Joe Jefferson was rudely awakened from a deep sleep by a loud crash. He rolled over, but kept his eyes clamped tightly shut. He listened intently.

There were various sounds to be heard. A clock ticking. Plates clattering. Someone in another room humming tunelessly . . .

Joe’s heartbeat quickened. Could that be his bedroom clock ticking? Was it his mum preparing breakfast he could hear? Was that his dad humming in the shower?

Dare he open his eyes to see?

Slowly, he opened his left eye a fraction. The room was dark, its contents indistinct. So far so good. Was he back in his own bedroom once more, after what must have been the weirdest dream of his life?

His eyes snapped open.

No, he was not! He was in a hammock on a houseboat on a floating lake. What was left of his so-called warrior-hero outfit – saucepan lid, welly and a sackcloth cloak with a fake-fur trim – was lying about him, waiting for him to get dressed.

‘Damn and blast!’ he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. ‘I’m still here in Muddle Earth.’

‘And good morning to you, too, I’m sure,’ said Veronica huffily.

Joe turned to the budgie perched on the knotted cords at the foot of his hammock. He noticed her feathers were looking damp and dishevelled.

‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just thought . . . hoped . . .’ His eyes misted over. ‘Dreamed . . .’

‘Ah, dreams,’ said Veronica understandingly. ‘I dream of a nice little cage. Nothing fancy. A little mirror, some birdseed, perhaps a little bell to tinkle if I get bored. But I have to make do with this houseboat and Randalf the so-called Wise. Randalf the Mean, more like it. A little mirror. I mean, is that too much to ask? Well, is it?’

Just then the door opened, and a short, portly individual with thick white hair and a pointy wizard’s hat walked in. It was Randalf the Wise. Joe’s dog, Henry, was by his side, dripping wet. The moment he saw Joe, he bounded across the room, jumped up at the hammock and began licking Joe all over his face.

‘Morning, Joe,’ said Randalf. ‘I’ve just taken Henry for his early morning swim.’ He patted his round stomach. ‘Nothing like an early morning swim to set you up for the day.’

‘Next time, wake me up before you dive in,’ said Veronica peevishly, shaking water from her feathers.

‘Ah, there you are, Veronica,’ said Randalf brightly. ‘Forgot you were on my head. Sorry about that.’

‘This wouldn’t happen if I had a nice cage, like a normal budgie,’ said Veronica. ‘And a little mirror, perhaps a bell if I got bored . . .’

‘You’re not still going on about that, are you?’ said Randalf. ‘I’ve told you before, cages are for canaries. You’re my familiar. Your place is here, where I can keep an eye on you.’ He patted the top of his head. Veronica fluttered over and landed on it.

‘Dreams,’ she said, with a sigh.

CRASH!

It was the noise that had first woken Joe, only louder. And it was followed immediately by the sound of the door at the far end of the room slamming back against the wall. A massive, knobbly ogre hurtled in, a heavy frying pan clutched in one great fist.

‘Norbert!’ Randalf shouted. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘That elf, sir!’ Norbert blustered. ‘It’s been at the snuggle-muffins.’

As Joe turned, he caught sight of something small and plump scurrying across the floor. The next instant, the frying pan crashed down heavily behind it, missing the elf by a fraction. The houseboat rocked and swayed.

‘And stay out of my kitchen!’ Norbert cried.

The elf skidded to a halt, and darted back between Norbert’s legs. Norbert watched it going, his head getting lower and lower – until he collapsed in a heap.

The houseboat pitched about violently.

‘Be careful, Norbert!’ said Randalf. ‘You don’t want to capsize the boat.’

‘Again,’ added Veronica tartly.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Norbert, as he climbed to his feet.

The elf made a dash for the clock on the wall. ‘Half-past morning!’ it shouted cheerily as it shimmied up the pendulum and disappeared through a small door above the clock face.

‘Time for some breakfast,’ said Randalf.

‘Squashed tadpoles! My favourite,’ said Norbert, examining the contents of Randalf’s dripping hat. ‘They’re delicious frittered.’

