Dragons – Ice and Fury

Christchurch, New Zealand

May, 1908

A dense, neatly trimmed privet hedge, three feet thick, reaching eight feet high in most locations, rising to ten feet in others, enclosed the Bramford Manor estate on three sides of its perimeter; the fourth side, its western end, needed no artificial barriers to bar unwanted intrusions; here, manicured lawns gave way to thick bush and then to old growth stands of oak, ash, and maple—woods, dark, damp, swarming with life, extending to the edge of the sea. Otherwise, the boundary of hedge continued without interruption, except at the center of its eastern delimitation on Clifton Road, where two stout wooden doors guarded the interior driveway, and a side door of similar construction permitted favored pedestrians to enter. No moats or fortress walls of stone and mortar could have provided greater privacy; only dim traces of light between the tiny overlapping leaves revealed any details of the opaque interior of the property.

Along the southern edge of the estate, a shallow gully that served for drainage had been naturally excavated by rainfall; though now dry and choked with weeds, it was not entirely empty, for Whitaker Downes, an eleven year-old boy from the nearby village, was making his way along the bottom of the narrow depression, probing for weaknesses in the formidable hedge. He was certainly planning an incursion, that much was undeniable, but he was driven by pure curiosity, not plunder. For the past two weeks of the new term, Whit, as he was universally called, had been following one of his classmates, Gordon St. Martins, from school to his Bramford home. His reasons for this close surveillance were less well defined than the unwavering route they traveled everyday.

The previous term in the Hallerman School had been his first, a happenstance not of his choosing. His father, Doctor Henry Downes, a professor of semantics at the University of California in Berkeley, had been offered a visiting chair on the faculty of the University of Canterbury, a prestigious recognition of his research, one that could not, given the professional contingencies, be refused. Subsequently, he had moved his entire family—wife, cat, Whit and his two-year-younger brother Walton—from their lifelong residence in San Francisco to a different home in a different country, thousands of miles from their homeland, the length of their stay indeterminate. Had Whit been younger, the adjustment to another environment and new classmates might have been easier, as it had been for his brother, but on arrival, he entered the fifth year of primary instruction, the penultimate level before middle school. He soon realized that existing friendships in Hallerfeld had been long established, and he found himself a stranger among his fellows, an immigrant from a foreign country, speaking with an odd accent. In consequence, It was a long, painful, lonely year, so when Gordon St. Martins, another new student, obviously not of New Zealand provenance, appeared at the beginning of the sixth grade, Whit felt that their similar circumstances could lead to friendship. How that might be accomplished was far from certain; hence Whit began his covert operation, awaiting an opportunity. He was not an overly dependent youth, but he was desperate for companionship, that and an insatiable curiosity had brought him to his late afternoon crawl along the dusty gully beside the impenetrable hedge lining the Bramford estate, a property border and an obstacle to any future friendship he might develop with Gordon.

Now, it should be noted that another schoolboy in Whit’s situation might have elected a rather different approach to trying to form a new friendship; he might, for example, have confronted Gordon St. Martin directly, either at recess or during another opportune time; that method, of course, would have required a degree of confidence and social dexterity, one that unfortunately, Whit had not yet attained. So he chose a roundabout way, surely not the best alternative, but perhaps the only one available to him at the time.

§

For nearly twenty minutes, he had been proceeding along the gully slowly, in a methodical way, when he noticed a slither of sunlight emanating from the bottom of the hedge, falling across the path he was following. Excitedly, he scrambled to the top of the embankment. What he had discovered could not be described accurately as a pathway through he bottom of the privet hedge; it was rather the possibility of taking advantage of a lessening in its woody density, of creating a corridor by bending branches, contorting his body, and crawling worm-like along a narrow shaft, all the while being assaulted and scratched by sharp twigs as he proceeded. Progress would be difficult, even painful, but objections be damned! He had found a way forward toward the beckoning green of the lawn beyond, and he would not be deterred. The next phase of his exploration, what precisely he would do if successful in gaining access to the interior of the property was never considered.

In a new minutes, he was halfway through beneath the hedge, scratched and bleeding as expected, but he was also stuck, pinned in placed by protruding, twisted branches, unable to move forward any further, unable to extricate himself by reversing direction. He suppressed a frustrated sob as best he could manage then startled, looked suddenly upward in response to the appearance of bright daylight.

“Have you been spying on us!” a young girl exclaimed from above, while moving aside two handfuls of privet branches. It was phrased as a question but was really an exclamation of wonderment, rather than an accusation. She was probably a year or two younger than he, with short sandy-colored hair, wearing corduroy overalls, obviously quite pleased that she had apprehended an intruder.

“Not actually spying. I was trying to find a way inside, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten stuck.”

