‘Clock repairer, too, eh?’ said Veronica sarcastically. ‘Is there no end to your talents?’
Randalf huffed and puffed. ‘Ridiculous contraption!’ he muttered. ‘It’s never worked properly.’
‘Nor did the spell you paid for it with,’ Veronica reminded him.
‘That’s neither here nor there!’ said Randalf dismissively.
‘Tell that to the goblin maiden whose hair all dropped out,’ muttered Veronica.
‘It’s that blasted clock-elf, that’s what it is,’ said Randalf. He hammered on the door of the clock. ‘Come on! Show your face, you incompetent numbskull!’ he shouted. ‘Open up!’
The door remained shut. Randalf reached forward and pulled it open. A cluster of cogs and flywheels clattered to the floor; a length of spring uncoiled. Randalf’s lips pursed, his beard trembled. There was no sign of the clock-elf.
‘What the . . . !’ he exploded. ‘Where’s that ridiculous creature got to now?’
Veronica fluttered down and landed on Randalf’s shoulder. ‘There’s a note,’ she said, pointing with her wing.
Randalf peered inside the clock. Sure enough, pinned to the wall just above a small hammock, was a piece of card. Randalf reached in and tore it away.
‘Gone to unwind,’ he read out. ‘Back in a fortnight of Thursdays. Well, of all the cheek. Just taking off without so much a word of explanation . . .’
Just then, there was a plop followed by a splash. Randalf turned to Veronica. ‘What was that?’
Veronica shrugged her shoulders. ‘Just a fish, probably,’ she said. ‘After all, apart from the wizards, they’re the only things daft enough to live up here – and the wizards have all disappeared. Whose fault is that, I wonder?’ She said, tapping the side of Randalf’s head with her beak.
Pretending not to notice, Randalf returned his attention to the broken clock. ‘Probably a blessing in disguise the clock-elf’s gone,’ he said. ‘Remind me to go to Grubleys and see about a replacement. Apparently he’s got some new ones in stock. The Horned Baron’s got one. It sings the time, tap-dances and tells jokes . . .’
‘Never mind all that!’ said Joe, exasperated. ‘What about our quest?’
Randalf sucked in air noisily between his teeth. ‘It’s getting a little bit late for that, don’t you think?’
‘Randalf!’ snapped Joe.
‘All right, all right,’ said Randalf. ‘But if I could just—’
From outside, there came a second plop-splash. It was louder this time. Closer . . .
The next moment, the door burst open and the ogre, Norbert the Not-Very-Big, ambled in, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
‘Was that you, Norbert?’ said Randalf.
Puzzled, Norbert blinked his three eyes one after the other. ‘It still is me!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’ He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. The houseboat swayed from side to side. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve changed into someone else in my sleep again,’ he said agitatedly. ‘Do you remember the time I turned into that short goblin seamstress called Truffles?’
‘That was a dream, Norbert,’ said Randalf patiently. ‘I explained all that. And of course you’re still you! I was simply asking whether you had caused the loud plop and splash we heard.’
‘Can’t say I noticed,’ said Norbert. ‘But then, what with dodging all those flying rocks, I wasn’t really paying attention.’
‘Flying rocks?’ said Randalf.
‘One of them missed my head by a hair’s breadth,’ he said.
‘Thus missing your brain by at least three metres,’ muttered Veronica.
Randalf shook his head. ‘I can’t say I like the sound of these flying rocks,’ he said. ‘They could be a bad omen, worse even than last Wednesday’s light drizzle. Perhaps we ought to postpone our departure . . .’
‘NO!’ shouted Joe. He could bear it no longer. ‘It’s always something! Light drizzle, falling leaves – now flying rocks. You promised that we’d set off today, and a promise is a promise.’
‘And it is a promise I fully intend to keep,’ said Randalf reassuringly. ‘I was merely going to propose that we set ourselves up with a good, hearty breakfast first.’
‘Snuggle-muffins, sir?’ suggested Norbert.
‘Just the job,’ said Randalf. ‘And some porridge, Norbert. And a tankard of foaming stiltmouse milk. Ooh, and some jub-jub fruits – but make sure you peel them first . . .’
Henry barked.
