Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

  The desperate sound echoed round the barren hills and faded away unanswered.

  ‘JOE!T’

  Veronica flapped up and landed on his shoulder. ‘I don’t think Joe can hear you,’ she said softly.

  ‘You never know,’ said Norbert, his pleading voice willing it to be true. ‘If there’s one thing my great-uncle Larry the Unlucky taught me it was that you should never give up hope. “Something will turn up.” That’s what he used to say, before the dragon ate him. “Something will turn up . . .”’

  ‘I’m afraid this has turned up,’ said Randalf gently. He held out a flattened disc of dull silver.

  ‘Wh . . . what’s that?’ Norbert trembled.

  Randalf showed him the bent black handle sticking out from one side. ‘The Helmet of Sarcasm,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Norbert gasped. ‘It can’t be . . . You don’t mean . . .’

  As you so rightly said,’ Veronica muttered bitterly to Randalf, ‘you get what you pay for.’ She tutted. ‘Skinflint!’

  ‘But it can’t be his helmet,’ said Norbert, fingering the flat piece of metal. ‘Please say it isn’t.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Randalf. He shook his head. ‘Completely flattened. Pulverized. Spifflicated. Flatter than a burst gas frog, you might even say . . .’

  ‘Stop it!’ Norbert howled, and clamped his hands over his ears. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’

  ‘There, there,’ said Randalf, and patted Norbert on the arm. ‘It’s all right, Norbert.’

  ‘But it’s not all right, sir!’ Norbert bawled. ‘It’s not all right at all. First Quentin. Now Joe!’ He pulled a grubby hankie from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. ‘I just can’t bear it!’

  Veronica rounded on Randalf. ‘You’re to blame for all this!’ she squawked. ‘I never thought Joe was up to it. Warrior-hero, indeed!’

  ‘But he was,’ Randalf protested. ‘I summoned him myself . . .’

  ‘You summoned Quentin!’ said Veronica. ‘And look at him!’

  ‘Oh-woh-woh!’ wailed Norbert.

  ‘Norbert, calm yourself,’ said Randalf. ‘We can summon more warrior-heroes. Even better ones . . .’

  ‘OH-OH-WOH!’

  ‘Third time lucky, eh?’ said Veronica. ‘My goodness, Randalf, you can be unfeeling at times. Why don’t you bring the twisted toasting fork and squashed saucepan with you?’ she suggested scornfully. ‘Maybe you can get a refund!’

  ‘Now, there’s an idea,’ said Randalf thoughtfully.

  ‘OH-WOH-WOH!’

  ‘A bad idea,’ Randalf added hastily. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t dream of . . .’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Veronica. ‘Grubley would never agree to it.’

  ‘Veronica!’ said Randalf sharply. ‘I’m surprised at you. Don’t take any notice of her, Norbert.’

  ‘So, what are we going to do, sir?’ Norbert asked tearfully.

  ‘Well, we can’t stay here,’ said Randalf. ‘And I don’t fancy going back to the Horned Baron. If we tell him that the rogue ogre is still at large – and that we’ve lost our warrior-hero into the bargain,’ he continued as Norbert sniffled into his hanky, ‘he won’t be a happy Horned Baron.’

  ‘I’m not happy,’ said the Horned Baron, pacing up and down the great reception hall. ‘I’m not happy at all!’ He was working himself up into a right state.

  For a start, Ingrid had been on at him all day about her precious singing curtains – and he hadn’t heard a word from Grubley ever since he’d handed over the pouchful of silver pipsqueaks. Worse still, the castle had been plagued by a constant stream of goblins, elves and trolls all complaining that their crops had been flattened, their thatched-roofs torn off, their sheep squeezed – and what was he, as Horned Baron of Muddle Earth, going to do about it? That’s what they all wanted to know.

  ‘It’s all in hand,’ he’d kept telling them. ‘Even now, a famous wizard and a highly trained warrior-hero are on their way to deal with the rogue ogre.’ Yet, even to himself, the words hadn’t quite rung true.

  The Horned Baron grunted. ‘Randalf the Wise, indeed! I’ve worn wiser pairs of underpants!’

  He glanced at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes and strode over to the window.

  ‘All this intolerable waiting!’ he groaned as he stared out. ‘That’s the trouble with being so powerful and important. You spend half your life waiting for others to carry out your commands!’