‘Ugh,’ Joe shuddered.

‘An acquired taste,’ said Randalf nodding. ‘And stiltmice are pretty tasty, too . . .’

‘Tadpoles, stiltmice,’ said Joe, shaking his head with disgust. ‘When my mum makes fritters she uses pineapples, or bananas . . .’ His face dropped. His lower lip quivered.

‘Joe,’ said Randalf, looking concerned. ‘If these fritters mean so much to you, then perhaps . . . this evening . . .’

‘It’s not the fritters!’ Joe shouted. ‘It’s my mum. And my dad. And the twins – and even Ella. I miss all of them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I want to go home.’

Randalf clapped his hand on to Joe’s shoulder. ‘Believe me, my boy, there’s nothing I’d like better than to send you home. I’ve been racking brains for a solution, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t give up hope, Joe. I’ll give the matter my full attention later. Something will turn up. I just know it will.’

Joe hung his head. He had no idea how long he’d been in Muddle Earth. Since the length of the days and nights never seemed to be the same from one day to the next, it was impossible to tell. All he knew was that Randalf had said the same thing on a dozen occasions before. Something will turn up. But would it? Why should this time be any different from all the others? He was about to say as much when he heard a weak knock at the door.

Randalf sat down at the small table. ‘Bring on the fritters, Norbert, old fellow,’ he said. ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat a pink stinky hog!’

‘Wasn’t that the door?’ said Joe.

Norbert frowned and scratched his head. ‘It still is,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Randalf.

‘Neither did I,’ said Veronica.

There was a second knock, even feebler than the one before – followed by a squeaky little sneeze.

‘Atish-ii!’

‘You’re right,’ said Randalf. ‘Wonderful hearing my boy – warrior-hero hearing, one might say. Get the door, there’s a good chap, Norbert,’ said Randalf.

Norbert hesitated. ‘You mean it is a door,’ he said. ‘For a moment, I wasn’t sure . . .’

‘Of course it’s a door,’ said Randalf.

The third knock was followed by a second sneeze and a long, weary groan.

‘Just, open it, Norbert!’ said Randalf. ‘Now.’

Norbert strode back across the room and pulled the door open. And there – silhouetted against the low sun – was a short, bony creature, dripping with water from head to foot and standing in a pool of his own making. The peaked cap he was wearing bore the insignia E.M.

He pulled a soggy envelope from the inside of his saturated mailbag and held it up.

‘Imp . . . atish-ii. Import . . . atish-ii. Important . . . atish- ii! atish-ii! atish-ii!’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrung it as dry as he could, and blew his nose upon it. ‘Of all the stupid places to live,’ he complained, ‘you lot had to choose the middle of a floating lake. Have you any idea how long it’s taken me to swim up that waterfall? I mean, I’m not one to complain—’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Randalf sharply. ‘Now hand over the envelope.’

‘Not to you,’ said elf.

‘And why not, pray?’ said Randalf, affronted.

‘Because you’re not the person named on this enve- lope,’ the post-elf told him. ‘The directors of Elf Mail take a very dim view of letters, cards, parcels or packages being handed over to the wrong person.’

‘But if you’ve come to the right address, it must be for me,’ said Randalf. ‘Unless it’s for Norbert here. Or Veronica.’

The post-elf looked from one to the other, before shaking his head. And for a foolish moment, Joe wondered whether it might be for him.

‘Who is it for, then?’ Randalf demanded.

The elf looked down. ‘Grand Wizard . . .’

‘Well, that certainly rules you out, Randalf,’ Veronica muttered.

‘Shut up, Veronica’ said Randalf.

‘Grand Wizard, Roger the Wrinkled,’ the elf announced. ‘And you,’ he said, pointing accusingly at Randalf, ‘are not wrinkled. Roger the Fat, maybe, but not Roger the Wrinkled. Besides,’ he added, ‘the canary called you Randalf.’

‘The canary!’ Veronica squawked. ‘How dare you!’

