The Fire Within (The Last Dragon Chro) (3 page)

U
NUSUAL
T
HINGS

 

I
hope you’re not pestering him again,” said Liz, kneeling and setting the tray on the floor.

“My fault,” said David, getting in first. “I was asking if she knew how Conker’s eye got hurt.”

Liz hummed as if her point was proven anyway. She handed Lucy a glass of milk.

David switched the subject away from squirrels. “I hear you’ve been making me a dragon?”

“Just a little housewarming gift,” said Liz.

“It’s a special one,” Lucy put in. “I’ve got two: Gawain and Gwendolen.” (She pronounced the second dragon’s name Gawendolen.)

David, mystified as always when the talk turned to
dragons, heaped a spoonful of sugar into his tea and said, “What do you mean, ‘special’?”

Lucy looked up. “They’re —”

“Little reflections of their owners,” said Liz. “Help yourself to a cookie, David.” She pushed the plate so close to his face he could almost eat a cookie without having to pick one up. He smiled and took a graham cracker. Lucy sank back looking miffed. She grabbed a cookie and chomped it hard.

“When I make someone a special dragon,” Liz continued, “I try to bring out some … quality or interest of the person concerned. If you were fond of baseball, for instance, I might make one holding a bat.”

“He likes books,” said Lucy, picking up a large, spiral-bound volume. It had a bleak gray mountain range on the cover. She turned a few pages and put it down, bored.

“That’s a textbook — for college,” David said. “I do read other things: stories and stuff.”

Lucy sat up smartly. “Would you read one to me?”

“Lucy!” snapped her mother. “That’s very cheeky.”

“I have a story every night,” Lucy went on regardless. “Mom tells me about the dragons.”

David glanced at the ceiling as if it were a window to the den above. “I’m impressed: a storyteller
and
a potter?”

“They’re hardly best-sellers,” Liz said modestly. She raised a hand before Lucy could speak. “Go upstairs, please, and change out of those clothes. And while you’re up there, check on David’s dragon.”

Lucy sighed and wriggled off the bed. Her feet had barely touched the floor when there came a dreadful shrieking sound from the garden. Everyone turned to the open window, in time to see Bonnington come scrambling in. The big tabby cat had his ears laid back and his fur sticking out like the branches of a tree. He dropped to the floor, flattened his back, and quickly wriggled under the bed.

“What is the matter with him?” said Liz.

David walked to the window and opened it wide. Loud bird chatter filled the room.

“Go and see!” hissed Lucy, tugging David’s sleeve. “Conker might be in danger!”

David raised an eyebrow, and went to have a look.

In the garden, all seemed peaceful enough. David walked one side of the long, narrow lawn, stopping here and there to sweep back leaves on the larger plants. He couldn’t find anything out of place, other than a broken plant pot. His heart did leap when he poked around in some overgrown grass and heard a momentary squishing noise. But that turned out to be a soggy old sponge. He checked the rock garden, the shed, the trash area, and an old pane of glass covered in algae. He even scrabbled up the paneled fence to have a quick look over into Mr. Bacon’s garden. There was no sign of squirrels, and nothing to suggest any inkling of danger.

But on the way back to the house, he did make two important discoveries. Near the patio steps he crouched down and picked up a blue-black feather. It was long and sleek and felt cool against his skin.
It belonged to a jay — or a crow, perhaps? Was it possible that Bonnington had clashed with a bird? David’s gaze panned the autumn skyline, taking in the spreading sycamore tree that stood in the gap between the Pennykettles’ house and Mr. Bacon’s away to the right. He couldn’t see a black-colored bird anywhere, but as his eyes drifted back toward the house he did see something that made him start. A light had just flickered in the Dragons’ Den. A few seconds passed, then it flickered again, flooding the window with a pale orange color. David cupped a hand above his eyes. It seemed too precise to be sunlight on glass, too irregular to be a candle glow. And a lightbulb, he decided, was really the wrong color. Which left just one explanation.

“Fire …,” he breathed, and let the feather go.

It had barely touched the ground by the time he burst, breathless, into his room.

A V
ERY
S
PECIAL
D
RAGON

 

W
hat on earth?” said Liz as the door crashed open. She put her hand on the teapot to steady it.

