The front door to the farmhouse was solid wood and, though the rest of the house was crumbling, with windows and shutters hanging from their hinges, the door was locked and impassable.
Asa made his way around the side to where he found a low window with cracked green glass. It was dark inside, but Asa could just make out the shapes of furniture and tattered drapes hanging from the walls.
Around the side he found a small outhouse with a door at the back which led into the main building. This outhouse was filled with old tools and what was once a small handcart that had long since separated into its individual components. A jumble of twisted iron parts Asa discovered were animal traps rusted into a solid, tangled mass like a deadly tumbleweed and next to it a pile of wooden half-barrels and buckets. He nervously stepped over the junk towards the door which was open a crack and he peered through. There seemed at first to be music coming from within but he soon realised it was just the wind whistling through holes in the house like a church organ. He pushed the door – it didn’t budge. Either the hinges had rusted solid or there was something behind it, so Asa gave a hard shove. The door creaked and splintered and went crashing to the floor, whipping up a dense cloud of dust and cobwebs. With a new channel to escape by the wind rushed out, blowing dust into Asa’s face. He stumbled blindly back into the junk, sneezing and rubbing his stinging eyes.
Once recovered he gingerly took a few steps into the house.
What he found inside was weird. It was obvious that the remote building hadn’t had a visitor for two hundred years. Instead of the empty rooms and broken furniture that Asa had expected, he found the rooms filled with stuff, piles of it, all covered with a thick layer of dust. He shone the torch around. Mouldy books and stacks of paper, bizarre scientific instruments and rows of bottles and jars covered every surface. It looked as though it had been used as some sort of laboratory.
There were threadbare rugs on the floor, moth-eaten hangings on the walls and, on a solid oak table by a window, a bottle of wine and a glass, the contents of which had long since evaporated leaving a dark residue. It was creepy, abandoned in a hurry like the Mary Celeste, and so caked in grime that anything he touched stirred up a cloud of dust. To search through everything would have taken weeks and Asa didn’t quite know what he was looking for – anyway, he had the information he needed in the journals. If anything, this discovery was just confirming what Asa already suspected, that Benjamin Tooth was a madman, and an unpleasant one at that.
He was about to head back to the moor when something on a dresser caught his eye. It was a small model of a tricycle intricately made from twisted wire and sitting on a wooden base. Closer inspection revealed it to be not so much a model but a working miniature with pedals and a chain that, though now rusted, had once worked like a real tricycle. Tiny straps, perished strips of leather, had once been attached to the saddle, pedals and handlebars and as he studied it Asa came to realise with horror what it was for. It was exactly the right size for one of the sprites to ride but only after it had been tied to the contraption.
Asa wondered what the ‘scientist’ had been up to, as if the discovery of a new species on the moor was not enough, it seemed as though Tooth had been intent on getting the creatures to perform tricks. This idea, along with the overpowering smell of mould and damp made Asa feel slightly sick and he carefully made his way back outside into the sunshine and fresh air. He knew all he wanted to know about Benjamin Tooth and decided he didn’t much like the man.
The rest of the day Asa spent searching for the sprites in vain. He poked around in countless rabbit holes looking for signs of life but to no avail and if it were not for his earlier encounter he might possibly have given up hope. But he knew they were here and he was determined to find them. As the shadows once again started to lengthen at the end of the day he decided to set the bucket trap anyway by an old warren not far from the tent.
Wearing the gloves, he wedged the bucket into a rabbit hole, placed one shiny coin in the bottom and scattered a few more on the grass around it. Then he put one of Mum’s chopping boards over the bucket, propping up one edge on a twig to which he tied the end of the fishing wire. Then he made his way back to the tent, unwinding the wire as he went.
Once in his shelter he lay down on his front and watched the trap through the binoculars, holding tight to the trip wire, until it got too dark to see.
13
Capture
He awoke at first light with his head still outside the tent and dew on his hair and eyelashes. He found he was still gripping the fishing wire in his fist but looking through the binoculars he could see that the lid of the trap was still propped up on the twig.
He set up the spirit stove and cooked some eggs and bacon, which he ate in the chilly morning air as the moor started to wake around him and birds emerged from who-knows-where to chase midges.
He decided to set his trap at a likely looking place he had seen by the stream near some old rabbit holes. But as he rewound the fishing wire he realised with a start that the coins were gone. None on the ground and none in the bucket. He searched in the grass for a short while but was convinced they had been taken, and taken by something nimble enough to get into the bucket and out again without disturbing the trap.
He looked around him. Were they watching him? He felt as though he was being watched but, then again, he often did.
He decided to reset the trap in the same position; the wind was blowing back towards the tent, which would disguise his smell. He fished in his pockets for two more coins, placed one in the bucket, one on the grass, and retraced his steps, unravelling the line as he went.
Back at the tent he heaped more grass and branches on the flysheet until not a scrap of the yellow fabric was showing, and settled down to watch.
