The Shining Heart

by Audrey Lee

Chapter One

First Glimpse of Goblins!

In this story there are two mountains: one bright, warm and friendly in a peaceful happy land, the other dark, cold and forbidding, belonging to a far away country of bleakness and desolation. Of this unhappy mountain we shall hear more later, but now our story starts at the beginning, on the one that was green and beautiful.

On this mountain were all the joys of nature: soft springy turf full of rabbit holes, thickly wooded slopes, fresh and sparkling streams trickling over pebbles, rocky gullies, gentle rolling slopes of velvety green, and everywhere a myriad varieties of star-like flowers scattered over it all like a layer of spotted veiling. So beautiful was this mountain, so vibrant with life, that if you had knelt with one ear to the ground you might have heard the great heart of it beating inside.

At its foot in the valley below, was a cluster of little stone cottages. A happy and contented people lived there, warm and safe in their snug little houses. Some were farmers and grew corn in the valley, some kept sheep on the mountain, and some quarried stone. They knew little of the world beyond their mountain and little they wanted to know, for in their mountain lay all safety, all comfort, all reward. Every winter was followed by spring, every storm by sunshine. Here, indeed, was perfect home and never did one of them so much as dream of leaving it.

In one of these cottages lived a boy called John, with his mother and father and two little sisters. Although he was only eleven when our story opens you would have thought him much older, he was so tall and handsome. He could read and write very well, and paid particular attention to his multiplication tables (for a reason you will discover later). He lived the simple and satisfying life of many years ago, long before such things as calculators and television and computers had even been dreamed of. Some things stay the same for ever, though. Lift your face and turn it towards the sun. It is the same sun that shone down then, on John and his mountain.

On the particular afternoon that starts our story John was away at the quarry, helping his father shift great truckloads of stone, and Flora and Sarah, his sisters of four and six years old, were playing at being princesses in the garden. They were wonderfully arrayed in curtains and tablecloths, with apple twig crowns and a palace made of a bedspread and two brooms.

Along the road comes Mary Jones, all of fifteen years of age and trying to earn some pocket money.

"Shall I take the two of them off your hands, Mrs Davey? It's lovely up at the oak tree just now."

"Oh, please mother, please let us go!" Such a commotion - princesses and palaces all forgotten.

John's mother looked doubtful. "Well, just a short walk then. It will soon be tea-time. "

Great excitement as the two little girls ran down the path!

"Now, Mary, remember to make for home well before dark. Remember Mary! It's important!"

It was a rule on the mountain that, unless there was a very good reason, no one stayed out after dark. It was a rule so generally accepted that few ever bothered to question it, for the mountain at night seemed to shift and change character, as though it had somehow been cast into the shadow of that other mountain, where all was sinister and gloomy. Lately, there had been rumours of hobgoblins out and about after sunset, and though Mrs Davey had never actually seen any she felt a strange foreboding at every twilight, and sensed in her bones that there were powers to be avoided in the darkness of the night. But the sun was shining brightly in the afternoon sky, and there wasn't a hint of disaster as the little party set out.

What fun it was, climbing over the stile into the green and flowery meadow and up the mountain path! There were so many diversions along the way that by the time they reached the big oak tree they were all hot and breathless, and Mary sank down on to the shady bank with a gasp of relief. The sun shone steadfastly in an azure sky, the bees droned lazily, and the little girls sat as good as gold, making daisy chains. Not surprisingly, Mary Jones dozed off for a minute or two.

But a minute or two seemed a very long time to Flora and Sarah. They thought Mary would never wake up. Why, the sun was half way down the sky already and they still had not played a really exciting game.

"I'm tired of playing daisy-chains," sighed Sarah. "I wish we could go to the brook and pretend to sail a pirate ship."

"Oh, yes Sawah. Yes! Let's go to de bwook. Please, Sawah, take me there!"

Such entreaties were not be resisted, especially when the afternoon was so hot and the water so temptingly cool. Sarah took her younger sister's hand and ran through the trees to the flowery bank bordering the stream. Soon their shoes and stockings were spread out in the sun and they were squealing with fun as the icy water tickled their warm toes. What fascination the smooth round pebbles had under the water! What a game it was to pretend to be pirates, and jump from one flat stone to another! The afternoon flew by in a haze of careless delight, and it was not until they saw the sun, blood red and winking on the horizon, that they remembered where they were.

"Flora. Quickly! Put on your shoes - Mary will be looking everywhere for us. Oh, we will get into trouble!"

Panic-stricken, Sarah pushed Flora's podgy feet into her shoes and dragged her up the riverbank. Alas, which way was it to the oak tree? One way looked as likely as another now. Already the shadows were longer and darker and half the sun had slipped behind the trees.

In wavering voices they called for Mary, but in vain. Mary had searched for them in a lather of anxiety, and was now running home, hoping against hope they would be there. Again the little girls called and waited, scanned the horizon and called again. The sun slipped further down, and suddenly the pool of shadow they stood in became frighteningly gloomy.

"Come, Flora. Hold my hand and we'll start for home. Sh! Don't cry, you'll be safe with me."

Bravely Sarah took the hot and sticky hand in hers and set off what seemed to be homewards. Slowly, at first, so as not to frighten Flora, but gradually quickening her pace as each succeeding bush loomed more menacingly than the last.

"Oh Sawah, don't pull me so, my feet are hurting me!" wailed Flora.

"Come along Flora - just a little faster! Please!" pleaded Sarah frantically.

"Sawah, Sawah! What are those bright things behind us? I don't like them." Sarah glanced over her shoulder. Surely there were two horrid eyes glinting in the darkness!

"Sawah, Sawah, who is whispering to us? I can hear voices, nasty voices!"

Desperately Sarah snatched up Flora and staggered on as fast as she could, but the spiky fingers came closer and closer, and the strange hissing noises grew louder. And then, horrors of horrors, surely the scampering of unearthly feet behind them, and the dreadful high-pitched giggle of unspeakable creatures! Wildly, Sarah struggled on, fearing that at any moment her arms would drop her darling Flora, and they would be lost - at the mercy of the hobgoblins of the night.

Suddenly - oh blessed relief! Into view comes John, dashing towards them with his quarry truck, home from the quarry ahead of his father. Two strong arms swept them up and into the truck, and there they all were, whizzing down the path, with John, good old John, kicking out with both feet and chanting at the top of his voice "Two fours are eight! Three fours are twelve! " My, how the whispering and giggling around them suddenly dropped away, and the pinpoints of beady lights went out like candles.

"That's done for them," chuckled John. "Now they're thinking twice!"

"Two fours are eight!" yelled Sarah from the bottom of the truck.

"Three times seven is twenty-one,

Run you wretched goblins, run."

Run from singing, dancing John."

All at once they were round the bend in the pathway and on the last of the journey home. There were the lights of the cottage winking ahead, and there were the dim shapes of a greatly relieved Mary Jones and mother, hurrying towards them with a lantern.

"Hurrah for John!" shouted Sarah.

"Fwee twos are four!" squeaked Flora in excitement, "four fwees are six!"

"Bravely spoken, Flora," laughed John, "Bravely spoken."

And bravely done, John, bravely done. Now you know what sort of boy he was - and we shall hear more of him - much more, as the story unfolds.

Chapter 2

John meets the Benelda

There was a dreadful storm that night. No sooner was the happy family safely indoors than the wind rose to an eerie moan, and everything that was loose began to flap and shake. Window casements had to be fastened, doors securely locked. The log fire spluttered as gusts of rainy wind swept down the chimney, and the whole house shuddered as the full force of the north wind broke against it.

John lay in his warm bed and listened to the fury raging on the mountain. Thankfully, he snuggled down into the pillows, and his thoughts wandered back over the day's adventures. He smiled as he thought of his two little sisters, now sleeping peacefully in the room next to his. What a fright they had had! Not a bad thing, too in a way for they should have learnt a lesson; Flora and Sarah would always remember to watch the sun as it went down now.

He saw in his mind's eye the little winking eyes glinting at him again, and the spiky fingers groping from the hedgerows. So vivid was the recollection that he really thought he heard the hollow shriek of hobgoblins outside the window - but no, it was only the wind that dared to press so close. John was not frightened - he almost welcomed the chance of shooing the revolting creatures away again. Why, it had been quite easy to scare them off!

What was that? A different sort of sound had joined the blasting of the elements. There it was again! John lifted his head from the pillows, and listened curiously - then his heart tightened with alarm. What could it be? It was the saddest, most sorrowful noise John had ever heard. A long, wailing, drawn-out sigh that rose with the wind and died away in shuddering sobs. Somebody - or something - was out there on the mountain crying its heart out to the storm, perhaps lost - perhaps in pain. Hobgoblin it was not; such sorrow never rose from goblin lips. Slipping out of bed, he dressed hastily, took a lantern, and crept down the steep staircase. With as little noise as possible he unbolted the door, closed it behind him, and facing the inky blackness prepared to search for the wounded creature.

He walked blindly towards the noise. The wind whipped it away from him and carried it all around him so that it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and he changed direction six or seven times in confusion. Then he reached the shelter of a steeply wooded slope, and as the noise of the wind abated the strange shrill cry grew stronger. He decided that it was coming from the rocky dell further down the hillside. Lashed by the driven rain he held the lantern on high, but it could not penetrate the darkness for more than a few yards at a time and John could only inch his way along, cold and shivering. His warm bed was tempting him to go back again, but he battled on. Not even the hobgoblins were out and about in this weather, he thought. No doubt the sight of his lantern had finished them off, and they had all slithered under ground. He stood still and listened again. Yes! The wailing was so close it almost made him jump - and this time - could he hear words sighed softly on the dying sound?

He scrambled over some rocks, and was glad when, over the other side of them and out of the wind, he could see a little further than before. A black cave yawned in the side of the mountain - one of the many he had explored and played games in - and believing that the sobbing came from there, John left the lashing rain behind and squeezed himself into the calm stillness of the cave.

Suddenly he was on it! There in front of John was the most strange, pathetic, and altogether unbelievable sight of his entire life. A creature no higher than his knee, clad in flowing robes of greeny-grey, white hair streaming rivulets of water, sitting head in hands and howling in anguish.

John could only stand and stare at first. This was no lumpy spiky goblin, but a perfectly formed person - the little feet actually had shoes on them, and there were rings on the tiny fingers! Then his amazement gave way to pity, and bending down he said softly, so as not cause alarm, "Er - excuse me, but can I help you?"

My! How the creature jumped! "Oh, by all the sprites!" he said, tripping over his beard, "Oh dear, Oh dear! To be caught out - and at night, as well! Such carelessness, such carelessness!" and jumping this way and that in agitation, all at once he sat down on the stone in a huddle and started weeping again. Then suddenly, clenching his fists and shaking them both at the sky, he shouted, "Oh wicked Maleena! To have stolen our Shining Heart! To have stolen our Shining Heart!"

John was utterly and completely bewildered. He was reluctant to startle the creature again, yet he did so want to help, and by now he was full of curiosity, too. As gently as he could, and not getting too close, he said politely, "My name is John. I live on the mountain - please, would you tell me who you are?"

For a long time there was no answer, but the crying stopped, and the strange solemn man sat very still. Then slowly he raised his head and looked intently at John. "Human child," he said, "My name is Lorman. You will remember this day forever, for today you have seen what no human eye has ever seen before - a Benelda of the Mountain. We live in the caverns and caves in the heart of this great hill. By night we work our magic spells - we weave a hundred - a thousand good and beautiful things about the hills and valleys of our land. By day we dance and revel in the sunshine. We whisper the songs of the wind in the grasses, laugh with the stream in the morning mist, we..." and here the soft voice broke. "Ah, alas until today we did these things; but now sorrow has turned our feet to lead and our songs to weeping. There are only tears and sighs in the caverns of our home. Today - ah wretched day! - today, as the sun was rising - the Green Maleena stole our precious Shining Heart!"

"The Green Maleena?" whispered John, hardly daring to breathe.

"Oh wicked, cursed creatures! Half brother they are to the hobgoblin - equal to them in loathsome ugliness but worse in cunning and trickery. Many years ago they dwelt with us in our mountain, and for years we were forced to defend ourselves against hobgoblin and Maleena. Then we drove the Maleena out, and at last our home was rid of the evil creatures. Only honest elves and sprites - fairy folk, like us, stayed behind to help the good work. Sunshine and good harvest returned to our land and our people lived in peace and prosperity. The hobgoblins were forced to live like rabbits, in holes and burrows, away from our mountain, and now any that dare to venture here at night are easily frightened off. The Green Maleena fled to a far-away land where the sky is always dark and gloomy. Their mountain is always torn with storm and thunder. They brew their spells from dark thoughts and wicked deeds. They spread fear and misery as far as they dare, and now, with deceit and cunning, and wicked magic, they have stolen our Shining Heart and taken it to their wretched home'"

"Home?"

"The dreadful Dark Mountain!"

John was still most bewildered. He had no idea what a Shining Heart was, but he knew it must have been a great treasure of some sort, and he wanted to put hope into the little creature, so he said, "Look, can't you go with a band of your people and try to get it back again?"

"Ah, my son. You are indeed, a child, and your ways are not the ways of the Benelda. We would certainly try, try with all our strength, but it is decreed by sacred law that any Benelda that sets foot beyond this mountain loses his immortality and dies within the space of one heartbeat. We would go - we long to go, but alas, we cannot!" Tears began to roll down the long white beard, making splashes on the wet stone ground. Then all at once they ceased, and raising his head Lorman looked at John with a sudden gleam of hope in his green eyes. "John - you are mortal. Your face shows that you are kind - and, I think, brave too. It is just possible...perhaps...that you may be able to help!"

The little man jumped to his feet trembling with excitement, and laying a tiny gnarled hand on John's shoulder spoke urgently. "Listen, my son. Come with now and I will take you to the halls of the Benelda. You will hear the mysteries of our ancient laws and marvel at the wisdom of our illustrious King. Come, John. Follow me where no human has been before. It may not be too late."

With a great leap Lorman was off the stone and darting down the length of the cave. John was grateful for the light of the lantern, for the queer fairy figure seemed to need no light himself. Every now and then he stopped and beckoned John on with impatient clickings of his tongue. All his movements were swift and sudden, and his feet were never still, but always pattering out an agitated dance, even when waiting for John to catch up. They went further down the cave than John had been ever before, and a very tight squeeze it was too, in some parts. They twisted and turned down this way and that until they came to a formation of rock that looked like an arch in the wall of the cave. The inside of the arch was blocked with what appeared to be a huge boulder, but Lorman - first putting his finger to his lips and winking furiously - bent down and pressed a hidden lever nearby, and to John's astonishment the boulder became a door, and swung silently back.

Lorman led him down a roughly hewn tunnel. John could see it was not a natural cave, for the walls had been hacked out by hand, and there were lanterns fixed into niches all the way along them. Every now and then they passed other tunnels branching out from the one they were in, and John caught glimpses of enormous lighted caverns at the end of them. They were going too fast for him to stop and explore, but he guessed these were places where the Benelda worked, for he could see piles of stone in some, with hammers and picks lying about, and heaps of dried grasses and leaves in others. John wanted to stop and find out all these things, but as they hurried along, a strange and unearthly sound, which he had hardly noticed at first echoed through the caverns, gradually growing louder and louder. It was terribly sad and soft, and filled John's heart with pity. It was the sobbing of the Benelda.

A dazzle of lights suddenly shone in the distance. A vast palace had been carved out of the mountain and was lit by hundreds and hundreds of fairy lanterns, their soft light streaming down the passage towards them. John stepped into the palace and stood breathless with wonder. Never had he seen so much splendour. The walls were like white marble, shot through with veins of gold, blue and silver. The floor was a rich pattern of precious stones - rubies, emeralds, jasper and pearl, and around every lantern the colours danced and shimmered. There were ornaments and statues of every kind - all beautifully carved by the fairy people - and great wooden chairs and chests with bands of gleaming copper round them. Lorman led him through the palace until they came to the Great Hall, which was where the Benelda always assembled on any important occasion. Today, however, there were no revelries taking place - no splendid rituals of Crown or Parliament - no pompous meetings of state. All had given way to overwhelming sorrow and everywhere in the vast cavern, some sitting head in hands, some huddled together for comfort, were groups of the Benelda people, too deeply immersed in grief to notice the arrival of a stranger. The Benelda King sat on a great golden throne, his head sunk on his chest, and prostrate on the steps were grief-stricken courtiers each vainly trying to give comfort to the other.

John tip-toed after Lorman till they came to the foot of the golden steps, and then the little man hurried to the King's side, and whispered long and urgently in his ear. Ah! What a commotion! A human youth in the halls of the Benelda! How the King started, and gripped the throne, and blinked his sad old eyes! How the mothers ran to pick up their frightened babies in their arms, and the young men clenched their swords! How wide agape was every mouth in horrified astonishment!

Lorman whispered once again to the King, and recovering his composure and adjusting his crown (which had fallen over one eye) the King ordered John to come forward and kneel at his feet.

A hush fell on the fairy folk. The eyes of a hundred helpless people were staring at John in wonder. And as they stared, a glimmer of hope went from one face to another until it swept over them all like wind over corn. Maybe here - here, was help at last.

The old King laid his hand on John's shoulder, and studied his face intently. Strong - kind - courageous, a child after his own heart. And mortal - Yes, mortal!

"You have heard of the disaster that has befallen us," said the king. "Without our Shining Heart we are powerless to do good deeds. It is the source of all our magic. There will be much more suffering on our mountain unless we can regain it."

"Who will watch over the little human children now?" cried a voice.

"And who will bring the gentle rain and fight against the storms?"

"What will become of the baby lambs - the young shoots of corn - the delicate wild flowers?"

Sobbing broke out afresh among the fairy folk, and John felt a sudden strong determination to do something for them. "Look here," he said "Many a hobgoblin has run away from me. I'm not frightened of them - or of Maleena either. I've always been a good one at fighting, when fighting's right. Tell me where to go, and I'll see if I can bring back your Shining Heart."

The hand of the good king trembled as he laid it on John's head. His lips moved, but strong emotion had taken his words away. John turned to Lorman, "But how far away is the Dark Mountain?" he said, " And how long will it take?"

"We will set you on your way to the land of Maleena," said Lorman. "It is a way only possible to fairy folk and those in their favour. The journey will be long - it may seem like months, even years to you, but it will not be the same for the people of the mountain. There is something we can do - one last spell we can make..."

Lorman spoke to the King in a low voice, and the two heads nodded together. The King spoke again.

"We have enough magic left to make one more potion. When you step through the doorway called Terina, which is the portal to Maleena, all the living creatures on the mountain will fall into a deep, deep sleep. Your family will not suffer from your absence - neither will they suffer from the ravages of storm and famine. Mara! Thurda! Fetch celandine, dried thyme, gorse leaves and poppy seeds. Light the fire under the great cauldron. Be quick! We must work fast, before the last emanations from the Shining Heart completely fade."

All at once there was a flurry of activity. Wood was placed under an enormous pot standing in one corner and was soon blazing merrily. Each one of the little people did a different job, and knew exactly what and how to do it. Some came in carrying enormous bundles of dried herbs and grasses, while others started sorting these and dropping pieces of them into the pot. Some stood on a ledge which ran around the pot and helped to stir with a gigantic spoon, and all of them became animated and excited to such a degree that John was quite frightened some would fall into the cauldron and make themselves part of the spell! Very soon the most delicious scent you could possibly imagine rose from the brew and wafted its way all round the palace. Then the King clapped his hands, and turning to the fairy Queen, whom John had not noticed until now, said graciously, "My dear, will you recite the incantation? The human children are your special responsibility, and this should be your privilege."

Then John heard the most delightful tinkling voice reply, "Of course I will," and there she was - no more than two feet tall, but such a vision of loveliness that he gasped. Her skin was all pink and white, and her clothes floated mistily about her like clouds of blue and silver. Her face was not young, indeed, it was lined with care, but she wore an expression of such sweet kindness that she was truly beautiful. Holding her hands out as if in benediction, she spoke the following words.

Come, heather, gorse and elder root,

Come, poppy seed and thyme,

Combine your power with purest thought,

Of fairy heart and mind.

By might of Zorin, Yore and Tark,

By ancient law of man,

Let sleep enfold all in our care

Till hope returns again.

"There," said Lorman, "That should do it!" and suddenly the sweet scent had gone, wafted up to the mountain, and everyone was pressing round with advice and good wishes.

"Now, remember," said one, "They can't bear multiplication tables - it's the law and order of them, you know, it nearly drives them crazy."

"Like the hobgoblins," chuckled John. "Its worse for them if you don't make a mistake, too."

"They really don't like any kind of happiness," said Lorman. "They have been so miserable themselves for so long that anything else makes them positively afraid. If you could manage a laugh it would upset them - and as for a song - well, six or seven or more of them will run from a really good song."

"And a dance!" cried a little one, "A dance is best!"

"Ah, yes" smiled Lorman, "A fast dance with plenty of kicking and tapping will terrify the best of them," and for the first time John saw the fairy people smile, as some with nods and winks shared memories of many a narrow escape.

"Well, I can sing," said John, "And I can dance - and I do both so horribly I should certainly scare them half to death!" The smiles turned to chuckles, and then to a hearty laugh. "But tell me, what else are they frightened of?"

"Truth" said an old, old man with a beard. "And anyone who isn't scared of them!"

"And light," said a chorus of voices. "They can only bear a glimmer. They had to throw twelve thicknesses of leather over the Shining Heart before they could bear to look at it."

"That reminds me," said John. "What will the Shining Heart look like, and how will I know it?"

A wave of amused amazement swept over the Benelda people. "Dear child," said the King, "It - it shines! You will know it as soon as you see it."

Then the fairy Queen came forward, and in her hand she held a ring, a large jewel on a strip of leather, and a short broad sword in a scabbard. "We will arm you with our most powerful talismans" she said, "They will be weak and ineffective at first, but as you draw nearer the Shining Heart they will gain in strength. Here is a stone - an opal - and on the back is inscribed 'those who deceive, deceive themselves'. Wear it round your neck, and it will protect you from lies and trickery."

John put the pendant on, so that it was hidden under his clothing.

"And here is a golden ring, bearing the insignia of a five-barred gate. On the inside is engraved a riddle - 'the middle of five, guards the centre of seven' - which has always been a mystery. We only know that it has an important meaning to the Maleena, and that they would give anything to have it in their possession. Guard this ring carefully, for there may be many who desire it."

Then the sword was taken from its scabbard and handed to John. It lay, heavy and gleaming in his hands, and as he looked at it the carvings of suns and moons all over the blade sparkled and shimmered in the light, as though a flame of life had leapt inside it.

"This sword is a fairy sword, wrought but unused by the Benelda people. Here, you see, it is marked with a triangle inside a circle, the sacred fairy symbol for justice. It will serve you well if you are faithful to this sign."

The King came forward, holding out a leather belt, on which was fixed a small brass button. "John," he said, "There is one way in which you can escape from all danger. If you are in despair, or real peril of your life, you can twist this button three times, and immediately you will find yourself in your own bed at home, sleeping peacefully with your family, and everything will be exactly as though we had never met you. If you choose this way of escape, the Shining Heart will be lost forever and the Benelda will continue to exist in misery until it is regained. We hesitated to give you this - but it is your right to have it."

John took the belt thoughtfully, and buckled it round his waist, then he fixed on the scabbard of the sword, so that it hung by his side.

