The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Bailey blinked. Those bags looked like the very same ones that Pickles had pulled from the burrow months before—and full, from the look of them. Full of Thorvaald’s treasure? What was going on here? Bailey looked around for the dragon, to see if he had noticed, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “Come here, Pickles,” said Mr. Wickstead. “I want you to put these bags back in the sett.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Pickles asked doubtfully. “I mean, it does seem rather an odd thing to—”

  “Let’s not argue about it,” Mr. Wickstead said, kneeling down and stroking Pickles’ ears. “Put those bags back where you got them, and then I’ll shovel in some dirt and stones. The treasure will be safer here than it is at the house. She’ll never in the world think to look here. Why, she doesn’t even know this place exists. When the man from the Home Office gets here, we’ll dig it up again and hand it over. It’ll be better off at the British Museum.”

  “She?” Bailey muttered to himself. “Who is this she he’s talking about?”

  Mr. Wickstead sighed. “I had such hopes,” he said, with sad resignation. “Don’t know what’s gone wrong. Don’t know what she has in mind. Not sure I care, now. All over. It’s all over.” He straightened up. “Do it, old chum. Back where they came from, now. That’s a good lad.”

  “Yessir, if you say so, sir,” Pickles said, “although I still don’t—”

  “Just do it,” Mr. Wickstead said firmly.

  The dog obediently took the first sack in his teeth, dragged it to the dark, cavernous entrance, and was gone, while Mr. Wickstead stood waiting, his hands in his pockets. Some minutes later the dog emerged, seized the other sack, and disappeared again.

  Just at that moment, Bailey heard a rustling sound in the yew tree overhead and looked up to see the tree swaying. His eyes widened. It was Thorvaald, high in the branches and scrambling higher. Higher, higher. What was he doing up there? Bailey wondered, and narrowed his eyes. He had cautioned the dragon against flying, for fear of attracting attention, but he had not thought to tell him to stay out of the trees. What was he—

  CRACK! There was a sharp, splintering sound, almost like a gunshot, and the top of the yew tree snapped off. Thorvaald gave a startled shriek that sounded like all the hounds of hell let loose. And with the dragon riding the tree like a witch clinging to a runaway broomstick, the trunk came down, hard, very hard. There was a heart-stopping thud as it struck Mr. Wickstead on the head and shoulders. Dropping the lantern, he fell facedown to the ground without a sound. The light went out and everything was dark, except for the throbbing, ruby-colored glow that was Thorvaald.

  “What happened?” Bailey cried.

  “I don’t know,” Thorvaald replied, sounding dazed. He picked himself up and tried his wings. “I don’t think I’m hurt but—” He looked down at Mr. Wickstead. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed. “Did I do thiszs?”

  “Your tree did,” the badger answered grimly. “What were you doing up there, anyway?”

  “Trying to get a better view,” replied Thorvaald. “You told me not to fly, but I had to see what he was doing, didn’t I? After all, that’s my treaszsure in those sacks.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “Anyway, I don’t WANT it back,” Thorvaald said petulantly. “I’ll have to guard it, and I’m sick to death of guarding it. I’d rather—”

  “What’s going on?” Pickles barked, emerging from the badger sett. He looked around, bewildered. “Who’s out there? What’s happened?”

  “Uh-oh,” said Thorvaald. “It’szs a dog! I’m leaving!” He flapped his wings, lashed his tail, and took to the air.

  Pickles stared up at the retreating figure. “A dragon?” he whispered incredulously. And then he saw Mr. Wickstead, lying facedown on the ground under the tree. He ran to the still figure and frantically licked his cheek. “Wake up!” he barked. “Wake up, Mr. Wickstead, wake up!”

  But Mr. Wickstead didn’t wake up. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Pickles trotted around the fallen man, grabbing first a sleeve in his teeth and tugging, then a trouser leg, trying to pull Mr. Wickstead out from under the tree. When that didn’t work, he gripped a limb in his teeth and tried to drag the tree off Mr. Wickstead. But that attempt was unsuccessful, as well. Panting, he sat down on his haunches, his head cocked to one side.

