Dragon Rider by Cornelia Funke
Firedrake still remained silent.
“Oh, come on, let’s go and see him,” said Ben. “I’m not afraid. And I’m the one who’ll be doing the asking, right?”
He knelt down again beside Barnabas Greenbloom and pored over the map. “Show me exactly where the ravine is, will you, Professor?”
Barnabas Greenbloom glanced inquiringly first at the boy, then at Firedrake and Sorrel. The brownie girl merely shrugged her shoulders.
“He’s right. He’ll be doing the asking, after all,” she said. “And if this djinn really does know the answer then we’ll save ourselves no end of time.”
The dragon stood there saying nothing, just flicking his tail uneasily back and forth.
“Oh, come on, Firedrake!” said Ben. “Don’t look like that.”
The dragon sighed. “Why can’t I ask the question myself?” he said fiercely.
“I know what!” cried Sorrel, jumping up. “We’ll get the homunculkiss to ask it. He’s a bit small, but otherwise he looks like a human being. This djinn with his thousand eyes must be terribly confused by all the things he sees with them. He’s sure to think Twigleg’s a real human being. And if anything goes wrong with the question-and-answer bit, then Twigleg will have a new master and we’ll be rid of him.”
“Stop it, Sorrel!” Ben looked around for Twigleg — and found that he had disappeared.
“Where is he?” he asked, sounding worried. “He was here only a moment ago.” Angrily he turned to Sorrel. “He ran away because you keep winding him up!”
“Nonsense!” the brownie girl snapped back. “That spindly creature is afraid of the blue-skinned djinn with the thousand eyes, that’s why he ran off. Well, all I can say is good riddance!”
“You’re so mean!” Ben shouted at her. He jumped up, ran to the mouth of the cave, and looked out. “Twigleg!” he called. “Twigleg, where are you?”
Barnabas Greenbloom laid a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps Sorrel is right after all, and the prospect of your journey was too much for the little fellow,” he said. Then he looked up at the sky. “It’s getting dark, dear friends,” he pointed out. “If you really want to ask the djinn your question, you should set off soon. The way to his ravine leads mainly over desert country, which means hot days and cold nights.” He picked up his basket and smiled at Ben again. “You’re a brave boy, Ben. I’ll just hurry down to the camp and get you some provisions for the journey. And a bottle of sunscreen for you, Ben, and an Arab head-cloth wouldn’t be a bad idea. Don’t worry about the homunculus. Such creatures have wills of their own. Who knows, perhaps he simply feels drawn back to the man who made him.”
Then he pushed aside the tangle of thorns at the entrance of the cave and strode off through the evening twilight.
Sorrel went over to Ben and looked around. “All the same, I wish I knew where that manikin is,” she muttered.
Outside, a raven cawed among the palms.
15. Twigleg’s Second Report
Twigleg was hurrying away through the twilight. The sun was sinking red beyond the ruins, and the columns cast long shadows across the sand. The stone faces carved on the old walls looked even eerier at nightfall than by day, but the homunculus took no notice of them. He was used to ferocious stone heads grinning down at him in his master’s castle. Just now he had other concerns on his mind.
“Where, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered as the hot sand scorched his feet, “am I supposed to find water around here? There’s nothing but ground baked as hard as my master’s scales. The sun’s sucked up every last drop. Oh, dear, he’s going to be really furious with me for reporting back so late. Really, truly furious.”
The homunculus ran faster and faster. He hurried into ruined temples, investigated palm groves — and finally found himself sitting in the dry riverbed entirely at a loss. “And that wretched raven’s gone and disappeared, too,” he wailed. “What am I going to do? Oh, whatever am I going to do?”
As the sun sank behind the scorched brown hills, black shadows reached out to Twigleg. Suddenly he clapped his hand to his forehead.
“The sea!” he cried. “What a fool I am. The sea!”
