The Ogre of Oglefort Read online

  “It is the Princess Mirella,” said the First Norn in her singsong voice.

  “She must be rescued,” said the Second Norn.

  “Saved,” said the Third.

  “And the ogre must be slain,” said the First Norn.

  “Killed,” said the Second Norn.

  “Pulverized. Absolutely,” said the Third.

  Then all three of them pointed to the audience and with one voice they cried:

  “THIS IS THE TASK!”

  A rustle of despair went through the Unusual Creatures.

  “What about Mr. Barber’s Holiday Camp?” came a voice from the back.

  The great bed shook as the fearful females rose to their knees.

  “THE TASK IS GIVEN,” screeched all three Norns again. “And any waverers will feel the pull of Hades.”

  They fell back on their pillows. Rattling noises came from their throats. The nurses who had brought them in wheeled the bed to one side of the stage, and Nellie Arbuthnot came back, looking shaken. The parrot in its cage had fainted.

  “If you make your way to the refreshment room, we will prepare the instructions for the . . . er . . . the ogre-slaying,” she said nervously. “You have half an hour.”

  The curtains were pulled together and everyone in the audience trooped out of the room—everyone except the people from Number 26, who had no money.

  “This is terrible,” whispered the Hag to the troll. “I’d never have brought the boy if I’d known what was going to happen.”

  But Ivo did not look frightened. He looked excited.

  Behind the curtains, the nurses came with large syringes to inject the Norns and pills to push down their throats.

  The minutes passed.

  Then a bell rang, the signal that the meeting was going to start again. There was the noise of footsteps of all kinds coming from the refreshment room, but none of them seemed to be coming back into the hall. One could hear the sounds of slithering and limping and shuffling which gradually grew fainter—and then silence. Every one of the Unusual Creatures had made their way down the stairs and out into the street, heading for home.

  The curtains parted. The Norns were a little stronger after their injection; they knelt up in the great bed and raked the room with their baleful eyes.

  What they saw was a Hag and her familiar, a troll, a small wizard—and nobody else.

  The Norns beckoned to a nurse and stuck out their arms, and she gave each of them another injection from her huge syringe—but it made no difference. When the Old Ones peered into the room once more, they still saw only the same four people.

  There was nothing to be done then, and the Norns made the best of it.

  “You are the Chosen Ones,” said the First Norn.

  “You are the ogre-slayers,” quavered the Second.

  “The rescuers,” said the Third.

  “But—” began the Hag.

  She had infuriated the ancient creatures.

  “There is no BUT,” screeched the First Norn.

  “No BUT whatsoever,” yelled the Second.

  “Not anywhere is there a BUT,” cackled the Third.

  The bed shook with their rage.

  “The others have failed the test,” they pronounced. “On you falls the Glory of the Task. You are the ogre-slayers.”

  The room went dark. There was the eerie creak again as the great bed was wheeled away. And the party from Number 26 was left alone.

  CHAPTER

  5

  THE BRIEFING

  I think we need a nice cup of tea,” said the Hag when they returned from the meeting.

  But even after three cups of tea and five slices of bread and butter in the kitchen of Number 26, they still felt terrible. One minute they had been looking forward to Mr. Barber’s Holiday Camp—and the next they were branded as ogre-slayers and given this appalling task.

  “It’s because there’s a princess involved,” said Ulf gloomily. “That’s why the Norns appeared. Princesses always bring them out.”

  The wizard was worrying about his mother.

  “She won’t like it. She won’t like it at all,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know how to slay things,” said the Hag in a worried voice. “It’s not what I do.”

  Ivo put a hand on her arm.

  “But think what an exciting adventure it’ll be. And we won’t only be slayers—we’ll be rescuers. Rescuing the princess has to be good.”

  “Not for you, it doesn’t,” said the Hag sharply. She was still feeling very guilty because she had let Ivo become mixed up in something so dangerous. “You won’t be a slayer and you won’t be a rescuer; you’re going back to the Home first thing on Monday.”

