The Phantom Tollbooth

  “It certainly does,” the dog replied, sniffing around to see what their new quarters were like.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do for all that time; we don’t even have a checker set or a box of crayons.”

  “Don’t worry,” growled Tock, raising one paw assuringly, “something will turn up. Here, wind me, will you please? I’m beginning to run down.”

  “You know something, Tock?” he said as he wound up the dog. “You can get in a lot of trouble mixing up words or just not knowing how to spell them. If we ever get out of here, I’m going to make sure to learn all about them.”

  “A very commendable ambition, young man,” said a small voice from across the cell.

  Milo looked up, very surprised, and noticed for the first time, in the half-light of the room, a pleasant-looking old lady quietly knitting and rocking.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “How do you do?” she replied.

  “You’d better be very careful,” Milo advised. “I understand there’s a witch somewhere in here.”

  “I am she,” the old lady answered casually, and pulled her shawl a little closer around her shoulders.

  Milo jumped back in fright and quickly grabbed Tock to make sure that his alarm didn’t go off—for he knew how much witches hate loud noises.

  “Don’t be frightened,” she laughed. “I’m not a witch—I’m a Which.”

  “Oh,” said Milo, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I’m Faintly Macabre, the not-so-wicked Which,” she continued, “and I’m certainly not going to harm you.”

  “What’s a Which?” asked Milo, releasing Tock and stepping a little closer.

  “Well,” said the old lady, just as a rat scurried across her foot, “I am the king’s great-aunt. For years and years I was in charge of choosing which words were to be used for all occasions, which ones to say and which ones not to say, which ones to write and which ones not to write. As you can well imagine, with all the thousands to choose from, it was a most important and responsible job. I was given the title of ‘Official Which,’ which made me very proud and happy.

  “At first I did my best to make sure that only the most proper and fitting words were used. Everything was said clearly and simply and no words were wasted. I had signs posted all over the palace and market place which said:

  “But power corrupts, and soon I grew miserly and chose fewer and fewer words, trying to keep as many as possible for myself. I had new signs posted which said:

  “Soon sales began to fall off in the market. The people were afraid to buy as many words as before, and hard times came to the kingdom. But still I grew more and more miserly. Soon there were so few words chosen that hardly anything could be said, and even casual conversation became difficult. Again I had new signs posted, which said:

  “And finally I had even these replaced by ones which read simply:

  “All talk stopped. No words were sold, the market place closed down, and the people grew poor and disconsolate. When the king saw what had happened, he became furious and had me cast into this dungeon where you see me now, an older and wiser woman.

  “That was all many years ago,” she continued; “but they never appointed a new Which, and that explains why today people use as many words as they can and think themselves very wise for doing so. For always remember that while it is wrong to use too few, it is often far worse to use too many.”

  When she had finished, she sighed deeply, patted Milo gently on the shoulder, and began knitting once again.

  “And have you been down here ever since then?” asked Milo sympathetically.

  “Yes,” she said sadly. “Most people have forgotten me entirely, or remember me wrongly as a witch, not a Which. But it matters not, it matters not,” she went on unhappily, “for they are equally frightened of both.”

  “I don’t think you’re frightening,” said Milo, and Tock wagged his tail in agreement.

  “I thank you very much,” said Faintly Macabre. “You may call me Aunt Faintly. Here, have a punctuation mark.” And she held out a box of sugar-coated question marks, periods, commas, and exclamation points. “That’s all I get to eat now.”

  “Well, when I get out of here, I’m going to help you,” Milo declared forcefully.

  “That’s very nice of you,” she replied; “but the only thing that can help me is the return of Rhyme and Reason.”

  “The return of what?” asked Milo.

  “Rhyme and Reason,” she repeated; “but that’s another long story, and you may not want to hear it.”

  “We would like to very much,” barked Tock.

  “We really would,” agreed Milo, and as the Which rocked slowly back and forth she told them this story.

  6. Faintly Macabre’s Story

  “Once upon a time, this land was a barren and frightening wilderness whose high rocky mountains sheltered the evil winds and whose barren valleys offered hospitality to no man. Few things grew, and those that did were bent and twisted and their fruit was as bitter as wormwood. What wasn’t waste was desert, and what wasn’t desert was rock, and the demons of darkness made their home in the hills. Evil creatures roamed at will through the countryside and down to the sea. It was known as the land of Null.

  “Then one day a small ship appeared on the Sea of Knowledge. It carried a young prince seeking the future. In the name of goodness and truth he laid claim to all the country and set out to explore his new domain. The demons, monsters, and giants were furious at his presumption and banded together to drive him out. The earth shook with their battle, and when they had finished, all that remained to the prince was a small piece of land at the edge of the sea.

  “ ‘I’ll build my city here,’ he declared, and that is what he did.

  “Before long, more ships came bearing settlers for the new land and the city grew and pushed its boundaries farther and farther out. Each day it was attacked anew, but nothing could destroy the prince’s new city. And grow it did. Soon it was no longer just a city; it was a kingdom, and it was called the kingdom of Wisdom.

