At that moment, Joe spotted what Henry had smelled. It was a small, pink warthog-like creature with floppy ears and a curly tail, standing motionless on top of a tussock surrounded by lily-pads and bubbling mud. It was staring, unblinkingly, at the dog.
‘HENRY!’ Joe yelled.
With a loud yelp of excitement, Henry suddenly bounded forwards and took a flying leap at the tussock. ‘Oh, no! He thinks it’s a squirrel,’ shouted Joe, jumping off Norbert’s shoulder and chasing after him.
‘Come back!’ shouted Randalf. ‘Never chase a pink stinky hog!’
‘Why not?’ asked Norbert.
‘In case you catch it, stupid!’ said Veronica.
‘Henry!’ shouted Joe as, leaping from tussock to tussock, he tried to catch up. The more puffed out he became, the more difficult it was to keep his balance. ‘Henry, come . . . Aaargh!’
SPLASH!
Joe fell face down in the purple mud. Ahead, Henry caught up with the pink stinky hog and lunged for its tail. With a high-pitched squeal, the hog raised its rump and broke wind with astonishing force. The sound – like a small cannon exploding – echoed round the Perfumed Bog. And the smell . . . !
‘Someone’s caught a pink stinky hog,’ said Randalf.
In the Perfumed Bog, Joe picked himself up. The smell was eye-wateringly horrendous. Henry seemed to be in shock. The pink stinky hog stood on its little tussock triumphantly, tail in the air. From behind it, a small hill rose up from the purple mud.
It had two piggy pink eyes that regarded Henry and Joe unblinkingly. It had a piggy pink snout that wrinkled as it sniffed the air and let out deep piggy snorts of anger. Its two huge tusks glinted in the pink light of the Perfumed Bog.
‘Henry,’ said Joe softly. ‘Time to go, Henry’
With a whimper, Henry backed away.
The huge pink stinky hog climbed on to the tussock beside the pink stinky hog piglet, slowly turned its back on Joe and Henry and raised its great rump high in the air.
‘Henry!’ shouted Joe. ‘Run for it!’
A sound like a huge cannon exploding echoed round the Perfumed Bog. And the smell. . . !
‘Someone’s caught a pink stinky hog’s mother,’ said Randalf.
Just then, Henry shot out of the swirling pink mist and on to the path. Moments later, Joe scrambled after him.
‘All aboard,’ shouted Norbert, picking them both up.
‘To the Ogrehills, Norbert!’ shouted Randalf. ‘And remember, until we get there, breathe through your mouths!’
The sun was setting as they approached the Ogrehills. Randalf’s snores and the gentle thud of Norbert’s footfalls were the only sounds in the still air – at least they were until they were joined by another sound, equally tuneless.
‘La, la, la . . .’
The sound floated across the evening sky. Joe looked up, and there, marching along the road towards them from Elfwood was a stooped, shadowy figure in a cloak and raised hood. Under his arm was a roll of what looked like cloth or carpet.
The tuneless song became louder.
‘La, la, la, la-la.’
Joe shivered, and the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end.
As the lone figure came closer he lowered his hood, and Joe was surprised to see a familiar face.
‘Grubbers!’ Randalf exclaimed. ‘How good to see you again.’
Grubley looked up. ‘Randy,’ he said. ‘Out and about, eh? And I see you’ve got your warrior-hero with you, all kitted out for battle.’
‘La, la, la . . .’
‘You bet,’ said Randalf. ‘We’re on important business for the Horned Baron, aren’t we Joe?’
But Joe did not reply. He was listening to the singing.
‘La, la, la . . .’
Joe frowned. The noise seemed to be coming from the roll of material under Grubley’s arm.
‘Yes, we’re heading for the Ogrehills,’ Randalf was saying.
‘Rather you than me,’ said Grubley, pulling a face.
‘Oh, I have absolute faith that your warrior outfit will do its job,’ said Randalf.
‘You get what you pay for,’ said Grubley.
‘Precisely,’ said Randalf. ‘But I am being rude. Norbert,’ he said, ‘help me down.’
‘Oh, don’t get down on my account,’ said Grubley. ‘I’m already running late as it is.’
‘La, la, la. La, la, la.’ The tuneless song was louder than ever. Had no one else noticed? Joe wondered.
‘Running late?’ said Randalf, tutting sympathetically. ‘But what are you doing so far from Goblintown in the first place?’
‘La, la, la.’
