A Book Dragon Page 8

  Brother Theophilus looked for a long time at the page he had made. “There are such men,” he said at last. Then he took a new brush and touched its tip with green. Warking quickly and carefully, he painted a dragon, all green and gold, at the back of the grove. By a trick of perspective, the dragon seemed as large as the quiet man, or much larger. Brother Theophilus touched its scales with red and deepened the gold ofitseyes. “Where such men exist,” hesaid, “there mustbe a dragon too.” He stood over his work until all the colors were dry. Nonesuch, who had crouched motionless on his lamp at the approach of Sir Ambrose’s secretary, remained still. Finally, Brother Theophilus laid this page on the others in the leather cover, closed the cover, and locked all together in the box at the back of the table.

  In the next few days. Nonesuch, unwilling to go far from his book, kept close to the church and the Scriptorium. He had already seen signs of battle in the church, reminders of how humans treated their own kind. Above the great altar and scattered about the columns were statues of a man nailed to a cross. In the chapels were pictures of soldiers thrusting swords into babies and of a man, tied to a tree, being shot full of arrows. There was even a painting of a winged man killing a dragon. It had been a most unfair fight, Nonesuch thought. The dragon was small, no larger than the man; it was probably very young and inexperienced. It was lying on its back while the man thrust his spear through it. Nonesuch decided that he must have surprised the dragon while it was sleeping.

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  The air in the church hummed with a more exciting kind of combat. The eyes of the Apostles, in their window, seemed to command him to do mighty deeds. The faces of demons carved on some of the columns radiated hatred out into the air; other faces were mild and benevolent, but strong. As Nonesuch flew among these faces, he felt that a battle between them was raging about him. Was this a battle in which he might join?

  In the Scriptorium, Brother Theophilus was still touching up his picture of the quiet man in the grove of trees. The Abbot saw him one day and put his broad, fleshy hand on the page. “Who is that man?” he asked. Then he shook his head. “I think I may know. He won’t thank you for such a picture, especially with that dragon in the forest measuring him with

  its eyes.”

  “There are no more large dragons. Father Abbot,” Brother

  Theophilus said sadly.

  “Who can be certain?” the Abbot replied. When Nonesuch flew back to his own capital in the church again, he found the bat waiting for him. For the first time, the bat seemed excited. * ‘I need you tonight,” he told Nonesuch.

  It concerned the new carvings, portraying the raising of Lazarus from the dead, that had been added to the north outer wall of the choir. The bat loved this subject, and would hang for hours from the choir screen to watch the carver at work. He was a timid Flemish artist who spoke neither English nor Latin. He had worked almost in complete silence; sometimes he would sing to himself in his own language, in a low, sweet voice. The carvings were done now. Soon they were to be painted in bright colors, all but the wood-colored body of Lazarus, which was to be covered with a clear lacquer. The bat had learned this from the conversation of the monks, who did not approve of unpainted holy objects. But the wood would

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  not be dry enough to paint for a month; meanwhile, the carver was working elsewhere.

  The fresh surface of the wood, the bat said, would certainly attract boring beetles. He had been able to take care of these by himself, thus far. But a greater danger threatened the carvings. The other bats had told him of a half-wild cat in the forest that would even climb their own cedar to hunt them. It used to sharpen its claws on tree bark; by chance, its favorite elm tree had been cut down for these new carvings, and it wanted revenge. It had already scratched savagely at the Flemish carver as he walked quietly around the abbey walls. The cat had entered the church while he worked and watched the carving from behind the altar with a sly, malign expression. “He will attack the finished carvings themselves,” the bat whispered.

  The bat wouldn’t think of interfering with such a creature. ‘ ‘He’d crunch me like lettuce,” he told Nonesuch. • ‘But you’d make him think twice, small as you are. I think he’ll come tonight, very late.”

  This was indeed proper work for a dragon! The bat’s words made Nonesuch forget all his other thoughts of the secret battles within the church. So it was that, long past midnight, when a glorious moon painted the stones with soft colors and tall shadows, Nonesuch sat, very still, at the foot of a statue of a sorrowful king with a curly beard, in a niche in the wall facing the carvings outside the choir, listening for the pat-pat and whisper of the cat’s paws.

