Badbury Clump, near Faringdon, Oxfordshire.
HINGEFINKLE’S LOGBOOK (Seventeenth Instalment)
Notes Towards the Definition of Druids
It now remains for me to relate those extraordinary events which overtook us as we traveled to the far north of Cambria: the horrible death of the Archdruid Vervain, the singular repentance and transformation of the eagle Llew Llaw Gyffes, and the somewhat untimely arrival of King Math and Codpiece on their annual taxation tour. Alas, this must also be the story of the inevitable ensuing wrangles, in the course of which Agrimony demonstrated his great political acumen – not to mention his remarkable forebearance in not turning Codpiece back into a frog. I am sorry to have to add, my dear little Alias, that the telling of this tale also compels me to explain the most tantalising near-miss in my entire professional life, for it was at the great Druid’s Circle that I, Hingefinkle, came within a basilisk’s whisker of solving the greatest of the multifarious mysteries of dracobiology.
I refer, of course, to the mystery of the sacred and dreadful Ovum anguinis, that most splendid and perplexing product of oviparity: revered by Druids, feared by Kings, and coveted by dracobiologists. But never found by them, my dear little Alias – never found, and when I think of what I left behind at the Druids’ Circle amid the heathery moors on the north coast of Cambria, my hand trembles with the horror and the amazement of it all, and I can hardly hold my quill to write these words. Yet write them I must, for in the Ovum anguinis has the fate of Druids been incubated; from the Ovum anguinis has the Creature stepped forth; and through the Ovum anguinis – or at least, veracity compels me to admit, through a rather convincing replica of it – have the warring factions of the realm been pacified, and peace has been brought to the land into which you were born.
“But Hingefinkle -” I can hear you say “- but Hingefinkle, you have started the story upside down, or inside out, and in spite of all your scruples about narrative technique, you are giving the distinct impression that you are a narrator with something up his sleeve. What is it? Or, if you are not going to tell me straight away, then you should at least start the story at the beginning, and tell me about the Druids’ Circle, and how we got there, and what happened there, and why!” And you would be right to say it, my dear little Alias, but since I have already used up one perfectly good piece of parchment in starting the story the way I have started it, I shall just have to let it stand.
We came upon the Druids’ Circle in the midst of some rather inclement weather for the time of year, and as I remember, I was carrying you snugly wrapped up in my cloak, thus making my ascent of the moors even more tiring than it usually is. The wind whipped about my ears, and every now and again, great drops of rain splattered on the stones, and lightning filled the skies over the sea to the north. The moorland ponies, of which there are many, galloped about, whinnying anxiously. At the time, in my state of near-exhaustion, I assumed that they were merely afraid of the thunder, for the whites of their eyes were showing, and their very manes seemed to bristle with anxiety. The track wound its way across the undulating landscape, diverting here and there in order to pass close by the places where the Ancients had erected their standing stones, and once drawing near to a precipitous crag littered with discarded stone axe-heads. There are many stone circles in those parts, but the one which has in recent years come to be known as the Druids’ Circle is by far the largest. I could see the arc of stones looming over the brow of the hill from some distance away, and despite the rain, I grew sweaty beneath my cloak as I continued to climb, and you poked your nose out beneath my chin and blinked in the wind. At last we drew near, and I perceived to my surprise that a man, garbed in white robes, lay prostrate at the exact centre of the circle of monoliths. I put you down on the ground, and together we picked our way through the patches of bog and clumps of heather, and hurried into the circle.
“Hum,” I said, perceiving that the recumbent fellow was a Druid, and assuming that he was in prayer. “Rather an unsuitable afternoon for such devotions, is it not?”
There was no reply but the whistling of the wind, which ruffled the Druid’s garments and flecked them with detached flowers of heather. I prodded the fellow with my toe, and he did not stir. I knelt at his side and touched his hand; it was still warm, but I recoiled when I saw his face, for it was half-turned into the mud, and bore the bood-drained pallor of death. The glazed eyes and open mouth bespoke a horror such as I had never seen on the face of mortal man.
“Fiddlesticks!” I cried, “He’s dead, Alias! We had better go and find help!”
At that moment, you let out a loud squeal, and as I turned to see what you were doing, a tall man, cloaked and silhouetted, bore down on me and grasped me firmly by the shoulder.
