Bluebells

Badbury Clump, near Faringdon, Oxfordshire.

 

HINGEFINKLE'S LOGBOOK (Thirteenth Instalment)

 

Notes on the Building of a Meistersinger’s Library

 

Reason and experimentation suggest that darkness is, under normal conditions, merely the absence of light. Were this not so, it ought to be possible to invent a beam of darkness which would extinguish light, just as the glow from a lantern banishes the shadows - but Gladys Sparkbright informs me that such a thing cannot be done. And if Gladys says that a thing is impossible - why - who am I to quibble?

 

You will imagine our alarm, therefore, on discovering that the darkness in the Wild Lands defied all previous definitions: it was, indeed, a tangible thing. It seemed to have a life - nay, perhaps even a mind - of its own, its probing fingers disrupting the light from our lanterns, and sometimes brushing against our eyes and bringing momentary blindness. I have never seen anything like it before or since; it was not natural, my dear little Alias - not natural at all. Trees can, I admit, cast shadows which may play havoc with a fevered imagination, but no other wood, in my experience, is so bereft of light as that of the Wild Lands. Take a walk in the Bluebell Wood, and you will see what I mean. The bluebells are there, of course, because they taste horrible, and deer and unicorns do not like to eat them - but they are also there because dappled light filters through the canopy even when the trees are in full leaf. Besides, there are elves in the Bluebell Wood, as one would expect; there are no elves in the Wild Lands, and, since the wodehouse is so elusive, I can hardly say that I blame them for avoiding the place.

 

Why then do I insist that when you are older, you must overcome your fear and, equipped with my map of the Environs of the Harp River, wander deep into the Wild Lands, braving the sinister blackness? Because, my dear boy, there comes a point on that arduous journey when the curling tendrils of gloom suddenly disappear, and one finds oneself walking, or even skipping, down sunny, flower-laden pathways - as Gladys and I did one late summer afternoon. Just as there is something unnatural in the darkness, so there is something magical in those sun-filled glades, and in the distant rushing of the pure and undefiled Harp River. It is there that you will find the Meistersinger’s Hall, and your heart will be sore to leave it. And in that place, deep underground, you will find a structure which ought to be named one of the Wonders of the World - and all because of Gladys Sparkbright.

 

Do not let me mislead you. I have said already that there are no elves in the Wild Lands. But in that little enchanted pocket of land on the southern bank of the Harp River, there are elves - oh, yes indeed, and other people of every imaginable size, shape and form. But I am getting ahead of myself, and I suppose I should begin my tale at the beginning, since that is the logical place to start.

 

“In the name of Miranda, Queen of the Elves, who goes there?” said a voice as we stepped into the clearing. There was something of the ringing of bells to it, and I looked up in surprise, losing track of the butterfly I had been chasing with Gladys Sparkbright’s short-range telescope.

“Eeee,” said Gladys with satisfaction. “Ah think we’ve found t’place! This ‘ere be ‘Ingefinkle - a dab ‘and at ahdentifyin’ monsters, ‘e is - an’ ah’d be Gladys Sparkbright, inventor, offerin’ mah service!”

A little black-haired girl stepped from behind a rose-bush, and surveyed us keenly with her deep-brown eyes wide open. “Why - visitors! And brave ones you must be, too, to have come through the Wild Lands. Well met!” she smiled, offering a delicate little hand.

“Hum,” I said, “and who might you be, I wonder?”

“I am the Meistersinger’s Librarian,” said the little girl. Had another child said such a thing, I should have called her precocious, but coming from her young elvish lips, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

“Eee, by gum!” cried Gladys excitedly. “So tha‘ast got a library!”

“Well -” said the girl hesitantly, “not exactly, no. We have the books, right enough - but nowhere to put them. At the moment, they are kept in wooden boxes in all the houses in our village. Even the Meistersinger has boxes of books in his house, but sometimes he sits on them and breaks them. It’s not good for the books - not good at all - to be sat on by the Meistersinger.”

“I see,” I said, casting an intrigued glance at Gladys, who was quivering with excitement and fiddling with the buttons of her cardigan, “perhaps you could take us to see this Meistersinger fellow?”

“Well, I would,” said the girl with a cheeky smile, “but I’m afraid he’s asleep just now. He held one of his parties last night, and -”

“Hum, yes. But perhaps we could wait for him. Is there a public house in the village?”

“Well, of course there is,” frowned the girl. “It wouldn’t be a village without one, would it? What a silly question!” And with that, she led us down a street of half constructed timber-framed houses, with walls of white-painted wattle and daub, and stopped at the one completed building - an admirable inn with a thatched roof, and tantalising smells coming from the kitchen window.

 

“Now ‘ang on a minute,” said Gladys as I left my luggage with the landlord. “Ah’m not abaht ter put me feet up - not when thar’s a libr’y as wants buildin’! Canst tha not tek us to whoever’s in charge o’t’ construction, young lass?”

