Dragon Rider (19 page)

26. An Unexpected Reunion

 

 

B
irds fluttered up into the night sky, squawking loudly, as Ben waded through the warm water of the river. Huge turtles were hauling themselves out of the sea and lumbering up over the sandbanks to lay their eggs, but Ben scarcely noticed them.

With a sigh, he looked at the dracologist’s card, the one that Barnabas Greenbloom had given him. He didn’t think it was going to be much use. There were two addresses on it, one in London and one in Karachi, and her name: Zubeida Ghalib. Ben looked out to sea and saw a pale streak of light sky just above the horizon. The day’s hot fingers were beginning to push the night away.

“Perhaps I’ll just show this card to a few children,” murmured Ben, “and one of them will be able to tell me where she lives.”

Twigleg tugged the lobe of Ben’s ear. He had crawled out of the backpack and was making himself comfortable on Ben’s shoulder. “They won’t be able to read the card,” he said.

“Why not?” Ben frowned. “I can read it all right. Zu-bei-da Gha-lib.”

“Well done!” Twigleg chuckled. “Then you’d better read the name aloud. There won’t be many people around here who can read those characters — if the children in this village can read at all, that is. That’s English lettering on the card, young master! People here write quite differently. The dracologist gave the professor a card in his language, not hers, see?”

“Oh.” Ben looked at the homunculus in surprise and almost fell over a passing turtle. “What a lot you know, Twigleg.”

“Oh, well.” Twigleg shrugged his shoulders. “I spent many, many nights in my master’s library. I’ve read books about magic and the history of humankind. I’ve studied biology, so far as you can from human books, I’ve studied astronomy, astrology, geography, calligraphy, and any number of foreign languages.”

“You have?” Ben was climbing the low hill that hid the village from sight. Soon he could see the first huts and the fishing nets hung up to dry outside them. The sea was breaking on a wide beach where boats were drawn up side by side. Men wearing turbans were standing among them.

“Do you know the language they speak here?” he asked the manikin.

“Urdu?” Twigleg made a face. “Yes, of course, young master. I learned it when I was studying the great religions of the world. Urdu isn’t my favorite language, but I can get by in it.”

“Marvelous!” That was a load off Ben’s mind. If Twigleg understood the local language it wouldn’t be too difficult to find the dracologist. “But I think it would be better if no one saw you for the moment,” he told the homunculus. “Can you hide among my things somewhere and whisper what they’re saying to me?”

Twigleg nodded and clambered into the backpack.

“How’s this?” he said softly. “Can you hear me, young sir?”

Ben nodded. He climbed down the hill and came to some fields of goats. Chickens were scratching around on the ground. In the morning sunlight, children were playing outside low-roofed huts. They were chasing around the women who were seated outside the huts, laughing together as they cleaned and gutted fish. Hesitantly Ben approached.

First to notice him were the children, who ran forward and crowded around him, full of curiosity. They spoke to him, grabbed his hands, and pulled him along. Most of them were smaller than Ben. Their faces were almost as dark as their eyes, and their hair was as black as coal.

“How do I say hello?” Ben whispered over his shoulder.

The children looked at him in surprise.

“Salaam alaikum,”
whispered Twigleg.
“Khuea hasiz!”

“Salaam alaikum. Khu
— er —
khuea hasiz”
repeated Ben, trying to get his tongue around the words.

The children laughed, clapped him on the back, and talked faster than ever.

Ben raised his hands in protest.

“Stop!” he cried. “No. I don’t understand. Just a moment.” He turned his head. “How do I say, ‘I come from far away’?” he hissed over his shoulder.

The puzzled children stared at his backpack. Then, to Ben’s horror, Twigleg suddenly crawled out of it. Hauling himself up by Ben’s hair and ears, he climbed on top of the boy’s head and bowed low to the children.

“A very good morning to you all!” he called, in less-than-perfect Urdu. “We come with friendly intentions. There’s someone here we want to visit.”

“Twigleg!” whispered Ben. “Come down at once! Are you crazy?”