“Hingefinkle, you old codger!” said the mysterious stranger. “Look at the mess you’ve made with those clodhopping boots of yours. Don’t be so clumsy. You’re destroying evidence!”
I do not think, my dear little Alias, that I have ever in my life been so surprised – or so relieved – to see my old friend Druid Agrimony, as I was that afternoon atop the moor, with that other poor fellow sprawled dead at my feet.
“Uncle Agrimony! Uncle Agrimony!” you squealed, and clapped your arms about his knees as he ruffled your auburn ringlets with detached affection. “Where’s Snowdrop, and how did you know we were here?”
Agrimony eyed you through his monocle and laughed ruefully. “Snowdrop is still in the village. There was no time to bring him. And I must confess, my boy, that I did not know you were here. The arrival of you two on this particular scene at this particular moment is one of those coincidental variables which it is quite impossible to forsee, still less to forestall. I am compelled to add, when I observe how your foster-father’s footprints have obscured those of the Archdruid Vervain and his assailant, that it is also most vexingly inconvenient.”
“Hum,” I said, a little disgruntled, “am I correct in deducing that you did expect to find the Archdruid Vervain lying stone-dead in the middle of a circle of ancient monoliths on a windswept moor in the far north of Cambria? Surely that is the more unlikely variable of the two!”
“Variable, schmariable!” snorted Agrimony, pushing me brusquely aside, and poring over the dead body, his eyelids twitching with excitement behind his monocle. I stood aside, involuntarily changing my stance so that when Agrimony turned his attention back towards me, he would perceive that I was now on tiptoe, and therefore doing the minimum of damage to his precious evidence.
“Hum,” I said at length. “What do you think has happened to the poor fellow, Agrimony?”
Agrimony stood upright and grasped the hem of his cloak with one hand. “Beyond the obvious facts, that the Archdruid Vervain came up here quite alone in order to perform an arcane ritual, that in the midst of said ritual he was bitten on at least five separate occasions by a small multicoloured reptile with wings but no legs, that said multicoloured reptile was highly venomous and newly hatched from its egg, and that Archdruid Vervain, whether rightly or wrongly, was under the impression that the egg in question was the sacred Ovum anguinis of Druidic legend, I can deduce precisely nothing, Hingefinkle! Nothing at all!”
“Fiddlesticks,” I said sceptically. “You couldn’t possibly have guessed all of those things just from a cursory glance at a dead body lying in the mud. And everybody knows that the Ovum anguinis is -”
“On the contrary,” interrupted Agrimony, “I did not guess at all. I know for a fact that Druid Vervain, apart from being an incorrigible bureaucrat, was a great apologist for this newfangled appropriation of ancient lunar observatories as ritual sites, in favour of the far more practical sacred groves. I also know that legends concerning the Ovum anguinis concur in their testimony that it is particularly useful when one wishes to keep the secular powers favourably disposed. While you have been off on your foolhardy ramblings, it may interest you to know that King Math has launched a massive taxation drive in order to pay for his new wardrobe, and having placed Codpiece in charge of raising the funds, has acquiesced in the fool’s proposal that the Druids, being so fond of forms in triplicate, should be appointed chief tax-collectors. This did not go down at all well with the local Druid fraternity, I can tell you. Vervain always cherished his popularity. So, when I say to you that the Archdruid came here to perform an arcane ritual with the Ovum anguinis, I am presenting you not with a guess, but with a deduction.” He lifted the Archdruid’s forearm, and the hand hung limply at the wrist. “When I observe no less than twenty puncture marks in the fellow’s arm, thus arranged, I think I am also justified in deducing that he was bitten five times by a creature which has paired fangs on both the upper and lower jaw. Furthermore, since the fellow is dead, I do not think it an unreasonable assumption that said creature was poisonous.” He pointed to a double row of bright red welts, snorted haughtily, and let the arm drop to the ground.
“Hum. Indeed,” I said, feeling somewhat bewildered. “But you said that the creature was multicoloured -”
Agrimony let forth the kind of groan which a teacher may be forgiven for emitting in the presence of an exceedingly stupid child, and picked up the arm once more. He pulled a pair of tweezers from his pocket, and plucked three tiny objects from beneath the fingernails. “Put those in your pipe and smoke them,” he said.
