The Talking Parcel

The Talking Parcel

by Gerald Durrell

Illustrated by Pamela Johnson

The big brown paper parcel that washes up on the beach seems perfectly ordinary—that is, until it begins to speak and sing, and not in one voice but two! And the talking parcel is only the beginning of the amazing adventure of discovery that takes Penelope, Peter, and Simon from modern Greece to Mythologia—where flowers never die, where there are four different sunsets every day, and where all the famous (and infamous) mythological animals now live, ruled by absent-minded magician H. H. Junketberry.

Mythologia is in turmoil, for the gruesome, fire­breathing Cockatrices are trying to enslave all the other animals. In their urgent quest for a way to save Mythologia, the three cousins journey all over the magical countryside meeting such leg­endary beasts as the beautiful Unicorns, the fiery Phoenixes, the fearsome Werewolves, and a hard- of-hearing Sea Serpent who likes to cook.

In The Talking Parcel, his first fantasy for young people, renowned author and naturalist Gerald Durrell has created a world of surprising twists and turns that is like no other yet discovered.

THE TALKING

PARCEL

by Gerald Durrell

Illustrated by Pamela Johnson

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

Philadelphia and New York

Text copyright © 1974 by Gerald Durrell

Illustrations copyright © 1975 by J. B. Lippincott Company

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

First American Edition

U.S. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Durrell, Gerald Malcolm, birth date The talking parcel.

SUMMARY: Three children travel to the land of mythical animals and try to save it from the evil Cockatrices.

[1. Fantasy] I. Johnson, Pamela, ill. II. Title.

PZ7.D9343^Tal3 [^Fic] 74-23367 ISBN-0-397-31608-9

This book is for my Goddaughter

Deirdre Alexandra Platt

Dear Deirdre,

Here is the book that I promised you, and I hope you will enjoy it.

It is no good your asking me the next time we meet whether it is all true, because I have been sworn to secrecy. But I can give you some hints.

For example, I can tell you that Parrot's cousin in India was a very real bird and not only traveled in Rolls Royces but had an International Passport as well. If at some time in the future you are in Greece, you will find Madame Hortense sitting on a siding exactly as I have described, and you will be able to take a diesel train up the valley to the very entrance of Mythologia. Finally, if you look in a book called The History of Four-footed Beasts by Edward Topsell, you will find that weasels were, in fact, the cure for Cockatrices.

As all these are true, how could you possibly disbelieve the rest?

Your loving Godfather,

Gerry

The Talking Parcel

When Simon and Peter landed at Athens to stay with their cousin Penelope, and the doors of the plane were opened, the heat hit them like a warm wave from an oven, and the brilliant sunshine made them screw up their eyes. After the generally soggy and gray weather they were used to in England, it was simply splendid, and the boys stretched and blinked with half-closed eyes, like cats in front of a fire, listening entranced to the crackle and pop of the Greek language being spoken all round them.

At first sight, their Uncle Henry, who had come to meet them, was a bit of a shock. He was rather large, like a big, brown eagle, with a swooping nose and a mane of white hair and enormous hands which he waved about incessantly. They wondered how on earth anyone who looked like Uncle Henry could be the father of someone as pretty as Penelope, for she was very slender, with huge, green eyes and chestnut-colored hair.

“Ah,” said Uncle Henry, glaring at them ferociously, “so you’ve arrived, eh? Good, good. Glad to see you. Glad to see that you’re a little less repulsive than you were when I last saw you—just after you were born. You looked like a couple of baby white mice, all pink and horrible.”

“Daddy,” said Penelope, “don’t be rude.”

“Rude, rude?” said Uncle Henry. “I’m not being rude, just telling them.”

“Is that your luggage over there?” asked Penelope.

“Yes,” said Peter, “those two cases and the boat.”

“Boat?” said Uncle Henry. “What boat?”

“It’s a collapsible dinghy,” Simon explained. “Dad bought it for us.”

“What a very sensible thing to bring,” said Uncle Henry. “How very intelligent of you both.”

The boys glowed with pleasure and decided that perhaps Uncle Henry was not so bad, after all.

When they had collected their luggage, they piled it into the trunk of Uncle Henry’s big, open car, and then they drove off in the hot sunshine through a landscape that soon became dot­ted with silvery olive trees and dark green cypress trees stand­ing like spear blades against the blue sky.

Uncle Henry’s villa was a large, rambling house, set in the hills above the blue sea, and its wide verandas were shaded by vines heavy with the biggest bunches of grapes the boys had ever seen. The house had white walls and huge, green shutters which, when half closed, turned the rooms cool, dim, and as green as an aquarium. The boys’ room was enormous, with a tiled floor and a french window leading out onto the vine- covered veranda.

“Wow,” said Peter appreciatively, “I’ll be able to pluck a bunch of grapes every morning before breakfast.”

“And there are oranges and tangerines and figs in the garden,” said Penelope, “and watermelons, apricots, and peaches.” She was sitting on one of the beds, watching them unpack.

“I can’t really believe we are here yet,” said Simon.

“Neither can I,” said Peter, “except that it’s so hot, so it must be real.”

Penelope laughed. “It gets much hotter than this.”

“Swimming, that’s the answer,” said Peter.

“That’s what I thought we’d do this afternoon,” said Penel­ope. “After lunch. There’s a huge beach just below us here, and it’s marvelous swimming.”

“And we can launch the dinghy,” said Simon.

“Wonderful,” said Peter. “We’ll go on a voyage of discovery".

So, when they’d finished a delicious lunch, the three children changed into their bathing suits, took the dinghy and its pump, and made their way down the stony hillside, which smelt deli­ciously of thyme and myrtle, to the great dazzling white beach that stretched away in each direction as far as the eye could see. The blue waters were as still as a lake and as transparent as glass.

It was hot work pumping up the dinghy, and the children had to keep stopping to have a cooling dip in the sea before con­tinuing. But at last it was pumped up, and it floated fatly in the shallow water, like a plump blue cloud. They scrambled aboard, taking with them the essentials of travel that Penelope had insisted they bring: a large beach umbrella and a bag con­taining some bottles of lemonade. Then, with Simon and Peter rowing and Penelope steering, they set off down the coast.

The sun beat down on them, and from the shore they could hear the faint zithering cries of the cicadas in the olive trees. After they had progressed a quarter of a mile or so the boys paused in their rowing and wiped the sweat from their faces.

“It’s jolly hot work,” said Peter.

“Yes,” agreed Simon. “I’m simply roasting.”

“Perhaps we’ve gone far enough,” said Penelope. “After all, it is your first day and it is hot. Why don’t we make camp some­where?”

Simon glanced over his shoulder. A few hundred yards away a long, low sandbank stuck out from the beach, forming a tiny bay. “How about there?” he suggested. “Let’s anchor there, by the sandbank.”

They rowed into the bay, anchored the dinghy in the still waters, and climbed out onto the sand. They put up the um­brella (which cast a patch of shade the size of a mushroom) and Penelope opened three bottles of lemonade. They lay there and drank the lemonade thirstily. Then, drugged by the heat and exhausted by their rowing, the two boys fell asleep, their heads pillowed on their arms.

Penelope finished her lemonade and dozed for a while, and then decided to climb to the top of the sand dune. The sand was almost too hot to walk on, but she reached the top of the dune. Ahead the beach stretched to the horizon, it seemed, but in the distance it was so shimmering with heat haze she couldn’t really make out anything. She was just about to return to the welcome shade of the umbrella when she noticed the thing in the water.

It was floating shoreward, propelled by tiny ripples created by a baby breeze that had sprung up. At first she thought it was a log of wood. Gradually, it was washed in onto the shore just below where Penelope stood, and she could see it was a large, brown paper parcel tied with purple cord. She was about to run down the sand dune to investigate, when the parcel spoke.

“What ho,” said the parcel, in a squeaky sort of voice. “What ho, land ho! By Jove, and about time too. All this upsy-downsy, upsy-downsy stuff is detrimental to my innards.”

Penelope stared down at the parcel disbelievingly. It looked like a large, perfectly ordinary parcel, standing about three feet high and measuring some two feet across. It was shaped rather like an old-fashioned beehive. “Seasickness is a scourge,” the parcel went on. “My great-grandmother suffered so much from it that she was frequently seasick while having a bath.”

“Who on earth is it talking to?” thought Penelope. “It can’t be talking to me.”

Just at that moment another voice came from the parcel. A faint, sweet, tinkling voice, like the echo of a sheep bell. “Oh, do shut up about your grandmother and seasickness,” it said ir­ritably. “I’m just as sick as you. What I want to know is, what we do now?”

“We have arrived,” said the squeaky first voice, “thanks to my brilliant navigation. Now we wait to be rescued.”

The parcel, Penelope had decided, was much too small to contain a human being, let alone two human beings, and yet there were undeniably two voices coming from it. The whole thing was very creepy. Penelope thought that she would feel happier if she had Peter and Simon to help solve this mystery with her, so, turning, she ran down the dune toward the um­brella where the boys were sleeping.

“Peter, Simon, wake up, wake up,” hissed Penelope, in a whisper, shaking them. “Wake up, it’s very important.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Simon, sitting up and yawning sleepily.

“Tell her to go away,” mumbled Peter. “Want to sleep, too hot for playing games.”

“I’m not playing games,” whispered Penelope indignantly. “You must wake up. I’ve found something most peculiar on the other side of the sandbank.”

“What have you found?” asked Simon, stretching himself.

“A parcel,” said Penelope. “A large parcel.”

“Good heavens,” groaned Peter. “Is that all you’ve woken us up for?”

“What’s so unusual about a parcel?” asked Simon.

“Have you ever found a parcel that talks?" asked Penelope. “It’s not the sort of thing that’s happened to me very often.”

“Talks?” spluttered Peter, wide awake now. “Talks? You must be imagining things. You’ve got sunstroke.”

“A talking parcel?” said Simon. “You must be joking.”

“I’m not joking, and I haven’t got sunstroke,” said Penelope angrily. “And what’s more, it talks in two voices.”

The boys stared at her. “I say, Penny,” said Simon uneasily, “are you sure you are not imagining things?”

Penelope stamped with vexation. “Of course I’m not,” she whispered vehemently. “You’re both so stupid. It’s a parcel with two voices and it’s talking to itself. If you don’t believe me, come and see.”

Rather reluctantly, for they still felt that Penelope might be pulling their legs, the boys followed her up the sand dune. When they reached the top, she put a finger to her lips and said, "Sh . . ." Then she got down and crawled the rest of the way.

Presently the three were peering over the top of the dune. At the base of the dune lay the parcel. Tiny wavelets were break­ing around it, and the boys stared in amazement, for the parcel had now started to sing to itself in two separate voices.

Moon-carrot pie, moon-carrot pie,

It’ll liven you up, bring a gleam to your eye.

Oh, a cow in a manger, a pig in a sty They all love their slices of Moon-carrot pie.

Moon-carrot tart, moon-carrot tart,

It’ll stir up your blood, and give strength to your heart. The donkey, the pony, the horse with its cart They all love to munch at their Moon-carrot tart.

Moon-carrot stew, moon-carrot stew,

There’s nothing quite like it, from all points of view.

The pigeon and turkey, to name but a few Just cannot get on without Moon-carrot stew.

“There you are,” whispered Penelope triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”

“It’s incredible,” said Peter. “What do you think it is? A couple of dwarfs?”

“They would have to be very small dwarfs to fit in that,” said Penelope.

“Well, we can’t tell what it is,” said Simon practically, “until we unwrap it.”

“How do you know it will like being unwrapped?” asked Peter thoughtfully.

“It did say something about being rescued,” said Penelope.

“Well, we’ll ask it,” said Simon. “At least it speaks English.” He strode down the sand dune, followed by the others, and approached the parcel, which sang on, oblivious of his pres­ence.

Moon-carrot jam, moon-carrot jam,

It’s really so good, it’s made me what I am.

The man of a hundred, the babe in its pram They can’t get along without Moon-carrot jam.

Simon cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .”

Moon-carrot soup, moon-carrot soup,

It’s the stuff you must drink when you’re starting to droop. The duck in the duckpond, the hens in their coop They’re regular gluttons for Moon-carrot soup.

“Excuse me,” said Simon again, very much more loudly.

There was silence, as the parcel stopped singing.

“What was that?” asked the tinkly voice at last, in a faint, frightened whisper.

“A voice,” said the squeaky voice. “I’m almost certain it was a voice, unless, of course, it was a thunderstorm or a typhoon or a tidal wave, or maybe an earthquake, or . . .”

“EXCUSE ME!” said Simon, very loudly this time. “But do you want to be unwrapped?”

“There,” said the squeaky voice, “I told you it was a voice. A voice offering to unwrap us. How kind. Shall we say ‘Yes’?”

“Oh, yes,” said the tinkly voice. “We’ve been in the dark so long.”

“Very well,” said the squeaky voice. “We will allow you to unwrap us.”

The children gathered round the parcel. Simon pulled out his penknife and carefully cut the thick purple string that bound it, and then they started to pull off the paper. They found underneath what appeared to be a huge, quilted tea cozy, heavily embroidered with gold thread in a pattern of leaves and flowers.

“Um, do you want us to take off your—er, your—er . . . tea cozy?” asked Simon.

“Tea cozy?” asked the squeaky voice indignantly. “Tea cozy, you ignorant voice? That’s not a tea cozy. It’s a covering against night winds and inclement weather, made out of genuine rainbow caterpillar silk, that is.”

“Oh,” said Simon, “I’m sorry. Well, whatever it is, would you like us to remove it?”

“Of course,” said the squeaky voice. “Spare no effort to make this rescue a successful one.”

At the top of the tea cozy was a sort of plaited loop, and tak­ing hold of this Simon lifted off the whole covering. Under­neath was a large, domed golden cage, furnished with extremely

elegant miniature furniture. Apart from two cedar wood perches and a swing, there was a handsome four-poster bed with red velvet curtains, covered with a beautifully sewn patch­work bedspread made out of the tiniest scraps of multicolored silks and damasks; a small Louis Quinze dining table and chair; and an elegant glass-fronted cabinet full of beautiful hand- painted china. Then there was a full-length gilt-edged mirror with an ivory brush and comb hanging by it, and a very com­fortable chaise longue upholstered in royal blue velvet, and be­side it a rosewood harpsichord.

Sitting at ease on the chaise longue was the most extraordi­nary parrot the children had ever seen. His plumage was purple and gold and green and blue and pink, glittering and gleaming and shifting like an opal. He had a great, smooth, curved beak—so black that it looked as if it had been carved from coal—and eyes the color of periwinkles. But the most surpris­ing thing about the parrot was his feathering, for, instead of lying smooth, each feather was stuck up and curled round, like the fur of a poodle. This gave him the look of a strange-colored tree in spring, when its buds are just bursting. He was wearing a green silk skullcap with a long, black silk tassel. Next to the chaise longue on which the parrot was reclining was a small table, and on it was another cage—but a tiny one, the size of a thimble. In it sat a glittering golden spider, with a jade green cross on its back. It was obvious that the tinkly voice belonged to the spider and that the squeaky voice belonged to the parrot.

“So that's what it is,” said Peter.

“It?” said the parrot, sitting up indignantly. “It?”

“A parrot!” said Penelope, delighted.

“It was just a parrot, an ordinary talking parrot,” said Simon. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“NOW LOOK HERE!” said the parrot, so loudly and fiercely that the children stopped talking.

“Now look here,” it went on in a lower voice, having got their attention. “Let’s have a tiny bit less of this ‘a parrot’ stuff, shall we?”

“I’m sorry,” said Penelope. “We didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Well, you did,” said the parrot.

“But you are a parrot, aren’t you?” asked Peter.

“Now, there you go again,” said the parrot angrily. “All this screechy-weechy stuff about a parrot. I’m not a parrot, I’m THE parrot.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we understand you,” said Penelope, puzzled.

“Anyone, or rather any parrot, can be a parrot,” the parrot explained, “but I’m the Parrot. The initials alone should have told you.”

“Initials? What initials?” asked Simon, bewildered.

“Mine,” said the parrot. “You really do ask the most ridicu­lous sort of questions.”

“But what initials?” asked Penelope.

“Work them out for yourself,” said the parrot. “My names are Percival, Archibald, Reginald, Roderick, Oscar, Theophilus.”

“Why, that spells ‘parrot,’ ” said Penelope delightedly. “What lovely initials.”

“Thank you,” said the parrot modestly. “That is why I am not a parrot. I’m the Parrot. You may call me Parrot.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope.

“This, here,” he continued, gesturing to the small cage with his wing, “is Dulcibelle, my singing spider.”

“How do you do,” said the children.

“How do you do,” said Dulcibelle.

“How do you do,” said Parrot.

“I must say,” said Penelope thoughtfully, “I can see why you are the Parrot. I mean, I don’t want to be rude, or anything, but you talk much better than most parrots. I mean, more intelligently, if you know what I mean. I mean, you seem to know what you’re talking about, which most parrots don't " “Of course,” said Parrot. “And d’you know why most par­rots don’t know what they’re talking about?”

“Why?” said Simon.

“Because they’re taught by humans,” said Parrot. “A most reprehensible way of learning.”

“Well, how did you learn?” asked Peter.

“I was taught by the dictionary,” said Parrot proudly.

“By a dictionary?” said Penelope incredulously. “How can you be taught by a dictionary?”

“How else?” inquired Parrot. “The trouble with most—if not all—parrots is, as I say, that they’re taught by humans. That’s why they don’t know what they’re saying, because the humans never explain to them what they’re teaching them.”

“I never thought of that,” said Peter.

“What sane, healthy, normal, intelligent, self-respecting par­rot would go round all day saying ‘Pretty Polly’ if he knew what it meant?” asked Parrot, in a voice shaken with passion. “What decent, honest, shy, retiring, modest bird would go round inviting complete strangers to ‘scratch poll’ if he knew what it meant?"

“When you put it like that, it seems almost like cruelty,” said Penelope thoughtfully.

“Yes,” agreed Simon, “like the awful things they teach to babies—‘Dada, Mama, Bow-wow,’ and so on.”

“Exactly,” said Parrot triumphantly. “Now, what normal baby would go round addressing every member of the ungulates he met as ‘Moo-Moo’ if he knew what it meant?”

“Every member of the what?” asked Peter.

“He means cows,” said Simon, who was cleverer at long words than Peter.

“No, no,” Parrot went on, “the only way to learn to speak is to be taught by a dictionary, and I was extremely lucky that I was brought up by a large, kindly, and comprehensive dic­tionary—in fact, the Dictionary.”

“How can you be brought up by a dictionary?” asked Penel­ope, puzzled.

“Where I come from, you can,” said Parrot. “The Dictionary is the most human book in the place, next to the Great Book of Spells and Hepsibar’s Herbal.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Penelope.

“You are a singularly obtuse, obdurate sort of a girl,” said Parrot, “besides being inconsequential, incomprehensible, and incoherent.”

“I don’t think there is any need for you to start being rude again,” said Peter, who hadn’t understood half the words but did not like the sound of them and felt he ought to defend his cousin.

“Rude?” said Parrot. “Rude? I’m not being rude, just merely giving some words an airing, poor little things. Part of my job.” “Giving words an airing?” asked Simon. “How can you?” “He’s the Keeper of the Words,” said Dulcibelle suddenly, in her tinkly little voice. “It’s a very important job.”

“When we require interruption from you, we shall ask for it,” said Parrot, eyeing Dulcibelle severely.

“I’m sorry,” said Dulcibelle, bursting into tears. “I was only trying to help, only trying to give credit where credit was due, only trying to . . .”

“Will you shut up?” roared Parrot.

“Oh, very well,” said Dulcibelle, retreating to the back of her cage, and starting to powder her nose. “I shall sulk.”

“Sulk,” said Parrot. “Typical of a spider.”

“What’s all this about giving words an airing?” asked Simon. “What does ‘Keeper of the Words’ mean?” asked Peter. “Well,” said Parrot, “it’s quite true, but you mustn’t let it go any further. You see, where we come from, we have three books which govern our lives. They’re talking books, of course, not like your dull, old, everyday books. One is the Great Hook of Spells, another is Hepsibar’s Herbal, and the third is the Giant Dictionary. I was brought up by the Dictionary, so therefore I became Keeper of the Words.”

“And what does that mean?” asked Penelope.

“Ah,” said Parrot. “It’s a very important job, I can tell you. Do you know how many words there are in the English lan­guage?”

“No,” said Penelope.

“Hundreds,” said Peter.

“More like thousands,” said Simon.