Randalf drew himself up to his full height. ‘I am Randalf the Wise,’ he announced, ‘personal assistant to Grand Wizard, Roger the Wrinkled who, while away on . . . on vacation, has left me in charge.’ He plucked the envelope from the elf’s hand. ‘I am authorized to deal with all his correspondence.’

The elf made a grab for the letter, but Randalf was quicker and hid it behind his back. The elf looked close to tears.

‘I’ll get into trouble,’ he said. ‘They’ll take away my peaked cap and badge.’

‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ Randalf reassured him. ‘It will be our little secret.’

‘What about the canary?’ asked the elf suspiciously. ‘Can it be trusted?’

‘You’ve just delivered your last letter, postie,’ Veronica muttered.

‘Her beak shall remain sealed,’ said Randalf. ‘Trust me, I’m a wizard. Now, off you go.’ He turned to the ogre. ‘Norbert, show the elf the door.’

Norbert pointed to the door. ‘That’s the door,’ he said.

With the post-elf gone, Randalf scanned the envelope. ‘An elegant, noble hand,’ he said of the writing. He raised it to his nose and breathed in deeply. ‘And with, if I’m not very much mistaken, the faintest scent of rose petals . . . I wonder who it could be from? A sorceress, perhaps? Or a princess?’

‘Why don’t you open it and see?’ said Veronica.

‘Because, my impatient feathered friend, half the pleasure of receiving an envelope is wondering what it might contain,’ said Randalf. ‘At the moment, it could be anything.’ He pushed his finger into the fold of the envelope and tore along the top. ‘A love letter, a cheque, notification of some great success . . .’

‘Or a final demand for payment,’ Veronica noted.

‘We shall see,’ said Randalf. He reached inside the envelope. His finger and thumb closed around a large pink and white card. ‘Ah, the thrill of anticipation!’

He pulled the card out and scanned it quickly. His eyebrows shot up.

‘Well?’ said Veronica. ‘Good news or bad news?’

‘It is an invitation,’ said Randalf.

‘Good news, then,’ said Veronica.

‘From the Horned Baron and his lady wife . . .’

Veronica groaned. ‘Spoke too soon.’

‘Read it out, sir,’ said Norbert.

Randalf nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Dear Roger the Wrinkled . . .’

‘I don’t know,’ Veronica grumbled. ‘Reading other people’s letters. It’s disgraceful.’

‘Shut up, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes. The Horned Baron, Lord of Muddle Earth, Emperor of the Far Reaches and Monarch of the Glen; beloved, munificent, bountiful, much-loved, fair-minded ruler of . . .’

‘Get on with it,’ said Veronica.

Randalf frowned, and continued reading. ‘. . . and his beautiful wife, Ingrid . . . blah blah blah . . . Ah, here we go,’ he said. ‘. . . do cordially invite Roger the Wrinkled and his fellow wizards to a Garden Party, to be held in the well-maintained, spacious, luxuriant grounds of their beautiful ancestral castle. (Turn left at the Musty Mountains and follow your nose) . . .’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Veronica impatiently. ‘We all know where his castle is. But when is this garden party?’

‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Randalf. He returned his attention to the invitation. ‘I . . . errm . . . Oh, Great Moons of Muddle Earth! It’s today! At two o’clock this afternoon! And they want a wizard, preferably Roger the Wrinkled, to open it.’

‘They’ll be disappointed, then,’ said Veronica. She snorted. ‘Garden party, indeed! Have you seen the state of the Horned Baron’s garden? Why anyone in their right mind would want to have a party in it beats me . . .’

‘You’re missing the point, Veronica,’ said Randalf. ‘The fee for a wizard cutting the ribbon and saying a few words at the opening of a regal garden party is three gold pieces and as much blancmange as you can eat. I’m down to my last brass muckle,’ he added woefully. ‘I can’t afford to miss such an opportunity . . .’

‘But how will we get there?’ Veronica persisted. ‘You said it starts at two o’clock.’

‘Quarter to afternoon!’ chimed the clock-elf, putting his head out of the door.

‘We do what we always do when we need to get somewhere really, really quickly,’ Randalf replied.

Norbert paled. ‘Not the winged boots . . .’

