A Change In The Weather

Chapter 5: The Bearded Dragon

15 December, 2007 – 9:09 pm

Tobias Bainbridge had parked his tatty orange Volkswagen campervan in a small lay-by alongside the C3276 in an attempt to get to grips with the ordnance survey map that he’d purchased at the filling station not half an hour previously.

No matter how he tried though, the damned thing was at least a foot larger than the dimensions of the van would allow. He’d attempted to unwind the window to allow his elbows more room, but this had just allowed the map to unfurl even more.

Infuriated, he screwed the map up into a ball and tossed it out of the window in a fit of temper and just sat there, arms crossed, lips pursed, silently fuming.

He instantly regretted it of-course, but even so, he forced himself to sit there for a good few minutes before a wave of conscience built up enough to force him get out of his van to find the discarded map. He bent down and picked it up, looking around to see if anyone had seen him. He sighed with relief - there was no one there.

It occurred to him that he’d been travelling down this interminable road for what seemed an eternity, and he was just about to give up and turn back, when - standing up - he was startled to come face-to-face with a sign that he was sure wasn’t there before.

Puzzled, he read it:

Welcome to Blakeby - Part of the Vale of Bracken. Home to the ancient Bracken Wood. Twinned with La Colle-sur-Loup, France. Please drive carefully through our village.

A smile slowly spread across his face.

Well, how very weird, he thought. He could’ve sworn the sign wasn’t there before. Anyway, he hurriedly jumped back into his campervan and gunned it down the little road towards Blakeby, passing several signs for Bracken Wood along the way.

* * * * *

The little van trundled along in its own peculiar concoction of exhaust fumes and burning oil.

Tobias glanced in the rear-view mirror at the churning haze of acrid smog as it twirled and swirled in the turbulence of the van’s wake. The little engine needed rebuilding and he made a mental note as to actually do it next time - naturally when funds permitted of-course.

People from the village green had spilled over into the road briefly and Tobias sat there at the wheel of his vehicle, waiting for the road to clear, tapping the steering wheel impatiently with his fingers. He briefly contemplated stopping for a much-needed break, but decided he’d wasted enough time with the map and the backward route he’d travelled, and so he decided to carry on through the village to his destination.

Eventually Tobias parked the campervan on a little verge at the edge of Bracken Wood. It was a little way from the village, but it was a good place to stop. Directly opposite a bridleway that led into the wood was a small inn. After a good many false trails and winding roads it beckoned to him being quite partial to a pint or two of real ale every now and again.

Tobias switched off the radio and sat there, hands clamped firmly to the steering wheel. Absently he looked over at the wood, and squinted; something seemed familiar to him, yet he couldn’t be sure. He frowned as he frantically searched his memory. And then something inside his mind triggered a spark of recognition and the fear that he thought he’d tamed as a child started to rise from the depths of his subconscious.

He let his mind drift back to that day, all those years ago that had been so important in shaping the course of his life…

He would always remember it as if it was yesterday.

It was April.

He was six years old and his parents had decided to have a picnic. His father - a professor of zoology and much respected in his field with many published works to his name - hoped that Tobias would one day pursue the same career as him, but Tobias had always been a bit of a mummy’s boy though, which had mildly vexed him, and Tobias – although only a child - had always sensed his father’s disappointment.

A small copse of trees was close, into which Tobias had accidentally kicked his ball. He’d considered telling his parents, but for some reason felt compelled to go into the wood alone to find it.

They hadn’t even noticed him disappear.

One minute he was there, the next it seemed he’d vanished without a trace.

He found himself in unfamiliar surroundings; the further he walked into the wood, the more the trees just seemed to close in around him, and yet he couldn’t be totally sure if he was just imagining it, or if they really were alive somehow. It was like he was in an uncomfortable claustrophobic dream, and it made him nervous.

He picked his ball up and quickly turned to walk out.

But it was no use - wherever he looked, all the directions were alien to him. Nothing was familiar! He was lost!

And then there was a noise behind him, like twigs breaking underfoot.

It startled a few pigeons that flew off into the trees before a strange calm descended on the whole area.

He stopped dead in his tracks and - sensing a presence behind him - considered turning around but something stopped him. He could feel himself panicking and felt tears welling up inside that he couldn’t quell.

With shoulders hunched, he turned around slowly.

The ball slipped from his grip and rolled away.

Then he screamed.

Tobias shook his head as if trying to break out of some hypnotic trance.

The tiny pitter-patter of raindrops echoed hollowly about the inside of the campervan drumming faster and faster until they became just one loud incessant rumble.

He finally collected his little black notebook, briefcase and map, and with umbrella overhead made his way over the road and into the welcoming arms of the inn.

