The Dragon in the Cliff (12 page)

“Maybe I could help you find more,” he offered eagerly.

“It's not mine to find,” I replied. “Anyone can go out there and look.”

“Oh, I didn't mean it that way. I only meant that I could help you search for it, if you would permit me to, that is,” he apologized. “It would be thrilling to bring to light something that has been entombed so long. How long ago do you think the creature lived?”

It was something I had been wondering about but had never discussed with anyone before because I was afraid my questions would be dismissed.

“Sometime long, long ago … in distant ages,” I said.

“Do you think it was before man?”

“I don't know, but I haven't found any fossilized human bones or traces of man in the rocks. But the Bible says—”

He interrupted me, “You don't believe that God created the heavens and earth and all that lives in six days, do you?” His eyes challenged me.

I pulled back, shocked by his question. “I believe in the Bible and its truth,” I said.

“Do you believe the biblical description of the creation is a scientific account?” he asked.

I turned away. “I don't know about science,” I confessed.

He was not satisfied by my admission of a doubt that was causing me so much pain (and still does), and he continued to press me until I said, “How could it be possible? The days that the Bible speaks of could not be days as we know them now. It seems too short a time. But maybe … I just don't know.”

Henry nodded his head sympathetically, but did not say anything except, “Yes … yes …” The topic was dropped without my ever learning what he believed, though it was evident that he doubted the literal truth of the biblical description.

He resumed fetching me fossils to identify for him, bringing me two bits of fossil skull and a few vertebrae that I had put away in a far corner of the workshop. They were different from anything else I had found. Seeing them, I said, “Oh, those. I have no idea what creature they are from or even if all of those bits are from the same creature.”

“You have them in the same place so you must think these are from the same creature.”

“They are in the same place because I found the pieces all jumbled up together over in the ledges of Black Ven. But it's possible that they aren't all from the same animal.”

“You certainly are mysterious when it comes to your finds,” he said, laughing.

“I am not being mysterious,” I insisted. “I just don't know what to say about them because I don't know what the creature looked like or what it was, except that if these bits are all from the same creature, it had a small head,” I said, showing him the curve of the skull. “See how small it is. But I have no idea what the rest of the creature looks like.”

“Maybe it looks like this,” he said, picking up his pen and quickly sketching a funny-looking, small-headed, large-bodied creature with long ears, a pointed tail, and a scaly body on a piece of paper. Then he sketched another with a tiny head and long sloping body.

“My turn,” I said, taking the pen and sketching an odd-looking creature. We continued in this way taking turns, drawing each creature more fantastic than the last, until I reached for the pen and knocked his hand into the bottle and splashed ink all over his drawing of the cliffs. We both jumped up in horror and immediately tried to repair the damage. I found some rags that I used to wrap the curiosities in and blotted up as much of the ink as I could, but the drawing was ruined. “It was not very good,” Henry said, “just a beginning.” A few minutes later he mumbled something about it being late, and left.

A STOLEN FOSSIL

After spilling the ink, I was deeply embarrassed. I had allowed myself to become too familiar too quickly. I had been carried away by the pleasure of having someone to talk to about the fossils, and then I had ruined his drawing. I was certain he would never want to see me again. I thought I would die with shame if I saw him again. Yet I found myself lingering as I walked past the tall windows of his house on Broad Street, hoping that he would look out and see me. I did not see him there, nor did I see him on the beach, or in town. I was disappointed and, at the same time, relieved.

Much to my surprise a few weeks later a freckle-faced lad in footman's livery came by the shop with a note on a white pasteboard card from Henry, asking after my ankle. I read the few lines over several times searching for some hidden meaning and finally decided there was none; it was a polite note, nothing more. There was no reason for me not to answer. I scribbled a reply, sending it back by the same messenger. In no time at all, the lad was back with a second note from Henry asking if I would be willing to take him out collecting that afternoon. I did not know what I should do. I was afraid things would get out of hand again, and I would embarrass myself. At the same time I wanted very much to go. I promised myself that if I went, I would be businesslike and not let myself be carried away. If I were proper and reserved, he would be, too. (It was not until later that I discovered many people in Lyme considered it improper for me to take young gentlemen out fossil hunting under any circumstances.) I wrote back telling him to meet me at the shop when the clock at the marketplace was at two.