  “Got to get help,” he muttered to himself. “But Billie Stoker will never understand what’s needed.” He looked around, spied Mr. Wickstead’s wool cap lying on the ground where it had been knocked off, and picked it up in his teeth. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wickstead,” he said, around a mouthful of wool. “You just lie right there. I’ll bring help.” And with that, he was off, racing down the hill.

  The badger waited until the dog was gone. Then he stood up and called, into the dark heavens. “Thorvaald? Thorvaald, you can come down now. The dog’s gone.”

  At first, Bailey called hopefully, feeling that the dragon had just gone around the corner and would be along just any minute, hanging his head and very sorry for what he had done. But no dragon appeared out of the sky. Bailey called and called while the night got darker (or so it seemed) and colder (most definitely) and the snow began to fall. All the while, Mr. Wickstead lay silent and unmoving on the ground, under Thorvaald’s tree, and Bailey knew that if the poor man were not dead already, he would be, very soon. And it was the dragon’s fault.

  “Wretched dragon,” Bailey muttered under his breath. “The least you could do was to stay and keep watch with me. And what’s this business about not wanting the treasure back?”

  But of course, the badger knew the answer to that. When Mr. Wickstead took the treasure, he had released Thorvaald from what was essentially a prison sentence—the tedious, mind-numbing business of being a treasure guardian, whose only relief came in the form of an occasional visit from Yllva. Now that the treasure was returned, the dragon would have to go back to the dull, boring job of guarding it, and he didn’t want to. It wasn’t just the dog he had flown from, but the prospect of having to return to work.

  After a while, Pickles came with Billie Stoker and his brother and the pony and wagon. The two men lifted the tree off Mr. Wickstead and put him into the wagon, shaking their heads and muttering about what an unfortunate accident it was, and how it didn’t look good at all for the poor old gentleman, and who ought to be sent to fetch Dr. Butters, and things of that sort. And then they trundled off down the hill and all was silent again.

  “Thorvaald!” Bailey shouted, hoping that now that everyone had gone, including the dog, the dragon would come back. By this time, his concern had given way to frustration and then to irritation and finally to anger with Thorvaald’s adolescent behavior. But although the badger stayed until his nose and his toes felt entirely frozen, his shouts echoed hollowly across the snowy land and the empty sky. At last he gave it up as a bad job and trudged home alone, thinking dark thoughts about dragons who climbed trees, killed people, and then flew off, leaving others to clean up the mess they had made.

  When he finally reached Briar Bank and unlatched his door and went inside, the place felt strangely empty. Bailey had always loved coming in out of the cold and dark on a snowy evening, being greeted warmly by this or that little thing, by the rug on the floor, the kettle on the fire, the lamp’s golden glow. But tonight, his house seemed musty and dark and everything seemed to whisper accusingly, “Where’s Thorvaald? Where’s our dragon? What have you done with him?”

  And it was chilly—yes, very chilly indeed, for the badger had become so accustomed to the dragon’s delightfully warm company that he had scarcely bothered to lay a fire in weeks. Worst of all, the fire in the kitchen range had gone out, and Bailey was too tired and despondent and angry—yes, angry at Thorvaald, for being such an irresponsible dragon—to fire it up again just to brew a cup of tea. The badger went to bed that night with cold feet. He never quite got warmed up, which as you undoubtedly know from your own experience does not make for a good night’s s
leep.

  The next morning, Bailey got up, put on his slippers, and not stopping to wash his face or comb his ears, made straight for the door to the dragon’s lair. He had convinced himself along about four A.M. that Thorvaald had been detained by a tasty young lamb or (perish the thought) a damsel, and had returned very late. Not wanting to wake his friend, the dragon had decided to sleep in his old spot, where he could also keep an eye on his treasure. For surely Thorvaald would not be so immature as to fly away forever, abandoning his post, his treasure, and his friend. Surely he had returned.

  But sadly, this was not the case. There was no familiar red glow, all was dark and chilly, and the two bags of treasure lay, unguarded, in the middle of the chamber. Not knowing what to do with them, Bailey left them where they were and went back to his apartments. Somberly, silently, he rebuilt the fires and ate a lonely breakfast. The irritation and anger he had felt last night had now turned to miserable, unmitigated worry. Where had the dragon flown off to? What could he be doing, out there in broad daylight? Where could he be hiding himself? Or perhaps something had happened to him. Dragons lived to very great ages, but they weren’t indestructible.

