Fire Star (6 page)

Y
ou’re writing about
Gwilanna?”

David shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, finding all the old springs in the fading upholstery. He presented one foot to the dashboard again and retied the yellow-flecked laces of his boot. The wipers sawed. The engine throbbed like a panting dog. Below the hood, a cooling fan kicked in. There was no such relief for Suzanna Martindale. Her heated disbelief was rising up in waves.

“It’s just the way it came to me, Zanna. Sometimes when I’m writing, the story takes over. I let it run because it felt like the right thing to do.”

Zanna dragged her bobble hat off her hair, making spiderweb veils of the static-charged ends. “What’s her role?”

“She’s evil.”

“Yeah, tell me something I
don’t
know, David. What does she want with your polar bear tooth?”

“It’s a book, Zanna. A work of fiction. I can’t answer that question, ‘cause I don’t know what the plot is. I haven’t gone that far into it yet.”

Zanna frowned and tapped her foot against the throttle. The engine responded with an irritated rev. “Did Gadzooks send you any of this?”

“No. He’s had no input whatsoever — apart from the
G
I told you about.”

She blew a deep sigh and shook her head. “This is spooky, David.”

“It’s just a story,” he said.

“Yeah, right. David’s answer for everything. ‘It’s just a
story,
Zanna.’ Just a lie, you mean.” She dropped the parking brake and gunned the truck forward. Its rear wheels squealed as they bit the road. Snowflakes as large as lemons hit the screen and were quickly swept aside into a layer of slush. Zanna shifted her gaze to
the east. Out toward open water, surrounded by dirt stacks and rusting junked machinery, lay the moody hulk of the grain elevator, a large white ocean liner of a building, blackened with smoke from a nearby chimney, splashed against the bleak gray Manitoba sky. For eight months of the year, when the bay was clear of ice, Chamberlain fed the north with grain. The sight of it reminded her why they’d come. “Got your list?”

David unflapped a pocket.

“Why’d you do it?” she muttered.

“It’s just a story,” he repeated.

“David, don’t be dumb. You found out when you were writing
Snigger
what a fine line there is between what you imagine and what you create. Something’s going on here. I can feel it in my blood. That witch is up to something.”

David folded his arms and turned to watch the scenery. As Zanna had remarked, it was all pretty bleak. The romantic in him had wanted to see a bygone time of people in furs outside their igloos, chewing skins and dressing
kayaks. But the latter-day reality wasn’t even close. The “igloos” were rows of painted wooden buildings, mostly squat residential cabins. The only suggestion of a native heritage was a parka-clad figure attending a dog team. The man had a cigarette hanging off his lip and two curtains of black hair sprouting shabbily from under his cap. The dogs, despite the unflagging cold, seemed as happy as a small flock of sheep in a summer field.

As they turned into the center of the town, David was reminded that one of the principal attractions of Chamberlain was its tourist industry. People came here to photograph bears. There were several gift shops testifying to it, plus an Inuit museum he’d heard Russ and Dr. Bergstrom talk about. On its wall was a sign declaring,
FIVE CITIZENS FOR EVERY BEAR.
He took this to mean that the town’s population was approximately one thousand, as he knew from his studies that somewhere around two hundred bears passed through Chamberlain annually. Yellow warning signs were everywhere, reminding people of it.

BE ALERT!
POLAR BEAR SEASON
October thru November
Memorize this number

The number in question was the polar bear “police.” If any bad guys lumbered in, Chamberlain, it seemed, was ready to run them out of town.

The trading post, when they found it, didn’t quite match David’s expectations either. He’d been hoping to see an old log cabin hanging with pelts and a pig’s tail of black smoke curling out of a tilting iron chimney. Instead, they found a stocky, modern building, more a warehouse than a trapper’s retreat. Wide and gray, with double-glazed windows, thick brown eaves, and a double gable front, it reminded him of the mobile homes he’d seen carried on huge transporters back in America.

Zanna parked out front behind a Cherokee jeep. “Don’t think you’re off the hook,” she groused. “I’ll talk to you later about Gwilanna. For now, let’s go trade.”

Collars up, they climbed a short flight of steps to a fenced-off landing, before opening the door on a room warmly lit by two clusters of spotlights. A jangle of wind chimes followed them in as their footsteps echoed off the polished wooden floors, answering high into the heavy beamed ceiling. The cloying smell of worked leather hung in the air.

“Wow,” went Zanna, immediately entranced. She turned a full circle, gazing in awe at the Inuit wall-hangings and other forms of traditional artwork. “Aw, look, mukluks,” she said, and shot into a side room where a large assortment of the arctic boots were on display on a tier of shelves.

Typical,
thought David.
You bring a woman to the last store before the North Pole and what does she do? Heads straight for the shoes.

“Howdy,” said a voice.

From behind a counter stacked with candies, tobacco, and smoked arctic char, stepped a middle-aged man with ash-white hair. He was wearing a red-check lumberjack
shirt and heavy blue jeans, turned up at the ankle. “Where you from?” he asked, with a welcoming smile.

