The Ickabog(51)

“I’m not,” said Daisy.

“I told you there was an Ickabog,” came Martha’s terrified whisper.

“I think it’s cooking pies,” whispered Roderick.

All four lay quite still, with their eyes closed, until the smell of venison pie became so deliciously overpowering that each of them felt it would be almost worth dying to jump up, snatch a pie, and maybe wolf down a few mouthfuls before the Ickabog could kill them.

Then they heard the monster moving. Its long, coarse hair rustled, and its heavy feet made loud muffled thumps. There was a clunk, as though the monster had laid down something heavy. Then a low, booming voice said: “Eat them.”

All four opened their eyes.

You might think the fact that the Ickabog could speak their language would be a huge shock, but they were already so stunned that the monster was real, that it knew how to make fires and that it was cooking venison pies, that they barely stopped to consider that point. The Ickabog had placed a rough-hewn wooden platter of pies beside them on the floor, and they realized that it must have taken them from the frozen stock of food on the abandoned wagon.

Slowly and cautiously, the four friends moved into sitting positions, staring up into the large, mournful eyes of the Ickabog, which peered at them through the tangle of long, coarse greenish hair that covered it from head to foot. Roughly shaped like a person, it had a truly enormous belly, and huge shaggy paws, each of which had a single sharp claw.

“What do you want with us?” asked Bert, bravely.

In its deep, booming voice the Ickabog replied: “I’m going to eat you. But not yet.”

The Ickabog turned, picked up a pair of baskets, which were woven from strips of bark, and walked away to the mouth of the cave. Then, as though a sudden thought had struck it, the Ickabog turned back to them and said, “Roar.”

It didn’t actually roar. It simply said the word. The four humans stared at the Ickabog, which blinked, then turned round and walked out of the cave, a basket in each paw. Then a boulder as large as the cave mouth rumbled its way across the entrance, to keep the prisoners inside. They listened as the Ickabog’s footsteps crunched through the snow outside, and died away.





Never would Daisy and Martha forget the taste of those Baronstown pies, after the long years of cabbage soup at Ma Grunter’s. Indeed, Martha burst into tears after the first bite, and said she’d never known food could be like this. All of them forgot about the Ickabog while eating. Once they’d finished the pies, they felt braver, and they got up to explore the Ickabog’s cave by the light of the fire.

“Look,” said Daisy, who’d found drawings on the wall.

A hundred shaggy Ickabogs were being chased by stickmen with spears.

“See this one!” said Roderick, pointing at a drawing close to the mouth of the cave.

By the light of the Ickabog’s fire, the foursome examined a picture of a lone Ickabog, standing face-to-face with a stick figure wearing a plumed helmet and holding a sword.

“That looks like the king,” whispered Daisy, pointing at the figure. “You don’t think he really saw the Ickabog that night, do you?”

The others couldn’t answer, of course, but I can. I’ll tell you the whole truth now, and I hope you won’t be annoyed that I didn’t before.

Fred really did catch a glimpse of the Ickabog in the thick marsh mist, that fatal night when Major Beamish was shot. I can also tell you that the following morning, the old shepherd who’d thought his dog had been eaten by the Ickabog heard a whining and scratching at the door, and realized that faithful Patch had come home again, because, of course, Spittleworth had set the dog free from the brambles in which he was trapped.

Before you judge the old shepherd too harshly for not letting the king know that Patch hadn’t been eaten by the Ickabog after all, you should remember that he was weary after his long journey to Chouxville. In any case, the king wouldn’t have cared. Once Fred had seen the monster through the mist, nothing and nobody would have persuaded him it wasn’t real.

“I wonder,” said Martha, “why the Ickabog didn’t eat the king?”

“Maybe he really did fight it off, like the stories say?” asked Roderick doubtfully.

“You know, it’s strange,” said Daisy, turning to look at the Ickabog’s cave, “that there aren’t any bones in here, if the Ickabog eats people.”

“It must eat the bones too,” said Bert. His voice was shaking.

Now Daisy remembered that, of course, they must have been wrong in thinking that Major Beamish had died in an accident on the marsh. Clearly, the Ickabog had killed him, after all. She’d just reached for Bert’s hand, to show him she knew how horrible it was for him to be in the lair of his father’s killer, when they heard heavy footsteps outside again, and knew the monster had returned. All four dashed back to the soft pile of sheep’s wool and sat down in it as though they’d never moved.

There was a loud rumble as the Ickabog rolled back the stone, letting in the wintry chill. It was still snowing hard outside, and the Ickabog had a lot of snow trapped in its hair. In one of its baskets it had a large number of mushrooms and some firewood. In the other, it had some frozen Chouxville pastries.

While the humans watched, the Ickabog built up the fire again, and placed the icy block of pastries on a flat stone beside it, where they slowly began to thaw. Then, while Daisy, Bert, Martha, and Roderick watched, the Ickabog began eating mushrooms. It had a curious way of doing so. It speared a few at a time on the single spike protruding from each paw, then picked them off delicately in its mouth, one by one, chewing them up with what looked like great enjoyment.