“Quite right,” said Parrot. “To be exact, two hundred thou­sand words. Now the average person uses the same words day after day, day in and day out.” Here, his eyes filled with tears, and he pulled out a large, spotted handkerchief from under his wing and blew his beak.

“So,” he went on, his voice shaken with sobs. “What do you think happens to all the words that aren’t used?”

“What happens to them?” asked Penelope, wide-eyed.

“If they’re not looked after and given exercise, they simply fade away and vanish, poor little things,” said Parrot. “That’s my job. Once a year I have to sit down and recite the Dic­tionary, to make sure that all the words get the correct amount of exercise, but during the course of the year I try to use as many as possible because, really, one outing a year is not enough for the little fellows. They get so bored, sitting there between the pages.”

“Time is getting on,” said Dulcibelle suddenly.

“I thought you were sulking,” said Parrot, glaring at her.

“I’ve finished,” said Dulcibelle. “It was a lovely sulk, but time’s getting on.”

“What do you mean, time’s getting on?” said Parrot irritably.

“Well, we don’t want just to sit here all day while you give us lectures on words,” said the spider. “It’s time we were get­ting back. Remember we’ve a lot to do.”

“We have a lot to do; we have a lot to do, I like that,” said Parrot angrily. “All you do all day is sit in your cage and sing and sulk, and it’s left to me to mastermind everything, to make the major decisions, to give that masterly display of courage and cunning . . .”

“I don’t think it’s very cunning to get us both exiled,” inter­rupted Dulcibelle, sniffing. “Not what I would call cunning, anyway.”

“That’s right, that’s right, blame me,” shouted Parrot. “How was I to know they’d attack in the night, eh? How was I to know that the Toads would tie us up in a vulgar brown paper parcel and throw us in the river, eh? You’d think, the way you go on, I’d encouraged the Cockatrices to take over, you . . . you . . . stupid, superannuated, singing spider, you . . .”

“I shall sulk,” screamed Dulcibelle, starting to sob. “I shall sulk for an hour. Our contract does not allow you to insult me more than once a week, and you’ve done it twice today.”

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Parrot, in a harassed tone of voice. “I’m sorry; here, stop sulking, and I’ll give you a blue­bottle pasty when we get back.”

“Promise?” asked Dulcibelle.

“Yes, yes, I promise,” said Parrot irritably.

“You wouldn’t like to make it a bluebottle pasty and a grass­hopper soufflé?” asked Dulcibelle wheedlingly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Parrot shortly.

“Oh, well,” sighed Dulcibelle, and started to powder her nose again, humming softly to herself.

“What’s all this about Toads?” asked Peter, in astonishment. “And Cockatrices,” said Penelope. “What are they?”

“What have they taken over?” asked Simon.

“And why are you exiled?” asked Penelope.

“Quiet,” shouted Parrot, “quiet, quiet, quiet.”

The children sat silent.

“Now,” said Parrot. “Will you first of all please undo the door?”

Hastily Simon took out his penknife, cut the purple string that tied up the door, and then opened it.

“Thank you,” said Parrot, stepping out and climbing on top of the cage.

“Mind you don’t catch a chill out there,” shouted Dulcibelle. “You haven’t got your cloak on.”

Parrot ignored her. He carefully adjusted his skullcap, which had got pushed lopsidedly over one eye during his climb, and surveyed the children.

“Now,” he said at last. “You want to know the answers to all these questions, eh?”

“Yes, please,” said Penelope.

“Can I trust you?” asked Parrot.

“Of course you can,” said Simon indignantly.

“Well, then,” said Parrot. “What I’m about to tell you is a strict secret, understand? Not a word to anyone else.”

The children promised faithfully that everything Parrot told them would go no further, and settled down round the cage to listen.

Train to Mythologia

“Well,” said Parrot, “it was around the year when Hengist Hannibal Junketberry finished his magicianship. Being the seventh son of a seventh son of a seventh son, he had, not unnaturally, finished at the top of his class and received among other honors the Merlin Award.”

“Is that the best you can get?” asked Penelope.

“It means you’re almost as good a magician as Merlin, and he was the best. Now at the time when Hengist Hannibal left the University of Magic with his prize (which consisted of the three books I’ve already mentioned, and a pointed hat and a magic wand), his old teacher begged him to specialize in something and make a name for himself. The country was too full of third-rate magicians, all mumbling the same old spells, and Hengist Hannibal’s teacher thought that—with his talents—he should go far. Well, after some thought, he decided to take up mythological animals, because no one was doing them in those days.”

“What’s a mythological animal?” whispered Peter to Simon.

“An imaginary one, like a sea serpent,” Simon whispered back.

“Very soon,” Parrot went on, “if anyone wanted to know how many toes a dragon had or how long a mermaid’s hair was, they automatically went to Hengist Hannibal Junketberry, as he was the authority on the subject. In fact, a lot of the information in Topsell’s History of Four-footed Beasts came from Junket-berry, but Topsell didn't give him the credit. Professional jealousy—that’s what.” Parrot paused, reached under his wing and took out a tiny gold snuffbox, took a pinch of snuff, and sneezed violently into his spotted handkerchief.

“I told you you'd catch cold without your cloak,” shouted Dulcibelle angrily. “Why don’t you use your common sense?”

Parrot ignored her. “After a few years, however,” he con­tinued, “Hengist Hannibal suddenly found his trade dropping off, if I may put it like that. He found that people were no longer coming to him for a Unicorn’s horn or a phial full of Phoenix ashes against lightning. And the reason for this, he soon discovered, was that people were no longer believing.” Parrot paused and gazed at them sternly.

“I don’t understand,” said Simon, frowning. “If the animals were mythological in the first place, they didn’t exist.”

“Foolish boy,” said Parrot. “They existed when people be­lieved in them.”

“I don’t see how a thing can exist simply because you believe in it,” said Simon stubbornly.

“Not just you, a whole lot of people,” said Parrot. “Look, at one time, nobody believed in steam engines or paddle steamers, right? So there weren’t any. Then a lot of people started believ­ing in steam engines and paddle steamers, and . . . bang . . .”

“Thunder,” shouted Dulcibelle.

“Soon there were so many steam engines and paddle steamers you could hardly move. Well, it was the same with mythological animals,” said Parrot. “As long as enough people believed in them, there were plenty of animals, but as soon as people started disbelieving in them, then . . . bang . . . their population dwindled away.”

“That’s two claps of thunder I’ve heard,” shouted Dulcibelle . “Come in, or you’ll be struck by lightning.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” said Parrot impatiently. “Why don’t you go and spin yourself something?”

“What?” asked Dulcibelle.

“Oh, anything,” said Parrot.

“I’ll spin a wimple,” said Dulcibelle. “I’ve always wanted a wimple.”

“Things soon became so bad,” continued Parrot, “that Hengist Hannibal was at his wits’ end: Unicorns down to the last four pairs, Sea Serpents you couldn’t find for love or money—it was terrible, simply because nobody believed any more.”

“What did Mr. Junketberry do?” asked Penelope, fascinated.

Parrot looked round carefully to make sure that they were not overheard, then he put a wing up to his beak. “He created a country called Mythologia,” said Parrot in a hoarse whisper.

“But where is it?” asked Penelope.

“And how did that solve everything?” asked Peter.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Parrot. “All in good time.”

“You haven’t seen my spinning pattern for a wimple, have you?” shouted Dulcibelle.

“No,” said Parrot fiercely, “I have not.” He paced up and down on the top of the cage for a while, wings behind his back, and then he stopped.

“Well, Hengist Hannibal found Mythologia quite by ac­cident one day. He was walking in the hills and he came to this cave. Entering it, out of curiosity, he found it led him to a gigantic cavern under the earth, with a vast inland sea dotted with numerous islands. Immediately he could see that this was exactly what was wanted. After all, the world was fast becom­ing so disbelieving and so overcrowded there was scarcely any room left for real animals, let alone mythological ones. So he took it over and, with the aid of a few very potent spells, he made it most habitable, most habitable indeed. Then all the remaining mythological animals were moved down there, and each was given its own island or piece of sea, and everybody settled down most happily. You see, as long as we all believed in each other we were safe.”

Parrot paused, wiped away a tear, and blew his beak vio­lently.

“I told you you’d catch cold,” shouted Dulcibelle. “Do you listen to me? Oh, no!”

“Our Government, if you like to call it that,” Parrot went on, “consisted of the three Talking Books and Hengist Hannibal Junketberry, and a very good and fair and kind Government it was. As I’ve told you, I was made Keeper of the Words, and part of my job was to come out into the real world once every hundred years or so and make a report of what was going on. Well, Dulcibelle and I have just been stopping with my cousin in India. He owns the Maharaja of Jaipur; he’s a terrible snob with an International Passport and a Rolls Royce and everything, but he keeps me up to date on the Far Eastern situation. Anyway, we came back from this trip, and what do you think we found?”

The children waited, breathless.

“We found,” said Parrot, in a deep, mournful, solemn voice, “that the Cockatrices had revolted. Not only that, but they’d stolen the three Talking Books of Government. Can you imag­ine anything more hideous, horrendous, or horrifying?”

“No,” said the children truthfully, because the way Parrot said it, it sounded just like the end of the world.

“Quite right,” said Parrot approvingly.

“But please,” said Penelope, “before you go any further, can you please explain what a Cockatrice is?”

“Yes, please do, Parrot,” said Simon and Peter.

“Well,” said Parrot. “Well, I must confess, though we in Mythologia believe in live and let live, I must confess I’ve never really liked the Cockatrices: noisy, vulgar, and vain—that more or less sums them up. Careless, too, always breathing out fire and setting things alight—dangerous. What do they look like? Well, most unprepossessing, I think. They’re about as big as you are, with the body of a cockerel, the tail of a dragon, and scales instead of feathers. Of course, they’re colorful with their red and gold and green scales, if you like that sort of thing. Per­sonally, I think it’s terribly brash and vulgar.”

“But what do they breathe fire for?" asked Peter.

“I don’t know, really,” said Parrot. “They were just thought up like that, but it’s jolly dangerous, I can tell you. Hengist Hannibal was going to build them a special fireproof castle to live in. The first one they had, they burnt down within twenty- four hours of moving into it. Now they’re living in the castle H.H. used to reside in before he moved up to the Crystal Caves, and I expect they’ll burn that down eventually.”

“Aren’t they terribly dangerous creatures to have around?” asked Penelope.

“Not if you control their numbers,” answered Parrot. “We never allowed more than ten dozen at any one time.”

“But how do you manage to do that?” asked Simon.

“It was one of the laws,” said Parrot. “So many Unicorns, so many Mandrakes, so many Cockatrices, and so on. We had to, otherwise we’d have been overrun. There’s only room for a cer­tain number of us in Mythologia, you see. Mind you, the Cock­atrices are always trying to get their numbers up, always com­ing to H.H. with some story of having no one to do their washing. Well, it’s all a bit complicated, really. You see, Cockatrices are only hatched out of eggs laid by the two Golden Cockerels. They’re dull birds, no conversation, just sit around saying cock-a-doodle-doo in a fatuous manner all day. Well, once every hundred years, they lay an egg.”

“But I thought only hens laid eggs,” said Penelope, confused.

“Hens lay eggs that hatch into other hens,” corrected Parrot. “Golden Cockerels lay eggs that hatch into Cockatrices.”

His answer so muddled Penelope that she decided not to ask any more questions.

“Once the Golden Cockerels have laid a Cockatrice’s egg, then their job is done,” explained Parrot. “They then let off a couple of boastfull doodle-dos and hand the whole thing over to the Toads.”

“The Toads?” said Penelope.

“What have Toads got to do with it?” asked Simon.

“They hatch the eggs, of course,” said Parrot. “Only thing they’re fit for, those Toads—brainless, dithering creatures. The only thing they do well is hatching Cockatrices’ eggs. You know, if you keep interrupting me like this, I’ll never finish the story.”

“Sorry,” Simon said contritely.

“Well,” said Parrot, “the Cockatrices decided that if they could get the Great Book of Spells it would tell them how to make the Golden Cockerels lay a Cockatrice egg every day. So they got into league with the Toads, who are a flibberty-gibberty sort of creatures and easily led, and together they not only kidnapped the Golden Cockerels but stole the three Great Books of Government. When Dulcibelle and I returned, they’d locked themselves up in their castle and were producing Cockatrice eggs like a . . . like a . . . like a . . .”

“Battery farm,” suggested Simon.

“Exactly,” said Parrot. “Twenty-five eggs at the last count. One a day they’re producing. The whole of Mythologia will be overrun with Cockatrices, unless we do something, or rather unless I do something. You see, over the last two hundred years or so, H.H. has become very frail and forgetful, and he’s left more and more of the running of the thing to me. But I can’t do anything without the Great Books. Dulcibelle and I were planning to go and try to talk some sense into the silly Cockatrices, but we were set upon in the middle of the night by those illiterate, ill-favored, and insolent Toads, bundled up into a vulgar brown paper parcel, and thrown into the river. Me, Parrot! My blood boils at the thought. Wait until I get my wings on those Toads.”

“But what about Mr. Junketberry?” asked Penelope. “Poor man, what’s happened to him?”

“He’s in despair, poor fellow,” said Parrot. “He was in his magician’s cave with a hysterical Dragon on his hands, the last time I saw him.”

“Dragon?” asked Peter, who was feeling a bit dazed.

“Tabitha, the last of the Dragons,” explained Parrot. “Nice enough creature in her way, but so useless. She let the Cocka­trices have the Dragon eggs as well. When she realized what she’d done, of course, she had hysterics. No stamina, these Dragons.”

“Don’t you think you ought to get back as soon as possible?” asked Penelope anxiously. “I mean, before all the Cockatrices hatch?”

“Exactly,” said Parrot. “But I can’t do it without help.”

“We’ll help,” said Penelope eagerly. “We’ll do anything, won’t we, Peter . . . Simon?”

“Yes,” chorused the boys. “Anything, just tell us.”

“You’re too kind,” said Parrot, wiping away a tear. “Too kind.”

“In fact, I wouldn’t mind coming with you,” said Peter pugnaciously, “and helping you give those Cockatrices a good hiding.”

“Yes,” said Simon, “and those odious Toads.”

“Couldn’t we come back with you?” asked Penelope. “I mean, we might be of some help.”

“My dear young people,” said Parrot, quite overcome with emotion. “You’re too kind, too generous. Of course you may come. I’d be most grateful for your help.”

“Good,” said Peter, jumping to his feet. “That’s settled then. How do we get there?”

“By train,” said Parrot.

“By train?" echoed the astonished children.

“Yes,” said Parrot. “Originally, there was only a track up to our entrance. Then they put a train in—a narrow gauge, of course—round about 1800. Well, the track passed right by our entrance, so we had to let the train in on our secret, you see. She’s French, but a very good sort. In fact, I’ve forgotten how to find this entrance myself. I generally use one of the others, but the train knows. She’s retired now, of course, and lives at the village of Diakofta.”

“But I’ve seen her, she’s in our village. I mean the village nearest our villa,” squeaked Penelope excitedly. “You mean that dear little steam engine that stands on a sort of stage near the station?”

“That’s right,” said Parrot. “Hows she looking?”

“Fine,” said Penelope. “She’s sweet."

“We never showed the diesel the entrance,” said Parrot. “Un­trustworthy things, diesels, but old Madame Hortense is all right. They don’t build them like that these days. If we go up there tonight, she’ll take us to the entrance of Mythologia. From there we’ll have to go on foot, following the river.”

“If there’s a river, why can’t we go by boat?” asked Simon.

“Ah, we could, if only we had one,” said Parrot.

“But we have,” shouted Peter triumphantly. “It’s behind this sand dune.”

“You’re joking,” said Parrot faintly.

“No,” said Penelope. “Go and look.”

Parrot took off from the top of his golden cage and soared over the sand dune, glittering in the sun like a rainbow. He reappeared presently and landed again on top of his cage.

“You shouldn’t be flying about like that at your age,” shouted Dulcibelle. “I’ve told you before.”

“Magnificent,” said Parrot breathlessly. “Magnificent, just what we needed: collapsible and such a beautiful color, too. Children, I’m so glad we met.”

“So are we,” said Penelope.

“Now, let’s make plans,” said Parrot. “What I suggest is this: if you’ll be kind enough to conceal me and Dulcibelle in our cage up near the road somewhere, then you can come back at midnight and we’ll make our way to the village of Diakofta and persuade Madame Hortense to take us to the borders of Mythologia. From then on we can travel by boat. How does that strike you as a scrumptious plan?”

“Super,” said Simon, grinning.

“Simon and I will be in charge of weapons and things,” said Peter. “And Penelope can be in charge of food and first aid.”

“Gosh,” said Simon, struck by a thought. “How long is this going to take?”

“Several days, I would say,” said Parrot. “Why?”

“What about your father, Penny?” asked Simon. “How are we going to explain to him?”

“That’s easy,” said Penelope. “He told me I could go and camp on the beach when you two arrived. We’ll just tell him we’re camping. Leave that to me. ”

“Well, that’s settled. So let’s get cracking,” said Peter eagerly.

Carefully they carried Parrot’s cage up the hill and concealed it not far from the road in a great cluster of myrtle bushes. Then they rowed back home, deflated the dinghy, and carried it up to the villa.

As Penelope had promised, Uncle Henry made no fuss about their going to camp on the beach.

“It’s full moon,” explained Penelope, “and we might spend several nights down there, so you’re not to get worried.”

“No, I shan’t,” said Uncle Henry. “I loved camping out at full moon when I was your age. Well, have a good time.”

The three children went off to pack up their supplies. Simon made three spears by tying sharp kitchen knives to bamboo poles, and Peter made slingshots out of forked olive wood sticks and strong elastic that Penelope found. In addition, they packed three flashlights, a compass, a first aid box containing such things as gauze, bandages, and cotton wool, and three large boxes of matches. Parrot had assured them that there would be plenty of food when they reached the Crystal Caves where H.H. lived, so they took only enough for twenty-four hours. They chose things that didn’t have to be cooked, like raisins and nuts and chocolate. Then they sat on the bed and waited for midnight.

As twelve o’clock struck, they crept out of the house and made their way down the moonlit road, carrying their weapons and supplies and the all-important dinghy. When they reached the myrtle bushes where they had left Parrot, they saw a strange glow, as of a camp fire. As they crept closer they saw that Parrot had lit two candles in the candelabra on his harp­sichord and was playing a quiet, tinkly sort of tune, while Dulcibelle hummed to herself. It was such a pretty scene, with the candlelight winking on the gold bars of the cage and the pol­ished wood of the harpsichord and other furniture, the soft music and Dulcibelle’s sweet little voice, that the children were loath to disturb Parrot, but they felt they must.

“Ha, there you are,” said Parrot when he saw them, ending the tune by running one wingtip along the keyboard and clos­ing the lid of the harpsichord. “Good, then we’ll be off.”

So, carrying Parrot’s cage with Parrot sitting on top, the children set off for the village of Diakofta, which lay about a mile away.

When they reached the village, they made their way through the silent streets until they came to the small railway station. There, sitting in all her glory on a sort of small stage with two pieces of rail for her to perch on, was Madame Hortense, looking more like a very large toy than a real engine.

“Yes, that’s she,” said Parrot. “Looks as though she’s put on a bit of rust since I last saw her. Or maybe it’s just the moonlight.”

“I’m sure she hasn’t,” said Penelope. “She was beautifully oiled and looked after when I saw her; she was in a wonderful state of preservation.”

“Well,” said Parrot, “I’ll go and wake the old girl up.”

So saying, he flew ahead of the children and landed on one of Madame Hortense’s bumpers.

“Alors, Hortense, my little cabbage, come along,” cried Par­rot. “Open those big eyes of yours and let’s be off.”

Woken as she was out of a deep sleep, Madame Hortense ut­tered a short, sharp scream, which made Parrot almost fall off the bumper with astonishment.

“ ’Elp! ’Elp!” shouted .Madame Hortense. “My assassins is ’ere again.”

“Here,” said Parrot, “give over. You’ll have the whole village awake.”

^uMon Dieu! Oh, it's you,” said Madame in a husky voice with a strong French accent. “Mon Dieu, ’ow you ’ave frightened zee life from me, creeping about like zat in zee night.”

“Who did you think it was?” asked Parrot. “Stephenson’s Rocket, come to pay you a visit?”

“Ah, mon Perroquet,” said Madame Hortense, "always you joke. You know perfectly well zat a good-looking engine in such perfect condition as me attracts a lot of attention, n'est-ce pas? Only zee ozer night I ’ad to call for ’elp. Zere were two men from zee Science Museum in London, trying to—’ow you zay?—kidnapping me. So I ’ootled and ’ootled, and zee villagers saved me. I tell you, a train of my sort does not give up easily. I am not one of zese stupid diesels.”

