The Mammoth Book of Awesome Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  A low, ominous murmur from the courtiers emphasised the King’s warning.

  “But the Princess – she at least is mine,” protested the unhappy Prince. “We love each other – we are engaged.”

  “Thou forgettest she can only marry the heir,” replied the King in astonished reproof. “Wouldst thou have us repudiate our solemn treaty?”

  “But I wasn’t really the first to hit on the idea at all!” cried the Black Prince desperately. “Ask the Blue Prince! he never telleth untruth.”

  “Thou forgettest I have taken an oath of silence on the matter,” replied the Blue Prince in astonished reproof. “The Black Prince it was that first hit on the idea,” volunteered the Green Prince. “He exchanged his boat for the car and the car for the pigeon.”

  So the three Princes were dismissed, while the King took counsel with the magicians and the wise men who never mean what they say. And the Court Chamberlain, wearing the orchid of office in his buttonhole, was sent to interview the Princess, and returned saying that she refused to marry any one but the proprietor of the pigeon, and that she still had his letters as evidence in case of his marrying anyone else.

  “Bah!” said the King, “she shall obey the treaty. Six feet of parchment are not to be put aside for the whim of a girl five foot eight. The only real difficulty remaining is to decide whether the Blue Prince or the Green Prince is the elder. Let me see – what was it the Oracle said? Perhaps it will be clearer now:

  “‘The eldest is he that the Princess shall wed.’

  No, it still seems merely to avoid stating anything new.”

  “Pardon me, sire,” replied the Chief Magician; “it seems perfectly plain now. Obviously, thou art to let the Princess choose her husband, and the Oracle guarantees that, other things being equal, she shall select the eldest. If thou hadst let her have the pick from among the three, she would have selected the one with whom she was in love – the Black Prince to wit, and that would have interfered with the Oracle’s arrangements. But now that we know with whom she is in love, we can remove that one, and then, there being no reason why she should choose the Green Prince rather than the Blue Prince, the deities of the realm undertake to inspire her to go by age only.”

  “Thou hast spoken well,” said the King. “Let the Princess of Paphlagonia be brought, and let the two Princes return.”

  So after a space the beautiful Princess, preceded by trumpeters, was conducted to the Palace, blinking her eyes at the unaccustomed splendour of the lights. And the King and all the courtiers blinked their eyes, dazzled by her loveliness. She was clad in white samite, and on her shoulder was perched a pet pigeon. The King sat in his moiré robes on the old gold throne, and the Blue Prince stood on his right hand, and the Green Prince on his left, the Black Prince as the youngest having been sent to bed early. The Princess courtesied three times, the third time so low that the pigeon was flustered, and flew off her shoulder, and, after circling about, alighted on the head of the Blue Prince.

  “It is the Crown,” said the Chief Magician, in an awestruck voice. Then the Princess’s eyes looked around in search of the pigeon, and when they lighted on the Prince’s head they kindled as the grey sea kindles at sunrise.

  An answering radiance shone in the Blue Prince’s eyes, as, taking the pigeon that nestled in his hair, he let it fly towards the Princess. But the Princess, her bosom heaving as if another pigeon fluttered beneath the white samite, caught it and set it free again, and again it made for the Blue Prince.

  Three times the bird sped to and fro. Then the Princess raised her humid eyes heavenward, and from her sweet lips rippled like music the verse:

  “Last night I watched its final flicker die.”

  And the Blue Prince answered:

  “Now greet our moon of honey in the sky.”

  Half fainting with rapture the Princess fell into his arms, and from all sides of the great hall arose the cries, “The Heir! The Heir! Long live our future King! The eldest-born! The Oracle’s fulfilled!”

  Such was the origin of lawn tennis, which began with people tossing pigeons to each other in imitation of the Prince and Princess in the Palace Hall. And this is why love plays so great a part in the game, and that is how the match was arranged between the Blue Prince and the Princess of Paphlagoma.

