Scarcely three human paces from Twigleg’s hiding place, the four of them stopped.
“Well, friends,” said the professor, “here are the provisions I promised you.” He handed Ben a full, bulging bag. “I’m afraid I didn’t have very much left myself, but I’ll admit to borrowing a little dried fruit from my colleagues’ tents. There’s sunscreen in there, too. You should make sure you keep using it, Ben. And here,” he added, winding a pale cloth around the boy’s head, “this is what they wear in this country to protect themselves from the sun. It’s called a kaffiyeh, and it ought to keep you from getting sunstroke, as we pale-skinned folk do only too quickly in these parts. As for you two,” he added, turning to Sorrel and the dragon, “your scales and fur are probably adequate protection. Now, about the route again….”
He switched on a flashlight, and he and Ben bent over the map together. “From what you tell me of Firedrake’s powers of flight, the journey will probably take you about four days. First, as I told you earlier, you must keep flying south. Fortunately you’ll be traveling only by night, and by day you must choose the shadiest places you can find to rest in, for the heat will be fierce. There are any number of ruins along your way — tumbledown fortresses and sunken cities. Most of them were buried in the drifting desert sand long ago, but you’ll always find somewhere to provide shelter, even for a dragon. Since you’ll always be flying along the coast” — he ran his finger down the coastline — “you’ll have a reliable guide even in the dark. And you should be able to see the coastal road clearly with the moon shining as bright as it is now. The road continues south. On the fourth night of your journey the land will become more mountainous. Cities cling to the rocks there like the nests of giant birds. Then, around midnight, you should reach a place where the road forks, and there’s a signpost with Arabic lettering on it, like this.”
The professor wrote on the edge of the map with a ballpoint pen.
“I believe the name is given in English as well, but here’s the Arabic, just to be on the safe side. It says ‘Shibam,’ the name of a wonderful old city. Follow the road until it turns north. When you reach a ravine, that’s the one you’re after. It’s a good thing Firedrake can fly, because there’s no path leading down into the ravine. No humans have even tried to build a bridge over it.” Barnabas smiled. “Some say that it hides the entrance to hell, but I can tell you that’s highly improbable! As soon as you’ve landed safely, look around for a big car without any windows. Once you find it, honk the horn, sit down on the ground exactly seventeen paces away from the car, and wait.”
“A car?” said Ben, astonished.
“That’s right!” The professor shrugged his shoulders. “Asif stole it from a rich sheikh, or so the latest tales about him say. It’s a mistake to believe that spirits and fabulous creatures always live in caves or ruined buildings. They sometimes have a distinct preference for what might be called modern accommodation. A few years ago, I found two djinns living in plastic bottles in the ruined city where I was looking for unicorns.”
“Amazing!” murmured Ben.
“What’s so amazing? Ground-elves like to live in empty cans sunk in the ground!” Sorrel called down from Firedrake’s back.
She had climbed up to check whether the safety straps were in good order, for the storm had shown Sorrel that on this journey it was a good idea even for her to lash herself firmly to the spines of the dragon’s crest. “Cans are a wonderful way of terrifying passersby,” she went on. “The elves just beat on their insides with acorn hammers” — Sorrel chuckled — “and you should see how it makes humans jump!”
The professor shook his head, smiling. “I can well believe that of elves,” he said, folding up the map and giving it back to Ben. “About elves, by the way: There’s a certain elf species you may meet on your way south. Sand-elves swarm by night near the ruined cities that lie buried there. They’ll swirl around you and try to drive you off course. Take no notice, but don’t be too rude to them. They can be a great nuisance, just like their relations in the cold north.”
“Oh, no!” groaned Sorrel from Firedrake’s back. “Elves will be the end of me!” She rolled her eyes. “The trouble I’ve had with those pesky creatures! They once shot their nasty itchy arrows at me just because I climbed an elf hill to pick some mushrooms.”
The professor chuckled. “I’m afraid their Arab relations are no better behaved, so keep away from them if you can.”
“Right.” Ben put the map in his jacket pocket and looked up at the starry sky. The heat of the day had gone and he felt a little chilly, but it was good to breathe cool air.
“Oh, and here’s something else, my boy!” Barnabas Greenbloom gave Ben a fat, well-thumbed book. “Put this in your backpack, too. A little good-bye present from me. This book describes almost all the fabulous beings ever said to have existed in this world. It may come in useful on your journey.”
“Oh, thank you, Professor!” Ben accepted the book with a shy smile, stroked the cover reverently, and began leafing through it.
“Come on, put it away,” Sorrel urged. “We can’t stay here while you read a book. See how high the moon has risen already.”
“Yes, okay!” Ben took off his backpack and put the map and the professor’s book carefully away among his own things.
Twigleg rose cautiously to his feet behind the tuft of grass. The backpacks! That was the solution. Sorrel certainly wouldn’t want him going with them, however much the boy might. But if he simply hid in Ben’s backpack … Silent as a shadow, the homunculus stole over to it.
“What was that?” asked Sorrel, leaning down from Firedrake’s back. “Something just shot out of the grass! Are there desert rats here?”
Diving headfirst in among Ben’s clothes, Twigleg disappeared.
“I have something for you, too, Sorrel,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, reaching into his basket. “My wife gave me these to cook with, but I think you’ll make better use of them.” He pressed a small bag into Sorrel’s paws.
She sniffed it curiously.
“Dried wood blewits!” she cried. “Girolles, chanterelles, morels!” She stared at Barnabas Greenbloom in amazement. “Are you really giving me all these?”
“Of course!” The professor smiled. “No one appreciates mushrooms better than a brownie, am I right?”
“You certainly are.” Sorrel sniffed the bag happily once more and then leaped down off Firedrake’s back to stuff it in her backpack, which was lying on the sand beside Ben’s. Twigleg hardly dared to breathe as they strapped the two backpacks together, ready for the journey. But Sorrel was too intoxicated by the fragrance of her mushrooms to notice the manikin among Ben’s clothes.
Ben looked all around him. “Twigleg really does seem to have disappeared,” he murmured.
“Thank goodness for that!” said Sorrel, making sure the bag of mushrooms was pushed well down in her backpack, although not before she’d taken one out to nibble. “He reeked of bad luck, you take my word for it. Any brownie would have spotted that at once, but you humans never notice anything.”
Twigleg would have loved to nip her furry fingers, but he controlled himself and didn’t so much as poke the tip of his nose out of his hiding place.
“Perhaps it was just the fact that he’s a homunculus you didn’t like, Sorrel,” said Professor Greenbloom. “Such creatures are seldom popular with beings born naturally. In fact, they seem sinister to most people. So a homunculus like Twigleg often feels very lonely and rejected and clings to whomever made him. Although they do usually live much longer than their makers — much, much longer.”