‘What’ll we do if we see it coming?’ asked Willie.
‘Hide,’ said Jonathan.
On the lower part of the slope the track led through woodland. The slanting morning sunshine made a pale-green light in the undergrowth. Mosses gathered by the bases of the trees, ivy on the trunks. They heard a pigeon cooing. The path veered left out of the trees and led down the side of the wood. A grey hen scuttled across in front of them from the long grass. And they had only descended another hundred yards when suddenly on their right there was a flapping sound and, in a flash of dark metallic blue, a blackcock with his lyre tail, disturbed by something, burst over their heads out of the trees.
‘That made you jump, Willie,’ said Jonathan.
‘So did you.’
Soon after this they came down on to the open valley floor and saw at once that they had entered a world where a dragon might appear at any time.
The world of Bisterne was very flat. Its large fields stretched over two miles westwards to the Avon’s silver waters which, as they often did in spring, had spread out over the lush water-meadows in a magical, liquid sheen. The manor house – it was more of a hunting lodge for the Berkeley knights, really – was a single timber-and-plaster hall with a stable yard attached, standing by itself in the middle of open parkland where cattle grazed and rabbits in an enclosed warren bobbed on the close-cropped grass. Away in the distance were the slopes behind which Burley Beacon lay; and dotting the landscape from hedgerow and field, single oaks or elms were holding out their bare arms as though expecting the winged monster to fly down from the Beacon and perch upon them.
It was quiet. Occasionally, they heard the lowing of cattle; once, the sawing sound of swans’ wings, beating over the distant water. And now and then a hoarse cawing and sudden flapping would come from the crows in the trees. But most of the time Bisterne lay in silence, as though all nature were awaiting a visitation.
Not many folk were about in the fields. A few hundred yards south of the manor hall lay a small thatched farmhouse with a slip of ash trees by the brook nearby. Coming down the cattle drove beside it they met a cowherd who, when they asked him politely where the dragon had been slain, smiled and pointed to a field behind the farm. ‘That’s Dragon’s Field,’ he told them. ‘By Bunny Brook.’
They wandered about for an hour or more along the paths and down to the river. They could see by the sun that it must be noon when Willie announced that he was hungry.
Just down river, at the old cattle crossing of Tyrrell’s Ford, there were some cottages and an old forge. Saying they had come from nearby Ringwood, so as not to draw any suspicion on to themselves, Jonathan begged some bread and cheese, which a woman in one of the cottages gave them readily enough. He asked her also about the dragon.
‘Twenty years or more since he was killed,’ she said.
‘Yes. But what about the new one?’
‘I haven’t seen that myself,’ she said, with a smile.
‘Perhaps it isn’t there,’ said Willie to Jonathan, as they ate their bread and cheese by the river.
‘She only said she hadn’t seen it,’ Jonathan replied.
After they had eaten they slept for a while in the warm sun.
It was past mid-afternoon when they went back up the drove by the farmhouse. If they felt daunted by the long walk home, they tried not to show it. They knew they needed to step out now to be safely back at dusk.
They were halfway up the drove when they encountered the cows, about half a dozen of them, being driven to the farmhouse by a boy. He was older than they were, perhaps twelve, and eyed them curiously. ‘Where d’you come from?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Want a fight?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I got to drive these cows anyway. What’re you doing here?’
‘Came to see the dragon.’
‘Dragon’s Field’s over there.’
‘We know. They told us there was another dragon now, but there isn’t.’
The boy looked at them thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed. ‘Yes there is. That’s why I have to get these cows in.’ He paused and nodded. ‘Comes over every evening, just like the last one did. From Burley Beacon.’
‘Really?’ Jonathan searched his face. ‘You’re making it up. Nobody’d stay here.’
‘No, it’s true. Honest. Sometimes he don’t do much. But he’s killed dogs and calves. You can see him flying at sunset. Breathes fire, too. Horrible-looking thing, really.’
‘Where does he go?’
‘Always the same place. Down into Dragon’s Field. So we stay away from there, that’s all.’
He turned away then, tapping the nearest cow with his stick, while the two boys went on. They didn’t speak for a moment or two.
‘I think he was lying,’ said Willie.
‘Maybe.’
Now they were returning, it did not seem to take long to get back up to the crest of Shirley Common. Although the sun was not yet sinking in the afternoon sky, there was just a hint of chill in the April breeze and a tinge of orange in the golden haze to the west. Once again the whole valley from the Avon river up to the ridge of Burley Beacon was stretched out before them in a panorama.
‘We’d get a good view from here,’ said Jonathan.
‘We’ll get back late,’ said Willie.
‘Depends when it comes. It might come now.’
Willie didn’t reply.
Jonathan knew his companion hadn’t been as keen to go as he was. Willie had done it for friendship’s sake. Not that he was afraid – or no more afraid than he was, anyway. In most of their games, especially playing by the river or anything to do with water, it was Willie with his funny chinless face who was the dare-devil and Jonathan who was cautious. And he knew that he wouldn’t have dared to come there alone. But as the long day wore on Jonathan had also discovered something else in himself that he hadn’t known about before: a quiet, driving determination rather different from his friend’s free nature.
