The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles

by Julie Andrews Edwards

  He stroked Lindy's hair and talked quietly in the darkness, about the stars and constellations. He told them about the furry little creatures called Flukes, and how, when the Whangdoodle first left the human world, they had hidden away in a pair of his old slippers. When they were finally discovered, it was too late to send them back.

  Lulled by his soft voice, the children pulled their scrappy caps down over their eyes and fell into an easy and comfortable sleep.

  The professor woke them early. It was barely light and the sun had yet to show itself. Pockets of mist lay among the vivid blue hills.

  He said quietly, "It is imperative that we get through the Forest of the Tree Squeaks before they wake up. If they see us they'll warn the Prock. Let's go, keep very quiet."

  He led the way down the hill and the Whiffle Bird flew onto Tom's shoulder.

  "Professor," whispered Ben. "There's a road just over there."

  The professor nodded. "Probably the main highway. What a bit of luck!"

  The sky was beginning to redden. The professor quickened his pace. They reached the road and discovered that it was made of shell-pink flowers, clustered so tightly together that they were like a carpet. A signpost stood on a grassy bank. One arm pointed to the trees and read, To the Forest of the Tree Squeaks. Another arm below it pointed in the same direction. It read, To the Palace.

  "Not long now," the professor murmured happily. "Let's take off our shoes. We'll make less noise."

  The road was cool and springy beneath their feet. Tom noticed some white star-shaped blossoms growing in a hedge with huge berries hanging beneath them. He tugged the professor's sleeve and asked if he could eat some.

  The professor picked a berry and tasted it. "Delicious," he pronounced.

  "Shut your mouth," muttered the Whiffle Bird.

  "Why did she say that?" asked Lindy.

  "She's saying we really must be quiet," whispered the professor and he handed Tom a fistful of berries.

  "Yes. But does she have to be so rude about it?" Lindy picked one of the berries and popped it into her mouth.

  By the time they reached the entrance to the forest everyone had eaten a scrumptious breakfast.

  Their first impression of the forest was that it was dark and gloomy. But as their eyes adjusted to the light, they saw that it was unusually colorful.

  The plum-colored trees had brown, gnarled trunks. Most of them were embraced by a vivid pink ivy, growing and twining around the tall columns and twisted limbs. Garlands of honey-cream flowers hung from the branches, linking one tree to another. The floor was mossy and bedded with ferns the color of amethyst. Huge pearl-white and crimson orchids grew at the side of the road, which pointed straight as an arrow into the dark interior.

  Then they saw the eyes. There were thousands of them—large, unblinking, tortoiseshell-yellow orbs staring down through the leaves from every part of the forest.

  It was such a chilling sight that the professor and the children came to a complete halt. Gradually, they were able to discern the bodies of the Tree Squeaks, which were hanging upside-down by their tails from every tree. They were like little russet-colored monkeys, with wings folded at their sides.

  Lindy took the professor's hand. "Are they awake or asleep?" she whispered.

  "Asleep, I think. They have a strange characteristic of being able to sleep with their eyes open. Come on.

  They moved forward again, clutching their shoes in their hands. The forest was full of soft rustling sounds and an occasional tiny squeak. The professor and Lindy led the way, with Ben and Tom and the Whiffle Bird bringing up the rear.

  Suddenly Ben startled everyone by giving a clear, loud hiccough. He dropped his shoes and clapped a hand across his mouth.

  The professor spun around. Ben's eyes were wide with horror. His shoulders heaved as he hiccoughed again.

  The Whiffle Bird nervously fluffed out her feathers. "Shut your mouth," she mumbled.

  "Sssh," hissed the professor.

  Everyone looked up at the Tree Squeaks. They had not moved. The professor picked up Ben's shoes and motioned to the children to follow him.

  They had only gone a few more paces when Lindy made a high, squeaky sound, like a mouse with a bad attack of the sneezes. She looked panic-stricken and started to apologize, but all that came out was another squeaking hiccough. "Oh . . . heec . oh! Professor . . . heec . . what shall I, I. . . heec . do?" She could not stop. The professor hurriedly pulled out his big spotted handkerchief. Lindy grabbed it and promptly dropped one of her shoes.

