L. Frank Baum - Oz 23

by Jack Pumpkinhead Of Oz

  “Stop,” cried Jack Pumpkinhead desperately. “Stop! You must help me.” But Jack might as well have tried to stop the wind. With a shrill cry, the Red Jinn’s slave vanished, Jack also vanished. Now there was no one in the pink hay field at all. Only a pink rabbit, who wiggled his nose anxiously and then began nibbling at a stalk of celery that had fallen from the magic tray.

  CHAPTER 16 In the Palace of the Red Jinn

  IN ABOUT three whirls and one spiral Jack found himself on the steps of a glittering red glass palace. It stood on the edge of a green glass sea, whose waves broke with a melodious tinkle and crash on the beach below. The beach itself was a gleaming stretch of glass splinters, most dangerous to the tread of unwary travellers. Jack was so confounded by his sudden arrival in this strange place that for several moments he was scarcely aware that the slave of the bell was addressing him.

  “Be pleased to enter the castle of the Red Jinn,” murmured the little black boy politely, repeating the words till Jack at last did hear him.

  “Is the owner of this palace also the owner of the magic dinner bell?” asked Jack uneasily. The slave nodded brightly and after an inquisitive glance at Jack’s broken leg which he still carried under his arm, he offered his shoulder to Jack. With his assistance, Jack began hopping doubtfully upward. There were nearly a hundred steps, and moving up and down was a vast and colorful company of turbaned gentlemen, who might have stepped directly from the Arabian Nights. As each one passed he took off his slipper and tapped Jack smartly on the head.

  “What, what have I done?” stuttered Jack, trying to protect his head with his arm.

  “Why do they strike me and why do they smile as they do it?”

  “It is the custom in this country to take off the right shoe and tap a visitor upon the head as a polite method of salutation and greeting,” explained the slave calmly.

  “Greeting,” groaned Jack, ducking back to avoid another slipper waver, “well, if we meet many more of your countrymen my head will be a squash instead of a pumpkin. Why can’t they shake hands, like we do in Oz?”

  “Every country has its own customs,” answered the slave stiffly. “Why do you wear such a soft head, pray?”

  “Because I’m accustomed to it,” replied Jack a little sulkily. “It’s the kind of head that goes with my kind of person.

  “A turban would help,” observed the slave as another citizen greeted Jack boisterously with his slipper.

  “I don’t need a turban,” said Jack, hopping desperately up the last step. “But I do need help. My friends have disappeared into an enchanted sack and my country is in danger of destruction. I must have help. Do you think your master is powerful enough to help me?”

  “It depends on how you strike him,” murmured the slave indifferently. “There he is now. You might ask him.” The glass doors of the palace were wide open, and Jack looked anxiously into the great red glass throne room. The doorways and arches were hung with strands of strung glass triangles and the musical tinkle of these strange curtains was both pleasant and delicate. All of the furnishings were of sparkling red glass and a double line of tall vases led directly to the throne. A strange drowsy incense rose in pink clouds to the ceiling. At first Jack thought the Jinn was merely another vase, but as with the black boy’s aid he hopped nearer, he saw that the vase-like figure on the throne had legs crossed on the spun glass cushions and hands clasped round his fat and shiny middle.

  No head was visible; nothing but a lid with a round knob on the top. A sleepy black wielded a great fan drowsily over this portly person, and Jack after pausing uncertainly took the leg he still carried under his arm and tapped the Jinn sharply on the lid. Instantly it raised up and from the vase-like interior of this strange sovereign rose an enormous red head with an exceedingly pleasant, round face. He blinked curiously at Jack and then turning to the slave wheezed good naturedly, “Well, well! Ginger, my boy, what have you brought me this time? I am delighted that our bell was stolen. It keeps us in touch with the outside world and has already got us two extra slaves. But this one is the best yet.” He looked Jack up and then down. “I haven’t been so amused in a thousand years.

  “Don’t you want the bell back?” asked Jack, holding it out uneasily. He had expected the Jinn to be very angry at the holder of his magic treasure.

