I have come to the conclusion that there are three kinds of monsters. Nasty. Sad. Funny. Some are all three.

For example, in The Werewolf, Angus Campbell has come up with a monster which—although a most terrifying creature to meet on a dark night—also appears to be rather unhappy and is not all that fearful, if only you can pluck up courage to pat its head.

Pamela Vincent’s Bungling Bunyip struck me as being a charming little fellow. He is a monster that can be found only in Australia and can take on any shape. But he has a distressing weakness for eating human beings.

Trolls are monsters that have lived in the mountains of Sweden for as long as anyone can remember and they can be very nasty, but—on occasion—rather fun. The Four Big Trolls and Little Peter Pastureman, by Cyrus Graner, is all about a small boy who works for four of these amazing creatures.

Film producers have created many monsters—but have you ever wondered what happens to these marvellous creations once they have ceased to be needed in the film studio? Well—read Movie Monster by Samantha Lee and find out what takes place when the Kroton decides he is not ready for retirement.

Ogres are definitely the nasty type of monster. And the one we meet in The Miller and the Ogre, by Barbara Leonie Picard, is greedy—and stupid as well. He fully deserves all the grisly events that the resourceful miller brings down upon him.

There are quite a few monsters in The Treasure Castle by Dinah Starkey—and all of them extremely nasty, as Dr Farrar, the inventor of Farrar’s Famous Fizzervescence, finds out.

A completely new monster is brought to life in The Tardigrotifer, by Daphne Froome. Believe it or not, he was born in a cake-tin full of water—then grew and grew . . . This is a very clever story and I know you will enjoy it.

We are told that money is the root of all evil. Certainly Mr Armstrong Roland in The Miser-Mon, by Terry Tapp, has ample reason to believe this is true. His horrible passion for money brings him first one claw, then two, and finally . . . Well, you’ll soon find out.

Finally my own story. The Hoppity-Jump. Yes, another new monster. A very nasty creature, which has the unfortunate habit of swallowing cabinet ministers . . .

So, there we are. Nine monsters of various shapes and sizes; some frightening, some funny, some sad—but all entertaining.

Don’t forget to drop me a line c/o Armada Books and let me know which ones you liked best.

The house was old and tucked away behind a curtain of trees; a lonely place that had been built by a man who loved solitude.

Mr Ferrier liked the company of his fellow beings as much as the next man, but he did not have much money, and The Hermitage—due, possibly, to its isolated position—had been very cheap. So he bought the property, moved in with his furniture and family and began to extol the virtues of a rustic life.

“Room to move around,” he informed a sceptical Mrs Ferrier. “A chance to breathe air that isn’t contaminated by petrol fumes.”

“But it’s such a long way for Alan to go to school,” his wife protested. “And the nearest shop is five miles away. I tried to warn you, but I might as well have saved my breath.”

“Ten minutes’ car ride,” Mr Ferrier retorted impatiently. “Besides, there’s a travelling salesman who has everything you’ll ever need in his van.”

“And what about social life?” Mrs Ferrier demanded. “How will we get to know people, stuck in this out-of-the-way place?”

“Other people have cars, haven’t they? At least give the place a chance. If at the end of three months we find the solitude a bit too much, well—I suppose I’ll have to look for another house nearer town.”

Alan was more than content with his new home. After years spent in a large industrial town, he found the rolling moors had much to commend them. He also discovered ruined farmhouses with frameless windows and gaping roofs, the exposed inner walls still retaining patches of flower-patterned wallpaper; and he wondered how long ago the last family had moved away, leaving their home to fall into decay.

But one of these relics from a bygone age was not completely deserted. According to an old map which Alan borrowed from the public library, this particular ruin had been called High Burrow: a very suitable name, as the house stood on the summit of a fairly steep hill and commanded a splendid view of the surrounding countryside. Alan climbed the slope, clambered over a low wall, then walked across an expanse of weed-infested ground that had probably once been a front garden.

He mounted three crumbling steps and passed through an open doorway, then entered the narrow hall, where the stone floor was coated with dust, and a large rat jumped down from a window-ledge and went scurrying into a side room. The ceiling had either fallen down or been removed, and Alan could see the room above, which had an iron fireplace clinging precariously to one wall. Higher still were massive beams, each one festooned with writhing cobwebs; the naked bones of a dead house.

Alan was about to leave, for there was an indefinable, eerie atmosphere about the place, when he heard the sound of ascending footsteps, which seemed to come from beyond a gaping doorway situated to the left of a dismantled staircase. The footsteps became louder and were intermingled at irregular intervals by an exceedingly unpleasant barking cough.

Presently a figure emerged from the doorway and walked slowly into the hall. Alan saw a tall young man with a heavily bearded face and long matted hair that hung down to his slightly bowed shoulders, deep sunken eyes that were indescribably sad and a set of perfect teeth which were revealed when he again coughed and gasped in a most alarming way.

Alan waited until the man had regained his breath, then said:

“I didn’t realise there was anyone here. I was just exploring.”

The man wiped his brow on the sleeve of his ragged shirt, then spoke with a surprisingly cultivated voice.

“That’s all right. But I heard you come in and wondered who it could be. Haven’t had a visitor for years. This place is rather off the beaten track.”

“Do you live here?” Alan enquired.

The man jerked his head in the direction of the doorway.

“Yes, down there. The cellars are still intact, if rather damp.” He sighed deeply. “There’s no other place I can go.”

Alan thought there were many places he would rather live than in a damp cellar of a ruined house, particularly if he had such a bad cold. In fact, the man probably had bronchitis, or even pneumonia, for, despite the perspiration that poured down his face, he was shivering and could scarcely stand upright. Alan felt a twinge of pity for this strange, lonely person who appeared to have no one to look after him.

“Look, I know it’s none of my business—but shouldn’t you be in bed?”

The man nodded and leaned against the wall.

“Yes, I suppose I should. But my stores are running low and I must somehow get to the village before . . .”

Another fit of coughing interrupted his next words, and Alan made the only suggestion that was possible under the circumstances. “Would you like me to do your shopping?”

The man groaned and shivered so violently that Alan became quite alarmed.

“It’s a long way for you to go and come back,” said the man.

“I’ve nothing else to do,” the boy replied, although the prospect of tramping back across rugged moorland carrying a heavy shopping bag was not all that attractive.

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind. Come downstairs and I’ll give you some money and some idea of what I require.”

Alan followed the tall figure through the doorway, down a winding flight of steps and finally into a large underground room, dimly lit by an ancient hurricane lamp. So far as he could see, this dismal place contained little more than an iron bedstead and a rickety chair.

“The nearest village is Manville,” the man said, pulling a tin box from under the bed. “About five miles as the crow flies. Get some tinned stuff. Soups and stewed steak. I suppose you couldn’t carry a gallon can of paraffin?”

“I could try.” Alan said ruefully, determined never to explore empty houses again.

“I’d be greatly obliged if you could. Otherwise I’ll soon have to lie down here in the dark. Here’s five pounds—that should cover the cost of all you can carry.”

“Right.” Alan cast a glance at the untidy bed. “You cover yourself up and keep warm. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Thank you very much,” the man said. “You are exceedingly kind.”

Actually, Alan thought he was, too, but just murmured: “Nonsense, no trouble at all,” before walking towards the steps, carrying a leather shopping bag in one hand and an old rusty paraffin can in the other. The greater part of four hours passed before Alan arrived back at the ruined house.

He ran down the steps and found the sick man sitting up in bed, his face lit by a smile of intense relief.

“And I thought you were not coming back! I should have known better.”

Alan frowned and put the heavy bag and paraffin can down on the floor. “Of course I’ve come back! But it took me a long time to find that village and I lost my way coming back.”

The man shook his head in self-reproach.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. And it must have been very hard work lugging that bag and can over the moors. What have you got?”

Alan began to remove tins of food from the leather bag.

“I spent most of your five pounds. There’s tins of stewed steak, mixed vegetables, soups and some nourishing rice pudding. Now, where’s your cooking stove?”

The man nodded in the direction of a dark corner. “Over there. You’ll find a saucepan and a few odds and ends of crockery.”

Alan found the oil stove—and a very smelly, decrepit piece of apparatus it was, too—and, after lighting it, heated some oxtail soup, which the sick man consumed with every sign of satisfaction.

“That’s marvellous!” he said. “I’m beginning to feel much better already.”

“Would you like some stewed steak now?” Alan asked.

The man shook his head. “No, this will keep me going for a bit. Maybe I’ll heat something up myself a little later on. But I must thank you for all your trouble. Not many lads of your age would have been so kind.”

“That’s all right.” Alan began to back towards the steps. “I’d better get back now or my parents will start worrying. Would you like me to pop in tomorrow?”

For a while the man did not answer, then he said quietly: “I don’t think you should. No—definitely not. Go away and forget you ever saw me. That would be best.”

Alan wondered if the man had done something wrong and was hiding from the police. It might well be the reason why he was living in this awful place. But he did not look like a criminal, nor act like one. After all, he apparently went into Manville to do his shopping. So, just before he ran up the steps, Alan said:

“Don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone you’re here. And I will come to see you again.”

There was once an Australian bunyip who made a very good job of being scary. In fact, he was so good at it that at night no-one ever came near the rather pleasant billabong[1] where he lived.

It was a very lonely life because night-time is when a bunyip is wide awake, ready to have fun, and it’s no fun being scary if you can’t see someone being scared. In fact, sometimes the dreadful noise that kept everyone away was just the bunyip moaning to himself about how bored he was.

One day, as the sun was going down, a big square box of a car lumbered to the edge of the billabong and parked under the few thin trees. A man and woman got out and a girl and a boy followed them. The children proceeded to help the man set up a couple of tents while the woman prepared a meal.

The bunyip watched with interest. He had never seen people close to before because he was always asleep in the daytime, but he knew what these creatures were—long ago he remembered his old mother telling him about them, and how tasty they were—especially the young ones. He thought he would watch them for a while before eating them, as he might never have another chance to see what human beings did to pass the time, and it was really quite interesting.

Night comes quickly in the north of Australia, and soon the colours of sunset gave way to a vast, clear sky filled with stars that were almost near enough to touch. The family finished their meal and tidied up so that there was no rubbish left to spoil their camp site, and the bunyip thought perhaps it was time for him to start scaring them. He opened his mouth, ready to make the night hideous with a great roar, but, at that very moment there came a noise he had never heard before. He closed his mouth and listened.

After a time, he found his head wagging and his toes tapping. It was a very noisy noise but he liked it! It seemed to come from a box that the children fed other little oblong boxes into.

“That’s enough, kids,” said the man, at last. “Time for some shut-eye so that we can make an early start tomorrow.”

“Oh, Dad, not yet,” cried the girl. “I don’t feel a bit sleepy, do you, Graham?”

“I won’t go to sleep for hours,” said her brother, firmly.

“Well, I’m going to bed even if you want to stay awake all night,” yawned their mother, “but don’t tell me how tired you are tomorrow, that’s all.”

“They can sleep in the car tomorrow,” said their father. “It won’t do them any harm to stay up a bit longer out in the fresh air while they’re on holiday.”

“Being bitten by things,” said his wife, scratching.

The bunyip smiled to himself. “Bitten by me,” he thought, happily. “Quite soon now.”

The parents disappeared inside their tent and the children sat listening to a million frogs who lived around the billabong and didn’t mind the bunyip. The bunyip decided that his moment had come and this time he gave one of his best bellows.

“What on earth was that?” asked Karen, not sounding a bit scared.

“Oh, frogs, I expect,” answered Graham. “They make-a lot of funny noises.”

Funny? The bunyip was indignant. Funny indeed! He’d show them!

“There it is again,” said Karen.

“I wish it would shut up,” said her brother. “It’s going to wake Mum and Dad.”

The bunyip thought it was time to scare them properly. With heavy footfalls he splashed through the water and squelched through the mud, rustling the thin bushes and trees.

“That’s not a frog,” remarked Karen.

“It can’t be the wind,” said Graham. “There isn’t any.”

“It isn’t,” roared the bunyip, close to them. “It’s ME!”

“It’s I,” corrected Karen, without thinking, then added, “Who said that?”

“I did,” said the bunyip, sulkily. These children should have been running away, screaming in fright by now, so that he could chase them.

“Who are you? I can’t see anyone,” said Graham.

“I’m a bunyip,” answered the bunyip, waiting for them to start running.

“A what?” asked Karen. “A bunny?”

“Bunyip. B-U-N-Y-I-P.” The bunyip spelt it out.

“What’s that?” asked Graham.

“I’m a monster who eats children,” snapped the bunyip, annoyed.

“Oh, one of those,” yawned Graham. “A sort of bogeyman. You don’t really exist.”

The bunyip’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

“Of course I exist,” he exclaimed. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see you.”

“You’ll know when I eat you,” said the bunyip, gnashing his teeth.

“Oh, please don’t grind your teeth like that,” begged Karen, shuddering. “Why don’t you come out and show yourself?”

“Because I’m invisible.”

“You can’t eat us with an invisible mouth,” Graham pointed out.

“It’s no use expecting us to believe in you if we can’t see you,” said Karen, “so if you’ll excuse us we’ll go to bed now.”

“No, wait——” The bunyip felt it was important for the children to believe in him.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like talking to someone who isn’t there,” said Karen.

“But I am here,” insisted the bunyip.

“Then show us what you look like—or are you too ugly?” asked Graham.

The bunyip suddenly realised that he didn’t know what he looked like.