“Fire!” cried David. “Upstairs! Quickly! Dial 911! I’ll get water from the bathroom!”

“Fire?” said Lucy, looking quizzically at her mom.

“I saw it from the garden! Come on, Liz! Hurry!”

“David, wait,” she cried, grabbing his arm. “Slow down. I think you’re mistaken.”

Lucy, by now, was moving to the door. “I’ll go and have a look.”

“What?!” screeched David.
“She
can’t go!”

But Lucy was already climbing the stairs.

“David, calm down,” Liz said, restraining him.

“That’s my studio. There’s nothing that could cause a problem.”

Seconds later, Lucy called down from the landing, “It’s all right, Mom. It’s only … y’know.”

“What?” said David, looking baffled. “I saw a jet of flame. I’m sure I did.”

Liz smoothed the creases she’d made in his sweatshirt. “Probably a dragon sneezing,” she said. “Come on. Let’s go and see how yours is, shall we?”

To David’s astonishment, there really was no hint of a fire in the den.

“It was probably this,” said Liz. She pointed to a round, stained-glass ornament, dangling off a piece of string in the window. She tilted it to catch the afternoon sun. Jeweled reflections bounced around the room. “Trick of the light,” she said.

Suddenly, from behind them, Lucy piped up: “Mom, Gruffen’s in the wrong place — again.”

David turned. Lucy was staring at a shelf full of
dragons. A look of disapproval was etched on her face. “Who’s Gruffen?” he asked.

Liz took him by the arm and twisted him around. “He’s a new dragon that sits by the door — usually. The resident dragons — the ones we don’t sell — all have their own places. Sometimes they get moved when a new batch goes out. Gruffen always seems to be flitting around. Leave him, Lucy, and come over here.”

Lucy trudged over. “Do you like them?” she asked.

In a slightly awed voice, the tenant confessed that he’d never seen anything quite like it before.

All around the studio, arranged on tiers of wooden shelves, were dozens and dozens of handcrafted dragons. There were big dragons, little dragons, dragons curled up in peaceful slumber, baby dragons breaking out of their eggs, dragons in spectacles, dragons in pajamas, dragons doing ballet, dragons
everywhere.
Only the window wall didn’t have a rack. Over there, instead, stood a large old bench. A lamp was angled over it. There were brushes and tools and jelly jars prepared,
plus lumps of clay beside a potter’s wheel. The sweet smell of paint and methyl acetate hung in the air like a potpourri aroma. Now he came to think of it, David realized he’d been smelling the scent from the very first moment he’d entered the house.

“Amazing,” he said, gliding over to the bench. “This is a good one, here.” He pointed to an eerie but elegant creature on a stand just behind the potter’s wheel. It had a wraparound tail and ears like a cat. Two large and exquisitely beautiful wings were rising from its back like sails on a ship. Its oval-shaped eyes were intriguingly closed; its stout front feet pressed firmly together.

“That’s Guinevere,” said Lucy in a deferential whisper. “She’s sort of the queen. She’s Mom’s special dragon.”

“Is she sleeping?”

Lucy gave a shake of her head.

“Praying?”

“Not really.”

“What
is
she doing, then?”

Across the room, Liz coughed. “Lucy, why don’t you show David
his
dragon?”

Lucy pointed to one on the potter’s wheel.

David lifted it into his hands. The dragon — his dragon — had all the usual Pennykettle touches: spiky wings, big flat feet, tiled green scales with turquoise flashes. The characteristic oval-shaped eyes had a gentle, cheery, helpful look — but there was deep sensitivity in them, too, as if the creature could weep at the drop of a scale. David rested it in his palm. The dragon sat up on its thick, curved tail. Unlike Guinevere, it wasn’t praying or resting or whatever the queen dragon was supposed to be doing. Instead, it had a pencil wrapped in its claws and was biting the end of it, lost in thought.

“Hope you like him,” said Liz. “He was … interesting to do.”

“He’s wonderful,” said David. “Why does he have a pencil?”

“And a pad?” said Lucy, pointing to a notepad in the dragon’s other paw.

“It’s what he wanted,” said Liz, coming to join them. “I tried him with a book, but he just didn’t like it. He definitely wanted a pencil to chew on.”

“Perhaps he’s a drawing dragon,” said Lucy. “Do you like drawing pictures?”