  Everyone tried to do something at once. Lindy stuffed the handkerchief into her mouth. Ben bent to pick up Lindy's shoe, still keeping one hand across his mouth. The professor caught his umbrella handle in his pocket, and Tom suddenly gave such a loud hic that the surprised Whiffle Bird took off. The professor dived for her and caught her just as she was flying past him. His umbrella and the shoes scattered in all directions.

  "Dear Whiffle Bird," he breathed fervently, "please don't make a sound."

  By now all three children were hiccoughing violently.

  The professor signaled for everyone to stand still. He stroked the Whiffle Bird and looked up at the Tree Squeaks. In spite of the noise, they remained undisturbed.

  "I'm going to tie your shoes together so that you can hang them around your necks," he whispered. "That will leave your hands free to cover your mouths." He gathered up the shoes and gave a pair to each child.

  "Now then, we will start again. Follow me, and please try to keep quiet," at which point he gave the loudest hiccough the children had ever heard.

  The professor looked so startled, it was all they could do to keep from laughing. The professor lifted up the collar of his jacket and pulled the coat above his head. Muffled sounds came from beneath it as he struggled to stem the attack.

  The children waited, twitching and shaking, trying desperately to rid themselves of their own fearful spasms.

  Presently, the professor emerged from beneath his coat, his face beet-red. He gasped, "We should never have eaten—hic—those berries. Take a deep breath and—hic—hold it as long as you—hic—can."

  The children did as they were told until they thought their lungs would burst, then they carefully exhaled. To their surprise the hiccoughs seemed to have gone.

  They all looked at each other. Everything was silent again. Not a sound, not a single peep came from any of them. They smiled with relief.

  "Everybody okay now?" the professor whispered. They nodded.

  "Right. Let's get out of here."

  They moved off. Without warning, each one of them let forth an explosive, unguarded hic at exactly the same moment.

  The noise was so loud that it seemed to split the forest wide open. The result was disastrous. Every Tree Squeak rose up into the air, squealing, squawking and screeching, and the entire place rang and throbbed with the terrible sound.

  Lindy screamed. Tom covered his ears. "The Whiffle Bird cried, "MAYDAY!" and the professor grumbled, "Fiddlesticks. Hic. Fiddlesticks."

  Ben watched the black cloud of Tree Squeaks swirling above him. To his amazement, he realized they were screaming "PEOPLE, PEOPLE, PEOPLE, PEOPLE!" as loud as they could. The Prock and every other creature in the land could not fail to hear such a warning.

  The Whiffle Bird's voice cut through the frightful din. "CHEER UP!" she squawked.

  "Well, that's a stupid thing to say," shouted Ben angrily.

  The professor hugged Lindy close because she was sobbing with fright. "Cheer . . . up. Up. Up. Cheer. That's it," he cried. "Let's cheer. Let's drown out the noise. I refuse to be intimidated by this racket."

  "What's intim-hic-idated?" asked Lindy.

  "Oh never mind, darling. Just sing. Sing as loud as you can. All of you. Remember when we went on our picnic and sang in the rain? Sing louder than that."

  The professor started to sing a rousing march. The children joined in, stomping and banging their shoes together, making so much nois
e that the Whiffle Bird got quite excited and flew around shrieking ferociously, "SHOOT THE WORKS!" The terrible clamor above them diminished and their hiccoughs grew less as the professor, waving his umbrella like a baton, led the way through the forest. Quite suddenly, they emerged from the trees and into the daylight. The morning sun was so bright that it took a moment or two to get used to it. They continued singing until they were well away from the forest. The sound of the Tree Squeaks subsided and gradually faded away altogether.

  The professor sank into the grass. "My great godfathers!" he said with feeling. "I have never been through such a frightful experience. Those miserable Tree Squeaks and those ghastly hiccoughs." He clasped a hand to his stomach.

  "Was it the berries that made us hiccough?" asked Tom.