  “But, outside the walls, all was not safe, and the new king vowed to conquer the land that was rightfully his. So each spring he set forth with his army and each autumn he returned, and year by year the kingdom grew larger and more prosperous. He took to himself a wife and before long had two fine young sons to whom he taught everything he knew so that one day they might rule wisely.

  “When the boys grew to young-manhood, the king called them to him and said: ‘I am becoming an old man and can no longer go forth to battle. You must take my place and found new cities in the wilderness, for the kingdom of Wisdom must grow.’

  “And so they did. One went south to the Foothills of Confusion and built Dictionopolis, the city of words; and one went north to the Mountains of Ignorance and built Digitopolis, the city of numbers. Both cities flourished mightily and the demons were driven back still further. Soon other cities and towns were founded in the new lands, and at last only the farthest reaches of the wilderness remained to these terrible creatures—and there they waited, ready to strike down all who ventured near or relaxed their guard.

  “The two brothers were glad, however, to go their separate ways, for they were by nature very suspicious and jealous. Each one tried to outdo the other, and they worked so hard and diligently at it that before long their cities rivaled even Wisdom in size and grandeur.

  “ ‘Words are more important than wisdom,’ said one privately.

  “ ‘Numbers are more important than wisdom,’ thought the other to himself.

  “And they grew to dislike each other more and more.

  “The old king, however, who knew nothing of his sons’ animosity, was very happy in the twilight of his reign and spent his days quietly walking and contemplating in the royal gardens. His only regret was that he’d never had a daughter, for he loved little girls as much as he loved little boys. One day as he was strolling peacefully about t
he grounds, he discovered two tiny babies that had been abandoned in a basket under the grape arbor. They were beautiful golden-haired girls.

  “The king was overjoyed. ‘They have been sent to crown my old age,’ he cried, and called the queen, his ministers, the palace staff, and, indeed, the entire population to see them.

  “ ‘We’ll call this one Rhyme and this one Reason,’ he said, and so they became the Princess of Sweet Rhyme and the Princess of Pure Reason and were brought up in the palace.

  “When the old king finally died, the kingdom was divided between his two sons, with the provision that they would be equally responsible for the welfare of the young princesses. One son went south and became Azaz the Unabridged, king of Dictionopolis, and the other went north and became the Mathemagician, ruler of Digitopolis; and, true to their words, they both provided well for the little girls, who continued to live in Wisdom.

  “Everyone loved the princesses because of their great beauty, their gentle ways, and their ability to settle all controversies fairly and reasonably. People with problems or grievances or arguments came from all over the land to seek advice, and even the two brothers, who by this time were fighting continuously, often called upon them to help decide matters of state. It was said by everyone that ‘Rhyme and Reason answer all problems.’

  “As the years passed, the two brothers grew farther and farther apart and their separate kingdoms became richer and grander. Their disputes, however, became more and more difficult to reconcile. But always, with patience and love, the princesses set things right.

  “Then one day they had the most terrible quarrel of all. King Azaz insisted that words were far more significant than numbers and hence his kingdom was truly the greater, and the Mathemagician claimed that numbers were much more important than words and hence his kingdom was supreme. They discussed and debated and raved and ranted until they were on the verge of blows, when it was decided to submit the question to arbitration by the princesses.

  “After days of careful consideration, in which all the evidence was weighed and all the witnesses heard, they made their decision:

  “ ‘Words and numbers are of equal value, for, in the cloak of knowledge, one is warp and the other woof. It is no more important to count the sands than it is to name the stars. Therefore, let both kingdoms live in peace.’

  “Everyone was pleased with the verdict. Everyone, that is, but the brothers, who were beside themselves with anger.

  “ ‘What good are these girls if they cannot settle an argument in someone’s favor?’ they growled, since both were more interested in their own advantage than in the truth. ‘We’ll banish them from the kingdom forever.’

  “And so they were taken from the palace and sent far away to the Castle in the Air, and they have not been seen since. That is why today, in all this land, there is neither Rhyme nor Reason.”

  “And what happened to the two rulers?” asked Milo.

  “Banishing the two princesses was the last thing they ever agreed upon, and they soon fell to warring with each other. Despite this, their own kingdoms have continued to prosper, but the old city of Wisdom has fallen into great disrepair, and there is no one to set things right. So, you see, until the princesses return, I shall have to stay here.”

  “Maybe we can rescue them,” said Milo as he saw how sad the Which looked.

  “Ah, that would be difficult,” she replied. “The Castle in the Air is far from here, and the one stairway which leads to it is guarded by fierce and black-hearted demons.”

  Tock growled ominously, for he hated even the thought of demons.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much a little boy and a dog can do,” she said, “but never you mind; it’s not so bad. I’ve grown quite used to it here. But you must be going or else you’ll waste the whole day.”

  “Oh, we’re here for six million years,” sighed Milo, “and I don’t see any way to escape.”

  “Nonsense,” scolded the Which, “you mustn’t take Officer Shrift so seriously. He loves to put people in prison, but he doesn’t care about keeping them there. Now just press that button in the wall and be on your way.”