“Of course not,” said Parrot. “Why, you are without doubt the prettiest little train I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been around quite a bit, you know.”

“Ah, Perroquet," sighed Madame Hortense, “you always zay zee right zing to a lady. You’re so gallant, so sympathique, mon brave Perroquet. ”

“Here,” said Parrot. “Let me introduce my friends: Peter, Simon, and Penelope.”

Madame Hortense surveyed them.

“Zee boys are ’andsome,” she said at last, “especially zee dark one; ’e reminds me of zee first driver I ’ad. But zee girl? . . . hm, very dull, and what a lot of rust on its head, poor zing.”

“That’s my hair, and it’s supposed to be that color,” said Penelope indignantly.

“Now, now, we didn’t come here to start a beauty contest,” said Parrot soothingly. “We came here to ask you a favor, Hor­tense, my darling.”

“For you, mon brave Perroquet, I will be anyzing,” said Madame Hortense.

“Good,” said Parrot. “Drive us to Mythologia, then.”

“What?” screeched Madame Hortense. “Get out of my nice, warm siding and go up zee valley? Me, ’oo’s retired? Me, at my age, getting up zee steam? Non! non! non! nevaire! I zay, zut alors, zis you cannot ask.”

The argument went on for a long time. Parrot flattered and wheedled the little train, and the children told her how beautiful she was, how brave she was, and how important to Mythologia she was—which was quite true.

“Well,” said Madame Hortense at last, “I would do zis zing, but I cannot get down from zis comfortable rail siding built special for me.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Peter. “Two planks of wood, and with your agility and skill we’ll have you down in a jiffy.”

“Mon Dieu, ’e flatters like you, Perroquet,” said Madame Hortense. “Ah well, if it is zee fate, it is zee fate. Bring your pieces of wood and let us commence.”

Quickly the two boys got some planks of wood and made a sort of slide down from the rails on which Madame Hortense stood to the ground below. Then they all got behind her and started to push. “Sacree couchette!” cried Madame Hortense. “ ’Arder, ’arder, you must propel. Alors, once again.”

At last her small wheels got a purchase, and, creaking and gasping, she slid down the wooden ramp and squatted, panting, at the bottom.

“Wonderful,” said Peter. “Now only a few more yards, Madame, and you’ll be on the nice, comfortable railway lines.”

“Zut, alors ” said Madame Hortense in between gasps. “Zee zings I do for zat Perroquet.”

While Peter and Simon coaxed Madame Hortense onto the lines, Penelope and Parrot searched the sidings for fuel that would make the little engine function. There was no coal, but they eventually found a pile of olive wood logs. Penelope col­lected armfuls of these and put them into Madame Hortense’s coal bunker.

“Careful, careful, do not bump zee paintwork,” panted Madame Hortense. “She was only painted nearly afresh zee ozer day.”

At last the bunker was full enough of wood. They filled up Madame Hortense’s boiler from the station’s tap and were ready to start. It was only when the children went aboard that they realized how tiny Madame Hortense really was, for once Parrot and his cage were put into the engine’s cab, there was only just enough room left over for the three children to squeeze in with their belongings.

“Are you aboard?” asked Madame Hortense. “Zen, will you, Peter, have zee goodness to light wiz a light my boiler?”

“It will be a pleasure, Madame,” said Peter. Indeed, both he and Simon were railway enthusiasts, and so to be allowed just to travel in Madame Hortense would have been a thrill. To be allowed to drive her was an honor. Carefully, they lit a piece of paper and then piled chips of olive wood and shreds of bark over it, coaxing it into a core of fire. Then they piled on the olive logs and soon the fire was roaring away in the furnace.

“Ah, nom de wagon-lit!” said Madame Hortense, drawing in great lungfuls of smoke and blowing them through her funnel. “Zere eez nozzing like a good smoke when one’s nerves is all en­tanglement.” Presently they got the boiler hot, and soon Mad­ame Hortense uttered a triumphant “Whoosh sh sh sh sssss. ” “Excellent,” said Parrot admiringly. “You’re in excellent voice, my dear Hortense.”

“Flatterer,” said Madame Hortense. “Whooshshshsh.”

“Now, Peter,” said Parrot, “just ease off the brake there a bit, and, Simon, you give Madame a little more steam.”

Very slowly at first, then with ever-increasing speed, the wheels started to turn.

“More of zee chuff-chuff‘ chuff-chuff, chuff-chuff, steam,” cried Madame Hortense. “Remove chuff-chuff‘ chuff’ chuff-a-chuff chuff chuff chuff, zee brake chuff-chuffs more of zee steam chuff-a-chuff chuff-a-chuff, chuff-a-chuff, chuff-a-chuff chuff. Alors, mes braves, we ’ave started. Vive la France! Chuff-a-chuff a chuff a, chuffa-chuffa chuff a, chuffa-chuffa chuff a ...”

“Wonderful,” shouted Simon. “Vive Madame Hortense.” “Hear, hear,” shouted Parrot.

“Have you taken your pill?” yelled Dulcibelle to Parrot. “You know you’re always trainsick.”

The little train gathered speed, clanking, rattling, and clink­ing along the rails, enveloped in clouds of steam, her boiler glowing like a ruby as Peter and Simon plied it with fresh olive wood logs, heading toward the range of mountains that lay purple and black in the moonlight.

The ride up into the valley was tremendously exciting. The tiny railway wound to and fro, in and out of the towering cliffs of rock. It ran over deep gorges where great white waterfalls glinted in the moonlight and where the river was pushed between jagged rocks so that it looked like the giant, glistening talons of some strange bird. Under the dark cliffs the children could see the green lights of fireflies, and above the roar of the many waterfalls and the clack and chuff of Madame Hortense’s progress they could hear the plaintive toink, toink of the scops owls calling in the trees.

“We are starting up zee ’ill, chuff-a-chuff, chuff-a-chuff, chuff-a- chufff panted Madame Hortense. “Make more zee steam.” So Peter and Simon piled more and more logs on, and the fire grew brighter and the sparks flew out, so that the little train left a trail like a comet behind it as it chuffed on.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Parrot, as Madame Hortense went faster and faster, her little wheels singing on the rails. “By Jove, you’re game, Hortense my dear. Always did enjoy train travel, but with you it’s positively celestial.”

“Flatterer,” Madame Hortense panted, and gave a couple of shrill wheep, wheeps on her whistle to show how pleased she was.

When they were halfway up the mountainside she came to a panting, gasping halt in a cloud of steam.

“Sacree couchette,” she gasped, the steam rising round her like a silver cloud in the moonlight. “ ’Ere we rest for a moment, and you may give me a drink.”

So Peter and Simon took turns fetching water from a nearby waterfall for Madame Hortense.

Presently, with her boiler full, Madame Hortense was ready to proceed.

“It’s not far now, is it, Hortense?” asked Parrot, as they climbed aboard.

“No, only a leetle bit more,” she replied, as she started to chuff her way up the slope.

Soon the track leveled out. On either side lay a deep gorge in which the river squeezed between the rocks and frothed and bubbled and winked in the moonlight. Then ahead of them stretched a cliff face in which were two tunnels, like two black, gaping mouths. The track at this point divided and disappeared into these two tunnels.

Madame Hortense drew to a halt by the point switch. “Pleeze to descend and sw itch zee points,” she panted. “It eez zee left-’and tunnel we want.”

Peter and Simon got down onto the track, and together—for the points lever was very stiff—they switched the points. Then they climbed aboard again.

Slowly Madame Hortense moved forward and went clackety- clack over the points and then picked up speed.

The tunnel loomed closer and closer, larger and larger, like the mouth of a yawning giant; and Penelope—not that she was frightened, but because it seemed the thing to do in the circum­stances—took hold of Peter’s and Simon’s hands. Then they dived into the tunnel, and Madame Hortense startled them all by letting out two ear-splitting screams on her whistle.

“Here,” shouted Parrot, “what’s that for?”

“Zee bats,” panted Madame Hortense. “Zay hang on zee roof, poor zings, and become suffocated if I do not warn zem.”

It was very eerie going through the tunnel, because the only light they had was the light from Madame Hortense’s boiler, and so they could catch only vague glimpses of the roof with its stalactites hanging down like spear tips, dripping water.

Presently Madame Hortense gave another sharp scream on her whistle. “Pleeze to put on zee brakes, slowly,” she cried. “We ’ave arrived.” Slowly Peter and Simon applied the brakes, and with much hoarse gasping and puffing the little train drew to a halt.

“All alight for Mythologia. Mythologia this stop,” shouted Parrot, and his voice echoed and reechoed in the tunnel.

“A nasty, damp place,” said Dulcibelle’s voice. “You should be wearing your cloak. If you catch a chill, don’t blame me.”

They got down onto the track and unloaded their supplies and Parrot’s cage. Then they clustered round Madame Hortense to say good-bye.

“I think you’re the most wonderful train,” said Penelope, “and it was a gorgeous ride. Thank you very much.”

“It was nozzing, cherie,” said Madame Hortense. “It doz show you what we old ones can do, n'est-ce pas?”

“Madame Hortense, it was an honor to ride in you,” said Peter.

“A privilege and an honor, Madame,” said Simon.

“You drove me very well,” said Madame Hortense, “very well indeed.”

“Hortense,” said Parrot, “I, my friends, and the whole of Mythologia are deeply grateful to you. We will never forget you.”

“Dear Perroquet” said Madame Hortense, “you know zat for you I will always do anyzing.”

“You’ll be all right going back?” asked Parrot.

“Yes, mon brave, I will—’ow you say?—coast back. It eez down zee ’ill all zee way. Now, you know zee way? It eez zee branch tunnel on zee left, about fifteen meters away.”

“Right,” said Parrot. “We’ll be off, then. Good-bye, dear Hortense, and thank you again.”

“Good-bye, mon Perroquet, and bonne chance,” sighed Madame Hortense in a sentimental cloud of steam.

Lighting their flashlights, the children made their way down the tunnel for about a hundred and fifty feet.

“Here it is,” Parrot said suddenly. “The entrance to Mythologia.” Shining their flashlights, the children could see a cleft in the rock on the side of the tunnel—a cleft some three feet wide and six feet high that looked rather like a narrow church door.

“This is the frontier post,” explained Parrot. “Five minutes’ walk and we’ll be in Mythologia.”

The tunnel was narrow, so that they had to go in single file. Peter went first with a flashlight, carrying Parrot’s cage. Next came Penelope (with Parrot perched on her shoulder) carrying the food supplies, the first aid kit, and the weapons. Simon brought up the rear, carrying the dinghy.

“Go a bit cautiously,” whispered Parrot hoarsely. “I don’t think it’s very likely—because they’re such slovenly crea­tures—but it is just possible that they may have put a sentry on duty here, to make sure I don’t get back.”

They rounded a corner in the passage, and Peter stopped so suddenly that Penelope bumped into him and Simon bumped into Penelope.

“What’s the matter?” asked Penelope.

“Shhh . . . sh,” whispered Peter. “There’s a light up ahead.”

“Let me have a look,” said Parrot, hopping off Penelope’s shoulder and onto Peter’s.

They stood silent, holding their breath, while Parrot peered ahead. “No, that’s all right, it’s not a light. It’s the entrance,” he said, at last. “That’s the dawn you can see.”

“Dawn?” said Peter. “Are you sure, Parrot?” It’s far too late for dawn.”

“Not in Mythologia,” said Parrot. “It’s dawn all day long, except when it’s night.”

“What on earth do you mean, ‘It’s dawn all day’?” asked Penelope.

“Well,” explained Parrot, “when H.H. was studying to be a magician he used to have to get up at dawn, and he very soon found that it was the loveliest time of the day—all fresh and calm and the colors and everything so bright after a good night’s sleep. So, when he was inventing Mythologia, he de­cided it would be dawn all day, except for eight hours of night. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.”

Eventually, they stepped out at the end of the tunnel and stood blinking at the scene that lay before them. The sky (or what appeared to be the sky) above them was a delicate shade of jade green fading into pale powder blue in places. Floating in it were armadas of tiny, fat, comfortable-looking clouds, in primrose yellow, pale pink, and white. The sun (or what ap­peared to be the sun) was just above the horizon, stationary, casting a lovely, delicate web of golden light over everything. Nearby a tiny stream—the color of pale sherry—fell in a series of delicate waterfalls over terra cotta red rocks; and at the base of each waterfall was a deep, calm pool full of lazily moving blue fish with scarlet fins and tails. The grass that the children stood on was deep purple, like heather, and very soft and springy to walk on; it looked as if it had been newly mown. It was studded with innumerable multicolored flowers whose petals looked as though they were made out of glass, and in­terspersed among them were groups of bright lemon yellow mushrooms decorated with black spots. Farther down the val­ley stretched a forest of trees with big blue leaves and choco­late-colored trunks—trunks that looked very knobbly and lumpy from a distance. Far, far on the horizon, almost hidden by morning mists, the children could see what they took to be the great inland sea which Parrot had described, gleaming and glittering like champagne in the dawn light.

“Why, it’s beautiful,” exclaimed Penelope, drawing a deep breath. “I'd never imagined it would be anything like this.”

“Look at the colors,” said Simon. “Aren’t they fabulous?”

“And the sky,” said Peter. “Those clouds look as though they’d been arranged.”

“They are,” said Parrot, “and rearranged five times a day, so that we don’t get bored. We also have four different sunsets: one, as it were, at each corner, so that those who like their sun­sets red can watch one side, while those that like theirs orange or yellow or green can watch the other sides. It’s very conve­nient.”

“I think it’s beautiful,” said Penelope. “No wonder you’re proud of it.”

“Well, well,” said Parrot, embarrassed. “I’ve lived here a long time, you know. One grows fond of a place. That’s why I don’t want to see those darned Cockatrices take over.”

“Quite right,” said Peter, “and the sooner we get cracking on that, the better. What do we do now, Parrot?”

“Well,” Parrot said judiciously, “if we follow this stream down, it joins the main river, and there we can launch the boat. Then, if my memory serves me right—and I could kick myself for not having brought a map—we travel down the main river, through Phoenix Valley, until we reach the Mooncalf Hills and Unicorn Meadows. There we’re just below the Crystal Caves, and it’s only a fairly short walk. However, I must warn you there are two rather nasty rapids in Phoenix Valley, and I don’t see how we can avoid them. I do hope you know how to handle that dinghy of yours.”

“We’ll be all right,” said Peter airily.

“Let’s hope we’ll be all right,” said Simon. “With both of us paddling we should be able to manage to get through.”

“Well, off we go,” said Parrot. “Let’s keep to the trees as much as possible, just in case there are any Cockatrices about. And remember, they can shoot out flames to a distance of about eight feet.”

“Eight feet!” exclaimed Peter. “Good heavens, that’s like a flamethrower.”

“Exactly,” said Parrot. “In the old days, of course, they used to be able to kill with their glance, too, but H.H. put a stop to that when he created Mythologia, because—really—enough is enough, as H.H. said. It was bad enough when they went round burning up everything they came in contact with by careless breathing, without killing everything they glanced at as well.”

“I don’t know why you allowed them to come to Mytho­logia,” said Penelope. “What do you want with a lot of horrible creatures like that?”

“Ah, no, you can’t pick and choose,” said Parrot. “Mythologia was created for mythical animals, and we couldn’t show any favoritism. All we could do was to control their numbers, of course, which helped, and keep them in places where they did as little harm as possible. It’s just unfortunate that the Cockatrices have got a bit above themselves. Anyway, with your help I’m hoping that we will put a stop to that.”

As they talked, they’d been walking down the valley, follow­ing the little waterfalls and the tiny stream, and now they reached the first scattering of trees at the edge of the wood. The children looked at them in amazement.

“Ah,” said Parrot. “Surprised, eh? Thought you might be. They’re cork trees. Now, in the outside world, the whole busi­ness of obtaining cork is very prehistoric—if I may be allowed to criticize. First of all, you have to peel the bark off the tree, and then you have to cut it into corks. Oh, it’s a very laborious process. So, when we came here, H.H. decided he’d create cork trees that saved a certain amount of time and energy. Here, as you can see, the corks grow directly on the bark of the trees, and in different sizes.”

Looking round them, the children could see that Parrot was perfectly correct. On the trunk and on the branches of each tree grew corks in numerous shapes and sizes: there were tiny corks such as one would use for very small medicine bottles; there were champagne corks, wine bottle corks, and great big flat, fat corks such as you’d use for corking up jars of preserved fruit or jam, or perhaps honey.

“Saves a lot of time, I can tell you,” said Parrot. “As soon as you’ve made your jam, or whatever it happens to be, you just come out into one of these cork tree forests and cut yourself off enough corks of the right shape and size. They grow again al­most immediately, too, so you have an endless crop. It’s rather like the grass, which grows again as soon as it’s eaten by the Unicorns or Mooncalves, and it never grows any longer than it is. Anyway, a nice, comfortable length, not long enough to get all damp and catch round your ankles. And the flowers, too, they’re one of H.H.’s inventions. A very, very inventive magi­cian he is, I can tell you. Here, you just pluck some, and you’ll see what I mean.”

Penelope bent down and gathered a small bunch of the beau­tiful multicolored flowers.

“Smell them,” said Parrot.

Penelope put them up to her nose, and thought that she’d never ever in her life smelt a smell so sweet and delicious as the scent of these little flowers.

“Everlasting,” said Parrot. “Stick ’em on your dressing table and they’d be there forever, and they’ll smell forever, too; but if you get bored with them, just throw them away. Go on, just throw them down anywhere.”

Penelope threw the flowers onto the purple grass, and imme­diately each one stood upright, grew little threadlike roots which delved down into the earth, and there, lo and behold, where there’d been a scattered bunch of flowers was a little growing patch of them.

“Waste not, want not,” said Parrot, winking one eye. “It’s the same with the trees. If you want to light a fire, you just cut off a couple of branches of any tree that happens to be handy, and the branch grows again almost immediately. It saves the tree having that awful amputated look that trees have in the outside world. That’s why everything looks so new and fresh.”

Presently the stream they were following led them through the cork forest and out onto the banks of the main river.

The river was quite broad and slow-moving, and its golden waters were so transparent that, standing on the bank and look­ing down, the children could see porcelain white and green crabs walking about on the bottom, together with scarlet, black, and yellow striped water beetles swimming to and fro, all busy about their business.

“Is this where we set out?” asked Peter.

“Yes,” said Parrot. “It’s about three miles from here to Phoenix Valley and then about another five miles before we reach the Mooncalf Hills.”

Simon put down the dinghy and spread it out, and he and Peter and Penelope took turns pumping it up. At length it was ready, and they launched it onto the golden waters, put Par­rot’s cage and all their supplies into it, and then scrambled on board and pushed off.

Of all the scenes that Penelope later was to remember of Mythologia, probably the one that lived most vividly in her memory was that first trip down the river toward Phoenix Val­ley. The banks with their purple grass bestrewn with mul­ticolored blossoms; the strange, misshapen cork trees, their upper branches trailing long wisps of gray green luminous moss and great fronds of what appeared to be coral pink and green orchids; the soft sound of the water and the long trailing fronds of yellow water weed and the crabs and the busy beetles she could see beneath the boat. It was a magical experience.

Presently, however, the cork tree forest thinned and finally disappeared, and they entered a new type of country which was barren, with the terra cotta red rocks that the children had noticed before, and in the cracks and crevices of the rocks strange cacti of weird shapes and colors.

“Not far now,” said Parrot, “and we come to Phoenix Val­ley. I wish we had some sort of covering.”

“Covering?” said Penelope. “What do you mean, covering? What would we need covering for?”

“Well, the Phoenixes themselves are harmless enough,” said Parrot, “but it’s all those ashes flying about.”

“Ashes?” said Peter. “Don’t tell me there’s something else that makes fire, like the Cockatrices.”

“No, no, no,” said Parrot. “No, nothing like that. No, it’s the Phoenixes, poor dears. As you know, the Phoenix lives for about five hundred years. Then it goes and sits on its nest, which immediately bursts into flame and burns it up, and out of the ashes a new Phoenix is created. As they’re sensible enough to control their numbers in this way, H.H. thought the simplest thing to do—to avoid forest fires—would be to give them a breeding valley of their own, and this is the valley we’ll have to go through. It’s quite a colorful spectacle, really, but, as I said, there’s a lot of ash and cinders flying about. We’ll have to look a bit sharp.”