He jumped up so quickly that he fell over his own feet. Nimble as a squirrel, he raced along the dry riverbed, tumbled and slid down the dunes by the shore, and landed on the fine sand of the beach. The salty waves of the sea lapped the shoreline and the sound of their breakers filled his ears. Surf sprayed in his face. Twigleg clambered up on a rock with the waves washing around it, and spat into the dark water. Slowly, distorted by the movement of the waves, his master’s image appeared. It grew larger and larger, spreading over the vast surface of the sea.
“Where’ve you been all this time?” Nettlebrand roared. He was shaking so violently with fury that the dwarf Gravelbeard kept staggering to and fro on his back.
“I couldn’t help it!” cried Twigleg, wringing his hands. “We got caught in a storm, and then the raven left me in the lurch, and human beings caught me, and — and —” His voice broke. “And then the boy freed me and took me with him, and I couldn’t slip away at first, and then I couldn’t find any water, and then —”
“And then, and then, and then!” snarled Nettlebrand. “Stop boring me with your useless twaddle! What have you found out?”
“They’re looking for the Rim of Heaven,” said Twigleg.
“Aaaarrgh!” spat Nettlebrand. “I already knew that, you fool! Did the raven eat what little brain you’ve got before he flew away? What else?”
Twigleg mopped his damp brow. He was already drenched with sea spray. “What else? Oh, no end of things, but you’re getting me all confused, master. I’ve been under a lot of strain, you know.”
Nettlebrand gave an impatient grunt. “Carry on cleaning!” he growled at the dwarf, who had just settled down between the spines of his crest hoping for a little nap.
“Well,” said Twigleg, “there was this other human being who told them a very strange story. All about dragons being attacked by a monster coming up out of the sea. Was that you, master?”
“I don’t remember,” growled Nettlebrand, closing his eyes for a moment. “And I don’t want to remember, understand, spider-legs? They got away from me back then. They got away even though I almost had them in my jaws. Forget that story. Never mention it again or I’ll eat you up, too, the way I ate your eleven brothers.”
“I’ve forgotten it already,” said Twigleg hastily. “Completely forgotten it. There’s a black hole in my memory, nothing but a black hole, master. Oh, there are so many black holes like that in my head.”
“Shut up!” Nettlebrand furiously slammed his paw down on the cracked flagstones of his castle floor. His image on the shining water grew to such an enormous size that Twigleg ducked his head in terror. The manikin’s knees were knocking, and his heart was thumping up and down like a rabbit on the run.
“Well,” said Nettlebrand in a dangerously soft voice, “what else did you find out about the Rim of Heaven? Where are they going to look for it?”
“Oh, they don’t know yet. They’re planning to visit a woman who’s an expert on dragons and lives on the coast — the coast that I’m not to remind you of. Although she doesn’t know where the Rim of Heaven is, either, and that’s why —”
“That’s why what?” bellowed Nettlebrand.
“That’s why they’re going to ask a djinn,” Twigleg babbled. “A blue djinn with a thousand eyes. Apparently he knows the answer to any question, but he has to be asked by a human being, so the boy will have to do it.”
The homunculus fell silent. To his great surprise, he realized that he was feeling anxious about the human boy. It was a strange, unaccustomed sensation, and Twigleg couldn’t understand how it had crept into his heart.
“Aha!” growled Nettlebrand. “Wonderful! We’ll let the little human do the asking for us. How very useful!” He stretched his hideous mouth into a nasty grin. “So when do we get the answer, spider-legs?”
??
“Huh!” grunted Nettlebrand. “Patient! Patient! My patience has run out. I want to go hunting properly again. I’m sick of cows and sheep. Follow the boy and his friends and report back whenever you can, do you hear? I want to know exactly where this dragon is. Have you got that?”
“I’ve got it, master!” murmured Twigleg, pushing the wet hair back from his forehead.
Nettlebrand’s image on the sea began to fade.
“Wait!” cried Twigleg. “Wait a moment, master. How am I going to follow them? The raven’s flown off!”
“Oh, you’ll think of something.” Nettlebrand’s voice sounded a long way off as his image became more and more blurred. “You’re a clever little fellow.”
