Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

  ‘Oh, I like the sound of that,’ said Margot.

  ‘Yes,’ said Norbert, waving his arms about theatrically. ‘Over here we could have the rusty pile. And over here, the sharp, pointy thing pile. And here . . .’ He eyed the sugar tongs tap-dancing on a saucepan. ‘We could have a noisy pile.’

  ‘Not too noisy, I hope,’ said Margot, flicking her tail at the passing choir of spoons.

  ‘And here,’ said Norbert, standing in the centre of the cavern, ‘you could have a great big stupendous pile of sparkly things!’

  ‘Darling!’ cooed Margot. ‘You’re an artist.’

  Back at the Horned Baron’s castle, the garden party had come to an abrupt end. After all the excitement – and chaos – of the dragon’s sudden arrival and departure, no one felt much like partying any more.

  ‘What a day!’ Benson sighed.

  ‘You can say that again,’ said an under-gardener, pulling splinters of wood from his hair.

  ‘Goodness knows what got into the cutlery!’ said Benson. ‘And as for that dragon!’

  ‘The last dragon I saw was Gretchen,’ said the under-gardener. ‘And that was at least ten years ago . . .’

  ‘And look at the state of the place!’ said Benson.

  The toffee stall was in ruins, the jars of smells lay broken on the ground beside pools of spilled face-paints, while the mangel-wurzels that hadn’t been trampled underfoot had all disappeared – pocketed by the trolls as they had set off back to Trollbridge. Over at Snuggly-Wuggly Corner numerous small furry animals were climbing through the broken fence and scampering away. And in the midst of it all, the pink stinky hog ran this way and that, squealing indignantly as it searched for its missing tail.

  The Horned Baron stomped through the trail of destruction, muttering under his breath.

  ‘Absolute fiasco!’ he said. ‘Disaster! Everything’s in ruins! The guests have all gone home! Ingrid’s in hysterics!’ He patted the beads of sweat from his forehead. ‘At least things can’t get any worse!’

  ‘Norbert!’ said Randalf impatiently, as the ogre busied himself around the dragon’s cavern.‘We really must be going.’

  ‘Not so fast, Fatso! I thought you were going to do something about that cutlery,’ said Margot, raising herself up and fixing the wizard with a yellow-eyed stare.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Randalf, trembling and stepping inadvertantly into the Potty of Thrynn. ‘Blast!’

  ‘Blast? Is that a new spell?’ said Veronica.

  ‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf angrily, and clanked off to sulk in the corner.

  ‘That’s close enough, potty-breath,’ said the harp fiercely.

  ‘Now,’ said Margot brightly. ‘Let’s get tidying! You, Joe, are in charge of the sharp, pointy things pile.’

  ‘You mean swords and spears and enchanted warrior armour?’ said Joe excitedly.

  ‘Yes, yes, whatever,’ said Margot. ‘And you, attack-budgie, can be in charge of the rusty pile.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Veronica, flying off.

  ‘And you and me, Norbert, we’ll make a lovely big pile of sparkly stuff!’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Norbert, clapping his hands together. ‘I adore sparkly stuff.’

  Just then, a conga-line of all the knives – from dainty butter knives to hefty meat cleavers – went dancing past, clanking out the jerky rhythm as they went. The dragon’s furious voice rang out.

  ‘Randalf! Darling! They’re still at it! Margot’s getting a teensy-weensy bit angry!’ she bellowed.

  Over in the corner, Randalf snorted as he tried to prise the potty off his foot. ‘Madam, a little bit of patience, please. The enchantment is obviously powerful and needs careful . . . Blast!’ The potty was stuck fast.

  ‘Still trying that Blast spell?’ trilled Veronica from somewhere above his head.

  ‘Shut up, Ver . . .’ Randalf’s jaw dropped.

  There above him, perched on a cave ledge, was an old, rusty and decidedly battered bird cage. Veronica was hopping about inside it.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ said Veronica in a gooey voice. ‘A cage!’ She sighed. ‘It’s got a perch that swings. And a little bell. And look, just what I always dreamed of – a mirror!’ She smiled at her reflection. ‘For when I want to see a friendly face . . .’

  ‘Veronica!’ said Randalf sharply. ‘Cages are for canaries. Remember who you are! You’re a wizard’s familiar, and your place is down here on the brim of my pointy hat.’

