“Yes,” said the badger, fully understanding. He added, “But no matter what the thing eats, it’s still a dangerous threat. On the day before yesterday, it flew very low over the ferry, on which Mr. Paulson was conveying several Herdwick sheep. An old ewe took fright at the noise and leapt into the water. Mr. Paulson jumped in to save her. If Henry Stubbs hadn’t thrown a rope, Mr. Paulson and the ewe might both have drowned. What’s more, the Coniston coach was also on the ferry. The coach horses were contained, with difficulty. If they had bolted, the ferry might well have capsized.”
“Ah,” said the owl wisely. “A threat to life and limb.”
“Exactly.” The badger looked very serious. “All the animals are up in arms about it, of course. They say that something has to be done. The villagers are concerned as well, although they seem to be complaining chiefly about the noise.”
The Professor helped himself to a scone from the plate the badger had put on the table. “It is certainly a noisy machine. And there is the danger of its falling out of the sky and landing on someone’s head.” He looked around. “I don’t suppose yooou have any honey.”
“I’m sure I can find some,” the badger replied, getting up. But he was still rummaging in the cupboard a few minutes later, when Parsley came into the kitchen and showed him where it was. Parsley had worked and lived at The Brockery for quite a few years, and her ample pantry was one reason that all the seats at the dinner table were usually taken.
“The Professor and I were just discussing the flying boat,” Bosworth explained when Parsley had fetched the honey pot and a spoon. “He got a close look at it when he was up on Oat Cake Crag this afternoon.”
“Oat Cake Crag,” Parsley said in a musing tone. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down. “That’s a lovely place. I suppose you know how it got its name?”
“I do, indeed,” replied Bosworth. “I’ve read it in the History, where it is noted in several passages. It seems that a small band of Scottish soldiers, on their way to London with Bonnie Prince Charles in November of 1745, were sent to the highest point on the western side of Windermere to set up a lookout. They climbed the crag, and whilst they were there, built a fire and cooked a meal of oat cakes.” He paused. “Unfortunately, one of them fell from the crag and died of his injuries.”
“I’ve heard that,” Parsley replied with interest. “I’ve also heard that the soldier’s ghost has been seen from time to time—a large, dark shadow falling from the crag.”
“Oooh,” said the owl thoughtfully. “I wooonder ...” But whatever he wondered, he did not go on with it.
“As a matter of fact,” Parsley went on, “you can still see the blackened stones where the soldiers baked their cakes. When my children were small, we used those same stones. We picnicked there, and the little ones always demanded oat cakes, just like the ones the soldiers made.” Her smile was reminiscent. “It’s a grand view of the lake—you can see for such a distance. And so very quiet. You can hear every lovely bird song.”
“Not sooo quiet toooday,” muttered the owl darkly. “Entirely spoilt by that extremely noisy hydroooplane.”
“Oh, dear me, yes,” Parsley said. “It is certainly much too loud.” To Bosworth, she added, “The Big Folks are having a meeting tomorrow night to try and find a way to keep it from flying. Major Kittredge is especially opposed, of course, since Raven Hall is so near the lake. The Kittredge children can’t take their naps, and poor Mrs. Kittredge gets a headache every time the thing flies.” (Mrs. Kittredge, as you may recall from earlier books, is the former Dimity Woodcock, Captain Woodcock’s sister.)
Bosworth shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me why Mr. Baum decided to invest his money in that scheme,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s not like him.”
The owl blinked. “Mr. Baum invested money? Mr. Baum—of Lakeshore Manor?”
Parsley laughed dryly. “It sounds contradictory, doesn’t it? He’s always been such an old skinflint. But maybe he thinks he can make money from it somehow.”
“Parsley,” Bosworth said, gently reprimanding. The badger practiced the Sixth Rule of Thumb, sometimes called the “To-Each-His-Own” rule. It suggests that a courteous animal did not criticize other animals’ choices, whether the subject is living arrangements, relationships, economic practices, or diet. Under this rule, ice cream and earthworms are both recognized as equally delicious, depending on what sort of animal you are and how you live. And however you spend your money (or not, as the case may be), it’s your choice.