“I don’t think he knows how to make himself visible,” said Graham, unkindly.

“I do too!”

The bunyip cast his mind back several centuries to what his old mother had told him before she’d gone walkabout and never come back, and although he was a bit rusty, he made a big effort and created a shadowy body that the children could just make out by the light of the moon that had risen a little while ago.

“You’re not a bunyip,” cried Karen, “you’re a kangaroo!”

The bunyip looked down at himself (it was easier for him to see in the half-dark because he was more used to it than the children). He did look like a kangaroo. But then he knew what kangaroos looked like and he didn’t know what bunyips looked like.

“Kangaroos are nice,” said Karen, stroking his head and fondling his ears.

“I’m not a kangaroo and I’m not nice,” snapped the bunyip, fiercely, feeling rather foolish. “I’m a monster that eats children!”

“You’re not very nice,” agreed Karen, “but you look like a kangaroo and a kangaroo wouldn’t eat us—he couldn’t eat us, in fact.”

“In fact,” added Graham, thoughtfully, “we might eat you.”

The bunyip shivered in his fur and took a deep breath, trying to imagine himself as an old-time dragon. Karen jumped back in fright, then leaned forward again to peer at him. She had to look down at him, a long way down.

“I’m not sure but I think you’ve turned into a goanna,” she said, beginning to feel sorry for the bunyip.

A goanna does look a bit like a dragon. All lizards do and a goanna is a big lizard, but a dragon half a metre long is no more scary than a kangaroo—or an invisible bunyip.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” scoffed Graham.

“Maybe you’re extinct,” suggested Karen. “You know, like the dodo and the unicorn and other things that used to live in the world but don’t any more.”

Tears rolled down the bunyip’s goanna face and the children felt ashamed of their teasing.

“I might as well be extinct if no-one’s scared of me,” wept the bunyip. “There’s no place in the world for an unscary monster, and I’m so lonely here anyway.”

“I’ll tell you what,” offered Graham. “You make yourself invisible again and we’ll tell everybody that you’re a big, fearsome monster but you’ve given up eating people. Then people will come here to be scared (but not eaten) and they’ll enjoy themselves whilst you’ll have some company.”

And so it was. When Graham and Karen went back home they told their friends about the bunyip’s billabong and every weekend there would be picnics and barbecues followed by a scary performance from the bunyip in the moonlight or the starlight. He loved to hear the music of cassette-players and then the screams of fright as he roared and howled and shrilled, and splashed and squelched through the billabong, and rustled and hustled on invisible, stomping feet—or were they paws? or hooves? Nobody waited to find out, they all scattered before he reached the camp sites. The bunyip didn’t mind—he found that the food human beings brought with them tasted much nicer than human beings themselves.

All this happened long, long ago, when there were only trolls in the dark mountains and the big dusky forests. Each crevice had its old troll living in a cave or hollow under the snakelike roots of the giant trees. Some trolls lived alone; others had a wife and child. There were big trolls and little trolls, and naturally the big trolls thought they were superior to the little trolls.

The four biggest trolls counted themselves most important of all: Bull-Bull-Bulsery-Bull, who lived in the north; Drull-Drull-Drulsery-Drull, who had settled in the east; Klampe-Lampe from the south; and Trampe-Rampe, who liked wandering but said his home was in the west.

Many long miles separated the trolls from each other, but given the way trolls can walk, it wasn’t as far to them. Twelve miles to a step was nothing for a big troll, and in half a day any of them could visit the others. Their paths did not cross often, however, because they did not get along very well together. Each wanted to be the most important big troll, and looked down upon the others.

Bull-Bull-Bulsery-Bull lived in Bunner Mountain, and he was as cosy there as a troll could wish. Just in front of his mountain was a lake, big enough for a bathing pool and a fishpond. He was very proud of his lake, Bull was, for he had made it himself. One day he had thrown a strong troll rope around an acre of land, harnessed up his two troll oxen, and pulled the land away. Then he arranged with old Whitebeard, who was master of Snowfall Mountain, to supply him with water all the year round. And old Whitebeard filled his lake with water clear as crystal and cool as the morning wind on High Mountain.

Drull lived well, too. His den was in Steep Mountain, splendid in a thousand ways. He had big deep chambers in there, and on top he had placed a large boulder. From here he could stand and look out over the still, dreamlike, mighty forests.

Klampe-Lampe had dug himself a large hole under seven immense spruce trees. It was warm and pleasant there, and most of the time Klampe-Lampe stayed at home guarding the thousand-year-old fire on his hearth.

Trampe-Rampe was seldom so still. He ranged far and wide over the mountains and would go racing by when you least expected to see him. You would hear his storm song, then the next moment he was sweeping by with a Hi and a Ho.

The little trolls were so numerous it was quite impossible to keep track of them. And yet we must not forget to mention little Peter Pastureman.

Peter Pastureman was small even next to a little troll, and he hardly reached the waist of a big one, but he was a real thunderclap of a boy. He worked for the four bigger trolls: he drove Bull’s oxen and herded Drull’s goats, caught Klampe’s unruly rams, and rode Trampe’s fast horses. None of this was easy to do, yet Peter Pastureman never wanted to be more than a farmhand. He had a birchbark horn and a reed whistle to blow on, and they resounded over bog and forest, and he was gay and merry, rain or shine.

We must also remember an old troll witch, who was wiser than anyone under the stars. Whenever the trolls wanted to do anything important, and were not sure how to go about it, they always asked her advice. Her name was Uggle-Guggle, and she lived in an old cottage in the densest part of the wild forest.

Now, as we said, the big trolls were not friends, and if any one of them could play a trick on another, he was delighted. He would go about chuckling to himself, thinking it wonderful to be so shrewd and cunning, until the other had found a way to trick him in turn, whereupon his joy turned to anger and he hissed like nineteen north winds.

Peace, more or less, had reigned for a while among the four big trolls when something happened to make them even worse enemies than ever.

One day their king, their good old troll king in Seven Mile Mountain, king of all the world’s trolls and tomtes, entered the dark gorge in Black Mountain, and its door closed behind him forever. Never again would they be able to look at him, never touch his hand, never hear his wise and beautiful words from his lips. He had ruled for three thousand years, and had been revered as no troll king ever was before. But now the trolls had to find a new king.

There were many who would have liked nothing better than to be his successor. It was finer than sun and moon to be king of all the big and little trolls, and tomtes and sprites; to live in Seven Mile Mountain, which had seven hundred magnificent halls and chambers; to own all those oxen with gilded horns, goats with silver hair, horses with golden manes, and so many other wonderful things. So now the four big trolls dreamed day and night about becoming king.

Bull believed he was cut out to be king. Drull knew none could deserve the honour more than he, Klampe-Lampe let it be known that he would be the most logical choice even if you scoured the troll world five hundred times. While Trampe-Rampe would have been willing to wager his big nose that, as king, he could surpass all before him.

These days, when they met, the four biggest trolls would not even look at one another. Each was so furious with the rest, he would have liked to grind them to powder, for each imagined that, but for the other three, he would naturally become the new king. The longer the troll council debated whom to choose, the angrier the four became and the harder they considered how to win the throne in Seven Mile Mountain.

The big day arrived, and the troll council still had not come to a decision. They all went home and thought for seven more days, but it didn’t help. They thought about it for seven days longer and still could not decide. So they had to go to Uggle-Guggle, the troll witch who was wiser than anyone under the stars and ask her advice.

When Bull learned of this, he thought it would be sensible to be in the old woman’s good graces, and decided to pay her a call. With his walking stick in hand, he took the road that led to the densest part of the wild forest. He walked along carefully, keeping an eye open, for naturally he did not want anyone to know what he was doing. At last he arrived at the cottage and knocked on the door.

The old witch received him. “A distinguished visitor,” she said.

“Yes,” said Bull. “I was passing through the neighbourhood and wanted to see how you were getting on all on your own here.”

The began to talk and finally Bull brought up the subject of being king. “Help me in this,” he said, “you who are wiser than anyone under the stars, and I shall give you the best golden cow in Seven Mile Mountain, as sure as my name is Bull.”

At that moment there came a heavy knock on the door.

“Oh, dear, Mother Uggle-Guggle,” cried Bull, “you must hide me, for no one must know I have been here.”

The old woman pushed him up to the attic, and then went to open the door.

It was Drull. He had had exactly the same idea as Bull.

“A distinguished visitor,” said the witch.

“Yes, indeed,” said Drull. “I was just passing by and thought it would be nice to see if you were well, old Mother.”

They talked of this and that, and at last Drull brought up what was on his mind. “Help me to Seven Mile Mountain,” he said, “and you shall receive the best golden cow there is, as sure as my name is Drull.”

But matters turned out no better for Drull than for Bull. Before the witch had time to answer, a loud clap sounded on the door. Someone else wanted to come in.

Drull, frightened at being discovered, begged the witch to hide him. The old woman lifted the cellar door and down he crept. Then she went to open the cottage door.

This time it was Klampe-Lampe who had also had the idea of talking to Uggle-Guggle, and was delighted with himself for being so cunning.

“A distinguished visitor,” said the witch.

“Yes,” said Klampe-Lampe. “The weather was so fine that I thought I would take a little stroll around the countryside, and when I passed I thought it would be nice to call and see how you were these days, dear Mother.”

Then he talked for a while about different things, of this and that, and at last he offered, “If you will help me to the throne in Seven Mile Mountain, I shall give you its biggest and most magnificent cow to keep forever.”

But Klampe-Lampe learned no more than Bull or Drull about what the witch thought of his offer, for once again the door shook with a heavy knock.

“I must hide,” cried Klampe-Lampe. “You realise what it would mean if anyone saw me here!”

The old witch pushed him into her large empty oven and shut the door with a mighty bang.

“I wonder if perhaps it isn’t Trampe-Rampe thundering out there,” mumbled Uggle-Guggle to herself. “Wouldn’t it be strange if he, too, had decided to look in on me just now?”

It was Trampe-Rampe.

“A distinguished visitor,” said the witch.

“Yes,” said Trampe-Rampe. “I have been out on a long walk again, and was beginning to feel tired and wanted to rest a while before I set off again. But since I am here, I will mention a certain matter which is very important, and get your advice—you who are wiser than anyone under the stars.”

So Bulsery-Bull, Drulsery-Drull, and Klampe-Lampe had to lie there and listen to Trampe-Rampe make up to the old crone and promise her gold and a life of splendour if only she would put in a good word for him.

How strange! He did not receive his advice either, for just then came a fresh banging at the door. Eager voices were heard outside. Messengers from the troll people had come to consult the witch. By the time they entered, Trampe-Rampe had disappeared; Uggle-Guggle had hidden him out in a shed in the back, and there he waited until the coast was clear.

The messengers explained to the witch why they had come. “As you know,” they said, “our good old troll king is gone. And now all the big and small trolls and tomtes and goblins and sprites in the world need a new king. The throne is waiting for him in Seven Mile Mountain. But we don’t know whom to choose, so we ask your help. Who shall be king of the trolls and lord of Seven Mile Mountain?”

Uggle-Guggle, the witch in the wild forest who was wiser than anyone under the stars, hesitated with her answer. She sat down in a dark corner of her cottage, opened her big book of wisdom, put glasses on her nose, and began to mumble some very mysterious words. No one dared interrupt her, and a few minutes of solemn silence passed, broken only by the old crone’s murmurs.

At last she rose. All were eagerly awaiting what she would say—all the messengers in the cottage, Bull up in the attic, Drull in the cellar, Klampe-Lampe in the oven, and Trampe-Rampe out in the shed. They pricked up their ears so as not to miss a word.

“So speaks Uggle-Guggle,” she began, “and this I have read in the book of wisdom. What I know I know, and what I know is my secret. Many have turned their eyes to the throne on Seven Mile Mountain, and many would like to be king of the trolls. One is up there, and one is down there, one is in there and one is out there, and there are still other ones, too, big and small, trolls and tomtes. Still, what I know I know, and what I know is my secret, and no one will become lord and master of big and small trolls, of tomtes and sprites and goblins, who cannot always keep his head. The throne in Seven Mile Mountain will be occupied in seven days by a new king.”

And with this the messengers had to be content. Everyone big and small trolls, tomtes, and goblins—wondered who it was who could always keep his head.

The four big trolls were not having a pleasant time in their hiding places. In the oven, Klampe-Lampe’s legs fell asleep, he was so terribly uncomfortable, but he did not dare even wiggle a toe. Once he took a deep breath—otherwise he would have suffocated—and some flour tickled his nose. He thought he was going to have to sneeze. He fought it as hard as he could, pinching his nose with his fingers.

In the attic, Bull, too, was suffering. The floorboards squeaked at the slightest step, and he feared that any minute they would break under his great weight. Drull, in the dark cellar, had bumped against the barrels and buttertubs, and now he did not dare move lest they tumble down and everyone hear. The only one who was still feeling light-hearted was Trampe-Rampe. He did not know the other big trolls were there, and so clumped in gaily through the back door to talk again to the witch and try to get more information from her.

But just then Klampe-Lampe found it impossible to hold back his sneeze any longer. Had you offered him all the treasure in Seven Mile Mountain and the troll kingdom to boot, he would still have sneezed. He simply had to. So he sneezed as if he had a giant trumpet at his nose. He also kicked out with both legs, and they were not so asleep that they did not push open the oven door, and out he came.

