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‘Do you know,’ Barnabas whispered, ‘I’m beginning to quite like the idea of going in search of those creatures. Even if it’s definitely not nice to think that the survival of the last Pegasi may depend on the generosity of a griffin. One of my heroes, the great Nahgib Said Nasruddin, left extensive accounts of a pride of griffins that he observed in South Anatolia over eight hundred years ago. The last entries in his records were written by Nasruddin’s servant, because the leader of the pride had torn off his arm and kept him for years in a basket, like a bird. A powerful prince had ransomed him with a chest full of gold. In the account that Nasruddin dictated to his servant, he says: “Never approach a griffin without gold. The lions of the sky love only war better than their treasures.”’
It certainly didn’t sound as if you could simply ask a griffin for one of its feathers as a gift.
‘Do you know where we could look for them?’ A firemander scuttled across Ben’s hand. It felt like hot wax running over his skin. ‘Didn’t Jane Gridall say no trace of them has been found for hundreds of years?’
Barnabas took his glasses off his nose and began polishing the lenses with his shirt tail. By now Ben was as familiar with that process as if Barnabas Greenbloom had always been his father. That was a good feeling.
‘Decades ago there was a rumour that a pride of griffins was living on an Indonesian island,’ said Barnabas. ‘Although I must admit that’s not very precise information. After all, there are over seventeen thousand islands in the Indonesian archipelagos. And even if we do find griffins, the feather will be no use to us unless we can make it back here to MÍMAMEIÐR ten days from now at the latest. Not much time for the journey, our search, and negotiations with the griffins. But three Pegasus foals!’ Barnabas perched his glasses back on his nose and put his arm around Ben’s shoulders. ‘Did you know that the birth of a Pegasus is said to bring seven times seven years of good luck? The world could do with that amount of luck, don’t you think? We’re going to save those foals! Even if I have to let a griffin tear my own arm off in return! Although please don’t repeat that within earshot of Vita and Guinevere!’
The stable door opened.
Hothbrodd put his head around it, but before a word could pass his green lips, Twigleg scuttled between his legs.
‘He’s here, master!’ he cried in his shrill voice.
Even for a homunculus more than four hundred years old, the last Pegasus is exciting.
‘Can you speak Indonesian, Twigleg?’ Ben whispered as he lifted the manikin up to his shoulder. He felt embarrassed to admit that he didn’t know just where Indonesia was.
‘It all depends, master,’ replied Twigleg. ‘There are over seven hundred languages spoken in Indonesia. I’m fluent only in Sundanese and Minangkabau, but I can make myself understood pretty well in ten other dialects.’
Ben could never work out how such a tiny head could hold so much knowledge. His own, by comparison, seemed to him like an empty and very dusty attic. Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine how he had ever managed without Twigleg. And yes, of course it would have been good to know of a safer way to save the Pegasus foals than finding a sun-feather, yet he kept on wondering what it would be like to meet a griffin. Were griffins as terrifying as basilisks? Or as Twigleg’s old master Nettlebrand, who still haunted Ben in his nightmares? Did their front legs end in birds’ claws, or in lions’ paws like their hind legs? The pictures he had seen didn’t agree with each other.
And then Ben forgot the griffins.
Outside the stable, the night was glittering with glow-worms and the fluttering of gleaming fairies. Even the stars seemed to shine more brightly, and the wind in the trees rustled in welcome. It was as if, suddenly, the whole world was made of nothing but music and light.
The last Pegasus had come to MÍMAMEIÐR.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Last Pegasus
O, for a horse with wings!
William Shakespeare, Cymbeline, Act 3, Scene 2
If you were friends with a dragon you met many wonderful beings. Every one of them had given Ben precious memories, but none had enchanted him as much as Firedrake himself – until he saw the winged stallion standing beside Guinevere in the yard. The happiness that Ben felt when he was near Firedrake was made of air and fire, of silver moonlight, of the power of flames dancing in the wind. The Pegasus made him feel a very different kind of happiness. It tasted of earth, of driving clouds and thunder, grass wet with dew, and starlight caught in feathers and fur.
Ànemos was not much larger than an ordinary horse, and certainly not white, like most of the pictures you see of winged horses. His coat and his wings were the dull red of the light of the setting sun. Only his hooves were as silver as Firedrake’s scales.
So much strength and beauty. So much light. But sorrow for the loss of his companion surrounded the Pegasus like a second shadow. Vita and Guinevere followed Hothbrodd as he carried the eggs into the stable. Ànemos, however, went over to Barnabas, his hooves heavy with despair.
‘Thank you, Greenbloom,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Sadness cripples my wings and my mind, and it is difficult for me not to give up my children for lost, like their mother. It comforts me to see that you still have hope.’
Barnabas found it terribly difficult not to tell the Pegasus about the griffin’s feather, but Ànemos would want to come with them, just as Firedrake would, and griffins would be even more dangerous to him than to the dragon.
‘Yes, I still have hope,’ replied Barnabas. ‘But first we must make sure you get your strength back. I have asked the doctor who treats the fabulous creatures entrusted to our care to come. I hope you’ll let her examine you?’
‘A doctor?’ The Pegasus bent his head. ‘She will find a broken heart, Barnabas. Can anyone live with that?’
Holly Undset didn’t keep them waiting long. She was neither very tall nor very slim, she changed the colour of her hair every month, she liked Norwegian sweaters too large for her,
and she almost dropped her medical bag when she saw Ànemos standing outside the stable. His red coat shone in the moonlight as if he were a copper statue woken to glorious life. Undset gave Barnabas a happy smile to thank him for all the magic that he had shown her. Then she asked the Pegasus to follow her into the stable. When she came out again, she looked both relieved and concerned.
‘He’s healthy, so far as I can tell,’ she said. ‘Of course I’ve never treated a Pegasus before, although their anatomy is surprisingly like a horse’s. But such sadness! The foals are probably our only hope of giving him new courage to live. If he loses his children too…’ Undset shook her head anxiously. ‘You must save them, Barnabas!’
‘We’re working on it,’ Barnabas replied. ‘I only wish we had more time. ‘
