‘Walter! Walter!’
‘An IOU!’ Randalf stormed. ‘Not worth the pair of frilly lace pantaloons it’s written on!’
It was later that day and he and the others were back on the houseboat.
‘Of all the low-down, two-timing, back-stabbing, sneaky tricks to play!’ He turned to Joe. ‘Let this be a warning to you. Never, ever trust the word of a baron, no matter how pointy his horns.’
‘Still, it is an IOU,’ said Joe. ‘Even if you couldn’t find anything else to write on, you did get his signature. That must be worth something.’
Randalf blushed.
‘Show him your knickers,’ said Veronica. ‘Go on!’
Randalf handed the pantaloons to Joe. ‘IOU eighty big ’uns,’ read Joe, ‘signed The Grand Old Duke of York . . .’
‘What?’ said Randalf. He snatched back the pantaloons and stared miserably at the fake signature. ‘I’m just too trusting,’ he said and sighed. ‘Typical of the Horned Baron to pull a fast one. And after everything I did for him!’
‘Everything Margot did, more like,’ said Veronica. ‘What a fine dragon she turned out to be. A real lady. And generous too,’ she added. ‘She gave us some lovely presents. Norbert’s baking trays,
Joe’s warrior-hero outfit, not to mention my gorgeous little cage.’ She tinkled her little bell and preened in front of the mirror. ‘My own little home,’ she sighed. ‘Remind me, Randalf,’ she said, turning to the wizard. ‘What did she give you?’
Randalf gave the Potty of Thrynn a vicious kick. ‘Ouch!’ he cried.
‘It goes with your knickers!’ said Veronica smugly.
‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf.
From inside the kitchen came the sounds of whistling, whisking and the clattering of pots and pans.
‘Still, could be worse, I suppose,’ said Randalf.‘Norbert’s cooking has certainly improved. And Joe, my boy, you certainly look the part in that outfit. Shame about the dented helmet. Are those wings meant to stick out like that?’
Joe smiled. ‘It’ll make a nice souvenir,’ he said, ‘when I go back home. When will that be again?’
‘I’ll see to it as soon as I can,’ said Randalf, suddenly finding the details on the side of the Potty of Thrynn extremely fascinating.
‘But when?’ said Joe. ‘Haven’t I done enough yet?’
Randalf traced the outline of what appeared to be a large bottom engraved into the silver. ‘Wonderful workmanship,’ he murmured.
‘When?’ said Joe.
Randalf took a tentative sniff at the potty. ‘I must wash my beard again,’ he muttered.
‘Randalf!’ said Joe sharply. ‘When are you going to send me home?’
The wizard turned. ‘You know how it is,’ he said. ‘Waiting for an auspicious moment and all that. The alignment of the stars. The configuration of the moons . . .’
‘No! No!’ Joe shouted. ‘You know that’s not true. The moment could come and go, and you still wouldn’t be able to do anything because you don’t know the spell! We’ve got to go to Elfwood and recover Roger the Wrinkled’s Great Book of Spells. It’s the only way.’
‘The lad’s right,’ said Veronica. ‘Even if it does mean meeting up with Dr Cuddl—’
‘Veronica!’ Randalf shouted. ‘I forbid you to use that name in my presence.’
‘Besides,’ said Veronica, swinging gaily to and fro on her perch, ‘if you stand any chance of ever seeing those eighty gold big ’uns, you’re going to have to go there.’
‘I am?’ said Randalf.
‘Where else do you think that wardrobe took Ingrid?’ she replied.
Randalf groaned. ‘You don’t mean . . .’
‘He – who shall remain nameless – has got the Great Book of Spells,’ said Veronica. ‘He’s got Roger the Wrinkled and the other wizards – and now he’s added Ingrid to his collection. It’s all part of his master plan.’
‘Then, there’s no choice,’ said Joe firmly. ‘We must go to Giggle Glade.’
‘Better hang on to that potty, Randalf!’ said Veronica. ‘From the look on your face, you’re going to need it.’
A solitary wardrobe lay on the ground beside the front door of the little house at the centre of Giggle Glade. It was still. One door was open and one closed. A pile of hangers lay in a corner. Dr Cuddles looked at it through the window.
‘You have done well,’ he giggled. ‘My self-assembled pine-clad beauty!’
He turned away and slipped into the shadows.
