Agnes, in spite of her vanity, was as good a dragon as Tattypoo was a witch and had really earned her title of the amiable dragon. For Agnes had never devoured any captive maidens, burned down a village or threatened a kingdom. She was a small cozy sort of a dragon, too, taking up only about half a room and wearing rubbers to keep her claws from scratching the floor. She had wandered into Tattypoo's hut the very day the good witch had conquered Mombi, and had lived with her ever since. She was so good tempered and companionable, Tattypoo put up quite cheerfully with her occasional dissatisfied spells.
Tonight, Agnes was feeling particularly dissatisfied. In the morning Tattypoo had disenchanted a poor forest maiden. The girl had knocked on the door and asked for food. Tattypoo after one look realized she was under some evil spell and immediately consulted her books of sorcery. A few magic potions and passes had changed the maiden to her rightful self. And she had been no less than a King's daughter, whom Tattypoo had sent home on a fast wish to her father's castle.
"If you can change poor girls to princesses, why don't you do something for yourself?" complained Agnes, giving the fire a vicious poke. "I don't mind being a dragon. Dragons are unusual and interesting, but witches are ugly and out of style. Were you always a witch? Do you always intend to be a witch? Were you never young or pretty at all?" Agnes' question made Tattypoo pause. The hum of the spinning wheel ceased as she tried to recall the past. Had she ever been young or pretty? Letting the silver threads slide through her fingers, she gazed thoughtfully into the fire, but it was all dim and hazy and the good witch could remember nothing of her youth or the days before she had come to the purple forest. She remembered distinctly her first meeting with Mombi. The wicked witch was changing a woodcutter into a tree stump and Tattypoo, running forward, had put a stop to it. Her magic proved stronger than Mombi's so it had not been hard to overpower her. Not only that, but she had driven Mombi out of the forest and taken possession of her hut and magic tools. Later, the Gillikens had come in crowds to thank Tattypoo and beg her to rule over them in Mombi's place. So Tattypoo had stayed on, undoing as much of Mombi's mischief as she could and growing fonder and fonder of the peace loving Gillikens. She had always been so busy helping other people, she had never thought about herself at all, but tonight Agnes' question made her vaguely unhappy and she began to feel really annoyed that she could remember nothing of her own past.
"I must have been young, once," murmured Tattypoo, absently leaning down to stroke the cat with two tails. "Even witches are young.
"Of course they are," sniffed the dragon impatiently, "and if I had your magic powers, I'd be young again."
"It wouldn't be right to practice magic for my own benefit," answered Tattypoo in a shocked voice. "It's against the law."
"Is there any law against youth and beauty?" demanded Agnes tartly, but the good witch kept shaking her head and muttering over and over, "It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be right."
"Well, at least you could see how you used to look," said Agnes, waving her tail toward the stairway. "Surely there is no law against that?"
"How?" asked Tattypoo, leaning back in her chair and fixing her mild blue eyes full upon the amiable dragon.
"Why, the witch's window! Let's have a look through the witch's window!" coaxed Agnes, and sliding across the floor she began pulling her silver length up the rickety steps of the cottage. Tattypoo, reaching for her staff, hobbled hurnedly after her.
"I never thought of the window," panted Tattypoo feeling extremely excited and fluttery. In the attic of Mombi's hut was a curious dormer window, its two leaded panes opening out upon the slanting roof. One pane was of blue glass and one of pink. Tattypoo had often consulted the witch's window, when her subjects needed to know about the past or the future. One look through the blue pane showed the person looking out the past, and one look through the pink pane showed the future. It was curious that Tattypoo had lived in the hut all these years and never looked out the witch's window, but as I said a minute ago, she was so happy and so busy she never thought of herself at all. And now, it was largely to satisfy Agnes that she tiptoed over to the dormer window. First she pushed back her cap ruffles and straightened her specs.
"Well?" asked Agnes, pulling herself laboriously up on the sill. "What do you see?" Instead of answering Tattypoo gave a terrible scream and jumped right out the window. Yes, she did.
