The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Oh,” said Bailey, coughing. “I see.”

  “Yllva will be livid. And it doesn’t matter that the treaszsure was a little one, only two small bags. She’szs very possessive. Obsessive, you might say. Anyway, it was a test, you see. If I guarded it successfully, I would be promoted to bigger treaszsures. And now thiszs. Oh, it’s hopelesszs, hopelesszs!” And Thorvaald gave another despondent sigh, a sulfurous, sibilant hiss, laced with gray-blue smoke.

  Bailey turned his head away, trying not to breathe until the smoke had dissipated. “Well,” he said, finally, “I don’t see that there’s much that can be done about it now. I’m sure Mr. Wickstead didn’t realize what he was doing. He—”

  “Mr. Wickstead?” the dragon interrupted. “Who iszs Mr. Wickstead?”

  “The man who took it,” Bailey said. “I saw the whole thing, actually—although of course I had no way of knowing that the treasure belonged to you. Mr. Wickstead was looking for rabbits or badgers or something, you see. He sent Pickles into the burrow.”

  “Pickleszs?” the dragon hissed darkly “What iszs thiszs Pickleszs?”

  “He’s a dog,” the badger explained. “A fox terrier.”

  “A dog?” cried the dragon, and shuddered. “I hate dogszs. I’m deathly afraid of dogszs. Just to think of them makes me ill.”

  Bailey had to smile at the idea that a dragon—even a rather small one—could be afraid of a dog. “Pickles isn’t very big,” he said. “I don’t suppose he woke you.”

  “I’ve always been a hard sleeper,” the dragon muttered. “My mother used to say that it would cause me trouble.”

  “I suppose it might,” agreed Bailey. “Anyway, the dog pulled out two sacks, and Mr. Wickstead took them away.”

  “Yes, two sacks,” Thorvaald said. “I have the inventory right here.” He flipped up a scale and fished with one claw in a pocket, pulling out a piece of ragged parchment. “One golden chalice,” he read. “Two belt buckles, three brooches, two decorative chains, a dozen coins—” He stopped and looked at Bailey, suddenly eager. “If you know who has the bagszs, Bailey, you must know where they are. Tell me, and I shall go and get them before Yllva comes round again.”

  Bailey shuddered as he tried to imagine the havoc that a visit from the dragon would wreak at Briar Bank House. “I really don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said cautiously.

  “Well, then, could you go and get them?” The dragon’s tone became a wheedle. “Pleaszse?”

  “No,” Bailey said firmly. “I could not.” He thought for a moment. “When are you expecting Yllva to come back and check on you?”

  Thorvaald puckered his brow. “What year is thiszs?”

  “Nineteen-oh-nine,” Bailey said. “It’s—”

  “Nineteen-oh-nine!” the dragon roared, rising onto his haunches. “Nineteen-oh-nine? It can’t be!”

  Bailey scrambled out of his way. “Well, it is,” he replied. “Why? What’s the matter with that?”

  “What’szs the matter? What’szs the MATTER? The matter is that Yllva should have been back three hundred yearszs ago! I’ve been abandoned! I’ve been forgotten! I’ve been deszserted!” And with that, he broke into fresh sobs.

  “This isn’t solving anything,” Bailey said at last. “Do you have any way of getting in touch with her? Some way to post a message? Say, a carrier pigeon or some such? Or do you just have to wait until—”

  “I just have to wait,” said the dragon disconsolately. “That’szs her method, you see, for keeping us on our toeszs. Her visits are impromptu. She just pops in, that’s all. Sometimes she comes once a year, sometimes, once a decade. But she’szs never before let three centuries passzs without stopping by.” He began searching for something and found it at last, his pocket handkerchief, under his right flank. He wiped his eyes.

  “Well,” Bailey said, in a reasonable tone, “since she’s three hundred years late already, I hardly think she’ll be round today. Tomorrow, either.” He suspected that Thorvaald’s supervisor wasn’t coming back at all, ever, but there was no point in adding to the dragon’s misery. “Perhaps we’ll be able to think of a way to get your treasure back before she pops in again.”

  The dragon brightened. “Well, yes. I imagine you’re right. What do you propose to do?”

  “I propose that we have some tea and think about it,” said Bailey.

  “Tea?” The dragon was perplexed.

