The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  But whilst Bailey lived in three simple rooms (spartan or bare, depending on your point of view), his library enjoyed a much larger space than he did. It occupied six commodious chambers, each room filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves containing works of history, biography, science, philosophy, and literature. These works had been collected, through numerous generations, by badgers who believed 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.

  In consequence of this belief, an additional library area had been nicely fitted out as a reading room, with a fire, a comfortably upholstered chair (a knitted shawl folded handily over the back in case of chilly evenings), and a pair of fleece-lined slippers, since Bailey suffered from chronically cold feet. There was a lamp, of course, and a small table for such chair-side necessities as pipe and tobacco and a small glass of something. Stacks of books yet to be read—some stacks head high, some as high as the ceiling—were ranged against the walls. Pursuing a well-organized personal reading program, Bailey spent long, leisurely days in the library, and long, leisurely nights, too, for when you are deep underground (and to a badger, deep underground is the very best place in the world to be), it makes no matter whether the sun is riding across the sky or the moon, or whether the weather is fair or foul.

  If there was anything lacking about this arrangement, Bailey would not have been in a hurry to admit it. However, if he were to be completely honest with himself—that is, utterly and entirely candid, without reservation (which is of course not possible for anyone, not you, not I, and certainly not Bailey)—he might have owned up to feeling lonely on occasion. Granted, there is nothing better in the whole, wide world than books and the leisure time to read them, but lately Bailey had begun to fancy, deep down in the secret spaces of his badger heart, that it might be rather nice to have another animal around, one with whom he might hold a serious conversation about books and reading, over a cress sandwich, say, or a raisin scone and a cup of hot tea. Of course, it went without saying that the animal, whoever he was, should have a wide variety of interests and reading experiences, as well as being a clever conversationalist, accustomed to expressing his opinions confidently and without hesitation. A good argument now and then would do wonders to clear the cobwebs from his brain, Bailey felt.

  But since such an animal was not in the offing (Bailey suspected that none existed—other than himself, of course), the badger was content to go on just as he was, eating and sleeping in his three small rooms and spending the bulk of his days in his library.

  There was a great deal more to the Briar Bank sett than the section occupied by Bailey and his library. Bailey himself had no idea how old it was, only a vague sense that it dated back to the Very First Days when badgers came to live in the Land Between the Lakes, before the Bronze Age people built their sacred stone circles, before the methodical Romans sent their army to construct roads and forts and a Wall, before the Norsemen swept down on the north wind from the wintry lands at the top of the world. The sett’s tunnels and corridors and passageways made up an extensive underground network that went right the way through from one side of Briar Bank to the other and all across the middle, so that the whole of the hill that stretched along the western side of Moss Eccles Lake was honeycombed with badger burrows, now abandoned, unexplored, and empty.

  Even as a boy, Bailey had been busy with his books and had never gone to the trouble of exploring the whole sett—nor had his father nor his grandfather nor his great-grandfather. In fact, from things these badger forebears had said (or seemed to say, or had not said), he’d got the vague sort of sense that there might be an occupant—uncouth, unpleasant, or merely bad-mannered—living in some far, distant corner of the sett. Whatever or whoever it was didn’t bear looking into, and hence it was better to leave well enough alone. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” was the phrase that Bailey remembered, accompanied by a careless toss of the head and a nervous laugh.

  So, because Bailey was a bookish badger with no interest in stirring up sleeping creatures of any species, he confined himself to the small area in which he lived. That is, until the day some eight or nine months ago when he became aware that someone was attempting to dig into Briar Bank.

  Now, if you have read The Tale of Holly How, you know that digging into badger setts is a sadly common affair. Badger baiting—the appalling sport of pitting badgers against fierce dogs and letting them fight to the death—had been outlawed some years before the era of our Tales, and badger baiters were prosecuted whenever they could be caught. (In fact, as is related in Holly How, Bosworth Badger and young Thorn were largely responsible for the capture and arrest of a notorious badger baiter who had kidnapped Primrose and her daughter.)