  These were the kinds of thoughts that filled Bailey’s head as he puttered around all the rest of that day, pretending to work on his cataloguing project but really keeping both ears cocked for the sound of a returning dragon. He heard nothing, however, no welcoming slam of the door, no cheerful dragon calling out, “I’m home!” He felt more anxious and desolate with each passing hour, until finally he was so totally, entirely wretched that he gave up every pretense of working altogether. He didn’t feel like eating or drinking or even smoking his pipe, and he couldn’t keep his mind on a book. Finally, even though it was not nearly bedtime, he went to bed and pulled the covers over his head.

  When he got up the following morning (badgers get up very early, so it was still quite dark), Bailey’s spirits were still very low and he viewed the coming day with a notable lack of enthusiasm. But at least he was feeling hungry, which is always a good sign. Life must go on, even when someone you care about has flown off somewhere and hasn’t sent so much as a postcard to let you know when he might be flying back. He got out of bed, splashed water into his eyes, combed his face and ears, and (just in case) opened the door to Thorvaald’s dragon lair and peered inside. He told himself that he wasn’t disappointed to see that it was empty. How could he be disappointed, since he had not expected to see anything but the sacks of treasure, waiting there in the chilly dark? But of course he was. His heart sank down to his badger toes and his spirits fell even lower.

  So he stumped back to the kitchen to make some breakfast, thinking that he would feel better once he had eaten a bowl of hot porridge with brown sugar and a splash of condensed milk. But he had been cooking for two for the past several weeks, and when he opened the cupboard door, he found that the shelves were bare. No porridge, no tins of condensed milk, not even a slice of bread for toast or a bit of butter to spread on it. There was nothing in the pantry, either, except for a shriveled potato and a moldy onion, hardly appetizing breakfast fare.

  “Bother,” the badger muttered, with a bitter scowl. “Blast and bother.” That’s what came of having house guests. No matter how interesting they were, or what good listeners, or how nicely they warmed the room, they ate. And what’s more, they distracted one from one’s proper housekeeping duties, such as supplying the larder. He should have to go down to Mrs. Crook’s garden this morning and look out some of the carrots and parsnips she had not yet pulled—there were bound to be quite a few, and potatoes, as well. He would take a burlap sack and bring back enough to tide him over for a good while. If there were a few mutton bones in the refuse tip behind High Green Gate, he would have mutton stew with his winter vegetables. And perhaps Miss Barwick had carelessly left a tray of sticky buns cooling on the back stoop, as she had the previous fortnight.

  Now, a food-foraging expedition was actually a very good plan, for it would take Bailey’s mind off the dragon. And on a normal morning, such an outing would not have been at all difficult—only just nip around the lake, scamper down the hill, and you’re there, in the Crooks’ back garden. But on this particular morning, there was a problem, which Bailey discovered when he opened his front door and found the doorstep waist-high with snow, and the path so covered over that all he could see was the top of his WARNING sign, most of which was buried in the snow. The gray clouds scudded across the gray sky, in a tearing hurry to get somewhere else. The wind was licking the snow from the drifts and spitting it into new drifts, and the trees had wrapped their limbs around their trunks in an effort to ward off the chill. Not a good day for man nor beast.

  Now, a prudent badger, looking out at the vast, bleak whiteness beyond his stoop, might have shut the door, selected a good book, and retired to his bed for the day, where he could be at least warm, dry, and well read, if not well fed. By this time, however, Bailey had worked himself into a proper state (I’m sure you know how easily this can happen when you have already begun your day in a Very Bad Mood). And since feeling out of sorts only added to his hunger pangs, there was nothing for it but to go out and let the wind blow his ill feelings away. He pulled on his boots and his thickest jacket and hat and muffler and strapped on his willow-twig snowshoes. With his walking stick in one hand and the empty burlap bag slung over his shoulder, he set off.