  “No I’m not,” began Ivo. “I’m a familiar and—”

  But at that moment there was a loud pecking noise at the window, and looking up they saw, caught in the rays of the street lamp, a large black bird perched on the sill. The Hag was just going to open the window when the bird flew through the glass panes, circled the room, dropping evil-smelling black feathers, and settled with its unpleasant-looking feet on the butter.

  “A harpy,” said Ulf, looking at the creature’s swiveling yellow eyes. Harpies are messengers from the Underworld and have to be taken seriously. “What can we do for you?”

  The bird did not answer. Instead it opened its beak, let a piece of paper fall onto the table, and flew off again through the unopened window.

  While the Hag scooped the butter into the trash can, Ulf read out the message.

  In strange wavery letters it said:

  ALDINGTON CRESCENT UNDERGROUND STATION—MIDNIGHT TONIGHT

  Everyone looked at everyone else.

  “That station’s been shut forever, since the end of the war,” said Ulf. “It was badly bombed, and the whole line’s been abandoned. We can’t go there.”

  “But we have to,” said the Hag. “It’ll be the briefing, telling us what to do. You’ll have to wait here for us, Ivo. I’ll leave a night-light on and—”

  “No!” Ivo’s voice was very strong. “You said you wanted a familiar and you’ve got a familiar. Familiars serve for life, I told you. I’m coming.”

  “But—”

  “Let the boy come,” said Ulf. “He’s too far into it now. On Monday he can go back.”

  It was as the troll had said. The station entrance was sealed off by a great iron gate covered in rust. It looked as though it had been there forever.

  “Well that’s that,” said the Hag. “We’d best be getting back while the buses are still running.”

  But Ivo had gone up to the gate. He put a hand on the lock—just touching it—and now slowly, creakily, the gate began to open. Only a crack at first . . . then all the way.

  “I don’t like this,” said the wizard. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Nobody liked it, but keeping close together, they made their way down a flight of steps into a freezing and derelict ticket hall. The machines were wreathed in cobwebs; a torn poster said DIG FOR VICTORY, which was what people had been told to do in the war.

  “This used to be the deepest underground station in London,” said Ulf.

  They huddled together, wondering what to do next. Then a faint blue light came on above a sign which said TO THE TRAINS.

  But of course there weren’t any trains. There hadn’t been any trains for years. The notice led to what seemed to be a hole in the wall but was actually the top of a curving concrete staircase.

  “They want us to go down there,” said Ivo.

  “But who are they?” There was no one to be seen.

  They began to walk down the stone stairs and all the time it got colder and colder.

  “I didn’t know there were so many stairs in the world,” said the Hag.

  They reached the bottom at last and found themselves on a platform with a row of broken-down vending machines and some battered wooden benches. There was a smell of decay and oldness.

  “Now what?” wondere
d the troll. “We can’t go any lower.”

  And then, incredibly in this station which had been closed for years and years, they heard the sound of a train!

  The sound came closer. The train appeared in the mouth of the tunnel. It slowed down but it did not stop. In the dim light inside the carriages sat rows of dark-clad specters, staring at the ground.

  “A ghost train!” said the wizard. “Who would have thought it?”

  Ivo felt a chill run through him; he’d never seen ghosts before.

  The train moved off. The ogre-slayers waited in eerie silence.

  After a few minutes the ghost train reappeared; the same dark specters sat staring at the ground. They were on a circle line, doomed to go around and around forever.

  Once again the ghost train vanished into the tunnel; once again the slayers waited. Then for the third time they heard the noise of a train, but this one did not only slow down, it stopped, and a disembodied voice said, “Enter.”

  It took a lot of courage to get into the train. The seats were ripped and covered in harpy feathers; rats scuttled about on the floor.

  The doors shut. The train began to move.

  They went through a number of stations. On one, the sign said RIVER STYX. Another said MEDUSA’S LAIR. It looked as though the Underworld had taken over the underground.