‘And some bone fritters for our valiant battle-hound, here,’ Randalf added.
‘Can’t we just go?’ Joe complained.
‘We could,’ said Randalf slowly. ‘But I think it would be unwise to set out on a perilous quest such as ours on an empty stomach.’
‘You tell him, Fatso,’ chirped Veronica.
Again, Randalf chose to ignore her. ‘And while you’re about it,’ he said to Norbert, ‘get the picnic hamper packed up with some goodies, there’s a good fellow. We’d better stop off for lunch on the way.’
Joe groaned. This was going to take ages. Everything had to be just so. The crusts had to be cut off the sandwiches, the stiltmouse milk had to be at exactly the right temperature (a tad cooler than tepid), there had to be twists of salt for the the hard-boiled eggs – and as for the snuggle-muffins: Randalf insisted that Norbert decorated each one with coloured icing and sprinkles, and wrapped them individually in paper doilies.
Finally, after seconds and – in Randalf’s case – thirds, breakfast was over and the picnic hamper was ready and waiting by the door. Joe sat on the basket, all dressed up in his warrior-hero costume, twiddling his thumbs impatiently. With his burnished copper shield and razor-sharp sword, his helmet, breastplate and boots – all courtesy of his old friend, Margot the dragon – he certainly looked the part of a great questing warrior-hero. All he needed now was for the quest to get started.
‘Now can we go?’ he said wearily.
‘Of course,’ said Randalf. He looked out of the window. The sky was getting cloudy. ‘I’ll just go and change into my waterproof pointy hat,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’
Joe groaned.
‘All dressed up and nowhere to go, eh?’ said Veronica, fluttering down beside him.
‘Why does he always do this?’ said Joe grumpily. ‘He knows how important this quest is for me.’
Just then, Randalf’s voice floated back from the master cabin. ‘Check the portholes are shut securely,’ he shouted. ‘And that the lamps are all out. And Norbert, if you could just run a mop over the kitchen floor . . .’
‘You see!’ said Joe, exasperated. He began pacing up and down the living room.
Finally, Randalf emerged in a pointy hat with a small umbrella attached to its tip. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘Maybe it would be best to set off tomorrow. We can make a nice early start.’
‘No!’ said Joe. ‘No, no, no . . .’
Veronica nodded sympathetically. ‘You know the reason he keeps putting off this quest,’ she said. ‘He’s frightened of going to Giggle Glade. Frightened of what he’s going to find there . . .’
‘Frightened?’ said Randalf indignantly. ‘Me? I’m a wizard. I take danger in my stride . . .’
Just then, a boulder the size of a large loaf of snotbread came crashing through the window. Randalf let out a little squeak of alarm and leaped up into Norbert’s arms.
‘Aargh!’ he screamed. ‘It’s an omen! It’s an omen!’
Veronica stared at the quivering wizard. ‘Taking danger in your stride, I see,’ she said.
Crash!
The roof splintered and the ceiling cracked. From outside came the sound of furious roaring.
‘Aaaaargh!’ screamed Randalf, even louder. ‘Batten down the hatches! Man the lifeboats . . . !’
‘Lifeboats?’ said Veronica. ‘What lifeboats? Norbert’s sunk them all!’
‘Just do something! Randalf shouted desperately. ‘Anything! We’re under attack!’
Meanwhile, in Go
blintown, the shops were opening up for business. Built one upon the other – most exclusive at the bottom and tackiest at the top – the shops formed tall, swaying towers. One housed milliners; another, ironmongers; another, bakers . . . In the centre of the town was a stack of clothing shops, at the very top of which was Grubley’s Discount Garment Store – a fusty, musty, rundown establishment selling a wide selection of the cheapest, nastiest outfits to be found anywhere in Muddle Earth.
The shop itself, with its rows and rows of sparkly clothes, was deserted. But from the little workshop at the back came the sound of voices. Raised voices . . .
‘Get back to work this instant!’ shouted Grubley the owner, a stocky character with bandy legs, hairy ears and one thick, dark eyebrow that looked stuck to his forehead like a length of bear-fur trim.
‘Can’t!’ snapped the goblin at the workbench.
