“Approach, Usee!” croaked this frightful apparition. “Approach and salute your Queen!”
“Avaunt, woman!” rasped Sir Hokus, backing rapidly toward the window. “Avaunt, wench, and come not near!” Though Marcia repelled him utterly, the Knight could not bring himself to push her aside and fight his way through the marsh maidens to the door. Queen Marcia had no such nice feelings to hold her back and, infuriated by the Knight’s remarks, she rushed upon him and brought her bouquet down so hard upon his helmet that tiger lilies and cattails flew in every direction. I am not sure how long Sir Hokus would have submitted to her pummeling, or whether he would not in time have broken his Knightly vows and struck out at this marsh maiden, but at this instant three shrill calls sounded at the window. In one leap he was upon the table, in another, on the chair.
“Lady!” boomed Sir Hokus, pulling himself up on the ledge and kissing his mailed glove to the Queen of the Marshes. “Lady, farewell!” Headlong he dove through the window and, amid the screeches of the Stickin-the-Muds, disappeared. The shock of his landing on Ploppa’s hard shell rendered him speechless for several seconds, and by the time he had regained his breath and his balance, Ploppa had reached the edge of the clearing and plunged joyfully into the impenetrable swamp.
“A lucky and timely escape!” panted Sir Hokus, peering expectantly around for signs of the enemy. “How, now? Does no man pursue?”
“Trust Ploppa for that,” grunted the turtle, looking back with a chuckle. “I’ve knocked down all the stilts for miles around and tramped them into the mire. A fine time they’ll have making new ones!”
“You did?” roared the Knight, feeling more really cheerful than he had felt since he left the Emerald City. “Ho! Ho! Ho! This is capital, my dear Ploppa! Excellent and grand.’ Sir Hokus bent nearly double at the effort of a tree-dweller to draw his stilts out of the mud with a fishing line. And it was comical indeed to see Marcia and her court marooned on the tiny clearing surrounding her hut, making fierce gestures and shouting for the Knight to return. From every treehouse they passed, Stickin-the-Muds screamed and scolded, but Ploppa had done his work so well that they were forced to stick to their trees and were powerless to prevent their new King from escaping.
“I could love you for this!’ beamed the Knight, thumping Ploppa affectionately on the shell.
“Then you won’t leave the swamp?” cried the turtle, with a little flounce of excitement. “Do say that you will remain. I’ll find you a dry spot for a hut, bring you all the frogs you can eat, carry you everywhere on my back, and when you wish to fight there are always Stickin-the-Muds handy.”
“Nay! Nay!” sighed Sir Hokus, growing sober at the mere thought of such an existence. “I must go forward and never shall I rest till I have saved a maiden, served a monarch, and destroyed a monster. I must go on. On, and on, and on!” Ploppa made no answer, but two big tears trickled down his cheeks and fell with a great splash into the bog.
“You come with me,” begged the Knight in great distress. “Come with me and see the world, dear Ploppa.” “Will there be plenty of mud?” choked the poor turtle, controlling his sobs with difficulty.
“Well, that I cannot promise,” sighed the Knight, shaking his head doubtfully. “But there will be rivers and streams and plenty of fresh showers.”
“But I must have mud,” insisted the turtle sorrowfully, “plenty of good, thick, wet mud,”
“And I must have adventure,” declared Sir Hokus, looking with a shudder over the cold foggy marsh filled with the dismal croaking of frog goblins and the sigh of a desolate wind in the straggly trees. “I must have adventure and the glitter and glory of strange, glamorous places.”
“I must have mud and you must have adventure. Oh, why,” wailed Ploppa, with a smothered sob, “cannot people who like each other like the same things? I long to go with you, but I cannot live without mud,”
“Well, I hope there is more magic and less mud in the next country I come to,” said Sir Hokus, with a slight shiver, Now the next country, as it happened, was quite close, only hidden by the thick fog from the Knight’s curious gaze. And presently Ploppa, dragging himself out of the swamp, set him down on the edge of a wide yellow plain.
“Good-bye!” gurgled Ploppa, winking fast to keep from crying again. “Good-bye! I’ll never if forget you.”
