Dragons at Crumbling Castle Page 4

  ‘Come back, Snibril,’ he cried. ‘I’m going to topple the bridge!’

  Snibril gave one last swish with his sword, so that the leading soldier backed into someone else’s spear again, and ran for the end of the bridge.

  As he jumped down Bane took a deep breath and hurled the end of the bridge away from him.

  It hung there, poised for a moment, then crashed and rumbled down into the gap until it could no longer be seen. Soldiers tumbled with it, some clinging desperately to handholds in the fallen hair and trying to scramble back up to safety.

  ‘From now on,’ said Bane, as they sat on the leading cart, ‘we must not stop. We are leaving Shiandi territory now, and I don’t think they’ll dare follow us into the unknown regions – but have a care! It wouldn’t take them long to get round the tear and follow us. And when the bounders get tired, put them on the carts and carry the carts. We must not stop!’

  ‘What about the other enemy?’ said Glurk. ‘We seem to have avoided them so far. Are we safe?’

  ‘You never know in the Carpet. You’re never really safe anyway. But be prepared to fight a bit more. Worthwhile things aren’t just there for the taking, you know.’

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the creaking of the carts and the far-off drums that were always the background noises in the dark regions of the Carpet. There were other things – distant roaring, bright eyes that peered out of holes – and Bane never said anything about them, so Snibril thought it better not to ask. Some things were best left untalked about.

  Suddenly – ‘Look!’ yelled Pismire. The carts had rounded a hair and almost crashed into an army coming the other way.

  ‘I’m looking,’ said Bane grimly, watching the army coming up behind them. ‘Shiandi and the South-West Chairleg! Both at once.’

  ‘I dread what I am about to hear,’ said Pismire, ‘but is it us and one of them against the other, all against all, or both of them onto us?’

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to stay here,’ muttered Snibril, as the two armies came closer. Then he turned the cart and disappeared into the hairs.

  As the last cart went off the path the two armies came round the corner.

  ‘You!’ said the Shiandian commander.

  ‘You!’ said the South-West Chairleg commander.

  All thoughts of the people were forgotten as the two armies rushed forward to do battle.

  Meanwhile, getting further away every second, the carts rumbled down a long slope so fast that the bounders hardly touched the ground.

  ‘Where are we going?’ yelled Pismire above the rushing wind.

  ‘I only wish I knew,’ said Snibril.

  Ahead of them a hole appeared in the Carpet, and the carts entered a large gloomy cavern. Here and there tiny lights appeared, as people lit torches, and soon a string of lights was winding through the caves.

  ‘Where is this?’ whispered Glurk, and his voice echoed from black wall to black wall.

  ‘I recognize it,’ said Pismire. ‘These are the caves of Underlay, the land beneath the Carpet. Come and look.’

  Snibril and Pismire left the cart, and padded over to a cave wall.

  ‘Look,’ Pismire said, holding up a torch.

  All over the wall were strange paintings, some of animals Snibril had never seen, but most of creatures like snargs and bounders. There was a crude drawing of a snarg hunt and, among the hairy stalagmites and stalactites, a picture of a Carpet-dweller holding a club.

  ‘There were caves like this near the Fallen Matchstick,’ said Pismire, ‘but none so grand. No one knows when the pictures were drawn, but it must have been a long time ago. They say our ancestors lived down here, once.’

  They travelled for days in the darkness of the caves, following the main caverns.

  Then one day they came to a place where the cave branched into three. ‘What now?’ said Glurk. ‘We’re lost as it is.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Come and look at this.’ Snibril was standing by the left-hand cave, looking at something. Scratched on the rock were the letters:

  ‘Robinson the Wanderer! Pismire’s great-great-grandfather was here!’

  ‘Of course. He was the one who first found the Land. But what about “II”?’

  ‘That must mean two inches. Only two inches to go! Why, we could do it in a few days!’