I pulled out Gladys Sparkbright’s pocket microscope and examined them intently. “Scales!” I said enthusiastically. “And quite indubitably the scales of a reptile – and one red, one yellow, and one blue! Thus you deduced that the creature was multicoloured.”
I was about to congratulate my friend on his powers of observation, when you, my dear little Alias, murmured, with your eyes fixed on the mud, “And since there are no tracks leading away from the stone circle, the creature cannot have walked or crawled or slithered away, but must have flown. Even Hingefinkle would have noticed that.”
“Capital!” cried Agrimony, clapping you on the back and almost knocking you over.
It was then that the realisation hit me. The Ovum anguinis! Perhaps it did exist after all. It all seemed to make perfect sense: what could better answer to the ancient descriptions of the pockmarked, leathery Ovum than the egg of one of the smaller and lesser-known species of the genus Draco? I was about to burst into a rapturous cheer, when doubt got the better of me.
“Indeed,” I said. “But we have no proof that what the Archdruid Vervain thought was the Ovum anguinis really was the item in question.”
Agrimony turned away and looked out towards the sea, sighed, and said casually, “Hingefinkle, you really are tiresome sometimes. You might try digging about a bit in the mud.”
Together we probed about in the mud, while Agrimony contemplated the lightning with an expression of the purest contentment on his wizened face. Presently, my dear boy, you gave a triumphant shout, and held up a tattered piece of parchment. I wiped the mud off it with feverish fingers, and read aloud:
Ovum anguinis:
ever ingenious
old gods rule it.
Legends relate
its value unfailing.
Its oval enfolding
shell made of leather
shall ‘mid foul ether
split to reveal
a serpent’s travail.
Coiled and poised,
cold and possessed:
with dread of the anguis
the Druid forth goes.
“A page purloined by our illustrious Archdruid from the Codex Druidicus in the Spodleian Library,” said Agrimony, his back still turned. “Now do you have reason to doubt that the Archdruid came here to perform a ritual?”
“Hum. No indeed. But it still doesn’t prove that -”
“You might also try turning over the body. I’d do it myself, but quite frankly, I can’t be bothered,” said Agrimony expressionlessly.
We heaved at the body (Vervain had, I fear, been rather too fond of stodgy puddings in life), and rolled it face-upward in the mud, and there, lying beneath it, was a large, flattened, leathery object roughly the size – well, roughly the size and consistency of a pig’s bladder. I picked it up between thumb and forefinger, and a quantity of bloodstained albumen poured from a tear in its side. I stared at it for some moments in sheer incomprehension, and when the import of our discovery hit me, I was so shaken that I dropped the thing back onto the ground.
“The O-” I gasped, but Agrimony had turned, and grasping us both by the shoulders, he propelled us back down the hill as fast as our legs would carry us, leaving the empty shell of the Ovum anguinis atop the moor, to be stolen away by some rook or hungry bird of prey. At the time, his action seemed, I must confess, quite incomprehensible.
*
“I presume,” I remarked, as we sat chewing our breakfast in front of our campfire the next morning, “that you knew all along that the Archdruid had procured the Ovum anguinis, and that you had deduced, perhaps with the aid of my own humble writings, that it was probably the egg of one of the lesser dragons, and were therefore hoping to prevent him from doing something stupid.”
“Precisely,” said Agrimony, whose mood was markedly more agreeable with breakfast in his stomach. “And I did, as a matter of fact, sneak a glance at your own Monsters Misc. Indeed, I must admit that it was your very own observations on the breeding habits of the genus Draco which convinced me that Archdruid Vervain was in imminent danger.”
“Hum. I’m afraid I don’t see the point.”
“You remark in Monsters Misc. that one of your reasons for assuming – wrongly, as I think – that Dragons are descended from birds and not from reptiles, is that Dragons have to incubate their eggs. I presumed that your statement was based on observation and not on hearsay. I was also aware, having kept my own chickens, that eggs will retain their fertility for quite some time, if kept at a lower temperature, and may be incubated later on. Now, think, Hingefinkle. If you wanted to carry a leather egg from the village to the north coast of Cambria, where would you put it?”