  ‘WAL-TER!’

  Ingrid’s strident voice cut through the air like a rusty knife, sending the dust flying and setting the Horned Baron’s teeth on edge. He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. For a moment there, he’d quite forgotten about his wife. This was never a sensible thing to do.

  ‘WALTER!’ she screeched. The crystal chandelier tinkled softly. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Nine . . . ten.’ The Horned Baron opened his eyes. ‘Loud and clear, my little snuggle-muffin,’ he called back.

  ‘Don’t you “snuggle-muffin” me,’ Ingrid shouted. ‘Where are my singing curtains? That’s what I want to know. Where are they, Walter?’

  ‘Everything’s in hand,’ the Horned Baron replied. ‘I’m expecting them at any moment.’

  ‘That’s what you said an hour ago,’ Ingrid countered. ‘But every time there’s a knock on the door, it’s someone else complaining about their wretched sheep!’

  ‘Any moment now,’ the Horned Baron assured her.

  ‘You’d better not be lying to me, Walter,’ said Ingrid, her voice becoming more threatening as it grew quieter. ‘You remember what happened last time I caught you lying, don’t you?’

  ‘All too well,’ the Horned Baron called back, and smoothed his straggly moustache tenderly. The green dye had almost grown out.

  ‘Next time, I’ll use the whole bottle!’ she shouted.

  The Horned Baron winced and looked out miserably at the empty road. ‘Where are you, Grubley?’ he muttered. ‘Don’t let me down . . .’

  ‘And a wire brush!’ Ingrid added.

  The Horned Baron’s eyes grew steely. ‘If you do let me down, Grubley, there’ll be a place waiting for you beside Randalf down in the dungeons.’

  ‘Walter!’

  ‘The smallest dungeon with no window.’

  ‘Wa lter!’

  ‘And twenty hand-picked stinky hogs for company . . .’

  ‘There’s someone at the door, Walter!’ Ingrid shrieked. ‘Do I have to do everything myself?’

  ‘And regular visits from the Baroness,’ muttered the Horned Baron, trotting towards the door. ‘I’m on my way, my sweet!’

  ‘Well done!’ shouted Ingrid sarcastically. ‘And for your sake, Walter, I hope it’s those singing curtains turned up at last. I’m sick to death of hearing about squeezed sheep. I want to be lulled, Walter. I want to be soothed . . .’

  ‘And so you shall, my honeyed sugarplum,’ the Horned Baron called back.

  He opened the door. A short, slight individual with a striped tunic and a feather in his cap stood on the top step. ‘Greetings-elf!’ he announced. ‘I bring greetings from Mr Grubley of Goblintown.’

  ‘Is there a package to go with the greetings?’ the Horned Baron asked hopefully.

  ‘No, just a message,’ said the elf, lowering his head and shaking it regretfully.

  The Horned Baron rolled his eyes. ‘So, what is the message?’ he asked.

  The elf took a deep breath and cleared his throat. ‘Having travelled to the four corners of Muddle Earth, Grubley of Goblintown has procured a length of enchanted material which, even now, is being transformed into singing curtains, the like of which have never before been seen or heard.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ the Horned Baron muttered.

  ‘However . . .’ the elf continued.

  The Horned Baron raised his hand. ‘However?’ he said. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘I could skip to the “best wishes” if you like,’ said the elf.

&nbs
p; ‘Is there nothing about when the curtains will be ready?’ asked the Horned Baron.

  ‘That’s part of the “however”,’ said the elf.

  The Horned Baron tutted. Above his head, he could hear Ingrid stomping backwards and forwards with growing impatience. ‘All right, then,’ he sighed. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘However,’ the elf resumed, ‘due to unforeseen cir- cumstances, the curtains are taking somewhat longer to make than expected. They will be delivered to you tomorrow teatime at the very latest, probably . . .’

  ‘Tomorrow teatime!’ gasped the Horned Baron. ‘Probably!’

  ‘Grubley’s Discount Store would like to take this opportunity to apologize for any inconvenience . . .’

  The Horned Baron snorted. ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to explain all this to her upstairs.’ He shook his head. ‘Is that it, then?’ he asked the greetings-elf.

  The elf nodded. ‘Just about,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘That’ll be three brass muckles.’