  Only two inches to go. It was a good job too. The cartwheels were cracked and broken, half the provisions had been lost, and the people could hardly walk another step. But the thought of the land to come helped them as they pushed and pulled the creaking carts through the dim, flickering caverns of Underlay, singing the triumphant battle-song of the Fallen Matchstick:

  ‘O’er Weft and Weave,

  Warp and Woof,

  The Fallen Matchstick people proudly sing,

  Because of their well-known prowess

  With their famous bows,

  Which are bent hair

  Fastened with string.’

  But they sang it in the old Carpet-language, which sounded a lot better.fn4

  Bane and Snibril trudged up the slope, where a tiny point of light showed the distant opening.

  Neither said a word, but Snibril knew that Bane would be leaving them when the new land was reached. What things Bane had seen, what places he had been to! He had wandered over most of the Carpet, even seen the great and shiny plains of the Linoleum. As the mood took him he had been a soldier, a hair-jack, a hunter, an explorer – he had lit his campfire in places where even fire was unknown. He could not be expected to stay anywhere long, and Snibril felt sad.

  Then – ‘Look,’ said Bane.

  They had come to the end of the caves, and were standing on a ledge from which a natural pathway led down. Before them was the Land. Tall hairs grew thickly about them, with cool glades where herds of strange animals grazed, and overhead the light filtered down to make a pattern on the Carpet floor.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Snibril.

  ‘It’s yours,’ said Bane.

  ‘Yours too.’

  ‘No. In a way the whole Carpet is mine, but a single part of it cannot be.’ And, suddenly, Bane was gone.

  That evening the people lit a great celebration bonfire, but Snibril did not celebrate.

  He sat in the shadows with Pismire, half dreaming of the unexplored regions of the Carpet. Pismire looked at him, and understood.

  ‘You know,’ he said innocently, ‘I think the people will settle down very nicely here. Glurk would make a very good headman. And I – look, do I have to shout it at you? You know you can’t stay here now, you’ve seen too much of the Carpet and caught the wandering fever. Go now, and don’t stop to say goodbye. I’ve left a pack for you on the cart.’

  Snibril looked at him for a moment, smiled, and was gone.

  Later, when the celebration had really got going, they called on Snibril to make a speech, and could not find him.

  But away in the Carpet, a running figure caught up with another who was stomping along with a great gun over his shoulder.

  ‘I was expecting you,’ he said.

  fn1When it didn’t, no one came back to say so, anyway.

  fn2Most people would have preferred it the other way round.

  fn3Luckily it was a soft landing and not pointy sticks on the other side.

  fn4But not much. Unless you are a tone-deaf snarg.

  HERCULES THE TORTOISE

  It was the end of March – in fact about quarter to April – when the smell of spring broke into the shed. It drifted across the floor, found its way under a pile of old packing cases, and stopped at a large wooden box. The box smelled of autumn straw and deep in the heart of it something began to stir.

  Or rather, someone.

  Hercules awoke from dreams of lettuce fields under a midsummer sun. Slowly his wrinkled head poked out of his shell. He sniffed, and yawned, and tried to wriggle deeper into the straw. But it was no use.

  Spring again, he thought. Without a doubt. A
nd he tried to get his head round so that he could see his shell, because tortoises have rings on their shells and grow one for every year. Yes, there it was, the new ring, and Hercules felt ready to face the outside world.

  He didn’t have long to wait before the lid of the box was opened. A large pair of hands lifted him out and put him in the garden.

  Hercules’s garden was wide and consisted mostly of lawns, on which a few tasty dandelion leaves were always to be found. There were roses and lupins in the flower bed – a good feed if he were ever allowed to get at them – and at the far end of the garden was the winter shed and the compost heap. What lay beyond it he did not know. On sunny days, when the wind was in the south, he would explore that way, but someone always found him and brought him back.fn1

  Hercules lay on the lawn and stretched his legs. The hands put a small heap of lettuce leaves in front of him, and he chewed them thoughtfully. The land beyond the shed had occupied his dreams during the long winter sleep.

  I Wonder What Lies Beyond, he mused, thinking as he often did – in capital letters. There Might be Lettuce. Or Even Buttercups. But secretly he knew that it was not buttercups he was after – he really wanted to travel beyond the shed to see what lay on the other side. He didn’t think of it as escaping from the garden.

