they came, these discontented people of the north. They came in droves, filling the grassy square in front of the palace, and turned their faces up to the windows, and waited . . .
Strange faces they were too: the blue-black faces of the neckies with their lop-sided feet . . . the slavering-tongued sky yelpers, those air-borne hell hounds with their saucer eyes and fiery tongues, and the squint-eyed faces of the harridans.
There were hags in the square who made Odge’s sisters look like tinsel fairies; there was a bagworm as long as a railway carriage; there was even a brollachan – one of those shapeless blobs who crawl over the ground like cold jellies and can envelop anyone who gets in the way.
And there were the harpies! They had elbowed their way to the front, these monstrous women with the wings and claws of birds – and even the fiercest creatures who waited with them, gave them a wide berth.
‘Tell them to choose a spokesperson and we will hear what they have to say,’ said the King.
But he knew why they had come and what they had to say, for these creatures of the North were as much his subjects as any ordinary school child or tender-hearted fey. Not only that, they were useful. They were the police people. There was no prison on the Island – there was no need for one. No burglar would burgle twice if it meant a hell hound flying in through his window and taking pieces out of his behind. Any drunken youth going on the rampage soon sobered up after a squint-eyed harridan landed on his chest and squeezed his stomach so as to give him awful dreams – and you only had to say the word ‘harpy’ to the most evil-minded crook and he went straight then and there.
And it was a harpy – the chief harpy – who pushed the others aside and came in to stand before the King.
She called herself Mrs Smith, but she wasn’t married and it would have been hard to think of anyone who would have wanted to sit up in bed beside her drinking tea. The harpy’s face was that of a bossy lady politician, the kind that comes on the telly to tell you not to eat the things you like and do something different with your money. Her brassy permed hair was strained back from her forehead and combed into tight curls, her beady eyes were set on either side of a nose you could have cut cheese with and her mouth was puckered like a badly sewn button hole. A string of pearls was wound round her neck; a handbag dangled from her arm and she wore a crimplene stretch top tucked into dark green bloomers with a frill round the bottom.
But from under the bloomers there came the long, scaly legs and frightful talons of a bird of prey, and growing out of her back, piercing the crimplene, was a pair of black wings which gave out a strange, rank smell.
‘I have come about the Prince,’ said Mrs Smith in a high, piercing voice. ‘I am disgusted by the way this rescue has been handled. Appalled. Shocked. All of us are.’
Harpies have been around for hundreds of years. In the old days they were called the Snatchers because they snatched people’s food away so that they starved to death, or fouled it to make it uneatable. And it wasn’t just food they snatched in their dreadful claws; harpies were used as punishers, carrying people away to dreadful tortures in the underworld.
Mrs Smith patted her hair and opened her handbag.
‘No!’ said the King and put up his hand. The handbags of harpies are too horrible to describe. Inside is their make-up – face powder, lipstick, scent . . . But what make-up! Their powder smells of the insides of slaughtered animals, and one drop of their perfume can send a whole army reeling backwards. ‘Not in the palace,’ he went on sternly .
Even Mrs Smith obeyed the King. She shut her bag, but once again began to complain.
‘Obviously that feeble fey and wonky wizard have failed; one could hardly expect anything else. And frankly my patience is exhausted. Everyone’s patience is exhausted. I insist that I
Strange faces they were too: the blue-black faces of the neckies with their lop-sided feet . . . the slavering-tongued sky yelpers, those air-borne hell hounds with their saucer eyes and fiery tongues, and the squint-eyed faces of the harridans.
There were hags in the square who made Odge’s sisters look like tinsel fairies; there was a bagworm as long as a railway carriage; there was even a brollachan – one of those shapeless blobs who crawl over the ground like cold jellies and can envelop anyone who gets in the way.
And there were the harpies! They had elbowed their way to the front, these monstrous women with the wings and claws of birds – and even the fiercest creatures who waited with them, gave them a wide berth.
‘Tell them to choose a spokesperson and we will hear what they have to say,’ said the King.
But he knew why they had come and what they had to say, for these creatures of the North were as much his subjects as any ordinary school child or tender-hearted fey. Not only that, they were useful. They were the police people. There was no prison on the Island – there was no need for one. No burglar would burgle twice if it meant a hell hound flying in through his window and taking pieces out of his behind. Any drunken youth going on the rampage soon sobered up after a squint-eyed harridan landed on his chest and squeezed his stomach so as to give him awful dreams – and you only had to say the word ‘harpy’ to the most evil-minded crook and he went straight then and there.
And it was a harpy – the chief harpy – who pushed the others aside and came in to stand before the King.
She called herself Mrs Smith, but she wasn’t married and it would have been hard to think of anyone who would have wanted to sit up in bed beside her drinking tea. The harpy’s face was that of a bossy lady politician, the kind that comes on the telly to tell you not to eat the things you like and do something different with your money. Her brassy permed hair was strained back from her forehead and combed into tight curls, her beady eyes were set on either side of a nose you could have cut cheese with and her mouth was puckered like a badly sewn button hole. A string of pearls was wound round her neck; a handbag dangled from her arm and she wore a crimplene stretch top tucked into dark green bloomers with a frill round the bottom.
But from under the bloomers there came the long, scaly legs and frightful talons of a bird of prey, and growing out of her back, piercing the crimplene, was a pair of black wings which gave out a strange, rank smell.
‘I have come about the Prince,’ said Mrs Smith in a high, piercing voice. ‘I am disgusted by the way this rescue has been handled. Appalled. Shocked. All of us are.’
Harpies have been around for hundreds of years. In the old days they were called the Snatchers because they snatched people’s food away so that they starved to death, or fouled it to make it uneatable. And it wasn’t just food they snatched in their dreadful claws; harpies were used as punishers, carrying people away to dreadful tortures in the underworld.
Mrs Smith patted her hair and opened her handbag.
‘No!’ said the King and put up his hand. The handbags of harpies are too horrible to describe. Inside is their make-up – face powder, lipstick, scent . . . But what make-up! Their powder smells of the insides of slaughtered animals, and one drop of their perfume can send a whole army reeling backwards. ‘Not in the palace,’ he went on sternly .
Even Mrs Smith obeyed the King. She shut her bag, but once again began to complain.
‘Obviously that feeble fey and wonky wizard have failed; one could hardly expect anything else. And frankly my patience is exhausted. Everyone’s patience is exhausted. I insist that I
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