* * * * *

The Bearded Dragon - an unusual name for a pub, but seemed to fit it somehow. The walls were pitted and warped with crooked timber beams that spanned the length of the bar. In the distance a well-stacked log fire crackled and spat away merrily.

Tobias sat at the bar looking at the dizzying variety of local ales on offer, of which at first glance appeared to be at least a dozen. Like a child in a sweetshop, it took him well over five minutes trying to decide on one to try.

‘…Erm, I think I’ll have a pint of the Green Man.’ murmured Tobias finally, absently rubbing his chin.

‘Righto, coming right up.’ replied the landlord jovially.

Tobias pointed at a sign with his pipe as an afterthought. ‘But the Scarecrow looks interesting…’ he mused.

The landlord reached up for a glass and started to pull a pint of Scarecrow. ‘Scarecrow it is then Sir.’

‘The Wyvern looks promising though…’

The landlord stared at Tobias for a moment before making a point of pouring the contents of the glass away slowly.

As he poured the beer away, he reached across and took a leaflet entitled ‘Ales of Bracken Vale’, which he offered to Tobias.

‘Oh smashing!’ said Tobias with raised eyebrows, laying his pipe down. ‘Much appreciated.’

He started reading the leaflet enthusiastically, before carefully tapping the contents of the pipe into an ashtray. As he continued to read, he refilled it with fresh tobacco from the pouch on the bar top.

But he found it didn’t help him greatly, as the beers on the list had strange peculiar-sounding names. The list seemed endless: Ankle Snapper, Peabody’s Barley Broth, Merry-go-down, Tormented Turnip, Brewer’s Droop, The Rampant Knobbler and Dick Turpin’s Last Drop.

And so, finally, after reading the leaflet and neatly putting it in his wallet, he mouthed a few more ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ and decided on a pint of the Green Man.

The landlord went about his business and Tobias took some time to look around.

It hadn’t entirely escaped his attention that most of the place was crammed with references to strange creatures from myth and legend – more so than any normal person would expect in fact. He decided to make some notes, and so reached for his dog-eared notebook.

The landlord returned with a foaming pint of ale, which he placed next to Tobias.

After a while, curiosity got the better of him.

‘You a reporter or somethin’?’ he asked finally.

Tobias didn’t look up, but acknowledged him with a grunt whilst continuing to furiously scribble down notes.

‘A writer then?’ the landlord asked, looking down at the notebook and raising an eyebrow that looked surprisingly similar to a pad of used wire wool.

Tobias shook his head and looked up at the landlord.

‘No, well… sort of. What’s your name?’

‘Gordon.’ the landlord said rather proudly. ‘Gordon Willowbrook.’

‘And the owner of this place?’ asked Tobias.

‘Aye. Been in the family generations y’see. Took it over from me father, who in turn took it over from his father and so on and so forth. Going back longer than I care to remember now, give or take a century or so. Reckon that feat must be worth somesuch somethin’.’

Tobias nodded. ‘Sounds like quite an achievement.’ he said looking impressed. ‘My name’s Tobias. I’m a professor writing a book.’ He held his hand out for Gordon to shake.

‘A professor eh? Professor of what?’ Gordon asked, eyeing him suspiciously before finally agreeing to shake his hand.

‘Cryptozoology.’ said Tobias, smiling brightly with a childlike enthusiasm.

‘Crypto-what?’ spluttered Gordon, rubbing his bristly chin as he tried to think of what the word could mean.

‘It’s the study of certain animal forms,’ elaborated Tobias, ‘about which only testimonial and circumstantial evidence is available.’

Tobias suspected that the description was probably as helpful to Gordon as a poke in the eye. He could tell that it still drew a blank, so he decided to elaborate.

‘Basically I conduct research into animals that don’t officially exist, in the hope that one day they’ll be discovered.’

He frowned, almost as if even he wasn’t sure of his own description.

‘Erm, I think…’

Gordon chuckled. ‘That’s just fancy talk for a monster hunter. Well, if that’s what tickles yer boat. Sounds a bit of a crack-pot job if you ask me.’

Tobias’ smile remained, but inside he was crestfallen. He could sense his father in Gordon’s words.

‘Well I suppose it does sound pretty far out doesn’t it? It didn’t help that I didn’t explain it very well. I trust you’re familiar with the legend of the Loch Ness Monster? What about the Yeti? Or maybe you’ve read about sightings of dinosaurs in Africa or the Amazon? All this comes under the umbrella of Cryptozoology. I collect all these tales and collate them all together. I’ve build up quite a database so far. In time I’m hoping to write a book about…’

Tobias stopped himself. He didn’t want to make a fool out of himself. At least no more of a fool than he’d already made himself.

‘Go on.’ said Gordon. ‘A book about?’

But Tobias couldn’t resist telling someone – anyone. He looked around before leaning forward further. ‘… dragons.’

‘Dragons?’ snorted Gordon rather loudly.

