L. Frank Baum - Oz 40 Read online

  “I’m not a kennel-boy,” protested Robin, but nobody heard him. The entire Hunt had lost what little interest it had ever had in him, and was concentrating on Merry. The hounds were whistled to one side, the horses and Huntsmen pressed back into a ring, and everybody began rapping out orders for Robin to show his mare’s gaits, to put her at that hedge yonder, to back her, to wheel her.

  “All I’ll be able to do is wheel her,” Robin sighed, though nobody heard him. Merry ‘vas prancing nervously, trembling with self-consciousness, and Robin knew perfectly well that even if she managed to hear the harmonica over the Hunt’s uproar, she would do nothing but run in circles. Nevertheless, he blew a chord or two as loudly as he could, and rode her around and around while the huntsmen commented in loud, astonished voices on her bounding canter, and shouted a hundred different questions about her training.

  “She isn’t trained at all,” Robin yelled finally, pulling the excited little mare to a halt. “She’s a merry-go-round horse, and she was only just learning to go in a straight line when you came, and

  now she’s forgotten, and I wish you’d all go away!”

  The Huntsmen caught just enough of this speech to comprehend

  the problem, which aroused their joyful enthusiasm.

  “Goes in circles, he says!” “Fancy!” “Rum show-circles!” “Challenge, what?” “Take ‘em to Yoicks!” “Double-lead ropes, what?” “Oh, I say, just the thing! Let’s have a spare leather, there.

  Wirewither! Got a spare leather?”

  Robin gave up trying to make himself heard, as he had already given up his hopes of avoiding the boisterous Fox-Hunters and going his own way. At least they were not unfriendly, he reflected, though he soon began to wonder if their overwhelming heartiness were not almost as bad as downright hostility. They surged about him and Merry, busily attached spare reins to her gilded bridle and barked suggestions at each other, terrifying the little mare and causing her to shy this way and that, and they kept clapping Robin encouragingly on the back, nearly knocking the breath out of him each time. Eventually the straps and buckles and lead-ropes were arranged to their satisfaction, and the hunting horn sounded.

  “Off we go!” bellowed the Whipper-In jovially, giving a last resounding whack to Robin’s shoulder. “Just stick your saddle, have you at view-Halloo in no time. Ho, Tally-HO!”

  On “HO” the entire Hunt surged into motion, the hounds streaming ahead up the hill. Robin blew a hasty chord on the harmonica, more to reassure Merry than to coax her into action,

  for she could not have stayed behind had she wanted to. The Huntsmen, Robin had to admit, understood how to solve horsey problems. They had buckled a spare length of rein to each end of Merry’s golden bit, and two pink-coated riders had taken their places on either side of her, each holding one of these lead-straps taut. Thus, when they spurred up the hill, Merry and Robin went along-and in a perfectly straight line-whether they wanted to or not.

  “Robin!” quavered the little mare in a frightened whinny. ‘I’m being captured. Is that all right?”

  “It’s got to be, I guess,” Robin told her. “Don’t be scared, Merry, I’m sure they don’t mean to hurt us. And they are teaching you to go in a nice straight line!”

  “I’d rather you taught me,” Merry said dismally. “I don’t think hike their way. Oh, Robin, there’s a stone ‘wall-right in front of us!”

  “You’ll have to jump,” Robin gulped, grabbing for the pole. Next minute Merry and both her escorts had sailed neatly over the wall and landed running on the other side. Glancing over his shoulder, Robin saw the rest of the Huntsmen sail over too, in pairs and threes, without breaking stride.

  “I say, very bad form to cling to that fence-rail,” shouted the Huntsman on his left disapprovingly. “Lean forward, give your mare her head. Needs a bit of instruction-bad technique!” he explained loudly to the right-hand huntsman.

  “Not his fault, of course,” bellowed the right-hand Huntsman

  kindly. “Only a kennel-boy. Besides, confusing to have a fence-

  rail in the saddle. Odd thing to happen, what?”

  “It’s not a fence-rail,” Robin said hopelessly, but nobody heard

  him, and there was a tall hedge looming up ahead, so he concentrated

  on giving Merry her head and trying not to grab her pole as over they went.