"Now, to be practical," said the Queen, "We will give you as little to carry as possible, and you can put it all into this canvas sack, which can be strapped to your back. Here is a tinder-box, which you can use for lighting fires, and a small cooking pot. We will supply you with as much food as you can carry - we fairy folk eat a special bread called Derma, made from grasses and roots, and very nourishing. We can also give you several cheeses and plenty of dried fruits and vegetables."

"Take these fishing hooks and line," said a young courtier, "Nothing like fresh fish."

"You will find wild berries and herbs growing, just as they do here," said Lorman, "But there is one fruit to beware of - the medronis. You will know it by its bright yellow skin and green pips. Never touch medronis, however hungry you are. It is a most powerful drug, and will fill your head with delusions."

"Medronis," said John, and made a mental note.

"Well," said the Queen, "I believe we have done all we can to make your mission successful. Let us all bid you farewell, with the gratitude of all our hearts. Before you are led to the doorway called Terina."

And so they all crowded round him with shining eyes, and held his hand and blessed him.

Then the King led him right to the back of the great hall, and opened a door that was hidden behind a large wooden chest. A flight of very dusty stone steps ran down from here, and then from the bottom of these was a narrow, dark passage. John followed the King, and for the first time his heart began to thump. A slight misgiving filled his mind with questions. What lay beyond Terina? Would he return in triumph or despair? The wise old man sensed John's feelings, and without looking round he said, "My dear child, there is much danger and hardship ahead for you, but always remember the importance of your mission and your courage will be equal to the task."

Suddenly, they stopped. There in front of them was a huge wooden door. It was covered all over with carvings of fantastic creatures and plants and embossed with iron studs. There was no handle or lock, but right in the middle of the door was an enormous keyhole, with an enormous key protruding from it.

"Turn the key, John," whispered the King. "Turn the key with all your strength."

John grasped the key with both hands, and turned it as hard as he could. To his surprise it opened as easily as if it had been freshly oiled, and there before him, swirling in a cold, white mist, lay the way to Maleena. With his heart in his mouth, he gathered together his belongings, and stepped through Terina.

And. at this precise moment, for all living creatures on the mountain he was leaving behind, time stood perfectly still. Wind and rain ravaged outside, but peacefully slept Sarah and Flora, peacefully slept his mother and father. Just as well, too, for it would be many a heartache, maybe many a long year, before John would see them all again.

Chapter Three

John meets the elves

John stood quite still and looked around him. He had stepped out from a cave set in a rocky hillside, and he made a careful note of its position so that he could find it again on the way back. The magical doorway called Terina lay between two unusually old and scraggy trees, their branches jutting out like long pointed fingers, so that they looked for all the world like two witches guarding its entrance.

A white mist had been swirling all around him, but now it began to clear and as he surveyed his surroundings it dawned on him that he had, in fact, been transported many miles from his home. Behind him lay a range of unfamiliar rocky hills, and before him lay a broad, bare plain. In the middle distance was a forest into which a winding river disappeared, and beyond that lay another range of smoky blue hills. Here and there he could see strange low huts with thatched roofs and wispy columns of smoke drifting lazily into the sky. He wondered who lived in them - hob-goblins preferred caves and holes underground - and he knew no humans lived beyond Terina. His heart sank as he scanned the horizon for there was nothing to indicate the whereabouts of the Maleena - no gathering of clouds or mountains, no sudden change in the terrain. All he knew was that he was looking for a mountain - the Dark Mountain - and so he decided to set out towards the highest peak of hills.

He deduced from the position of the sun that it was early afternoon, and that he was heading northwards. The turf was soft and springy underfoot and soon the sun broke through the mist and shone brightly, raising his spirits.

He decided to walk as long as he possibly could before stopping for food, and as he soldiered on he calculated how long his provisions would last. Bread, cheese, vegetables - plenty for now, but he must try to avoid eating too much at first. He passed thickets of bushes bearing large, plump blackberries, and gathered and ate quite a few of them. There was another berry, smaller and firmer, which also grew in profusion and tasted delicious. Once he saw quite a collection of wild mushrooms, and these he picked and wrapped in a handkerchief and tied to his bundle. It cheered him enormously to realise that he could quite easily find food to add to his supply.

Suddenly, he stood still and stared intently ahead. About two miles away, from behind a small cluster of trees, had emerged something that looked like a large box on wheels. Behind it was another smaller truck and then what appeared to be a handcart being pushed by a number of tiny figures. Immediately, a surge of excitement rose in him, followed quickly by caution. Was this a train of hob-goblins, or worse, the Maleena? John decided to get as close as he could without being seen.

To begin with, it was difficult, because there were few trees or bushes, and he had to bend down low and run from one to another. But soon he came to a ditch, which was deep enough to hide his body completely, and from here he was able to observe the strange sight, unseen. By now he could hear the sounds of raucous music floating over the air and every now and then bursts of merry laughter. The front 'box' was, in fact, a gaily painted caravan flashing brilliant shades of yellow and red, the truck in the middle a smaller caravan, fairly jigging to the sounds of merry-making, and the handcart appeared to be piled with pots and pans of all shapes and sizes. The people pushing this were about his own size, dressed in bright cloth tunics, and all wearing caps with bells tied to them, which gave a soft musical tinkle whenever they moved. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves tremendously, and there was much running to and fro, and stopping and starting. John recognised these people immediately - they were elves. Occasionally they had travelled as far as his own home, and he had heard rumours of their presence around the mountain. Most folk welcomed them, for they carried an exciting assortment of articles for sale - rich silks and satins, beautifully made combs and mirrors, and strong stout cooking pots all made with their own hands. The worst they were likely to resort to was a mischievous trickery, and for the most part they were a happy, carefree people, who had few enemies.

As he watched, the caravan came to a grinding halt, and the occupants prepared to make a camp for the night. Before long a fire was crackling away, and pleasant smells of wood-smoke and gently simmering cooking wafted on the air towards him. The evening was drawing to an end by now, and the prospect of being alone on the moor in darkness was not an attractive one. Dare he attempt to join forces with the elves? They would make useful allies if they befriended him, though for the time being it would be wise to let them know nothing of his quest. He wriggled out of the ditch and crouched in the shadows, then made his way from thicket to thicket towards the warmth and laughter of the camp fire.

"This is a thin stew, Dorlin!" yelled the cook. "Bring us some more carrots!"

"Carrots all gone," yelled another voice. "Nothing but turnips."

A low murmuring grumble changed to a laugh, as one of them made an inaudible joke. Suddenly, John had an idea. Quickly undoing the handkerchief tied to his bundle, he stepped up to the fire holding out the mushrooms.

"Would you like these? I'll give them to you for a bit of stew."

All eyes turned to stare at him. He thought for an awful moment that they might be hostile, then the cook took the mushrooms, and staring in turn from them to John, dropped them into the pot.

"And where, in the name of Zorin, have you come from? " enquired the astonished elf.

"From beyond Terina - over there," said John, and pointed vaguely.

"And what are you? - If it isn't a rude question," said the elf, staring in fascination

"I'm a boy! I'm called a human being!"

"Well, you be the first human being we've seen in these parts. Thought they all lived over the green mountain, miles away."

"I have come a long way," said John, cautiously, "So far that I've lost my bearings. Can you tell me where I am?"

"You're on the Plain of Elna, old sprite. (Elves refer to everyone as 'old sprite' - it was once a fairly useful insult, but due to common usage has turned into a joke, and meant to be taken in good part.) Over there is the Forest of Thorns, and that there in the distance is the River Weirnel. We're on our way to the village of Beltham, straight ahead, and can't get there quick enough, provisions being like they are. Ain't never 'ad so much turnip stew in all me life," and he stirred the pot disgustedly.

By this time, they had all gathered round, and were looking him over curiously. There were about thirty of them in all, mostly families with young children, and they all stared at John in wide-eyed wonder, and not without a certain degree of amusement.

"Funny clothes," said one.

"Deformed ears," remarked another.

"Queerest looking creature I ever did see," said a third, and hastily suppressed a giggle.

"You're not so good-looking yourselves," said John, cheerfully, and a chuckle broke out all round.

John learnt that these elves were tinkers, who made their living by travelling round from village to village selling and repairing pots and pans. They were from the elfin clan of Zora, and their leader was called Norrin. They entertained him with lavish hospitality, ladling out for him a staggering quantity of turnip stew, and pressing upon him a pipe of reed tobacco, and a warm bed by the fire. John was itching to ask them how to get to Maleena and the Dark Mountain, but he felt instinctively that it would be unwise to ask directly, and when they were basking contentedly round the fire he nodded casually in the direction of the hills and said, "What sort of country lies over there?"

"Over the Blue Hills? That's miles away, me old sprite. We never venture that far. We stick to elfin country - know what to expect, then."

"Yes," said another. "We only get the stray hob-goblin here. Over the Blue Hills there are gangs of 'em."

"Well, fair's fair" - up spoke a fat, motherly elf. "They've got to live somewhere. For my own part, as long as they keep to themselves, I don't mind."

"I wouldn't mind if they behaved themselves! They come and take over our rabbit holes, though," grumbled the cook. "Gives you a terrible fright when you expect to find a rabbit."

"They do say," said Norrin, "that there's been terrible disturbances in those parts recently. It lies in the part they call the Dark Mountain, where them what's called Maleena lives. Up to no good, they've been recently. Hordes of them going off on long raids - plunderin' and pillagin'. Hope they settle down soon, I reckon it disturbs the weather."

"Course it do," said another. "They like the cold and damp so they brings it with 'em. Always like that, it is over there. Freezin' cold and miserable."

John listened to this with his heart thundering. So he was right - his path lay northwards to the range of mysterious blue hills in the distance. He could hardly wait for the morning, and the chance to set off again on his journey. The elves had started to sing lazily, but gradually as the warmth of the fire overcame them, they were dropping off to sleep one by one, and the song was trailing off into snores and grunts. John sank back into some pillows and pulled a blanket over himself. Tonight he was warm and safe with the elves, but where would he be tomorrow? As the flames flickered and danced before his sleepy eyes his mind wandered back over the whole fantastic series of events. He could hardly believe that he was actually falling asleep with a band of elfin people, miles and miles away from his own home and family. But as he turned over, the pendant round his neck suddenly dug into him, and the sword beneath his pillow, where he had laid it for safety, felt hard and uncomfortable. Yes, it was all true! His mind drowsily played with the words written on the ring on his finger .... 'The middle of five guards the centre of seven' ... What did the words mean? Why the carving of a gate? What adventures lay in store for him before this riddle was solved? His hand automatically went to the pendant - still safe. He hoped that if anyone deceived him, he would be near enough to the Shining Heart for it to be effective. His short, sharp sword still lay sheathed in its scabbard. Who knows what terrible plight would suddenly unscathe it in flashing fury? 'Bewitched by eleven .... five .. ....seven' ..... the words went round in his tired head, tantalising and mysterious, while his eyelids gradually closed and the shadows turned to night.

Chapter Four

John finds a friend

John woke at dawn, refreshed after a good night's sleep. The air was crisp, and the tinkers prophesied that it would be a fine day. The elves invited him to breakfast with them, and after a generous helping of porridge, and a plateful of eggs, he was bursting to set out once again. He took his farewell of the elves, thanking them much for their generosity, and feeling grateful that he had discovered them to be so friendly. They parted company a couple of hours after dawn, and he watched for a time as the gay little caravan lurched off into the distance, swaying to the strains of elfin music, and the tinkling of elfin bells.

Now John turned to face the Blue Hills. They must have been a good thirty or forty miles away, and there were forests and rivers to cross before he reached them. The bundle on his back felt awkward and heavy and he wished he could leave something behind, but on reflection he considered that nothing could be spared. Walking at a steady pace he covered some five miles or more before mid-morning, and soon the moor came to an end, and he found himself climbing a long, low hill.

Before he reached the top he knew that there was mischief on the other side. He could hear faint shouts and cries, as though somebody was in distress, and then, as they grew louder, the jeers and jibes of many separate voices. He pricked his ears to catch every sound, while his footsteps quickened to a mad scramble. Those voices were the voices of hob-goblins! My, how the blood rushed through his veins as he heard those horrid, mocking taunts, how anger imbued him with sudden energy! And on the brow of the hill his fury rose to boiling point, for there were six or seven evil looking hob-goblins, throwing stones at, and kicking and pinching, a poor defenceless furry little creature. To be sure, he was putting up quite a fight, and shouting, "Leggo! Hands off! Ouch! Take that!" but he was obviously unversed in the art of goblin fighting, and at seven to one, was getting very much the worst of it.

John rushed in with feet and fists flying, and for good measure, gave them the thirteen times table, which he had been practising on the way. This had more effect than any fisticuffs could have done, and the goblins fell back aghast, and stared at him in horror. At this John laughed, and broke into a fast jig, clicking his fingers and tapping his feet on the stony ground. Well, the hair on the heads of those goblins practically stood on end! Never had they seen such horrific and unnatural behaviour, and it fairly turned them sick with fright. With one accord they shrank away, faces white as chalk, and then bolted furiously in all directions, while John shouted tables at them in between gales of laughter. From a safe distance they stopped to look at him again, and the look of wide-eyed horror turned to one of hatred - goblins never forgive! They marked him well, in case of a further encounter, before they finally slunk away, muttering and mumbling under their breath.

When they had gone, John turned to survey the little fat creature he had rescued. He was panting for breath, and gingerly licking his wounds, and murmuring "Ouch! - the little stinkers! Ooh, I'll do for them all next time, I will - Help! I'm bleeding!"

John looked him over, curiously. He was very short and fat, with a round furry body rather like a mole's. He had a chubby face, with a pointed nose, and very large, soft brown eyes. He had obviously been dressed very elegantly, in striped trousers, waistcoat and jacket, but now the trousers were torn, and the jacket covered in mud. There was quite a nasty cut on his eyebrow, and he used a large silk handkerchief to staunch the flow. "I say, thank you, old chap," he said, breathlessly. "Just turned up at the right time. Jolly lucky, what?"

"Glad to be of help," said John, smiling.

"Can't put up quite such a good show since I lost my umbrella - used to open and shut it in their faces with a lovely sort of a whoosh! - you know. Quite a reliable little brolly, it was, until I lost it."

John introduced himself, and then enquired "And who are you?"

"Eh? - Oh, Bomblin's the name. How d'ye do?" A brown paw was extended, and they shook hands vigorously.

"Where do you come from?" asked John.

"Me? - Ouch! I'm hurt! - er. Bingolia. I'm a Bingol. Not surprised you don't know. I'm the only one of my sort round here - wouldn't be here myself either, if I didn't have to be. Ooh! My bruises! No, I come from a peace loving family - a quiet sort of, humdrum sort of, unadventurous sort of a family. Actually, (he brightened up at the thought) I come from a very good sort of a family. The Bootles of Myrtle Hall. Confidentially, my grandmother was second cousin to the Great Duke of Moria - which is really the cause of all the trouble."

"Trouble?" queried John.

"Well, that's where she got the ring from. The Great Duke. He gave it to her. Wish he'd jolly well kept it."

"What ring?"

"Well, this special sort of a ring. This special sort of a ring with magical powers."

"What magical powers?"

"Er - well, actually" ... Bomblin glanced from left to right and whispered the next word dramatically, "Invisibility. Pretty magical, eh? Pretty strong, what?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" asked John.

"Oh, fish-hooks! There I go again - letting the cat out of the bag. Oh well .... (He regarded John with favour) you're a pretty good sort of a chap. Sit down here while I brush myself down and I'll tell you all about it."

John sat down on the grass and listened intently while Bomblin told his story.

"You see, it all started when the Duke gave my grandmother this ring - a pretty young thing she was then, and he was very fond of her. It was a tremendous favour, because it had the magical property of making anyone who wore it invisible. My grandmother treasured it beyond price, and she kept it in her bedroom for years and years - until she was a very old lady. But by that time all the family had grown tired of her for ever trying it on, coming and going, suddenly appearing in unexpected places and scaring them all to death, and they persuaded her to put it in the family vault in the castle at Bingolia, where all the Bootle jewels are kept. Well, she happened to have a bad cold that week - she's subject to colds in the head, you know - and she asked me to take the ring to the castle myself. Well, of course, I said I would - but what I didn't know was that Old Grooler had one of his marauding moods on him that week, and no sooner was I out on the heath than he spotted me."

"Old Grooler?" said John. "Who's he?"

The brown eyes opened wide in amazement. "Don't you know Old Grooler? My dear chap, let me enlighten you. Old Grooler is the most vicious, nasty, immoral and altogether sneaky sort of a beast you could possibly imagine."

"Beast?" said John.

"Well, more of a reptile, actually. More of a sort of monster - with wings. Actually, a dragon - yes, an extra hideous sort of a dragon. Breathes out the odd puff of fire and all that - you know. Gave me a terrible shock when I saw him, I can tell you. I dropped the ring and ran like stink to the nearest rabbit hole. Well, no sooner had I done that than Old Grooler swoops down low to sear the skin off my nose if he can, and sees the ring flashing in the grass. Well, having no fingers of his own, and being too greedy to resist a good thing when he sees it, what does he do but open his mouth and swallow it whole! And there it lies to this day - inside the stomach of Old Grooler, where it does no good to him or anyone else."

"Has it made him invisible?"

"No - it has to be worn on a finger to do that - or a claw, of course. It just gives him dreadful stomach ache and makes him more bad-tempered than ever."

"What has that got to do with you being here?" said John.

"Well, you see, Old Grooler only flies about on a marauding trip every once in a while. Most of the time he's content to stay still and burn up anyone who comes near. That's why the Maleena use him. They've trained him to guard the Dark Mountain, where they live and keep their treasure. He's a sort of watchdog, I suppose."

John's heart suddenly beat faster. So this was something he would have to face, the Dragon Grooler.

"My grandmother, silly old turtle, would hear of nothing but for me to go and recover this wretched ring. She said it was for the family honour. Made me promise not to return without it. Insisted on a display of heroic valour! Fierce old buzzard. I don't know who I'm most scared of - her or the dragon."

John laughed. He had taken a decided liking to this Bingol.

"Just by chance," he said, "I'm on my way to the Dark Mountain myself. Perhaps you would like to join me and we can travel together?"

Bomblin fairly whooped with delight. "Good gracious me, old chap!" he said, "What a tremendous coincidence! Well, I am delighted! Here, give me some of your stuff to carry and we'll set off again together. And while we're walking you can tell me your story."

But something warned John to tell Bomblin very little. All he revealed was that he was on a mission that was important - and possibly very dangerous. Bomblin nodded his head wisely and refrained from asking questions, and later they were both to be glad that he knew nothing of John's quest.

The journey continued happily for the next few days. Bomblin was surprisingly good at finding things to eat - he knew all about which type of roots and grasses were edible - and with each campfire the quality of the soup they invariably made, improved. Once John discovered a gathering of hazel trees and collected a large quantity of nuts. They tried a little of the derma - the special bread made by Benelda - and found it was delicious and so filling that a very small piece was quite enough. Fruit was plentiful, and every day they came across a different variety of wild berry, so that they quickly learnt which were the most worth-while to stop and gather. At night they made a large fire, and slept with their feet towards it. John discovered that Bomblin's remarkably fat middle was not entirely due to his appetite, but partly to the fact that he carried a large blanket wrapped round his middle - a very good protection against the kicks of goblins - and certainly a very good idea at night, for they both snuggled down under the blanket, and slept soundly.

Every now and then they saw goblins. Usually one or two, out on a hunting expedition, and once a band of them coming back from a raid on an elfin village. They were all half-drunk, yelling and shouting crude jokes and gloating over their spoils. Bomblin felt twice the Bingol with John beside him, and wanted to try out his new-found skill of shouting multiplication tables at them, but John held him back. It was as well not to tempt providence too far.

One afternoon, after walking a mile or so, they came to a dense forest. John realised that this was the forest he had seen in the distance when he first stepped out of Terina, and the one the elves had called the Forest of Thorns. It had looked quite ordinary then, but something about it now filled him with a strange misgiving. He stood still, staring at it, and trying to reason with himself. Why, it was only that the thick foliage of the trees blocked the sun's rays, making the interior of the forest unusually dark - or it could have been the strange stillness in a place where there was not even the faintest breath of wind. He shrugged his shoulders and laughed at his own fears, and as he did so Bomblin began to jump and down with excitement. "I say, old chap! I've been here before! Well, I do declare, here's the very spot I camped at! And this is the forest with that excellent river just beyond it! Well, upon my soul - you'll never believe this - I've been walking in a complete circle! Why, here's the spot I shooed a stray goblin off with my umbrella, and here's the very rabbit hole I hid down afterwards. Must have been, what? - ooh, months ago now, months ago. Nearly a year - just think! A complete circle, old chap, and its taken me nearly a year to do it!"

The discovery did not seem to dismay Bomblin at all - on the contrary he chortled and chattered away until he fell into a fit of helpless giggling, and sat down heavily on the grass, perspiring profusely, to recover.

"Do you know the forest, then?" queried John.

"Know it? - My dear chap, utterly familiar with it! Know a short cut, off the beaten track, straight through the middle. Leave it to me, old boy. Just follow this experienced sort of a Bingol and we'll be out in no time."

John's fears did not completely disappear. He had had enough experience of Bomblin to know that he was often rashly impetuous, but the short cut through the wood would save them many miles, and he was anxious to make good time.

There was a fairly well used path leading into the forest, and at about three in the afternoon John and Bomblin started down it. Bomblin was in high spirits, and made much of the good fishing to be had in the river, and the superb quality of the mushrooms they would gather in the forest. He bounced along beside a thoughtful John, stopping now and then to examine an unusual plant or tree, and chattering his head off all the time. "Here we are, old boy. This is where we branch off. Straight down here to the river, over the bridge, and out the other side."

Now they had to find their way along a much less clearly defined track - sometimes it merged into the undergrowth of the forest and disappeared completely. Whenever they could not see it Bomblin pounced on it very soon again behind a new thicket or in a leafy clearing. But each time he pounced his cries of delight became less hearty, and soon they died away altogether, and the usually ebullient Bingol became quiet and subdued. John realised with a sinking feeling that Bomblin was really not at all certain of the way.

The afternoon was nearly over now, and they would either have to find the path before darkness, or strike camp for the night. They decided to make one more bid for the track that had led them into the forest, and retraced their steps for about a mile. To their dismay the path was impossible to find, and soon they were standing still in bewilderment, completely surrounded by an unfamiliar flurry of undergrowth. By this time the shadows were slanting through the trees at an almost horizontal angle, and so having found a suitable clearing they decided to make their preparations for the night.

It was obvious that the long night hours would be uncomfortable and dreary. Bomblin, full of apologies by now for having persuaded John to take the wrong route, did his best to collect dry wood and make a fire. Alas, everything he touched was wet. The ground itself was completely sodden, every twig and branch covered in green moss, and every leaf exuding moisture. The air was dank and very cold. John's eye fell on a large oak tree just a few yards away that had low, spreading branches. He drew his knife and cut a few sturdy rods from saplings growing nearby, and these he laid across the branches, making a fairly large platform, and when the springy foliage of a spruce tree had been added to them the platform made quite a serviceable bed. This pleased them both tremendously, and after an extra large helping of Derma, a slice of excellent cheese and some fruit, they lay under the blanket well fortified against the dripping of the leaves and the chilly night air.

"John," said Bomblin, as they drifted off to sleep.

"Mm?"

"How long do you think dragons live for?"

