Igraine the Brave

by Cornelia Funke

  Finally one soldier tried to climb the mane, but Igraine pushed him off with her foot. Then she jumped right inside the lion’s mouth, pulling the Sorrowful Knight in with her, and shouted in as loud a voice as she could muster:

  Stony lion, close your jaws,

  Rest now on your stony paws.

  It was magic made you wake,

  Roar once more for magic’s sake.

  The deep growl uttered by the stone lion was such a terrifying sound that all the horses threw their riders and galloped away in panic, while the huge lion slowly, very slowly, closed its jaws and wrapped Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight in darkness. They heard Osmund’s men clambering up the stone outside and hammering on the lion’s nose with their swords. Spear points pushed between the stone lips, crunching. But the mouth refused to open.

  “It is not chivalrous to escape such a battle by flight,” whispered the Sorrowful Knight in the darkness.

  “But they’d have slit us open!” said Igraine. “Six against two — is that what you’d call chivalrous?”

  The Sorrowful Knight had to smile. “Six against one and a half,” he said.

  “Oh, all right,” muttered Igraine. “I can’t get to be the most famous knight in the world if I let a nasty bunch like that slice me up at the age of twelve, and you’re too good for such a fate, anyway.”

  The Sorrowful Knight sighed once more. Outside, Osmund’s guards were bellowing furiously at one another. “You are an incredibly pigheaded girl, noble Igraine,” said the knight.

  “Yes, that’s what Albert always says,” agreed Igraine. “Come on, I’ll lead you down the stairs. I’m afraid it’s been dark inside the tunnel since Albert let the glowworms out because he thought they were unhappy. My brother has a very soft heart when it comes to glowworms and mice.”

  Then she took the Sorrowful Knight’s hand and led him down the slippery steps until, by the light of a single glowworm that had lost its way, they reached the underground tunnel that Igraine’s great-grandmother had once had made so that her husband, Pelleas, could escape from his enemies.

  18

  The courtyard of Pimpernel Castle was dark and deserted when Igraine pushed aside the stone slab that closed the other end of her great-grandfather’s escape route. The only lights showing were behind the tower windows. Up on the wall, a solitary figure was leaning over the battlements. It couldn’t be Albert; he wasn’t nearly so fat.

  “Bertram?” Igraine called up to him. “Bertram, I’m back!”

  The Master of Horse spun around and looked incredulously down at the courtyard.

  “Igraine!” he called. “Where on earth have you sprung from? Is all that fuss over in Osmund’s camp your doing? The guards are running about like headless chickens!”

  Bertram stopped abruptly when the Sorrowful Knight climbed out of the tunnel after Igraine. “And who’s this you’ve brought with you?” he asked suspiciously.

  “The Sorrowful Knight from the Mount of Tears!” replied Igraine. “He very kindly escorted me home. Where are Albert and my curly-tailed parents? Asleep?”

  “No, no one’s been getting any sleep around here since Osmund’s army set up camp down below.” Bertram hurried down the steps. “Luckily, Osmund values his own sleep too much to attack by night, so your parents can work up in the tower with Albert until sunrise.”

  He lit one of the torches lying near the armory door and led Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight across the dark courtyard to the tower. As Igraine stepped onto the bridge, a small, furry figure scurried to meet her. Purring, Sisyphus rubbed his head against her knee.

  “Oh, Sisyphus!” whispered Igraine, picking up the cat. “I’ve missed you so much. Did Albert remember to feed you while I was away?”

  “Not enough,” growled Sisyphus, licking the tip of her nose with his rough tongue.

  “Your brother is doing splendidly,” said Bertram as he led them up the tower. “Osmund has been trying all kinds of crafty magic spells, but Albert has foiled them all.”

  “Are the Singing Books helping him?” asked Igraine.

  “Yes, but they keep on moaning,” said Bertram, “which Albert really doesn’t deserve. Although admittedly the food he conjures up is rather peculiar.”

  “There, what did I tell you?” Igraine whispered to the Sorrowful Knight. She nudged Bertram’s back. “What’s he been giving you, Bertram? Eggs and biscuits?”

