Once upon a time, there was a tiny country called Cornucopia, which had been ruled
for centuries by a long line of fair-haired kings. The king at the time of which I write
was called King Fred the Fearless. He’d announced the ‘Fearless’ bit himself, on the
morning of his coronation, partly because it sounded nice with ‘Fred’, but also
because he’d once managed to catch and kill a wasp all by himself, if you didn’t
count five footmen and the boot boy.
King Fred the Fearless came to the throne on a huge wave of popularity. He
had lovely yellow curls, fine sweeping moustaches and looked magnificent in the
tight breeches, velvet doublets, and ruffled shirts that rich men wore at the time. Fred
was said to be generous, smiled and waved whenever anyone caught sight of him
and looked awfully handsome in the portraits that were distributed throughout the
kingdom, to be hung in town halls. The people of Cornucopia were most happy with
their new king, and many thought he’d end up being even better at the job than his
father, Richard the Righteous, whose teeth (though nobody had liked to mention it
at the time) were rather crooked.
King Fred was secretly relieved to find out how easy it was to rule Cornucopia.
In fact, the country seemed to run itself. Nearly everybody had lots of food, the
merchants made pots of gold, and Fred’s advisors took care of any little problem that
arose. All that was left for Fred to do was beam at his subjects whenever he went out
in his carriage and go hunting five times a week with his two best friends, Lord
Spittleworth and Lord Flapoon.
Spittleworth and Flapoon had large estates of their own in the country, but
they found it much cheaper and more amusing to live at the palace with the king,
eating his food, hunting his stags, and making sure that the king didn’t get too fond of any of the beautiful ladies at court. They had no wish to see Fred married, because
a queen might spoil all their fun. For a time, Fred had seemed to rather like Lady
Eslanda, who was as dark and beautiful as Fred was fair and handsome, but
Spittleworth had persuaded Fred that she was far too serious and bookish for the
country to love her as queen. Fred didn’t know that Lord Spittleworth had a grudge
against Lady Eslanda. He’d once asked her to marry him, but she’d turned him down.
Lord Spittleworth was very thin, cunning, and clever. His friend Flapoon was
ruddy-faced, and so enormous that it required six men to heave him onto his massive
chestnut horse. Though not as clever as Spittleworth, Flapoon was still far sharper
than the king.
Both lords were expert at flattery, and pretending to be astonished by how
good Fred was at everything from riding to tiddlywinks. If Spittleworth had a
particular talent, it was persuading the king to do things that suited Spittleworth, and
if Flapoon had a gift, it was for convincing the king that nobody on earth was as
loyal to the king as his two best friends.
Fred thought Spittleworth and Flapoon were jolly good chaps. They urged him
to hold fancy parties, elaborate picnics, and sumptuous banquets, because
Cornucopia was famous, far beyond its borders, for its food. Each of its cities was
known for a different kind, and each was the very best in the world.
The capital of Cornucopia, Chouxville, lay in the south of the country, and
was surrounded by acres of orchards, fields of shimmering golden wheat, and
emerald-green grass, on which pure white dairy cows grazed. The cream, flour, and
fruit produced by the farmers here was then given to the exceptional bakers of
Chouxville, who made pastries.
Think, if you please, of the most delicious cake or biscuit you have ever tasted.
Well, let me tell you they’d have been downright ashamed to serve that in Chouxville. Unless a grown man’s eyes filled with tears of pleasure as he bit into a
Chouxville pastry, it was deemed a failure and never made again. The bakery
windows of Chouxville were piled high with delicacies such as Maidens’ Dreams,
Fairies’ Cradles, and, most famous of all, Hopes-of-Heaven, which were so
exquisitely, painfully delicious that they were saved for special occasions and
everybody cried for joy as they ate them. King Porfirio, of neighbouring Pluritania,
had already sent King Fred a letter, offering him the choice of any of his daughters’
hands in marriage in exchange for a lifetime’s supply of Hopes-of-Heaven, but
Spittleworth had advised Fred to laugh in the Pluritanian ambassador’s face.
‘His daughters are nowhere near pretty enough to exchange for Hopes-ofHeaven, sire!’ said Spittleworth.
To the north of Chouxville lay more green fields and clear, sparkling rivers,
where jet-black cows and happy pink pigs were raised. These in turn served the twin
cities of Kurdsburg and Baronstown, which were separated from each other by an
arching stone bridge over the main river of Cornucopia, the Fluma, where brightlycoloured barges bore goods from one end of the kingdom to another.
Kurdsburg was famous for its cheeses: huge white wheels, dense orange
cannonballs, big crumbly blue-veined barrels and little baby cream cheeses smoother
than velvet.
Baronstown was celebrated for its smoked and honey-roasted hams, its sides
of bacon, its spicy sausages, its melting beefsteaks, and its venison pies.
The savoury fumes rising from the chimneys of the red-brick Baronstown
stoves mingled with the odorous tang wafting from the doorways of the Kurdsburg
cheesemongers, and for forty miles all around, it was impossible not to salivate
breathing in the delicious air.
A few hours north of Kurdsburg and Baronstown, you came upon acres of
vineyards bearing grapes as large as eggs, each of them ripe and sweet and juicy.
Journey onwards for the rest of the day and you reached the granite city of Jeroboam,
famous for its wines. They said of the Jeroboam air that you could get tipsy simply
walking its streets. The best vintages changed hands for thousands upon thousands
of gold coins, and the Jeroboam wine merchants were some of the richest men in the
kingdom.
But a little north of Jeroboam, a strange thing happened. It was as though the
magically rich land of Cornucopia had exhausted itself by producing the best grass,
the best fruit, and the best wheat in the world. Right at the northern tip came the
place known as the Marshlands, and the only things that grew there were some
tasteless, rubbery mushrooms and thin dry grass, only good enough to feed a few
mangy sheep.
The Marshlanders who tended the sheep didn’t have the sleek, well-rounded,
well-dressed appearance of the citizens of Jeroboam, Baronstown, Kurdsburg, or
Chouxville. They were gaunt and ragged. Their poorly nourished sheep never
fetched very good prices, either in Cornucopia or abroad, so very few Marshlanders
ever got to taste the delights of Cornucopian wine, cheese, beef, or pastries. The
most common dish in the Marshlands was a greasy mutton broth, made of those
sheep who were too old to sell.
The rest of Cornucopia found the Marshlanders an odd bunch – surly, dirty,
and ill-tempered. They had rough voices, which the other Cornucopians imitated,
making them sound like hoarse old sheep. Jokes were made about their manners and
their simplicity. As far as the rest of Cornucopia was concerned, the only memorable thing that had ever come out of the Marshlands was the legend of the Ickabog