As the river wound its way onward, and Peter and Simon paddled the dinghy at a slow but steady pace, the rocky banks grew steadily higher and higher, and the stream grew swifter and swifter. So suddenly that they were scarcely prepared for it, the river grew narrower and faster and faster.

“Rapids ahead,” shouted Parrot.

Sure enough, red rocks stuck up like fangs and the golden waters gushed and frothed and bubbled around them. Peter and Simon were hard pressed to maneuver the dinghy through without getting it punctured, but they managed it and soon came into a calm stretch of river again, which had widened out between the tall cliffs.

“Whew !” said Peter, wiping his forehead. “I didn’t think we were going to make that.”

“Thank goodness it’s over,” said Simon.

“Over?” said Parrot. “That’s just the first set of rapids. There’s another set farther down, once wo get through the valley.”

Now the dinghy rounded a corner and swept into Phoenix Valley, and the sight that met their eyes was so incredible that Simon and Peter stopped paddling and sat there with their mouths open, as did Penelope, watching the strange scene that greeted their eyes on both sides of the river.

On either bank, dotted about through the valley, sat the Phoenixes, like huge, multicolored, glittering eagles, with their wings spread out, as cormorants do when they sit on the rocks to dry. Round the base of each bird there flickered and winked the fire of its nest. As they watched, one of these nests erupted like a volcano. Great streamers of orange red, blue, and yellow flames enveloped the bird that sat there, burning it and turning it immediately into ash. So it sat there, like a great model of its former self, made out of gray and white ash. The fire died down, and then gradually the Phoenix started to crumble: first a few feathers from its wing, then the whole ash bird, with a sound like a great, soft sigh, crumbled and fell into the fiery nest. After a moment’s pause, the flames started licking up again, and in their depths the children could see struggling a small, multicolored Phoenix baby thrashing its wings and wrig­gling to and fro. Eventually it fought its way free of the flames and zoomed up into the air, to fly over the valley, like a swal­low, together with all the hundreds of other Phoenixes. But, as Parrot had said, there was a certain amount of danger, for as the Phoenix turned to ash, crumbled, and fell into its nest, sparks and burning ashes flew in all directions and fell hissing into the river around them.

“Why, it’s beautiful, Parrot,” cried Penelope.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Peter. “You mean to say that each time one of those big ones turns to ash and falls into the nest it creates another one?”

“Well, it’s really the same bird,” said Parrot. “It’s what they call a metamorphosis. That’s why H.H. gave them this valley. They do no harm at all in Mythologia. They feed mainly on nectar, and they’re very decorative.”

Even though they kept the dinghy in the middle of the stream, they could still feel the heat of the burning Phoenix nests on either bank. It took them perhaps half an hour to work their way through the nesting sites, and then gradually the river started to narrow again.

“Now,” said Parrot worriedly, "this is the difficult part. We’ve got one set of rapids before we reach calm water. If we can get through this, we’re all right.”

As he was talking, the dinghy had started to drift closer and closer toward the shore, unnoticed by either Peter or Simon. Just on the edge of the bank was an enormous Phoenix nest. The bird sitting in it had its wings outspread, already turned to ash by the flames. Suddenly, the dinghy bumped against the bank just below the nest.

“Hi,” shouted Peter. “Look out.”

“Push off, push off quick,” said Simon, looking at the great ash bird towering above them.

But they were too late. Just at that moment the great ash Phoenix started to crumble. With a tremendous whoo . . . shsh it fell into its nest, and the dinghy and its occupants were en­veloped in burning ash and multicolored sparks.

“Paddle out into midstream, paddle out into midstream,” cried Simon. “Quick! Quick!”

Rapidly he and Peter paddled the dinghy out into midstream, but it was full of burning ash. Suddenly, there was a sharp plop and a hissing noise, and they could feel the dinghy shrinking under them.

“Look out,” shouted Peter. “Look out!”

The current caught the rapidly deflating dinghy and whirled it away downriver, and then suddenly there was no dinghy under them anymore. Penelope fell into the water and it closed over her head, and she was whirled away, over and over, into the darkness and roar of the second set of rapids.

Mooncalves and Unicorns

When Penelope regained consciousness, she found herself lying on a sandbank with her head in Peter’s lap. Simon was leaning over her anxiously, rubbing her hands, while Parrot paced up and down, muttering to himself.

“She’s come to,” said Simon, with obvious relief.

“Are you all right, Penny?” asked Peter anxiously.

“Speak to us, dearest Penelope,” said Parrot, peering ear­nestly into her face, his blue eyes full of tears, his bright feathers bedraggled with river water.

They all looked so woebegone and worried that Penelope wanted to laugh, but she didn’t dare.

“Of course I’m all right,” she said, sitting up. “I just feel as though I’ve swallowed half the river and been dragged through the rapids backward.”

“A remarkably perspicacious description, if I may say so,” exclaimed Parrot. “That’s exactly what did happen to you.”

“Where are we?” said Penelope, looking round.

“Well, we were swept through the rapids after the boat sank,” said Peter. “You were caught under the water amongst some rocks and Simon and I had to dive for you, but we got you up at last and managed to swim to the sandbank with you.”

The sandbank, one of several, was a long narrow one that stretched nearly the width of the river. Onto it had been washed all their belongings, including the now useless dinghy.

“What on earth are we going to do now that we can’t use the dinghy?” said Simon.

“Everything can be set to rights when we find some Moon­calves,” said Parrot testily.

“What are Mooncalves?” asked Penelope, attempting rather unsuccessfully to wring the water out of her clothes.

“I don’t know,” said Peter. “Parrot keeps on about them as if they were the one thing we’d come here to find.”

“My dear Peter,” said Parrot severely, “if I tell you that the Mooncalves are among the most important of H.H.’s inventions, and that they are, without doubt, the most important animal, agriculturally and economically speaking, in Mythologia, then perhaps you’ll comprehend why it’s important for us to find some.”

“No,” said Peter.

“You are a singularly simple-minded boy,” said Parrot sternly. “I’m now going to leave you and go in search of a Mooncalf herd. Kindly wait here for my return.” So saying, Parrot stalked into his waterlogged cage and opened his Louis Quinze cupboard.

“If you’re going out like that, all wet, you’ll catch a chill,” said Dulcibelle, “and it doesn’t do you any good to be flying all over the countryside at your age.”

“Oh, be quiet,” said Parrot crossly. “You’re supposed to be my singing spider and housekeeper, not a jailer. Where did you put my telescope?”

“It’s where you left it—in the cupboard—and you shouldn’t speak to me like that. Here I slave away all day and what thanks do I get, eh? Tell me that. All you do is try to drown us all and create a lot of extra work. Look at the place— drenched, carpet ruined . . . I’ll have to air the bed. But do you care? Oh, no! All you think about is flying round the coun­tryside with your telescope. You should know better at your age. You carry on as if you were a fledgling.”

At last, from the strange collection of clothes and other things in his cupboard, Parrot managed to unearth a handsome brass-bound telescope, which he held carefully in his beak. “Reconnaissance,” he explained to the children, somewhat in­distinctly. “Back shortly. I should have some breakfast, if I were you.” So saying, he flew off, his wings flashing rainbow colors in the sunlight.

Penelope decided that Parrot’s suggestion of breakfast was a good one, for once they got on the move again there was no knowing when they would have a chance to eat. So she divided out a large bar of chocolate between herself and the boys and gave them a handful of raisins and almonds each. They found they were remarkably hungry when they started to eat.

Dulcibelle declined the offer of chocolate, raisins, or nuts.

“You haven’t, I suppose, got a grasshopper about you?” she asked wistfully. “Or a couple of houseflies?”

“No, I’m sorry,” said Penelope.

“Ah, well, I didn’t think you would,” said Dulcibelle. “Never mind.”

Their hunger satisfied, the children spread out their belong­ings on the sand to dry. They had just finished when they heard a voice crying, “Ahoy there, ahoy,” and Parrot flew into view and performed a very neat landing on the sandbank.

“Excellent news,” he panted, removing the telescope from his beak and putting it under his wing. “There’s a herd of Moon­calves about half a mile away. I missed them the first time—the silly things were all grazing under trees.”

“So,” said Peter, “what do we do now?”

“Go and get some jelly,” said Parrot.

“Jelly?” asked Simon. “Did you say ‘jelly’?”

“Yes,” said Parrot impatiently. “You and Peter come with me, and Penelope can stay here with Dulcibelle.”

“No,” said Penelope firmly. “If you’re going hunting for Mooncalves or jelly or whatever it is, I want to come too.” “Oh, all right,” said Parrot. “Dulcibelle can stay here.” “No,” said Dulcibelle. “What if a crocodile should come?” “There are no crocodiles here, you know that perfectly well,” said Parrot.

Dulcibelle thought about it for a moment. “All right,” she said at last, “I’ll stay, but you’re not to be more than three days, mind.”

“Come on, then,” said Parrot. “You’ll all have to wade over to the bank—there’s a shallow bit over there. Then I’ll show you where the herd is.”

So the children waded across from the sandbank, leaving Dulcibelle as guardian of their things, and set off over the purple grass field, dotted with flowers, toward the distant cork forest.

“What are Mooncalves?” asked Penelope of Parrot, who was perched on her shoulder.

“The most useful creatures,” said Parrot, “but I must confess they are the result of an accident rather than design. You see, in the early days of Mythologia, H.H. was trying to invent a cow which would give a never-ending yield of milk, but he had to use the mythological Mooncalf as a basis, so that it would fit in. It was just unfortunate that on that particular day he had lost his glasses, and in consequence he got three or four spells muddled up into one by mistake. It was all right, as it turned out. Poor H.H. was most distressed at the time. However, since then they’ve proved to be most successful.”

They made their way through the trees, toward where they could hear the clonking of a bell and a gentle mooing noise, like the sound of an ordinary herd of cattle in a meadow. Then they came out into a clearing, and there was the Mooncalf herd.

“A bit surprising at first glance, aren’t they?” said Parrot proudly.

“Surprising? They’re the weirdest things I’ve ever seen” said Peter.

“They look like bits and pieces of all sorts of things,” said Penelope.

Basically, the Mooncalves were like giant dark green snails with extremely pretty golden and green shells perched on their backs. But, instead of having horns in front, like a snail, each had the fat head of a calf, with amber-colored horns and a great mop of curls lying between then. They had dark, liquid eyes, and they moved slowly over the purple grass, browsing just like cows, but sliding like snails. Occasionally, one of them would lift up its head and utter a long and soulful “Mooooo.”

“Are they dangerous?” asked Simon, watching them, fasci­nated.

“Lordy, no,” said Parrot. “The kindest, stupidest things in the whole country, but, unlike most kind and stupid people, exceedingly useful.”

“But what do they supply?” asked Penelope.

“Milk,” said Parrot, “and Mooncalf jelly, probably one of the most useful substances known.”

“Where do you milk them from?” asked Peter, puzzled.

“The shell,” said Parrot. “Each shell’s got three taps on it. Two are marked ‘hot’ and ‘cold’—just turn the tap and there you are: hot or cold milk, whichever you like.”

“And the third tap?” asked Simon.

“Cream,” said Parrot.

“Gosh!” said Peter, who was passionately devoted to cream. “They are useful creatures.”

“And the jelly?” asked Penelope.

“Ah,” said Parrot. “Well, you knowhow a snail leaves a slimy trail behind him? Well, Mooncalves do the same, except it’s Mooncalf jelly, and they only do it when asked.”

“Ugh,” said Penelope. “What’s the use of a lot of jelly?”

“It hardens into sheets,” said Parrot, “and then becomes a most useful product. For one thing, it’s cold when it’s hot, and it’s hot when it’s cold.”

“What?” said Peter.

“What I mean is, if you make it into a house or clothes, or something like that,” said Parrot, “it’s hot in cold weather and vice versa.”

“That’s useful,” said Simon thoughtfully.

“You store it in sheets,” Parrot went on, “and then just take out a sheet when you want it and think it into something.”

“Think it into something?” said Penelope. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I’ll have to show you,” said Parrot. “Here, let’s go closer.” They walked up to the Mooncalf herd. The strange animals lifted their heads and gazed at them in the friendliest fashion. The leader of the herd was larger than the others and wore a large gold bell around its neck, marked “Leader.”

“Good morning,” said Parrot.

The leader gazed at them and then let out a prolonged “MOOooo” of greeting.

“Not very good conversationalists,” whispered Parrot into Penelope’s ear. “Very restricted vocabulary.”

The leading Mooncalf continued to gaze at them soulfully. “Now, old girl,” said Parrot. “We want a couple of sheets of jelly. Do you think you can provide them without too much strain?”

The leader solemnly nodded her head. Then she turned to the herd and uttered a prolonged, quavering “MOOooo.” The herd immediately formed a circle, nose to tail, and the leader took up her position in the center. Then the leader started to sing. She shook her head to and fro so that her bell clanged dis­cordantly, and cried “MOOoooooo, MOOooooo, MOOooooo.” As she did so, the whole herd started to slide round in a circle and say very rapidly and in chorus, “Moo-moo-moo, moo-moo- moo, moo-moo-moo.” The resulting noise was loud and dismal in the extreme. As the herd slid round and round, every other Mooncalf left a trail of what looked like jade green liquid glue, and the next Mooncalf steam-rollered it into a thin, flat, transparent sheet.

“All right, all right, that’s enough, that's enough,” Parrot shouted, to make himself heard above the chorus of “Moos.” The Mooncalves, looking somewhat surprised, came to a halt, and their mooing died away. Lying on the grass were some twenty sheets of what looked like very thin, brittle green glass.

“They never could count,” said Parrot, in exasperation. “Still, never mind, it’ll come in useful.”

Picking up one of the sheets, Penelope found it was as light as a cobweb and easily bent.

“Why, it’s a little like a sort of plastic,” she said.

“Better than plastic,” said Parrot, “because as soon as you’ve finished with it you just think it into oblivion, so there’s none of it left around mucking up the scenery.”

“What do you mean, ‘think it into oblivion’?” asked Peter.

“Well, we want only two sheets,” said Parrot. “So I’ll get rid of the rest. Watch.”

The children watched, fascinated, as Parrot walked from sheet to sheet of the jelly, glared at it in intense concentration, and said, “Disappear.”

Each sheet immediately rolled itself up into a tube and then got smaller and smaller until, with a noise like the bursting of a very tiny balloon, it disappeared.

“Incredible,” said Simon.

“So you simply tell them what to do?” asked Peter.

“Yes,” said Parrot, mopping his brow with his wing. “It requires a lot of concentration, though. Then, of course, you have to think them into anything you want—anything inani­mate, that is. Watch.”

He went up to one of the two remaining sheets of Mooncalf jelly and held out his wing. “Give me two pieces of you, eight­een inches by sixteen,” he said, and the sheet obligingly tore off two pieces of itself exactly that size.

Parrot flew onto Penelope’s shoulder. “Now,” he said, “stand still while I think them into something.”

“What are you going to think them into?” asked Simon.

“Buckets,” said Parrot, glaring at the pieces of jelly.

The children watched the jelly turn from pale green to dark green. Then it suddenly gave a wriggle, and it wriggled and writhed, twisted and jumped, curling itself into all sorts of con­tortions. Then it gave an extra-complicated wriggle, there was a faint pop, and there were two beautiful small buckets stand­ing in front of them.

“I say, that’s wonderful,” said Peter, much impressed.

“No wonder you said it was so useful,” observed Simon.

“It’s the most useful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Penelope with conviction.

Parrot proceeded to fill one bucket with cold milk and one with cream from the shell of one of the Mooncalves. Then they thanked the herd, which said “Moo” politely and in unison, and taking the sheets of jelly they made their way back to the river and their belongings.

“So there you are,” said Dulcibelle, when they got back. “Took your time, didn’t you? I was just about to send out a search party.”

“How could you send out a search party, you exaggerating, egocentric spider?” asked Parrot.

“We’ve brought you some cream,” said Penelope hastily. “Cream?” said Dulcibelle. “Mow nice. No greenfly to go with it, I suppose?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Penelope gravely.

“Oh well,” said Dulcibelle. “It’s to be expected, I suppose.” Then Parrot, with much concentration, thought the jelly into a splendid new dinghy. Filling it full of their equipment and Parrot’s cage, they launched it onto the placid river.

“Yo ho ho, and all that sort of rot,” said Parrot gaily. “Not long now and we’ll come to the Unicorn Meadows. Then it’s only a half hour’s climb to the Crystal Caves.”

“I’m longing to see the Unicorns,” said Penelope, trailing her hands in the golden, glittering waters, as Peter and Simon pad- died them along at a good pace.

“Very decorative animals, I must admit,” said Parrot judi­ciously. “But very, very standoffish, if you know what I mean, like to keep themselves to themselves. Snobs! Always saying, ‘Well, it’s none of our business’—when of course it is, because, after all, everything’s everyone’s business in Mythologia. I mean, we’ve all got to believe in each other, otherwise we’ll all vanish, won’t we?”

“Perhaps they’re just timid,” suggested Penelope.

“Timid? Not them,” said Parrot. “They’ll take on anything. No, they’re just lazy. When I went to see them about this Cockatrice business, you know what they said? It made me mad, it did. They said: ‘What business is it of ours? It’s up to you and H.H. to control the unruly elements among us.’ Ha! I’ll give them unruly elements.”

“The forest is ending,” said Peter. “It looks as though we’re coming to open country.”

“Just let me go and reconnoiter,” said Parrot.

Taking his telescope, he flew off and was gone a few min­utes. Then he returned to the dinghy, circled it with great skill, and landed on Penelope’s shoulder. “All clear,” he said, “couldn’t see a thing. Make for that little cove up ahead and we’ll land there.”

They landed in the cove, deflated the dinghy, and packed it up. Then they set off over the rolling meadowland, dotted with great clumps of blue bushes covered in magenta red flowers the size of sunflowers. About two miles away they could see a range of forested hills, and it was there that the Crystal Caves lay, according to Parrot.

Although the sun had not risen any higher above the hori­zon, it had become much warmer, and the boys found it was hot work lugging Parrot’s home with all its furniture plus their supplies and the dinghy. When they got to what Parrot said was the halfway mark, he told them they could have a rest. Thankfully they put down their loads, lay down in the shade of one of the big blue bushes, and had a much-needed drink of the Mooncalf milk.

“I’ll just walk up to the brow of the hill and make sure it’s all clear ahead,” said Penelope. “You all have a good rest.”

“Well, be careful,” said Peter.

“Oh, it’s open country round here, I don’t think she’d come to any harm,” said Parrot, dozing on top of his cage.

“Well, I shan’t go far, anyway,” said Penelope.

“Let us know what you see,” said Simon lazily, half asleep, “and if you see any Cockatrices, don’t forget to run.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” said Penelope. She walked slowly up the slope, enjoying the balmy air, the beautifully colored sky, and the soft springy grass underfoot.

When she reached the top of the hill, she looked down into the next valley and admired the color scheme of mauve grass, blue bushes, and magenta flowers. She suddenly saw a small animal rush out of one clump of bushes and bound into the next, but it happened so quickly that she couldn’t tell what sort of animal it was. She concealed herself in one of the blue bushes and sat there quietly, waiting for it to reappear. Pres­ently it did so, and Penelope caught her breath in surprise and delight, for it was a pale lavender-colored baby Unicorn with huge dark blue eyes. Its mane and tail were like spun gold and its tiny horn was like a twisted stick of transparent, golden barley sugar. The Unicorn stood, every muscle taut, its ears pricked forward, its nostrils wide, looking back the way it had come.

Then Penelope’s blood ran cold, for over the brow of the hill, strutting like an enormous colored cockerel, came a Cockatrice. It paused and looked about it, its cruel, greeny gold eyes glit­tering, its scales gleaming green and gold and red in the sun. As it moved its head, Penelope could hear its scales rustling and clattering together, and she could see the wisps of blue smoke trailing from its nostrils and the tiny flicker of orange flames springing up and dying down as it breathed. The Uni­corn must have seen it too, for it turned round and bounded along the valley, dodging in and out of the blue bushes until it stopped, panting, not far from where Penelope sat concealed. She could see its nostrils widening and its ribs heaving as its breath rasped in and out.

The Cockatrice, having surveyed the valley, twitched the end of its forked tail to and fro, like a cat; then it bent its great cockerel’s head forward and started sniffing the ground, utter­ing a low snarling noise to itself—one of the most horrible sounds Penelope had ever heard. The Unicorn, hearing this and clearly too exhausted to run any farther, crouched down and laid back its ears, its eyes wide with terror. Suddenly the Cockatrice seemed to pick up the scent, for it uttered a pleased, blood-curdling crow and started down into the valley.