  ‘What?’ said the Horned Baron. ‘You mean Grubley sent a greetings-elf without paying for the stamp?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the elf. ‘I forgot. There’s a PS. Sorry about the stamp. It can come off my final bill when we settle up.’

  ‘Final bill!’ the Horned Baron shouted. ‘Settle up! I’ll settle up all right. One dungeon, twenty pink stinky hogs and a no-good wizard should just about do it!’

  ‘Is that the message you wish to send back?’ asked the greetings-elf.

  ‘Yes, I .. .’ The Horned Baron frowned and stroked his chin. ‘That is, no,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ the Horned Baron confirmed. ‘Simply thank Grubley for his message and tell him I look forward to his arrival . . .’

  ‘WALTER!’

  ‘His speedy arrival,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘OK,’ said the greetings-elf, ‘though personally, I liked the stinky hogs message better myself.’ He stuck out his open palm a second time.

  The Horned Baron sighed and dropped three muckles into the outstretched hand. The greetings-elf pulled a stamp from a pocket, licked it and stuck it on to his forehead. Then he turned and skipped off down the stairs and away. For a fleeting instant, the Horned Baron imagined that he was a greetings-elf, setting off without a care in the world.

  ‘WAL-TER!!’

  The carefree daydream popped. He closed the door. ‘Yes, my sweetness,’ he called up the stairs.

  ‘Was that my curtains?’ she shouted back.

  ‘Not as such,’ the Horned Baron confessed.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Ingrid.

  ‘It was news of your curtains, my sweet,’ he explained. ‘There was been a slight hitch . . .’

  ‘Hitch, Walter?’ said Ingrid. ‘I don’t like the word hitch. You know that. I don’t like it at all.’

  ‘I know, my turtle dove,’ said the Horned Baron soothingly. ‘There have been unforeseen circumstances. You know how it is! Grubley’s promised me they’ll be here tomorrow,’ he added.

  ‘Tomorrow!’ screeched Ingrid. ‘But what am I supposed to do tonight? I shan’t be able to sleep a wink, I just know I shan’t. And you know what I can be like when I’m over-tired.’

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ said the Horned Baron wearily.

  ‘Grumpy, Walter. I shall be very grumpy. You won’t recognize me!’

  ‘Oh, I think I might,’ he muttered beneath his breath. ‘Believe me, Ingrid,’ he called upstairs, ‘you just can’t rush these things. I mean, singing curtains, Ingrid, fashioned from only the finest enchanted cloth, tasselled and sequinned, and hand-stitched by a master sewing-elf. It’ll be well worth the wait when they do arrive, you have my word . . .’

  ‘If they arrive,’ Ingrid shouted, and the entire castle shook as she slammed the door of her bedchamber hard shut. The sound of loud thuds and muffled sobs echoed above as Ingrid threw herself around the room.

  The Horned Baron shook his head. ‘This is all your fault, Grubley,’ he said. ‘I mean, why put a blasted advertisement for blasted singing curtains in that blasted catalogue of yours if you don’t actually have any blasted singing curtains in stock and have to go chasing round Muddle Earth searching for some? Blasted funny way to run a business!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve upset my beloved Ingrid, that’s what you’ve done – and when Ingrid’s upset, I’m upset! And when I’m upset . . .’

  ‘The Horned Baron’s going to be so pleased with me,’ said Grubley.

  ‘So you already said,’ the goblin muttered as he rethreaded his sewing-elf. ‘Twice.’

  ‘But he is!’ said Grubley. ‘I can’t wait to see his face . . .’

  ‘La, la, la,’ sang the material.

  The goblin picked up a large, shiny pair of scissors, laid the material out across the workbench and began to cut it in half.

  ‘La, la . . . Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!’

  ‘Will you stop doing that!’ shouted the goblin, and slammed the scissors down. He turned to Grubley. ‘You see the trouble I’m having! Every time I try and cut the cloth in two, it makes a racket. And it’s very off-putting,’ he said. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want curtains? I could do you a very nice roller blind.’

  Grubley shook his head. ‘Apparently, the catalogue specified singing curtains,’ he said, ‘and the Horned Baroness has set her heart on them.’

  The goblin picked up the scissors again. ‘I don’t know why you advertised something you don’t keep in stock in the first place,’ he grumbled.

