by Kit Cox
We were walking towards the cow when suddenly it collapsed. I was about to run forward when James put his arm across my chest. He strung his bow and waited and then, sure enough, the Psammead returned to feed. Now I have never been good with a bow and arrow, but James had picked up a few skills from the American Indians and I was impressed to see him put not one but two arrows in the feeding creature.
We then spent an hour digging out the creature’s nest and were glad to find it clean of others of its kind. We informed the farmer that the problem had been dealt with, but we recommended that the ill cows were not used for their milk for a while, perhaps a month or two. On being asked what the problem had been, we blamed badgers and he seemed to accept that without question.
James was all up for going home but I reminded him that we still had another site to visit. The next possible Psammead site wasn’t that far away and James was back in the master’s seat while I followed behind with the body of the dead Psammead in my backpack, as we would have to dispose of it somehow.
As we approached the potential site, we could see sand martins flying around, giving us an indication that the area was at least geologically correct. The great sandstone wall before us was pockmarked by the many nest holes the sand martins dug and returned to each year. We went on to the top of the mound and looked around for a nest but could not find one even after much searching. Eventually the light failed and we had to head back to our accommodation. It was on the way back, however, that James remarked on the thick fog that was drifting towards us and I told him to put on his mask. I think I must have got some of the smoke in my lungs as I felt woolly-headed for a while as if I had drunk a good few ales, but we used the cloud to locate the nest. It was almost completely hidden beneath a holly bush and the surrounding ground was gravel strewn making the gravel-filled nest hard to spot. Two rabbits lay unconscious, victims of the smoke. We waited for a moment and were quickly rewarded by the appearance of a Psammead. It was a big one with hard-looking wrinkled skin, and so was probably quite an old one. As James had packed his bow, I despatched it with my pistol.
We did learn a valuable lesson that night about hunting Psammead: they aren’t reliant on light to see by and are clearly happy to pick off nocturnal passers-by as well as day time visitors. (My tip: If you know you have Psammead in an area clear the suspected hunting ground before nightfall: you may not be as lucky as we were and fall foul to one when your vision is impaired.)
We took the body with us but failed to dig up the nest as we were both rather groggy and confused after even a little inhalation of the smoke. I, however, have not heard of any more reports from this area, so I have to assume that the nest was clean.
Ben put the book down shocked. There was so much to think about. First of all, he and Rosalie had done the right thing: they had dispatched a creature that was seen as a threat to the British Empire and was even spoken of as a monster. The next thing was that they had clearly saved the children from further sickness. He suddenly remembered Pinchin’s words: how the young boy missed the quarry and his question about whether Ben had made a wish. It all added up. What puzzled him, though, was how Nanny Belle was mixed up in all this? Was she some kind of monster hunter, too?
Ben was now worried that he had stumbled on something secret. Quietly as he could, he returned the book to the trunk and the key to the drawer. He would read more at a later time if he got the chance.
In the room above Nanny Belle heard the chest open again and close, then her key returned to its drawer. They were only very delicate sounds but she was well trained at listening – there are very few Nannies who aren’t – and besides she had her ear pressed hard to the floorboards. From the birdcage came an excited chattering noise and Nanny Belle stood up and brushed down her skirt. She pushed a big fig between the bars of the cage, at which the chattering stopped.
‘I think you might be right, Icarus, but I think there is more to come. Benjamin has a good heritage and I think he’s only just stretching his wings.’
The cage chattered again, causing the governess to look in the direction of the small monkey held within.
‘Yes, Icarus, you have lovely wings, too.’
Protector
The next few days saw Ben move into Nanny Belle’s study properly. Her brother’s camp bed was replaced by a more sturdy campaign bed, still a temporary bed when compared to a full-sized one but actually surprisingly more comfortable than the beds in the dorms. Ben did start taking his meals and classes with the rest of the school and, although tensions still ran high and angry exchanges occurred, they were always squashed by the attending adults.
