‘Follow me!’ said Randalf. He pulled a baggy yellow item of clothing from his robes and raised it up high on the end of his staff.
‘Are they what I think they are?’ said Veronica.
‘You never know when a pair of ogre’s underpants will come in useful,’ said Randalf, striding off. ‘Keep your eyes on the pants everybody, and you won’t get lost.’
Norbert sighed. ‘I wondered where they’d got to,’ he said.
‘Now, Joe, pay attention,’ said Randalf, ‘You really must see the sights of Goblintown. On our right,’ he announced, ‘we have a typical goblin apartment. On our left, the Museum of Moderate Achievements – while that,’ he said, pointing up ahead to a particularly rundown building, ‘is the Temple of the Great Verucca.’
‘The Temple of the Great Verucca?’ said Joe incredu- lously.
Randalf nodded. ‘It is the site where Wilfred the Swimmer, that ancient goblin explorer, laid the first stone of what was to become Goblintown. Legend has it that he had been looking for a suitable place to build for seven long years when the pain from his great verucca finally forced him to abandon his search. He decided it was a sign. The rest, as they say, is history.’
‘Spare us the guided tour!’ squawked Veronica, fluttering overhead.
This way and that they tramped. Randalf was in the lead, with the yellow underpants held high, followed by Norbert, Henry – sniffing every street corner and straining at his lead – and finally, Joe. Goblins thronged the streets, shoving and jostling, arguing, shouting – and completely ignoring the strangers in their midst.
‘Which is why,’ Randalf concluded, pausing to let the others catch up, ‘we call Goblintown the Friendly City. It— Ooof!’
One goblin barged into Randalf. Another grabbed the underpants from the end of the staff and raced away through the crowd.
‘My word!’ shouted Randalf.
‘My pants!’ cried Norbert.
‘Forget them,’ said Veronica. ‘We’re here.’
As one, they all turned – and there, behind the windows of a particularly tall and ramshackle building, was a selection of shop-dummies, all dressed up in ornate warrior-hero costumes. Norbert stared at the gold letters on the sign swinging back and forth above the door.
‘Unc . . . Unc . . . Unc . . .’ he said.
‘Unction’s Upmarket Outfitters,’ Randalf read for him. ‘Well spotted, Veronica. Come on then, Joe. Let’s get you kitted out.’
To Joe’s surprise, they did not stay long in Unction’s Upmarket Outfitters. Randalf led them up the aisle of the magnificent store – ignoring the tuts and sighs of the smartly dressed assistants as he went – to the very back. There, they climbed a broad curving staircase.
They emerged, not on the second floor of the outfitter’s as Joe had expected, but in a different shop altogether. A brightly painted sign on the wall announced it as Mingletrips Middle-of-the-Road Emporium. The assistants, all of whom wore slightly plainer outfits, watched them suspiciously.
‘I was looking for . . .’ Randalf began.
‘Yes?’ said one of the assistants, his left eyebrow arched high.
‘For the way up,’ said Randalf.
The assistant nodded towards the far window. Joe frowned, puzzled. What were they meant to do there? Randalf, however, seemed unfazed.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, and set off. The others followed him again.
Across the shop floor they went, out of the window and up a rusting circular staircase bolted to the outside wall.
They were greeted at the top with a third sign: Drool’s Downmarket Depot.
‘Keep up, we’re nearly there,’ said Randalf bossily. He began climbing an old wooden ladder propped up against the wall. ‘And mind the eighth rung,’ he called down. ‘It wobbles a bi—’
‘Aaargh!’ Norbert cried out as the rung beneath his feet splintered and fell. He clung on tightly to the sides of the ladder, too frightened to continue.
‘On second thoughts, perhaps it would be better if you went back and waited for us there,’ said Randalf. ‘And look after Joe’s battle-hound,’ he added.
Joe watched the quivering ogre slowly lowering himself back to the balcony. Then, somewhat relieved that he wouldn’t have to carry Henry up the rickety ladder, he passed Norbert the lead.
‘Be good, now’ he told the dog. ‘All right?’
‘All right,’ Norbert replied meekly.
Taking extra care at the missing eighth rung, Joe scampered up the ladder. As he neared the top, he glanced down – and gasped.
Far, far below him, he could see the crowds of goblins streaming this way and that along the narrow alleys. Veronica fluttered down and hovered near his left shoulder.
