Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

  The dragon leaned forwards and grasped the tent in its great scaly arms, its savage talons interlocking at the back. Then, with a grunt of effort, it tugged as hard as it could. The guy ropes snapped and the tent pegs scattered as the dragon gathered up the cutlery inside the canvas, turned it upside down so nothing could escape, and slung the whole lot over its shoulder. With a powerful leap, the dragon launched itself up into the sky and soared away.

  For a moment, there was silence in the castle garden. Then, from over by the stage, came a lone voice.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a fairground attraction,’ it said.

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ said someone else, and some elves burst into polite applause.

  Having watched it all, the tall, stooped individual in the hooded cape standing by the gate groaned. ‘It’s got the wrong person. Master’s going to be so disappointed,’ he muttered as he slipped away.

  The herald was running around the birdbath in the middle of the garden, megaphone to his lips. ‘The Horned Baron’s been stolen! The Horned Baron’s been stolen.’

  From all round, came a gasp, followed by concerned muttering and murmuring (and the occasional snigger). Then came a distinctive voice: ‘No, I haven’t.’

  The goblin spun round and found himself face to face with an all-too-familiar helmet and moustache. ‘Your Horned Baron-ness!’ he exclaimed. ‘Can it really be you?’

  ‘Of course, you fool! Who did you think it was?’

  The herald raised the megaphone.‘The Horned Baron’s safe! The Horned Baron’s safe!’

  There was some more polite applause (and a few scattered boos). The Horned Baron glared at the crowd.

  ‘Now, what’s all this I hear about cutlery? Have the sugar tongs been found?’

  ‘Have the sugar tongs been found?’ blasted the herald through the megaphone.

  ‘Do you have to repeat everything I say?’ stormed the Horned Baron.

  ‘Do you have to repeat everything the Horned Baron says?’ thundered the herald at the crowd.

  ‘Not them. You!’ shouted the Horned Baron.

  ‘Not them . . .’

  ‘Give me that!’ interrupted the baron, grabbing the megaphone and turning back to the crowd. ‘Now, will someone please tell me what is going on!’

  ‘Randalf went into the lilac-and-pink Pavilion of Loveliness,’ said Joe, stepping forwards. ‘And then all the cutlery came crashing through the garden, led by some sugar tongs, and disappeared inside the pavilion as well.’

  ‘Did you say sugar tongs?’ said the Baron excitedly.

  ‘And then a dragon swooped out of the sky and gathered up the pavilion, Randalf and all the cutlery, and flew away.’

  ‘But this is terrible!’ said the Horned Baron.

  ‘I know,’ said Joe, tearfully. ‘Poor Randalf.’

  ‘No, I meant the sugar tongs,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘I mean, what’s Ingrid going to say?’

  ‘But what about Randalf?’ Joe persisted. With the wizard gone, so too was his only hope of ever leaving Muddle Earth.

  ‘WALTER!’

  ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without having to deal with some second-rate wizard who’s got himself into a scrape,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Besides, you’re the warrior-hero. I’d have thought battling with dragons was right up your street.’

  ‘WAL-TER!’

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, duty calls,’ said the Horned

  Baron, turning away. ‘Coming, my gooey cupcake!’ he called.

  As the Horned Baron strode off, Joe noticed Norbert pushing his way through the crowd from the opposite direction. Henry was trotting beside him; Veronica was on his head.

  ‘Cheer up,’ she said chirpily. ‘It might never happen.’

  ‘It already has,’ said Joe glumly. ‘Randalf was carried off by that dragon.’

  ‘You what?’ Veronica exclaimed. ‘Oh, the silly old fool!’

  ‘Dragon!’ said Norbert.‘Nooooo!!’ he wailed, and burst into tears.

  ‘Trust Randalf,’ said Veronica, ‘to end up as a dragon’s dinner.’

  ‘Dinner!’ howled Norbert.

  ‘We’ve got to rescue him,’ said Joe.‘Now, did anyone see which way the dragon went?’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ said Veronica. She launched herself off Norbert’s head and fluttered off. ‘Follow me,’ she said, ‘to the Broken, Missing or Useless stall!’

  As soon as they reached the stall, Veronica found what she was looking for. There, sandwiched between a motheaten cardigan and a rusty mangel-wurzel slicer, was a tatty scroll. Joe picked it up.

