Eva Ibbotson - The Ogre of Oglefort

“How can we land?” wondered the troll.

The grumpy boatman did not answer. And then they saw a gap in the cliffs, and a small sandy bay with a rickety-looking jetty.

“Is this it?” asked the Hag. “Are we here? But there’s no castle.”

“It’s inland. You have to walk up through the trees.” And then, “I’ll take you back if you like. It’s a pity to see the little lad going to his death.”

But it was too late for that. They climbed stiffly out onto the jetty and down onto the sand. In front of them lay an opening fringed by bushes. It had begun to rain.

They were wet through and tired even before they began their trek inland along the overgrown path. It ran beside a small and sluggish stream covered in waterweeds and green slime. Every now and again a blister of gas came to the surface with a sinister plop.

“Methane,” said the troll.

The trees between which they walked grew gradually taller as they came away from the sea. They leaned toward each other; lichen hung down from the branches. The birds that screeched above them now were not white like the seabirds, but black — rooks and jackdaws and crows.

In the mist and rain it could have been any time of day.

“Oh dear,” said the wizard. He had stepped on a heap of toadstools oozing something yellow, like pus.

Ivo carried the sword over his shoulder like a rake. It had been a nuisance all the way. There had been no detailed instructions with the map the Norns had given them; they were just told to make their way from the landing stage to the castle and slay the ogre. Ivo had longed for this adventure but now he thought that they must have been mad to set off so ill-equipped.

The Hag had brought a small suitcase with the foot water, the magic beans, and some underclothes for herself and Ivo.

Suddenly the troll stopped dead and pointed. An animal was peering at them through the bushes, staring with fierce and uncannily intelligent eyes. It was about the size of a badger but they could not make out its shape in the poor light. An air of menace came from it, and in a moment it had vanished.

They walked on wearily through the strange unpleasant wood. The path sloped slightly upward now but still there was no sign of a clearing.

“My goodness,” said the Hag, staring down at the ground. She was used to weird things that slithered about in the Dribble but the pale gigantic worm crawling across the path in front of them was like nothing she had ever seen. It was the size of a serpent, but its body looked soft and wet and swollen, as though it had lived inside something warm and moist. The gut of an enormous animal, perhaps, or even… of a giant.

They trudged on silently. Ulf was looking grimly at the unhealthy trees; they badly needed thinning; dead branches littered the undergrowth. Trees were like people to him; he couldn’t bear to see them badly treated.

After another hour, Ivo stopped.

“I can feel it,” he said. “I can feel the castle.”

The others wanted to say that one cannot feel castles but it was true that they, too, were aware of something looming toward them. Then the mist rolled away slightly and there it was.

It was exactly as they had seen it on the Norns’ magic screen: enormous, with turrets and towers and places for pouring boiling oil; but no one was pouring oil or anything else. It had a deserted look, like the castle in Sleeping Beauty : silent, bewitched, and sad.

“Well we’d better get on with it,” said the troll.

They walked up a sloping meadow and across a drawbridge slung over a murky-looking moat. The chains were rusty, the boards creaked, but no one challenged them. Nor did anyone stop them as they passed through the gatehouse. A huge kennel stood beside the gate, but there was no sign of a guard dog.

Still in silence they walked across the courtyard — and stopped dead.

In front of them was a grating in the stone — and coming though the bars… was a hand.

It was a human hand, pale and desperate as it twisted and groped and searched. Now a second hand joined it, larger than the first, and then both hands twirled and searched and groped, their fingers frantically curling and uncurling on the iron bars. And as the rescuers stood with beating hearts they heard voices from below.

“Oh when will it happen?” said the first voice.

“Is it my turn yet?” wailed the second.

“I cannot bear it,” moaned the first voice again. “I cannot bear the waiting.”

And all the time the pallid hands groped and writhed like the tentacles of some imprisoned creature, searching for the light.

It was hard to move toward them, but the rescuers forced themselves up to the grating and looked down.

Attached to the groping hands were people — a man and a woman, no longer young. Their faces were turned upward, and when they saw the rescuers their moans became louder and more pitiful.

“When?” they cried. “When will our time come?”

“We must know.”

“You must tell him.”

The Hag’s kind face was filled with pity. Ivo knelt down, peering into the dungeon which held the prisoners. Ulf was trying to pry open the grating, shaking it with his strong hands.

But before they could go to the help of the prisoners, they heard a noise which rooted them to the ground. It was a scream — a bloodcurdling, hair-raising scream from inside the castle. And it sounded as though it came from someone young.

The rescuers turned and ran toward the noise. They raced up a winding stone staircase, along a corridor, and found themselves in the Great Hall of the castle. And there, incredibly, they saw exactly what the Norns had shown them on their screen.

A gigantic ogre with bloodstained teeth and glittering eyes was standing in front of the fireplace. He was roaring with rage; spittle came from his mouth and his enormous hairy fists were clenched, ready to shake or throttle the person who was kneeling before him — a young girl with long dark hair and pleading eyes.

“Please,” she implored. “Please, oh please…”

But the slavering beast who loomed over her showed no mercy. He brushed away a cockroach that had crawled out of his ear and raised an arm the size of a tree trunk.

“No!” he roared. “Be silent. Your pleas are useless.” And he reached for his nail-studded club.

In the doorway the rescuers froze in horror. The Norns must have foreseen the future; the dreadful danger to the kneeling girl, her anguished pleas. This was the moment they had shown on the screen — the instant before the girl was destroyed.

They waited no longer. Ivo raised his sword; the troll grasped his rowanwood staff; the wizard mumbled his spells — and they rushed forward.

“Stop!” they cried. “Stop at once! Let go of the princess!”

The ogre turned and saw them. And then an extraordinary thing happened. Over the monster’s hideous face there spread a look of relief… of utter happiness. He dropped his club.

“Thank goodness you’ve come,” he said. “It’s a miracle! A minute later and I’d have been done for.”

And he sank back onto a claw-footed sofa and closed his eyes.

Ivo blinked and put down his sword. The troll lowered his staff. Everyone was completely bewildered.

“We’ve come to rescue the Princess Mirella,” Ivo said, looking down at the cowering figure, still on her knees.

And they waited for the grateful girl to rise and come toward them.

Mirella got to her feet. She took a deep breath — and then she let them have it.

“How dare you come in here and interrupt? How dare you try to rescue me? I’ve been working on that wretched ogre for days, trying to make him do what I want — and just when I might be getting there, you come barging in.”