"I've no idea," said John. "I've no experience of dragons. Grooler is the first I've heard of."

Bomblin sighed. "I was thinking," he said. "If Grooler were to die suddenly from old age, it would be very convenient. I could give up all hope of grandmother Bootle's ring then and just go home." He sighed again, very heavily. "It's going to be a long wait, though - he's in rather good shape for a very old dragon."

A large drop of rain dripped on to Bomblin's nose, and a cold draught of air found its way down his back, but he was so extremely tired that even these discomforts could not quite prevent him from dozing off, and the next sound that came from him was an abandoned snore. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning this way and that, and each time he was disturbed he muttered angrily in his sleep, "Fierce old buzzard," and sometimes, "Silly old trout."

John heard these mutterings and smiled. He hoped he would be able to help Bomblin. Certainly, if he were to enter the Dark Mountain, the dragon would have to be defeated. He thought of the description Bomblin had given him of Grooler - cruel red eyes, huge pointed teeth, a spiky impregnable back, enormous leathery wings, and a hide like armour plating over everything. Yet, he thought, there must be a weak spot somewhere .... No monster ever born was completely invulnerable .... Somewhere, somehow, Grooler must have a weak spot.... A heavy drowsiness gradually overwhelmed him, and he sank into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter Five

The Wicked Witch

The pair rose at dawn, glad that the night was over. Both of them were aching in every limb. Bomblin was sneezing, and obviously developing a cold - a tendency, he explained, inherited from his grandmother. They were both heartily sick and tired of feeling cold and damp, and since they had no hope of finding any path, decided to walk steadily in one direction until they were out of the forest.

The undergrowth was thick and tangled, the trees overpoweringly tall. They struggled on for about an hour, and although the sun must have risen in the sky it seemed, if anything, to get darker. John had to use his knife once or twice to cut a way for them to wriggle through, and once, when he was doing this, he thought he saw the figure of an old woman looking at them through the trees. When he told Bomblin this, the little Bingol turned quite pale and became very agitated. "Hurry, John, do. Let's go this way - it's clearer here."

John looked at him in surprise, and then laughed. "Well, we'd better get it right this time Bomblin, or we'll be in this wood for ever!" He cut a few tough vines with his knife, and shepherded Bomblin through the clearing. They found themselves in a shadowy glade.

"Why, look, Bomblin - there she is again!"

Just ahead, was an old woman, staring at them intently. She was leaning on a stick, dressed in an old brown shawl, and her expression was hard and ugly. As they moved nearer, John saw that she was staring not at their faces, but at the talisman he wore round his neck. Normally it was hidden by his clothing, but today it hung loose outside, and his hand went to it instinctively in a protective gesture. They would have made their way straight past the old woman, but as they went to do so she raised her stick, and not taking her eyes off the talisman, pointed to it, saying, "That's a pretty bauble, child."

"Thank you," said John.

"A most interesting piece of work - indeed, a fascinating example of masterly skill." She surveyed it with hawk eyes, from a distance. "Would you be so good as to tell me where it comes from?"

"Well," said John, hesitantly, "It was a present. Would you like to look at it?"

He held it out to her, still with the string round his neck. She started to come forward with her hand outstretched, but something seemed to make her recoil. Her hand dropped, and a look of surprise and fear came into her face. It was only momentary, and gone in a flash, but John noticed it and felt disturbed.

Suddenly, the old woman was all politeness and smiles. She told them they were miles from the edge of the forest, and invited them to her home for some refreshment. If they had not been so hopelessly lost and tired and hungry, John would never have agreed to go, but the idea of some hospitality was tempting, and she might show them the right path.

The old woman turned and led them through the forest. All the time Bomblin was growing paler and paler, and something inside John tugged at his heart and whispered "No! No!" but neither of them wanted to be rude enough to run off, and so they went on, all the time suppressing their misgivings.

By and by they came to a tumbledown cottage, small and very dark inside, and full of cobwebs. The walls were lined with books and there were skulls of animals used as ornaments, and strangely familiar shapes drowned in pickle jars. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and spiders swung on their threads from the ceiling. John wanted to run away the minute he had entered, but the old woman shut and bolted the door and then turned to them with a smile. The smile was not reassuring, but it made John hide his fears and play her game of politeness. She sat them down at a table on which there was the strangest thing John had ever seen, and he stared at it in fascination. It was a round ball on a silver stand, but it was completely transparent and seemed to be full of moving clouds, forever changing shape and colour. It held his gaze, drawing him closer in wide-eyed wonder, and the old woman, seating herself at the other end of the table, regarded him with satisfaction.

"So you are in the favour of the Benelda people?"

John jumped. How had she known that?

"The charm you are wearing comes from them. No one else can produce such artistry." Her lips curled when she said this, so that it sounded more like a sneer than a compliment. "They must favour you extraordinarily - a fine, strong, handsome youth - no doubt you have gained their confidence" - she paused - "and know many of their secrets?"

John was lost and bewildered. Why did she want to flatter him, and what did she want from him? He was on his guard, but he decided to humour her and find out what she was up to.

The old woman went to a corner of the room and came back carrying a large wooden box. She placed it in front of John, and then, dramatically, threw back the lid. John gasped. There were the most magnificent jewels he had ever seen, glistening and glittering in the firelight, and his mouth dropped open in amazement. Two of the most dazzling and beautiful of the fiery stones were taken from the box and laid deliberately in front of him and Bomblin. John was vaguely aware that Bomblin's brown paw was slowly moving towards the gigantic ruby in front of it, and then there was a little sigh of delight as the furry claws closed over it, but John was far too hypnotized to make a move himself. He looked from the enchanting loveliness of the precious stone to the cunning ruthlessness on the face of the old woman, and a terrible coldness came over him.

"One good turn deserves another," she said, slowly. "These are yours, and more besides, if you will do one small thing for me." And then, feeling sure that she had bought their friendship, she told them what it was she wanted.

"There is something that I want - no, something that I need - something that I need very badly, more than sleep, or food, or life itself. The Green Maleena have it in their mountain, and I shall have no rest, no peace, till it is mine, all mine, as it deserves to be. I have seen it in my crystal ball, and now there is nothing on earth, no power in the universe, that can stop me from desiring it ...."

Her voice had risen to a wild screech, but now she broke off and gazed ahead, her eyes glassy, carried away on flights of evil fantasy. For a few seconds she dreamed abstractedly, and then continued her story.

"To get what I desire, I must find my way into the Dark Mountain. Grooler is nothing - him I could kill with one word - but the magic of the Maleena is stronger than mine, and it keeps me out of their wretched hill!" She turned to them with a helpless gesture, and her desperation increased with every word. "I, with all my knowledge, all my artifice and skill, cannot open the door! It remains shut - forever - locked against all my entreaties. It drives me mad! Day and night I make spells, but all the time I know - there is only one way, one way to be sure...."

John gave a great start.

"A ring with a gate carved on it - and on the inside, a riddle."

John went icy with horror. The ring was on his finger now! Her eyes only had to slip from his face and she would see it!

"The riddle is the clue to the door. With that ring I could enter the Dark Mountain."

A cold sweat broke out on John's forehead. Moving very, very slowly, he drew his hands towards each other under the table and more slowly still, began secretly to take the ring off before she spotted it.

She leaned closer to him, staring at his face, and hissed, "Get me that ring, and I will give you anything you ask for."

It was nearly off his finger now - oh, don't let her see, don't let her see!

She leant back, still fixing him with her gaze.

Ah! It was off completely. Slowly, very slowly, he slipped it into his pocket.

Her gaze flickered. Had she seen? There was a long tense silence. The old woman seemed to take on a new menace. Her face became a mask behind which she withdrew - calculating, weighing the odds. John was too horrified to say or do anything. He sat there, tongue-tied, his skin prickly and clammy with sweat.

Then the old woman smiled again, and this time the smile was even more horrible, for it was completely and absolutely without meaning. "Please accept my hospitality," she purred, and going over to the stove brought back a pot, which had been simmering there. "This humble meal I had intended for my supper, but I am sure your need is greater than mine."

She put two bowls and spoons upon the table, and ladled out two enormous helpings. Then she stood back and watched them, still with an evil grin. John raised the spoon to his lips but his eyes were on the witch's face, mesmerised by her smile. The first mouthful was bitter, and stung his throat as it went down, jolting him from his hypnotized gaze at the old woman. For a moment he stared at the food, and then stood up electrified. The dish was a bright yellow colour, and there were green pips floating about in it. It was medronis!

"You fiend!" he yelled, and threw it in her face. She gave a tremendous, deafening scream, and burst into a cackle of demonic laughter. She seemed to grow taller until she towered over him, and then, horror of horrors, she began to change shape into the most hideous of monsters, and while she was growing twenty pairs of arms and legs, and three enormous heads, and twelve sets of yellow eyes, she shouted in her grating voice, "You little fool! You pathetic wretch! Did you think to deceive Decepta, the mistress of Deception?" And then she laughed again, so loud it hurt his eardrums. "I shall have the ring .... The ring!"

John seized his sword and prepared to attack. Horror had given way now to desperation. He lunged at one head, and the monster sagged. He lunged at another, but the creature had rallied and changed shape again. The third head swayed in front of him, hissing on a snake-like neck, grinning triumphantly as it evade the flashing blade, and then just as he had it in his reach and was about to dissever it the monster dissolved, and melted into nothing before his eyes. He stopped in mid-air, bewildered, and then an expression utter disbelief came over his face. There in front of him, no more than a few feet away, was the absolutely perfect image of a beautiful young maiden.

He fought against the illusion. He knew it was the witch. He closed his eyes and cried out, and raising the sword made a tremendous effort to strike. Alas, he could not. Surely - it must be - the vision must be real. Those were the bluest eyes, the rosiest cheeks and lips. Slowly, very slowly, she came towards him, smiling and holding out her hands. His body slumped, his hand released its grip on the sword. Slowly, very slowly, she reached out and took it from his nerveless grasp.

"Aha! Deceived! You little stupid!" The witch screeched louder than ever before, and there she was before him in her real form, with John's sword poised in her hand, about to plunge it into his heart.

And then John remembered the talisman - 'those who deceive, deceive themselves'. He tore it from his neck, and flung it at her with all his strength. It had the most astounding effect. She staggered, turned pale, and shuddered with horror. The sword fell with a clatter to the floor, and Bomblin, who had been hiding until now, leapt forward, and gave it to John.

John knew this was their only chance. With all his might he swung the sword and chopped the witch's head right off. Then he snatched up the talisman, dived through the window after Bomblin and ran ...ran ....ran - both of them - he and Bomblin together - ran out of that hateful cottage, away, far away from the horror and darkness of it, ran crashing through the trees and the undergrowth, ran until his lungs were bursting and his legs would move no longer. Then he flung himself down on the grass, bathed in a sea of perspiration, and knew that at last he was safe, and the terrible nightmare was over.

Trembling, gasping for breath, John and Bomblin lay exhausted in the comforting rays of the afternoon sun, spreading their bodies out in it a if it could help to erase the dreadful memory of the witch. John still had his fingers clenched tightly round the talisman, and he felt a wave of thankfulness that the Benelda had given it to him. It must be very powerful, and particularly effective against witchcraft to have had such a dramatic effect. He would guard it well - that, and his sharp-edged sword.

The opal stone lay hidden in John's hand, dull and lifeless in the darkness of it. What John did not know, however, was that in the cottage the talisman had been lent an extra power. For there, gleaming in the heart of the witch's crystal ball, giving strength to all that was good and beautiful, had been the image of the Shining Heart.

Chapter Six

Goblins do go boating!

The next few days were spent recovering from the terrible adventure with the witch. John and Bomblin made a camp where they were, and had plenty of time to look around and take good stock of their surroundings. By great good fortune they had run right through the forest to the other side, and before them was a long, curving valley, stretching into the distance between the Blue Hills. From behind the forest, and winding down the centre of the valley like a silver ribbon, was a broad and beautiful river. It took them no time at all to realise its possibilities - a craft of any sort would be by far the quickest way of making progress.

They spent many happy hours constructing a raft. Bomblin's jacket was found to possess a variety of voluminous pockets, all concealing items of interest. One of these was a ball of twine, and this was just the thing for lashing the wooden raft together. John worked for days on it - first cutting thirty or forty saplings of a peculiarly cork-like wood, then trimming them and lashing them together in bundles. He reinforced the strength of the twine by using the vines from creepers, and when at last it was ready to be launched they waited with bated breath to see what would happen. Hoorah! It floated! Gingerly, they stepped on to it and tested it with a few careful steps. Yes! - it was a success! Thankfully, they loaded their few possessions and pushed off from the shore. John had made some paddles, and they carried an extra pole for punting. The current was flowing downstream, the way they wanted to go, so most of the time they used the paddles simply for steering and found themselves going at quite a pace.

Once on the river their spirits soared sky-high. Bomblin remembered an old Bingol boating song, and exhilarated by the sun and the wind, gave a truly splendid rendition of it at the top of his voice.

Softly flows the river, winding out of sight,

Gentle ripples quiver, silvery with light.

Green grows all the river-weed

Upon the river floating -

Oh there's nothing like a Bingol,

Like a Bingol when he's boating.

Balmy is the evening, and warm the afternoon,

Starry is the dark night-sky all lit up by the moon,

Better still the fleecy clouds

When break of day is dawning,

And there's nothing like the river

For a Bingol, in the morning.

Now sometimes folks are jolly,

And sometimes folks are sad,

And a Bingol's heart lies heavy

If he can't make someone glad,

And if there's been a quarrel

Well, here's how to make amends -

Oh, there's nothing like some boating

For a Bingol and his friends.

John joined in with gusto, and soon the dank river air reverberated with the sounds of singing and laughter. The trees on the banks, and clumps of reeds and bushes by the shore were fairly whizzing past - only once or twice did they have to use the pole to push off from a patch of rushes, or disentangle themselves from some river-weed. It looked as though the Blue Hills were really within their reach - and then, who knows? - Perhaps the Dark Mountain itself would be in sight. With the foam blowing in his face, and the freshness and sting of it sending the blood racing through his veins, John felt a tremendous desire to make haste - he paddled furiously, willing the little craft on. His victory over Decepta had given him confidence and his first experience of the power of magic. Now that he knew the importance of the ring with the gate engraved on it, he had taken it off and tied it round his neck so that it hung there together with the talisman, both hidden by his shirt. It was safer to make sure that no one else noticed it on his finger. Not even Bomblin knew that he possessed it - Bomblin seemed not to have noticed, anyway - and could not have guessed that John's mind was much preoccupied with the riddle thereon. Every time Bomblin stopped talking, or even sometimes while he was, John found the words 'the middle of five guards the centre of seven bewitched by eleven' going round and round in his brain. Sometimes he felt that he was just about to grasp the key to the meaning when always it eluded him again.

The pair stopped at the start of evening to light a fire and make a meal. They had managed to make a fishing net out of Bomblin's silk handkerchief, which they had tied to a forked stick and dragged through the water behind them. They actually trapped a fairly large fish. It looked like bream, very scaly, but skewered on a stick and roasted over the flames, it tasted delicious. They ate their fill and sat basking in the warmth of the fire, while the shadows of night grew deeper all around them.

"Well, old chap," said Bomblin, delicately picking his teeth with a fish-bone, "after that magnificent meal, which I trust we shall repeat again in the near future" (here he ostentatiously refolded his silk handkerchief, which had been drying by the fire, and replaced it in his pocket) " I, for one, feel ready for a long night's sleep. ... I say! I've got a frightfully good wheeze! If we sleep on the raft, the river will carry us downstream all night, and we'll probably travel quite a long way. We'll be safe from goblins there, as well. They never venture on to the river, you know."

"Jolly good," said John. "Let's do it."

So they loaded everything on to the raft, made fast the pole and paddles, and pushed off from the shore, neither of them dreaming that Bomblin's words would be proved so wrong.

At first it was an eerie sensation, to lie flat on the raft and feel the water gurgling and swelling beneath them, but there was not a breath of wind, the moon was full in the starlit sky, and soon they were both enchanted by the beauty of the dark and magical night. Silently and peacefully they drifted down the centre of the stream, grateful to be safe from all the hazards of the shore, and into their sleepy heads came memories of half-forgotten bed-time baths and steaming cups of cocoa, and warm, embracing good-night cuddles. All so long, so long ago. A shaft of homesickness shot through John's heart, and a surge of longing suddenly overwhelmed him. How he would hug his two naughty sisters when he saw them again - how overjoyed he would be to see his mother and father. At least they were not missing him. The thought gave John comfort, and he closed his eyes and tried to imagine his mountain as he had known it - vibrant with life, dappled with sunshine and shadows, fragrant with heather. Once again he was walking through the fields of corn at its foot, picking baskets of ripe apples from the orchards, chasing the sheep from his own back garden .... A happy smile came to his face, and he fell asleep.

They both awoke suddenly, with a terrible fright. Bomblin grabbed John for support, and pointed behind him with a shaking finger. Goblins! A whole boatful of them, jeering and shouting threats and insults. John thrust a paddle at Bomblin and yelled "Row, Bomblin! Row!" and Bomblin, with trembling arms, did his best. The little craft shot ahead, bobbing like a cork, with John frantically paddling one side, Bomblin the other. "Once twelve is twelve, two twelves are twenty-four!" chanted John madly, but if anything, the jeers grew louder, and the red, glinting, goblin eyes loomed nearer and nearer. Goblins are always braver in the dark, and this John knew, and put all his hopes into getting the raft out of their reach.

"Two of 'em!" yelled a goblin voice.

"Go for the fattest!" shouted another. "'E'll go round more."

Bomblin gave a terrified squeal, and splashed about furiously with the paddle. John gave up the twelve times table and burst into the boating song he had learned from Bomblin. This had quite an effect on the goblins - they slowed down considerably, and cowered lower in their boat.

"There's a queer'un 'ere" he heard one mutter.

"Unnatural," complained another. "'E oughta be 'ad for supper, behavin' like that."

There was a scuffling in the boat, as some changed places, and then John realised with alarm that they were renewing their attack. Up came the goblin boat, faster and faster. This time there was no laughter, only determination and malice in the spiteful eyes. Closer and closer came the ugly band. John saw grimly that it would come to a fight, and gripping his paddle firmly, raised it above his head. Creating a swell that rocked them madly, the goblin boat drew alongside, and horrid goblin arms shot out to steal what could be stolen. John hit out wildly with the paddle, but in the darkness and confusion the loathsome creatures seemed to be everywhere, screeching and whining and whispering goblin gibberish.

Suddenly, there was a terrible splash, and Bomblin gave a terrified scream. He was in the water, but no sooner in than out, for twenty pairs of goblin hands had seized him and planted him squarely in the middle of their boat. Then John heard the awful sniggering laughter start again, and poor Bomblin's cries for help were drowned by hoots of triumph and derision as the goblin crew made off with him kicking and screaming in the midst of them.

John went cold with horror. He only had time to call out "Don't be frightened, Bomblin! I'll rescue you!" before the boat was swallowed up in the shadows of the river ahead, and only the faintest cries in the distance remained, chilling his blood. Suddenly feeling terribly alone, he stood still on the raft and listened intently to the fading sounds. It seemed as though they came from the shore now, so that the goblins must have left their boat and made off with Bomblin to a place on land. Immediately, John's mind was filled with dreadful imaginings, but a fierce determination took hold of him to overcome his fears. One thing was certain now - his very first task was to rescue Bomblin - and he desperately hoped he could do so quickly.

Taking a quick check of their belongings, John saw that, miraculously, the only thing missing was the paddle Bomblin had been using. All the food was there, the blanket, soaked in water, the cooking pot in the haversack. He strapped his bundle on to his back, folded the blanket, and silently punted the raft downstream, keeping well hidden in the darker shadows of the bank. He knew it was important to find and rescue Bomblin quickly, but it was even more important to be cautious and quiet: all would be lost if he was captured as well. These goblins looked a tougher breed than others he had met - perhaps they were Maleena - and would have to be defeated not by courage alone, but by cleverness as well.

Sure enough, he came upon the goblin boat moored to the bank. It was completely empty, but he waited several minutes before gliding past it. Then he steered the raft into a thick cover of trees and bushes further down the river and made it fast. From the bank, it was completely hidden, and he regarded it with satisfaction before setting out, with a beating heart, to rescue his friend.

Chapter Seven

John to the Rescue

Bomblin was half dead with fright. Bingols are not the bravest of creatures, and Bomblin was not the bravest of Bingols. He had been bound hand and foot and put into a sack, and then swung dangerously from one hand to another, and bounced and bumped until he was black and blue. He had curled up tightly into a ball and covered his head with his paws, all the time trembling like a jelly and spitting river-weed out of his mouth. The goblins were making so much noise that the din nearly deafened him, and when he did overhear a whole sentence, it was so frightening that he moved his paws to his ears so as not to hear any more.

"Kurl will be pleased with us tonight," said one ugly voice. "'E's been 'ungry for days."

"Yes. 'E oughta be better tempered with 'is stomach filled." Dreadful laughter followed this remark.

"Get a move on, then!" growled a viciously bad-tempered voice. "We want to cook 'im before morning, don't we?"

Bomblin fainted clean away at this, and merciful it was too, for the rest of the conversation consisted of a discussion on which vegetables to add to the dish, and was accompanied by much lip-smacking and drooling of saliva.

The goblins threw Bomblin down at last by the warmth of a fire. The camp had been in use for some time, and goblin tents were well established all around it. There were cries of delight from the women and children who had stayed behind, and a great deal of scurrying here and there, to build up the fire and find a large enough cooking pot.

Bomblin recovered from his faint when they opened the sack, and groaned in despair when he realised his desperate situation. All around him were the ugliest, most spiteful looking creatures he had ever seen. Their skins were a greeny-grey colour, covered with knobs and blotches. All their noses were hideously long and their fingers sharp and spiky. Their bodies were revoltingly lumpish, nothing but bloated stomach, so that the thin spindly arms and legs looked spiderish and grotesque; but the worst thing of all were the eyes - needle sharp and blood red, and full of malice.

Suddenly, from one of the tents, appeared a goblin of a different type. His eyes were so dark, they were very nearly black, and he walked with an air of authority. When he spoke, his voice less coarse and brutish than the others, was cold and calculating. He sauntered up to Bomblin and poked him contemptuously.

"And what can a Bingol be doing in goblin country, I wonder? Unusual to find one so adventurous." A sneer curled his lip, and he stroked his chin and pondered for a few minutes. Then he turned sharply to the others. "Who was he with?"

"A very thin'un, sir. A very thin sort of a well - er ..." The voices trailed off. They were at a loss to describe John, having never seen a human before.

The green goblin stared at those around him with a growing, ill-concealed fury. His voice was quiet with menace. "Well? Go on, go on!"

"'E was a queer 'un sir, as well as thin. 'E would have turned the pot sour."

'' "'E started multiplying, sir - and singing! Right made my blood run cold."

"Oo-er!" A child began to scream at the thought of singing, and his mother gave scowls all round. The very mention of such things frightened goblin children.

"Was he tall?" the cold voice snapped. "Was he fair of face and limb?"

"'E was that" said one, "didn't like the look of 'im at all."

"Fools!" snarled the green goblin. "You've brought me the wrong one. Idiots! Imbeciles of hob-goblins!" He stroked his chin again in an agitated way and muttered, "There's mischief afoot here .... There's witchery and magic here, I'll swear .... This smells of the Benelda, by Zorin, the milky-faced Benelda!" Roughly, he seized Bomblin by the hair of his head, and dragged him into the full light of the fire. "Gather round, lads," he said with relish. "We'll question this Bingol before we cook him, and if he answers well, he can die an easy death."

