“It is the Spumoni,” he explained, “beloved of the Elves. Do not drink of it—it causes cavities.”
The company hastened on into the shallow valley and in less than an hour stood on the west bank of the river Nesseirode, which the dwarves call Nazalspray. Arrowroot signaled for a halt. The steps that had led down the mountain came to an abrupt end at the river’s edge, and on either side of the narrow way the hills sloped off into wide, barren plains filled with wind gods, dolphins in sailor hats, and street directories.
“I fear that we have come to an uncharted region,” said Arrowroot, peering under his hand into the distance. “Alas, that Goodgulf is not here to guide us.”
“These are indeed tough bananas,” agreed Bromosel.
“Yonder lies Lornadoon, land of the Gone Elves,” said Legolam, pointing across the river to a scruffy-looking forest of dutch elms and knotty pines. “Goodgulf would have surely led us there.”
Bromosel dipped a foot into the oozing river, and a fish stick and a side order of fried clams leaped into the air.
“Sorcery!” cried Gimlet as a tunaburger flew past his ear. “Witchcraft! Deviltry! Isolationism! Free silver!”
“Aye,” said Legolam, “the river is under a spell, for it is named after the fair elf-maid Nesselrode who had the hots for Menthol, God of After-Dinner Drinks. But the evil Oxydol, Goddess of Quick Tricks and Small Slams, appeared to her in the shape of a five-iron and told her that Menthol was twotiming with the Princess Phisohex, daughter of King Sano. At this Nesselrode became wroth and swore a great oath to kick Phisohex in the gut and get her mother, Cinerama, Goddess of Short-Term Loans, to turn Menthol into an erector set. But Menthol got wind of the plot and came to Nesselrode in the guise of a refrigerator, turned her into a river, and went west to sell encyclopedias. Even now, in the spring, the river softly cries, ‘Menthol, Menthol, you are one wazoo. One day I’m the elf next door and then poof I’m a river. You stink.’ And the wind answers, ‘Phooey.’
“A sad story,” said Frito. “Is it true?”
“No,” said Legolam. “There’s a song, too,” and he began to sing:
“It is best that we cross before nightfall,” said Arrowroot finally. “There are tales of fungo bats and bloodsucking umpires in these parts.” Picking up his toilet kit, he waded into the soupy water, and the company followed behind. The water was nowhere more than a few feet deep, and the boggies had little difficulty making their way across.
“This is indeed a queer river,” said Bromosel, as the water lapped at his thighs.
On the far bank of the river they found a thick strand of dead trees covered with signs in Elveranto which said, COME TO FABULOUS ELF VILLAGE, VISIT THE SNAKE FARM, DON’T MISS SANTA’S WORKSHOP, and HELP KEEP OUR FOREST ENCHANTED!
“Lalornadoon, Lalornadoon,” sighed Legolam, “wonder of Lower Middle Earth!”
At that, a door in the trunk of a large tree opened, revealing a small room filled with postcard racks, loudly clicking cuckoo clocks, and boxes of maple-sugar candies. A greasy-looking elf slipped out from behind a taffy machine.
“Welcome wagon,” he said, bowing low. “I am Pentel.”
“Come hither, conastoga,” said Legolam.
“Well, well, well,” said the elf, coughing importantly, “we are a bit out of season, aren’t we?”
“We’re just passing through,” said Arrowroot.
“No matter,” said Pentel. “Plenty to see, plenty to see. On the left, your petrified tree, to the right your Echo Rock and your Natural Bridge, and just ahead your Old Wishing Well.”
“We’ve come from Doria,” Arrowroot continued. “We’re on our way to Fordor.”
The elf blanched. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit to Lornadoon, Land of Magic,” he said quickly, and handing them a sheaf of folders and pack-horse stickers, he leaped into the tree and slammed and bolted the door.
“These are troubled times,” said Arrowroot.
Legolam opened one of the folders and pored over a map. “It isn’t far to the Elf Village,” he said finally, “and unless the place has changed hands, Orlon’s kin, Cellophane and the Lady Lavalier, still dwell there.”
“Elves,” grumbled Spam. “Now I’m not saying Sorhed is right, but I’m not a-saying he’s wrong, neither, if you get my drift.”
“Shut up,” said Legolam gravely.
After a hasty meal of frankincense and myrrh, the company set off down a wide path which Legolam identified on the map as Horror Lane, and from time to time mechanical dragons and goblins lurched unsteadily from rubber shrubs and yawned and grunted. But even the boggies remained unperturbed by these assaults, and in a few short hours the travelers arrived at the edge of a small grove of very petrified-looking trees from whose oddly symmetrical branches heavily corroded copper leaves dropped in unconvincing bunches.
As they stood wondering, the head of an elf-maid appeared at a bay window in the nearest tree and cried in the ancient tongue of the elves: “Greetings ye olde wayfarers.”
“Are there any more at home like you?” said Legolam, making the correct reply.
A moment later the door to the great tree swung open, and a short elf stepped out. “Cellophane and Lavalier await you abovestairs,” he said, and led the company into the wide trunk. The tree was completely hollow, and the inside was covered with brick-design wallpaper. A circular staircase led through a hole in the ceiling to an upper story, and the elf motioned for them to ascend the narrow steps. As they reached the top, they found themselves in a room decorated much as the one below, but brightly lit by great wagon-wheel chandeliers which hung from the lofty roof. On a pair of tree stumps at the end of the room sat Cellophane and Lavalier, arrayed in rich muslin.
“Welcome to Lornadoon,” said Lavalier, rising slowly to her feet, and it seemed to the company that she was as fair as a young sapling or scrub oak. She had magnificent chestnut hair, and when she shook her head, handfuls of magnificent chestnuts dropped to the floor like rain. Frito toyed with the Ring and wondered at her great beauty. As he stood, as if in a trance, Lavalier turned to him and saw him toying with the Ring and wondering at her great beauty.
“I see, Frito,” she said, “that as you toy with the Ring, you wonder at my great beauty.”
Frito gasped.
“Do not fear,” she said, solemnly tweaking his nose. “Nasties we’re not.”
Cellophane then rose and greeted each of the travelers in turn, and motioning for them to sit down on the rubber toadstools arranged around the room, bid them tell the tale of their adventures.