Quentin nodded his head vigorously. ‘That was one of mine, master,’ he said. ‘The instructions were ever so tricky, and I had three screws left over.’
‘Excellent,’ Dr Cuddles went on, giggling unpleasantly. ‘Even though our losses were high!’
‘I told you we needed more time,’ said Roger the Wrinkled. ‘The Welsh dresser was only half done, and someone sent off the teddy bear linen chest with all your quilts by mistake.’
‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ said Dr Cuddles, a slight choke in his voice. ‘I might not have the Horned Baron, but I have the next best thing!’ He giggled.
‘Ooh, Dr Cuddles, you’re so wicked,’ said Quentin.
‘He’ll be like putty in my hand,’ Dr Cuddles giggled. ‘What won’t he do to get his beloved Ingrid back? He’ll be knocking on my door, begging me to return her. And when he does . . .’
The room resounded with his sinister, high-pitched giggling.
‘Cuddles?’ screeched an imperious voice. ‘Cuddles!’
The giggling stopped. ‘What can that infernal woman want now?’ Dr Cuddles muttered. ‘Surely she can’t have broken free of the restraints already.’ He turned and clapped his paws together.
Nothing happened.
‘Where are those confounded elves?’ he shouted.
‘Cuddles!’ Ingrid’s voice sliced through the air like a knife.
Dr Cuddles shuddered. ‘Roger!’ he shouted. ‘Quentin!
Come back here!’
‘CUDDLES!’
‘Aah, this is the life,’ sighed the Horned Baron.
He was reclining on a mountain of well-stuffed, if heavily patched, cushions in front of a roaring fire, his toes covered by a quilt with teddy bears on it. The curtains were drawn. The candles were lit.
The Horned Baron sipped from a large mug of spittle tea and plucked a hairy toffee from the box on his lap. Many hours had passed since Ingrid’s unfortunate disappearance. He popped a second toffee into his mouth. Poor, dear Ingrid . . .
Knock, knock.
The rapping at the door shattered the silence of the cavernous room and reminded the Horned Baron just how quiet it was.
‘Enter,’ he called.
The door opened and Benson approached. ‘Bad news, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s still no sign of the Baroness.’
‘Oh dear, what a terrible shame,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Still, mustn’t grumble.’ He raised the mug to his lips and sipped the spittle tea. ‘Delicious,’ he murmured. ‘Throw another piece of wardrobe on the fire on your way out, Benson. There’s a good chap.’
As the gardener shut the door behind him, the Horned Baron leaned back into the plump cushions and closed his eyes.
‘Really must rescue Ingrid.’ He yawned. ‘One of these days.’
The weary pieces of cutlery huddled together round a large sign which read Nowhere as the sun set on another day.
They’d come so far. So very far. A soft wind blew and, as the moons of Muddle Earth rose in the sky, the cutlery glinted in the purple, yellow and green light.
The tiny teaspoon stood apart from the rest. It seemed to be listening to something that only it could hear. Something far off. Something calling to it . . .
With a little sigh, the teaspoon turned. The journey ahead was long, but it had to be done.
Tinkle, tinkle, it went as it tripped back across the stony ground. Clink, chink, clatter, clang, went the knives, forks, spoons and all the rest of the cutlery as they followe
d on behind.
Through the mountains they journeyed, across the plains. By dawn the following morning, the tall trees of Elfwood could be seen on the distant horizon.
The tiny teaspoon trembled with excitement. The calling was closer. It sighed softly.
Soon. Very soon . . .
‘Cuddles!’ A raucous voice shattered the silence of Giggle Glade. ‘I shan’t tell you again. I want my hot-water bottle refilling and I want it now!’
Dr Cuddles managed a weary giggle.
‘Cuddles!’
‘Is that you, my little caged song thrush?’ replied Dr Cuddles. He glanced out of the window for any sign of visitors. There was none. He giggled anxiously. ‘How the Horned Baron must be missing you?’ he said.
‘He can’t live without me!’ Ingrid screeched. ‘And when he finds out how I’ve been treated, he’ll knock your block off! Now, see to my hot-water bottle. Immediately!’
Dr Cuddles shook his head. His piercing blue eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, Horned Baron,’ he muttered, giggling menacingly. ‘You’re going to pay for this. You mark my words! You’re going to pay for this dearly!’
