The Tale of Briar Bank

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Stricken with horror, the badger tried to run, but fear held him fast and he could not move. There was no refuge, anyway, no rock, no tree to shelter him, only flat, empty, open ice. As the dragon wheeled on one wing and whirled back for him, he could only crouch and cover his head with his arms as, with one huge, horny claw, the beast, belching flame, snatched the burlap sack from his shoulder. With a blazing pain, his right sleeve and the fur on his paw caught fire.

  “Thorvaald!” he cried frantically, clutching his burnt forearm. “Don’t you know me, Thorvaald? It’s me, Bailey! Your friend!”

  But even as the wind plucked the words from his lips and tossed them like fragile snowflakes into the cold, gray air, the badger understood. This wasn’t Thorvaald. This was a larger, heavier dragon, a malicious, merciless, murderous dragon. It could only be Yllva. Yllva, the she-wolf, Thorvaald’s stern taskmistress. The dragon who could not control her fiery temper.

  And he also knew why she had attacked him. She thought there was something else in the sack he was carrying—not a simple pair of willow-twig snowshoes, but the treasure that had been stolen from Thorvaald once and was now (she thought) being stolen again! She thought he was a thief. And now she was circling again, turning in a spiraling inward gyre, whistling shrilly, her mighty wings stroking the air. She was coming back to punish him for his audacity. She was coming in for the kill.

  “No, Yllva!” he cried. “No! It’s not the treasure! It’s only my snowshoes!”

  But his terrified protest was as a whisper against the furious screeching of the dragon. She had circled for the strike, turning on her flame-thrower full blast. Fire flashed from her nostrils, smoke billowed out of her mouth, her tail lashed. She was plunging straight for him like a flaming arrow. If he somehow managed to escape incineration (unlikely!), that tail would knock him into tomorrow.

  So Bailey sought the only refuge that was available on that wide, frozen lake. He took a dozen running steps to his right, heading straight for the patch of ice that Yllva had turned to steam and water with her blast of fire. Without a second’s thought, he dove straight in, plunging down, down, down into the inky blackness, preferring death by drowning to death by incineration. And as he sank like a heavy stone to the muddy bottom, the badger had only two regrets. He was very sorry that he had not finished cataloguing his library. And he was very, very sorry that he would never again see his dear friend Thorvaald.

  But death was not to come so quickly, for (while this is not a widely known fact) badgers can swim. They definitely do not enjoy swimming. In fact, they will avoid it whenever possible. But they will swim—an ungainly kind of doggie-paddle—when it is a matter of life and death. And since animals, unlike humans, are rarely inclined to give up, even in the most desperate of situations, Bailey had no sooner sunk to the bottom than he kicked off his boots, struggled out of his thick jacket and muffler, and rose, amid a froth of bubbles, to the top of the water. He surfaced, coughing and sputtering and flailing, sank briefly, then surfaced again, gasping for air.

  He shook the water out of his eyes and peered anxiously around for the dragon. Where was she? Was she coming back? But she was nowhere in sight. She probably thought the world had seen the last of the badger when he dove into the lake, and for a moment he felt a sharp sense of relief. He had escaped being burnt to a cinder. But now, he realized, he faced a different fate. The ice had been melted by the dragon’s breath, yes, and the water had been turned to steam. But that was only a temporary situation. The lake was incredibly, unspeakably cold, and the chill penetrated into the badger’s very bones. His teeth were chattering and he was shivering uncontrollably. He had to get out of this icy water before he froze to death.

  But that was easier said than done. He paddled awkwardly to the nearest edge of ice, grasped it, and tried to pull himself out. But his paw—burnt very badly when he had flung his arm over his head to ward off the dragon’s hot breath—was useless. And worse, the ice was so brittle that it broke off in his grasp. With a despairing cry, he tumbled backward and sank down into the black water. There was no way to pull himself out!

  But Bailey was not a badger who gave up easily. Trying again, breaking the edge of the ice again, sinking again—he repeated his effort so many times that he lost all track, so that finally, all he could do was cling, spent and breathless, to the crumbling edge of the ice. He was so cold now that his arms and legs were numb and he could scarcely breathe. He knew he would be dead in only a few more minutes.