The others raised a cheer in anticipation of some sport, and gloated over their terrified victim with horrid leers. The green goblin, the one they called Kurl, raised his voice to the women, and shouted "And make a strong spell against all goodness - a strong one, mind, proof against the sneaky sort that creeps in unawares. We're up against Benelda magic, here." The women dropped into the pot bits and pieces of things Bomblin could only guess at, and stirred it repeatedly with an enormous spoon. They stared fixedly at the mixture, and kept repeating over and over again the words 'moolim, zoolim, yoolim', and this chant went on all the time the goblins were questioning Bomblin, so that the words were imprinted on his brain - 'moolim, zoolim, yoolim', on and on in an endless chant.

Kurl planted himself in front of Bomblin, and poked him again with a long stick. "Now, let's start at the beginning, shall we? Who's your friend, where does he come from, and what is he doing here?"

Bomblin groaned aloud and looked round desperately for a way of escape. He knew that no matter how long they questioned him he would not be able to tell them anything, for John's quest was a complete mystery to him.

"And what's your name? - Come on, come on, little fat Bingol. The Maleena do not like to be kept waiting."

So the one they called Kurl was a Maleena. No wonder he was obviously their leader. Bomblin opened his mouth to speak, but his teeth were chattering so much that no words came out at all. Kurl became really impatient, and grasping Bomblin by the scruff of his neck, put his ugly face close to his and hissed, "Speak up, little Bingol, speak up, and we might not cook you tonight! (There were jeers and cries of 'Cook 'im now!' from the others) Just tell us what we need to know." The stick jabbed viciously into his stomach, and Bomblin squealed.

"He comes from the Benelda, doesn't he?" - poking harder - "And probably you too, by Zorin, you too! Well? Come on then! What are you both up to, eh?"

Poor Bomblin was far too terrified to utter a coherent word. He stopped and started, and stopped again, and enormous beads of perspiration glistened all over his face. The chant of 'moolim, zoolim yoolim', was growing stronger and stronger, and he almost wished they would kill him straight away so that he could escape from it.

The sight of Bomblin helpless with terror suddenly drove Kurl to a frenzy of anger. With fists clenched, his whole body shaking, he yelled at the top of his voice "By Zorin and by Zoolim, I will know the secret! Those whey-faced milksops of Benelda shall not defeat us! The power of the shining thing is ours by right - by right, I tell you. How can it defy the magic of the Green Maleena? Why will it not bend to our will? His voice suddenly dropped and changed to an obsequious whine. "Just tell us how to make it work, little Bingol. Just show us how to use its power, and we will set you free." He came closer, and whispered eagerly in Bomblin's ear. "We'll give you a horse and a caravan, and money - plenty of everything you want - and set you free - free! - only tell us what you know of the shining thing - it drives us mad, day and night resisting our magic, dazzling our eyes. We only want to subdue it - to tame it. Tell us ....tell us what you know!"

Bomblin held his head in his hands and shook it from side to side. "I don't know what you mean," he sobbed. "I know nothing of this shining thing."

There was an awful silence. And then Kurl roared at the top of his voice "He's all yours, lads! Into the pot with him!"

Bomblin thought he was going to die. He fainted clean away again as they began to untie his bonds and drag him to the pot. He was dimly aware that there was an outbreak of scuffling and shouting round the tents, and much screaming from the women and children, but it never occurred to him to think he was anything other than good as dead. Even when the goblins left him lying alone on the ground and began to run distractedly here and there, he still kept his eyes tightly shut, and even when somebody shook him violently by the shoulders he still had his paws over his head. But something suddenly made him look up - surely - no, it couldn't be .... That voice was singing - singing! Those feet were stamping, kicking out at goblin legs and heads, that flashing sword was cutting and thrusting in a most familiar way! Bomblin's heart gave a great leap of relief, within seconds he regained his strength and energy and stood alongside John, hitting out with fists and feet and swelling the victorious song.

Still, it was a close fight. The goblins fought fiercely, and it was a stroke of fortune that just as John attacked, the first light of dawn shone in the morning sky. This, combined with the surprise of the onslaught, and its splendid display of courage, was enough to unnerve them completely. Gradually, John and Bomblin fought their way to the edge of the throng. Soon they would be free, and able to run like the wind through the trees.

Just then, one of the more cunning goblins had an idea. He scooped up a jugful of the magic potion that had been simmering on the fire, and just as it looked as though the brave pair were free, he threw it hard at John. It fell on the hand that held the sword, paralysing the muscles. The hand went limp and lifeless, and the sword dropped to the ground. As John turned to pick it up, it was snatched away by goblin fingers. "Run John, run!" urged Bomblin, and leaving the sword behind, the two of them ran as fast as they could through the trees, and out of the wood and into the blessed light of the morning sun.

The goblins soon gave up the chase. John found the raft, and they threw themselves on to it, panting for breath. Both were black and blue all over, and poor Bomblin was bleeding from a badly cut head. Their bodies ached and throbbed with pain. John pushed the raft off from the shore so that they floated slowly down the river, and it was several hours before they were well enough to sit up and inspect their wounds. John gave Bomblin a drink from his flask, and tied the silk handkerchief round his head, and covered him with the blanket. They spent the rest of the day lying flat on the raft, regaining their strength, and in the evening stopped and lit a fire in a secluded inlet of the shore.

"Bomblin," said John, as they ate their meal, "in future we must travel by day and hide ourselves by night."

"Just as you say, old chap," agreed Bomblin fervently. "Just as you say."

They ate their meal silently, with low spirits. John had recovered the use of his hand, but he was extremely worried by the loss of his sword and knew that Bomblin was too, for it had been their only hope against the dragon. Both of them avoided the subject so as not to depress the other, but each one quailed inwardly at the thought of the unknown dangers lying ahead.

"John," said Bomblin, later. "What did they mean about the shining thing?"

"Too long a story for now," said John, lightly.

There was a pause.

"They kept repeating some magic words - let me see now, what were they? - 'moolim, zoolim, yoolim'."

"I know," said John. "I heard them. I followed the sound until I found you."

Afterwards, John lay wrapped in the warm blanket, thinking hard. He still had his talisman, the ring, and the belt. He had forgotten about the belt, and the magical red button which could transport him home, but now it occurred to him that during the ordeals that lay before him he might be tempted to use it. Immediately, he chased the idea out of his head - it was unthinkable. He turned over and closed his mind to all thoughts but sleep.

"Fierce old buzzard," muttered Bomblin to himself. "Heartless old trout."

"Who?" said John.

"My grandmother Bootle. Serve her right if I did get cooked. Serve her right! .... Silly old turtle, she ought to try it herself."

John smiled.

The shadows around them grew deeper, and soon they were both asleep.

Chapter Eight

Shipwrecked

John and Bomblin woke to a cold, grey dawn. There was a thick mist on the Blue Hills, and although they were much nearer now (in fact, John judged that the foot of the nearest was only about fifteen miles away) they still had no idea of the exact position of the Dark Mountain. It could be another twenty or thirty miles beyond the range in font of them, or maybe even further. John was anxious to find it as quickly as possible, and urged Bomblin to hurry his breakfast so that they could make an early start. They decided that the river was still the best way to travel, for providing that a good watch was kept for goblins, it was by far quicker than struggling over the rugged countryside.

As the little raft was pushed off from the shore and punted slowly downstream, the sky over the Blue Hills grew darker and mistier, the air became colder, and John reflected that the weather was bound to get worse and worse as they drew closer to the land of Maleena. He remembered some words the Benelda had used of the Dark Mountain - 'forever torn with storm and thunder' - and just at that moment a gust of wind blew up from nowhere, bringing with it a squall of rain. The river swelled beneath them and carried the frail craft along at an alarming rate.

Glancing quickly at the gathering clouds, and the threatening change in the wind, John yelled to Bomblin to steer the raft to the bank. Furiously, they both paddled on one side, but the current had gained a new strength, and try as they might, no course against it was possible. On they sped, going faster and faster. Bomblin's paddle was suddenly snatched out of his hands, and he lay clinging to the raft to prevent himself from falling in after it. John gave up paddling, and lay flat too, covering the oar with his body to keep it safe. Fortunately, all their belongings were packed in the haversack on his back. Just as well, for the raft was swamped time and time again, and lurched to one side quite dangerously, so that it was a wonder that everything wasn't thrown off. Grimly, they clung on, with fingers grown numb and rigid by the icy waters of the river, desperately hoping that something would happen to save them. Bomblin was very frightened and shouted that he was losing his grip, so John edged towards him and used a loose piece of twine to lash him to the raft. As he moved cautiously about, making sure never once to loosen his hold, he noticed that the banks of the river had become sheer, rocky cliffs, and the force of the current had become so strong that it was likely to dash the raft to pieces against the jutting rocks. John dared not tell Bomblin but he feared that a waterfall lay ahead, and he resolved to make quite sure Bomblin was securely tied to the raft, since their only hope was to stay with it and hope it would survive.

"Where's the ball of twine. Bomblin?" shouted John above the roar of the rushing water. "I'll make sure you're safe."

"In my back pocket - the third one from the left - No! Don't open that one, it's got my jewel in it. Oh, help!"

An enormous wave drenched the whole raft, leaving them frozen and gasping for breath. John very slightly relaxed his grip so that he could find the right pocket, and another tremendous rush of water tilted the whole craft. He rolled to the edge, fought desperately to find a hold somewhere, and found none. His heart gave a sickening lurch of fright as he fell into the icy water, and felt the irresistible force of the current sucking his body down, down, into the freezing blackness.

He was thrust up to the surface again, spluttering and coughing, just in time to see the raft sweep out of sight with a panic-stricken Bomblin yelling and shouting to him. Then he was tossed here and there like a cork, sometimes under the water, sometimes on top of it, taking great gasps of air whenever he rose from the suffocating depths. Vaguely, he was aware of rocks all round him, and knew that there was no way he could avoid them, for it was useless to pit his strength against the force of the current. His head suddenly hit one with a blinding crash, his whole body somersaulted, and then came merciful darkness.

John had been thrown out of the water on to a flat rock, and for many hours he lay there unconscious, while the fury of the storm reached its peak, and gradually began to subside. He was deaf to the howling wind and impervious to the drenching rain. He lay on his front with his head turned to one side, and a trickle of red blood oozing from a wound on his forehead ran down his cheek and mingled with the watery puddle beneath him.

When at last he came to his senses he struggled instinctively to sit up, but a searing pain in his head forced him to lie down and close his eyes. Spreading out his arms, he could feel a smooth rocky surface underneath him, and every now and then soft splashes on his hands. He lay in this state of semi-consciousness for several more hours, and then, holding his throbbing head and peering through narrowed eyes, he discerned that he was lying on a large rock no more than a few feet from the cliffs. A wave of dizziness came over him and he was forced to lie down again, but suddenly the memory of Bomblin came back to him with a stab of shock. Staggering to his feet, he scrambled madly to the foot of the cliff, and began to climb it as quickly as he could. It was a tremendous struggle, but he reached the top, and then ran along the crest, scouring the banks for any sign of the raft and Bomblin.

Further on, the river narrowed and the rocky cliffs became steeper. John pressed on up the slope of one, frightened of what he might see on the other side. The noise of the river had risen to a tremendous roar, and clouds of spray rose in the air like a fine mist. When he reached the summit, the sight before him made his heart sink like a stone, for the water plunged suddenly to a level twenty or thirty feet lower, dashing itself into thousands of foaming bubbles against the rocks below. Surely nothing could have survived such an almighty onslaught! What he saw beyond the waterfall filled him with an even greater despair, for caught between the rocks, splintered into fragments, were the unmistakable remains of the raft. With an aching heart John examined the debris dreading that, at any moment, he would see Bomblin's body bobbing on the boiling water or broken like a reed upon the rocks.

"Bomblin!" he yelled, distractedly, "Bomblin!" but the wind and the waterfall drowned his puny voice, and his only reply was the callous din of the elements. He searched the river for many hours, running frantically this way and that along the banks, calling and calling, but at last he gave up, feeling sure that Bomblin must be dead, and that his body lay trapped forever within the depths of the river. All this time he had tried manfully not to give way to the misery that threatened to overwhelm him, but when he realised with certainty that all further efforts to find Bomblin were useless, the dreadful wave engulfed him. He cast himself down on the ground, and covering his face with his hands, wept long and bitterly for his friend.

Chapter Nine

The Choice

Now John was alone, without help or solace. His whole body shook like a leaf, and his head throbbed unbearably, yet he knew he must go on. He gathered himself together and bravely started to climb the steep hill, which stood beside the river. After the first few steps he thought he might have to give up, for his legs threatened to collapse beneath him, but it suddenly dawned on him that this was the first of the Blue Hills and that from its peak he might catch a glimpse of the land of Maleena. The hope persuaded him to battle on.

Before long, he felt strangely hot, and his head began to swim. Flashing lights shot across his eyes, and his mind was a confusion of incoherent thoughts and jumbled recollections. His ears were full of noises - the crash of thunder, and the roaring of the wind, yet worst of all, over and above these, he thought he heard the snigger of mocking goblins, and their strange and ugly voices seemed to come from nowhere, deriding, tormenting him.

"This way, your lordship," softly whined a taunting voice. "This way, to the right."

"No here! Here, to the left - just a few more steps!" hissed another.

"Ah! See how his tired body trembles," mocked a third. "Place a few boulders in the path, Grubber."

Anger rose in John like a fire. "Out of my way, goblins!" he roared. "Be you scum of Maleena, or any worse creatures - back to your holes!"

With this, his head cleared a little, and the goblin voices sank to the faintest whispering. He was nearly at the top of the hill now, and he pushed himself onwards, shivering with fever and exhaustion. The sniggering taunts grew louder, but he ignored them, pinning all his hopes on seeing the land of Maleena, and the Dark Mountain itself, on the horizon. With his legs almost buckling under his body, he reached the top of the hill.

Sheer despair overwhelmed him. There was no vista of a new land, no clear unequivocal path to follow, but a thick, white, impenetrable mist, as thick as though it had been undisturbed for centuries. It lay like a carpet over all the land in front of him. He was lost - utterly lost. He had no sword with which to fight the dragon, nor even any means whereby to find him.

At this moment he remembered once again the belt he wore round his waist. Just by twisting the button three times he could be safe at home, sleeping with his own dear family. For a moment, the temptation was overwhelming. He longed to forget the task he had assigned himself and sink into ease of body and mind. His fingers tentatively moved towards the button - how close he was to his own warm bed and his own familiar bedroom. Then he remembered the Benelda - the hardships, famine, evil that would be endured if he gave way. Ashamed of his moment of weakness, he staggered to his feet, and tearing the belt from round his waist, threw it away - threw it as far as he could into the mist.

And then a miracle happened. Because John had done something very good, and very brave, a new strength pulsated within the Shining Heart, and shafts of pure shining magic came bursting from it in all directions, melting the thick shield of mist that protected Maleena. As John stood gazing after the belt, the swirling clouds before him rolled part, and there, no more than twenty miles away lay the Dark Mountain. Ugly and forbidding, it dominated the mountainous country in which it stood, bleak and barren of any loveliness. A roar like thunder rumbled in the distance, and a huge shape that could have been the dragon moved slowly at its foot. John's heart leapt in him with a sudden, fierce joy. He was not alone; the Shining Heart had spoken to his own. He forgot his wounded head, his lack of arms, his weakness and hunger; his mission was good, and would be accomplished.

Shouldering his haversack, he set out once again, squarely facing the Dark Mountain.

Chapter Ten

John Learns More about Grooler

As John walked into the land of Maleena, the mist swirling on either side of him finally dissolved and disappeared altogether. He was walking downhill into a broad valley from which, in the distance, the Dark Mountain rose majestically. The hillside was bare and rocky, there were no trees taller than himself anywhere, and the grass on which he walked was coarse and sparse. Gone were the buttercups and wild violets of the green hills behind him - here were nothing but briars and thistles, teasels and sedge-grasses. Dark clouds blotted out the warmth of the sun, making the air cold and dank, and every tree stump was covered in a pale green mildew. Bursting from the wood were growths of evil-looking fungus, and red-spotted toadstools sprouted amongst the undergrowth.

All at once he was startled by a sudden loud flapping of wings and a shrill, harsh screeching. From the ground rose seven or eight enormous, dark birds, circling above him on gigantic wings. They spiralled round him slowly and it seemed to John that the baleful yellow eyes above the cruel hooked beaks were fixed upon him in a curious stare. After a while they flew off, leaving him with the uneasy feeling of having been somehow marked.

He shivered, and walked more briskly to keep warm. There were no signs of elfin villages anywhere, or indeed, of any life at all in that forbidding landscape. In the middle distance were the slag-heaps of a mine, and trucks standing still and unused on a railway. As he looked more closely, he saw the entrances to many tunnels leading underground - they were sometimes natural caves, and sometimes cleverly disguised to look like them, but an unnatural stillness hung over the scene, and though John scanned the landscape for goblins, he saw no trace of any.

The rest of that day was spent in walking steadily towards the mountain, only stopping for food and water and rest. He felt very little pain from his injuries now - only a slight soreness, and his head had cleared completely. He guessed, quite rightly, that his recovery was being aided by magical powers, and knowing that he was nearing the source of all good magic, grew more confident with every step. Only now and then did the thought of Bomblin return to stab his heart, and a sudden misgiving filled him over the loss of his sword. Old Grooler was rumbling away in the distance - and now John could see quite distinctly the occasional flash of fire shoot from his enormous hulk, and puffs of smoke lazily ascending into the air.

Towards evening, the glowering sky gave birth to a torrential fall of rain. John was loath to stop and shelter, but his clothes became saturated and his shoes squelched at every step, slipping and sliding on the muddy soil. He could hardly keep his eyes open in the downpour, for water ran in rivulets from his hair all down his face, and he decided to take the first opportunity to rest securely for the night. He ploughed on for another mile or so towards one of the tunnel mouths, and as he drew near he noticed heaps of a blackish dust piled outside it, and a few rusty trucks lying broken and twisted beside them. Obviously, this had been the entrance to a mine, but there were no signs of it still being in use, and he felt no anxiety as he entered it.

John was thoroughly exhausted, and extremely wet and cold. It seemed to him that the only thing that mattered in the world was to be out of the terrible rain and able to lie down and sleep. Thankfully, he sank down just inside the tunnel. The opening was a natural cave, but it sloped sharply downwards as it disappeared into the darkness, and further on the walls and ceiling had been shored up with timber. John decided he would try to light a fire as far inside the cave as possible, and began to search for some dry wood. He found a little, but alas, it was damp and green. As he groped about in the dark, he barked his shins painfully on a large wooden box set against the wall of the cave and, full of curiosity, he opened the lid and looked inside. There were a number of short, stout, lengths of wood, each with a tarred rag wrapped round one end. John realised at once that they were torches, left there by goblins who had used the mine. With a thumping heart he determined to find out whether or not the cave was safe for him to sleep in, for he did not relish the prospect of being rudely awakened by a band of goblin miners.

Using his tinder-box he lit one of the torches, and found the dull red glow just enough to light his way. Suddenly, he stopped and gasped. He had just saved himself in time from falling down an enormous hole in the floor of the cave. Kneeling beside it, he held the torch low, and tried to guess its depths. Probably, it went down into the bowels of the earth, where greedy goblins grubbed for jewels in the inky darkness. Finding a small stone, he threw it down the hole, and it was several seconds before he heard it hit the bottom with a faint splash. This reassured him - obviously the seam had filled with water and had been abandoned - yet still he thought it wise, after edging cautiously round it, to explore even further inside the tunnel.

It curved sharply to the left, and downwards. Just before reaching the bend John saw, with a leap of alarm, that there was the faint glow of another light coming from round the corner. Leaving his own torch behind, he crept on, keeping his body pressed to the side of the cave. Before he reached the turning, he could hear the unmistakeable sound of heavy breathing, as though there were several bodies lying in a dead sleep, and now and then a long, whistling snore, accompanied by animal-like grunts. John had heard that the Maleena kept a miniature type of pig that they used for meat, and wondered if he had come across a herd of these bedded down for the night; but feeling sure that animal or no, they were certainly not awake and liable to attack him, he ventured to peep round the corner to see what was there.

He stiffened with fright. The cave opened up into a fairly large chamber, and lying on some straw, flat on their backs and fast asleep, were a whole family of goblins. Their skins were a sort of greenish-black, more horrid than any other goblins he had seen before. Maleena! They must be Maleena! His first instinct was to turn and run, but a strange fascination compelled him to stare at them in horror. They were all hideously ugly, gnarled and knobbed, with bloated bodies and greenish teeth in wide, gaping mouths. There were seven of them altogether, five children ranging from the tiniest of tots to a nearly fully-grown goblin, and the parents, a revoltingly ugly female and a great brutish hulk of a male. They were all dressed in working overalls, and each had a belt stuck with a variety of vicious-looking knives and axes. Stacked in a corner was a pile of tools - pickaxes, shovels, and crowbars. Nearby, a couple of trucks were standing on a railway track which disappeared into a small tunnel leading off from the chamber. The trucks were full of what looked like coal, and there was a thick layer of black dust over everything. On the other side of the chamber was another tunnel, which sloped sharply underground, and on the rails at its entrance stood a large, empty truck..

By the time John had taken the scene in, one of the baby goblins was stirring. It clenched its little fists and a mighty yell came from its wide-open mouth. John only had time to dive into a crevice in the wall before the whole family were awake, yawning and stretching and grumbling, and all the children crying and whining at the same time.

"Get the fire alight, Nurna," growled the father. "We'll have a big breakfast. There's a long night's work ahead of us tonight."

The female went to a large flat boulder in the middle of the chamber and stirred the ashes that were on it. A red glow appeared, and a shovel of coal was placed on the embers, and then several enormous lumps of raw meat on a skewer, where they sizzled and spluttered and filled the cave with the smell of cooking. They were hardly more than charred on the outside before the whole family fell on them greedily, and sat noisily sucking he bones and smacking their lips in the dark shadows of the cave.

"Goomal," said the father, addressing his eldest son, "You'll be coming with me tonight. We'll explore the mine for a new seam of coal. The rest of you can carry on with the old one."

A wail went up from one of the children. "It's not fair! Why should we shovel coal all night? It's not fair! Whaaaa!" He stopped abruptly as a great hand shot out and hit him.

"We shovel coal to keep Old Grooler happy," growled his father, "and don't you forget it." He waved a greasy hand towards the full trucks. "He ought to be happy with that lot. It'll last him for the next six months."

"What does he have to eat coal for?" grumbled a girl-goblin. "We don't eat coal."

"He eats coal so that he can make fire in his belly to burn up impudent sprites who dare to get near our mountain. That's what we've got him for, isn't, you stupid girl?"

"I don't see why it always has to be best quality coal," sighed the wife. "It's so hard to find. Why can't he make do with this?" She nodded towards a shiny black pile in a different corner.

"Because that's all slate. One mouthful of that and he'd get one of his terrible stomach aches. Then he'd get a discontented mood on him and go off and leave the mountain. He needs careful handling, does Grooler. Anyway, his fire would go right out on that stuff - he wouldn't be able to burn a piece of paper if we fed him that."

"The collectors that came last week said that there were strangers about," said the eldest son. "A Bingol, and a queer deformed creature with a pale face. We'd better keep on our toes, in case they turn up."