  ‘Three turnips, half a cup of grass, one bottle of stiltmouse milk . . .’ he read. ‘It looks like some sort of shopping list.’

  ‘No!’ said Veronica. ‘On the other side, stupid!’

  Joe turned the scroll over. It was a map of Muddle Earth. There was the Enchanted Lake where he had first arrived. And Goblintown, where Randalf had kitted him out as a warrior-hero. And the Ogrehills . . .

  Veronica tapped the top left-hand corner of the scroll with her beak. ‘Here,’ she said impatiently. ‘Look!’

  Joe looked across the map and gasped. For there, written across a vast bleak landscape in flamboyant curly-wurly writing, were three words:

  Here Be Dragons.

  ‘Here be dragons?’ said Norbert, with a shudder. ‘I don’t like the sound of that!’

  ‘We must go there!’ said Joe firmly. ‘It’s our only chance of finding the dragon.’

  ‘And when we find the dragon?’ said Norbert. ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘We’ll work something out,’ said Joe uncertainly. ‘Besides, we have no choice.’

  ‘Joe’s right,’ said Veronica. ‘Oh, I know Randalf and I have had our differences. He can be cranky, incompetent . . . miserly . . . pompous, vain and intolerably smug . . . moody, clumsy, lazy, greedy . . . and absolutely impossible to live with . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘But he’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘It’s decided then,’ said Joe. ‘We’ll set off at once.’

  ‘And you will think of something, won’t you?’ said Norbert tearfully. ‘Before dinnertime.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Joe, grimly. ‘I’m a warrior-hero.’

  Before the goblin child who found it had managed to use it even once to stir his spittle tea, the tiny teaspoon had dropped down from his pocket to the pavement unnoticed, and disappeared. Over cobbled streets it went, through a crack in the great gates and down the city steps – tinkling and sighing as it went – out of Goblintown and away.

  On, on, on, it journeyed. This way, that way – following the force that drew it ever onwards.

  Tripping and falling, and sighing as it picked itself up. Then on again. Clinking over rocks, squelching through mud and leaving a fine, broken line through the sand and dust.

  At a junction, it jumped a troll cart spilling over with a great mound of straw. Clink, clunk. It hopped on to the wheel, up the side and – pluff – down in the soft, yellow mattress of straw.

  As it lay there, warm and content, the sun glinted down on its polished bowl and elegantly curved handle. It caught the eye of a passing batbird, returning early to its roost.

  With a flapping of wings – like a burst of applause – the batbird swooped round in the sky, and dived.

  Down, down it came, legs extended and claws open. Then, with a delicate twist – and a loud squawk – it plucked the glittering object from the top of the hayrick and soared off.

  The tiny teaspoon sighed.

  Far below, Muddle Earth was spread out like a tatty scroll. The Perfumed Bog. The Enchanted Lake. The Musty Mountains . . .

  As the wind blew back against it, the teaspoon shivered – softly at first, then more forcefully. The batbird tightened its grip too late. The tiny teaspoon had already slipped out of its grasp and was falling, falling, falling . . .

  Tinkle, clink!

  It landed. With a little sigh, it picked itself up. It was standing directly in fr
ont of the gates to the Horned Baron’s castle. Trembling with anticipation, it hopped on. Through the gate it went, across the gravel and . . .

  Gone! They were gone! The teaspoon sighed sadly, wearily. But they had been there. All of them. That much was certain. It turned and listened. Yes, there. Over there . . .

  The tiny teaspoon turned, sighed, and left the place where the cutlery had been such a short while before. Keeping to the shadows, it hopped back through the castle gates and on into the dusty highlands beyond.

  The sounds of the garden party gradually faded away. A wind got up, the sun went down, Mount Boom came nearer. It puffed and wheezed and sometimes exploded weakly – boom.

  Up ahead were four other travellers. An ogre, with a budgerigar on its head and a young warrior-hero and a dog on its shoulder. The tiny spoon trembled as something stirred in its memory. The touch of warm fingers, the snugness of a dark pocket. It was the young warrior-hero who had found him when he got separated from the others.

  With a quivering sigh and a soft tinkle, tinkle, the tiny teaspoon picked itself up and quickly followed them.