Penelope wanted desperately to help the baby Unicorn, and yet she knew it would be dangerous to attract the attention of the Cockatrice. But, as she sat there, she noticed that the Cockatrice seemed very bad at tracking by scent, for several times it lost the trail altogether and wandered round in circles, clucking to itself. Penelope began to work out a plan. If the baby Unicorn’s track was broken, the Cockatrice might well lose it altogether. The only way to do that was to substitute her scent for the Unicorn’s. She knew her plan was horribly risky, and that if it failed both she and the Unicorn might be burnt to death by the infuriated Cockatrice. But she knew that if she thought about it for too long, her courage might fail her, so she got to her feet and ran down into the valley, zigzagging through the bushes to where the Unicorn lay, and she gathered it up into her arms. The Unicorn gave a tiny whinny of terror and started to kick and butt her with its horn.

“Stop struggling, you silly thing,” hissed Penelope. “Stop struggling. I’m a friend. I’m trying to help you.”

At the word “friend” the Unicorn stopped struggling and lay in her arms, looking up into her face with its big terrified eyes as dark blue as pansies.

“Friend?” it asked in a soft voice. “Friend?”

“Yes,” whispered Penelope. “Now lie quiet and I’ll try to save you.”

Although the Unicorn was as small as a fox terrier, it was quite a weight, as Penelope soon discovered. She ran back up the hillside, dodging from bush to bush, moving only when the Cockatrice had its head down to smell the ground, for she was not sure how keen its eyesight was. Panting, she reached the top of the slope and then watched to see if her trick had suc­ceeded. The Cockatrice was now nearing the spot where Penel­ope had picked up the baby Unicorn, and she watched it, holding her breath.

Suddenly, the Cockatrice, which had had its beak to the ground, sniffing to and fro, reared up with a startled snarl. Its eyes closed and it sneezed suddenly and violently. Flames and smoke shot from its nostrils and burnt a great black patch on the purple grass. It sneezed again and again uncontrollably, and each time it did so it burnt a great patch of grass or set fire to a bush. To Penelope’s amazement it didn’t seem able to stop. It was behaving like someone with hay fever. At last, its eyes wa­tering, it turned and ran off, still sneezing violently, leaving a trail of blackened grass and smoldering bushes behind it.

“Well,” said Penelope. “I didn’t know I smelt that bad. Any­way, at least it’s gone.”

“Thank you for saving me,” said the baby Unicorn in its soft voice. “It was very kind and very brave of you.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Penelope. “It was suc­cessful, which was the main thing. But what on earth were you doing, being chased by a Cockatrice? What were you doing out alone? Where are your father and mother?”

“The herd’s over there,” said the Unicorn. “I slipped away because I wanted to practice my butting.”

“Your what?” asked Penelope.

“Butting,” said the Unicorn, nodding his head up and down, so that his horn glittered. “You know, with my horn. We have a Great Butting Contest every year, and this year I’m old enough to enter, and being Crown Prince I’ve got to win, you see.”

“Crown Prince?” asked Penelope.

“Yes,” said the Unicorn. “I’m Septimus, Crown Prince of the Unicorns. My mother and father are the King and Queen.” “All the more reason why you shouldn’t be running around on your own,” said Penelope severely. “Think—Crown Prince of the Unicorns being beaten by a Cockatrice.”

“I know,” said Septimus contritely, “but I had to practice my butting, and the cork forests are the best place for that, because it doesn’t hurt your horn so much if you choose a big cork.” “Well, your mother and father must be worried to death,” said Penelope. “The sooner we get you back to them, the bet­ter. Why did the Cockatrice chase you?”

“He said he wanted to take me to their castle, so that the Cockatrices would have control over the Unicorns,” said Sep­timus. “And he caught me once, but I gave him a jolly good butt and got away. He didn’t dare use his fire, because he wanted me alive, you see. I’m glad he didn’t, because he might have singed my mane and tail, and they’re rather beautiful, aren’t they?”

Penelope shivered. “Yes, very. Well, you’d better come with me to my friends and we’ll see about getting you back to your family.”

So they went down the hill. Septimus gamboled gaily around Penelope, apparently having quite forgotten his recent narrow escape.

Peter and Simon were enchanted to meet a real, live Uni­corn, but horrified at the risk Penelope had taken to save it from the Cockatrice.

“Honestly, I would have called you all, if I could have,” she protested, “but I had no time. I had to act at once.”

“I hope this idiotic creature is grateful to you,” said Parrot severely. “He doesn’t deserve to be saved, playing truant like that.” But Septimus wasn’t listening. He’d found a small pud­dle under some bushes and was gazing, entranced, at his own reflection.

“They’re all the same, these Unicorns,” Parrot went on gloomily. “Vain as vain. Give them a mirror, or, in fact, any­thing they can see their reflection in and they carry on as though they’re hypnotized.”

“Well, he’s only a baby,” said Penelope, “and he is rather beautiful, you must admit.”

“Oh, he’s pretty enough,” Parrot conceded, “but no brains. They’re all like that. Well, I suppose we’d better be getting on our way and return him to the bosom of his family.”

So the whole party set off, with Septimus prancing to and fro around them.

“Do you think I look better with my horn like this or . . . like this, Penelope?” he asked.

“If you don’t be quiet,” said Parrot irritably, “I shall borrow Penelope’s scissors and cut off your mane and tail.”

This dire threat had the desired effect. Septimus became very subdued.

As they were making their way through a clearing in the great, blue bushes, there was a sudden rumbling noise like thunder, and the earth shook beneath their feet. A host of lav­ender and white Unicorns came crashing through the bushes, their hooves thrumming on the turf, and came to a snorting halt a few feet away from the party, so that the children found themselves encircled by a hedge of sharp golden horns, all pointing at them menacingly.

“Hey up!” shouted Parrot. “Hey up! No need for all that nonsense—it’s only us.”

The solid circle of Unicorns parted, and through their ranks came a very large Unicorn of a deep and beautiful lavender color. His mane and tail were pale honey amber, and his twisted horn glittered like newly minted golden sovereigns. It was obvious that this was the King of the Unicorns and obvious also that the slender white Unicorn with the golden mane and tail, following him, was the Queen.

“Why, Parrot, it’s you,” said the King in surprise.

“Of course it’s I, whom did you expect?” asked Parrot.

“We were told that since the Cockatrices had taken over, you had fled the country,” said the Unicorn.

“What?” said Parrot indignantly. “Me? Flee the country, me?

“Well, we thought it was unlike you,” said the Unicorn, “but H.H. said you’d disappeared without even leaving a note, and the Cockatrices said you had fled.”

“I’ll give them ‘fled’ when I get back,” said Parrot grimly.

“Yes,” said Peter. “Fled, indeed. We’ll show them, don’t you worry, Parrot.”

“It’ll be the Cockatrices that will be doing the fleeing when we’ve finished with them,” said Simon.

“Penelope saved me from a Cockatrice,” said Septimus. He went on to tell his father and mother (with a certain amount of exaggeration) how Penelope had fooled the Cockatrice.

“The whole of the Unicorn herd is in your debt,” said the King, his eyes flashing. “From now on every Unicorn in Mythologia is your servant. You’ve only to make a request and we’ll do our best to grant your wish. In the meantime, I’ll put four of my subjects at your disposal—one for each of you to ride, one to carry Parrot and your belongings.”

“I’m most grateful to Your Majesty,” said Penelope. “It’s very generous of you. I wonder if I could make a small request.”

“Speak,” said the Unicorn. “If it lies within my power, your wish will be granted.”

"Then, will you and your subjects join forces with Parrot, my cousins, and myself in our efforts to overthrow these ill- mannered and dangerous Cockatrices?” she asked.

“We Unicorns generally keep ourselves to ourselves,” said the King. “We do not meddle in other people’s affairs. But, as this is your wish, and as a Cockatrice had the audacity to try to steal my son, I hereby declare that all the Unicorns in Mythologia, including myself, will serve under you until such time as the Cockatrices are vanquished.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope. “Thank you very much.” “That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Parrot. “Together we can de­feat and destroy those truly flamboyant, futile Cockatrices.”

So the children piled their belongings and Parrot’s cage onto the broad back of one Unicorn and climbed onto the backs of three others.

“Remember,” said the King, “when you want us, send us a message and we will come instantly. There are a hundred and fifty sharp horns at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Penelope.

“We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve worked out a plan of cam­paign with H.H.,” said Parrot. “Now, be a good chap and tell your people not to breathe a word about having seen us, will you? Surprise is half the battle, you know.”

“None of my subjects will say anything,” the King assured him.

“Well, we’ll be off, then,” said Parrot, climbing onto Penel­ope’s shoulder. “Sooner we get to the Crystal Caves, the better.”

So the little cavalcade of Unicorns, carrying Parrot, the chil­dren, and their belongings, set off toward the forested hills that lay about half a mile away.

“That was clever of you to enlist the aid of the Unicorns,” Parrot whispered in Penelope’s ear. “But even with their help, it’s going to be a struggle to defeat the Cockatrices. They must be very sure of their position to risk annoying the Unicorns by trying to take Septimus.”

“Well, aren’t there other creatures in Mythologia whose help we can get?” asked Peter.

“Well, yes,” said Parrot, “but none of them is a lot of use. I mean, the Mooncalves, for example. Useful creatures but not cut out for this sort of thing. The Griffons will probably join us—that would be a help. The Dragons would have been of some help to us if Tabitha hadn’t behaved so stupidly.”

“Yes, what did Tabitha actually do?” asked Simon.

“You’ll find out when we get there,” said Parrot. “It’s just through these trees.”

They wound their way through a thicket of cork trees. There ahead stretched a high terra cotta red cliff, and they could see the arched entrance to a cave in it. As they came nearer they could see that all the grass round the cave entrance was charred and the bushes blackened and burnt.

“It’s those Cockatrices again," exploded Parrot angrily.

“They’ve been up here, trying to get at H.H. Just look how they’ve burnt the undergrowth.”

“I hope they haven’t hurt Mr. Junketberry,” Penelope said, remembering, with a shiver, the way the Cockatrice had snarled when it was chasing Septimus.

“Shouldn’t think so,” said Parrot. “The Crystal Caves are a special design. If you’re outside, you can’t get in, and if you’re inside, you can’t get out.”

Like many things in Mythologia, this was confusing, and the children said so.

“Well,” said Parrot, “when we discovered the Caves, they were just ordinary caves, but H.H. invented a sort of liquid crystal that could be produced like foam, and then it would harden. He was so proud of it that he filled the caves with it. The result is that once you get inside it’s like walking through giant soap bubbles. It’s transparent, so you can see in any di­rection, but it’s jolly difficult to get there unless you know your way about. It’s like being in a transparent maze. H.H. and I are the only ones who really knowhow to get in and out.”

They dismounted at the mouth of the huge cave. The cave did, in fact, look as if it were full of huge soap bubbles, trans­parent and delicate, with a rainbow tinge to them.

“Now,” said Parrot to the Unicorns, “you chaps had better graze quietly out here until we want you again.”

The Unicorns nodded their heads amiably and wandered off into the cork forest.

Parrot delved into his cupboard and produced a compass. “Follow me,” he said. The children picked up their belongings and Parrot’s cage and followed him into the Crystal Caves.

Penelope felt it was rather like walking through a transparent cloud. On every side they could see branch tunnels stretching away, it seemed, forever, yet each way they turned they were met, as in a maze, by a wall of shimmering crystal.

“Third right, second left, fifth right, fourth left,” Parrot mut­tered to himself as he trotted along, keeping a sharp eye on his compass.

The crystal corridors were lit by pale green light, and Simon asked Parrot where it came from.

“Glow worms,” Parrot explained. “H.H. gave them the entire roof, on condition that they lit the corridors. Of course, the main living areas are lit by mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms?” asked Peter.

“Yes, luminous mushrooms—give a very good light,” said Parrot.

Now they were deep in the Caves, and the crystal bubbles appeared to be getting larger and larger. Presently, through the many layers of transparent crystal ahead of them, they could see a strong, white glow.

“Nearly there,” muttered Parrot, “nearly there. I bet poor H.H. is at his wits’ end about me. We’ll soon solve the prob­lem, now we’re here.”

They rounded a corner and came into a huge, oval crystal room, lit by bunches of white, phosphorescent mushrooms hung upside down from the ceiling. It had two semicircular al­coves leading off it. In the main room there was a long table, a number of high-back chairs in silver-colored wood, and several low couches covered with brightly colored cushions. In one of the semicircular alcoves was a huge kitchen range with various pots and pans bubbling on it, and above it hung what looked like hams and sausages and strings of onions. In the next alcove was a laboratory—bunsen burners, retorts, test tubes, pestles and mortars, and innumerable bottles of various-colored herbs and salts.

Standing with his back to them, and holding a bow and arrow that was bigger than he, stood a short, fat figure in black and gold robes, with a gold and black pointed hat on his head.

“Avast,” cried this apparition, shaking the bow and arrow in the most unprofessional way. “Avast! One more step and I’ll put an arrow through your gizzard, you foul and disobedient Cockatrices.”

“Oh, dear,” said Parrot. “He’s lost his glasses again.”

“Avast! One step nearer and I’ll shoot to kill,” said H.H., waving his bow about.

“H.H.!” shouted Parrot. “It’s me, Parrot.”

Hearing Parrot’s voice behind him, H.H. wheeled round and his hat fell off. The children had thought that magicians were all tall and lanky, and gray like herons, but H.H. had a jolly round face, a long white beard to his waist, and long white hair through which the top of his bald head peeped like a pink mushroom.

“Foul Cockatrice,” cried H.H., glaring round wildly. “How dare you pretend to be Parrot? Do you think that I’d be de­ceived by such an impertinent imitation?”

“Oh, dear,” said Parrot. “I do wish he’d put his glasses where he could find them, or better still not take them off.” So saying, he flew down the room and landed on H.H.’s shoulder. “H.H., it’s me, really me, Parrot. I’ve come back,” said Parrot in H.H.’s ear.

“Parrot, Parrot, is that really you?" asked H.H. in a quaver­ing voice, and he put up a fat, trembling hand to stroke Parrot’s plumage.

“Indeed it is,” said Parrot.

“Oh, Parrot, I am pleased you’re back,” said H.H.

“And I’m glad to be back,” said Parrot.

“Well now, well now,” said H.H. at last, blowing his nose vigorously and bumping into a chair. “Where have you been, Parrot? I’ve been looking all over for you. I felt sure that those abominable Cockatrices had burnt you up.”

“It was those Toads,” said Parrot. “They leapt on us in the night, turned me and Dulcibelle into a vulgar brown paper par­cel, and pushed us into the river.”

“The impertinence of it, the impertinence of it,” said H.H., starting to pace up and down, his face growing red with anger. He was so agitated that he walked into the crystal wall and fell down. Peter and Simon helped him to his feet.

“Thank you, thank you, too kind,” murmured H.H. “Then what happened, Parrot?”

“Well,” said Parrot, “we were washed up on a beach in the outside world and were found by these kind children.”

“What children?” asked H.H., peering round.

“The ones standing next to you,” said Parrot patiently.

“Deary me, are those children?” asked H.H. “I thought they were chairs. How do you do, children?” He waved a friendly hand to some nearby chairs.

“The sooner I find your glasses for you, the better,” ob­served Parrot. “Anyway, if it had not been for the courage and helpfulness of these children, I should not be here.”

“Then I’m deeply in your debt,” said H.H., trying to shake hands with a chair. “Very deeply in your debt.”

“Now, before we go any further,” said Parrot, “let me find your glasses. Where did you leave them? Where did you have them last?”

“I’m not altogether sure,” said H.H. helplessly. “First there was this Cockatrice business, and I lost the first pair. Then I had Tabitha on my hands in a most hysterical state, I must say, and I lost the second pair; and I’ve forgotten where I put the spare pair that I wear when I lose the other two pairs.”

“Well, stand still until I come back here,” said Parrot, “or you’ll only hurt yourself.” He flew off down the room and started searching in various places.

“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Junketberry?” asked Pe­nelope, laying her hand on H.H.’s arm. “There’s a couch just behind you.”

“Oh, er . . . yes, thank you,” said H.H. “But please call me H.H. Everyone does.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope, helping him to sit down on the couch.

“Are you a girl child?” inquired H.H., peering up at her.

“Yes,” said Penelope, smiling. “I’m Penelope and these are my cousins, Peter and Simon.”

“How de do, how de do,” said H.H., bobbing his head in the general direction of Peter and Simon. “I was thinking that if you’re a girl child, perhaps you could go to soothe Tabitha. You know , as one woman to another?”

“I haven’t any experience in soothing Dragons,” said Penel­ope in alarm. “I’m not at all sure that I’d be awfully good at it, you know.”

“I’m sure you would,” said H.H., beaming at her. “You have such a kind voice. How generous of you to offer. I’ll take you to her as soon as I get my glasses.”

At that moment Parrot swooped back with a pair of glasses in his beak. “Here,” he said, giving them to H.H. “They were in the jar of moon-carrot jam. What were they doing there?”

“Ah, yes,” said H.H. pleasedly, putting them on. “I re­member putting them in there, because it was the most unlikely place to put glasses, and so I was sure to remember where they were.”

Parrot sighed the long-suffering sigh of one who had had this sort of problem before.

“Why, what nice children you are,” said H.H., beaming at them. “The boys so handsome and the girl so pretty. My, my, and one of each color, which is so useful because then one can tell you apart—which is such a help when one loses one’s glasses. Let me see, I must memorize: Penelope, copper-colored hair; Peter is the one with black curls, yes; and Simon must be the one with blond hair. Yes, yes, I’m sure I shall remember that in a week or two.”

“Never mind about that now,” said Parrot. “Tell us what’s been happening here.”

“Well,” said H.H., chuckling, “the Cockatrices appeared to be running into a little trouble. They got the right spell for the eggs, of course, which is worrying, but now they’ve got the Spell Book they’ve started getting ambitious. But you know how inefficient they always were. Well, they got the spells all muddled up, and before they knew where they were they turned two sentries into a bunch of moon-carrots and a small cork tree that had been struck by lightning.”

“Har! har! har!” laughed Parrot, slapping his thigh with his wing. “That’s the stuff—what happened then?”

“Well, they came up here and tried to force me to go down and work the spells for them,” said H.H. indignantly. “So I re­treated in here and they were afraid to follow.”

“The thing is,” said Parrot, “what are we going to do?” “Well,” said H.H., “without the Herbal and the Book of Spells, I can’t do anything, as you know. But they’ve got the three Books of Government down in the dungeons of Cocka­trice Castle, so they say, and they’re well guarded, it seems. I don’t see how we’re going to get them out, and without them we can’t do anything.”

“Can’t you remember any of the spells?” said Parrot.

“No,” said H.H. “When one gets to my age, one’s memory is not so good. The annoying thing is that I remember distinctly that in the Great Book of Spells there is one special spell against Cockatrices, but I can’t remember what it is.”

“Well,” said Parrot, “perhaps it’ll come back to you.”

“No,” said H.H. miserably. “I’ve tried and tried to remem­ber, but I simply can’t.”

“Well,” said Parrot cheerfully, “don’t worry, we’ll think of something. Now, why don’t you run up one of your splendid moon-carrot meals?”

“Oh, shall I? What fun,” said H.H. “But first I’ll take Peter here to soothe Tabitha—she’d like a little feminine company.” “You mean Penelope,” said Parrot.

“That’s the one with the blond hair, isn’t it?” asked H.H.

“No, red hair,” said Parrot.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said H.H. “Well, come along, Penel­ope, my dear.”

“Go on,” said Parrot. “Tabitha’s harmless.”

In spite of Parrot’s encouragement, Penelope felt very uneasy as she followed H.H. through the crystal maze. “I put her in the East Wing,” panted H.H. “First, it’s fireproof, and secondly it’s soundproof.”

Penelope could see the reason for this as they approached the East Wing. The amount of noise that was being made by an in­consolable Dragon was incredible.

“Boo hoo! Boo hoo! Boo hoo!” Penelope heard a voice roaring. “Boo hoo hoo! Oh, most stupid and idiotic of Dragons that I am. Boo hoo! Oh, careless and unintelligent creature that I am. Boo hoo!”

H.H. ushered Penelope into a room furnished as a bedroom. Lying on a huge four-poster bed, wracked with sobs, lay the Dragon. She was much smaller than Penelope had imagined, about the size of a pony. She was a bright sealing wax pink, decorated along her neck and back with a frill of golden and green scales. She had huge china blue eyes which were awash with tears.