  CRISPIN THE TURNSPIT

  Anthony Armstrong

  I never tire of the clever wit of Anthony Armstrong. George Willis (1897-1976), to give him his real name, was a regular contributor to Punch and other humour magazines and, in his day, was comparable with P.G. Wodehouse. The two of them often appeared in The Strand Magazine in the 1920s and 1930s. Armstrong wrote several satires dressed up as fairy tales, which are as fresh today as when first written. Some were collected as The Prince Who Hiccupped (1932) and The Pack of Pieces (1942), which are well worth tracking down.

  ONCE upon a time, a long while ago, there lived in the middle of a lonely wood a young man named Crispin, the son of a widow. He was a pretty good young man as young men went in those times, and did not hold with living a Gay Life – not that there was any Gay Life in the middle of the lonely wood. His mother, the widow, was extremely poor, except in conversational ability; and it was her son’s ambition to make her rich before she died and to provide her with an elderly lady companion to talk to, at, with, and against, instead of himself. Preferably an elderly lady companion with “spazzums,” for “the spazzums” was his mother’s Subject.

  Now Crispin had one peculiar gift. It may have been bestowed on him by a fairy, for fairies were always performing little kindnesses in those days, such as granting you three wishes, or letting everything you touched turn to gold, and other well-meant civilities; or it may simply have come to him suddenly one day – like a legacy or the hay-fever. His gift was that he could understand what birds and animals said when they spoke in their own language. He first discovered this accomplishment through stepping on a solitary old wild boar one dark evening, and he was so surprised at his new power and so shocked at what the old boar said (which I cannot possibly repeat outside a club smoking-room, for you know what club boars are), that he went straight home and let his mother tell him about her “spazzums” for two hours without once interrupting.

  After this he tested his newly-acquired faculty with other animals and found it quite durable and intensely interesting. He learnt from his mother’s hens what they really said when they flew to the top of fences and talked about it for a quarter of an hour afterwards; and he learnt from the flies where they went in the winter time, and a lot of other things besides; and finally he decided that it offered opportunities of financial profit.

  So he said to his mother one evening:

  “I say, I’m going off tomorrow to the Royal Court to seek my fortune.”

  And his mother said:

  “Bless my soul, that’s a long way, well, you might ask people what they do for the spazzums there, and do you want any sandwiches to take with you?”

  “Well,” replied her son, “I’ll do what I can for you while I’m there, and not if they’re the stringy kind because I can’t eat them tidily.”

  So that was settled.

  A month later found him at the Court, where he had obtained a job as Deputy Assistant Turnspit in the Royal Kitchen and was only waiting for permission to show off his attainment in front of the King himself. He had applied to do this through the usual channel; that is to say, his formal application in duplicate had gone through the Assistant Turnspit and the Turnspit to the Head Turnspit, who had passed it to the Assistant Under Scullion, who handed it to the Lance Scullion, and so the application worked its way up through the Sergeant Scullion and Under Cooks to the Cooks, Chefs, Butlers’ Major Domos (with a side excursion by error into the Mistress of the Robes’ Department, who didn’t see what it had to do with her and so marked it “Sez you!” in the bottom right hand corner), till at last it arrived in the “In” Tray of the Comptroller of the Royal Household. Here it stayed a month without being
looked at at all, because the Comptroller had strong ideas on Organisation of Work, Efficiency of Comptrol, and Letting Things Take Their Turn.

  At last it was observed and started again, and eventually reached the Vizier, who found it so covered with comments, blots, remarks, casual drawings, and portions of cookery, that after some trouble he came to the conclusion it was merely a complaint that either the spits weren’t turning or the turns weren’t spitting, he couldn’t make out which. He was about to have the insolent complainant dismissed or beheaded or even fined, when, having scraped off a little more solidified gravy, he was able to decipher the original application, and said:

  “Ha!”

  Then he said: “I don’t believe it! I can’t do it.”

  Finally he showed it to the Court Magician, a nasty jealous old man with long finger-nails completely given over to alluvial deposits; and he was so emphatic about the thing being not worth looking into in the slightest that the Vizier thought there must be something in it after all. And anyway, he disliked the Court Magician – but of course not openly. Nobody dared to dislike Court Magicians openly, or survived in human form for long if they did.

