“What?” said the Weasel, his eyes still closed. “Parrot?” “Yes,” said Parrot. “Don’t keep on so.”
The Weasel opened one eye cautiously, and then he opened both eyes and blinked.
“It really is you, Parrot,” he said. “But what are those creatures you’ve got with you?”
“Children,” said Parrot.
“Do they bite?” asked the Weasel in a trembling voice, picking up his spear and pointing it at Penelope and the boys. “If they bite, I don’t want to have anything to do with them. Tell them I shall fight to the death. Tell them how sharp my spear is. Tell them what a temper I’ve got when aroused.”
“They’re perfectly harmless, you ninny,” said Parrot impatiently. “Now let us by, we’re here to see Wensleydale.”
“Pass, friends, all’s well,” said the sentry in a trembling voice. “Second on the left by the next pile of rocks.”
“I must say, I do see what you mean about them not being very brave," said Peter as they rode on.
“Yes,” said Simon. “It would take an awful lot of rue to make that sentry fight.”
They rounded another great pile of rocks and suddenly came upon a sight that made them all gasp with surprise. A large flat area had been cleared and laid out like a formal garden with carefully kept hedges and trimly raked gravel paths, neatly weeded flower beds ablaze with flowers, fountains and ornamental lakes. In the middle of it stood a lovely half-timbered Elizabethan house with beams as black as jet, snow white walls and a tiled roof, twisted chimney pots in the deepest of fox red. The numerous windows glittered and gleamed in the sunlight.
If the children had come across it in the English countryside, they would have thought it a remarkable old house, but to find it suddenly in the curious landscape of Mythologia was extraordinary. What made it even more surprising was that the whole thing was in miniature. The hedges were only six inches high, the fountains were the size of wash basins, and the house itself was like a gigantic doll’s house.
“Har,” chuckled Parrot at the children’s astonishment. “Surprised, eh? Well, it’s a nice enough house in its way. Weasel Court, residence of Wensleydale, the Duke of Weaseldom.”
“Why is he called Wensleydale?” asked Simon.
“His father was devoted to cheese,” explained Parrot. “He actually wanted to call him Gorgonzola, but his mother put her foot down. Great eaters, the Weasels. Now, we’d better leave the Unicorns here. We don’t want them stamping all over the garden with their great hooves.”
So the children got down from the Unicorns and picked their way carefully through the beautifully tended gardens.
“Ain’t ’alf posh, miss,” said Ethelred, rather overawed by his surroundings. “Wouldn’t mind ’aving a ’ouse like this meself.”
“It’s lovely,” agreed Penelope.
Parrot marched up to the front step, lifted the knocker with his beak, and knocked loudly.
“Go away,” screamed a shrill voice from behind the door. “Go away! There’s not a soul at home, so there. And all valuables have been transported to the mountains, and there are fifty bloodthirsty Weasels armed to the teeth guarding the house. And there’s nobody here, so go away.”
“Wensleydale, stop being a nincompoop,” shouted Parrot. “It’s me, Parrot. I want to talk to you.”
“Parrot,” said the voice. “Parrot? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Parrot, exasperated.
“How do I know you’re Parrot?” asked the voice.
“Would I say I am Parrot if I wasn’t?” asked Parrot.
“You’re absolutely right,” said the voice. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Well, open the door,” said Parrot.
There was the sound of a great many keys jangling, bolts being withdrawn, bars removed, and then at last the door opened and out came Wensleydale, the Duke of Weaseldom. He wore a scarlet velvet coat and knee breeches and a scarlet hat with a curling yellow feather, and he had a great deal of lace at his throat and his cuffs. He was followed by a lady Weasel who was most attractively dressed in a pale mauve crinoline and wore a diamond tiara between her neat little ears.
Wensleydale embraced Parrot with every symptom of delight. “My dear fellow,” he said. “My very dear fellow. How wonderful to see you alive and well. We heard the most dreadful stories about what had happened to you—how the Cockatrices had burnt you up and stolen the Great Books and turned H.H. into a very small and insignificant cloud. And of course, my dear, we were simply incensed, weren’t we, Winifred?”
“Yes,” said the Duchess. “I’ve never known him so incensed.”
“Black with fury I was, I do assure you. Shaking with uncontrollable rage, wasn’t I, Winnie?”
“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “uncontrollable.”
“ ‘I must go with my trusty followers and put these ignorant Cockatrices in their place,’ I said, pounding the table and frothing at the mouth, didn’t I, Winnie?”
“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “frothing.”
“ ‘I will give them a thrashing they’ll never forget,’ I said, ‘a regular trouncing,’ didn’t I, Winnie?”
“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “trouncing.”
“ ‘Every Cockatrice will be black and blue,’ I vowed, ‘if I have to do it with my bare paws,’ didn’t I, Winnie?”
“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “with bare paws.”
“Well, I’m glad you feel like that,” said Parrot, “because that’s what we’ve come to see you about—fighting the Cockatrices.”
Wensleydale immediately bent over double and clasped his hip. “My dear fellow,” he gasped, “as I was telling you, I would have been down there now, beating the Cockatrices into a pulp, my dear boy—into a pulp—but I was stricken with my lumbago again, wasn’t I, Winnie?”
“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “lumbago.”
“I didn’t know you suffered from lumbago,” said Parrot.
“Martyr to it, my dear boy,” said Wensleydale. “Positively a martyr to it. When it attacks I can’t move at all. The pain is agonizing, my dear fellow—simply agonizing. But I’m terribly brave about the whole thing, aren’t I, Winnie?”
“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “terribly brave.” “Ironing your back with a hot iron is supposed to be good for lumbago,” suggested Penelope.
“Ow! They talk!” said Wensleydale in alarm, backing into the front door. “What are they, Parrot?”
“Children,” said Parrot.
“Do they bite?” asked Wensleydale faintly. “If they do, keep them on their leashes. You never know, if you’re bitten by one of those things, what you might catch.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Parrot. “They’re here to help us. But we must have your help or we can’t overthrow the Cockatrices.” “My dear fellow, you have my best wishes,” said Wensleydale. “If it wasn’t for this wretched lumbago, I’d be marching at the head of my brave troops, wouldn’t I, Winnie?”
“Yes, Wensleydale,” said Winifred, “brave troops.”
“Now, let’s stop all this nonsense about lumbago,” said Parrot. “What I want to know is, what do you know about rue?” “Rue?” echoed Wensleydale. “Rue? What’s rue?”
“It’s a kind of plant that’s supposed to have a good effect on you Weasels,” explained Parrot. “Gives you a bit of backbone.” “Hee! hee! hee!” laughed Wensleydale, taking a lace handkerchief from his pocket and fanning himself with it. “You’re always such a comical bird, Parrot, that saucy wit of yours. Hee! hee! hee!—a plant to give backbone.”