‘There’s no other choice,’ said Randalf firmly.

Joe turned to Norbert. ‘The what?’ he said.

‘Remember what happened last time,’ said Veronica with a shudder. ‘Some wizards never learn.’

Randalf clapped his hands together urgently. ‘Chop-chop, everyone,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

‘But what about me?’ said Joe.

Randalf smiled. ‘There’s always room on Norbert’s shoulders for a warrior-hero, my lad,’ he said. Henry barked and wagged his tail. ‘Yes, and for his faithful battle-hound.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Joe. ‘You promised to help me get home. I’ll give the matter my full attention, you said.’

‘Later,’ said Randalf. ‘I said I’d do it later. And I shall.’

‘But when?’ said Joe.

‘We’ll find a way,’ he said, cheerily. ‘But for now . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Duty calls. My hands are tied.’

The elf leaped out of the clock. ‘You’ll never make it,’ it laughed. ‘You’ll be late, late, late!’ it said, and collapsed in a fit of hysterical giggles.

‘Too cheerful by half, that clock,’ muttered Veronica. ‘It needs to be wound up.’

‘You’re right,’ said Randalf. ‘I’ll do it now.’ He turned to the clock. ‘You’re a pathetic, miserable excuse for a timepiece, what are you?’

The furious elf grimaced. ‘Are you talking to me?’ it demanded in its most threatening voice. ‘Are you talking to me?’

‘There,’ said Randalf, ‘I’ve wound it up. Now let’s get going. There isn’t a moment to lose.’

As the sun rose in the sky, the tiny teaspoon picked its way, slowly and carefully, from tussock to scented tussock, sighing as it went. Drawn on by a strange force, the teaspoon had left Trollbridge and travelled down the dusty Ogrehill road, before turning off into the Perfumed Bog.

Pausing for a moment on top of a particularly highly perfumed tussock, the tiny teaspoon turned its bowl, as if to listen. From somewhere to its left there came a wheezing, squelchy-squelchy noise.

It was closer than before. The teaspoon sighed, trembled and leaped to the next tussock.

And the next.

And the next.

In front of it, something glinted and twinkled in the long grass. The spoon kept on, picking itself up when it fell, refusing to give up. The glinting and twinkling grew brighter.

All at once the grass parted and there, crouching down in the perfumed sludge, was an exploding gas frog – and an enormous one at that. It winked one bulbous eye, then the other. It shifted forwards on its massive forelegs, ready to strike. The warts all over its purple skin throbbed ominously.

The teaspoon slipped as it landed, then picked itself up once again. ‘Ah,’ it sighed.

The exploding gas frog reared up. Its warty lips parted and a long, thick, sticky tongue flashed through the air and wrapped itself around the tiny teaspoon.

As it disappeared inside the dark, fetid moistness of the gas frog’s greedily waiting mouth, the teaspoon let out a last, lingering sigh.

Aaaaa . . .’

The gas frog snapped its jaws shut, swallowed and grinned contentedly. It turned lazily around, and was just about to hop off back to the ooziest part of the bog where it could digest its meal undisturbed, when something started to happen.

First, a low gurgling noise came from the pit of the gas frog’s stomach. Then its warty skin began changing colour – from purple to red to green to orange. Its grin became a grimace.

‘Gribbit,’ it croaked in alarm. ‘Gribbit. Gribbit. . .’

It tried jumping up and down on the spot, it tried beating itself on the back, it tried falling heavily to the ground – but all to no avail. The teaspoon was stuck fast.

The gas frog rolled about helplessly. Its eyes bulged, its tongue lolled, its limbs stuck out rigid and useless. It shuddered and juddered, unable even to croak, and swelled to an immense size. The skin was stretched so taut and so thin that at any moment . . .

BANG!

The sound of the gas frog exploding echoed all round the Perfumed Bog, causing slimy bog demons to dive for cover and pink stinky hogs to break wind. It was deafening. And, when the remains of the hapless gas frog finally fluttered back to earth, also rather messy.

Flying high above the Perfumed Bog in a great, wide arc, the tiny spoon sighed.