“Nor I, you, my brave fellow.” Leaning down, Sir Hokus gave the slippery turtle a hug-or as much of a hug as he could manage with a monster so huge and unwieldy. “Don’t grieve,” he begged earnestly, “for I will return! I will return,” he promised, raising his sword solemnly, “anon!” Then, because he was not feeling any too cheerful himself, he strode quickly across the plain, for in the distance he could just descry the gleaming turrets of a strange, tall castle.
“Anon! He will return anon!” strangled poor Ploppa, settling with a tired flop into the mud. “Anon? Anon? How long is that, pray?”
CHAPTER 5
Concerning a Camel
“ANY tidings, Tuzzle?” Pushing back his yellow turban, the Sultan of Samandra looked anxiously at his Grand Vizier. Without speaking, Tuzzle shook his head. “What? No tidings!” yelled the Sultan, half rising from his great cushioned throne. “Then woe is me-she, you, her, it, us, and them?” The Sultan’s voice rose to a shrill scream, and sinking back on his embroidered cushions he began to rock to and fro and beat himself violently on the chest. “Woe! Woe! Woe, I tell you!”
“I am not a horse and cannot whoa, but I will do anything else that your Majesty suggests,” murmured Tuzzle, folding his hands calmly on his broad stomach.
“Then summon that scoundrelly Seer and fetch the Imperial Puppy!” commanded the Sultan in a choked voice. Tuzzle inclined his head grandly, for he was a very Grand Vizier, so grand, in fact, that he never did anything himself but clapped his hands twice and, to the small slaves who appeared, communicated the orders of the Sultan. In five shakes of a yellow fez the slaves returned, one ushering in Chinda, the Seer, the other bearing upon a satin cushion Confido, a tiny Pekinese and the Imperial Puppy of the Realm. The sight of the proud little dog seemed to calm the Sultan considerably. Holding it close to his round, moon-like face, he whispered excitedly into one of its long, silky ears. The little dog nodded understandingly from time to time but said nothing, partly because it had nothing to say and partly because it could not talk, even if it had. Though Samandra is in the wonderful Kingdom of Oz, the animals there do not have the gift of speech like animals in most other Oz countries, and unfortunately cannot converse at all. Perhaps this is why the Sultan made the little dog his sole confidant, told it all his worries, secrets of state, and plans. An excellent idea, when you come to think of it, and one many a monarch might follow with good results, for secrets one tells a dog go no further, and Confido never betrayed his Royal Master’s confidences. After whispering earnestly, the Sultan set the dog on his knee and glared fiercely down at Chinda, the Prophet.
“So!” he hissed contemptuously. “You call yourself a Seer and yet for ten years you have been seeking my lost camel without success. Acting upon your misguided advice we have sent couriers here, there, and everywhere, searching for this valuable creature and still, still, he is lost to us! Never had I so comfortable a steed, so beauteous a beast. He was a very King of Camels; not one in my whole herd compares with him, and yet you, Chief Prophet and Seer of Samandra, allowed him to be lost in a sandstorm and never recovered at all.”
“The sandstorm was not my doing,” observed Chinda stiffly. “I am a Seer and not a weather prophet, your Highness.”
“A Seer, a Seer! Why, you sere and cast-off yellow leaf of a dead and blighted tree, have you nothing more to say for yourself?”
“Your Majesty seems to have covered the situation,” answered Chinda, drawing his cloak about him with a dignified gesture. “Though why the loss of one wretched camel should cause you such unhappiness is a mystery to your humble servant. Have you not held undisputed sway over the great Kingdom o
f Samandra for seven centuries? Did you not, five hundred years ago, by a magic unrevealed to your illustrious advisors, conquer the neighboring Kingdoms of Corabia and Corumbia? Verily, the Corabians and Corumbians are no more; all their land and treasure are added to your riches, and yet, for the last ten years, you have done nothing but grieve for a miserable, moth-eaten, wobbly-kneed camel! And I,” Chinda thumped himself gloomily upon the chest, “how I have suffered! My left eye has a permanent squint from staring through the magic telescope for signs of this tiresome creature. My right ear has become flattened out and uncurled listening to the undeserved and continuous abuse of a once kindly sovereign. I beg that your Excellency will permit me to retire and go to some far country where I
may never hear the word ‘camel’ again. But before I go-” Chinda raised his voice defiantly, “before I go, let me say this: The camel you seek is in the Emerald City in the Royal Stable of Queen Ozma of Oz. Scarce ten minutes ago I saw him through a new lens in my magic telescope.
