The Dragon in the Cliff

by Sheila Cole

“No, you are being too modest. I have heard from others that it would be well worth my while to go fossil hunting with you. I shall pay, of course.”

  I told him that I do not charge people for coming collecting with me. I like the company. But he insisted that he would pay for whatever we found when we were out together, despite my protestations.

  As we made our way down the cliff, scrambling from ledge to ledge, there was one ledge that seemed too far above the next one to descend from. We both hesitated. Henry jumped first, landing on his feet. He offered me his hand. I was self-conscious about taking it, my hand was so rough and callused. “Take my hand and jump,” he urged. “You won’t fall. It only looks far.”

  I reached for his hand, and with my eyes on his face, jumped. I turned my ankle in landing and grimaced in pain. I took a step, trying to act as if nothing had happened. Seeing that I was in pain, Henry insisted that we stop. We sat down on the dirt, and I stretched my leg out in front of me. “I should go fetch some help,” he said.

  “Please don’t,” I replied. “It will be fine in a minute.”

  He suggested that we bind my ankle to lend it support. I protested, but he insisted. Taking a fine, white handkerchief out of his pocket, he folded it into a bandage and, kneeling beside me, wrapped it around my ankle and instep. I was painfully conscious that my stockings were coarse with washing, and that they had been darned many times. “That was clumsy of me. I am glad that you were here,” I said.

  “If I hadn’t been here distracting you, you would not have hurt yourself,” he retorted, getting back to his feet. He turned away from me to look out to the bay.

  What an awkward mess our meeting had turned into. He must have been sorry that he ever came looking for me. I sat there in miserable silence until my eyes fell on a piece of paper sticking out of his knapsack. Trying to cover the awkwardness of the situation, I asked him what it was. “A sketch of the cliffs,” he told me. I asked to see it, saying that I had been learning to sketch fossils.

  He took the drawing from his knapsack and unrolled it. It was a rendering of some of the layers of rock in the cliffs along the coast between Lyme Regis and Charmouth. “Do you really think it’s good?” he asked, when I told him that I was impressed. Though he smiled, his eyes were serious. “I have been thinking of taking up geology. I like to be out of doors, and I have always been interested in different kinds of rock formations. Now that I am no longer training to be an officer, it seems like a good thing to do.” (The gossip in town was that he was dismissed from the Great Marlow military academy for insubordination.)

  “Yes, I think it’s very good,” I said, “but you’ve already heard that geology and fossils are all I think about.”

  “Is there anything else worthwhile?” he asked, and we laughed.

  “Actually that is why I came to see you,” he confessed. “I would like to map the strata of the cliffs around Lyme, and I need to know what fossils are found in each strata.”

  I didn’t know what “strata” were, nor did I know another word he used to describe the rock of the cliffs, “sedimentary,” but I guessed at their meaning rather than reveal my ignorance. When I was at home I wrote them down, determined to keep a list of such words and to learn their meanings. My list now fills several pages.

  He told me that some geologists believe that fossils are a clue to the comparative ages of the different rocks and their history. Here he was a beginner, yet he was already in touch with the greater world of geology. I was envious and I wanted to impress him with my knowledge. “I can point out things as we walk back,” I offered, getting to my feet.

  We walked toward town slowly, stopping often as I pointed out where I find different kinds of fossils. My ankle hurt, but I tried not to let it show. By the time we reached the path from the beach, he seemed to have forgotten all about my ankle and ran ahead, expecting me to follow. But the pain made the climb up the steep path difficult for me. When I reached the top, Henry was standing a little way from where the path turns off, chatting with three fashionably dressed girls with short curls around their faces whom I did not know. The way they laughed led me to believe they were friends.

  Henry broke away from the group and came toward me. Evidently he had seen me limp because the first thing he said was, “I completely forgot about your ankle. Please forgive me for leaving you behind and rushing ahead.” He glanced over to the group of girls. “I have been telling my sister and her friends about my good fortune in finding you out on the cliffs today. They would like to meet you.”

  Dirty and disheveled as I was from my work, I did not wish to be introduced to them then and I insisted that I had to get home, saying that I would like to meet them some other time.

  We arranged to meet the next day to hunt for fossils. He returned to the group of girls and I continued on my way, careful not to call attention to myself by hobbling. I could hear Henry’s voice, probably explaining to the girls why I would not come over to be introduced. Then one of the girls said something I couldn’t hear, and they all laughed. It is silly I know, but I felt as if they were laughing at me.

  The next morning Mama suggested that I try to stay off my feet. But I had been thinking of nothing else but Henry de la Beche since I left him, remembering every look that passed between us, every smile and word. I wanted to see him again. I told Mama that my ankle did not hurt. But when I could barely walk back from the pump with the pails of water, I was forced to admit that she was right, I was in no condition to go down to the beach. I sent Henry a note telling him that I was unable to meet him.

  The morning seemed to drag by as I sat on a stool at the workbench cleaning an ammonite. I stopped every time someone passed by on the street outside, and I waited expectantly, but no one came into the shop.