  “Buckets full of them!” Bertram groaned, rubbing his fat paunch. “I can tell you, the stale bread they threw me down in the Dungeon of Despair was no drier than Albert’s biscuits. And as for the eggs! If it was only the shells that came out that color, but even the yolks are blue.”

  With a sigh, he climbed the last few steps and stopped outside the door of the magic workshop. “That wretched serpent door handle has bitten my hand twice already,” he whispered to Igraine. “Does it bite you, too? Because if not, then …”

  “That’s fine, I’ll do it,” Igraine whispered back. “But keep quiet. I want to give my parents a surprise.”

  She put Sisyphus down on the floor, pressed the handle without a sound — the snake just hissed quietly at her touch — and peered around the door into the workshop.

  Albert had his back turned to her. He was standing at the large table in the middle of the room surrounded by his mice, who were sitting on two six-branched candlesticks dangling their tails. Albert was staring grimly at an empty plate with three Books of Magic standing around it, hands behind their backs, in the position they always adopted when they were going to start singing. Igraine’s parents were anxiously resting their snouts on the edge of the table.

  “Biscuits and eggs, eggs and biscuits! I don’t believe it!” roared Albert, shaking the table so hard that the books stumbled into each other, and one fell right across the plate. Looking cross, it got to its feet again, cast Albert an extremely reproachful glance, and smoothed out its first page. But Albert took no notice. He went on staring gloomily at the empty plate.

  “I can send Osmund’s own arrows flying back around his ears with a single spell!” he cried. “But when it comes to something to eat, I can’t even manage the simplest soup-making charm! It’s enough to drive you crazy!”

  Standing at the door, Igraine had to put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from giggling.

  “Right, here we go. Last try!” growled Albert. “Careful, books, concentrate!”

  He raised his hands in the air.

  The Singing Books closed their eyes and began humming quietly.

  “Page 223,” said Albert.

  Rustling, the books leafed through their pages.

  “Apples!” they sang. “Aaa — aaa — aaapples!” It was a three-part round.

  “Apples red, of rosy hue!” called Albert.

  “Roo — ooo — ooolls!” sang the books.

  “Rolls all brown and crispy, too!” said Albert, spinning around on his own axis on the tip of one toe.

  “Come hither, come hither, oh, do!” sang the books, still in three parts.

  “Hither come and fill this plate!” Albert leaped into the air. “Fill the kitchen, do not wait!”

  “Aaaabraaa …” sang the books happily, “… braacadaaabrah, fortissimo, pianissimo!”

  Then they slammed themselves shut. There was total silence.

  Albert had closed his eyes.

  “Well, what about it, mice?” he asked impatiently, without opening his eyes again. “Did it work this time?”

  The mice began squeaking excitedly. Albert opened his eyes and leaned over the plate with a happy smile. An apple and a roll lay on it.

  “What a wonderfully red apple, my boy!” said Sir Lamorak.

  “Yes, and look at that roll!” The Fair Melisande snuffled appreciatively. “It’s a real picture. I never saw a nicer roll. Well done, Albert; well sung, books.”

  Flattered, the books took a bow.

  Albert picked up the apple, polished it on a corner of his magic coat, and bit into it.


  The apple crumbled.

  Igraine pressed her hand over her mouth as hard as she could.

  “Biscuit crumbs!” roared Albert, slinging the apple out of the window. With a dark look, he reached for the roll. When he broke it in half, blue egg yolk dripped out.

  It was too much. Igraine burst out laughing, so loud that the Books of Magic clung to each other in fright.

  “Igraine!” said Albert, without turning around. “My little sister’s back.” With a sigh, he gathered up his mice, put them in the pockets of his magic coat, and brushed apple-biscuit crumbs off its collar.

  Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande, however, ran to their daughter in such excitement that they swept the Books of Magic off the table and almost knocked Albert over in their delight.

  “Honey! Did you get the giant’s hairs?” cried the Fair Melisande, nuzzling her daughter lovingly with her black snout.