‘Can’t?’ said Grubley. ‘If I don’t get that order out by lunchtime, Boris the Big-Nosed is going to have my guts for garters. You know what ogres can be like!’ His eyebrow furrowed. ‘This instant, Snitch,’ he bellowed. ‘Do you hear me?’
The goblin winced. ‘Only too well,’ muttered the goblin. ‘Be that as it may, I can’t get back to work. The sewing-elf is doing a bunk,’ he explained and nodded over to the corner.
Grubley turned and peered into the shadows, where a short, slight elf was busy tying a small bundle in a spotted handkerchief on to the end of a stick.
‘What in Muddle Earth is going on?’ Grubley demanded. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘On holiday,’ said the elf happily.
‘Holiday? Holiday?’ Grubley spluttered. ‘But elves love their work. They don’t have holidays!’
‘We do now!’ said the elf, a happy smile spreading out across his bony features. He swung the stick up on to his shoulder and, striking up a cheerful whistle, marched out of the door.
Grubley was left standing there; outraged, red-faced, speechless.
‘That’s the trouble these days,’ muttered Snitch. ‘You just can’t get reliable elves.’
All over Goblintown, the same scene was being repeated as elves of every description poured out on to the dark, narrow streets and headed off towards the gates of the walled city. As well as the sewing-elves, there were clock-elves and cake-mixer-elves; lamplighter-elves and greetings-elves – and even the somewhat giddy spin-dryer-elves bringing up the rear. They were all talking excitedly, the air filled with their squeaky voices as they joined in the mass exodus.
Behind them, the goblins stood in their doorways and hung out of their windows, staring forlornly as their little helpers departed. How ever would they cope without them?
The elves – growing more excited with each passing minute – headed off along the road to Elfwood in a gathering cloud of dust, their knotted, striped and spotted handkerchiefs bobbing about in the hazy early morning sunshine. As they continued, so their band grew larger and larger as others joined their number.
From Goblintown, Trollbridge and the Enchanted Lake they came; together with greetings-elves, already out with their sacks of letters, and those elves who had set up residence in potholes, who now gathered up their pots, swung them on to their backs and got caught up in the happy, chattering throng.
‘I’ve never been on holiday before!’ cried one.
‘Me neither!’ cried another.
‘Ooh! This is so exciting!’ cried a third as the front of the mighty crowd reached the edges of the forest. A cry went up.
‘Elfwood! Elfwood! Elfwood!’
Meanwhile, in the sumptuous Grand Bedchamber of the Horned Baron’s castle, its lord and master – the Horned Baron himself – was sitting up in his huge four-poster bed. There was a tray on his lap, upon it a single rose in a long-stemmed glass and a silver napkin ring, engraved with HB. A grubby napkin, monogrammed with the same floral letters, was tucked in at the neck of his silk pyjamas.
He had a piece of half-eaten rot fudge in one hand and was sipping from a cup of spittle tea in the other. As he wiped the pearly froth from his moustache, the horned helmet wobbled on his head.
Benson – newly promoted from head gardener to the Horned Baron’s personal manservant – was on the other side of the room, drawing the curtains. ‘I trust sir slept well,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ the Horned Baron replied brightly, and chewed at the piece of rot fudge. ‘Very, mffvery mffwell,’ he mumbled.
Ever since his wife Ingrid had gone missing, the Horned Baron had been sleeping like a log. Every night he would drop off the moment his helmeted head hit the pillow, waking ten hours later when Benson brought him his breakfast, feeling fit and refreshed.
He swallowed the lump of fudge. ‘I was having the most wonderful dream,’ he said thoughtfully, and smiled to himself. In it, a bald Ingrid was being lowered slowly into a huge vat of stinky hog milk. Just as her enormous feet were disappearing from view, he’d woken up.
‘. . . the ransom note?’ he heard Benson saying.
‘What’s that?’ asked the Horned Baron.
‘I was wondering whether sir had replied to the ransom note,’ Benson explained.
‘Ransom note . . .’ the Horned Baron repeated absentmindedly as he stirred an extra sugar lump into his spittle tea.
‘Yes, sir, the ransom note,’ said Benson. ‘For the Baroness.’