  But it was human feet that sounded nearby: heavy footsteps. A bulky body deposited itself on the altar steps, then a lighter one passed by to the foot of the nearest choir seats and sat down too. There was a smell of sweat, of rosewater, and of smoke. Nonesuch recognized Hubert, the juggler’s

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  son, and Greasy Clement, a tiny, ignorant man who did the jobs no one else wanted. Greasy Clement cleaned out the kitchen ovens, the spit, and the cauldrons, and his face and clothes were always covered with grease from his mean tasks. Of all the monks, only the Abbot and Brother Theophilus would talk to him. Brother Theophilus let Greasy Clement watch him at work, as long as he kept well away from afl the pages. Clement’s voice now showed that he was delighted that a person with as much presence and apparent importance as Hubert would actually want his company.

  Now he waited for the larger man to speak. Only after a long time, in which Hubert’s hoarse breathing showed that he was too full of sorrow for words, did Clement venture timidly, ‘ ‘Imagine him treating you that way!”

  Hubert remained silent. He was remembering again how Sir Ambrose’s secretary had let his eyes stray over him thoughtfully, taking in his red trousers-which were, in fact, the very reddest he owned, put on just for this interview—and remarking in a regretful tone but with twinkling eyes, “Alas, my good man, we could never find a uniform to suit you. You would not be comfortable.”

  ‘ ‘Anything would do for me, my lord,” Hubert had mumbled. He writhed as he thought of it now. He could almost hear his own voice saying these words again.

  The secretary had raised his eyebrows. “But ‘anything’ will not do for Sir Ambrose. He is most particular that those who are around him should be happy and well at ease. Those who are not happy—for example, those who bulge out of their uniforms - are of no use to him.” And the secretary had continued to smile until Hubert found he could do nothing but back away.

  He did not know, of course, that the secretary had never once thought of him as a possible recruit for Sir Ambrose’s

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  personal guard: a single glance had made that idea ridiculous. Instead, the secretary had for a time considered Hubert for the job of tax-collector. Sir Ambrose had adopted the practice of employing collectors who were strangers to their district and who made this unpopular profession still more so by their gross manners. His most useful collectors would take the peasants’ cows, grain, and pigs. trample through their huts, slit their straw mattresses, and laugh as if it were all a great joke. Such treatment loosened people’s tongues. It was a good device to learn which ones were disaffected, so that later Sir Ambrose’s men could deal suitably with them. But after talking to Hubert and watching him when he was not aware of it, the secretary had decided he would not be capable even of this occupation:

  he was just the kind of man, the secretary thought, whom the peasants would delight in outwitting, let him bluster as he would.

  All these points of higher policy had been lost on Hubert. “I wronged myself by aiming too low,” he declared at last.’ ‘I should have spoken to the master himself, not one of his minions. I know where Sir Ambrose passes on his way to church. I will stand where I can speak to him; where he cannot avoid speaking to me.”

  Greasy Clement cleared his throat quietly.’ “They say that Sir Ambrose
puts complete trust in his secretary. Even if you could find a post with Sir Ambrose, you would not wish to have an enemy even closer to him.”

  “Once I was with Sir Ambrose, I would need fear no enemy,” Hubert declared. Then, after a time: “Still, he is a malicious man, that secretary. One can see it in his eyes.”

  Both men sat quiet. Greasy Clement spoke timidly.’ “There is work here, at the abbey, which avoids an malice.” He handed Hubert an apple from beneath his cloak.

  “W)rk here!” Hubert cried. He looked down at the apple

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  and flung it from him. It bumped along the floor to the center of the choir.’ “To watch all the fat monks, who live as if they were lords themselves!”

  “Some make beautiful things,” Greasy Clement offered. ‘ ‘Do you mean the one with the book?” Hubert demanded. “It is a beautiful book; it has all the world in it.” “It is a wicked book. from what I hear,” Hubert declared. ‘ “They say it has dragons in it.”