  “No! No! Keep it and welcome! Just to look at you is worth a hundred dinner bells,” said the Jinn, smothering a chuckle behind his fat hand. “An odd enough appearing gentleman, Ginger, is he not? And so polite! Where we but remove the slipper he has taken off the entire leg to do us honor. Tell me, who and what are you, most curious sir?”

  “You struck him exactly right,” whispered the slave encouragingly. “Speak up and he may help you.”

  “I am Jack Pumpkinhead, your Majesty,” said Jack, balancing himself with great difficulty, “and a simple citizen of Oz.”

  “I believe you,” puffed the Jinn and forthwith broke into such a series of strange sounds that Jack drew back in dismay.

  “What language is that?” he asked in a faint voice. “I do not seem to understand your Majesty’s remarks.” The Red Jinn’s lid, which he wore quite jauntily for a hat, was still quivering, but controlling himself with a great effort he wiped his face on a red silk hanky.

  ‘Tis the laugh language, Jack,” he confided with a wink at the little slave. “The ha, ha, and ho, ho, of great merriment. Do you not speak this language in your country, fellow? The guffaw and the snicker, the giggle and roar of pure hilarity! Ho! Ho! You are doing me good, great good! Come join me in a little roar and we’ll speak the laugh language in all its branches.”

  “But I do not feel like laughing,” said Jack wearily. “I have lost my best friends and will lose my country too, if your Highness does not help me. Are you very powerful? Are you important enough to help me?”

  “Terribly important,” answered the Jinn, pursing up his lips. “At least to myself.” He nudged the slave of the bell, who nodded delightedly, and Jack, without further parley, held up the pirate’s sack.

  “In this bag,” said Jack solemnly, “are a little boy, a baron and a flying red monster.”

  “No?” murmured the Jinn leaning forward incredulously. “How did they get in the bag? How will they get out again and if they stay in an age will they become baggage? Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!” The Red Jinn’s mirth was extremely distressing to poor Jack, but feeling that everything depended upon the wizard’s help, he smothered his resentment and patiently told the whole story of his adventures since Peter’s arrival in Oz. As he proceeded the Jinn’s expression grew more sober and at the conclusion of the story he clapped his hands sharply. Immediately Jack’s broken leg snapped back into place, and with a surprised skip, Jack began marching up and down.

  “That is the first step toward helping you,” smiled the Jinn, holding up his hand to silence Jack’s outburst of gratitude. “Now we must find a way to send you to Oz, release the prisoners from the sack and break the forbidden flagon without disaster to yourself.

  My magic looking-glass would show us where your friends are but not how to rescue them, my magic umbrella would carry you to Oz, but I need that myself. Let me think! Let me think!” Wrinkling his brows, the Red Jinn retired into himself and shut the lid.

  “Will he come out again?” asked Jack, turning nervously to the little slave. The slave nodded impressively. So Jack, fixing his eyes earnestly on the Jinn’s red lid, waited for him to reappear. And presently his head popped up and with snapping eyes he leaned forward. First he whispered nine words in Jack’s carved ear and next, eight more. Then, leaning back, he regarded Jack with a pleased and satisfied smile.

  “Now all we have to do is to arrange for your journey to Oz,” said the Jinn, tapping his fingers upon the arm of his glass throne. “I believe I’ll send you off in my Jinrickasha. Would you like that?”

  “Why he’s gone,” shouted Ginger, leaping into the air. “Gone! Vanished! Departed!” “So he has,” spluttered the Jinn,
lurching forward and rubbing his eyes with astonishment.

  “Was it by your Majesty’s magic?” queried the Slave of the Bell breathlessly.

  “Not by my Majesty’s magic, but some other meddlesome magic. Hash and horseradish! Now I shall never hear the end of the story!” Pulling in his head so suddenly that the lid came down with a crash, the Red Jinn dropped back on his cushions, and the little slave, having experienced the extreme of his master’s temper when disappointed, tiptoed hurriedly from the royal presence. What had become of our hero? Who had spirited Jack Pumpkinhead away from the palace of the Red Jinn?

