“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?”
“Nettlebrand,” said Professor Greenbloom. He and Zubeida exchanged concerned glances.
“Yes, those ravens.” The dracologist folded her hands. Ben saw that every finger of her left hand wore a ring with a different gemstone in it. “I’ve been worried about them myself for some time. They were here when I arrived. Usually they roost up by the tomb, but I sometimes feel they’re following me about. Of course, I immediately thought of the old tale of the black birds darkening the moon to prevent the dragons from escaping the monster. I’ve tried to chase them away, but every time I shoo them off, they’re back within minutes.”
