The Ickabog by J.K. Rowling
The idea for The Ickabog came to me a long time ago. The word “Ickabog” derives from “Ichabod,” meaning “no glory” or “the glory has departed.” I think you’ll understand why I chose the name once you’ve read the story, which deals with themes that have always interested me. What do the monsters we conjure tell us about ourselves? What must happen for evil to get a grip on a person, or on a country, and what does it take to defeat it? Why do people choose to believe lies even on scant or nonexistent evidence?
The Ickabog was written in fits and starts between Harry Potter books. The story never underwent any serious modifications. It always started with poor Mrs. Dovetail’s death and it always ended … Well, I won’t say how, in case you’re coming to it for the first time!
I read the story aloud to my two youngest children when they were very small, but I never finished it, much to the frustration of Mackenzie, whose favorite story it was. After I finished the Harry Potter books, I took a five-year break, and when I decided not to publish a children’s book next, The Ickabog went up into the attic, still unfinished. There it stayed for over a decade, and there it would probably be still if the COVID-19 pandemic hadn’t happened and millions of children hadn’t been stuck at home, unable to attend school or meet their friends. That’s when I had the idea of putting the story online for free and asking children to illustrate it.
Down from the attic came the very dusty box of typed and handwritten papers, and I set to work. My now teenagers, who’d been The Ickabog’s very first audience, sat and listened to a nightly chapter once I’d nearly finished. Every now and then they’d ask why I’d cut something they used to like, and naturally, I reinstated everything they missed, astounded by how much they remembered.
In addition to my very supportive family, I want to thank those who helped me bring The Ickabog online in such a short space of time: my editors, Arthur Levine and Ruth Alltimes; James McKnight of the Blair Partnership; my management team, Rebecca Salt, Nicky Stonehill, and Mark Hutchinson; and my agent, Neil Blair. It really was a Herculean effort by all concerned, and I couldn’t be more grateful. I’d also like to thank every single child (and the occasional adult!) who submitted pictures for the illustration competition. Looking through the artwork has been a joy and I know I’m far from alone in marveling at the talent on display. I’d love to think The Ickabog gave some future artists and illustrators their first public exposure.
Returning to the land of Cornucopia and finishing what I started so long ago has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my writing life. All that remains to say is that I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it!
J.K. Rowling
July 2020
Once upon a time, there was a tiny country called Cornucopia, which had been ruled for centuries by a long line of fair-haired kings. The king at the time of which I write was called King Fred the Fearless. He’d announced the “Fearless” bit himself, on the morning of his coronation, partly because it sounded nice with “Fred,” but also because he’d once managed to catch and kill a wasp all by himself, if you didn’t count five footmen and the boot boy.
King Fred the Fearless came to the throne on a huge wave of popularity. He had lovely yellow curls, a fine sweeping moustache, and looked magnificent in the tight breeches, velvet doublets, and ruffled shirts that rich men wore at the time. Fred was said to be generous, smiled and waved whenever anyone caught sight of him, and looked awfully handsome in the portraits that were distributed throughout the kingdom, to be hung in town halls. The people of Cornucopia were most happy with their new king, and many thought he’d end up being even better at the job than his father, Richard the Righteous, whose teeth (though nobody had liked to mention it at the time) were rather crooked.
King Fred was secretly relieved to find out how easy it was to rule Cornucopia. In fact, the country seemed to run itself. Nearly everybody had lots of food, the merchants made pots of gold, and Fred’s advisors took care of any little problem that arose. All that was left for Fred to do was beam at his subjects whenever he went out in his carriage and go hunting five times a week with his two best friends, Lord Spittleworth and Lord Flapoon.
Spittleworth and Flapoon had large estates of their own in the country, but they found it much cheaper and more amusing to live at the palace with the king, eating his food, hunting his stags, and making sure that the king didn’t get too fond of any of the beautiful ladies at court. They had no wish to see Fred married, because a queen might spoil all their fun. For a time, Fred had seemed to rather like Lady Eslanda, who was as dark and beautiful as Fred was fair and handsome, but Spittleworth had persuaded Fred that she was far too serious and bookish for the country to love her as queen. Fred didn’t know that Lord Spittleworth had a grudge against Lady Eslanda. He’d once asked her to marry him, but she’d turned him down.
Lord Spittleworth was very thin, cunning, and clever. His friend Flapoon was ruddy-faced, and so enormous that it required six men to heave him onto his massive chestnut horse. Though not as clever as Spittleworth, Flapoon was still far sharper than the king.
Both lords were expert at flattery, and pretending to be astonished by how good Fred was at everything from riding to tiddlywinks. If Spittleworth had a particular talent, it was persuading the king to do things that suited Spittleworth, and if Flapoon had a gift, it was for convincing the king that nobody on earth was as loyal to the king as his two best friends.