But Parsley had always been an outspoken badger and was apt to call a spade a spade, regardless of who might be offended. “Mr. Baum is a skinflint,” she said hotly. “He refused to contribute to the school roof fund and he’s never given so much as tuppence to help the parish old folks, even though the vicar practically begs him every year. And now he’s investing in an aeroplane? No wonder people are angry at him!”
Now, you may think it odd that a badger would dare to venture an opinion about a gentleman’s reputation or his behavior. But if you pause to consider for a moment, perhaps you’ll see that it isn’t strange at all. Animals—whether they are cats and dogs and canaries who live in our houses, or cows and pigs and chickens in the barnyard, or birds and badgers and owls and voles in the meadows and woods—all know a great deal more about their fellow creatures (including humans) than we give them credit for. We may not notice them, but they’re often around, watching and listening, silent witnesses to our idiosyncrasies, faults, and foibles. (How many times have you smashed your thumb with a hammer and said a few words in front of your dog or cat that you would never have said in front of your children?) We may not know what our animals are saying, but they gossip about us behind our backs and under our tables. They have a right to their opinions every bit as much as we do.
“People blame Mr. Baum for the aeroplane?” Bosworth asked, frowning.
Parsley nodded vigorously. “My nephew was prowling around the back of the Tower Bank Arms night before last and overheard some of the pub conversation. Henry Stubbs promised to punch Mr. Baum in the nose and someone else thought he ought to be flogged. If I were Mr. Baum, I’d be worried.”
“Oh, surely not,” Bosworth said gently. “I doubt that anyone would harm him, no matter how people feel about the aeroplane.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Parsley muttered.
The owl thought it was time to change the subject, and besides, he had something on his mind. “I was admiring the family coat of arms over your bell pull,” he remarked, “and wondered how one might gooo about getting such a thing fooor oneself. If one’s family does not already have one, that is.” His family, while distinguished in its own right, had never seen the need for a coat of arms.
“I don’t suppose it’s all that difficult,” Bosworth replied. “Why don’t you choose a motto and have someone draw up an emblem for you?”
The owl frowned. “An emblem?”
“A picture. In your case, probably an owl. Perhaps an owl on a branch.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps an owl on a branch with a scroll in his claw, signifying great learning. Or a scroll in one claw, and a telescope in the other.”
“And a laurel wreath on his head,” suggested Parsley, “suggesting honor. With perhaps the moon and some stars over his shoulder.” She said this kindly, but with a hint of a smile. Parsley never took the Professor as seriously as the Professor took himself.
Not seeing her smile, the owl brightened, for the idea had possibilities. “Admirable suggestions, my friends, admirable. I shall have tooo give this matter some urgent attention.” He finished his scone, peered onto the plate to make sure it was empty, and coughed politely. “I believe I shall gooo hooome and begin attending tooo it right now,” he said, although what he was really thinking about, now that he had had his tea, was dinner. A largish mouse would do rather nicely, if he happened to meet one on the way. “Thank yooou very much for the tea.”
“Shall I see you out with a candle?” Bosw
orth asked. “The hallway is rather dark.”
The owl smiled condescendingly. “Yooou forget that I am an owl, my friend. I am at my best in the dark.” And with that, he took his leave.
But he wasn’t gone long. Parsley was pouring another cup of tea and Bosworth had moved his chair closer to the fire when they heard a clatter and a loud barrage of very unprofessorial words. A moment later, the owl appeared in the kitchen doorway. His belly feathers were dripping.
“I fear I must trouble yooou for a towel,” he said.
Parsley’s eyes were round. “Of course,” she said, opening a drawer and taking out a large one. “But what happened, Professor? However did you manage to get so wet?”
But the badger knew exactly what had happened. “I’m sorry, Owl,” he said humbly. “It’s entirely my fault. I should have been more careful.”
He had left the fire bucket sitting out in the middle of the hall. The Professor (who might be able to see in the dark but had forgotten to look) had put his foot in it.
4
Splash and Sizzle
I shall begin this chapter by giving you fair warning. We are about to meet a dragon.