"Stop! Help! What are you doing!" shrieked the poor dragon, falling half way out herself. But the good witch had disappeared, staff, cap, spectacles and all. And in her desperate concern for her unfortunate mistress, Agnes lost her balance and, falling out the witch's window, disappeared as quickly and completely as Tattypoo. So of course, there was no one to answer the door.
"Rap! Rap! Rap!" The knocker rose and fell. Then the latch was lifted cautiously and in stepped a small boy. It was the Prince of the Ozure Isles, for the blue gull had brought him straight to the good witch's door.
"Tattypoo!" called Philador softly. "Where are you, Tattypoo?" But there was no reply-only the rush of a black shape as the cat with two tails scampered across the cottage floor and jumped out of the low window.
CHAPTER 8
The Man in the Bottle
THE firelight lit up the little cottage quite cheerfully and after looking all over and even taking a candle end into the attic, Philador curled up in a big easy chair to await the return of the good witch. "She's probably out visiting a neighbor," decided the little Prince sleepily. The chair was so comfortable, and Philador so drowsy from his long fly through the night air, he soon fell fast asleep and dreamed he had found his royal mother and saved his father's kingdom. A soft thud in his lap wakened him next morning and starting up in alarm he looked straight into the green eyes of the cat with two tails.
"Well," sniffed the cat, transferring herself to the arm of the chair, "since you are still here you may as well fetch me my breakfast."
"But where's Tattypoo?" cried Philador, rubbing his eyes and trying not to show his astonishment at a two tailed cat.
"Gone!" announced the cat calmly washing her face.
"Gone!" exclaimed the little Prince jumping to his feet in great distress. "Why, where has she gone?"
"Oh, she probably fell down the well," muttered the cat, walking unconcernedly toward the kitchen.
"You don't really mean that she fell down the well?" begged Philador, running distractedly after the unfeeling creature. "Not really?"
"How should I know?" yawned the cat. "The milk is in that chest, boy. Just pour me a full saucer, will you?" Her eyes glittered so cruelly and she sharpened her claws so suggestively on the rug, Philador hastily opened the chest, took out a jug of milk and poured her a full saucer. Then dropping into a kitchen chair he wondered what in Oz to do next. He had counted so entirely on Tattypoo's help that without her he felt utterly lost and bewildered. The witch's cat looked at him curiously from time to time and after she had finished her milk, deigned to speak. "There might be a message on the slate by the stove," she announced stepping daintily through the open door into the forest. Immediately Philador rushed over to the stove. Sure enough, there was a slate hanging on the wall, but there was nothing written on it. With a sigh the little boy was turning away, when the pencil hanging on a cord beside the slate moved upward and began to write on the smooth black surface. Philador's scalp prickled uncomfortably at this odd occurrence, but recovering himself quickly, he leaned forward to read the message.
"The good witch of the North will never return!" stated the pencil mournfully, and falling the full length of the cord swung excitedly to and fro. Such a message was almost worse than none and Philador stared in horror at the gloomy announcement. If Tattypoo never was coming back, how could she help him save the Kingdom, and without Tattypoo to help him how was he to save the Ozure Isles all by himself? The slate must have been of a magic sort, for while the little Prince stood dismally wondering what to do, the pencil began scribbling a second message.
"Go to the
Emerald City, Ozma of Oz will help you," wrote the pencil in a firm, decided hand. Philador waited a few minutes to see whether any more advice was coming but the pencil dropped beside the slate and refused to write another word. With only two days left before Quiberon would destroy his father's Kingdom, the little boy did not see how he was ever to reach the Emerald City in time, especially as he did not even know in which direction it lay. Going over to the little window he drew aside the checked curtain and looked out. Deep and impenetrable, the purple forest loomed up on all sides, and with a long sigh Philador let the curtain drop and went back to his chair. But it was not long before his natural courage and cheerfulness began to reassert itself. Surely the good witch's slate would not advise him to go to the Emerald City if the journey were impossible and, jumping up resolutely, Philador began to make his preparations.