‘If we get back after curfew’, Willie said, ‘we’ll get whipped.’
Even in the villages, the curfew – the couvre-feu when the fires were damped down for the night and all men were supposed to be indoors – was generally observed. After all, there was nothing much you could do in the deep darkness of the countryside anyway, unless it was some poaching or an illicit affair. In Lymington, men like Totton might cross to their houses from the Angel after dark, but generally the streets were empty. The curfew bell sounding from the church signalled a long silence.
Jonathan had never been whipped before. Most boys were, from time to time, by parents or schoolmasters but, perhaps because of his nature and the muted atmosphere that his mother’s illness had brought to the house, he had escaped this normal punishment. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘But you can go back if you want, Willie.’
‘And leave you alone?’
‘It’s all right. You go on. You’ve got time.’
Willie sighed. ‘No. I’ll stay.’
Jonathan gave his friend a smile and realized for the first time that he himself was capable of being ruthless.
‘What if there isn’t a dragon any more, Jonathan?’
‘Then we won’t see it.’
But what if there was? They waited an hour. The sun was sinking across the valley now. A faint mist rose from the distant water-meadows. The heath that swept down to the north of them a burnished, orange tint. But the line of Burley Beacon, catching the sun’s full rays, was gleaming gold as though it might ignite.
‘Watch the Beacon, Willie,’ Jonathan said and ran off down the slope.
It was only two hundred yards to the edge of the field. For some reason the bracken had been cut there and raked into heaps by the hedgerow, yet never carted away. It was easy enough to build a compact little shelter with a good, thick bed of bracken to lie on. If bracken made bedding for animals, he reasoned, it would for humans too. When he was done he went back to Willie.
 
; ‘We won’t get home tonight. It’s too late.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘I’ve made us a shelter.’
‘All right.’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘No.’
Sunset came and Burley Beacon turned fiery red, and it was easy to imagine a dragon, like a phoenix, arising from its embers into the evening sky. Then the sun sank and the western sky turned crimson, and the fire on Burley Beacon went out. Above, the first stars appeared.
‘I think it may come now,’ said Jonathan. He had quite a clear picture of what it would be like: about the size of a cow, he supposed, with a large wingspan. It would be green and scaly. The wings would sound like a huge swan when they beat and there would be a hissing noise from the fire coming out of its mouth. That was the main thing you’d see in the dark. He estimated it would fly across about a mile in front of them on its way down to Bisterne.
The sun was gone. The stars were brightening in the sapphire sky. The line of Burley Beacon looked dark and dangerous as the boys both waited, their eyes fixed upon it.
When, at dusk, there was still no sign of Jonathan, Henry Totton had reluctantly walked down to the quay and approached the disreputable dwelling of Alan Seagull. Had he seen his son? No, the mariner replied, a little perplexed; both boys had been missing since dawn and he had no idea where they were.
At first Totton had been afraid they might have gone out in a boat, but Seagull was soon able to discover that no boat was missing. Could they have fallen into the river somewhere?
‘My boy’s a strong swimmer,’ Seagull said. ‘What about yours?’
And Totton realized to his shame that he did not know.
Then word came that someone had seen them leave the top end of the town in the early morning. Could they have encountered danger in the Forest? It seemed unlikely. There had been no wolves reported for years. It was early for snakes.
‘I suppose’, said Alan Seagull glumly, ‘they could have fallen in a mill-race.’
By curfew time the mayor and bailiff had been consulted, and two search parties had been equipped with torches. One had gone to the mills of Old Lymington; the other through the woods above the town. They were prepared to search, if necessary, all night.
The shelter was quite effective. By packing the bracken close, they kept most of the moisture out. The night was not chilly, fortunately, and by lying together they kept warm. They had discovered a bramble and some stinging nettles in the dark, but apart from that, and the fact that they were extremely hungry, their sufferings were not great.
There was no moon that night. The stars, peeping from behind shrouds of cloud, were very bright. They had waited for a long time for the dragon, but by the time their eyes were drooping they had decided that, if it was residing at Burley, it was not coming over tonight.
‘You’ll wake me if you see it,’ Jonathan made Willie promise.
‘And you wake me.’
But once they were settled down, perhaps because of the dew forming on their faces, or through fear of animals disturbing them, neither boy slept for a while. And it was as they were gazing up at the night sky that Willie raised a subject they had discussed the day before. ‘You really think your dad’s boat from Southampton will beat my dad’s?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jonathan truthfully. The huge bet had been the talk of Lymington the previous day. After a short pause, however, thinking he owed it to his friend and his family to give them the best information he could, he added: ‘I think if my father’s bet so much on the race he must be sure he’s going to win. He’s very careful. I don’t think your father ought to bet on winning, Willie.’
‘He never bets.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Says he takes enough risks anyway without betting as well.’
‘What sort of risks?’
‘Never mind. I can’t tell you.’
‘Oh.’ Jonathan thought. ‘What can’t you tell me?’ It sounded interesting.
Willie said nothing for a bit. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said finally.
