The Ogre of Oglefort

“A ghost train!” said the wizard. “Who would have thought it?”

Ivo felt a chill run through him; he’d never seen ghosts before.

The train moved off. The ogre-slayers waited in eerie silence.

After a few minutes the ghost train reappeared; the same dark specters sat staring at the ground. They were on a circle line, doomed to go around and around forever.

Once again the ghost train vanished into the tunnel; once again the slayers waited. Then for the third time they heard the noise of a train, but this one did not only slow down, it stopped, and a disembodied voice said, “Enter.”

It took a lot of courage to get into the train. The seats were ripped and covered in harpy feathers; rats scuttled about on the floor.

The doors shut. The train began to move.

They went through a number of stations. On one, the sign said RIVER STYX. Another said MEDUSA’S LAIR. It looked as though the Underworld had taken over the underground.

Then the train slowed down, stopped. The doors slid back and the poor slayers, frightened and bewildered, got out.

The wall behind the station had collapsed; it was probably near here that the bomb had fallen, because they were in a kind of hollow cave.

The smell was vile; harpies roosted on the ledges; water dripped from the roof.

But on a platform in the center of the cave was something familiar: the great bed of the Norns—and all three of the Old Ones were in it, leaning against the pillows.

For a moment the Norns stared with their bleary eyes at the group of people coming toward them. Then they shook their heads. They had forgotten how bad it was.

There was a pause, and because it looked as though the Norns might drop off to sleep, the troll said, “You have orders for us?”

The Norns sat up. “Orders,” they agreed.

“And gifts.”

They clapped their hands and one of their attendants came forward carrying a leather pouch full of black beans. Beans are often magical, and these were very magical indeed, because they enabled the person who had eaten one to understand the speech of anyone they were talking to, whether it was a human or an animal.

The slayers thanked them and the Hag put the pouch carefully in her handbag.

The second gift was a ketchup bottle filled with a yellowish liquid.

“Foot water,” said the First Norn.

“Water in which feet have been washed,” said the Second Norn.

“Feet of heroes,” said the Third Norn.

The wizard took it and asked shyly what the foot water was for.

“Wounds,” said the First Norn.

“Heals wounds,” agreed the Second.

“Usually,” said the Third.

But gifts from people who deal in magic nearly always come in threes, and now the Norns clapped their hands and one of the attendants came forward carrying a rusty sword.

The Norns had ordered it when they realized that not one of the slayers had a proper weapon.

“For plunging,” said the First Norn.

“Or thrusting,” said the Second.

“Or stabbing,” said the Third.

“Into neck of ogre,” said the First Norn.

“Or stomach,” said the Second.

“Or chest,” said the Third.

The attendant continued to hold out the sword, but no one moved. The troll was strong and brave, but he worked with wood, not rusty metal. The wizard thought that the sword looked heavy, and carrying it would make it difficult for him to think. Then Ivo stepped forward and held out his arms, and the attendant laid the sword across them.

The Norns were very tired now. Their heads kept falling forward on their skinny necks and they shook themselves awake. Then they beckoned once again, and another of their attendants came with a small packet.

“Open later,” whispered the First Norn.

“At home,” croaked the Second.

And a few moments later, the cave resounded with their snores.

The packet, when it was opened in the kitchen at Whipple Road, did not contain a phoenix or a dragon’s egg. It was a pleasantly ordinary parcel. Inside was a large map of the island of Ostland surrounded by ocean. A rocky bay on the northern tip of the island was marked with a black arrow.

There was also a page of instructions for the journey—and four envelopes. Each envelope had on it the name of the person who was to travel. One said HILDA GARBUTTLE, which was the official name of the Hag. One said ULF OAKROOT; and one was made out to BRIAN BRAINSWELLER. Inside each of the envelopes was a train ticket to Rylance on Sea and a boat ticket from there to Osterhaven, the most northern port on the island.

“There’s an extra envelope,” said the Hag.

The troll picked it up. Quite clearly it was labeled IVO BELL.

“Oh but he mustn’t come,” began the Hag. “He absolutely mustn’t be allowed to run into danger. I’ll rub out his name—we can get the money back perhaps?”

She found an eraser—but as soon as she started to remove Ivo’s name, the letters came back again, as clear as day.

“Better not meddle with the arrangements, Hilda,” said the troll. “Who knows, they must have seen something in the boy.”