“Ah!” smiled the girl, leading us out of the inn and down another half-constructed street. “Offering to help, are you? Well, you’ll be wanting to talk to the Dwarfs, then. They’re in charge of the operation. The Meistersinger says he wants an underground library - that’s the fashion these days, you know - and of course the Dwarfs are just the people for it. But the Head Dwarf is also out-of-sorts today. No doubt he has left someone else in charge.”

 

At the end of the street, there was a large hole in the ground, and at its side stood one of the most extraordinary young teenagers I have ever seen. On her head there sat a highly polished steel helmet which, for some unaccountable reason, had cow horns sticking out of the top of it. Two plaits of blonde hair poked out the bottom, tied with rough cord. Her clothing was scanty to say the least, but what there was of it appeared to be made of metal. She was brandishing a large pick in her hand, and swinging it back and forth like a battle-axe, and as we approached, she leapt into the pit with a raucous cry of “Hack und dice!” There was a loud ringing of metal on stone, and a cloud of dust rose slowly from the hole. Suddenly the noise stopped, and I heard the clatter of the pick-handle against the floor of the pit.

“Vot ist zis pick made of?” bawled the young lady, still invisible beneath the rim of the hole. “I am thinkingk zat it ist made of zer butter from zer Meistersinger’s favourite cow. Look at zat! Blunt as zer baby’s bottom!” The top of her helmet reappeared at ground level, and she hauled herself out of the pit, her biceps bulging. She rubbed the rock-dust from her eyes and stared at us suspiciously. “Vot are you wantingk now, clever little elf vit zer pointingk ears?” she demanded, ignoring Gladys and myself, and addressing the Meistersinger’s Librarian with a touch of exasperation in her voice.

“This is Gladys, and this is Hingefinkle,” said the elvish girl, unruffled by the brusqueness of the Dwarf’s question. “May I introduce Helga, here on apprenticeship-exchange from Norvay.”

“Ya,” said Helga. “Zer stone in zis place ist not like zer ice in Norvay. Venever I hit it vit mine pick, zer vibrations go all zer vay from mine helmet to mine boots. Give me zer caves of Hygelac any day!” She wiped the sweat from her brow, and gloomily surveyed the blade of her pick.

“Eeee,” said Gladys Sparkbright. “Tha’ll never cut stone wit’ that! That thare pick be made o’ bronze! Tha might as well try an’ cut granite wit’ a kipper!”

The girl with the helmet and the big muscles eyed Gladys suspiciously. “Vot are you talkingk about? Haff you ein better suggestion?”

 

Gladys did not answer, but hurried to the edge of the hole and clambered down the side. Helga paced back and forth, muttering, “Zese elfs und gnomes haff no idea!”, and the Meistersinger’s Librarian craned her neck over the side of the excavations, trying to see what Gladys was doing. At last, Gladys re-emerged, clapping the dust from her hands and blowing her cheeks out happily.

“Vell?” demanded Helga, leaning on her pick.

“Raht,” grinned Gladys. “If tha duzzne mind, ah’d lahke yer all ter tek cover behind that thare boulder.”

The Librarian shrugged her shoulders and did as she was instructed. Helga cast a scornful look at Gladys and, evidently deciding to humour this diminutive eccentric, she too wandered off behind the boulder, while Gladys dragged me along by the arm.

Gladys pulled something white and fluffy from her little black bag. “Now,” she said, “bung some o’ this dahn yer lug-holes!”

We did as we were instructed, and when Gladys was satisfied, she peered over the top of the boulder and clapped her hands.

 

*

 

“Vot in zer name of Odin voz zat?” enquired Helga, staggering from behind the boulder when the ground had stopped shaking and the dust had cleared.

“Oh,” said Gladys nonchalantly, “Nowt but a wee explosion. Tha’ll be raht as rain once yer ‘ead stops ringin’.” She scurried to the edge of the hole, which was now littered with pieces of rock, and peered excitedly over the side. “Aye, now that’s a start!”

The Librarian, Helga and I exchanged confused glances and hurried to Gladys’s side, and all of us gasped to discover that the hole was now three times as deep, and the sides perfectly symmetrical.

“Oh, ya!” said Helga enthusiastically. “Now zat ist vot I call fast vork! I am thinkingk zat zis ist zer beginningk of ein long friendship!” She clapped Gladys so hard on the shoulder that the poor Gnome only narrowly avoided falling down the shaft.

 

And so, Gladys Sparkbright and Helga of Norvay set to work on the Meistersinger’s Library with such enthusiasm that the whole village shook, and two of the half-constructed houses fell down. (To do Gladys justice, I must add that she remarked that this was proof that the houses had not been planned properly in the first place, and she very willingly offered her services in their reconstruction.) Soon, a noisy gaggle of villagers had congregated around the construction site, and they pointed excitedly down the hole and talked at the tops of their voices about the cleverness of Gnomes and the industriousness of Dwarfs.