“The research base just down the road,” said David.

The man nodded freely, shaking hands. “Yar, shoulda guessed. You look kinda sharp. You up here long?”

“A few weeks, that’s all. We’re on a college trip.”

“Oh yar,” the man crooned, picking up a soft broom and sweeping the floor. He spoke in the happy, laid-back accent that some of the workers at the base possessed.

David brandished his list. “We’ve been sent here to buy a few regular supplies, but I can’t see any of the stuff I need.”

“O-kaay, let’s see what you got.” The man took the list and ran a finger check down it, reading off the items one by one. “Yar, we can give you all of that. We got general goods farther back, beyond the pelts. Why don’t you take a look around here, buy your pretty girl some boots, maybe. I’ll have this bagged up and put in your truck.”

“Really?”

“Sure thing. Or I’m not Albert Walbert the third. That your pickup, right there?”

“The red one, yeah.”

“On the way,” he said. He disappeared, whistling, into the rear of the store.

David went to seek out Zanna. “Result. I traded with Albert the third.”

“These are cool,” she said, not hearing a word. She pulled on a pair of beige colored mukluks with bearded insteps and fox-fur trim.

“Two hundred and forty-five dollars?” said David, somewhat alarmed by the size of the price tag.

“Rich daddy,” she reminded him. “And I have plastic. Besides, the fun is in the trying on.”

David glanced at the shelves. There were thirty pairs or more, plus mittens for later. Zanna was on her fifth and not coming up for air. “Gonna have a look at the carvings,” he said, and drifted back into the main craft area, toward a velvet-covered table arrayed with an assortment of soapstone figures.

There were several of bears and other arctic animals,
but the one which caught his eye was of the sea goddess, Sedna. She was sculpted in the shape of a common mermaid and made from the black variety of the stone. The detail was impressive. Her body shape flowed in graceful lines, but her face was twisted and tormented with grief. David turned the figure over to read the inscription on the green onyx base. Legend had it that Sedna had married a hunter, who had really been a raven and taken her to his nest. She had cried to her father to save her. He had rescued her and paddled her away in a kayak. But the raven and many seabirds had followed, raising the waves until the father feared the boat would capsize and he would drown. So he had thrown his daughter overboard to save himself. When Sedna clung to one side of the boat, her father had cruelly cut off her fingers and thrown them in the sea, where they became —

“Seal,” said a voice.

Startled, David almost let the carving drop. He turned to his right and found his way blocked by a short dark man with a face like crumpled leather.
“Seal, walrus, whale, and fish.” The man flicked up a stubby finger for each.

“Tootega, what are you doing here?”

“Trade,” said the Inuk. He nodded at a small clutch of furs on the counter, then at the carving in David’s hands. “You buy?”

David put the figure back. “No, just looking.”

“Um,” Tootega grunted. “You ever see raven?”

Hairs rose all over David’s body. “What?” he said.

“Raven. Bad spirit. Angry bird. Evil. He fool Sedna. Make her marry. You buy. She protect against harmful ravens.”

“I don’t need any protection, thanks.”

Tootega spat on the floor. “Why you got a bear’s tooth ‘round your neck?”

This rattled David more than the talk about ravens. In all this time, he had no idea Tootega knew about the tooth. He zipped his parka up to the chin. “Gotta go. See you.”

“Where’s the girl?” Tootega put a hand on his chest. David felt his stomach muscles tighten. Somewhere
in the hidden depths of his mind, the spirit of the great bear Ragnar roared. “Let me go,” he said.

And the Inuk backed away. But though his movements were jerky and filled with apprehension, they did not seem related to the tone in David’s voice. When David looked at him again, Tootega was staring wildly at the door.

“He is come,” he said, in a voice rasping fear from the bottom of his lungs.

“Who?” said David. The outer door was closed.

Tootega stepped backward, shaking his head. He bumped against a table full of woven baskets, spilling them.

Outside, a dull thump started up.

“We only got the blue cheese,” Albert announced. He came in, tucking a pencil behind his ear. His gaze suddenly fixed on the far bay window. “Oh jeez. Just when you thought it was safe to walk the streets.” He dipped behind the counter and came up with a rifle.

In the road, with its paws raised, pounding the tail of the pickup, was a bear.

G
adzooks immediately flew to the window and spread his paws against the cold, dark night. The stars were out and winking faintly. He must record their pattern. He must. G’reth might be lost forever if he failed. He reached for his faithful pencil and pad, realizing with some bother that he’d left them on the windowsill in David’s room. No matter. He would count instead, carefully record the pattern in his head, and check it against the others for the delicate changes that might indicate where G’reth had gone. His gaze panned left. One, two, three, four … sixteen … twenty … thirty-one, was that? He rubbed the glass clean and tried again. One, two … The dots began to blur. On his third attempt, he let out such a cry of frustration that
Lucy felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She reached for her mother. Liz was shaking and speechless. She patted Lucy’s hand and went to Gadzooks.

“Come away,” she said, and gathered him to her.

Hrr-ruur,
he protested, and struggled to go back.

