Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

  ‘I think you’ll find he did,’ Veronica observed.

  ‘Pieces of eight!’ said Norbert, a look of puzzlement on his face. ‘Pieces of eight . . . nine . . . ten green bottles, running down the hall . . .’

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’ Randalf said. ‘You drank from the babbling brook.’

  Norbert nodded sadly.

  ‘After I specifically told you not to,’ Randalf sighed. ‘That’s all we need,’ he said. ‘A babbling ogre.’

  ‘Mud pies and pointy sticks . . . I . . . I’m sorry,’ said Norbert. ‘But I was so thirsty . . . Friday. Tuesday’s child is full of cake . . .’ He grimaced, clamped his hands over his mouth and looked round woefully.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Brenda. ‘It’ll wear off.’

  ‘But when?’ Norbert mumbled. ‘Where? Wet? Wellington boot?’

  ‘When Nature calls,’ said Brenda cheerfully, slapping the ogre on the back.

  Joe giggled.

  Norbert removed his hands. He frowned. ‘You mean when I have a wee . . . wee . . . wee Willie Winkie, running through . . .’

  ‘That’s exactly what she means, Norbert,’ said Randalf. ‘And in the meantime, I’d be grateful if you would do your best to remain quiet. Stealth and silence are the hallmarks of a successful quest. You do want our quest to be successful, don’t you?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ said Norbert, nodding earnestly, his hands clamped back in place.

  ‘Then let us proceed,’ said Randalf. ‘Brenda, lead the way!’

  Keeping close together, the intrepid travellers continued through Elfwood as fast as they could – which, thanks to Randalf’s increasingly frequent stops, wasn’t that fast at all. Puffing and panting, he would have sat himself down on every tree stump he came to if Brenda hadn’t been there to urge him on.

  ‘Not far now, sir,’ she said, seizing his arm and steering him away from a particularly inviting beech stump in front of them. ‘Just a little bit furth . . .’

  ‘I can’t,’ Randalf groaned as he sat down heavily, mopping his brow and gasping for breath. ‘Must . . . take . . . rest . . .’

  ‘Well done, Fatso,’ said Veronica sarcastically. ‘You’ve broken your own record. That was less than a minute since the last tree stump.’

  ‘Non . . . non . . . nonsense,’ Randalf panted. ‘We’ve been walking for miles, haven’t we, Brenda?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say miles exactly,’ said Brenda. ‘And perhaps you could try not to stop quite so often, Rudolf.’

  ‘Come on, Randalf,’ said Joe encouragingly. ‘You can do it.’

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ said Randalf, gathering himself. ‘But you don’t have my delicate feet. I tell you, my little toe is killing me . . .’

  ‘Not to mention the dodgy excuses!’ Veronica butted in.

  ‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf.

  ‘Well, honestly!’ said Veronica. ‘Who are you trying to kid?’

  ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ said Joe. He turned to Norbert. ‘Can you carry him?’

  The ogre nodded, his hands still firmly pressed against his mouth.

  ‘I’m not getting back on Norbert’s shoulder,’ said Randalf. ‘Not with all these low branches.’

  Joe sighed. ‘Perhaps he could carry you piggyback,’ he said.

  ‘Very appropriate,’ Veronica sniggered.

  ‘Oh, if you insist,’ said Randalf. He heaved himself off the tree stump and stood behind the ogre. Norbert crouched down. Randalf jumped up stiffly on to his back and grabbed on round his neck. ‘Eeek!’ he cried out. ‘Norbert, I’m slipping!’

  Norbert swung his arms round behind his back, jigged Randalf up and supported him under his legs.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Randalf.

  ‘Flapjack, pelican, walrus, trumpet,’ said Norbert, blushing furiously. ‘S . . . sorry, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m . . . trying . . .’

  ‘You can say that again,’ muttered Veronica.

  ‘ . . . not . . . to . . . say . . . anything . . . silly . . . billy, pudding and pie, Major Minor, Dr Cuddl . . .’

  ‘That is enough, Norbert!’ said Randalf, clamping his own hands over the ogre’s mouth. ‘And don’t slobber!’

  ‘Right, well if we’re finally all ready, I think we should make a move!’ said Brenda in her most warrior-princessy voice. ‘Which way, Rupert?’

  ‘Follow me, everyone,’ said Randalf confidently. ‘I know these woods like the back of my hand. Just keep going to the right . . . To the right, Norbert!’ he said as the ogre lurched to the left. ‘That’s it. And do try to keep up. No dawdling at the back!’

