Dragon Rider (8 page)

12. Captured

 

 

T
here was hardly anyone in or around the big tents when Ben slipped into the camp. Most of the people staying there were out in the ruins, freeing ancient walls from the sand in the morning heat and dreaming of secret burial chambers where mummies slept. Ben looked longingly past the tents to the place marked out by ropes where the excavation site lay. It must be thrilling to climb down the ruined stairways where the archaeologists were scraping desert sand off the steps.

The sound of excited voices brought Ben out of his dreams. Cautiously he followed the noise, creeping along the narrow alleys between the tents, until he suddenly came to an open space. Men in long, billowing robes, and a few others wearing pith helmets, were crowding around something that stood in the middle of this space in the shade of a large date palm. Some of them were waving their arms around; others seemed to have been struck dumb. Ben thrust his way through the crowd until he could see what they were so excited about. Several cages, both large and small, stood under
the palm tree. There were chickens in some of them, and another held an unhappy-looking monkey. But the largest cage contained Sorrel. She had turned her back on the gaping humans, but Ben recognized her at once.

The men around him were speaking a variety of different languages — Arabic, French, English, German — but Ben could pick up a phrase here and there that he understood.

“In my opinion it’s a mutant monkey,” said a man with a big nose and a receding chin. “No one can doubt it.”

“I do doubt it, though, Professor Rosenberg,” said a tall, thin man standing not far from Ben.

Professor Rosenberg groaned and raised his eyes to
heaven. “Oh, please! Don’t start on about those fabulous creatures of yours again, Greenbloom.”

 

But Professor Greenbloom only smiled. “What you have there, my dear colleague,” he said quietly, “is a brownie. A Spotted Forest Brownie, to be precise — which is distinctly surprising, since the species occurs chiefly in the highlands of Scotland.”

Ben looked at him in surprise. How could the man know that? Sorrel was obviously listening to the conversation, too, for Ben saw her prick up her ears. However, Professor Rosenberg just shook his head pityingly.

“I don’t know how you can keep making such a fool of yourself, Greenbloom!” he said. “I mean, you’re a scholar. A professor of archaeology, a doctor of history and ancient languages and I don’t know what else besides. Yet you insist on putting forward these ridiculous theories!”

“In my view it’s the rest of you who are making fools of yourselves,” replied Professor Greenbloom. “A monkey! Oh, come on! Did you ever see a monkey like that?”

Sorrel turned to look angrily at the pair of them. “Fly agarics!” she spat. “Death caps, yellow stainers, destroying angels!”

Professor Rosenberg retreated in alarm. “Good heavens! What extraordinary sounds it’s making!”

“It’s calling you names, didn’t you hear it?” Professor
Greenbloom smiled. “It’s calling you mushroom names, and it seems to know a good deal about fungi! Fly agaric, death cap, yellow stainer, destroying angel — those are all poisonous species that make you feel sick, and I expect we’re making this brownie feel pretty sick ourselves. What terrible human presumption it is to catch other living creatures and hold them captive!”

Professor Rosenberg merely shook his head disapprovingly and moved his large paunch a little closer to the cages.

Ben tried to give Sorrel an inconspicuous signal, but she was far too busy muttering angrily to herself and rattling the bars of the cage to notice. She didn’t even see him among all the tall grown-ups.

“And what kind of a creature would you say
this
is, my dear colleague?” asked Professor Rosenberg, pointing to a cage next to Sorrel’s.

Ben stared in surprise. The cage contained a little manikin with his face buried in his hands. He had untidy carrot-red hair and very thin arms and legs, and he was wearing strange knee breeches; a long, close-fitting jacket with a large collar; and tiny pointed boots.

“I expect you think it’s another mutant,” said Professor Greenbloom.

His fat colleague shook his head. “Ah, no, this must be a very complex little machine. We’re trying our hardest to
find out who lost it here in the camp. It was found among the tents this morning, wet through, with a raven pecking at its clothes. We haven’t yet found out how to turn it off, so we put it in the cage there.”

Professor Greenbloom nodded and looked thoughtfully down at the little man. Ben couldn’t take his eyes off the strange creature, either. Only Sorrel didn’t seem interested in the manikin. She had turned her back on the humans again.

“You’re right on one point, Rosenberg,” said Professor Greenbloom, coming a little closer to the tiny captive. “What we have here is not, in fact, a natural creature like the brownie. No, this is an artificial being, although not, as you believe, a little machine, but a creature of flesh and blood made by human hands. The alchemists of the Middle Ages had great skill in the manufacturing of such creatures. Yes, no doubt about it.” He stepped slightly backward again. “This is a genuine homunculus.”

Ben saw the little man raise his head in alarm. His eyes were red, his face as white as chalk, and he had a long, pointed nose.

But Professor Rosenberg laughed such a loud, booming laugh that the chickens flapped around their cages and the monkey began chattering in alarm. “Greenbloom, you’re priceless!” he cried. “A homunculus! You know something? I’d like to hear what crazy explanation you have for those curious
tracks down on the beach. Come along, let’s take a look at them together, shall we?”

“Well, I was about to go back to that basilisk cave I found.” Professor Greenbloom cast the captives a final glance. “I discovered some very interesting hieroglyphs there. But I can spare a few minutes. How about it, Rosenberg — will you set these two free if I tell you what creature made the tracks?”

Professor Rosenberg laughed again. “You and your jokes! Since when do people set such valuable specimens free?”

