Muddle Earth
Page 12
‘Get on with it,’ said Veronica.
Randalf frowned, and continued reading. ‘. . . and his beautiful wife, Ingrid . . . blah blah blah . . . Ah, here we go,’ he said. ‘. . . do cordially invite Roger the Wrinkled and his fellow wizards to a Garden Party, to be held in the well-maintained, spacious, luxuriant grounds of their beautiful ancestral castle. (Turn left at the Musty Mountains and follow your nose) . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Veronica impatiently. ‘We all know where his castle is. But when is this garden party?’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Randalf. He returned his attention to the invitation. ‘I . . . errm . . . Oh, Great Moons of Muddle Earth! It’s today! At two o’clock this afternoon! And they want a wizard, preferably Roger the Wrinkled, to open it.’
‘They’ll be disappointed, then,’ said Veronica. She snorted. ‘Garden party, indeed! Have you seen the state of the Horned Baron’s garden? Why anyone in their right mind would want to have a party in it beats me . . .’
‘You’re missing the point, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘The fee for a wizard cutting the ribbon and saying a few words at the opening of a regal garden party is three gold pieces and as much blancmange as you can eat. I’m down to my last brass muckle,’ he added woefully. ‘I can’t afford to miss such an opportunity . . .’
‘But how will we get there?’ Veronica persisted. ‘You said it starts at two o’clock.’
‘Quarter to afternoon!’ chimed the clock-elf, putting his head out of the door.
‘We do what we always do when we need to get somewhere really, really quickly,’ Randalf replied.
Norbert paled. ‘Not the winged boots . . .’
‘There’s no other choice,’ said Randalf firmly.
Joe turned to Norbert. ‘The what?’ he said.
‘Remember what happened last time,’ said Veronica with a shudder. ‘Some wizards never learn.’
Randalf clapped his hands together urgently. ‘Chop-chop, everyone,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
‘But what about me?’ said Joe.
Randalf smiled. ‘There’s always room on Norbert’s shoulders for a warrior-hero, my lad,’ he said. Henry barked and wagged his tail. ‘Yes, and for his faithful battle-hound.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Joe. ‘You promised to help me get home. I’ll give the matter my full attention, you said.’
‘Later,’ said Randalf. ‘I said I’d do it later. And I shall.’
‘But when?’ said Joe.
‘We’ll find a way,’ he said, cheerily. ‘But for now . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Duty calls. My hands are tied.’
The elf leaped out of the clock. ‘You’ll never make it,’ it laughed. ‘You’ll be late, late, late!’ it said, and collapsed in a fit of hysterical giggles.
‘Too cheerful by half, that clock,’ muttered Veronica. ‘It needs to be wound up.’
‘You’re right,’ said Randalf. ‘I’ll do it now.’ He turned to the clock. ‘You’re a pathetic, miserable excuse for a timepiece, what are you?’
The furious elf grimaced. ‘Are you talking to me?’ it demanded in its most threatening voice. ‘Are you talking to me?’
‘There,’ said Randalf, ‘I’ve wound it up. Now let’s get going. There isn’t a moment to lose.’
As the sun rose in the sky, the tiny teaspoon picked its way, slowly and carefully, from tussock to scented tussock, sighing as it went. Drawn on by a strange force, the teaspoon had left Trollbridge and travelled down the dusty Ogrehill road, before turning off into the Perfumed Bog.
Pausing for a moment on top of a particularly highly perfumed tussock, the tiny teaspoon turned its bowl, as if to listen. From somewhere to its left there came a wheezing, squelchy-squelchy noise.
It was closer than before. The teaspoon sighed, trembled and leaped to the next tussock.
And the next.
And the next.
In front of it, something glinted and twinkled in the long grass. The spoon kept on, picking itself up when it fell, refusing to give up. The glinting and twinkling grew brighter.
All at once the grass parted and there, crouching down in the perfumed sludge, was an exploding gas frog – and an enormous one at that. It winked one bulbous eye, then the other. It shifted forwards on its massive forelegs, ready to strike. The warts all over its purple skin throbbed ominously.
The teaspoon slipped as it landed, then picked itself up once again. ‘Ah,’ it sighed.