  Joe followed, close on Norbert’s heels, with Henry – still on his lead – trotting beside him and Veronica on his shoulder. Sniffy padded silently behind him. Brenda – sword drawn and eyes peeled – brought up the rear.

  And so they continued, on and on. And on and on and on and on and on . . . The sun rose high, crossed the sky, and began to sink back down again. And still they journeyed on. Occasionally, Norbert – who was having difficulty not slobbering, causing Randalf’s hands to slip – would start babbling again. For the most part, however, they travelled in silence, until . . .

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said Joe.

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Randalf. ‘I should be back on the houseboat, feet up, sipping a nice lukewarm cup of spittle tea, not trudging through Elfwood on the back of a lumpy, bumpy, dribbling ogre who can’t stop babbling.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘It’s not that,’ he said.

  Brenda caught him up. ‘What’s wrong, Joe?’ she asked, looking round anxiously. ‘Have you seen something? A monster? A dragon? A . . . an . . . elf, maybe?’

  Joe shook his head and pointed at a tree stump some metres away. A particularly inviting beech stump . . . Joe had recognized it at once.

  ‘We’ve been going round in circles!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, Randalf. We’re lost!’

  Veronica snorted. ‘Trust Fatso! “I know Elfwood like the back of my hand,” he said. Wild goose chase, more like.’

  ‘It . . . it wasn’t me,’ Randalf blustered. ‘It was Norbert.’

  ‘Mm hmmm mmm,’ muttered Norbert indignantly behind Randalf’s hands.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Randalf. ‘Never could tell his left from his right.’

  Norbert lowered his arms. Randalf fell to the ground.

  ‘Tennis balls! Washing machine! Cheese on toast! . . .’ His face twisted up with frustration, Norbert turned on his heels and stomped off into the trees.

  ‘Norbert?’ Randalf called after him. ‘Norbert, come back at once. You can’t leave me here.’

  ‘He just has,’ said Veronica.

  Randalf sighed and sat down on the beech stump.

  ‘If you don’t know where it is,’ said Joe, ‘how are we going to get to Giggle Glade?’

  ‘Did you hear that, Eileen?’ came the gruff voice of a nearby elm. ‘They don’t know how to get to Giggle Glade.’

  ‘I know, Stan. I did wonder why they were taking such a roundabout route,’ his neighbour replied. ‘I just assumed that fat one knew where he was going.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said a willowy willow. ‘And I didn’t like to say anything,’ she added. ‘It seemed a bit forward.’

  ‘They want to go that way, don’t they?’ said Stan.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Eileen, ‘bearing left at Delilah the holly bush – taking care to mind her prickles and down towards the sycamores . . .’

  Joe beamed. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  The trees rustled.

  ‘Ooh, what a nice young man,’ said a silver birch, her leaves trembling. ‘So polite!’

  ‘Yes, not like that great big, three-eyed one,’ said an outraged oak.

  Just then, Norbert emerged from behind the tree, grinning broadly and tightening his belt. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I think I’m almost back to normal now, sir. I’ve just . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, spare us the details, Norbert,’ said Rand
alf, taking control of the situation. He pulled himself up off the tree stump and, with Veronica up on the brim of his pointy hat, strode off towards the holly bush. ‘Hurry up, you lot,’ he called back. ‘We’ve wasted enough time already.’

  With the trees guiding them through the woods, the small party made good progress.

  ‘They’ll be there in no time, Sid,’ commented one of the sycamores.

  ‘That’s true, Sam,’ said another, with a shudder that sent a shower of whirlygigs spinning down through the air. ‘With a bit of luck, they’ll be able to do something about that dastardly Dr Cuddles.’

  ‘And not a moment too soon,’ said another, ‘what with Giggle Glade getting bigger by the day.’

  ‘I’m counting on them,’ said another. ‘I . . . ooh, they need to bear a little bit further left, don’t they? Past Finnbar – is that his name? That great fir tree . . . And taking care not to wake Uncle Cedric . . .’

  ‘No chance of that,’ said yet another. ‘He’s been sleeping like a log for years.’

  ‘That’s it. Now they’re on the right track.’

  Joe was feeling much more confident now. Randalf seemed to have found his second wind, Norbert was back to normal and even Veronica was chirpier than usual.