“In my jerkin!” you said, gobbling the bacon, of which Agrimony, rather uncharacteristically, had brought a plentiful supply.
“Precisely,” nodded Agrimony, “thus providing the perfect conditions – warm and, since it is a rather arduous trail, somewhat moist – for the embryo to develop inside the Ovum anguinis.” He stood up briskly. “Which leaves us with only one vexing problem.”
“Hum. And what may that be?”
“Why, Hingefinkle, you old codger, we have to work out a way of silencing a tax-happy King Math, that’s what!”
“Indeed, yes,” I said with a sigh. “Do you have any ideas?”
“He needs a suitable counterbalance,” said Agrimony, “someone with the authority to counteract his absurdities, but without the public approval to think of seizing power himself. Someone, in short, like Llew Llaw Gyffes, the son of Gwydion.”
“Hum. Really, Agrimony, do you think that’s wise? The last time Llew Llaw wielded any political power, he annihilated an entire city in cold blood.”
“Oh,” said Agrimony dismissively, “I think a few years spent as a rather wretched eagle ought to have induced a certain degree of penitence. It’s time for me to bump him up the evolutionary scale a bit.”
“But where will you find him?” I enquired. “Fiddlesticks! An eagle could be anywhere by now.”
“Nonsense,” replied Agrimony. “Eagles are creatures of habit, with a defined territory. He will be in the same place as last time. Don’t you read your history books, Hingefinkle?”
It was then, my dear little Alias, that your sweet little voice broke into song; the strangest song I had ever heard, and a glimmer of admiration flickered in the eyes of Druid Agrimony:
“My son! My son!” cries Gwydion,
“Where art thou flown? Where art thou gone?
O! Awful deed of Blodeuedd!
Gronw hath brought him near to death!”
“Brother! Brother!” echoéth Math,
“Hold back thy grief! Release thy wrath!
Go! Bring thy son back to Gwynedd
And punish wayward Blodeuedd!”
The land of Gwynedd he traverses;
His wrath he nurses, Gronw he curses.
No trace of Llew Llaw hath he met
Until a swineherd cries, “Well met!”
“Well met, my man,” saith Gwydion,
“Mayhap you’ll give me board anon?”
“Verily,” the swineherd saith,
“If you’ll find where my best sow strayeth!
Every morn she disappears;
She’ll not be found ‘til darkness nears!”
“I shall indeed,” says Gwydion,
“I’ll track her by the light of dawn.”
At dawn the sow runs from her pen,
She scatters goat and goose and hen,
She snorts and squeals and runs in front,
The forest fills with gripe and grunt.
Gwydion takes his riding crop,
The sow runs onward through the leaves.
She does not flag and will not stop,
Her grunting echoes on the breeze.
Through moss and fern the sow hath gone,
Gnarled oaks loom overhead.
The trees close in, Gwydion goes on,
His horse by halter led.
At last he comes upon the sow,
He ties his horse and wipes his brow.
On writhing maggots she is feeding,
And on flesh, rank and bleeding.
Above there towers a giant oak,
He holds the stench back with his cloak;
He drives away the snorting sow
And looks up through the gnarled boughs.
An eagle spies he in the tree;
He sings, “My Llew Llaw, come to me!”
Dead flesh falls from the eagle’s crop,
And from there the maggots drop.
The eagle flaps his tattered wings,
Weeping Gwydion softly sings,
“My dear Llew Llaw, come thou to me!”
The eagle flies down from the tree.
The eagle alights on Gwydion’s knee,
“My son! What hath they done to thee?”
Gwydion strikes him with his wythe.
The wretched bird doth wax and writhe.
The eagle turns back to Llew Llaw,
Yet still the maggots by the score
Drip from Llew Llaw’s stinking chest;
His father holds him to his breast.
Physicians they find at Caer Dathyl,
With leech and herb they cure his ills
‘Til Llew Llaw stands serene and proud;
The people praise him in a crowd.
