Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

  Just then, there was a loud crash behind them. Benson and the Horned Baron turned to see two goblins sprawling on the ground. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said one apologetically as he rubbed his head.

  ‘My fault entirely,’ said the other. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going’

  The two of them were surrounded by pencils, sticks and playing cards. The Horned Baron bent down and picked up a pencil.

  ‘What is this?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a pencil, sir,’ said the goblin.

  ‘I can see that!’ the Horned Baron snapped. ‘But what’s it doing here? What are all of them doing here?’

  ‘It’s cook’s idea,’ said the first goblin.

  ‘She’s using a sword to slice the bread and a ruler to spread the butter,’ the second goblin chipped in.

  ‘The pencils are for stirring the tea,’ the first goblin explained.

  The Horned Baron groaned wearily.

  Benson picked up a pointed twig. He held it out for the Horned Baron to see. ‘It’s my own invention,’ he said proudly.

  The Horned Baron did not look impressed. ‘A pointed twig?’

  ‘Not just a pointed twig,’ said Benson. ‘It’s a sugar lump stabber. Sugar tongs are a thing of the past. They’re history. Why, with a sugar lump stabber like this you can—’

  Abruptly, the Horned Baron bent over double and clutched his head in his arms. ‘This is a catastrophe,’ he wailed. ‘A calamity! Ingrid’s going to go berserk. She’ll never speak to me again!’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Then again, every cloud has its silver lining.’

  He noticed a playing card at his feet. Benson and the two kitchen goblins watched him as he picked it up and turned it over. He took a deep breath.

  ‘So, what is this and what’s it to be used for?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a playing card,’ said the first goblin.

  ‘It’s for . . .’ The second goblin faltered. ‘For . . .’ Suddenly his face brightened. ‘Playing cards.’

  The Horned Baron’s face turned from pink to red to purple. Benson butted in, fearing his employer was about to explode. ‘They’re to go in the games tent over there,’ he said, pointing to a round, green tent sandwiched between a trestle table and a Test Your Strength booth. ‘For our younger guests,’ he explained. ‘I’ve organized all sorts of entertaining pastimes. Pin the Tail on the Pink Stinky Hog, Hunt the Exploding Gas Frog, Musical Worms, Pass the Pancake . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the Horned Baron interrupted. ‘Carry on.’ He turned to go. ‘I must go and tell Ingrid,’ he said. ‘She won’t like it, though. She won’t like it one little bit . . . OOOOF! Not again!’ he bellowed as a second scurrying figure walked slap bang into him. ‘Can’t anyone in this place watch where they’re going?’

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ lisped a soft, slightly muffled voice. The Horned Baron turned to see a tall, stooped individual dressed in a hooded cape. ‘I didn’t see you there, your Baron-ness. Careful with that stick, you could have someone’s eye out with that . . .’ His voice faded away. He shifted the heavy bundle from under his right arm, to under his left. ‘So, where do you want it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ spluttered the Horned Baron.

  ‘This,’ said the stranger, holding up the bundle. There were poles and hooks and a roll of lilac and shocking pink canvas.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Baron. ‘Tell me it’s a set of cutlery. Please, I’m begging you.’

  ‘Oh, you are a one,’ came the voice from inside the hood. ‘It’s the Rose-Petalled Pavilion of Loveliness, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Horned Baron flatly. ‘How silly of me. I need sugar tongs, not to mention knives, forks and spoons – and you bring me a Rose-Petalled Pavilion of Loveliness.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ the voice confirmed. ‘No garden party should be without one. Trust me. The Baroness will love it.’

  ‘I do hope so,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Put it up over there,’ he said, pointing to an empty corner.

  ‘WALTER!’

  As his name echoed round the garden, the Horned Baron blanched. He looked up at the Baroness’s bedroom window. ‘Coming, my turtle dove,’ he called back. ‘I’ve got something here that’s going to make you very, very happy.’ He clutched the pointed twig tightly.

  ‘It had better!’ Ingrid’s voice floated back, low and loaded with menace. ‘Remember what happened last time you failed to make me very, very happy, Walter.’

  The Horned Baron rubbed his ears gently, and winced at the memory. ‘How could I forget?’ he murmured. ‘How could I ever forget?’