  ‘That’s the strangest thing,’ said Grubley. ‘I don’t remember putting them in the catalogue.’

  ‘Well, someone must have,’ said the goblin.

  ‘I know,’ said Grubley, frowning. ‘I just don’t understand it.’ He looked up. ‘Still, I’ve got the cloth now. That’s the most important thing. And as soon as you’ve made it up as curtains, I’ll get them over to the Horned Baron’s castle. So if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ said the goblin. ‘You don’t have to work with material that won’t keep quiet.’ He fingered the frayed cloth, which gave a high-pitched squeak. ‘Giving me the heebie-jeebies, it is.’

  ‘Here,’ said Grubley, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of large furry earmuffs. ‘Try these.’

  The goblin stared at them. ‘What am I supposed to do with them?’ he said.

  ‘They’re earmuffs, stupid,’ said Grubley irritably. ‘You put them over your ears.’

  The goblin did as he was told, flattened out the material and raised his thumbs. He hadn’t heard a thing.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Grubley. ‘Now get on with the curtains.’

  The goblin looked at him blankly.

  ‘Get on with the curtains!’ shouted Grubley.

  The goblin frowned and mouthed the word, what?

  Irritated, Grubley lifted one of the earmuffs and leaned forwards. ‘GET ON WITH THE CURTAINS!’ he bellowed into the goblin’s ear.

  ‘All right, all right,’ the goblin said, pushing the earmuffs back into place. ‘I’m not deaf!’

  ‘Give me strength!’ Grubley muttered.

  The goblin sat down on the stool, picked up his scissors again and this time – despite the singing, wailing and frequent cries of ‘Ouch!’ – cut the cloth and set the sewing-elf off stitching at a furious pace.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Grubley, holding the curtains up at last. ‘Very homely. A genuine pair of singing curtains.’

  ‘La, la, la. La, la, la,’ sang the curtains, in a discordant duet.

  ‘Call that singing!’ said the goblin. ‘More like . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ said Grubley. ‘The Horned Baroness is tone deaf. She’ll love them, and that’s all that matters.’ He frowned. ‘Randalf the Wise,’ he said. ‘Wise, indeed! Heading for the Ogrehills, he was. Not very wise at all, if you ask me!’

  ‘We came, we saw, we ran away,’ said Veronic
a from the top of Randalf’s head as Norbert trudged back down the mountain road. ‘Joe the Barbarian, mighty warrior-hero and Henry the Hairy, faithful battle-hound – missing, presumed pulverized . . .’

  ‘Yes, all right, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘You’ve made your point.’

  ‘Engelbert the Enormous,’ she continued, ‘missing, presumed sheep squeezing . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf.

  Norbert wiped away a tear. ‘Have you decided where we’re going yet, sir?’ he asked.

  Randalf sighed and nodded. ‘Home,’ he said.

  ‘Home, sir?’ said Norbert.

  ‘Yes, Norbert,’ said Randalf. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Two of Muddle Earth’s three moons were high in the sky. They shone down brightly on a gathering of twenty or so ogres who were all sitting in front of their caves, around a huge, roaring fire. The air echoed with the sound of soft, satisfied slurping as the ogres sucked their thumbs.

  One ogre – the biggest of them all – was rubbing a dog slowly up and down his cheek, and smiling happily. The dog was wagging his tail and emitting a curious yodelling bark of utter contentment.

  One of the ogres removed his thumb from his mouth and turned to the boy next to him. ‘Old Engelbert’s just his old self again,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, you have calmed him down, Joe,’ said another.

  ‘He just needed a bit of understanding,’ said the first ogre.

  ‘It’s all any of us need,’ chipped in a third.

  ‘After all,’ said the first, ‘how would you like it if you’d lost your special snuggly-wuggly?’ He held up a tatty teddy with one eye, one ear, one arm and no legs. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if Trumpet ever went missing!’

  Joe nodded. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing or hearing. The other ogres held up their own snuggly-wugglies one after the other – a grubby fluffy bunny, a fuzzy blanket, a tattered scrap of towel . . .

  ‘Course, Engelbert was always particularly proud of his snuggly-wuggly,’ said the first ogre. ‘Bit niffy, it was. And threadbare. But Engelbert loved it. And do you know why?’