  It seemed to Robin they jumped a hundred hedges, ditches and stone walls, and galloped over miles of rolling country, before the Hunt swept over the brow of a last hill and at the sound of the hunting horn came to a halt before a gate in a whitewashed; five-barred fence. Over the gate hung a large red sign with gold letters that spelled out “View-Halloo.” Beyond, a great saucer-shaped valley spread out in the midday sunshine. It was dotted with thatched cottages interspersed with larger pink-stone houses, numerous grassy pastures, and clumps of trees, and entirely surrounded by the high five-bar fence. In the exact center of the valley, an imposing mansion of scarlet brick stood in the midst of stables, kennels, outbuildings, gardens and spacious lawns.

  “Why, it’s a town.” Robin exclaimed.

  “View-Halloo,” explained the left-hand Huntsman, waving his crop toward the valley. “County Seat. Taking you to the Master. Proper form, y’know.”

  “Who’s the Master? What Master?” Robin asked anxiously, as the gate was opened by someone inside the fence.

  “Master of Foxhounds,” the right-hand Huntsman told him. “Yoicks III, MFH. Queen Tantivy. Gracious rulers and all that. Up to them what to do with you.”

  “Oh!” Robin said uneasily. “A king and queen? What will they do with us?”

  “Can’t say, I’m sure. Up to them, y’know. Mustn’t be afraid,” the Huntsman added encouragingly. “Very good sort, Yoicks and Queen Tantivy. Sporting. Sure to insist on fair play all around.”

  There was no time to argue or even ask more questions, for they were moving again, through the gate and down a wide bridlepath into View-Hallo. A few moments later the Hunt was dismounting in the huge stableyard behind the scarlet mansion, and Robin and Merry were conducted through a long flagged passage to an enormous hall, and into the presence of Yoicks III, Master of Foxhounds, and Queen Tantivy.

  “Well, well! By Jove! My word!” roared Yoicks jovially, leaning forward in his high-backed chair and leveling a monocle at Merry. “What have we here? Look at that, M’lady! Fence-rail sticking right up from the saddle! Odd sort of arrangement, what? Odd sort of fence-rail, come to think of it. Gilded. Twisted.”

  “Very odd,” said Tantivy sharply. Like Yoicks, she was tall, rangy, and leather-faced, but dressed in a battered riding skirt. Both wore pink satin coats. “Can’t say I like it. Dashed inconvenient for the rider. Gaudy, too. Never liked gilt. Dashed poor form.”

  Robin opened his mouth to explain for what seemed the fiftieth dine that Merry’s pole was not a fence rail lodged by accident in the pommel of her saddle, but he never found a chance to say a word. When Yoicks was not booming something, Tantivy was;

  and when both of them were momentarily silent, the Whipper-In was explaining how and where the Hunt had discovered the strangers, or giving a garbled account of Robin’s membership in some shocking Pack that hunted cubs, or the left-hand Huntsman was displaying the double-lead straps that had brilliantly defeated Merry’s curious urge to run in circles, or the hounds, who had followed the Huntsmen into the hall, were criticizing Robin’s jumping technique, or the right-hand Huntsman was shouting kindly that it wasn’t the boy’s fault of course, Couldn’t expect good technique, only a kennel-boy.

  “I’m NOT a kennel-boy!” Robin yelled at last, losing his temper completely. For an instant there was a perfectly astonished Silence. Seizing his chance, Robin added quickly, “My name is Robin Brown and this is my merry-go-round horse and we came here by mistake and all we want to do is go away again, if you could please show us the way out of your country-I mean County. If you please.” He took a long breath, patted Merry’s trembling neck, a
nd smiled.

  “Not a kennel-boy, he says,” Yoicks said faintly, turning the monocle on Robin and peering at him.

  “Must be,” snapped Tantivy. “Not old enough for a groom. Make a good kennel-boy, anyway. Spots’ll teach him. Send the boy to Spots, Whipper.

  “Ah, Spots!” Yoicks looked at her approvingly. “Capital plan. Spots’ll teach him. Mare ought to be trained, I think.”

  ”Oh, my word, yes!” agreed his lady. ”First-rate jumper,

  Whipper says. Train the mare, Whipper. Mare to the stables, boy to Spots. Dismissed. I say, tell ‘em to bring our tea!” “But-” Robin began frantically.

  Nobody heard him. He and Merry were hustled unceremoniously out of the hall, down the flagged passage, and into the hubbub of the stableyard, where the rest of the Huntsmen and horses still milled about, all talking jovially at once.

