White Bluebells

Badbury Clump, near Faringdon, Oxfordshire.

 

HINGEFINKLE'S LOGBOOK (Fourteenth Instalment)

 

How to Pilfer From a Dragon

I must confess that it was a tearful parting, at least on my part. Gladys was rather more stalwart: she rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan, transfxed a wayward cascade of grey hair with another knitting needle, and hugged me briskly, saying “Well, ‘Ingefinkle, tha’s always welcome ter drop in fer a wee cup o’ tee, tha knows.”

“Hum, yes,” I said chokily. Behind us, Gladys Sparkbright’s workshop creaked slightly in the wind.

“An’ tek good care o’th’ pocket mahcroscope, an’ don’t let that daft Druid Agrimony turn it inter gold. Gold is useless fer instruments, so it is.”

And I do not think I am being overly sentimental, my dear Alias, when I add that, as I was taking my leave, I noticed the smallest touch of condensation on the lenses of her spectacles.

 

*

 

And so, my dear boy, I made my way south, making my little cartographic experiments as I went, and little knew what destiny had in store; little knew that somewhere on this or the other side of the Bluebell Wood, you had been born, and that the wicker basket which would serve as your cradle had already been woven by one of the village guildsmen. Indeed, I cannot avoid the strong impression that, while I was engaged upon that southward journey, the fates were at work in a most extraordinary way. My life was about to change forever, and as I emerged from the dismal mists of the Wild Lands, I already knew it. And when at last the Rancid Swamp lay before me, enfolded as ever in thick, yellow mists, the thought of the glorious multiplicity of life-forms dwelling within it seemed to fill my weary mind with fresh vigour, and I felt then, as never before, that it was good to be alive.

 

And there, of course, was the opening to the Bower of Amanita: a dark cleft in the mountainside from which there resonated a silence so profound that I felt certain that, as the darkness of the Wild Lands was more than simply the absence of light, so this was more - far more - than the mere absence of the petty clamours of everyday existence. Shale lay in a great, unmoving cascade about the lip of the cave, and the unmistakable odour of sulphur issued from its mouth. Above it the mountain towered, bereft of the least sign of vegetation, except where runnels of water shot from the hillside, and the stones were green with algal bloom.

 

I had to do it, my dear Alias. You could not think that I, Hingefinkle, the humble author of Monsters Misc., and fervent student of dracobiology, could have passed that way, heard that silence, and not done it. I clambered over the shale, and the sound of it clattering down the hillside sounded so momentous in that eerie stillness that I hurriedly hid myself behind an outcrop, convinced that I must have awakened the dragons from hibernation. I waited, and the silence descended again, without a stirring from within. Gingerly, I stepped inside. The smell was stronger now, and I pulled my jerkin up about my nose. There was a short, straight shaft before me, running towards the centre of the mountainside. I paused, took out my tinderbox, and lit my lantern, gritting my teeth with anxiety at the sound of the striking flint. I hooded the lantern, until only a narrow chink of light escaped it, and illuminated a sharp turn to the left. I crept onward, and gradually the light from the entrance closed off behind me.

“Hum,” I whispered to myself, and was startled by my own voice echoing back at me, “it seems to be going in a circle.” Then suddenly the passage changed direction, and as I stumbled on, there was another harsh clattering, and I barely restrained a cry as I watched a half-charred human skull clatter from the top of a pile of bones in front of me. My goodness, my dear boy, I tell you there is enough material in that tunnel for an entire symposium of comparative osteologists. In the dim light, I was able to identify the lumbar vertebrae of a giant elk, the clavicle of one of the lesser species of fire-dragon, a grim assortment of chalky remnants which I calculated to be the skeletons of no less than fifteen hydras, and more humanoid remains than I could possibly have counted. I picked up a piece of pelvis; it bore the unmistakable marks of the premolars of Draco terribilis pyromanicus. I considered filling my pack with as many samples as possible, but decided that there would be plenty of time for this on the way back. That, my dear boy, was my first mistake, for in fact, there was not to be any time at all.

 

Reluctantly, I left the bones behind me, and continued down the passage, which turned again until I judged that I was walking in another arc, of a radius slightly larger than the last one. I was on the verge of stopping to pack my nostrils with pieces of wool - for the stench had now grown so intolerable that my head was swimming with nausea, when the floor gave way to a great chasm before me, and it was all I could do to stop myself stumbling into it.

I sniffed. “Hum. The latrine, I suppose. This is absolutely fascinating! I shall have to remember to come and take a stool sample on the way back!” And that was my second mistake, dear boy, for to this day, I have not had the opportunity to examine the stool of Draco terribilis pyromanicus. I passed the latrines by, and again the tunnel turned back upon itself, and again, and again, and -

 

And then something crunched under my feet. I squatted and examined it, holding it up to the lantern. It was a jewel, my dear Alias, a bright and glorious emerald, with a conspicuous flaw running through it. I gazed at it, fascinated by the way its many surfaces refracted the light, and as I did so, I became aware that the silence was not so complete as it had been. For from the darkness ahead of me, there came the sound of a slow, regular inrush and outrush of air, punctuated by occasional wheezes. At the same moment, I also became aware that the temperature had increased by several degrees as I had turned the last corner. Hum, I thought. So fire-dragons do snore. Agrimony won’t be pleased. He won’t be pleased at all.

 

Slowly, I turned the open part of the lantern in the direction of the noise. An enormous pile of gold, jewels, ancient weapons, goblets of crystal and of bronze, crowns, diadems and scepters lay dimly illuminated before me, and I looked upward to behold a wall of glistening, pulsating silver scales.