  ‘Your hat hasn’t got a mirror,’ Veronica protested. ‘Or a bell.’

  ‘Veronica!’ Randalf shouted. ‘Pointy hat! Now!’

  ‘Or a perch that swings,’ said Veronica defiantly.

  ‘Veronica!’

  ‘Is that you causing a disturbance again, wizard?’ roared Margot. ‘Margot’s getting angry! You won’t like Margot when she’s angry!’

  ‘I was just working on a spell,’ said Randalf sheepishly.

  ‘Well, get on with it,’ said the dragon fiercely. ‘Now, Norbert, darling, where were we? Oh, how clever! The watering cans of Poot – yes, they do sparkle delightfully, don’t they?’

  Casting a furious glance at Veronica, Randalf clanked across the cavern to where a collection of butter knives was doing a noisy samba. He started waving his arms about, and muttered under his breath.

  Meanwhile, Joe was collecting marvellous swords, magical helmets and spears of fantastical design, and making a neat pile at the far side of the cavern. Henry barked happily by his side.

  ‘Can I try some of this armour on?’ Joe asked, holding out a silver helmet with elaborate wings and curving horns.

  ‘My dear boy,’ said Margot, ‘help yourself. That warrior-hero stuff really is quite a bore. Not nearly sparkly enough for me. Take anything you fancy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Joe, beaming. If he had to stay in Muddle Earth for a while longer, he might as well look like a convincing warrior-hero.

  ‘I’d forgotten I had such wonderful treasures after my little nap,’ cooed Margot. ‘It’s easily done.’

  Joe tried on a bronze breastplate. ‘How long have you been asleep?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no time at all,’ said Margot. ‘Twenty years or so, I think.’

  ‘Twenty years!’ Joe exclaimed.

  ‘Give or take the odd year,’ said Margot. ‘We dragons need our beauty sleep, you know. Besides, twenty years is nothing. Matilda, over there,’ she said, waving vaguely towards the entrance to the cave, ‘has been asleep for twice as long. And as for Agnes, well, no one’s seen her for centuries. Normally, I’d have slept for longer – but that cutlery woke me up.’

  Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk!

  Margot sighed. ‘Delightfully sparkly – but they do go on rather.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said the harp grumpily from a corner.

  Joe picked up a particularly ornate sword. ‘Do all dragons have hoards of treasure?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, dear boy,’ said Margot. ‘We all simply adore beautiful trinkets. That’s all we want. That and the occasional sheep or two.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, but the tales they tell about us! Burning down castles. Battling with knights on horseback. Devouring princesses and damsels-in-distress – whatever they might be. I mean, there just aren’t enough hours in a day for all that nonsense.’

  Joe nodded.

  ‘And as for warrior-heroes coming along thinking they can just slay you,’ Margot went on, huffily. ‘It’s a damn cheek, if you ask me!’

  ‘How dare you! Stop that!’ an angry voice cried out. ‘Leave me alone!’

  It was the harp. A dozen butter knives and a set of soup spoons were taking it in turns to pluck at its strings.

  The dragon turned irritably, and sent a warning blast of hot smoke in their direction. The harp swooned. The knives and spoons scurried away, but regrouped by the candlesticks and chandeliers, where they jumped about furiously, clashing and clattering.

  ‘Darling, perhaps you could try out your warrior-hero
skills on that lot,’ she said.

  ‘Actually,’ said Joe, ‘I’m not really a warrior-hero.’

  ‘You’d never have guessed to look at him!’ Veronica, who was swinging happily to and fro in her cage, shouted back.

  ‘I was summoned to Muddle Earth by Randalf, here,’ said Joe, nodding towards the wizard. ‘He’s promised to send me back home when he can. That’s why I’m here. I couldn’t let him get eaten by a dragon – not that you would have,’ he added hastily.

  ‘No, well one wouldn’t, naturally,’ said Margot. ‘Oh, but poor you, Joe. All lost and alone in a strange world . . .’

  Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk!

  The dragon groaned and turned to Randalf. ‘Oh, please hurry up,’ she said weakly. ‘My head’s splitting!’

  Randalf shook his head. ‘I’m afraid bewitched cutlery can be very tricky, madam. Very tricky indeed.’

  ‘Honestly! Call yourself a wizard,’ said Margot scornfully. She turned to Joe. ‘I must say, I don’t fancy your chances of leaving Muddle Earth.’