The excitement was tremendous. Already frightened by the blast from Klampe-Lampe’s nose, both Bull and Drull completely lost their heads. Bull leapt in the air and the floorboards gave way, and he crashed downstairs into the arms of Trampe-Rampe. Drull, too, jumped, and the barrels and buttertubs boomed and clattered around him. Fearing the cottage itself was tumbling down, he flung open the cellar door and raced upstairs.

So there they stood, all four, and gaped at each other with something less than mildness in their eyes. None of them said a word, but slunk home as fast as they could go.

There they sat down to think. They understood that they were getting in each other’s way, and that it was hard not to. And that no one would become king of the trolls in Seven Mile Mountain unless he could always keep his head. That was what the crone Uggle-Guggle had said. But to each one the most important thing seemed to be how he could get rid of the other three competitors.

Over at Steep Mountain, Drulsery-Drull paced his chamber like a caged bear, and thought and thought. Finally he climbed up on his big boulder to look around and caught sight of Bull, who was pulling a net from the fishpond. Drull was so angry that he lost his head again. He grabbed his boulder with his two great hands and threw it with all his might towards Bunner Mountain to put an end to his rival with one blow. “I’ll show you, you Bunner Mountain fool,” he muttered between his teeth.

The boulder flew through the air, and not a bad shot at that. It missed the troll but it did land in the fishpond with a splash that echoed seventeen miles around and was heard underground, too. All the water spilled out as if it wished to escape; it thundered, roared, and boomed out, swallowing everything in its way. It spread and spread until the whole valley, where thousands of trolls and tomtes lived, was in danger of being flooded. The trolls and tomtes were beside themselves with fear, and rushed out to see what had happened. Bull scratched his head and stamped his foot in anger; his splendid bathing pool and fishpond had been ruined, but there was nothing he could do about it. Again everyone lost their heads.

The danger was at its greatest when Peter Pastureman came strolling along the road driving Bull’s oxen back from pasture. He realised in a second what had happened, and in the next second knew exactly what was to be done. He told all the trolls to go home and get spades and pickaxes, and then dig a ditch to release the water. A thousand troll arms soon accomplished it, and the flood-waters poured into the ditch and soon were flowing harmlessly out to sea.

“No one else would ever have thought of that,” said the trolls. “He is a real thunderclap of a boy, our Pastureman, even if he is so small.”

By now, however, Bulsery-Bull had discovered who had played the trick on him. He had recognised the boulder. That boulder he had last seen perched high on Drull’s mountain.

“You will pay for this, you Steep Mountain fool,” he snorted, and he found himself a boulder even bigger than Drull’s. He flung it furiously and watched with wicked joy as it curved through the air. It landed so hard on Steep Mountain that it started a landslide on one slope, and the rest of the mountain nearly followed it.

Drull barely escaped with his life, and now sat among the ruins of his home not knowing what to do. It was terribly cold in there. All the icy winds of the slopes were playing hide-and-seek through the thousand cracks and holes that had been opened by the landslide. In addition, Drulsery-Drull had a toothache. It was not just a little toothache, but one such as no troll had ever had since trolls began. Poor Drull began to howl like eleven hundred wolves until trolls for miles around hurried over to find out what was the matter. But Drull would not tell them; he only cried and yelled and kicked. They begged him to be quiet, but in vain. That night no one within fifty miles slept a wink.

The next morning Peter Pastureman went to Steep Mountain to take Drull’s goats to graze. When he saw what was the matter, he took his scissors, sheared the whole herd, and wrapped some of the soft, fine hair around Drull’s head, so the ache went away. Then with the rest of the hair he filled the cracks and crevices in the mountain so that the winds stayed outside. When all this was done, he blew a jolly tune on his reed pipe and led the goats, leaping and jumping in their shorn coats, up to their mountain pasture.

“Drull would never have thought of that,” said the trolls. “And none of us, either. But Peter Pastureman always knows what to do, one way or another.”

Peace had hardly been restored before the trolls heard loud shouts from the south, and saw enormous clouds of smoke billowing up. This time it was Trampe-Rampe, up to his tricks. He had been wandering about as usual when he caught sight of Klampe-Lampe hauling logs for his thousand-year-old fire. He remembered the unlucky sneeze in the witch’s cottage, and his anger got the better of him. He decided to pay back Klampe-Lampe. He knew that the fire that was always burning was Klampe-Lampe’s dearest possession, and so he was going to extinguish it for good. He approached the fire and blew with all the breath in his lungs, but things did not turn out quite as he had hoped.

The fire began to burn more fiercely and so he blew a second time, even harder than before, so hard that all the sparks and burning logs were blown from the hearth, and the whole forest caught fire. The blaze spread as if it had wings, and every moment the danger increased.

All the trolls rushed towards the fire and ran here and there, scared out of their wits. Klampe-Lampe himself scampered off in a panic. But look, once again Peter Pastureman came to the rescue.

Peter Pastureman was grazing Klampe-Lampe’s big herd not far off when he saw smoke. He went to look, then like a whirlwind turned back again, gathered his very best horses, harnessed them to a giant plough, and ploughed a wide furrow all around the burning part of the forest—so wide that the fire could not jump it. And so the fire burnt itself out, and the rest of the forest was saved.

Everyone, big and little trolls, tomtes and goblins, went to shake Peter Pastureman’s hand. “A real thunderclap of a boy you are,” they shouted. “Who else would have thought of that?”

Peter Pastureman patted the horses, blew a gay tune on his birchbark horn, and took the herd back to graze again.

It was not long before Klampe-Lampe discovered who had tricked him. Trampe-Rampe had been seen running away. Now Klampe-Lampe could think only of revenge. He went to High Mountain, where he knew Trampe-Rampe often passed, and where they met almost immediately. They attacked each other with thunder and noise until High Mountain shook from top to bottom, and the earth trembled. The trolls ran from their caves and caverns, believing the world was cracking open. And what a terrible sight—to see two of the biggest trolls slugging away at each other like savage forest wolves! They rolled around like great balls, kicking up stones and tree roots, and spitting and hissing like dragons. What possessed the old trolls? Not even a king in Seven Mile Mountain could have stopped them.

Attempts to separate them were in vain. An old man and woman, who had lived in a big gorge on High Mountain, were the most troubled of all. They were used to the wild roaring of the winter winds that fought on the mountainside, but never to a tumult such as this. The old man shouted to them to spare his mountain, but Klampe-Lampe and Trampe-Rampe, in the thick of the fight, neither heard nor cared. They fought all that day and the next, too, without a moment’s pause and without either of them winning or losing. How long the fight might have gone on is difficult to say, had not Peter Pastureman come along and found a way to end it.

Peter hurried away to old Whitebeard of Snowfall Mountain and whispered in his ear, his eyes shining with mischief.

The old man nodded, and Peter left with a big bundle under his arm. It was Whitebeard’s biggest troll sack, it contained a million times a million snowflakes, and it was used only once every hundred years.

Peter Pastureman came to High Mountain and untied the bundle. At once, the snowflakes, delighted to be free, whirled out into the eyes of Klampe-Lampe and Trampe-Rampe, who were still rolling around, hitting each other. Snowflakes came in hundreds and hundreds, in thousands and thousands. Soon the two trolls were blinded. They could not see a thing, their eyes were covered with snow-flakes, and they had to stop fighting. They had been so preoccupied that they had not noticed a great crowd of spectators gathering. As they emerged from the clouds of snow, they looked around, shamefaced. All the neighbouring trolls, tomtes, and gnomes were there. Both Klampe-Lampe and Trampe-Rampe knew their reputation was in shreds, and without a word they ran away and hid.

The old man and woman of High Mountain took Peter Pastureman’s hand and thanked him. “Little Pastureman,” they said, “you have more sense than anyone north or south, east or west. You have helped us out of many dangers, and you certainly do keep your head.”

A murmur went through the crowd of trolls. That was exactly what Uggle-Guggle had said, she who was wiser than anyone under the stars: “No one will become the king of the trolls and master of Seven Mile Mountain and lord of the big and small trolls, tomtes, and goblins who cannot always keep his head.”

Had seven days passed since the troll messengers visited the cottage in the densest part of the wild forest? The days were carefully counted, and it was so.

Once again High Mountain was in an uproar, but this time it was a happy noise. Little Peter was hoisted on the shoulders of the crowd in triumph, and a long row of dancing, singing trolls wove down to Seven Mile Mountain, where Peter was solemnly placed on the throne. Thousands and thousands of trolls proclaimed him king over mountain and valley, forest and lake.

Thus Peter Pastureman became king of all the trolls. He lived a long and happy life, and it was said of him, “Our king always keeps his head.”

And to this day, the water from Bulsery-Bull’s lake flows down that mountainside and around the stone that Drulsery-Drull threw in anger. Even today there is a river all the way to the sea where the trolls dug their ditch. Steep Mountain still looks lopsided from the boulder that split it. And hardly a bush grows where Klampe-Lampe’s fire burned the forest, while on the top of High Mountain the snow from Whitebeard’s troll sack never melts.

Donny slumped into the kitchen, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his blue jeans, an expression of extreme boredom plastered on his freckled face. Behind him, tongue lolling in the midsummer heat, drooped his constant companion and faithful mongrel, Butch. The summer holidays were halfway through, his friend Freddy was away visiting his grandma in Seattle, and time was hanging very heavy on Donny’s hands.

“Can I have a drink of orange juice, Mom?” he asked, heading for the nine-foot frigidaire which stood humming in the corner.

“What another one?” asked his mother. “That’s the sixth this afternoon. You’ll be looking like an orange soon.”

“Please, Mom,” pleaded Donny. “It’s so hot.”

“Well, all right,” agreed his mother reluctantly. “But this is the last one, mind. And then you and that mutt of yours clear out of my kitchen. I’ve got enough on my plate without having you two under my feet all day. Go out and play, why can’t you?”

“There’s nobody to play with,” complained Donny. “Gee, Mom, I’m bored.”

“Bored?” exclaimed Mrs Webber. “Why, there must be a million and one things you could be doing.”

“Such as what?” asked Donny.

“Such as what about that radio-controlled aeroplane your father bought you for your birthday? It cost him a fortune and you haven’t had it out more than twice since. Why don’t you take it down and fly it in the park?”

“Hey,” said Donny, “that’s not a bad idea. Come on, Butch.” And he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to collect the aerodynamic wonder that had set Mr Webber back a third of his week’s wages.

“Careful crossing the road,” called his mother, as Donny and Butch careered down the stairs and out of the kitchen door. “And don’t be late for supper.”

At the foot of a hill there once lived a poor miller with his wife and their seven children: three boys and four girls. All day long the miller worked, grinding wheat into flour for the neighbouring farmers, or growing turnips and cabbages in his little garden; and all day long the miller’s wife worked, caring for her children, scrubbing, mending, and racking her wits to think how to cook a tasty meal with very little to put in the pot. Besides his few poor sticks of furniture, there was nothing the miller owned in the world save a few hens and one old black cow. His wife milked the cow, and from the milk she made a little butter to sell in the village. And so they lived from day to day, never sure what tomorrow might bring.

In a castle at the top of the hill lived an ogre with his wife and their servant. This ogre considered himself to own the hill on which his castle stood and all the land that lay around it, and he was pleased to demand rent from the miller for the mill, which he said was his: a tithe of all that was paid for grinding corn, and two large sacks of flour besides. Once a year the ogre would come striding down the hill to collect his dues, and since he was large and bad-tempered, what could the miller do but pay? Though it was never easy to find either the money or the flour, with nine hungry mouths to feed.

One year the crops failed and there was little corn to grind, and so less money than usual to buy food, and none at all to pay the ogre. All the flour that the miller had saved, his wife made into bread for the children, and try as they might, they could spare none for the ogre. So it was with great fear that they awaited his visit.

When it drew near the time that the ogre usually came, the miller had his children keep watch in turn to give him warning of the ogre’s approach. One evening the miller and his family had just finished their supper—and a simple and scant enough one it had been, too—when the second eldest boy, whose turn it was to keep watch, cried out in a great fright, “Father, father, the ogre is coming down the hill.” The miller ran to look, and there, sure enough, was the ogre striding down the hill-with his club in his hand.

“Quickly, quickly, there is no time to lose,” said the miller as he locked the door of the mill. He hurried his family into the barn where the big heap of straw and chaff stood, and he made them all crawl into it, one after another, while he counted them as they disappeared, wriggling like so many eels: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.” And when he had made sure that not a wisp of hair, not the tip of a sabot, showed, then it was the miller’s turn to hide. He burrowed his way into the dusty heap and dragged a large sack over himself; and there they all waited in fear and trembling.

The ogre strode up to the mill door and beat a loud rat-tat on it. When he got no answer, he hammered on the door with his club for a full two minutes. Then he tried the latch and found the door was locked. He roared out threats to the miller and peered in through a window, and then he went off, very angry and shouting that he would be back again. He looked about him as he went, hoping for a sight of at least one of the miller’s children, but he saw nobody, nothing save the miller’s old black cow, peacefully chewing the cud on the plot of grass before the mill, tethered to a long rope attached to a peg in the ground. The ogre was so angry that, out of sheer spite, he went over to the cow and hit it smartly between the horns with his great club, so that the poor beast fell dead, all in a moment. Then he stamped his way back up the hill to his castle.

