Tales Before Tolkien (26 page)

Still Nahoon made no answer, and his silence seemed more fateful and more crushing than any speech; no spoken accusation would have been so terrible in Hadden's ear. He made no answer, but lifting his assegai he stalked grimly towards his foe.

When he was within five paces Hadden covered him and fired. Nahoon sprang aside, but the bullet struck him somewhere, for his right arm dropped, and the stabbing spear that he held was jerked from it harmlessly over the white man's head. But still making no sound, the Zulu came on and gripped him by the throat with his left hand. For a space they struggled terribly, swaying to and fro, but Hadden was unhurt and fought with the fury of despair, while Nahoon had been twice wounded, and there remained to him but one sound arm wherewith to strike. Presently forced to earth by the white man's iron strength, the soldier was down, nor could he rise again.

“Now we will make an end,” muttered Hadden savagely, and he turned to seek the assegai, then staggered slowly back with starting eyes and reeling gait. For there before him, still clad in her white robe, a spear in her hand, stood the spirit of Nanea!

“Think of it,” he said to himself, dimly remembering the words of the
inyanga,
“when you stand face to face with the ghost of the dead in the Home of the Dead.”

There was a cry and a flash of steel; the broad spear leapt towards him to bury itself in his breast. He swayed, he fell, and presently Black Heart clasped that great reward which the word of the Bee had promised him.

   

“Nahoon! Nahoon!” murmured a soft voice, “awake, it is no ghost, but I—Nanea—I, your living wife, to whom my
Ehlose
* has given it me to save you.”

Nahoon heard and opened his eyes to look and his madness left him.

“Welcome, wife,” he said faintly, “now I will live since Death has brought you back to me in the House of the Dead.”

   

To-day Nahoon is one of the Indunas of the English Government in Zululand, and there are children about his kraal. It was from the lips of none other than Nanea his wife that the teller of this tale heard its substance.

The Bee also lives and practises as much magic as she dares under the white man's rule. On her black hand shines a golden ring shaped like a snake with ruby eyes, and of this trinket the Bee is very proud.

The Dragon Tamers

by E. Nesbit

When Tolkien was around the age of seven (his own accounts vary), he began to write a story about a dragon. In 1955 he recalled in a letter to W. H. Auden: “I remember nothing about it except a philological fact. My mother said nothing about the dragon, but pointed out that one could not say ‘a green great dragon,' but had to say ‘a great green dragon.' I wondered why, and still do.”

It is perhaps a coincidence that when Tolkien was seven, the most popular magazine of the day, the
Strand Magazine,
published a series of stories on dragons by E. Nesbit. The series was titled
The Seven Dragons
and ran from March through September 1899, with an eighth dragon story appearing in December. In the third story, “The Deliverers of Their Country,” a “whole flight of green dragons” rises up out of a field and a dragon with yellow wings is seen lying “on his great green scaly side.” In the sixth story, “The Dragon Tamers,” we find a dragon with strong similarities of temperament with Chrysophylax Dives, the dragon in Tolkien's wry tale
Farmer Giles of Ham.

“The Dragon Tamers” originally appeared in the
Strand Magazine
for August 1899. It was collected in
The Book of Dragons
(1900).

There was once an old, old castle—it was so old that its walls and towers and turrets and gateways and arches had crumbled to ruins, and of all its old splendour there were only two little rooms left; and it was here that John the blacksmith had set up his forge. He was too poor to live in a proper house, and no one asked any rent for the rooms in the ruin, because all the lords of the castle were dead and gone this many a year. So there John blew his bellows, and hammered his iron, and did all the work which came his way. This was not much, because most of the trade went to the mayor of the town, who was also a blacksmith in quite a large way of business, and had his huge forge facing the square of the town, and had twelve apprentices, all hammering like a nest of woodpeckers, and twelve journeymen to order the apprentices about, and a patent forge and a self-acting hammer and electric bellows, and all things handsome about him. So that of course the townspeople, whenever they wanted a horse shod or a shaft mended, went to the mayor. And John the blacksmith struggled on as best he could, with a few odd jobs from travellers and strangers who did not know what a superior forge the mayor's was. The two rooms were warm and weather-tight, but not very large; so the blacksmith got into the way of keeping his old iron, and his odds and ends, and his fagots, and his twopenn'orth of coal, in the great dungeon down under the castle. It was a very fine dungeon indeed, with a handsome vaulted roof and big iron rings, whose staples were built into the wall, very strong and convenient for tying captives up to, and at one end was a broken flight of wide steps leading down no one knew where. Even the lords of the castle in the good old times had never known where those steps led to, but every now and then they would kick a prisoner down the steps in their light-hearted, hopeful way, and, sure enough, the prisoners never came back. The blacksmith had never dared to go beyond the seventh step, and no more have I—so I know no more than he did what was at the bottom of those stairs.