"Mmm - strange things have been going on," murmured the father. "There's a rumour of a sickness in the mountain - sore eyes, they've all got, and weakness of the stomach. Queer, it is. Peculiar."

"Well, it's that shining thing, isn't it?" snorted his wife. "Ridiculous idea, bringing it here. They keep covering it with all sorts of things and still the light shines through. Why didn't they just kill all the Benelda while they had the chance? They probably won't get the chance again."

"Too quick, that's why. It's better this way, because it's slower. There's nothing they can do without their Shining Heart. They'll all die now, anyway - a nice, slow, uncomfortable death." He smacked his lips with relish, and wiped his fingers on his tunic. "Well, come on, wife. Put that fire out, and we'll be going."

The female goblin picked up a flat stone like a plate, and put it on the embers. John noticed that she kept her eyes averted all the time, as if she disliked the warmth and glow of the flames, and reflected that the only use of fire to goblins was either to cook or to destroy. Indeed, the whole family seemed to shun its heat, preferring the dank, darker parts of the cave.

"What time is this coal for Grooler being collected, father?"

"They're coming at dawn. No need for us to be here. They know what to do - straight up the underground tunnel to the mountain, and then into Grooler's bunker."

Suddenly, one of the little girl goblins let out an almighty yell. "Borlin banged my nose with his shovel!" she shouted.

"Oh, Borlin how could you!" scolded his mother. "On the nose! How could you!" (all goblin noses are extremely sensitive, probably on account of their extraordinary length).

"Well, she's got my shovel - give it back or I'll kick your shins!"

The father gave the children cuffs all round - even those who were quiet for good measure, and made off down one of the tunnels, putting their tools into the empty truck and pushing it ahead of them.

When they were quite gone, and not even the sound of them remained, John crept out from his hiding place. A plan had formed in his head which sent the blood racing through his veins. It must be carried out as quickly as possible.

John went over to one of the full trucks of coal and, using all his strength, managed to push it right off the rails, and then through the chamber to the tunnel by which he had entered. Puffing and blowing, he manoeuvred the truck round the corner. There was the glow of the torch he had abandoned - just enough to light his way to the cavernous hole in the ground. Somehow he managed to tip it up, and with a tremendous splash, the coal hit the water at the bottom of the shaft. Twice he did this, until both the trucks were standing empty on the rails. Then with his last reserves of strength, he filled both of them with the piles of slate, the slate that the goblins had said would be so bad for Old Grooler.

For a moment, he considered hiding himself in the truck and travelling this way to the Dark Mountain - but no, he was too exhausted, and it was far too risky. Now that he knew the Maleena slept all day and worked at night, he felt quite confident about journeying in daylight.

When it was over, his legs suddenly began to tremble violently. He was just able to get back to the entrance to the mine, and with the help of the torch find a niche in the wall of the cave, where, completely hidden, he felt secure enough to sleep like a log for the rest of the night.

Chapter Eleven

The Elfin Market

Bomblin was not dead. He had survived the terrible plunge down the waterfall, and though unconscious, had been safely supported by the piece of the raft to which John had tied him. His body had been bruised and cut by the rocks, but saved from more severe injury by the blanket, which was as usual wrapped round his middle. He had been carried down river for many miles, and then gently washed up on to a grassy bank, where he lay, half-drowned, for the rest of that day and all the night

As he slowly recovered consciousness there flashed across his befuddled mind the picture of John falling from the raft, and he groaned at the memory. Bomblin thought there was only the slightest chance that John had survived, yet, like John, he spent many hours searching the river, and never quite gave up hope that his friend was still alive. At noon on the next day, having rested and bathed his wounds, he decided reluctantly to resume his travels on his own, and doing his best to ignore his damp clothes and aching body he set off along the river. He really cared very little about whether he was travelling in the right direction or not. He had never actually had the faintest idea what to do about Grooler and the ring, and now that he was stiff all over and his shoes squelched at every step, his quest for its recovery seemed more than ever hopeless. He trudged drearily on, his mind working over possible ways of escape, such as fibbing to his grandmother that he had found the ring and then lost it again, or giving her another one and pretending that he couldn't see her when she put it on. But no (he sighed heavily) the hawk-eyed old buzzard always saw through everything. He would jolly well have to stay away until he thought of something better.

Bingols do not like to be alone. They especially do not like to be alone when they are in the condition Bomblin was in - cold, wet, and hungry. Moreover, they do not enjoy being forced to perform brave deeds, these being not in the true nature of Bingols at all, and therefore it was a very relieved Bomblin who saw in the distance the huts of an elfin village, and the chance of a drink with some old elfin pals round a huge log fire. Bingols get on very well with elves - they are united in their fear and distrust of goblins - and both enjoy singing loud lewd songs, with a tankard in their hands and a full pipe of bulrush tobacco.

So Bomblin's spirits soared considerably as he neared the village. It was quite a large one, and he could see that it was absolutely teeming with elves of every sort. And no wonder, either, for today was market day. In the large square in front of the old tavern, elves from miles afar had brought their wares, and were vying with each other to shout the loudest in praise of their merchandise. Here was fruit of the most plump and delicious variety - luscious blackberries, bursting with juice, firm, ripe strawberries and golden-red apples. Here were piles of shiny black raisins and strange, exotic fruits, crystallized and scented with fragrant spices. Vegetables there were too, as many different kinds as could be imagined, and all in perfect condition. There were elves selling great jars of beard-grass flour, and stalls with loaves of home-made bread stacked up on them, still hot and steaming.

Bomblin wandered through the market in a happy haze. He was jostled by busy shop-keepers and stall-holders, and harassed mothers trying not to loose their over-excited children while they did the shopping. Everyone was far too busy to pay much attention to a thoroughly dishevelled and disreputable looking Bingol, and he meandered happily round the stalls, grateful for his anonymity. He really did look absolutely terrible - his striped trousers were so weather-beaten that they had completely lost their stripe, his waistcoat had only one button left (and that was hanging by a thread) and his jacket was torn all over and covered in mud. He looked so dreadfully down-and-out that one soft-hearted stall-holder was overcome with pity and thrust a large, hot, loaf at him. Bomblin accepted gratefully, and warmed himself by the oven while he ate it, his trousers steaming gently as they dried out in the heat.

It was the stalls piled high with clothing and jewellery that really fascinated Bomblin, though. There were leather belts and scabbards, all beautifully carved and studded with brightly coloured stones and tunics and dresses made from the finest silks and softest velvets. Here came all the elfin lads and lassies - all on the lookout for bargains to transform them into heroes and heroines. He passed a young elf, swaggering in a cloak of crimson damask, with a brand new sword in his belt, and fondly watched an elfin maiden as, with fluttering heart, she chose a new comb for her hair. Gleaming golden goblets lay winking beneath piles of iron and pewter, waiting to be discovered and carried home in triumph, and who knows whether that murky-looking dish would prove to be a plate of solid silver? There were piles of intricately engraved rings, each with a story of its own. Bomblin examined them hopefully, wondering whether by chance Old Grooler had coughed his grandmother's up, and it lay hidden on an elfin stall with nobody to acclaim its magical powers. But each ring he picked up was different, and each held its own enchantment.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the edge of the market place. Loud shrieking voices could be heard, and people seen scattering in all directions. A wave of alarm ran through the crowd followed by a frightened hush. Bomblin peered curiously to see what the trouble was, and then a whisper reached his ear.

"Goblins!"

All the children rushed to hide beneath their mother's skirts.

"How many?"

"I don't know - I can't see!"

Bomblin's first reaction was to run, but the people round him held their ground, and in a moment came another, relieved, whisper, "Only one - one on his own!"

The crowd parted in the middle, and sauntering through with a conceited swagger, enjoying the sensation he was making, came a red-eyed greenish goblin. He was armed to the hilt, with knives sticking out of his belt at all angles, and they bristled round his fat, rotund body in a horribly aggressive manner.

The elves regained a little of their confidence. After all, one goblin on his own was no match against their number. Tensely, they watched him, wondering what he was going to do.

He looked round at the staring faces and laughed insolently. Then seeing a stool nearby, he jumped on top of it and began to shout at the crowd.

"All right, all right, you gawping great goobies of elves. I shan't eat you up - not to-day, anyway. Maybe next week." He stopped, and sniggered at his own joke, but it met with stony looks from all around, and he continued hastily, "I've something here to show you elves. Something that should interest you greatly. Something exceedingly desirable and highly valuable. Something I might be willing, if persuaded, to sell to a sensible elf at a reasonable price.

All this time he was fiddling with the knives at his belt. Bomblin could hardly see for the people pressing in front of him.

"What is it? What's he got?"

"It's a sword - Yes! Looks like a sword."

The goblin held a sword high up for everyone to see, and unsheathed it slowly from its scabbard.

"Yes, it's a sword, but not an ordinary sword. This sword, you mealy-mouthed elves, is a weapon to defeat all weapons. It was made by fairy folk - who knows how long ago? Maybe a hundred, thousand years. Look! It's covered all over with their sacred symbols - stars and moons, and things we goblin folk don't understand." The sword was right out of the scabbard now, and everyone surged forwards to get a closer look at it. "They do say - they do say that some swords marked like this possess magical properties."

"What do you want to get rid of it for, then?" yelled a rude voice, and a giggle rippled over the crowd.

The goblin looked discomfited. It was true that he wanted to get rid of it. Ever since he had stolen it from his best friend, it had caused him nothing but trouble. It would cut nothing that he wanted it to, but everything that he didn't. When it hung at his waist, it dug into his leg and hurt him, and when he looked at the weird designs all over it, his head swam and he felt sick. To be honest, he practically hated the thing by now, and he would have thrown it away but for the chance of getting something out of these simple elfin folk. Now they appeared to have seen through him, and he became annoyed. "Take it or leave it, you ignorant elfin scum - but if you take it, you'll have to pay for it. I wouldn't sell it now for less than ten gold pieces. Go on! Have a good look at it. See what you've missed!"

Bomblin, by this time, had pushed himself very close to the goblin. He could see the sword quite clearly from where he was, and suddenly his heart began to pound furiously. On the blade was a triangle inside a circle. There were the moons and stars John had looked at so often, and the rising sun engraved on the hilt. Without a doubt, this was John's sword! A tremendous desire to have it in his possession welled up within Bomblin's little fat body. If, by any chance, he should see his friend again, he could return it, and if not, well, it did have magical properties, of that he was sure, and would be a useful ally in times of trouble.

"Well, come on, you great goobies. What am I bid?

There was a murmuring in the crowd as they discussed the value of the sword. Most were of the opinion that it was worthless, but the wiser elves recognised that the carvings were genuine and sensed a mystery.

A young elf cleared his throat and spoke up nervously. "Five gold pieces - and a sack of flour!

The goblin roared with laughter.

"Five gold pieces. Five? I said ten! Who'll give me ten?"

"Seven gold pieces - and a barrel of apples!"

"Keep your apples. Keep your flour. I want ten gold pieces!"

Nobody raised their voice. The price was too high.

Just then Bomblin remembered the jewel had had hidden in his pocket. It had been his most treasured possession ever since the witch Decepta had given it to him, and he had kept it safely in his most secure hiding-place. Quickly, he found it, and holding it up in his paw, offered it to the goblin.

The crowd gasped. The jewel sparkled and gleamed. Even the goblin's mouth dropped open in amazement. All goblins have an eye for precious stones - they can detect a fake ruby or a defective diamond from quite a distance, and the perfection of this stone was breath taking.

The elves regarded Bomblin with a new respect, and a great deal of curiosity. So, this scruffy, downtrodden, hitherto insignificant Bingol was really somebody after all. No doubt those pockets concealed other, even more magnificent precious stones. They stood at a respectful distance, wondering who he was, while he held up the jewel.

The goblin needed no persuasion. He was only too pleased to part with the sword, feeling sure that he had made the most tremendous bargain. Hurriedly, he handed it over, trying to conceal his eagerness. He snatched the jewel greedily from Bomblin and gazed at it, cradled in his grubby hands. Then he made off with it quickly through the crowd, leaving Bomblin the centre of attention.

Watched by the admiring elves, Bomblin slowly fixed the sword into his belt. It was a new and heady experience to be gazed upon by so many envious pairs of eyes, and a warm, puffy feeling of self-importance flooded over him like a hot shower. For a while, he puffed out his chest and drummed his fingers on the hilt of the sword, then he strutted up and down, stopping suddenly now and then to draw it from its scabbard and perform parries and thrusts with it in the air. This impressed the crowd enormously. They were sure by now that he was either an extremely important official of Bingolia out on a secret mission for the King, or a magician travelling in disguise. While this was being eagerly discussed in lowered tones, the innkeeper of the tavern opposite saw the chance of some brisk trade, and wiping his hands on an apron, hurried forward, and bowing obsequiously to Bomblin, enquired, "May I have the honour of entertaining you, sir? My establishment is nearby."

"Thank you, my man," replied Bomblin, loftily, and sheathed the sword with a final flourish. "I think I will have a tankard of ale, if you insist." Actually, he was half dead with thirst, but he was enjoying his act enormously, and it would have ruined everything to show it. He walked in a pompous manner behind the innkeeper, smiling at the young girl elves, and patting the children on their heads. One by one, quite a few of the stall holders downed tools and followed him to the tavern, overcome by curiosity, and tempted by the thought of a long, cool glass of ale.

Once in the tavern, the friendly elves plied Bomblin with drinks, and practically carried him to the huge armchair by the fire, where they offered him a full pipe of tobacco, and surrounded him with chatter and conviviality and fragrant smoke-rings. Their remarks to him were tentative and full of flattering innuendos, and their rough country accents were smoothed and polished for his ears.

"We're highly honoured, dear sir, to have a Bingol of some rank in our village."

Bomblin waved his paw, modestly, and suddenly aware of his incongruous appearance, brushed some mud off his trousers, and began to apologise.

"No need to worry about that, sir. We understand perfectly - perfectly. The need for disguise - for secrecy. A mission, of course. For the King? Possibly..... ....dangerous?"

Bomblin swelled to twice his size.

"Er, well - er, yes. Yes! Rather dangerous, somewhat risky, if you know what I mean. Matter of life or death - that sort of thing, you know."

The elves surveyed him with awe. "No need to tell us any more, dear sir. We elves are the soul of discretion."

"Oh quite, dear chaps, quite. I cannot divulge any further information, of course - one has to beware of spies - they're everywhere, you know - everywhere."

By this time Bomblin really believed himself to be the dashing secret agent they all thought him. His head was spinning with an intoxicating mixture of tobacco smoke and self-glorification. The elves jostled each other to get the closest to him, and begged him to tell them stories of his past adventure. Slowly, he puffed smoke-rings into the air, keeping them in suspense while his imagination embroidered upon his recent escapades, and he made up his mind which one of them to enthral his listeners with. It occurred to him that he had behaved with astonishing bravery in his recent narrow escape from goblins, and he began a story which bore only the faintest resemblance to the truth, but which depicted him in all his shining glory as the truly desperate Bingol he now believed himself to be.

"......so there I was, old chaps, with my escape cut off by fifty or sixty villainous goblins all round me, and the cooking pot and fire behind me. What did I do? Did I panic? Not a bit of it, old chaps, not a bit of it. Laughed in their faces - out loud, right in their faces. Then I went straight into the old routine with the Bingol jig - they can't stand that, you know. There they all were, white as sheets, trembling like jellies while I capered away, laughing my head off. After that it was a simple matter - a headlong dash through the middle of them, a few blows with the paws, a few heads to bang together, and then, hey presto! Here I am, perfectly safe and sound.

Ohs and ahs of admiration filled the ensuing pause. Bomblin warmed to his audience, and became expansive.

"Confidentially, although I wouldn't want this to get any further, you understand, I have a small matter to settle next with Old Grooler."

"Grooler the Terrible? - The Terrible Grooler?

"That's him, yes. The one they call terrible."

"That Old Grooler what goes maraudering, picking us elves up and dropping us just for fun? I've seen 'im thundering across the sky with an 'orrid goblin on his back, ooh, 'orrible!"

"That's the one. Shouldn't take me long, not now I've got this." Bomblin patted the sword, affectionately.

"I've heard it said," remarked one elf, in a conspiratorial whisper, "I've heard it said e's got no heart, and that's why its so 'ard to kill 'im."

"Course e's got an 'eart," said another, scornfully. "Everybody's got an 'eart, ain't they? Only 'is 'as moved, see? 'E once 'ad a terrible shock, what moved it to a different part of 'is body."

"That's right," said a third elf. "I've heard the story, too. Saw his own reflection in the Silver Lake on a moonlit night, and it shifted his heart clean through his body."

"Well, of course," said the first elf, "being the only dragon for miles around 'e 'ad no idea what 'e looked like. You can understand the shock. 'E's an 'orrible sight, you know."

"Perhaps 'e thought it was another dragon, coming out of the lake to get 'im," somebody brightly suggested.

"Well, there's one thing," said a large elf, decisively, "we'll all be very grateful if you do something about Grooler. These marauding trips of his are a nightmare to us all. On the last occasion we had to stay in hiding for three whole days, and then he burnt most of our huts to the ground. We'll all be indebted to you, sir. And I should think if you can't do anything, nobody can."

"Hear, hear!" and other admiring comments, resounded throughout the tavern.

Bomblin regarded the elves with tremendous affection. Why, they were the finest, most discerning bunch of cheerful fellows he had ever come across. Catching the barman's eye, he put down his umpteenth empty tankard and called loudly, "Drinks all round, barman! Drinks on me. Leave no one out!" Then they all fell to patting him on the back, and laughing and joking, and the impetuous young braves among the elves drew their swords and fought with imaginary dragons over the counter.

"Let's have a song," said the barman. "An old elfin drinking song!" So they all sang this song, accompanying it with loud gollops of beer, and hiccoughs at all pitches, and short or lengthy sojourns under the table.

For the three sons of Zorin, the brave and the bold,

Let the bells of Elronda start ringing;

For the daughters of Thora, who never grow old,

Oh, we'll raise all the ghosts with our singing.

To the splendour of Marla, who fought with the best,

Who brought honour and glory as elf-King,

We'll each drain a tankard along with the rest,

And we'll raise all the ghosts with our singing.

For the courage of Rubin, who fought to the end

When the enemy armies were winning,

Who let his steel will neither waver nor bend,

Oh, we'll raise all the ghosts with our singing.

For the days of past glory are gone with the wind;

Down the long halls of time they are winging;

But the heroes live on with their glory undimmed,

And they'll rise up as ghosts, with our singing.

So look to the future, and hail with the morn

A new day of glory beginning;

Tomorrow's new heroes will rise with the dawn,

And they'll raise all the ghosts with their singing

After that the elves all sought to out-do each other with stirring tales of wild and desperate derring-do, and most claimed direct descent from at least one illustrious hero of olden times, or remembered hitherto unheard-of- feats of valour by distant relatives on their mother's or their father's side, and each succeeding story grew more fantastic than the last, as the ale flowed more freely.

Then Bomblin gave them a traditional Bingol drinking song, but he was really too drunk to sing at all, and after the first verse he noticed that the elves around him were quietly dropping off to sleep. The afternoon had worn on to early evening, and the log fire glowed with a red-hot heat. There seemed nothing better in the world to do than to sink into the warm armchair, and close his eyes, and dream of high adventure. And after that, even the dreams faded, and Bomblin's mind was dead to the world.

He woke quite soon because he felt very sick. His drinks had been mixed, and the ale at least, was unusually potent. Holding his spinning head and stumbling over the snoring bodies, he just managed to reach the door in time.

The dizziness went after he'd been sick, and he looked into the tavern with some surprise, having at that moment no recollection of what had brought him there. The past events of the day dawned on him slowly, bringing with their memory a growing consternation. It was obvious, on looking round, that vast quantities of beer had been consumed, and it occurred to Bomblin with a mounting horror that it had all been consumed on his behalf, or worse still, on his explicit orders. The barman was now slumped over the bar with a happy smile on his face, but that smile would turn to something else when it came to settling the bill. In vain Bomblin searched his voluminous pockets for a lucky find - not a penny, not a bean materialised. He realised he was broke. Totally and completely without funds.

The barman stirred in his sleep and a sweat of cold fright broke out all over Bomblin. He glanced around him and imagined the friendly faces of the elves growing hard and angry. There were too many of them - far too many. It was somewhat beneath his dignity, but circumstances were forcing him to beat a hasty retreat. He crept out of the door, now no longer Bomblin the desperate secret agent, but Bomblin the insignificant Bingol. A sudden attack of conscience overcame him at the step, and he looked back hesitantly. Then, in the dust on the windowsill, he wrote with his paw, "Gone to fix Grooler", and as the first of the elves began to stir, walked quickly through the thinning crowds and the empty market stalls to the edge of the village.

As he went, he thought he heard the sounds of a commotion coming from the tavern, and as he looked round in the gloom, with his mind still muddled by drink, he fancied that every elf coming in his direction was doing so purposefully, with the express intention of catching up with him. His pace quickened to an undignified run, and then to a mad scramble. Fear turned into sheer panic. They were after him! He ran blindly on with but one thought in mind - to find a safe hiding place. Alas, there seemed to be nowhere. Then just ahead on the road, he saw a cart laden with jumble, which had a tarpaulin dragged halfway over it. With a thumping heart he climbed into the cart and covered himself as best he could.

He lay as still as a mouse, listening to every sound. Now and then he heard footsteps, but they always died away again. Just as he was thinking of climbing out of the cart, assuming all was safe, a loud voice sounded in his ear.

"Get the horses harnessed, Thurg!"

"All right, all right. No need to hurry me!"

Then there was the clip clopping of horses' hooves, and the cart gave a lurch as it was fixed to the one in front. Somebody climbed into his cart, and it dipped forward as they sat down. Bomblin held his breath and sank deeper into the soft piles of material round him. No doubt he had fallen in with an elfin caravan, and they were on the way to another elfin village with wares for market day. He comforted himself by fingering John's sword, that lay in its scabbard shoved into his belt. His head was still aching terribly, and since it was pitch dark he decided to make the best of a bad job and sleep the journey through. He closed his eyes, and felt the cart swaying rhythmically from side to side. Exhaustion soon overwhelmed him - he hardly had time to give his grandmother a thought, and only the faintest whisper of "fierce old buzzard, silly old ....." escaped from him, before he was asleep.

If Bomblin could have put his head out from the tarpaulin, and seen the occupant of his cart, he would have died of fright. There, sitting on a seat, counting his ill-gotten gains, was a hideous green goblin. This was no elfin caravan, but one belonging to the evil race of Maleena, and Bomblin, unknown to himself, was en route to the Dark Mountain.

Chapter Twelve

John Meets Grindall

After John's adventure in the mine, when he had changed Grooler's best quality coal for slate, he had a long refreshing sleep. He woke fairly late in the morning and decided to continue his journey as quickly as he could.

He crept out of the cave and looked around. Not a sign of a goblin anywhere - only the bleak, forbidding landscape, and the mountain, swathed in wreaths of mist. Suddenly, there was a long, rumbling roar. At first, he thought it was thunder, but then he saw the enormous hulking shape of Grooler just disappearing round the foot of the mountain. John was relieved. He didn't know what Grooler's eyesight was like, but it would not be a good thing to be spotted by him at this stage, and the longer Grooler stayed on the other side of the mountain, the better.

