H
onkingmelon?’ hollered a pedlar nearby. More cries followed from others hawking their wares.
‘Salted warts?’
‘Pumpkin coaches?’
‘Pelican pen pals?’
‘A lovely cube of goat testicle pâté?’
The children had climbed out of the wagon right into the middle of a bustling marketplace. A man wearing a pineapple for a hat and safety glasses made of coconut shells was busy stuffing round purple fruits into a sack.
‘How does twelve dozen honkingmelons sound?’ he bellowed. ‘Last you for a year! Pickle
’em, poach ’em, bottle ’em, boil ’em, grate ’em, eat ’em any way you like! They’ll even honk for you if you ask ’em nice enough.’
It took a while for the children to realise the man was directing this at them.
‘Er…it’s nice of you to offer,’ Milli said politely, ‘but we don’t want any, thank you.’
The man turned as purple as his honkingmelons with rage. The children decided now would be a good time to make a discreet getaway. They slipped through the crowd only to be caught by two elderly women who trapped them in fishing nets as they hurried past.
‘Fancy a giant?’ one of the ladies asked. She grinned, revealing stubs of greying teeth. ‘Everybody needs a giant. Keep ’em as pets, you can. House-broken and all.’
The children wriggled out of the nets. In front of them was a large stand buckling under the weight of jar upon jar of tiny men. The men appeared to be bellowing at the tops of their lungs and thumped the sides of their glass enclosures with hairy fists, which nearly sent the jars toppling to the ground. The second old lady, whose hair was pinned up
with laundry pegs, noticed the children’s confused faces.
‘They are giants,’ she promised. ‘We’ve just shrunk ’em.’
‘Then technically they aren’t giants any more,’ Ernest said.
‘Course they is,’ the woman cried. ‘They’re miniature giants!’
The twins grabbed Milli and Ernest and pulled them to the safety of a shop doorway.
‘It’s not safe to argue with people here,’ Finn warned. ‘Who knows what they might do.’
From their out-of-the-way position the group was able to watch the traffic going by—and what a head-spinning sight it was! The marketplace was bursting with life. They saw hags and elves, enchanters, she-wizards, trolls, merchants, hobgoblins, dryads, sirens, griffins, sprites, centaurs and a very intoxicated cyclops. Milli even thought she saw the Abominable Snowman waddling around slurping a sundae. The children spotted a huddle of robed figures who appeared to be conferring and discreetly swapping items in jars. They wore hats, hoods and some even had masks to conceal their
identities. Milli did not like the fact that one of them had a black raven perched on his shoulder. The glassy-eyed bird seemed to absorb everything. Its owner looked like death itself, and when the sleeve of his voluminous cloak fell back, Milli saw a stretch of very white skin patterned with red veins. Inspecting his cohorts, she caught glimpses of various nightmarish features: a pair of hollow eyes, dagger-like teeth and a mane of hair surrounded by buzzing flies. Needless to say, she was very relieved when the ghastly party shuffled away.
Eventually, Finn decided it would be safe for them to explore further, but he warned Milli and Ernest to stay quiet and be alert. The four of them ventured out of their doorway and back into the marketplace. Stalls offering the most eclectic of items crowded the square. A stand made of jellyfish was wobbling like marmalade whilst the leprechaun who sat behind it offered pots of luck to passers-by. You could purchase clarinets that released a shimmering navy mist into the air when played, causing the closest person to instantly offer the player a pouch of gold. There were shoes with little silver wings,
lollies to induce invisibility, and hats that gave you ears as large as an elephant’s to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.
Little ramshackle shops and cafés lined the narrow alleyways that wormed off the marketplace, some only large enough for two or three people to sit down. Everywhere the children looked there was barely space to move so thick was the crowd. People zoomed around on garden furniture or simply squeezed out from gaps in the mortar of stone walls. Gophers, clearly employed as messengers, scuttled underfoot, some chattering to themselves and others clutching scrolls of parchment between their teeth. Troubadours set themselves up to busk at strategic corners and sang heart-rending ballads about unrequited love. Velvet-lined instrument cases lay open at their feet to collect offerings. A group of passing monks rummaged in their brown pockets for coins.