‘What?’
‘My dad’s boat can go faster than your father thinks. But you mustn’t tell him.’
‘Why?’
Willie was silent. Jonathan asked him why again, but got no answer. He gently kicked him. Willie said nothing.
‘I’ll pinch you,’ Jonathan offered.
‘Don’t.’
‘All right. But tell me.’
Willie took a deep breath. ‘Do you promise not to tell?’ he began.
All Lymington was buzzing when Jonathan Totton and Willie Seagull returned safely in the morning, which they were able to do quite early since they had hurried along the Forest edge as soon as the first hint of dawn had allowed them to see their way.
All Lymington rejoiced, all Lymington was curious. And when all Lymington discovered that they had been up all night and worried themselves half to death because the two boys had gone looking for a dragon, all Lymington was outraged.
At least, they claimed they were. The women all said that the boys should be soundly whipped. The men, remembering their own boyhoods, agreed, but were more or less lenient. The mayor told the fathers firmly that if they didn’t deal with their sons he would take them to the whipping post himself. Everyone privately blamed Burrard for telling them foolish stories about dragons in the first place. So Burrard hid in his house.
Henry Totton, before delivering sentence on his son, explained to him carefully that this showed the dangers of mixing with people like Willie Seagull, who had obviously led him astray; and was astonished when his son stoutly assured him that the whole expedition had been his idea and that it was he who had made Willie stay the night. At first he was unable to believe it, but when finally he did, his grief and disappointment were very great. For once, however, Jonathan really didn’t care.
Alan Seagull took his son by the ear and hauled him away to the quay and along to their strange house into which they disappeared together. There he took down a strap from the wall and hit Willie twice, after which he was laughing so much that his wife had to finish the job for him.
The punishment of Jonathan, however, was a sadder affair. Nobody laughed. Henry Totton did what he knew he must do. He did it not only with a sense of mystification at the whole episode but also with the belief that it could only make this strange boy hate him. So that Jonathan, although the whipping hurt, was rather proud of the whole affair; while his poor father ended the session in a far greater agony than any his son felt.
He is all I have, the merchant thought, and now I have lost him. Because of a dragon. Nor – so little did the poor man know of childhood – had he any idea what to do with Jonathan next.
It was a source of complete amazement to him therefore, the next day, when his son quite cheerfully asked him: ‘Will you take me to the salterns with you when you go there next time, Father?’
And anxious not to lose the chance of a reconciliation he answered quickly: ‘I’m going there this very afternoon.’
The unusual warmth of the last few days had changed to more typical April weather. Small white and grey clouds crossed the washed blue sky. The breeze was damp; occasional gusts brought a light spotting of rain, as Henry Totton and Jonathan, having walked to the church at the top of the High Street, turned left and descended the long lane that led down towards the sea.
The coastal strip below the borough was a bare and windswept place. From Lymington quay, the river’s small estuary continued south for about a mile until it emerged fully into the Solent. On the right side, below the small ridge on which the borough stood, and extending southwest for two and a half miles to the little inlet and hamlet of Keyhaven, lay the wide, watery flats of Pennington Marshes.
It was an empty-seeming place: green wastes of tufted marsh grass, little gorses soaked with salty mist, small thorn trees stunted and warped by the sea breeze dotted the landscape. Beyond, the long line of the Isle of Wight hovere
d across the Solent, its blue-green slopes turning into chalk cliffs away on the right. You might have thought the place was habitation only for the gulls and curlews and wild duck upon the marshes. But you would have been wrong.
For down near the shore a string of small buildings and a score or more of what looked like tiny windmills, their sails at present motionless, told a different story, reminding you that it was this marshland that provided the most important commodity the merchants of Lymington shipped: salt.
There had been salt pans there since Saxon times. The need for salt was huge. There was no other way of preserving flesh or fish. When the farmers killed their pigs and cattle in November, the meat had all to be salted so it could be used during the winter. If the king wanted venison from the Forest for his court or to feed his troops, it must be salted. England produced vast quantities and it all came from the sea.
Henry Totton owned a saltern on Pennington Marshes. They could see its boiling house and wind pumps as soon as they started along the gravelly path across the levels. It was one of a group down by the shoreline. It did not take them long to reach the place.
Jonathan liked the salterns; perhaps it was because of where they were, so close to the sea. The first thing needed for making salt was a large feeder pond, set just in from the shoreline, into which the sea water could flow at high tide. Jonathan loved to watch the sea come rippling in down the curving channels. He and Willie had once made a similar construction of their own when they were playing on a sandy beach along the coast.
The salt pans that came next were carefully built. They were, in fact, a huge single basin – shallow and dead level – divided into small ponds, about twenty feet square, by mud banks six inches high and just wide enough for a man to walk on. Water from the feeder pond was baled into these with wooden scoops; but they were only filled about three inches deep. From here, the salt-making began.
It was very simple. The water had to evaporate. This would only work in the summer and, the warmer the weather and hotter the sun, the more salt you could produce. The season usually began at the very end of April. In a good year it might last sixteen weeks. Once, in a very bad year, it had lasted only two.