The Tale of Oat Cake Crag

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Those early days were gone now, and Thorvaald was no longer a permanent resident at Briar Bank. He came back to visit occasionally, but true to his dragon nature, he spent his time exploring the Back of the North Wind or flying around the Cape of Good Hope, every so often taking the trouble to mail a penny postcard back to Briar Bank so that Bailey would know that he was safe and well. Bailey worried, of course, because Thorvaald was still a teenager, a bit reckless and of an uncertain temperament. But you know how teenagers are—they almost never listen to those who are older and wiser. And you can imagine why, after being cooped up in a dark badger burrow for centuries, the dragon was anxious to get out, stretch his wings, and fly around the world. There was nothing Bailey could do to keep him at Briar Bank.

  Bailey, for his part, had gotten so accustomed to entertaining company (and being entertained by it) that he now found living alone to be very lonely. Luckily for him, a guinea pig named Thackeray was in the market for a new home. Miss Potter, you see, had brought the little fellow from London to live with Caroline Longford at Tidmarsh Manor. But he hadn’t liked it there (who would?) and had run away at the very first chance. Bailey and Thackeray met at The Brockery and quickly struck up an unlikely friendship. The next thing anybody knew, Thackeray had been invited to move in with Bailey at Briar Bank.

  An odd couple? Well, yes, I suppose so. But as it turned out, the two had a great deal in common, for both Bailey and Thackeray (named for the famous novelist, William Make-peace Thackeray, author of Vanity Fair) were devoted bibliophiles who believed that “a book a day kept the world at bay,” as Thackeray was fond of saying. Bailey was the offspring of generations of badgers who insisted that “Reader” was the most rewarding vocation to which a virtuous badger might be called and who gauged their week’s anticipated pleasure by the height of their to-be-read piles. (Perhaps you know people like this. I do.)

  Thackeray, whose favorite book was the first volume of Gibbon’s six-volume The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, was beside himself with joy at the thought of living in a library, surrounded by more books than he could possibly read in a dozen lifetimes. The two friends found themselves reading and discussing books at breakfast, luncheon, and dinner. And instead of listening to dragon tales in the evenings, they took turns reading to each other. This month, they were entirely engrossed in the pages of Framley Parsonage, the fourth book in Anthony Trollope’s Chronicles of Barsetshire. (I mention this because of something they found there. You will shortly learn what it is. Please be patient.)

  For the next half-hour, Hyacinth and her two friends fished and chatted, chatted and fished. Hyacinth caught two fat, wriggly trout. They talked about the weather (which had on the whole been mild and pleasant), and about the cataloging project (which Bailey had begun before the dragon came into his life and which he and Thackeray were carrying on together). And about the note Bailey had received the previous week from Thorvaald, who was currently in Scotland on an assignment from the Grand Assembly of Dragons, attempting to confirm rumors of some sort of monster lurking in the very deep waters of Loch Ness. It was said to be a snakelike creature with humps and a long, sinuous neck, rather like a seagoing dragon. Thorvaald was supposed to contact this monster and learn whether he or she should be included in the Centenary Census of Dragons, the means by which the Grand Assembly monitors the global dragon population. Dragons have a disconcerting tendency to move from place to place without leaving a forwarding address. The Assembly would very much like to keep track of them, although this is probably not realistic.

  “He didn’t have to fly all the way to Scotland to look for a monster,” Thackeray remarked dryly. “He could have found one right here at home.”

  The afternoon breeze ruffled the guinea pig’s long hair, which was so long that it trailed around him like a cloak and covered both ends of him so completely that it was sometimes hard to know whether he was coming or going. He had always been quite the elegant creature and was unfortunately rather vain, forever combing himself with an ivory comb and studying the result in a scrap of mirror that he kept in his pocket along with his pipe and reading glasses. Since coming to the country, however, he spent less time grooming himself and more time enjoying the world around him. I am glad to tell you that his fur was somewhat matted, and that he didn’t seem to care.

