A Change In The Weather

Chapter 4: Blakeby

15 December, 2007 – 8:40 pm

A rainbow arched its way across the sky, perfectly encompassing the village green that was beginning to slowly fill with people. The Blakeby Mayday fete was the least well-kept secret in the Vale, and every year its reputation grew, attracting more and more visitors from further afield than ever before.

From St. Mary’s church in the distance, a peal of bells rang out across the green, where green boughs of hawthorn and wild flowers had been placed - all taken with care from the wood as they had for centuries before.

In the middle of the green, towering over the old village sundial, a maypole stood tall, dominating the view, wreathed in garlands and festooned with colourful ribbons. Nearby, a small crowd of people had gathered to watch a troupe of Morris dancers perform, who looked to have had too much to drink.

Scarlet stood for a while on Cheyney Lane looking at the houses and shops that stood higgledy-piggledy around the green like an oversized fairy ring. First there was her mother’s newly opened children’s clothes shop, resplendent in its new coat of pink paint. The building was tall and narrow, which had the effect of making it look like the shop had been squashed between the Mr Ragweed’s butcher’s shop and Mrs Tufford’s wool shop on purpose.

Further along the tiny cobbled street was Madame Chouxfleur’s cake shop - the pastries of which were out of this world – and even though it seemed at times Madame Chouxfleur flaunted an outrageously ridiculous French accent, she seemed somehow unmistakably English. Scarlet had always suspected this, but preferred to keep quiet, stifling a snigger whenever Madame Chouxfleur spoke to her. It later turned out - much to her amusement - as she idly flicked through a French dictionary one day that the name meant - of all things - Cauliflower.

Smiling as she remembered, she turned her head to look a little further along the lane, and there by an open door stood the reclusive proprietor of the antique book shop which never seemed to have any customers. She wondered how long such a shop could stay in business, or - indeed - how any of these little shops could. To her it was an enigma.

She turned her head the other way, where - of-course - stood the tiny crooked black shop with its discoloured lace blinds. It had always sparked her curiosity, not least because it was the local undertakers. Ever since she was young, she’d always suspected that she harboured a morbid fascination and she took time to stare at it again, looking this time at the old broken weathervane on top, which rather bizarrely, was coffin-shaped. It pointed towards St. Mary’s Church in the distance.

She decided that she liked this little village a lot with its old quirky eccentricities, and it occurred to her in the time she’d been in Blakeby that she hadn’t missed her old house in the city at all. In fact, it felt more like home than her last one, if that made any sense at all.

With a shrug she turned back to Thomas who was sitting on the green happily watching the festivities. She glanced at her watch. What they were really here for was the Dragon Carnival, something that she’d never heard of before, and she definitely didn’t know what to expect. How strange these villages were with their own customs. It just added to her appreciation of the place.

People had been busily setting up their stalls around the green since the early morning. They sold a variety of things, but what caught Scarlet’s attention most was one stall selling dragon masks: wooden masks that were gaudily painted in rainbow colours. They seemed to come in all types too; long snouts, short snouts, big ears or large fangs. Some even had strange goat-like beards which made them look most odd - oriental even. She’d never heard of dragons with beards before and she found herself drawn to one that looked particularly ferocious and stood there in awe, silently wishing she’d brought some money with her.

The stall keeper noticed her staring.

‘Oh don’t worry about Brindall,’ he said reassuringly, as if reading her mind. ‘He’s harmless.’

The old stall keeper sported a long white beard that he kept stroking every now and again. He bent over and looked down at the children and grinned.

Scarlet pointed to a mask at the back of the stall.

‘How much are they?’ she asked.

‘Ah, quite cheap, quite cheap.’ muttered the stall keeper. ‘The question is: can you afford one?’

The stall keeper raised an eyebrow at Scarlet, who was busy rummaging through her pockets. She looked up at the man with a sad expression.

‘Oh come now. Whatever is the matter?’ the stall keeper asked, reaching back and pulling down the colourful mask that Scarlet had been staring at.