“Now, now, Tabitha,” said H.H. “I’ve brought someone to see you—a girl child called Penelope.”

“How do you do,” said Penelope.

“I don’t do, that’s my trouble. Boo hoo hoo!” roared the Dragon, tears running down her cheeks and turning to steam as they were heated by the flame from her nostrils. “I’m the undoingest Dragon you’d meet in a month of Tuesdays. Boo hoo hoo!”

“Perhaps,” suggested Penelope gently, “if you tell me about your troubles, it would help. You see, that’s what I and my cousins have come here for, to help.”

“That’s very kind of you,” gulped Tabitha, “but I’m alone and forlorn, and nobody can help me, and it’s all my fault—boo hoo hoo!—and nothing can—boo hoo—be—boo hoo—done—boo hoo—about it—boo er hoo!”

“Nevertheless,” said Penelope firmly, “you’d better tell me, just in case. At any rate, crying can’t help.”

Tabitha pulled out a great handkerchief from under the pil­low and blew her nose violently into it. It immediately caught fire. Penelope and H.H. had to stamp out the flames, much to H.H.’s annoyance. “If I’ve told her once about using fireproof handkerchiefs, I’ve told her a dozen times,” he said. “These flame-producing animals are so careless, you’ve no idea.”

“That’s right—boo hoo!—be rude to me now that my heart is broken—boo hoo! and now that I’m the last of the Dragons,” sobbed Tabitha. “Take it out on me when—boo hoo!—I’m weak and defenseless and the last of my kind.”

“Dear me,” said H.H. “I never seem to say the right things. Well, I’ll leave her with you. If you want anything, ring the bell. Five times for an emergency.” He scuttled off, and Penel­ope sat down rather gingerly on the bed beside Tabitha.

“Now, Tabitha,” she said in a kind but firm voice. “All this crying is only upsetting you and not solving your problems. If you just control yourself and tell me what it’s all about I’m sure we can help.”

“Well,” said Tabitha, taking deep and shuddering breaths, so that the flames flickered out of her nose like little rose petals. “Well, every so often, you see, all the Dragons vanish, except one, and he or she is the Keeper of the Eggs, which each Dragon lays before vanishing. I was chosen to be the Keeper of the Eggs, and I was so proud because it’s a great responsibility to feel you have the whole future of the Dragons in your care, in one basket.”

“It must be a great responsibility,” said Penelope gravely.

“Well, I was on my way up here with the eggs—they’re

always hatched out in the Crystal Caves—when I met the Cockatrices, to whom l never normally speak—they’re so common and unruly. But they told me that there’d been a change of plan and that they were to take the eggs to Cockatrice Castle for hatching, and I, foolish creature that I am, gave them the eggs; and then—boo hoo hoo!—they ran off with them, saying that they were not going to hatch them and that—boo hoo hoo hoo hoo!—that there’d be no more Dragons . . . WHA! boo hoo."

“Cruel beasts,” said Penelope angrily, as Tabitha started to sob violently again. “Never you mind. My cousins and I intend to go to Cockatrice Castle and recapture the Great Books of Government and your eggs.”

“You will? You are?” asked Tabitha. “How?”

“Well,” Penelope began, and then stopped. Out of the corner of her eye she’d seen something move in the shadow s by the big wardrobe that stood in the corner of the room. “Tell me,” she said, “is there anyone else here in the Crystal Caves with you?”

“Anyone else?” said the Dragon, puzzled. “No, only me and H.H. Why?”

Penelope said nothing, but she went to the bell and pressed it five times. Within a few seconds there was a pounding of feet, the doors burst open, and Peter and Simon and H.H. rushed in, with Parrot in their wake.

“What’s the matter?” cried H.H.

“Yes, what’s the trouble?” asked the two boys.

“Close the doors,” said Penelope.

They closed the doors and stood looking at her.

“Well?” said Simon.

“We have a spy in our midst,” said Penelope calmly. “And he’s hiding near the cupboard.”

Spies and Plans

“A spy, Penny?” asked Peter incredulously. “Are you sure?”

“What sort of a spy?” asked Simon.

“I don’t know, I just saw him move. Over there by the ward­robe,” said Penelope, pointing.

The two boys strode over to the shadows by the cupboard. “You’re quite right,” said Peter, and, bending down, he grabbed at something.

“ ’Ere, leggo!” said a hoarse voice. “Leggo, you’re ’urting.”

Peter strode back to the others, carrying by one leg a fat, warty green Toad wearing a cutaway coat and blond wig and holding a gray top hat in its hand. Peter put it on the ground where it crouched, gulping, and gazed at them nervously with its bulbous yellow eyes.

“There you are,” said Penelope triumphantly. “I told you there was a spy.”

“I’m not a spy,” said the Toad hoarsely.

“Well, if you’re not a spy, what are you?” asked Simon grimly.

“I’m a . . . I'm . . . a . . . I’m a fur trader from Vladivos­tok,” said the Toad, “and I’ve got a wife and six kids wot I’ve got to support."

“You’re nothing of the sort,” said Peter indignantly.

“Don’t I look like a fur trader from Vladivostok wot’s finding it ’ard to make ends meet?” asked the Toad plaintively.

“Not a bit,” said Simon.

The Toad thought about it for a moment. “ ’Ow about a diamond merchant wot’s come all the way from Zululand, then?” he asked, brightening.

“You don’t look like that, either,” said Peter.

“A famous brain surgeon from Katmandu?” asked the Toad hopefully.

“No,” said Simon.

“Then I’ll tell you the troof,” said the Toad earnestly. “I’m a rich dairy farmer from Ontario, wot’s on ’oliday and is ’ere visiting ’is niece.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Penelope. “You’re a spy.”

“I’m not a spy, ’onest I’m not,” protested the Toad. “ ’Onest, miss. It’s just like wot I was telling you. I’m a very well-to-do corn merchant wot’s traveling incognito to do a bit of business, like.”

“You’re nothing but a spying Toad,” said Peter.

“Yes, and a miserable, ill-favored Toad at that, wearing a wig and cutaway coat and a ridiculous top hat,” said Simon.

“You got no call to insult me ’at,” said the Toad, in a hurt tone of voice. “It’s a jolly posh ’at, this is—one of me best disguises—I mean ’ats.”

“You’re a spy,” said Peter. “And you know what happens to spies.”

“I’m not a spy, I swear it, I’m not,” said the Toad feverishly. “You can’t ’urt me, ’cos I’m not a spy.”

“Spies get shot,” said Simon.

“Or tortured,” said Peter.

“Or both,” said Parrot grimly.

“ ’Ere! Now steady on! There’s no need for that sort of talk,” said the Toad desperately. “ ’Ere, look, I’ll come clean with you. I didn’t want to tell you, but you made me.”

“Well?” said Simon.

“I’m a h’exceedingly rich merchant banker of Lithuanian h’extraction, wot’s got a wife, two kids, and an aging old mum to support,” the Toad confessed, tipping his hat over his eyes and sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Penelope.

“Neither do I,” said Parrot. “A merchant banker, indeed. A Toad like you couldn’t add two and two together.”

“You don’t ’ave to, if you’re a banker,” the Toad assured him. “ ’Onest, you don’t ’ave to know mathematics and things. It’s just looking after people’s money for ’em and telling them they can’t ’ave it when they want it.”

“Rubbish,” said Parrot scornfully. “Unmitigated, unimaginative rubbish. Now, if you don’t tell us the truth, we’ll get Tabitha here to warm you up with a little flame or two, eh, Tabitha?”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Tabitha, letting twenty-four smoke rings and two long streams of flame escape from her nos­trils.

“Ow! Now, 'ere, that’s not fair,” said the Toad, his eyes fill­ing with tears. “You can’t torture a dumb animal, and me clo’s might get burnt and I ’aven’t finished paying for ’em yet.”

“That’s not our concern,” said Parrot. “Tell us the truth and we won’t harm you.”

“ ’Onest?” said the Toad hopefully. “Cross your ’eart and spit on your ’and and ’ope to die?”

“Yes,” Parrot answered him.

“Well,” said the Toad, taking a deep breath. “I’m a . . .”

“The truth now,” Parrot warned. “It’s your last chance.”

“Oh, all right," said the Toad. “Me name’s Ethelred and I’m a Toad of no fixed address.”

“And you’re a spy?” asked Peter.

“Yes. well, more of’alf a spy, like,” said Ethelred. “You see, it was all the fault of them Cockatrices. I was too small to sit on their eggs for ’em. I kept falling off and ’urting meself. Well, I said to the ’ead Cockatrice, like, I said, ‘Why not let me do wot I’m cut out for?’ ”

“Spying?” said Simon incredulously. “Why, you’re a terri­ble spy.”

“You got no call to insult me like that,” said Ethelred sulkily. “I would ’ave been a jolly good spy, but I didn’t finish the course.”

“What course?” asked Peter.

“Correspondence course in spying wot I was taking,” ex­plained Ethelred. “I only got up as far as disguises and foreign accents when the Cockatrices said, ‘ ’Ere,’ they said, ‘you nip up to the Crystal Caves and see what H.H. is up to!’ they said, and they bundled me out so blooming fast I forgot me invisible ink.”

Penelope began to feel quite sorry for him.

“Well,” said Parrot, “it’s a good thing we caught you, be­cause you can give us some useful information.”

“No,” said Ethelred, shaking his head. “No, I can’t tell you nuffink. Me lips is sealed, like.”

Tabitha breathed out two ribbons of flame.

“Well," said Ethelred hastily, “I could tell you a bit, maybe, the unimportant stuff.”

“where have they got the Great Books of Government?” asked H.H. “And are they safe?”

“Cor lummy, yes,” said Ethelred. “They’ve got them down in the dungeons under ’eavy guard. Ooh, they ain’t ’alf getting into a pickle with them there spells. Laugh? I nearly died. The tantrum the ’ead Cockatrice ’ad when they turned the two sentries into a tree and a bunch of moon-carrots. Us Toads were ’ysterical l can tell you.”

“And what about the Dragons’ eggs?” asked Parrot.

“Oh, they’re all right,” said Ethelred.

“They’re safe? In the castle? My precious eggs?” screeched Tabitha, and fainted.

“ ’Ere, wot’s she on about?” asked Ethelred. “ ’Course, they’re safe. Got ’em stacked up in the torture chamber, they ’ave, neat as neat.”

They all patted Tabitha’s paws until she came round, for, as H.H. wisely observed, there was no point in burning a feather under her nose, as one did in normal cases for the same thing.

“Now,” said Parrot to Ethelred. “What’s the best way into the Castle?”

“There is only one way in,” said H.H., “over the drawbridge and through the big gates.”

“That’s just where you’re all wrong, see?” said Ethelred tri­umphantly. “You lot think you know everything, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong, see?”

“Well, how else can you get in?” asked H.H.

“Ah,” said Ethelred cunningly. “You can’t get me to tell you. Ho, no, I’m not one of them turnabouts.”

“Turncoats,” said Peter.

“And I’m not one of those, neither,” said Ethelred.

“I don’t believe you,” said Penelope. “You’ve done nothing but tell lies since we caught you, and this is just another lie like telling us you were a brain surgeon. You deliberately lied about who you were and what you were, and now you’re lying about there being another way into Cockatrice Castle.”

“I’m not lying, miss, s’welp me,” said Ethelred. “I may have told you a fib or two about who I was, but this is ’onest, ’onest. You get into the Castle by the drains.”

“Bravo, Penny,” said Peter.

“Most sagacious,” said Parrot.

“Brilliant,” said H.H.

“ ’Ere,” protested Ethelred, suddenly realizing what he had done. “That wasn’t very fair, miss, was it, now?”

“Just as fair as you coming to spy on us,” said Penelope. “But that’s me perfession, master spy,” said Ethelred. “You ’ad no cause to make me give away a secret.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I thought it was necessary,” said Penelope, “and nobody will be surprised, because you’re a bad spy.”

“ ’Ere, I don’t think that’s fair, when I’d only done ’alf the course,” said Ethelred, pained. “I’m very good, really. I can do an ’Ungarian fishmonger with three motherless daughters to the life. Least, that’s wot me mum said. Would you like to ’ear me? Or I can do a Polish count wot’s fallen on evil times and ’ad to sell ’is castle and whatnot.”

“Some other time,” said Parrot. “What we want to know now is, how do we get into the drains?”

“ ’Ere,” said Ethelred, “you can’t expect me to give away all the secrets.”

“I think,” said Penelope, winking at Parrot, “that Ethelred does not realize that we’re offering him a very important job.” “Wot, me?” said Ethelred, puzzled. “Wot job?”

“Master counterspy,” said Penelope solemnly.

“Cor, wot, me?" said Ethelred, his eyes protruding even more with excitement. “Wot’s one of them, then?”

“It’s the most important kind of spying you can do,” said Peter.

“Yes,” said Simon. “Frightfully important work.”

“Coo,” said Ethelred, much impressed. “ ’Ow do you do this, then?”

“Well, you go on pretending that you’re spying on us for the Cockatrices, ” said Penelope, “whereas in reality you’re spying on the Cockatrices for us. That’s why you’ll be called Master Counterspy X.”

“Why Master Counterspy X?” asked Ethelred. “Why can’t I use me own name?”

“Because master counterspies never do,” said Peter. “They’re much too important to use ordinary names.”

Ethelred thought about this for a little bit. “Would I ’ave to use disguises, like?” he asked. “It’s just that disguises is one of me better bits, really, and I wouldn’t like to ’ave to give it up.”

“Of course you'll wear disguises,” said Penelope, “and most of the time you’ll be wearing the most fiendishly cunning disguise of all.”

“Wot’s that, then?” asked Ethelred, his eyes protruding with eagerness.

“You’ll be disguised as yourself,” said Penelope. “As a Toad.”

“But ’ere, steady on, then. Them Cockatrices know I’m a Toad,” protested Ethelred.

“That’s the fiendishly clever part,” said Simon. “Because under the disguise of a Toad, you’re really Master Counterspy X.”

“Cor,” said Ethelred, understanding dawning on his face. “Cor, that ain’t ’alf clever, that ain’t. Coo, that’s the most spy­ing bit of spying wot I’ve ever ’eard of.”

The children sighed with relief and Parrot exchanged a glance with H.H.

“So you’ll take on this highly important assignment?” asked Penelope.

“Oh yes, miss, please,” said Ethelred, his eyes shining. “And may I say, miss, it’ll be a pleasure for me to serve with anyone wot’s as pretty as wot you are, and ’oo ’as got a mastermind like wot I’ve got.”

“Thank you very much,” said Penelope, trying not to laugh. “And now if H.H. will be kind enough to give us some food, we can plan our campaign.”

So they all went back into the big room and Penelope helped H.H. to serve up a delicious meal of vegetable soup, roast lamb and green peas, baked potatoes stuffed with cream and butter, followed by fresh strawberries encased in whipped cream and meringue and surrounded by ice cream.

“Gosh, that was a splendid meal,” said Peter, finishing his second helping of the strawberries.

“It’s just one of these little banquets that H.H. likes to run up,” said Parrot. “He’s a very good cook, really. Of course, the moon-carrots help—they’re so versatile.”

“Yes, you keep mentioning moon-carrots,” said Penelope, “and you were singing about them when we first met. What are they?”

“One of H.H.’s better inventions,” said Parrot. “They look like red and white striped carrots. We have one crop a year. We have the Moon-carrot Gathering Ceremony, then they’re hung up to dry.”

“When they’re dry, they look like this,” H.H. said and placed on the table a long carrot-shaped vegetable which was hard, like a gourd. “As they dry, the instructions start to ap­pear. Look!” On the side of the moon-carrot the children could see, written in neat gothic script with a lot of twirls and squiggles, the legend: Roast leg of pork—Empty contents into casserole and put in a two-log oven for two hours. Baste frequently. Breaking open the moon-carrot, H.H. showed them the contents, a brownish powder.

“Do you mean to say that everything we’ve just eaten came from that?” asked Simon incredulously.

“Yes,” said H.H. modestly.

“And it’s not like ordinary tinned or dried packet stuff,” said Parrot, “because this is actually grown in the ground, so it’s lost none of its goodness.”

“Incredible,” said Peter.

“H.H. invented that in 1596,” said Parrot. “He was always ahead of his time with his inventions.”

“I really think you’re the most marvelous magician,” said Penelope. “All your inventions are so practical."

“Well, well, that’s kind of you,” said H.H., blushing a little, “but we must give most of the credit to the Great Books. With­out them, I can do very little.”

“Yes, so it’s essential that we get them back,” said Parrot. “Now, let’s map out our campaign. First, where’s that plan of Cockatrice Castle?”

“I have it here,” said H.H., pulling a roll of parchment from his robes. They spread it out on the table.

“Now, Ethelred, my lad,” said Parrot. “Where’s this drain you’re talking about?”

Ethelred pored over the plan, gulping with concentration, his wig perched slightly over one eye, his hat on the back of his head. “Well, ’ere’s the drawbridge,” he said at last, “and ’ere’s the Chief Cockatrice’s living quarters, and ’ere are the barracks where the rest of ’em ’ang out. Then down ’ere is the main dungeon where they’ve got the Great Books; ’ere’s the torture chamber where they’ve got the eggs.”

“My lovely eggs,” squeaked Tabitha.

“Now, don’t go fainting again,” said Parrot testily. “We haven’t time to waste giving you first aid.”

“Now ’ere,” Ethelred went on, jabbing at the plan with his thumb, “ ’ere are the two smaller dungeons, wot are never used, except for storage. I was sent down there one day to get a chair, and I found this sort of drain thing, see? So I went along it, just for a lark, like, and I found it went under the moat and came out in the fields over ’ere. So I says to meself, I says, Ethelred, I says, mark my words, that’ll come in useful some­time—and it ’as.” Ethelred beamed at them happily.

“I think that was very clever of you,” said Penelope.

Ethelred blushed to the roots of his wig.

“Now ,” said Simon, frowning at the map. “If we get in here, we’ve still got to get to the sentries and deal with them before we can rescue the Books.”

“You can’t rescue the Books,” said Parrot gloomily. “At least not that way. Each Book weighs about three hundred pounds and measures six feet by three.”

“Good heavens,” said Peter. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“But, my dear Parrot,” said H.H., “they don’t have to rescue the Books. They can just get the recipe for dealing with Cocka­trices, which I’ve so stupidly forgotten, and then we can drive the Cockatrices out of the Castle and rescue the Books.”

“Of course,” said Simon excitedly. “You’re quite right, H.H. If we can get in and get the right spell, that’s all we need.” “Now, all we have to think of is a way of frightening the guards,” said Peter. “What frightens Cockatrices?”

“Are you joking, mister?” asked Ethelred incredulously. “Nothing frightens that lot; they don’t ’ave to be frightened if they can spit out flames eight feet long.”

“He’s quite right,” said Parrot. “Cockatrices have always been arrogant and ambitious animals.”

There was a long silence, broken only by Dulcibelle hum­ming to herself as she remade Parrot’s bed.

“Well,” said Penelope at last. “If we can’t frighten them, what about luring them away somehow ?”

“Not the Cockatrices,” said H.H. “They’ve a really military discipline, you know, which means that none of the sentries thinks for himself, he merely obeys orders. And once they’re told to guard a place, they guard it no matter what.”

There was another silence.

“Tell you wot,” said Ethelred suddenly. “There’s one thing wot might make ’em shift.”

“What?” said everyone eagerly.

“Well,” said Ethelred. “The ’ead Cockatrice, ’e said to everyone that it was their duty, like, to catch H.H., and ’e said that the one wot ’elped to capture H.H. would get promotion. If they saw H.H. and thought they could catch ’im, that might shift ’em.”

“An excellent idea, if H.H. were two hundred years younger,” said Parrot dryly, “but at his age you can’t expect him to go crawling about in drains and running away from Cockatrices.”

“I am sorry to say so, but I must admit that Parrot is right,” said H.H. in a depressed tone of voice.

“Well, then, how about a fake H.H.?” asked Simon.

There was another silence while everybody looked at one another.

“You mean a sort of model?” asked Penelope.

“Yes,” said Simon. “You know, dressed up to look like H.H. One of us, maybe.”

“No, no,” said H.H. “I think I’ve got it. When I last had some robes made, they made a sort of dummy of me to fit the robes on.”

“A tailor’s dummy,” breathed Penelope delightedly.

“That’s it,” said H.H. excitedly. “Now we’ve got that, which is the right size and shape, and I’ve got a spare hat and robes to dress it in.”

“Make a face out of Mooncalf jelly,” cried Simon.