A flash of fire and a puff of smoke shot out from the horizon, telling John that Grooler hadn't yet breakfasted off the pile of slate prepared for him.

The thought of breakfast made John feel hungry, although he had already eaten his. He had very nearly finished all the derma now, and was keeping a good lookout as he went along for anything he could possibly eat. There were plenty of toadstools everywhere, but never a clump of mushrooms in that dank undergrowth, and the berries were all of varieties he had never seen before, and might well be poisonous. Here and there were patches of yellow medronis - he knew enough to avoid that - and a bush sprouting hard, round fruits, like crab apples. He paused in front of one of these with his mouth watering, and stared at the fruit wistfully. As he did so, the large vulture-like birds he had seen before suddenly appeared from nowhere, and circled again slowly over his head. They came lower and lower, and once more John had the uneasy feeling that they were watching him with intelligent eyes. He shook himself briskly, and decided not to risk eating anything at all until he had to.

His mind was much preoccupied now with the writing on the ring, and many times he took it off the string round his neck and puzzled over it hard. He knew it was the clue to the opening of the door into the mountain - the witch had told him that - but which door? Where was it? And what did those strange meaningless words mean? 'The middle of five, guards the centre of seven, bewitched by eleven'. Maybe he would notice some trees or boulders in a ring of five, but then what significance did seven and eleven have? He shaded his eyes and studied the mountain. It was much too far away for the trees to be clearly discerned, but he resolved to keep his eyes open for anything unusual on the way.

He pressed ahead eagerly, scrambling over rocks and around bushes, all the time getting closer and closer to the Dark Mountain. Each roar of Grooler's grew louder, and the air became colder and the sky more grey at every step.

All at once, he stood quite still and stared intently at a bush a few yards ahead. Something that looked like a yellow skirt was sticking out from it and flapping about in the breeze. Cautiously, he crept closer, holding his breath. Then there was a movement. Yes! Quite definitely somebody dressed in yellow was standing behind the bush. John went closer, with his hand resting on the knife at his belt, wary of some goblin trickery.

Suddenly - whoosh! There was a loud popping noise and a flash of light. Then somebody was whooshing something in John's face, and saying "Shoo! Shoo!" in a shaky but brave sort of a voice.

John retreated a couple of steps and surveyed the little man in front of him with wonder. He was dressed from head to foot in a yellow robe, decorated all over with sunflowers and daisies. His hat was long and pointed, though sadly crumpled at the end. On his back he carried an enormous bundle of belongings, with pots and pans and a trumpet sticking out, and strangest of all, in his hands he held a gigantic umbrella, which he continually whooshed up and down. His cries of "Shoo!" were getting weaker and weaker, and John saw that his eyes were tightly shut as if he couldn't bear to open them, and his whole face was screwed up like a crumpled bag.

Altogether, the spectacle was so ridiculous that John laughed out loud. Then the little man opened his eyes and glared in a frightened way at him. As soon as John made a move towards him the strange creature pulled a string hanging from his hat, and suddenly there was another loud pop, and a brilliant flash.

"There!" said the little man. "Made you jump. Now, shoo! Go away, go on! Shoo!"

John laughed again. "But why?" he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Aren't you?" - brightening up - "Aren't you really?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "I thought you might be one of - them!"

"Certainly not," said John. "I'm quite definitely not!"

"Oh, I'm so relieved." The peculiar man flopped down on the ground and fanned himself. "Oh, I couldn't face any more disasters, I just couldn't. Oh, what a relief!" Then he recovered his composure, and holding out his hand, said grandly, "Greetings in the name of Thorin - Grindall the Travelling Magician, A.O.E. - Ancient Order of Elves. Pleased to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you," said John, and introduced himself.

"I presume," said Grindall, "that you're lost, the same as me. Nobody of sound mind would be wandering about in this uncivilised country."

"Er, well ...." began John.

"I've tried that way," said Grindall, looking over his shoulder. "Nothing but goblins underground everywhere - the whole place is swarming with them. Evil creatures! How I detest them!" He shuddered, and looking round furtively, went on in a lower voice. "As a matter of fact, I've just had the narrowest escape of my whole life. There I was, walking along a perfectly solid piece of ground, when suddenly - plonk! Right down a hole I fell, almost on top of a whole cavernful of them. This bundle saved my life - just stopped me falling through completely. There I hung, with my legs dangling in space, no more than a few feet away from complete and utter disaster, frantically trying to push myself back again. Well, the more I struggled, the more stuck I became, so eventually I made the best of a bad job and decided to stay put and listen to their conversation - they were dreadfully het-up about something, and there was a great deal of swearing and shouting. And do you know what it was all about? - It made my blood run cold, I can tell you - How to turn good magic into bad! The evil fiends really think that they can do it. And shall I tell you something else? I believe they're wicked enough, and clever enough, to do just that! Good magic into bad! Just imagine " The magician put his head into his hands and shook it from side to side. "There'll be no hope for the world, then, no hope at all ...."

John was aghast. It was imperative that the goblins be stopped as soon as possible, before there was the slightest risk that they could tamper with the power of the Shining Heart.

"I must be on my way," he said, grimly. "I have some business with these goblins."

"You're mad!" cried Grindall. "Leave them to it! Save your own skin! I'd save mine, if I knew which way to go to get out of this desolation of a country. I decided to walk north but it kept moving. Now I don't know east from west!"

"Look," said John. "I can show you the way to go," and he pointed out to Grindall the way back to the river. Grindall was terribly grateful. He gave John some of his supplies of food, and promised him a free performance of his show, if ever they should meet in more auspicious circumstances. "No real magic, of course," he said modestly, "and certainly no spells. All quite ordinary humdrum stuff. Mind you, I have perfected rather a good trick with this umbrella, which I found one day under a thorn bush."

"I knew a Bingol who frightened goblins with an umbrella," said John. "But he lost it! Now, I wonder ...."

"Oh, don't say this is his!" cried Grindall. "I can't manage without it!"

John smiled, sadly. He said he thought Bomblin wouldn't mind Grindall having his umbrella a bit.

"Oh, good," said Grindall, and then ..."Ouch! My poor feet!"

John looked down and saw that Grindall's feet were quite bare, and had been badly cut and bruised. "Lost my boots to a gang of wretched goblins," he said, shame-facedly. "Took them off me while I slept."

The two bade each other goodbye, and John watched as Grindall hobbled painfully away. It occurred to him that for a small man, Grindall's feet were surprisingly large -about the same size as his own. In a moment, he had taken off his own shoes and was running after the magician, holding them out to him. "Here, take these," he said. "My feet have been toughened up on my own mountain. I often ran about without shoes. And you'll need them, if you're to walk faster."

Grindall was again deeply grateful, and too anxious to make a hasty escape to even think of refusing. It was a much happier, and a much speedier magician that made off into the gloom, having finally bade John farewell.

And it was a much more determined John that plodded on in his bare feet towards the Dark Mountain.

Chapter Thirteen

The Sinister Birds of Maleena

Grooler was still out of sight, although ferocious bellowings could be heard rumbling and reverberating throughout the mountains. John was at a loss to know how to fight a dragon, and fingered the small knife he had in his belt apprehensively. It seemed a very inadequate weapon for such a monster, but it was all he had. How he wished he had not lost the sword! At least he had the hope that Grooler would not burn him to a cinder before he started. He could see in the distance, railway tracks coming out of a tunnel and leading to a large trough. The whole area was blackened with coal dust, and John guessed that was the place where Grooler was fed. If all went well with his plan, the next meal would probably be of slate, and the flashes of fire and smoke should vanish altogether.

The massive shape of the mountain grew larger and larger as he walked onwards, and by the timer the sun was about to set, John was very tired and hungry. He sank down in a fairly open place, too exhausted to walk another step, and took from his haversack some of the food the magician had given him. He was ravenously hungry, but forced himself to eat only a little, now knowing how much would be needed later.

By chance, he happened to look up, and there in the darkening sky were the enormous black shapes of the vultures he had seen that morning. They seemed to come from nowhere, and winged softly and silently towards him - eight or nine of the creatures - finally circling round and round above his head. John shuddered, and hoped they would go away, but suddenly one of them plummeted to earth and sat staring at him with hard yellow eyes from a distance of a few feet. Then one by one, they landed and sat in a circle round him, all fixing him with the same evil stare. John felt his flesh creep. In the half-light there was a sinister quality about these birds that made him half-paralysed with fear. Why were they not winging to their nests at this time of night? Perhaps they were in league with the Maleena, and had hatched some diabolical plot between them. He sat quite still, wondering what would happen next, while they watched him with unmoving eyes. They seemed to be waiting for something ....waiting...

Then there was a loud flapping of wings, and from the sky appeared the largest bird of all. The tension broke, and all the vultures shook their feathers and screeched loudly in greeting. The large bird circled down swiftly, carrying something in its beak. It made straight for John and dropped the thing in front of him, then opened its mouth and gave a shrill squawk.

John was amazed. The bird had deposited a large piece of roast meat on the ground, and was obviously inviting him to eat it. Goodness knows where it had come from, or what sort of meat it was, but the smell from the still hot food was absolutely delicious. Dare he take it? Doubts came into his mind, but hunger dispelled them. He reached out his hand for the food.

As soon as he did so, the birds fell into their tense, silent stare. And then at the same time John felt a burning sensation on his chest, so hot that it could not be ignored. Hotter and hotter it grew, till he dropped the meat and tore at his clothing to look at the spot. Then, suddenly, he stood up, electrified. The talisman against deception was pulsating with energy and glowing with a shining light.

He knew at once that the meat was poisoned. "Murderers!" he yelled, and drawing his knife, lunged at the circle of birds. With a disappointed screeching and squawking they rose heavily into the air, circled once, and flapped away into the evening sky. Grimly, John watched them as they disappeared. He would trust none of the creatures of Maleena again.

Picking up his haversack, he looked round for a suitable place to spend the night, and found a large rock with a hollow place beneath it. He made it as comfortable as he could, and squeezing his body into the sheltered cavity, lay down to sleep. But though his tired muscles began to relax, there was little peace for him even then, for he had been affected by the aroma of the poisoned meat, and his mind was bombarded with memories of home. Stabbing pains of home-sickness kept him tossing and turning long into the night. Now and then, he drifted into an uneasy sleep, and dreamed that he was home and warm and safe in his own bedroom again, and a great relief and joy flooded over him. But always on waking came the realisation that he had been cheated, and the heart-ache of separation more intensely than before, so that he began to dread the false and treacherous dream. He clenched his eyes tightly shut, and forced himself to think of other things, but there was his mother's face again and the strong, helping arms of his father. Try as he may, no other visions would replace them ..... He pressed his face into the ground, and wept.

It was a good thing that John could not see his mountain now. The corn in the fields had grown to seed and was beginning to rot, the apples in the orchards had fallen from the trees and lay mushy and mildewed on the ground, the grass in every garden had grown taller than the gate-posts, and weeds choked all the flowers to death. The cottages were cold and lifeless, and while their occupants slept a dreamless sleep, dust and cobwebs slowly accumulated in the once well cared for homes.

The Benelda people were weak and powerless, but they were dry-eyed. With their last ounce of strength they laboured with their bare hands to harvest what they could and keep the human people safe from storm and pestilence. Never a tear was shed for themselves, never a word of self-pity spoken, but as the fairy people daily grew thinner and weaker, one hope within the hearts of all of them gradually grew stronger......that John would return in triumph, and with him bring the Shining Heart.

Take heart, John. Do not despair. The night is long and dark, but it will soon be over, and you are close, very close to the source of all strength and goodness. See! It reaches out to you, bringing peace and comfort. To-morrow, when the dawn breaks on the horizon, there will be courage enough for you

Chapter Fourteen

The Plan Begins to Work

John welcomed the morning with a new spirit, ready and determined to make the most of the day's opportunities. After a light breakfast in his hiding place, he washed in a nearby pool of water, and then paused to consider his position carefully.

He was no more than a couple of miles away from Grooler's feeding trough, and the first slopes of the Dark Mountain. The wind was blowing fairly hard, carrying with it icy raindrops that stung his cheeks, and threatening black clouds cast the whole of Maleena into its usual gloom. The dragon could be heard at intervals roaring louder than ever, and in between the roars there were snuffles and grunts, and strange breathy noises.

There was little to hide John between him and the mountain, indeed, only a few sparse trees and rocks provided any cover at all. He decided to walk cautiously from one hiding place to the next, so that if Grooler suddenly appeared, he would not be caught out in the open.

He progressed in this manner until well after mid-day, and by that time had found a fairly secure refuge behind a large group of rocks. Suddenly, his attention was caught by some movement on the railway track, and with a beating heart he saw some goblins emerge from the tunnel, pushing trucks of coal towards the trough. They shielded their eyes with their hands, squinting in the light of day. John could not hear what they said distinctly, but it sounded as if they were exclaiming at the thinness of the mist, and bemoaning the soreness of their eyes. Grunting with effort, they tipped the trucks into the enormous trough, and then, grumbling and squabbling amongst themselves, disappeared again into the tunnel.

Good! This, surely, was the consignment of slate! John hoped with all his heart that it was, for it was his only chance of escaping the dragon's fire. Now he would stay put behind the rock until Grooler had his next meal, to see if his plan would work. He settled into a comfortable position, and tried to control his nervousness as he waited for the monster to appear.

It wasn't long before he did. Well before sunset, the ground underneath John began to vibrate, as if a tremendous weight was shaking it, and a roar of deafening intensity heralded the approach of the Terrible Grooler. He was, indeed terrible. First came his hideous head, set with the most malicious, cunning, blood red eyes, and dominated by huge, gaping, toothy jaws, surely big enough to swallow a whole house. Then came a snaky neck, widening out into a gigantic, bloated body of immense proportions, reluctantly supported by four stumpy legs above four webbed feet. Over the whole body was an impenetrable armour of greeny-grey scales, turning into a series of spiky fins all down his back and all down the long tail, which snaked away for yards behind him. The green and leathery wings were folded demurely by his sides, but their span must have been enormous, and terrible as Grooler was upon the ground, more terrible still must he be when on the wing.

John stood and stared, aghast. How could such a monster be attacked? He looked down at his small knife, and shook his head. Was there anywhere on Grooler a spot that was vulnerable? His heart sank into his boots.

Grooler lumbered over to the trough, shaking the ground at every step, and opened his cavernous jaws to yawn, hugely. A great blast of flames shot out from the furnace within his belly, shrivelling to a cinder any leaf or twig careless enough to be in its wake. The ground all round the mountain was blackened and charred from such random yawnings. Slowly, Grooler lowered his head to feed, and stayed in this position for a few minutes. All at once, he shook his head from side to side, and bellowed furiously. Then he started feeding again, then shook his head angrily and looked all round in an accusing manner, then fed again, all the time roaring and puffing and grumbling. John guessed that he was very annoyed about his meal of slate, and was looking round for best quality coal, but his hunger obviously was stronger than his scruples, for he lowered his head once more and crunched long and noisily.

At last! The plan was working! John watched with bated breath as the monster ate its fill. After the crunching, there was much puzzled lip smacking, followed by the whining sounds of a discontented animal. Something was obviously upsetting Grooler, but it was time for his afternoon nap, and slowly his legs sagged beneath his body, his enormous weight hit the ground with a mighty plonk, and one leathery eye-lid gradually closed. One, of course, because all dragons sleep with one eye open - all the better for catching an impudent upstart on his own and burning him to a cinder.

How frustrating it was for John! All he could do was sit and listen to the great, rumbling snores. He dare not venture out and wander into the glare of that one, unsleeping eye. After a while, he started to compose an especially effective goblin-frightening song, feeling that it would prove to be useful only too soon.

Eleven and ten is twenty-one

Why don't goblins like the sun?

Why does verse make goblins writhe?

Fifteen and ten make twenty-five.

Why should singing, warmth and fun

All be things that goblins shun?

Twelve and nine is twenty-one

Run, you wretched goblins, run!

He was rather pleased with this, and after repeating it several times, started on a second verse.

Twelve and ten are twenty-two

Goblin words are seldom true .....

Suddenly - Squaaaaaaa! - a loud squealing noise from behind the rock made him nearly jump out of his skin. Two grey rats came tumbling into view, both fighting furiously over something that dropped and bounced between them. These were the only living creatures John had seen for days, and he stood and stared at them curiously. They looked vicious and half-starved, and he was surprised to see that what they were fighting over so intensely was not a morsel of food, but a smooth, round pebble. While he watched, one of them snatched it up in its mouth and made off with it at top speed towards the mountain. Over the blackened ground it sped, and up the first green slopes. John, watching with narrowed eyes, saw it disappear into a clump of trees, and suddenly he quickened with excitement.

The trees where the rat had disappeared were old and scraggy, the sort he had seen at the doorway called Terina. There were seven of them, and they were quite definitely standing in a ring. He waited eagerly for the rat to reappear, but it had gone - maybe through the entrance to the Dark Mountain! This could be meaning of the mysterious 'centre of seven' in the riddle of the ring. If only he could get past Grooler, and find out what lay at its centre.

During the next few hours, he saw several more of the rats, foraging round the rocks and bushes, and darting across the charred ground around Grooler. The dragon was obviously sleeping badly, for his snores were mixed with bad-tempered grumbling noises, and every time he stirred a muscle the rats ran, panic-stricken, in all directions away from him. John hoped that he would wake-up soon, so that he could see if his fire still burned inside him, but it gradually grew quite dark, and still the great monster slept on.

Just before sunset, John was startled by the sound of horses' hooves, and the creaking of wheels and axles. Crouching in his hiding place, he saw to his amazement that a goblin caravan had appeared from the west, and was stopping at the foot of the mountain. Several carts, piled high with plunder, ground to a halt, while the driver-goblins wiped their sweaty faces and stretched their aching limbs. From a tunnel entrance a gang of goblins ran out to unload the carts, and there was much shouting of orders and haggling over the contents. The tail of the caravan was quite close to John, and he held his breath and kept very still so as not to attract their attention.

As John watched the first of the carts being emptied, his eyes were drawn to something moving under the cover of the last of them. Something had definitely heaved under the tarpaulin. As he watched, it heaved again, and something, or somebody, lifted back the cover and peered out, with two very frightened, large and glistening eyes. Then the something - or somebody - cautiously began to climb out, and perched indecisively on the edge of the cart, looking this way and that in an obvious state of extreme agitation. Suddenly, one of the goblins shouted to another, and the little figure jumped with fright and flew like a rabbit straight for the cover of the nearest rocks.

Something about the short, round shape brought John to his feet, tingling with a long-forgotten hope. As the shape grew nearer and nearer, it became more and more like the old familiar one he had been so fond of. Surely! Surely, it must be - there could be no mistake! He ran forward and intercepted the fleeing figure. "This way, this way!" he said, and dragged him into his hiding place. He was right - It was Bomblin! The two of them fell across each other with cries of amazement and delight.

You can imagine how overjoyed John and Bomblin were to see each other again, and how they talked excitedly long into the night about their varying adventures. Bomblin was as proud as a peacock when he handed over the sword to John - you would have thought he had already killed the dragon himself - and John was surprised and delighted to have it back again. At last he really felt he had a chance against the dragon.

"There's another thing I've learnt, old chap," said Bomblin, modestly. "People say that Grooler's heart is in the wrong place. Evidently it's slipped to a different part of his anatomy."

"That's interesting," said John. "If only I knew where it was, I could aim straight for it."

"Can't help you there, old chap," said Bomblin, cheerfully. "I should just cut off his head if I were you - that'll do the trick. By the way, where is this redoubtable monster?"

"Grooler?" said John. "There, look!" And he pointed to the gigantic shape of the dragon, snoring fitfully in the light of the moon.

Bomblin took one look and fainted clean away. He had no idea that he was so close to the dragon, or even, for that matter, that he was in Maleena at all, and when he recovered, and realised where he was, his first reaction was to run, but John held on to him and calmed him down.

"Oh, my wicked old grandmother," wailed Bomblin as he thought over their perilous situation. "Oh, the fierce old trout! Serve her right if I'm eaten up - serve her right!"

John laughed. "Look here," he said. "We've still got half the night to get through. Have you still got your blanket? Good! Let's wrap ourselves up and go to sleep."

And so they did. And the moon shone calmly down, shedding an equal light on the vast hulk of Grooler, and the two tiny figures of his opponents.

Chapter Fifteen

Facing Up to Grooler

John woke early in the morning, keyed-up and tense. He knew that his hour of reckoning with Grooler had come, and that he must use every bit of his strength and cunning in the fight. He tightened his belt and fastened on the sword. Then he removed the ring, and once more read the inscription.

Bomblin woke, and caught his first glimpse of the dragon in the light of dawn. It affected him visibly, and he rapidly returned to a horizontal position, and pulled the blanket over him. "Oh, the teeth!" he gasped. "Its terrible eyes! Those dreadful sharp spikes all down its back! Look at them - one, two, three, four, five!"

"Five" repeated John tensely, "So there are! ..... 'the middle of five guards the centre of seven' ..... I wonder!" He stood gazing at the dragon, wrapped deep in thought.

Suddenly he turned and spoke urgently to his friend. "Bomblin! I've got an idea! The middle of five might mean the middle spike on Grooler's back! Perhaps that's where his heart is, and all I have to do to kill Grooler is aim for the middle spike! It's not at all certain, but without any other clues I'll have to take a chance on it - I'll have to!"

Now John felt as ready for the fight as he would ever be. He decided to wait until the dragon had eaten another meal of slate for breakfast, and they both watched and waited for the best time to confront him.

The dragon loudly crunched his last mouthful. It tasted horrible, and he was angry. So angry that a plot was hatching in his mind to go off on the worst marauding trip ever. Gloatingly, he imagined the record scenes of devastation and havoc he would create, and the terror of the frightened elves as they tried to escape his fiery blasts. Viciously, he spat out the gritty bits of slate, and wondered spitefully which particular village to head for first. The pain in his stomach was getting worse, and Grooler wanted to do some enjoyable mischief to take his mind off it. He turned away from the trough, with his thoughts on revenge.

What was this? Suddenly, Grooler stood still and stared in fury at a tiny speck, standing bare-footed, right in his way. It was John.

"On your guard, Grooler!" yelled a tiny voice. "Do your worst!"

The dragon's fury turned to mirth. He opened his mouth and roared with laughter. In between laughs, he opened his streaming eyes and looked at the speck. It still had the temerity to stand there! He opened his mouth, and laughed again. Then he got down on his haunches and gently blew at the speck, as children blow out birthday candles. The speck fell over, but quickly got up again, and the dragon, vastly amused, repeated the little game, chuckling nastily to himself. All at once, Grooler's grin turned to an affronted frown, and then to an angry scowl. The tiny speck had actually drawn a sword, and - unbelievable insolence! - was actually standing there, challenging him! Why! That sword might prick him somewhere! This could not be tolerated.

Grooler took a deep breath, and prepared to blast John with an almighty exhalation of fire right off the face of the earth. For several long seconds he breathed in, and then let it out with a tremendous gasp. By Zorin, what was this? No fire issued forth, no smoke, but a miserable shower of sparks and a wheezing, spluttering torrent of damp air, that ended in a fit of violent coughing. What was happening to him? Madly, he swished his tail and stamped the ground with his feet, writhing and lashing out in all directions in a fit of vicious temper.

That pesky speck was on him now, climbing all over his body. Grooler rolled over to squash it, but John had hidden between the scales of armour plating, and continued his climb. The impudence, the audacity of it, nearly shifted Grooler's heart again.