*
I shall not relate the details of our journey to the forests of Gwynedd, of the delightful hospitality of the swineherd, or of the repentance and transformation of Llew Llaw Gyffes – for the depth of the eagle’s contrition led to scenes so poignant that it would be unfitting to describe them in prose. Besides, my dear little Alias, I have no doubt that you remember these things yourself. Suffice it to say that on that day, we had the – to my knowledge unique – experience of watching the eagle weep as he perched on Agrimony’s knee, and a pathetic sight it was, covered as Llew Llaw was with suppurating sores. And then at last, Agrimony relented his sternness, called up the powers of the Demiurge, and I watched delightedly as the poor creature began to evolve backwards to a point on the evolutionary scale from which it was possible to progress, along a slightly different track, to the status of hominid. And then Llew Llaw Gyffes stood before us, his hair tangled, his hands and face grimy, his sunken eyes staring from their sockets in an expression of combined terror and relief, and Agrimony offered his hand in a gesture of peace.
Nor shall I bother to relate, as a more responsible writer might insist on doing, how the four of us travelled back through the Bluebell Wood to our own village, arriving in time for the festival of Samhain and the celebration of the anniversary of your arrival, my dear boy – and, incidentally, also in time to witness the arrival in the village of King Math, Codpiece and their retinue. I shall not even dwell on the fact that their triumphal entry was marred by Codpiece’s horse who, blinded by a map flapping in the wind, managed to trip King Math’s horse head over heels, propelling its disgruntled rider gracefully through the air and into a large pile of manure. No, I shall lurch the narrative forward to the moment when King Math, scrubbed clean and smeared with a year’s supply of the Mayor’s best deodorants and unguents, sat at the table in the village hall with all his retinue, with twelve of the Mayor’s favourite geese, perfectly dressed and basted, set out before them, and at last received Llew Llaw Gyffes into his presence.
“Verily verily, merrily, milord!” bawled Codpiece as we entered, “Methinks this fellow is to blame for the transformation of your Grace into a frog. He has a big head, milord, and big heads will have big ambitions! Chop it off, milord! Chop it off! Ker-flop, ker-plop, and vice-versa!”
“You will do no such thing, confound it,” roared Agrimony, his flaccid cheeks suddenly tightening and turning red. “I absolutely forbid it.”
“We are not accustomed to being forbidden from doing anything,” said King Math haughtily, goose-fat running down his chin, and turning to the nearest knight. “Do as our esteemed advisor Codpiece has suggested, Sir Ponsonby-Wagglebotham, will you?”
Sir Ponsonby-Wagglebotham stood up obediently and drew his sword from its sheath, but as he did so, Agrimony clapped his hands, and the cranberry sauce unaccountably sprouted legs, leapt from its bowl, and splattered itself all over the hapless knight’s visor. I seem to remember you laughing delightedly, my dear little Alias, as Sir Ponsonby-Wagglebotham stumbled blindly into the table, sending the various delicacies flying in every direction, so that Codpiece ended up with his head inside the Mayor’s largest and most succulent goose.
“I suggest,” said Agrimony commandingly, “that you and Llew Llaw come to terms, in case I have something more dangerous up my sleeve than flying condiments.”
King Math looked grey, but to give him credit, he stood up, and would have pounded the table commandingly with his fist, were it not for the fact that the table was no longer in front of him, but upside-down on the floor. “We shall do no such thing,” squeaked Math. “This man is a traitor, and a treasoner, and a trickster, and a troublester, and a terribly nasty fellow -”
And then Agrimony did a thing which no one could have predicted. Out of a pocket in his cloak, he produced a large, globed, pockmarked, leathery brown egg, and placed it delicately at the feet of King Math. The King blinked, and looked down at it suspiciously.
“You have, I presume, heard of the dreaded Ovum anguinis, aid of Druids,” said Agrimony darkly. “You may even, in your saner moments, have reached the supposition that it could be nothing less than the egg of one of the lesser species of the genus Draco. And I am sure you will be enlightened, and indeed grateful to hear that this supposition is true, and that the Creature it contains is in fact highly venomous. Moreover, I am sure, King Math, that you will be interested to know that I am in possession of the ancient ritual by means of which the Ovum anguinis may be hatched -” And at this rather dramatic juncture, as I am sure you will agree, Agrimony held up the tattered piece of parchment in his hand, and began to intone:
Ovum anguinis:
ever ingenious
old gods rule it.