Despite my resolve to behave in a businesslike way I could not bring myself to put on my old, dark apron. I put on my new, white one. I stepped outside to look at the clock. It was only a few minutes after eleven. I tried to work on the fossils, but I was too impatient and I broke an urchin. After dinner, I cleared away the dishes. I brushed my hair and put on my bonnet, the straw with blue underside and ribbons to match, and not the battered hat that I usually wore.

Seeing me, Mama asked, “Are you going visiting?” I confessed that I was going collecting. “In your Sunday bonnet and new apron?” she asked.

Before I could think of how to answer her, Joseph, who had stopped by on his way to the marketplace, said, “She's preening for the young master.”

“No, I am not,” I said between clenched teeth, rushing at him.

Chanting, “Mary's preening for the young master,” he darted out of reach. I chased him round the table. The bell on the shop door rang, and I escaped down the stairs. It was Henry. I grabbed my bag of tools, and we were out the door and into the street.

Henry's manner was as natural and easy as if nothing had happened. He had been in Bristol on business with his stepfather, Mr. Aveline. “I have never been out of Lyme,” I said enviously. We made our way up the narrow lane past the baths and down Long Entry to the beach path. “But someday, someday soon I will go to London to see the sights and visit my crocodile at Bullock's in Piccadilly Circus.”

“I hope you are not disappointed by London,” Henry said, smiling at me kindly. He was born in London and has been there many times. He had even been to Jamaica, where he owns sugar plantations and slaves.

We scrambled down the path with growing excitment. On reaching the level of the beach, Henry threw out his arms, exclaiming, “We are going to find great things today, Mary. Crocodiles, elephants, who knows what?”

“Something big and spectacular,” I said, entering his mood, and we both laughed.

He touched my sleeve, “I know what we should look for—the creature with the small head. I want to see what it really looked like.”

Embarrassed by the reminder of our last meeting, I said, “No, not that.” He did not reply and we were both quiet for a minute as we walked along. Then, feeling bad that I had rejected his plan, I said, “Let's look for another petrified crocodile. We need another to find out what it really was.”

“Well, tell me,” he asked, still jesting, “how does one find a petrified crocodile?”

I became serious. “By keeping a sharp eye out.” I instructed him, much as Papa instructed me, as we walked along the beach. “Be patient and look, really look, at the face of the cliffs, especially where the cliff face has broken away and the bare rock is exposed. There is a lot of looking to be done before you see fossils and especially before you try to remove them.”

As we passed Church Cliff, I pointed out some fossils. “Why aren't we stopping to collect them?” he asked. I explained that they most likely were gryphea—oysters—and I already had enough of them. He asked me how I knew. “I am guessing that it's an oyster because of the bed it's in. Strata, you called it,” I said, using the word for the first time.

“Oh, I should have known that,” he said, laughing good-naturedly at himself.

I suggested that we go to Black Ven. “Do you think that we shall find a crocodile there?” he asked.

“It is more likely that we'll find ammonites, but you never know for certain,” I said, and we both laughed at the possibility. I felt strangely happy, sad, and restless. I felt like flying, but instead I started to run. Henry ran after me. I slid on the slippery seaweed-draped pebbles, recovered my balance, and ran on.

Henry was not so fortunate. Flapping his arms like a giant bird, he fell so that he was sitting on the wet seaweed with his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked so surprised that I could not help laughing at him, even though I knew it was cruel. He laughed, too, picked himself up, brushed off his trousers, and we ran on along the shore toward Black Ven. After we rounded the headland, we scrambled up the ledges, stopping to catch our breath from time to time. I pointed out a particularly fossil-rich bed. We stopped when we reached the ledge where he found me that day we met. I went off in search of the chisel mark I had made in the rock. While I was looking for it, I saw something else that caught my eye. I put down my bag and took out my chisel and hammer. Henry called to me, saying that he found the chisel mark. “I have something more important,” I shouted.

