by Bryan Davis
Sapphira let the water spill between her fingers. What could it hurt? She knelt and dug into the mire with her fingers, gouging a two-inch-deep hole in just a few seconds. After dropping the seed inside, she breathed a quick prayer and covered it up, patting the mud firmly with her hand.
She pushed the pump’s handle again until a turbid puddle swirled over her tiny garden. Then, straightening her body, she wiped her hands on her already-filthy jeans and turned to leave. Shiloh might take days to arrive, so why stick around? Finding a way out made more sense than waiting. She could always come back once she found an exit.
Too tired to run, she strolled back to the spot where she had landed. After finding the scuff marks in the dirt where she had touched down, she set her feet over her prints and gazed into the sky, hoping to find the entry hole high above. Her vision remained normal, providing no obvious sign of a portal. Still, it was worth a try, and maybe she was close enough to the old portal to create a new one at this spot, but would it lift her back to Morgan’s dungeon and its three doors, or would it lead somewhere else?
She ignited her cross and swirled it over her head, faster and faster until the wall of fire crawled down and surrounded her with its usual blanket of warmth. When the wall touched the ground, she began to float and rise slowly into the sky. After a few seconds, the air thinned and grew cold, very cold. Now barely able to breathe, she tilted her head upward and caught a glimpse of light.
Gasping for breath, she swirled her cross even faster, hoping it would propel her upward, but her speed stayed constant. Her lungs ached. Her head pounded. The light above drew nearer and crystallized into the shape of her entry hole. She stretched her neck, hoping to draw in the first hint of oxygen. Finally, a breeze flowed from above, and her lungs greedily drank the delicious air. When she emerged in the dungeon, her momentum carried her at least three feet above the hole before dumping her into a headlong fall. As she tumbled and rolled, her wall of fire dwindled away.
She pushed up to her hands and knees and stared at the gate in the distance. The lanterns on each side began winking out, one by one. Within seconds, half of the lights had darkened. She scrambled to her feet and jumped through the doorway. The three doors simultaneously slammed and began to warp and swell. Tongues of fire licked through the cracks at every side.
She ran to the gate, finding it unlocked, as she had left it, but as soon as she passed by the iron bars, the gate slapped closed and latched. Two more lanterns blinked off, and their glass containers shattered. The three doors, now dim in the distance, suddenly burst open and spewed fountains of lava. Three flaming rivers rampaged toward her.
Sapphira tucked her cross away and sprinted. Reaching the stairs, she leaped over three steps, but her foot slipped, and she sprawled over the steps, banging her shins and forearms. Rolling face up, she pushed with her hands and clambered backwards, stair by stair. The rivers of fire surged against the stairway, sloshing around the base and spitting globules of magma that spattered over the first step, then the second.
Her shins aching, Sapphira pushed herself higher. The step above the magma burst into flames. Snaking tongues of fire crawled toward her, bending and cracking the wooden stairway.
Finally, ignoring the pain, she turned and ran, the blistering fire licking at her heels. When she reached the top step, she lurched into the upper corridor and slammed the door.
Breathless, she sagged against the wall, barely able to stand on her throbbing legs. She paused and listened to the sounds of splintering wood. After a few seconds of quiet, she laid her palm on the door. Cool. Not a hint of fire. She opened the door a crack and peeked through. The stairway had collapsed, piled in a burning heap at least a dozen feet below. The fiery river seemed to be receding, but it still covered the stony floor.
After latching the door, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The only way to the sixth circle was gone. How could she get Shiloh out now? How could the tree possibly grow quickly enough to do any good? Was there any other way to help her?
Sapphira blew out a long sigh. Staying in Morgan’s house to ponder everything didn’t make any sense. Acacia was hurt, and she needed someone to look after her. That wound could get infected. Maybe she was already home and waiting for help.
She withdrew her cross, grasping it in a tight fist. It was time to fight the snakes again.
Patrick knelt at the side of a bent oak tree. With a miniature tombstone cradled in his hands, he gazed up into the branches. The knobby limbs seemed to invite him into their embrace, calling for him to journey upward, just as he had done so many times with Shiloh. He turned away from the trunk. There was no joy remaining in that old tree, only painful memories of carefree, girlish shouts that teased his tortured mind. “Come, Daddy. Let’s climb higher! One branch higher!”
He plunged a trowel into the frozen ground and unearthed a wedge of leaf-rich soil. As he let the dirt spill, he noticed a tiny white button and plucked it with his fingertips. The smooth ivory coating sparked a stream of memories, an Easter bonnet on a towheaded Shiloh, tree climbing after church, and a lost button that brought tears from the little angel’s eyes. Could this be the same button, now drawing tears from his own eyes?
A voice drifted into his ears. “Oh, Paaaatriiick!”