  “You’re talking about that hydroplane, I suppose,” Hyacinth replied in a rueful tone. She had to raise her voice because, even though it was nearly dusk, the thing was flying again, its loud mechanical drone like a million angry thunder-flies buzzing along the lake on the other side of Claife Heights. “Everybody hates it. We all wish it would go away. Not crash,” she added hastily. “Just go away. It’s not so bad underground, but when you go outside, the noise is extremely annoying.”

  “It’s a monster, all right,” agreed the guinea pig. “But no, I’m talking about the real Windermere monster. The one Bailey and I learnt about last week.”

  “A monster in Windermere?” Hyacinth asked doubtfully. “I don’t recall any mention of that in the History.” When she assumed her new position as holder of the Badge, she had spent several months reading through the pages of the History of the Badgers of the Land Between the Lakes. These volumes were supposed to be the most accurate reporting of the events that had occurred since record-keeping began. “I suppose I might have missed it, but—”

  “I’m not sure that this particular sighting is noted in the History,” put in Bailey. He reeled in his lure and rested his rod against the side of the boat. “It seems that my great-great-grandfather saw something very strange in Windermere one late-winter evening. A creature—snakelike and about as long as the ferry boat—swimming through the water. It had three humps, he said. He made a note of what he had seen and stuck it between the pages of Framley Parsonage, which he appears to have been reading at the time.” (There. Thank you for your patience.)

  “I see,” said Hyacinth. “Well, if you don’t mind, I should like to copy the note into the History. It sounds important—the sort of thing that should be included, even after the fact. In case anyone sees anything like that again,” she added, “and wants corroboration.”

  “Of course you may,” replied the badger. “I’ll bring it when we come to the birthday party. Although I must say,” he added cautiously, “that I’m not sure that you ought to put a lot of faith in my great-great-grandfather’s observations. He seems to have been a thoughtful fellow, but a bit nearsighted. It’s possible that he didn’t really see—”

  But whatever it was that the badger’s ancestor might or might not have seen, it was lost in a loud FLAP-FLAP-FLAP, like the sound of sheets snapping on the clothesline. This was immediately followed by a great shout, “LOOK OUT BELOOOOW!” and a mighty splash, as something hurtled out of the sky and into the waters of the tarn, heaving the little boat up on the shoulders of a giant swell.

  Hyacinth screamed and grabbed the gunwales, holding on for dear life. The boat took on water, and the guinea pig bounced onto the bottom. Sputtering and choking, he clung to Bailey’s ankle to keep from being swept overboard. Bailey wiped the water out of his eyes.

  “Thorvaald!” He flung up his arms in joyful greeting. “Thorvaald, you’re back! You’ve come home!”

  “Szso sszsorry,” the dragon hissed. “I miscalculated the deszscent.” He began paddling anxiously along beside the boat, bobbing up and down in the waves. “Isszs everyone all right? Did I get anyone wet?”

  “You got us ALL wet, you big oaf,” said the guinea pig crossly, climbing up onto the seat and shaking himself. Water drops flew everywhere. “Why can’t you be more careful? Hurtling down out of the sky like an out-of-control thunderbolt. Put on the brakes before you land!”

  “I really am dreadfully sszsorry,” the dragon said humbly. The water boiled around him and tendrils of steam curled out of his ears.

  “We’re not all that wet,” Hyacinth said in a comforting tone. “It was mostly the not-knowing that was frightening. What w
as happening, I mean. We didn’t know it was you.”

  “Exactly.” Thackeray took a handful of his dripping fur and began to wring it out. “You might have been Halley’s Comet, come back again.” The comet had appeared—memorably—in 1910, giving everyone something to talk about for months. “Or that hydroplane, about to crash. One never knows what might fall out of the sky these days.”

  Bailey picked up the oars. “Let’s all go to Briar Bank and discuss things over tea.”

  “Here—let me give you a tow,” the dragon said helpfully. Without a by-your-leave, he grabbed the painter between his teeth and began swimming strongly toward the bank. But he swam so fast and so hard that the bow of the rowboat dove under the surface and water poured over the sides.