  “They’re as bad as the McGudgeys,” Robin shouted hopelessly to Merry. “Worse! I don’t ‘want to stay here and be a kennel boy!”

  “And I don’t want to be trained,” wailed Merry. “Let’s run away, Robin! I’d rather be back on the merry-go-round than

  here!”

  “Remember the five-bar fence,” Robin sighed. Then, seeing that Merry’s lip was trembling again, he patted her scarlet neck and added firmly, “Never mind, I’ll think of something. Just put up with them for a while, and do what they say, and I’ll get us out of here sooner or later, I promise! Oh dear-here conies the Whipper-In to take me to Spots, whoever that is. Goodbye, Merry-don’t worry, I’ll find a way

  A moment later he was being hurried off in one direction, while Merry was dragged, balking and prancing, in another.

  Chapter 4

  FAR to the northeast of View-Hallo and the Quadling Land of the Fox-Hunters-in fact, in the exact center of the Munchkin Country of Oz-lies a shield-shaped valley. It is surrounded on two of its three sides by a high, crenelated wall, and bordered on the north by the wild Munchkin Mountains. This is the beautiful Valley of the Argent, and it is divided by the broad and quietly-flowing River Argent into two quaint little feudal kingdoms: Halidom and Troth.

  Now, on the very same morning that Robin and Merry tumbled unceremoniously into the Fox-Hunters’ hawthorn hedge, two strange and alarming events took place in the city of Pax-on-Argent, capital of Halidom.

  First, every native-born inhabitant of the country awoke that morning to find himself stricken with a mysterious malady.

  Second, a pageboy named Fess-who was not a native of Halidom but came from Troth, across the river-went into the palace Treasury as usual to feed the Wyver, stubbed his toe, and thereby made the horrendous discovery of what was the matter with everybody.

  Halidom was, unfortunately, no stranger to horrendous discoveries. The little country had already suffered two National Disasters in as many generations. Before the Disasters, in what the Halidomians were apt to refer to, wistfully, as “the good old

  days,”

  Halidom and Troth had been much alike, with their fields of azure,

  their mulberry orchards, their castles set in gardens of fleer-de-lys, roses, trefoils, citrophilous and cinquefoils, their stately forests of pageant trees and family trees, and their abundance of animals. In the shady glens of the forests lived harts, fawns, bucks, swine

  and flittermice. Cocks and drakes strutted in every courtyard and falcons circled majestically overhead, while mischievous blue-and-

  white-striped popinjays fluttered about the villages, stealing the good wives’ thimbles and spoons and hairpins, or any other bright objects they could carry in their thieving beaks. On the Sandbar Sinister, a barren and dismal island in the middle of the River Argent to which both kingdoms exiled their lawbreakers. gyrons and wyvers scuttled among the teazle bushes. In the mountains to the north lived more dangerous animals-leopards, lioncels and dragons-which the noble youths of both states rode out to slay, in order to win knighthood. The departure of such a Questing Party made a stirring sight, with the sun glinting on blued-steel armor, pennants flying, steeds and chargers prancing, and many dogs barking-for no beast-questing could be done without the greyhounds, the talbots, the big, crop-eared alaunds and the little, keen-nosed kanets.

  The chief industry of Troth was the making of Blue Armor, with shields to match, and the forging of Questing Swords and Jousting Lances. The demand for the latter was particularly brisk, since jousting was the favorite sport of both the states, and on a good sunny day the breakage of lances was tremendous. Troth was, in fact, not a monarchy but a thriving armory, energetically ruled

  by King Armo 59th and his gracious queen, Paty, and its Academy of the Art of Jousting drew scholars from far and wide.

  Halidom, on the other hand, was a heraldry, ruled-under dreadful handicaps in these times-by King Herald 64th and Queen Farthingale, with occasional discouraged assistance from their son, Prince Gules. Once, in those good old days the people sighed for, Halidom had been as thriving as Troth, boasting an excellent University of Genealogy and a flourishing trade in elegant coats-of-arms, which the Halidom artisans designed to order and then drew on parchment or wove into cloth. In those days, the skill of Halidom artisans was so famous that there was scarcely a royal family in all Oz that could feel truly royal until it had a genuine Halidom-designed coat-of-arms hanging on the palace wall, or its family crest woven by Halidom weavers into the throne-room draperies. And since there are hundreds of tiny kingdoms in Oz, all with royal families anxious to feel truly royal, the orders had poured in, and Halidom had prospered.

