The Hippo at the End of the Hall Read online

  They crossed the floor. The woman continued to make expansive gestures, but soon Ben couldn’t hear her words. He worried that the sengi would resume her scampering. She was gnawing her tail so savagely that he feared she might chew it off altogether. Suddenly she reared up and gestured upstairs. “Here comes Constance.”

  Ben saw that a door on the gallery level had opened. A lady with short white hair and a long dark dress stepped through it. Although she was old and walked with a cane, she was stately: she stalked along the length of the gallery like a hunting heron, chin up, face set and determined. When she reached the top of the staircase, Ben was certain she was the old lady from his memory, because as she spoke, he recognized her voice. It was sweet and dark as licorice.

  “Welcome” was all she said at first. But the couple downstairs had been too engrossed in themselves to be aware of her presence. So they jumped.

  Ben suspected Constance Garner-Gee had meant to startle them and had enjoyed it. (If he hadn’t been so frightened, he might have enjoyed it himself.)

  “Do come on up,” she added with a frosty smile. “I have tea ready in the office . . . although — as I told you before — I am not sure your ideas will make sense for me. You must understand, this is my family home as well as a family museum.”

  “Ohhhhh . . . I do understand,” gushed Tara Snow, darting eagerly toward the stairs. “Such a super collection. I’m only here because I’m sooo interested in its future.”

  “Suffering centipedes,” said the sengi, quivering with horror. “Constance is interested in what they have to say. Look, she’s encouraging them.”

  “Well, it won’t help if she tells them she’s not selling,” whispered Ben as the couple climbed the steps to the gallery.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I didn’t finish telling you.” Ben began to recount what he’d heard in the café. But as soon as he mentioned a flood, the sengi became so agitated that she foamed at the mouth.

  “They’re going to flood the museum!” she hissed. “And you’ve been wasting time — you great galoot!”

  “I haven’t . . . I — I did try to tell you —”

  “Shhhh, while I think what to do,” snapped the sengi. “This means we have even less time than we thought!” She grabbed her tail again and bit it nervously as they watched the grown-ups strolling the length of the gallery upstairs.

  Tara Snow simpered at Constance, “Such a pity so few people see this. You’re not open very often, are you? Such a shame. Oh, I know you still need to be convinced — but I’m sure we can come to an agreement: we intend to exhibit the Gee collection in a beautiful purpose-built annex. Imagine! People would be able to see some of these wonderful objects every day — instead of only now and then.”

  “We’re talking quality building for the new annex,” added Julian Pike. He indicated the cracks in the ceiling and the rotten window frames with a wave of his stubby hand. “I want to build a new clean space for the Discovery Museum that the city will be proud of — and it will be named after your family, don’t forget.”

  “Yes, we’ll call it the Gee wing,” said Tara Snow, with her head cocked coyly to one side.

  “And you’ll display all of it?” said Constance Garner-Gee. “This is a huge collection.”

  “Oh, we will rotate the exhibits,” Tara Snow said smoothly. “At any one time you’ll see a portion of it properly curated with superb lighting and spacious modern cases.”

  “And you’ll have room to store the rest?”

  But Tara Snow dodged that question. Instead she spoke of interactive labeling while she smiled like a poisoner and ran her predatory purple nails along the cabinets of scientific instruments, and she asked lots of questions in her brittle polyester voice about the telescopes and the microscopes and the astrolabes and sundials, and she asked about the devices for drawing maps, and the devices for measuring snowflakes, or electric static, or for measuring no one knew what anymore, and her eyes brimmed with such hypnotic fascination that soon Constance Garner-Gee began to look more convinced. Together the two women entered the office looking more relaxed.

  Behind them Julian Pike smirked. He paused as they went inside and examined the courtyard below, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, pudgy hands gripping the balustrade. His square head moved slowly. Scanning.

  In his corner Ben folded himself tighter than he’d thought possible.