  However, the law, in its usual contradictory way, continued to permit badger digging, which in the Land Between the Lakes, as elsewhere in England, was a favorite local sport. Farmers and gardeners and gamekeepers blamed badgers for killing chickens and eating strawberries and apples and garden vegetables, when they might better have blamed themselves for not fencing the badgers out and the chickens and garden in. And when they had nothing better to do, they set off with their terriers and their tongs and their shovels to dig their badger neighbors out of their dens and slaughter them.

  So you can understand why Bailey was alarmed when he discovered, one afternoon some months before our story, that someone was digging at the far end of Briar Bank. The badger had taken a recess from his reading and gone out with his basket to pick some salad burnet near the top of Briar Bank. It was a brilliant spring afternoon and the sun warmed his dark fur in an agreeable way, so that that he was feeling less grumpy than usual and had even begun to whistle a little tune to himself. But his pleasant mood was broken when, turning away from the salad burnet patch to go back home, he heard the sound that every badger dreads. It was the unmistakable metallic clang of shovel against stone.

  Suddenly apprehensive, Bailey dropped his basket and the fur rose on his shoulders. Digging! Who? Why? To his knowledge, this end of the sett had not been occupied for a very, very long time—centuries, in fact. But he made no effort to keep in touch with local affairs. A family of itinerant badgers could certainly have moved in without his knowing. If so, they were in serious danger. Besides, it was the principle of the thing. Digging could simply not be permitted at Briar Bank. He wasn’t sure what he could do to stop it—Bailey was a reader, not a warrior—but surely he could do something.

  The clanking sound was coming from the west end of Briar Bank. Keeping low to the ground, behind a scrim of bracken, Bailey crept to the edge of a rocky outcrop and looked down. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of what was going on below. Yes, there was a man with a shovel, and he was digging.

  But to his great surprise, the man wasn’t a farmer or a gardener or even a gamekeeper. It was Mr. Wickstead, the fine gentleman who owned Briar Bank Farm and lived in Briar Bank House, which was just visible down the hill and through the trees. Judging from his dress—tweed shooting jacket, tweed knickers, woolen socks, leather boots—and from the game bag leaning against a nearby tree, Mr. Wickstead had been out for an afternoon’s shooting, although why he should have brought a shovel instead of a gun, Bailey couldn’t guess. He was digging near an ancient entry to the sett that had been abandoned long, long ago—so long ago that a large yew had grown up over it, hiding the opening amongst its tangled roots. Lying on the ground beside him, nose on his paws, was a brown and black and white fox terrier named Pickles, with whom Bailey had a slight acquaintance.

  The dog, a boisterous young terrier who was somewhat overenthusiastic about life, belonged to Mr. Wickstead but was usually left in the care of Billie Stoker, Mr. Wickstead’s gardener. The terrier was called Pickles because he was always getting into trouble, not paying the proper attention or frolicking off to pursue his own pleasures. Bailey had met him some while before, on an evening when the
badger took himself down to the garden behind Briar Bank House in search of ripe gooseberries. Pickles ought to have been on patrol, of course—that was his job. This evening, however, the terrier didn’t appear until after Bailey had topped off his leisurely repast of gooseberries with a bit of fresh cheese from the dairy and was about to take his leave under the fence.

  “You must be Badger!” barked Pickles, bouncing up and down with all the exuberant impertinence of a friendly puppy. “I’ve been hearing a great deal about you. Nice to finally meet you at last, old fellow.”

  Bailey took a step backward. Dogs made him nervous. “You live here, I take it, then.”

  “Oh, yes.” Pickles bounced away, then back again. “I would’ve been round earlier, but I was delayed.”

  “Ah,” said Bailey. “And what did you say your name was?”

  “I’m Pickles.” Bounce, bounce.

  “I should say,” remarked Bailey ironically, beginning to feel that he had nothing to fear from this particular terrier. “Pity about the gooseberries. It seems they’re all gone. I hope you don’t mind.” He scowled. “I do so wish you would sit. It is excessively difficult to have a conversation with a bouncing ball.”