  The air around Trollbridge was still, quiet – and decidedly niffy. The trolls’ love of mangel-wurzels had one unfortunate side effect which afflicted them while they were asleep. A rasping sound, like a brass band tuning up, floated up from the sleeping town.

  Batbirds roosting close by found their eyes beginning to water as the odour hit them. And as a gentle breeze got up, an unfortunate tree rabbit took the full blast, and tumbled from its high branch in a dead faint.

  Perched on a stool at the centre of a great pile of rubbish – elbows on his knees and head in his hands – was the toll-keeper of Trollbridge’s main gateway. A stocky character with tufty hair and protruding teeth, he had – like the whole of Trollbridge – overslept. His helmet was on crooked and there was a half-eaten mangel-wurzel in his lap. His snoring was slow and regular. His tummy gurgled and his trousers rumbled.

  ‘Pfeeeeeep!’

  From the back of his patched, baggy trousers came a movement. There was something in his back pocket, and it was trying to escape.

  The troll held his breath for a moment as, still sound asleep, he reached round and scratched his backside. As he did so, the movement in his pocket grew increasingly agitated. The next moment, something shiny and silver popped up from the pocket. It was the head of a spoon.

  ‘Pfeeeeeeeep!’ went the troll, and a passing batbird fell from the sky.

  The spoon wriggled, squirmed and tumbled out of the pocket and on to the ground with a soft tinkling clatter.

  It gave a little sigh, picked itself up – and sighed again. The early-morning sun glinted on the tiny spoon as it tripped daintily through the rubbish. Past a rusty watering can and a chipped plate it went, over heaps of nuts and bolts, and out on to the wide, dusty road.

  Something was calling it. Something that could not be ignored.

  Joe Jefferson was rudely awakened from a deep sleep by a loud crash. He rolled over, but kept his eyes clamped tightly shut. He listened intently.

  There were various sounds to be heard. A clock ticking. Plates clattering. Someone in another room humming tunelessly . . .

  Joe’s heartbeat quickened. Could that be his bedroom clock ticking? Was it his mum preparing breakfast he could hear? Was that his dad humming in the shower?

  Dare he open his eyes to see?

  Slowly, he opened his left eye a fraction. The room was dark, its contents indistinct. So far so good. Was he back in his own bedroom once more, after what must have been the weirdest dream of his life?

  His eyes snapped open.

  No, he was not! He was in a hammock on a houseboat on a floating lake. What was left of his so-called warrior-hero outfit – saucepan lid, welly and a sackcloth cloak with a fake-fur trim – was lying about him, waiting for him to get dressed.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. ‘I’m still here in Muddle Earth.’

  ‘And good morning to you, too, I’m sure,’ said Veronica huffily.

  Joe turned to the budgie perched on the knotted cords at the foot of his hammock. He noticed her feathers were looking damp and dishevelled.

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just thought . . . hoped . . .’ His eyes misted over. ‘Dreamed . . .’

  ‘Ah, dreams,’ said Veronica understandingly. ‘I dream of a nice little cage. Nothing fancy. A little mirror, some birdseed, perhaps a little bell to tinkle if I get bored. But I have
to make do with this houseboat and Randalf the so-called Wise. Randalf the Mean, more like it. A little mirror. I mean, is that too much to ask? Well, is it?’

  Just then the door opened, and a short, portly individual with thick white hair and a pointy wizard’s hat walked in. It was Randalf the Wise. Joe’s dog, Henry, was by his side, dripping wet. The moment he saw Joe, he bounded across the room, jumped up at the hammock and began licking Joe all over his face.

  ‘Morning, Joe,’ said Randalf. ‘I’ve just taken Henry for his early morning swim.’ He patted his round stomach. ‘Nothing like an early morning swim to set you up for the day.’

  ‘Next time, wake me up before you dive in,’ said Veronica peevishly, shaking water from her feathers.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Veronica,’ said Randalf brightly. ‘Forgot you were on my head. Sorry about that.’

  ‘This wouldn’t happen if I had a nice cage, like a normal budgie,’ said Veronica. ‘And a little mirror, perhaps a bell if I got bored . . .’