  As Julian Pike sniffed and rubbed his bulky nose, a bee landed on the banister beside his hand. He watched it for a moment. Then he brought the side of his fist down square upon it: BANG. He brushed away the remains of the bee with a nasty smile, as if he had enjoyed killing it. After that he nodded in a satisfied way, then he followed the women into the office. Behind him the door clicked shut.

  Immediately the sengi began to scrabble in a circle. “Hell’s bells and buckets of camel dung, Constance was enjoying talking to that woman,” she said breathlessly. “I know she was, oh she was, she was, didn’t you think so? Enjoying it! That woman’s going to persuade her to sell. I’ll have to find a way to warn her she’s being tricked . . . though I’m not sure how. Oh, you stupid boy, you’ve bungled everything. If only you’d come in time to warn her yourself.”

  “I came as soon as I could,” protested Ben, scrambling onto his feet, which were so numb they didn’t feel like they belonged to him. “Why are you blaming me?” he cried. “What’s it got to do with me?”

  The shrew’s nose gyrated wildly. “It’s got everything to do with you. Don’t you understand? Your future as well as ours depends upon this.”

  Then, before he could say another word, she whisked across the shelf and scrambled through a hole at the back of the cabinet. A moment later, she reappeared at ground level and scooted for the stairs, bounding up the steps on both back feet like a tiny kangaroo.

  Ben tried to follow, but his cramped legs wouldn’t move quickly enough. He was left among the menagerie of wild animals in the sunken courtyard. He knew that another of them had spoken to him. But they were all as still as the cast-iron pillars that held up the roof. Perhaps they could move if they chose? He could see that most of them had a lot of teeth. . . .

  He wished he was back home with Mom.

  Ben knew that with wild animals you aren’t supposed to make eye contact or any sudden movements; you just move very, very slowly away. He slunk toward the exit with slightly bent knees, like a jungle explorer he had seen on TV. He slid past the lions and a zebra, past the polar bear and the wild pigs. None of them stirred. Now only the hippo stood in the way. As he crept by, he couldn’t resist sparing it a glance.

  Once again he felt unsettled by the hippo’s small size, for when he hadn’t been looking squarely at it, he’d had the impression of a huge presence. It was as though the essence of the hippo filled more space than its body did.

  The hippo’s eyes twinkled back. They looked amused.

  Ben hesitated.

  Then there was no doubting it: the lines deepened around the hippo’s eyes, and its mouth broadened to a smile as wide as a boulevard.

  When it spoke, it had a voice as soft as suede: “Welcome, Ben.”

  That was all it said, though Ben saw its teeth — they were yellowish, cracked, and wild.

  His reply came out in a nervous croak: “Hello.”

  It didn’t matter; the hippo continued now that it had begun: “It’s good to see you, Ben. This is such a special day for us.”

  “Is it?” mumbled Ben. He was finding the hippo a little alarming. He was nervous about the lions too. (He had remembered that the sengi had mentioned someone called Leon. Wasn’t that the sort of name a lion might have?)

  The hippo followed Ben’s gaze. “Oh, don’t worry about the lions,” it said. “They won’t speak to you. Only a few of us can — only those who were closest to the family. In fact, no one has been able to hear any of us at all since Constance grew up.”

  “Are you talking about the family in the picture?”

&nb
sp; “The very same.” The hippo nodded. And it kept on nodding and twinkling as if it expected Ben to say something else. Ben fidgeted on one leg, partly because he was worried about the grown-ups in the office, partly because he felt wary of the hippo. At the same time he was thrilled.

  “You’re not thinking of going?” said the hippo. “I am so very glad to see you.”

  “Well . . . I should,” Ben replied with another nervous glance at the office door. “My mom’ll be expecting me.”

  Yet he stayed where he was.

  “I hope the sengi didn’t alarm you,” said the hippo. “She’s a good creature, but inclined to panic. Stay a little longer. That couple will remain in the office for a while yet — they’re having tea and a chat. You know how long that can take. And there’s so much to tell you. Surely there are some questions you would like to ask?”