John brushed off the burning sparks that pricked his skin. One got near his eye and made it sting and water, but he blinked and ignored the discomfort. He hung on to the scales, climbing grimly to the top of the dragon's body while it writhed from side to side. Grooler had lumbered to his feet and was stamping furiously on any creature unfortunate enough to get underneath them. John knew he must not fall to the ground! Up he went, gradually climbing higher and higher. Now he was close enough to get a good look at the spikes. Hurrah! His guess had been correct. He could clearly see the dragon's heart pulsating in the third spike.

Just then, Grooler turned his head round, and a wave of pure hatred surged through the gigantic body, and shone, blood red, from the evil eyes, as he swung his enormous body violently from side to side. John was nearly dislodged, and had to cling on to a scale with all his strength. The huge jaws opened and snapped at him. For a moment he was frozen with terror, then swiftly he ducked between the scales to avoid them. Again, the great red mouth and terrible teeth came, gaping, threatening to devour him. He gripped his sword, and slashed with all his strength at the heart's secret hiding place. Slash! And again, slash! Slash!

Grooler suddenly gave an almighty gasp and sagged like a deflated balloon, the breath rushing out of his wide-open mouth. John felt himself falling with the body....down...down...down...and then he jumped clear of the mighty bulk, and found himself crouching and struggling to get on to his feet beside the fallen monster. It was obvious that the fearsome beast would go marauding no more. He lay flat as a pancake on the ground with his murderous jaws wide open in a last gasp.

John could hardly believe it, but he was at last standing, sword in hand, in front of the once terrible Grooler. The fight was over, and the dragon was dead.

John and Bomblin practically danced with excitement and relief. But afterwards, John stood still, staring at the fallen dragon. He suddenly felt sad. It was such a shame that all Grooler's mighty strength and power had been wasted on evil thoughts and evil deeds. As he gazed, he noticed something glittering inside Grooler's open mouth. What could it be? Something metal was stuck between two of the gigantic teeth. Gingerly, he moved closer, and then stood on tip-toe to examine the shining object. Eagerly, he called to Bomblin "Bomblin! Come and look at this!"

Up raced the over-excited Bingol, turning somersaults and whooping with delight. A minute before he had been cowering with tightly shut eyes behind a rock, but now his little fat body was jumping up and down for joy, and when John showed him what was stuck between Grooler's teeth, his joy was complete. It was his Grandmother Bootle's ring! There it was, in perfect condition - shining like the sun, with every stone intact!

"Poor old Grooler, said John. "No wonder he was so bad-tempered. He must have had terrible toothache. Here, Bomblin. Put it on."

With great difficulty they prised the ring from between the two teeth, and Bomblin, with a glowing face, put it on one of his claws. Immediately, he vanished! Disappeared, completely, into thin air! And while John stood blankly looking round for him, hey presto! There he was again, laughing his head off and more excited than ever.

For a few minutes they played delightedly with the ring, taking it in turns to disappear and reappear in unexpected places. Then John grew serious again. He guessed that such an unprecedented event as the death of Grooler would bring the goblins out by the score, and there might be less time than he imagined. He turned to Bomblin and spoke quietly. "Bomblin, I must go now into the heart of the Dark Mountain. The goblins have stolen the source of all good magic and hold it captive. I must rescue it and return it to the fairy people before it is too late. We must part now, old friend, and you must begin your journey home. You have your ring, and will be protected."

Bomblin fairly bristled with indignation. "What? Leave you in the lurch, old chap? Certainly not. I'll jolly well come with you. You can borrow my ring if you get into a tight spot."

The little Bingle absolutely refused to leave John alone. When John insisted, he put on the ring and disappeared. Then he suddenly appeared again bubbling with excitement. In the end John reluctantly took Bomblin with him, and they both made for the seven trees to look for the doorway.

Sure enough, in the middle of the circle, the turf had been cut away from the underlying rock, and a vertical stony face had been exposed. "'The centre of seven!" whispered John. With thudding hearts John and Bomblin saw that carved on the stone was an exact replica of the gateway engraved on the ring. "Bewitched by eleven" he added, tensely, and doubling his fist hit the solid rock eleven times. It was only a guess, but as they waited the door began to open very, very slowly. They waited breathlessly, but alas, no more than an opening of a few inches appeared. The doorway remained stuck and immovable.

"Bomblin," said John, as an idea struck him. "Do you remember those magic words that the goblins used when they made the spell?

"Yes!" exclaimed Bomblin. "Let me see, now, um ..... moorer .....um, moorum .....moolim..."

"That's it," said John. "Moolim, zoolim, yoolim."

So he tried eleven knocks again, and this time he repeated the magic words, over and over again, as the goblins had done on that terrible night. "Better than a can of oil!" breathed John, for on the eleventh knock, the rock face slid silently to one side, revealing a dark, cold passage leading steadily downwards.

Then John and Bomblin screwed up their courage, and bravely stepped together into the Dark Mountain.

Chapter Sixteen

Inside the Dark Mountain

The door slid shut behind them, leaving them standing in pitch darkness. Bomblin shivered, and clutched at John. Together, they shuffled slowly forwards, feeling the cold stone walls of the tunnel, and the sloping floor beneath their feet. Neither of them spoke for they were frightened of showing each other how scared they were, and indeed, they were both so scared that if a goblin had pounced on them at that moment, they would have been done for.

Fairly soon, they felt the smooth floor give way to a flight of stone steps, and cautiously they manoeuvred their way down a long, spiral staircase. After this, the tunnel widened out, and was lit by the faintest glimmer of pale light. The light mystified them, for they could not tell where it came from - there were no lanterns anywhere - yet it raised their spirits a little, and they were even more pleased to discover that there were secret nooks and crannies in the walls which would make very good hiding places.

Suddenly, they stiffened with fright, and dived into a pitch-dark crevice. Pitter-patter ....pitter-patter ....nasty little animal feet were running along the corridor behind them and approaching rapidly. They were hidden only just in time, for in a moment ten or eleven rats ran by, each carrying something in its mouth. John watched, fascinated. The animals moved purposefully, without enjoyment, as people do when work is hard and long and unpleasant. The rats had obviously been trained to work for the goblins, but how? And why? Curiosity overcame his fear, and he whispered to Bomblin, "Come on, we'll find out what they're up to."

"All right, old chap," hoarsely croaked a disembodied voice. Bomblin had put his ring on at the first sign of danger, and even so was still petrified.

"Keep close to me, Bomblin. I can't see you with that on."

So they set off together, a little more boldly now, with John reaching out his hand every now and then to make sure Bomblin hadn't got lost.

Keeping close to the walls, and hiding in every shadow, John felt fairly confident that he was safe, but his heart leapt into his mouth when he saw that ahead there was a large cavern, and heard goblin voices wafting down the corridor. Creeping as silently as he could, he managed to find a good hiding place at the edge of the chamber, from where he could see almost the whole of it. Heavy breathing in his ear, told him that Bomblin was with him, too, but keeping well behind.

Sitting on the floor of the cavern were several groups of knobbly-skinned goblins, all busily sorting out piles of different things. There was a heap of green grasses and weeds, a mound of birds' feathers, a pile of dried leaves, and an enormous collection of round stones. They were working lethargically, as if they had no enthusiasm for the task at all, and every now and then stopped to rub their eyes, or hold their stomachs.

"A curse on these dratted rats," spat out one goblin, viciously. "They've brought me the wrong weeds again."

"It's the same with these stones," grumbled a second, "not a really round one among them!"

"Well," said a third, blowing his nose, "It's not our fault if the brew won't work. We had all the right ingredients last week, and nothing happened at all."

"I don't understand it," mumbled an old, ugly goblin with a long beard. "We were just on the verge of a stupendous discovery of enormous value to the work, a really new step forward in bad magic, and then slowly .... insidiously ...."

"Night by night ...."

"Spell by spell ...."

"One thing after another ...."

.... "Everything goes wrong! Spells with impossible conclusions! Inexplicable failures!" He stroked his chin worriedly, and then continued muttering into his beard.

"The theory's correct," snarled another, "only nothing works!"

They all stopped work and stared morosely at the ground.

"If only I didn't have this stomach-ache," groaned one of them. "It's properly upset me. I used to enjoy an elf or two, roast, with a few green vegetables. Now all I can eat is mush."

"It's the same with all of us - even Kurl the Mighty suffers, though he won't admit it."

"It's my eyes that bother me the most. Always sore, they are, from the light."

"Think of those that guard the thing!" said one, awe-struck. "They have to be replaced every couple of hours!"

"It all started when we got that thing in here," mumbled another old goblin. "I said we'd bitten off more than we could chew. Mark my words, there's something left out of our calculations .... a force we haven't reckoned with ....

"It's thoroughly depressing," said a new voice. "I was really looking forward to ruining the elfin harvest this year."

"And I was creating a very interesting new disease."

" - and now, we've lost all our enthusiasm."

"There's a connection, mark my words. There's a connection," went on the old goblin, and they all sat in moody silence.

Suddenly, there was the pattering of feet again, and a new battalion of rats came scampering in. They deposited their finds in front of the goblins, and stood there, all twitching whiskers and quivering noses, waiting expectantly.

Their offerings apparently warranted no reward, for one of the large goblins leapt to his feet in a rage and kicked out viciously at them. "Stupid idiots! Brainless imbeciles! Our magic hisses and splutters when it should bite and stab! Our most powerful spells grow soft and flabby before they pinch an elf - and you, you useless vermin - you bring rubbish to the Kings of Evil!"

"String one of them up!" snarled a voice. "Teach them a lesson!" and the largest of the rats was pounced upon, cord was tied to its hind legs, and it was strung up, kicking and squealing, from a wooden beam across the ceiling.

John turned away, sickened to the core. He tried to ignore the awful shrieks of the rat, knowing that to face the goblins now might mean ruin for his plans, but fury rose in him like dragon's fire, obliterating all else. If he had thought twice, he could have borrowed Bomblin's ring, but the rat's shrill screams grew louder and louder, and drawing his sword impetuously, John leapt into the cavern.

"Eleven and ten is twenty-one,

Why don't you goblins like the sun?"

John shouted the song rather than sang it, slashing the air with his sword to left and to right. The goblins, taken by surprise, quickly recovered their presence of mind and rushed towards him. John dodged to one side, evaded them, and made straight for the terrified animal. With one sweep of his sword the creature dropped to the ground, shook itself, and hurtled into the shadows.

Then the goblins fell on John in a screaming horde. He lashed out furiously in defence, and seeing a ledge of rock a few feet above him, jumped on to it, and began to dance madly in his bare feet, shouting his brave new goblin song. The goblins stared at his feet in horror. It is a well-known fact that goblins have an aversion to toes and cannot bear the sight of human feet. To see these objects of horror dancing, jiggling, and flashing about before their very eyes was more than they could bear. Clenching his teeth and shuddering audibly, one of them raised a heavy wooden mallet and brought it down as heavily as he could on top of them.

John thought he was finished. The agony was unendurable. The goblins yelled in triumph and began to climb up the ledge.

Suddenly, there was a terrific hissing from the corner of the cavern. Out came all the rats, no longer timid and abject, but staring at the goblins with revenge and fury in every quiver of their bodies. Slowly, they advanced, then pounced, with sharp teeth that bit and tore at goblin flesh. There was pandemonium - rats and goblins squealing, shrieking, everywhere.

John took his chance to escape. He was close to the mouth of a dark tunnel leading further into the mountain, and diving into it, ran as fast as he could, the sounds of battle growing fainter and fainter with each step. When he was far enough away, he stopped, panting, and leant against the wall. Then he remembered Bomblin. "Bomblin!" he whispered, "Where are you?"

But there was no reply, not even the sound of breathing. Bomblin was lost, and while he remained invisible John could not even look for him. Poor Bomblin! How scared and lonely he would be. Maybe they would never find each other again. Maybe they would both be killed by goblins, and the Shining Heart lost with them for ever. John put his head in his hands despairingly.

But only for a moment. From further down the tunnel came the sound of splashing water, and the soft sighing of a new and different voice. John raised his head and listened, curiously. What new mystery was waiting for him now?

Chapter Seventeen

A Poor Lost Creature

The passage he was in was dark and dismal, as were all the tunnels in the Dark Mountain. The Maleena hated things of beauty, and all their dwellings were made from damp dark earth and bare rock. Not for them were skilled carvings and ornaments of craftsmanship. Their only art lay in the practice of bad magic, and at that they were truly masters. Even their treasure, the gold and silver and precious stones they had plundered from others, was hoarded for its magical powers alone and kept hidden in a deep dark pit, where its shining beauty could not offend goblin eyes.

John inched along in the shadows towards the splashing noise. He could see that the tunnel opened up into a large underground cavern and that in the middle of this cavern, in a great heap, were what looked like piles of lumpy brown sacks. There was a strong earthy smell pervading the place, and at the further edge something that resembled an enormous cauldron, full to the brim with water.

A vaguely fish-like shape sat on the edge of the cauldron weeping piteously, its tears making gentle splashes on the surface of the water. Every now and then it raised its head and whispered, "Poor me! Poor me!" and then fell again to weeping.

As John strained his eyes to see more clearly through the gloom, two goblins appeared from a passage on the farther side of the cavern. They were pushing a trolley on wheels, and on the trolley was another enormous cauldron. While John watched, mystified, they struggled to exchange the two heavy pots, cursing and muttering goblin oaths at the nuisance of it. The creature raised its head, and in a voice of inexpressible weariness moaned, "No more! No more!"

"Shut up!" growled one of the goblins, "or we'll make you work faster." Then he went over to one of the sacks and dragged it back to the strange, shapeless form. He slit it open with a knife and emptied the contents into the cauldron.

"By tomorrow!" menaced the other goblin, "or you'll get no rations at all."

The poor creature took up its position again, sitting on the edge of the cauldron, fumbling in the water. John could see the glint of a chain tethering it to the rock, and saw the two goblins grin wickedly as they sauntered off.

John crept nearer to the creature, hiding in the shadows of the cavern walls. He saw that the cauldron was full of bobbing vegetables, and that the creature was peeling them all one by one, sack after sack of potatoes and turnips, sighing and sobbing into the water.

"Who are you?" whispered John when he was close enough. "Where do you come from?"

For a moment the creature stared in disbelief, its wide eyes blank and empty. Then something slowly stirred and flickered in their depths, some long-lost memory of once familiar sounds. For a second, its heart and mind struggled to return to life, and it opened its mouth to answer him, but then the sudden awakening of deeply buried feelings proved too painful. It closed its heart like a shutter, covered its ears with its hands, and refused to remember.

Its name was, actually, Dollop. It had once lived happily in a lake outside the mountain, and for many years had been contented, but its later life was plagued by greed and discontent. It had developed an insatiable thirst for riches, and after many attempts had found a way through a subterranean stream into the Dark Mountain, from which it hoped to steal some of the goblins' treasures. Alas, its one attempt was foiled, for it was found and captured, and kept in slavery by the goblins, who ill-treated it cruelly.

For a long time John tried to make Dollop talk to him - he even tried a dance to make it laugh, but the creature paid him no attention. John took his sword and smote the chain in two from round its neck, but still the fish-like thing refused to raise its head.

"You're free now, you're free!" whispered John. "You can run away."

The iron links of the chain sank gracefully down to the ground, but still Dollop sat on the edge of the cauldron, weeping

John was at his wits' end. How could he make the creature realise it was free? Again he spoke softly and gently of things outside this horrid mountain, of fresh spring breezes and crisp winter mornings, of wild heather and water lilied ponds, but the iron shell round the heart of Dollop grew stronger, for it could not bear the pain of them.

John stayed with Dollop as long as he could, trying to find the right things to say, but he began to think that the poor creature's mind had been so affected by its long years of captivity that it would never again be able to enjoy freedom.

With a heavy heart, he heard the sound of goblin feet approaching, and knew that he must journey on. He slipped into the shadows, leaving Dollop bowed, head in hands. Behind him he heard the first splash of tears falling into water, and more faintly still the cry "No more! No more!"

Chapter Eighteen

Close To The Shining Heart

John chose the widest of the tunnels which led out from the lake, and found that it went so steeply downwards that steps had been cut into the rock. Strangely, it became brighter as he descended, as if an enormous candle glowed in the depths of the mountain and, with a surge of excitement, he realised that the dim light everywhere, growing steadily ever stronger, actually came from the Shining Heart, itself.

The tunnel wound round in a curve, and then joined another, wider passage. He knew he was approaching an important assembly hall of the Maleena, for in the distance was the entrance to a great cavern, and from it came the sound of goblin voices, and the clink of goblin swords. John pressed his body into the shadows and climbed as high as he could up the rocky walls of the tunnel, so that he could see as much as possible.

The goblins had assembled in their hundreds from all over the mountain, and were all muttering angrily while buckling on sword-belts and sharpening knives. They were obviously preparing for a fight. He saw at once that the sickness had affected most of them, for their eyes were red and sore, and some were doubled up with stomach pains. A strong light was shining from a tunnel on the far side of the cavern, and the goblins all shielded their eyes whenever they were forced to face in its direction. John felt exhilarated - he was sure this was where they kept the Shining Heart. Even goblins could not delve much deeper into the bowels of the earth. But how could he possibly reach it? There was a whole army in his way.

One of the biggest goblins, who obviously held a position of command, ascended a platform and spoke loudly to the others. "You all know why we're here - there's an account to be settled with a milky-faced intruder." (He rolled the words round his tongue with relish) "Who he is, or how he got here, we don't know. But there's trouble in the mountain, lads!" (here, there were nods and grunts of agreement) "and we're going to get to the bottom of it. Then we can play our little games in peace with elves, and rats and humans." He leered, horribly, and cruel laughter echoed through the cavern.

Someone shouted, "Our magic might be rusty, but our knives aren't!" and there were cries of 'Long live Kurl the Mighty!' and 'Death to the foe!" The big goblin started dividing the army into groups, giving each different orders for the search. Desperately John wondered what to do - it looked as though he was hopelessly trapped. He would not be able to venture out from his hiding place if a search was started.

Suddenly, he jumped out of his skin - There was Bomblin, standing at his side. After the episode with the rats, he had run straight down the wide passageway, completely missing the lake. He had recovered quickly feeling more and more secure with his ring, and now stood there with it in his hand, smiling broadly, as pleased as punch to see John again, and blissfully unaware of the peril they were in.

"Hello, old chap. Jolly pleased to see you again. Thought you might have had it. Rattling good hiding place, this. My word! I'm glad to be away from those goblins!" and he sat down on the ground, and fanned himself.

"Bomblin! We are both in terrible danger! Don't look over this rock! The goblins are under it preparing for war!"

Bomblin seemed to shrink to half his size. He cowered into the darkness. "Oh, the fierce old buzzard, the wicked old........" He stopped short and then, "John old sprite, whatever are we going to do?"

"You must stay here, hidden, Bomblin. You will be safe with your ring. I must try to reach the Shining Heart. I think I can remember the thirteen times table. If I shout it out loud with a song and a dance I might make my way through them."

"Rubbish, old chap. They'll string you up as soon as look at you. Then we'll both be lost. You know you don't stand a chance unless...unless...." He fingered the ring in his pocket, trying to pluck up the courage to say the words forming in his mind.

"I must go," said John. "There is no time to lose." He made his way cautiously to the edge of the rock and peered over. The goblins stood between him and the light shining from the cave. Perhaps he could gain some ground before he was spotted. Gingerly, hoping they would not look up, he began to climb down the rock face.

Suddenly there was a clatter, and something landed on a ledge beside him. Bomblin, hidden in the shadows, had taken off his ring and thrown it recklessly towards John. "You need it more than I do, old sprite!" he whispered.

John's heart leapt with gratitude and relief. Good old Bomblin. "Stay well hidden until I get back, little Bingol," he whispered back. Then he put the ring on and climbed down, invisible, into the threatening horde.

John pushed forcefully through the Maleena, climbing over any in his way, and looks of bewilderment passed from goblin to goblin as unseen hands and feet crawled over them. Rapidly, he made for the lighted doorway, his heart pounding as never before, and his legs trembling beneath him. From the room there were steps leading down into a cellar, and from the cellar, which had been the deepest, darkest place that the goblins could find, came a radiant light.

It was a long way down slippery steps and through narrow tunnels, further and further into the mountain, but the light grew steadily stronger. John recognised the Heart the moment that he saw it. It was covered with layer upon layer of the thickest hides yet the sweet and pearly glow was hardly dimmed at all, and when he pulled the covers to one side it flooded him with brilliant opalescent light. Slowly, his hands reached out towards it and became diffused with the same soft incandescence. It was small, no larger than his own heart, yet pulsating with such vibrant life that it seemed to fill the room. Gently, carefully, he raised it from its hiding place, and at the first warm touch he felt a tremendous joy. It filled him with the love of all good things - of long, hot summer days, and happy, care-free pleasures, of heather-laden winds, and temperate rain and sun, of peace and happiness at home with family and friends. He held it proudly, and with confidence. He knew - he knew that he was safe and always had been, and that the power of the Shining Heart was incorruptible.

Chapter Nineteen

Bomblin In Trouble Again

Bomblin was scared after John left him. He felt very alone. When, if ever, would his friend come back? He crouched in his dismal hiding place and wished he had not decided to come into the mountain with John after all. He wished he had not lent John his ring. Goodness knows how long he would have to wait to get it back.

It occurred to him then, that for some time he had been ignoring a new noise. It came from the other side of the rock, which John had told him not to look over, a low, rumbling murmur of something like triumph underneath the clash and chink of steel. A terrible suspicion suddenly assailed him, followed by a hot rush of panic. It couldn't be! It couldn't be! Why no, it must be the rats again, or the last reverberations of a clap of thunder. He put his paws to his ears and tried to shut out the awful, disturbing possibility that was too bad to be true. He tried reciting poetry, then he started to compose a song, but it was no use; he would have to disobey John, for he would have no peace at all, until he had proven beyond the slightest doubt that John had not been captured, and strung up like a rabbit.

There was a chink between the wall and the rock that Bomblin could have peeped through, but in true Bingol fashion, he began to heave his little fat body up to the top of the great boulder, and became so absorbed in the search for the right footholds that he was flat on the top of it before he really looked into the cavern. Then he had the worst fright of his entire life, for of course he saw the mighty horde of goblins, all polishing swords and feeling the edges of knives, and earnestly discussing the best ways of catching and punishing the intruders.

The shock of this terrible sight had a fateful effect. Bomblin let out a stifled gasp and then, realising with panic that he was in full view began to scramble madly round to beat a retreat. Poor, unfortunate Bingol! It was the worst thing he could have done, for the top of the rock was wet, green, and very, very slippery. To his intense horror, he felt his body sliding downwards towards the cavern! He spread his arms and legs out wide, frantically searching for a finger or foothold, but the slide was impossible to check and, with a terrified squeal, Bomblin fell, plonk! For a second time, he found himself gazing into the black eyes of Kurl the Mighty.

For a moment, there was dead silence in the cavern, while the eyes of a hundred goblins fastened on Bomblin. Then the looks of astonishment gave way to a bloodthirsty cry of delight, and with one accord they rose upon him and threatened to tear him apart, limb from limb.

The voice of Kurl cut across the fray. "Leave him, you fools! We want him alive!" and his sword came down between Bomblin and the ravening mob.

Someone took Bomblin by the shoulders, and shook him, hard. Then they placed him on top of a table, and tied his paws behind him, while they jeered and mocked his Bingol ancestors, and made fun of his terrified trembling.