All was quiet now except for the roaring of the sea. Twigleg looked at the dark waves unhappily. Then, sighing, he jumped down from the rock, landed on the damp sand, and laboriously climbed back up the cliffs. When he finally reached the top, gasping for breath, he saw Firedrake coming along the dry riverbed toward him with Ben, Sorrel, and the professor.
The manikin quickly ducked behind a tuft of grass. Now what? What should he say when they asked where he’d been? That brownie girl would definitely ask. Oh, why hadn’t they stayed in the cavern just a little longer? Then he could have slipped back, quiet as a mouse, and no one would have noticed that he’d been away.
Scarcely three human paces from Twigleg’s hiding place, the four of them stopped.
“Well, friends,” said the professor, “here are the provisions I promised you.” He handed Ben a full, bulging bag. “I’m afraid I didn’t have very much left myself, but I’ll admit to borrowing a little dried fruit from my colleagues’ tents. There’s sunscreen in there, too. You should make sure you keep using it, Ben. And here,” he added, winding a pale cloth around the boy’s head, “this is what they wear in this country to protect themselves from the sun. It’s called a kaffiyeh, and it ought to keep you from getting sunstroke, as we pale-skinned folk do only too quickly in these parts. As for you two,” he added, turning to Sorrel and the dragon, “your scales and fur are probably adequate protection. Now, about the route again….”
He switched on a flashlight, and he and Ben bent over the map together. “From what you tell me of Firedrake’s powers of flight, the journey will probably take you about four days. First, as I told you earlier, you must keep flying south. Fortunately you’ll be traveling only by night, and by day you must choose the shadiest places you can find to rest in, for the heat will be fierce. There are any number of ruins along your way — tumbledown fortresses and sunken cities. Most of them were buried in the drifting desert sand long ago, but you’ll always find somewhere to provide shelter, even for a dragon. Since you’ll always be flying along the coast” — he ran his finger down the coastline — “you’ll have a reliable guide even in the dark. And you should be able to see the coastal road clearly with the moon shining as bright as it is now. The road continues south. On the fourth night of your journey the land will become more mountainous. Cities cling to the rocks there like the nests of giant birds. Then, around midnight, you should reach a place where the road forks, and there’s a signpost with Arabic lettering on it, like this.”
The professor wrote on the edge of the map with a ballpoint pen.
“I believe the name is given in English as well, but here’s the Arabic, just to be on the safe side. It says ‘Shibam,’ the name of a wonderful old city. Follow the road until it turns north. When you reach a ravine, that’s the one you’re after. It’s a good thing Firedrake can fly, because there’s no path leading down into the ravine. No humans have even tried to build a bridge over it.” Barnabas smiled. “Some say that it hides the entrance to hell, but I can tell you that’s highly improbable! As soon as you’ve landed safely, look around for a big car without any windows. Once you find it, honk the horn, sit down on the ground exactly seventeen paces away from the car, and wait.”
“A car?” said Ben, astonished.
“That’s right!” The professor shrugged his shoulders. “Asif stole it from a rich sheikh, or so the latest tales about him say. It’s a mistake to believe that spirits and fabulous creatures always live in caves or ruined buildings. They sometimes have a distinct preference for what might be called modern accommodation. A few years ago, I found two djinns living in plastic bottles in the ruined city where I was looking for unicorns.”
“Amazing!” murmured Ben.
“What’s so amazing? Ground-elves like to live in empty cans sunk in the ground!” Sorrel called down from Firedrake’s back.
She had climbed up to check whether the safety straps were in good order, for the storm had shown Sorrel that on this journey it was a good idea even for her to lash herself firmly to the spines of the dragon’s crest. “Cans are a wonderful way of terrifying passersby,” she went on. “The elves just beat on their insides with acorn hammers” — Sorrel chuckled — “and you should see how it makes humans jump!”
The professor shook his head, smiling. “I can well believe that of elves,” he said, folding up the map and giving it back to Ben. “About elves, by the way: There’s a certain elf species you may meet on your way south. Sand-elves swarm by night near the ruined cities that lie buried there. They’ll swirl around you and try to drive you off course. Take no notice, but don’t be too rude to them. They can be a great nuisance, just like their relations in the cold north.”
