The Adventures of King Midas (Red Storybook)

by Lynne Reid Banks

  Whoever the voice belonged to burst into a noisy laugh.

  “Of course I’m not!” it said. “I’m the mumbo you were singing about, and I’m going to eat you. Pity in a way. Liked the song.”

  “I could – make up another verse about you – if you like,” said the King quickly, trying to control his breathing.

  There was a pause.

  “Would there be long words in it?”

  “Oh yes, I know lots of long words!” said the King hastily.

  Another thoughtful pause, and then the voice said, “No. Sorry. Can’t wait. I’m starving.”

  Midas suddenly remembered, in his extremity, that Gollop had said something about the witch taking the flandy-bakes to feed her mumbo. So he choked out through his terror: “Haven’t you eaten any flandy-bakes lately?”

  Midas felt the Thing shuffle closer. He could smell its breath now. It had a sinister smoky smell.

  “Who told you about those?” it hissed.

  “All the best mumbos feed on them,” said the King, rather cleverly.

  There was a long pause, and then the Mumbo said craftily, “Perhaps I won’t eat you just yet. I’ll have a competition with you first.”

  “A – a what did you say?” asked the King in bewilderment.

  “You’re not deaf, are you?” the Mumbo asked rudely. Its voice was odd, not like a monster’s, more like the voice of a cheeky little boy. Suddenly it was shouting in the King’s ear: “A COMPETITION, I said! You know what a COMPETITION is, I suppose?”

  “I think so,” said the King, banging his ear, which nearly was deaf by now.

  “It’s a thing – where you both – try to do something – better than the other,” said the Mumbo very slowly, as if the King were a half-wit. “Got that? With ours, whoever wins gets to eat the one who loses.”

  “No,” said the King bravely. “If I win, you must take me to see Witch Wuzzleflump.”

  The mumbo burst into sniggers. “Why not? You can’t possibly beat me. The COMPETITION is to see who can throw the furthest.”

  “But there’s no light to see by,” objected the King, “so how can we know who’s won?”

  “I can see in the dark,” said the mumbo smugly.

  “Well, I can’t,” said the King, “so you can’t call it a fair COMPETITION.” He roared the word, like the mumbo. Heaven knows how he dared.

  “All right, all right, no need to shout,” it said. It had moved further away and now seemed to be round a corner. “I’ll give you some light since you’re so fussy.”

  There was a little click. All along the roof, and in holes in the walls, glow-worms lit up.

  The King instantly turned his eyes to the place where the mumbo’s voice had come from.

  “I’m behind you,” it said. “Don’t look round. If you see me, I’ll eat you on the spot.”

  The King swallowed hard and faced straight ahead, down the tunnel.

  “Do you see that big pointed thing up ahead, hanging from the roof?”

  “The stalactite, you mean?”

  “Is that what it’s called? Stal-ac-tite.” It rolled the syllables round its mouth. “Hm! I like it. I love long words. Well, anyway, the one that comes nearest to hitting it, wins.”

  The King had been a cricket-player in his youth. He thought he might do quite well at this.

  “What shall we throw?”

  The mumbo, behind him, sniggered again.

  “Feathers.”

  “You can’t throw feathers,” protested the King. “No matter how hard you throw one, it just floats to the ground.”

  “Of course if you’d rather not play, you could be eaten instead.”

  “I’ll play,” said the King.

  “Good,” said the Mumbo. “Reach your hand back, and I’ll give you your feather.”

  The King obeyed. As soon as he felt the feather in his hand he closed his fingers round it and said, “You go first.”

  “No, you,” said the mumbo.

  “All the best mumbos go first,” said the King.

  “Oh. Yes. Forgot that. All right then,” it said. “But of course, as I’m standing behind you, it wouldn’t be fair if I threw just what you’re throwing. You’d be sure to win. So my feather has a dart stuck to it.”

  It gave another snort of laughter, and a feathered dart flew past the King’s ear.