One of the things that Ben noticed, however, was that his new routine seemed better for his health. The other children were often pale and felt the cold. William Percy’s cough had returned, Sarah’s had become worse and now Abigail was coughing, too. Ben’s thoughts turned to monsters again, but it seemed that the symptoms must be simply those of some contagious illness – not everything could be contributed to the unknown creatures of the world and Ben was pretty sure that one monster was enough for a small area like Whitgate.
He was beginning to enjoy his life a lot. Nanny Belle was giving him extra tuition in the evenings and her knowledge of other cultures, language and wild survival techniques – something she called bush craft – were amazing and Ben’s repertoire was swelling.
The oyster factory was even better. Rosalie had popped in for a visit one day and she and Buddy had instantly become friends. ‘Any friend of Ben’s is a friend of mine,’ he had said happily and he even allowed Rosalie to help out around the factory in return for which he paid her with a selection of seafood every day, which made her very popular back at the camp. It also meant that Ben got to spend a lot more time with his new friend, and as the friendship grew so did his confidence, although for some reason he always kept his discovery from the journal to himself. It just felt like a secret that wasn’t meant to be spread.
A friendly, confident Ben soon started to get a seal of approval at the orphanage, too, and the children who had never been affected by the Psammead were certainly warming to Ben. On a few occasions he had conversations with the other boys and one day he even found himself playing a game of cards with the only related members of the orphanage, Adam and Jessica Young, though as they were also the youngest of the orphans they had forgotten the whole affair much more quickly than the others.
Ben would try and sneak the journal of Jack Union out as often as possible and read as much as he could. He had no idea whether the other creatures were real but as he had encountered the Psammead he had to assume that they were, though he was glad he had never stumbled on them!
This, after all, was the reason he had wanted to come to England in the first place. He had known books would have the answer but he had no idea it would be a simple handwritten one that would have more answers than most.
Finally, during an evening tutorial, he asked Nanny Belle the big question that had been bothering him.
‘Have you heard of Major Jack Union?’
Nanny Belle laughed as if surprised yet amused by the question. ‘Of course I have! He’s my brother.’
Ben was surprised. ‘But you’re called Belle, and you don’t wear a ring, so you’re not married either.’
‘Well, you are being a proper detective tonight – I should lend you some of my copies of the Strand magazine,’ she said with a playful smile. But from the look on his face she could see that the question would not be dropped until it was properly answered.
Nanny Belle put down the book from which she was teaching and placed her hands in her lap, fixing the boy opposite her with a look of an adult talking to an equal, not that of a teacher talking to a pupil.
‘Jack and I have the same mother but different fathers. Unfortunately, Jack, who is my elder brother by a good few years, didn’t know his father, and our mother has never taken it upon herself to tell him. I don’t think this has ever bothered Jack as he was happy wi
th his upbringing and was more than happy to take our mother’s maiden name as his own. I, on the other hand, do know my father, but I was born out of wedlock and so therefore can take either my father’s or my mother’s family name. For many years it was decided that I should be a Union like my brothers and mother. There are three offspring, you see, which is why my Christian name is Trinity, as I was the third and last child. I have the protection of two older brothers, you see!’
She took a sip of her tea before continuing, allowing Ben time for what she had said to sink in and she was happy to see he did not interrupt with further questions but waited to hear the rest so she continued. ‘When I was old enough to understand the importance of my surname I realised that, much as I might want to be considered my father’s child as much as I would my mother’s, the scandal of my taking my father’s name would be too great for he had now married and had children by that wife. So I chose to take neither of their names but to create a surname of my own, but as I did not wish to offend my mother by breaking my bonds with her completely I took her Christian name as my surname… It means “Beauty” and my mother is certainly that – in face and in spirit.’ She stopped talking, took another sip of tea and waited on Ben’s thoughts.
‘So your mother’s name is Belle Union?’ he finally asked.