  “Loads of things. I —”

  “Trouble is,” said the hippo, “I am famously forgetful. And I didn’t know everything even before my great forgetfulness struck me, because I haven’t been here that long myself. I only arrived here in 1892. Take a look at my label — it’s very fine.” It nodded toward the podium where a cream label was attached between its feet.

  “It’s a very nice label,” said Ben, “but 1892 is quite a long time ago.”

  “Is it?” said the hippo. “Well, I certainly can’t remember much about it. The bees could help, though; they can recall most things very clearly. They’ve lived in the crystal hive since this museum opened.”

  Ben made a face. “I don’t much like bees.”

  “Really? That is most unfortunate. The Garner-Gees were beekeepers long before they became museum keepers.”

  “They must be very old bees,” joked Ben.

  “They are the descendants from the first hive,” said the hippo. “The great-great-great-great — times two hundred and sixty-eight — grandchildren of those first bees. But they pass all their knowledge down through the generations.”

  “You mean they have, like, bee historians?”

  “In a way.” The hippo was nodding again. “They pass their knowledge among themselves using dance steps, which are as precise as your computer codes. They dance to report the news, or to give directions for finding nectar, or to explain how to rear their young, or how to protect the hive. They pass their dances from one bee to the next, so what one knows they all know. They forget little, because the hive has this shared memory that never dies.”

  “Wow,” said Ben. “I thought they just made honey . . . and stung people.”

  “Indeed, wow,” said the hippo with a sigh. “I wish I could dance like them.”

  Ben wanted to laugh, but he didn’t, as the hippo seemed in earnest. Instead he pulled the invitation from his pocket. “The sengi told me the bees delivered this to my house,” he said. “D’you know why?”

  “I do. Let us say you received it because members of your family are known for their clever ideas.”

  “Are they?” Ben was astounded.

  “They most certainly are,” said the hippo. He indicated the office with his head. “Some of us hoped you would be able to help solve our problems. Perhaps you might, as you seem to be able to hear us. And you do have a direct interest in the case. . . .”

  “Do I?”

  “There is a lot you ought to know . . . if I could only remember where to start.”

  “There isn’t much time,” Ben urged him. “Please try to remember quickly.”

  “I shall call Flummery,” said the hippo. “He’s our bee expert, and the only one who can interpret their dances.” He began to revolve his ears and then directed a massive snort at the floor so that a cloud of dust was propelled into the hallway. This dust acted like a smoke signal. A short squawk followed in reply, and a moment later the owl from the lobby glided out of the hall. It was flanked by a squadron of bees in a neat V formation. Ben cringed — scared of the bees — but they swept right past in an elegant loop, spiraling up to the glass roof in a skillful aerobatic maneuver, which ended only when the owl grew confused and crashed. It landed upside down on the hippo’s back.

  At first it appeared to be stunned. But presently it flipped upright and waved a wing toward the hovering bees. “May I present the Queen’s representatives,” it hooted. “It is a great honor that they have agreed to dance for you.” After that, it glared very hard, so that Ben guessed he was supposed to ignore the crash and say something polite.

  “Erm . . . I’m really honored to meet you all,” he lied.

  “And allow me,” said the hippo. “Ben, let me introduce Flummery, who will interpret the dance for us. We are most honored to have his help too. He has made a study of the bee languages and also has a better memory than I.”

  “Not that anyone could have worse,” retorted Flummery. He began to strut pompously along the hippo’s back.

  “I saw you in the lobby on that clock,” Ben blurted out. “And you’re in that painting too!”

  The owl puffed out his chest feathers. “Well observed — right beside Hector Garner-Gee, because I was his special favorite. That portrait was painted a few years before his father, the captain, died. Very ancient he was by then, but the bees had known him since he was a boy. They say you look like him.” He stopped pacing and thrust his face so close that Ben could see each pleated feather around the bird’s amber eyes. “There’s a lot to tell you. Why don’t you sit?”

  I can’t, thought Ben. That couple might come out of the office at any moment.

  “Try the steps,” murmured the hippo, “and perhaps we could trouble some of the bees to listen at the office door and alert us to any impending departure?”

  Immediately a couple of the bees peeled away from the group and headed for the gallery.

