I sent him on his way having charged him a ha’penny for the medicine.
*
… only product of which was a foulsmelling grease, which I have yet to find a use for.
*
… pound for pound apples are worth the same as horses …
… and flung the entire pudding, in its bowl, across the paddock and into the dyke, a distance of some fifty-seven yards. The pudding was sadly ruined by ditch water but the bowl had miraculously stayed in one piece.
For the next few hours Asa sat inside the wooden pedestal shining the torch through the pages and searching for some sort of lead. When he had gone through a pile he would emerge, lie on his back, stretch his limbs, and then get a new pile of documents to go through.
The pages at the top of the trunk seemed to have been thrown in as an afterthought and the further he dug down the more ordered the documents became with projects bound into ledgers, dated journals and some printed material that was written the right way around. There were also lots of maps, graphs and diagrams, detailed watercolours of plants and animals. Asa felt he was close, but could still spot nothing relating specifically to the fairies.
The town clock chimed every hour but nonetheless Asa had lost all track of time. Did I just hear the clock? Was that three or four o’clock? Did I fall asleep? The spidery writing was becoming harder and harder to focus on and his head began to pound.
Reaching the end of a particularly big stack of papers he was shocked to count seven chimes of the town clock and he peeked out of his box to see the sky outside beginning to lighten. He had an hour, hour and a half at most, before Mr Trap came to open up. There was one more hefty armful to go through and as there was now more light he spread the sheets out on the marble floor. He had given up trying to read the words and was now just scanning the drawings and paintings. That’s when he came to a large leather-bound book with two straps and buckles that held it shut. He undid the buckles and opened the book to find that it was, in fact, a box with a hinged lid, the inside of which was a mirror. Inside the box was a roll of parchments tied with a black ribbon and two smaller leather-bound volumes, the first of which had a title scorched on to the front. Asa lifted the book, held it to the mirror and read the title:
The Windvale Sprites
This was it! He had found it. He didn’t even bother to open the book but put it back into the mirrored box with the roll of paper and shut the lid. He placed the box in his hiding place and started to load the rest of the work back into the trunk. Without the box there was extra space in the trunk and as he pushed the lid closed the mechanisms whirled back into action and the trunk locked itself shut.
Asa squeezed back into the box and waited for somebody to come and open up. Then a ghastly thought occurred to him. Today was Sunday! The library was closed all day! But just as a panic was starting to rise Asa heard the unmistakable sound of Mr Trap’s irritating footsteps approaching the library steps and he remembered the television broadcast and breathed a sigh of relief. He heard Trap cross the entrance looking for the key to the reading room, then he stopped and all went quiet for a moment, as if he had spotted something. Asa held his breath and could hear his own heart pumping in his chest. Mr Trap took a large breath in through his nose seeming to notice the strong, musty smell of the papers. But he obviously thought no more of it and let himself into the reading room, switching on lights as he went. Asa looked out and, through the window in the inner door, watched until Mr Trap went into the staffroom to prepare the first of many cups of foul-smelling ‘tea’. Then Asa slipped out of the front door with the large package under his arm and made his way home in an excited daze.
10
The Windvale Sprites
Mum and Dad were up and packing for their trip and were surprised to see Asa back so early from his sleepover.
‘Oh yes,’ said Asa, thinking on his feet, ‘Chris’s family all go to church on a Sunday.’
‘Do they?’ said Mum, surprised. ‘Well, I never would have guessed.’
She was eyeing the box under Asa’s arm.
‘And I wanted to get back and read these comics that Chris gave me,’ answered Asa before she had a chance to ask. She sniffed the air.
‘What are they? They smell old.’
‘Yes,’ said Asa, again making it up on the spot, ‘they’re Chris’s grandfather’s comics … Space Dan and the … Space … Rockets …’
‘Right …’ said Mum, and he was able to slip past and up the stairs.
*
Back in his room Asa took out the box and carefully removed the first of the leather-bound volumes, opening it on the first page. He set the mirrored box on the carpet, sat cross-legged in front of it, and began to read:
I have discovered a colony of creatures on the Moor that I believe are new to science. At first glance they are insects: giant dragonflies; but on closer inspection appear to own human characteristics though I have yet to capture a specimen living or dead. I have spied them thrice at a distance and then only fleetingly.
The clearest view was that of a pair who were tussling or playing. No sooner had I spotted them but they somehow became aware of me and looked about as if they sensed they were under observation. Whether they saw or smelled me I know not but they were gone in the direction away from me in a flash. All three sightings were within a mile stretch of the river course, on the south-facing banks of the downs. I shall return next week to this spot.
The first few entries in the journal did not throw up much more new evidence. Tooth’s next few trips were failures followed by a few more fleeting glimpses.
Asa took the roll of parchments and carefully unfurled it to discover a series of hand-drawn maps of Windvale Moor. These were marked with different coloured symbols indicating Tooth’s sightings and observations. The maps also confirmed that the building he had spotted on his trip to the moor was indeed Benjamin Tooth’s old farmhouse as he had suspected.