A new day was dawning in Muddle Earth. Stiltmice were stirring, batbirds were coming in to roost, and tree rabbits were rubbing their big blue eyes with their little pink paws.
At one end of the sky the horizon was tinged a muddy brown colour as two of the three moons of Muddle Earth – the purple and the yellow ones – set. (The green moon, despite high expectations and the most expert of forecasts, hadn’t bothered to make an appearance at all that night.) At the other end of the sky, the sun was rising. Its dazzling rays glinted on the uppermost peaks of Mount Boom and the Musty Mountains.
Boom, went Mount Boom weakly, and a ring of pinky grey smoke rose slowly into the air.
Far below, padding silently on broad paws along the dusty mountain road, a great, pink, striped cat emerged from the swirling mist. It paused, threw back its head and let out a loud, rumbling roar. Its sabre teeth gleamed. Every creature within earshot fell silent: the hillfish froze, a passing batbird wheeled noiselessly away, while the tree rabbits hid their eyes behind their long, floppy ears. The great pink cat scratched at the ground and roared a second time.
‘I know, I know,’ said its rider from astride the ornate, jewel-encrusted leather saddle secured round the creature’s broad chest. ‘It is good to be back.’
She dismounted, surveyed the scene, and gave a smile of satisfaction. The low sunlight shone on her flame-red plaits and golden skin, accentuating the curves of her firm muscles.
Her powerful physique was set off magnificently by a split-leg, tooled-leather tunic with a bear-fur trim and matching reversible chiffon and organza cloak, all topped off with a winged helmet of burnished bronze with silver inlay detailing. Her shapely ankles were emphasized by the lizard-gut thongs of her sling-back sandals, rising crisscross fashion right up to her knees. At her dragon-skin belt, she was wearing a gold, limited-edition armoury sword and accessorized catapult. The entire ensemble was completed with a precious little goat-ear shoulder bag.
‘We’ve been away too long,’ she said, thoughtfully fingering the notches and dents of battle which scarred the blade of her sword. ‘Orc wrestling, giant tickling, hag worrying. I’ve had enough, old friend. It’s time we settled down.’ She surveyed the horizon. ‘What we need is a nice, old-fashioned wizard to work for. No more smelly slime-demons and boring old sorcerors to sort out. Just a few goblins to boss around, and all the milk you can drink! I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to put my feet up. These sandals are killing me!’
She ruffled the creature’s soft, furry, pink ears. The battle-cat purred loudly. Brenda the Warrior-Princess seized the reins and leaped back into the saddle. The cat’s shoulder muscles rippled. It snarled fiercely and tossed its head.
‘Onwards, Sniffy!’ she cried, her voice echoing around the barren landscape, and tugged at the reins. ‘To the Enchanted Lake.’
The sun shone down bright and warm on Muddle Earth; its mountains and forests; its roads, bridges and towns – and on the Enchanted Lake, which rose up into the air like a vast, watery toadstool.
Sunlight shone through the transparent column of water, casting a rainbow-coloured shadow across the bubbling Perfumed Bog. Dazzled and confused by the bright light, a large silver fish swam too near to the bottom of the hovering lake, fell out of the water and down into the gaping beak of a waiting lazybird crouched beneath.
Flop, plop . . . Gulp!
Far up above the lazybird, the sun sparkled on the rippling surface of the lake and the ornately decorated houseboats, which were bobbing about in the fresh gathering breeze. It shone on the twisting chimneys, on the varnished prows and polished brass fittings, and through the glinting windows, sending beams of sunlight slicing through the dusty shadows inside.
A boy was standing at the entrance to the master cabin of the only occupied houseboat on the Enchanted Lake, banging on the door with his fist. His name was Joe Jefferson. Beside him sat Henry, his dog.
‘Wake up, Randalf!’ Joe was shouting. ‘Wake up!’
Henry barked.
The snoring from inside the cabin paused for a moment – before continuing with renewed vigour. A small budgie fluttered down and landed on the boy’s shoulder.
‘It’s not locked, you know,’ it said.
Joe seized the brass handle and pushed the door open. The sunlight flooded in, revealing the snorer – a rotund, bearded wizard sprawled across a tiny four-poster bed. His arms stuck out, his neck was cricked, while his feet hung over the bottom of the bed, the big toes protruding through the large frayed holes of a pair of woollen socks.