  “What is that sound?” Greasy Clement’s voice was fearful. ‘ “I heard a hiss, and the beating of wings!”

  “You are a craven!” Then Hubert snickered. “Perhaps it was a dragon itself; one of those great wicked beasts. I never could stand the thought of them. It’s lucky indeed that none could come into this holy place.”

  Nonesuch settled down again, crouching tensely at the foot of the sorrowful king.

  Greasy Clement did not venture to contradict Hubert’s judgement of dragons. After a time, the fat man continued:

  ‘ ‘But there are other things in that book, I’ll wager. He paints with gold, does he not?” He waited, staring before him, until the small man shook his head and grunted in agreement. “There 2s true gold on his pages,” he admitted. “True gold, you say!” Hubert retorted. “Who knows how much of it is true gold? Gold can be mixed with other things; I know this for a fact. Do you think my father’s toys are gold, though they shine so? No a whit of it!”

  “But Brother Theophilus does get gold for his book,” Greasy Clement objected. “I heard the treasurer and Brother Aureus, the gold-beater, talk of it once.”

  • ‘Ah,” said Hubert,’ ‘he got it indeed, but did he use it? Of all the gold that was given him, how much is really in the pages of his wicked book? There must be sheets of gold still,

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  between the pages, or stored in that box. Indeed, who knows what else is in the box? Who keeps order in this place? That wicked man, with his paints and brushes, and his dragons, can wander where he will. All but I are too innocent to suspect his real purpose! Did you not tell me that jewels were missing from the Treasury?”

  “They were only mislaid; they were found since.”

  “Who knows how many were lost and how many returned?” Hubert retorted. “The rest of them must be in that box, too.” Then Hubert looked at Greasy Clement, who was nodding his head in wonder. No one had ever said so many words to him in his life. “In that box,” Hubert repeated.

  Nonesuch waited to hear no more. He had felt the hunger in the fat man’s voice as he spoke of the book and the box and the riches he supposed they contained. It was a growing hunger, not to be withstood. Very soon, he knew, the man would rise and make his way to the Scriptorium.

  The bells rang for Matins, the darkest hours before dawn. Greasy Clement slid away without a sound before the monks could enter the church. Hubert rose, too, ran stooping to the wall. and slouched along it towards the back of the church as die file of monks with their torches entered. One of them stooped to pick up the apple from the floor. Nonesuch flew up, the shortest way, taking no care to hide himself in flight. He heard gasps below him, and an old voice that cried, “A dragon! I have seen it!” But he did not pause. Out the hole in the window he flew, out over the cloister and through the window of the Scriptorium.

  Brother Theophilus was in the room. He had worked late the day before and had left a page to dry when he was called away by the bell for Vespers. Now, on the way to Matins, he had stopped to look at die book again. He was halfway between

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  the wall table and the door, his back turned to the table. The last page was dry, glowing in the fresh young moonlight. On this page Nonesuch landed, ready to defend it with his life when Hubert entered.

  But it should not come to that, he thought. When, instead of sheets of gold in the book and jewels in the box, Hubert found a real dragon, even the smallest one, how he would run! How he would howl! Nonesuch ruffled his wings and stretched his claws, ready for his enemy.

  But Brother Theophilus had turned back from the door, his face troubled. Two monks passed the door on the way to the church; they looked at him in surprise. The bells rang again. Brother Theophilus looked at his book. In the moonlight, he did not notice Nonesuch, who, indeed, was almost the size of the dragon painted on the page, the dragon watching a quiet man in a grove of trees. The monk walked to the book and shut it firmly. He slid it into the box and turned the key in the lock. Then, his face still troubled, he followed the other monks into the church.

  As Brother Theophilus’s shadow passed out of the Scriptorium, Hubert entered it. He didn’t hesitate. He picked up the box, then realized it was chained to the table. But the staple that held the chain to the box was weak. Hubert sat on the table and pulled the chain free from the box with a frantic jerk. He spent a minute trying to hide the box under his shirt. Finally, he took it openly in his arms and ran out the door, along one side of the empty cloister, and out through a crack in the broken wall. No one saw him go.

