A Place with Dragons

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A Place With Dragons

The kitchen was empty.

Nicolas stood in the doorway for a moment. Deep down, he hadn’t truly expected a surprise greeting, but there was still a twinge of disappointment. “I’m a wren today,” he said again, but it didn’t feel quite as good this time.

Nicolas considered what to do next. He had always loved his family’s small farm kitchen with its chipped block-wood table, mismatched chairs, rustic and stained cabinets, sooty inglenook fireplace, and great black stove. His mum, who was usually hurrying about, baking and cooking, always made the kitchen an inviting place to be. Indeed, the rest of the Bennetts’ small cottage seemed to hum around this room like spokes on the hub of a wheel.

But not this morning.

This Saturday morning, the kitchen was empty. Quiet and empty.

“Nicolas?” As gentle as his father’s voice usually was, its deep bass was a “presence of its own,” as his mum often said.

Nicolas walked across the kitchen’s flagstone floor and under an archway, which led through a cubby boot room, and into his father’s study. Nicolas’ father—a lean and bookish sort of Englishman who grew up in a coal-mining family from Haydock, England—was sitting in his favorite reading chair with the Saturday edition of the Cumberland and Westmorland Herald spread out across his knees. His father’s socked feet were propped up on an overstuffed stool in front of the fireplace where flames were happily bobbing around three splits of wood.

The cozy study was well-lit even in the amber tints of early morning light. A single large window—like an enormous picture in a picture frame—took up most of the study’s wall to the east. Nicolas would sometimes sit with a pillow in the window seat, reading his favorite book, Cue for Treason by Geoffrey Trease. He would gaze outside, across the lawn, and out beyond the family’s sheep pasture, imagining what a great adventure it would be if he were the main character, Peter Brownrigg, a fourteen-year-old boy who had run away from his medieval village by hiding inside a “prop coffin” used by a band of traveling actors. The bookshelves were filled with such wonderful books, as well as assorted statuettes of English mastiffs, a single cast-iron bulldog, a modest collection of aged clocks (most of which still ticked happily away), a multitude of worn magazines and trade papers, and an unopened bottle of Grand Old Parr Real Antique and Rare Old DeLuxe Scotch Whiskey (“aged older than this house,” his father would proudly say to guests). Above the archway hung an iron doorknocker fashioned as a stag’s head next to an old, and absurdly large, iron key. And above the fireplace’s thick mantle hung a carving of an English wych elm tree, something Nicolas thought must have taken years to make. Beneath the carving, propped against the wall, was a smooth square of knotted elm wood with a piece of parchment lacquered onto its surface. Written in dark ink were the words, “...a comrade, bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots.” Nicolas knew the words were taken from one of his father’s favorite novels, but he fuddled the title whenever he tried to think of it.

“Yes, Dad?” Nicolas responded.

“Come here, lad.”

Nicolas moved over to his father’s chair and put his hand on Mr. Bennett’s forearm.

“Happy birthday, my boy,” said his father clapping his rough hand on top of Nicolas’. “Today, you’re twelve years old. Am I right?”

Nicolas nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Grand,” his father said with a big smile. “That’s grand.” He paused, looked out the window for a moment and then back at Nicolas. “Your mother left early this morning to pop in on Aunt Harriet. She shouldn’t be gone too long, and then we’ll begin our day. We’re light on breakfast this mornin’, lad. There’s still a flat loaf of the barley bannock your mum griddled yesterday. You can warm it up on the stove and eat as much jam as you’d like.” Nicolas’ father smiled warmly and winked a conspirator’s wink. “It’s your birthday, my boy. Can’t have too much jam on your birthday.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Nicolas. He was halfway through the cubby boot room when he abruptly stopped and turned back toward his father’s study.

“Dad?”

His father looked up from his paper and pushed his glasses back up his long nose. “Yes?”

Nicolas started to say, “something happened this morning,” but he changed his mind at the last minute, and a jumble of words came out instead. “Something…something… I have something in my pocket.”

His father chuckled. “Okay! And what might ‘something’ in your pocket have to do with me and my mornin’ paper?”

“I thought you might be able to tell me what it is.” Nicolas reached in his pocket, pushed his coins and thimble out of the way, and pulled out the coppery leaf.

His father tilted his chin up and took a long look at the leaf through the lower half of his glasses. As luck would have it, Mr. Bennett happened to be an arboriculture professor at the Askham Bryan College’s agricultural campus just outside Penrith at Newton Rigg—“just an English chap who loves trees,” as he sometimes described himself. Many of the books and magazines in his study were devoted to the planting, transplanting, pruning, diagnosing of various diseases and parasites, and all other sorts of issues involving trees. He loved teaching and was a well-known member of the Royal Forestry Society, having proudly hosted various woodland field conferences over the past several years.

The odd, coppery leaf Nicolas held in front of him was perplexing. “Hmph,” he said and wrinkled his nose. He swung his head from side to side, inspecting each side of the leaf. “Hmph,” he said again. Mr. Bennett sat back in his chair and spread the morning’s copy of the Herald smoothly across his knees. “Let me see that, Nicolas.”