  Then the train slowed down, stopped. The doors slid back and the poor slayers, frightened and bewildered, got out.

  The wall behind the station had collapsed; it was probably near here that the bomb had fallen, because they were in a kind of hollow cave.

  The smell was vile; harpies roosted on the ledges; water dripped from the roof.

  But on a platform in the center of the cave was something familiar: the great bed of the Norns—and all three of the Old Ones were in it, leaning against the pillows.

  For a moment the Norns stared with their bleary eyes at the group of people coming toward them. Then they shook their heads. They had forgotten how bad it was.

  There was a pause, and because it looked as though the Norns might drop off to sleep, the troll said, “You have orders for us?”

  The Norns sat up. “Orders,” they agreed.

  “And gifts.”

  They clapped their hands and one of their attendants came forward carrying a leather pouch full of black beans. Beans are often magical, and these were very magical indeed, because they enabled the person who had eaten one to understand the speech of anyone they were talking to, whether it was a human or an animal.

  The slayers thanked them and the Hag put the pouch carefully in her handbag.

  The second gift was a ketchup bottle filled with a yellowish liquid.

  “Foot water,” said the First Norn.

  “Water in which feet have been washed,” said the Second Norn.

  “Feet of heroes,” said the Third Norn.

  The wizard took it and asked shyly what the foot water was for.

  “Wounds,” said the First Norn.

  “Heals wounds,” agreed the Second.

  “Usually,” said the Third.

  But gifts from people who deal in magic nearly always come in threes, and now the Norns clapped their hands and one of the attendants came forward carrying a rusty sword.

  The Norns had ordered it when they realized that not one of the slayers had a proper weapon.

  “For plunging,” said the First Norn.

  “Or thrusting,” said the Second.

  “Or stabbing,” said the Third.

  “Into neck of ogre,” said the First Norn.

  “Or stomach,” said the Second.

  “Or chest,” said the Third.

  The attendant continued to hold out the sword, but no one moved. The troll was strong and brave, but he worked with wood, not rusty metal. The wizard thought that the sword looked heavy, and carrying it would make it difficult for him to think. Then Ivo stepped forward and held out his arms, and the attendant laid the sword across them.

  The Norns were very tired now. Their heads kept falling forward on their skinny necks and they shook themselves awake. Then they beckoned once again, and another of their attendants came with a small packet.

  “Open later,” whispered the First Norn.

  “At home,” croaked the Second.

  And a few moments later, the cave resounded with their snores.

  The packet, when it was opened in the kitchen at Whipple Road, did not contain a phoenix or a dragon’s egg. It was a pleasantly ordinary parcel. Inside was a large map of the island of Ostland surrounded by ocean. A rocky bay on the northern tip of the island was marked with a black arrow.

  There was also a page of instructions for the journey—and four envelopes. Each envelope had on it the name of the person who was to travel. One said HILDA GARBUTTLE, which was the official name of the Hag. One said ULF OAKROOT; and one was made out to BRIAN BRAINSWELLER. Inside each of the envelopes was a train ticket to Rylance on Sea and a boat ticket from there to Osterhaven, the most northern port on the island.

  “There’s an extra envelope,” said the Hag.

  The troll picked it up. Quite clearly it was labeled IVO BELL.

  “Oh but he mustn’t come,” began the Hag. “He absolutely mustn’t be allowed to run into danger. I’ll rub out his name—we can get the money back perhaps?”

  She found an eraser—but as soon as she started to remove Ivo’s name, the letters came back again, as clear as day.

  “Better not meddle with the arrangements, Hilda,” said the troll. “Who knows, they must have seen something in the boy.”

  Ivo had the sense then to go quickly up to the attic and put himself to bed. But he was far too happy to go to sleep. Tomorrow, the day when he would have sat down to claggy meat and lumpy custard, he would be setting off on an amazing adventure.