Legends relate…
“Quite so, quite so,” said King Math hurriedly, glancing anxiously at the egg. “We do not think a practical lesson in dracobiology is very appropriate on this occasion.” He opened his arms in a princely gesture of magnanimity. “Well, Llew Llaw Gyffes, we are delighted to see you looking so much better…”
*
“Well, Hingefinkle, I think we can safely say that the peace of the realm is no longer in jeopardy, and that the local Druid fraternity owe me one or two favours.” Agrimony chuckled softly to himself, and stirred the embers of the fire.
“Hingefinkle,” your voice peeped from the opposite side of the wall. “I can’t sleep. It’s too cold.”
“Hum. We need to stoke up the fire.”
“Stay where you are, Hingefinkle, you old codger. I think it is my turn to fetch the wood inside.” I had rarely seen Agrimony in so expansive a mood.
And then, as he closed the front door behind him, curiosity got the better of me. There sat the Ovum anguinis cold and unincubated, on Agrimony’s workbench, propped against the armillary sphere. I put down my pipe, got up from the armchair, and walked over to it. I prodded it doubtfully with my little finger. The skin was firm, and only yielded slightly to my touch. Glancing towards the door and finding it still closed, I took a scalpel and a little specimen phial from my pocket. There was no need for Agrimony ever to know that I had taken a little albumen specimen for chemical analysis. I held the scalpel to the shell, and the phial underneath it, and gave a tentative stab.
To my horror, the blessed Ovum anguinis began to deflate so rapidly that it shot from the desk and began to fly about the room, bouncing off the walls and making a hideous farting sound. Agrimony came back through the door laden with timber as the empty shell dropped, limp and flaccid at his feet. I rushed forward, got down on my hands and knees, and examined it through my pince-nez. Agrimony was silent for more than a minute, and then slowly, and very softly, he began to laugh. The laugh became louder, and louder, until at last he reached such paroxysms of roaring hilarity that he collapsed into his armchair quite exhausted.
“Hum,” I said. “I do apologise. I seem to have damaged the Ovum anguinis.”
This time, Agrimony positively wept with mirth, and you, my dear boy, climbed out of bed, sat on his knee, and laughed with him, warming your feet at the fire.
“My dear Hingefinkle,” he said at last, “I have seen you looking perplexed often enough, but the expression on your face just now was so priceless that I wish my experiments with chloride of silver were more advanced!”
“Hum. Whatever do you mean? The Ovum anguinis -”
“- is nothing but an inflated pig’s bladder. Or at least it was,” bawled Agrimony, laughing so hard that his monocle fell into his glass of mead. “It was meant to be a placebo.”
“A placebo?” I cried, perplexed, and not at all sure that I was not the victim of some crude practical joke.
“Yes – a placebo. When I found out that the Archdruid Vervain was in possession of a real Ovum anguinis, I contrived to manufacture a fake one out of a pig’s bladder and a generous helping of the proverbial Second Element. I planned to make a switch before he reached the Druid’s Circle, but when I failed, other possibilities suggested themselves.”
I need not tell you, my dear little Alias, that for a while I felt as though the whole world had come crashing down around me. I had left a perfect sample of the Ovum anguinis shell to the rooks and raptors atop the north Cambrian moors. Another had proven itself to be nothing more than a tarted-up piece of offal from the local butcher. If Agrimony had not swindled me, circumstances certainly had. My brain reeled with unanswered questions, and I longed that just once I could see the creature which had wrought such havoc, and whose very reputation was enough to make a haughty King pliable and affable – even if it were the last thing I saw in my life.
“Well, Hingefinkle, you old codger,” said Agrimony at last, “don’t stand around moping. Come on, I need your help.”
“Hum,” I said, feeling as deflated as Agrimony’s fraudulent creation, “Whatever for?”
“The peace of the realm is at stake,” he said, dramatically sweeping his cloak from a peg by the door. “Without the Ovum anguinis for insurance, King Math and Llew Llaw Gyffes will be on the verge of starting a civil war.”
“Fiddlesticks!” I cried, memories of the last war haunting my mind like wraiths. “What on earth do you propose to do about it?”
Agrimony turned and addressed me with an air of exaggerated patience. “Really my dear Hingefinkle, it is perfectly simple. We shall just have to acquire another pig’s bladder, that’s all.”