  But the Mumbo wasn’t really trying very hard, because it didn’t think for a minute that the King’s plain feather could possibly beat it. The dart missed the stalactite by several inches.

  The King carefully aimed his solid gold feather, and threw it. It whizzed through the air and struck the stalactite squarely, making a satisfying ping.

  “I win,” said the King, trying not to sound too pleased about it.

  There was an ominous silence from behind him. Then the mumbo said sulkily, “You did something tricky.”

  “A trick for a trick,” said Midas. “So now will you take me to see the witch?”

  “I couldn’t do that,” said the Mumbo. “She wouldn’t like it.”

  “But you promised!”

  “Everyone knows mumbos don’t have to keep promises,” said the mumbo triumphantly – and Midas felt its smoky breath on his neck. “Well, goodbye. I’m going to eat you now.”

  But the King still had a trick up his sleeve – well, just outside it. He swung round with his fist.

  He felt his hand hit something, and at that moment all the glow-worms went off. The mumbo must have knocked the switch as it was turning into gold. The King couldn’t see what it looked like, and he wasn’t much bothered. He left the golden mumbo behind and felt his way further along the passage.

  Soon he saw a gleam of light, and when he reached it he saw it was a notice, lit by glow-worms, which said: WITCH WAY

  “Is that the name of the witch’s home, or is it a question?” mused the King. On either side of the sign, the tunnel divided. Both ways looked dark and uninviting, and the King felt sure he would run into more dangers if he took the wrong one – possibly fall into a pot-hole or something.

  As he dithered, he felt something soft brush against his legs. He looked down, and by the faint light of the glow-worms he saw a black cat. It turned its glowing green eyes on him for a moment, and then slipped away – down the left-hand tunnel.

  The King followed it into total darkness. But it didn’t stay dark for long.

  Twenty yards further on, the passage turned a corner, and almost at once widened out into quite a large cave. It was brightly lit by lanterns, and as the King looked around he saw shelves of dusty bottles full of odd-coloured powders and liquids; some enormous books with pages yellowed by age; bunches of leaves and herbs hanging from the ceiling, and a big besom against the wall. A snow-white owl sat in the chimney-corner, silently staring at him. A great fire burned in the fireplace under a black cauldron, and bent over the cauldron, stirring its contents and mumbling to herself, was the witch.

  So far it was just what the King had pictured. But when the witch turned round, he got a surprise.

  She wasn’t an ugly old hag as he had expected, but quite a sweet looking little old lady, with white hair done in a neat bun and glasses slipping down her nose.

  She didn’t seem to notice him at first, but bent to welcome the black cat, which had run ahead to rub against her with its back arched.

  “There’s my pretty little puss!” said the witch. She didn’t cackle at all – in fact, her voice was quite gentle. “Come home to Mother, have you? That’s right! And what have you brought me?”

  The cat put something into her hand from its mouth.

  “Oh, nasty!” she cried. “Naughty Ackerbackus! You know Mother doesn’t use toads. Poor little thing,” she said to the toad. Midas thought she chucked it under the chin. “Don’t be frightened, Ackerbackus shall take you home.”

  She gave it back to the cat, who went off rather sulkily.

  “Straight back where you found him!” the witch called after it ster
nly.

  Then she saw the King, and smiled vaguely at him.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you come in,” she said. “I’m rather hard of hearing.” She straightened the frilly apron she wore over her lavender dress and patted her hair. “You must excuse my cat. He used to work for one of the old-fashioned wicked witches, and he can’t get used to the fact that I don’t employ black magic. He will keep bringing me bats and snails and things … Only last week, he came home with a leopard’s liver! Imagine! I can’t think where he found it …”

  She shook her head indulgently.

  “Oh dear me,” she added, “I’m such a Mrs Thoughtless! Chattering away when you must be tired. Do come and sit down.” She beckoned him to a high-backed wooden chair by the fire.

  He was, indeed, very tired, and chilled to the bone from the damp tunnels. He stumbled forward. The old lady was standing beside the chair, patting the seat of it invitingly, but as he drew near it, he hesitated.

