The Ickabog(54)

“I think people need hope nearly as much as Ickabogs do. But,” she said, placing her hand over her heart, “my mother and father are both still in here, and they always will be. So when you eat me, Ickabog, eat my heart last. I’d like to keep my parents alive as long as I can.”

She walked back into the cave, and the four humans settled down on their piles of wool again, beside the fire.

A little later, sleepy though she was, Daisy thought she heard the Ickabog sniff.





After the disaster of the runaway mail coach, Lord Spittleworth took steps to make sure such a thing would never happen again. A new proclamation was issued, without the king’s knowledge, which allowed the Chief Advisor to open letters to check them for signs of treason. The proclamation notices helpfully listed all the things that were now considered treason in Cornucopia. It was still treason to say that the Ickabog wasn’t real, and that Fred wasn’t a good king. It was treason to criticize Lord Spittleworth and Lord Flapoon, treason to say the Ickabog tax was too high, and, for the first time, treason to say that Cornucopia wasn’t as happy and well fed as it had always been.

Now that everybody was too frightened to tell the truth in their letters, mail and even travel to the capital dwindled to almost nothing, which was exactly what Spittleworth had wanted, and he started on phase two of his plan. This was to send a lot of fan mail to Fred. As these letters couldn’t all have the same handwriting, Spittleworth had shut up a few soldiers in a room with a stack of paper and lots of quills, and told them what to write.

“Praise the king, of course,” said Spittleworth, as he swept up and down in front of the men in his Chief Advisor’s robes. “Tell him he’s the best ruler the country’s ever had. Praise me too. Say that you don’t know what would become of Cornucopia without Lord Spittleworth. And say you know the Ickabog would have killed many more people, if not for the Ickabog Defense Brigade, and that Cornucopia’s richer than ever.”

So Fred began to receive letters telling him how marvelous he was, and that the country had never been happier, and that the war against the Ickabog was going very well indeed.

“Well, it appears everything’s going splendidly!” beamed King Fred, waving one of these letters over lunch with the two lords. He’d been much more cheerful since the forgeries had started to arrive. The bitter winter had frozen the ground so that it was dangerous to go hunting, but Fred, who was wearing a gorgeous new costume of burnt orange silk, with topaz buttons, felt particularly handsome today, which added to his cheerfulness. It was quite delightful, watching the snow tumble down outside the window, when he had a blazing fire and his table was piled high, as usual, with expensive foodstuffs.

“I had no idea so many Ickabogs had been killed, Spittleworth! In fact — come to think of it — I didn’t even know there was more than one Ickabog!”

“Er, yes, sire,” said Spittleworth, with a furious glance at Flapoon, who was stuffing himself with a particularly delicious cream cheese. Spittleworth had so much to do, he’d given Flapoon the job of checking all the forged letters before they were sent to the king. “We didn’t wish to alarm you, but we realized some time ago that the monster had, ah —”

He coughed delicately.

“— reproduced.”

“I see,” said Fred. “Well, it’s jolly good news you’re finishing them off at such a rate. We should have one stuffed, you know, and hold an exhibition for the people!”

“Er … yes, sire, what an excellent idea,” said Spittleworth, through gritted teeth.

“One thing I don’t understand, though,” said Fred, frowning over the letter again. “Didn’t Professor Fraudysham say that every time an Ickabog dies, two grow in its place? By killing them like this, aren’t you, in fact, doubling their numbers?”

“Ah … no, sire, not really,” said Spittleworth, his cunning mind working furiously fast. “We’ve actually found a way of stopping that happening, by — er — by —”

“Banging them over the head first,” suggested Flapoon.

“Banging them over the head first,” repeated Spittleworth, nodding. “That’s it. If you can get near enough to knock them out before killing them, sire, the, er, the doubling process seems to … seems to stop.”

“But why didn’t you tell me of this amazing discovery, Spittleworth?” cried Fred. “This changes everything — we might soon have wiped Ickabogs from Cornucopia forever!”

“Yes, sire, it is good news, isn’t it?” said Spittleworth, wishing he could smack the smile off Flapoon’s face. “However, there are still quite a few Ickabogs left …”

“All the same, the end seems to be in sight at last!” said Fred joyfully, setting the letter aside and picking up his knife and fork again. “How very sad that poor Major Roach was killed by an Ickabog just before we began to turn the tables on the monsters!”

“Very sad, sire, yes,” agreed Spittleworth, who, of course, had explained away Major Roach’s sudden disappearance by telling the king he’d laid down his life in the Marshlands, trying to prevent the Ickabog coming south.

“Well, this all makes sense of something I’ve been wondering about,” said Fred. “The servants are constantly singing the national anthem, have you heard them? Jolly uplifting and all that, but it does become a bit samey. But this is why — they’re celebrating our triumph over the Ickabogs, aren’t they?”