He swiveled his head. Sashaying toward him, a slender woman dressed in black sighed with exaggerated sympathy. “Does a ghost from the past haunt your memories?”
He thumped the tombstone into the divot and squeezed the trowel. Redness blurred his vision. “Morgan! How dare you come to this place!”
She stood two arms’ lengths away. “Just as I dare many bold steps, my old friend. I fear no one.”
Patrick hurled the trowel at her. The sharp edge pierced her chest for a moment, but then eased back out and fell to the ground. She picked it up and shook off the remaining dirt. “I have come to see if you have changed your mind about Shiloh.”
“Never, you foul witch!” He stood and faced her toe-to-toe. “When you burn in hell, I will laugh at your torment!”
“I prefer to laugh now, for your promised dreams of heavenly bliss are merely words uttered by dead prophets . . . like Merlin.” She tickled Patrick’s chin. “And where is Merlin? Where is his wife? Both swept away in the wind. Still, they are likely not suffering as much as Shiloh is suffering now.”
He knocked her hand away. “Begone, devil! I will never give you Shiloh. It would be better for her to die a miserable death than to live in torture as your hostiam.”
“As you wish.” She handed him the trowel. “But remember that I am quite capable of taking away everyone you have ever loved. Until you give me Shiloh, you will never have a moment’s rest.”
“There isn’t anyone else!” Patrick roared.
“Oh, no? How about young Markus? Or should I say, Elam? Without him, you would truly be friendless.”
Patrick clenched his teeth. A dozen retorts popped into his head, but any one of them could bring more danger to Elam. He pointed at the tor with his trowel. “Just . . . leave . . . me!”
“I’m going, but I’ll be back again with a report on Shiloh’s suffering. I’m sure you’ll want to hear all about it.” Morgan transformed into a raven and flew away, croaking as she circled overhead. “Your little tombstone will do no good, Valcor. The memory of Paili and Shiloh will fade into oblivion. They were little sparrows that no one cared for. . . . Just little sparrows.” The raven straightened its course and flew away.
He dropped to his knees again and dug frantically around the concrete marker. He sank it deep and packed dirt tightly around it. “Someone will remember Shiloh,” he said, grunting with every shove into the earth. “This stone will see to that.”
When he patted down the final clump, he read the inscription out loud. “Shiloh Nathanson, beloved daughter of Patrick and Paili Nathanson. Born 1948. Last seen at this tree on October 31, 1964.” He squinted at the carved numerals. “Nineteen forty-eight?�
�� Moaning softly, he rolled his eyes upward. “The engravers got it wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “They got it wrong.”
Patrick laid a trembling hand on the tombstone. Hot tears welled in his eyes. Rubbing them away with a grimy knuckle, he sniffed hard and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t cry. Not yet. The battle for Shiloh had just begun.
Circa AD 1986
Gabriel glided through the maternity ward, eyeing the numbers on the doors as he passed. Finding room 1545, he slid under the door and re-expanded. With the lights dimmed, shadows obscured the faces of the two adults in the room, but it didn’t matter. Gabriel knew them immediately. Hannah and Timothy. Mother and Father. Twenty years of searching had led him to this hospital, and the computer in the basement pinpointed the room and included details about their baby Ashley, a daughter of dragons, a chance to redeem himself as a guardian.
He drifted toward his parents. Hannah lay in bed, nuzzling a swaddled infant with her smooth, ageless cheek. It made sense that her dragon genetics would keep her young. Easing closer to his father, Gabriel studied his wrinkle-free face. How had he maintained his youth? Becoming fully human should have started a normal aging process, but he didn’t look a day older than when he left for the States almost forty years ago.
Timothy leaned over the railing and gently pulled the baby’s slender arm from underneath her pink blanket. Cooing at his daughter, he placed his finger in her grasp. “Ashley!” he cried in mock pain. “What a strong grip you have!”
Lifting his energy field, Gabriel glided over the bed and gazed down at his new sister. “Ashley,” he said in his electrostatic voice. “I’m glad to meet you.”
Ashley’s eyes locked on his. Gabriel drew back. Did she hear his greeting? Could she see him now? No one but Sapphira had been able to see or hear him before. He floated to one side of the bed. Ashley’s gaze followed. He floated to the other side. Ashley followed him again.
Timothy cocked his head upward. “Is she looking at something?”
Gabriel shrank his energy field to the size of a baseball and drifted higher.
“That fly on the ceiling is all I can see,” Hannah said.
“Isn’t that unusual?” Timothy asked. “I thought babies couldn’t see so far away. Gabriel didn’t follow objects with his eyes until much later.”
Hannah sighed. “No . . . he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Timothy shook his head. “I’ll try to remember.”