Hours rolled into each other and before long Asa had lost all track of time. The moor was buffeted by winds and there were fewer birds and insects than the previous day. Occasionally he spotted the hobby negotiating the gusts of wind and watched intently, but when it dived down it reappeared empty-taloned.
The excitement at finding the coins gone slowly waned throughout the day so that by early afternoon Asa found himself nodding off and had to pinch his arm to stay awake. This worked for a while but inevitably he was soon asleep and stayed that way for a couple of hours.
When he awoke the low sun was shining in his eyes and he squeezed them shut again and enjoyed the warmth on his face. It was then that he became aware of something moving close by, a rustling in the grass to his left. With amazing self-control he managed not to sit up and look or even open his eyes but remained still and listened to the noises. Whatever was there seemed to be furtively looking around his camp and checking out his stuff. Then, a fluttering, buzzing sound and a shadow crossed his face and disappeared. Asa continued to lie stock-still until he was sure it had gone and then, as slowly as he could manage, he turned his head and squinted out across the valley.
Even without binoculars he could see that the trap was still set. But then, with a rush of excitement, he spotted them. Sprites, two of them, hiding in the shadow of the overhanging rock not five yards from the bucket trap. They were huddled close together but as he watched, one of them flitted out from its cover, hovered over the trap and then zipped back again. They’re checking it out, thought Asa. They looked smaller than the other two he had seen, maybe they were young ones, and maybe they were more adventurous or foolhardy, because Asa was sure that they knew he was there and that the bucket was some sort of trap. A moment later one of the sprites rose several feet into the air and hovered, seeming to look back across the valley towards him.
He stayed motionless and pretended to be asleep until the creature dropped back down and joined its mate. For ten minutes Asa hardly dared to breathe as the two sprites continued to nervously dart close to the bucket and then back into the shadows, into the air and then back under cover. Each time one approached the trap it got a bit closer while the other stayed high and k
ept watch. Eventually one of them, in a lightning move almost too quick to see, dipped down and scooped the coin from the ground before they both disappeared into the long grass.
It was twenty minutes or so before Asa spotted them again, approaching the site from a different direction. Again they seemed to be building up their confidence, one edging close while the other kept watch.
Asa felt the fishing wire in his hand, which he had tied around his wrist to save losing it. He realised that he would have a split second to react when the creatures made their move, and if he messed it up he would not get another chance.
Suddenly something in the sprites’ movement told him they were ready. Very deliberately one of them rose high into the air, hung there for a second and, with an acrobatic flip, seemed to signal the all-clear. The second sprite whipped from its hiding place and straight into the bucket. Asa reacted as if given an electric shock, he leapt to his feet, hauled the fishing line back over his head and, without waiting to see if it had worked, started racing down the hill.
As he ran he could see a flurry of movement around the bucket. One of the sprites circled it frantically, trying to lift the fallen lid. Tripping and stumbling as he ran Asa found himself shouting ‘Hey! Hey! Hey!’ and waving his arms. He saw the second sprite look up and flit this way and that in a confused panic. It pulled at the side of the bucket, it whisked into the air and down again, it threw itself against the lid and scratched at the wood. Asa was only a dozen strides away when it turned and looked briefly towards him, whirled around and was gone.
Asa stopped a few feet short of the bucket and sank to his knees gasping for breath. Excitement and exertion beat in his chest and ears and he felt so weak he thought he would pass out. He tried to calm down. Pull yourself together, he told himself and counted to ten or twenty or however long it took to come to his senses.
He edged forward on his knees towards the sprung trap. From within the bucket came the sound of an angry swarm of bees whipping around and Asa knew he had his prize.
Not quite knowing what to do next he found himself laying his hands flat on the lid and saying ‘Shhh’. Instantly the creature inside was silenced. Asa bent his ear close. Inside the bucket the terrified creature seemed to be listening just as intently.
He started to slide the lid back, a millimetre at a time until a thin crescent of daylight shone into the pale. He peered in close but it was still too dark to see. Maybe the sprite was under the lid. Ever so carefully he pushed it back further and the gap got bigger. Then, without warning the sprite bolted out through the crack and into Asa’s face. He fell back with a cry and threw his hands up grabbing hold of the creature as it batted about, clinging to his nose, blinded by the sunlight. He cupped his hands around it and pulled it away from his face. The transparent wings stuck out the top of his fist and buzzed wildly whilst its body writhed and wriggled in his fingers. He almost had it safely back in the bucket when he felt a stabbing pain in his right hand so sudden and intense that he heard a whistling in his ears. Despite this he managed to plunge the creature into the pail and slide the lid back across before succumbing to the pain. He rolled around on the grass, squeezing his hand and repeating ‘ow, ow, ow, ow’, which seemed to help a little until the ringing in his ears subsided and he dared to look at his wound.
