Buried Crown

by Ally Sherrick

  There was a telephone on a small table by the door, but no sign of a clock. There were plenty of books, though, and not just in the bookcases which ran floor to ceiling on every wall. There were towers of them sprouting up from the floorboards, and piles stacked against the back of the sofa and skirting boards like flights of ramshackle steps.

  George had never seen so many in one place before; not even in the headmaster’s office that time he’d got the cane for accidentally kicking a ball through the classroom window. But it wasn’t just the books; there were mysterious looking knick-knacks too; a whole bunch of them scattered across the shelves and window sills. Lumps of rusty metal, broken bits of pot and, on a table next to the sofa, a dented tobacco tin containing a handful of black discs that looked as if they might once have been coins.

  Stepping over to it, George picked up one of the discs and ran his finger over the faint outline of a man’s head. The wail of a kettle wound its way in through the door. He dropped the coin back in the tin and flopped down in one of the chairs.

  Moments later, the old man limped into the room. He was carrying a tray stacked with tea things and a glass of water. Kitty followed behind, clutching a plate of dark-brown biscuits. She slid past him and cleared a space among the papers on the desk.

  ‘So . . .’ The old man set the tray down and turned back to George. ‘My granddaughter tells me that you are a hero, like your namesake?’

  ‘Namesake?’

  ‘Saint George, the dragon-slayer.’ The old man winked again.

  A fresh wave of heat surged into George’s cheeks. He threw Kitty a sharp glance, but she kept her head bent, busying herself with the cups and saucers.

  He gave a shrug. ‘Not really. But that Raymond Scroggins should pick on someone his own size.’

  The old man drew in a breath and nodded. ‘Quite so. There are bullies everywhere. It is important that we stand up to them, now more than ever. Because if we let them win . . .’ A sad, faraway expression stole into his eyes. He gave a deep sigh and focused them back on George. ‘Here, my young friend. Your water.’ He handed the glass to George. ‘And a cup of tea too. You sound like you have earned it.’ He lifted the teapot and poured a stream of steaming brown liquid into each of the cups.

  George tilted the glass to his lips. The water was warm and metallic-tasting, but at least it was wet. Gulping it down, he exchanged the empty glass for the cup and saucer the old man offered him.

  Kitty thrust the plate at him. ‘Have a biscuit.’

  He eyed them suspiciously.

  She stifled a giggle. ‘I was not being serious about the poison.’

  ‘I know that!’ He pressed his lips together and scowled back at her.

  The old man frowned. ‘Come now, Liebling. Do not tease our guest. Take one, George. I think you will like them. It is an old recipe my wife used to make.’ His face clouded for a moment before brightening again. ‘Her lebkuchen biscuits were the talk of our little corner of Bavaria.’

  George grabbed a biscuit and bit into it. It was softer than it looked. A warming mix of honey and spices exploded on his tongue. He closed his eyes and imagined himself back in the kitchen at home, sinking his teeth into Mum’s special ginger cake – the one she used to make for birthdays and the like.

  ‘Tasty, yes?’

  George nodded. He took another mouthful and washed it down with a slurp of tea. ‘Where’s your wife now, mister?’

  Ernst Regenbogen blinked and gave a small cough. ‘She died many years ago. Before Kitty was born.’ He sank down on the sofa. Kitty slid alongside him and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’ George fumbled with the spoon on his saucer. It felt like he should say something else. ‘My mum and dad. They’re . . . they’re both dead too.’

  As he said the words, his chest spiked. He sucked in a breath and looked away. When he looked back again, Kitty and the old man were staring at him questioningly. He swallowed hard and forced himself to go on.

  ‘There was an accident at the gasworks. Three years ago.’

  They didn’t say anything, but he could tell they were listening. Really listening. And suddenly it was like someone had turned on the taps inside him and it all came pouring out. How, a few days before George’s tenth birthday, Dad had gone off to work at the gasworks as usual, but he’d forgotten to take his flask of tea. So Mum had chased after him with it. But just as she’d caught up with him there’d been a massive explosion. And then how Charlie and him had waited and waited until finally the police arrived with the news.

