The Ogre of Oglefort

  The Inspector vanished; the other ghosts surrounded their quarry—and now it was easy because the ogre had given up the fight.

  They drove him to the top of the steps and he looked down. For a moment he hesitated—then a grinning, dismembered head appeared suddenly in front of him, and he lost his balance and went tumbling down and down and down, to land on his head on the hard stone below. The ghosts grinned in triumph and flew off into the night.

  And yet he was not dead. He should have been, but he wasn’t. The troll, in spite of his open wounds, managed to help the ogre into bed, and he lay with his eyes open and a look of utter bewilderment on his face. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

  “They’ll be back,” said the Hag. “But another night will finish him. This isn’t like his deathbed, it’s serious.”

  She was pale and stooped and looked years older.

  “It’s the hatred,” said Ivo in bewilderment. “Where does it come from? It’s the hatred that’s destroying him.”

  Almost the worst thing was what had happened to Charlie. The little dog was still; shivering and twitching and juddering in a kind of fit. He refused food and even water, and when Ivo tried to stroke him he bared his teeth.

  “Be careful,” said Mirella. “In the state he’s in he might bite.”

  “If Charlie bit me, I think I would die,” said Ivo.

  The second night was even worse than the first. This time the cackling came at once, the maniacal earsplitting noise as the phantoms swooped into the castle. Then came the stink of unwashed clothes, the poisonous fumes . . . and the violence as the ogre was pierced and pushed and thrown. More terrible even than the violence were the moments when the Inspector came close to them and they were pulled down into a dark pit of hopelessness and wanted nothing except not to exist.

  On the morning of the third day, everybody had given up hope.

  The rescuers were huddled together in the ogre’s room, and they lay where they had fallen like the victims of a battle. No one wanted to be alone; if the end was coming they wanted to be with their friends.

  The ogre lay half in, half out of his bed, one arm thrown out. His breathing was shallow and irregular; he no longer spoke. The Hag had slumped down on the mat by the washstand; the troll and the wizard were stretched out beside the door.

  It was all over now. The ghosts would come once more, and this third visit would mean the end.

  Mirella and Ivo were curled up beside each other. They were too tired to sleep and were afraid to close their eyes.

  After a while Mirella tried to sit up. “Isn’t there anything we can do?” she whispered. “Not anything at all?”

  Ivo shook his head. Mirella always thought there was something one could do, but sometimes there simply wasn’t.

  Ivo began to doze off, then forced himself awake. “Unless . . .” He shook his head. “No. She wouldn’t come for us. And anyway . . .”

  But the children were so used to picking up each other’s thoughts that Mirella understood him.

  “She might . . . if she knew how bad things were. But how could we let her know?”

  “There’ll be some words,” said Ivo. “A spell.”

  He tried to remember what he had seen in the encyclopedia in the days when he had read all about magic, but what came to his mind was Dr. Brainsweller standing on the battlements and prompting the Hag. The wizard might not do much magic but he knew every spell there ever was.

  But when they crawled toward him and managed to wake him up, the wizard shook his head.

  “It’s very secret,” he said. “Very dark. Mustn’t be used except in dire emergencies.”

  The children only looked at him. He saw their pale exhausted faces, the bruise on Ivo’s cheek . . . From the bed came the ogre’s rasping breath.

  The wizard struggled with his conscience. He would be giving away the secrets of his trade. And yet . . .

  “Must . . . never reveal it . . .” he muttered. “Never on pain of death.”

  “We promise,” said both children. “We swear on Charlie’s head.”

  The wizard leaned forward and whispered in their ears.

  Darkness had fallen and the third night of haunting was about to begin. It would be the last night, the ghosts were sure of that.

  “About time, too,” said the Aunt Pusher as they stirred in their hiding place next to the burial mound. “I never thought he would hang on as long as he has.”

  It had been more work than they expected, this haunting, but now it was nearly over. And then home to their reward!