First he cooked himself some breakfast. There were bread and coffee in the cupboard, and eggs and milk in the chest and after he had eaten, Philador's spirits rose considerably. Putting a loaf of bread, a square of butter, some cheese and a jar of honey into a small basket, he was about to step out into the forest, when a really splendid idea occurred to him. Perhaps there might be some magic contrivance in the good witch's hut to help him on his journey. Setting down the basket, Philador searched carefully through the whole cottage and in a small shed at the back found Tattypoo's witch workshop. A huge cauldron hanging on a crane was set in the large fire place. The walls were lined with shelves and the shelves covered with curious boxes and bottles. With both hands in his pockets and his crown on the back of his head, the little Prince tried to decide which to take. The labels were mostly in magic, a language Philador had unfortunately never studied. Taking down a blue box he started to open it. Now this box had an eyelid and it winked at Philador so knowingly that he gave a jump and knocked a simply enormous bottle from the shelf over his head. The bottle fell to the floor with a loud crash, breaking into three separate pieces and a thick brown liquid began to ooze out upon the floor. As Philador, dropping the blue box, looked down in fright and dismay, the liquid began to run into the shape of a man. Backing into a corner the little Prince watched the queer figure forming on the floor. It grew more and more distinct, thickening through the middle and finally as Philador, with both hands before his face, backed as far into the corner as he could, the man out of the bottle curled upward and made him a deep bow.
"I thank you," he began in a husky voice. "I've been shut up in that bottle for thirty years and thought I was shelved for life."
"Wh~what are you?" stuttered Philador in an unsteady voice. "And how did you get into the bottle?" He half expected the man to melt and run away, but the liquid from which he was formed seemed to have hardened perfectly and, except for his strange eyes and powdered hair, the old fellow looked almost natural. He sighed deeply at the little Prince's question and seating himself on a low bench, motioned for the Prince to sit beside him. Rather nervously Philador seated himself on the other end of the bench.
"I am a medicine man, and a Gilliken," began the old gentleman solemnly.
Of course! thought Philador with a little chuckle. Who but a medicine man would come out of a bottle!
"I spent my whole life studying cures and remedies, but though I hung out my sign, and had office hours every day, no one ever came to consult me," said the medicine man sorrowfully. "But this was not strange when you stop to consider that no one in Oz is ever ill; however, it was very dull for me.
The little Prince nodded sympathetically and gave a slight start as he noticed for the first time that the medicine man's eyes were cough drops. He was so interested in this discovery he missed a whole sentence of the old fellow's story. "So I decided to travel," the medicine man was now hurrying on to explain, "and discover cures for trouble Oz people really did suffer from, such as impatience, bad tempers, rudeness and so on. In the forests hereabout grow many powerful roots and herbs and it was while I was searching for an herb to prevent talkativeness that I met the wicked witch of the North."
"Mombi!" gasped Philador, edging closer, and thinking how much mischief this old sorceress was responsible for.
"Yes, Mombi!" sighed the medicine man mournfully. "I had a great cauldron of cough mixture, which I always use as the basis for all my cures, boiling over the fire, and Mombi, declaring I had stolen her rarest herbs, threw me into the pot." Philador shuddered. He could fairly see the furious witch pouncing upon the helpless little gentleman.
"Didn't you fight?" he asked, as the medicine man stared sadly at his boots.
"Oh, yes!" the little fellow assured him earnestly, "but Mombi had the strength of ten men and tumbled me into the cauldron before I could even call for help. Being a native of Oz, I could not be utterly destroyed. I remember quite distinctly melting into the cough mixture and later being poured into a bottle. After that I recall nothing till you knocked me from the shelf this morning. How do I look?" he asked.
"You look all right to me," answered Philador kindly. "How do you feel?"
"Well," answered the medicine man, clearing his throat experimentally, "I feel a little hoarse, but I suppose that's the cough mixture." Jumping briskly to his feet he walked over to a large mirror that hung on the wall of the shed, and leaning forward stared long and earnestly at his reflection.
"Well?" asked Philador as the little man continued to gaze in the mirror, "are you the same?"
