The Ogre of Oglefort (5 page)

T
he small, black-painted boat sailed over the dark water. The old man in oilskins who steered it was grumpy and silent. Occasionally he looked at Ivo and shook his head.

They had reached the last stage of the journey. They had followed the Norns' instructions and everything had gone as it should. The ferry had taken them to the most northern port in Ostland, and after a night in a boardinghouse by the quayside they made their way to Pier Number Three, where an old man in his clinker-built fishing coble seemed to be expecting them.

When they were clear of the harbor the old man began to mutter.

“You'd best say your prayers,” he said. “There's some dangerous ogres along this strip of coast but the one where you're going's the worst. There's no one comes out of that place the way they went in.”

Ivo knew he should be afraid. What they were trying to do wasn't just dangerous—it was probably impossible—but the only thing he'd been afraid of all along was that the Hag would find a way of sending him back.

The north shore of Ostland is famous for its rough seas. As they came out of the shelter of the harbor the boat started pitching and tossing and first the Hag, then the troll turned green and leaned over the side, ready to be sick. From time to time bursts of spray came over the side but they were too wretched to care. Ivo and Dr. Brainsweller did not feel ill; they sat back in the stern, hypnotized by the rise and fall of the waves,

They had traveled for more than two hours when there was a sudden gasp from the wizard.

“L . . . look,” he stammered, clutching Ivo's arm. “Up there! It's Mother!”

And it was. High above the heaving boat there floated a long, pale face. A pair of rimless spectacles clung to its pointed nose—its lips moved and formed a single word.

“Bri-Bri?” said Mrs. Brainsweller above the noise of the wind, and vanished.

The wizard was terribly shaken.

“You did see her?” he asked. “I didn't imagine it?”

And Ivo had to admit that he had indeed seen Mrs. Brainsweller's worried face.

“I don't suppose she'll come again,” he said. “She just wanted to see if you were all right.”

After another hour the boat came in closer to the shore, the water became calmer, and wearily the others raised their heads. They were sailing along a spectacular coastline of high jagged mountains and sheer cliffs. There were no harbors, no villages, only the seabirds swooping and crying: guillemots and kittiwakes and terns.

“How can we land?” wondered the troll.

The grumpy boatman did not answer. And then they saw a gap in the cliffs, and a small sandy bay with a rickety-looking jetty.

“Is this it?” asked the Hag. “Are we here? But there's no castle.”

“It's inland. You have to walk up through the trees.” And then, “I'll take you back if you like. It's a pity to see the little lad going to his death.”

But it was too late for that. They climbed stiffly out onto the jetty and down onto the sand. In front of them lay an opening fringed by bushes. It had begun to rain.

They were wet through and tired even before they began their trek inland along the overgrown path. It ran beside a small and sluggish stream covered in waterweeds and green slime. Every now and again a blister of gas came to the surface with a sinister plop.

“Methane,” said the troll.

The trees between which they walked grew gradually taller as they came away from the sea. They leaned toward each other; lichen hung down from the branches. The birds that screeched above them now were not white like the seabirds, but black—rooks and jackdaws and crows.

In the mist and rain it could have been any time of day.

“Oh dear,” said the wizard. He had stepped on a heap of toadstools oozing something yellow, like pus.

Ivo carried the sword over his shoulder like a rake. It had been a nuisance all the way. There had been no detailed instructions with the map the Norns had given them; they were just told to make their way from the landing stage to the castle and slay the ogre. Ivo had longed for this adventure but now he thought that they must have been mad to set off so ill-equipped.

The Hag had brought a small suitcase with the foot water, the magic beans, and some underclothes for herself and Ivo.

Suddenly the troll stopped dead and pointed. An animal was peering at them through the bushes, staring with fierce and uncannily intelligent eyes. It was about the size of a badger but they could not make out its shape in the poor light. An air of menace came from it, and in a moment it had vanished.