Hrrr,
Liz sang, sending him gently to sleep in her hands. She laid him on the workbench near to Gretel. Even her wings were shaking lightly. Her eyes kept rolling toward the window. Outside now, all seemed calm.

Lucy drew up to the window and stared into the night. “Mom, what happened?”

Still numb with shock, Liz sank into her chair. “He’s a wishing dragon, connected to the universe. He can move, theoretically, through time and space.”

“Mom, something
took
him. He didn’t want to go!”

Liz sighed and tapped her fingertips together in thought.

“Ask
her,”
snapped Lucy, stamping toward Gretel.

“Lucy, stop it. This is none of Gretel’s doing.”

“But she escaped!”

“She was
released.
There’s a big difference. Something
is trying to unsettle us. But I don’t know why and I don’t know what. I’m not entirely sure it’s malevolent, even.”

“M —? What?” queried Lucy.

“Evil. Wicked. I’m not convinced it’s bad. If it were, it could have done a lot more damage.”

“But we nearly had a fire! And G’reth’s been stolen! How are we going to get him back?”

Liz dropped her hands against her thighs. “Whatever force took G’reth is impossible for us to fight.”

“Well, at least put Gretel back into her cage!”

The potions dragon snorted and ground her teeth. All this shouting was hurting her head. She needed lavender, to clear the ache. With a snap of her wings, she flew across the room to a potpourri sachet and split it wide open, spilling dried flowers everywhere.

“She’s as confused as we are,” said Liz. “Besides, whatever set her free could just as easily do so again. Gretel, I was wrong to cage you. Will you help us to understand what’s going on?”

Hrrr,
she snorted grudgingly, meaning she would.

“Bring the phone,” said Liz. “Now I
will
talk to David.”

Lucy, though unhappy with her mother’s decision, nevertheless ran for the cordless handset. She was about to press the
TALK
button to bring it into life when she paused, hearing movement in the house next door.

Liz looked at the calendar on the wall above the bench. “Sounds like Henry, back a day early.”

Lucy gave an indifferent grunt. But Liz was secretly pleased to have him back. Henry Bacon, while not the most ideal neighbor, did represent some degree of normality.

Lucy hit a memory button on the phone. “It’s ringing.” She gave it to her mother, then placed herself close so she could hear every word.

A charming Scandinavian accent spoke back:
Hello, you have reached the office of Dr. Anders Bergstrom at the Polar Research Base, Manitoba, Canada. There is no one to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.

Beep.

“Dr. Bergstrom, this is Elizabeth Pennykettle, calling from America with a message for David.”

“An urgent message,” Lucy whispered.

Liz flapped her quiet. “Could you ask him to call me back as soon as he can. It’s to do with his publishers. Thank you. Good-bye.”

“His publishers?”

“I don’t want to alarm him, Luce — or have other people knowing our business.”

“S’pose not,” she muttered, distracted by the sound of Gadzooks waking up. “Can’t we send a message from him?”

“Yes,” Liz agreed, “that’s a good idea. He can reach David quickly on a deeper level.” She put out her hand. Gadzooks fluttered onto it. “Can you do that?” she said, running her finger down his ear. “I know we shouldn’t use you as a postal service, but this is important.”

Hrrr,
said Gadzooks.

“Quite,” said Liz. She found a piece of paper and a lightweight brush. “I want you to send him this.” And
she drew as faithfully as she could remember the shape of the lines Gwilanna had made on the publisher’s contract, the same shape the sibyl had scratched on Zanna’s arm, the shape David called “the mark of Oomara.”

The writing dragon twisted his snout and shivered.

“It means something to you, doesn’t it?” Liz said.

It’s in the David’s story,
Gadzooks confirmed.

“His story?” gasped Lucy.

Liz blinked in thought. “Then he either knew of this mark already or Gwilanna is pricking his subconscious mind with it. Zookie, go and bring your pad.”

As he zipped away, Liz heard the flick of a switch next door. “That’s definitely Henry. Go and invite him for a cup of tea.”

“Now?” said Lucy.

Hrrr?
went Gretel, in agreement with the girl. She didn’t want to pretend she was a lump of clay at such a disturbing time as this.

But Liz insisted. “It’s a neighborly thing to do. And it will hopefully take our minds off G’reth.”

Lucy sighed heavily and clumped downstairs. She
was halfway through the door when Gadzooks came past her on his way back to the den. She thought nothing of it and continued on her way. If she had known that he had gone whizzing back to report that his pad and pencil had both been stolen, she would have hung around, no doubt. But instead she went to Henry’s and rang the bell. Its trill reached far into the pitch-black house. That was odd, she thought. Why hadn’t Henry put the hall light on? Stranger still, why was the door ajar? She slipped inside. The lounge was lit by nothing but the deep blue glow of the fish tank. “Mr. Bacon, are you there?”

“About time,” a harsh voice grated.

A chair swiveled around. In it was a woman in a two-piece suit.

“You!” cried Lucy.

“Yes, me,” said the woman. “I’ve been expecting you, child.”