‘Come on,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Mustn’t keep our know-it-all guide waiting.’
With his heart in his mouth, Joe completed the last few steps of the ladder. Randalf was there to meet him.
‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘And welcome to the finest outfitter’s in all of Muddle Earth.’
‘The cheapest, more like,’ muttered Veronica.
There was a faded banner above the door. ‘Grubley’s Discount Garment Store,’ Joe read out – unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.
Just then, a gangly goblin with a large nose and filthy frilly apron appeared from behind them. ‘Welcome,’ he said.
‘Thank you, errm . . . Stink,’ said Randalf, addressing the goblin by the name on his lapel.
‘Actually, it’s Smink,’ the goblin replied.
‘But—’
‘Mr Grubley’s handwriting,’ the assistant said wearily. ‘It’s almost as dreadful as his dress sense.’
‘Yes, where is old Grubbers?’ said Randalf, looking round.
Smink shrugged. ‘He said he had business to attend to.’ He winced as if smelling something unpleasant.
‘Did he now?’ said Randalf. He turned to the others, smiling. ‘I think everything is going to work out even better than I expected,’ he whispered.
Smink had turned away and opened the door from the balcony into the store. Ducking down, he went in. Randalf did the same.
‘Just as well Norbert did stay behind,’ Joe muttered to himself as he stooped low. ‘He’d never have got through this doorway.’
He straightened up to find himself in a room so messy, dark and grubby, it made the wizard’s houseboat seem like a showroom.
There were boxes and bundles, bursting with materials, piled up against the walls, next to stacked shelving, stuffed with every conceivable type of boot and shoe. Huge, circular racks – some, three tiers high – creaked under the weight of countless garments, all sorted into different categories. Jackets and jerkins. Capes, cloaks and coats. Leggings and breeches. Jodhpurs and knickerbockers. Bodices, bustles and bibs. While high overhead, still more – in differing colours, sizes and styles – were suspended from large ceiling hooks.
‘Oh, yes, sir, I can see the problem,’ said Smink, fingering Randalf’s cloak with obvious distaste. ‘This one’s totally threadbare. Shoddy workmanship, completely out of fashion and a hideous colour, if you don’t mind my saying so.’ He looked up. ‘Wizard’s cloaks are over here,’ he said. ‘Wa lk this way,’ and he bustled through the shop with tiny, pigeon-toed steps.
‘I couldn’t walk that way if you paid me,’ Veronica commented.
Smink turned. ‘I’m sorry, did sir say something?’ he asked.
‘Actually, it’s the lad we’re here for today,’ said Randalf. ‘He needs kitting out as a warrior-hero. The full works.’
‘I see,’ said Smink, looking Joe up and down and giving a sniff. ‘That would be battledress, sir, which is right this way.’
As they all trooped across the floor to the far end of the room, pushing their way through the hanging mounds of garments, Joe felt the whole building swaying gently backwards and forwards. A pair of metal gauntlets fell to the ground with an ominous clatter.
‘Well, they’ll do for a star
t,’ said Randalf. ‘Next, a cloak.’
‘The full works, you say, sir,’ said Smink. ‘Might I recommend the leather Cloak of Impermeability. Fashioned by magic, it will deflect the blow of the mightiest sword.’
‘Excellent,’ said Randalf. ‘Try it on, Joe.’ Joe did so and inspected himself in a standing-mirror at the back of the shop. Randalf turned to Smink. ‘And headgear?’
‘We have everything,’ said Smink with a wide sweep of his arm. ‘Helmets – horned, winged, spiked or plumed; bonnets – war, jousting and . . . Ah, yes! A skull-faced shriek cap with matching ear pompoms – a bit of a speciality item, that one, sir.’
‘I was thinking more of a standard sort of helmet,’ said Randalf.
‘Of course, of course,’ said Smink rubbing his hands together. ‘Silly of me. What about this Helmet of Heroism. Very popular, sir. Very hard-wearing feathers.’
He removed a heavy bronze helmet with five purple plumes, and placed it on Joe’s head. It fitted him like a glove.
‘Sir will notice the tiny speakers concealed in the ear-rim. They play invigorating marching music as the warrior-hero strides boldly into battle.’
‘Just the job,’ said Randalf eagerly.