‘Yes she is. A lovely lady who was born in the French quarter of New Orleans before moving herself to London,’ Nanny Belle said with a good measure of pride.
‘And your brother hunts monsters?’
Nanny Belle hadn’t expected the boy to be so forthright but then she had seen his confidence growing so it shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise. And, in any case, she was fully aware he was reading her brother’s journal; she had practically gift-wrapped it for him and put it in his hands.
She started her next answer slowly as if gauging how much she should impart. ‘My brother works for the Crown, and as such he will often find himself called upon to do things that might be considered monster hunting, though I don’t think those are the words he would use. I think he would consider it more the control of threatening flora and fauna.’
‘And have you read his books? Do you know about the monsters?’ Ben felt Nanny Belle was being as open as she was ever going to get and thought it was time to push her a little further.
‘Yes’ was her very simple answer.
‘Did you know about the Psammead?’ he asked almost coldly. He saw a strange look pass over Nanny Belle’s Face.
‘I had my suspicions. I even told Jack about them but he pointed out he had an empire to look after and wasn’t it the job of nannies to look after children. The thing is, I think of my job as teaching children to look after themselves.’ She fixed Ben with a very clear gaze. ‘And I think you’ll do a very good job as a protector in my absence.’
Ben felt a wave a pride pass over him and realised that this was the end of the conversation. Nanny Belle always cleared up books when she felt a conversation was over. He watched her do it a lot in the classroom and she was doing it now.
‘Well, Ben, I think we have spoken a lot tonight and I very much doubt that I will ever have all the answers for you. I can see a path opening up before you and I think you will take it.’
She shook his hand, as she did every night before she retired to her rooms, and headed for the door leaving Ben sitting at the table. Just as she was about to leave, she stopped and turned to Ben again, a look of concern on her face.
‘If you get the chance not to take the path, though, Ben, maybe you should think about that also, it is the road very less travelled and is a lonely path to take. My brother … Jack … once had a family and he could have become an ordinary man with love and people around him every day, but he was already too far down the path and he still walks it many years later – alone. It is a noble quest to protect others but it is often one you face by yourself. Remember that when making your decision.’ And with that she left the room.
Ben did not read the journal that night, although he looked at the trunk for some time before holding his copy of the Grimms’ cautionary tales between his hands and falling asleep with happy thoughts of his mother.
It couldn’t have been a very deep sleep because in the early hours of the morning he was woken by a sound outside. He sat up and went to the window, not sure what had disturbed him. The study overlooked the side garden of the house with a view over the high wall to the orchard beyond. He was thinking it might only be a fox or some other night-time creature when the figure of a man ran from the obscured side of the house to the bottom of the wall. A burglar! He was about to raise the alarm when he thought of the Gypsies and Mrs Reed’s policy of shooting on sight. He looked hard at the crouched figure to see whether he could make out more details but then it suddenly sprang up the wall. With one bound it was on the top and over. He changed the identity of the figure from a he to an it in seconds. Even though it had the right shape for a man, he was taken aback by its unnatural speed and agility and just how strangely elongated its arms and body had seemed as it sprang up to reach the top of the wall. The final detail he had noticed was how, when its head had caught the moonlight for a second, it had appeared to shine featureless and white before it was gone. He heard himself gasp. It was indeed something ‘unnatural’ and he knew straight away that it had been in the orphanage and, more worryingly, that it had been in the dorms, where the other children were falling sick.
Ben tiptoed from his room and down into the class below. He was opening the door when he heard the voices of Mrs Reed and her brother-in-law speaking in the entrance hall at the bottom of the stairs.
‘What’s the commotion?’ he heard Mrs Reed say in a concerned but tired voice.
‘It’s William Percy again. He’s had another big coughing fit. He’s coughing blood now and his fevers have returned,’ said the even more concerned voice of Mr Reed.
‘What are you holding?’ This time Mrs Reed’s voice was more quizzical.