‘I’m on important business for the Horned Baron, too,’ said Grubley, raising the frayed, faded and somewhat grubby roll of musical cloth. ‘Oh, I’ve been given the runaround, I can tell you,’ he said crossly. ‘Been looking all over, I have.’ He sighed. ‘It’s all down to that Horned Baron’s wife . . .’
‘Ingrid?’ said Randalf.
‘The Horned Baron only had one wife the last time I looked,’ said Grubley. ‘She wants a set of singing curtains. Never heard of them myself, but she swears blind she saw them in my catalogue. And what Ingrid wants, Ingrid gets!’
Randalf nodded knowingly.
‘So, I’ve been traipsing around,’ he said. ‘Here, there and everywhere. Luckily, I’ve got my contacts,’ he added, and tapped his nose. ‘I managed to lay my hands on this. Enchanted material. Ve ry rare, I can tell you. I’m heading back to Goblintown to have it made into singing curtains.’
‘La, la, la . . .’
‘Call that singing?’ said Veronica. ‘More like mournful mooing . . .’
‘Shut up, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘I’m sure Ingrid will love them.’
‘I hope so,’ muttered Grubley, as he turned and hurried off towards Goblintown. ‘I do hope so.’
The landscape grew stony and barren as they neared the Ogrehills. Scrubby bushes gave way to tufts of grass, prickleweeds and fat-leafed succulents which Norbert seemed to find irresistible.
‘Yum, there’s another one,’ he said, and abruptly stooped down, broke off a leaf and pushed it into his mouth. Cries of alarm and distress came from his shoulders as Randalf clung on desperately, Veronica flapped about and Joe tried his best to keep Henry from slipping off his lap. ‘Be-lish-ush!’ he muttered slurpily.
‘Norbert, will you stop doing that!’ said Randalf sharply. ‘You nearly sent us all flying that time!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Norbert. ‘It’s just, I haven’t had squish-weeds for ages. I’d forgotten how much I like them.’
‘Yes, well, I think you’ve had enough now,’ said Randalf. ‘I know you. You see something you like and you don’t know when to stop. Don’t make a pink stinky hog of yourself.’
‘No, sir,’ said Norbert. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Now get a move on, Norbert,’ said Randalf. ‘There’s a good fellow.’
On they went. The rolling Ogrehills stretched off into the distance.
‘That ogre must be around here somewhere. Keep your eyes peeled for squeezed sheep,’ said Randalf.
Joe scanned the area all around him. ‘What on earth does a squeezed sheep look like, anyway?’ Joe wondered out loud.
‘Exactly as you’d imagine,’ said Veronica.
‘Hmmph,’ said Joe. ‘Well I can’t see any sheep, squeezed or otherwise. In fact, I can’t see much of anything,’ he added. ‘Apart from rocks.’
‘Keep looking,’ Randalf said. ‘You too, Veronica.’
‘If you insist,’ said Veronica. ‘It’s so horrible here. Dry, dusty, desolate. Why would anyone want to live in a place like this?’
‘This is where I lived,’ said Norbert, with a smile. ‘I think it’s kind of homely.’
‘You’re right, Norbert,’ said Veronica. ‘If your idea of home is a rock for a pillow and a sandpit for a bed.’
‘A sandpit bed?’ said Norbert. Pure luxury. I and my twenty brothers had to sleep on
pebbles. And we’d have given anything for a rock pillow. Prickleweed, that’s what we had. And if we wanted to go to the loo in the middle of the night, we had to—’
‘Yes, yes, Norbert,’ said Randalf. ‘That’ll do. Just keep looking for a sheep.’
‘There’s one!’ Joe shouted excitedly, and pointed ahead. ‘Over there! Look!’
‘Are you sure it’s not a rock?’ said Randalf.
‘It’s moving,’ said Joe.
‘So it is,’ said Randalf. ‘Proceed, Norbert.’
As they approached, it was clear that it was indeed a sheep, and not a happy one at that. It was wandering around in circles, looking dazed and bewildered. Its wool was bunched up around its shoulders and hindquarters, and squeezed flat in the middle. It looked like a walking, woolly dumb-bell. When it noticed the ogre stomping resolutely towards it, it let out an odd squeaky bleat, turned on its heels and disappeared over the ridge in a cloud of dust.
‘That sheep has definitely been squeezed!’ said Randalf. ‘After it!’
Norbert tried his best, but the terrified sheep had given them the slip. It wasn’t long, however, before Veronica spotted two more.