  What he didn’t tell them was how, shortly after, he’d had the first of what Charlie called his ‘turns’: a suffocating tightness in his throat and chest and a strange shivery feeling that came over him, chilling him to the bone.

  That was private – just for him and Charlie to know. Instead, he told them about how Charlie had joined up to ‘do his bit’, then arranged to move him here, though he didn’t tell them either what a bully Bill Jarvis was, or about his plans to run away. They’d probably try and persuade him not to, and he didn’t want an argument.

  When he’d finished speaking, the old man set down his cup and saucer. He leant across and laid a warm hand on George’s shoulder. ‘How dreadful. You must miss your parents very much.’

  George’s chest cramped again. He did, but he’d never showed it. Except to Charlie. He was the only one who understood . . . A sudden rush of panic gripped him. What if Bill Jarvis was right? What if he lost Charlie too? He took another breath and slid his hand in his pocket, feeling again for the reassuring curve of the ring.

  The old man sighed. ‘You have our heartfelt sympathy. We know a little about how you must feel. Isn’t that so, Liebling?’ He gave Kitty a tender look.

  She nodded and bowed her head, fiddling with the pendant on her necklace again.

  ‘Thanks, mister.’

  ‘Call me Ernst, please.’

  ‘All right, mister, I mean Ernst.’ George cleared his throat and glanced over at the nearest bookshelf. ‘What kind of work do you do?’

  Kitty jerked up her head. ‘He is a famous archaeologist.’

  Ernst Regenbogen smiled. ‘Not so famous. But an archaeologist, yes.’

  ‘What’s an arc— an arc— . . . one of them?’

  ‘An arc-ee-ol-ogist.’ Kitty sounded the letters out like he was a baby. ‘They dig old things up, don’t they, Opa?’

  George curled his fingers. If she thought he was going to take English lessons from the likes of her . . .

  The old man got to his feet and patted George on the back. ‘Do not mind my granddaughter. She is like her father when he was a boy. Fond of showing off from time to time. He is the one who taught her to speak such good English.’

  Kitty’s cheeks flushed pink. ‘I was not showing off, I was explaining.’ She thrust her arms across her chest and gathered her lips into a pout.

  ‘She is as stubborn as him too, at times.’ The old man winked at George. ‘But come, let me show you.’ He led him over to one of the bookcases and pulled an object down from one of the shelves above George’s head.

  George peered at the fist-sized oval stone. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A prehistoric axe head.’ The old man traced a wrinkled finger round the hole in its centre. ‘I found it on my first dig when I was a student back in Germany. It is cracked just here. You see? So the dig leader said I could keep it. The other bits and pieces are small, unwanted things I dug out of spoil heaps.’ He held the stone out to George.

  George stroked a fingertip along the thin black diagonal line that ran across its polished surface.

  Kitty pushed in alongside them and seized a framed photograph from the shelf below.

  ‘Opa worked on one of the most famous digs ever, right here, just before the war. Look! That is him, there.’ She pointed at a tall figure in a floppy hat standing with a group of men in front of a grass-covered mound. ‘Guess what they found beneath it.’ She tapped the mound with her finger, eyes sparklin
g.

  George shrugged. ‘I dunno. What?’

  ‘A ship.’

  ‘A ship? Are you pulling my leg?’

  Kitty shot him a puzzled look. ‘Why would I want to do such a thing?’

  The old man chuckled again. ‘No, Liebling. He means, are you joking? But Kitty is right. We did indeed find a ship. Or rather, the ghost of one.’

  ‘Ghost? What d’you mean?’

  ‘The outline of a great longship, over ninety feet in length and with space enough for forty oarsmen.’

  George’s eyes widened. Who was joking now?