As soon as it was safe, the miller and his family crept out from the heap, coughing and sneezing and covered with dust. But at least they were safe from the ogre for another day or two. At first they were inclined to congratulate themselves on the cleverness of the miller’s ruse, as they emptied the chaff out of their sabots and picked straws out of each other’s clothes and hair; but when they saw what he had done to their cow, then there was such a wailing and such a swearing that they would get even with him from nine loud voices all at once, that they must have all but deafened themselves.

However, all things end, and at last the miller said, “Come, wife, there is no use in crying over spilt milk. I will skin the old cow and see what I can get for her hide, and you might as well see what can be done with a few joints of beef. The hide may fetch a silver piece or two, and the meat will certainly put a little flesh on our bones.”

The miller skinned the cow, and they cut up the meat into joints and filled a bladder with the blood, and then they all went to bed.

The miller was up soon after midnight, and with the cowskin slung over one shoulder, he set off for the market in the nearest town, to make sure of being the first one there with a hide to sell. His way led him by a forest path, and as he plodded along in the darkness, he was aware of several lanterns and of voices approaching him. Fearing robbers, he scrambled up into the branches of a tree beside the path, dragging the cowskin with him, and there he waited quietly, until the strangers should have gone by. But to his great distress, when they came below the tree where he was hidden, they stopped and threw down three or four sacks which they carried, and then by the light of their lanterns they emptied the sacks upon the ground. The miller had been quite right about their being robbers, as he saw at once when the sacks were opened and golden coin after golden coin rolled out and the robbers settled down to divide their gains between them.

The miller was so frightened that he began to tremble. The leaves of the tree rustled and his teeth chattered and the robbers looked up. “What is that?” cried one of them. Terrified, the miller lost his balance, gave a wild yell, clutched at a branch and dropped his cowskin. The black cowskin with its horns, the tail and all four hoofs flying, fell straight down on to the robbers and their booty. What with the miller’s yell and this dreadful monster falling upon them out of the darkness, the robbers leapt up in panic and fled, calling “Heaven protect us!” believing that it was the devil come to take them to the other place.

When all was quiet, the miller climbed down from the tree and refilled the sacks with the gold, laid them on the cowskin, and dragged it home after him, with the greatest difficulty, for it was very heavy. Exhausted, he arrived home at dawn and roused his wife to come and help him count his treasure. At midday they were still counting and were not half-way done. “It’s a pity we have no bushel measure, we could then weigh out the gold,” said the miller’s wife.

“The ogre no doubt has a bushel measure,” said the miller bitterly. “The ogre has everything, and grudges us our bare living.” Suddenly an idea came into his head, and he and his wife whispered together for the next minute or two. Then the miller’s wife put her shawl around her head and walked up the hill to the ogre’s castle. She knocked politely on the kitchen door, and the ogre’s servant opened to her. “Could you kindly lend me a bushel measure?” she asked. “My husband the miller has some gold to weigh, and we have no measure large enough.”

The ogre’s servant stared at her, scratching his head in bewilderment. “A bushel measure to weigh gold?”

At that moment, the ogre’s unpleasant wife, hearing voices, poked her sharp nose round the kitchen door. “What is happening?” she demanded. As soon as she saw the miller’s wife, she snapped, “What do you want? I wonder you have the face to show yourself up here, so much rent you owe my husband. Be off with you!”

The miller’s wife dropped her a curtsy. “We shall not owe it much longer, madam. My husband has had a piece of good fortune. So much gold, madam, you never saw the like of it. I was just asking your man here for the loan of a bushel measure to weigh it in.”

“A bushel measure for gold! You must be out of your mind.”

“Oh, no, madam, I assure you.”

“Nonsense!”

They made so much noise between them that the ogre came stamping into the kitchen, roaring out that they were disturbing him with their chatter. When he saw the miller’s wife he glared at her. “So it is you, is it? Well, you can tell your husband from me that he had better pay his rent by tomorrow, or it will be the worse for him.”

The miller’s wife dropped him a curtsy. “Indeed, sir, he means to. Or today, if you prefer it. He has had a piece of good fortune, and it is all thanks to you. If you had not killed our old cow he would never have taken her hide to the market to sell and he would never have come home with four sacks of gold. Just think of it, sir, so much gold that we cannot count it all, and I am come to borrow a bushel measure to weigh it in.”

The ogre roared at her for fully five minutes, calling her a liar; but at last he calmed down enough to say, “I shall go and see for myself.”

So the ogre strode down the hill with the miller’s wife trotting beside him to keep up with his huge strides, and at the mill they found the miller surrounded by piles of gold. The ogre stared at it with his mouth wide open. When he could speak, he said, “Did you really get that for taking one cowskin to market?”

“Certainly I did, sir. Four sacks of gold.”

“Good-day,” said the ogre abruptly, and he was gone. The miller and his family looked at each other and laughed fit to split their sides.

Now, the ogre pastured his herd on the other side of the hill and there were forty fine cows in his herd. All the way up to the castle he was calculating how many sacks of gold he could get for their hides, and he had just reached the figure of one hundred and sixty when he hurried in through his door. He shouted to his servant, “Go at once, at once, mind you, and kill all my cows, skin them and take the hides to market. You should sell each hide for four sacks of gold. But hurry, for hides are fetching a good price today, and if you are slow, the price may have dropped.”

The ogre’s servant did as he was told, but naturally, when he got to market and asked four sacks of gold for each hide, he was laughed at; and when he protested that that was the price being paid for skins, he was called a madman. In the end, he went home with barely forty silver pieces, and it is easy to imagine what sort of a reception he had from his master.

Down in the mill, the miller and his family were waiting for supper. The stew was boiling and bubbling in the pot over the fire, when the eldest girl, whose turn it was to keep watch, called out in a great fright, “Father, father, the ogre is coming down the hill.”

“Quickly,” said the miller, who had been expecting this. “Help me to carry the pot outside.”

They carried out the pot of steaming stew and set it on the grass, and the miller took up a whip and hopped around the pot, whipping it. “Hurry up, pot,” he said, “we are all hungry.”

The ogre strode up to the mill, swinging his club and calling out for the miller. “You rogue, you rascal, just you wait till I have gold hold of you.” When he saw the miller, he stopped dead. “What in the world are you doing, miller? Have you gone mad?”

The miller looked surprised to see the ogre there. “Why indeed no, sir. I am just cooking the stew for supper.”

“Cooking it without a fire, on the grass?” roared the ogre.

“Ah, but you see, sir, this is a magic pot, it cooks food without a fire if you just whip it for a minute or two.”

“Of all the liars!” said the ogre. Then he came nearer and he saw the stew boiling merrily in the pot, for it was still hot from being on the fire, and he smelt the good beef stew and remembered that he had not had his own supper yet. “I will have your pot,” he said. “I shall find it most useful.”

“But wood is so dear,” wailed the miller. “What shall I do without my pot?”

“Eat your food uncooked,” said the ogre. And without waiting for the miller to agree, he took up the pot, stew and all, and carried it up the hill to his castle; while the miller and his family laughed fit to split their sides.

Of course, by the time the ogre had reached the castle, the stew was cold, and no amount of whipping could make it boil again. The ogre’s servant sniggered, the ogre’s wife told him nastily what a fool he was, the ogre’s arm ached from whipping the pot, and he was in a fury. “You wait,” he shouted, “tomorrow I shall go down to the mill again, and that miller will be sorry he was ever born.”

Early the next morning, the eldest boy, whose turn it was to keep watch, called out in a great fright, “Father, father, the ogre is coming down the hill.”

The miller, who had been expecting this sooner or later, took the bladder filled with cow’s blood and hung it around his wife’s neck, arranging her shawl over it so that it could not be seen. “Now remember to play your part well, wife,” he said.

“You can trust me, husband,” she promised.

As soon as the ogre’s angry roars could be heard outside the mill, the miller and his wife began to rail at one another. “Shrew! Slut! Idle gossip!” shouted the miller, shaking his fists at his wife. “Bully! Wine-bibber! Good-for-nothing!” shrieked his wife, threatening him with a wooden ladle.

They made so much noise that even the ogre’s roaring was drowned, and he stopped in the, doorway, surprised, for he had always believed the miller and his wife to be a peaceable pair, unlike himself and his old scold up at the castle. Suddenly, the miller took up a large knife from the table and drove it into the bladder, so that all the blood streamed out. The miller’s wife gave one great scream, fell down on the floor and lay still.

“Villain! Murderer!” exclaimed the ogre. “First you trick me into killing all my fine cows, all forty of them, and now I catch you killing your wife. It will be the hangman’s rope for you, miller, before you can do any more harm.”

“Good morning to you, sir,” said the miller, as though he had only just realised that the ogre was there. “Never you worry about me and my wife. This often happens. I have a quick temper, you know. But it does her no harm, thanks to my magic bellows.” He went to the fireplace and picked up the bellows. “See, sir, this is all I have to do.” And he blew gently with the bellows into each of his wife’s nostrils, and she sat up on the floor. She threw up her hands as though in horror at seeing the ogre there. “Oh, sir, what a time to come visiting us, just when my husband has killed me again! Here am I in such a pickle, with my cap all crooked and my apron—clean this morning, too—all covered in blood. Really, husband, you are too provoking.”

The ogre paid no attention to her chatter. He pointed to the bellows which the miller still held. “I might find those bellows useful. Give them to me.”

“But, sir, what shall I do next time I kill my wife?”

“Bury her,” said the ogre. And without waiting for the miller to agree, he snatched the bellows from him and was away up the hill to his castle; while the miller and his family laughed fit to split their sides.

The ogre’s wife met him at the door. “Well, and have you settled your score with that wretch of a miller?”

“To be sure, I forgot all about it. But here, wife, I have a fine thing. A magic bellows which can bring the dead back to life.”

“Never tell me the miller has tricked you again! Of all the fools in the world, you must be the biggest.” And she was off on one of her speeches. The ogre tried to get a word in edgeways, but it was no use. It never was any use when his wife was nagging. Then he thought, “This time I will teach her a lesson.” And he pulled out the knife at his belt and cut her throat from ear to ear. He let her stay dead until midday, so that she had time to learn the lesson, and then he began to feel hungry and think about a meal. He took the bellows and blew into her nostrils. He blew and blew until he was crimson in the face from working the bellows, but still she stayed dead—which was not surprising, seeing that he had cut her throat. When at last he realised how he had been tricked, he tore his hair and ran roaring about the castle, for though his wife had been no beauty and her tongue no loss, she had been a very good cook, and his servant, on the other hand, did not know beans from barley.

Down at the mill, the miller had just finished wiping the gravy from his plate with a piece of bread, and was pushing his plate away from him to take up his mug and drink off the last of his wine, at the very moment when the ogre and his servant strode out of the castle. This time it was the turn of the fourth girl, who was the youngest of all the children, to keep watch, and being very young indeed, she was so frightened when she saw both the ogre and his servant coming down the hill, that she gave one little squeak which the miller never heard, and ran to hide in the heap of straw and chaff.

So this time the miller was taken by surprise, which is not really to be wondered at, as one’s luck cannot last for ever. The ogre picked him up, dropped him into one of his own flour sacks and watched while his servant fastened the sack tightly with a cord; then he swung the sack up over his shoulder and set off for the river. However, the river was a mile or two away and the day was hot, and only a short distance from the river, beside the road, there was an inn. “This is thirsty work,” said the ogre, mopping his brow. “I am going into the inn.” He laid the sack down beside the road. At the door of the inn he turned to his servant and said with unwonted good humour, “As we are celebrating the end of that rascally miller, I will buy you some wine as well.” The servant grinned delightedly and hurried after his master, and the miller in his sack was left alone by the road.

He struggled and wriggled for all he was worth, but the sack was a strong one and the knots were tied tightly, and it was no use. Just as he had given up hope, he heard the clip clop of little hoofs along the road, and a merchant came by with his wares to sell, laden upon twelve donkeys. “Let me out, good friend, let me out,” cried the miller.

The merchant stopped and walked around the sack. “Why should I let you out?”

“Because I am in trouble and I need your help.”

The merchant kicked the sack. “I have enough to do looking after my donkeys and getting my goods to market, without stopping to let strangers out of sacks. Find someone else to help you.” He cracked his whip. “Get along there!” he shouted to the donkeys.

“Stop, stop!” said the miller. “You must help me. I am a merchant like yourself. A rich nobleman is carrying me off to his castle. His daughter fancies a merchant for a husband and the wedding is to be today. I am to have the girl and half her father’s wealth. But I have a wife already, and besides, I like being poor.”

“The more fool you,” said the merchant. “You would not find me refusing such an offer.”

“Then take my place,” suggested the miller. “So long as she marries a merchant, the girl will not mind who he is.”

The merchant thought it over for a moment, while the miller in his sack wrung his hands together and prayed that the ogre would stay in the inn for a second mug of wine. Then the merchant said, “Out of the sack with you, and I will take your place.”

He untied the sack, tipped the miller out on to the dusty road, and stepped into the sack. “Now you stay here with my donkeys and see that none of them strays. Touch none of my goods. I shall come back this evening, after I have made sure of the girl and the money. If I find that you have taken good care of my property, I may give you the price of a drink from the inn.”

“I will take good care of your property, never fear,” said the miller. And he pulled the sack over the merchant’s head and tied it up with the cord. Then he picked up the merchant’s whip and cracked it with such good effect that the donkeys broke into a trot, and all twelve of them and the miller himself were just out of sight round the bend of the road when the ogre and his servant came out of the inn. The ogre picked up the sack, carried it to the river and flung it in. He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “That is the end of the miller at last. We might as well return to the inn.” But he was wrong, for it was the end of the merchant.