  “And that was when I found you!” Thorn exclaimed, getting up to poke the fire. “I was coming along the shore of the lake, admiring the way the snow lay along the bare branches, and there you were, out there in the lake, thrashing about. Not that far from shore, luckily. Close enough that I could crawl out and reach you with a dead willow branch.”

  “Sounds like you took a chance,” Bosworth said. “It was a very brave thing to do, Thorn. I shall record this rescue in the History. ” He stifled a shiver, not wanting to think what would have happened if the ice had given way under Thorn and both badgers had ended up in the water. They wouldn’t be here now, telling the story.

  “Not brave at all,” Thorn replied modestly, ducking his head. “Mr. Bailey was the brave one, diving into that water.”

  “But you were the one who fished me out,” retorted Bailey. “Just in time, too. I doubt if I could have hung on much longer.”

  “It was a lucky thing that the dragon flew away.” Thorn managed a small smile. “If she’d stayed around, there might have been two roasted badgers. I hope she’s gone for good.”

  Bailey harrumphed. “She might be back when she finds out what was in that sack,” he said. “In fact, it’s quite possible that she’s checked the dragon’s lair, found the treasure, and carried it off. I hope so, actually. That stuff has brought nothing but unhappiness. The villagers may be right when they talk about a curse—although it’s not what they think.”

  “And what about Thorvaald?” Bosworth inquired. “What do you think happened to him?”

  “I think he flew off because he couldn’t bear the thought of returning to guard that treasure,” Bailey replied sadly. “And I can’t say that I blame him, can you? Just think of all the centuries he’s wasted, guarding that gold. And why? To what good end? He probably flew as fast as he could, as far as he could. Heaven only knows where he’s got to by now.”

  The clock chimed.

  “Why, bless my stripes, look at the hour,” Bosworth exclaimed. “It’s almost time for luncheon.”

  The words were no more out of his mouth than there was a rap at the door and Thorn’s mother, Primrose, opened it and came in.

  “Parsley says she’s about to put lunch on the table,” she said. “It’s just soup and sandwiches, and the soup is in the pot over the fire, so you can come whenever you like. Oh, and we have a new pair of guests.” She smiled at Bosworth. “One of your favorite little animals has dropped in.”

  “Oh?” Bosworth asked, wondering which of his favorites had come calling on such a snowy day. “And who is that?”

  “Tuppenny, the guinea pig from Tidmarsh Manor,” said Primrose happily, for Tuppenny (who had helped to save her and her two cubs from the horrible badger baiter) was a special favorite of hers, too.

  “Tuppenny!” Thorn exclaimed. “Tidmarsh Manor isn’t that far away, but it must have been hard going for a small creature to get up to the top of Holly How through such deep snow.”

  “Actually, I think not,” said Bailey. “Mice and voles and the like have an easier time of it than we badgers, especially when the snow is crusted. They simply scamper over the top.”

  “Well, however he got here, I’ll be very glad to see him,” said Bosworth, pushing himself up out of his comfortable leather chair. “And you say he’s brought a friend? That other guinea pig who comes with him sometimes—what’s her name? Thruppence?”

  “No, not Thruppence,” Primrose replied. “This is an animal we’ve never met before. Says his n
ame is Thackeray.” She hesitated. “I rather think he must be running away from something. He doesn’t look very happy.”

  “Another runaway, eh?” said Bosworth. It wasn’t unusual for animals who had got lost or had left unhappy situations to find their way to The Brockery, where they could spend all the time they liked, resting and recuperating. “Well, I daresay we can find room for one more, can’t we, Primrose?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Primrose said with a warm smile, adding, “The soup is potato, if anyone is interested.”

  Are you as surprised as I am to hear that Thackeray has somehow made his way to The Brockery? Why, the last time we saw him, it was the previous afternoon, just at teatime, and he and Nutmeg were safely fastened in their cage at Miss Potter’s Hill Top Farm.

  How in the world did he get all the way to the top of Holly How?

  I think we shall have to find out.

