“I’ll give you wit,” said Parrot crossly. “You whimpering, wavering, witless Wensleydale, listen to me. Rue is a plant. If you Weasels eat it, it makes you brave and enables you to attack Cockatrices. It’s a spell we found in the Great Book of Spells. Now, what I want to know is whether there’s any mention of it in your silly History of Weaseldom.”
“How curious,” said Wensleydale. “How curious. Rue for making us brave? Not, of course, as you’ll appreciate, that we need anything like that. No, of course not. Brave as lions, we Weasels, peace-loving of course, but when we’re roused, har! by Jove, then look out!”
“The job is to rouse you,” Parrot pointed out. “Now look here, Wensleydale, stop waffling on, there’s a good lad. Just let’s go and consult your History. You’ve got it in the library, haven’t you?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Wensleydale. “There’s just one thing, though.”
“What’s that?” asked Parrot.
Wensleydale leant forward and whispered loudly in Parrot’s ear. “Can’t invite them in, those . . . things—too big . . . break furniture . . . frighten dear Winnie,” he said.
“All right, all right,” said Parrot. “If the children go round the back and lie on the law n they can look through the library window.”
“Well, tell them to lie on the law n very gently,” said Wensleydale. “That’s my croquet lawn.”
While Parrot followed Wensleydale and Winifred into the house, the children went round to the back of the house and lay down on the croquet lawn. Peering through the open windows, they could see a great oak-paneled library lined with books from floor to ceiling. Presently Wensleydale and Parrot came in.
“Now,” said Wensleydale, “the History is over here—shelves ten, eleven, and twelve. We have a lot of history, we Weasels, not like some creatures one could mention who, strictly speaking, have so little history they might never have existed.”
“Let’s get on with it,” said Parrot. “Has it got an index?”
“Yes,” said Wensleydale, pulling out a fat, brown volume. “Here it is.”
He took a pair of lorgnettes from his pocket and peered through them as he opened the book and started to turn the pages.
“Let’s see, now, let’s see,” he murmured. “Rue, rue, rue.”
“You’re looking under X,” said Parrot. “It’s spelt R, U, E.”
“Of course, silly billy me,” said Wensleydale, his nose going pink with embarrassment. “Can’t think why I thought it started with an X.”
“Here it is,” said Parrot triumphantly. “Rue, the use of, for the overpowering of Cockatrices, Page 8,424, Volume Ninety- five.”
“By Jove, who would have thought it?” said Wensleydale. “How exciting. My little heart is in a positive turmoil, I do assure you. Volume Ninety-five, you say? Yes—that’s shelf twelve—just let me get the ladder.”
He got the ladder, climbed up it, extracted the big, fat volume from the shelf, and then carefully climbed down again. He gave the book to Parrot, who spread it out on the table.
“Now, let’s see what’s what,” said Parrot. “Page 8,424—here it is, listen:
“In those days it was discovered by Wormwood Weasel, the Court Apothecary, that the herb Rue taken in sufficient quantities made already stalwart and courageous Weasels fifty times as brave.
“An infusion of this plant taken before battle ensured victory, especially over Cockatrices, since, apparently, the Rue made the Weasels’ bite poisonous to them.
“However, the Cockatrices, out of vindictiveness, burnt up the fields of Rue that the Weasels had cultivated, and since then the valuable herb has not been obtainable. And since that day, also, the Cockatrices have had as their motto ‘We will rue the day,’ meaning that they will be sorry if rue ever grows in Mythologia again.’ ”
“Well, bless my periwig and buckles,” gasped Wensleydale. “Who would have thought it?” He sank into a chair and fanned himself with his handkerchief. “Fancy me, fifty times as brave as I already am! Why, nothing would stand against me! Why, I’d even go and . . . and . . . and bite the Chief Cockatrice’s leg. What a pity this wonderful, wonderful plant no longer exists. Not for myself, you understand, because I’m brave enough without it, but I was thinking of my troops. Brave they are, in their own way, but in need of something to encourage them— just a little something.”
“If that sentry we saw was an example of your brave troops, you could do with a little rue,” said Parrot.
“Sentry?” asked Wensleydale. “Oh, you mean poor Wilfred. He’s a bag of nerves, that boy, a jangling bag of nerves. Ever since he found a bluebottle fly in his soup, he’s never been the same.”
“Well, the point of the thing is this,” Parrot explained. “We know where to get some rue.”
“You do?” cried Wensleydale excitedly. “Oh, noble Parrot.” “Now, if we get some, will you and your people drink it and help us rout the Cockatrices?” asked Parrot.
“Are you quite sure that this rue stuff works?” asked Wensleydale nervously. “I mean for your sake, dear Parrot, I wouldn’t like to make any promises I couldn’t keep. ”
“I’m sure it will work,” said Parrot. “After all, it’s in your own History of Weaseldom.”
“Ah yes, history,” said Wensleydale doubtfully. “The trouble with some of these old historians, charming chaps without a doubt but a little bit . . . you know, apt not to be able to tell the difference between fact and fable. I would simply love to help you, dear Parrot, as you know, honestly and truthfully, nothing, normally, would give me greater ...”
“Listen,” interrupted Parrot. “It’s our only chance of beating the Cockatrices. If we get the rue will you try it?”
“Well, all right,” said Wensleydale, adding hastily, “I won’t take it myself, of course, because of my lumbago, but you may try it on one of the under-gardeners.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Parrot. “Now you’re talking sense.”
“When will you bring it?” asked Wensleydale. “I must say, I am looking forward to this experiment, just think how exciting if it works. All of us fifty times as brave! My, it makes me come out in Weasel pimples just to think of it.”
“Yes, well, don’t get overexcited,” said Parrot. “Got to get the stuff first.”
“Now that’s where I can be of positive help to you, dearest Parrot,” said Wensleydale earnestly. “Can I come and help collect it? Perhaps you could cut it while I put it in baskets, or something of the sort?”
“We’d be delighted to have you,” said Parrot, “simply delighted. After all, we shall need some help, seeing where the rue grows.”
“Where does it grow, dear boy?” asked Wensleydale.
“In a clearing in the middle of Mandrake Forest on Werewolf Island,” said Parrot grimly.
“Ow! ooh! ow!” yelled Wensleydale, doubling up and clutching himself. “My back, the agony of it. Oh, what torture, oh, oh, oh.” Still screeching, he staggered to the sofa and lay down, putting his lace handkerchief on his brow. “Oh, oh, oh,” he moaned. “Oh, my dear Parrot, the agony, the pain. You see before you a sick and suffering Weasel that’s probably not long for this world. Ow! owl ow! and to think that my lumbago should have got worse just at the moment when I could have been of use to you. Oh, how shame-making. Oh, the pain. Oh, how mortified I am. Oh, the agony.”