The sun shone down bright and warm on Muddle Earth; its mountains and forests; its roads, bridges and towns – and on the Enchanted Lake, which rose up into the air like a vast, watery toadstool.

Sunlight shone through the transparent column of water, casting a rainbow-coloured shadow across the bubbling Perfumed Bog. Dazzled and confused by the bright light, a large silver fish swam too near to the bottom of the hovering lake, fell out of the water and down into the gaping beak of a waiting lazybird crouched beneath.

Flop, plop . . . Gulp!

Far up above the lazybird, the sun sparkled on the rippling surface of the lake and the ornately decorated houseboats, which were bobbing about in the fresh gathering breeze. It shone on the twisting chimneys, on the varnished prows and polished brass fittings, and through the glinting windows, sending beams of sunlight slicing through the dusty shadows inside.

A boy was standing at the entrance to the master cabin of the only occupied houseboat on the Enchanted Lake, banging on the door with his fist. His name was Joe Jefferson. Beside him sat Henry, his dog.

‘Wake up, Randalf!’ Joe was shouting. ‘Wake up!’

Henry barked.

The snoring from inside the cabin paused for a moment – before continuing with renewed vigour. A small budgie fluttered down and landed on the boy’s shoulder.

‘It’s not locked, you know,’ it said.

Joe seized the brass handle and pushed the door open. The sunlight flooded in, revealing the snorer – a rotund, bearded wizard sprawled across a tiny four-poster bed. His arms stuck out, his neck was cricked, while his feet hung over the bottom of the bed, the big toes protruding through the large frayed holes of a pair of woollen socks.

As the bright light hit his face, he snorted, grunted and smacked his lips. The eyelids fluttered for a moment, but remained shut.

‘Randalf!’ said Joe, his voice loud and thick with irritation. He strode forwards, Henry by his side, and shook the wizard by the shoulders. ‘Randalf, you promised!’

‘And you believed him?’ said Veronica the budgie, flapping up on to the top of the four-poster bed.

‘Ran-dalf!’ Joe shook him more vigorously. ‘Ran-dalf!’

The wizard turned over and continued to snore.

‘Leave this to me,’ said Veronica. The budgie hopped on to the pillow and put her beak next to Randalf’s ear. ‘Oh, Randy,’ she trilled. ‘Randy, wake up. There’s a stiltmouse in the bed.’

The wizard’s eyes snapped open. ‘Stiltmouse!’ he cried.‘Where? Where?’ He sat bolt upright in bed, banging his head hard on the curtain frame above him. ‘OUCH!’ he bellowed.

Joe struggled not to laugh as Randalf looked round fearfully, eyes wild and pointy hat quivering.

‘Stiltmice!’ yelled Randalf. ‘Nasty, horrible, twitching little things. Urgghh!’

He noticed the faces grinning at him. His eyes narrowed. ‘There is no stiltmouse, is there?’ he said.

Veronica and Joe laughed. Henry barked. ‘I see,’ said Randalf, pulling himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. He rubbed his throbbing head and winced.

‘You need a new bed, by the way,’ said Joe, chuckling softly. ‘This one’s far too small.’

Randalf glared at him indignantly. ‘I’ll have you know that this is a king-sized bed.’

‘Yes, it belonged to King Alf the Elf,’ Veronica butted in. ‘And even he traded it in for something bigger. Boy, they really saw you coming at Krump’s Discount Furniture Store . . .’

‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf sleepily, yawning, stretching – and losing his balance. He keeled over, grabbing hold of one of the bed curtains (which came away in his hands) as he fell, and landed on the floor with a loud bang. The houseboat swayed.

‘Ouch!’ he roared – even more loudly than before. He turned to Veronica. ‘This is all your fault for waking me so fraudulently!’ he said. ‘Stiltmouse, indeed!’

‘It’s your own fault for oversleeping, Fatso!’ said Veronica calmly.

‘Yes!’ Joe broke in, with feeling. ‘You said we’d leave by the first light of dawn, and it’s almost midday! You promised!’

‘But—’ Randalf began.

‘You know full well,’ Joe continued without taking a breath, ‘that if I’m ever to leave Muddle Earth, we must go to Giggle Glade in Elfwood and retrieve the Great Book of Spells from Dr—’

‘And so we shall, my lad!’ Randalf interrupted before the dreaded name could be spoken. ‘So we shall! After all, given everything you’ve done for Muddle Earth, it’s the least I can do.’