Her eyes lit up as she took it. Then he gave a dragon mask to Thomas too.

‘There you go too, but mind, you’re not to tell anyone you got them for free.’ The stall keeper looked around and then bent over across the stall to whisper to them.

‘You see, they’re very, very special,’ he continued, ‘collectors have been known to give an arm or a leg for one of those.’

Scarlet eyed him suspiciously.

The stall keeper chuckled and shook his head as the children wandered off towards the maypole. A mangy-looking dog trotted out from behind the stall and stood there, looking at them as they disappeared into the crowd, its head cocked to one side inquisitively.

The voice over the loudspeaker informed everyone that according to local legend, many hundreds of years ago a terrible Dragon - or Wyrm as they were known in medieval times - called Brindall the Bearded had terrorised the area, rampaging farmer’s fields and killing cattle with its terrible claws and venomous breath. And so to mark the occasion there would be a re-enactment of the slaying followed by a procession of villagers dressed in colourful dragon costumes, with a prize given for the most imaginative one.

In the five minutes that followed, everyone cheered as the hero – a woodcutter called Gregory of Willowbrook – fought a battle with the great bearded dragon before finally slaying it with a heft of his mighty axe, lopping off its head in one swift swing.

As the fake head fell to the ground in streams of red silk and rolled to a standstill, the crowd erupted into cheers and shouts and the body of the dragon fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

But not Scarlet and Thomas, they thought it was cruel to kill the poor old dragon, and so they pulled faces at the woodcutter as he left the green and booed as loud a they could, much to the amusement of everyone around. The old man from the stall saw what they were doing and walked over to them.

‘Ah, don’t listen to that claptrap,’ he said, dismissing the loudspeaker with a wave of his hand, ‘it’s all stuff and nonsense. Though I must admit the story always sounds much better when you’ve got a ferocious dragon to slay doesn’t it?’

The stall keeper gazed back to the carnival.

‘Remember, it’s the winners who write the history books. There wouldn’t be much of a story if the dragon ended up being nice to people would there?’ he said.

Scarlet couldn’t help but notice the stall keeper’s eyes - they shone and sparkled intensely, and she found herself nodding without really thinking much about it.

‘Do you believe?’ he asked, almost adding the words as an afterthought.

‘Believe in what?’ replied Thomas.

‘Why, in dragons and faeries of course.’

Thomas’ face brightened and he took a sharp intake of breath.

‘Yeah! ’Cos when Scarlet was small, she said that she had her own fairy that visited her and left her letters under her pillow…’

The stall keeper raised an eyebrow and smiled.

‘Really?’ he said, looking at Scarlet, whose face had turned bright red.

‘Well, it seems you’re half-way there then.’

Scarlet threw Thomas a withering stare.

‘Stop it.’ she hissed. ‘You’re embarrassing me…’

The stall keeper knelt down.

‘Now, now. You shouldn’t be embarrassed you know. What would you think if I told you that I still believe in things like that too? You see, I find you have to believe in certain things otherwise they disappear forever and don’t come back. And then there’s no way to turn time back and you’re suddenly old before your time. It seems to me, in this day and age, there aren’t enough children believing in things like that. It’s a shame – a real shame - but I sense that you two are different.’

The stall keeper stood up again.

‘No doubt I’ll see you two around again.’

And with that, the old man from the stall and his dog drifted away into the throng.

Scarlet watched him go out of curiosity as a big black car with two little flags on the bonnet slowly drew up and stopped in the centre of the green. A ripple of applause erupted from the crowd, but Scarlet didn’t know why. She pushed her self to the front of the ropes and watched. Finally a chauffeur got out and walked around to the passenger door and opened it. A man stepped out - a large gold chain about his neck.

There was yet more applause, which the man accepted kindly, before finally starting to talk, but the words just drifted over the heads of Thomas and Scarlet, who hated speeches. To them they couldn’t see the point, and like the news on TV, they found them dreadfully boring.

It seemed the fun was over, and in any case, it had started to rain.

Posted in A Change In The Weather |