Gerald Durrell: The Talking Parcel

The Talking Parcel

by Gerald Durrell

Illustrated by Pamela Johnson

The big brown paper parcel that washes up on the beach seems perfectly ordinary—that is, until it begins to speak and sing, and not in one voice but two! And the talking parcel is only the beginning of the amazing adventure of discovery that takes Penelope, Peter, and Simon from modern Greece to Mythologia—where flowers never die, where there are four different sunsets every day, and where all the famous (and infamous) mythological animals now live, ruled by absent-minded magician H. H. Junketberry.

Mythologia is in turmoil, for the gruesome, fire­breathing Cockatrices are trying to enslave all the other animals. In their urgent quest for a way to save Mythologia, the three cousins journey all over the magical countryside meeting such leg­endary beasts as the beautiful Unicorns, the fiery Phoenixes, the fearsome Werewolves, and a hard- of-hearing Sea Serpent who likes to cook.

In The Talking Parcel , his first fantasy for young people, renowned author and naturalist Gerald Durrell has created a world of surprising twists and turns that is like no other yet discovered.

THE TALKING

PARCEL

by Gerald Durrell

Illustrated by Pamela Johnson

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

Philadelphia and New York

Text copyright © 1974 by Gerald Durrell

Illustrations copyright © 1975 by J. B. Lippincott Company

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

First American Edition

U.S. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Durrell, Gerald Malcolm, birth date The talking parcel.

SUMMARY: Three children travel to the land of mythical animals and try to save it from the evil Cockatrices.

[1. Fantasy] I. Johnson, Pamela, ill. II. Title.

PZ7.D9343 Tal3 [ Fic] 74-23367 ISBN-0-397-31608-9

This book is for my Goddaughter

Deirdre Alexandra Platt

Dear Deirdre ,

Here is the book that I promised you, and I hope you will enjoy it.

It is no good your asking me the next time we meet whether it is all true , because I have been sworn to secrecy. But I can give you some hints.

For example , I can tell you that Parrot's cousin in India was a very real bird and not only traveled in Rolls Royces but had an International Passport as well. If at some time in the future you are in Greece , you will find Madame Hortense sitting on a siding exactly as I have described , and you will be able to take a diesel train up the valley to the very entrance of Mythologia. Finally , if you look in a book called The History of Four-footed Beasts by Edward Topsell , you will find that weasels were , in fact , the cure for Cockatrices.

As all these are true , how could you possibly disbelieve the rest?

Your loving Godfather ,

Gerry

The Talking Parcel

When Simon and Peter landed at Athens to stay with their cousin Penelope, and the doors of the plane were opened, the heat hit them like a warm wave from an oven, and the brilliant sunshine made them screw up their eyes. After the generally soggy and gray weather they were used to in England, it was simply splendid, and the boys stretched and blinked with half-closed eyes, like cats in front of a fire, listening entranced to the crackle and pop of the Greek language being spoken all round them.

At first sight, their Uncle Henry, who had come to meet them, was a bit of a shock. He was rather large, like a big, brown eagle, with a swooping nose and a mane of white hair and enormous hands which he waved about incessantly. They wondered how on earth anyone who looked like Uncle Henry could be the father of someone as pretty as Penelope, for she was very slender, with huge, green eyes and chestnut-colored hair.

“Ah,” said Uncle Henry, glaring at them ferociously, “so you’ve arrived, eh? Good, good. Glad to see you. Glad to see that you’re a little less repulsive than you were when I last saw you—just after you were born. You looked like a couple of baby white mice, all pink and horrible.”

“Daddy,” said Penelope, “don’t be rude.”

“Rude, rude?” said Uncle Henry. “I’m not being rude, just telling them.”

“Is that your luggage over there?” asked Penelope.

“Yes,” said Peter, “those two cases and the boat.”

“Boat?” said Uncle Henry. “What boat?”

“It’s a collapsible dinghy,” Simon explained. “Dad bought it for us.”

“What a very sensible thing to bring,” said Uncle Henry. “How very intelligent of you both.”

The boys glowed with pleasure and decided that perhaps Uncle Henry was not so bad, after all.

When they had collected their luggage, they piled it into the trunk of Uncle Henry’s big, open car, and then they drove off in the hot sunshine through a landscape that soon became dot­ted with silvery olive trees and dark green cypress trees stand­ing like spear blades against the blue sky.

Uncle Henry’s villa was a large, rambling house, set in the hills above the blue sea, and its wide verandas were shaded by vines heavy with the biggest bunches of grapes the boys had ever seen. The house had white walls and huge, green shutters which, when half closed, turned the rooms cool, dim, and as green as an aquarium. The boys’ room was enormous, with a tiled floor and a french window leading out onto the vine- covered veranda.

“Wow,” said Peter appreciatively, “I’ll be able to pluck a bunch of grapes every morning before breakfast.”

“And there are oranges and tangerines and figs in the garden,” said Penelope, “and watermelons, apricots, and peaches.” She was sitting on one of the beds, watching them unpack.

“I can’t really believe we are here yet,” said Simon.

“Neither can I,” said Peter, “except that it’s so hot, so it must be real.”

Penelope laughed. “It gets much hotter than this.”

“Swimming, that’s the answer,” said Peter.

“That’s what I thought we’d do this afternoon,” said Penel­ope. “After lunch. There’s a huge beach just below us here, and it’s marvelous swimming.”

“And we can launch the dinghy,” said Simon.

“Wonderful,” said Peter. “We’ll go on a voyage of discovery".

So, when they’d finished a delicious lunch, the three children changed into their bathing suits, took the dinghy and its pump, and made their way down the stony hillside, which smelt deli­ciously of thyme and myrtle, to the great dazzling white beach that stretched away in each direction as far as the eye could see. The blue waters were as still as a lake and as transparent as glass.

It was hot work pumping up the dinghy, and the children had to keep stopping to have a cooling dip in the sea before con­tinuing. But at last it was pumped up, and it floated fatly in the shallow water, like a plump blue cloud. They scrambled aboard, taking with them the essentials of travel that Penelope had insisted they bring: a large beach umbrella and a bag con­taining some bottles of lemonade. Then, with Simon and Peter rowing and Penelope steering, they set off down the coast.

The sun beat down on them, and from the shore they could hear the faint zithering cries of the cicadas in the olive trees. After they had progressed a quarter of a mile or so the boys paused in their rowing and wiped the sweat from their faces.

“It’s jolly hot work,” said Peter.

“Yes,” agreed Simon. “I’m simply roasting.”

“Perhaps we’ve gone far enough,” said Penelope. “After all, it is your first day and it is hot. Why don’t we make camp some­where?”