The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (8 page)

Grilled! It was an appalling thought. But Bailey didn’t have time to mull this over, because just at that moment, the sleeping dragon woke up. He stared at Bailey, then opened his dragon mouth as wide as he could and—

Well. This is a fascinating story, but I fear it would take too long to retell the whole thing here. (If you haven’t read it yet, I recommend
The Tale of Briar Bank
, where this story is told in its entirety.) To boil it down to just a sentence or two, the dragon (he was young, as dragons go, and went by the name of Thorvaald) woke up and discovered that his treasure—the Viking gold hoard he had been assigned to guard for the past nine or ten centuries—had been burgled. He got into some very serious trouble with the Grand Assembly of Dragons, to whom he was supposed to report. He still is in trouble with the Assembly, it seems, although we’ll get to that later.

Anyway, it took quite a while to get all this sorted out, for the affairs of dragons (as you might guess) are terribly tangled. Over the next few days and weeks, Bailey discovered that there are certain advantages to living with a dragon, such as not having to build a fire in one’s fireplace as long as there is a warm-bellied dragon upon whom one might rest one’s chilly paws or against whom one might cuddle on a blustery night, when the howling wind wants to blow down the chimney and make itself at home in one’s living room. And in the evenings, he found that he would rather put aside his book and listen as Thorvaald told dramatic tales of derring-do in which the dragon (who in his version was always the hero, not the villain) valiantly dispatched the errant knight with the knight’s very own sword, or roasted a drove of dwarves by whuffing on them until they were toasted to a crisp.

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 was 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.