  “No!” the two badgers cried in unison, and grabbed at the gunwales. “Stop, Thorvaald! Please stop!”

  The dragon flipped over on his back, still swimming. “Am I doing szsomething wrong?” he asked. His tail hit the boat and knocked it violently to one side. An instant later, his tail struck the boat again, slamming it to the other side.

  “You’re going to sink us!” screamed Thackeray as the boat rocked back and forth. “Let go the rope, you dim-witted dragon!”

  “Oh,” muttered the dragon as he saw what was happening. He dropped the painter. The boat settled back in the water, the badger picked up the oars, and in a few moments they were safely on dry land again.

  “We are very glad to have you home, old chap,” Bailey said sternly. “But next time, let’s not be quite so dramatic about it, shall we? Falling out of the sky and grabbing painters and all that. It’s enough to give your friends fits.”

  “Yesszszir,” the dragon said, hanging his head. “I’m sszsorry, szsir. I’ll try to do better next time.”

  “There’d better not be a next time,” muttered Thackeray, shaking himself.

  “Very good,” said Bailey, beaming. “Now, shall we all go home and have a cup of tea? We can cook our fish and Thorvaald can tell us all about the Loch Ness monster and his adventures in Scotland. Hyacinth, you come, too. There’s always room for one more at the table.”

  I’m sure you’re thinking what I’m thinking: that this is quite a change from the earlier Bailey, who often refused to answer the door when company knocked—a change for the better, or so it seems to me. Briar Bank may be more crowded, but our badger is much less likely to be lonely.

  “Thank you,” Hyacinth said, taking up her fish, “but I’d better get back to The Brockery. They’ll be having tea without me.” She smiled at Thorvaald. “You’ll come to Uncle Bosworth’s surprise birthday party, I hope.”

  “If there’szs room for me,” said the dragon. He looked down at himself. His belly was so warm that drops of water sizzled on it. “I am small for a dragon, but rather large for a gueszst. And I do have a tendency to scorch thingszs.”

  “You need to learn to bank that fire,” Thackeray said, not unkindly.

  “Dragonszs can’t bank their fireszs,” said Thorvaald with great dignity. “It’s against their natureszs.”

  “I hope you’ll come,” Hyacinth said. “Uncle Bosworth will be so glad to see you. If you do, we’ll make room.” And with that, she took her leave.

  And so will we, for something very important is about to happen in the village and I want to be there when it does.

  I’m sure you do, too.

  5

  In Which We Learn About Secret Lives

  When Beatrix returned from Rose Cottage with the letters that Grace Lythecoe gave her, she went upstairs immediately and put them into the bottom drawer of her dresser, under her stockings. She hadn’t been eager to bring them home, but she wanted to read them again and study them. Not right away, though. She was already regretting that she had agreed to try to find out who had sent them and why. Her first look at the letters had told her that this was not going to be an easy task.

  Still puzzling over this mystery, she went downstairs and lit the paraffin lamp, punched up the fire, and began to deal with supper. Mrs. Jennings had made potato and sausage soup earlier in the day. There was a pot of it on the back of the range, and in the cupboard, bread and creamy yellow butter, a large chunk of yellow cheese, and some gingerbread. She had just put things on the table and was ladling soup into a blue bowl when she heard a sharp rap at the door.

  “Oh, bother,” she muttered under her breath, for she was not expecting company and had looked forward to spending the evening alone. But when she opened the door, she changed her mind on the spot, for the person who had knocked was Mr. Will Heelis, holding his brown bowler hat in his hand.

  “It’s not too late, is it?” he asked. “I’ve just got back from Kendal. I intended to be earlier, but the ferry was overdue. As usual,” he added with a crooked smile, for the ferry was notorious for its lack of punctuality. Everyone who had to cross from one side of the lake to the other had long ago learnt to live with the situation.