‘Over there!’ she said, flapping her wing at the pair of cowering, shivering sheep with wild eyes and dumb-bell wool. ‘Freshly squeezed sheep!’
‘Good work, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘And if we follow their trail, it’ll lead straight to the culprit – none other than Engelbert the Enormous, I’ll be bound!’
Joe swallowed hard. ‘I’m feeling a bit nervous,’ he admitted quietly.
‘Joe, Joe, Joe,’ said Randalf, as if talking to a very young child. ‘We aren’t nervous, are we? Of course we remember we’ve got our Trident of Trickery. Ooh, scary trident! We’ve got our Helmet of Sarcasm. Nasty, nasty helmet! All we’ve got to do is show this Engelbert character who’s boss. Who’s the boss, Joe? Who’s the boss?’
‘I’m the boss,’ said Joe uncertainly. ‘I’m the boss.’
Norbert trudged on, following the sheep’s trail. Up and down the undulating rockscape, he went; deeper and deeper into the Ogrehills. Occasionally, they passed the mouths of caves, from which came the sleepy sounds of snoozing ogres.
‘Mummy, mummy,’ growled some.
‘My snuggly-wuggly,’ murmured others in deep, gruff voices.
And the air was filled with the slurps of thumbs being sucked and mighty rumbling snores.
‘D . . . do you think we’re getting close?’ Joe asked in a trembling voice.
Randalf nodded. ‘Judging by that unfortunate mess over there,’ he said. ‘That is where our sheep were squeezed. Quiet, everyone!’
The wind abruptly dropped and the air became oddly still. Norbert put Randalf and Joe down, and Joe clipped Henry on the lead. Veronica sat on Randalf’s head, feathers ruffled. They all listened intently.
‘It’s quiet,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Too quiet. I don’t like it.’
‘Shut up, Veronica,’ whispered Randalf, who was thinking exactly the same thing.
‘What exactly are we listening for?’ whispered Joe.
Just then, an anguished bleat echoed loudly round the hills, and a sheep – with bulging eyes and squeezed wool – came hurtling over the ridge and dashed away across the stony ground.
‘What the . . . ?’ Randalf began.
‘NO!’ boomed a loud and angry voice. ‘IT’S NOT THE SAME! IT’S NOT THE SAME AT ALL!’
Joe stared in horror in the direction the voice had come from, and as he stared, he heard banging and crashing and a series of loud thuds. A thick cloud of dust rose up.
‘OH, WHERE IS IT?’ the great voice demanded. ‘WHERE, OH, WHERE HAS IT GONE?’
‘D . . . do you think th . . . that’s Engelbert?’ whispered Joe.
‘Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ Randalf whispered back.
‘He sounds enormous.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t be that enormous,’ said Randalf reassuringly. ‘Come on, now, Joe the Barbarian. Raise high your Trident of Trickery, adjust your Helmet of Sarcasm and let your Wellies of Power lead you to victory.’
‘SOMEONE’S DEFINITELY STOLEN IT!’ the voice raged. ‘AND WHEN I FIND OUT WHO IT IS, I’LL . . . I’LL . . .’
‘The time has come, Joe the Barbarian,’ said Randalf, pushing Joe forwards. ‘Go forth and confront him. You can do it!’
With his trident in one hand and his dog-lead in the other, Joe walked ahead on rubbery legs. Henry cowered by his side.
All at once a truly massive ogre head – more than twice the size of Norbert’s – appeared above a ridge. Joe froze. The head was swiftly followed by colossal shoulders, a barrel chest, a bulging gut, legs like tree trunks and feet like boats, until an entire monstrous ogre stood before him. Joe couldn’t move.
The ogre roared furiously and advanced, picking up great boulders and looking underneath them, before tossing them aside.
‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ he bellowed, his face purple and contorted with rage, his bloodshot eyes bulging in their sockets. ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ The light glinted on the drool that dripped from his gnashing tusks. Then his three eyes fell on Joe. The ogre paused for what seemed to the reluctant warrior-hero an eternity.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ Randalf gasped. ‘He does seem rather upset doesn’t he?’
‘I do hope Joe will be all right,’ said Norbert anxiously.
Joe raised his trident bravely. ‘It’s all a matter of psychology,’ he reminded himself. He met the ogre’s fearsome gaze. ‘I . . . I’m a warrior-hero, from afar,’ he said. ‘Joe the Barbarian! And . . . um . . . unless you stop all this nonsense right now I’ll have to smack your bottom!’