‘Oh! This - it’s just a bowl of cherry pips and stalks; I think the kids all scrump them from one of the nearby farms. It’s not doing them any harm, I suppose. I keep finding evidence of them in both dorms … but we all were children once.’
Ben started to close the door. He wanted to check on something he felt he had been avoiding in the journal, and the figure in the garden and the conversation had made it all the more important to check. As he closed the door, he heard the surprised voice of Mrs Reed say: ‘But cherries are out of season…’
Ben went back up the stairs quietly, as he knew the top one squeaked. Lighting a candle, he went to the trunk and removed the journal.
He flicked through the book until he came across an early entry on Constructs, creatures made out of necrotic flesh, clay or other materials and animated with a liquid called ‘shem’. When he had first read it, he had got excited. Had his mother’s killer been some animated wooden statue? There was even a scrawled note by the sketch of a wooden Construct that simply said ‘Tattie Bogle’ but it had been crossed through neatly.
Ben hadn’t got as far as the Ts since he was reading the book cover to cover but now however, he flicked ahead. The section on the Tattie Bogle had been filled out with sketches and the neat handwriting of Jack Union. Ben’s eyes filled involuntarily with tears as he looked at the picture of the ‘protector of the crops’ – it was a strange, almost wicker-like man, a mess of intertwined branches and vines. The weirdly sculpted wooden head with its present but sightless eyes had an open screaming mouth. Ben was looking directly at a sketch of the creature that killed his mother. He steadied his nerves and read:
Tattie Bogle
It is sometimes clear that well-meaning people, either in the pursuit of advancement or out of a strange curiosity, and in some cases for personal protection, are responsible for either breeding or creating monsters. This has been evident in most cases of the Construct and Anthromorph, but also, more rarely, with respect to the Revenant and Manticore. In most instances, th
is has been done in the interests of science and the monstrous effects have come only later. The only case I know of where it is a monster that is constructed from the very beginning is the Tattie Bogle, or Crop Construct.
Description
The Tattie Bogle, by all design and definition, should fall into the same camp as the Construct as it is by all regards the making of a sentient, animate creature out of mostly inanimate objects. However like the Clay Construct of old which obeys only basic instructions the Tattie Bogle is also fairly one dimensional in thought, not to say, single-minded. A Tattie Bogle will protect the crop from which it was grown. The process is a simple one: first off, you create your frame. Now this could be anything but most designers favour the humanoid figure as it acts well as a scarecrow and often passes detection to the casual eye allowing the Bogle a degree of freedom. Within this frame is placed the fruit of the crop that needs to be protected. The fruit is then bathed in shem, the chemical distilled from the air that when applied, animates the creature from the fruit out. The fruit then acts as the creature’s heart and will always stay fresh and whole for ever, allowing the Bogle to carry out its tasks.
The Tattie Bogle is the most common form of Bogle, having been created by Scottish farmers to protect their potato crops, the heart of the beast being the tattie (Scots slang for ‘potato’) but, as any crop can be used as a heart, it is a misnomer, so I often find myself dropping it for the simpler-sounding, and often more accurate, Bogle.
Now I do not believe in witchcraft as a form of magic but I do indeed understand it in the elements of chemistry and science. The Bogle’s purpose is embedded by another element being woven or otherwise added into the frame. If the field of crop is fertilised with a blood-or bone-based fertiliser and this is added to the framework, the Bogle will know that its job is to replace any goodness in the crop’s soil that is somehow taken away. Adding a pebble or stone of a certain type or colour into the frame and then circling an area with the same stones will mean that if any crops are harvested within that ring by someone or something not in possession of that same stone will result in the Bogle seizing back the crop and protecting it. If the ring of stones is around six or more inches thick, then the Bogle cannot pass beyond it, thus keeping your Bogle nicely caged and unable to take some of its nastier practices further afield. In addition, any Bogle will defend attacks against its person until it is destroyed outright.