  CHAPTER VIII

  rp—————————

  IHE LONG SLEEP

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  THE THEFT WAS NOT DISCOVERED UNTIL THE NEXT

  morning, when Brother Theophitus returned to the Scriptorium. His cry of woe woke the bats in their cedar of Lebanon. They Buttered up, blackening the sky around its green branches. The monks who heard him turned here and there, distracted, sharing his toss before they knew what it was. No one but Greasy Clement suspected that Hubert was the thief; and he did not dare to speak. AD kinds of folk passed in and out of the abbey. The monks, who had laughed at Hubert’s size and his red trousers, could hardly imagine that he would have enough enter-prise to steal anything.

  Messengers were sent out to search for the thief, in vain. Hubert hid in the forest by day and travelled at night. Whenever he rested, he tried to pick the lock; but this was far beyond his skffl. He had no tools with which to break the box open. He ate nothing during his flight, so that by the time he entered London he was able to slip the box under his waistband.

  At last Hubert was sure that no one would recognize him. He sat in the comer of a low tavern in Cheapside with the box resting on the bench beside him. A small,

  pock-marked man, dressed as a respectable artisan, approached in a friendly manner, not appearing to notice how fearfully Hubert clutched the box beneath his elbow. The pock-marked man hailed Hubert as a stranger, a traveller from the great world outside. He was sure, he said, that Hubert had news to tell of these troubled times. But, first, he must drink a mug of ale to ease his throat.

  Then, very courteously, the pock-marked man listened to Hubert’s stories of life at Sir Ambrose’s court and of his own importance there. With each new, imaginary step in Hubert’s advancement his new friend insisted on treating him to another mug of ale.’ ‘I can see they know how to appreciate merit out there,” he said. “You’ll find it the same here, in London:

  you’ll go very far. Drink up, now.”

  So it was that in a short time, when Hubert was sound asleep, his friend was able to ease the box from under his arm. Two hours later Hubert awoke with a desolate cry. Amid the laughter of the tavern he ran off, bulging and bumping through the dirty alleys of London, where his fate need concern us no longer.

  The new thief did not carry the box far, just to the low window of a cellar in a nearby mews. He knew how to ease the window catch and slip into the cellar. There he deposited
the box carefully between some old pieces of timber near a pile of coal. He had decided to leave the box in here, his favorite hiding-place, while he tended to other urgent business.

  His business involved a bolt of fine satin in a draper’s shop, a shop that seemed to be poorly guarded by its sleepy owner. The thief had not suspected how quickly the owner would wake up when there was any danger to his goods. The

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  crowd in the street eagerly joined in the chase. The thief was caught and, after proper legal formalities, hanged. ^K^

  No one came for the box in the cellar; it stayed there a very longtime.

  Nonesuch had not submitted tamely to being shut up.

  But though the pages of the book were too loose to crush him, he was so pressed between them that he could hardly move. The box was closed and locked, and he was in the dark. He struggled furiously and wiggled to the edge of the page. Even in his haste and anger he kept his claws in, for fear of tearing the fine vellum. Still, he moved forward until his nose bumped against one of the iron strips that bound the box together.

  He was turned in an directions as Hubert shifted the box in his arms. Nonesuch could hear the fat man’s fearful panting and the beat of his heart. Through cracks in the box he could smell Hubert’s sweat, which by now was making the box slippery to hold. Once Hubert let it fall, which loosened the book’s cover and jarred Nonesuch down to the bottom. When he recovered they were once more on the way. He was jammed against the wood of the box, this time at a spot that was not crossed by an iron strip. He began to bite at the wood to make his way out.

  But the wood, seasoned oak, was very tough. His jaws were made for slashing and devouring, not for gnawing. As time passed, it seemed that he was making no progress at aB. Or perhaps this was because he was growing very sleepy.