Suddenly he became aware of an awful silence in the room and he could sense the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he began to feel self-conscious. He slowly put his pen down and turned about. Twelve faces were staring at him. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

As the stares subsided and the background conversation built up once more, Tobias looked back at Gordon who was drying some glasses with a towel and smiled.

‘So, anyway, you being who you are, must be aware of the legends from around here?’ asked Tobias quietly. ‘I’ve heard fragments of tales about Bracken Wood, fragments that must have come from somewhere, maybe even from one original source. But nothing has been discovered or even written down properly as far as I know. So far it all hints at a tantalising story… but at the moment I seem to be far from the beaten track. So I try to gather as much information as I can on local myths.’

Gordon put the glass down and paused as if in thought.

‘Aye. Well, this I can tell you. There are many tales about the wood. Some of ‘em go back a thousand years or more even. It’s an old place, with an old soul.’

‘I know. I’ve tried everything and looked everywhere. But everything I turn to ends up being a dead-end.’

Gordon looked at Tobias for a moment before continuing.

‘Well, there is one person who could possibly help you - an old hermit who lives up by the wood. If you can find him, I’m sure he’d fill in the gaps for you so to speak.’

Tobias looked up expectantly.

‘Really? An old hermit you say?’

‘Old chap called Hillary. Lives in a windmill. Eccentric type. Just like you I imagine.’ Gordon snorted. ‘You’d know who I mean if you saw him. Doesn’t come into the village much, but when he does – well, the amount of stories he brings with him is amazing.’

Gordon continued. ‘Talking of dragons one of the most famous stories, concerns a great dragon called Brindall who rampaged the land and terrorised the village.’

He pointed to the sign above the bar. ‘If you hadn’t already guessed, the pub’s named after him.’

Tobias started scribbling more notes down.

‘I see, that’s fascinating. So the Inn’s been around for quite a long time. I thought it was old. It’s got a certain atmosphere. What was the name of the pub that preceded this then?’

‘The Green Man’ replied Gordon. ‘We’ve still got the old placard somewhere if memory serves. Name never did suit it though.’

‘So what happened to this dragon Brindall?’

‘One of me relatives lopped its head off.’ sniffed Gordon casually. ‘Woodcutter by the name of Gregory of Willowbrook in fact.’

Gordon leaned over so that he could talk softer.

‘Still got the axe that did the job, so to speak, in the cellar.’ he whispered, pointing down to the ground. ‘Had offers from several museums and collectors mind you, but I’d be loathe to part with it you understand. Family heirloom and all…’

Tobias stopped scribbling for a moment and looked up at Gordon.

‘What? You’ve still got the axe? And it’s here in this pub?’

As he said the words, he felt a tingle of excitement run down his spine.

Gordon continued to dry a glass. ‘Course it’s in a bit of a state mind, all rusted-up and stuff, but there ain’t no way I’d part with it.’

Tobias paused for a second as if trying to take it all in.

‘I don’t suppose I could… see it?’

Gordon chuckled.

‘Maybe.’

Tobias took a sip of his beer and watched Gordon’s reaction closely.

‘I also heard there are tales of dragon bones buried in the wood…’

‘Aye. Well that’s as maybe, and I couldn’t possibly comment. But it sounds like someone’s been either drinkin’ too much ale or tellin’ a good story don’t it?’

Tobias carried on. ‘I can see I don’t need to tell you obviously, but this whole area’s bursting with dragon legends and stories, more so than anywhere else in the country in fact. It almost seems like this whole area is a natural locus for these stories.’

‘Locus eh?’ said Gordon nodding, picturing in his mind a plague of insects. ‘Er yes, that’s right.’ he added, unsure as to what the word precisely meant.

Tobias made some more notes and then ordered another pint of Green Man.

They continued to talk and talk it seemed for hours until he’d nearly filled his little notebook and he had to finally stop.

* * * * *

Later that night in the Bearded Dragon, Tobias climbed gratefully into bed. The room was small, but felt comfortable enough. Even though the windows were closed, he was sure he could feel a slight draught blowing from somewhere, and he could hear the quiet pitter-patter of raindrops as they struck the glass.

He sat up in bed making some final revisions to his notes, and reached for his briefcase, pulling out the crinkled ordnance survey map he’d purchased earlier that day from the petrol station. He traced his fingers over the area of Bracken Wood and the many bridleways and footpaths going through it, before finally folding it again and placing it back in his briefase.

He spent a further few minutes going over things, but his eyes were getting heavy and he could scarcely keep them open as he fought to stay awake.

In between thoughts of the wood, lost secrets waiting to be re-discovered, his memories, the few pints of ale he’d drunk and the silhouette of the girl sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed quietly sobbing, he decided to surrender and drift off into a deep sleep…

Posted in A Change In The Weather |