  ‘Hard to imagine, I know. But it is true. The nails were still there, caked in rust. And the imprint of the wooden planks used to build it. But the timbers had long since rotted; eaten away by the sandy soil.’ Ernst Regenbogen rubbed a hand over his leg and gestured to the sofa. ‘Do you mind if we sit down again?’

  ‘That was not the only thing they dug up, was it, Opa?’ Kitty darted past them to the desk and snatched up a slim rectangular cardboard box. As they sat on the sofa, she squeezed in between them and opened the lid to reveal a pile of photographs. She leafed through them, pulled one out and thrust it at George. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up at her and frowned.

  ‘It looks like a pile of mud and stones to me.’

  ‘But you are not looking closely enough!’ Kitty traced her fingernail across the photograph. And then he saw it too. The shadow of something buried in the soil.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A metal bowl.’

  ‘Great. Look, I ain’t got time for this.’ He made to stand. ‘I’m s’posed to be—’

  ‘Wait! Here. This is even better.’ She passed him a photograph of a dirt-encrusted object.

  George raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘It is a huge buckle. Made of solid gold. This shows it before cleaning, but even here you can see how it is decorated with snakes and birds’ heads.’ She picked out a faint pattern of twining bodies and curved beaks. She looked up, eyes glittering. ‘Opa says it is priceless.’

  In spite of himself, George felt his mouth gape open.

  Kitty gave a triumphant smile. ‘I thought you would be impressed.’

  She handed him one photograph after another. With the Regenbogens’ help, he saw through the layers of grime to what lay beneath. A pair of long-handled silver spoons. A pile of gold coins in the remains of a giant purse, its lid studded with jewelled plaques showing men flanked by wolves and giant birds of prey. And a strange, four-sided stone bar with a set of mysterious faces carved at each end. There were weapons and armour too. A set of rusted spears; a lump of sand-clogged chain mail; pieces of a giant shield and fragments of what the old man said they believed was part of a great metal helmet. And then the sword. Nearly three feet long, the iron blade topped with a pommel of garnets and gold.

  ‘But this is my favourite!’ Kitty thrust another photograph under George’s nose.

  He stared at the piece of metal displayed on it. It was shaped like a knife blade but forked at one end and hooked at the other, its surface covered in the same snake-like shapes as the buckle. There were more jewels too, which Kitty told him were deep red garnets – three on either side, with a single, seventh stone at the top of the hook.

  George drew in a breath. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A dragon.’ Kitty’s eyes flashed with fire. ‘This is its tail.’ She pointed at the forked tip. ‘And these are its wings.’ She traced the curved strips of metal sprouting from the garnets on each side. ‘And here is its eye.’ She pointed at the single jewel set in what George could see now wasn’t a hook but the creature’s head. ‘And these . . .’ She zigzagged her finger across the set of jagged spikes sprouting from the beak-shaped mouth. ‘These are its jaws. The dragon was fixed on the king’s shield to frighten the enemy. Isn’t that right, Opa?’

  ‘That is what we think, yes. Magnificent, isn’t it?’

  George nodded. As he stared down at the coils etched across the surface of the creature’s body, the back of his neck prickled at something half-remembered. He shrugged the feeling off and flicked his gaze to the final photograph in Kitty’s hand. It showed two men. One of them was Ernst Regenbogen. George guessed from the way the other man was standing he was probably much younger, but it was difficult to be sure because his face was a blur.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Ernst Regenbogen took the photograph from Kitty. ‘My digging partner, although it is not a good picture of him. He moved as the photographer took it. He was a German archaeology student, but he had lived and studied over here for a while. I liked him. He was young, but he had the makings of an excellent archaeologist.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘The war brought a stop to so many things.’

  George frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘His career for one. And the dig too, though the pair of us believed there was still one final piece of treasure left to find.’

  ‘The king’s crown!’ Kitty clutched the box of photographs to her chest, her eyes shining with excitement.

  George’s mouth dropped open. ‘What king?’

  The old man cleared his throat. ‘The one we think was buried with all these things inside the ship, though we never found his bones.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘We are not certain, but we think it could be the Anglo–Saxon king, Redwald, High King of what amounted to England in those days.’

