The Ickabog

by J. K. Rowling

  And then a vast shadow rippled over them. Two enormous arms covered in long green hair like marsh weed descended upon the four friends. As easily as if they were babies, the Ickabog scooped them up and bore them away across the marsh.

  And then a vast shadow rippled over them.

  By Abbey, Age 11

  The Ickabog scooped them up and then bore them away across the marsh.

  By Fleur, Age 9

  Some hours later, Daisy woke up, but at first she didn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t remember being this cozy since childhood, when she’d slept beneath a patchwork quilt stitched by her mother, and woken every winter morning to the sound of a fire crackling in her grate. She could hear the fire crackling now, and smell venison pies heating in the oven, so she knew she must be dreaming that she was back at home with both her parents.

  But the sound of flames and the smell of pie were so real it then occurred to Daisy that instead of dreaming, she might be in heaven. Perhaps she’d frozen to death on the edge of the marsh? Without moving her body, she opened her eyes and saw a flickering fire, and the rough-hewn walls of what seemed to be a very large cavern, and she realized she and her three companions were lying in a large nest of what seemed to be unspun sheep’s wool.

  There was a gigantic rock beside the fire, which was covered with long, greenish-brown marsh weed. Daisy gazed at this rock until her eyes became accustomed to the semidarkness. Only then did she realize that the rock, which was as tall as two horses, was looking back at her.

  Even though the old stories said the Ickabog looked like a dragon, or a serpent, or a drifting ghoul, Daisy knew at once that this was the real thing. In panic, she closed her eyes again, reached out a hand through the soft mass of sheep’s wool, found one of the others’ backs, and poked it.

  “What?” whispered Bert.

  “Have you seen it?” whispered Daisy, eyes still tightly shut.

  “Yes,” breathed Bert. “Don’t look at it.”

  “I’m not,” said Daisy.

  “I told you there was an Ickabog,” came Martha’s terrified whisper.

  “I think it’s cooking pies,” whispered Roderick.

  All four lay quite still, with their eyes closed, until the smell of venison pie became so deliciously overpowering that each of them felt it would be almost worth dying to jump up, snatch a pie, and maybe wolf down a few mouthfuls before the Ickabog could kill them.

  Then they heard the monster moving. Its long, coarse hair rustled, and its heavy feet made loud muffled thumps. There was a clunk, as though the monster had laid down something heavy. Then a low, booming voice said:

  “Eat them.”

  All four opened their eyes.

  You might think the fact that the Ickabog could speak their language would be a huge shock, but they were already so stunned that the monster was real, that it knew how to make fires and that it was cooking venison pies, that they barely stopped to consider that point. The Ickabog had placed a rough-hewn wooden platter of pies beside them on the floor, and they realized that it must have taken them from the frozen stock of food on the abandoned wagon.

  Slowly and cautiously, the four friends moved into sitting positions, staring up into the large, mournful eyes of the Ickabog, which peered at them through the tangle of long, coarse greenish hair that covered it from head to foot. Roughly shaped like a person, it had a truly enormous belly, and huge shaggy paws, each of which had a single sharp claw.

  “What do you want with us?” asked Bert, bravely.

  In its deep, booming voice the Ickabog replied:

  “I’m going to eat you. But not yet.”

  The Ickabog turned, picked up a pair of baskets, which were woven from strips of bark, and walked away to the mouth of the cave. Then, as though a sudden thought had struck it, the Ickabog turned back to them and said,

  “Roar.”

  It didn’t actually roar. It simply said the word. The four humans stared at the Ickabog, which blinked, then turned round and walked out of the cave, a basket in each paw. Then a boulder as large as the cave mouth rumbled its way across the entrance, to keep the prisoners inside. They listened as the Ickabog’s footsteps crunched through the snow outside, and died away.

  Never would Daisy and Martha forget the taste of those Baronstown pies, after the long years of cabbage soup at Ma Grunter’s. Indeed, Martha burst into tears after the first bite, and said she’d never known food could be like this. All of them forgot about the Ickabog while eating. Once they’d finished the pies, they felt braver, and they got up to explore the Ickabog’s cave by the light of the fire.

  “Look,” said Daisy, who’d found drawings on the wall.

  A hundred shaggy Ickabogs were being chased by stickmen with spears.

  “See this one!” said Roderick, pointing at a drawing close to the mouth of the cave.

  By the light of the Ickabog’s fire, the foursome examined a picture of a lone Ickabog, standing face-to-face with a stick figure wearing a plumed helmet and holding a sword.

  “That looks like the king,” whispered Daisy, pointing at the figure. “You don’t think he really saw the Ickabog that night, do you?”

  The others couldn’t answer, of course, but I can. I’ll tell you the whole truth now, and I hope you won’t be annoyed that I didn’t before.

  Fred really did catch a glimpse of the Ickabog in the thick marsh mist, that fatal night when Major Beamish was shot. I can also tell you that the following morning, the old shepherd who’d thought his dog had been eaten by the Ickabog heard a whining and scratching at the door, and realized that faithful Patch had come home again, because, of course, Spittleworth had set the dog free from the brambles in which he was trapped.