John the blacksmith had a wife and a little baby. When his wife was not doing the housework she used to nurse the baby and cry, remembering the happy days when she lived with her father, who kept seventeen cows and lived quite in the country, and when John used to come courting her in the summer evenings, as smart as smart, with a posy in his button-hole. And now John's hair was getting grey, and there was hardly ever enough to eat.

As for the baby, it cried a good deal at odd times; but at night, when its mother had settled down to sleep, it would always begin to cry, quite as a matter of course, so that she hardly got any rest at all. This made her very tired. The baby could make up for its bad nights during the day, if it liked, but the poor mother couldn't. So whenever she had nothing to do she used to sit and cry, because she was tired out with work and worry.

One evening the blacksmith was busy with his forge. He was making a goat-shoe for the goat of a very rich lady, who wished to see how the goat liked being shod, and also whether the shoe would come to fivepence or sevenpence before she ordered the whole set. This was the only order John had had that week. And as he worked his wife sat and nursed the baby, who, for a wonder, was not crying.

Presently, over the noise of the bellows, and over the clank of the iron, there came another sound. The blacksmith and his wife looked at each other.

“I heard nothing,” said he.

“Neither did I,” said she.

But the noise grew louder—and the two were so anxious not to hear it that he hammered away at the goat-shoe harder than he had ever hammered in his life, and she began to sing to the baby—a thing she had not had the heart to do for weeks.

But through the blowing and hammering and singing the noise came louder and louder, and the more they tried not to hear it, the more they had to. It was like the noise of some great creature purring, purring, purring—and the reason they did not want to believe they really heard it was that it came from the great dungeon down below, where the old iron was, and the firewood and the twopenn'orth of coal, and the broken steps that went down into the dark and ended no one knew where.

“It
can't
be anything in the dungeon,” said the blacksmith, wiping his face. “Why, I shall have to go down there after more coals in a minute.”

“There isn't anything there, of course. How could there be?” said his wife. And they tried so hard to believe that there could be nothing there that presently they very nearly did believe it.

Then the blacksmith took his shovel in one hand and his riveting hammer in the other, and hung the old stable lantern on his little finger, and went down to get the coals.

“I am not taking the hammer because I think there is anything there,” said he, “but it is handy for breaking the large lumps of coal.”

“I quite understand,” said his wife, who had brought the coal home in her apron that very afternoon, and knew that it was all coal-dust.

So he went down the winding stairs to the dungeon, and stood at the bottom of the steps holding the lantern above his head just to see that the dungeon really
was
empty as usual. Half of it was empty as usual, except for the old iron and odds and ends, and the firewood and the coals. But the other side was not empty. It was quite full, and what it was full of was
Dragon
.

“It must have come up those nasty broken steps from goodness knows where,” said the blacksmith to himself, trembling all over, as he tried to creep back up the winding stairs.

But the dragon was too quick for him—it put out a great claw and caught him by the leg, and as it moved it rattled like a great bunch of keys, or like the sheet-iron they make thunder out of in pantomimes.

“No you don't,” said the dragon, in a spluttering voice, like a damp squib.

“Deary, deary me,” said poor John, trembling more than ever in the claw of the dragon; “here's a nice end for a respectable blacksmith!”

The dragon seemed very much struck by this remark.

“Do you mind saying that again?” said he, quite politely.

So John said again, very distinctly: “Here—Is—A—Nice—End—For—A—Respectable—Blacksmith.”

“I didn't know,” said the dragon. “Fancy now! You're the very man I wanted.”

“So I understood you to say before,” said John, his teeth chattering.

“Oh, I don't mean what you mean,” said the dragon; “but I should like you to do a job for me. One of my wings has got some of the rivets out of it just above the joint. Could you put that to rights?”

“I might, sir,” said John, politely, for you must always be polite to a possible customer, even if he be a dragon.

“A master craftsman—you
are
a master, of course?—can see in a minute what's wrong,” the dragon went on. “Just come round here and feel my plates, will you?”

John timidly went round when the dragon took his claw away; and, sure enough, the dragon's off wing was hanging loose and all anyhow, and several of the plates near the joint certainly wanted riveting.

The dragon seemed to be made almost entirely of iron armour—a sort of tawny, red-rust colour it was; from damp, no doubt—and under it he seemed to be covered with something furry.