  “Oh, dear,” Bailey said, sighing. “Well, then, what do dragons eat?”

  The dragon grinned. “I’m rather fond of fricasseed knights,” he said carelessly. “Lightly toasted damselszs are nice. And of course cows and horses and—” He closed his eyes, licked his chops, and whispered, “Badgerszs.”

  Bailey felt himself turning pale.

  Thorvaald’s ruby eyes popped open. “Just joking,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve only tasted one knight—he was tough as toe-nails and just about as tasty. It wasn’t an easy job getting him out of that tin, either. As to damselszs—”

  “How about mushrooms?” interrupted the badger, making a mental inventory of his pantry. “I have some very nice apples from Miss Potter’s orchard, and some eggs from Mrs. Crook’s hens.” As far as Bailey was concerned, the entire village was his storehouse. But since the Crooks and the Llewelleyns were closest and their gardens and hen houses were quite large, they were always the first stop. “Mr. Llewellyn has potatoes in his root cellar,” he added. “Can you think of anything else you might like?”

  “Actually, I’m an omnivore. I’ll eat whatever’s handy. All things being equal, I’d prefer a live chicken or two, or a duck. But I can manage on browse—young shoots and twigs.” The dragon frowned down at himself. “Actually, I haven’t had anything to eat for, oh, several centuries. It’s probably time for a snack.”

  “I hope you won’t mind waiting until nightfall,” Bailey said. “It wouldn’t do to attract attention, you know.”

  The dragon looked down at himself in a puzzled way. “Attract attention?”

  “Just take my word for it,” Bailey said.

  Bailey had got this far with his tale when he was interrupted by a rap on the door. A rabbit put her head in. It was Flotsam, one of the twins (her sister’s name was Jetsam) who helped with the housekeeping.

  “Parsley said to tell you that dinner is served, Mr. Badger, sir,” she said.

  Bosworth put down his pen and pad and rubbed his aching shoulder. Being a scribe required muscle. “I hope our dinner is as tasty as what you and your dragon found that night,” he said to Bailey.

  “We turned up some fresh cheeses in the Castle Farm dairy,” the badger replied. “And on the way home, Thorvaald found a pheasant. Quite an elegant little supper.”

  “Ah,” said Bosworth appreciatively. “Well, what’s on our menu this evening, Flotsam? What are we having?”

  “Some fine Cumberland sausage, sir, with fried potatoes and red cabbage.”

  “That’ll do,” said the badger happily. “It’ll do very nicely, in fact.”

  As they left the library, Thorn said to Bailey, “Excuse me, but may I ask, sir, what’s become of the dragon?”

  “I think,” Bailey said in a grave voice, “that we had better leave that until later. After dinner, perhaps.”

  But as it happened, the tale had to be postponed, for The Brockery’s dining table was crowded with company. The weather being so cold and snowy, quite a few animals had popped in to get warm, and since there was plenty of sausage and potatoes and cabbage, Parsley just kept ladling it out until all the appetites were satisfied. Everyone was so tired that after a round of songs in front of the fire whilst the little ones played at noughts and crosses, it was an early bed for all.

  Bosworth himself lingered in the library after everyone had taken their candles and gone. He pulled out the current volume of the History and opened it to the page where, this morning, he had written: Tremendous snowfall last night. 33 inches on the measuring stick beside the

  H
e completed the unfinished sentence with the words front door, added a period, and began a new paragraph.

  Thorn pulled Bailey Badger out of Moss Eccles Lake and Bailey spent the Rest of the day telling us about the dragon who has been living at Briar Bank. The dragon, by the name of Thorvaald, was guarding the treasure MR. Wickstead took. Bosworth thought for a moment, then added, I don’t suppose it does to leave a dragon out of one’s calculations, if he happens to be living in one’s spare bedroom.

  Then he wrote a little note to himself to search the History for any mention of dragons living in the Land Between the Lakes, stoppered his ink bottle, banked the fire, and went early to bed.

  And so shall we, I think, for tomorrow promises to be a long and eventful day.

  15

  Miss Potter Receives Another Caller and Dimity Kittredge Has a Very Good Idea

  Beatrix spent a very chilly but warm-spirited afternoon in the company of Mr. Heelis, as the two of them surveyed the repairs that had been made to the barn at Castle Farm and talked about some of the improvements that needed to be made in the fields.