A wooden stage had been erected in the centre of the square and people were beginning to gather around it. To the children’s left was a large fountain with green marble statues spouting water at one another. Ernest nearly
fainted when he saw the eyes of one statue begin to move. Others shifted their entire bodies as they tried to find the most comfortable position where they would have an uninterrupted view of the stage. As if there wasn’t enough to look at on the ground, the sky continually changed colour while the clouds staged plays of their own for the amusement of anybody who happened to look up. They got a touch miffed when they did not have a large enough audience and showered people with light rain to gain their attention. Milli and Ernest were shocked when they saw faces appear in the cobblestones underfoot that engaged in a tête-à-tête with one another. Finn told them they were cobble sprites, imprisoned in the stones for committing dangerously mischievous deeds. Regular jails were ineffective centres of detention where sprites were concerned.
The sights around her were so giddying that, in search of breathing space, Milli turned the handle of the nearest door and stumbled into a conical shop full of bric-a-brac. The room was dim, cool and a welcome relief from the hurly-burly of the market. A little gentleman
with pointed ears and a long lumpy nose sat behind the counter polishing a magnifying glass with a felt cloth. Milli thought he must be a pixie and so immediately ventured to trust him. She did not know that pixies are the cheekiest of fairy folk and behind their wide grins are as devilish a creature as can be found.
‘Lost are we, little ones?’ the pixie said with a grin.
Ernest thought this a very silly remark as the pixie was clearly far littler than they were.
‘We are,’ Milli answered. ‘We thought you might be able to help us.’
‘Ah.’ The pixie pushed his spectacles up his nose and stared at them with wide golden eyes. ‘I believe I may be of some assistance. You are in a jape shop.’ He clapped his hands and hooted. ‘There you go, problem solved. You aren’t lost any more!’
‘Thank you,’ Milli said courteously, ‘but we were actually hoping for more specific directions. We’ve only just arrived here and we’re trying to make our way to the province of Mirth to speak with Queen Fidelis. Do you know how to get there?’
The pixie stopped what he was doing and inspected the four of them thoughtfully. ‘The province of Mirth, you say? Of course, I can help you!’
He passed the children his magnifying glass. ‘Look into the glass and tell it who you wish to see.’
Obediently, Ernest took the glass and did as he was told.
‘Why…’ he said after a while, ‘I can see a room and there’s a fairy in it! She’s an awfully funny shape for a fairy though, and she’s got almost no hair at all. Oh look, she’s turning around!’
The pixie’s eyes twinkled gleefully.
‘Wait a minute,’ Ernest said, ‘that’s not a fairy, that’s me…in a dress…wearing a crown of daisies!’
‘Of course it is!’ shrieked the pixie.
‘But I’m not Queen Fidelis,’ Ernest objected.
‘Indeed, you are far too ugly to be a fairy,’ the pixie agreed. ‘But you told the glass you wanted to see the fairy queen. Obviously you had not quite made up your mind on the matter. You are a very vain little boy and wanted to look at
yourself as well. Now you are looking at the both of you!’
Ernest slammed the magnifying glass on the countertop and turned to the others. ‘Let’s go,’ he said with great indignation, ‘before I do something I’ll regret.’
‘Oh, don’t leave,’ implored the pixie, assuming a more obliging expression.
He produced a scroll and quill from a drawer. ‘I know exactly how you can find Fidelis. I am being quite serious this time, but first I will need your names.’
Milli looked hesitantly at the others. What if the pixie was in cahoots with Oslo and waiting to capture runaway trainees from Battalion Minor? Finn and Fennel shrugged as if to say they hardly had much choice. Milli had to agree. She nodded, picked up the quill and awkwardly scratched out her name as she had never had to write using such an implement before. But when she lifted her hand to look at the parchment, Gorgonzola Beak was all that was written there. Ernest gave Milli a sharp glance to indicate that he was unimpressed with her attempt to be humorous even if they were in a
jape shop. Milli tried again. This time Beaky Gorgonzola was all that appeared. No matter how hard she tried, the quill simply refused to write her proper name.
‘Sorry,’ the pixie smirked, ‘I don’t think Queen Fidelis knows anyone by that name.’ He handed her a new quill with a peacock feather. ‘Try this one.’
Milli passed the quill to Finn, hoping he might have better luck. He did in some respects. He managed to write Milli’s name on the parchment, and then his own, which came out perfectly except for one minor detail—it was written on his forehead.
‘On the parchment, if you please,’ the pixie instructed.