  Ostland. . . . He had heard of it, of course, an island as big as England and Scotland and Wales all put together, afloat on a remote and mysterious ocean. Ivo had longed to see it, poring over maps in the encyclopedia, but he had never dreamed that he would make the journey. And he was going to rescue a young girl from dreadful danger! He could see her now, kneeling in terror before the great beast that threatened her. It was a pity she was a princess—Ivo did not approve of people being royal—but it was not her fault; one cannot choose one’s parents.

  And all this because a toad called Gladys had said no.

  CHAPTER

  6

  MIRELLA

  Ostland is an unexpected place. The south of the island is peaceful. It has a string of pretty towns along the coast and the biggest of these, which is called Waterfield, is the capital. In Waterfield you can find everything you can find in London or Dublin—or even in New York. There are the Houses of Parliament and the law courts and theaters and a zoo—and because the town lies by the sea there is a harbor for big boats and a marina for smaller ones.

  If one goes farther north toward the center of the island one comes to rich farmland. Here there are orchards and studs for breeding racehorses and beech woods carpeted with bluebells.

  But the very north of the country is different. Completely different. There was an earthquake in Ostland many hundreds of thousands of years ago, and it made a deep cleft across the northern tip of the island which cut it off from the rest of the island. On the far side of the cleft the land is rocky and wild and almost empty. At least it is empty of ordinary people and ordinary houses. But in the folds of the dark hills are caves and castles and tunnels, and the people who live there would not be found in any telephone book. This part of the island is only connected to the rest of the island by a narrow bridge across a ravine which is hundreds of feet deep. But even if the bridge were wider and the ravine less deep, the people from the friendly civilized part of Ostland would not have tried to cross it. One of the first things the children of Ostland heard from their nursemaids and their parents was what would happen to a child foolish enough to try and cross the bridge to the north. Sometimes their legs would
be torn off and thrown into the ravine, or their eyes would be pecked out. And if they got across there would be all sorts of delightful people waiting for them, ready to turn them into bluebottles or nail them to trees or pull them down into fiery pits.

  Although the citizens of Ostland spoke English, they refused to have a monarchy. They didn’t want to have a king and queen ruling over them and bossing them about.

  All the same, there was a palace in Waterfield—a big one which was lived in by a royal family called the Montefinos. They had come to the island many years ago, and nobody minded because a palace is a colorful thing to have and it was good for tourists to have something to photograph. There were also a few castles scattered around the south where dukes and princelings spent their time hunting or gardening or playing whist.

  Though the Montefinos did not actually rule over the country, they were very grand. They kept their own sentries and bodyguards and had over a hundred servants. They drove about in carriages with their crest on the door, and they waved graciously to the people with their white-gloved hands. They opened bazaars and had their portraits painted and gave balls and rode Thoroughbred horses in the park with their grooms cantering behind them.

  The Montefinos had three daughters. Princess Sidony was the eldest, then came Princess Angeline—and a long way behind them came the youngest, Princess Mirella.

  Sidony and Angeline were pretty, obedient girls who liked doing all the things that royal people do, but Mirella did not. She was a misfit from the start. Mirella did not look like a princess. Her eyes were black and her hair was straight and her ears stuck out. Mirella would not ride in a closed carriage and wave to the people; she said driving made her sick. She would not have her portrait painted or go and play with children who were “suitable.”

  What Mirella was passionate about was animals. Not just cats and dogs and horses but creatures most people hardly know are there. She had made a sanctuary for wood lice and ground beetles and earwigs in a courtyard garden. She kept a plaster of Paris ant nest under her bed, and when the maids tried to remove it she threw a tantrum which echoed through the palace. Her dog was not a beautiful saluki like the dog that was photographed with Princess Sidony, or a perfectly groomed Afghan like the dog owned by Angeline—it was a stray she had made her bodyguards pick up on the way to the dentist: a rough-coated mongrel with a funny eye. She called it Squinter and her mother shuddered whenever she caught sight of it.