  Silhouetted against the low, setting sun, the dragon swooped down out of the sky and landed at the entrance to its mountain cave. It swung the heavy marquee full of cutlery to the ground with a clunk, sat back and wiped its brow.

  A batbird circled overhead. The dragon raised its scaly head and blasted it with a searing jet of flames. The batbird flew off, backside and tail-feathers singed, screeching with indignation. The dragon scoured the sky and scanned the scorched, barren land for a sign of any other unwelcome intruders.

  There was none.

  Then again, you couldn’t be too careful. The dragon seized the great clanking bundle in its claws and lugged it into the cave. Down on its belly, it slipped and slithered its way along a low, narrow tunnel and on into a large, domed cavern deep inside the mountain.

  The cavern was warm, smoky, sulphurous. The dull red glow of molten rock glimmered from cracks in its towering walls. Gleaming dimly in the faint light was a tall pile of treasure. The dragon purred as it got closer and nuzzled it softly.

  There were golden helmets, rusty tap fittings, jewel-encrusted crowns, swords, saucepans, shields with ancient designs, medals and trophies, bracelets and bedsteads, tiaras and tin cans – all heaped together in the centre of the stone floor. And, over by the wall, standing by itself, was a magic golden harp, softly weeping.

  The muffled clinking and clanking of the cutlery grew louder as it was plonked down on the pile. With a slash of one long talon, the dragon ripped a large hole in the fabric of the former Pavilion of Loveliness. The cutlery came tumbling out.

  The dragon’s eyes widened with delight as the wonderful hoard spilled out in front of it. Fine knives, gorgeous forks, dear little teaspoons – and the most adorable silver egg slicer. Cleavers and skewers. Waffle irons and sugar tongs. And – with toothpicks in its beard and forks in the most unlikely places – what appeared to be . . .

  A wizard!

  The dragon’s eyes narrowed. It patted its grumbling stomach and threw back its great scaly head.

  ‘ROOOAAARRRGGGHHH!!!’

  ‘You never know,’ said Joe. ‘Perhaps it’ll just play with him. Like Henry plays with his favourite rubber ball . . .’

  ‘It’ll eat him,’ said Veronica matter-of-factly.

  ‘You don’t know that for certain,’ said Joe.

  ‘Bound to,’ she said. ‘It will be ravenous after that long flight. Toasted wizard would make the perfect dinner . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that, Veronica,’ said Joe weakly.

  ‘Unless it’s so hungry it just eats him raw.’

  ‘Veronica! Shut up!’

  Veronica shrugged. ‘You did ask,’ she said sulkily.

  ‘Yes, but . . .Whooooah!’

  ‘Sorry!’ came Norbert’s breathless voice as he suddenly lurched to one side. ‘There was a pothole.’

  ‘Don’t you apologize, Norbert,’ said Joe. ‘You’re doing a fantastic job on those Winged Boots of yours. We’re going to be there in no time.’ He turned and glared at the budgerigar on Norbert’s head. ‘We haven’t given up on him, even if you have, Veronica.’

  ‘I just think we should be prepared for the worst,’ she said.

  Norbert let out a stifled sob.

  ‘Well, you’re upsetting Norbert,’ said Joe, trying to sound brave. ‘Now, if you can just stop talking about how hopeless this all is, perhaps I can work out a plan.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Forgive me,’ said Veronica. ‘So, how exactly do you plan to slay this dragon?’

  ‘Slay?’ said Joe. He scratched his head. ‘I thought we could talk. Bargain. Barter. I thought I’d be able to reason with it . . .’

  ‘Reason with a dragon?’ said Veronica. ‘Don’t make me laugh. I’m telling you, unless Randalf’s extremely quick on his pins – which would be a first – he’s a goner. That dragon will burn him to a crisp with one blast of his fiery breath!’

  Just then, above the noise of the clattering wheels, there came the faint sound of a distant roar.

  ‘Hear that?’ said Veronica.

  ‘Hear what?’ said Norbert.

  Joe stared grimly ahead. ‘Just go faster, Norbert!’ he told the ogre. ‘Faster!’

  The tiny teaspoon sighed as it tripped and slipped down into one of the deep imprints left by the ogre’s Winged Boots of Colossal Speed. The dust fell in about it, taking the edge off its shine and making it difficult to scrabble out of the narrow trench.