They walked on wearily through the strange unpleasant wood. The path sloped slightly upward now but still there was no sign of a clearing.

“My goodness,” said the Hag, staring down at the ground. She was used to weird things that slithered about in the Dribble but the pale gigantic worm crawling across the path in front of them was like nothing she had ever seen. It was the size of a serpent, but its body looked soft and wet and swollen, as though it had lived inside something warm and moist. The gut of an enormous animal, perhaps, or even . . . of a giant.

They trudged on silently. Ulf was looking grimly at the unhealthy trees; they badly needed thinning; dead branches littered the undergrowth. Trees were like people to him; he couldn't bear to see them badly treated.

After another hour, Ivo stopped.

“I can feel it,” he said. “I can feel the castle.”

The others wanted to say that one cannot feel castles but it was true that they, too, were aware of something looming toward them. Then the mist rolled away slightly and there it was.

It was exactly as they had seen it on the Norns' magic screen: enormous, with turrets and towers and places for pouring boiling oil; but no one was pouring oil or anything else. It had a deserted look, like the castle in
Sleeping Beauty
: silent, bewitched, and sad.

“Well we'd better get on with it,” said the troll.

They walked up a sloping meadow and across a drawbridge slung over a murky-looking moat. The chains were rusty, the boards creaked, but no one challenged them. Nor did anyone stop them as they passed through the gatehouse. A huge kennel stood beside the gate, but there was no sign of a guard dog.

Still in silence they walked across the courtyard—and stopped dead.

In front of them was a grating in the stone—and coming though the bars . . . was a hand.

It was a human hand, pale and desperate as it twisted and groped and searched. Now a second hand joined it, larger than the first, and then both hands twirled and searched and groped, their fingers frantically curling and uncurling on the iron bars. And as the rescuers stood with beating hearts they heard voices from below.

“Oh when will it happen?” said the first voice.

“Is it my turn yet?” wailed the second.

“I cannot bear it,” moaned the first voice again. “I cannot bear the waiting.”

And all the time the pallid hands groped and writhed like the tentacles of some imprisoned creature, searching for the light.

It was hard to move toward them, but the rescuers forced themselves up to the grating and looked down.

Attached to the groping hands were people—a man and a woman, no longer young. Their faces were turned upward, and when they saw the rescuers their moans became louder and more pitiful.

“When?” they cried. “When will our time come?”

“We must know.”

“You must tell him.”

The Hag's kind face was filled with pity. Ivo knelt down, peering into the dungeon which held the prisoners. Ulf was trying to pry open the grating, shaking it with his strong hands.

But before they could go to the help of the prisoners, they heard a noise which rooted them to the ground. It was a scream—a bloodcurdling, hair-raising scream from inside the castle. And it sounded as though it came from someone young.

The rescuers turned and ran toward the noise. They raced up a winding stone staircase, along a corridor, and found themselves in the Great Hall of the castle. And there, incredibly, they saw exactly what the Norns had shown them on their screen.

A gigantic ogre with bloodstained teeth and glittering eyes was standing in front of the fireplace. He was roaring with rage; spittle came from his mouth and his enormous hairy fists were clenched, ready to shake or throttle the person who was kneeling before him—a young girl with long dark hair and pleading eyes.

“Please,” she implored. “Please, oh please . . .”

But the slavering beast who loomed over her showed no mercy. He brushed away a cockroach that had crawled out of his ear and raised an arm the size of a tree trunk.

“No!” he roared. “Be silent. Your pleas are useless.” And he reached for his nail-studded club.

In the doorway the rescuers froze in horror. The Norns must have foreseen the future; the dreadful danger to the kneeling girl, her anguished pleas. This was the moment they had shown on the screen—the instant before the girl was destroyed.

They waited no longer. Ivo raised his sword; the troll grasped his rowanwood staff; the wizard mumbled his spells—and they rushed forward.

“Stop!” they cried. “Stop at once! Let go of the princess!”