‘And there are other matching accessories,’ said Smink. ‘The Shield of Chivalry, the Breastplate of . . . of . . . of Bravery and Perseverance, the Gaiters of Gallantry – to go with the gauntlets you have already so wisely chosen. And last, but not least, the Sword of Superiority,’ he announced as he handed the final item to Joe.
‘The Sword of Superiority,’ said Randalf, sounding impressed. ‘I’ll take it. I’ll take the whole lot,’ he said.
‘An excellent choice, if I might say so,’ said Smink.
Joe looked at himself in the long mirror, and raised the sword high in the air. It looked quite convincing. He grinned. ‘Not bad,’ he thought. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘Sir looks fabulous, if I might be so bold,’ said Smink. ‘And not only that. These items all come with the Grubley Heroic Quest Success Guarantee – or your money back.’ He returned his attention to Randalf and smiled an oily smile. ‘Which brings us to the delicate matter of payment.’
Ah, yes,’ said Randalf. ‘Payment.’ He smiled back confidently. ‘Old Grubbers knows how good my credit is,’ he said. ‘He told me to stick it all on the slate.’
‘He most certainly did not,’ came a gruff voice behind him. ‘Never ask for credit,’ cause a refusal sometimes offends,’ it continued, getting louder with every word. ‘So what cheeky so-’n’-so is pretending I did?’
A stocky, bandy-legged individual with hairy ears and one thick, dark eyebrow, burst out of a rack of petticoats and pantaloons. ‘You!’ he said, fixing Randalf with a penetrating glare. ‘I might have known!’
‘Grubbers!’ Randalf exclaimed, and went to shake hands.
‘It’s Mister Grubley to you, Randy,’ he said, striding past the wizard’s outstretched hand and tapping Joe on the shoulder. ‘You can get that lot off for a start.’
Reluctantly, Joe removed the armour. Grubley turned to Randalf. ‘Let me see. You still owe me for the last one. Quentin the Golden, wasn’t it? One sparkly cloak, a pair of patent-leather bootees and the golden swan helmet with pink fur lining. It’s cash or nothing from now on! Let’s see what you’ve got.’
Hiding his irritation, Randalf reached into his cape pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. He opened the top and poured a collection of coins into his palm. ‘Eight muckles, five groats and a silver pipsqueak,’ he said.
Grubley seized the tiny silver coin and bit into it. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Seems like we can do business after all.’ ‘The bargain-basement’s upstairs,’ he said, pointing to a rope ladder which led up to a hole in the ceiling.
Perched precariously on the roof of the discount store, the so-called basement was like a huge box on stilts. It was cold and draughty, and swayed alarmingly as the wind howled round its flimsy walls. Like the store they had just left, however, it was crammed full of items of clothing.
‘That’s the trouble with you wizards,’ Grubley was saying. ‘You come in here demanding my best stuff for your so-called warrior-heroes and then they go out and ruin it all by getting squashed by an ogre. I mean, this is quality merchandise.’
Veronica snorted dismissively.
‘What does he mean, “squashed”?’ said Joe nervously.
‘Goblins will have their little jokes,’ whispered Randalf.
‘Here.’ Grubley pulled out a cloak made of sacking and decorated with a fake-fur trim, and handed it to Joe.
‘Love the fur,’ said Veronica sarcastically. ‘It’s really fetching.’
‘And is it protected perhaps by the power of impermeability?’ asked Randalf. ‘Or the hex of deflection?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Grubley. ‘Though I daresay it would make a wound sting a bit less. Probably.’
‘We’ll take it,’ said Randalf.
Other items followed. The Woolly Gloves of Determination. The Cardigan of Optimism. The Wellies of Power. Joe tried them all on. It was when they came to the helmet that he finally spoke up.
‘I’m not wearing that,’ he said.
‘Not wear the War-bonnet of . . . umm . . . Sarcasm?’ said Randalf. He took Joe’s arm. ‘Notice how the helmet’s round shape has been made to deflect blows from cudgels, truncheons, swords – and how here, at the front, an extra safety-feature has been attached. What’s more, not only will the War-bonnet of Sarcasm protect your head, but it will also give the wearer the heroic ability to make rude comments about their opponents’ dress sense and physical appearance.’ Randalf took the helmet and placed it on Joe’s head. ‘Both in its workmanship and design,’ he announced, ‘it’s a triumph!’