  ‘Joe will be fine,’ said Randalf, shaking his head. ‘But I’m afraid this cutlery has been bewitched by an expert. I’ll have to return to my houseboat and consult my spell book. To that end, we shall be taking our leave. I bid you good day, madam.’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ said Margot. She twisted herself round, blocking Randalf’s escape with her tail.

  ‘What . . . what is the meaning of this?’ Randalf blustered.

  ‘Norbert here has been a poppet. Joe has been a perfect gentleman – and that attack-budgie seems very nice . . .’

  Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk!

  ‘But none of you are going anywhere until every last piece of that confounded cutlery has been made to lie down and be quiet,’ she bellowed. ‘I don’t care what you do. I don’t care how long it takes. But I want them silenced, once and for all!’

  Clatter! Clatter! Clink! Clonk!

  A strong, chill wind whistled through Elfwood. Tree rabbits, perching in the lower branches of the oaks and pines, snored restlessly in their sleep and huddled together for warmth, while roosting batbirds, high up at the top of the jub-jub trees, cried out as they were swung to and fro.

  ‘Ouch!’

  Trudging through the trees came a stooped figure, his bony fingers clasping at his flapping cape and keeping the hood raised. With each step, his boots sank deep into the squidgy mulch of mud and fallen leaves, slowing him down and making him sweat with effort despite the cold.

  At the centre of the woods was a clearing – Giggle Glade, its name – and in the centre of the clearing was a modest dwelling, built of wood and ornately decorated. The caped figure fought his way to the door.

  The wind was howling round the house, setting the powder-blue shutters rattling and the wooden roof tiles clacking. Inside the house, seated in shadow upon a high-backed and intricately carved throne, Dr Cuddles waited.

  ‘Soon,’ he giggled. ‘Very soon.’

  As if on cue, the front door burst open. Dr Cuddles smiled.

  ‘Is that you, Quentin?’

  ‘Y . . . yes, Master,’ panted Quentin as he forced the door shut against the buffeting wind. ‘Goodness me,’ he said. ‘It’s blowing a gale out there. I had to battle with it every step of the way.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘I’m utterly pooped.’

  ‘Pooped?’ Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘How delightful. I trust you bring good news.’

  Quentin lowered his hood, smoothed down his slightly ruffled golden curls and twirled the ends of his magnificent moustache. He looked up. The throne was set in deep shadow. Only Dr Cuddles’s startlingly blue eyes were visible. Glinting and unblinking, they bored into him from the darkness. Quentin felt his knees begin to tremble.

  ‘Well?’ said Dr Cuddles. ‘I take it that the Horned Baron has been taken care of at last.’ He giggled unpleasantly. ‘I’m sure our scaly friend enjoyed her little snack.’ The high-pitched, somewhat sinister giggling grew louder. ‘Did she crunch his bones?’ he said.‘Did she tear him limb from limb?’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ said Quentin, hanging his head. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

  The eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  Quentin swallowed nervously and took a deep breath. ‘Things didn’t go quite according to plan,’ he said in a rush.

  Dr Cuddles sighed. ‘Explain yourself,’ he said coldly.

  ‘There was a bit of a mix-up,’ he said. ‘At the garden party. It seems that the dragon might have chewed up the wrong person.’

  ‘The wrong person?’ said Dr Cuddles testily.

  ‘He just turned up at the last minute and spoiled everything,’ said Quentin. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘Who?’ He sounded furious now.

  ‘That wizard c . . . c . . . character,’ Quentin stammered. ‘Randalf. Randalf the Wise . . .’

  ‘I might have known,’ Dr Cuddles muttered, drumming his stubby fingers on the arms of the throne. ‘Why can’t he keep his big nose out of my affairs?’

  Quentin permitted himself a little smile. ‘If I know my dragons,’ he said, ‘it probably saved his big nose till last.’

  Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘Oh, I do hope so,’ he said. ‘But that still leaves the small matter of the uneaten Horned Baron.’

  ‘Plan B, Master?’ said Quentin.

  ‘Plan B,’ Dr Cuddles confirmed. He clapped his paws together and a dozen elves appeared as if from nowhere. ‘Unlock Roger the Wrinkled and bring him to me,’ he commanded. ‘Go!’

  ‘At once, Master,’ the elves twittered, and scurried off to do as they had been told.