  All that was now long past, because of National Disasters I and II, which had struck at the very source of the kingdom’s prosperity: its powerful Crown Magic.

  Now, Halidom’s Crown Magic, which had been bestowed on the little kingdom in ancient times by the Fairy Lurline, consisted of three Golden Circlets. Circlet One, which was large enough to be worn around the base of the king’s crown, conferred upon all the Halidomians excellent brains and even wisdom. Circlet Two,

  worn on the king’s upper arm, gave physical strength to all his subjects. The third and smallest circlet, worn on the king’s thumb,

  made them skillful in all handicrafts, particularly drawing, calligraphy, weaving and embroidery. For centuries these Circlets had

  remained safe in the possession of the royal family, and the people had been wise, strong, and skillful.

  Then, in the reign of the present King’s grandfather, Herald 62nd, the first National Disaster struck. Circlet One was lost. One day when the King happened to be using it to play quoits with on the palace grounds, it rolled away into a rabbit-hole, and in spite of much digging and searching was never seen again. Of course, this served Herald 62nd right for being so careless with it; however, it served his innocent subjects very wrongly, for upon the loss of the Circlet the whole country became slow of wit and not even very bright. The University was soon forced to close its doors because no one was smart enough any longer to teach Genealogy.

  National Disaster II occurred in the time of Herald 63rd. This Herald, father of the present King, was washing dishes on the cook’s night out (it was the Queen’s turn to dry) and he had taken the smallest Circlet off his thumb and put it on the windowsill. No sooner had he picked up his dishrag than a popinjay swooped down, snatched the bright Circlet in its beak, and carried it off-and it was never seen again. Immediately the Halidomians lost all their skill with the pen and brush, the loom and needle, and could design crests and coats-of-arms no better than anybody else.

  Naturally, trade dwindled to nothing, and hard times settled down upon the little kingdom. By the time of the present King, Herald 64th, every castle roof was patched and leaky, every velvet cloak was threadbare. For years now the country had been scraping along by selling pageant tree seedlings, bouquets of trefoils and citrophilous, and a few fleer-de-lys bulbs.

  Circlet Two, the only one remaining, had been placed under close guard and was still safe, so the Halidomians still had their strength, and jou
sted as much as ever-with mended lances, since nobody could afford to buy new ones. But jousting was all they had now to occupy their patched and shabby lives, and as Herald 64th often remarked to his queen in his wistful and rather dim-witted way, it somehow didn’t seem enough.

  Still, the Halidomians managed to be vaguely happy, though slow-witted and poor, until the morning Fess the pageboy stubbed his toe.

  It had been raining for a week, but that particular Thursday dawned as fair and bright as anybody could have wanted it to, and Fess, who very much wanted it to, gave a whoop ofjoy as he tumbled out of bed and rushed to the window.

  “Barry, Barry!.” he shouted to the other page who shared his tower bedchamber. “The rain’s over!. It’s going to he a perfect day for the Tourney’.”

  “Whunf?” mumbled Barry, who always slept with his head under the covers.

  Fess dashed across the room and yanked back the blanket. “It’s a fine day!, Get up, lazybones!”

  “I’m not lazy, I’m tired,” sighed Barry, slowly dragging the covers back over him.

  “‘I’m tired! A fine time to be tired! Don’t you remember? It’s the joust between Sir Greves and Sir Gauntlet today. At last!” Fess added, scarcely able to believe it.

  The two knights were traditional enemies, though there was nothing personal about their famous feud. ‘They had merely infer-iced it from their fathers, who had inherited it from their fathers, and so on into the dim past. Nobody knew or cared what the original quarrel had been about, but everybody knew it was the lifework of every Sir Treves to fight every Sir Gauntlet as hard and often as possible. For generations the two families had honorably discharged this duty, without the slightest thought of losing their tempers over the matter. But in the present generation things had not worked out properly at all. The current Sir Treves, a mild-faced, apologetic little knight, was forever postponing the match, sending word at the last moment that he’d caught a chill, or had to get his hair cut, or really ought to prune the roses. The current Sir Gauntlet, who became more frustrated, quick-tempered and sensitive every time his challenge was turned down, was by now so touchy that the whole kingdom had breathed a sigh of relief when the joust was finally announced.