  “Yes, of course.” Igraine took the bag containing Garleff’s hairs from her belt and handed it to Albert.

  “She really got them!” cried the Books of Magic. All of those still sitting on the shelves hurried down to join the others. The three books that had helped to conjure up the biscuit crumbs slid down the table legs and hopped excitedly around at Albert’s feet.

  “Let’s have a look, let’s have a look!” they cried.

  “Well done, little sister,” said Albert, appreciatively pulling Igraine’s earlobe. “I’ll soak the hairs at once, so that we can begin working on the spell to change pigs back to parents.”

  “Ooh, genuine giant’s hairs!” whispered the Books of Magic, clustering around Albert’s legs so that he hardly knew where to put his feet down. “Show us, do show us!”

  Albert took Garleff’s hairs out of the bag and bent down to show them to the books. “There you are. But for heaven’s sake, stop making all that racket.”

  “Yes, yes, they really are giant’s hairs, red hairs from a giant!” squealed the books in their shrill little voices. “Fresh, too! Top quality! Thicker than the quill of a feather, red as a fox’s coat. Ooh, the magic you can do with those! Come on, come on!” They tugged at Albert’s magic coat and hung on to its hem. “Soak them, soak them! Their power grows less with every passing hour.”

  But as they tried to haul Albert off with them, Igraine barred their way. “Wait a minute!” she said. “First there’s someone I have to introduce to you all!” She turned and led the Sorrowful Knight into the room.

  “This,” she said, “is the Sorrowful Knight of the Mount of Tears. He’s a friend of the giant Garleff, and he very kindly escorted me home. And these,” she added, pointing to Albert and the two pigs, “are my big brother, Albert, and my parents. My parents don’t usually look like that, but I think they’re still nice this way, don’t you?”

  The knight took his helmet off and bowed low to Albert and the two pigs, while the books, full of curiosity, immediately surrounded him.

  “A genuine knight, take a look at that, will you?” said one in its reedy voice.

  “His armor is rather dented,” whispered another book. “Almost as bad as the dents old Pelleas got from falling off his horse all the time.”

  “That helmet could do with a dusting,” commented a third book.

  Rather embarrassed, the Sorrowful Knight cleared his throat.

  “Shut up, will you?” said Igraine, so angrily that the books flinched away. “We haven’t been sitting around on a nice upholstered shelf like you. We’ve rescued a dragon, fought the One-Eyed Duke, and outwitted Osmund’s guards.”

  “Oh, dear me!” groaned the Fair Melisande. “That sounds terrible, honey. And I am very grateful indeed to this noble knight for seeing you safely home.”

  “Yes, to be sure,” snorted Sir Lamorak, pricking up his piggy ears. “That was very kind of you, Sir Sorrowful Knight of … er, the Mount of Tears.”

  The Sorrowful Knight bowed again. “It was an honor,” he replied. “And a pleasure. Your daughter is brave and fearless, and of a most chivalrous cast of mind, even if she and I sometimes don’t see the rules of chivalry in quite the same way.”

  Pleased, Lamorak and Melisande lowered their snouts. “My dear … er, Sorrowful Knight, it makes us very happy to hear that,” said Sir Lamorak, much moved.

  Igraine deeply regretted having taken her helmet off because now, unfortunately, everyone could see her blushing to the roots of her hair. “Bertram told me that Albert’s been foiling all Osmund’s magic tricks,” she quickly said.

  Albert’s expression was one of deliberate modesty. “Well, admittedly I didn’t do badly,” he said.

  “How about the food?” Igraine couldn’t resist. Albert was looking so terribly self-satisfied.

  “Yes, all right, I still have to work on that a bit,” he muttered. “But now I’m going to grate the hairs and then soak them.”

  “Use the condensed dragon’s vapor, my boy!” Sir Lamorak called after him. “It works even better than water-snake saliva. I think we still have a small jar left.”

  The books followed Albert in a long procession as he disappeared into the back room of the workshop — the stirring and boiling room, as Igraine called it.