“Since when, indeed?” murmured Professor Greenbloom. Then he turned, with a sigh, and went away with his fat colleague. He towered more than a head over him. Ben watched them go. If this man Greenbloom knew that Sorrel was a brownie he’d probably recognize the dragon tracks, too. It was high time they got back to Firedrake.

Ben looked anxiously around. A few people were still lingering near the cages. He crouched down in the dust beside the tall palm tree and waited. It seemed an eternity before everyone went back to work again. When the open space was empty at last, Ben jumped up and hurried over to Sorrel’s cage. He looked cautiously around once more. There was only a skinny cat prowling about. The little man had buried his face in his hands again.

“Sorrel!” hissed Ben. “Sorrel, it’s me.”

The brownie girl swung around in surprise. “And about time, too!” she spat. “I thought you wouldn’t come until these revolting stinkhorns had stuffed me and put me in a museum.”

“Okay, calm down,” said Ben, investigating the lock of the cage. “I’ve been here for ages, but how could I do anything while they were standing around wondering whether or not you’re a monkey?”

“One of them did know what I was,” hissed Sorrel through the bars. “I don’t like that at all!”

“Do you really come from Scotland?” asked Ben.

“Mind your own business.” Sorrel cast him an anxious glance. “Well, can you get that thing open?”

Ben shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t look easy.” He took his penknife out of his pocket and stuck the point into the lock.

“Hurry up!” whispered Sorrel, looking around in alarm. Luckily there was still no one to be seen among the tents.

“Most of them are down on the beach looking at what you left of Firedrake’s tracks,” murmured Ben. “Oh, bother, this thing is impossible.”

“Excuse me, please!” someone suddenly said in a timid voice. “If you get me out of here I might be able to help you.”

Ben and Sorrel turned around in surprise. The homunculus was standing close to the bars of his cage, smiling at them.

“As far as I can see, the lock on my prison here is an easy one to pick,” he said. “They probably thought a simple lock would do because I’m so small.”

Ben glanced at the lock and nodded. “You’re right, this one will be easy.” He took his knife and was applying it to the lock when Sorrel grabbed his sleeve through the bars of her cage.

“Wait a moment, not so fast!” she hissed. “We don’t know what kind of thing this is.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Ben shook his head impatiently. With a sudden jerk, he cracked the lock of the homunculus’s cage, opened the tiny barred door, and lifted out the little man.

“My most grateful thanks!” said the tiny creature, bowing low to the boy. “Pick me up and hold me steady in front of the other lock, will you? I’ll see what I can do for your bad-tempered brownie friend.”

Sorrel gave him a nasty look.

“What’s your name?” asked Ben curiously.

“Twigleg,” said the manikin, putting his spindly fingers into the lock of the cage and closing his eyes.

“Twigleg!” muttered Sorrel. “Suits you.”

“Could you please keep quiet?” said Twigleg without opening his eyes. “I know brownies enjoy a good chatter, but this isn’t the right moment.”

Sorrel tightened her lips. Ben looked around. He could hear voices — some way off still, but coming closer.

“Quick, Twigleg!” he told the homunculus. “There’s someone coming!”

“Nearly done it,” replied Twigleg. The lock clicked. With a satisfied smile, the little man removed his fingers. Ben quickly put him on his shoulder and opened Sorrel’s cage. Muttering crossly, she jumped down into the powdery sand.

“Twigleg,” said Ben, carrying the homunculus over to the sad monkey’s cage, “could you pick this lock, too?”

“If you like,” said the homunculus, setting to work.

“What’s he doing?” hissed Sorrel. “Are you two crazy? We have to get away from here.”

The monkey chattered excitedly and retreated to the farthest corner of its cage.

“We can’t leave the poor monkey here,” said Ben. There was another click. Ben opened the cage door, and the monkey ran away rapidly.

“Come on, for goodness’ sake!” complained Sorrel.

But Ben stopped to open the chickens’ cages as well. Luckily they were only bolted and not locked. Perched on Ben’s shoulder, Twigleg watched the boy with surprise. The voices were coming closer and closer.

“Almost through!” said Ben, opening the last cage. A startled hen stretched her scrawny neck toward him.

“How do we get out of here?” asked Sorrel. “Quick, which way should we go?”

Ben looked helplessly around. “Oh, no! I’ve forgotten which way I came,” he groaned. “And these tents all look the same.”

“They’ll be here soon!” Sorrel tugged at his sleeve. “Where’s the way out?”

Ben bit his lip. “Never mind,” he said, “the voices are coming from that direction, so we’ll have to go the other way.”

Taking Sorrel’s paw, he hauled her along after him. No sooner had they disappeared among the tents than a hue and cry broke out behind them.

Ben darted right, then left, but people were coming toward them from every direction, trying to catch the fugitives and barring their way. It was only thanks to the homunculus that Ben and Sorrel escaped. Twigleg had scrambled up onto Ben’s head as quick as a scurrying insect and sat there like a sea captain on the bridge of his rolling ship, and he steered them out of the camp with his shrill commands.

Not until they were a safe distance from the tents did they slow down, making their way through tangled thornbushes and staying under cover. A few lizards scurried away in alarm when Sorrel and Ben finally dropped to the ground, panting. Twigleg climbed out of Ben’s hair and sat down on the sand beside the boy, looking pleased with himself.

“Well done,” he said. “You two are quick on your feet. I could never have kept up. But I have a quick brain. A person can’t have everything.”

Sorrel sat up, breathing heavily, and looked down at the little man. “And you’re not the faintest bit conceited, either, are you?” she said.