“Emerald City!My dear, dear fellow, why did you not say so before?” Tucking the Imperial Peke under his arm and fairly rolling down the steps of his throne, the Sultan flung both arms around Chinda and hugged him heartily, “You are a Seer among seers, a wiz among wizards,” panted the little monarch joyfully. “I hereby promote you to Magician Extraordinary and Grand Bozzywoz of the Realm.” While Chinda was recovering from the shock of his sudden promotion, and feeling his ribs to see that none were cracked, the Sultan spun round like a fat little top.
“Prepare for a journey at once, he commanded, waving his scepter at Tuzzle. “Order the Royal Sampan! You sail at dawn down the Winkie River to the capital of Oz. Have the Chief Camel Driver give you a golden halter to bring the good beast home, and moreover and furthermore,” the Sultan’s voice rose to an anxious squeak “see that he is wearing the same harness and saddle sacks that he wore when he left us, especially the saddle sacks!” finished his Excellency, shaking his finger under Tuzzle’s nose.
“Very well, your Highness,” sighed Tuzzle resignedly, “but I will require a gold embroidered robe and twenty slaves to wait upon me that I may properly represent the Sultan of Samandra at the
Court of Oz.”
“Twenty fiddlesticks!” fumed the Sultan, stamping his foot. “Be ready to sail at dawn or I’ll set you to work in the sulfur mines.
“That,” murmured Tuzzle calmly, “would certainly undermine my constitution, so I shall be ready. But suppose this curious camel is not in the Emerald City? Suppose this is just another false vision of our precious Prophet?”
“We’ll talk about that when you return,” said the Sultan, panting up the steps of his throne and dropping heavily on his yellow cushions.
“And meanwhile, I’m the Grand Bozzywoz,” exulted Chinda, brushing rudely past the Grand Vizier. “I’ll head all the processions and take orders from no one but his Supreme Excellency! Way for the Grand Bozzywoz! Way, I tell you!”
“There, there, not too bozzy!” warned the Sultan, as Chinda pushed Tuzzle out of his path and strode haughtily from the throne room, Then, as the Grand Vizier, muttering with vexation, rushed in the opposite direction, the Sultan hugged Confido tightly to his breast.
Stupid fools!” wheezed the fat sovereign breathlessly. “They think I want the camel. It’s not the camel we want, little treasure, but what’s in the camel’s left-hand saddle sack. Without that package I am lost, ruined, done for. How much longer must I wait and worry? Why, oh, wherefore did I ever let that package out of my hands or ever stow it in such a place?” Confido shook his head and licked the Sultan sympathetically on the nose, and much comforted his Majesty thumped upon the golden gong at his side and called in a loud voice for his afternoon coffee.
Meanwhile, so well were the orders of the very Grand Vizier carried out that when the orange crescent moon rose over the turrets and domes of the Sultan’s city, the Royal Sampan, fully loaded and ready for the journey, tugged impatiently at its golden chain. Not one, but twenty satin robes for Tuzzle, twenty fine embroidered shawls as a gift for Ozma of Oz, twenty roast fowl and twenty baskets of
provisions had been stowed in the cushioned cabin of the ship. Under the orange awnings forward, a tremendous deck chair had been placed for the Grand Vizier, and a table beside the chair was heaped with apricots, figs, dates, oranges, almonds, and sweetmeats of every description, for Tuzzle had no intention of starving on the voyage. Rubbing his hands complacently, the Grand Vizier regarded everything with bland approval, for he anticipated a tranquil and pleasant trip and had always wished to visit the court of Ozma. Though no one in the Emerald City had ever heard of Samandra, the Samandrans, being one of the most ancient races in all Oz, knew all about the Emerald City and the famous folk who lived there. Samandra, you must know, lies at the very top of the Winkie Country, bordered on the North by the Deadly Desert and on the South by the Winkie River, and is directly between the Kingdoms of Corabia and Corumbia. But for five hundred years all three countries have been under the rule of the wily Sultan, who by some strange magic conquered both of his kingly neighbors, stole all their treasures, and transformed all their subjects. Carrying most of the treasure by caravan to Samandra, he let the conquered Kingdoms severely alone and uncared for, and deserted they have lain for long dusty centuries, their little villages overgrown with weeds, and their stately capitals fast falling to ruin and decay.