  17

  In Which Miss Potter Makes a Deposit, Accepts a Payment, and Arranges Lessons

  It turned out that Mr. Heelis had been overly optimistic about the number of persons who could fit comfortably into his sleigh, along with all their bundles and boxes. So it was actually a good thing that, at the last minute, Deirdre Malone was not able to go. Mrs. Sutton had developed a migraine—small wonder, Beatrix thought sympathetically, given all that poor lady had to cope with. Deirdre was required to stay behind and manage the children.

  Deirdre conveyed this information in a note she sent to Hill Top Farm by way of the oldest Sutton boy, Jamie. The note ended with this: “Thought you would like to know that Major Kittredge stopped by last evening and paid his bill in full. And not long after, here came Captain Woodcock, and paid his! They made a point of saying they hoped Mr. Sutton would never leave Sawrey. Mrs. Sutton is greatly cheered (in spite of her headache). Thank you, Miss Potter!” Beatrix had to smile, although she thought that Deirdre should thank Dimity Kittredge, who had no doubt told her husband and her brother what to do. Still, it did sound as if the project was moving along, with all due speed.

  But even without Deirdre, getting everyone and everything into the sleigh was a challenge, for Miss Barwick’s boxes and bags of baked goods occupied the whole of the rear seat, and the cage containing Miss Potter’s guinea pigs had to go on the floor. Beatrix offered to sit in the back and hold some of the boxes on her lap, but Mr. Heelis wouldn’t hear of it. And so, quite without meaning it to happen, she found herself tightly wedged into the front seat between Mr. Heelis and Miss Barwick. In one sense this was a very uncomfortable place to be (considering her friend’s feelings about Mr. Heelis) and in another sense it felt very comfortable indeed. Beatrix promised herself that on the return trip, Miss Barwick would sit beside Mr. Heelis and she would sit in the back.

  And then she simply relaxed and enjoyed herself as Mr. Heelis’ handsome gray horse pulled the sleigh swiftly along the lane. They seemed to fly, barely touching the earth between snow-frosted stone walls, under trees glossed with ice, and beside Wilfin Beck, its sparkling surface frozen and still. It was a magical scene, a winter fairyland, and under its enchanting spell the lingering worries about London vanished, Beatrix’s heart lightened, and her spirits soared. The three of them were very gay, as Mr. Heelis had promised, and there was a great deal of lighthearted banter and joking and laughing and even a snatch or two of song, until Beatrix thought that she had never had quite so much fun in her life—an irony, she felt with some guilt, since they were on their way to a funeral luncheon.

  In the rear, however, things were not going so well. The wind was cold, the sleigh bounced, and the guinea pigs were tossed from one corner of their cage to the other.

  “Enough!” Thackeray burst out, trying desperately to hold on. “I’ve had enough! I simply cannot take being bandied about from pillar to post any longer! I have absolutely no desire to share a cage with three other guinea pigs at this place where we are going. And I am willing to wager as much as you like that if I stay there, I will never see a page of another book.” He gave a gloomy cry. “I must find a better place to live. I simply must! A life without reading is not worth living.”

  “There is nothing at all you can do about it,” Nutmeg replied crossly, bounced about and quite out of temper herself. “A guinea pig’s destiny is in the hands of the Big Folk.”

  But as it turned out, this was not true. There was something that Thackeray could do about it, and he set about doing it just as soon as they arrived at Tidmarsh Manor. Miss Potter took the guinea pigs upstairs and deposited them into a commodious cage in Miss Caroline’s school room. Caroline held Nutmeg and petted her, but Thackeray went into a corner and sulked.

  “You’ll need to be careful around him for a few days,” Beatrix cautioned. “I’m afraid he’s developing a few bad habits. If he doesn’t behave himself, please let me know and I’ll take him back to London.”

  Then she and Caroline and Miss Burns, Caroline’s governess, went downstairs so Caroline could play the piano piece she had been practicing for the past month. On the way, Caroline confided that there was nothing in the world she loved more than playing the piano.

  “I’m glad you’ve found something you enjoy,” Beatrix said. “That’s what makes life worth living.”