Now, this may matter not one whit to people who are accustomed to encountering a great many unusual things in this world and are not very much put out by odd situations that they happen to trip over, or fall into, or are struck by, or read about in books. On the other hand, there are people who are able to accept the idea of badgers and owls having tea and cats and dogs carrying on civil conversations, but who draw the line at dragons.
“Owls and badgers and cats and dogs exist,” such a person might say. “I myself have seen them, and it isn’t much of a stretch to imagine them talking to one another. But I have never seen a dragon. Surely, if there were such things, somebody would have caught one, the way people catch elephants and tigers and such, and put it in a circus.”
Well, perhaps. I certainly see the point. But dragons are smarter than elephants and tigers and such, when it comes to getting caught, and that is probably why there are no dragons in circuses. And anyway, it is in the nature of dragons to fly and spout fire, two characteristics which would tend to make dragons less attractive to circus owners, who might worry that they would either fly away with the tent or burn it down. Elephants and tigers have better manners.
And if you continue to say, “Oh, come now, this whole argument is totally ridiculous, and the whole thing is impossible, for there simply are no dragons,” I shall have to reply that of course it is possible, for this is a dragon tale, and how can we have a dragon tale if there are no dragons?
Well. I can see by the look on your face that you have already come to a conclusion. So I recommend to you that, if you have decided there are no dragons, you should put in a bookmark, close the book, and go and make yourself a cup of tea. If you change your mind, you can always come back later.
On the other hand, if you are open-minded on the subject, you are invited to come along with me, for we are beginning the story of the dragon.
A few pages ago, I mentioned that Hyacinth—Bosworth’s successor as the manager of The Brockery and the new (and first female!) holder of the Badger Badge of Authority—had gone off to Briar Bank to invite Bailey Badger and his roommate, Thackeray, to a surprise birthday party for Uncle Bosworth, to be held later in the week. (He is not really her uncle, but that is neither here nor there, for she loves him just as much as if he were.) This was the first major celebration she had organized, if you don’t count Christmas, which is always Parsley’s special event, and Hyacinth especially wanted it to be a success. She was personally inviting everyone, and—since the party was to be a surprise—made certain to ask them not to mention it in Uncle Bosworth’s hearing.
But she didn’t actually have to go as far as Briar Bank, because before she got there, she ran into Bailey and Thackeray fishing in Moss Eccles Tarn. This beautiful little five-acre man-made lake lies about a mile above the village of Near Sawrey, and when you visit the area, you really must put it on your list of places to see. Miss Potter dearly loved to fish and kept a rowboat there, available for others to borrow when she wasn’t using it. (You may be interested in knowing that what was left of her boat was discovered in 1976. It has been restored and is now on display at the Windermere Station Museum.)
This afternoon, the badger and the guinea pig had borrowed Miss Potter’s boat, rowed it out into the lake, and were fishing from it. This was something they did frequently, even during cold weather (unless the surface was frozen), for they were both very fond of fish, and the tarn was very full of brown trout. When Hyacinth hailed them from the bank, they quickly rowed in to the shore. Bailey did the rowing, since he is much bigger and stronger than Thackeray and has no trouble at all managing Miss Potter’s oars. And since the fish were biting that evening, they insisted that Hyacinth climb into the boat with them and take up the extra rod and reel.
“Look here!” Bailey said proudly, and held up a string of three fat, wriggling brown trout. “Come out with us, Hyacinth, and see how many you can catch. I’m sure Parsley would be glad to cook them for you.”
As you may remember, Bailey is Bosworth’s second cousin, twice removed. He lives on the western side of Briar Bank, in a large sett with many empty tunnels and chambers, dating back to the earliest settlements in the Land Between the Lakes—all the way back to the days of the Vikings, in fact. For most of his life, Bailey preferred to live alone in this labyrinthine place, so that he could spend as much uninterrupted time as possible reading and reflecting in the quite remarkable library he had inherited from his badger forebears. This library contains an enormous number of volumes on nearly every subject you might want to explore—except, perhaps, for modern mysteries (such as Sherlock Holmes) and romances, which the badgers have always thought of as frivolous. The Briar Bank badgers have a reputation as being a rather dour lot.