  ‘We must be getting near,’ she was saying. ‘Listen.’

  Joe cocked his head to one side. From far away, he could hear the distant sound of hammering and drilling and sawing . . .’

  ‘Ooh,’ shuddered a great pine tree, her needles quivering. ‘Can you hear that, Daphne?’

  ‘Dr Cuddles’s fiendish plans,’ a willow replied in a shaky voice. ‘It’s enough to make you weep.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Joe.‘We’re going to put an end to Dr Cuddles once and for all.’ He turned. ‘Aren’t we, Brenda?’

  The warrior-princess nodded, but Joe couldn’t help noticing that her face was pale and drawn, her nose twitched and her eyes darted round constantly into the shadows. Beside her, Sniffy seemed just as uneasy.

  ‘Are you all right, Brenda?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Brenda. ‘It’s just . . .’ She was staring at the ground in front of her. ‘What is that?’

  Joe frowned. ‘A bit of cloth,’ he said, picking up a small scrap of red and white spotted material by Brenda’s foot. ‘Why?’

  ‘It looks like a handkerchief,’ said Brenda, a tremble in her voice. ‘An elf’s handkerchief.’

  ‘How can it be?’ said Joe. ‘You heard what Randalf said. There aren’t any elves in Elfwood.’

  Brenda pointed to her left. ‘If that’s true, then what is that?’

  Joe retrieved a small silver thimble from the ground. Even he had to admit that it looked the perfect size for tiny elf fingers.

  ‘And that!’ said Brenda, beads of sweat appearing on her brow. ‘And that – and that!’

  Joe looked round at the forest floor. It was littered with tiny objects. There was a tiny bone comb. A miniature fan. A small tasselled cap. A couple of minute wooden buttons . . .

  ‘Elf droppings!’ Brenda cried out in horror.

  Just then, Randalf’s voice floated back. ‘Hurry up, you lot! We’re here!’

  ‘Did you hear that, Brenda?’ said Joe excitedly. ‘We’ve made it to Giggle Glade!’

  Brenda nodded dumbly, but she clearly wasn’t listening.

  Joe took her gently by the arm. ‘Come on, Brenda,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about these things. They’ve probably been lying here for years.’

  Reluctantly, Brenda let Joe lead her on. Even more reluctantly, Sniffy, whose nose was quivering suspiciously, went with them. They rounded a vast, spreading horse chestnut tree. And there was Randalf.

  ‘There you are!’ he said, talking in a loud stage whisper.

  While Brenda and Sniffy hung back, Joe went over to him, and peered through the leafy branches into the clearing beyond. ‘Wow!’ he gasped.

  In front of him, towering up from the bare ground and supported by rickety scaffolding, was a huge wooden construction which looked for all the world, or so Joe thought, like a giant rabbit’s head. From the right came the sound of chopping axes. From the left, the squeal of a circular saw. While from the head itself (if that’s what it was), the drum-like beat of a hundred banging hammers echoed through the air.

  Around the edge of the clearing, the trees wailed and waved their branches. ‘Oh, there goes Arnold,’ moaned a tree close by as, with a creak and a thud, a tall pine tree slammed to the ground.

  ‘And now they’re starting on Montague,’ cried another.

  The whole of Giggle Glade was a hive of activity, with trees being felled, stripped and turned into planks and boards which, in turn, were being used to construct the curious structure. Orchestrating the whole process was a wizard with long robes and a particularly wrinkled face, who was standing beside the scaffolding, a huge piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘Right, according to Figure 3 here, section c – the piece with the inverse dove-tail joints must be connected to section r – making sure that the hinge-flange (see Figure 8) is uppermost, and the dowling trim (see additional notes) is on the left . . .’ He paused, looked up at the rabbit’s head, then back at the plans. ‘No, hang on a moment.’ He turned the paper right round. ‘Section d should be attached to section m, but not before the floating divet has been secured.’ He frowned. ‘Floating divet? What on Muddle Earth is a floating divet? Who writes this stuff?’

  ‘You did!’ a chorus of tiny voices replied.

  ‘That’s Roger the Wrinkled,’ Randalf whispered to Joe. ‘He taught me everything I know.’

  ‘It took him about five minutes,’ muttered Veronica.

  Randalf shook his head. ‘Poor Roger,’ he said. ‘I knew something awful had happened to him, but I never imagined he’d be reduced to this.’

  Joe followed Randalf’s gaze to the giant ball and chain attached to Roger the Wrinkled’s ankle.

