The Ickabog(12)

“Well, there’s one comfort, at least,” Spittleworth whispered back. “He’ll have to rough it like the rest of us, and we’ll see how much he likes it.”

They rode on through the afternoon and at last, as the sun began to sink, they caught sight of the marsh where the Ickabog was supposed to live: a wide stretch of darkness studded with strange rock formations.

“Your Majesty!” called Major Beamish. “I suggest we set up camp now and explore the marsh in the morning! As Your Majesty knows, the marsh can be treacherous! Fogs come suddenly here. We’d do best to approach it by daylight.”

“Nonsense!” said Fred, who was bouncing up and down in his saddle like an excited schoolboy. “We can’t stop now, when it’s in sight, Beamish!”

The king had given his order, so the party rode on until, at last, when the moon had risen and was sliding in and out behind inky clouds, they reached the edge of the marsh. It was the eeriest place any of them had ever seen, wild and empty and desolate. A chilly breeze made the rushes whisper, but otherwise it was dead and silent.

“As you see, sire,” said Lord Spittleworth after a while, “the ground is very boggy. Sheep and men alike would be sucked under if they wandered out too far. Then, the feeble-minded might take these giant rocks and boulders for monsters in the dark. The rustling of these weeds might even be taken for the hissing of some creature.”

“Yes, true, very true,” said King Fred, but his eyes still roamed over the dark marsh, as though he expected the Ickabog to pop up from behind a rock.

“Shall we pitch camp then, sire?” asked Lord Flapoon, who’d saved some cold pies from Baronstown and was eager for his supper.

“We can’t expect to find even an imaginary monster in the dark,” pointed out Spittleworth.

“True, true,” repeated King Fred regretfully. “Let us — good gracious, how foggy it has become!”

And sure enough, as they’d stood looking out across the marsh, a thick white fog had rolled over them so swiftly and silently that none of them had noticed it.





Not having had any lunch, the king decided to stop in Kurdsburg to eat a late dinner.

By Olivia, Age 10





Within seconds, it was as though each of the king’s party was wearing a thick white blindfold. The fog was so dense they couldn’t see their own hands in front of their faces. The mist smelled of the foul marsh, of brackish water and ooze. The soft ground seemed to shift beneath their feet as many of the men turned unwisely on the spot. Trying to catch sight of one another, they lost all sense of direction. Each man felt adrift in a blinding white sea, and Major Beamish was one of the few to keep his head.

“Have a care!” he called. “The ground is treacherous. Stay still, don’t attempt to move!”

But King Fred, who was suddenly feeling rather scared, paid no attention. He set off at once in what he thought was the direction of Major Beamish, but within a few steps he felt himself sinking into the icy marsh.

“Help!” he cried, as the freezing marsh water flooded over the tops of his shining boots. “Help! Beamish, where are you? I’m sinking!”

There was an immediate clamor of panicked voices and jangling armor. The guards all hurried off in every direction, trying to find the king, bumping into one another and slipping over, but the floundering king’s voice drowned out every other.

“I’ve lost my boots! Why doesn’t somebody help me? Where are you all?”

The lords Spittleworth and Flapoon were the only two people who’d followed Beamish’s advice and remained quite still in the places they’d occupied when the fog had rolled over them. Spittleworth was clutching a fold of Flapoon’s ample pantaloons and Flapoon was holding tight to the skirt of Spittleworth’s riding coat. Neither of them made the smallest attempt to help Fred, but waited, shivering, for calm to be restored.

“At least if the fool gets swallowed by the bog, we’ll be able to go home,” Spittleworth muttered to Flapoon.

The confusion deepened. Several of the Royal Guard had become stuck in the bog as they tried to find the king. The air was full of squelches, clanks, and shouts. Major Beamish was bellowing in a vain attempt to restore some kind of order, and the king’s voice seemed to be receding into the blind night, becoming ever fainter, as though he were blundering away from them.

And then, out of the heart of the darkness, came an awful terror-struck shriek.

“BEAMISH, HELP ME, I CAN SEE THE MONSTER!”

“I’m coming, Your Majesty!” cried Major Beamish. “Keep shouting, sire, I’ll find you!”

“HELP! HELP ME, BEAMISH!” shouted King Fred.

“What’s happened to the idiot?” Flapoon asked Spittleworth, but before Spittleworth could answer, the fog around the two lords thinned as quickly as it had arrived, so that they stood together in a little clearing, able to see each other, but still surrounded on all sides by high walls of thick white mist. The voices of the king, of Beamish, and of the other soldiers were becoming fainter and fainter.

“Don’t move yet,” Spittleworth cautioned Flapoon. “Once the fog thins a little bit more, we’ll be able to find the horses and we can retreat to a safe —”

At that precise moment, a slimy black figure burst out of the wall of fog and launched itself at the two lords. Flapoon let out a high-pitched scream and Spittleworth lashed out at the creature, missing it only because it flopped to the ground, weeping. It was then that Spittleworth realized the gibbering, panting slime monster was, in fact, King Fred the Fearless.