“Oh, no!” groaned Sorrel from Firedrake’s back. “Elves will be the end of me!” She rolled her eyes. “The trouble I’ve had with those pesky creatures! They once shot their nasty itchy arrows at me just because I climbed an elf hill to pick some mushrooms.”
The professor chuckled. “I’m afraid their Arab relations are no better behaved, so keep away from them if you can.”
“Right.” Ben put the map in his jacket pocket and looked up at the starry sky. The heat of the day had gone and he felt a little chilly, but it was good to breathe cool air.
“Oh, and here’s something else, my boy!” Barnabas Greenbloom gave Ben a fat, well-thumbed book. “Put this in your backpack, too. A little good-bye present from me. This book describes almost all the fabulous beings ever said to have existed in this world. It may come in useful on your journey.”
“Oh, thank you, Professor!” Ben accepted the book with a shy smile, stroked the cover reverently, and began leafing through it.
“Come on, put it away,” Sorrel urged. “We can’t stay here while you read a book. See how high the moon has risen already.”
“Yes, okay!” Ben took off his backpack and put the map and the professor’s book carefully away among his own things.
Twigleg rose cautiously to his feet behind the tuft of grass. The backpacks! That was the solution. Sorrel certainly wouldn’t want him going with them, however much the boy might. But if he simply hid in Ben’s backpack … Silent as a shadow, the homunculus stole over to it.
“What was that?” asked Sorrel, leaning down from Firedrake’s back. “Something just shot out of the grass! Are there desert rats here?”
Diving headfirst in among Ben’s clothes, Twigleg disappeared.
“I have something for you, too, Sorrel,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, reaching into his basket. “My wife gave me these to cook with, but I think you’ll make better use of them.” He pressed a small bag into Sorrel’s paws.
She sniffed it curiously.
“Dried wood blewits!” she cried. “Girolles, chanterelles, morels!” She stared at Barnabas Greenbloom in amazement. “Are you really giving me all these?”
“Of course!” The professor smiled. “No one appreciates mushrooms better than a brownie, am I right?”
“You certainly are.” Sorrel sniffed the bag happily once more and then leaped down off Firedrake’s back to stuff it in her backpack, which was lying on the sand beside Ben’s. Twigl
Ben looked all around him. “Twigleg really does seem to have disappeared,” he murmured.
“Thank goodness for that!” said Sorrel, making sure the bag of mushrooms was pushed well down in her backpack, although not before she’d taken one out to nibble. “He reeked of bad luck, you take my word for it. Any brownie would have spotted that at once, but you humans never notice anything.”
Twigleg would have loved to nip her furry fingers, but he controlled himself and didn’t so much as poke the tip of his nose out of his hiding place.
“Perhaps it was just the fact that he’s a homunculus you didn’t like, Sorrel,” said Professor Greenbloom. “Such creatures are seldom popular with beings born naturally. In fact, they seem sinister to most people. So a homunculus like Twigleg often feels very lonely and rejected and clings to whomever made him. Although they do usually live much longer than their makers — much, much longer.”
Sorrel shook her head and closed her backpack. “One way or another,” she said, “he smelled of bad luck and that’s all there is to it.”
“She’s stubborn as a mule,” Ben whispered to the professor.
“I’d noticed,” Barnabas Greenbloom whispered back.
Then he went over to Firedrake and looked into his golden eyes once more. “All I have for you is this,” he said, holding out his open hand to the dragon.
A scale lay on his palm, gleaming, hard and cold — and golden. The dragon bent over it, curious. The professor placed another scale beside it.
“I found these two scales many, many years ago in the northern Alps,” the professor explained. “Cows and sheep had been disappearing there, and the local people told horror stories of a terrible monster prowling down from the mountains by night. At the time, I’m afraid, I could find nothing but these scales, which look remarkably like your own but feel entirely different. There were some tracks around, too, but they’d been blurred by the rain and the angry farmers who’d been milling around.”