As the bright light hit his face, he snorted, grunted and smacked his lips. The eyelids fluttered for a moment, but remained shut.
‘Randalf!’ said Joe, his voice loud and thick with irritation. He strode forwards, Henry by his side, and shook the wizard by the shoulders. ‘Randalf, you promised!’
‘And you believed him?’ said Veronica the budgie, flapping up on to the top of the four-poster bed.
‘Ran-dalf!’ Joe shook him more vigorously. ‘Ran-dalf!’
The wizard turned over and continued to snore.
‘Leave this to me,’ said Veronica. The budgie hopped on to the pillow and put her beak next to Randalf’s ear. ‘Oh, Randy,’ she trilled. ‘Randy, wake up. There’s a stiltmouse in the bed.’
The wizard’s eyes snapped open. ‘Stiltmouse!’ he cried.‘Where? Where?’ He sat bolt upright in bed, banging his head hard on the curtain frame above him. ‘OUCH!’ he bellowed.
Joe struggled not to laugh as Randalf looked round fearfully, eyes wild and pointy hat quivering.
‘Stiltmice!’ yelled Randalf. ‘Nasty, horrible, twitching little things. Urgghh!’
He noticed the faces grinning at him. His eyes narrowed. ‘There is no stiltmouse, is there?’ he said.
Veronica and Joe laughed. Henry barked. ‘I see,’ said Randalf, pulling himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. He rubbed his throbbing head and winced.
‘You need a new bed, by the way,’ said Joe, chuckling softly. ‘This one’s far too small.’
Randalf glared at him indignantly. ‘I’ll have you know that this is a king-sized bed.’
‘Yes, it belonged to King Alf the Elf,’ Veronica butted in. ‘And even he traded it in for something bigger. Boy, they really saw you coming at Krump’s Discount Furniture Store . . .’
‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf sleepily, yawning, stretching – and losing his balance. He keeled over, grabbing hold of one of the bed curtains (which came away in his hands) as he fell, and landed on the floor with a loud bang. The houseboat swayed.
‘Ouch!’ he roared – even more loudly than before. He turned to Veronica. ‘This is all your fault for waking me so fraudulently!’ he said. ‘Stiltmouse, indeed!’
‘It’s your own fault for oversleeping, Fatso!’ said Veronica calmly.
‘
Yes!’ Joe broke in, with feeling. ‘You said we’d leave by the first light of dawn, and it’s almost midday! You promised!’
‘But—’ Randalf began.
‘You know full well,’ Joe continued without taking a breath, ‘that if I’m ever to leave Muddle Earth, we must go to Giggle Glade in Elfwood and retrieve the Great Book of Spells from Dr—’
‘And so we shall, my lad!’ Randalf interrupted before the dreaded name could be spoken. ‘So we shall! After all, given everything you’ve done for Muddle Earth, it’s the least I can do.’
‘Actually,’ interrupted Veronica, ‘doing nothing is the least you can do, and that’s something you’re an expert at.’
‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf. ‘Believe me, my boy, we shall go to Elfwood . . .’
‘But when?’ Joe demanded. ‘When? No matter how often you promise we’ll go, whenever the time comes you’ve always got an excuse for not going,’ he said crossly. ‘What was it yesterday? Oh, yes, you had to stay in to wash your beard. And the day before? Mangel-wurzel shopping in Trollbridge. And the day before that, tree rabbit racing in Goblintown. And last week it was the wrong kind of rain, and the week before that . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ said Randalf sympathetically. ‘Several important matters and unfortunate, unforeseen difficulties have come up recently. But I have cleared my desk, I have wiped the slate clean . . .’
‘You? Cleaning?’ Veronica sneered. ‘That’d be a first!’
Randalf ignored her. ‘I said we would set off today and I meant it.’ He frowned. ‘It’s odd,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I distinctly remember setting the clock.’ He left the bed cabin and strode across the living room. ‘I do hope it’s not being difficult again.’
The hands of the clock were both pointing downwards, indicating that the time was half past six in the morning – or the evening. With the sun high in the sky, it was clearly neither. Grumbling ominously under his breath, Randalf seized hold of both sides of the clock and gave it a violent shake. The clock rattled and clunked, and something went boing!
Muddle Earth Page 19