  Randalf shuddered. ‘Bound and shackled and forced to do the bidding of Dr . . . Dr . . .’ He looked away, unable to speak the whole name out loud.

  ‘Just as well we’ve got Joe the Barbarian and Brenda, Warrior-Princess on our side, isn’t it, sir?’ said Norbert.

  ‘Yes,’ said Randalf, slightly less than certainly. ‘Where is Brenda.’ He looked round. ‘Oh, there you are. What are you doing back there?’

  Brenda emerged from behind a tree. ‘What are those voices?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Come and have a look.’ He smiled at her as he parted the overhanging branches. ‘You’re in luck, my dear,’ he said. ‘Giggle Glade is absolutely crawling with elves! Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Eeek!’ squeaked Brenda.

  Randalf frowned. ‘Brenda?’ he said. ‘Where are you going? Brenda, why are you climbing that tree? Brenda, speak to me!’

  ‘Tee-hee-hee,’ giggled a portly oak tree as Brenda and Sniffy scrambled high up into its branches as quickly as they could. ‘Ooh, that tickles. Ooh! Ah! Ha-ha-ha!’

  ‘Brenda, whatever’s the matter?’ Randalf whispered as loudly as he dared. ‘Do you sense danger? Is it fire-breathing dragons? Awesome orcs? The warty gutguzzler from the Black Lagoon . . . ?’

  ‘No,’ Brenda sobbed. ‘It’s elves.’

  ‘Elves?’ Randalf squawked with disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious! A great big, strapping warrior-princess like you afraid of tiny little elves. I don’t believe it!’

  Joe sighed. ‘I think Brenda’s got a bit of a thing about elves,’ he said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Randalf. He peered up at the tree. ‘Brenda, tell me it isn’t true. Please, Brenda . . .’

  ‘It’s t . . . t . . . true,’ she stammered. ‘Hate them! Hate them! Hate them! Horrible, bony little bodies. Squeaky little voices . . .’ The branch she was clinging to juddered violently. ‘Make them all go away. Please!’

  ‘But Brenda,’ Randalf pleaded. ‘I believed in you. Your huge muscles, your great big battle-cat. What about all your heroic deeds? The h
ags you’ve wrestled, the sorcerors you’ve squashed?’

  ‘Why do you think I’ve been roaming the Northern Wastes all this time?’ sobbed Brenda, burying her face in her hands. ‘Because I was hiding away from those nasty little things and trying to conquer my fears. And I thought I had. I really did. I thought I was finally ready to return to Muddle Earth, but no . . . No!’ Sobs racked her powerful body. Beside her, Sniffy whimpered miserably at his mistress’s distress.

  ‘Ooh, hark at her!’ said the oak.

  Suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion, Randalf sat down heavily on the ground.

  ‘I always knew there was something a bit odd about that so called warrior-princess of yours,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ said Randalf wearily. ‘All over. Abandon quest. We may as well go home.’

  ‘Go home?’ stormed Joe.‘That’s precisely what I intend to do – and I’m not talking about a houseboat on a floating lake!’

  ‘But we can’t,’ said Randalf. ‘Not without our warrior-princess.’

  ‘We can and we shall!’ said Joe, his head high, his eyes gleaming. ‘I, for one, refuse to give up now. Not when we’ve come so far. We’ve battled through the forest. We’ve found Giggle Glade. Now it’s time to do what we came here to do. We’re going to free Roger the Wrinkled. We’re going to find that Great Book of Spells. And we’re going to destroy Dr Cuddles!’

  ‘Bravo, I say,’ said a towering hazelnut tree nearby. ‘That’s the kind of fighting talk I like to hear.’

  ‘Same here, Dolores. It’s time someone stood up to that starey-eyed little bully!’

  Joe drew his sword and raised it high in the air. ‘Who’s with me?’ he cried out.

  ‘I’m with you!’ Veronica shouted back.

  ‘Cauliflower cheese. Wingnuts!’ said Norbert. ‘Sorry, hiccups!’ He smiled. ‘What I meant was, I’m with you, Joe. I’m with you every step of the way.’

  They all turned to Randalf. ‘And you?’ said Joe.

  Randalf sat up, his face etched with miserable resignation. He shook his head. ‘I’m going to regret this,’ he said. ‘It’s completely against my better judgement, so don’t blame me when it all goes wrong . . .’