“Paint it to look like H.H.,” shouted Peter.

“And if that doesn’t fetch them guards running, nuffink will,” yelled Ethelred, his hat falling off as he did a wild hop­ping dance round the table.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Parrot. “That’s all very well, but how do we do it?”

“ ’Ere’s ’ow,” said Ethelred, so bursting with excitement that his cutaway coat was straining at the seams. “Wheels, that’s wot.”

“Wheels?” said everybody, looking mystified.

“Yes,” said Ethelred. “Where’s that plan?”

He pored over the plan for a moment and then sat back with a satisfied smile on his face. “Yes, that’s it,” he said.

“What?” asked everybody.

“Well,” said Ethelred, leaning over the plan and showing them with his thumb, “ ’ere’s the two dungeons wot’re used as storerooms, see, and that’s the one we come out into.”

“Yes,” said Parrot. “Go on.”

“Well, ’ere we ’ave the dungeon wot ’as got the Books in,” said Ethelred, “and right opposite it is a long corridor wot slopes down to the moat.”

“Of course,” said H.H., slapping his forehead. “That’s where you go to check on the water level in the moat. How silly of me to forget it.”

“At the bottom of this ’ere corridor,” Ethelred went on, “there’s the moat, see.”

“I don’t understand,” said Peter.

“Well, we comes into this dungeon ’ere, see,” said Ethelred, “and then I goes out and attracts the guards’ attention, like.”

“You create a diversion,” said Parrot.

“No,” said Ethelred, “fair’s fair. I don’t want to do anything dangerous. No, I’ll simply attract their attention, and while their attention is attracted you can go and put the model of H.H. ’ere at the top of the corridor and give it a shove. Then when it goes running off down on its wheels, I shall say, ‘Coo, look, lummy,’ I shall say, ‘isn’t that H.H.,’ and then they’ll all go chasing after ’im, see.”

“What a splendid idea,” said Simon enthusiastically.

“Yes,” said Peter, looking at Ethelred with respect. “He re­ally is turning out to be a master counterspy.”

“Still, we’ve got a long way to go before we’re successful,” said Parrot worriedly.

“Look, let’s divide up the work,” said Simon. “Ethelred, H.H., and I will look at this plan and work out the measurements and things, so that we get it just right. You, Parrot and Peter and Penelope, do the model with the help of Tabitha and Dulcibelle. What’s the best time for our attack, do you think?”

“The middle of the night,” said H.H. He pulled out a large watch from under his robes. “That gives us six hours. To make sure it’s dark, I’ll sw itch off the moon.”

“Can you?” asked Penelope in astonishment.

“Oh yes,” said H.H. proudly. “Easily. I can switch off the sun, too, in an emergency.”

“Right, then we’d better get started,” said Peter. “Come on, Parrot, show me where the Mooncalf jelly is kept.”

The next three hours were full of activity. Ethelred, H.H., and Simon drew the dungeon entrance and the sloping corridor in chalk on the floor and they worked out how best to maneu­ver the model into place. Tabitha and Dulcibelle, not without a certain amount of argument and rivalry, arranged the robes on the dummy, which was already attached to wheels made out of Mooncalf jelly. But it was the model of H.H.’s head that took the time. Six were made and rejected before they got one that they considered perfect. Then, with great care, Penelope painted it with oil paint. They stuck a false beard and hair on it, attached it to the dummy, put a pointed hat on it, and stood back. There was a long silence, broken at last by Ethelred.

“Coo, lummy,” he said in a hushed whisper. “If that ain’t H.H. to the life. It’s just like his blinking twin brother. If that don’t fool ’em, nuffink will.”

“I must say,” said Parrot judiciously, “I think he’s right. Even I might mistake it for H.H. It’s a deliciously deceiving duplicate.”

“Coo, you don’t ’alf go on when you start,” said Ethelred ad­miringly. “I don’t know ’ow you remember all them words.”

“You had your chance to have a command over the lan­guage,” said Parrot austerely, “when H.H. started his Free School for Toads. But would any of you attend? No! You preferred sitting about in swamps, singing and doing part-time egg hatching for the Cockatrices, and doing both things badly.”

“It wasn’t my fault, ’onest,” pleaded Ethelred. “I wanted to come to school, but my mum said there was no sense in all that learning rubbish. She said I ought to take up a trade, like.”

“So what did you do?” asked Penelope, feeling sorry for him. “Well, I took up spying, didn’t I? Me mum said, ‘There’s always room for a good spy,’ ” said Ethelred.

Parrot gave a heartfelt sigh. “They’re all the same, these Toads,” he muttered. “No logic.”

“Now,” said Simon, “let’s go over the plan of campaign. The ones to go on this expedition are Peter, myself, Parrot, and, of course, Ethelred to act as guide and master counterspy.”

“Here,” said Penelope, “what about me?”

“You’d far better stay here with me, my dear,” said H.H. “After all, it’s a dangerous mission.”

“I don’t care,” said Penelope stubbornly. “I’m going with them. After all, I tricked Ethelred into telling you about the drain, otherwise you wouldn’t be going at all.”

“That’s perfectly true,” said Peter uneasily.

“Well, all right, you can come,” said Simon, “but only if you promise to run like a rabbit at the first sign of danger.”

“I shall not,” said Penelope with dignity. “I shall only run like a rabbit when everyone else runs like a rabbit.”

“All right,” said Simon, smiling. “Once Ethelred’s enticed the guards into the dungeon, where the Books are, we go out and put the model into this corridor here, and Parrot says he will sit on its shoulders and imitate H.H.’s voice. Then, when Ethelred tells the guard that it’s H.H., Parrot will fly off the model and give it a push with his feet, and it will then go rolling down the corridor and into the moat. With luck, the guards will follow it, and maybe even dive for it, because we weighted it so that when it hits the water it’ll sink. While all this is happening, we go in to the Books and ask about the cure for Cockatrices, and Penelope writes it down. Then we es­cape.”

“Splendid, simply splendid,” said H.H. “What a masterly plan. How grateful I am to you brave children.”

“ ’Ere, what about me?” said Ethelred, hurt.

“You’ve proved yourself to be a truly sagacious and in­telligent Toad,” said H.H., patting him on his top hat. “And when this is all over, I’ll make you Head Toad at the Free School for Toads.”

“Cor,” said Ethelred, overcome with the honor.

“Now, I think we all ought to have a hot drink of moon-car­rot cocoa. Then I'll go and sw itch off the moon and you can go,” said H.H.

“One thing wot’s worrying me,” said Ethelred, sipping his cocoa, “that is, should I stay on as Master Counterspy X, or should I escape with you lot?”

“Escape with us,” said Penelope firmly. “The Cockatrices will know that you’ve changed sides. Besides, we’ll have plenty of other important work for you to do.”

“Just say the word, miss,” said Ethelred, tipping his hat over one eye in a devil-may-care manner. “Just you say the word and Master Counterspy X is at your service.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope gravely.

When they’d finished the cocoa, which was very warm and stomach-comforting, H.H. consulted his watch. “Time for me to put out the moon,” he said. “Are you all ready?”

“Key,” said everyone.

“Good luck,” said Tabitha and Dulcibelle, both sniffing vio­lently into their handkerchiefs.

So the party set off down one of the many side tunnels of the Crystal Caves—one that would bring them out within a short distance of the moon-carrot field where lay the entrance to the drain. Penelope and Ethelred, carrying flashlights, went first with Parrot, and Peter and Simon brought up the rear, carrying the model of H.H.

At last they left the tunnel and made their way out into the field, which, without a moon, was as black as the bottom of a well. It was very silent and they could hear the whisper of the moon-carrot leaves, soft as velvet, brushing against their ankles. They only used the flashlights when absolutely necessary, espe­cially when they neared the great, dark bulk of Cockatrice Castle, just in case a sentry should spot them and give the alarm.

“Stop ’ere a minute,” whispered Ethelred. “It’s somewhere ’ere. I’ll ’ave to look for it.”

So Parrot and the children waited while Ethelred hopped about among the moon-carrot leaves, muttering to himself. “ ’Ere it is,” he said at last. “I knew it was ’ere somewhere.”

By the light of their flashlights, the children could see a square manhole with a wire cover lying beside it. Shining their torches into it, they could see it led into a large, circular brick- built drain. Just under the manhole was a chair.

“That’s ’ow I got out,” said Ethelred proudly.

Carefully they lowered themselves and the dummy down into the drain. Here things became easier, since they could shine their torches without fear of being seen. After they had walked for about five minutes, the tunnel sloped downward, and they could feel a cool breeze on their faces.

“Nearly there,” whispered Ethelred. “Dead quiet now. Them guards are only just round the corner.”

He led them out of the drain into a great, grim dungeon piled high with old furniture, candelabras, and all the other strange things that are generally found in attics, all dusty and hung with cobwebs as thick as black lace. The whole place had a cold, damp smell that made Penelope shiver. Ethelred led them between the great piles of cobweb-covered furniture until they came to a door, which he opened a crack and peered through.

“ ’Ere, ’ave a look and get the lie of the land,” he said at last. Each of them in turn peered through the crack.

A little way down the passage was a big, arched door bound in brass, which evidently led to the dungeon where the Great Books of Government were held. Lounging outside the door were two bored-looking Cockatrices who were obviously sen­tries. One was busy sharpening his great claws with his beak, while the other one was amusing himself by cutting his initials in the wall with the flames from his nostrils. Opposite to them was the corridor which sloped down toward the moat.

“Now,” said Ethelred, his voice shaking with a mixture of alarm and excitement, “when I get them two into the dungeon, you get the model in place. Then Parrot can say something loud, so that I'll know you’re ready, see?”

“Yes,” everyone whispered.

Penelope could feel her heart hammering inside her ribs, and she wondered if the others felt as scared as she did.

“Well,” said Ethelred, gulping, “ ’ere we go, then.”

So saying, he opened the door, slipped into the corridor, and half closed the door behind him. The others, their eyes glued to the crack, saw him straighten his hat and with a jaunty air hop down the corridor toward the sentries, carrying Penelope’s pen­cil and pad under his arm.

“ ’Ere,” he shouted. “Show a leg there. Call yourselves sen­tries? I could ’ave crept up and strangled you both.”

The Cockatrices, at the sound of his voice, had leapt to atten­tion, but they relaxed when they saw who it was.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said one of them, in a nasty, harsh, crowy voice that sounded something like a dog worrying a bone. “What do you want, you stupid Toad?”

“I want no lip out of you, for a start,” said Ethelred sternly. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your ugly face, because I just came down ’ere on a special mission from your Chief, see; and if you don’t believe me, why don’t you nip upstairs and ask ’im. I wouldn’t advise it, because ’e’s in a bad temper like a vol­cano wot’s going to erupt, see.”

“What’s wrong with him?” asked the Cockatrice in alarm. It was obvious from the sentries’ uneasy attitude that when the Chief Cockatrice was in a temper everyone suffered.

“H.H. is the matter,” said Ethelred. “Yes, that’s what it is: H.H. planning vengeance on us all.”

“How can he?” sneered the second Cockatrice. “We’ve got all his Books here. He hasn’t any spells left.”

“All right then,” said Ethelred triumphantly. “If ’e ’asn’t any spells left, ’ow ’as ’e managed to put out the moon?”

“Put out the moon?” echoed the sentries incredulously.

“Yes,” said Ethelred. “If you don’t believe me, go up on the battlements and look. That’s w^;hy your Chief’s dead scared, ’e is. That’s why ’e sent me down ’ere to look up moon spells in the Great Book of Spells, and that’s why I ’aven’t time to stand ’ere gossiping with you lot. Open that door and let me in, or you’ll both catch it in the neck from the Chief.”

“Of course, of course,” said one of the sentries hastily, taking a giant key off the w all and unlocking the door.

“And you’d better both come in with me and lend an ’and,” said Ethelred.

“Of course, of course,” said the sentries, following him obe­diently as he hopped into the dungeon.

“Now,” said Peter, “stay here, Penny, until the sentries chase the model.”

He and Simon opened the door and hurriedly wheeled the model of H.H. down the corridor as quietly as they could. They heard Ethelred keeping the sentries occupied in the dun­geon.

“Now, you ’old me pad, and you ’old me pencil,” he said. “This ’ere’s a serious business, putting out the moon. The next thing you know ’e’ll put out the sun—then where will we be, eh?” *Carefully and rapidly, the boys arranged the model at the top of the slope where the slightest touch would send it careering down the corridor. Then Parrot took up his position on its shoulder.

“All right,” he whispered, “get back inside and under cover.”

As soon as Parrot saw they were safely out of sight, he shuf­fled all his feathers into position and cleared his throat. “My dear Parrot,” he said, in a remarkable imitation of H.H.’s pip­ing voice. “This putting out of the moon is only the first step in my campaign against the Cockatrices.”

“Really,” said Parrot in his own voice. “What’s the next step?”

“Cor lummy! Bless my socks and topper!” screamed Ethelred from inside the dungeon. “Look! H.H. ’imself. Quick, catch ’im. It means promotion, ’uge medals. The Chief will love you. Quick, quick, quick.”

The sentries turned, bewildered, and saw the model of H.H. standing in the corridor with Parrot on his shoulder. It took them a second or so to recover from their shock. But then, with crowds of triumph, they leapt forward, dropping the pad and pencil.

“Look out, H.H., Cockatrices,” screamed Parrot in pre­tended alarm. He flew off the model’s shoulder, giving it a kick with his feet as he did so. The model twirled round and then started to roll down the corridor, gathering speed. The long robes sw ept the ground so the wheels were completely hidden. The impression of H.H. running for his life down the corridor was complete. Gobbling with eagerness to catch H.H., the Cockatrices, jostling each other, rushed down the corridor in pursuit.

“All clear,” called Parrot. “Quick as you can.”

The children ran across the corridor, recovering the pad and pencil, and into the dungeon where Ethelred was waiting for them.

" ’Ere,” he said, “you get the blinking spells and I’ll keep watch for the Cockatrices.”

He hopped out of the dungeon and down the corridor where the sentries had disappeared.

The Great Books of Government were made from the most exquisitely tooled leather, picked out in patterns of scarlet and gold. Each Book lay on a beautifully constructed golden table inlaid with silver.

"Hallo, Books,” said Parrot affectionately.

To the children’s surprise, the Books answered in musical voices that sounded like three little old ladies.

“Hallo, there you are, Parrot,” they said. “It is nice to see you again. Are you going to rescue us?”

“Not this time,” said Parrot. “We’re getting around to it, my lovely loquacious library. Xo, what we’ve come for is a spell against Cockatrices, if you’d be so kind, Spell Book.”

The Book marked Ye Greate Booke of Spells opened itself and started to riffle its pages, murmuring to itself.

“Cockatrice . . . Cockatrice,” said the Book, “I don’t recall offhand . . . Cockatrice ... I may be wrong, of course ...”

“I say, get a move on,” said Parrot. “Those guards may be back in a moment.”

“I’m doing it as fast as I can,” said the Book aggrievedly. “I’ve only got one set of pages. Let’s see now—Cockatrice . . . Cockatrice.”

The children were in an agony of suspense. They had no means of knowing how long the model H.H. would keep the sentries busy, and they had no desire to be caught by the angry and frustrated Cockatrices on their return.

“Ha, yes, here we are,” said the Great Book of Spells in a pleased tone of voice. “The Spell to Rid Yourself of Cocka­trice.”

“Are you ready to write it down, Penelope?” asked Parrot.

“Yes,” said Penelope.

“Right, here we go,” said the Book.

“Recipe for the overcoming of Cockatrice. Cockatrice are overcome by Weasels. Men bring Weasels to the den where the Cockatrice lurketh and is hid, for no things have been left with­out remedy. And so the Cockatrice fleeth when he seeth the Weasel, and the Weasel pursueth and slayeth him, for the bit­ing of the Weasel is death to the Cockatrice, but this only if the Weasel eat rue before. And against such venom, first the Wea­sel eateth the herb of rue. They be bitten by virtue of the juice of that herb. He goeth boldly forth and overcometh his enemy.”

“What on earth is rue?” asked Peter.

“It seems to be a sort of plant, I should think,” said the Spell Book. “Ask the Dictionary.”

The Giant Dictionary opened itself and riffled its pages. “Let’s see,” it said. “Let’s see: rud, rudder, ruddock, ruddy, rude, ruderal, Rűdesheimer, rudiment, rue—here we are: ‘A strong-smelling, shrubby plant with pinnately divided leaves and greenish-yellow flowers, symbolic of repentance, compunc­tion, or compassion.’ You’d better ask the Herbal where it grows.”

Thus appealed to, Hepsibar’s Herbal opened its covers and riffled its pages. “Er, rue, rue,” it said. “Here we are: ‘Rue in the country of Mythologia grows only in a clearing near the Mandrake Forest, Werewolf Island, in the Singing Sea.’ ”

“Good,” said Parrot. “Got all that, Penelope? Well, H.H. will be able to make some sense of it. Good-bye, Books, and it won’t be long before we rescue you.”

At that moment the door burst open and Ethelred hopped in, very much out of breath. “ ’Ere, get a move on,” he panted. “Them sentries ’ave been diving for H.H. and they’re coming back all dripping wet. They’re as mad as mad, ’cos they know they’ve been fooled. We must get out of ’ere quick.”

They all rushed out of the dungeon, and there, coming up the corridor from the moat, came the two dripping sentries. As soon as the two Cockatrices saw the children, they uttered a terrible crowing, yarring cry that echoed a thousand times from the walls of the corridor, almost deafening Penelope and the boys.

“Quick, quick,” cried Parrot. “Back to the drain, run for your lives.”

As Ethelred would never be able to keep up, Penelope picked him up in her arms and carried him clasped tightly to her, as she ran faster than she had ever run in her life before. They could hear the gobbling of the Cockatrices, the clattering of their scales, and the screech of their claws on the stone floor. Any minute Penelope expected to feel a blast of agonizing flame envelop her, but they managed to reach the small dungeon, rush inside, and slam the door and bolt it, just as the first blast of flame from the Cockatrices licked round the door frame. They rushed over to the corner where the entrance to the drain was. They could hear the Cockatrices screaming, like cats, with rage, scraping and tearing at the dungeon door with their claws. They lowered themselves into the drain and scurried along it, climbed out, ran through the field of moon-carrots, and did not really stop to draw breath until they were safely in­side the Crystal Caves again.

“Whew!” said Penelope, leaning against a crystal wall and gasping for breath. “I never want to have to run that fast again.”

“Nor I,” gasped Peter, his chest heaving.

“That was a close thing,” said Simon, gulping for air. “We only just got that door closed in time, otherwise we’d have all been burnt to toast.”

“Oh, don’t,” said Penelope, shuddering. “It was horrible.”

“ ’Ere, miss,” said Ethelred, who still lay in Penelope’s arms, wearing his top hat. “ ’Ere, miss, I’d like to thank you for sav­ing me life.”

“Nonsense,” said Penelope, putting him on the ground. “I only picked you up because I didn’t think you could hop as fast as we could run.”

“And I couldn't ’ave, miss,” said Ethelred earnestly. “ ’Onest, I’d ’ave been a roast Toad if it ’adn’t been for you. Grateful I am, miss, very grateful indeed.”

“Well, let’s get back to H.H.," said Parrot, “and see if he can

make head or tail of this spell. I’m sure I can’t. It’s too confus­ing.”

So, having regained their breath, they made their way back through the crystal tunnels to where H.H., Tabitha, and Dulcibelle anxiously awaited their return.

Weasels and Griffons

“You’re back! You’re back! Thank goodness,” cried H.H. when he saw them. “Were you successful, you brave crea­tures?”

“Highly successful,” chortled Parrot. “Very highly success­ful.”

“And was the model of any use?” asked H.H. eagerly.

“The model was what you might call an electrifying effigy,” said Parrot.

“We’ve got the spell,” said Penelope, handing H.H. her little notebook. “Though whether it will make any sense to you, I don’t know.”

“Well now, well now,” said H.H., adjusting his glasses and sitting down. “Let me just study it a minute.”

They watched him as he read the instructions, his lips mov­ing silently.

“Did you see my eggs?” whispered Tabitha.

“No,” said Penelope, “but we saw that they were very safely locked up.”

“Well,” said Tabitha, sighing. “I suppose that’s something.”

“This is most interesting,” said H.H. at last. “Most curious spell indeed. Now, who would have thought of Weasels as a method of getting rid of Cockatrices?”

“Certainly not I,” said Parrot. “Never thought much of the Weasels—dull, decadent lot, eccentric and effeminate. Before this spell came to light, the only reason for getting them on our side was that there’re a lot of them. How many were there at the last count, H.H.?”