David shook his head. “Can’t draw for anything. What do you mean, he ‘wanted’ a pencil?”

Liz lifted a shoulder. “Special dragons are like characters in a book; I have to go where they want to take me. I have a writer friend who’s always saying that.”

Lucy let out an excited gasp. “You mean he’s a dragon for making up stories?!”

“Lucy, don’t start,” said Liz. “Now, David, if you accept this dragon you must promise to care for him always.”

“You mustn’t ever make him cry,” said Lucy.

David ran a thumb along the dragon’s snout. “Erm, this might sound like a silly question, but how is it possible to make him cry?”

“By not loving him,” said Lucy, as if it ought to be obvious.

“Imagine that there’s a spark inside him,” said Liz.

“If you love him, it will always stay lit,” smiled Lucy.

“To light it, you must give him a name,” said Liz.

“Something magic,” said Lucy. “Think of one — now!”

David had a think. “How about … Gadzooks?”

Lucy turned on her heels. “They like it!” she said, looking around the shelves.

“They do?” said David, raising an eyebrow. As far as he could tell there were no dragons doing backflips or flapping wings for joy.

Lucy nodded so fast her head looked as if it were in danger of coming right off. “Didn’t you hear them going h—”

“Gadzooks is a lovely name,” said Liz, giving Lucy a nudge with her shoulder. “It suits him very well. Now, tour over. It’s time we went downstairs, I think.”

“Good idea,” said David, wiping a trickle of sweat off his brow. “Is it me or is it getting warm in here? Your oven’s not on, is it?”

“It’s not dinnertime yet,” said Lucy.

“Not the oven in the kitchen,” David laughed. “I meant your
potter’s
oven. You know, your kiln? When you make things from clay you put them in a kiln to fire, don’t you?”

Before anyone could speak, the telephone rang. Liz moved toward the door. “Better answer that.” With a curt look at Lucy, she left the room.

No sooner was her mother out of sight than Lucy turned to David and said, “Are you going to make up a story for me?”

“No,” he said, trying to clean a blemish off Gadzooks. It looked for all the world like a scorch mark on his tail. It was deep in the glaze though. “I’m hopeless at stories, Lucy. I wouldn’t have a clue what to tell one about.”

“Conker,” she suggested, almost bouncing off the floorboards. “Do a story about Conker. Gadzooks will help you. That’s what special dragons are for.”

David pried his collar away from his neck. It really was getting warm in the den. “No,” he said, “but I’ll tell you what I
will
do. I’ve got to go into town on
Friday. While I’m there I’ll go to the library and see if I can find a good book about squirrels.”

“A storybook?”

“No, a factual one. I’m curious to know how Conker’s eye got hurt. A reference book about squirrel behavior might give us a clue.”

“All right,” said Lucy. “When you know some more, you can do a story then.”

“Lucy!” Liz called, before David could respond.

“Coming!” she cried, and ran off. At the door, she paused and looked back at the tenant. “Did you really not hear them
hrring?”

David looked left and right at the dragons. Dozens of oval-shaped eyes peered back.

Lucy pointed to her heart. “You have to hear it here, before you hear it here.” Her finger moved from her heart to her ear. She grinned and skipped away.

“Yeah, right,” David muttered, and brought Gadzooks up close to his face. “Hello, dragon. Pilot light lit? Good. Now, listen up. Let’s get this relationship straight from the start: No sneezing in the middle of
the night, no setting fire to my books or computer, and no frightening my teddy bear, OK? Oh, and no crying. First sign of trouble and you turn into a shapeless lump again. Got it?”

Gadzooks chewed the end of his pencil in silence.

David looked around the room a final time. “Hrrr,” he went at the shelves of dragons.

Then, clutching Gadzooks, he headed for his room.

Still wondering about that kiln.

A V
ISIT TO THE
L
IBRARY

 

S
crubbley Library was right in the center of town, tucked away on the end of a cul-de-sac that branched off from Main Street. As the front doors glided open, David was pleasantly surprised to find himself in a well-lit, modern building brimming with CDs, computers, and videos — and the odd book, of course.

He made his way to the information desk. A balding librarian was sitting behind it, hidden by a large computer screen.

David sat down and pinged the bell. “Excuse me, have you got any books on sq —?”