“If it is a crocodile, wait for me,” he shouted back.

“I don't know what it is,” I said, pointing out the bone-white streak in the ledge to him as he rushed up.

“But you do believe it belongs to a crocodile?” he asked.

“Too early to tell,” I cautioned. “We won't know what we have until we have some of the surrounding stone cleared away.” We set to work immediately. We soon found that the marl in which the fossil was embedded was hard and that we could make little progress with the tools we had. Henry offered to go back and fetch some heavier tools and a workman so that we could continue, but I pointed out that it was growing dark and that the tide had turned. He reluctantly agreed to wait for low tide the next day. After trying to work with the tools that we had for a while longer, we stopped.

The sun was low and the tide was coming in quickly when we reached the beach. We had only a narrow path left between the cliffs and the incoming waves. Near Church Cliff we were caught by a wave. When I saw him spluttering and soaked in his fine clothes, I burst out laughing. He pointed and laughed at me, and I realized that I must look ridiculous, too, wearing my Sunday bonnet with my clothes wet through to the skin.

I caught Henry's eye as we started up the path from the beach, and we both laughed again.

As we walked from Long Entry lane onto the Butter-market we passed Mr. Clerkenwell, who stopped in his tracks to turn and stare at the two of us in our wet clothes. His shocked look only added to our hilarity.

It rained during the night, the first rain in weeks. It was a steady downpour that fell all night and into the morning. Water ran in rivulets down the streets and alleys of Lyme into the river and from there out to sea with a rushing, roaring sound. As if by plan, the rain stopped by midmorning. The sun broke through, sparkling off the sea and off the windowpanes in town, dazzling the day itself with its bright rays. Fool that I was, I believed that nature herself was on our side.

I gathered my tools as soon as we finished dinner. Mama asked me to run to the egg woman to buy some eggs and cheese for supper. “Mr. de la Beche will be here with the workmen at two-thirty,” I protested.

“It shan't take you but a few minutes. Besides, you should not go out so soon after a rain. It isn't safe,” Mama said, sending me off. But I was so eager to go that I dismissed her warning.

I ran to the marketplace, darting in and out of the crowd from the surrounding countryside buying and selling their produce and animals, trying not to bump into anyone. I looked up at the clock on the steeple and my heart sank. It was nearly three o'clock. I was late and I was going to keep him waiting. I ran all the way home with the eggs and the cheese. I burst into the shop breathlessly and ran up the stairs to our rooms. Henry was not there.

I took off my bonnet and brushed my hair again. Then I went downstairs. I looked at the tools I had in my sack, taking them out and putting them back in: a mallet, two geological hammers—one heavier than the other—a few cold chisels, a brush, some dropcloths. I picked up a broom and swept the shop. When I finished, I tidied the workbench. The chimes of St. Michael's rang three-thirty.

“I have had a deuce of time finding someone to work for us,” he explained when he arrived soon afterward. “They all said that it was foolhardy to go to Black Ven after a rain. Jim Greengrass here is the only one who would agree to come.” About thirteen or fourteen years old, Jim Greengrass had a thatch of black hair and eyes that were small, black currants in his pudding of a face. Henry found him at the market where he had come to look for a day's work.

“They may be right,” I admitted reluctantly. “There are more likely to be slides after a rain. Perhaps we should not go.”

“I am going no matter what,” Henry said. “I've thought of nothing else, and I'm not waiting another day. Anyway, the rain will make the digging easier, won't it?”

I admitted that it would. Caught up in Henry's enthusiasm, I made light of the danger and, turning to Jim Greengrass, asked, “Are you afraid?”

He looked down at his dirty, bare feet. “He's paying me good money,” Jim said in a hoarse whisper, indicating Henry with a nod of his chin, “and I need the work. I'll take my chances.” We agreed on going.