Nicolas placed the leaf on his father’s newspaper. Mr. Bennett leaned over it, wrinkling his nose again and repeatedly pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He gently poked the leaf and finally held it up, lightly rubbing its veiny surface. c*****g an eyebrow and throwing a glance over the top of his glasses, Mr. Bennett asked, “Where did you get this, my boy?”

“A crow…um, well, I, um… It was on my windowsill.” He meant to tell his father about the crow but suddenly felt silly saying anything about it. “I found it on my windowsill.”

Mr. Bennett looked closely at Nicolas. “Your windowsill?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Bennett nodded. “And how do you suppose it got on your windowsill, lad?”

Nicolas paused but finally said, “A crow put it there this morning.”

“A crow put it there?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Bennett sat back in his chair and looked out the large picture window. “Was it a large crow?” came the soft question.

“Yes, sir,” Nicolas said, a little surprised at his father’s guess.

Mr. Bennett nodded but kept looking out the window. “And did it rap on your window?”

“Yes, sir!” Nicolas, now even more surprised but also relieved, quickly explained, “It just appeared, and tapped on the glass very hard, and cracked it.”

Mr. Bennett took a deep breath and sighed. “Hmmm” was all he said.

Several moments passed in silence.

“I want to show you something, Nicolas. Go get me that book.” His father pointed toward a large book on the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases. Several other books were stacked on top of it. It looked as if it were very old and was bound in dark green leather. An unusual picture was engraved on its front cover, depicting a creature with the body of a lion and the head of a man. Its mouth was open, and the creature looked as if it had several rows of sharp teeth.

Mr. Bennett took the book and handed the coppery leaf to Nicolas. He opened the large book and began turning its thick pages. “This,” he said without looking up, “is a book your grandfather gave to me years ago, before he passed away. He told me his father had given it to him before that, and that it had been passed down in our family for several generations.” After turning several more pages, Mr. Bennett stopped and pulled out an even older-looking sheet of folded paper from inside the book. “It is a strange book, lad. A priest named Edward Topsell wrote it several hundred years ago. Much of it talks about common animals, like tigers and elephants and apes, but it also contains descriptions of creatures most people think do not exist. Amazing creatures like gorgons, unicorns, sphynxes, and serpent-women that eat children.” Mr. Bennett looked at Nicolas. He took off his glasses. “When my father gave me this book, he told me that sometimes there are things in life we don’t understand. Things that seem peculiar and unbelievable.”

Slowly, he unfolded the paper he’d taken out of the book. Inside, flattened by the press of the book, was a large leaf. A coppery leaf. A coppery leaf which very much looked like the leaf Nicolas held in his hand. “My father told me about a time when he was very young. At the time, he lived with his family on a small farm along England’s northern border. He told me about waking one morning to find a huge crow rapping violently on his window. When it had flown off, your grandfather found this leaf as if it had been left behind.” Mr. Bennett picked up the flattened coppery leaf and held it up next to the leaf in Nicolas’ hand. He then pointed down at the open book on his lap. There, under his pointing finger, was a large picture of a black and white engraving. It was a picture of a monstrous dragon. “He told me,” Mr. Bennett continued, “this leaf came from some other place. A place with dragons.”

Nicolas stood there silently. His father seemed uncharacteristically concerned, and naturally, this concerned Nicolas.

“Nicolas, my boy,” Mr. Bennett said, “I don’t know where these leaves come from. But wherever they come from…,” he paused and returned the flattened leaf to the paper, gently refolded it, tucked it back inside the large, dark green book, and slowly closed it. “Wherever they come from,” he repeated in a barely audible whisper, “is a place with dragons.”

***

Nicolas’ mum returned home at half past eleven. By then, Nicolas had consumed all of the strawberry jam (with a last, delicious spoonful even after the bread was gone), brushed his teeth, finished his morning chores, and sat on the floor in the family room, reading the graphic comic novel, Fables: 1001 Nights of Snowfall. Except for occasionally reaching into his pocket to touch the coppery leaf, Nicolas didn’t think too much more about what his father had told him. The fact that it was his birthday, after all, left him too preoccupied to think of much else.

When his mum walked in the room, Nicolas had just begun to re-read the Chapter entitled “Fencing Lessons,” imagining what it must be like to be in a real sword fight. His mum rushed over and nearly sat on top of him, giving him a big hug and loudly kissing his cheeks twelve times. She squeezed his face and said “Happy birthday!” at least half a dozen times before getting up to walk into the study still wearing her mittens and coat.

After a few minutes, Nicolas could hear his parents arguing in low voices. He caught the words, “Aunt Harriet,” “money,” and his father grumbling, “this always happens, Sarah.” These arguments seemed to occur more frequently, and Nicolas felt the strain in the Bennetts’ home. For the most part, his parents didn’t argue in front of him, but Nicolas could see it in their faces. He could hear it in the tone of their voices, and much of the laughter which had always been a fixture in their warm home was gone.