  After waiting this way all morning, I decided that he would not come. Several hours later while I was absorbed in prying away the dried shale that covered the feathery head of a sea lily, I heard a rustle and looked up to see him standing there. He shook his head and smiled broadly, “This is the second time I have come upon you unawares.”

  “I told you,” I said, returning his smile, “I often forget myself when I am working.”

  He apologized profusely for leaving me behind on the path and insisted that it was because of him that I sprained my ankle. “I was so happy finally to have a chance to talk to you that I forgot myself. I was thoughtless. Will you forgive me?” His eyes held mine for a fraction of a second too long, and I felt my face grow hot.

  To change the topic, I asked, “Could I show you some of the fossils I have in the shop?”

  “I would like nothing better,” he said, “especially if you tell me where you found them so I can mark it on my drawing of the cliffs.” He was on his way down to the beach and had the drawing with him.

  We cleared the workbench and spread the sketch out on it, weighing its corners down with fossils. I got up to fetch a fossil to show him, but when he saw me hobble, he suggested that he bring them to me while I sat. “You don’t know where anything is,” I objected. But he would have it no other way, and I gave in.

  He brought me almost everything I had in the shop to identify, including a large crocodile vertebrae.

  “I don’t think the creature was actually a crocodile,” I explained, picking up the vertebrae from the table. “We only call the fossil that because we do not know what else to call it. Miss Philpot says that it should be given to a comparative anatomist who can determine what it was, but I don’t think it will be. Squire Henley bought it for a London museum.”

  “I shall buy the next fossil like that you find and make it available for study,” he said.

  His easy assumption that there would be another one and that I would sell it to him irritated me. “First it has to be found,” I retorted.

  He held up another vertebrae, seeming not to notice the edge in my voice. “Well, it seems as if you are working on another one,” he said.

  “No, it is not the same. At first g
lance it seems to be, but if you look closely you will see there are differences.” I had him bring me a vertebrae like the ones from Henley’s crocodile, and with the two side by side I pointed out the differences.

  He suggested that it might be another type of crocodile. I was immediately jealous that it was he who had thought of that possibility and not I. “We need to have more of it to tell,” I said.

  “Maybe I could help you find more,” he offered eagerly.

  “It’s not mine to find,” I replied. “Anyone can go out there and look.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that I could help you search for it, if you would permit me to, that is,” he apologized. “It would be thrilling to bring to light something that has been entombed so long. How long ago do you think the creature lived?”

  It was something I had been wondering about but had never discussed with anyone before because I was afraid my questions would be dismissed.

  “Sometime long, long ago … in distant ages,” I said.

  “Do you think it was before man?”

  “I don’t know, but I haven’t found any fossilized human bones or traces of man in the rocks. But the Bible says—”

  He interrupted me, “You don’t believe that God created the heavens and earth and all that lives in six days, do you?” His eyes challenged me.

  I pulled back, shocked by his question. “I believe in the Bible and its truth,” I said.

  “Do you believe the biblical description of the creation is a scientific account?” he asked.

  I turned away. “I don’t know about science,” I confessed.

  He was not satisfied by my admission of a doubt that was causing me so much pain (and still does), and he continued to press me until I said, “How could it be possible? The days that the Bible speaks of could not be days as we know them now. It seems too short a time. But maybe … I just don’t know.”

  Henry nodded his head sympathetically, but did not say anything except, “Yes … yes …” The topic was dropped without my ever learning what he believed, though it was evident that he doubted the literal truth of the biblical description.

  He resumed fetching me fossils to identify for him, bringing me two bits of fossil skull and a few vertebrae that I had put away in a far corner of the workshop. They were different from anything else I had found. Seeing them, I said, “Oh, those. I have no idea what creature they are from or even if all of those bits are from the same creature.”

  “You have them in the same place so you must think these are from the same creature.”

  “They are in the same place because I found the pieces all jumbled up together over in the ledges of Black Ven. But it’s possible that they aren’t all from the same animal.”

  “You certainly are mysterious when it comes to your finds,” he said, laughing.

  “I am not being mysterious,” I insisted. “I just don’t know what to say about them because I don’t know what the creature looked like or what it was, except that if these bits are all from the same creature, it had a small head,” I said, showing him the curve of the skull. “See how small it is. But I have no idea what the rest of the creature looks like.”

  “Maybe it looks like this,” he said, picking up his pen and quickly sketching a funny-looking, small-headed, large-bodied creature with long ears, a pointed tail, and a scaly body on a piece of paper. Then he sketched another with a tiny head and long sloping body.

  “My turn,” I said, taking the pen and sketching an odd-looking creature. We continued in this way taking turns, drawing each creature more fantastic than the last, until I reached for the pen and knocked his hand into the bottle and splashed ink all over his drawing of the cliffs. We both jumped up in horror and immediately tried to repair the damage. I found some rags that I used to wrap the curiosities in and blotted up as much of the ink as I could, but the drawing was ruined. “It was not very good,” Henry said, “just a beginning.” A few minutes later he mumbled something about it being late, and left.

