The Fire Within (The Last Dragon Chro) (18 page)

M
AINTAINING THE
L
INK

 

S
ophie laughed so much her sides began to hurt.

“Cut it out,” said David, sounding cross. “I’m telling you the truth, that’s how she does it: The dragons kiln themselves.”

Sophie pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and dabbed it twice against each eye. “David, you’re making my mascara run.”

“I’m not joking. Those dragons are
real.
They come alive when their eyes are violet.” He glanced at Gadzooks, looking radiant in the window. “Show her. Go on. Flick your tail.”

“Oh, stop it,” Sophie pouted, shaking her fists. “You’re just doing it on purpose now.”

“I give up,” David sighed, sinking onto the bed. He grabbed his guitar and twanged the strings, tunelessly.

Sophie leaned back in the computer chair and prodded him with an outstretched toe. “Come on, you had a dream, that’s all. Granted, a very lucid dream, brought on by Liz’s story perhaps, but it couldn’t be anything more than that. Real dragons don’t exist.”

“They
do,”
David insisted softly, hearing Lucy out in the hall. “Liz is just clever at hiding it. That lullaby they sing makes you think you’re dreaming. I was there, Soph. I saw them. Honest.”

Sophie crossed her arms and puckered her lips into a smile. “OK,” she said in a high-pitched breath. “Next time we’re having tea, I’ll ask her. Hmm, lovely cuppa, Liz. Oh, by the way, we had a power outage yesterday — how do I get Grace to light a candle for me?”

“That’s easy,” David said in earnest. “Liz could do bonfires, never mind candles; she and Lucy have dragon fire inside them.”

Sophie clapped a hand across her face. “And how did you figure
that
out?”

A shout from the kitchen stopped David’s reply.
“Lucy, hurry up. It’s clouding over. We’re not having this ceremony in the rain.”

“Ceremony?” Sophie looked toward the window.

David stuffed his feet into a pair of sneakers. “Lucy wants to plant a tree for Conker — that horse chestnut she found in the gardens.”

Lucy pounded past the door then, shouting,
“Should I get David and Sophie, now, Mom?”

“Coat, first. It’s chilly out there.”

Lucy pounded back the other way.

“A tree. Ah, that’s sweet,” said Sophie. “It’s nice that she’s maintaining the link.”

“They’re the link,” said David, pulling on a sweater. “I know what happened when the real Gawain died. When Guinevere caught his fire tear, she freed his fire — like I did with Zookie — but
she
didn’t give it back. There was no point in trying to rekindle Gawain; they both knew it was his natural time to die. So Guinevere
did the next best thing — she preserved their love by keeping his fire. And … dot, dot, dot.”

Sophie glanced toward the door. “You’re not trying to tell me that Liz
is
Guinevere, like she’s a zillion years old or something?”

“No-oo. ’Course not. I think Liz and Lucy are —”

A child’s fist banged on the door three times:
“We’re going out to the garden now.”

“We’ll be there in a minute,” Sophie called.

“— I think they’re Guinevere’s
descendants.
I suspect Guinevere had a kid somehow and called it Gwendolen. That’s why Lucy’s dragon looks like her. Bet you any money I’m right. Both of them have got Gawain’s fire. I wonder what it’s like, being human with a dragon’s spark inside you?”

“Like severe indigestion, probably,” said Sophie. She stood up, gathering her hair into a scrunchie. “You know, you are really good at this. You should do it for a living. You’d make a ton of money.”

“I’m going to,” David said. “I’m going to write a story called
The Dragons of Wayward Crescent
next.
That Gwilanna woman’s going to be in it. There’s something very fishy about her. I want to know what she does with those dragon scales.”

Just then the door clicked open and a hand launched Bonnington into the room.

“Go on, go get them.”

Bonnington yattered something catty and sprang onto the blanket, yowling and fussing. Sophie picked him up and nuzzled his head. “Don’t go prowling in the Dragons’ Den, Bonny, Gruffen might scorch your ears and whiskers.”

“He’s in on it,” said David.
“He
doesn’t care.”

Sophie laughed and put Bonnington down. “Don’t listen to him, Bonny. He’s nuts. Now, how cold is it? Should I wear my coat?”

David looked her up and down. “You look good as you are.”

Sophie licked her thumb and rubbed a few cat hairs off her top. “David, we’re planting a tree, not going out to dinner. Besides,” she said, blushing, “it’s nothing
special.” She was wearing a plain black T-shirt with a silver motif and matching black pants.

“Simple things suit you,” David said, plucking a sheet of paper from his printer.

Sophie’s eyebrows came together to form a slight scowl. “Don’t spoil it. You were doing really well until then.”

David moved a strand of hair from her eyes. “All part of my boyish charm.” He grinned and placed a light kiss on her cheek. “You wait till Grace starts doing things, then you’ll believe there are dragons in the Crescent. Come on, let’s go plant this tree.” He rolled the piece of paper and pointed to the door.

“What’s with the paper?” she asked.

David looked across the room and winked at Gadzooks. “Just something we were working on before you arrived.”

A T
REE FOR
C
ONKER

 

I
hope this tree grows big and strong and makes us happy all day long — I learned that from Sophie,” Lucy said. She hunkered by the hole she had dug beside the rock garden and dropped her conker into it.

“Very poetic,” said Liz. “Can I water it now?” She tilted a watering can. A little spray of water jetted out of the rose, overshot the hole, and sprinkled David’s feet.

Lucy stood up, looking irritated. “Mom, we haven’t filled in the hole yet.” She crouched down again and piled in the soil,
then
invited her mother to water it.

Liz tilted the can again.

