Gerald Durrell - The Talking Parcel

“Nor I,” gasped Peter, his chest heaving.

“That was a close thing,” said Simon, gulping for air. “We only just got that door closed in time, otherwise we’d have all been burnt to toast.”

“Oh, don’t,” said Penelope, shuddering. “It was horrible.”

“ ’Ere, miss,” said Ethelred, who still lay in Penelope’s arms, wearing his top hat. “ ’Ere, miss, I’d like to thank you for sav­ing me life.”

“Nonsense,” said Penelope, putting him on the ground. “I only picked you up because I didn’t think you could hop as fast as we could run.”

“And I couldn't ’ave, miss,” said Ethelred earnestly. “ ’Onest, I’d ’ave been a roast Toad if it ’adn’t been for you. Grateful I am, miss, very grateful indeed.”

“Well, let’s get back to H.H.," said Parrot, “and see if he can

make head or tail of this spell. I’m sure I can’t. It’s too confus­ing.”

So, having regained their breath, they made their way back through the crystal tunnels to where H.H., Tabitha, and Dulcibelle anxiously awaited their return.

Weasels and Griffons

“You’re back! You’re back! Thank goodness,” cried H.H. when he saw them. “Were you successful, you brave crea­tures?”

“Highly successful,” chortled Parrot. “Very highly success­ful.”

“And was the model of any use?” asked H.H. eagerly.

“The model was what you might call an electrifying effigy,” said Parrot.

“We’ve got the spell,” said Penelope, handing H.H. her little notebook. “Though whether it will make any sense to you, I don’t know.”

“Well now, well now,” said H.H., adjusting his glasses and sitting down. “Let me just study it a minute.”

They watched him as he read the instructions, his lips mov­ing silently.

“Did you see my eggs?” whispered Tabitha.

“No,” said Penelope, “but we saw that they were very safely locked up.”

“Well,” said Tabitha, sighing. “I suppose that’s something.”

“This is most interesting,” said H.H. at last. “Most curious spell indeed. Now, who would have thought of Weasels as a method of getting rid of Cockatrices?”

“Certainly not I,” said Parrot. “Never thought much of the Weasels—dull, decadent lot, eccentric and effeminate. Before this spell came to light, the only reason for getting them on our side was that there’re a lot of them. How many were there at the last count, H.H.?”

“Seven hundred and seventy-seven,” said H.H.

“Why, if we got them on our side, that would be splendid,” said Peter, his eyes shining.

“Yes; with the Unicorns, surely we’d be strong enough to at­tack?” said Simon.

“Har! har! har!” laughed Parrot. “Har! Har har! Ho ho ho! Pardon me, but the very idea of Weasels fighting , har! har! har!”

“But what’s so funny about it?” asked Penelope. “I mean, there’re seven hundred and seventy-seven of them; surely they’d be of some help. What’s wrong with them?”

“Wrong with them? Why they’re a pack of layabout sissies, that’s what,” said Ethelred. “They’d be as much use in a fight as a bunch of overripe bananas.”

“A vulgar way of putting it,” said Parrot. “But I’m afraid he’s right. The Weasels have as much fight in them as a handful of apple blossoms.”

“However,” said H.H., “we must not overlook the business of the rue. It’s a plant that I’ve had little to do with, but accord­ing to this it seems to make the Weasels become . . . urn . . . um . . .

“Belligerent?” suggested Parrot.

“Just so, belligerent,” said H.H., “enough to attack Cocka­trices. Now if this is true, and one cannot doubt the Great

Books, there must be some reference to it in the History of Weaseldom.”

“But if this rue stuff really does make the Weasels bellig . . . bellig . . . what you said,” said Penelope, “then why don’t we just go and get some and make them eat it, and then join us?” H.H. pulled his spectacles down to the end of his nose and frowned at her.

“That’s all very well, my dear,” he said. “The rue grows only on Werewolf Island, and that is a very long voyage from here, and, moreover, one of the most unsafe and unpleasant bits of Mythologia. There’s no point in going on such a long and dangerous journey to collect the rue unless we are sure that the Weasels will eat it. It says here that it is bitter. I’m sure they wouldn’t like that. Although I suppose I could add sugar.” “Surely the first thing to do is to approach the Weasels,” sug­gested Simon. “If we explained to them how dangerous the Cockatrices are getting, surely they’d help.”

“I very much doubt it,” said Parrot gloomily.

“So do I,” said H.H. “But I suppose it’s worth trying.” “How far away do the Weasels live?” asked Penelope.

“Oh, not very far,” said Parrot, “about five miles away, on a very nice promontory in the Bottle Forest. They call it Weasel­dom, the silly creatures.”

“Well,” said Penelope, “what I suggest is that we all try to get some sleep, and then tomorrow morning we go and see the Chief Weasel or whatever he’s called.”

“Duke Wensleydale,” said Parrot, with a snort. “Stupid ani­mal.”

“Well, Duke Wensleydale, then,” said Penelope. “I’m sure if we talked to him, we could persuade him.”

As no one could think of a better plan, they all went rather gloomily to bed.

Early the next morning the three children set out on their private Unicorns, accompanied by Parrot, who rode on Penelope’s shoulder, and Ethelred, who rode behind Penelope, hold­ing onto her very tightly and trying to pretend he wasn’t afraid. At first they rode through the cork forests; then they came to a most curious type of country. Here the red rocks were heaped up higgledy-piggledy on top of one another in tall, tottering piles, and in between them grew the most extraordinary-look­ing trees, the trunks of which were shaped like long-necked wine bottles.

“Bottle trees,” explained Parrot, when Peter remarked on them. “Another of H.H.’s inventions. The trunks are hollow and water-tight. You just simply choose a bottle the size you want, trim the branches off, and there you are. On the way home you can cut yourself a cork to fit it.”

“I really do think H.H. is extraordinary, the way he thinks of these things,” said Penelope admiringly.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Parrot airily. “Over on the north­east w re’ve got two sorts of box hedges.”

“Two sorts?” asked Simon.

“Yes,” said Parrot, “cardboard and wooden. Just pluck the size you want straight off the hedge. All with lids, of course.” By this time the path had led them onto a promontory high on the hills from which there was a wonderful view over Mythologia, lying misty in the dawn below them, and the great, golden, shining sea with its clusters of islands dotted about as far as the eye could see.

“This is Weaseldom,” said Parrot, with a wave of his wing. “In many ways one of the nicest parts of Mythologia. I keep telling H.H. he ought to build himself a little weekend cottage up here. The Weasels wouldn’t mind.”

They wended their way through the groups of bottle trees and round a great tottering pile of rock. There in front of them, with his back toward them, stood a Weasel sentry, holding a very large, cumbersome-looking spear over his shoulder. He was dressed in a blue velvet uniform with brass buttons, and on his head was a hat with a long, green feather in it.

“Ahoy there!” shouted Parrot. “Ahoy!”

The effect on the Weasel was immediate. He leapt almost his own height in the air, dropped his spear, uttered a piercing shriek, and leant back against the rocks with his eyes closed and a hand to his heart.