  Milo pressed the button and a door swung open, letting in a shaft of brilliant sunshine.

  “Good-by; come again!” shouted the Which as they stepped outside and the door slammed shut.

  Milo and Tock stood blinking in the bright light and, as their eyes became accustomed to it, the first things they saw were the king’s advisers again rushing toward them.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “The Royal Banquet is about to begin.”

  “Come with us.”

  They seemed very agitated and out of breath as Milo walked along with them.

  “But what about my car?” he asked.

  “Don’t need it,” replied the duke.

  “No use for it,” said the minister.

  “Superfluous,” advised the count.

  “Unnecessary,” stated the earl.

  “Uncalled for,” cried the undersecretary. “We’ll take our vehicle.”

  “Conveyance.”

  “Rig.”

  “Charabanc.”

  “Chariot.”

  “Buggy.”

  “Coach.”

  “Brougham.”

  “Shandrydan,” they repeated quickly in order, and pointed to a small wooden wagon.

  “Oh dear, all those words again,” thought Milo as he climbed into the wagon with Tock and the cabinet members. “How are you going to make it move? It doesn’t have a——”

  “Be very quiet,” advised the duke, “for it goes without saying.”

  And, sure enough, as soon as they were all quite still, it began to move quickly through the streets, and in a very short time they arrived at the royal palace.

  7. The Royal Banquet

  “Right this way.”

  “Follow us.”

  “Come along.”

  “Step lively.”

  “Here we go,” they shouted, hopping from the wagon and bounding up the broad marble stairway. Milo and Tock followed close behind. It was a strange-looking palace, and if he didn’t know better Milo would have said that it looked exactly like an enormous book, standing on end, with its front door in the lower part of the binding just where they usually place the publisher’s name.

  Once inside, they hurried down a long hallway, which glittered with crystal chandeliers and echoed with their footsteps. The walls and ceiling were covered with mirrors, whose reflections danced dizzily along with them, and the footmen bowed coldly.

  “We must be terribly late,” gasped the earl nervously as they reached the tall doors of the banquet hall.

  It was a vast room, full of people loudly talking and arguing. The long table was carefully set with gold plates and linen napkins. An attendant stood behind each chair, and at the center, raised slightly above the others, was a throne covered in crimson cloth. Directly behind, on the wall, was the royal coat of arms, flanked by the flags of Dictionopolis.

  Milo noticed many of the people he had seen in the market place. The letter man was busy explaining to an interested group the history of the W, and off in a corner the Humbug and the Spelling Bee were arguing fiercely about nothing at all. Officer Shrift wandered through the crowd, suspiciously muttering, “Guilty, guilty, they’re all guilty,” and, on noticing Milo, brightened visibly and commented in passing, “Is it six million years already? My, how time flies.”

  Everyone seemed quite grumpy about having to wait for lunch, and they were all relieved to see the tardy guests arrive.

  “Certainly glad you finally made it, old man,” said the Humbug, cordially pumping Milo’s hand. “As guest of honor you must choose the menu of course.”

  “Oh my,” he thought, not knowing what to say.

  “Be quick about it,” suggested the Spelling Bee. “I’m famished—f-a-m-i-s-h
-e-d.”

  As Milo tried to think, there was an ear-shattering blast of trumpets, entirely off key, and a page announced to the startled guests:

  “KING AZAZ THE UNABRIDGED.”

  The king strode through the door and over to the table and settled his great bulk onto the throne, calling irritably, “Places, everyone. Take your places.”

  He was the largest man Milo had ever seen, with a great stomach, large piercing eyes, a gray beard that reached to his waist, and a silver signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. He also wore a small crown and a robe with the letters of the alphabet beautifully embroidered all over it.

  “What have we here?” he said, staring down at Tock and Milo as everyone else took his place.

  “If you please,” said Milo, “my name is Milo and this is Tock. Thank you very much for inviting us to your banquet, and I think your palace is beautiful.”

  “Exquisite,” corrected the duke.

  “Lovely,” counseled the minister.

  “Handsome,” recommended the count.

  “Pretty,” hinted the earl.

  “Charming,” submitted the undersecretary.

  “SILENCE,” suggested the king. “Now, young man, what can you do to entertain us? Sing songs? Tell stories? Compose sonnets? Juggle plates? Do tumbling tricks? Which is it?”

  “I can’t do any of those things,” admitted Milo.

  “What an ordinary little boy,” commented the king. “Why, my cabinet members can do all sorts of things. The duke here can make mountains out of molehills. The minister splits hairs. The count makes hay while the sun shines. The earl leaves no stone unturned. And the undersecretary,” he finished ominously, “hangs by a thread. Can’t you do anything at all?”

  “I can count to a thousand,” offered Milo.

  “A-A-R-G-H, numbers! Never mention numbers here. Only use them when we absolutely have to,” growled Azaz disgustedly. “Now, why don’t you and Tock come up here and sit next to me, and we’ll have some dinner?”