“Now then, young lad,” said a voice from behind me, “Ah want ter know wot all this ‘ere commotion is abaht.” I recoiled with surprise, for the accent was that of Gladys Sparkbright, but the voice deep and sonorous. I turned to see the Meistersinger himself - there could be no doubt of it - and he was quite the widest young fellow I have ever seen.

“Hum,” I said, shaking the Meistersinger’s pudgy hand. I could not help noticing that his belly wobbled in unison with the handshake. “My friend Gladys has taken it upon herself to excavate your Library - with Helga’s permission, naturally, and -”

“Gladys? Gladys? Eeee tha duzzne mean the Gladys Sparkbright, duss tha? Well, ah’ll be!” he cried, peering into the hole. At that moment, Gladys Sparkbright emerged from another cloud of dust, and, peering over her spectacles (the lenses of which were now quite opaque), she chuckled and cast herself into the Meistersinger’s massive arms.

 

*

 

“Well, tha couldder knocked me dahn wit’ a feather!” said the Meistersinger later that evening, when the sun had gone down, and we sat on top of the wooden book-boxes in his own entertaining hall, peering at Gladys’s hastily-drafted plans of the new Library, “ter think ah’d be meetin’ wit’ you - an’ ‘ere of all places!” He raised his glass in a silent toast to Gladys Sparkbright, engineer.

“Ya, und I am thinkingk zat zer explosions are zer vay of zer future,” added Helga, her cheeks glowing as she helped herself to more of the Meistersinger’s finest mead.

“Hum,” I said doubtfully. “In Gladys’s hands they are certainly rather useful, but they are not a thing to be taken lightly.”

Gladys gazed wistfully at the bottom of her glass. “Aye, well,” she said at last, “Ah’ve ‘ad enough o’ gallivantin’ arahnd fer a while. Ah don’t suppose yer’d be interested in ‘avin’ an inventor arahnd, full tahme, lahke?”

The Meistersinger let forth a loud guffaw. “Tha duzzne mean tha wants ter stay ‘ere, duss tha? Tha’d be very welcome, so tha wouldst, provided tha canst put up wit’ t’darkness o’th Wild Lands.”

Gladys sighed, and cast her eyes in the direction of her latest explosive experiment. “Aye, well. Darkness comes in all shapes an’ forms - an’ t’darkness ‘ere canna be worse than t’darkness in some people’s hearts.” She clapped some dust from her hands and tugged thoughtfully on the buttons of her cardigan. “Now,” she continued, “Ah’ll be needin’ somewhere ter set up me workshop.”

The Meistersinger looked doubtful. “Well now, Ah’m not sure we’d ‘ave t’materials fer buildin’ one o’ your workshops -”

“Oh, tha duzzne need ter worry yerself abaht that,” replied Gladys briskly. She untied her little black drawstring bag from her belt. “Everythin’ Ah’ll be needin’s in ‘ere.”

“Hum,” I mused. “That bag of yours has been flummoxing me for the entire journey -”

“Nay,” said Gladys dismissively, with a wave of her arm. “Thar’s nowt to it - just a wee experiment i’t’ parabolic. Ah got t’ idea from mah friend Simon the Mathematician.”

 

Now don’t ask me, my dear little Alias, who this Simon the Mathematician was. Some things are destined, I fear, ever to remain mysteries. Suffice it to say that he must be a rather clever sort of a fellow - if, at any rate, the principles underlying the function of Gladys Sparkbright’s little black bag are anything to go by. I must confess that I was feeling a little the worse for wear the next morning, perhaps because my attention had been diverted from the mead to the best medicinal brandy, when Gladys pulled me out of bed, insisted that I dress hurriedly, and marched ahead of me up the Harp River. Indeed, when we arrived at our destination some twenty minutes later, I fear my first impression was that I must be hallucinating. There it was: the same impossibly higgledy-piggledy tower made of bits of wood and metal and pieces of knotted string; the same spiral staircase running down the side of it; and, to my delight, the same mechanical potted geranium on the doorstep.

“Hum,” I said, feigning nonchalance and failing. “Have you been working at this all night, Gladys?”

“Nay,” replied Gladys, absentmindedly opening her pocket-watch. “Ah put in a few hours on t’ blueprints fer t’ lahbrary conveyor belt too. Ah must show yer -” She stopped, and one eyebrow shot upwards in surprise, “Mah goodness, it’s later than Ah thought! Ah’m workin’ more slowly in me old age!” She adjusted the knitting needles in her hair, and a grey lock dropped over her face. She squinted at me over the frame of her spectacles. “Well, thar’s no use standin’ arahnd out ‘ere talkin’ abaht it. It’s already tahme.”

“Hum. Time? Time for what, Gladys?”

“Eeee - whadderyer think, ‘Ingefinkle, yer daft owd bugger?” she replied, slapping me upon the small of my back. “It’s tahme fer a nahce ‘ot cup o’ tea, that’s what!”

 

Done