All the blacksmith welled up in John's heart, and he felt more at ease.

“You could certainly do with a rivet or two, sir,” said he; “in fact, you want a good many.”

“Well, get to work, then,” said the dragon. “You mend my wing, and then I'll go out and eat up all the town, and if you make a really smart job of it I'll eat you last. There!”

“I don't want to be eaten last, sir,” said John.

“Well, then, I'll eat you
first,
” said the dragon.

“I don't want that, sir, either,” said John.

“Go on with you, you silly man,” said the dragon; “you don't know your own silly mind. Come, set to work.”

“I don't like the job, sir,” said John, “and that's the truth. I know how easily accidents happen. It's all fair and smooth, and ‘Please rivet me, and I'll eat you last'—and then you get to work and you give a gentleman a bit of a nip or a dig under his rivets—and then it's fire and smoke, and no apologies will meet the case.”

“Upon my word of honour as a dragon,” said the other.

“I know you wouldn't do it on purpose, sir,” said John; “but any gentleman will give a jump and a sniff if he's nipped, and one of your sniffs would be enough for me. Now, if you'd just let me fasten you up?”

“It would be so undignified,” objected the dragon.

“We always fasten a horse up,” said John, “and he's the ‘noble animal.' ”

“It's all very well,” said the dragon, “but how do I know you'd untie me again when you'd riveted me? Give me something in pledge. What do you value most?”

“My hammer,” said John. “A blacksmith is nothing without a hammer.”

“But you'd want that for riveting me. You must think of something else, and at once, or I'll eat you first.”

At this moment the baby in the room above began to scream. Its mother had been so quiet that it thought she had settled down for the night, and that it was time to begin.

“Whatever's that?” said the dragon, starting so that every plate on his body rattled.

“It's only the baby,” said John.

“What's that?” asked the dragon—“something you value?”

“Well, yes, sir, rather,” said the blacksmith.

“Then bring it here,” said the dragon; “and I'll take care of it till you've done riveting me, and you shall tie me up.”

“All right, sir,” said John; “but I ought to warn you. Babies are poison to dragons, so I don't deceive you. It's all right to touch—but don't you go putting it into your mouth. I shouldn't like to see any harm come to a nice-looking gentleman like you.”

The dragon purred at this compliment and said: “All right, I'll be careful. Now go and fetch the thing, whatever it is.”

So John ran up the steps as quickly as he could, for he knew that if the dragon got impatient before it was fastened up, it could heave up the roof of the dungeon with one heave of its back, and kill them all in the ruins. His wife was asleep, in spite of the baby's cries; and John picked up the baby and took it down and put it between the dragon's front paws.

“You just purr to it, sir,” he said, “and it'll be as good as gold.”

So the dragon purred, and his purring pleased the baby so much that it left off crying.

Then John rummaged among the heap of old iron and found there some heavy chains and a great collar that had been made in the days when men sang over their work and put their hearts into it, so that the things they made were strong enough to bear the weight of a thousand years, let alone a dragon.

John fastened the dragon up with the collar and the chains, and when he had padlocked them all on safely he set to work to find out how many rivets would be needed.

“Six, eight, ten—twenty, forty,” said he; “I haven't half enough rivets in the shop. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll step round to another forge and get a few dozen. I won't be a minute.”

And off he went, leaving the baby between the dragon's fore-paws, laughing and crowing with pleasure at the very large purr of it.

John ran as hard as he could into the town, and found the mayor and corporation.

“There's a dragon in my dungeon,” he said; “I've chained him up. Now come and help to get my baby away.”

And he told them all about it.

But they all happened to have engagements for that evening; so they praised John's cleverness, and said they were quite content to leave the matter in his hands.

“But what about my baby?” said John.

“Oh, well,” said the mayor, “if anything should happen, you will always be able to remember that your baby perished in a good cause.”

So John went home again, and told his wife some of the tale.

“You've given the baby to the dragon!” she cried. “Oh, you unnatural parent!”

“Hush,” said John, and he told her some more.

“Now,” he said, “I'm going down. After I've been down you can go, and if you keep your head the boy will be all right.”

So down went the blacksmith, and there was the dragon purring away with all his might to keep the baby quiet.

“Hurry up, can't you?” he said. “I can't keep up this noise all night.”

“I'm very sorry, sir,” said the blacksmith, “but all the shops are shut. The job must wait till the morning. And don't forget you've promised to take care of that baby. You'll find it a little wearing, I'm afraid. Good-night, sir.”