Samandra itself, though largely made up of a golden-sanded desert, has many fertile valleys and plains-lovely flowerful spots, gay in the spring with daffodils and lotus, having an abundance of orange groves, date, palm and fig trees-so that life there is very lazy and luxurious. Though most of the Samandrans are more than seven centuries old, they do not show their age at all and are as happy and handsome a people as you could wish to find anywhere. The Sultan himself was as happy as any, except for occasional spells of remorse when he thought of his wicked treatment of the Corumbians and Corabians. But even this did not seriously interfere with his pleasure until he lost his favorite camel in a sudden sandstorm. Since then he had not known a peaceful moment and had so harassed his slaves, his attendants, and advisors, that life in the yellow castle had become well-nigh unbearable.
“But now,” thought the fat little rascal, rolling off his silken couch long before sunup, “now all my worries are over. In three or four days this wretched beast will be safely restored to me.” Picking up Confido, he told the little dog in an earnest whisper just where he would stow the precious package once it was in his hands again. Then, without waiting for his body servants to come and dress him, he struggled into his royal robes, and with each of his yellow shoes on the wrong foot shuffled down to the Winkie River to speed Tuzzle upon his mission. By the time he reached the royal dock, the orange sails of the sampan were snapping in the wind. Tuzzle, having given orders to cast off, was already asleep in the deck chair forward, fanned by ten of his faithful servitors. At the Sultan’s loud cries he opened one eye and waved his plump hand reassuringly.
“Before the fire dies four times upon the hearthstones, we will return with the sacred camel,” promised the Grand Vizier in his oily voice. And while Confido barked and the Sultan called further frantic orders and entreaties, the Royal Sampan slipped smoothly round a bend in the river and disappeared. If you have an Oz map handy, you will see that the Winkie River winds in a lazy fashion through the Great Empire of the East, turning here and then there till it comes finally to the outskirts of the Emerald City itself. Drifting gently with the tide, Tuzzle and his twenty slaves arrived a little be-fore sundown on the second evening at Ozma’s lovely capital. Tying their boat to a willow on the edge of the stream, the Samandrans stepped ashore, and Tuzzle, arrayed in his grandest garb, prepared to present himself to the ruler of all Oz.
CHAPTER 6
Tuzzle at the Court of Oz
ABOUT fifteen minutes later, Bettsy and Dorothy, looking up from a game of croquet on the palace lawn, dropped their gold mallets and simply stared,
for moving toward them under the lime-drop trees was a perfectly amazing procession. First came eight flowering orange branches, tall, splendid slaves bearing then the very Grand Vizier of Samandra in a very grand sedan chair, carried by four more slaves; back of him stepped the eight other slaves bearing the twenty embroidered shawls. Tuzzle, on his part, was as amazed as the little girls, for though he was accustomed to comfort and even elegance at the Sultan’s court, the Emerald City so surpassed in beauty and magnificence any place he had ever seen or visited that he had done nothing but grunt and exclaim with admiration and surprise as he was rapidly borne along the jeweled streets of Ozma’s lovely capital. By the time he reached the castle itself, he had barely breath enough to speak.
“Princess”’ puffed the Grand Vizier, as his chair came opposite Dorothy, whom he instantly recognized, “Princess, I would speak with the Queen of Oz.”
“Certainly!Certainly!” stuttered Dorothy, reaching up hastily for her crown, which she had hung on the branch of a tulip tree, while Bettsy in her interest and excitement tripped over a wicket and sat down. But picking herself up quickly the little girl ran ahead to announce the arrival of distinguished visitors, so that by the time the procession reached the castle, Ozma was already seated upon her throne, waiting with dignity to welcome them.
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