  So that night after dinner when the King had had his third glass of Marsala, the Vizier said airily:

  “By the way, Your Majesty, there is one of Your Majesty’s turnspits . . .”

  “Turn what?” asked the King, suddenly looking up from his glass.

  “Spit,” said the Vizier.

  “Tut, tut!” rebuked the King severely. “Vietato sputare. You ought to know that at your age. Penalty, forty shillings!” And he entered it up in a little blue notebook, while the Court Magician laughed sarcastically in his beard.

  “There is one of Your Majesty’s Scullions or what-not,” repeated the Vizier patiently and somewhat sorrowfully, “who craves Your Majesty’s permission to demonstrate in Your Majesty’s presence in the hope of winning Your Majesty’s approval . . .”

  “Could you arrange to speak a little more clearly?” said the King. “I can hear nothing but ‘Your Majesty’, Now that the servants are out of the room it’s hardly necessary.”

  The Vizier drew a breath and went at it again in words of one syllable, and to the Court Magician’s annoyance the King appeared quite interested.

  “We must have a look at him,” said the King.

  “Mere quackery, of course,” remarked the Court Magician loftily, when a page had been summoned and despatched in search of young Crispin.

  “Perhaps,” said the King. “Perhaps not. But he might be useful as Court Magician in the future. We shall need one some time. Let’s see, how old are you, Magus?”

  Magus was understood to mumble huffily that he was younger than some people thought, and then, affecting complete unconcern, began to trace little designs with his finger on the table.

  “Don’t draw on the tablecloth!” said the King quite sharply. “That’s five shillings.” He was still writing hard in his little blue book when Crispin entered.

  Crispin was very nervous. He had made himself look as nice as he could in the time, and one of the Under-Scullions had even given him some bacon fat that had been over from breakfast for his forelock, but even so a day’s turnspitting does not make for personal tidiness.

  “They tell me you can understand what animals say?” began the King pleasantly.

  “So it please Your Majesty.”

  “It will, if you can do it,” remarked the King. “I shall have a job for you . . .” He broke off and sniffed. “Peculiar smell of bacon there is about! We didn’t have bacon at dinner, did we?”

  “Not that I remember,” replied the Vizier.

  “Ah, well, never mind! Now tell me,” he continued to Crispin, “what Bouncer here is saying.” And he aimed a kick at a hound sleeping beside him, who woke with a sharp yelp.

  “Please, sir, Your Majesty, he said: ‘What the hell’s up now?’”

  The Vizier laughed and Magus scornfully muttered: “Very likely!” Bouncer sat up and whimpered.

  “What now?” asked the King.

  “Please, Your Majesty, sir, he’s saying that that hurt!”

  “Anyone could make up things like that,” put in the Court Magician. The King looked very quickly at him, and Magus, somewhat confused, only just stopped himself from drawing on the tablecloth again.

  Bouncer, now quite awake, began to whine eagerly.

  “Well?” asked the King.

  “Please, Your Sir, I mean . . .”

  “Better make it ‘Sir’ all through,” said the King in kindly fashion. “Don’t mind me. I shan’t consider it Lèse Majesté. I’m not at all a strait-laced Majesty. Ha! Ha!”

  “Ha! Ha!” said the Vizier very quickly, just a few seconds ahead of the Court Magician. The King frowned at Magus and wrote again in his little blue book. Bouncer still whined hopefully.

  “Please, Sir, he is now expressing a desire for a further chop-bone such as he was given by you earlier on in the meal.”

  “There!” said the Vizier, and looked triumphantly at the Court Magician.

  “You have a future before you, my lad,” added the King, and also looked at the Court Magician, who looked at the ceiling and murmured again that he was young for his age. “Would you like to take up magic as a profession?”

  At this Magus got up abruptly and asked the Royal permission to fetch an animal of his own to try Crispin on. “I would like a further test to make certain he is not deceiving us,” he concluded in tones which clearly showed what he thought about it himself.