The exploding gas frog reared up. Its warty lips parted and a long, thick, sticky tongue flashed through the air and wrapped itself around the tiny teaspoon.
As it disappeared inside the dark, fetid moistness of the gas frog’s greedily waiting mouth, the teaspoon let out a last, lingering sigh.
Aaaaa . . .’
The gas frog snapped its jaws shut, swallowed and grinned contentedly. It turned lazily around, and was just about to hop off back to the ooziest part of the bog where it could digest its meal undisturbed, when something started to happen.
First, a low gurgling noise came from the pit of the gas frog’s stomach. Then its warty skin began changing colour – from purple to red to green to orange. Its grin became a grimace.
‘Gribbit,’ it croaked in alarm. ‘Gribbit. Gribbit. . .’
It tried jumping up and down on the spot, it tried beating itself on the back, it tried falling heavily to the ground – but all to no avail. The teaspoon was stuck fast.
The gas frog rolled about helplessly. Its eyes bulged, its tongue lolled, its limbs stuck out rigid and useless. It shuddered and juddered, unable even to croak, and swelled to an immense size. The skin was stretched so taut and so thin that at any moment . . .
BANG!
The sound of the gas frog exploding echoed all round the Perfumed Bog, causing slimy bog demons to dive for cover and pink stinky hogs to break wind. It was deafening. And, when the remains of the hapless gas frog finally fluttered back to earth, also rather messy.
Flying high above the Perfumed Bog in a great, wide arc, the tiny spoon sighed.
At the entrance to the cave, the orchestra was in full swing. To the enthusiastic conducting of the sugar tongs, the spoons were clinking, the knives were clanging; ladles clashed, cake forks clicked – and the egg slicer attempted a rather ambitious solo, which ended in a nasty tangle with a carving knife.
From within the cave, the wispy coils of smoke grew thicker, denser. The orchestra played louder than ever.
Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk!
All at once, cutting across the strange metallic music, came a loud hissing whistle, like a great locomotive letting off steam. Thick grey and white clouds of smoke and steam billowed from the cave and swallowed up the ranks of the cutlery orchestra. Yet still they played on.
Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk!
Then, as the air cleared, a snout with two smoking nostrils could be seen protruding from the entrance to the cave. It sniffed at the air, it trembled – and came a little further forward.
Slowly, slowly, the rest of the great, scaly head appeared. A pair of heavy lids rose, one after the other, to reveal two yellow eyes which looked around in bemuse- ment before focusing in on the wide array of shiny cutlery spread out before it. Its scales rattled as it quivered with obvious delight.
At the sugar tongs’ command – and without missing a beat in the music – the orchestra took a step backwards. The creature emerged a little further. A long, scaly neck came into view.
Again, the sugar tongs directed the orchestra to fall back; again, the creature advanced.
An armoured body appeared, and four long, scaly limbs, each one ending in calloused knuckles and taloned toes.
Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk! Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk! The orchestra played on, taking another step back with every clonk.
Inch by inch, the creature slowly emerged from the safety of its dark, shadowy cave and out into the bright morning sunlight. It noted the shape and size of eac
h knife, it sniffed at the skewers and spoons – but the further out it came, the further back the orchestra retreated.
Growling menacingly, the creature reared up on its hind legs, flapped its pair of broad, leathery wings and lashed its long serpentine tail. Then, looking up at the sky, it snorted wildly. Two plumes of thick, black smoke emerged from its nostrils and, when it opened its jaws, a searing flame of orange and red accompanied its loud, resounding roar.
The huge, magnificent and fearsome beast had, for many long years, been coiled up around its treasure, sleeping. Now, the cutlery had woken it up. There they were, before it, sparkling brightly in the sun and making such sweet music. The dragon wanted them.
If only they would keep still!
For a second time, the dragon tilted its head back and roared. The tongues of flame licked at a passing squadron of flying wardrobes, scorching their doors – and sending one into a fatal tailspin. It came to earth in the foothills of the Musty Mountains with a loud, splintering crash.
The cutlery trembled.
Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk!
They fell back another step.
The dragon lowered its head and eyed the orchestra greedily. The sight and sound of the enticing silver cutlery had left it so excited it could barely control itself.