Turning back to the journal Asa came to a chapter entitled:
On experiments in trapping techniques
From the diagrams it was clear to him that Benjamin Tooth had no regard for the lives of the sprites, just as he had none for the Mereton Warbler. The first ideas he tried were rabbit- and bird-catching methods: wire snares and miniature sprung metal traps, but these had apparently been unsuccessful, at least in catching sprites:
… the trouble being that I do not yet know what the beasts feed on. Those spring traps I baited with honey remained set, those I laced with flying ants catch’d meadow pipits. No matter, I shall dine on pipit pudding and ponder.
The experiments got steadily crueller, incorporating barbed hooks and sharp blades, wire nets and pits of broken glass but nothing seemed to work and Tooth’s writing got scratchier and angrier.
But whatever he tried next must have worked because when Asa turned the page he was presented with a beautifully detailed watercolour painting.
For some reason this was almost better proof to Asa than the body in the pond or even the live ones he saw on the moor. Those already seemed like distant memories but here was hard evidence that somebody else had seen them too and Asa studied the picture closely for a long time.
The creature in the painting appeared to be older than the ones Asa had seen. Its skin looked darker and more weathered and the thorns running in seams up its arm and legs were much longer. It seemed to be clinging on to the stem of a plant with its wings folded down its back towards the artist. They were the same dragonfly wings as Asa had seen but much more brightly coloured with a large ‘eye’ like a peacock feather at the tip. But though it was beautiful, there was something in the creature’s eyes that disturbed Asa.
He turned to the next page of text and began to read in the mirror:
At last! I have captured a live specimen! The people of Mereton will rue the day they ever hounded me from their stinking town. I shall be rich!
First things first: to give the beast a name. Pending a thorough internal
examination I have provisionally classified it as a new species of the homo genus displaying characteristics of the ‘Odonata’ order of insects. Therefore it shall be called ‘Homo Insecta Dentii’ (the latter for myself) but it shall be known as The Windvale Sprite.
The trapping method that eluded me for so long was, as is often the case, so simple as to be laughable. I soon found from my observations that there are two things the creatures cannot resist:
1: Any crack or crevice, ditch or dyke they can’t help but explore. (They live, from all I can gather, in old warrens that the rabbits have either abandoned or been chased from, as I was from Mereton.)
2: (And this is the thunderbolt!) Shiny things! Be it a new penny or a shard of broken glass, if it reflects the sun they want it and will go to any lengths to get it.
My discovery was made thus:
Two days ago, whilst keeping my heathside watch I happened to drift to sleep in the afternoon sun. I was presently awoken by a buzzing sound and on stirring surprised two of the creatures who made off with great haste across the moor. I looked down to discover three of my silver coat buttons gone, the thread bitten through. Stolen! It was only then that I thought back and remembered other items mysteriously vanished: a shoe buckle, a watch chain and my amber hatpin. All no doubt pilfered by those winged rapscallions.
But they are sly! Or clever, for when the traps were obvious they stayed away, sensing danger and anything mechanical or sprung they would steer clear of.
And the solution was a bucket. A mere bucket from my yard, baited with a silver sixpence, sunk into the ground with a heavy lid propped up on a stick that I pulled away on a twine.
The first two attempts brought them close but they sensed or smelled me and fled. Working on the theory that they have an extraordinary sense of smell, on the third attempt I endeavoured not to touch any of the components of the trap with my hands and wrapped my feet in wads of grass lest my footprints should carry my scent.
And that was the key! I waited ’til it was inside and tweaked the twine from my position downwind. The lid came down and the prize was mine.
The following pages had more sketches of the creature from different angles and detailed drawings of its wings and limbs. But in every one the sprite seemed to be trying to hide with that same frightened look in its eyes.
11
Back to the Moor
‘Asa!’ Mum was calling from downstairs so Asa hurriedly swept the books and papers under his bed and leaned over the banisters.
‘Yes?’
‘What time are you off?’ asked Mum.
‘Off where?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? The school trip, your biology field trip, it’s today, isn’t it?’
Asa had forgotten, or at least he’d forgotten to tell his parents that it was cancelled. But just at that moment a plan occurred to him: with Mum and Dad away at his grandparents’ he would be free to go and spend some time on the moor trying to catch a sprite.
‘Ah yes,’ he replied, ‘we’ve got to be at school at midday.’
‘Well, we’re leaving soon,’ she said. ‘We can give you a lift with all your stuff.’ Asa thought fast. ‘It’s OK, Chris’s mum is picking me up on the way past.’
His mum seemed to be satisfied with this fictional arrangement and so he went down and kissed her goodbye before going back to his room.
He spent a few hours meticulously planning his expedition like a great explorer of old. He drew up lists of provisions and spread Tooth’s maps and charts on the floor. Some of them showed smaller areas of the moor in greater detail and marked out entire colonies of sprites and the locations of their warrens. The maps were, of course, two hundred years old but Asa thought that even if the colonies had moved on the moor it would give him an idea of the sort of terrain the creatures preferred.