To his astonishment, Henry Bacon looked up from the computer.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Henry, flaring a nostril. “ ‘Sq,’
did you say? You want me to find you a book on ‘Sq’? One of those Asian practices, is it? Like kung fu and tai chi? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it. Still, we must have something. Section 796.815. Up the stairs. Sharp left. Next!”

“Wait, you don’t understand,” said David. “When I said ‘sq —,’ I hadn’t finished my sentence.”

Henry frowned and sat back in his chair. “This is a very busy library, son. I hope you’re not trying to waste my time?”

“I was a little surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

Mr. Bacon said, “I work here, you fool. Now get to the point. There’s someone waiting.”

David looked over his shoulder. A young woman with a toddler was standing behind him. “When I said ‘sq —,’ what I was trying to ask was, could you possibly find me a book on —”

“Squid?” said Henry Bacon, beginning to understand. “You want a book on squid?”

David shook his head.

“Squash?”

“No.”

“Squeakers?”

“No!”

“Squints? Squatters? Squaws? Squeegees? Squalls? Squirmy things? Squeezing machines?”

“SQUIRRELS!” David shouted.

“Sssh!” went someone at a nearby table.

David slapped a hand to his face.

“Squirrels?” Mr. Bacon hissed, a disapproving tone in his gravelly voice.

“Gray ones, please,” David said pointedly.

Mr. Bacon’s faint mustache twitched.

“It’s … for Lucy. She’s doing a project for school.”

Mr. Bacon straightened the cuffs of his shirt. He tapped the word “squirrel” into his computer. While he was waiting for the search to complete, he leaned sideways and whispered, “Seen any more of that rat?”

“What rat?” said David, not connecting at first.

“The one in my garden, you idiot.”

David’s mouth fell open slightly. “Oh,
that
rat,” he said, remembering his fib by the pest control van. “No.”

Henry pursed his lips. “Doesn’t matter. I’m on the case, anyway. Tell Mrs. P. there’s nothing to worry about.” The computer beeped, drawing Henry’s attention. “We appear to have a book called
The World of Squirrels
by A. N. Utter —”

“Great,” said David. “Erm, what do you mean you’re ‘on the case’?”

“— but it’s out,” said Henry. “We also have
Squirrels and Their Habitats
by G. S. Forage —”

“Good. That’ll do. On the case of what?”

“— but that’s out as well. Ah, we have
two
copies of
Squirrels in the U.S.A.
by N. K. Graytail —”

“Point me to the shelf,” David said tiredly. “—unfortunately,” Mr. Bacon sighed, “they’re both in our other branch, in Wiggley.”

David groaned and banged his head on the desk. Mr. Bacon grimaced. He removed a hankie from his jacket pocket and flicked it over the laminated surface.

Just then, the woman with the toddler tapped David’s shoulder. “Can I make a suggestion? If you want to learn about squirrels, why don’t you just look outside?”
David glanced through the plate glass windows, at the traffic rolling down Main Street.

“The
other
way,” Mr. Bacon sighed.

David turned. Through the far library windows he saw treetops swaying in the blustery wind.

The woman said, “Haven’t you ever been to the library gardens? Goodness, you must be the only person in Scrubbley who hasn’t. Go through the gates at the end of the cul-de-sac. You’ll find all the squirrels you want in there.”

“Thank you,” said David. “I’ll go and have a look.” He stood up. The woman took his seat. “Mr. Bacon,” he said, looking back, “what do you mean, ‘Mrs. P.’s got nothing to worry about’?”

But Henry was immersed in his computer once more.

David drummed his fingers and turned away. He had the feeling Mr. Bacon was plotting something, though what, precisely, he couldn’t say. All he knew as he exited the library was that something cold had touched him inside. Oddly, he thought about his
dragon, then; Gadzooks, sitting on the windowsill at home: a spiky silhouette against the rain-spattered glass. And, in that moment, something peculiar happened. In his mind’s eye David saw Gadzooks take his pencil from his mouth and try to scribble something down on his pad. The wind whistled and tugged at David’s hair. Ahead of him the treetops bristled and sighed. He shook himself once and Gadzooks disappeared. But as David clanked his way through the tall iron gates and entered the gardens for the very first time, he couldn’t shake off the bizarre idea that the dragon had been trying to tell him something.