It wanted to add the gleaming silverware to its great glittering hoard. It wanted to possess it; to count it, to sort it, to polish and caress it. It wanted to feel the smoothness of the spoons, the prick of the forks; it wanted to wrap its coils around the cutlery and guard and protect it until the end of time.
The dragon’s eyes narrowed as the cutlery backed away. What were they all playing at? Why were they teasing so dreadfully?
The dragon’s muscles quivered. Its tail switched this way and that, stirring up the dust. Its nostrils smoked. It was all the creature could do to hold itself back from making a roaring dash at the orchestra – but if it did that, the cutlery might scatter and it would end up with nothing but a few soup spoons.
No, the dragon would have to be cleverer than that. It crouched down, its low-slung body close to the ground and its great, muscular haunches quivering. Then, with one eye fixed on the orchestra, it turned its head, as if about to leave.
The music faltered as the cutlery wondered what to do next. The sugar tongs raised one arm and beckoned.
The orchestra advanced a step.
In an instant, quick as a flash, the dragon twisted round and pounced. The great, scaly beast landed before the orchestra in a cloud of dust and whisked its tail round in a large circle that penned them all in. They were trapped, each and every shiny one of them.
At least, that was what the dragon thought. The cutlery, however, had other ideas. Already, at various points, pieces were breaching the tail-wall and breaking free.
A posse of egg spoons was scaling the long, arrow-shaped tip to the dragon’s tail; half a dozen ladles were helping each other over the upper-section, while on the ground in the middle, the egg slicer was jumping down on the curved prongs of a large fork, catapulting knives perched at the other end to freedom.
The dragon bellowed with rage so loudly that the mountains shook. It clacked its talons and flicked its tail up into the air, sending those hapless spoons and forks still clutching on to its scales hurtling up into the sky and away. At the same time, the rest of the cutlery orchestra took the opportunity to make a run for it.
They dashed off across the dusty mountain plateau with remarkable speed and agility. The dragon was left standing. Thrusting forwards, it opened its jaws and sent a blazing torch of fire roaring after them. The flames scorched the ground – and burnished the backsides of a couple of slow dessertspoons. But the cutlery did not stop.
One by one, the stragglers and strays were returning to the main group. Together, they all darted off down a narrow track between two huge boulders.
The dragon stood, perplexed. One moment, it had captured the most wonderful collection of gleaming silverware to add to its hoard; the next, it had lost them all!
In a flurry of dust, smoke, flashing talons and flapping wings, the dragon hurtled across the plain after the fleeing silverware. It would not give up; it could not.
The chase was on.
The Horned Baron stood at the top of the castle staircase looking out across the mountains. He glanced at his large, gold pocket watch for the fifth time in as many minutes and shook his head.
‘Ten past two, and still no sign,’ he muttered. ‘What on earth can have happened to them?’ First the cutlery, and now this. A garden party without wizards? It simply wouldn’t do! Ingrid would never forgive him. ‘Where are they?’ he groaned. ‘Where are they?’
‘They’re here,’ said Benson.
‘The wizards?’ said the Baron excitedly.
‘No,’ said Benson amiably. ‘The sugar-stabbers you dropped just now. Luckily I picked them up.’ The goblin held out a sharpened twig.
‘Oh, that,’ said the Horned Baron.
‘Was the Baroness pleased with them? Was she?’ asked Benson, excitedly.
‘Not exactly,’ said the Horned Baron, rubbing his arm and wincing.
‘WALTER!’ Ingrid’s voice sliced through the hazy afternoon sunshine like a blast of icy air. The Horned Baron shivered.
‘Sugar tongs are the least of my worries. Right now I need a wizard. Any wizard,’ he said nervously. ‘Yes, my angel,’ he called back.
‘Don’t you angel me,’ Ingrid’s strident voice rang out. ‘You’re nothing but a great, big, useless, good-for-nothing lump!’
‘I am?’ called the Horned Baron.
‘Yes, you are, Walter! My corset’s burst! Stupid, cheap, flimsy thing!’ she complained. ‘I don’t know where you got it from.’