In the middle of his right palm was a minuscule fleck of blood atop a tiny raised bump, not the gaping flesh wound he had been expecting, and he soon realised that he had been stung rather than bitten. His hand was throbbing and, not knowing how poisonous the sting might be, he decided to get moving.
Most, if not all, of his stuff could stay hidden on the moor. There was no need to take the tent and stove home if he was going to be coming back soon to collect more specimens. Using the fishing wire he made sure the lid was securely tied to the bucket and he pulled the whole thing out of the rabbit hole. He then gripped the bucket in front of him with both arms and started walking back across the valley to the tent. The sprite was alternately still and silent or manically buzzing as Asa negotiated the bumpy ground.
He packed the tent quickly and rolled up the sleeping bag, stuffed everything else into the bag and pushed the lot way back under a craggy rock. Then he piled more rocks in front and on top of the bundle until it was well hidden. So well, in fact, that Asa took a few minutes to remember some landmarks and features so that he would find the spot on his return. Then, gripping the bucket tightly, he started back to his bike and from there, the slightly wobbly cycle home.
14
Tooth’s Cruelty
By the time he got home it must have been half past nine and, with Mum and Dad not yet back from visiting his grandparents, the house was silent and dark.
He dumped his stuff in the house and then took the bucket with the sprite out to the garage. Dad proudly called it a ‘tandem’ garage, that is, it had space for two cars parked end to end. They had never owned more than one car though and the back end of the garage rapidly filled up with ‘things to take to the dump’. In here was Asa’s old guinea-pig hutch where he intended to house the sprite for the night. It was a large cage with a strong wire-mesh front and separate sleeping compartment at one end.
He placed the entire bucket in the hutch, closed the front and then, poking a bamboo cane through the wire mesh he pushed the lid off the bucket.
At first there was no movement and Asa began to worry that the creature had not survived the journey. But suddenly and without warning it shot out and batted about wildly inside the hutch for a few seconds before disappearing into the sleeping quarters out of sight.
Asa returned indoors and went to his room where he pulled out the second of Tooth’s leather-bound journals.
On the first page a painting of the moor in all its wild and rugged beauty. Scrawled at the side in Tooth’s spidery writing was a poem:
Oh! Ancient sea
This Windvale moor
A palette for the world
Where pestle sun in mortar sky
The seasons’ pigments grind and mix,
’Neath grey and blue
And thinned with dew
Where gale and gust the colours blend
Nor’easter wind the knife to send
And spread them o’er the earth
The verse surprised Asa who imagined Tooth far too self-obsessed to spend time being poetic. Perhaps there was a sensitive side to the old rogue after all.
But as he read on those hopes slowly began to fade.
After his first successful capture it seemed Tooth had no trouble trapping further specimens and as Asa turned the pages he saw numerous drawings of them, male and female, young and old.
Notes and observations were scribbled all around the pictures. One in particular got Asa’s attention, an arrow pointed to the sprite’s foot:
All are equipped with a vicious sting, as I have experienced many times to the detriment of my poor nerves. A barbed thorn at the base of the ankle administers the venom, which is painful but lasts no longer than a bee sting. The animal can twist its body wildly though, and sting even when you think you have a good grip on it. These days I wear leather falconry gauntlets whenever I handle them.
Asa wished he’d at least read that bit before he’d gone to the moor.
On the next page was the heading:
A Note on Housing and Feeding
This was the information Asa was most keen to find out so he eagerly read on:
The creatures are best housed in small birdcages of the type used for finches. No cover need be provided as this encourages them to hide and makes observation impossible. They prefer to cling to a vertical branch rather than a horizontal perch but their wings are best displayed when the cage is left bare and they must cling to the bars.
A water bowl may be provided but one need not offer food, as the creatures will not feed in captivity.
And that was it. Benjamin Tooth was only concerned with making a name for himself by discovering a new species and being hailed a grea
t scientist. He simply was not interested in the welfare of the sprites or probably even keeping the creatures alive. The facing page had a pencil illustration of a frightened sprite clinging to the inside of an ornate canary cage. It was a stark image compared to the watercolours but the next piece of writing confirmed his fears:
A Note on Pickling and Preserving:
Though I continue to try to keep one of the creatures alive for a period they rarely last three or four days before their refusal to eat and their self-harming tendency makes them useless for experimentation. Therefore it makes sense to kill the specimens as shortly after capture as possible so as to preserve them in a prime physical state.
They can be dried and pinned out as one would a large insect. I have achieved this a number of times but the body shrivels somewhat and loses shape as it dehydrates. Also the skin darkens in colour.
Salting does not work as the exoskeleton is impervious to salts and the insides continue to decompose.
Pickling is the best of a bad selection until I find some better method. A solution of formaldehyde, water and methanol in a half-gallon jar will keep a specimen indefinitely but all colours fade to a uniform yellow-grey within a matter of weeks.
The Windvale Sprites Page 5