  Before you judge the old shepherd too harshly for not letting the king know that Patch hadn’t been eaten by the Ickabog after all, you should remember that he was weary after his long journey to Chouxville. In any case, the king wouldn’t have cared. Once Fred had seen the monster through the mist, nothing and nobody would have persuaded him it wasn’t real.

  “I wonder,” said Martha, “why the Ickabog didn’t eat the king?”

  “Maybe he really did fight it off, like the stories say?” asked Roderick doubtfully.

  “You know, it’s strange,” said Daisy, turning to look at the Ickabog’s cave, “that there aren’t any bones in here, if the Ickabog eats people.”

  “It must eat the bones too,” said Bert. His voice was shaking.

  Now Daisy remembered that, of course, they must have been wrong in thinking that Major Beamish had died in an accident on the marsh. Clearly, the Ickabog had killed him, after all. She’d just reached for Bert’s hand, to show him she knew how horrible it was for him to be in the lair of his father’s killer, when they heard heavy footsteps outside again, and knew the monster had returned. All four dashed back to the soft pile of sheep’s wool and sat down in it as though they’d never moved.

  There was a loud rumble as the Ickabog rolled back the stone, letting in the wintry chill. It was still snowing hard outside, and the Ickabog had a lot of snow trapped in its hair. In one of its baskets it had a large number of mushrooms and some firewood. In the other, it had some frozen Chouxville pastries.

  While the humans watched, the Ickabog built up the fire again, and placed the icy block of pastries on a flat stone beside it, where they slowly began to thaw. Then, while Daisy, Bert, Martha, and Roderick watched, the Ickabog began eating mushrooms. It had a curious way of doing so. It speared a few at a time on the single spike protruding from each paw, then picked them off delicately in its mouth, one by one, chewing them up with what looked like great enjoyment.

  After a while, it seemed to become aware that the four humans were watching it.

  “Roar,” it said again, and fell back to ignoring them, until it had eaten all the mushrooms, after which it carefully lifted the unfrozen Chouxville pastries off the warm rock, and offered them to the humans in its huge, hairy paws.

  “It
’s trying to fatten us up!” said Martha in a terrified whisper, but nevertheless she seized a Folderol Fancy and the next second, her eyes were closed in ecstasy.

  After the Ickabog and the humans had eaten, the Ickabog put its two baskets away tidily in a corner, poked up the fire, and moved to the mouth of the cave, where the snow continued to fall and the sun was beginning to set. With a strange noise you’d recognize if you’ve ever heard a bagpipe inflate before somebody starts to play it, the Ickabog drew in breath and began to sing in a language none of the humans could understand. The song echoed forth over the marsh as darkness fell. The four humans listened, and soon felt drowsy, and one by one they sank back into the nest of sheep’s wool, and fell asleep.

  It was several days before Daisy, Bert, Martha, and Roderick plucked up courage to do anything other than eat the frozen food that the Ickabog brought them from the wagon, and watch the monster eat the mushrooms it foraged for itself. Whenever the Ickabog went out (always rolling the enormous boulder into the mouth of the cave, to stop them escaping) they discussed its strange ways, but in low voices, in case it was lurking on the other side of the boulder, listening.

  One thing they argued about was whether the Ickabog was a boy or a girl. Daisy, Bert, and Roderick all thought it must be male, because of the booming depth of its voice, but Martha, who’d looked after sheep before her family had starved to death, thought the Ickabog was a girl.

  “Its belly’s growing,” she told them. “I think it’s going to have babies.”

  The other thing the children discussed, of course, was exactly when the Ickabog was likely to eat them, and whether they were going to be able to fight it off when it tried.

  “I think we’ve got a bit of time yet,” said Bert, looking at Daisy and Martha, who were still very skinny from their time at the orphanage. “You two wouldn’t make much of a meal.”

  “If I got it round the back of the neck,” said Roderick, miming the action, “and Bert hit it really hard in the stomach —”

  “We’ll never be able to overpower the Ickabog,” said Daisy. “It can move a boulder as big as itself. We’re nowhere near strong enough.”

  “If only we had a weapon,” said Bert, standing up and kicking a stone across the cave.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd,” said Daisy, “that all we’ve seen the Ickabog eat is mushrooms? Don’t you feel as though it’s pretending to be fiercer than it really is?”

  “It eats sheep,” said Martha. “Where did all this wool come from, if it hasn’t eaten sheep?”

  “Maybe it just saved up wisps of wool caught on brambles?” suggested Daisy, picking up a bit of the soft white fluff. “I still don’t understand why there aren’t any bones in here, if it’s in the habit of eating creatures.”

  “What about that song it sings every night?” said Bert. “It gives me the creeps. If you ask me, that’s a battle song.”

  “It scares me too,” agreed Martha.

  “I wonder what it means?” said Daisy.

  A few minutes later, the giant boulder at the mouth of the cave shifted again, and the Ickabog reappeared with its two baskets, one full of mushrooms as usual, and the other packed with frozen Kurdsburg cheeses.

  Everyone ate without talking, as they always did, and after the Ickabog had tidied away its baskets and poked up the fire, it moved, as the sun was setting, to the mouth of the cave, ready to sing its strange song, in the language the humans couldn’t understand.