‘The mega-turbo girdle?’ the Horned Baron muttered in disbelief. ‘The heavyweight, super-reinforced model? Flimsy?’ He groaned softly. ‘It cost me a fortune . . .’
‘Did you hear me, Wa lter?’ Ingrid shrieked. ‘I don’t know, call yourself a Horned Baron! You can’t even do the simplest things right.’
‘A thousand apologies, light of my life,’ the Horned Baron called back wearily. ‘I shall be up at once.’
‘And bring twenty-five metres of tent-cloth with you,’ she demanded. ‘We’ll have to alter the dress. And don’t forget your needle and thread this time!’
‘As your gorgeousness desires.’ The Horned Baron groaned.
‘If there’s anything I could do to help,’ said Benson.
‘I think you’ve done enough,’ said the Horned Baron, snapping the sharpened twig and dropping it on the step. He turned away and was about to stride off when a thought occurred to him.
He looked Benson up and down – at his stooped, angular body, at his little beard. With the right clothes, he would make an excellent wizard.
‘Actually, on second thoughts, Benson, there is something you could do,’ he said. ‘Get yourself kitted out in a gown and a pointy hat, and meet me back here in . . .’ He glanced at his watch. It was eight minutes past. ‘In twenty-two minutes.’
‘WALTER!’ Ingrid shrieked, piercingly loud. ‘I’M WA ITING!’
‘Slow down, Norbert!’ Joe cried out, as he lurched this way and that on top of the ogre’s left shoulder. He gripped Norbert’s collar as tightly as he could with one hand, and held Henry, who was sitting on his lap, with the other. ‘Slow down!’
‘Can’t, sir,’ said Norbert breathlessly. ‘It’s these dratted winged boots.’
‘Please try!’ Joe pleaded. ‘I almost fell off just now!’
They seemed to be taking a short cut down a very steep Musty Mountain track.
‘Whooooah!’ Norbert cried, his arms windmilling wildly as he struggled to maintain his balance.
‘This is all Randalf’s fault,’ said Veronica, who was clinging on to the rim of the wizard’s pointy hat. She bent over and bellowed in his ear. ‘Wake up, you ridiculous little man! Wake up!’
But Randalf merely snored a li
ttle louder. He always fell asleep when riding on Norbert’s shoulder – and the bumpier the ride, the deeper the sleep.
There was a violent jolt and, for a moment, Joe was falling backwards into the blurred beige and khaki landscape, while Henry was sliding forwards. Then Norbert stumbled a second time. Joe grabbed at Henry, and clutched a crease of material in the ogre’s jacket.
‘NORBERT! SLOW DOWN!’ roared Joe and Veronica together, with Henry barking his agreement.
‘Can’t . . . slow . . . down . . .’ Norbert gasped, every word an effort, as he careered down a dry gully and bump-bump- bumped his way over a section of large, round pebbles. ‘Boots . . . won’t . . . let . . . me . . .’
Joe looked down. Norbert was wearing a pair of winged boots with four wheels beneath the soles and a spoked wheel sticking out of the heels at the back – just like Joe’s Rollerblades back home. The ogre had seemed fine with them, at first . . .
‘The Winged Boots of Colossal Speed,’ gasped Norbert. ‘I’m OK going uphill. It’s coming down the other side I need a little practice at.’
Just then, the ground in front of them fell away completely. Norbert’s legs pedalled furiously in thin air. Veronica screeched. Henry whimpered. Joe gritted his teeth and waited for the inevitable jolt.
‘Ooof!’ he gasped a moment later as Norbert landed. They were back on the road again – and travelling as fast as before.
‘I warned him!’ Veronica shrieked. ‘I pleaded with him not to put Norbert in the Winged Boots of Colossal Speed.’
‘You did?’ said Joe.
‘And would he listen?’
‘Obviously not,’ said Joe.
‘Watch out!’ squawked Veronica.
‘Oh, help!’ Norbert cried out. ‘I think I’m about to take another short cut . . . Whoooooooaah!!!’
Dropping down out of the sky towards the sandpit, the tiny teaspoon was nearing the end of its brief flight. With a soft swooshing noise – and the hint of a little sigh – the teaspoon landed in soft sand and buried itself up to its handle.