The Ogre of Oglefort

“Come any closer and I’ll blister the skin off your backsides!” he roared.

“I’ve run out of boulders,” said the troll—and then he heard above him Nandi’s quiet voice and saw that the aye-aye, in spite of her terror of men, was on the roof above him prying off the razor-sharp slates, which she handed to him so that he could send them flying like knives through the ranks.

But the army stood its ground, and the arrows came steadily.

Ivo was standing between the Hag and the wizard. He had thrown a footstool, a bedpan, and a set of fire irons. His aim had been good, but what use was that? Mirella’s white face and her look of terror when she heard that her father’s army was coming wouldn’t leave him.

“Isn’t there any magic you can do?” he begged the Hag. “Anything at all?”

The Hag turned, still holding the soup tureen she had been about to throw.

She saw Ivo’s pleading face and remembered the time she had told him about Gladys’s treachery.

“I could be your familiar,” he had said. And later: “Familiars serve for life.”

And what sort of an employer had she been, what sort of a witch?

The Hag, in the midst of the battle, examined her soul. Just because no one seemed to want magic anymore, just because she was content to sit in the Dribble soaking her feet, she had let it go.

Ivo said no more. He only looked.

But could she in fact do any serious magic? Wasn’t her power all gone? Yet Ivo believed in her; she could feel his trust streaming toward her. On her other side, Dr. Brainsweller was muttering something. It sounded like a spell. Was he trying to prompt her? Yes, he was. . . .

The Hag threw the soup tureen, closed her eyes, called on the Great Witch of the Nether Regions—and began to mutter.

And down below the soldiers started to bat away something with their arms, to make noises of disgust. One tore off his helmet to try and squash a thing which had appeared on his horse’s neck. There were cries of “Ugh,” and “Disgusting,” and “Horrible, slimy things.”

There is nothing terrible in itself about frogs. One or two at a time can be pleasant to have about—but a whole host of them is different: frogs on the saddles, frogs in the arrow pouches, frogs on one’s face—that is different. They got into the horses’ ears and were squashed under the horses’ hoofs and slid down the necks of the riders—and as the soldiers looked upward, they landed in their mouths.

“It’s a very common spell,” said the Hag modestly, “a Plague of Frogs—but it can be useful. This one came off well, I must admit.”

Mirella was still trying to climb out of the moat, and two men, batting away the frogs, had begun to chop down the tree which was to make a bridge across the water. The marksmen, making noises of disgust as their hands encountered the slimy amphibians, went on firing.

Up on the ramparts, the wizard spoke a single word—and the Hag nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I can do those.”

Nothing happened at first—then the men who were chopping down the tree put down their axes.

“There’s something on your nose,” said one.

“And there’s something on your nose,” said the other.

They began to finger their faces, to make noises of disgust. The warts were enormous, with tufts of hair on them, and wobbly dark skin.

Shrieking with fear, they ran back to the rest of the army. Everybody was touching their noses now, looking at their reflections in the polished harness, pointing at each other.

All the soldiers were upset, but Prince Umberto, still at the back of the troop astride his charger, was almost out of his mind.

“What will my tailor say, and my hairdresser?” he squealed.

“There’s witchcraft about,” said Prince Tomas.

Prince Phillipe agreed, but they had sworn to slay the ogre and bring back the princess, and once again both princes gave the signal to fire.

“Ow!” said Ulf—and put his hand to his shoulder.

It came away streaked with blood, but when the others rushed forward to help him he pushed them away.

“It’s only a scratch,” he said. “Trolls don’t feel pain.” And he called up to Nandi for more tiles.

But the Hag was very upset. She and the troll had been friends for a long time. She took a deep breath and turned to Ivo. “The one I’m going to do now is a nasty one—very physiological. Are you all right with that?” and Ivo said, “Oh yes! Please.”

The Hag muttered again—and down below the soldiers, ignoring the frogs and the warts, began to scratch themselves. They scratched their armpits and their heads and behind their knees. They tore off their doublets to get to their skin. They howled and twitched and cried out as their bodies turned into a fiery hell.

There are ordinary itches—itches you get from mosquito bites and sunburn. There are serious itches you get from eczema and chilblains and scabies. But the Great Itch, which the Hag had unloosed, was like none of these! After a few hours of the Great Itch, men are ready to leap into the sea and drown.

The ogre threw a kitchen table. Soon there would be no furniture left in the castle.