  "Of course," replied the professor. "That's what the Whiffle Bird was going on about when we were eating. When she said 'Shut your mouth' she meant `Don't eat.' "

  Ben stroked the Whiffle Bird's beautiful feathers. "You always know the right thing to tell us, don't you, Whiffle Bird?"

  The Whiffle Bird made her humming sounds and strutted around proudly.

  The professor said, "I really must pay more attention to her. That's the second time I have missed the sense of what she was saying, and both times we got into trouble." He prodded Tom. "There's a lesson in that, young man. Learn to listen well when people are talking. First, it's a great art, and second, it's quite possible that when people say one thing, they mean another." He rubbed his forehead wearily and looked at the children. "You know, we haven't a hope now of reaching the palace without trouble of some kind. I am quite sure the Prock heard the Tree Squeaks and is already making plans to stop us."

  "But we are going on, aren't we?" asked Ben hopefully.

  "I'd like to—that is, if you all agree," said the professor. "We're really so close . . ."

  "I say it's the Prock or us," Tom declared.

  "How do you feel about it, Lindy?"

  "Oh, I feel fine," she said in a small voice. "I just wish we could stop being surprised all the time."

  The professor nodded understandingly and looked around. The region was very different from anything they had seen before: a white desert with cherry-red cactus plants growing out of the sandy ground. There were small foothills in the immediate area and beyond them, the giant mountains and the Whangdoodle's palace.

  The professor got to his feet. "Well, if we're going to continue we'd best be on our way." He strode off at a good pace and the children followed.

  TWO

  It was a warm sultry morning. The pink road wound through the desert-like country, and quite suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, it divided. One way went northwest, the other northeast. Signposts at the junction pointed both ways and each sign read To the Palace.

  "Here's a dilemma," said the professor. "Which way shall we go?"

  "WATCH YOUR STEP," squawked the Whiffle Bird.

  The professor looked at her closely. "You couldn't possibly explain that remark, could you?" he asked.

  She remained silent.

  "There's only one thing to do," the professor declared. "We must take a gamble. Come along."

  They took the road heading northwest. Having traveled for some time, they turned a corner and there, sitting in the middle of the road, was a creature. He was staring at his very tiny toes and singing a sad mournful song.

  He had a small head and a large body; in fact, he was completely pear-shaped. He was the color of early-morning mist and had two soulful brown eyes with extremely long, silky eyelashes and a topknot of hair that stuck out of his head like the bristles of a scrubbing brush.

  The professor pulled the children to a halt. The creature obviously had not seen them, for he continued to sing and stare at the ground.

  Oh . . woe . . woe is me.

  Pm fat, and my toes are so ti . . . neee.

  Hi diddley, dum de din,

  I wish I knew what place I'm in.

  Ho . . . alas . . . alack . . hooray,

  I'm here tomorrow, gone today.

  The professor cleared his throat and tapped the whatever-it-was on the shoulder. The creature looked up quite unsurprised and stared for a long time. Then he simply said, "Oh. Hello."

  "Good morning," said the professor brightly. "We were wondering if you could give us some help."

  "Help? Oh yes, it would be nice," the creature replied absently.

  "My name is Savant. May I know yours?"

  "Know my what?"

  "Your name."

  "Ah. Yes. I have a name. Somewhere." He looked around vaguely. "I think I'm a Grick. Or is it a Dunk? I'm sure I'm somebody. It's on a piece of paper. I don't know where I put it."

  "Would it be that paper in your hand?"

  "What hand?" The creature looked startled. "Oh yes, here we are." He peered at a piece of faded parchment which he had been clutching. "Yes. This is definitely what I am. I'm an Oinck."

  The professor was excited. "I thought you probably were, but I wasn't sure. It's a great pleasure to meet you."

  "Is it?" said the creature. "I've never met me, so I wouldn't know."

  "Could you tell me if this is the correct way to the palace?"

  "What palace?"

  "That one up there." The professor pointed.

  "Gracious. What is that?" The Oinck peered at the mountain. "I don't see very much, you know. Only my toes." He looked back at the ground and began singing again.