  “We can rely on them,” said the hippo.

  And so Ben was persuaded to sit, though he was ill at ease and ready to run.

  When he was seated, one of the bees approached. Like a tiny helicopter, it landed square on the dome of the hippo’s head. From where Ben sat, the bee looked like a performer on a stage. This was the first time he had watched a bee without flapping his hands or running away. Once he did, he was fascinated.

  The bee began intricate movements: a tap with one foot, a twitch from another; a precise pattern played by all six legs, with antennae and wings and a nodding of its head. While it danced, Flummery interpreted these actions into words. Soon Ben hardly noticed the owl at all, as he grew mesmerized. He felt as if he were watching not just one bee but all the other bees that had performed those moves before as well. Indeed, he could almost imagine other future bees dancing those same moves. And although Ben couldn’t follow the meaning of the dance, Flummery could, and he told the bees’ tale like this. . . .

  Ben Makepeace, this is the story of our museum. Listen well and don’t interrupt. You must learn your part in it, for you have one. Our story begins long ago, when our ancestors lived and died in a common wooden hive and the founder of this fine museum was only a boy. In those days they called him Freddie, and he was the kind of child who loved all creatures and rescued many a bee from a sealed window. In return, we often kept him company in his lonely schoolroom. Only we knew that when his tutor left the room, Freddie pushed his studies aside and opened an ancient book of African legends.

  His favorite story was called “The Legend of the Watercow.” Freddie read that story again and again, and sometimes he read it aloud, so that many of us carried the tale back to the hive, thinking it might be important. And we were right. It touches all of us. So listen well.

  At this point a second bee buzzed forward and joined the first bee on the hippo’s head. The first bee retreated to the side, where it vibrated its wings together. This buzzing vibration acted like a drum roll, giving the impression that the owl was about to announce something important. And now Flummery paused, puffed out his feathers, and chanted,

  “Now hear ye ‘The Legend of the Watercow’!”

  In the great gree
n swamps of Western Africa, there lives a solitary creature known as the watercow. By day it wallows in the deeps, thinking so hard that it sleeps. Only as twilight falls does it wake and wander among the thickest trees, feasting on ferns and fruit. It shatters the blackness of the night with the crash of its passing and, more important, with a luminous light. For in its mouth the watercow carries a shining diamond, which guides it on its journey through even the darkest jungle. During the day the watercow buries the jewel in a secret hiding place so that the jewel sleeps too. Only the hunter who can capture the creature at night may take the diamond. And the way will be hard, and the hunting long, but it is a prize well worth the winning: a magical treasure of great virtue, which will bring long life and luck and prosperity to any house it enters, providing it is always safely and secretly kept.

  Here the second bee bowed and backed away, and a third bee took up the dance. The owl continued:

  Every time Freddie finished reading that story, he spun the globe for luck and vowed, “When I grow up, I’m going to win that diamond and bring that watercow back to my house.”

  As soon as he was old enough, off he went to Africa, swearing he would do just that, and for a while we heard no more of him. We lived and died in our wooden hive, but we passed our dances on to our young so that eight years later, when Freddie returned, the next generation of bees knew all about him.

  To be sure, he had changed: he stood taller, and he went by the name of Captain Garner-Gee, and people treated him with great respect, for he had become a famous explorer and collector. Although he had not found the watercow, his search had led him to discover a host of other creatures, and when he brought them home, there was great excitement among the scientists of that time, for many of those species had never been seen before.

  The creatures were dead — that is how specimens were collected in those days — but their skins had been carefully preserved and a taxidermist restored them to their natural shapes, guided by Freddie’s detailed drawings. To you that may seem a brutal way to treat rare creatures. Indeed, it is atrocious. But in those days only the very rich could travel far and wide. And there were no devices to view creatures from other parts of the world, so taxidermy was thought to be the ideal means of classifying the beasts of the earth. We have heard that you can find exhibits like these in museums across the world, which are used even now for scientific research. All the same, in those early days, Captain Freddie kept his collection to himself in his own home.