  Daisy stood up.

  “What are you doing?” whispered Bert, grabbing her ankle. “Sit down!”

  “No,” said Daisy, pulling herself free. “I want to talk to it.”

  So she walked boldly to the mouth of the cave, and sat down beside the Ickabog.

  So she walked boldly to the mouth of the cave, and sat down beside the Ickabog.

  By Aderes, Age 12

  The Ickabog had just drawn breath, with its usual sound of an inflating bagpipe, when Daisy said:

  “What language do you sing in, Ickabog?”

  The Ickabog looked down at her, startled to find Daisy so close. At first, Daisy thought it wasn’t going to answer, but at last it said in its slow, deep voice:

  “Ickerish.”

  “And what’s the song about?”

  “It’s the story of Ickabogs — and of your kind too.”

  “You mean, people?” asked Daisy.

  “People, yes,” said the Ickabog. “The two stories are one story, because people were Bornded out of Ickabogs.”

  It drew in its breath to sing again, but Daisy asked:

  “What does ‘Bornded’ mean? Is it the same as ‘born’?”

  “No,” said the Ickabog, looking down at her, “Bornded is very different from being born. It’s how new Ickabogs come to be.”

  Daisy wanted to be polite, seeing how enormous the Ickabog was, so she said cautiously:

  “That does sound a bit like being born.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” said the Ickabog, in its deep voice. “Born and Bornded are very different things. When babies are Bornded, we who have Bornded them die.”

  “Always?” asked Daisy, noticing how the Ickabog absentmindedly rubbed its tummy as it spoke.

  “Always,” said the Ickabog. “That is the way of the Ickabog. To live with your children is one of the strangenesses of people.”

  “But that’s so sad,” said Daisy slowly. “To die when your children are born.”

  “It isn’t sad at all,” said the Ickabog. “The Bornding is a glorious thing! Our whole lives lead up to the Bornding. What we’re doing and what we’re feeling when our babies are Bornded gives them their natures. It is very important to have a good Bornding.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Daisy.

  “If I die sad and hopeless,” explained the Ickabog, “my babies won’t survive. I’ve watched my fellow Ickabogs die in despair, one by one, and their babies survived them only by seconds. An Ickabog can’t live without hope. I’m the last Ickabog left, and my Bornding will be the most important Bornding in history, because if my Bornding goes well, our species will survive, and if not, Ickabogs will be gone forever …

  “All our troubles began from a bad Bornding, you know.”

  “Is that what your song’s about?” asked Daisy. “The bad Bornding?”

  The Ickabog nodded, its eyes fixed on the darkening, snowy marsh. Then it took yet another deep bagpipe breath, and began to sing, and this time it sang in words that the humans could understand.

  “At the dawn of time, when only

  Ickabogs existed, stony

  Man was not created, with his

  Cold, flint-hearted ways,

  Then the world in its perfection

  Was like heaven’s bright reflection

  No one hunted us or harmed us

  In those lost, beloved days.

  Oh Ickabogs, come Bornding back,

  Come Bornding back, my Ickabogs.

  Oh Ickabogs, come Bornding back,

  Come Bornding back, my own.

  Then tragedy! One stormy night,

  Came Bitterness, Bornded of Fright

  And Bitterness, so tall and stout,

  Was different from its fellows.

  Its voice was rough, its ways were mean,

  The likes of it had not been seen

  Before, and so they drove it out

  With angry blows and bellows.

  Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded wise,

  Be Bornded wise, my Ickabogs.

  Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded wise,

  Be Bornded wise, my own.

  A thousand miles from its old home

  Its Bornding time arrived, alone

  In darkness, Bitterness expired

  And Hatred came to being.

  A hairless Ickabog, this last,

  A beast sworn to avenge the past,

  With bloodlust was the creature fired,

  Its evil eye far-seeing.

  Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded kind,


  Be Bornded kind, my Ickabogs.

  Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded kind,

  Be Bornded kind, my own.

  Then Hatred spawned the race of man,

  ’Twas from ourselves that man began,

  From Bitterness and Hate they swelled

  To armies, raised to smite us.

  In hundreds, Ickabogs were slain,

  Our blood poured on the land like rain,

  Our ancestors like trees were felled

  And still men came to fight us.

  Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded brave,

  Be Bornded brave, my Ickabogs.

  Oh Ickabogs, be Bornded brave,

  Be Bornded brave, my own.

  Men forced us from our sunlit home,

  Away from grass to mud and stone,

  Into the endless fog and rain

  And here we stayed and dwindled,

  ’Til of our race there’s only one

  Survivor of the spear and gun

  Whose children must begin again

  With hate and fury kindled.

  Oh Ickabogs, now kill the men,

  Now kill the men, my Ickabogs.

  Oh Ickabogs, now kill the men,

  Now kill the men, my own.”

  Daisy and the Ickabog sat in silence for a while after the Ickabog had finished singing. The stars were coming out now. Daisy fixed her eyes on the moon as she said:

  “How many people have you eaten, Ickabog?”

  The Ickabog sighed.