“Bear, come quick. I’ve captured a thief,” she called out to a nearby boy, a year or two younger than she. A moment later, Gordon St. Matins, ostensibly the original objective of Whit’s ill-fated adventure, joined the group of three children excitedly surrounding this unexpected guest.

“A thief, you say. Well, that is extraordinary, little sister. Wait, I know you. You’re in my class at Hallerman! What in the world are you doing here?”

“I was exploring the area and became curious at what was behind the hedge. I didn’t realize you lived here.” That was only a partial truth, he knew, but to confess otherwise would render him as ridiculous to everyone. More importantly, it would effectively exclude any chance that they might become friends. “I promise. I had no intension of invading your home or stealing anything.”

“Well, that’s to be determined,” Gordon decided. “In the meantime, let’s haul him in. Bear, fetch the clippers from the greenhouse.”

A moment later, the younger boy returned with a rusty pair of gardening sheers, and after some delicate surgery to the privet, the three of them pulling strenuously together were able to drag Whit onto the lawn without further injury.

Gordon helped Whit to regain his feet, then extended his hand. “We’ve been together in class nearly everyday, but I don’t believe that we’re ever been properly introduced. I’m Gordon, but everyone calls me Gordo. This is my sister Miriam and my younger brother Bearwortth, but everyone calls him Bear. Miriam is just Miriam, at least for now.”

Whit glanced at his new companions. Gordo was a little taller than he was, more athletic in his appearance. Both he and Miriam, his eight-year old younger sister, were tanned in complexion and lightly freckled from the sun; they shared the same wavy, sandy-colored hair, tousled casually across their foreheads. Neither of them displayed any especial delicacy, their developing biceps, where revealed beneath their clothing, were evidence of growing athleticism. And the two of them shared other characteristics as well. Both were confident and socially adept, even around complete strangers. Bear, on the other hand, was a year younger than Miriam and at least three inches shorter in height. His hair was dark and straight, his body slim and lithe. He was quieter than his siblings, and under different circumstances of age, he may have made a better companion for Whit than the aggressive Gordo.

With introductions completed all around, Whit turned his attention to his surroundings. As an estate, Bramford Manor consisted of a spacious main house, on a low hill in the center of the property, constructed of red brick and wood, painted bright white with yellow trim, and a clustering of a half dozen out-buildings, including a greenhouse and a garage large enough to accommodate several wagons and vehicles. Wide swatches of meticulously maintained lawn extended in every direction radiating from the main house, and far toward the rear of the property, he could just perceive the darkness of the encroaching woods. Croquet loops had been inserted into the grass nearby, and scattered wooden mallets and balls were an indication that his sudden appearance among them had interrupted their game.

In fact, he was so engrossed in examining and cataloguing his new location and acquaintances that he completely overlooked the presence of still another person in the vicinity, a young girl sitting at a table beneath a broad sun umbrella, perhaps thirty feet away on the upslope of the great lawn.

“Elise!” Gordo called out. “We’re captured a thief sneaking onto the property.”

“Bring the prisoner forward, then, so that he may be interrogated,” she replied, lightly gesturing with a waved arm. Immediately, Whit and the three siblings strode briskly forward in response to her summons. She was sitting behind a propped up, leather-bound volume with gilded pages, several sheets of cream-colored writing paper scattered on the table, a sharpened pencil dangling from her slim fingers, a concentrated frown fixed tenaciously on her face.

She was wearing a white, angle-length dress of crenelated material, trimmed in lace, white cotton stockings, and matching shoes with low heels.

“I see you’ve met my siblings. My name is Elise. May I inquire as to yours and the reasons for your presence here?”

“I’m Whitaker Downes. I’m in the same class at Hallerman as your brother Gordon. And yes, I’ve met Miriam and Bearworth.” Whit paused before continuing, considering his next words carefully. “I’m sorry if I disturbed your family. I was passing by and noticed the hedge around your property. Curiosity is a weakness of mine, so I decided to see if I could take a look. As you can see, I managed to tangle myself rather thoroughly in your landscaping. I’ve also interfered with an ongoing croquet game. My apologies on both counts.”

She looked at him, titled her head thoughtfully, and smiled. “I think the real explanation for your sudden arrival amongst us is a tad more complicated than you care to share, but I do believe that your reasons were innocent enough. Ill accept your explanations for now. Come and sit with me. Miriam, please go into the house tell Mama that we have a guest. And bring back some iodine and bandages. Those wounds need tending to before they’re infected.”