  Her father put his pink front trotters up on the windowsill and looked out at the night. “I’m really looking forward to turning that Osmund into a shape that suits him better,” he said. “What do you think, honey, would a cockroach fit the bill, or would one of those fish that wallow in the mud be better?”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” said Igraine. “But first I want to hear what’s been going on here while I was away.”

  “Oh, nothing much,” replied her mother, nudging her lovingly with her snout. “Osmund is a terrible bore with his threats and his rather second-rate magic, and he’s spoiling our view with all those tents. The noise is rather a nuisance at times, too. Yesterday he tried making the castle fall down by rather inexpertly casting an earthquake spell. The tower wobbled a bit, and four gargoyles lost their noses, but otherwise nothing happened. The man’s a fool. He’d do terrible damage with our books.”

  “He certainly would,” agreed Sir Lamorak. “And your brother is acquitting himself bravely, but it’s high time we got our own magic powers back so that we can put an end to all this tail-curling nonsense.”

  “I’m really sorry that you are our guest at Pimpernel at such a difficult time,” Melisande continued to the Sorrowful Knight, who was still standing by the door looking uncertain of himself. “This is a small castle, but we always have a couple of rooms ready for unexpected guests. So if you’d like to stay in spite of the racket that man Osmund is kicking up …”

  “My thanks to you,” said the Sorrowful Knight. “I would be happy to stay. But if you will allow me to, I’ll sleep up on the wall behind the battlements. Only under the stars am I free from my sorrowful dreams.”

  “Well, just as you like,” said the Fair Melisande, looking thoughtfully at the knight. “But my special tea is good for sorrowful dreams, too. I’ll ask one of the books to take a mug of it up to you on the wall, with a plate of Albert’s biscuits. Although,” she added, giving the knight an enchanting piggy smile, “they really are rather dry even for my palate, piggy as it is at present.”

  19

  Osmund attacked the next morning as soon as the sun had risen. Igraine fell out of bed in alarm when the noise started. Sleepy, and still feeling grubby from her journey, she clambered into her armor, gave Sisyphus his milk in the kitchen, and then went out into the courtyard. Albert and the Sorrowful Knight were already up on the battlements.

  “The moat will be brimming over with fish if any more of Osmund’s half-witted knights fall in,” said Albert as Igraine pushed in between them.

  She looked anxiously down at the moat. “Oh, dear. Sisyphus can’t tell real fish from knight-fish,” she said. “And what else is he going to eat? We don’t have much choice for him. Except those mice, of course.”

  “Just let him try it!” said Albert menaci
ngly. “That cat’s too fat, anyway. Give him biscuits. After all, that’s what we’re eating ourselves. Though Bertram is in the kitchen at this very minute trying to rustle up something else.”

  The tents outside the castle were turning red in the light of the rising sun. The bank of the moat was swarming with archers, catapults, and soldiers trying to build wooden bridges across the water. The gargoyles smacked their lips and belched as they swallowed fiery arrows and iron cannonballs. The stone lions crouched above the gateway, roaring and using their paws to deflect any missiles that flew their way.

  “This whole thing is getting monotonous,” sighed Albert, settling down between two crenellations. He took a small Book of Magic out of his coat pocket and placed it on his lap. It began humming quietly.

  Down below, some of Osmund’s men were loading up the great catapults with bundles of burning brushwood. Albert looked at them, shaking his head.

  “Take a look at that, will you?” he said. “They’re trying to smoke us out now. I call it really clever to go burning a castle down when you want to steal the books in it. A brain wave.” He wrinkled his nose in derision. “Page 23,” he told the book, “and then page 77 right after that.”

  The little Book of Magic opened itself and warbled a tune that sounded very much like “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Albert turned up the sleeves of his magic coat, and was just in time to catch two mice that fell out. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the magic workshop?” he scolded as he put them back in his pocket. Then he raised his hands in the air.

  As Osmund’s men prepared to fire the catapults, Albert scrutinized them with disdain, snapped his fingers, and called:

  Little birds fly round about!

  All the flames will fizzle out.

  Mix with Albert and his magic

  And the ending will be tragic.

  Your fingers you will burn today