‘Actually,’ interrupted Veronica, ‘doing nothing is the least you can do, and that’s something you’re an expert at.’

‘Shut up, Veronica!’ said Randalf. ‘Believe me, my boy, we shall go to Elfwood . . .’

‘But when?’ Joe demanded. ‘When? No matter how often you promise we’ll go, whenever the time comes you’ve always got an excuse for not going,’ he said crossly. ‘What was it yesterday? Oh, yes, you had to stay in to wash your beard. And the day before? Mangel-wurzel shopping in Trollbridge. And the day before that, tree rabbit racing in Goblintown. And last week it was the wrong kind of rain, and the week before that . . .’

‘I know, I know,’ said Randalf sympathetically. ‘Several important matters and unfortunate, unforeseen difficulties have come up recently. But I have cleared my desk, I have wiped the slate clean . . .’

‘You? Cleaning?’ Veronica sneered. ‘That’d be a first!’

Randalf ignored her. ‘I said we would set off today and I meant it.’ He frowned. ‘It’s odd,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘I distinctly remember setting the clock.’ He left the bed cabin and strode across the living room. ‘I do hope it’s not being difficult again.’

The hands of the clock were both pointing downwards, indicating that the time was half past six in the morning – or the evening. With the sun high in the sky, it was clearly neither. Grumbling ominously under his breath, Randalf seized hold of both sides of the clock and gave it a violent shake. The clock rattled and clunked, and something went boing!

‘Clock repairer, too, eh?’ said Veronica sarcastically. ‘Is there no end to your talents?’

Randalf huffed and puffed. ‘Ridiculous contraption!’ he muttered. ‘It’s never worked properly.’

‘Nor did the spell you paid for it with,’ Veronica reminded him.

‘That’s neither here nor there!’ said Randalf dismissively.

‘Tell that to the goblin maiden whose hair all dropped out,’ muttered Veronica.

‘It’s that blasted clock-elf, that’s what it is,’ said Randalf. He hammered on the door of the clock. ‘Come on! Show your face, you incompetent numbskull!’ he shouted. ‘Open up!’

The door remained shut. Randalf reached forward and pulled it open. A cluster of cogs and flywheels clattered to the floor; a length of spring uncoiled. Randalf’s lips pursed, his beard trembled. There was no sign of the clock-elf.

‘What the . . . !’ he exploded. ‘Where’s that ridiculous creature got to now?’

Veronica fluttered down and landed on Randalf’s shoulder. ‘There’s a note,’ she said, pointing with her wing.

Randalf peered inside the clock. Sure enough, pinned to the wall just above a small hammock, was a piece of card. Randalf reached in and tore it away.

‘Gone to unwind,’ he read out. ‘Back in a fortnight of Thursdays. Well, of all the cheek. Just taking off without so much a word of explanation . . .’

Just then, there was a plop followed by a splash. Randalf turned to Veronica. ‘What was that?’

Veronica shrugged her shoulders. ‘Just a fish, probably,’ she said. ‘After all, apart from the wizards, they’re the only things daft enough to live up here – and the wizards have all disappeared. Whose fault is that, I wonder?’ She said, tapping the side of Randalf’s head with her beak.

Pretending not to notice, Randalf returned his attention to the broken clock. ‘Probably a blessing in disguise the clock-elf’s gone,’ he said. ‘Remind me to go to Grubleys and see about a replacement. Apparently he’s got some new ones in stock. The Horned Baron’s got one. It sings the time, tap-dances and tells jokes . . .’

‘Never mind all that!’ said Joe, exasperated. ‘What about our quest?’

Randalf sucked in air noisily between his teeth. ‘It’s getting a little bit late for that, don’t you think?’

‘Randalf!’ snapped Joe.

‘All right, all right,’ said Randalf. ‘But if I could just—’

From outside, there came a second plop-splash. It was louder this time. Closer . . .

The next moment, the door burst open and the ogre, Norbert the Not-Very-Big, ambled in, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

‘Was that you, Norbert?’ said Randalf.

Puzzled, Norbert blinked his three eyes one after the other. ‘It still is me!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’ He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. The houseboat swayed from side to side. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve changed into someone else in my sleep again,’ he said agitatedly. ‘Do you remember the time I turned into that short goblin seamstress called Truffles?’

‘That was a dream, Norbert,’ said Randalf patiently. ‘I explained all that. And of course you’re still you! I was simply asking whether you had caused the loud plop and splash we heard.’