  ‘You’re not still going on about that, are you?’ said Randalf. ‘I’ve told you before, cages are for canaries. You’re my familiar. Your place is here, where I can keep an eye on you.’ He patted the top of his head. Veronica fluttered over and landed on it.

  ‘Dreams,’ she said, with a sigh.

  CRASH!

  It was the noise that had first woken Joe, only louder. And it was followed immediately by the sound of the door at the far end of the room slamming back against the wall. A massive, knobbly ogre hurtled in, a heavy frying pan clutched in one great fist.

  ‘Norbert!’ Randalf shouted. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘That elf, sir!’ Norbert blustered. ‘It’s been at the snuggle-muffins.’

  As Joe turned, he caught sight of something small and plump scurrying across the floor. The next instant, the frying pan crashed down heavily behind it, missing the elf by a fraction. The houseboat rocked and swayed.

  ‘And stay out of my kitchen!’ Norbert cried.

  The elf skidded to a halt, and darted back between Norbert’s legs. Norbert watched it going, his head getting lower and lower – until he collapsed in a heap.

  The houseboat pitched about violently.

  ‘Be careful, Norbert!’ said Randalf. ‘You don’t want to capsize the boat.’

  ‘Again,’ added Veronica tartly.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Norbert, as he climbed to his feet.

  The elf made a dash for the clock on the wall. ‘Half-past morning!’ it shouted cheerily as it shimmied up the pendulum and disappeared through a small door above the clock face.

  ‘Time for some breakfast,’ said Randalf.

  ‘Squashed tadpoles! My favourite,’ said Norbert, examining the contents of Randalf’s dripping hat. ‘They’re delicious frittered.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Joe shuddered.

  ‘An acquired taste,’ said Randalf nodding. ‘And stiltmice are pretty tasty, too . . .’

  ‘Tadpoles, stiltmice,’ said Joe, shaking his head with disgust. ‘When my mum makes fritters she uses pineapples, or bananas . . .’ His face dropped. His lower lip quivered.

  ‘Joe,’ said Randalf, looking concerned. ‘If these fritters mean so much to you, then perhaps . . . this evening . . .’

  ‘It’s not the fritters!’ Joe shouted. ‘It’s my mum. And my dad. And the twins – and even Ella. I miss all of them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I want to go home.’

  Randalf clapped his hand on to Joe’s shoulder. ‘Believe me, my boy, there’s nothing I’d like better than to send you home. I’ve been racking brains for a solution, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t give up hope, Joe. I’ll give the matter my full attention later. Something will turn up. I just know it will.’

  Joe hung his head. He had no idea how long he’d been in Muddle Earth. Since the length of the days and nights never seemed to be the same from one day to the next, it was impossible to tell. All he knew was that Randalf had said the same thing on a dozen occasions before. Something will turn up. But would it? Why should this time be any different from all the others? He was about to say as much when he heard a weak knock at the door.

  Randalf sat down at the small table. ‘Bring on the fritters, Norbert, old fellow,’ he said. ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat a pink stinky hog!’

  ‘Wasn’t that the door?’ said Joe.

  Norbert frowned and scratched his head. ‘It still is,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Randalf.

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Veronica.

  There was a second knock, even feebler than the one before – followed by a squeaky little sneeze.

  ‘Atish-ii!’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Randalf. ‘Wonderful hearing my boy – warrior-hero hearing, one might say. Get the door, there’s a good chap, Norbert,’ said Randalf.

  Norbert hesitated. ‘You mean it is a door,’ he said. ‘For a moment, I wasn’t sure . . .’

  ‘Of course it’s a door,’ said Randalf.

  The third knock was followed by a second sneeze and a long, weary groan.

  ‘Just, open it, Norbert!’ said Randalf. ‘Now.’

  Norbert strode back across the room and pulled the door open. And there – silhouetted against the low sun – was a short, bony creature, dripping with water from head to foot and standing in a pool of his own making. The peaked cap he was wearing bore the insignia E.M.

  He pulled a soggy envelope from the inside of his saturated mailbag and held it up.