  One of the things Beatrix liked about Mr. Heelis was his practical understanding of farming matters. The youngest of eleven children, he had grown up near Appleby, some thirty miles to the north, where his father had been the rector of Kirkby Thore. He was an avid hunter and fisherman and knew a great deal about the land between Appleby and Sawrey. What’s more, he had been involved in quite a few farm sales, and seemed to have the same feelings about the old farms that she did—that is, that the land and the way of life it offered should be somehow preserved. She thought it would be good if he could meet Canon Rawnsley, a friend of her family, who a few years before had begun an organization called the National Trust. If what Mr. Heelis knew about Lake District property could be put together with Canon Rawnsley’s unquenchable energy for preservation, the land—some of it, at least—might be kept for grazing and small-holding, rather than sold off for cottage development.

  What with one thing and another, the afternoon wore on, and even though the air was cold and the snow was deep, the conversation was so lively and spirited that neither Beatrix nor Will noted the passage of time. If Agnes Llewellyn (or you or I) had been eavesdropping in the hope of hearing a romantic exchange, however, we would have been disappointed, for amidst all the brisk back-and-forth between Mr. Heelis and Miss Potter, there was not a single word that might be considered personal. Lake District land and what ought to be done with it was undoubtedly a safe topic for them, and interesting, and if other feelings were already beginning to flourish under the umbrella of that opportune subject—well, things will just have to develop at their own natural pace, won’t they? I can tell you, however, that it will take several years and require more than a few very unhappy conflicts before the story of Beatrix and Will is resolved. I rather think that both of them would have preferred to face real dragons than those that were lying in wait for them, but it is unfortunately true that we do not get to choose our dragons: they choose us.

  And while Sarah Barwick is not quite a dragon (at least I don’t think so), it is true that Beatrix happened to see her rearranging the display in the Anvil Cottage window just as she and Mr. Heelis walked past, coming down the hill from Castle Farm. He and Beatrix had been laughing at something or another just at the moment that Sarah looked up and saw them. Sarah’s expression, in which Beatrix read first surprise, then shock, and then distress, reminded her that her friend had a special interest in the gentleman, and that she might blame Beatrix for intruding. But there was nothing to do but smile and wave and wish that she had had the foresight to part company from Mr. Heelis at the farm, instead of parading past Anvil Cottage as if they were a couple. It was an unhappy reminder (as if she needed one) that life was very complicated indeed.

  One other thing happened on the walk that is of some significance, although Beatrix did not know this until later. As she and Mr. Heelis passed in front of the Tower Bank Arms, they met a gentleman coming out, with Rascal, the village dog, at his heels. A stranger, quite tall and thin, the man wore heavy side-whiskers and carried a camera. Beatrix noticed it, and the man, because his camera was the very same model that her father had recently purchased, and rather expensive. He tipped his hat and smiled and went on his way.

  “His name is Joseph Adams,” Mr. Heelis said, in answer to Beatrix’s question. “A photographer of some note, according to Constable Braithwaite, going all about the countryside with his camera. He was at the inquest this morning, taking pictures.” He smiled wryly. “Mr. Adams seemed to feel that the scene inside the pub was picturesque. As it was,” he added with a chuckle. “Especially when Hugh Wickstead’s fox terrier was hoisted onto the bar so he could tell his side of the story. The dog was with Wickstead when he died.”

  “I’m sure Pickles had a story to tell, then,” Beatrix said, remembering that she had used the terrier as a model. “It’s too bad we can’t understand the animals. Or perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps we wouldn’t like to know what they think of us—or what they know about us.”

  There was an hour left before teatime when Beatrix got back to Hill Top. She warmed her hands by the fire and then settled down for the rest of the afternoon, contentedly alone with her paints and brushes and Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse, who proved to be a comfortable companion.

  But not alone for long, as it happened. Dimity Kittredge stopped in unexpectedly just at teatime, having driven to the village with her major, who had business at the Arms. “I was just tired of staying indoors,” she said, as she took off her things. “It’s so beautiful out there—a fairyland. I wanted a drive in the snow, and I heard you’d come and thought it would be grand to see you. How are you, Bea?”

