Gerald Durrell: The Talking Parcel

“Oh, very well,” said Dulcibelle, retreating to the back of her cage, and starting to powder her nose. “I shall sulk.”

“Sulk,” said Parrot. “Typical of a spider.”

“What’s all this about giving words an airing?” asked Simon. “What does ‘Keeper of the Words’ mean?” asked Peter. “Well,” said Parrot, “it’s quite true, but you mustn’t let it go any further. You see, where we come from, we have three books which govern our lives. They’re talking books, of course, not like your dull, old, everyday books. One is the Great Hook of Spells, another is Hepsibar’s Herbal, and the third is the Giant Dictionary. I was brought up by the Dictionary, so therefore I became Keeper of the Words.”

“And what does that mean?” asked Penelope.

“Ah,” said Parrot. “It’s a very important job, I can tell you. Do you know how many words there are in the English lan­guage?”

“No,” said Penelope.

“Hundreds,” said Peter.

“More like thousands,” said Simon.

“Quite right,” said Parrot. “To be exact, two hundred thou­sand words. Now the average person uses the same words day after day, day in and day out.” Here, his eyes filled with tears, and he pulled out a large, spotted handkerchief from under his wing and blew his beak.

“So,” he went on, his voice shaken with sobs. “What do you think happens to all the words that aren’t used?”

“What happens to them?” asked Penelope, wide-eyed.

“If they’re not looked after and given exercise, they simply fade away and vanish, poor little things,” said Parrot. “That’s my job. Once a year I have to sit down and recite the Dic­tionary, to make sure that all the words get the correct amount of exercise, but during the course of the year I try to use as many as possible because, really, one outing a year is not enough for the little fellows. They get so bored, sitting there between the pages.”

“Time is getting on,” said Dulcibelle suddenly.

“I thought you were sulking,” said Parrot, glaring at her.

“I’ve finished,” said Dulcibelle. “It was a lovely sulk, but time’s getting on.”

“What do you mean, time’s getting on?” said Parrot irritably.

“Well, we don’t want just to sit here all day while you give us lectures on words,” said the spider. “It’s time we were get­ting back. Remember we’ve a lot to do.”

“We have a lot to do; we have a lot to do, I like that,” said Parrot angrily. “All you do all day is sit in your cage and sing and sulk, and it’s left to me to mastermind everything, to make the major decisions, to give that masterly display of courage and cunning . . .”

“I don’t think it’s very cunning to get us both exiled,” inter­rupted Dulcibelle, sniffing. “Not what I would call cunning, anyway.”

“That’s right, that’s right, blame me,” shouted Parrot. “How was I to know they’d attack in the night, eh? How was I to know that the Toads would tie us up in a vulgar brown paper parcel and throw us in the river, eh? You’d think, the way you go on, I’d encouraged the Cockatrices to take over, you . . . you . . . stupid, superannuated, singing spider, you . . .”

“I shall sulk,” screamed Dulcibelle, starting to sob. “I shall sulk for an hour. Our contract does not allow you to insult me more than once a week, and you’ve done it twice today.”

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Parrot, in a harassed tone of voice. “I’m sorry; here, stop sulking, and I’ll give you a blue­bottle pasty when we get back.”

“Promise?” asked Dulcibelle.

“Yes, yes, I promise,” said Parrot irritably.

“You wouldn’t like to make it a bluebottle pasty and a grass­hopper soufflé?” asked Dulcibelle wheedlingly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Parrot shortly.

“Oh, well,” sighed Dulcibelle, and started to powder her nose again, humming softly to herself.

“What’s all this about Toads?” asked Peter, in astonishment. “And Cockatrices,” said Penelope. “What are they?”

“What have they taken over?” asked Simon.

“And why are you exiled?” asked Penelope.

“Quiet,” shouted Parrot, “quiet, quiet, quiet.”

The children sat silent.

“Now,” said Parrot. “Will you first of all please undo the door?”

Hastily Simon took out his penknife, cut the purple string that tied up the door, and then opened it.

“Thank you,” said Parrot, stepping out and climbing on top of the cage.

“Mind you don’t catch a chill out there,” shouted Dulcibelle. “You haven’t got your cloak on.”

Parrot ignored her. He carefully adjusted his skullcap, which had got pushed lopsidedly over one eye during his climb, and surveyed the children.

“Now,” he said at last. “You want to know the answers to all these questions, eh?”

“Yes, please,” said Penelope.

“Can I trust you?” asked Parrot.

“Of course you can,” said Simon indignantly.

“Well, then,” said Parrot. “What I’m about to tell you is a strict secret, understand? Not a word to anyone else.”

The children promised faithfully that everything Parrot told them would go no further, and settled down round the cage to listen.

Train to Mythologia

“Well,” said Parrot, “it was around the year when Hengist Hannibal Junketberry finished his magicianship. Being the seventh son of a seventh son of a seventh son, he had, not unnaturally, finished at the top of his class and received among other honors the Merlin Award.”

“Is that the best you can get?” asked Penelope.

“It means you’re almost as good a magician as Merlin, and he was the best. Now at the time when Hengist Hannibal left the University of Magic with his prize (which consisted of the three books I’ve already mentioned, and a pointed hat and a magic wand), his old teacher begged him to specialize in something and make a name for himself. The country was too full of third-rate magicians, all mumbling the same old spells, and Hengist Hannibal’s teacher thought that—with his talents—he should go far. Well, after some thought, he decided to take up mythological animals, because no one was doing them in those days.”

“What’s a mythological animal?” whispered Peter to Simon.

“An imaginary one, like a sea serpent,” Simon whispered back.

“Very soon,” Parrot went on, “if anyone wanted to know how many toes a dragon had or how long a mermaid’s hair was, they automatically went to Hengist Hannibal Junketberry, as he was the authority on the subject. In fact, a lot of the information in Topsell’s History of Four-footed Beasts came from Junket-berry, but Topsell didn't give him the credit. Professional jealousy—that’s what.” Parrot paused, reached under his wing and took out a tiny gold snuffbox, took a pinch of snuff, and sneezed violently into his spotted handkerchief.

“I told you you'd catch cold without your cloak,” shouted Dulcibelle angrily. “Why don’t you use your common sense?”

Parrot ignored her. “After a few years, however,” he con­tinued, “Hengist Hannibal suddenly found his trade dropping off, if I may put it like that. He found that people were no longer coming to him for a Unicorn’s horn or a phial full of Phoenix ashes against lightning. And the reason for this, he soon discovered, was that people were no longer believing.” Parrot paused and gazed at them sternly.

“I don’t understand,” said Simon, frowning. “If the animals were mythological in the first place, they didn’t exist.”

“Foolish boy,” said Parrot. “They existed when people be­lieved in them.”