The Prophet Confesses
You can well imagine the surprise of Grampa and his little army to
discover that the flower maiden whom they had been loving all this while
was really the lost Princess. How the story ever would have been
straightened out had it not been for Dorothy, I have no idea.
“Why didn’t you tell us it was Urtha?” shouted Grampa, shaking his
finger indignantly at Peer Haps. “And who is Urtha?” gasped the
astonished old monarch, fanning himself with his crown, for he was in
such a state by this time that he hardly knew what he was doing. “My
daughter’s name is Pretty Good—isn’t it, my dear?”
The little flower fairy shook her head solemnly. “My name is Urtha,” she
insisted softly. “Isn’t it, Tatters?”
“She’s bewitched,” groaned the King.
“She’s bewitching,” corrected Grampa.
“Stop! Stop!” said Dorothy. “We’ll never get things straightened out
this way. Everybody sit down and—quick—quick—catch that Prophet!” Abrog
had been slyly edging toward the door, but the Forgetful Poet, with a
quick bound, brought him back.
“Now then,” said Dorothy, when they were all seated, “I believe Abrog is
at the bottom of the whole business. Let’s make him tell. Did you
bewitch this Princess?” she demanded sternly.
Abrog only mumbled and scowled and refused to speak a word. “Better
answer this young lady,” puffed Peer Haps warningly. “She is a Princess
of Oz, and can have you well punished.”
“Speak up, you old villain!” shouted Grampa, waving his sword over the
Prophet’s head. But Abrog stood still and stubbornly refused to say a
word, until the old soldier suddenly bethought himself of the wizard’s
medicine. “Maybe there’s a cure for the tongue tied on this,” muttered
Grampa. Taking out the bottle, he began to scan the green label. At the
first sight of the medicine, a dreadful change came over the Prophet. He
turned a sickly green and began to tremble violently.
“Give me that bottle! Give me that bottle, and I will tell all,” he
panted, trying desperately to snatch it from Grampa.
“Don’t you do it,” cried the Prince of Ragbad. “Why, Grampa, I believe—I
believe this is the wizard himself.”
“But it says ‘Gorba’” muttered the old soldier, holding the bottle high
above his head. “Don’t you remember?”
“Gorba!” exclaimed Dorothy, writing the word with her finger in the
air. “Why G-o-r-b-a is A-b-r-o-g spelled backwards!”
“Abrog and Gorba!” shrieked Percy Vere, bounding to his feet. The poet
instantly broke into verse in his customary style:
“Abrog and Gorba are one and the same—
A prophet and wizard wrapped up in one—one—one?”
“Name!” finished Peer Haps, almost tumbling from his throne.
“This is the most exciting story I ever was in,” wheezed the head of
Fumbo, from its place on the table. The Prophet had fairly crumpled up
at Dorothy’s discovery and, seeing that further resistance was useless,
he whined out the whole of his story. Determined to save Pretty Good
from the monster and marry her himself, he had decided to change her to
mud. For a Princess as ugly as mud, even a monster would not marry,
explained the old villain tearfully. So for this purpose he had carried
her to the hidden garden, where all his magic appliances were kept. But
so sweet, lovely and good was the little Princess of Perhaps City, that
the evil spell of the wizard, instead of changing her to a muddy image
as Abrog intended, had turned her into a bewitching little flower fairy.
Disappointed at the way his magic had worked, Abrog had nevertheless
resolved to keep her under the spell until after the day of the prophecy
and then change her back to her own self and marry her at once. But when
he returned to the garden he found her gone and he had hurried as fast
as he could back to Perhaps City. How he had been robbed of his magic
medicine on the first day he bewitched Urtha, and how Urtha herself had
been released by Tatters and Grampa, we know.
“But what about this monster?” panted the old soldier, as Abrog finished
speaking and began uncomfortably shuffling his feet on the golden floor.
“Let me see that prophecy,” demanded Dorothy. The unwilling Prophet drew
the crumpled parchment from his sleeve.
“A youth, wrapped in the skin of an old bear—a youth with two heads upon
his shoulders and carrying a red umbrella—will marry the Princess of
Perhaps City,” read Dorothy in some surprise.
“Why, that’s Tatters!” cried the little girl in delight.
“Of course it is,” declared Grampa. “Why, there isn’t any monster at
all. Whoever said there was?” He stared around triumphantly and Peer
Haps pointed angrily at the old Prophet, who was hopping about in a vain
attempt to escape.
“What shall we do to him?” asked the Forgetful Poet, seizing Abrog by
the collar and holding him, kicking and struggling, in the air. Some
said this and some said that, but it was Grampa, running his finger
quickly down the trusty green label, who finally decided the matter. For
listed under sorcery he found a sure cure for Abrog.
“Break a saucer of the mixture over the sorcerer’s head,” directed the
bottle severely. So a saucer was quickly brought and, paying no
attention to the squalls and screams of the scheming old Prophet, Grampa
broke it over his head. At the first crack of the china, Abrog
disappeared and, as every one jumped with surprise, a little brown mouse
scurried across the room.
“Well, he won’t do much harm in that shape,” sighed Grampa, as Toto went
sniffing all around the throne under which the mouse had disappeared.
“But my daughter!” cried Peer Haps suddenly. “Who will unbewitch the
Princess now?” The company exchanged dismayed glances, realizing too
late that they should have forced Abrog to disenchant Urtha before they
punished him.