“Seven hundred and seventy-seven,” said H.H.

“Why, if we got them on our side, that would be splendid,” said Peter, his eyes shining.

“Yes; with the Unicorns, surely we’d be strong enough to at­tack?” said Simon.

“Har! har! har!” laughed Parrot. “Har! Har har! Ho ho ho! Pardon me, but the very idea of Weasels fighting, har! har! har!”

“But what’s so funny about it?” asked Penelope. “I mean, there’re seven hundred and seventy-seven of them; surely they’d be of some help. What’s wrong with them?”

“Wrong with them? Why they’re a pack of layabout sissies, that’s what,” said Ethelred. “They’d be as much use in a fight as a bunch of overripe bananas.”

“A vulgar way of putting it,” said Parrot. “But I’m afraid he’s right. The Weasels have as much fight in them as a handful of apple blossoms.”

“However,” said H.H., “we must not overlook the business of the rue. It’s a plant that I’ve had little to do with, but accord­ing to this it seems to make the Weasels become . . . urn . . . um . . .

“Belligerent?” suggested Parrot.

“Just so, belligerent,” said H.H., “enough to attack Cocka­trices. Now if this is true, and one cannot doubt the Great

Books, there must be some reference to it in the History of Weaseldom.”

“But if this rue stuff really does make the Weasels bellig . . . bellig . . . what you said,” said Penelope, “then why don’t we just go and get some and make them eat it, and then join us?” H.H. pulled his spectacles down to the end of his nose and frowned at her.

“That’s all very well, my dear,” he said. “The rue grows only on Werewolf Island, and that is a very long voyage from here, and, moreover, one of the most unsafe and unpleasant bits of Mythologia. There’s no point in going on such a long and dangerous journey to collect the rue unless we are sure that the Weasels will eat it. It says here that it is bitter. I’m sure they wouldn’t like that. Although I suppose I could add sugar.” “Surely the first thing to do is to approach the Weasels,” sug­gested Simon. “If we explained to them how dangerous the Cockatrices are getting, surely they’d help.”

“I very much doubt it,” said Parrot gloomily.

“So do I,” said H.H. “But I suppose it’s worth trying.” “How far away do the Weasels live?” asked Penelope.

“Oh, not very far,” said Parrot, “about five miles away, on a very nice promontory in the Bottle Forest. They call it Weasel­dom, the silly creatures.”

“Well,” said Penelope, “what I suggest is that we all try to get some sleep, and then tomorrow morning we go and see the Chief Weasel or whatever he’s called.”

“Duke Wensleydale,” said Parrot, with a snort. “Stupid ani­mal.”

“Well, Duke Wensleydale, then,” said Penelope. “I’m sure if we talked to him, we could persuade him.”

As no one could think of a better plan, they all went rather gloomily to bed.

Early the next morning the three children set out on their private Unicorns, accompanied by Parrot, who rode on Penelope’s shoulder, and Ethelred, who rode behind Penelope, hold­ing onto her very tightly and trying to pretend he wasn’t afraid. At first they rode through the cork forests; then they came to a most curious type of country. Here the red rocks were heaped up higgledy-piggledy on top of one another in tall, tottering piles, and in between them grew the most extraordinary-look­ing trees, the trunks of which were shaped like long-necked wine bottles.

“Bottle trees,” explained Parrot, when Peter remarked on them. “Another of H.H.’s inventions. The trunks are hollow and water-tight. You just simply choose a bottle the size you want, trim the branches off, and there you are. On the way home you can cut yourself a cork to fit it.”

“I really do think H.H. is extraordinary, the way he thinks of these things,” said Penelope admiringly.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Parrot airily. “Over on the north­east w^re’ve got two sorts of box hedges.”

“Two sorts?” asked Simon.

“Yes,” said Parrot, “cardboard and wooden. Just pluck the size you want straight off the hedge. All with lids, of course.” By this time the path had led them onto a promontory high on the hills from which there was a wonderful view over Mythologia, lying misty in the dawn below them, and the great, golden, shining sea with its clusters of islands dotted about as far as the eye could see.

“This is Weaseldom,” said Parrot, with a wave of his wing. “In many ways one of the nicest parts of Mythologia. I keep telling H.H. he ought to build himself a little weekend cottage up here. The Weasels wouldn’t mind.”

They wended their way through the groups of bottle trees and round a great tottering pile of rock. There in front of them, with his back toward them, stood a Weasel sentry, holding a very large, cumbersome-looking spear over his shoulder. He was dressed in a blue velvet uniform with brass buttons, and on his head was a hat with a long, green feather in it.

“Ahoy there!” shouted Parrot. “Ahoy!”

The effect on the Weasel was immediate. He leapt almost his own height in the air, dropped his spear, uttered a piercing shriek, and leant back against the rocks with his eyes closed and a hand to his heart.

“I give in,” he screamed. “I surrender. I’ll give you anything, tell you anything. Only please, please don’t harm me.”

“Silly creature, it’s me, Parrot,” said Parrot.

“If you don’t harm me, the Duke will reward you,” the Weasel babbled on, his eyes still firmly shut. “My mother and father will reward you . . . my aunt will reward you . . . my three nephews will reward you ...”

“You infuriating, idiotic beast,” shouted Parrot. “It’s me, Par­rot.”

“What?” said the Weasel, his eyes still closed. “Parrot?” “Yes,” said Parrot. “Don’t keep on so.”

The Weasel opened one eye cautiously, and then he opened both eyes and blinked.

“It really is you, Parrot,” he said. “But what are those crea­tures you’ve got with you?”

“Children,” said Parrot.

“Do they bite?” asked the Weasel in a trembling voice, pick­ing up his spear and pointing it at Penelope and the boys. “If they bite, I don’t want to have anything to do with them. Tell them I shall fight to the death. Tell them how sharp my spear is. Tell them what a temper I’ve got when aroused.”

“They’re perfectly harmless, you ninny,” said Parrot impa­tiently. “Now let us by, we’re here to see Wensleydale.”

“Pass, friends, all’s well,” said the sentry in a trembling voice. “Second on the left by the next pile of rocks.”

“I must say, I do see what you mean about them not being very brave," said Peter as they rode on.

“Yes,” said Simon. “It would take an awful lot of rue to make that sentry fight.”

They rounded another great pile of rocks and suddenly came upon a sight that made them all gasp with surprise. A large flat area had been cleared and laid out like a formal garden with carefully kept hedges and trimly raked gravel paths, neatly weeded flower beds ablaze with flowers, fountains and or­namental lakes. In the middle of it stood a lovely half-timbered Elizabethan house with beams as black as jet, snow white walls and a tiled roof, twisted chimney pots in the deepest of fox red. The numerous windows glittered and gleamed in the sunlight.

If the children had come across it in the English countryside, they would have thought it a remarkable old house, but to find it suddenly in the curious landscape of Mythologia was extraor­dinary. What made it even more surprising was that the whole thing was in miniature. The hedges were only six inches high, the fountains were the size of wash basins, and the house itself was like a gigantic doll’s house.

“Har,” chuckled Parrot at the children’s astonishment. “Sur­prised, eh? Well, it’s a nice enough house in its way. Weasel Court, residence of Wensleydale, the Duke of Weaseldom.”

“Why is he called Wensleydale?” asked Simon.

“His father was devoted to cheese,” explained Parrot. “He actually wanted to call him Gorgonzola, but his mother put her foot down. Great eaters, the Weasels. Now, we’d better leave the Unicorns here. We don’t want them stamping all over the garden with their great hooves.”

So the children got down from the Unicorns and picked their way carefully through the beautifully tended gardens.

“Ain’t ’alf posh, miss,” said Ethelred, rather overawed by his surroundings. “Wouldn’t mind ’aving a ’ouse like this meself.”

“It’s lovely,” agreed Penelope.

Parrot marched up to the front step, lifted the knocker with his beak, and knocked loudly.

“Go away,” screamed a shrill voice from behind the door. “Go away! There’s not a soul at home, so there. And all valu­ables have been transported to the mountains, and there are fifty bloodthirsty Weasels armed to the teeth guarding the house. And there’s nobody here, so go away.”

“Wensleydale, stop being a nincompoop,” shouted Parrot. “It’s me, Parrot. I want to talk to you.”

“Parrot,” said the voice. “Parrot? Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Parrot, exasperated.

“How do I know you’re Parrot?” asked the voice.

“Would I say I am Parrot if I wasn’t?” asked Parrot.

“You’re absolutely right,” said the voice. “That hadn’t oc­curred to me.”

“Well, open the door,” said Parrot.

There was the sound of a great many keys jangling, bolts being withdrawn, bars removed, and then at last the door opened and out came Wensleydale, the Duke of Weaseldom. He wore a scarlet velvet coat and knee breeches and a scarlet hat with a curling yellow feather, and he had a great deal of lace at his throat and his cuffs. He was followed by a lady Weasel who was most attractively dressed in a pale mauve crin­oline and wore a diamond tiara between her neat little ears.

Wensleydale embraced Parrot with every symptom of de­light. “My dear fellow,” he said. “My very dear fellow. How wonderful to see you alive and well. We heard the most dreadful stories about what had happened to you—how the Cockatrices had burnt you up and stolen the Great Books and turned H.H. into a very small and insignificant cloud. And of course, my dear, we were simply incensed, weren’t we, Winifred?”

“Yes,” said the Duchess. “I’ve never known him so in­censed.”

“Black with fury I was, I do assure you. Shaking with uncon­trollable rage, wasn’t I, Winnie?”

“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “uncontrollable.”

“ ‘I must go with my trusty followers and put these ignorant Cockatrices in their place,’ I said, pounding the table and froth­ing at the mouth, didn’t I, Winnie?”

“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “frothing.”

“ ‘I will give them a thrashing they’ll never forget,’ I said, ‘a regular trouncing,’ didn’t I, Winnie?”

“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “trouncing.”

“ ‘Every Cockatrice will be black and blue,’ I vowed, ‘if I have to do it with my bare paws,’ didn’t I, Winnie?”

“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “with bare paws.”

“Well, I’m glad you feel like that,” said Parrot, “because that’s what we’ve come to see you about—fighting the Cocka­trices.”

Wensleydale immediately bent over double and clasped his hip. “My dear fellow,” he gasped, “as I was telling you, I would have been down there now, beating the Cockatrices into a pulp, my dear boy—into a pulp—but I was stricken with my lumbago again, wasn’t I, Winnie?”

“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “lumbago.”

“I didn’t know you suffered from lumbago,” said Parrot.

“Martyr to it, my dear boy,” said Wensleydale. “Positively a martyr to it. When it attacks I can’t move at all. The pain is ag­onizing, my dear fellow—simply agonizing. But I’m terribly brave about the whole thing, aren’t I, Winnie?”

“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “terribly brave.” “Ironing your back with a hot iron is supposed to be good for lumbago,” suggested Penelope.

“Ow! They talk!” said Wensleydale in alarm, backing into the front door. “What are they, Parrot?”

“Children,” said Parrot.

“Do they bite?” asked Wensleydale faintly. “If they do, keep them on their leashes. You never know, if you’re bitten by one of those things, what you might catch.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Parrot. “They’re here to help us. But we must have your help or we can’t overthrow the Cockatrices.” “My dear fellow, you have my best wishes,” said Wensleydale. “If it wasn’t for this wretched lumbago, I’d be marching at the head of my brave troops, wouldn’t I, Winnie?”

“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “brave troops.”

“Now, let’s stop all this nonsense about lumbago,” said Par­rot. “What I want to know is, what do you know about rue?” “Rue?” echoed Wensleydale. “Rue? What’s rue?”

“It’s a kind of plant that’s supposed to have a good effect on you Weasels,” explained Parrot. “Gives you a bit of backbone.” “Hee! hee! hee!” laughed Wensleydale, taking a lace hand­kerchief from his pocket and fanning himself with it. “You’re always such a comical bird, Parrot, that saucy wit of yours. Hee! hee! hee!—a plant to give backbone.”

“I’ll give you wit,” said Parrot crossly. “You whimpering, wavering, witless Wensleydale, listen to me. Rue is a plant. If you Weasels eat it, it makes you brave and enables you to at­tack Cockatrices. It’s a spell we found in the Great Book of Spells. Now, what I want to know is whether there’s any men­tion of it in your silly History of Weaseldom.”

“How curious,” said Wensleydale. “How curious. Rue for making us brave? Not, of course, as you’ll appreciate, that we need anything like that. No, of course not. Brave as lions, we Weasels, peace-loving of course, but when we’re roused, har! by Jove, then look out!”

“The job is to rouse you,” Parrot pointed out. “Now look here, Wensleydale, stop waffling on, there’s a good lad. Just let’s go and consult your History. You’ve got it in the library, haven’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Wensleydale. “There’s just one thing, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Parrot.

Wensleydale leant forward and whispered loudly in Parrot’s ear. “Can’t invite them in, those . . . things—too big . . . break furniture . . . frighten dear Winnie,” he said.

“All right, all right,” said Parrot. “If the children go round the back and lie on the law n they can look through the library window.”

“Well, tell them to lie on the law n very gently,” said Wensleydale. “That’s my croquet lawn.”

While Parrot followed Wensleydale and Winifred into the house, the children went round to the back of the house and lay down on the croquet lawn. Peering through the open windows, they could see a great oak-paneled library lined with books from floor to ceiling. Presently Wensleydale and Parrot came in.

“Now,” said Wensleydale, “the History is over here—shelves ten, eleven, and twelve. We have a lot of history, we Weasels, not like some creatures one could mention who, strictly speak­ing, have so little history they might never have existed.”

“Let’s get on with it,” said Parrot. “Has it got an index?”

“Yes,” said Wensleydale, pulling out a fat, brown volume. “Here it is.”

He took a pair of lorgnettes from his pocket and peered through them as he opened the book and started to turn the pages.

“Let’s see, now, let’s see,” he murmured. “Rue, rue, rue.”

“You’re looking under X,” said Parrot. “It’s spelt R, U, E.”

“Of course, silly billy me,” said Wensleydale, his nose going pink with embarrassment. “Can’t think why I thought it started with an X.”

“Here it is,” said Parrot triumphantly. “Rue, the use of, for the overpowering of Cockatrices, Page 8,424, Volume Ninety- five.”

“By Jove, who would have thought it?” said Wensleydale. “How exciting. My little heart is in a positive turmoil, I do as­sure you. Volume Ninety-five, you say? Yes—that’s shelf twelve—just let me get the ladder.”

He got the ladder, climbed up it, extracted the big, fat vol­ume from the shelf, and then carefully climbed down again. He gave the book to Parrot, who spread it out on the table.

“Now, let’s see what’s what,” said Parrot. “Page 8,424—here it is, listen:

“In those days it was discovered by Wormwood Weasel, the Court Apothecary, that the herb Rue taken in sufficient quanti­ties made already stalwart and courageous Weasels fifty times as brave.

“An infusion of this plant taken before battle ensured vic­tory, especially over Cockatrices, since, apparently, the Rue made the Weasels’ bite poisonous to them.

“However, the Cockatrices, out of vindictiveness, burnt up the fields of Rue that the Weasels had cultivated, and since then the valuable herb has not been obtainable. And since that day, also, the Cockatrices have had as their motto ‘We will rue the day,’ meaning that they will be sorry if rue ever grows in Mythologia again.’ ”

“Well, bless my periwig and buckles,” gasped Wensleydale. “Who would have thought it?” He sank into a chair and fanned himself with his handkerchief. “Fancy me, fifty times as brave as I already am! Why, nothing would stand against me! Why, I’d even go and . . . and . . . and bite the Chief Cockatrice’s leg. What a pity this wonderful, wonderful plant no longer ex­ists. Not for myself, you understand, because I’m brave enough without it, but I was thinking of my troops. Brave they are, in their own way, but in need of something to encourage them— just a little something.”

“If that sentry we saw was an example of your brave troops, you could do with a little rue,” said Parrot.

“Sentry?” asked Wensleydale. “Oh, you mean poor Wilfred. He’s a bag of nerves, that boy, a jangling bag of nerves. Ever since he found a bluebottle fly in his soup, he’s never been the same.”

“Well, the point of the thing is this,” Parrot explained. “We know where to get some rue.”

“You do?” cried Wensleydale excitedly. “Oh, noble Parrot.” “Now, if we get some, will you and your people drink it and help us rout the Cockatrices?” asked Parrot.

“Are you quite sure that this rue stuff works?” asked Wens­leydale nervously. “I mean for your sake, dear Parrot, I wouldn’t like to make any promises I couldn’t keep. ”

“I’m sure it will work,” said Parrot. “After all, it’s in your own History of Weaseldom.”

“Ah yes, history,” said Wensleydale doubtfully. “The trou­ble with some of these old historians, charming chaps without a doubt but a little bit . . . you know, apt not to be able to tell the difference between fact and fable. I would simply love to help you, dear Parrot, as you know, honestly and truthfully, noth­ing, normally, would give me greater ...”

“Listen,” interrupted Parrot. “It’s our only chance of beating the Cockatrices. If we get the rue will you try it?”

“Well, all right,” said Wensleydale, adding hastily, “I won’t take it myself, of course, because of my lumbago, but you may try it on one of the under-gardeners.”

“Thank goodness for that,” said Parrot. “Now you’re talking sense.”

“When will you bring it?” asked Wensleydale. “I must say, I am looking forward to this experiment, just think how exciting if it works. All of us fifty times as brave! My, it makes me come out in Weasel pimples just to think of it.”

“Yes, well, don’t get overexcited,” said Parrot. “Got to get the stuff first.”

“Now that’s where I can be of positive help to you, dearest Parrot,” said Wensleydale earnestly. “Can I come and help collect it? Perhaps you could cut it while I put it in baskets, or something of the sort?”

“We’d be delighted to have you,” said Parrot, “simply delighted. After all, we shall need some help, seeing where the rue grows.”

“Where does it grow, dear boy?” asked Wensleydale.

“In a clearing in the middle of Mandrake Forest on Werewolf Island,” said Parrot grimly.

“Ow! ooh! ow!” yelled Wensleydale, doubling up and clutch­ing himself. “My back, the agony of it. Oh, what torture, oh, oh, oh.” Still screeching, he staggered to the sofa and lay down, putting his lace handkerchief on his brow. “Oh, oh, oh,” he moaned. “Oh, my dear Parrot, the agony, the pain. You see before you a sick and suffering Weasel that’s probably not long for this world. Ow! owl ow! and to think that my lumbago should have got worse just at the moment when I could have been of use to you. Oh, how shame-making. Oh, the pain. Oh, how mortified I am. Oh, the agony.”

“Oh, be quiet,” said Parrot. “I was only pulling your leg. We didn’t expect you to come.”

“You didn’t?” asked Wensleydale, sitting up with his lace handkerchief still on his brow. “You mean you were joking with me? A jest in very poor taste, my dear Parrot, if I may say so. To laugh at somebody’s lumbago, especially when it’s an acute attack, shows a cruel, harsh nature.”

“Well, never mind, you’ll survive,” said Parrot cheerfully. “And now, since you’re too ill to offer us tea, we’ll be off.” “Dear fellow,” whispered Wensleydale. “In the normal way I’d be most happy to give you tea, but you’ve got those big . . . big . . . things with you. They’d drink us out of house and home. I can’t think why you take them about with you. What did you say they were called?”

“Children,” said Parrot. “You know, small humans.”

“You mean they grow bigger than that?” asked Wensley­dale, alarmed. “It makes one shudder. I can’t see them ever becoming a popular pet, except for people with very large houses, of course.”

“Well, thanks for your help anyway,” said Parrot, and joined the children and Ethelred.

They made their way to where the Unicorns awaited them, and remounted.

“Now,” said Parrot, as they set off, “we seem to be getting somewhere. We’ve got the Unicorns’ help, which is something, and if this rue works we’ve got all the Weasels, and that is something. Now, as we’re up this way I suggest we drop in on the Griffons. There’s only about fifty of them. They’re a quiet and industrious colony. If we can get their aid, it will be a great help.”

“What exactly are Griffons?” asked Peter.

“Well,” said Parrot, “rather nice-looking beasts, I think: lion’s body and the head and wings of an eagle. The wings of our lot are purely decorative, of course, they can’t fly. They used to be purple in the old days, but these are a sort of sandy color. As I say, they’re quiet and hard-working, and their chief preoccupation is mining and storing gold. Gold is very impor­tant to them; they make their nests out of it, you see. Yes, without gold the Griffons would die out.”

“Don’t they do anything else?” asked Simon.