  Pickles stopped bouncing and sat down on his haunches, his tongue lolling out. “I don’t mind about the gooseberries. I heard Cook say she hoped she’d never see another one, so it’s just as well you finished them off.” He tilted his head, one terrier ear flopped up, the other down, and smiled gaily. “I was delayed because of an engagement this evening. I was sitting for my portrait.”

  “Do tell,” Bailey said, rolling his eyes. The dog was obviously full of himself—thought he was top dog when he was clearly no more than an unruly pup.

  “It was Miss Potter,” Pickles barked blithely. “She came to draw my picture. She’s putting me into one of her books, you see. I’m to be a shopkeeper. The book will have my name on the cover!” He did a lively little dance, stiff-legged. “The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, it’s called.”

  (As I’m sure you know, Pickles was telling the absolute truth. If you have Miss Potter’s book handy, you might turn to page thirteen, where you will see a drawing of Pickles standing behind the counter of his shop. Or page eighteen, where Pickles is writing down the amount Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle—a hedgehog who works as a laundress—owes for the bar of soap she is putting into her reticule.)

  “The Tale of Ginger and Pickles.” Bailey chuckled sarcastically. “Why, fancy that!” He had never heard of Miss Potter. Some figment of this terrier’s overactive imagination, no doubt. The badger did not for one single moment believe that anyone would put this silly puppy into a book. Why, the idea was absurd! Books were the most important things in the whole wide world. There was nothing better than books (unless it might be gooseberries), and certainly no place in them for impudent, self-important animals with not a brain in their empty heads.

  Pickles sobered. “I do so wish you would believe me,” he said plaintively, looking as if he were about to cry. “Nobody ever believes me about anything.”

  “Try telling the truth and they might,” Bailey said, very rudely. “I shan’t keep you, as you no doubt want to go off and admire yourself in the mirror. Convey my compliments to Cook and tell her that the gooseberries were excellent. Goodbye.”

  And off he went, just in time, too, for as he departed by the usual exit, he saw Billie Stoker, the gardener, running toward them. He was waving a rake and shouting angrily.

  “What’s wrong with you, dog? That big auld badger has been raidin’ t’ gooseberries again. Get after him, blast it! He’s goin’ under t’ fence!”

  But of course, Bailey was already gone, laughing up his sleeve. And since that evening, the badger had made a good many trips back to the Briar Bank garden and orchard, where he helped himself to everything from ripe apples to lettuce and strawberries and the delicious earthworms that thrived in the decaying layers of Billie Stoker’s compost heap, which Bailey delighted in rummaging through. Whenever he had seen Pickles, they had exchanged pleasant greetings. Whatever else could be said of the terrier, he was not much of a watchdog.

  Now, Bailey parted the bracken and poked his head over the ledge to get a better look. He saw a torn, dirty sack of some sort—was it leather? he couldn’t quite tell from this distance—lying beside the dog, its contents spilled on the ground. Bailey guessed that Mr. Wickstead had dispatched the terrier into the hole after a badger or a mole or a rabbit. Pickles had, instead, encountered the sack and dragged it out.

  Bailey sat back, now less concerned, since Mr. Wickstead did not appear to be digging for badgers. Perhaps he himself had hidden the sack in the burrow and had come back to retrieve it. Or perhaps someone else had hidden whatever-it-was and gone home to tea and then got busy with the post and forgot about it. One way or another, a hole in the ground, whether man-made or badger-made, would make a convenient hiding place for any number of things, valuable or valueless and anywhere in between.

  But when Bailey peered more closely at what had spilt out of the sack, it seemed to him that he was looking at something . . . well, valuable. On the ground lay several handfuls of coins, a slim dagger, what appeared to be a brooch or a buckle, a heavy chain, and a sizable goblet. And in spite of the fact that the sack itself appeared to be very old, its contents sparkled in the sunlight as if they had been just recently polished.