  CHAPTER 17 The Capture of the Emerald City

  IN THAT delightful hour before dinner, when it is too early to go in and light the lamps and too late to go for another picnic or swim, it is a pleasant custom in Ozma’s palace to gather in the garden for games. Almost any fine evening at dusk, if you were to peep over the wall of the green castle, you would see all the celebrities and most of the courtiers playing hop scotch or prisoner’s base. The ruler of Oz, as most of you know, is a little girl fairy and Ozma is quite as fond of fun and good times as you are. Dorothy, Betsy and Trot, Ozma’s best friends and advisers are little girls too, so that life in the Emerald City is bound to be interesting and gay. And how could it be otherwise, with so many unusual and amusing people living in the palace?

  The Scarecrow spends most of his time there, though he has a splendid residence of his own, and for fun and good comradeship there is no one like this jolly strawstuffed gentleman. He was lifted from a pole and brought to the Emerald City by Dorothy on her first journey to Oz. Dorothy, herself, was blown to Oz in a cyclone and has had so much fun and so many adventures that she would not think of living anywhere else. Betsy and Trot are from the United States, too, but prefer life in the Emerald City to life in America, as indeed I should myself. Almost everybody has heard of Tik Tok, the copper man. Tik Tok is not alive, but very lively and when properly wound can walk, talk and run as well as anybody.

  Justly famous is the Tin Woodman. Whole books have been written about him, for Nick Chopper is Emperor of the Winkies and almost any child in Oz can tell you the strange story of Nick and the enchanted ax that chopped off his arms and legs, severed his trunk and finally chopped off his head. After each accident, Nick had himself repaired by a tin smith, till he was entirely a man of tin, and like the Scarecrow he spends more than half his time in the capitol. Then we must not forget Sir Hokus, a real Knight, who was rescued after seven centuries of imprisonment in Pokes. Now where, but in Oz, could a Knight last for seven centuries, and be so spry, so bold and so full of interesting stories? Where, but in Oz, could one find a Wizard able to whisk one about with magic wishing pills and conjure up Ozcream and pop-overs by a mere puff of magic powder?

  Another prime favorite in the palace is Scraps. Made from an old patchwork quilt and magically brought to life, Scraps adds a touch of fun and gaiety to all the palace parties, for Scraps is wholly without dignity and can think up verses faster than little boys can think up excuses. The Soldier with the Green Whiskers is a fine fellow, too. He is the whole grand army of Oz, and though not very brave has such a splendid uniform and long shining green beard, just to look at him gives one pleasure and satisfaction. Recently a live statue and a medicine man have come to Ozma’s court. The medicine man’s chest is a real medicine chest, full of helpful remedies and although no one in the Emerald City ever falls ill Ozma has graciously conferred upon Herby the title of Court Doctor. Add to all of these famous characters the Cowardly Lion, the Hungry Tiger and a dozen other strange pets, fifty or more splendid courtiers and servants and you will have a fair idea of the merry company romping in the garden on this early evening in May.

  Dorothy had just won an exciting foot race and sinking into a green hammock called gaily to the Scarecrow, “Let’s play blindman’s buff and blindfold everyone but Betsy Bobbin. Then we’ll all try to find her and first one who does shall have three pieces of strawberry short cake!”

  “A lot of good that will do me,” sighed the Scarecrow, patting his straw stuffed stomach, “but if I win, you shall have my cake, Dorothy.”

  “You’ll never win,” teased Betsy, beginning to hop up and down with impatience.

  “None of you will. Remember now, Wizard, no fair using magic to find me.”

  “Haven’t a bit of magic with me. My black bag’s inside,” laughed the little Wizard of Oz, fitting a big green handkerchief around his head. In less than a minute, Ozma and everyone in the garden was blindfolded. Even the Cowardly Lion had Dorothy’s hair ribbon tied securely over his eyes.

  “All ready,” called Betsy, and tiptoeing over to an enormous butterfly bush, she climbed into the center and sat still as a mouse. But the others were very far from still.