  But the people did, when they found him gone from the lawn.

  They looked high and low in all his usual sleeping places, in his wooden house in the rockery, and Hercules was nowhere to be seen.

  In fact, he was behind the shed, scratching away at the earth with his powerful forefeet, until he was able to scrape under the wire netting fence. The wind was in the south, and Hercules felt the wanderlust of all tortoises in his blood! He swished through the long grass and soon the garden was empty.

  ‘Well, that’s Done It,’ said Hercules to himself, as he plodded on through the long grass beyond the garden. ‘I’m Out in the World.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said someone, ‘don’t walk all over me, you great tank! What sort of a snail are you, anyway?’

  Hercules looked down. There, sitting on a dock leaf, was a large yellow snail.

  ‘I’m Extremely Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m a Tortoise. I do Apologize.’

  ‘Oh. Hm. I’m Pod,’ said the snail. ‘Hm, that’s a nice house you’ve got on your back there.fn2 Very nice. I like it. Yes, I really think I do. I haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘I’m from the Garden,’ said Hercules, ‘but I’ve come to Explore.’

  ‘Oh? Hm, well, I don’t get around much. I’ve only got one leg, you see,’ said Pod. ‘Just the one. I really have. And a house to carry. It’s rather sad.’

  ‘Oh. Dear. If you Climb on my Back I’ll give You a Lift,’ said Hercules. And Pod slid off the leaf and took up position on the top of his shell.

  ‘Why do you use so many capital letters?’ he asked, as they moved on.

  ‘All Tortoises Do,’ said Hercules. ‘Traditional. You know.’

  As he swished through the grass, Pod told him about the world. There was the garden, and the field, and somewhere in the field was a pond. And that was the end of it.

  ‘There’s no more. Leastways, not that I’ve heard,’ he said. ‘And there are frogs in the pond and snakes in the grass,’ he went on, adding with a shiver, ‘particularly one nasty adder.’ He brightened up. ‘But also bees in the pollen and sometimes pigs in the clover.’

  Clover made Hercules feel hungry, and they stopped by a large clump of it for a meal. It was nearly midday.

  ‘If you want to know a bit more about the world you ought to go and see Old Mother Greengroan,’ said Pod, with his mouth full. ‘She lives by the pond in the middle of the field. She’s very old. Knows everything. Everything worth knowing, anyway.’

  ‘How far away is the Pond?’ asked Hercules.

  Pod looked blank. ‘Oh, some way away,’ he said. ‘Distances don’t mean much to me, I’m afraid.’

  Bees whizzed by like tiny aeroplanes as Hercules trundled on, in search of the pond and Old Mother Greengroan.

  But a little way behind them a long sleek shape slid through the grass with hardly a sound. Its back was zigzagged with yellow and black, and its little cruel eyes were fastened hungrily on the retreating tortoise. It was the

  Hercules and Pod reached the pond just as the sun was setting. They stood on the bank and peered down into the deep water. A passing moorhen saw them and hastily paddled off.

  ‘I have some relatives here,’ said Pod conversationally. ‘Water snails, you know.’

  ‘Does Old Mother Greengroan live Here?’ asked Hercules.

  ‘Round the other side,’ said Pod. ‘You’ll always find Old Mother Greengroan there. She never goes far these days.’

  ‘Um. What Sort of a Thing is Old Mother Greengroan? I don’t Wish to be Rude, but I Need to Recognize Her,’ said Hercules, as he made his way round the pond with Pod sitting on his back.

  Pod looked shocked. ‘You’ll see.’

  They came to a pile of stones and dead leaves, where a few stunted thorn bushes grew by the pond.

  Just then there was a hiss behind them. Pod turned and saw the adder waiting to strike! It had followed them right across the field!

  ‘HELP!’

  shouted Pod, and disappeared into his shell.

  ‘Eh?’ said Hercules, and then he saw the snake. There was a hiss and he too disappeared into his shell with a snap.