  The path from Briar Bank to Near Sawrey skirted the marshy western end of Moss Eccles Lake, skipped to the left along its steeper southern shore, made a sharp right turn at the large, leafless willow, hopped a stone fence, and dashed off down the hill to the south, arriving at the village in a matter of twenty minutes, thirty at the most. The badger took this path so often that he knew every stone, every hollow, every tree root and overhanging shrub along the way, and (being a sure-footed animal with a strong sense of direction) could follow it on even the darkest night. But in the pearly gray light of this very early morning, he saw that the wind had pushed the snow over the path, completely obliterating it and making it impossible to tell when one might flounder through the snow’s crust into a wet patch of marsh or slide down a steep bit of shore. Getting to the village by the usual route wasn’t impossible, but it was certainly not the easiest way.

  On the other hand (on Bailey’s left hand, actually), there was the lake, and the badger could see that its surface was frozen right the way across to the other shore. It would take no more than ten minutes to cross the ice. And it was certainly cold enough (his badger nose ached with cold and his badger paws were already numb) so that the ice would be solid and safe—perhaps not thick enough yet for one of the weightier Big Folk, but certainly for a badger. It had even been swept clean by the helpful wind, so he could see where there might be a tricky place, not quite frozen through, and give it a wide berth.

  But while snowshoes were convenient on the crusted snow, they were not exactly the thing for crossing the ice. Ice skates would have better served, but Bailey had not thought to bring them. So he sat down on a rock, took off his snowshoes, and stowed them in his empty burlap sack. Slinging it over his shoulder once more, he tested the ice with his walking stick before trusting his full weight to it. Finding it solid, he made his way across the lake for the willow. Looking ahead, he saw what appeared to be a mushy patch, off to the right. Thin ice! Just to be safe, he veered to the left to stay away from it.

  I think you will agree that being all by oneself in the middle of a frozen lake is a much different thing than standing securely on the bank, thinking about it. On the bank, with good terra firma under the badger’s feet, all seemed safe enough, and the prospect of walking across the ice only an amusing adventure. In the middle of the lake, however, with the merest thickness of ice between himself and a very cold and dangerous, possibly even a life-threatening swim, nothing seemed at all safe. What’s more, the badger was beginning to worry that the ice might be thinner in the direction he was going, for the water on the southern side of the la
ke was warmed by an underground spring. Why he hadn’t thought of this sooner, he couldn’t imagine, but there it was. Supposing there was a long, wide ribbon of spongy, squishy ice all along the shore! How would he ever cross it? Perhaps he had better go back. Perhaps—

  But by this time, the badger had reached the point of no return. It had begun to snow again, and the bank from which he had so confidently departed was hidden behind a white scrim of swirling, whirling flakes. Worse, the hardworking wind had industriously swept his footprints from the ice so he could not simply turn and backtrack. The only thing he could do was go forward, although by this time he could just barely glimpse the faint, blurred motion of the smaller trees swaying like dancers along the shore and the taller outline of the waiting willow, its limbs outstretched eagerly, welcoming him to the safety and shelter of the bank.

  I am sure you can imagine how vulnerable and defenseless Bailey felt, a very small and insecure badger in the middle of a largish lake, enveloped in a cold cloud of blowing snow. He was so intent on reaching the willow that he was oblivious to everything but the delicate business of putting one foot in front of the other, at the same time trying to keep an eye on the tree that beckoned him forward but now perversely seemed to retreat two steps away for every step he took toward it.

  Concentrating so intently on his destination, Bailey failed to notice an ominous rusty-red winged shadow that emerged out of the low, blowing clouds and circled silently over the badger, eyeing the burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Nor did he see it turning to fly in for a closer look, nor the angry, ruby-red incandescence of its eye, nor the pulsing throb of the fire in its belly. It was only when he heard the unmistakable FLAP-FLAP-FLAP of dragon wings, exactly like the snapping of sheets on a clothesline in a high wind, that he looked up. And just at that moment, the dragon opened its mouth and gave a triumphant ear-splitting shriek, like the shrill cries of a thousand locomotives, all sounding in chorus. Snorting fire, it swooped down on him, narrowly missing him, its flame turning a large patch of ice to steam and water in an instant.