‘What’s going on?’ Milli said angrily. ‘Why are you tricking us?’
‘April Fools!’ squealed the pixie, leaping into the air as if he had a rocket in his pants. ‘I got you! I got you!’
‘Don’t be so absurd,’ Fennel told him. ‘It’s not even April.’
‘Every day is April Fool’s Day in my shop!’ the pixie cried, pointing to a dusty calendar that
indeed verified the date to be 1 April. ‘It has been for a hundred years.’
Milli threw the shopkeeper a reproachful glance as Finn and Fennel steered them all back into the street.
‘Never trust a pixie,’ the twins advised.
Back in the marketplace, Milli and Ernest looked around cautiously. Who in this peculiar city could they turn to for help? Milli eyed the wooden stage where a theatre troupe were changing into costumes behind a sheet. Amongst them was a rosy-cheeked, plump woman in a bonnet. She looked exactly the type of person you or I would go to if we lost our parents in a busy street. The children elbowed their way through the crowd towards her.
‘Excuse me,’ Milli said to the woman’s back. Before she could continue, the woman swung around, very red in the face, and began babbling at top speed.
‘Oh my, oh my,’ she cried. ‘Oh my nose, my legs, my whiskers and bellybutton too! Why does Fortune despise us so?’
‘Well, whatever it is, I don’t think it could be that bad,’ Milli said, trying to sound reassuring.
‘Is that so?’ the woman demanded. ‘My lead actor has just been struck down with Fog-Ear. It’s the worse case of Fog-Ear I have ever seen. I can’t possibly send him on stage with his ears puffing and smoking away like that. And what’s more, he can’t hear a thing! He won’t be able to hear his cues. He’ll be the laughing stock of the theatrical world. The news will spread like wildfire and my theatre will be out of business before anyone can say “Break a leg”!’
Dame Trumps (for that was her name) threw herself at Milli, sobbing wildly. Awkwardly, Milli patted her curly head. Then a brilliant idea struck her.
‘What would you say if I told you I have an actor?’ she asked.
Dame Trumps looked up hopefully and dabbed her eyes. ‘I would be forever in your debt and your servant till the end of your days. I would be your chimney sweep, your cook, your maid, your mother and whatever else you want me to be.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Milli impatiently, ‘but would you give us directions?’
‘Would I ever!’ the woman cried, and the two shook hands on the matter.
‘To where?’ she added as an afterthought.
‘We need to get to the province of Mirth,’ Milli explained.
‘Dangerous path, but yes, I can show you, if you’re foolish enough to want to go.’
Ernest interrupted with a polite cough. ‘Milli, where exactly do you plan to find this actor?’
Milli turned towards him with an open smile. ‘You’ll thank me for this later,’ she said, and before Ernest knew what was happening she had propelled him forwards into the arms of the jubilant Dame Trumps.
‘He’s perfect!’ she crowed. ‘How much do you want for him?’
‘He’s not for sale,’ Milli told her, ‘but his talents—of which there are too many to mention—are yours for the next hour if we have a deal.’
‘We do indeed, my dear, and now on with the show!’
Poor Ernest was not quite strong enough to escape the determined grasp of the entrepreneurial
dame as she steered him backstage where he was dressed in silk breeches and a crown.
‘Don’t you make a dashing prince, lad?’ she said. ‘Show’s about to start. I’ll signal when you’re to go on.’
‘Hang on a sec! Where are my lines?’ Ernest asked.
‘That’s the good news—you ain’t got any. All you got to do is prance about looking princely. That expression you’re wearing right now is just the ticket.’
From the wings, Ernest listened to the narrator telling the story of Princess Salt from the far-away land of Cholesterol who was unable to find a suitor until she met the enchantingly smooth Prince Margarine. It was the worst story he had ever heard. Luckily, he was not required until the end of the show when the prince and princess finally meet and fall ardently in love. When his moment arrived, Ernest was shoved onto the stage only to be leapt upon by a girl in a blonde wig and frilly frock.
‘How handsome you are,’ the princess crooned in a deep voice. ‘And how much healthier I feel with you by my side.’
Having not the slightest clue what to do, Ernest grinned broadly and tried to flex the muscles in his arms, imagining this was what was expected of princes without dialogue. The audience laughed rumbustiously, much to his discomfort.