Dragon Rider

by Cornelia Funke

  “Maybe we can find somewhere in the hills,” said Ben. “A cave or a dark corner among the ruins.”

  He took the rat’s map out of his pocket, but it was so wet that he couldn’t unfold it. “Bother,” he muttered. “We’ll have to dry it in the sun or it won’t be any more use.”

  “What about those humans over there?” asked Sorrel. “The place is swarming with them.” She peered anxiously through the palm trees at the distant camp. “They are humans, aren’t they? I never saw so many humans living in canvas houses before.”

  “With all those tents, I think it must be an archaeologists’ camp,” said Ben. “I once saw a camp just like that in a movie.”

  “Archaeolojiwhats?” asked Sorrel. “Is that a particularly dangerous sort of human?”

  Ben laughed. “No, archaeologists are people who dig up old temples and vases and so on.”

  “What for?” asked Sorrel, wrinkling her nose. “Those things must have got broken ages ago. Why bother digging them up?”

  Ben shrugged his shoulders. “Out of curiosity. To find out how people lived in the past, see?”

  “Oh,” said Sorrel. “And what do they do then? Do they repair the buildings and the vases and everything?”

  “No.” Ben shook his head. “Sometimes they stick the shards of pots back together, but mostly they leave things the way they find them.”

  Baffled, the brownie girl looked at the broken columns. The sun was rising higher, and the people in the camp seemed to be starting work.

  Firedrake brought Sorrel back to earth out of her thoughts. He yawned, stretched, and arched his neck wearily. “I’ll just lie down under these funny-looking trees,” he murmured drowsily. “The rustling of their leaves is sure to tell me wonderful stories.”

  He lay down, sighing, but Sorrel hauled him up again. “No, no, Firedrake, it’s not safe enough here!” she cried. “I’m sure we can find somewhere better. Ben’s right, it really doesn’t look too bad up in the hills. We just have to find a place far enough away from the humans’ camp.”

  She was pushing the dragon farther into the palms when Ben suddenly clutched her arm.

  “Hey, wait, Sorrel!” He pointed back to the beach. “Look at that!”

  They had left clear tracks in the damp sand behind them, leading across the dry riverbed and then up the slope.

  “Oh, bother, how could I be so stupid?” said Sorrel crossly. She hastily climbed the trunk of a palm tree and pulled off a long frond. “I’ll see to the tracks!” she hissed down to Ben. “You find a good hiding place for Firedrake and I’ll catch up with you. Go on, get moving!”

  Reluctantly the dragon turned, while Sorrel jumped down into the riverbed and began sweeping the palm frond over the sand to cover their tracks.

  “Come on,” Ben told Firedrake, putting the backpacks over his shoulders.

  But the dragon did not move. “Shouldn’t we wait for you, Sorrel?” he called anxiously “Suppose the humans turn up?”

  “Well, even if they do come this way, I’ll hear them from a long way off!” replied Sorrel. “Go on, do get out of here.”

  Firedrake sighed. “Very well, but hurry up.”

  “Brownie’s honor,” promised Sorrel. She looked around, pleased. The tracks on the slope and in the riverbed were already gone. “If you happen to pass any mushrooms think of me!”

  “We will,” said Ben, and he followed the dragon.

  They found Firedrake a hiding place, a cavern among the rocky foothills, half-hidden by tangled thornbushes and at a safe distance from the human camp. There were carvings of ugly faces in the rock around the entrance, and in one place the stone was covered by strange writing. In fact, the place looked rather eerie. But the coarse, prickly grass around it grew tall, and no path had been trodden through the thick undergrowth. To Ben’s relief, it looked very much as if the archaeologists weren’t interested in this cavern.

  “I’ll go and see what’s keeping Sorrel,” he said after Firedrake had made himself comfortable in the cool cave. “I’ll leave the backpacks here.”

  “See you later,” murmured Firedrake, already half-asleep.

  Ben unfolded the rat’s map as well as he could, weighted it with small stones, and left it to dry in the sun. Then he ran back to join Sorrel as fast as possible. On the way he obliterated Firedrake’s tracks. His own human footprints weren’t likely to arouse much suspicion, but where he could he walked over the stones and remains of walls that rose from the sand everywhere. The sun wasn’t very high yet, but it was extremely bright as it blazed down from the sky. Wet with perspiration and breathless, Ben reached the dry riverbed. It was cooler here under the palms. He looked around.

  Sorrel was nowhere to be seen. Ben raced down the slope, crossed the riverbed, and ran to the place on the beach where Firedrake had landed. But there was no sign of Sorrel there, either, only the dragon’s tracks. His huge paws had sunk deep into the sand, and the long mark left by his tail dragging behind him was clearly visible, too. Why hadn’t Sorrel finished getting rid of all those tracks?

  Ben looked around anxiously. Where was Sorrel?

  The camp was swarming with people now. Vehicles were driving in and out, and there were men digging in the hot sand among the ruins.

  Ben went over to the spot where Firedrake’s tracks appeared as if out of nowhere. Sorrel had clearly only got this far. Ben crouched down to look at the sand. It was all churned up as if a great many feet had been scuffling in it. He could hardly make out Sorrel’s paw prints among the tracks of all the human boots that had trampled around in the sand. His heart thudding, Ben straightened up again. There’d been a vehicle standing not far off, and the prints of the boots led to it. But Sorrel’s paw prints didn’t show up again anywhere.

  “They took her with them,” muttered Ben. “Those horrible people just took her away with them.”

  The tire tracks led straight to the camp. Ben set off for it at a run.

  12. Captured

  There 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.