Gerald Durrell - The Talking Parcel

“Nasty, ill-mannered, stone-throwing beasts,” said Oswald. He filled his mouth again and spat another jet of water at the Werewolves, who were now in full retreat.

Parrot flew onto Penelope’s shoulder. “Dearest, dearest Penelope,” he said, “how glad I am that you are safe. Quick, into the boat, all of you.”

They scrambled into the dinghy and pushed off. When they were far enough from shore, they called to Oswald, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, chasing the Werewolves up and down the beach and spitting water at them. At length he left the pack drenched, bruised, and angry, and swam out to join the dinghy.

“That will teach them,” he said with satisfaction. “That’ll teach them not to throw stones at strangers.”

“Well,” chortled Parrot as the boys fixed the rope round Oswald’s neck, “we’ve done it, by Jove. Everybody safe, and four sacks of rue. Hows that for a triumphant piece of work?”

“We can stop on the way to get some lavender,” said Peter. “Then—Cockatrices, watch out.”

“Yes,” said Simon, “we’ll show them.”

“Is Oswald going to pull us all the way back?” asked Penel­ope.

“Yes,” said Oswald. “You’re just fortunate that I have noth­ing in the oven at the moment, so a day either way won’t mat­ter.”

“Well, off we go,” said Parrot.

And so Oswald surged ahead and swam toward the rising sun, pulling the dinghy behind him, taking the children on the last stage of their strange adventure.

The Battle for Cockatrice Castle

As soon as the party made their way back to the Crystal Caves with the precious lavender and rue, a period of intense activity began. To begin with, Ethelred and Simon had bril­liant ideas.

Ethelred’s idea was that they should enlist the aid of Oswald and the Mermaids to pull out the great plug at the bottom of the moat of Cockatrice Castle. Everyone was afraid that when the Cockatrices were attacked they might burn up the Great Books out of spite, and without them, H.H. was powerless. But once the water level in the moat had dropped, as Ethelred pointed out, it would expose any number of large drains which led into the dungeon area where the Great Books were kept, and a picked group of creatures could make their way up the drains, overpower the sentries, and guard the Great Books from harm until the Castle was taken. Everyone agreed that this was a splendid plan, and Oswald was despatched to see Miss Williamson-Smythe-Smythe-Browne, to explain the whole thing and ask for help.

Simon’s idea had come to him when watching Fenella. With the aid of some sealing wax and string and a candle flame, the three children had managed to mend the Fire Duckling’s wing which, in a remarkably short space of time, had healed. The boys were having a conference on the best way of besieging Cockatrice Castle, and Fenella was jumping off the back of a chair and practicing flying round the room.

“What we really want is an airplane, so that we can drop people inside the Castle itself,” said Peter.

“What about balloons?” suggested Simon.

“Balloons?” asked Peter. “Where would we get them?” “Make them—Mooncalf jelly.”

“But how would they float?” asked Peter.

“Well,” said Simon, “you know that hot air rises. So why don’t we fill the balloons with hot air?”

“But how?” asked Peter, puzzled.

“Firedrakes,” said Simon. “You know how ho t Fenella is. Well, if we could get, say, twenty Firedrakes inside a balloon it would float, and what’s more I believe they could steer it by flapping their wings and all flying in the right direction.”

The boys made a small experimental balloon, and Fenella, who was eager to help, got into it. To Simon’s delight it worked perfectly, and Fenella could make the balloon fly round and round the room as she wanted. She was so overcome at her achievement that she got an attack of hiccups.

“I did it—hic—didn’t I, Simon—hic?” she said delightedly. “Did you—hic—see me turn at that—hic—corner, Peter?” “You were wonderful,” Peter assured her.

“Now the thing is, how many Firedrakes are there?” asked Simon.

“Oh, hundreds—hic,” said Fenella. “At least —hic—two hun­dred, if not more.”

“Could you get them to join us?” asked Simon.

“I’m sure I could—hic,” said Fenella. “After I tell them how- kind—hic—you’ve been to me, and how important it all is— hic—hic.”

“Well, could you go and ask them to join us here at the Crys­tal Caves?” asked Simon. “Tell them this is going to be our headquarters for the big attack.”

So, Fenella, overjoyed at having a task of such immense im­portance to undertake, flew off, hiccupping, to enlist the aid of the Firedrakes.

Then Parrot and the children paid another visit to Weaseldom, where Wensleydale greeted them warmly. He was having tea on the croquet lawn with Winifred.

“Did you get it, did you get it?” he shrilled, jumping up and down in excitement. “My, I’m so excited. How I wish my lum­bago had not prevented me from coming with you.”

“We got plenty of rue,” said Parrot, “but H.H. is keeping it under lock and key. We don’t want you Weasels getting out of hand like the Cockatrices. So H.H. just made up one big bottle of it.”

“Silly billy,” said Wensleydale, “as if we would get out of hand. You know what quiet, peace-loving creatures we Weasels are.”

“Well, we’re not taking any chances,” said Parrot. “Here’s some rue juice, then. Who’s going to try it? You?”

“Normally, I would be delighted," said Wensleydale, “but— arr, ouch, ooo, I still have a touch of my lumbago, ooooo. I don’t think it would be safe. No, I think it would be better to try it on the under-gardener. He’s a nice lad, but a very bad gardener, so if the stuff did turn out to be—er . . . er . . . well, you know, dangerous in any way, it wouldn’t be such a loss.”

“It’s not dangerous, you ninny,” said Parrot. “Do you think H.H. hasn’t tested it?”

“All the same,” said Wensleydale nervously, “it had better be the under-gardener. He’s so looking forward to it, and I wouldn’t like to disappoint him.”

So the under-gardener, whose name was Wilberforce, was sent for. They stood him in the middle of the croquet lawn for the experiment.

“Now, Wilberforce,” said Parrot, “you understand this stuff is quite harmless, but after you’ve drunk it you’re to tell me if you feel any different, you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Wilberforce, who wore a bowler hat and large horn-rimmed spectacles, had stick-out teeth and a runny nose. “You’re going to drink that stuff, and I’m going to tell you if it makes me feel any better. Thank you, sir.”

“You see what I mean,” said Wensleydale in despair. “Only the other day he pulled up all my daffodil bulbs and took them round to the kitchen, because he thought they were potatoes.” “You haven’t got it quite right,” said Parrot. “You, Wilber­force, are going to drink this, and then you, Wilberforce, will tell me if you feel better. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes, sir,” said Wilberforce.

He took the bottle and gulped down a swig of it.

“It’s a very curious name—Wilberforce,” whispered Peter to Simon, as they waited for something to happen.

“Very odd,” Simon agreed.

Wilberforce stood there, blinking through his spectacles, and they all watched him. For over five minutes he appeared to be exactly the same, and their hearts sank; had they been to so much trouble and danger for nothing?

“How do you feel?” asked Parrot.