§

Even though, at least according to Whit’s estimation, Elise was adequately shielded from the sun by the large, colored umbrella anchored within beneath the garden table, she was also wearing a broad straw hat with a wide floppy brim, which she continually adjusted as they spoke, repositioning the dangling lavender ribbon from one side to another. Her complexion was pale, he noticed, more so than either of her brothers or or her sister; evidentially, she needed additional protection from the strong New Zealand sun, sun even though it was late autumn in the southern hemisphere, and the days were growing progressively shorter with the approach of cooler weather. Her eyes were dark brown, liquid pools of reflected light beneath heavy brows that matched her long, brown cascading hair that fell in ripples to her waist. In his opinion, her smile, accompanied by parallel dimples on either cheek was warmer than any sun he had experienced. He instantly decided that Elise was the most beautiful female he would ever encounter.

Miriam soon emerged from the main house carrying the medicine and bandages that Elise had prescribed; and with these supplies in hand, his self-appointed nurse began attending to the cuts and bruises he had sustained during his improvised entry into their sheltered garden. As she was completing her ministrations, Rebecca St. Martins, the mistress of Bramford Manor and mother to the four children arrayed about her lawn, made an appearance, followed by Gentry, a footman in formal livery, carrying a tray containing a pitcher of lemonade, glasses, cloth napkins, and a plate laden with freshly baked oatmeal cookies. She introduced herself, smiled at Whit—in a friendly but noncommittal manner, or so he thought—then returned to the house.

“She didn’t ask why I’m here,” Whit remarked, surprised that Mrs. St. Martins had not breached the subject, more surprised still that she had accepted his attendance so casually, without seeking an explanation or voicing any reservations of her own.

“Oh, I’m certain that Miriam provided her with an elaborate narrative. So, you and Gordo are classmates,” she said, sipping her flavored drink. “Bear also attends Hallerman, of course, but he’s much younger than you two and in a lower grade. Undoubtedly, you never noticed him.”

“Well, no, I haven’t, but I’ve only just met him. I’ll certainly look for him in the future. I’m sure I would have noticed you, if you had been attending. Do you go to a different school?”

“No. Neither Miriam nor myself attend school. We’ve been on home study for years. Tutors visit twice a week, but Mama provides most of the teaching herself. It’s different for boys, I suppose. According to Papa, Gordo and Bear need to socialize with chums their own age. They have to learn to compete in the classroom and on the rugby pitch. Girls have different needs, you know.”

“Were you doing school work when I first arrived? I’m afraid that I couldn’t help but notice that you were concentrating intently on a book, taking notes.”

“Working, yes, but not on school work. I was trying to fix a poem that I’m writing. It’s been going rather badly, I fear.”

“You’re a poet?”

“That,” she laughed, “would be putting rather too grand a description on my efforts; perhaps someday, but not yet a poet. I think it a sacred calling, you see. Whether it will be mine, only time will reveal. It’s still early. I’m only thirteen.”

“You’re thirteen!” he exclaimed, astounded that a girl so much older than he would expend so much attention on a boy his age.

“Yes, thirteen!” she laughed. “Is my physical appearance so unsuitable for my age? My dear Whit, you bestow complements so profligately!”

“No, no. I didn’t mean it that way, please. You just seem older older than other girls at school. You sound more mature.” Clearly, Whit’s lack of experience with girls was reenforcing his stumbling efforts in trying to retract his ambiguous and unintended words.

“Well, if you’re trying to fashion an apology, I’ll accept your intentions if not the clumsy choice of words themselves,” she smiled, not unkindly. “Please, I’m only teasing you. Just a little,” she added, placing her fingers softly on the back of his hand.

For a brief moment—he hoped it was imperceptible—he caught his breath at her touch; it was so soft, it barely registered, but he shuttered inwardly nevertheless. He made a show of consulting his watch to help conceal his embarrassment to the intimacy he felt. Surely, her intent was different than its effect, he decided. “It’s almost six. I should be heading home. We dine at seven.”

“Very well,” she replied, instantly dismissing him as she lowered her gaze and returned to her book. “Oh, shall I ask Mama to drive you?”

“No, it’s not that far, but thank you anyway. Ah, and please extend my gratitude to your family for their gracious hospitality.” He stood to leave and then realized that he had fallen so completely under the aura he imagined swirling about Elise that he had completely forgotten about Gordo, Bear, and Miriam. He noticed now that they had retuned to their croquet game, laughing and shouting boisterously, sounds he apparently never heard. Nor for their part, did they pay him any further attention; the novelty of his presence among them had apparently passed. He began to wave in their direction but decided not to disturb their game again. He began walking toward the driveway then abruptly turned back toward Elise.

“Could I visit you again?”

She raised her eyes over the rim of her book. “If you like. But come home with Gordo. Please don’t trample the shrubbery again.”

He spun away and resumed his steps.

“Come tomorrow,” she added without looking up.