Peter Bennett strode into the family room. “Grab yer jacket,” he said sharply. Nicolas nodded and quickly hopped to his feet. “Wait.” Nicolas stopped and looked at his father. Mr. Bennett’s eyes had softened. “I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Go grab your jacket. Your mum’s ready to go, and I’m hungry, even if you’re stuffed with jam.” Mr. Bennett winked. “Let’s get a bit of birthday lunch and then go see about the fair.”

Nicolas grinned. “It’s alright, Dad. And I’m hungry, too.”

***

The Bennetts’ cottage was part of Plumpton Head, close to the small village of Plumpton, which was situated in the north ward of Penrith, England, not too far east from the cold Irish Sea and a bit south of the Scottish borders. The drive from Nicolas’ home to the town of Penrith usually took about fifteen minutes, and Mr. Bennett would typically drive along, chatting happily about the unique characteristics of some tree they were passing or about some stand of trees in the distance. But on this Saturday morning, Nicolas’ father didn’t say a word. His mum, who usually hummed gently to herself while his father carried on about trees, was also uncomfortably quiet.

Nicolas peered out the window as pastures, low stone walls, and thick hedgerows passed by. I’m a wren, he thought again, and looked up at the grey sky, thinking how cold it must be so high up in the clouds.

Before too long, the Bennetts’ twenty-year-old Land Rover 110 rolled into Penrith down Stricklandgate, where Nicolas’ father was able to find a parking spot off of Devonshire Street. With collars turned up against the late October wind, the Bennetts walked southeast, past Castlegate, until they arrived at the Four and Twenty eatery at 42 King Street.

Inside the restaurant, it smelled delicious. Nicolas picked out a table near a window and rubbed his hands together while he read the menu. His parents were still mostly quiet, although Nicolas’ mum had said, “Whew! The wind!” when they’d first stepped out onto the sidewalk, and his father had “hmphed” in agreement, pulling his big scarf up over his chin.

“What may I have?” Nicolas asked, with a quick look to his mum and father.

“Anything you like, my sweet,” said Mrs. Bennett. “Dad said you ate up all our jam, but I don’t suppose that’s hurt your appetite.” She gave him a delightful smile. “You’re twelve, and twelve-year-olds eat like lords.” His mum had actually been saying that since Nicolas turned ten, and as true as it seemed then, it seemed even truer now. He was starving.

“What’ll you have?” asked their waitress, a pen at the ready.

Nicolas blurted out, “I’d like the roast turkey, please.” The plate came with something called “forcemeat,” pigs in blankets, shredded sprouts, and gravy. He wasn’t sure what “forcemeat” was, but anything with pigs in blankets and gravy had to be good. Mr. Bennett ordered a turkey and beef club sandwich with a salad and home-cut chips, and Mrs. Bennett ordered “moussaka,” a lasagna-like dish made with lentils. Nicolas grimaced. His mum stuck her tongue out at him, which made him laugh.

Nicolas finished his lunch with sticky toffee pudding, while his parents ordered another cup of tea. “I’ve no idea where you put all that food,” Mr. Bennett said. “You’re skinny as a pole, lad.”

Nicolas smiled and shrugged, popped the last bite of pudding in his mouth, licked his spoon, and said, “Where to now?”

“Where shall we go, love?” said Nicolas’ father to his mum. Nicolas thought his father’s face looked kind, but slightly hurt, too. He hoped his parents wouldn’t have another argument.

“Well,” said his mum thoughtfully, “with this snap of cold, I’d say we head out to the fair for a few hours. If we get back home in time this evening, we can watch a scary movie, and yer Dad can tell us the story of the ghost of Bailiff Wood before bed.” Her beautiful Irish smile made her cheeks dance, and she raised her eyebrows in a teasing way. “Perhaps it won’t be as frightening this year.”

Nicolas playfully smirked back at his mum. “I’m not scared anymore!” He remembered the first time his father told him the story about the sad ghost of a white-skinned young woman, dressed in an old-fashioned nightdress, with short dark hair, who haunted the Bailiff Wood area. She would appear to people at night, usually in their bedrooms, and ask, “Who has murdered me?” Nicolas had been so scared the first time he heard the story, he left his desk lamp on all night. His father told him the young woman’s body had been found deep within the lake, weighed down with heavy stones. Her murderer had never been discovered. It had become Nicolas’ favorite Halloween story.

“Are you sure, lad?” His father chuckled. “The first time I told you that story, ya nearly papped yer pants.”

“No I didn’t!” laughed Nicolas as he put his coat on.

***

A few minutes later, the Bennetts were piled back in their truck and heading southeast on Bridge Lane to the A6, over the River Eamont with its “Giant’s Caves,” and south through long necks of woods which bordered Earl Henry’s Drive.

The day still felt peculiar to Nicolas. Even if it didn’t seem like a birthday, he was excited all the same. He pressed his smiling face against the window, watching the deep autumn woods race by.

I’m a wren, he thought again, and there’s a place with dragons.