  “Oh, not another one,” muttered Thackeray. He began counting on his toes. “This makes four, by my count. How many callers can one person reasonably entertain in one day? There’s such a thing as being too popular, you know.”

  “Now, be nice,” cautioned Nutmeg.

  “Not if that one pokes her finger in my face,” Thackeray growled. “This time, I’ll bite it off. We’ll see how she likes being a knuckle short.”

  “I’m very glad to be here,” Beatrix said, putting away her work and setting out the tea things. “Getting away from Bolton Gardens was even more of a struggle than usual this time. And now with the snow—”

  Dimity clapped her hands happily. “With the snow, you won’t be able to get back to London,” she said, laughing. “The ferry shut down, the road to Ambleside closed—you’ll just have to tell Mama that you were marooned. Serves her right,” she added wickedly. Dimity was not afraid to voice her opinion about Mrs. Potter, who she felt was selfish and self-centered. She glanced at the guinea pigs. “Oh, how sweet!” she exclaimed. “They’re lovely, Beatrix! I wonder if Flora wouldn’t like to have a little pet.”

  “I am not sweet!” Thackeray said, puffing up his long, silky fur so that he looked twice his size. “There’s nothing lovely about me. I’m grumpy, growly, and I BITE.”

  “I shouldn’t try to pet them,” Beatrix said hastily. “The male, the one with the long hair, hasn’t been very friendly today. If he can’t get along with Caroline Longford’s other two guineas, I’m afraid he’ll have to go back to London with me.”

  “There! You see?” said Nutmeg. “That’s what you get for being so bad tempered. Personally, I’m looking forward to friends and new surroundings and—”

  “Oh, shut up!” said Thackeray, and retired behind the cabbage leaf to reread Mr. Churchill’s speech.

  “I’m not sure that a guinea pig would be right for Flora,” Beatrix went on. “But what would you say to a bunny? I could find one easily in London.”

  “Oh, yes,” Dimity said. “Emily can take care of it until Flora is big enough to do it herself.”

  “Emily is still with you, then?” Beatrix thought rather highly of Emily, who had made some difficult choices where it came to Baby Flora. (That’s part of the story of The
Tale of Hawthorn House, which I hope you will read.)

  Dimity nodded. “Emily does a wonderful job, and I think she’s happy. I thought of bringing Flora to see you today, but she has a bit of a cold, so I decided against it.”

  “Well, I’m grateful for small favors, anyway,” grumped Thackeray, over his bit of newspaper. “Children’s fingers aren’t very tasty.”

  “You are so wicked, Thackeray,” snapped Nutmeg.

  “You are so right, Nutmeg,” retorted Thackeray, and went back to Mr. Churchill.

  “I have something for you,” Beatrix said, and gave her a copy of Ginger and Pickles for Flora and a wool cap she had knitted for the coming baby. It was white with yellow ribbons, because of course they could not know whether it would be a boy or a girl.

  “A boy for Christopher,” Dimity said firmly. She smiled. “Or a sister for Flora. Of course, we’ll be happy, either way.” She tilted her head to one side. “It’s wonderful, Bea, how Miles has come around in the end.” Captain Woodcock had been entirely opposed to her marriage, but as time had gone on, he could not deny that Christopher Kittredge had succeeded in making his sister very happy. “I only wish my brother could find someone who would make him as contented as I am,” she said with a sigh. She gave Beatrix a significant glance.

  Beatrix colored. She was aware that Dimity believed her suited to her brother. Captain Woodcock had seemed to think so, too. He had on several occasions asked her to motor to Ambleside with him or drive out into the fells, and once she had gone with him. They’d enjoyed an agreeable drive on a lovely day, stopping at a quaint little tea shop in Hawkshead on the way back. Unfortunately, they were seen together there, by Mrs. Stubbs’ niece, and word had got back to the village. Lucy Skead, at the post office, had asked her the next day if she and the captain had set a date for the wedding.

  But although Captain Woodcock was a fine-looking gentleman and a lively conversationalist, intelligent and informed, Beatrix found him a little too—well, perhaps “intolerant” would be the right word. Of course, he dealt all the time in legal affairs, but it seemed to her that he was too entirely inspired by the letter of the law, rather than by its spirit. Beatrix had quite enough of that at home in London.