‘Can’t say I noticed,’ said Norbert. ‘But then, what with dodging all those flying rocks, I wasn’t really paying attention.’

‘Flying rocks?’ said Randalf.

‘One of them missed my head by a hair’s breadth,’ he said.

‘Thus missing your brain by at least three metres,’ muttered Veronica.

Randalf shook his head. ‘I can’t say I like the sound of these flying rocks,’ he said. ‘They could be a bad omen, worse even than last Wednesday’s light drizzle. Perhaps we ought to postpone our departure . . .’

‘NO!’ shouted Joe. He could bear it no longer. ‘It’s always something! Light drizzle, falling leaves – now flying rocks. You promised that we’d set off today, and a promise is a promise.’

‘And it is a promise I fully intend to keep,’ said Randalf reassuringly. ‘I was merely going to propose that we set ourselves up with a good, hearty breakfast first.’

‘Snuggle-muffins, sir?’ suggested Norbert.

‘Just the job,’ said Randalf. ‘And some porridge, Norbert. And a tankard of foaming stiltmouse milk. Ooh, and some jub-jub fruits – but make sure you peel them first . . .’

Henry barked.

‘And some bone fritters for our valiant battle-hound, here,’ Randalf added.

‘Can’t we just go?’ Joe complained.

‘We could,’ said Randalf slowly. ‘But I think it would be unwise to set out on a perilous quest such as ours on an empty stomach.’

‘You tell him, Fatso,’ chirped Veronica.

Again, Randalf chose to ignore her. ‘And while you’re about it,’ he said to Norbert, ‘get the picnic hamper packed up with some goodies, there’s a good fellow. We’d better stop off for lunch on the way.’

Joe groaned. This was going to take ages. Everything had to be just so. The crusts had to be cut off the sandwiches, the stiltmouse milk had to be at exactly the right temperature (a tad cooler than tepid), there had to be twists of salt for the the hard-boiled eggs – and as for the snuggle-muffins: Randalf insisted that Norbert decorated each one with coloured icing and sprinkles, and wrapped them individually in paper doilies.

Finally, after seconds and – in Randalf’s case – thirds, breakfast was over and the picnic hamper was ready and waiting by the door. Joe sat on the basket, all dressed up in his warrior-hero costume, twiddling his thumbs impatiently. With his burnished copper shield and razor-sharp sword, his helmet, breastplate and boots – all courtesy of his old friend, Margot the dragon – he certainly looked the part of a great questing warrior-hero. All he needed now was for the quest to get started.

‘Now can we go?’ he said wearily.

‘Of course,’ said Randalf. He looked out of the window. The sky was getting cloudy. ‘I’ll just go and change into my waterproof pointy hat,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’

Joe groaned.

‘All dressed up and nowhere to go, eh?’ said Veronica, fluttering down beside him.

‘Why does he always do this?’ said Joe grumpily. ‘He knows how important this quest is for me.’

Just then, Randalf’s voice floated back from the master cabin. ‘Check the portholes are shut securely,’ he shouted. ‘And that the lamps are all out. And Norbert, if you could just run a mop over the kitchen floor . . .’

‘You see!’ said Joe, exasperated. He began pacing up and down the living room.

Finally, Randalf emerged in a pointy hat with a small umbrella attached to its tip. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘Maybe it would be best to set off tomorrow. We can make a nice early start.’

‘No!’ said Joe. ‘No, no, no . . .’

Veronica nodded sympathetically. ‘You know the reason he keeps putting off this quest,’ she said. ‘He’s frightened of going to Giggle Glade. Frightened of what he’s going to find there . . .’

‘Frightened?’ said Randalf indignantly. ‘Me? I’m a wizard. I take danger in my stride . . .’

Just then, a boulder the size of a large loaf of snotbread came crashing through the window. Randalf let out a little squeak of alarm and leaped up into Norbert’s arms.

‘Aargh!’ he screamed. ‘It’s an omen! It’s an omen!’

Veronica stared at the quivering wizard. ‘Taking danger in your stride, I see,’ she said.

Crash!

The roof splintered and the ceiling cracked. From outside came the sound of furious roaring.

‘Aaaaargh!’ screamed Randalf, even louder. ‘Batten down the hatches! Man the lifeboats . . . !’

‘Lifeboats?’ said Veronica. ‘What lifeboats? Norbert’s sunk them all!’

‘Just do something! Randalf shouted desperately. ‘Anything! We’re under attack!’