  “Certainly,” said the King, who was busily waking up his other dogs and having their remarks translated. One of them, a lady dog, really ought never to have known such words, and Crispin felt a little embarrassed.

  But just outside the door the Magician was talking earnestly to a frightened page whose collar he held in one gnarled hand.

  “Now I’m going to change you into an animal,” he was concluding, “and mind you say, in whatever language is used by – er – whatever sort of animal I change you into, exactly what I’ve just told you to say.”

  “But His Majesty will have me beaten,” whimpered the boy, “if I say things like that.”

  “I don’t mind,” said the Magician. “Not in the least,” he added. He paused thoughtfully. “I think I’ll change you into a rabbit,” he continued and waved his wand.

  A large green and orange rabbit with four pairs of ears appeared before him.

  The Magician seemed a little startled and looked closely at his wand.

  “Tut, tut!” he murmured, “that’s the second time that sort of thing has happened. I really must speak about this wand. The shoddy workmanship that one gets nowadays . . . However,” – he surveyed the monstrosity – “you’ll do for this job.”

  He opened the door and, followed by the metamorphosed page-boy treading awkwardly on some of his ears, strode again into the Royal presence. “And now,” he said triumphantly to himself, “to finish off this upspit of a turnstart.”

  The King gave a sudden jump as they entered, and blinked rapidly. Then he looked very closely at the Marsala decanter, opened his mouth as if about to say something, thought better of it, and looked away, humming a careless little air.

  “Ah, there you are, Magus!” he said at last, opening the conversation very carefully.

  “Here I am!” said Magus in nasty tones.

  “There you are, I see,” continued the King, still looking everywhere but at the rabbit.

  “I’ve brought my Animal,” said Magus.

  The King was for some reason overwhelmingly effusive at the simple remark.

  “Ah, then it is . . . I mean, so you have. So you have. Just what I was going to say. I noticed it immediately. A fine – er – a fine – er – what is it?”

  “A rare kind of rabbit,” said Magus.

  “Very rare,” commented the Vizier.

  “Well, let’s hear it speak,” commanded the King.

  Magus stirred the Ani
mal up with his toe – it was scratching itself rather comprehensively – and gave it a meaning look. It at once squeaked in a high falsetto like a badly handled slate pencil.

  “What does it say?” asked the King interested.

  “Yes, tell His Majesty what it said,” purred Magus to Crispin.

  Crispin, however, stood with his mouth open and kept a horrified silence. For he, and he alone, knew that the Animal had said:

  “The King has an ugly red nose from drinking too much Marsala.”

  “Come, come,” said the King, and added to the Vizier: “Have some Marsala!” He poured himself out a further glass, but was so busy sniffing it, he omitted to pass the decanter. It was obviously quite the wrong moment for literal translation of the Animal’s remark.

  Crispin stammered and said hesitatingly: “It says Your Majesty is a very handsome man.”

  The King stroked the back of his head and smirked at the ceiling.

  “Oh, ah, does it?” he said, trying to look judicially unbiassed.

  Magus only smiled grimly. He had known Crispin would not dare. Or if he did . . . Well, he had him either way. He again stirred up the wretched page, who had now got to work on the back of his neck with a hind foot.

  The second remark was worse. It ran quite simply: “The King is a silly old buster!”

  Crispin, more at his ease by then, translated that the King had the noblest heart in the Kingdom. The Vizier, who was beginning to suspect something, laughed and changed it hurriedly into a cough, as the King fixed him with a chilly eye.

  “I see nothing to laugh at,” observed the King coldly.

  “I was coughing,” apologised the Vizier.

  “I see nothing to cough at,” continued the King even more coldly. He produced his little blue book and made an entry, looking sternly at the Vizier as he did so.

  Then with a sudden cry of triumph the Magician had burst into speech. “He is an impostor, Your Majesty. I knew it. He has not translated truly.”

  “How? Why?” asked the King, while the Vizier, who now knew that there was some funny business somewhere, merely nodded his head.