And Bailey lived up to this family reputation. He was a satirical, unsociable creature who chose to live in a spartan manner. He paid little attention to food, unlike most other badgers, who have very good appetites and are always on the lookout for something tasty from the garden. In fact, when Bosworth visited his cousin, he avoided arriving at teatime, for Bailey’s larder was always embarrassingly bare. A hungry guest might be offered a slice of dry bread, a bit of cheese, a swallow of sour dandelion wine, and if he was lucky, a stale digestive biscuit.
This was not a very appetizing prospect, as I’m sure you’ll agree. It was no wonder that Bailey almost never entertained company. And when he did, he was often surly and almost always managed to fall asleep before his guests (who by that time had given up all hope of getting a bite to eat) had gone home. Bailey could discourse at length on the book he was currently reading, but he was not what you would call a hospitable host.
But that is all in the past, I am happy to say, for Bailey Badger has entirely put aside his old ways. He is a changed animal. This remarkable transformation occurred when he discovered, quite by accident and much to his amazement, that he had for years been hosting an unknown guest, in the distant and unvisited regions of Briar Bank.
One momentous day, he opened a hidden door behind a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in one of the library chambers, and discovered a dragon.
Yes, exactly: a dragon. (You can see why the skeptical were invited to go have a cup of tea.)
And whilst this creature was (for a dragon) on the smallish side and seemed to be safely asleep, he had all the ordinary accoutrements of a dragon—green scales and long toenails and smoke coming out of his nostrils, that sort of thing. There was no mistaking who and what he was.
Bailey stared, thunderstruck at the idea that a dragon was sleeping in his back bedroom. He could see the translucent scales of the dragon’s belly glowing with the banked fire that burned inside and hear the growling, wheezy noise that came from within as the dragon’s breath rose and fell. The beast was snoring, and with every snore, little white puffs of smoke came out of hi
s nose and rose into perfectly round white Os over his head.
Now, Bailey, like every other badger, had been tutored from birth in the Eleventh Badger Rule of Thumb, which is horrifyingly explicit: Never wake a sleeping dragon, for your flesh is firm and fat and tastes good grilled. His mother had reminded him of this over and over, and as he stared at the dragon in speechless horror, her words echoed ominously in his mind: “Your flesh is FIRM and FAT, my very dear son, and tastes good GRILLED—tastes good, that is, to the dragon, for there is nothing that a dragon likes better than a plump young badger. And believe me, dear boy, dragons are much faster than badgers.”
Grilled! It was an appalling thought. But Bailey didn’t have time to mull this over, because just at that moment, the sleeping dragon woke up. He stared at Bailey, then opened his dragon mouth as wide as he could and—
Well. This is a fascinating story, but I fear it would take too long to retell the whole thing here. (If you haven’t read it yet, I recommend The Tale of Briar Bank, where this story is told in its entirety.) To boil it down to just a sentence or two, the dragon (he was young, as dragons go, and went by the name of Thorvaald) woke up and discovered that his treasure—the Viking gold hoard he had been assigned to guard for the past nine or ten centuries—had been burgled. He got into some very serious trouble with the Grand Assembly of Dragons, to whom he was supposed to report. He still is in trouble with the Assembly, it seems, although we’ll get to that later.
Anyway, it took quite a while to get all this sorted out, for the affairs of dragons (as you might guess) are terribly tangled. Over the next few days and weeks, Bailey discovered that there are certain advantages to living with a dragon, such as not having to build a fire in one’s fireplace as long as there is a warm-bellied dragon upon whom one might rest one’s chilly paws or against whom one might cuddle on a blustery night, when the howling wind wants to blow down the chimney and make itself at home in one’s living room. And in the evenings, he found that he would rather put aside his book and listen as Thorvaald told dramatic tales of derring-do in which the dragon (who in his version was always the hero, not the villain) valiantly dispatched the errant knight with the knight’s very own sword, or roasted a drove of dwarves by whuffing on them until they were toasted to a crisp.
The Tale of Oat Cake Crag Page 5