  A STOLEN FOSSIL

  After spilling the ink, I was deeply embarrassed. I had allowed myself to become too familiar too quickly. I had been carried away by the pleasure of having someone to talk to about the fossils, and then I had ruined his drawing. I was certain he would never want to see me again. I thought I would die with shame if I saw him again. Yet I found myself lingering as I walked past the tall windows of his house on Broad Street, hoping that he would look out and see me. I did not see him there, nor did I see him on the beach, or in town. I was disappointed and, at the same time, relieved.

  Much to my surprise a few weeks later a freckle-faced lad in footman’s livery came by the shop with a note on a white pasteboard card from Henry, asking after my ankle. I read the few lines over several times searching for some hidden meaning and finally decided there was none; it was a polite note, nothing more. There was no reason for me not to answer. I scribbled a reply, sending it back by the same messenger. In no time at all, the lad was back with a second note from Henry asking if I would be willing to take him out collecting that afternoon. I did not know what I should do. I was afraid things would get out of hand again, and I would embarrass myself. At the same time I wanted very much to go. I promised myself that if I went, I would be businesslike and not let myself be carried away. If I were proper and reserved, he would be, too. (It was not until later that I discovered many people in Lyme considered it improper for me to take young gentlemen out fossil hunting under any circumstances.) I wrote back telling him to meet me at the shop when the clock at the marketplace was at two.

  Despite my resolve to behave in a businesslike way I could not bring myself to put on my old, dark apron. I put on my new, white one. I stepped outside to look at the clock. It was only a few minutes after eleven. I tried to work on the fossils, but I was too impatient and I broke an urchin. After dinner, I cleared away the dishes. I brushed my hair and put on my bonnet, the straw with blue underside and ribbons to match, and not the battered hat that I usually wore.

  Seeing me, Mama asked, “Are you going visiting?” I confessed that I was going collecting. “In your Sunday bonnet and new apron?” she asked.

  Before I could think of how to answer her, Joseph, who had stopped by on his way to the marketplace, said, “She’s preening for the young master.”

  “No, I am not,” I said between clenched teeth, rushing at him.

  Chanting, “Mary’s preening for the young master,” he darted out of reach. I chased him round the table. The bell on the shop door rang, and I escaped down the stairs. It was Henry. I grabbed my bag of tools, and we were out the door and into the street.

  Henry’s manner was as natural and easy as if nothing had happened. He had been in Bristol on business with his stepfather, Mr. Aveline. “I have never been out of Lyme,” I said enviously. We made our way up the narrow lane past the baths and down Long Entry to the beach path. “But someday, someday soon I will go to London to see the sights and visit my crocodile at Bullock’s in Piccadilly Circus.”

  “I hope you are not disappointed by London,” Henry said, smiling at me kindly. He was born in London and has been there many times. He had even been to Jamaica, where he owns sugar plantations and slaves.

  We scrambled down the path with growing excitment. On reaching the level of the beach, Henry threw out his arms, exclaiming, “We are going to find great things today, Mary. Crocodiles, elephants, who knows what?”

  “Something big and spectacular,” I said, entering his mood, and we both laughed.

  He touched my sleeve, “I know what we should look for—the creature with the small head. I want to see what it really looked like.”

  Embarrassed by the reminder of our last meeting, I said, “No, not that.” He did not reply and we were both quiet for a minute as we walked along. Then, feeling bad that I had rejected his plan, I said, “Let’s look for another petrified crocodile. We need another to find out what it really was.”

  “Well, tell
me,” he asked, still jesting, “how does one find a petrified crocodile?”

  I became serious. “By keeping a sharp eye out.” I instructed him, much as Papa instructed me, as we walked along the beach. “Be patient and look, really look, at the face of the cliffs, especially where the cliff face has broken away and the bare rock is exposed. There is a lot of looking to be done before you see fossils and especially before you try to remove them.”

  As we passed Church Cliff, I pointed out some fossils. “Why aren’t we stopping to collect them?” he asked. I explained that they most likely were gryphea—oysters—and I already had enough of them. He asked me how I knew. “I am guessing that it’s an oyster because of the bed it’s in. Strata, you called it,” I said, using the word for the first time.

  “Oh, I should have known that,” he said, laughing good-naturedly at himself.

  I suggested that we go to Black Ven. “Do you think that we shall find a crocodile there?” he asked.

  “It is more likely that we’ll find ammonites, but you never know for certain,” I said, and we both laughed at the possibility. I felt strangely happy, sad, and restless. I felt like flying, but instead I started to run. Henry ran after me. I slid on the slippery seaweed-draped pebbles, recovered my balance, and ran on.

  Henry was not so fortunate. Flapping his arms like a giant bird, he fell so that he was sitting on the wet seaweed with his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked so surprised that I could not help laughing at him, even though I knew it was cruel. He laughed, too, picked himself up, brushed off his trousers, and we ran on along the shore toward Black Ven. After we rounded the headland, we scrambled up the ledges, stopping to catch our breath from time to time. I pointed out a particularly fossil-rich bed. We stopped when we reached the ledge where he found me that day we met. I went off in search of the chisel mark I had made in the rock. While I was looking for it, I saw something else that caught my eye. I put down my bag and took out my chisel and hammer. Henry called to me, saying that he found the chisel mark. “I have something more important,” I shouted.