When the puddle had fully soaked in, Lucy announced stage two of the “ceremony”: “Now, everyone has to say something nice.”

“Such as?” said Liz.

Lucy planted her hands on her hips. “Such as, ‘I hope this tree grows big and strong and makes us happy all day long.’ “

“Lucy, I can’t write poems.”

“I’ll say something,” Sophie volunteered. “It’s about Conker. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” said Lucy.

Sophie locked her fingers together and cleared her throat as if preparing to sing. “Thank you, Conker, for bringing me into this wonderful house. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have gotten to know Elizabeth or Lucy … or, um, who was the other person? Oh, yes — David!” She plopped a teasing kiss on his cheek.

“Your turn,” said Lucy, looking at her mom.

Liz lowered her watering can to the ground. “I promise to take care of this tree and to always think of Conker whenever I see it.”

“Good. It’s David’s turn now.”

Everyone looked at the tenant.

David brought his hands into view and unrolled the
paper he’d taken from his printer. “I’d like to say something for
all
the squirrels. This is the end of
Snigger and the Nutbeast.
Second draft — specially rewritten.” He lifted an eyebrow at Lucy. She looked at her mom, who pressed a finger to her lips.

“One blustery afternoon in the library gardens, Snigger was sitting at the edge of the duck pond, when Ringtail came bounding up.

‘Have you heard the news?’ Ringtail puffed. ‘Cherrylea’s going to have Conker’s dreylings!’

Snigger sat up in surprise. ‘I thought Birchwood was chasing Cherrylea.’

Ringtail kicked a flea from behind his ear. ‘He was, until Conker came. Then he got all soppy and let Conker chase her around instead. Except that Conker couldn’t chase her with his funny eye — so she let him catch up to her.’

Snigger cleared a knot of mud from his claws and spat it grumpily onto the ground. ‘Pff! She never lets me catch her.’

‘I don’t blame her,’ muttered Ringtail (but Snigger didn’t hear).”

Lucy giggled into her hands.

“ ‘Where is Conker?’ Ringtail asked.

‘Wuzzled off,’ said Snigger, as casually as he might crunch open a nut.

Ringtail’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

‘We were digging in the flowers near his tree,’ said Snigger, ‘when he jumped onto the grass, looked up at the library with his not-so-good eye, yawned a bit, said he loved it here and that he’d never been happier since he met me —’

‘He must have chewed a bad nut,’ muttered Ringtail.

‘— then he stretched out and wuzzled right off.’ “

“Oh, dear — I’m going to cry,” sniffed Liz, fiddling in her pocket for a tissue.

Lucy slipped her hand into David’s. “What happened next?”

David flicked his eyes back over the page.
“Snigger
turned around. The sun was beginning to set in the treetops, covering the gardens in a marmalade glow. ‘The nutbeast and the little girl took him,’ he said. ‘They buried him, like a nut.’ “

A tear ran down Sophie’s cheek.

“Ringtail twitched his whiskers in approval. ‘When I wuzzle off, I’m going to find a nutbeast,’ he said.

‘You couldn’t find an acorn in a plant pot,’ joked Snigger, and he whisked away with Ringtail in pursuit.

Away they bobbed, under the willow trees, into the clearing toward the great oak. High above, the sun winked in the pale October sky. Leaves tumbled freely in the wind, filling up the paths and flower beds and lawns like pieces of a slowly forming jigsaw puzzle. Beneath the tall horse chestnut tree, a cool breeze rustled over the ground. Somewhere in the distance the library clock bonged. A mallard quacked. A pigeon cooed. The sun sank gently over Scrubbley. And the library gardens, like Conker, were at peace. The End.”

“Hooray,” cried Sophie, applauding loudly.

“Beautiful,” said Liz, blowing into her tissue.

Lucy, still holding David’s hand, swung it gratefully back and forth. “I like that ending. It’s much better than the other one you wrote — but I still think Birchwood should have helped Conker build a drey in the hollow in the tree near the notice-board.”

“I can edit it,” David sighed.

Lucy smiled and leaned against him.

He bumped her gently with his hip. “We did our best for Conker, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” she said. “We’ll do our best for
any
animal in this garden, won’t we?”

“I think so.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Really
promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to marry a frog.”

There was a pause, then Lucy said, “I saw that hedgehog yesterday.”

David’s face went pale. “Oh no,” he said.

But long before the words were out of his mouth, he was glancing back at his bedroom window.

Spikey

 

Gadzooks jotted down on his pad. And what’s more, he underlined it. Twice.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

 

C
hildren sometimes ask me, “How long does it take to write a book?” The answer usually varies from one hour, for little books, to several months, for novels. This story,
The Fire Within,
has taken nearly fifteen years. This does not mean that my dragon wrote it longhand on his trusty pad and I merely copied it off him. It simply took a long time to “filter through,” as authors tend to say. David Rain is me — when I was young and daft and I really could boast a mop of brown hair. Nowadays, I have more gray hairs than a squirrel. I like squirrels. I met some once in the Churchill Library Gardens in Bromley, Kent. They ate my sandwiches. That’s squirrels for you. As for dragons, hmm. If you really want to know about dragons you will have to invite me to come to your sch — Oh, just a minute, Gadzooks has a message …

Gruffen says hrrr

 

Tch. Gruffen. Flitting about again. Just wait till Gretel arrives; he’ll have to behave himself then. Who is Gretel? Ah, that’s another story. I suppose I really ought to scribble it down. In the meantime, please enjoy this book. If you love scribbling as much as I do, I hope you find your own Gadzooks one day.

Love and best wishes,

hrrr

Visit www.scholastic.com/LastDragonChronicles to learn more about Chris d’Lacey’s books.