  Quentin, relieved that Dr Cuddles hadn’t taken his news too badly, removed his cape and hung it on a hook on the door. ‘How about a nice snuggle-muffin?’ he said. ‘I decorated some specially for you earlier and . . .’

  ‘Quentin,’ said Dr Cuddles. ‘This is no time for snuggle-muffins.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Quentin. ‘Silly of me.’

  Just then, there came a scuffling from the corridor and the sound of raised voices. A door flew open and the elves bustled into the room tugging on a long, heavy lead, at the end of which was a decidedly bedraggled, not to say wrinkled, wizard. From the top of his high-domed forehead to the tip of his long, pointed chin, spread an intricate network of wrinkles. His ears were wrinkled, his cheeks were wrinkled, his nose was wrinkled – even his wrinkles were wrinkled.

  ‘How dare you treat me like this?’ he blustered. ‘I can’t possibly be expected to work under these conditions!’

  ‘My word, you are wrinkled, aren’t you?’ giggled Dr Cuddles. ‘I always forget.’

  ‘Well, is it any wonder?’ snapped Roger. ‘Chained up in that poky little room, working every hour under the sun. I’m telling you, I can’t take much more of it. And then this!’ He tugged at the lead. ‘The indignity of it all.’

  ‘It’s your own fault,’ said Quentin sharply. ‘You shouldn’t keep trying to escape.’

  ‘I’ve already explained all that,’ said Roger loftily. ‘I was just stretching my legs.’

  ‘You were running,’ Quentin reminded him.

  ‘Just answering a call of nature,’ said Roger.

  ‘You were disguised as a washerwoman,’ said Quentin.

  ‘I explained that as well,’ Roger began uncertainly. ‘It all started when I was a child and used to try my mother’s dresses on . . .’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ Dr Cuddles cut in. ‘I summoned you here to discuss a matter of great importance to me . . .’

  ‘The Horned Baron,’ said Roger the Wrinkled.

  ‘You read my mind,’ giggled Dr Cuddles.

  The wizard nodded. ‘I trust the cutlery performed to your satisfaction,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it did,’ said Dr Cuddles. ‘Unfortunately, there was a slight hitch.’

  ‘A hitch?’ said Roger.

  ‘Quite amusing, really,’ said Dr Cuddles, giggling rather hysterically. ‘It seems the
cutlery lured the dragon to Quentin’s pink pavilion just as we planned but, unfortunately, the pavilion contained the wrong person.’

  ‘The wrong person?’ said Roger.

  ‘Why, Roger!’ Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘You’re beginning to sound like an echo.’

  ‘An echo?’ said Roger.

  Dr Cuddles’s giggle turned decidedly nasty. ‘I have decided to put Plan B into action,’ he said.

  The wizard’s wrinkled face collapsed. ‘Not the . . .’

  ‘Yes, Roger,’ said Dr Cuddles, giggling wildly. ‘The flying wardrobes.’

  ‘But Dr Cuddles,’ said Roger. ‘I really can’t advise that. Not yet. They’re not ready.’

  ‘My dear Roger,’ said Dr Cuddles, ‘I hope I don’t need to heat up the metal underpants again.’

  Roger the Wrinkled took a step backwards. ‘Not the underpants, I beg you!’ he pleaded. ‘It’s just that . . .’

  ‘Just what?’ The sound of his drumming fingers grew louder.

  ‘Well, the flying bit is easy,’ Roger the Wrinkled explained, ‘but putting the wardrobes together is an absolute nightmare! I mean, the instructions never make sense, and there’s always an extra screw left over . . .’

  ‘Enough of all these excuses!’ roared Dr Cuddles. He clapped. The elves jumped to attention. ‘Fetch me the Great Book of Spells.’

  ‘At once, Master,’ the elves trilled, and scuttled off through a different door.

  ‘. . . and as for the splinters!’

  ‘Be silent, Roger!’ said Dr Cuddles sharply. ‘Under my close supervision, I shall allow you to consult the Great Book of Spells,’ he announced. ‘We launch the wardrobes tonight!’

  ‘But . . .’

  Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘I have absolute confidence in your skills, Roger. You and your fellow wizards had better not fail me – or else.’

  Roger shuffled about uncomfortably. ‘The underpants?’ he said nervously. Dr Cuddles nodded.