The miller arrived at the market, chose a place to display his wares, and unloaded the donkeys. He found that the merchant had traded in trinkets: rings, belts, brooches, buckles, mostly silver-gilt and coloured glass, pretty enough things, which would sell at a fair price. He was doing good trade when he heard a merry catch roared out in the ogre’s well-known voice, and he looked up to see the ogre and his servant, arm in arm, strolling between the booths, eyeing the things for sale. They were both swaying slightly; but while the servant was concentrating on placing one foot carefully before the other without falling down, the ogre was singing heartily, and seemed in a better temper than the miller ever remembered seeing him. For all that, the miller looked about him for somewhere to hide, but before he could find anywhere, the ogre was standing in front of his stall, his mouth wide open. He pointed an accusing finger. “Miller, you ought to be at the bottom of the river. I put you there myself.”

“To be sure you did, sir, and I owe you my thanks for it. Look what I found at the bottom of the river.” He waved his hand about him. “All these goods to sell, and twelve donkeys to carry them.”

“You are a lucky fellow and no mistake,” said the ogre. “Did you bring all the goods with you, or were there any left?”

“There were plenty more,” said the miller, “and far better than these. Real gold and silver, the other things were. But I thought it would look odd if a poor fellow like myself tried to sell gold and silver in a market.” He lowered his voice. “They might think I had stolen it, you know, sir.”

“Yes, yes. Very wise of you,” said the ogre. He pulled his servant along, back the way they had come. “Hurry, hurry, you blockhead. I do believe you are drunk. Hurry, hurry, or someone else will get to the river first.”

At that spot where he had thrown the merchant into the river, the ogre stopped. “In with you, and tell me what you can see.” And he picked up his servant and flung him into the water. The servant sank, then rose to the surface, gasping and spluttering. He could not swim and he waved wildly at the ogre for help. “You have seen the gold and silver? Good fellow. Wait for me.” And the ogre leapt far out into the river. But he could not swim either, so neither of them ever got home to the castle on the hill.

The miller, however, got safely home that same evening, with twelve donkeys, a few unsold trinkets which he gave to his wife and daughters, and a fat bag of money which he shared out amongst the three boys. For he could well afford to do so, still having all the robbers’ gold to spend.

It was a miserably rainy day, even for Wadingford, which is reckoned to be one of the wettest villages in the whole of England, but the two children, Jill and John Kemp, hardly noticed the weather outside as they worked with their cousin David in his small, comfortable sitting room.

A faint steam rose from the children’s coats drying on the radiator, the cat from the house next door was lying, half asleep and purring quietly, on a pile of old magazines in a corner, and David had pushed the remains of his breakfast to one end of the table in order to leave himself plenty of room to set up his microscope, with its special camera attachment.

Jill sat with a pad of paper on her lap, making careful notes as David dictated them, to the accompaniment of the click, click of the camera until he lifted it off for reloading. Then John, who was very good at drawing, would peer through the microscope and make a detailed sketch, in case the photographs did not come out.

David was writing a book about the microscopic animals and plants of Wadingford, and sometimes, if the children called to visit him, he would ask them to stay and help.

They worked very hard all the morning, and then David, putting the camera away in its case and sliding the microscope into its polished wooden box, remarked, “I’ve run out of subjects to photograph, so shall we go and see if we can find some new specimens one Saturday when the weather is better? There are a number of marshy places down by the river. And they say there’s a drought spreading across the country so perhaps it will have reached Wadingford by then.”

“We’ve certainly plenty of water to spare at the moment,” answered John, wryly.

“See you soon, then,” said David as he showed them to the front door, and stood watching as they squelched down the path in their Wellingtons and let themselves out of the rusty-hinged gate.

Once upon a time there lived in Somerset a man called Dr Farrar. He came from Bridgewater, where he made a living by selling what he called Farrar’s Famous Fizzervescence. Farrar’s Famous Fizzervescence was a sort of medicine and, according to the doctor, it would cure everything from gout to gallstones and raise the dead into the bargain. And, since he was an impressive-looking man with lots of silky hair and a deep sonorous voice, everyone believed him and eagerly bought his bottles of medicine. But bye and bye the people of Bridgewater realised that, in spite of his grand words, the medicine did them no good whatsoever (which was not surprising, because it was only made of water and pink sugar) and they grew so cross with the learned doctor that he was forced to leave Bridgewater in a hurry. And that is how he came to turn up in Broomfield.

Broomfield was only a little village and there was hardly anyone there to buy his Fizzervescence, so Dr Farrar soon became very bored. He spent a good deal of time sitting in the local inn and one day he overheard a snatch of conversation.

“Well, it do be getting close to full moon again. D’you reckon anyone will try it this time?”

“What—after Tom Allen spent all night searching?”

“But think of the gold!”

“Think of the guardians!”

Dr Farrar’s pricked up at the mention of gold and he edged a little closer.

“Ahem,” he said politely. “Pray forgive me the inexcusable liberty of interpolation, but did I overhear some intimation of pecuniary interest?”

The two men looked at him blankly, as well they might.

“Did you mention treasure?” explained the learned doctor, and then, without waiting for an answer added, “But allow me to purchase some form of liquid refreshment to lubricate your tubes.”

That loosened the two men’s tongues considerably, and, while the doctor listened eagerly, they told him the story of Moneyfield’s treasure.

It seemed that a little way outside Broomfield lay a stretch of land called the Moneyfield and that beneath the Moneyfield lay an iron castle full of gold and silver, guarded by gnomes and spirits. There was only one gate to that castle, they said, and you could only find that when the moon was full—that is, if you were lucky.

Dr Farrar went to bed very excited indeed. The patent medicine business had been doing badly recently. Farrar’s Famous Fizzervescence (Guaranteed Good for 101 Complaints) had not lived up to his claims and he dared not show his face in Bridgewater, Taunton, Glastonbury, Bristol or Bath for fear of meeting disappointed customers. He had been wondering how he was going to cope with them and now, he thought happily, he might not need to, after all. If he could lay his hands on the buried treasure, he could live in luxury for the rest of his life and never see another bottle of Fizzervescence or another disappointed customer again. He was still thinking happily of that beautiful prospect when he fell asleep.

Next morning, bright and early, he paid a visit to the village innkeeper.

“Ah, mine host,” he began, “I am anxious to offer remunerative employment to one of the more industrious and sagacious of your young compatriots. I would welcome your counsel.”

“What?” said the innkeeper, who was never at his best in the mornings.

“I want to hire a bright boy,” said Dr Farrar impatiently.

“Oh!” said the innkeeper. “I can help you there, sir. Charlie Bludgett’s your man. He’s just the lad for you.”

“And does young master Bludgett exhibit the acumen and resource befitting an amanuensis of the great Dr Bartholomew Farrar?”

“Oh yes, sir, he’ll do you very nicely,” replied the landlord. “There are brighter boys, I’ll admit, but Charlie is very willing.”

“Splendid!” said Dr Farrar. “Splendid. Pray, my good man, conduct this paragon hither that I may scrutinize his physiognomy.”

“Sir?”

“I want to take a look at him.”

Charlie Bludgett proved adequate and the doctor engaged him on the spot; he had no time to waste, for it was only a night and a day until the full moon, and so, that very evening, Charlie and the doctor set off for the Moneyfield.

The doctor was very excited. He wore his best clothes—a tail coat and a clean shirt with ruffles on, and in his hand he carried a small, forked twig of hazelwood.

Charlie followed in trepidation. He had never been to the Moneyfield at night before, but he had heard stories about it. It was said that the site was haunted by the ghosts of Roman soldiers and that you could hear galloping horses and the rattle of chariot wheels. So Charlie listened uneasily and wished the doctor would hurry.

It was a clear night and since it lacked only a day till the full moon, they could see quite well. Dr Farrar stretched out his hands, palms uppermost, grasping the hazel twig. It trembled with every step he took. He walked round and round the Moneyfield, moving inwards with each circuit, and the nearer he came to the centre of the field, the more the twig trembled.

When he reached the middle of the field, it began to dip. It was twisting the doctor’s hands down towards the ground as if it was pointing the way for him. Dr Farrar followed the pull of the stick until, after a few steps, the twig pointed straight at the ground. This was the spot. He nodded to himself and marked it carefully.

“Good!” he said. “We have successfully accomplished the first stage of our mission.”

Charlie waited for him to do something more, but that, it seemed was all for tonight.

“Any further activity,” said Dr Farrar, “must await the night of the full moon. I suggest, therefore, that we return to the local hostelry and recruit our energies.”

The next day, the day of the full moon, passed very slowly. Dr Farrar spent his time getting hold of a shovel, a pick-axe and, in particular, a Bible. He also gave Charlie certain instructions.

“It is absolutely essential, my young auxiliary, that at all times tonight, you remain obdurately taciturn. In other words, keep your mouth shut. Total silence is of paramount importance and under no circumstances whatsoever are you to utter a single word. Understood?”

Charlie simply held his tongue and tried to work out all the long words.

“Splendid!” said the doctor. “Well, my man, I can confidently predict that we shall both be the richer for this night’s work. And now I feel the time is near. Let us depart, Mr Bludgett and remember, I beg of you, my warning!”

It was almost midnight when they reached the Moneyfield and the moon shone brightly. The little hazel twig still stood upright in the rough turf and around it Dr Farrar marked out a circle. Charlie began to dig.

It was a warm night and the field was heavy clay. Charlie grew hot and tired. Nevertheless, he worked on in silence until, when he had got down about three feet, there was a dull clang. His spade had hit something metal. Dr Farrar, taking a firm grip on his Bible, stepped forward. They had found the door.

But no sooner had Charlie scraped away the earth than the most unearthly wailing rose from the pit. There was a screaming, tearing sound which grew louder and louder as, with a terrible slowness, the door opened of its own accord—first a crack, then a foot, till finally it yawned wide agape.

Charlie found himself gazing down a narrow tunnel which plunged deep into the earth. Far away at the end it opened out into a long chamber and he caught a glimpse of sparkling jewels and the gleam of gold. But before he had a chance to see more, charging along the tunnel, came the guardians of the treasure.

First there were two enormous snakes, slithering their sinuous coils towards him, tongues flickering. Then followed a thing with hot red eyes and many legs, all of which kept step with military precision. Next came a dwarf with two heads and two pairs of arms and finally, an enormous knobbly lizard with a poisonous-looking tongue. They halted at the mouth of the tunnel, hissing and snarling.

Charlie stood frozen. He gazed at this terrible horde in disbelief and, forgetting everything the doctor had told him, whispered very softly, “God have mercy!”

That did it. The two snakes hissed like thunder-rain and the foremost of them reared up its flat head, looping one thick coil round his hand. The creature with legs goose-stepped forward, eyes smouldering, and the dwarf reached up its four hands to drag him down, down into the netherworld. He would be trapped for ever. The venomous lizard licked at his feet.

He gave a wail of despair and then his redoubtable employer sprang to the rescue. Dr Farrar clapped his Bible hard on the lizard’s head and, grasping Charlie’s free hand, tugged with all his might. But the guardians were tugging too and the thing with legs was pulling like a tug-of-war team. So then the doctor struck the snake with his Bible and it recoiled, relaxing its grip a little.

What with him tugging on the other hand and Charlie Bludgett himself struggling with all his might, the boy was able to squirm out of the reptile’s grasp, narrowly avoiding a blow from the dwarf, and just managed to scramble out of the pit ahead of the reaching hands. The last thing he heard was a baffled snarling from the gate abruptly cut short by a verse or two from the Bible, read by the doctor in his loudest voice.

And then, as if by magic, the sides of the pit caved in. There was a rumbling of stone and the heap of soil that Charlie had piled up in his digging returned of its own accord to the ground. Then the grass began to creep over the broken ground as quickly as ink over blotting paper, and within a couple of minutes the pit had vanished as if it had never been. The hazel twig was still sticking up out of the ground. Dr Farrar sighed.

“Ah well,” he said, “back to Fizzervescence.”

He looked at the empty field. He looked at the twig.

“I don’t suppose anyone will believe us,” he said.

And nobody did.

Mr Armstrong Roland was a miser.

He was seated in his dingy room, hunched over the pages of a leather-bound ledger. Too mean to push a coin into the gas meter, he shivered and tried to warm his hands over the solitary candle.

There was nothing unusual about Mr Roland as he sat behind his battered desk, gnarled fingers clamped round an old quill pen, for he was of medium height, balding, and wore a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his long nose. Never a handsome man, he certainly would have experienced some difficulty in persuading a woman to become his wife, unless she too possessed the same passionate interest as Mr Roland. Indeed, it had never occurred to him to seek a wife, for he had only one true love in his life.

Money.

Money was, to Mr Roland, what oil is to a wheel; it was his sole reason for living. Not that he spent much. He had not bought a new suit in twenty years; the food he ate would have been ignored by a self-respecting cat and even the candles which barely lit his miserable room, had been given to him by a kindly clergyman.

On the other hand, Mr Roland never asked for credit. On the contrary, he was a giver of credit, a lender of money, and almost every family in the district was in debt to him. In other words—he was a money-lender. Like Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, he demanded his pound of flesh from those unfortunate enough to fall into his clutches. How willingly he would lend a pound—only to demand repayment within one month, plus three pounds more as interest on the loan. A pebble seemed like a rubber ball in comparison with his heart.