  It was carved all over with strange, evil-looking creatures: spiders, snakes, monkeys, lizards, and others he couldn’t gives names to, all very lifelike and with mean, demonic little faces. The firelight made their eyes gleam as if they were alive.

  “You mustn’t be afraid of my chair,” said the old lady. “It’s very old, you know. I keep it as a conversation-piece! Will you take some tea? Indian, or China?”

  The King was reassured, and sat down in the chair, which was so extraordinarily comfortable that he felt as if he never wanted to get up from it. In fact, he was suddenly so comfortable, and felt so much at home, that he somehow felt he could tell this kind old lady everything that led up to the fact that he couldn’t “take tea”, much as he would have liked some.

  She listened with great sympathy, nodding and tut-tutting every now and then until he came to the part about the mumbo.

  “Oh, that naughty boy!” she exclaimed. “Up to his tricks … How many times have I told him he mustn’t frighten my visitors!” She gave him a quaint little smile. “Turned him into gold, did you?” she said. “Oh, that was clever. That was extremely clever!”

  “It was nothing, really,” murmured the King, puffing out his chest.

  The witch seemed to think for a moment, and then said, “But you’ll be wanting your tea. Now don’t worry – I can give it to you, you won’t have to touch the cup.”

  She lifted one down from a hook above the fire. It was black. Midas had never seen a black cup before, and somehow it alarmed him. He straightened up, away from the back of the chair, and it came to him that he’d come here looking for something, something that had gone entirely out of his head the moment he entered the cave. What was it?

  He gazed round the cave with a puzzled frown. His eyes stopped on some irregular shape he could just make out, in a dark corner, but before he could think about what it might be, the old lady, who had been ladling some tea out of the cauldron with a long-handled spoon, came towards him.

  “Funny way to serve tea,” thought Midas. “Perhaps she doesn’t have a tea-pot.”

  The sound of the pouring tea was still in his ears. It reminded him of something. Pouring … trickling … Water! That was it! Old Gollop – he’d forgotten Old Gollop!

  “Flandy-bakes!” he exclaimed suddenly.

  “What?” asked the witch rather sharply.

  “I came to find the flandy-bake tree to help unblock the River Cijam.”

  “Yes,” she said smilingly. “I know. Mother knows all about it. Now drink your nice hot tea.” And she put the cup temptingly against his lower lip.

  The smell of the tea was irresistible, the old lady’s face bland and reassuring, but Midas was not entirely easy in his mind.

  “But what about my hands?”

  “You need not bother about Gollop and his second-rate magic. Right after tea, I shall unspell your hands. Drink up now.”

  “Is there sugar in it?” asked Midas with a little gulp.

  “Ah! You have a sweet tooth!” she said indulgently. “I have something very special for that!”

  She moved into the dark corner Midas had been peering into before. When she turned round, she had a strange thing in her hand, a large lump of something marked with pink and white stripes.

  She cracked it gently on the edge of her cauldron and broke a small chip off it which she dropped in the cup.

  “This will do your cold good, too,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “Something nice. Drink up!” she coaxed.

  The King’s eyes were getting used to the dark, and now he could see, in the corner, a little tree growing in a pot. It wasn’t like any other tree the King had ever seen. It had gnarled, spreading branches covered with furry grey moss, and more of the strange fruits looking like pink-striped candy the size of his fist.

  “Is that a flandy-bake tree?” asked the King.

  “A what?” asked the witch sharply, looking round. “Oh, no, no, no! Whatever made you think that? That’s a blundernut bush. Come along now, drink up your tea while it’s hot.”

  But something in her manner, when he’d mentioned the flandy-bakes, made him hesitate.

  “Er – are you sure this tea is – all right?”

  The witch drew back. Tears came to her eyes.

  “It’s not fair,” she said, with heartfelt sincerity. “Just because I’m a witch, you think I’m untrustworthy. It’s witchism, that’s what it is! You’re prejudiced against witches!”

  “I assure you, I’m the most unprejudiced man alive!” said the King. “I judge everyone according to how they treat me!”

