“Not just you, a whole lot of people,” said Parrot. “Look, at one time, nobody believed in steam engines or paddle steamers, right? So there weren’t any. Then a lot of people started believing in steam engines and paddle steamers, and . . . bang . . .”
“Thunder,” shouted Dulcibelle.
“Soon there were so many steam engines and paddle steamers you could hardly move. Well, it was the same with mythological animals,” said Parrot. “As long as enough people believed in them, there were plenty of animals, but as soon as people started disbelieving in them, then . . . bang . . . their population dwindled away.”
“That’s two claps of thunder I’ve heard,” shouted Dulcibelle . “Come in, or you’ll be struck by lightning.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” said Parrot impatiently. “Why don’t you go and spin yourself something?”
“What?” asked Dulcibelle.
“Oh, anything,” said Parrot.
“I’ll spin a wimple,” said Dulcibelle. “I’ve always wanted a wimple.”
“Things soon became so bad,” continued Parrot, “that Hengist Hannibal was at his wits’ end: Unicorns down to the last four pairs, Sea Serpents you couldn’t find for love or money—it was terrible, simply because nobody believed any more.”
“What did Mr. Junketberry do?” asked Penelope, fascinated.
Parrot looked round carefully to make sure that they were not overheard, then he put a wing up to his beak. “He created a country called Mythologia,” said Parrot in a hoarse whisper.
“But where is it?” asked Penelope.
“And how did that solve everything?” asked Peter.
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Parrot. “All in good time.”
“You haven’t seen my spinning pattern for a wimple, have you?” shouted Dulcibelle.
“No,” said Parrot fiercely, “I have not.” He paced up and down on the top of the cage for a while, wings behind his back, and then he stopped.
“Well, Hengist Hannibal found Mythologia quite by accident one day. He was walking in the hills and he came to this cave. Entering it, out of curiosity, he found it led him to a gigantic cavern under the earth, with a vast inland sea dotted with numerous islands. Immediately he could see that this was exactly what was wanted. After all, the world was fast becoming so disbelieving and so overcrowded there was scarcely any room left for real animals, let alone mythological ones. So he took it over and, with the aid of a few very potent spells, he made it most habitable, most habitable indeed. Then all the remaining mythological animals were moved down there, and each was given its own island or piece of sea, and everybody settled down most happily. You see, as long as we all believed in each other we were safe.”
Parrot paused, wiped away a tear, and blew his beak violently.
“I told you you’d catch cold,” shouted Dulcibelle. “Do you listen to me? Oh, no!”
“Our Government, if you like to call it that,” Parrot went on, “consisted of the three Talking Books and Hengist Hannibal Junketberry, and a very good and fair and kind Government it was. As I’ve told you, I was made Keeper of the Words, and part of my job was to come out into the real world once every hundred years or so and make a report of what was going on. Well, Dulcibelle and I have just been stopping with my cousin in India. He owns the Maharaja of Jaipur; he’s a terrible snob with an International Passport and a Rolls Royce and everything, but he keeps me up to date on the Far Eastern situation. Anyway, we came back from this trip, and what do you think we found?”
The children waited, breathless.
“We found,” said Parrot, in a deep, mournful, solemn voice, “that the Cockatrices had revolted. Not only that, but they’d stolen the three Talking Books of Government. Can you imagine anything more hideous, horrendous, or horrifying?”
“No,” said the children truthfully, because the way Parrot said it, it sounded just like the end of the world.
“Quite right,” said Parrot approvingly.
“But please,” said Penelope, “before you go any further, can you please explain what a Cockatrice is?”
“Yes, please do, Parrot,” said Simon and Peter.
“Well,” said Parrot. “Well, I must confess, though we in Mythologia believe in live and let live, I must confess I’ve never really liked the Cockatrices: noisy, vulgar, and vain—that more or less sums them up. Careless, too, always breathing out fire and setting things alight—dangerous. What do they look like? Well, most unprepossessing, I think. They’re about as big as you are, with the body of a cockerel, the tail of a dragon, and scales instead of feathers. Of course, they’re colorful with their red and gold and green scales, if you like that sort of thing. Personally, I think it’s terribly brash and vulgar.”
“But what do they breathe fire for?" asked Peter.
“I don’t know, really,” said Parrot. “They were just thought up like that, but it’s jolly dangerous, I can tell you. Hengist Hannibal was going to build them a special fireproof castle to live in. The first one they had, they burnt down within twenty- four hours of moving into it. Now they’re living in the castle H.H. used to reside in before he moved up to the Crystal Caves, and I expect they’ll burn that down eventually.”
“Aren’t they terribly dangerous creatures to have around?” asked Penelope.
“Not if you control their numbers,” answered Parrot. “We never allowed more than ten dozen at any one time.”
“But how do you manage to do that?” asked Simon.
“It was one of the laws,” said Parrot. “So many Unicorns, so many Mandrakes, so many Cockatrices, and so on. We had to, otherwise we’d have been overrun. There’s only room for a certain number of us in Mythologia, you see. Mind you, the Cockatrices are always trying to get their numbers up, always coming to H.H. with some story of having no one to do their washing. Well, it’s all a bit complicated, really. You see, Cockatrices are only hatched out of eggs laid by the two Golden Cockerels. They’re dull birds, no conversation, just sit around saying cock-a-doodle-doo in a fatuous manner all day. Well, once every hundred years, they lay an egg.”
“But I thought only hens laid eggs,” said Penelope, confused.
“Hens lay eggs that hatch into other hens,” corrected Parrot. “Golden Cockerels lay eggs that hatch into Cockatrices.”
His answer so muddled Penelope that she decided not to ask any more questions.
“Once the Golden Cockerels have laid a Cockatrice’s egg, then their job is done,” explained Parrot. “They then let off a couple of boastfull doodle-dos and hand the whole thing over to the Toads.”
“The Toads?” said Penelope.
“What have Toads got to do with it?” asked Simon.
“They hatch the eggs, of course,” said Parrot. “Only thing they’re fit for, those Toads—brainless, dithering creatures. The only thing they do well is hatching Cockatrices’ eggs. You know, if you keep interrupting me like this, I’ll never finish the story.”
“Sorry,” Simon said contritely.
“Well,” said Parrot, “the Cockatrices decided that if they could get the Great Book of Spells it would tell them how to make the Golden Cockerels lay a Cockatrice egg every day. So they got into league with the Toads, who are a flibberty-gibberty sort of creatures and easily led, and together they not only kidnapped the Golden Cockerels but stole the three Great Books of Government. When Dulcibelle and I returned, they’d locked themselves up in their castle and were producing Cockatrice eggs like a . . . like a . . . like a . . .”
“Battery farm,” suggested Simon.
“Exactly,” said Parrot. “Twenty-five eggs at the last count. One a day they’re producing. The whole of Mythologia will be overrun with Cockatrices, unless we do something, or rather unless I do something. You see, over the last two hundred years or so, H.H. has become very frail and forgetful, and he’s left more and more of the running of the thing to me. But I can’t do anything without the Great Books. Dulcibelle and I were planning to go and try to talk some sense into the silly Cockatrices, but we were set upon in the middle of the night by those illiterate, ill-favored, and insolent Toads, bundled up into a vulgar brown paper parcel, and thrown into the river. Me, Parrot! My blood boils at the thought. Wait until I get my wings on those Toads.”