  They began to rise into the air, but then something happened. There was a kind of stirring, an upheaval in the mound beside them: the bones fell away . . . and then out of an opening in the top there appeared a gigantic figure which stood glaring at the ghosts. Her hideous hairy face was set in an angry frown, her vast body shimmered in the evening light.

  But what held the ghosts transfixed was her transparency. Mighty and enormous as she was, they could nevertheless see right through her. She, too, was a ghost—and suddenly they were very much afraid.

  Germania cleared her throat and the ghosts trembled. An ogress clearing her throat is a sound like no other. It is a signal—a beginning of something that it is best not to know about.

  “When I was a living ogress,” she said, raking them with her eyes, “I could eat people. And now that I am a ghost ogress, I can eat ghosts. Now which one shall I start with?”

  “No no, none of us,” gibbered the Man with the Umbrella. “You wouldn’t like us. No!” His voice rose in a shriek.

  The ogress smiled. She took two paces forward. Then she put out her hand and fastened it around the Honker’s ankle.

  “I’ll start with you, I think.” She picked up the crutch and threw it away. Then she opened her mouth, and with a howl of anguish, the Honker disappeared.

  “Disgusting,” said the ogress, wiping her lips with her hand, “but it can’t be helped. Now who shall I try next?”

  By now the ghosts were terrorized into action and one by one they rose into the air, trying to flee.

  It did not help them. The ogress was ten times their size and had ten times their speed. She took off, still in the shroud she had been buried in, and went in pursuit.

  As she rose, she snipped off the leg of the Man with the Umbrella and sent the Bag Lady’s shopping bag flying.

  “I’ll teach you to torment my husband!” roared the ogress.

  “We won’t do it again; we’re going, we’re going,” cried the Aunt Pusher. “We didn’t know.”

  “If you come anywhere near this place again, I’ll eat the lot of you.”

  The ghosts took one last look at Germania and, shrieking in terror, they fled. But there was one phantom who was sure that he could escape the fate of the others. The Inspector, cocooned in his own darkness, began to slink away through the trees, keeping close to the ground.

  The ogress stood still and sniffed. Then she took a few giant steps forward, and her hand closed around him, and she brought him to her mouth.

  Just for a moment after she swallowed him, Germania’s stomach did not feel well; it gave a kind of blip of horror, a sort of spasm. She felt as though no food in the world was worth eating—never had been worth eating, and never would be worth eating again. That where her stomach with its happy memories had been, there was now a pit of cold ghastliness—and the cold ghastliness would go on forever.

  Then her ectoplasm got to work digesting the swallowed specter, reducing him to a miasmic pulp—and Germania smiled because her stomach was itself again, and her work was done.

  And she made her way back to the mound and climbed inside and the bones settled over her again—and all was peace.

  CHAPTER

  23

  GERMANIA

  It is a strange thing, but while the harm that ghosts do can be truly terrible, it does not last. As soon as the specters have gone, the victims quickly recover. So within a few hours the children
were able to run into the ogre’s room and tell him that the ghosts had gone for good.

  “And it was your wife that did it,” said Mirella.

  “We were looking out of the window and we saw her,” said Ivo. “There was a full moon and we saw everything. She chased them away and she ate some of them—she really is a marvelous woman.”

  The ogre sat up in bed. “I wonder how she knew,” he said. “She’s such a sound sleeper.”

  The children looked at each other. They had promised the wizard they would keep his secret, and the memory of that walk to the mound, with the ghosts so close, was one they did not want to remember.

  “I must speak to her,” the ogre went on. “She will be getting impatient. I must speak to Germania and tell her that I’m coming just as soon as the aunts arrive.” He threw out his arms like someone in a play. “I must Give Myself to the Mound,” he said.

  He went on saying that he must Give Himself to the Mound all the next day. He was still shaken and the marks made by the phantom umbrella had not quite healed, but as night fell he put on his clothes. Then he put his head around the kitchen door, and in case they hadn’t heard him before, he said once again that he was going to Give Himself to the Mound.