  The minute Miss Potter left them, Thackeray went to talk to Tuppenny (who has rather grown up since we met him in The Tale of Holly How). It took Thackeray only fifteen minutes’ conversation to convey the earnestness of his desire to find another place to live, where he could get off by himself with a good book.

  “Well, I don’t know about books,” said Tuppenny doubtfully. He had once belonged to Miss Potter and served as a model for some of her drawings, but had not had an opportunity to learn to read. “I do know where you can find lodgings, however—if you’re serious about not stopping here, that is.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Although I must say, old chap, I really think you should reconsider. It’s awf’lly nice here. Good food, plenty of room, a garden to run in when the weather’s fine, even an outdoor hutch. And Miss Caroline plays the piano, so we do enjoy a bit of culture.”

  “Oh, I’m serious, all right,” Thackeray replied grimly. “Nothing against you, of course, Tuppenny. You seem like a very fine animal, and I’m glad to know you. But frankly, it’s the females I have an aversion to.” He nodded at Nutmeg and Thruppence, who had put their heads together and were chattering nineteen to the dozen, like old friends instead of brand-new acquaintances. “One was bad enough—talk, talk, talk, all day and half the night. But two are utterly unendurable. If I stay here, their constant prittle-prattle will surely drive me out of my mind.”

  Tuppenny chuckled ruefully. “The girls are a bit clattery, I will admit, and if you don’t like that sort of thing, well, you don’t, that’s all. I’ve learnt to put up with Thruppence, but every now and then things get on my nerves and I have to get away myself. Since you’re determined, I’ll show you where I go for a bit of a rest. It’ll be a challenge, given the snow, but I’m sure we’ll make it.”

  And with that, Tuppenny outlined the plan of action that, in less than an hour, brought Tuppenny and Thackeray to The Brockery, just in time for a sandwich and a bowl of Parsley’s delicious potato soup. During lunch, Thackeray sat next to Bailey Badger, and the two struck up a conversation over a passing mention of a book. Within two minutes they were fast friends, and in another hour—

  But we must save this part of the story until later, for other things are happening—important things—that we need to observe.

  While this hastily plotted escape was taking place upstairs in Caroline’s school room, Beatrix and Mr. Heelis, in the company of Lady Longford and Miss Burns, were seated in the drawing room, listening to Caroline—who was now nearly fifteen, and quite the young lady—play Mozart’s “Fantasy in C-minor” on the piano. She played very well, Beatrix thought, and was glad to whisper a compliment to Miss Burns, whose employment as Caroline’s governess she had recommended.

  “Caroline has a very real ta
lent,” Miss Burns replied, in a whisper, “and she is quickly moving beyond my ability to teach her. She would love to have lessons with a real teacher—she’s begged again and again. It’s a pity she can’t.”

  “And why can’t she?” Beatrix asked. “The last time I was here, I heard Mrs. Rachel King play, at St. Michael’s in Hawkshead. She is a fine performer and is said to be an excellent teacher. I understand that she is taking a few students. With Caroline’s talent—”

  Miss Burns slid a meaningful glance in the direction of Lady Longford, who was listening to her granddaughter’s playing with closed eyes, lightly tapping her walking stick in time to the music.

  Beatrix understood. Caroline, the only daughter of her ladyship’s estranged son, was orphaned at eleven, when both her father and her mother died in her native New Zealand. Lady Longford had at first refused to take the girl, but when Will Heelis pointed out that her ladyship was Caroline’s closest relative and Vicar Sackett implored her to do her Christian duty, she had at last agreed. But Lady Longford hated to spend a shilling she didn’t have to. She hadn’t been eager to hire a governess to continue Caroline’s education, and no doubt she viewed piano lessons as an unnecessary extravagance.

  Miss Burns sighed. “I’ve even suggested that we plan a recital—nothing elaborate, just a short performance for the vicar and Major and Mrs. Kittredge and Captain Woodcock. It would be good for Caroline to have something to work toward. But her ladyship is . . . opposed.” She sighed again.

  Beatrix frowned thoughtfully. Something would have to be done, but what?