  ‘Imp . . . atish-ii. Import . . . atish-ii. Important . . . atish- ii! atish-ii! atish-ii!’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrung it as dry as he could, and blew his nose upon it. ‘Of all the stupid places to live,’ he complained, ‘you lot had to choose the middle of a floating lake. Have you any idea how long it’s taken me to swim up that waterfall? I mean, I’m not one to complain—’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Randalf sharply. ‘Now hand over the envelope.’

  ‘Not to you,’ said elf.

  ‘And why not, pray?’ said Randalf, affronted.

  ‘Because you’re not the person named on this enve- lope,’ the post-elf told him. ‘The directors of Elf Mail take a very dim view of letters, cards, parcels or packages being handed over to the wrong person.’

  ‘But if you’ve come to the right address, it must be for me,’ said Randalf. ‘Unless it’s for Norbert here. Or Veronica.’

  The post-elf looked from one to the other, before shaking his head. And for a foolish moment, Joe wondered whether it might be for him.

  ‘Who is it for, then?’ Randalf demanded.

  The elf looked down. ‘Grand Wizard . . .’

  ‘Well, that certainly rules you out, Randalf,’ Veronica muttered.

  ‘Shut up, Veronica’ said Randalf.

  ‘Grand Wizard, Roger the Wrinkled,’ the elf announced. ‘And you,’ he said, pointing accusingly at Randalf, ‘are not wrinkled. Roger the Fat, maybe, but not Roger the Wrinkled. Besides,’ he added, ‘the canary called you Randalf.’

  ‘The canary!’ Veronica squawked. ‘How dare you!’

  Randalf drew himself up to his full height. ‘I am Randalf the Wise,’ he announced, ‘personal assistant to Grand Wizard, Roger the Wrinkled who, while away on . . . on vacation, has left me in charge.’ He plucked the envelope from the elf’s hand. ‘I am authorized to deal with all his correspondence.’

  The elf made a grab for the letter, but Randalf was quicker and hid it behind his back. The elf looked close to tears.

  ‘I’ll get into trouble,’ he said. ‘They’ll take away my peaked cap and badge.’

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ Randalf reassured him. ‘It will be our little secret.’

  ‘What about the canary?’ asked the elf suspiciously. ‘Can it be trusted?’

  ‘You’ve just delivered your last letter, postie,’ Veronica muttered.

  ‘Her beak shall remain sealed,’ said Randalf. ‘Trust me, I’m a
wizard. Now, off you go.’ He turned to the ogre. ‘Norbert, show the elf the door.’

  Norbert pointed to the door. ‘That’s the door,’ he said.

  With the post-elf gone, Randalf scanned the envelope. ‘An elegant, noble hand,’ he said of the writing. He raised it to his nose and breathed in deeply. ‘And with, if I’m not very much mistaken, the faintest scent of rose petals . . . I wonder who it could be from? A sorceress, perhaps? Or a princess?’

  ‘Why don’t you open it and see?’ said Veronica.

  ‘Because, my impatient feathered friend, half the pleasure of receiving an envelope is wondering what it might contain,’ said Randalf. ‘At the moment, it could be anything.’ He pushed his finger into the fold of the envelope and tore along the top. ‘A love letter, a cheque, notification of some great success . . .’

  ‘Or a final demand for payment,’ Veronica noted.

  ‘We shall see,’ said Randalf. He reached inside the envelope. His finger and thumb closed around a large pink and white card. ‘Ah, the thrill of anticipation!’

  He pulled the card out and scanned it quickly. His eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Well?’ said Veronica. ‘Good news or bad news?’

  ‘It is an invitation,’ said Randalf.

  ‘Good news, then,’ said Veronica.

  ‘From the Horned Baron and his lady wife . . .’

  Veronica groaned. ‘Spoke too soon.’

  ‘Read it out, sir,’ said Norbert.

  Randalf nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Dear Roger the Wrinkled . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Veronica grumbled. ‘Reading other people’s letters. It’s disgraceful.’

  ‘Shut up, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes. The Horned Baron, Lord of Muddle Earth, Emperor of the Far Reaches and Monarch of the Glen; beloved, munificent, bountiful, much-loved, fair-minded ruler of . . .’