  ‘It’s going to eat Old Mother Greengroan!’ moaned Pod, poking his eyes under his shell. ‘That horrid snake hates her!’

  And the long black and yellow body started to slither towards the pile of stones. With courage he never knew he had, Hercules poked his head out of his shell and bit the adder.

  He held on, and when a tortoise bites it never lets go. Frantically the snake reared up and lashed out with its tail, but Hercules only gripped it tighter as Pod clung to his back and

  At last the snake lay still, and Hercules unfastened his aching jaws. Then he realized he was being watched. Small animal heads were peering from behind every stone and bush, and many eyes twinkled in the dusk.

  A larger shadow detached itself from the rocks. It was Old Mother Greengroan the toad.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked, staring at Hercules.

  ‘He’s – he’s a tortoise, madam,’ said Pod.

  ‘A very brave one,’ said the toad. ‘But why is he here?’

  ‘I Wanted to See What the World was Like,’ said Hercules.

  ‘It’s no place for tortoises,’ said Old Mother Greengroan, ‘but you killed the adder, so you can stay if you wish. It’s a big place, bigger than a garden, and a lot happens, and there might be other adders.’

  Hercules looked down at the dead adder. ‘I’d Like to Stay,’ he said quietly, ‘if There’s a Place. But First I Want to Explore the World.’

  And that was how the tortoise left the garden and became an explorer. There was a whole field to discover! With Pod on his back, he travelled from edge to edge – he even went right round the pond! It was a glorious adventure There and Back Again, and when his travels were over, he settled down to live in the field, digging himself a hole to sleep in during the winter, and going again on his travels in the summer.

  But he never had to fight another adder. For all the adders knew of Hercules, the Slayer of Adders. And they slithered away when they saw him coming.

  Which was good news for Pod too.

  fn1You have probably all heard of the race between a tortoise and a hare that was won by the tortoise. Well, it certainly wasn’t Hercules in that race.

  fn2To Pod the snail, Hercules’s shell would have been like moving into a palace after living in a small hut.

  DOK THE CAVEMAN

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ asked Uggi, the witchdoctor, trying to peer through the crack. The rest of the tribe clustered around the cave mouth while Hal, the chieftain, tried to see through the gap in the wooden door. From inside came the sound of sawing.

&nb
sp; ‘It’s too dark to see,’ said Hal. ‘Looks like he’s got a tree in there . . .’

  Suddenly the door burst down, and the people scattered for safety. A great round thing came rumbling out of the cave, spinning rapidly as it rolled down the hill. After it came a small man in a tigerskin much too big for him, and as he shot past they heard him shriek: ‘It’ll revolutionize transport!’ Then he fell into the river.

  Hal picked himself up out of a thorn bush. He quite liked old Dok, but felt that he went a bit too far at times. Being inventive was all very well, but not when it stuck thorns into you.

  Meanwhile, Dok was blowing bubbles and trying desperately to invent swimming. ‘Arms — out! Breathe — in!’ he cried.

  And sank like a stone.

  Uggi fished him out by climbing along a branch and grabbing him none too kindly by the hair.

  Dripping wet, Dok was brought to Hal, who was trying to look dignified while his wife fussed around trying to pull thorns out of him.fn1

  ‘What was that?’ said Hal coldly.

  Dok sneezed. ‘I had thought of calling it a wheel. It’ll revolutionize transport—’

  ‘You said that about that other thing, the boat. It sank. With me in it. A particularly deep bit of river, as I recall.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but that was because of a lack of aquatic stability . . .’

  Dok shuffled off to his cave, sneezing and leaving a trail of puddles. Poor old Dok! Nothing ever quite went right, ever since he had invented language when he accidentally dropped a very heavy stone on his foot. And then there was the time when he’d stuck a seed into a hole in the ground, patted the earth around it, and invented farming. A wild horse had come along and eaten the first plant.

  He sat in his damp cold cave and shivered. Idly he picked up two dry sticks that had come from the tree and, for want of anything better to do, began to rub them together . . .