  With shouts, screams and little roars of merriment they ran to and fro, bumping into each other and throwing their arms around trees and statues and making so much noise that they never heard the tramp of feet on the other side of the wall. For Mogodore had at last arrived in the Emerald City, and with a rush and without opposition, captured the famous fairy capitol. At sight of his spearmen, the peaceful inhabitants fled into their houses and slammed windows and doors. Unk Nunkie, a brave old Munchkin who had started on a run to warn the people in the palace, was caught by Bragga, tied up securely and carelessly tossed into a greenberry bush. Shirley Sunshine, who had leaped from her horse for the very same reason, was overtaken and put under guard.

  “A fine way to help,” muttered Mogodore, shaking his finger at her accusingly.

  “What were you about Princess?”

  “I was anxious to see the castle,” stuttered poor Shirley, twisting her handkerchief miserably.

  “You’ll see it soon enough,” promised Mogodore. “Just wait till I’ve conquered this silly little fairy.” About forty paces from the castle itself Mogodore dismounted and called a council of war. Leaving five hundred men to hold the city he took five hundred with him to storm the palace and overcome the famous celebrities whom he had read about so often. Shirley Sunshine was left behind until the fighting should be over. Mogodore and his five hundred picked soldiers marched boldly upon the castle.

  “High time for a new King here,” sniffed Mogodore scornfully. “A city without defenses! No army! No guards! What can they expect but capture?”

  “There may be an army inside the castle walls,” warned Wagarag, jogging wearily along at the baron’s elbow. “Before we rush the gates we had better look about a bit and see that everything is safe.”

  “Very good,” grunted Mogodore, taking a pinch of snuff. “You and I will go forward. The others may remain here. My spear tossed into the air will be the signal for them to advance.” It was a short walk to the walls of the palace, and hoisting himself with great gasps and puffs the Baron of Baffleburg raised his head cautiously over the top of the wall and looked down into the royal gardens. What he saw astonished him exceedingly, and with a soundless chuckle he dropped to the ground. “The silly dunces are playing a game,” whispered Mogodore to his trembling steward. “They’re blindfolded and all we have to do is to jump over the wall and seize them.”

  Tossing his spear into the air, Mogodore waited impatiently for his men and when they came hurrying forward, he raised his hand for silence. “Drop over the wall, one at a time, join in this game of blindman’s buff. Each man take one prisoner and tie him to the nearest tree. When all are taken, I will march into the palace, seize the crown jewels and magic belt and proclaim myself King of Oz. All ready.” With only a slight scraping of boots on the stones, Mogodore and his men slipped over the wall and into the garden.

  Betsy Bobbin, sitting breathlessly in the center of the butterfly bush, became suddenly aware of a change in the gay uproar around her. The joyous shouts and good natured exclamations turned to frightened screams and indignant protests and finally to loud shouts for help.

  “What can have happened?” gasped Betsy, poking her head out of the bus
h. What she saw, as you can well imagine, made her sink back in a faint heap. The garden was swarming with armed warriors and Ozma and all of her friends and courtiers were tied to the trees with gold chains and struggling in vain to free themselves.

  “I am the only one left,” panted Betsy. “I must try to slip out unnoticed and get the magic belt!” In this famous belt, as most of you know, there is such power that the wearer can transform anyone to any shape at all. “I’ll turn them to old shoes and door knobs,” sobbed Betsy, with another frightened peek out of the bush. The chances of her reaching the palace were slim indeed and finally she gave up all hope, but she could not help feeling proud of the way Ozma of Oz was conducting herself.

  “What does this mean?” demanded the little fairy, tearing the bandage from her eyes and stamping her foot as well as she could with so many chains around her ankles.

  “Who are you and what do you want? Release us at once, or my Wizard and my Army will destroy you!”

  “Ho! Ho! ho!” roared Mogodore, looking cheerfully down at the furious Princess.

  “Hand over the keys of the castle my dear, for you are completely conquered and absolutely captured. I, Mogodore the Mighty and Baron of Baffleburg, am the future King of Oz!”

  “I’ll crown you with my fist,” sputtered Sir Hokus, tugging at his chains till the tree he was tied to rocked as if by a tempest. “I’ll thump thee on the bean.” (Sir Hokus has picked up a lot of slang from Trot and Betsy Bobbin and mixes it fluently with his knightly conversation).