  Kitty jumped up and plucked a red leather-covered book from the nearest bookshelf. ‘Tell him the story, Opa. The one about the crown.’

  ‘Come now, Kitty. George does not want to hear about that now. I am sure he has better things to—’

  ‘Please, Opa!’ Kitty curled her arms around the old man’s neck and laid her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Well, all right. As long as you have time, George?’

  George licked his lips. ‘I ain’t sure. You see, I’m meant to be—’

  ‘Guarding some potatoes. Yes, you said, but it will only take a few minutes. Go on, Opa.’ Kitty thrust the book at her grandfather and sat down cross-legged on the rug in front of him.

  ‘Very well.’ Throwing George an apologetic look, the old man opened the book and leafed through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He glanced up at them. ‘Are you ready?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Then I will begin.’

  The Legend of the Dragon-headed Crown

  Long ago, when the earth was still bound by magic and gods kept watch over the affairs of men, a fearsome dragon stalked the land. Wherever it went, it caused chaos, destroying crops, livestock and homes.

  But like all dragons, what it craved most was treasure – glittering goblets, jewelled buckles, precious gold rings. These were the things which kept its blood hot and its fire stoked. And no matter where the treasure was hidden, the snake-necked monster would always sniff it out. Then it would drag it back to its lair beneath the roots of a great, gnarled tree, mound it up and lie on it until its scales glowed like molten gold, its heart burnt like a red-hot furnace and it was ready to wreak havoc again.

  The king who ruled over the land became ever more desperate as the dragon laid waste to his kingdom and stole away all his treasures. Then word reached him of a famed dragon-slayer. At the king’s invitation, the dragon-slayer sailed to his shores in a great longship, his army of battle-hardened warriors at his side.

  The dragon-slayer and his men tracked the dragon and followed it back to its lair. They waited until darkness fell and the beast went off hunting. Then the dragon-slayer slunk into the creature’s earth-cave, buried himself in the great golden treasure mound and waited.

  The fire-spitter returned from another night of pillage and plunder, its jaws full of yet more precious treasures. It loaded them on top of the gold pile, then curled itself around it and fell into a deep smokeless sleep.

  Slowly, carefully, the dragon-slayer crept out from his hiding place among the heap of treasure. He stole to the dragon
’s side, unsheathed his pattern-welded sword and thrust it into the great gold-hoarder’s heart, killing it with one strike.

  When the king, who had no children of his own, learnt what the dragon-slayer had done, he took some gold from the dragon’s treasure hoard. He asked the wily smith-god, Wayland, to make a crown and promised to the dragon-slayer that he would pass it on to him with his kingdom when the time came for him to die.

  So Wayland crafted the crown with all his skill, setting on top of it a great dragon-headed crest. But the smith-god was a great mischief-maker. And while the body of the dragon was still warm, he took some of its blood and engraved the crown with a powerful charm.

  And the words of the charm were these: ‘He who has me has the kingdom.’

  When the old king died, the crown – which the people called Kingdom-Keeper – passed to the dragon-slayer. While it was safe in his hands and those of his descendants, the land prospered and all was well.

  But the charm was double-edged; if the crown fell into the wrong hands, things would be different. Very different indeed . . .

  ‘And that is where the tale ends.’ Ernst Regenbogen gave George a mysterious wink. He closed the book and handed it back to Kitty.

  George frowned. ‘But what’s the legend got to do with this king? The one you say’s buried in the ship.’

  Kitty leapt to her feet. ‘We think King Redwald is the dragon-slayer’s descendant. Tell him, Opa!’

  The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘That is what some people say, Kitty. Though others think it is a story and nothing more.’

  George pulled a face. ‘Sounds like! I mean, dragons and magic charms and things. They ain’t real, are they?’

  Kitty snatched up the photograph of the dragon from the shield. ‘And this?’

  George snorted. ‘What does that prove? It’s just a bit of old metal.’