Kurl the Mighty was too clever to kill Bomblin straight away - there were too many questions to be asked about John, and the mysterious series of misfortunes that had afflicted the Maleena. Regarding Bomblin contemptuously he sneered slowly, "So! You have decided to pay us a visit, eh, little Bingol?"

Jeering laughter greeted this remark, and whispered discussions broke out as to the most amusing forms of lingering death.

"Well? Perhaps now you will be polite enough to give your hosts your name?"

Bomblin's lips pressed themselves together to start his name, but the only sound that came out was the first letter "B - b - b - b " and his breath in short, sharp gasps.

Kurl became angry. It looked as though this snivelling wretch was going to die from a heart attack before any information at all was dragged from him. He would have to feign a certain degree of kindness to make the creature talk at all. Dropping his aggressive stance, and smiling horribly, his voice became a soft, ingratiating whine. "Come, come, little Bingol. We goblins aren't so terrible, you know. We have been known to let our captives go with an occasional gold piece in their hands - if they're co-operative, that is. If they listen to questions, that is, and give the right answers, that is."

Bomblin closed his eyes and desperately wished for an earthquake. It was while he had his eyes closed that something happened to him. Suddenly, his fear melted away, and a plan occurred to him - a plan of audacious boldness and truly cunning trickery. It is no use pretending that Bomblin was responsible for it - Bingols are not brave, and even his Grandmother Bootle could not have done what Bomblin did just then. It was entirely due to his closeness to the Shining Heart, which at that very moment, was shedding its first pearly rays on John.

Bomblin opened his mouth, and spoke firmly. "Look here, you goblins," he said. "You think you're mighty clever but I've got a surprise in store for you."

The mouth of Kurl the Mighty dropped open in amazement.

"Just jolly well ask yourselves a few questions. Firstly, if I really was the ordinary Bingol that I look - would I be in your mountain now? Secondly, where is my assistant? And thirdly (here Bomblin puffed out his chest and looked really fierce) why aren't I frightened of you?"

The goblins stared from one to the other in astonishment and dismay. Suddenly, they were all painfully aware of sore eyes and runny noses, and at least one had a bad attack of stomach- ache and had to sit down. Before they could reply, Bomblin went on, "You see, you're not the only spellers of spells, and workers of magic. Some of us chaps can do it as well - in fact some of us chaps can do it better than you!"

Fierce indignation swept over the Maleena. They had been slightly disconcerted by Bomblin's questions, but such an arrogant claim could not go unchallenged. Kurl the Mighty bristled with rage, and his voice careered madly out of control into an hysterical shout. "You lie! You lie about your magic, you impertinent, overfed Bingol! We, the Green Maleena, are the acknowledged masters of the art of magic. There is no power in the universe stronger than ours! If you think so, if you think so - short, fat Bingol - then prove it!"

"Prove it - prove it!" screamed all the goblins, boiling with injured vanity and fury.

Bomblin chose his words carefully. He felt certain that John would rescue him soon, but he did not know when, and he must keep them at bay as long as possible.

"It would ..." he began, impressively, "It would, I assure you be quite possible for a short, fat Bingol like myself to wipe you all out with one flick of my paw. However, since I am naturally of an unaggressive nature, my assistant and I have contented ourselves by merely hindering in various ways, the progress of your latest experiments. I think if I remind you of the inexplicable failure of certain spells, you will know what I mean?"

Again, the flicker of dismay over the goblin faces. Kurl pulled himself together. "Rubbish!" he snarled.

"Really?" said Bomblin, casually, and then let fall his trump card. "Unfortunately, since my entry into this mountain was hampered by a rather large and noisy beast, it became necessary for me to employ some of slightly more, um," (here, he coughed modestly) "aggressive magic. I think if you go and take a look at Grooler, you will understand what I mean, and deduce what can happen to yourselves."

Now the goblins really did look worried. In vain they listened for a roar from the dragon to tell them all was well, but none came, and they realised, with growing consternation, that Grooler had stopped roaring quite a while ago.

Kurl was biting his lips and nails with fury and frustration. He had a sneaking feeling that there was something mysterious and sinister about the dragon's long silence, but he felt it impossible to believe that the insignificant creature before him had anything to do with it. He remembered Bomblin's question about his assistant and looked round uneasily. Maybe this 'assistant' was more powerful than Bomblin himself. He decided to make quite sure that the dragon was all right, and if he was, and merely fast asleep, he would stop that monster's marauding trips for ten years, as a punishment for letting this horrifying Bingol into the mountain.

All right, lads!" he yelled to the murmuring throng. "We'll prove the little liar wrong - then we can roast him alive! Gubbin! Burgall! You go and look at Grooler - at the double!"

But it was unnecessary to send anyone, for suddenly two goblins, as white-faced as Maleena could possibly be, came bursting into the cavern. They had been on dragon duty, and when Grooler missed his second meal, had gone to find out why. Now they collapsed in a heap at the feet of Kurl, panting for breath, and just managed to gasp out the words, "Grooler! Dead! Dead as a doornail!"

All eyes turned on Bomblin, and stared in horror. So here was no short, fat Bingol at all, but a wizard of truly incredible and dangerous power - a veritable giant in the art of making magic. Violent stomach-ache seized several of the goblins, and a few had to sit down suddenly because their legs were shaking so much. Kurl the Mighty sagged visibly, as though he had been hit below the belt, and leant heavily upon his sword for support. Grooler, their most reliable defence, was gone - snapped like a straw by an unseen hand - and now their mountain stood, naked and defenceless, and their very lives hung in the balance.

While the goblins were in this abject state, the very worst blow of all befell them. The light from the Shining Heart had gradually, and unnoticed, been growing brighter and brighter, for John was carrying it up the steps from the cellar to the cavern. Now it burst upon them in all its radiant splendour, and the shining glory of the thing itself hung in mid-air, unnaturally suspended, dazzling their eyes and hearts with unbearable beauty.

Utter pandemonium broke out. Petrified goblins clawed and scratched each other in their efforts to get away from this object of supreme horror. Shrieking and howling, they scattered in all directions, their cries of terror echoing all down the long corridors of their mountain, and striking fear into the hearts of all who heard them. Each goblin father grabbed his wife and children and fled the mountain, seeking refuge in the deepest, darkest holes in the earth that could possibly be found. And even there the awful brightness haunted and humiliated them.

The rats came out from their hiding places and joined in the headlong flight, nipping goblin arms and legs in long-desired revenge. Then they ran through the mountain, gleefully upsetting pots of magic potion, and frisking their tails in the piles of carefully collected leaves and grasses. They set free several more of their kind, who had been cruelly imprisoned in cages, and plundered the goblin stores of grain and vegetables. Then they, too, left the mountain, rich with provender and treasures, and richer too in the knowledge that they would never again abjectly bow to the power of the Green Maleena.

And so the mountain gradually emptied itself of all that was corrupt, and John and Bomblin stood alone together, in the cavern, holding the Shining Heart.

And yes, even Dollop was saved, for as the Shining Heart was raised on high, a single shaft of light pierced the hard shell round his heart and melted it all away. The love of life and beauty returned to Dollop, and the hope of things to come. As the light grew stronger all around him, he raised his head and saw with new eyes, and listened with new ears. He smelt the smell of water-lilied ponds, and heard the skylark singing as she rose. He saw the majesty of sun at highest noon, and the mellow splendour of the evening sky. Great desire for all these things rose in the heart of Dollop like a raging fire, and he dived into the waters of a subterranean stream and swam joyfully out of the Dark Mountain, towards freedom.

Chapter Twenty

Going Home

John and Bomblin walked slowly through the empty mountain, bathed in the warm glow of the Shining Heart. John had given Bomblin back his ring, though it was hardly necessary, for the glorious brightness swallowed them up and made them both almost invisible. They found their way easily through the many tunnels to the doorway, and stepped out thankfully into fresh air.

There was a sudden flurry of wings, and up rose a host of vultures from the putrid carcass of Grooler, winking and blinking at the sudden binding light. Then they circled slowly, and flew off into the distance. John watched them without a tremor. He was afraid of nothing now.

Bomblin skipped along excitedly, growing more and more delighted with each step. He could hardly believe his luck. There he was, having assisted at the slaying of a dragon, and having defied goblins into the bargain, actually homeward bound with his Grandmother Bootle's ring! He bounced up and down and chortled happily. "Won't the old girl be surprised? Won't I be her blue-eyed Bingol? Why, this should soften her up a bit, the fierce old buzzard!" and he ran ahead of John, cutting a Bingol jig across the path. A group of frightened goblins suddenly rose from the ground and scuttled out of the way, nearly out of their wits at this final climax to the recent turn of events, and John and Bomblin laughed with relief. Everything had turned out as well as it possibly could.

They walked all day down the long valley that led to the river, and their joy and excitement diminished not a jot. They found they had no need for food at all, and hardly any need for rest, for at night the Shining Heart lit the way, and led them on. The only sadness came at the river, for then it was time to part, Bomblin to go westwards to Bingolia, and John to continue southwards towards Terina. They stayed together until they came to a bridge, and then bade each other farewell, with a handshake and a smile, and the sudden closeness that comes with the recollection of shared triumphs and disasters.

John stood and watched Bomblin as he wandered off down the river, turning to wave every now and then. He looked sad and dejected, but it wasn't long before the subdued walk changed to a bouncy jog-trot again, and Bomblin's little figure grew more and more animated a it grew smaller in the distance. It even vanished once or twice, and suddenly reappeared frantically waving its arms and legs, and shaking with giggles.

John smiled, and watched till it was out of sight. Then he turned to cross the bridge, and beyond that, the Plain of Elna.

The journey home was long and uneventful. John collected crowds of curious elves at every town and village, all brimming with curiosity and eager for a new story. They gazed upon the Shining Heart with awe and wonder, and repaid him royally with enormous meals and tankards of ale.

At one stage of his journey he was pressed to accept the hospitality of an elfin caravan, and not wishing to offend the friendly elves, gratefully accepted their offer of a meal. They were all agog with the rumour of the death of Grooler, which had spread like lightning from village to village, and more agog still with the story of a desperate furry Bingol, who had visited a certain wayside tavern and left the dramatic words, 'Gone to fix Grooler' in the dust.

"No sooner said, than done!" whispered one, in awe-struck tones.

"No sooner the word, than the action!" breathed another.

"They do say they're going to make a hero of him in Bingolia," said a third. "They're going to rename him the Fearless Dragon Killer, and make a statue of him all of marble. Special coins they're striking, with his head upon them, and all the children are to have a holiday on his birthday. I reckon he deserves it - that and the golden medal that they'll give him. I haven't slept so easy in my bed for as long as I can remember."

"Ar-ar, that be true!" all the others fervently agreed.

John smiled once more, and the smile turned to a chuckle as he imagined the delightful scenes at Myrtle Hall, when Bomblin proudly presented the long-lost ring to his Grandmother Bootle, and could finally give up the mutter 'fierce old trout!' and 'heartless old buzzard!' My word, but there would be singing and dancing in Bingolia when Bomblin returned home.

Home! It was time for him to on his homeward journey, too. The Benelda would be longing for his return. He bade farewell to the elves and hurried on, stopping for neither food nor rest till he came to the ridge of rocks from which his adventures had begun.

Eagerly, he searched for the doorway. Yes, there were the two trees, and here was the cave through which he reached Terina. He squeezed himself between the rocks, and at the first gleam of the Shining Heart, the door swung silently open, welcoming him home.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Mountain is Healed

Proudly and gladly John carried the Shining Heart into the halls of the Benelda, its brilliance lighting the way, and heralding his arrival.

At the first soft rays of light a great shout of joy went up from the fairy people. Those who had been too weak to work found strength returning to their limbs, little children who had lain helpless suddenly smiled and clapped their hands, strong fathers who had never once despaired gave way to sudden tears of joy, and all surged forward, bathing in the glorious light, holding their hands and faces up to it. Then those who had been working in the fields came in, and swelled the shout of victory with their voices, so that it echoed from hall to hall all through the mountain and out upon the hills in a glad triumphal song.

The Heart was restored to its proper resting place - a stand made of marble, streaked with veins of blue and silver, and there it shone with a pure and steady glow. In its healing rays, the Benelda returned again to health and life, and the magnificent halls of the Palace took on a new and more majestic beauty. The fairy King and Queen came forward to greet John, and with tears in their eyes humbly offered him their thanks. "Dear John, there are no words to express our gratitude. How can we ever hope to repay you? For what you have dared to do for us, no reward can be too great. Anything, anything that lies within our power, we will do for you."

John was far too happy to think about a reward. He beamed delightedly all over his face while the fairy people thronged around him, exclaiming over his heroism and cleverness, and all pressing to be closest to him. His relief and happiness were so intense that he thought he would never want anything else ever again. Suddenly, his legs began to feel weak from excitement and fatigue. "What I want is a rest," he said, and sank down on a chair.

"Of course, my boy," said the King. "You must be weary from your journey. Gelda! Fetch the honey cakes and wine!"

They sat him down and offered him the best of all they had. The wine had been set aside for his return, and the honey cakes were sumptuous fare indeed compared with dried beard-grass and husks. John ate gratefully, suddenly discovering that he had a ravenous appetite, and the fairy folk were so delighted at his obvious appreciation of the food that they enjoyed it more than he did.

Then Lorman came forward, and bowed low to John, and pressed his hands in his own. Then he led John to a sunken marble bath, which was filled with the most delicately perfumed water, steaming hot and full of bubbles. John looked at his hands and feet and gasped - why, he was almost the colour of a goblin. He laughed, and jumped into the water, where he splashed about and blew bubbles to his heart's content. Afterwards, he looked ruefully at his clothes, and wondered how to explain them when he got home. He was longing to see his family again. How long it had been since he last saw them neither he nor the Benelda really knew, but it felt like a hundred years. Hurriedly, he dressed and went back to the throne-room.

The fairy people were busily preparing a spell. It was their first since they had lost the Shining Heart, and every face reflected joy as once again they collected herbs and grasses for a powerful concoction of pure white magic. One by one they started singing,

Come willow herb and teasel seed,

Caressed by wind and rain,

Come work with us to heal the world

Of sickness and of pain .....

Lorman hurried up to him and eagerly explained what they were doing.

"The people of the mountain have been asleep, dear boy, for the whole of your absence. We have done what we could to reap the harvest, but it has been difficult. The mountain has been ravaged by storms, and diseases of every kind have attacked the crops. Tiles have been flying from the roofs and shutters banging in the wind. Our women have spent all their time looking after the sleeping children, making sure they were warm enough, dusting and sweeping the cottages to combat the germs - you've no idea how many different varieties the Maleena sent us! - and all the time the gardens have been steadily growing beyond our control. The weeds have grown taller than ourselves, and we simply could not pull them out fast enough. We did our best, but things have got very out of hand - very out of hand. It will take a powerful spell to put it all right."

The fairy Queen, pale and beautiful, smiled at John. "We know how anxious you are to be home, dear John," she said. "But we must make sure that the mountain is exactly as it was before you return. You must stay with us until midnight, while the magic is taking effect, and then you can go back to your home just as you would have done had you not found Lorman on that fateful night.

John's heart leapt with excitement. He hardly could believe that after all his ordeals he was safely home, and about to see his longed for family again. He gave a great whoop of joy, and broke into an energetic goblin-frightening jig just for fun, stamping his feet and clapping his hands and finishing with a burst of laughter. All the fairy children joined in with him, ending up on the floor in a heap of struggling arms and legs, helpless with mirth.

When they had recovered from that the children gathered round and begged him to tell them stories of his adventures. "Yes, my child," said the King. "You have had many dangers to face. We must all hear the story of your journey, while the magic potion simmers over the fire."

So John sat in the middle of an eager crowd of listeners, and went on far into the night telling them of his escapades with elves and goblins and witches. They gasped with horror when he told them of Decepta, and smiled and nodded thankfully at the power of the talisman. He told them of his meeting with a funny little Bingol, and they were curious to know his name, for some of them had friends in the far away land of Bingolia. They promised to send a message of thanks to him, and invite him to stay with them for a while, and all agreed he was a splendid fellow, and the very best Bingol of them all. A quietness descended when he told them of the goblins, of their greediness and treachery and evil plans, and how all their schemes and spells had come to nought but their own ruination. They smiled wisely when he spoke about the strange sickness and misfortune that had befallen the Maleena, for they knew the silly goblins had tampered with a power they could not control. The children cheered and shouted when he got to the slaying of Grooler, and the sword was handed round and wondered over, and then it was polished till it shone and given a place of honour by the throne. The ring with the riddle on was fully understood at last, and the secrets were written down in the Benelda's books of ancient law.

And then to their sacred writings they added the name of John (and Bomblin, in smaller letters). John was called Prince of Valour, and Guardian of the Light, and the words were written with a golden pen in golden ink, so that they would not pass away.

All this time the spell was working on the mountain, making everything well and cared-for once again. At midnight, the deeper sleep of fairy enchantment was lifted, and people woke and yawned, and then turned over to sleep again, and Lorman whispered softly to John that it was time to go. There were no sad farewells, for John knew that he would see the fairy folk again, and it was gladly that he waved goodbye to all his friends, and went with Lorman to the door into the cave.

"Take this," said Lorman. "It is the lantern you had when I met you. Farewell, my boy. Farewell!"

John took the lantern and stepped out into the pitch dark cave. Slowly and carefully, he made his way along it and out on to the wide and starry hillside.

The mountain slept a calm and peaceful sleep, bathed in the magical light of the moon. He looked out over the broad sweep of the hill, and thought that never had he loved his mountain so much as now, when it was dark and full of mystery. He had longed for it with a great longing throughout the whole of his journey, and now he had returned he knew why, for it was indeed a part of him, and he a part of it. For a moment, he gazed upon it wonderingly, and then with a great surge of happiness, ran as fast as he could to his home.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Home at Last!

The back door was unbolted, as he had left it. Gently, he opened it and climbed the wooden stairs on tiptoe to his bedroom. There was his wicker chair and wash-stand again, his pen and writing paper, the animals he had carved so laboriously, and there was the bow and the arrows he still had not finished. Thankfully and lovingly he gazed upon it all, and climbed once more into the covers of his bed, still crumpled and turned back as if awaiting him. How luxurious it felt, after the cold hard ground! He suddenly realised how tired he was, so tired that his body seemed to float above its own leaden weight, and the minutes that he closed his eyes, he fell asleep.

In the morning he was woken up by two little sisters, who came hurtling through the door and bouncing on his bed, demanding to play with him. First he tickled them until they shrieked with laughter, and then he hugged them both soundly, and then he took a long look at their faces. Why, they were both prettier than ever!

"Sarah! Flora!" called his mother. "Leave your brother alone and let him get dressed - it's nearly breakfast time."

"We must make an early start today, John," called his father. "There's plenty to do at the quarry. We'll take Flora and Sarah - if they're good."

"Ooh!" squealed Flora, "Ooh goody, goody! We're going to de quawwy, Sawah! Hip-hip hooway!" And she chattered excitedly all through breakfast.

John looked thoughtfully at his mother while she ladled out porridge and buttered toast. One day he would tell her of his adventures, and the gentle fairy people he had met upon the mountain. She was a wise woman, and knew that life held mysteries beyond any understanding. She would be glad to know as well, that he had triumphed over goblins. One day he would tell her - one day. As for his father, well, he had worn a bewildered expression all morning, as if he sensed that there was something odd about this particular one, and indeed, there was, for the hurried spell of the Benelda had left a few things uncorrected. The puzzled man was certain he had left his boots downstairs sprawled on the kitchen floor, and this morning they were neatly placed under his bed. The gash on his thumb that he had made while chopping wood had healed incredibly quickly, and yet a luxurious growth of whiskers had appeared on his chin overnight. John watched the growing frown with amusement, and wondered how soon he would be able to explain these things.

His mother rose from the table. "I'll make the most of the day while you're gone," she said. "I'll do all the baking for a week, and polish the whole house from top to bottom. I've suddenly got the mood on me. Why! I do declare, my back-ache's gone! I haven't felt so frisky for a long time! Now, come along Flora. Go and put your warm stockings on - and John, find your shoes."

Shoes! John flew upstairs to see if a new pair had been magically left for him, but no. His shoes were still on the feet of Grindall, the Travelling Magician, and there was no way of getting them back. He smiled ruefully at the thought, and put on a pair of old slippers. They were very worn, but they would do.

Soon they were all assembled at the front door, and into the cart went tools for the quarry, food for the day and Sarah and Flora, laughing and squealing. The morning was fresh and beautiful, and a fine white mist was rising from the fields in the first warm rays of the sun. Every flower was on tiptoe, face up to the sky, and all the birds were bursting with full-throated song. The day promised to be splendid.

"That's queer," remarked John's father. "Look at this weed, here. It's over four feet tall! It must have shot up overnight, for I weeded this patch only last week."

"And look, father!" called Sarah, delightedly "Here's a huge box of apples - and a barrel of pears! I wonder who has left them for us?"

"Well, there's a funny thing. Somebody's fruit trees have ripened early." John's father stood, musing, scratching his head, thoughtfully.

"Husband!" Out came mother from the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on an apron. "Did you fill the flour barrel last night? I know I left it nearly empty, and now it's full."

"Mm" said his father, "That settles it. There has been something strange about the night ...."

John drew his father to one side and spoke quietly. "You're right, father. It's been a strange and magical night indeed, and I was out of my bed for the whole of it. There was trouble on the mountain - goblin trouble - and I went to put it right."

Up ran Sarah and Flora, all ears, having heard the word 'magical'. Father glanced quickly at their faces and put his arms out to them in a protective gesture, for he knew the mysteries of the mountain could be disturbing to little minds. He gave a loud laugh, "Well, this is good magic!" he said, "and might be better still. We'll call in on the neighbours on the way, and see if they've been favoured, too!"

So happily, the four of them waved to John's mother, and set off up the mountain, the little girls bouncing up and down in the cart and chattering excitedly.

"Two fwees are six!" chanted Flora, proudly, "Fwee fwees are four!"

"Nine!" corrected Sarah. "Really, Flora, you'd be no good against goblins at all. Oh John, weren't you brave last night!"

For a moment, John had forgotten. And then he remembered the night when the goblins had chased them down the mountain.

"Have dey all gone, John? All quite gone? I hope we don't meet any today!"

"We won't meet any today, Flora, and we won't meet any tonight. Somehow, I'm sure we won't be seeing so much of goblins in future."

His father looked at him proudly, and with understanding.

"But John, John, how could you be so brave? Weren't you ever frightened? Not just a teeny, weeny bit?"

John smiled. "I'm not frightened of goblins," he said.

............................................................

The wicked goblins never fully recovered from the Shining Heart, and the dreadful train of events it brought with it. Their pride had been dealt a deadly blow, for the power of their magic was all that they had ever been proud of, and now they hide themselves away in caves and holes underground. The light of the Shining Heart lingers among them still, curbing the tendency to evil thought and deed but they are still horrible, and not to be trusted.

So their mountain now lies cold and empty, though majestic still under the steel grey sky. All its halls are bleak and lifeless, and in its pitch-dark vaults, hoards of plunder patiently await discovery. Alone, it stands, wreathed in mist, forever torn by storm and thunder. Yet hope glimmers even there, however thin a ray, for round the entrance door wild flowers are struggling into life, and on the blackened earth that Grooler blasted and destroyed, there grow the first green blades of grass.