King of the pumpkins

'Deep in the middle of the woods,' said my mother, 'is the place where the king of the
pumpkins lives.' A young boy and his cat try and find out what, if anything, is true about his
mother's stories.
'Deep in the middle of the woods,' said my mother, 'is the place where the king of the
pumpkins lives.'
'But pumpkins live in fields, not in forests,' I said to my mother.
She wouldn't listen to me. 'I'm telling you,' she said, 'the king of the pumpkins lives in
the middle of the woods and the woods that he lives in are the woods right next to our house,
the woods you can see out of the window over there.' She pointed with her hand to the woods
that were, in fact, just outside the window behind our house. 'He doesn't live in a field like the
other pumpkins,' continued mother, 'because he's not an ordinary pumpkin. He's the King
Pumpkin.'
I shut up and decided to believe her, like you do when you're a kid. Firstly, I knew that
it wasn't worth arguing with my mother. She always won. Secondly, when you're a kid, you
always believe what grown-ups tell you, no matter how stupid it is. Like Santa Claus and stuff
like that. Kids always believe it, even though they know it's stupid.
Still, I decided to go and find the king of the pumpkins, partly because I was bored,
partly because I was curious, and also – of course – because I wanted to know if my mother
really was talking nonsense or not.
Mother often talked nonsense, I have to say that. There was the time she told me that
the moon was made of cheese. I knew that was nonsense. Then there were all the stories she
told me. Stories about frogs, princesses, princes and shoes. Stories about donkeys and
unicorns, gnomes and elves, magic mirrors and magic cooking pots. Stories about why the
stars are exactly the way they are, why the river that runs through our town has the name that
it has, stories about where the sun comes from, why the sky is so far away and why the
elephant has a long trunk.
Some of these stories, I think, might have been true. I was never sure, and it was
difficult to find out. This time, though, with this story about the king of the pumpkins, it was
going to be easy to find out if she was telling the truth or not.
Some people used to call my mother a witch, but I knew that she wasn't a witch. Just a
bit strange perhaps. And she used to talk nonsense. Perhaps it was also because of the black
cat we had. People say that witches always have black cats, and we had a black cat. But Mog
wasn't a witch's cat. He was just a regular black cat. Mog could talk, though, I have to say
that. Perhaps that isn't so regular in a cat, now I think about it.
Anyway, I was telling you about the time I went to find the king of the pumpkins. I set
off with Mog the cat into the woods to look for the king of the pumpkins. Even though
we'd lived in that house near the woods all my life, I had never gone into the middle of

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 the woods. This was the first time. I was glad I had Mog with me. I was a bit scared,
even though I didn't really think that the king of the pumpkins lived there.
'Watch out for the wolves!' said Mog.
'Yes … and the grandmothers too!' I joked.
'Let's not leave the path!' said Mog.
When people said my mother was a witch, I told them that witches don't have children.
'Yeah,' they replied, 'that's true. But you look more like an elf than a regular kid.' I looked in
the mirror to see if I looked like an elf or not. I think I looked like a regular kid, but you never
can tell really.
'Do you think he's real?' I asked Mog.
'Who, the wolf? He certainly is,' replied Mog.
'No, not the wolf. I know the wolf is real,' I said to Mog. Sometimes I could hear the
wolf howling at night. I knew he was real. 'No, not the wolf. The king of the pumpkins. Do
you think he's real?'
'Don't know,' said the cat. 'Guess we'll just have to find out.'
We walked on into the forest. The trees got taller and taller and taller. The path got
narrower and narrower and narrower.
'What does he do, then, this king of the pumpkins?' asked Mog.
'I don't know really,' I said. 'I guess he just kind of is head pumpkin, boss pumpkin. He
decides on pumpkin rules and pumpkin laws, and punishes people who break them.'
'Oh, I see,' said Mog. He was quiet for a bit, then said, 'What kind of things are
pumpkin rules then?'
'Erm, how big you can grow. What colour you have to be. Stuff like that.'
'You're making this up, aren't you?' asked Mog.
'Yeah,' I said.
Eventually, we got to the middle of the forest. At least, I think it was the middle of the
forest, but it's difficult to say exactly. There was a clearing, a big space where there were no
trees. In the middle of the clearing was the king of the pumpkins.
At least, I think it was the king of the pumpkins. It looked like a man at first. He was
quite tall and had legs and arms made from sticks. He was wearing an old black coat. His
head was a pumpkin. His head was the biggest pumpkin I had ever seen.
Me and Mog went up close to him. He didn't say anything.
'Is that it?' asked Mog.
'I guess so,' I said.
'Disappointing,' said Mog.

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 'Do you think he's the real king of the pumpkins?' I asked Mog.
'Who knows?' replied the cat.
As we walked back along the path out of the forest, I started to think about what was
real and what was not. Could things that were made up also be true? What was the difference
between 'story' and 'history'? One is real and the other isn't – is that it?
'What about all those other things that Mother talks about? Do you think they're real?' I
asked Mog.
'Hmm … I'm not sure,' said Mog. 'Those stories she tells sometimes … about why the
night is black and the day is blue, about golden eggs and girls with golden hair, about why
people have ten fingers, ten toes, two feet, two hands and two eyes … Sometimes I think she's
crazy, and sometimes I think she might be right …'
I knew what Mog meant. I felt the same way. 'Perhaps the stories aren't true,' I said,
'but what their mean is.'