The ogre turned and saw them. And then an extraordinary thing happened. Over the monster's hideous face there spread a look of relief . . . of utter happiness. He dropped his club.

“Thank goodness you've come,” he said. “It's a miracle! A minute later and I'd have been done for.”

And he sank back onto a claw-footed sofa and closed his eyes.

Ivo blinked and put down his sword. The troll lowered his staff. Everyone was completely bewildered.

“We've come to rescue the Princess Mirella,” Ivo said, looking down at the cowering figure, still on her knees.

And they waited for the grateful girl to rise and come toward them.

Mirella got to her feet. She took a deep breath—and then she let them have it.

“How dare you come in here and interrupt? How dare you try to rescue me? I've been working on that wretched ogre for days, trying to make him do what I want—and just when I might be getting there, you come barging in.”

She stood on the bearskin rug and glared at them. Then she took the poker from the fire stand. “If you come any closer I'll hit you,” she said as the rescuers stood and stared at her. “I suppose my mother sent you. Well don't come near me, that's all . . . or you'll be sorry.”

And she flounced out of the room and slammed the door.

The ogre had been lying limply on the sofa. Now he looked up.

“You'll have to take over,” he said. “I absolutely can't go on and you can tell them so. I'm feeling very faint. And keep that dreadful girl away from me.”

And he slumped back onto the cushions with a weary groan.

A
t first no one at the palace could believe that Mir-ella had gone. They were sure she was playing a trick on them, hiding somewhere close by, and they searched in all sorts of ridiculous places. Inside chests of drawers, or behind curtains or in cooking pots. They called and whistled and begged and entreated her to come out from wherever she was, and her mother even offered to bring Squinter back if only Mirella stopped teasing them.

When this didn't work a proper hunt began. The police were called and scoured every inch of the palace grounds and went into every house in Waterfield, and the army was sent out to hunt in the surrounding countryside. The sound of bloodhounds baying could be heard all through the night, the schoolchildren were told to pray and sing hymns, and people wept openly in the streets.

At first her parents had thought it might be a kidnap attempt, and they waited every moment of every day for a ransom note but none came.

“She can't possibly have run away,” said her mother. “Not when she had everything a girl could want.”

So had she met with some dreadful accident? Wells and rivers were searched, the lifeguards put out to sea, the Boy Scouts looked in potholes and caves—but still day followed day and there was no sign of the princess.

Both her sisters were sent for—Sidony came with her husband, who had brought his stamp collection to sort out while they waited, and Angeline came with her husband, who sucked even more peppermints when he was worried. Both the sisters were expecting babies and they sat and knitted baby clothes and shook their heads.

“Could she have run away to a traveling zoo or something?” Sidony wondered. “She was so nutty about animals.”

But there hadn't been any traveling zoos or circuses in the neighborhood for many months, and their mother always began to cry again when anyone suggested that Mirella had not been entirely happy at home.

After a week the schoolchildren were given a day's holiday; the flags flew at half-mast as people began to think that Mirella might be dead; and they could no longer put off giving the terrible news to Prince Umberto.

So Mirella's father went to Amora, where he found Prince Umberto in a mauve quilted dressing gown being measured for a new suit by his tailor while a hairdresser rubbed pomade into his hair.

The prince was very upset indeed to hear that his intended bride was missing and perhaps dead.

“Oh dear,” he said. “This is terrible. Quite terrible.”

And indeed it was. Umberto owed money to his tailor and his shoemaker and to the man who trained his racehorses, and he hadn't paid for his new carriage. Up to now he had kept everyone quiet by telling them he was going to marry a princess whose father was very rich and would pay all his debts, and now he didn't know what to do.

“I shall have to order some mourning clothes, I suppose—fortunately black suits me—or is it too early? I mean, there may still be good news.”

But as the days passed there was no news at all. In the war, when someone disappeared, they put out bulletins saying “Missing: Presumed Dead.”

It was these words that the police now wrote in their files.