  Beatrix stepped back and invited him inside. “No, of course it’s not too late,” she said happily, taking his coat and hat and hanging them on the peg next to hers. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, Will. What a nice surprise!”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to expect me.” He put both hands on her shoulders. “Hello, my dear,” he said softly. “Welcome back. I am so very glad to see you.” And with that, he bent (for he was very tall and she was rather short), and kissed her.

  Well! I expect you want to know what’s going on, don’t you? Here is a strange gentleman, appearing unannounced at the door of our Beatrix’s cottage after dark, and kissing her! What’s more, she is kissing him back, if I’m not mistaken. At least, it looks very much as if that’s what’s happening.

  Oh, dear. If Mrs. Potter saw what we have just seen, she would be horrified and take to her bed immediately with a sick headache, likely requiring a visit from the doctor. Mr. Potter would be apoplectic. He would turn turkey-red and stamp all about the library, blustering and bellowing. And since he is a barrister and presumably knows his way around a court of law, he might even threaten to sue the gentleman in question for taking liberties with his daughter.

  But if you have read the previous book in this series (that would be The Tale of Applebeck Farm), you know something that Mr. and Mrs. Potter do not know—not yet, anyway. This gentleman is no stranger, but Beatrix’s friend of several years. More importantly, he is her fiancé. They are engaged to be married.

  And if you have not read the earlier book, I hope you will not be too scandalized to learn that the very proper Miss Potter is actually leading a secret life up here in the country, far from London and her parents’ prying and censorious eyes. A very secret life.

  Now, to understand this extraordinary situation, you must first know something about Mr. Will Heelis, this bold fellow who has kissed Miss Potter once and is now kissing her for the second time, between whispers of how glad he is to see her and how much he has missed her since the last time they were together. But to tell the truth, Will Heelis is not in the least bold. In fact, by nature he is very shy. Painfully shy, according to his friends, especially with the fairer sex, and certainly not a man for whispering sweet nothings into a lady’s ear, even if they are engaged to be married. But Will has discovered that he is very much in love, and love lends boldness to even the shyest of persons, and so he is probably saying and doing things that he couldn’t possibly have imagined himself saying and doing if he weren’t in love. I’m sure you understand this, if you have ever been in love yourself.

  Beatrix’s fiancé is a tall, trim, fit-looking man, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, with fine eyes, a strong jaw, and a shock of thick brown hair that falls boyishly across his forehead. He is the son of Esther Heelis and the Reverend John Heelis, who was the rector of Dufton and later of Kirby Thore (a village on the main road between Appleby and Penrith). Unlike Beatrix, who had only one brother, Bertram, Will grew up in a family of nine brothers and sisters, four lively girls and five boisterous boys. They we
re close-knit and fun-loving, delighting in picnics and folk dances and frivolous games (none of which, of course, were permitted in Beatrix’s much more staid and status-conscious family). The five brothers went shooting and fishing together and played cricket and tennis and golf. Will was especially fond of swimming and bowling and billiards, and naturally good at every sport to which he turned his hand.

  But Will had a sober side, as well. He served his articles of apprenticeship in London, was admitted a solicitor in 1899, and joined the family law firm, which had an office in Bump or Bend Cottage in Hawkshead, the small market town just two miles from New Sawrey. (The cottage is called Bump or Bend because you must duck as you walk past, for fear of hitting your head on a protruding part of the building. When you go there, you will see Will’s office, which looks pretty much as he left it, with his desk and chair and files and such, and many of Beatrix’s paintings, for the place is now a gallery.)

  The firm of Heelis and Heelis, Solicitors, handled all kinds of legal affairs, but Will spent most of his time on property matters, so when Miss Potter began buying property in the area, it was natural for her to consult him. He knew when a certain piece of land was coming up for sale, what its boundaries were, what price it ought to sell for, and what it was worth. He could offer reliable, trustworthy advice to a lady from London who lacked experience in such matters but had her own money to spend (the royalties from her books) and was very willing to spend it on the right piece of land.