“Atropa!” I whispered, no longer certain whether my voice was audible, or only in my head. “Amanita must be beyond.” With an agonising slowness, I began to skirt around the pile of treasure, for, while such things as gold and silver hold little attraction for me, I well know the enchanting power of a dragon hoard, and how it is capable of bewitching a human soul and making the least skerrick of covetousness therein assume the proportions of a towering mountain of greed. As I did so, I could see a greater, golden bulk of scales, overlapping the others, and at last I was able to discern that Amanita was lying, fast asleep, with her head upon the chest of Atropa. The sound of the breathing seemed to be amplified as I moved further into the chamber, and I stood I know not how long, awed by the sight of the slumbering dragons. One could not have imagined a scene of greater peace and tranquility. The combination of that sonorous, almost monotonous breathing, and the sight of the two enormous scaly bodies, entwined and glowing in the dim light, was almost mesmeric. And then I looked down at one of the lesser piles of treasure at my feet, and noticed a half-decayed human hand sticking out from beneath the jewels, the radius, ulna and metacarpals clearly visible beneath the tightened, greying skin. I could not tear my eyes from it; I felt that at any moment, it and the body to which it was no doubt attached would come lurching out, scattering rubies and sapphires in profusion, grasp the thing which those probing, bloodless fingers were seeking, and run off the way I had come, cackling through its decaying larynx, its chalky teeth chattering inanely in the darkness. But there it remained, pinned beneath a hundredweight of fabulous riches, the fingernails hopelessly clawing the air.

 

What was it that the fingers had been seeking? I cast my eyes about the floor, and there it was - assuredly, there it was: a crystal ball the size of a small melon, wedged beneath an old, broken treasure-chest marked on the lid with gouges left by the incisors of the dragons. For the second time that day, I could not help myself. I walked over to the chest, cleared it of jewels as silently as I could, and heaved it laboriously aside. And as I bent to pick up the crystal ball, I heard something moving behind me. I tucked it under my arm and turned in time to realise that, beyond the sleeping dragons, the tunnel curved once more to the right. It was from here that the movement had come, I felt certain. Atropa still lay contentedly beneath the slumbering form of his paramour Amanita, and both continued to snore in unison. No, there was something else in the passageway, something which had been watching me, I felt sure, since the moment I had picked up the fractured emerald. And then I saw them, momentarily illuminated in the shaft of lantern-light: eight beady, glistening eyes, moving rapidly in my direction.

 

I do not think, my dear Alias, that I have ever run so fast in my entire life. Nor do I know how it was that, after the lantern blew out, it seemed as though every twist and turn of the walls in Amanita’s bower was ingrained upon my memory. But run I did, even when the darkness was total, and as the stench swelled in my nostrils, I hurried to one side to avoid the latrines. Moments later, I had brought the entire pile of skeletons cascading hollowly across the stone floor, and then I stopped, and permitted myself a little chuckle of satisfaction. The sound had been quite unmistakable: a singular plop, nay, a veritable splash, followed by a noise which seemed to combine the various qualities of squelching and scrabbling. My eight-eyed pursuer, patently, had fallen down the latrine.

 

*

 

“You really are an incorrigible fool, Hingefinkle, you old codger,” groaned Agrimony as I dried my freshly laundered clothes before his fire, and tried desperately to warm my feet at the same time. “You entered the Bower of Amanita, no doubt providing your accustomed whispered commentary as you went, waded about in a pile of skeletons, destroyed a priceless emerald, stole a crystal ball, and evaded an enraged giant spider by letting it fall into a latrine, and now you try to tell me that two living specimens of Draco terribilis pyromanicus slept through the whole enterprise like a couple of over-exercised puppy-dogs! Codswallop, Hingefinkle! I have never heard of anything so downright irresponsible in all my life. For all you knew, they could have been lying in wait for you, had you for entree, and then decided to take a lazy flap across the Rancid Swamp in order to have the inhabitants of the village for a main course - and, I expect, me for dessert! And what precisely did you learn from this harebrained exercise Hingefinkle? Just tell me that!”

“Hum,” I said hesitantly, deciding not to tell him why I thought that the crystal ball would prove to be the greatest discovery in the science of dracobiology, “I should have thought that the answer was obvious.”

“Obvious schmobvious!” bawled Agrimony, slamming the table with his fist and sending a pile of glass cover-slips flying across the room.

“I have made,” I said, “a discovery of the utmost importance.”

Agrimony was silent, but appraised me interrogatively through his monocle.

“Hum. You must have noticed the terrible stench which drifts from the opening of the Bower of Amanita.”

“Indeed,” admitted Agrimony. “It smells slightly worse than fermented bat’s bile.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It comes from the latrines.”

“Well of course it comes from the latrines, Hingefinkle, you old fool. What do you take me for? A dunderhead?”

“Oh fiddlesticks Agrimony,” I replied. “You are not thinking laterally!”

For a moment, I thought that Agrimony was going to burst into a towering rage. He slowly removed his monocle, put down his brandy glass, and, to my relief, sank stiffly into his armchair. “Very well then, Hingefinkle, enlighten me.”

“Hum. You said yourself that the latrines in the Bower of Amanita smell worse than fermented bat’s bile.”

“Yes.”

“Furthermore, I have supplied you with enough data to prove that there is a spiders’ nest in the tunnel beyond the treasure-hoard.”

“Yes.”

I must confess, my dear boy, that I puffed my chest out with pride at my own cleverness. “Why, don’t you see, Agrimony? Now we know why there are no flies in the Bower of Amanita!”

 

Done