As this old man sat at his desk, gloating over the entries in his ledger, there came a timid rapping on the closed door and he looked up with ill-concealed impatience.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly to reveal the pale face of a woman. Although still young, she had the appearance of a person twice her age, with deep-sunken eyes and a face that was lined with worry. Drawing her thin shawl about her shoulders, she stepped into the room, then closed the door quietly behind her.

“Mr Roland?” she enquired.

“Yes. What is it you want? I’m busy.”

“I’m in dire need, sir.”

Mr Roland grinned wolfishly. “Been drinking and wasting your money, eh? Now you want some of mine. Like all the rest of ’em. Wastrels!”

“I don’t drink, sir,” the woman replied. “I need money for my son. He’s ill and the doctor won’t come unless I pay his bill.”

“And how much is that for?” Mr Roland asked, realising there might be a good profit to be made from the woman’s desperation.

“Four pounds, sir. I know it’s an awful lot of money, but my son is so ill and like to die unless the doctor continues his treatment.”

“Yes, it is a lot of money,” Mr Roland agreed. “And suppose your son dies, despite the doctor’s treatment? Rather a waste of money. Eh!”

The woman choked back a rising flood of tears.

“Then . . . then I will have done all that could be done. That at least will be some comfort.”

The old man placed his fingertips together, resting his chin upon them as though deep in thought. Although he had already made up his mind what to do, he wanted to create the impression of entertaining grave doubts, in order to increase the woman’s anxiety. Mr Roland was well aware that anxious people often make unwise decisions. After a while he raised his eyes and stared balefully at the woman.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken you are Mrs Hollings from Victory Terrace.”

“I am, sir. A widow whose husband passed away last year. He left me a house and precious little else. Now, if you would only . . .”

“Very sad,” Mr Roland interrupted. “My heart bleeds for you. But I can’t lend you four pounds.”

It was sometime before poor Mrs Hollings could speak.

“But why not, sir?”

The old man shrugged. “A matter of collateral. Some assurance you can repay me.”

“Oh, I’d do that, sir. You have my promise.”

“Promises are like piecrust,” Mr Roland retorted, “they are soon broken. Now, if you only had something of value, such as a silver teapot, or a diamond ring—then the matter would be different.”

“If I had anything like that I wouldn’t be here,” Mrs Hollings said bitterly.

“In fact,” the money-lender spoke softly, “the only thing you have of value—is your house. Doubtless you have the deeds tucked away somewhere?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Do you suppose . . . ?”

Mr Roland nodded with seemingly reluctance.

“Yes, this isn’t my usual way of doing business, but if you were to bring me the deeds of your house, I just might reconsider lending you four pounds. Some people would say I’m too soft-hearted, but—well—that’s the way I am.”

Mrs Hollings grabbed his hand, kissed it, then ran from the room. The miser chuckled as he heard her running along the pavement.

“I think fifty per cent interest,” he murmured, “payable within four weeks, is in order. A nice little piece of business. Now—let’s have a look at my lovely money.”

When a dirt-grimed mirror had been moved to one side, a stout door was revealed and this Mr Roland unlocked by means of a key that never left his person. He pulled the door open and feasted his eyes on the stacks of banknotes, the neat piles of gold sovereigns and bags of silver. The cupboard was brimming, stuffed, bulging and bloated with money. The moon, which was peering through the uncurtained window, seemed horrified by the sight of so much wealth, for it hid its face behind a cloud and the room was lit only by the flickering light of the guttering candle.

The old man chuckled and did a little dance of pure joy.

“Money!” he whispered. “Money! I can’t have too much. I’d sell my soul for more of the beautiful, glorious stuff.”

While he pranced madly round the room, his shadow imitated his every move; jerked, twisted, raced across walls, took on strange shapes when the candle-flame flickered, then—suddenly—became still. A motionless figure that bore some resemblance to a man with large ears and two little pointed horns.

It was not until Mr Roland had sank down into a chair, very breathless after such unaccustomed exertion that he noticed this terrifying phenomenon. It had come to rest on the wall opposite his desk and created the impression that it was watching him with invisible eyes. Mr Roland muttered: “Impossible! Can’t happen!” then raised his left hand. His shadow did not raise so much as a single finger. He got up, then sat down again—the shadow did not move.

After a while Mr Roland dared to speak:

“What’s going on? Eh! Shadows aren’t supposed to carry on like this.”

His shadow moved a few inches to the left and a voice that sounded rather like the wind whispering down an old chimney, said:

“I felt like taking a little holiday. Fed up of following you around.”

“But you’ve got to,” Mr Roland snapped. “That’s what shadows are for. Kindly attach yourself to me this instant.”

“Won’t do it,” the shadow replied, its head shaking from side to side in a most disconcerting fashion. “You don’t deserve a shadow. Getting excited about that little pile of small change. I’m going to find myself a real business man.”

“Small change!” Mr Roland forgot his fear, so indignant was he at this insult. “Let me tell you in that cupboard is . . .”

“Chicken feed.”

Mr Roland crashed his fist down upon the desk.

“I won’t stand for this kind of talk. What do you know about money matters?”

A chuckle that was not unlike a rasping sigh, drifted across the room.

“You’d be surprised. Now—if we could come to an understanding—draw up an agreement—then just maybe I’d take up my old position again—and you would make a really good business transaction.”

“An agreement!” This was the kind of language that Mr Roland understood. “What had you in mind?”

“Oh!” The shadow elongated, then became a grotesque shape on the far wall. “I was thinking of: I return for retaining my shadow and an extremely advantageous business transaction—to wit—four hundred pounds . . . !”

“Hold on,” Mr Roland interrupted, tearing a sheet of paper from his ledger. “Let me get this down in black and white.” He wrote quickly, muttering the words which flowed from his pen.

“In . . . return . . . for . . . re-taining . . . my . . . shadow . . . and . . . an . . . extremely . . . ad-van-tag-eous . . . business . . . transaction . . . to . . . wit . . . four . . . hundred . . . pounds. Right, go on.”

The shadow shrank and became a large black ball that rolled across the floor and took up a position in the empty fireplace.

“For the outlay of four pounds.”

“Only four pounds!” Mr Roland gasped. “Rustling banknotes! I like that.”

“I agree to appear as I really am.”

Mr Roland frowned and peered anxiously at the shadow which was now flowing up over the mantelpiece. “As I really am! I’m not sure . . .”

“Are you ashamed of being what you are?” the whispering voice enquired.

“No, of course not. I’m a sharp business man. Very sharp.”

“Then why not look like one?”

Mr Roland again took up his pen which had slipped from his fingers.

“You’re right. No reason why I should not. A sharp, no-nonsense appearance will be a great asset. Do you want me to sign this document?”

“If you would be so kind,” the shadow said, suddenly becoming a black, bent figure standing immediately in front of the desk. “And I’d be obliged if you could make a thumb-print at the very bottom. That’s right—now it’s all legal and businesslike.”

“I suppose I’m not dreaming all this?” Mr Roland asked, staring down at his signature and thumb-print with vague misgivings. “I’ve heard about this sort of thing, but never thought it would happen to me.”

There was no answer, and when the miser looked up, there was his shadow stretched out across the room, meekly imitating his every move; in other words behaving; neither more nor less as it had over the past seventy years. And that was not all. When Mr Roland looked down at the sheet of paper, there was not a single word written on it.

“Must have been dreaming,” he muttered. “But it all seemed so real. Although, now I come to think of it, I have promised to lend Mrs Hollings four pounds . . .”

He stopped and stared with horrified astonishment at his right hand that still gripped the pen. He spluttered, gasped, exclaimed: “Clinking gold!” several times, them finally faced the awful truth.

His right hand was a claw.

As claws go, it was a fine, healthy specimen. A lobster would not have turned up its nose at it, a crab could well I have welcomed it to the collection provided by nature, but Mr Roland was not impressed.

“Bulky ledgers and crumpled I.O.U.s!” he roared. “I don’t want a claw.”

He almost fell out of his chair when someone again tapped on the door.

“Go away,” Mr Roland shouted. “I . . . I can’t see anyone now.”

“It’s me, sir,” a woman’s voice called out. “Mrs Hollings from down the road. I’ve got the deeds of my house.”

Mr Roland jerked his head up and momentarily forgot the claw. Deeds! House! Four pounds! Was this the advantageous business transaction the shadow had promised? Fifty per cent interest was certainly a nice little profit, but suppose . . . just suppose . . . he were to . . . ? Mr Roland jumped to his feet, shouted, “Just a minute,” then ran over to a chest of drawers that stood under the window. After rummaging through a collection of old clothes, he found a glove and this he forced over the unsightly claw. He then took four pounds from the cupboard, closed the door, replaced the mirror, before sitting down behind his desk.

“Come in, my good woman.”

The door was flung open and Mrs Hollings trotted into the room, clutching a folded document in one hand.

“Here it is, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of sending for the doctor and he’ll be at my house at any time now. So, if I could have the money . . .”

“Just a moment,” Mr Roland held up his left hand. “We must proceed in a businesslike fashion. I’ll draw up an agreement.”

“Oh, there isn’t time, sir. I must get back at once.”

Mr Roland pretended to look perplexed.

“I do see your point of view. Tell you what—it’s most irregular—but if you would just sign this sheet of blank paper, I’ll fill in the details later. Would that suit you?”

Mrs Hollings managed to conjure up a little sad smile.

“You are a kind man, sir. Whatever people may say—you’ve got a heart of gold. Just give me the pen and I’ll sign whatever you like.”

Mr Roland pushed a sheet of paper across the desk, dipped his pen in the inkwell, then thrust it into the woman’s hand.

“Sign at the bottom of the page,” he instructed. “Then I’ll detain you no further.”

Mrs Hollings signed her name, forming each letter with careful precision, then laid the pen down.

“And here,” said Mr Roland, “is your money. One—two—three—four. There we are. Now, you hurry back to your house. I do hope the doctor has some good news for you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mrs Hollings backed away. “Whatever happens I’ll bless you. And don’t worry—I’ll repay you.”

Mr Roland smiled. “No hurry, Mrs Hollings. Take your time.”

He waited until her footsteps had receded along the pavement, before pulling the sheet of paper towards him. There was the signature so neatly written at the bottom and a convenient blank space above, on which Mr Roland could inscribe whatsoever pleased him. Writing with a claw was not all that easy, for the pen kept slipping from the gleaming talons, so Mr Roland was obliged to use his left hand which meant composing the “agreement” became a laborious task. But finally it was completed and pleased Mr Roland very much. He read the interesting document aloud.

Mr Roland chuckled, rubbed his glove-covered claw, grinned at his shadow and loudly proclaimed his gratification.

“Shadow, devil or whoever you are—you’ve done me a good turn. So I’ve got a claw! Well—what’s one claw between friends?”

The shadow became a slab of darkness on the far wall. Then the head turned and a soft whisper came shuddering across the room.

“Correction. Two claws.”

Mr Roland looked down. There could be no manner of doubt—his left claw was a perfect duplicate of his right.

Long ago, before the great island continent called Atlantis sank beneath the waves of what is now known as the Atlantic Ocean, there existed the tiny kingdom of Francu. So far as I can understand from the ancient manuscripts in my possession, this pleasant little domain occupied an area that today would be made up from a slice of southern France, a fraction of northern Italy and the merest speck of western Switzerland.

At the time of which I am writing, King Magnus ruled the land from his capital city of Quink; and I am forced to admit that if this estimable monarch had a fault, it was his weakness for magicians. Prince Manfred, the king’s son and heir, could not remember a day when there was net a usually nasty old man dressed in a dirty robe and a conical hat, standing in front of his father’s throne, engaged in the task of turning snakes into walking sticks, or making a pot boil on a block of ice. And after a while the king would always ask the same question.

“Is that all you can do?”

The magicians—to a man—never failed to cringe, pour out a flow of: “May it please your majesty . . . your majesty’s humble servant . . . the Emperor of Atlantis loved this one, your majesty,” then beat a hasty retreat when the king roared his rage and threw the nearest heavy object that came to hand.

“Not one of ’em worth a pinch of salt,” he informed the queen—who was a quiet, not-much-to-say-for-herself lady. “Magicians! Charlatans. Buffoons.”

The queen ventured to express an opinion.

“I did think that last one who turned those white mice into a team of sweet little horses was quite good, dear.”

The king laughed. A deep, hollow, mirthless sound.

“Great garbage, that trick has got whiskers on it! I must have been young Manfred’s age when I first saw that one. And done a lot better, I may say. Did you notice—one of the horses had six legs?”

One morning the prime minister approached the throne and, after bowing, announced:

“I have found a new magician, your majesty. He has just arrived from the court of Atlantis.”

The king snorted. “Indeed! And what does this one do? Turn pumpkins into carriages?”

“He claims to turn base metal into gold, sir.”

Now, Francu was a rather poor country, and gold as scarce as oranges on an apple tree, so the king rubbed his hands and said:

“Does he, by Jove! Show him in.”

The prime minister clapped his hands, and instantly a tall, dark man appeared in the great doorway and came striding towards the throne. Prince Manfred did not like the look of him at all. A long, lean face that might have been carved from granite was not enhanced by a pair of black, deep-set eyes and a thin mouth that gave the impression it might spit venom, should the occasion arise. A bald head was barely covered by a black skull cap, which appeared to be fashioned from the same material as the long, clinging robe that completely encased the grotesquely thin body.