The ogre blinked.
Joe turned to the others. ‘Shall I use the Helmet of Sarcasm?’ he hissed. He adjusted his helmet. ‘And by the way, I’m sure no one has ever told you that your face looks just like the rear end of a pink stinky hog . . .’
The ogre threw back his head and the Ogrehills trembled with his mighty roar.
‘What do we do now?’ squeaked Joe.
‘There’s only one thing we can do!’ said Randalf. ‘RUN!’
With their hearts in their mouths and dust in their hair, they made a desperate dash for it. Their panicked cries broke the silence. Randalf ran blindly on till he could run no more. Stopping abruptly, he bent double and gulped for air.
‘That was close,’ said Veronica, landing daintily on the wizard’s rump.
‘You can say that again,’ said Norbert, stomping up behind them.
‘That was clo—’
‘Shut up, Veronica!’ Randalf panted impatiently. He straightened up and shook his head. ‘Most unusual,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known an ogre that angry before. He should have been terrified of our warrior-hero here . . .’
‘Where?’ said Veronica.
‘Here,’ said Randalf. ‘Joe . . . Oh, no. Where is he?’
‘Joe?’ cried Norbert. ‘Joe, where are you? Joe! Joe!’
‘For crying out loud, Randalf!’ said Veronica irritably. ‘First sign of trouble and you turn tail and leave him to it.’
‘But he was right behind me,’ said Randalf, looking all around him. ‘And I distinctly gave the order to run. It’s not my fault he didn’t hear me. That Helmet of Sarcasm must have slipped down over his ears . . .’
‘He’s gone!’ Norbert wailed. ‘And so is Henry!’
‘Typical!’ said Veronica. ‘It’s Quentin all over again.’
‘We’ve got to go back for them,’ Norbert sobbed tearfully.
‘Now, let’s not be hasty,’ said Randalf nervously. ‘You saw the mood that ogre was in. Perhaps we should allow the dust to settle a bit first, then, in a week or so, we can . . .’
‘You brought the lad here to the Ogrehills,’ interrupted Veronica accusingly. ‘You can’t abandon him now. You’d never be able to live with yourself.’
Randalf examined his fingernails closely. ‘Of course, I feel bad. Don’t get me wrong, Veronic
a. We all do! But be realistic . . .’
‘Poor Joe! Poor Henry!’ Norbert wailed. ‘And poor, dear Quentin. Boo-hoo!’
‘“Trust me, I’m a wizard”, that’s what you said,’ Veronica continued. ‘And he did trust you. Joe the Barbarian trusted you. And now, how are you repaying that trust? Eh? By abandoning him.’ She clacked her beak reproachfully. ‘You’re a disgrace! If we don’t go back right now, then I’m leaving you!’
‘Please sir, please,’ said Norbert, sobbing even louder. ‘If we could just go and check. Maybe there’s a chance . . .’
Randalf sighed. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘You win! I’m just too soft-hearted, that’s my trouble! A fool to myself sometimes. Come, let’s get this over with. Follow me.’ He turned and gathered up his robes. ‘But keep close.’
Huddled together for safety, Randalf and Norbert retraced their footsteps, creeping back silently, with Veronica keeping a watchful look out from the top of Randalf’s head.
‘I think we’re getting close,’ she announced after a while and flapped her wing up ahead. ‘Look at those giant footprints, and how the dust has all been stirred up.’
Randalf nodded. Norbert began whimpering.
‘Sssssh!’ hissed Randalf, placing a finger to his lips. ‘We don’t want to . . .’
‘OH, NO!’ wailed Norbert, and pointed at a bent piece of three-pronged metal. ‘LOOK!’
It was the Trident of Trickery, twisted out of shape and lying discarded in the dust. Randalf picked it up and shuddered.
‘And there!’ Veronica cried. She flew down and landed on an abandoned Welly of Power.
Norbert howled with grief. ‘Oh, Joe,’ he blubbed. He picked up the lone rubber boot and hugged it desperately. ‘It must have come off,’ he sobbed, ‘when he . . . when he . . . he . . .’ He straightened up and scanned the horizon for any sign of his latest warrior-hero friend. Apart from one set of massive footprints in the dust which marched up and over the ridge, there was nothing. ‘JOE!’ he cried. ‘JOE!’
Muddle Earth Page 7