  “And haven’t I treated you well?” she murmured, wiping her old eyes with a lace hanky.

  The sight of her tears sent a pang of remorse through Midas. Hadn’t he caused enough hurt? All doubts fled.

  “Yes, you have! Oh, please don’t cry!” said the King. “I’ll drink your tea at once, I’m dying for some!”

  She lifted the cup again to his lips. He drank its contents to the last drop.

  “Excellent cuppa, that,” he said. “Would you be kind enough to – to wipe my moustache?”

  She obliged him, and then said, rather oddly, “You’ll soon feel better. Shall we have another log on the fire?”

  She threw on a funny, twisted log and sat on a high stool. She said nothing more, but sat quite still, with her hands folded, as if waiting for something.

  The light in the cave seemed to have faded, and the King noticed that the fire was now burning with blue and green flames, as if she had thrown tinsel on it. Strange black smoke began to drift into the room. Everything grew darker and darker.

  “Er – your fire’s smoking,” said the King, giving a little cough. But the witch just sat there with the blackness swirling round her.

  The King was feeling oddly sleepy, but when he closed his eyes, his head spun and he opened them again with an effort.

  What he saw made him wonder if he had fallen asleep and was having a ghastly nightmare.

  The witch had changed.

  Her nose was long and warty, and curved to her chin. Her hair straggled out from under a pointed black hat. Her lavender dress had changed to wild tatters. On her knee sat Ackerbackus the black cat, with a newt in his mouth, and the witch was stroking him with long, bony hands. Her nails were green.

  Her eyes – awful, malevolent eyes – were fixed on him. When she saw his expression, she threw back her head and gave a dreadful cackle of spine-freezing laughter before the black smoke swallowed her completely, and King Midas fell into a deep, unnatural sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The Mumbo

  When the King next opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure at first whether he’d opened them or not, because it was almost completely dark. Then he saw a tiny glow from the embers of the fire, and instantly he remembered everything.

  He tried to jump out of his chair, but as he did so, he heard dozens of little hissing voices, like the sea on shingle, whispering:

  “You can’t mo
ve! You can’t move!”

  And sure enough, he found he couldn’t. There was nothing to do but sit still and think. His thoughts were not very pleasant.

  He had let the old witch trick him good and proper.

  “Is there no end to my folly, my – my gullibility?” he groaned aloud.

  “You are good at long words, aren’t you?” asked a familiar voice in the darkness. “Your what, did you say?”

  The King gasped. The mumbo! Here! And no longer gold! Hope – hope was here, too, and it made the King feel weak and then suddenly strong.

  He tried to carry on a normal conversation, over the wild beating of his heart.

  “Gullible,” he remarked, “means easily taken in or tricked.”

  “And that’s you?”

  “That’s me all right,” said the King.

  “You weren’t being very gullible when you turned me into gold,” said the mumbo. “Not very nice, either.”

  “Indeed! And no doubt you consider it very nice to threaten to eat people who’ve never done you any harm?”

  “Only joking,” said the mumbo crossly. “I can’t eat people yet. I’ve lost most of my baby teeth and I haven’t got my proper ones. I was only going to gnaw on you a bit,” it went on in an injured tone. “There was no need to turn me into gold.”

  “What did it feel like, when you were gold?” asked the King.

  “It was the most nastiest horriblest miserablest frozenest feeling, all cold and … See how I’m using my longest words and I still can’t describe it! I wouldn’t do it to anyone. Not even her.”

  “Her? Who?” asked the King quickly.

  “No one,” said the mumbo.

  “How did you – I mean, who changed you back?”

  “She did.”

  “She? Her? The witch?”

  “Of course. She needed me to guard you while she’s off on her rotten old broomstick.” He yawned loudly. “She’s been gone for hours, and I’m bored out of my scales. I thought you’d never wake up and talk to me.”

  The King said cautiously, “Don’t you like her?”

  There was a long pause. Then the King felt that hot, smoky breath on his ear.