‘It’s a saucepan,’ said Joe flatly.
‘How astute you are,’ Randalf said brightly. ‘Indeed the helmet can also double as a cooking utensil – for those long expeditions, far away from home . . .’
‘But . . .’ Joe protested.
‘Trust me, Joe,’ Randalf interrupted. ‘I know you are valiant and brave, but I could not in all conscience allow any warrior-hero to set forth on a quest without an enchanted helmet of such unique power.’ He turned to Grubley. ‘We’ll take it,’ he said. ‘We’ll take the lot.’
Grubley nodded, and began totting up the cost of the armour under his breath.
Randalf glanced through the window at the sun. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to get our skates on.’
‘Skates?’ said Veronica. ‘Don’t you think the lad looks ridiculous enough as it is?’
‘Shut up, Veronica,’ said Randalf. He turned to Grubley. ‘So, what do I owe you?’ he said.
Grubley looked up. ‘Eight muckles, five groats and a silver pipsqueak, exactly,’ he said.
Reunited at the bottom of the rickety ladder once more, Randalf, Veronica, Norbert, Henry and Joe made their way back down through the succession of clothiers and outfitters to the bottom of the tall, creaking building.
On every new level he came to, Joe found himself glancing into the mirrors – and each time he groaned. Dressed in the sacking cloak, the woolly gloves, the saucepan and armed with a dustbin-lid and a toasting fork, he looked a complete idiot.
As they emerged from the front entrance on to the street, several goblins stopped, turned, pointed and sniggered. Joe tugged at Randalf’s sleeve.
‘You’ve turned me into a laughing-stock!’ he whispered in embarrassment.
‘You can say that again,’ Veronica laughed.
‘Nonsense,’ said Randalf. ‘You look magnificent, Joe. Doesn’t he, Norbert?’
Norbert nodded. ‘I love the fur trim’ he said. And those silver buckles on his wellies are so sparkly!’
‘He looks even worse than Quentin the Cake-Decorator’ said Veronica. ‘And that’s something I never thought I’d find myself saying. I mean, a toasting fork!’
Randalf looked up angrily. ‘Toasting fork?’ he
exclaimed. ‘Why you foolish bird. The Trident of Trickery is one of the finest weapons a warrior-hero could possess.’
‘Oh, yeah!’ said Veronica.
‘It is!’ Randalf insisted. ‘How else could he launch a three-pronged attack on his enemy, eh? You tell me that.’
Veronica rolled her eyes.
‘Trust me, Joe’ said Randalf. ‘You are the best warrior-hero I have ever summoned to Muddle Earth.’
‘Which isn’t saying much,’ Veronica commented.
Norbert wiped a tear from his eye as he remembered the other warrior-hero Randalf had summoned.
‘I have absolute confidence in you.’ Randalf continued. ‘And so will the Horned Baron, I’m sure.’
‘But what does a warrior-hero actually have to do in Muddle Earth?’ Joe asked.
For once, not even Veronica had an answer.
By the time they arrived back at the gates of Goblintown, it was already early evening. The cross-eyed guard stood up from his stool.
‘Did you find the . . .’ He noticed Joe and snorted with amusement. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I see you did.’
Back on board the ogre after a fitful night’s sleep beneath the stars, Randalf instructed Norbert which way to go to get to the Horned Baron’s castle. Turning right out of Goblintown, they followed a road which crossed a broad featureless plain towards the foothills of a vast mountain range. As they did so, the conversation turned to Joe’s name.
‘I mean, Joe isn’t a bad name,’ Randalf was saying doubtfully, ‘but perhaps we should go for something a little more forceful, noble, impressive. In short, a more warrior-like name.’
‘How about Joe the Terrible Toaster?’ Veronica proposed. ‘Or Josephine the Awfully Annoyed? Or what about Jo-Jo the Extremely Sarcastic . . . ?’
‘Shut up, Veronica!’ Randalf shouted. He turned to Joe. ‘What about Joe the Barbarian? Short and to the point – and with just a hint of mystery. After all, with your Helmet of Sarcasm, Shield of Slight Protection and Trident of Trickery, you’re a force to be reckoned with and no mistake. There isn’t a dragon, ogre or whifflepook that wouldn’t think very seriously before picking a fight.’
Muddle Earth Page 4