  Bailey stared at the bright heap, astonished. Why, it looked like—

  At that moment, Mr. Wickstead stopped digging, threw down his shovel, and cried, “In with you, Pickles! Go, boy!” The terrier scrambled to his feet, ran to the burrow, and wriggled eagerly inside. After only a few minutes, he was backing out, his tail wagging frantically. He was pulling something with him—another leather sack, it looked like, whilst the eccentric Mr. Wickstead danced from one foot to another, waving his arms and crying out such things as, “Oh, my goodness gracious!” and “Dear me, dear me, dear me!” and “Just look what you’ve found, you clever fellow! Another bag of treasure!”

  For that’s what it was, or what it seemed to be. It was a small leather sack, as full of glittering gold—coins, jewelry, a chain, another dagger—as the first one had been. Mr. Wickstead squatted down, poured everything on the ground in front of him, and began pawing through it, exclaiming excitedly as he did so.

  “My, this ring is a beauty!” he cried. And, “Oh, here we have something truly unique! Never seen anything like it, never!” And finally, “Topping, I’d say! Simply topping! Pickles, old chap, my hat’s off to you!” And with that, he jumped up, doffed his hat, and bowed neatly from his waist to the dog. “If you hadn’t carried that dagger home, m’boy, I would never have known this treasure was here. I owe it all to you, you clever little fellow, you.”

  Ah, Bailey thought. So that was what had happened. Pickles had been prospecting on his own, and had struck gold.

  “It was nothing, really, sir,” Pickles barked modestly. “It just seemed like something you should know about, given the kinds of antiquities you like to collect.” He sat back on his haunches, tilted his head, and grinned from ear to ear in the cocky way of fox terriers.

  Mr. Wickstead fetched his game bag and put the treasure carefully inside, along with the two leather sacks. Then he went back to the hole and began scooping up dirt and leaves to disguise his digging. Straightening, he looked down at what he had done and began to speak, as if to himself. “No one must know,” he said, so low that Bailey had to strain to hear. “The law about treasure trove is very clear. If word of this gets out, I’ll be forced to hand it over to the Crown. All of it. All these remarkable golden beauties.”

  Pickles looked concerned. “I didn’t see any crowns in those bags,” he barked, “but you can certainly depend on me not to say a word.”

  “Not a word, not a word, not a single, solitary word,” Mr. Wickstead repeated to himself, picking up the bag and shouldering the shovel. “I must be as silent as the grave. As tightlipped as a tomb. As quiet as a mouse.
As—”

  “I swear,” said Pickles. “You can count on me. Wild horses couldn’t drag the story out of me.”

  “Harrumph,” Bailey said disgustedly, under his breath. Pickles would undoubtedly dash straight down to the village and tell all the other dogs about his find. And he would be sure to exaggerate it. When the terrier was finished with the story, it would be known in the farthest corners of the Land Between the Lakes, and the treasure—if that’s what it was—would be worth a king’s ransom.

  I am sorry to tell you that the badger was at least partially right in his prediction, although he did not learn this until some months later. Pickles had no sooner finished his tea that evening than he romped right off to Belle Green, where his friend Rascal lived. He didn’t intend to tell Rascal the story, of course. He was just so exuberantly full and bubbling over with what had happened that he simply couldn’t hold it in. The story erupted and exploded and burst and poured out of him as if it were hot molten lava and he were a volcano, and before he realized what he was doing, he had told the whole thing, every bit, down to the part where he promised Mr. Wickstead he’d never ever say a word, not a single, solitary word to anyone. At which point he was abysmally ashamed and embarrassed—for all of fifteen seconds, after which he was his usual bouncy, irrepressible puppy-self again and quite proud of finding the treasure.

  Now, Rascal, a fawn-colored Jack Russell terrier who kept himself informed about all village affairs, was very much impressed by Pickles’ story. He was so impressed, in fact, that he repeated it to Max the Manx when he encountered him later that same evening, out behind the Llewellyns’ barn. It is not clear whether Rascal failed to get the facts right or whether Max somehow got the facts wrong, but either way, the result was an increase in the number of bags dragged out of the badger hole, from two bags to three.