This magician from Atlantis gave the king the most perfunctory of bows, then stood perfectly still, rather like a soldier waiting for orders. The king seemed a little put out by the man’s appearance, for he hummed and hawed, twirled his moustache, then adjusted his crown, which was rather an uncomfortable piece of headgear, being made of wrought-iron. Then he said:

“Yes . . . well . . . what’s your name?”

The magician spoke with a deep voice which had much in common with the croaking of a bullfrog.

“Kernon, if it please your majesty.”

“Doesn’t please me a bit. Funny sort of name. I understand you can turn base metal into gold.”

Kernon—for so we must now call him—inclined his head.

“I can, sire.”

“Right—have a shot at this crown of mine.”

The magician raised a clawlike hand and the entire court gasped when blue fire streaked out from the pointed forefinger and momentarily turned the king’s crown into a gleaming, seven-pointed star. Then he dropped his hand and again inclined his head.

“Your majesty is now wearing a twenty-four carat gold crown.”

The king exclaimed: “Good grief!” and the queen murmured: “Oh, my!” and touched her own crown, which was a miserable tin affair. After Kernon had obligingly turned this into gleaming gold, he pointed his magical fingers at the king’s shoe-buckles, the royal sceptre, two iron goblets and finally the very throne itself, which, it must be confessed, had—up to that moment—been nothing more than a metal chair.

King Magnus patted his golden crown, caressed one arm of his golden throne, then picked up one of his gold goblets.

“It beats me,” he said, “why the Emperor of Atlantis ever let you go. I mean to say—well—you’re worth your weight in gold.”

Kernon sighed deeply. “I fear, your majesty, the Emperor took exception to my assistant. They just couldn’t get on together.”

“He must have been mad!” the king exclaimed. “So far as I’m concerned, you can have as many assistants as you like.”

The magician smiled and absent-mindedly turned the Home Secretary’s spectacles to gold, which was not such a good idea, as the poor man could not see through them.

“I only need one assistant, sire, but he is most essential. Would your majesty like to meet him?”

“Suppose I’d better,” the king said grumpily, for he thought all this talk about assistants was a sad waste of gold-making time. “Get him in and be quick about it.”

Kernon rubbed his hands, muttered some indistinguishable words, then appeared to grab a large egg from the air. This he laid on the floor, then, after walking round it three times, he recited the following rhyming verse:

Barely had he pronounced the last word, when the egg exploded with a terrible roaring sound—and there, crouching on the steps of the throne, was the magician’s assistant. All the ladies screamed, most of the men said: “Oh, my blessed knee-breeches!” or words to that effect, and even the king was so frightened he dropped his sceptre, which is a very unlucky thing for a monarch to do.

It might be as well if we start from the top and work our way downwards. Think of an immense red pumpkin; then give it two round black holes for eyes, two shrivelled leaves for ears, a squashed strawberry for a nose, an awful gaping slit for a mouth, and two rows of jagged stones for teeth. As for the body! No one wanted to look at that—except the Home Secretary, who could not see a thing through his gold spectacles and was loudly demanding to know what was going on. It was narrow and thin, covered with red scales, equipped with very long arms that reached down to the floor when the creature was standing up, bent legs and a most alarming tapering tail, that kept lashing from side to side. To make matters worse, the head inflated and deflated at irregular intervals, rather like a monstrous balloon, when someone is blowing it up then letting the air out again. The king was the first to ask a very important question.

“Great, suffering fish! What is it?”

Kernon patted his assistant’s shoulder, which resulted in the awful head swelling up to three times its normal size.

“He’s called the Hoppity-Jump, your majesty. But just Hoppy to his friends.”

“Has it got any friends?” the king enquired, tucking his feet under the throne when the Hoppity-Jump stared at him and licked its lips with a long black tongue. “Keep it away from me.”

“I think,” Kernon said, pulling his assistant back, “he’s taken quite a liking to your majesty, which is by way of being an honour, as he’s inclined to be a bit standoffish as a rule. If you could see your way clear to patting his head . . .”

“Under no circumstances. Now, perhaps you will explain why it’s necessary for you to go about with a dreadful thing like that.”

Kernon first pushed his assistant in the direction of the prime minister, who promptly took refuge behind the Home Secretary, then said:

“Your majesty must understand that I was born, many centuries ago, in that vast continent that lies beyond Atlantis. My father—may the earth lay lightly on his bones—who was possibly even a greater magician than myself, found the Hoppity-Jump—or rather its egg—on the top of a tall mountain. Having hatched it out by means of his magical powers, he adopted it. So Hoppy is, in a way, my foster brother.”

“Great garden garbage!” the king exclaimed.

“When my father was at last brought low by a curse sent out by an ill-intentioned witch,” Kernon went on, “he placed the following spell on me.

“So your majesty can quite well understand, whosoever employs me takes Hoppy as well.”

The king looked hard and long at the Hoppity-Jump. The monster was at that moment taking a very lively interest in the prime minister, who had swarmed up an ornamental pillar. Then he examined his golden crown, throne, sceptre, goblets, shoe-buckles and the Home Secretary’s spectacles.

“Yes—well—can you keep that thing under control?”

Kernon’s smile really was a most horrible sight.

“Within reasonable bounds. There may be one or two unpleasant incidents, but—as I’m sure your majesty will appreciate—monsters will be monsters.”

After a long pause the king nodded. “Yes, I suppose they will. But kindly keep that thing out of my way, that’s all I ask. Now—I’ve always fancied a gold coach . . .”

It was at that moment that the prime minister gave a strangled cry—and fell.

“But, Father,” Prince Manfred pleaded, “you said only the other day that prime ministers were hard to come by.”

The king reluctantly left the window where he had been looking at his golden coach with a great deal of satisfaction.

“I might have said that prime ministers don’t grow on trees, but no more than that. After all—I make prime ministers. I’ll promote the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He always struck me as being an ambitious fellow.”

“I’m afraid he isn’t any more, dear,” the queen said as she threaded a length of gold cotton into the eye of a golden needle. “That awful creature swallowed him when he bent down to tie up his shoelace.”

For a while it seemed as if King Magnus was really annoyed, for, as anyone knows, although prime ministers are fairly commonplace, a good Chancellor of the Exchequer is as rare as ice-cream in a desert. Then he shrugged and said:

“I must have a word with Kernon. Dash it all, if this goes on I won’t have a cabinet worth mentioning.”

Manfred decided it was no use talking to his father any more, for the king was by now so greedy for gold, he would let the Hoppity-Jump swallow the entire court and only make a token protest. So he left the royal apartments and went down to the kitchens, which is normally a place where a prince is not supposed to go.

But his friend Marla worked there: a pert young lady whose father had lost all his money, so that she was obliged to train as a cook—a lowly, but, as most sensible people will agree, a very worthwhile occupation. She treated Manfred with scant ceremony, maintaining that after all the bowing and “your royal highnessing” he received from the courtiers, a few down-to-earth words were very good for him. On this occasion he found her rolling out pastry, a smudge of flour on her pretty face and an impatient gleam in her blue eyes.

“No time to talk now,” she snapped. “Not all of us are princes who have nothing better to do than strut round in satin suits.”

“But this is a serious matter,” Manfred pleaded, “and I don’t know who else I can talk to.”

“What! With all those fine cabinet ministers and privy counsellors eating their heads off—you have come to me?”

“The trouble is,” Manfred said, lowering his voice, “they’re all too frightened to advise anyone. You see, my father has engaged a new magician, and he has an assistant . . .”

“I’ve heard all about it,” Marla interrupted, “and far be it for me to criticise his majesty, but those who hanker after gold must expect to pay the price, one way or another.”

“But if this goes on,” Manfred protested, “soon there won’t be any ministers left.”

“Pardon me while I cry.”

“But you don’t understand. When that awful monster has swallowed all the ministers, it might well come down here.”

Marla dropped her rolling pin and assumed an expression of grim determination.

“That’s different. I’ve no intention of ending up in some monster’s stomach. Come into the butler’s pantry and we’ll talk this matter over.”

The butler’s pantry was, in fact, a very comfortable room where that gentleman had a quiet snooze after a hearty dinner. Marla sank into a chair and waited until Manfred had seated himself in one opposite.

“Now, what’s your plan?”

“I haven’t actually got a plan. I was hoping you might have some idea as to how we can get rid of that thing.”

Marla raised her eyes ceilingwards.

“And to think that one day he’ll be King of Francu!”

She tapped her foot for a while, then asked: “Where does this beastly thing hang out when its not swallowing cabinet ministers?”

“It becomes a large egg.”

“A what!”

“An egg. Kernon always grabs it from mid-air—the egg, I mean—before putting it on the floor and reciting some dreadful poetry over it. Then there’s a flash of light, a roaring sound . . .”

Marla waved her hand impatiently. “All right, you don’t have to go on. All these magicians grab things out of the air. I expect he has the egg up his sleeve. I wonder what he does with it when he goes to sleep?”

Manfred said: “Ah!” and succeeded in looking very knowing, although he could not understand how it mattered where the magician put his awful egg when he went to sleep.

“You do see what I mean?” Marla enquired.

“Absolutely. Well—almost.”

“Really, you are the limit! Think. If we can steal the egg and destroy it before Old Thinny can mutter his poem over it, then all our troubles are over. By the way, where does he sleep?”

Manfred frowned. The prospect of entering a magician’s bedroom at night was not one he relished. “The room at the top of the tower. But suppose the monster isn’t an egg? What happens if we find it sitting on the foot of Kernon’s bed?”

“Then we’ll have to run very fast—won’t we?”

Manfred nodded and wished he had never asked Marla’s advice.

“Yes, I suppose we will.”

King Magnus was snoring, the queen—as befitted such a quiet, well-spoken lady—was sleeping quietly, and all the courtiers were trembling in their beds, when Prince Manfred and Marla crept up the long flight of steps which led to the tower room. Manfred allowed Marla to go first, for, as he explained, that was the only polite thing to do, but was fully prepared to turn about and run, should there be the slightest suspicion that the Hoppity-Jump was on its way down. Once he tripped, and Marla whispered:

“For goodness’ sake pick up your royal feet! And don’t lag behind. Anyone would think you were afraid.”

Up they went, one step at a time, pausing every once in a while to listen, their ears strained to detect the slightest sound. Then at long last they came up on to a narrow landing, and there, directly in front, high-lighted by a ceiling lamp, was an immense door. Originally it had been reinforced by thick iron bars, but Kernon must have been practising, for now they were solid, twenty-four carat gold.

“We’d better peep through the keyhole and see if he’s asleep,” Marla whispered.

“Yes, perhaps you should,” Manfred agreed. “I’ll keep guard at the top of the stairs.”

Marla bent down and applied her eye to the keyhole, then turned her head from side to side as though to obtain a full view of the room beyond. Presently she stood up and said softly:

“Old Nasty is stretched out on the bed with his mouth open. He doesn’t appear to be moving, so I think he’s in some kind of trance. These magicians do that sort of thing, you know. Go into trances, I mean.”

Manfred took a deep breath. “Is there . . . is there anything else in sight?”

“Not a sign of a monster. So I think it’s all right to go in. Are you ready?”

Manfred had never felt less ready in his entire life, but he nodded and, with deep concern, watched Marla turn the door handle.

King Magnus did not believe in spoiling his magicians, maintaining that it should be an easy matter for them to conjure up their own furniture. All the room contained was a narrow iron bed (which was now solid gold), a chair and a chest of drawers. Kernon was lying fully dressed on the bed, and a very nasty sight he looked, too.

Manfred clutched Marla’s arm and whispered: “Where do you suppose he has put the egg?”

She pointed to the chest of drawers. “Use your eyes. What do you suppose that thing is—a loving cup?”

Manfred blinked, then muttered: “My word!” when he saw a gold egg cup, which supported the monstrous egg, standing on the chest of drawers.

“Well, don’t stand there looking like a lost dog,” Marla ordered. “Grab it, and let’s be on our way.”

The egg was exceptionally heavy for its size, and very cold. Manfred could not dismiss the thought that it might explode at any moment and he would find himself clutching a wriggling monster. So he tip-toed towards the door, holding this fearsome object at arm’s length, then almost dropped it when a voice shouted:

“Wake up! Wake up!”

“It’s all right,” Marla whispered in his ear, “that’s only Old Nasty talking in his sleep.”

“Yes, but what’s he saying?”

They both stood perfectly still and looked back at the recumbent Kernon, who was twisting and turning in the most alarming fashion. Again he shouted:

“Wake up! Wake up! The sun is high . . .”

“That’s the verse for making the egg explode!” Manfred gasped. “What on earth are we going to do?”

Kernon made a deep snarling sound, then began talking again.

“Wake up! Wake up! The sun is high.

’Tis . . . ’tis . . . time for mortals to sob . . . sob . . . sob . . .”

“Don’t you dare drop that egg,” Marla snapped. “Tuck it under one arm and give me a hand. We must stop him talking in his sleep.”

“. . . and sigh,” Kernon continued. “And sigh . . . sigh . . .”

“How can we stop him talking, apart from waking him up?” Manfred demanded.

“Fiddle-di-dee!” Marla waved her clenched fists. “Don’t they teach princes anything? Cross the right leg over the left and turn the hands downwards. Every educated person knows that.”

The sleeping Kernon simply poured out a torrent of words.

“Liver lights and succulent meat is walking about up on two feet . . .”

Manfred needed no further prompting. He reached the bed in two gigantic strides and leaning over the twisting body, turned Kernon’s right hand palm downwards. Then he directed his attention to the left. Presently he said:

“Marla, his left hand is . . . is gripping my wrist. And I can’t . . . can’t get it free.”