  He was gone for over an hour. Though it was long past the children’s bedtime, everyone was still waiting up in case he wanted to tell them how he had got on.

  He came in silently and sat down. He drummed with his great fingers on the arm of his chair.

  No one dared to say anything. The Hag handed him a mug of tea.

  The ogre sighed. Then he sighed again. When he spoke his voice was full of bewilderment.

  “She doesn’t want me,” he said.

  Everyone looked at him in a concerned sort of way.

  “She will want me,” he went on. “Later. But at the moment she feels like being alone. She says sharing a mound is like sharing a bed, you have to get used to it. That was why she appeared to me when I was about to change Mirella. I thought it was because she wanted me to come, but I was wrong—it was to tell me that she wasn’t ready. And she thinks I should go away somewhere and enjoy myself.”

  “Perhaps that’s a good idea,” said the Hag. “After all you’re not old yet.”

  “It isn’t as though your wife doesn’t want you,” said the troll. “She just wants you later. A great many people feel like that.”

  “Yes.” But the ogre was staring into space in a gloomy manner. “Only I don’t know where to go to enjoy myself. It’s not really what I do.”

  “I know,” said Mirella. “You could go on a cruise. They’re really good—you go to all sorts of places, and they play games on the deck.”

  The ogre looked at her. Then his hand came down hard on the kitchen table. “Of course! The fingernail boat. Just the thing. It’s an old Viking ship made from the fingernails of dead warriors. The god Thor caused it to be built. It goes to all sorts of interesting places—the halls of the dead and the battlefields of heroes—and the passengers are people like me: ogres, satyrs, giants. You’re right, I haven’t been getting out enough.”

  But though everyone thought that a cruise was a good idea, they weren’t so sure about a ship made of the fingernails of dead warriors.

  “Don’t you think you’d be better on a proper cruise liner—the Empress of the Seas or one of those,” said Mirella. “Then you could throw rubber rings over nets and go to tea dances and things like that.”

  The ogre said he would look into it. He was getting excited now, pacing up and down.

  “The only thing is, what about the aunts?” said the wizard. “They’re coming because they think you’re on your deathbed and they’re going to inherit the castle.”

  “And so they are,” he said. “So they are—one of them at least. I’m tired of owning things; I want to be free now. Completely free to circle the world until it’s time to join Germania. I shall ask each of them to tell me what they would do with the castle if they inherited it, and the one who comes up with the best plan shall have it. Now isn’t that a good idea?”

  They all agreed that it was. But of course for them, time was running out. Whichever aunt inherited would want to be rid of them, that was for sure. Whipple Road was coming very close.

  Though she dreaded the arrival of the aunts, the Hag now set herself to organize a great cleaning of the castle. Everyone helped her, scrubbing and tidying and making beds. It was not an easy task, because the ogre was now up and about and having “good” ideas about how things should be done. He had not seen the aunts for many years and was excited at the thought of the reunion. Fortunately he spent a lot of time looking into different cruises and wondering what he should wear on board.

  Though she was not fond of housework, Mirella made a point of helping the Hag: quite apart from anything else she wanted to make sure that no insects or spiders were swept into the dustpan. So it happened that three days after the battle, Ivo went on his own to finish off some digging in the herb garden—and found the gnu looking perplexed.

  “Something’s come up,” he said. “Bessie’s found something by the lake.”

  So Ivo followed him to the far side of the lake and found the hippopotamus staring at something very unexpected.

  “He’s been here ever since the battle,” she said. “He must have fallen off and got left behind. I thought he’d wake up and go away but he hasn’t. He’s coming around now though, I think.” She bent over the figure lying on the grass and pushed him carefully with her snout. “His horse is grazing over there. Funny-looking bloke, isn’t he?”

  Ivo agreed that he was. He had recognized Prince Umberto immediately. The prince’s helmet had come off, his uniform was muddied, but there was no doubt that this was Mirella’s suitor.