  If I had eleven toes

  I would use one for a nose, Which I haven't got

  Because it's much too hot.

  He looked at the professor and said, "It is too hot for a nose, isn't it?"

  "Well, it certainly is warm," agreed the professor.

  "Yes, indeed." The Oinck rolled his eyes up to the sky and rocked slowly backwards and forwards. "No doubt about it. A nose would be miserable in this heat."

  The children burst out laughing.

  The professor decided to try again. "Is this the road to the palace?"

  The Oinck jumped. "You startled me. Who are you?"

  The professor sighed. "I'm just trying to find out if this road leads anywhere."

  "Ah. Well, I'll tell you nothing for something," said the Oinck solemnly. "If you follow this road long enough, you're definitely going to get somewhere. You haven't seen an Oinck by any chance, have you?"

  The professor grinned. "Funny you should ask. I was just talking to one."

  "Were you?" The Oinck seemed very impressed. "I haven't been in touch since I left the Whangdoodle."

  "When did you last see the Whangdoodle?"

  "Ooh. Perhaps it was yesterday."

  "Which direction did you come from?"

  "I came from where I was," said the Oinck. "Did you take this road, or the other road back there?" pressed the professor.

  "Yes, definitely," nodded the Oinck, and he began to sing again.

  It's left or right to anyplace,

  Depending on the way you face.

  And when you're left and looking 'round, Then right seems much the better ground. But just when right is Paradise,

  The left appears to be as nice.

  "That fellow isn't as absentminded as he makes himself out to be," the professor confided to the children. "He can't remember anything, yet he suddenly spoke of the Whangdoodle. I'm sure that last song was meant to confuse us."

  "I'll bet the Prock sent him," said Ben.

  "My guess, exactly. Come on."

  The professor led the way around the Oinck, who continued singing to himself, apparently oblivious of everything but his toes. However, after they had gone a short distance, the professor and the children turned for a last look and the Oinck was nowhere in sight.

  "Ha," said the professor. "I thought as much. He's probably gone straight to the Prock."

  "Oh, dear." Lindy suddenly felt anxious.

  "Don't worry, Lindy. Look how content the Whiffle Bird is. I'm sure we're doing the right thing."

  "
Could I take off my scrappy cap ?" she asked. "I'm feeling awfully hot."

  "I should say not," the professor replied. "You must all keep your hats on. I told you how important they are." Then he cried excitedly, "Well, look at that. No wonder you're feeling hot."

  The pink road ahead wound its way among a number of steaming, bubbling pools. Surrounded by the white desert, they heaved and swirled like cream in a mixer, making the most wonderful bubbly, squelchy sounds. Suddenly, one of the pools began to rise like a cake in an oven, swelling and expanding, and finally exploding in a shower of white foam. Another pool exploded and then another.

  "We must be in a kind of geyser basin," declared the professor.

  "What's a geyser?" asked Lindy.

  "Just what you see—a series of fountain-like jets coming from boiling water underground that has turned to steam."

  Lindy moved around to the far side of a pool just as a plume of water rose into the air.

  "O000h, Professor," she cried. "I can see you through the water. You look all wavy. Can you see me?"

  "I can indeed." The professor peered at her through the fountain. "It's like looking through the mirrors at a fun house, isn't it?"

  Ben and Tom walked on down the road. The Whiffle Bird gave a squawk and flapped around the professor's head.

  "WATCH IT," she called. She flew to the top of the fountain and balanced on the crest, tumbling over and over on it, looking like a multicolored spinning ball.

  "I am watching, my friend," the professor called out to her, "and very pretty you look, too."

  The boys were a considerable way down the road.

  Ben said, "Look. There's another signpost. Let's see what it says."

  The sign read: To the Stump.

  "I've heard of that," said Tom.

  "Yes, of course," cried Ben excitedly. "Don't you remember the first signpost we ever saw . . . back in the Blandlands? The professor said then that we would have to pass 'The Stump.' Now this really proves we're on the right road."