“Really, you are helpless,” Marla complained. “I can’t leave you to do anything.”

She managed to prise the fingers from his wrist, then turned the hand over and placed it gently down on the rumpled bedspread. The result was nothing short of miraculous. Kernon became as a sleeping child that is dreaming of setting fire to its grandmother’s best Sunday bonnet. His yellow teeth were bared in a ferocious grin, but he now lay still and—most thankfully—no longer talked.

“Now, let’s get out of this place,” Marla instructed, “and please do try not to make any noise.”

They crept from the room, and Marla closed the door quietly behind them, then followed the young prince down the stairs and finally into the warm kitchen.

“What shall I do with this?” Manfred enquired, laying the egg down upon the table and surveying it with distaste.

“Destroy it,” Marla replied. “I’m going to stoke up the stove so there’s plenty of hot water for tomorrow morning’s breakfast. That great pot takes about six hours to boil.”

“But what shall I destroy it with? I mean to say—if I just crack the shell . . . !”

“Use the coal hammer,” Marla interrupted with more than a hint of impatience. “And don’t be afraid to hit that dreadful thing really hard.”

The coal hammer was heavy, having a massive head, and appeared to be an excellent implement for disposing of unwanted eggs. Manfred rolled up his sleeves, spat on his hands, gripped the handle—in fact, displayed every sign of a boy who is determined to do a very unpleasant job in the shortest possible time. Then he raised the hammer high in the air and brought it down on to the egg with all the strength he could muster.

The ensuing crash caused a long split to go shuddering along the table, made three plates fall off the dresser, sent a large black cat, which had been sleeping peacefully in front of the stove, running up the stairs—but did not even crack the egg. Manfred cried out and clutched his arm.

“What’s the trouble now?” Marla asked. “Don’t tell me you can’t even break an egg!”

“It’s like hitting a lump of iron,” Manfred said. “I’ll be surprised if I haven’t broken my wrist.”

“Give me that hammer. Honestly! If you want a job done, do it yourself. Stand back.”

Manfred had to admit that Marla was very good at wielding coal hammers. She placed both hands round the handle, took a deep breath, then, after spinning round on her right foot, dealt the egg a blow that made Manfred’s effort seem like a gentle tap.

The table collapsed, a veritable avalanche of crockery fell from the dresser, two sides of bacon dropped from the ceiling—and the egg, with not even the slightest crack or chip, rolled over the floor.

“It can’t be harmed!” Manfred gasped. “What are we going to do?”

“Certainly not get into a tizz-wizz,” Marla retorted. “My word, you do carry on. Now, if that egg can’t be broken, there’s not much point in dropping it from the palace roof, or burying it, or trying to burn it. But—we can boil it.”

“Boil it!”

“Yes—why not? The pot is beginning to simmer, and come daybreak it will be boiling away like anything. I can’t think what the effect will be, but I’m willing to bet the monster won’t like it.”

“Suppose—it sort of hatches out when the water gets warm?” Manfred asked.

“Don’t think it can. There’s certain rules to this magic business, you know. Old Nasty upstairs will have to be nearby and do his reciting act first. Any rate, here goes.”

And without further words she picked up the egg and dropped it into the pot, then placed the massive lid into position and weighed it down with a dozen flat irons.

“Well—that’s that. No point in hanging about. So off to bed with you. I should imagine, come what may, tomorrow will be a hectic day.”

Manfred knew it was not much use trying to argue with Marla when she was in this kind of mood, so he said goodnight and wandered dejectedly up the stairs.

It would be nice to record that, being a brave prince, with no nerves worth mentioning, he went straight to bed and slept soundly for the remainder of the night. In fact, he was unable to sleep at all and once jumped out of bed and grabbed a ceremonial sword when a passing owl woke all the palace dogs.

The royal family were eating breakfast.

King Magnus was working his way through a heaped plate of fried eggs, grilled bacon, devilled kidneys and braised liver, with remarkable rapidity. The queen was nibbling a slice of buttered toast, while Manfred ate hardly anything at all. The king had just ordered a footman to supply a second and more generous helping, when there was a tap on the door, and the Court Chamberlain entered and took up a position at the end of the table.

“What do you want?” the king demanded. “Can’t you see I’m engaged?”

The Chamberlain bowed low and wiped his forehead with a lace handkerchief.

“I regret disturbing your majesty, but the court magician has requested an immediate audience.”

“Tell him to wait until I’ve finished me breakfast. Dash it all, the fellow never gives me a minute’s peace.”

“I fear he rather insists you see him at once, your majesty. He’s in a very bad mood.”

“Insists!” the king roared. “Insists! Tell him to go take a running jump.”

“I think, dear,” the queen said quietly, “it might be as well if you saw him at once. After all, we really can’t afford to lose any more ministers yet awhile.”

“What! Um! Perhaps you’re right. I wanted to have a word with him on that subject. All right, show him in.”

Manfred emptied his coffee cup in one mighty gulp then cast an extremely anxious glance at the retreating Chamberlain.

“Could I be excused, Father?”

“No you can’t. I want you to see how I deal with this fellow. And stop fidgeting. I can’t think what’s wrong with you this morning.”

The door was suddenly flung open, and Kernon, his face creased into a ferocious scowl, all but ran into the room. Without so much as a bow or a “your majesty”, he roared:

“Where is it? Who’s taken it? I warn you . . .”

King Magnus choked on a piece of kidney, and it was only after the queen had thumped his back that he was able to speak.

“Who do you think you are? What! Bursting in here, shouting at me. Eh! Making me choke! You’re asking for a spell in a dungeon. A quick trip to the block. Never been so insulted in all me life.”

Kernon appeared to be in no way put out by these threats, but continued to glower and grimace and stamp his feet.

“Someone has taken it. Stolen it while I was asleep. And if it’s not returned in two minutes flat, I’ll turn your tinpot kingdom into a rubbish heap. I’ll blight all the crops, dry up all the rivers, make the sky rain blood, call up a plague of rats . . .”

“Here—hold on,” the king ordered. “Keep your robe on. Now, what’s all this about? Am I to understand that you’ve lost something?”

Kernon went quite black in the face.

“I haven’t lost anything. Someone has stolen the egg. Purloined my assistant. Taken my dear little Hoppity-Jump while he was in his embryo stage. I want him back—now. This very minute.”

“And do you imagine I’ve got the horrible little wretch here?” the king demanded. “Wouldn’t give it house room. In fact, I was going to have words with you on the subject. There’s to be no more swallowed cabinet ministers. People are beginning to talk, which is only one stage from them not paying their taxes.”

“I see,” Kernon said grimly. “I must resort to action.”

“Yes.” The king nodded. “You can turn these forks to gold. Earn your keep.”

“I was thinking of turning your wife’s hair to snakes,” Kernon retorted, bending and cracking his fingers in a most disgusting fashion.

“I don’t think I’d like that,” the queen protested. “Neither would my hairdresser.”

“If I’m not told where my little Hoppy is by the time I count ten,” the magician went on, “get ready for a hissing hairdo. One . . .”

The king turned pale and half rose from his chair.

“Look here—you really don’t intend to . . .”

“Two.”

“But dash it all, man, you can’t . . .”

“Three.”

“I always said you shouldn’t encourage these magicians, dear,” the queen said reproachfully. “Now I’ll never be able to wear a decent hat again.”

“Four.”

“Don’t worry,” King Magnus promised, “from now on I’ll make sure not one of the scoundrels sets foot in the kingdom.”

“Five.”

“I suppose you haven’t got his beastly egg tucked away somewhere?” the queen enquired. “I know how absent-minded you are.”

“Of course I haven’t got it. Now, Kernon, I’ve had just about enough of this . . .”

“Six.”

Manfred knew he would have to confess. The prospect of his mother with a crop of snakes for hair, plus all the other dreadful events the magician had threatened to bring about, was more than he could even contemplate. He jumped to his feet and shouted:

“I know where the egg is. It’s in the kitchen.”

Kernon stopped counting, then nodded and said softly: “You just wait, my lad, until I’ve got my little friend back to his old, stomach-filling self. He’ll be ravenous after missing his breakfast.”

He turned and ran from the room and knocked the Chamberlain over, before that official had time to remove his ear from the keyhole. The king sighed and placed his hand on Manfred’s shoulder.

“Sorry about this, son. All my fault. But I just couldn’t resist the prospect of having all that gold.”

“I think,” the queen said quietly, “we too had better go down to the kitchen. I don’t want the cook giving notice.”

The cook, several scullions, umpteen kitchen-maids and Marla were watching a very angry magician and completely ignored the royal family when they entered the kitchen. Kernon was opening cupboards, smashing crockery, overturning tables and shouting: “Where is it? I know it’s here,” then stamping his feet when the Hoppity-Jump egg failed to materialize. Manfred cast a quick glance at the large iron pot which was still on the stove, rattling its lid like a fussy old gentleman demanding attention.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but—what you’re looking for is in that pot.”

Instantly Marla grabbed his arm and hissed:

“You little sneak! Why did you have to tell him?”

“He was going to turn my mother’s hair into snakes,” Manfred explained, “and dry up all the rivers and . . .”

“What do you imagine will happen if that hoppy-thing gets loose again?”

Kernon grabbed the pot and carrying it over to the sink, tipped a mass of boiled turnips into a bowl, then began to rummage through them, badly scalding his fingers in the process. Presently he roared:

“It’s not here! The Hoppy-egg isn’t here!”

The cook, a very humble lady who knew her place, came forward and performed a little curtsey.

“Begging your pardon, sir, not wishing to intrude, but if it’s an egg you’re looking for—why, I found it this morning, when I came to clean the pot.”

Kernon grabbed the cook and shook the poor lady until her hairpins fell out.

“Where did you put it? Tell me, woman.”

“That I will, sir, if only you’ll let me speak. As it was a very hard egg and I wasn’t able to crack it, why, I thought, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be put to good use. So—begging your pardon once again—I used it to prop the larder door open.”

“What!”

“It being a light door, you understand, sir, and it being such a heavy egg. I do hope that I haven’t done anything I shouldn’t . . .”

Kernon ran to the larder and returned in no time at all, clutching the Hoppity-Jump egg in both hands. Manfred shuddered when he saw the malicious gleam in the magician’s eyes and hid behind his father, who kept muttering: “Never liked the fellow’s face.”

“Now,” Kernon said, “you that have legs, prepare to feel them tremble.”

He laid the egg down upon the floor and quickly recited the rhyming spell, clearly anxious to get his assistant back into full swallow-form in the shortest possible time. There was a faint popping sound, the merest flicker of light, and everyone gasped when the Hoppity-Jump materialised in a cloud of steam.

The magician chuckled. “A very good morning to you, Hoppy. I expect you fancy a little snack. How about that wretched boy for starters? Then maybe that odious girl? Off you go.”

The Hoppity-Jump did not move. Just crouched at its master’s feet and stared with unblinking eyes at the cook, who looked very worried and said: “Begging your pardon, sir, I’ll see about getting them greens on the stove.”

Kernon’s voice carried an undertone of impatience.

“Come on, Hoppy. Get a move on. Start swallowing.”

The Hoppity-Jump might have been an extremely ugly statue, for there was not the slightest movement, not even a nod, to signify it had heard the magician’s instructions. Kernon displayed signs of deep concern.

“What’s wrong, boy? Do you feel out of sorts?”

A minute passed, then another, and presently Marla, with courage that Manfred could only admire, stepped forward and laid her hand on the monster’s head. Then she patted, poked, shook, kneaded, pummelled and finally kicked.

“Do take care, dear,” the queen advised.

“There’s no need,” Marla said calmly. “The Hoppity-Jump is hard-boiled.”

Kernon clutched his head, tore his hair and generally behaved like a man who has suffered an overwhelming disaster.

“Hard-boiled! Over-cooked! My dear little Hoppy destroyed!”

“Which means you’re no longer a magician,” Manfred announced, coming out from behind his father. “So you can’t turn my mother’s hair to snakes or dry up rivers.”

“Neither can you transform any more base metals into gold!” the king exclaimed. “Not much use, are you? Might as well have your head off.”

Kernon flung himself at the king’s feet and appeared to be so frightened, Manfred felt quite sorry for him.

“Have mercy, sire. I never intended to turn her majesty’s beautiful hair into snakes. Just my little joke. And I’m very sorry about your prime minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer, but Hoppy would insist on swallowing people. I spoke most severely to him many times.”

The cook performed another little curtsey.

“Begging your pardon, your majesty, but if I might be so bold, we be needing a man to do the rough work, peeling potatoes, minding the fires and so forth, so if you’d like me to take him off your hands, I’d be pleased to oblige and that’s a fact.”

The king nodded. “Very well. But stand no nonsense from the fellow.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hard-boiled Hoppity-Jump. “And send that thing upstairs. It’ll be useful to hang me crown on.”

Needless to say, no more magicians were allowed to enter Francu, and everyone remarked what a splendid ruler King Magnus was, now that he could devote his full time to affairs of state. Marla was made lady-in-waiting to the queen, although she occasionally popped down to the kitchen and made certain that Kernon did not neglect his duties.

Eventually she married Prince Manfred, and when, in the fullness of time, he ascended the throne, ruled him and the kingdom most successfully.

And the Hoppity-Jump? What with the king using it as a hatstand, and the queen as a pin-cushion, most people forgot it had ever been a monster.

A pool left by a dried-up river.