  “You’re right,” said Ivo to Bessie. “He’s coming around.”

  Umberto was stirring. Now he opened his pale, vacant eyes and looked about him. He had dyed blond hair and a stupid face, and Ivo understood at once that Mirella would rather do anything in the world than marry him.

  “Eh . . . what the devil . . . where . . . ?” muttered the prince.

  Ivo waited. Umberto must have had a severe concussion, lying there for days. Perhaps he had forgotten why he was here.

  But he had not.

  “Mirella,” he said, trying to sit up. “Got to fetch her. . . . Parents want her. . . .” He rubbed his forehead. “I want her, too. Need her. Need her money.”

  “Yes, of course you do,” said Ivo soothingly. “Just wait here, I’ll get you some water from the lake. It’s quite clean, you’re safe to drink it.”

  He brought back a pitcher and watched as the prince drank and spluttered and drank again.

  “Must find her,” he said, trying to get to his feet. And then, looking about him: “I had a horse.”

  “Your horse is safe,” said Ivo. “You’ll be able to ride back.”

  But Umberto was getting very upset. “Mirella . . . must find Mirella. Have to marry her. Have to because of no money.”

  He started blundering about, muttering and peering, and Ivo watched him anxiously, wondering what to do. If Umberto found his way back to the castle, Mirella would go berserk; even seeing him from the battlements had made her throw up. On the other hand if he went back to the palace he might stir up the army again.

  Ivo looked longingly at the lake. Pushing Umberto in would be easy enough and Bessie would see that he didn’t surface again, but he hadn’t really been brought up to murder people, even people as stupid as the prince.

  It was as he was wondering what to do that he saw a white bird alight on the flat rock in the middle of the water. It was a large bird, very graceful and beautiful with a curved beak—a kind of gull, perhaps, or a tern, in from the sea. He wasn’t sure what it was—but Mirella would have known.

  And at that moment, Ivo knew exactly what to do.

  He went up to the prince, who had collapsed on a tree stump, and bent over him.

  “Listen, Your Highne
ss; I’ve something to tell you. Something very special and important. Can you hear me?”

  Umberto blinked and turned his head. “Hear you . . .” he repeated.

  “It’s about Mirella. But you must be brave. You must prepare for a shock.”

  “Shock . . .” muttered Umberto. It was not easy to tell whether he was still suffering from concussion or just thick.

  “I know you love Mirella—you must do if you’re engaged to marry her.”

  “What? Yes, must do . . . Must love her . . .”

  “And of course if you love somebody you want them to be happy, don’t you?”

  Umberto seemed to find this difficult to understand but when Ivo had repeated it, he nodded and said he supposed this was so.

  “Well Mirella is happy. She is happier than she has ever been in her life. Just look at her!” said Ivo, throwing out his arm.

  “Eh . . . what? . . . Where? . . .” The prince had stumbled to his feet.

  “Over there. On that rock,” said Ivo. “That bird. That’s her. That’s the Princess Mirella.”

  The prince collapsed onto the stump again and rubbed his head.

  “Don’t understand,” he muttered.

  Ivo put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Do you know why Mirella came here to the ogre’s castle? Because she came of her own free will; he didn’t come for her.”

  Umberto shook his head.

  “Well, it was because there was something she wanted very much. She wanted it terribly. Have you any idea what it was?”

  Umberto looked blank, which was not difficult for him, and said no he didn’t.

  Ivo lowered his voice in a reverent sort of way. “She wanted him to turn her into a bird. She wanted to be a white bird flying high in the sky, free and alone forever.”

  “Eh?”

  Poor Umberto was completely out of his depth.

  Ivo repeated his sentence. “That is what she wanted more than anything in the world. To be a white bird. Only the ogre didn’t want to change her, and he refused. But when he saw how brave she was on the battlements he decided to grant her wish. And yesterday, while you slept, he did it. Look,” he said, “look carefully—can’t you see how beautifully she flies—how free and happy she is?”