. ‘Benson.’

  The Horned Baron looked down at the ground by his feet, where a small goblin with a big nose – one of the castle gardeners – lay sprawling in the dust. ‘Well, watch where you’re going, Benson.’

  ‘I will, sir. I’m sorry, sir,’ he said as he climbed to his feet and brushed himself down. ‘I was just putting the final touches to the garden,’ he explained, and swept his arm round in a wide arc.

  The Horned Baron looked round. With the trestle tables standing bare, the tents and stalls lying on the ground waiting to be erected, and a small army of goblins rushing this way and that, arms full and constantly bumping into each other, the scene was one of absolute chaos. From the look of things, they’d hardly even started to get the garden party ready.

  ‘Never mind all that,’ he said, grabbing Benson by the sleeve. ‘Have you seen them?’

  ‘Seen who?’ said Benson.

  ‘Not who, you imbecile,’ bellowed the Horned Baron. ‘What! The Baroness’s sugar tongs! Have you seen them?’

  The gardener shook his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t, sir,’ he said. The Horned Baron sighed with irritation. ‘They must have disappeared like the others,’ Benson went on.

  ‘The others?’ the Horned Baron roared. ‘What do you mean, the others?’

  ‘All the other cutlery. Cook can’t find any of it anywhere. Disappeared, it has. All of it. There isn’t so much as a silver toothpick left in the whole of the castle.’

  The Horned Baron blanched. ‘Are you telling me . . . ? Do you mean to say . . . ?’ He swallowed. ‘Are there at least some butter knives? Tell me there are some butter knives.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Teaspoons?’

  ‘Not a single one.’

  ‘And what about . . . ?’

  ‘All gone, sir. From the carving knives to the ladles for the mulled punch. They’ve all vanished without a trace.’

  ‘But this is an outrage!’ the Horned Baron thundered. He turned pale. ‘What’s Ingrid going to say? She’s already in a state over the sugar tongs. “I can’t possibly hold a garden party without any sugar tongs!” – her very words. What on earth is she going to say when she discovers that the rest of the cutlery has disappeared as well?’