‘Ah, yes, I’ve mffllmmf,’ he mumbled as he stuffed another large piece of fudge into his mouth. He swallowed noisily. ‘I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to find a greetings-elf. But never mind.’ He sighed, and leaned back against the plump satin pillows. ‘I’ll get round to it soon enough.’
Benson paused and looked round. ‘If I might be so bold, sir, you know what the ransom letter said. If you don’t reply by nightfall, they’ll shave off all her hair.’
‘Mffllmmff,’ he muttered and tutted softly. ‘Absolutely terrible.’
‘And after that,’ Benson continued, ‘they’ll immerse her in a vat of stinky hog milk.’
The Horned Baron smiled dreamily.‘Stinky hog milk,’ he murmured. ‘Mortifying. Poor, dear Ingrid. It really doesn’t bear thinking about . . . Now, fetch me a fresh pot of spittle tea, there’s a good chap. This one’s getting cold. And while you’re there, rustle me up a couple of slices of mouldy toast.’
Meanwhile, in Elfwood, more and more elves were arriving. The air was filled with their giggling, singing and endless happy chatter – for although the elves of Muddle Earth did indeed love their work, they seemed to be overcome with excitement at the prospect of a holiday.
But this was no ordinary holiday. This was the sort of holiday that would appeal to any self-respecting elf. This was a working holiday, with lots and lots of back-breaking, hard physical labour. That was what was being offered. That was what the mysterious call they all answered had promised them; a working holiday in Elfwood. Giddy with joy, the elves skipped and danced and sang out at the tops of their lungs.
‘We’re all going on an Elfwood holiday!’ they chirruped, over and over. ‘We’re all going on an Elfwood holiday! We’re all going on an Elfwood . . .’
‘Oh, do give it a rest!’ complained a tall, crabby old tree, its gnarled branches trembling.
‘Those squeaky little voices go right through you,’ muttered a slender willow in a copse nearby.
‘I know!’ ‘Yes, they do!’ ‘You can say that again!’ her companions agreed, their leaves quivering with distaste as the elves swarmed round their trunks and over their roots.
‘They cut through you like a chainsaw!’ said a tall, spreading beech darkly.
‘Ooh, Brett, don’t!’ gasped its neighbours.
Ever since Dr Cuddles had taken up residence in Giggle Glade, hundreds of their friends and relations had been cut down and turned into boards, planks and beams, wardrobes and cupboards, tables and chairs. Now, or so it was rumoured on the grapevine (the grapevine which wound its way round the entire forest was a terrible gossip), Dr Cuddles had ordered the con
struction of something enormous, something monumental – and (it was whispered) made entirely of wood.
‘That Dr Cuddles has got a lot to answer for,’ the beech muttered, its coppery leaves flapping menacingly. ‘I’ll—Get off me!’ it shouted and flicked a branch, sending the half dozen elves who had been swinging from it flying off into the air.
They landed on soft mattresses of leaves, rolled over, leaped to their feet as if nothing had happened and scampered off to join the others. There were hundreds of them by now. Thousands!
‘The whole place is crawling!’ screeched an elegant silver birch.
‘I’ll shed a bough and brain the little squeakers!’ bellowed an old elm, anchored to the bank of a babbling brook.
‘Frilly knickers, chocolate drops, roast bananas, atishoo-atishoo, all fall down,’ the brook babbled.
‘And as for you!’ stormed the old elm. ‘Babble, babble – morning, noon and night!’ It rustled threateningly. ‘I swear, one of these days, I’m going to dam you up!’
Meanwhile, at the very centre of the wood, in a clearing that was getting larger by the day, other noises could be heard. There was a bang and a clatter. A piercingly shrill voice. A sigh of resignation.
Inside the house, with his ear pressed up against a closed door, was Quentin the Cake-Decorator. His hair was damp, his legs were shaking. He didn’t know how much more of this his nerves could take.
‘A little bit more off the fringe! And keep it straight! Straight, you moron!’ Ingrid screeched.
Quentin trembled. That voice! It cut through him like a knife. He crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously.
‘Imbecile!’ she roared. ‘Call yourself a hairdresser! I’ve blown my nose on more talented handkerchiefs! I’ve slept on mattresses that could use a pair of scissors better than you! I’ve . . .’
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