  Back on solid ground, it cocked its bowl to one side, and listened. Far, far ahead, it heard a deep, ominous roar that echoed around the rugged landscape and that left it trembling along the length of its handle.

  Not so far away – but getting further with every passing minute – were the others. The ogre, the budgerigar, the warrior-hero and his battle-hound.

  With a soft sigh, the teaspoon set off once again, tinkling along the stony track as fast as it possibly could.

  Inside the cave, the sounds echoing around the great, domed cavern were getting louder. The cutlery was in its orchestra formation, attempting to tune up. It swayed on the mound of treasure – clinking and clanking – while the dragon lumbered noisily about.

  The spoons clattered. The knives clashed. Once, an entire set of cake forks was almost destroyed as the dragon’s great bulk came crashing down towards them. It was only the quick thinking of the sugar tongs – and a handily placed saucepan lid – that prevented them being crushed and twisted out of shape.

  Petrified, Randalf watched it all. He was crouched down behind a jagged boulder over by the wall, trembling at the sight of the dragon which seemed to be whipping itself up into a frenzy of rage. How he had escaped, he would never know.

  One moment he’d been tied up inside the Pavilion of Loveliness, with sharp, pointy cutlery prodding and jabbing every inch of his body; the next, a great claw was slashing through the material, the rope – and very nearly his neck.

  Randalf shuddered at the thought.

  Of course, from the sound of roaring, the smell of burning and the gut-churning sensation of flight – not to mention the crowd shouting, ‘It’s a dragon! It’s a dragon! Run for your lives!’ – Randalf had suspected that he’d been seized by some sort of dragon. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the terrifying creature which reared up in front of him as he had tumbled from the tent on a wave of cutlery.

  It was gigantic. Monstrous! Every glinting scale was the size of a dinner plate; every claw, a long, curved rapier. Its smoking nostrils alone were big enough to accommodate the wizard’s head, pointy hat and all.

  As the dragon had spotted the cowering wizard, its eyes had opened wide and its snout had come to within an inch of Randalf’s nose. Its nostrils had sniffed. Its stomach had rumbled. Wisps of smoke had coiled into the air . . .

  ‘Eeek!’ Randalf had yelped and made a dash for it.

  With a clink-clank-clatter-cr
ash he’d scrambled desperately over the pile of treasure as the dragon had made a grab for him, missed, and snorted with frustration.

  Randalf trembled from the tip of his beard to the toes of his boots. He had escaped – but for how long? Sending out short bursts of flame, the dragon was clambering all over the pile of treasure, looking under shields and dustbin lids, rooting around in the forks and spoons, and tossing object after precious object aside.

  Then – sniffing at something suspicious – it inadvertantly sucked a plumed gold helmet right up inside one of its vast nostrils. It coughed, it snorted, it sneezed – and the helmet shot out at enormous speed, smashing against the side wall with a loud clang.

  Randalf shrank down behind the rock.

  ‘Why me?’ he groaned softly. ‘Why do these things always happen to me? Oh, what wouldn’t I give to be back on my lovely houseboat, with my feet up, a cup of tea in one hand and a snuggle-muffin in the other.’

  The dragon continued searching the heap of treasure, tearing into the metal objects with a horrible vigour and determination. With his heart in his mouth, Randalf risked a peek from behind the rock.

  The bad news was that the way out was on the other side of the cavern. The good news was that, by sticking to the shadows, he might just be able to skirt round the walls unseen.

  Head down and heart beating fit to burst, Randalf set off. He scurried from rock to boulder, crevice to crack, in short hurried bursts. The last stretch was the most difficult. Between the ridge he was crouching behind and the stone stack by the entrance, there was a broad expanse of bare rock.

  ‘Just stay calm,’ he told himself. ‘Wait till the dragon’s turning the other way and . . . Now.’

  Setting off like a sprinter from the starting blocks, Randalf dashed across the empty stretch. The dragon snorted.

  ‘Almost there,’ Randalf whispered, urging himself on. ‘Almost . . .’

  Just then, a shrill voice cried out,‘Mistress! Mistress!’ It was the magic harp. ‘He’s over here!’ it shrieked. ‘The fat wizard’s over here!’