Most of the children retreated in fright, but two — a boy and a girl — stayed where they were, staring in amazement at the tiny man standing on top of the foreign boy’s head and speaking their own language. By this time some of the grown-ups too had realized that something unusual was going on. They left their work, came closer, and then, like
the children, they stood staring in astonishment at the sight of the manikin.

“Oh, don’t, Twigleg!” Ben groaned. “This isn’t a good idea. I expect they’ll mistake me for a wizard or something.”

But the villagers suddenly began to laugh. They nudged one another, lifted up their small children, and pointed to the homunculus as he stood on Ben’s head, his chest swelling with pride, bowing again and again.

“Thank you, good people, thank you very much!” he cried in Urdu. “My master and I are delighted by your kind welcome. Would you now be so good as to show us where the famous dracologist Zubeida Ghalib lives?”

The people frowned, looking puzzled. Twigleg spoke a very old-fashioned Urdu, as old as the books from which he had learned it. Finally, the boy who was still standing close to Ben asked, “You want to see Zubeida Ghalib?”

Ben was so pleased to hear the dracologist’s name that he forgot Twigleg was on his head and nodded vigorously. The homunculus toppled off— and landed on the hand of the foreign boy, who gazed at him with great respect before carefully placing him on Ben’s own outstretched palm.

“Oh, really, young master!” whispered Twigleg, straightening his clothes. “I might have broken my neck!”

“Sorry,” said Ben, putting him on his shoulder.

The little boy who had caught Twigleg took Ben’s hand and pulled him along the beach. The villagers all followed them past the huts and the fishing boats, until they reached a hut standing a little way from the others.

A stone statue of a dragon with a wreath of blue flowers around its neck stood beside the door. There was a full moon painted on the wall above the door frame, and flying from the roof were three long-tailed kites shaped like dragons.

“Zubeida Ghalib!” said the little boy, pointing to the doorway, which had only a brightly colored curtain over it. Then he added something else.

“She works by night and sleeps by day,” translated Twigleg, “because she’s studying the secrets of the dark time of the moon. But she has guests staying with her just now, so she ought to be awake. We only have to ring that little bell.”

Ben nodded. “Say we thank them very much,” he whispered to Twigleg.

The manikin interpreted. The villagers smiled and retreated a few steps, but they didn’t go away. Ben went to the door of the hut with Twigleg and tugged the bellpull. The tinkling of the tiny bell scared two birds off the roof of the hut, and they flew away, croaking.

“Oh, no!” cried Ben in alarm. “Twigleg, those were ravens.”

Someone pulled back the curtain over the doorway — and Ben got a surprise that took his breath away.

“Professor!” he stammered. “What are you doing here?”

“Ben, my boy!” cried Barnabas Greenbloom, smiling broadly as he led him into the hut. “Am I glad to see you! And look at this — why, if it isn’t Twigleg. So he turned up again, did he? Well, fancy that! But where are the others?”

“Hiding by the river,” replied Ben, still astonished, and looked around. Seated on cushions at a low table in one corner of the small room were a stocky little woman and a girl about Ben’s age.

“Hello,” murmured Ben shyly. Twigleg bowed.

“Goodness, what a funny elf you are!” said the girl, looking at him. “I’ve never seen an elf like you before.”

Twigleg bowed again, with a flattered smile on his face. “I’m not an elf, honored lady. I’m a homunculus.”

“A homunculus?” The girl looked at Barnabas Greenbloom in surprise.

“This is Twigleg, Guinevere,” explained the professor. “He was made by an alchemist.”

“Really?” Guinevere looked at the homunculus in amazement. “My word, I never met a homunculus before. What creature did the alchemist use to make you?”

Twigleg shrugged his shoulders regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t know, noble lady.”

“Guinevere,” the professor interrupted them, putting his arm around Ben’s shoulders, “let me introduce my young
friend Ben. I’ve already told you a lot about him. Ben, this is my daughter, Guinevere.”

Ben blushed red as a beet. “Hello,” he murmured.