The day before the storm Asa’s dad had taken him to get all the things he would need for the school trip and they had remained packed in his new rucksack at the end of the bed. He checked everything and repacked the bag. He had a brand-new tent (unfortunately it was bright yellow but Asa had some camouflage ideas), an ingenious tin spirit stove which all packed away inside a small saucepan, a sleeping bag and a roll-mat. To this he added his binoculars and the maps of the moor. Clothes, Asa decided, were not a priority so he packed as little as possible but made sure he had enough waterproofs. The remaining space in the rucksack he packed with food supplies raided from the kitchen: a few cans, dried noodles, cereal bars. He envisaged being hungry by the time he got home but he didn’t have the space to carry more.
Next he went about collecting the bits he needed for the trap according to the instructions in the book. So as not to leave fingerprints that the sprites might smell he wore some old gardening gloves to pick up a tin bucket which he tied on to the side of his bike. He found a trowel and various lengths of twine in the shed and a spool of fishing wire that he put inside. Then he selected three large old sweet jars in which he hoped to put his captured specimens.
With everything secured he hauled the rucksack on to his bag and wheeled the bike out on to the pavement.
He soon realised, as he struggled to keep the bike upright, that this time the journey would take a lot longer than two hours. On long, flat stretches he could get up to a relatively good speed but as soon as there was the slightest incline he had to dismount and walk. As he pushed the laden bike up one of these hills with the jars and buckets clanking he imagined he looked like Benjamin Tooth returning to his farmhouse after an unsuccessful trip to town to sell his potions.
The journey to Windvale took him most of the day. Not only did he have a heavy load but now he felt the need to hide in the bushes at the side of the road every time a car came by. It was quite conceivable that a friend of his parents could be driving past and recognise him, and he did look slightly conspicuous, like a travelling tinker.
*
The journey took the rest of the afternoon and the shadows were beginning to lengthen when Asa eventually arrived on the edge of the Moor. The bike was now a hindrance as he could not cycle across the long grass and so he left it well hidden under a rocky bank. With the bucket and jars slung about him Asa now resembled some kind of one-man band as he set out on to the moor. The rucksack was heavy and he soon decided to look for a likely base camp so that he could dump most of the weight. He headed north towards the stretch of river where Tooth had sighted the sprites most frequently. He came to a point where the ground fell steeply away below a long ridge that sheltered numerous crags and hollows. Asa found one, not quite deep enough to be called a cave but it was well sheltered from the wind and there was room to pitch his tent. Once it was up he tied bunches of grass and reeds to the outside until it looked like a part of the landscape and he put his rucksack inside.
He sat down in front of the tent and spent an hour scanning the landscape through his binoculars. Birds and insects went about their business in the long grass but no sign of the hobby and no sprites.
Before too long his eyes started to droop and, though it was still early evening, the previous night’s lack of sleep and the exhausting journey there was taking its toll. He crawled into his sleeping bag and lay for a while listening to the strange silence of the moor. The wind ruffled the tent and he heard the occasional shriek of a barn owl but before very long he was fast asleep.
12
Tooth’s House
It took Asa a few minutes to figure out where he was when he opened his eyes. The yellow light in the tent was unfamiliar and he lay there for a while trying to remember.
Emerging slowly, he blinked in the sunlight and looked around. The air was chilly and the grass was damp with dew but the sky was clear and cloudless with the promise of a beautiful autumn day.
He set up his little stove and heated water for a cup of tea, warmed a tin of vegetable soup and as he ate he thought about the day ahead. The first thing he wanted to do was take a closer look at Benjamin Tooth’s farmhouse. He didn’t ex
pect to find anything there but as it was a definite, stone-built part of the story it seemed a good place to start.
He cleared away the stove, zipped up the tent, slung his sack over his shoulder and set out.
As he approached Asa was again overcome by that self-conscious feeling of being watched.
The house was a solid, stone building with a slate roof and, though it had done well to stand up to the ravages of time, the moor was slowly reclaiming it. Grass sprouted between the roof tiles giving it the appearance of a balding thatched cottage and the walls were covered with creepers. At one end a tree had grown up inside the house and burst through the roof where the wind made the branches grow horizontally. An ornate but broken weathervane on a crumbling chimney made the whole place look like a crackpot mechanical device that had been abandoned on the moor. It all fitted in with the description of Tooth and his weird lifestyle.
The front of the house had the look of a stern face frowning down at him and a shiver ran up Asa’s spine. Reaching the edge of what was once a garden surrounding the house he hesitated. The perimeter drystone wall had melted over the years to a long, shallow mound of flat rocks, completely covered in places by a blanket of turf. He picked his way over the boulders and rusty iron railings and made his way towards the entrance.
The Windvale Sprites Page 4