"No, I've shrunk! It must have been the boiling," mused the medicine man in a depressed voice. "My eyes look queer and there's a queer rattle in my chest. Hear it?" He shook himself from side to side, and Philador was forced to confess that he did. "Never mind, though," piped the little fellow at last. "I'm out of that bottle and that's something!" Throwing out his chest he put both hands in his pockets and beamed upon the little boy.
Philador gave a frightened scream and pointing at his shirt front bade him look in the mirror. No wonder Philador had screamed! When the medicine man threw out his chest, both sides of his shirt front flew open like the doors in a small closet, disclosing three shelves. On these shelves stood a row of boxes and bottles and as the little Prince continued to stare, the old gentleman took out first one and then another. Clicking his heels together he. sprang gleefully into the air.
"It's all my remedies!" he explained excitedly. "My laugh lozenges, soothing syrup, cross drops and everything! How handy to have a medicine chest and always right with me!"
"Doesn't it hurt?" asked Philador doubtfully. "Can you breathe all right and don't it feel hollow?" The medicine man took three long breaths, put back all the bottles and boxes and slamming the doors of his chest shook his head delightedly.
"It feels fine!" he said gaily. "But look here, isn't this Mombi's hut and hadn't we better run before she comes back?" Philador had been so interested he had forgotten his own troubles for a few moments, but now he rapidly told the medicine man the mischief Mombi had done to his own royal family and of the threat of Quiberon to destroy the Ozure Isles. Then he explained how Mombi herself had been conquered by Tattypoo and later put out by order of Ozma of Oz.
The medicine man listened with interest and concern and when the little Prince told of his flight on the blue gull to the good witch's hut and of the strange disappearance of Tattypoo and the message on the magic slate he ruffled up his wonderful hair and declared himself ready to go at once to the Emerald City.
"Two heads are better than one," he asserted stoutly. "You released me from that odious bottle and I shall never rest until I have repaid you.
"Thank you, Sir!" Straightening his crown, Philador smiled gratefully at his strange new friend.
"Oh, call me Herby," chuckled the medicine man, winking his cough drops eyes merrily, "and I'll call you Phil for short. How will that be?"
"All right, Herby," laughed the little Prince, deciding it would be quite jolly to have this gay little Gilliken accompany him to the capital. Herby heartily approved of his plan for taking some of Tattypoo's magic along and after
a short search they took the good witch's thinking cap from a peg on the door and a rope they found curled up on the kitchen table. The rope was marked "jumping rope," and would come in mighty handily on a journey of adventures. Pouring several saucers of milk for the cat with two tails, Philador put the jumping rope in the basket, the basket on his arm and declared himself ready to start. Herby had the witch's thinking cap slung round his neck and almost instantly it proved its magic powers. Neither Herby nor the little Prince knew in which direction the Emerald City lay, and as they stood looking uncertainly into the forest the medicine man bethought himself of the cap. Putting it on his head he asked it to tell them the way to the capital. The medicine man's little brown face looked so comical under the cap ruffles, Philador could not help laughing but Herby, closing his eyes began to walk straight ahead.
CHAPTER 9
King of the Uplanders
DEEPER and deeper the two travelers penetrated into the grim forest. Except for the twitter of birds, and the occasional creaking of a branch, as some animal made its way through the underbrush, there was no sound. Almost holding his breath, Philador trotted after the old Medicine Man, peering nervously to the right and left and half expecting a bear or walapus to spring out of some hollow tree. But as time passed and no wild beasts of any nature did appear, he began to breathe easier and to look around with real interest and delight. The huge gnarled trees were tinged with purple. Wild grape and wistaria vines climbed in riotous profusion up the trunks and out over the limbs, lacing them together and forming fairy-like arbors and leafy lanes. The floor of the forest was thickly strewn with violets and the fragrance of lavender was everywhere. Herby, being a native Gilliken, was accustomed to the grandeur of the forest and pattered along in a business-like manner, giving no attention to the purple pansies, clustered around the great trees, nor the lordly flags, edging each forest stream.
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