Guinevere smiled at him. “Then you must be the dragon rider,” she said.

“The dragon rider!” The woman sitting at the low table next to Guinevere folded her arms. “My dear Barnabas, would you be good enough to introduce me to this remarkable young man?”

“Of course!” Barnabas Greenbloom handed Ben a spare cushion and then sat down beside him at the table. “This, dear Zubeida, is my friend Ben the dragon rider. I’ve already told you a great deal about him. And this, dear Ben, is the famous dracologist Dr. Zubeida Ghalib,” he added, indicating the stout little woman in her brightly colored sari with gray hair in a long braid hanging down to her waist.

Dr. Ghalib bowed her head, smiling.

“It is a great honor to meet you, dragon rider,” she told Ben in his own language. “Barnabas has told me some remarkable things about you. He says you are not just a dragon rider but a friend of brownies, too, and I can see for myself that there’s a genuine homunculus sitting on your shoulder. I am very glad to see you. Barnabas wasn’t sure if you and your companions would come, so we’ve been waiting for you anxiously ever since he arrived a couple of days ago. And
where,” she said, looking at Ben hopefully, “is your friend the dragon?”

“Quite close,” said Ben. “He and Sorrel are hiding by the river. I came into the village first to see if it would be safe for them.” He added, looking at Barnabas Greenbloom, “That’s what the professor advised.”

Zubeida Ghalib nodded. “That was sensible of you, although I don’t think they’ll be in any danger in this village. The fact is, you’re not the first dragon rider the place has known. But more about that later.” She looked at the boy and smiled. “I’m glad you acted as you did. The arrival of a dragon would have created so much excitement you’d probably never have reached my hut at all. You see,” said Zubeida Ghalib, pouring Ben a cup of tea as her bangles jingled like the little bells at her door, “I expect by now you take the dragon for granted, but my heart flutters like a young girl’s at the thought of meeting one at last, and I’m sure it would be just the same for the people of this village.”

“Well, knowing a dragon is still rather exciting for me, too,” murmured Ben, casting a quick glance at Guinevere, who was smiling at Twigleg. Much flattered, the homunculus blew her a kiss.

“You’d better get Firedrake here as soon as possible,” said Professor Greenbloom. “I have some news for the three of you.” He rubbed his nose. “I’m afraid it’s no coincidence that
we meet again so soon. I came here on purpose to warn you.”

Ben looked at him in surprise. “Warn us?”

The professor nodded. “Yes, indeed.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them. “I have had an extremely unpleasant encounter with Nettlebrand, the Golden One.”

Twigleg almost stopped breathing.

“The Golden One?” said Ben. “The dragon who lost the golden scales? Did you know he was the one who drove the dragons away from the sea? It wasn’t a sea monster after all!”

“Yes, Zubeida’s already told me about that.” Professor Greenbloom nodded. “His name should have occurred to me much sooner. Nettlebrand, the Golden One. Terrible tales are told of him, although they are all hundreds of years old — except for the one about that attack on the dragons just off the coast here.”

Twigleg fidgeted uneasily on Ben’s shoulder.

“I must admit, my boy,” the professor went on, “I still feel weak at the knees when I think of that monster. I owe it only to my knowledge of mountain dwarves that I’m sitting here now. Do you still have that golden scale I gave you to look after for Firedrake?”

Ben nodded. “It
is
one of his, isn’t it — the monster’s?”

“Yes, and I’m not sure you ought to keep it. But I’ll tell
you the whole story when Sorrel and Firedrake are with us. I’d say you should fetch them now. What do you think, Zubeida?” said the professor, with an inquiring look at the dracologist.

Zubeida nodded. “The dragon is certainly in no danger from the people of this village,” she said, “and strangers seldom come here.”

“But what about the ravens?” asked Twigleg.

The others looked at him in surprise.

“Oh, yes, that’s right, the ravens!” cried Ben. “I’d forgotten all about them. There were two of them on the roof of this hut. We think they’re spies. Spying for that — what did you call him?”