“It’s okay. Hearing his name doesn’t hurt quite as badly as it used to.” Hannah turned Ashley’s face toward her and chirped in a suddenly cheerful voice. “You’re just a smart little girl, aren’t you?”
“Smart, yes,” Timothy said. “But . . .” His voice faded away.
Hannah took Timothy’s hand in hers. “Say what is on your mind, my husband. I will not be angry.”
Timothy squinted at her. “You sound like you did in the old days.”
“I spoke that way intentionally.” She rubbed her thumb along his knuckles. “Let us retrieve our dragon courage and speak plainly.”
Timothy’s gaze followed the buzzing fly as it flitted from ceiling, to wall, to bedpost. “I heard from Patrick this morning. I risked contacting him because it had been five years since we’d heard from him.” He shook his head sadly. “Still no sign of Gabriel. No one has seen him in almost forty years.”
Clenching her eyes shut, Hannah covered her mouth and bit her finger.
Gabriel surged down to her side and stroked her hair with his radiant hand. He glanced at the door. The courier was late. The computer should have sent the telegram over two hours ago. Gabriel gazed at his fingers, each one etched with jagged lines of energy. Using those clumsy digits to manipulate a computer through electronic impulses was a new skill. His earliest experiments had often failed, and he had to cut his message short before he ran out of power. Still, it would do, at least for now . . . if the courier ever showed up.
Timothy clasped Hannah’s hand with both of his. “Gabriel was old enough to hide on his own. Maybe he’s ”
“He was only thirteen when he disappeared!” Hannah countered.
A knock sounded at the door. “Telegram for Hannah Drake.”
Gabriel breathed a radiant sigh. Perfect timing.
Timothy returned from the door, opening a Western Union envelope. Deep creases etched his forehead. “It’s a telegram from Glasgow.”
“More bad news?”
He shook the page in front of her. “It’s good news! Excellent news! But I’m not sure how to interpret it.”
“Don’t just stand there!” Hannah cried, trembling. “Read it to me!”
Timothy raised the paper to his eyes and cleared his throat. “Congratulations on the birth of your daughter. May she live in peace and learn the secret behind the Oracles of Fire. Signed, Gabriel.”
Hannah slapped the bed rail. “Gabriel? Then he’s alive!”
Timothy leaned over and kissed her with a loud smack. “Yes!” he shouted, rising again with her hand clasped in his. “He must be!”
Hannah made a shushing sound, but her laughter washed it away.
Timothy laid a hand over the baby. “Careful,” he said, “you’ll jiggle Ashley.”
With a wide smile still gracing her lips, Hannah pointed at the telegram. “Do you know what he meant by the secret behind the Oracles of Fire?”
“I told you about meeting Sapphira in Dragons’ Rest.” He folded the telegram and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “I never saw her again.”
“Could the secret be how to get her to open the portal to Dragons’ Rest without destroying it? Maybe there’s still a way to save Roxil . . . or, Jasmine, I guess I should call her now.”
“And save all the others, for that matter.” He tapped his finger on the note. “But if he knows the secret, why wouldn’t he just tell us?”
“Maybe he knows there is a secret, but he doesn’t know what it is.”
Timothy wrapped his fingers tightly around the bed rail. “If there was only some way to contact him. He must be in terrible danger if he won’t come out of hiding to explain.”
Hannah hugged Ashley close. “But he’s alive!” she said, tears streaming. “After all these years, he’s alive! And since he knows we’re in Montana, maybe he’ll join us and help us look for Irene. He might know where she is, too.”
“Let’s not go too far.” Timothy rubbed her forearm. “It’s not like he’s that fly on the wall.”
Hannah laid a finger over her lips. “Right. One step at a time.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Too much information will make your brain choke.”
Gabriel expanded again to his full size and let his radiance glow brightly. He shared their ecstasy, rejoicing with them the only way he knew how silently, invisibly, yet with all the joy he could muster.
He lowered his glowing hand to Ashley’s cheek. As he caressed her pink skin, she turned back toward him and gazed directly into his eyes. She smiled and gurgled.
“Did you hear that?” Timothy said. “She’s happy Gabriel’s alive, too!”
Hannah laughed again. “Maybe she’ll get to see him someday.”
Gabriel joined their laughter. He was that fly on the wall, an imperceptible listener who learned the secrets of the room’s quiet conversations. But one secret whispered more loudly than all the others. He had a new sister, and he loved her. Nothing would ever harm her. Not Devin, not Morgan, not even the devil himself could come between him and this precious baby.
Sapphira sat in front of the portal screen. She tried to smile at the lovely sight a new baby, a rejoicing mother and father, good news of lost loved ones. But she couldn’t smile, couldn’t shake the unbearable sadness that weighed her down.
Being alone for over twenty years seemed to make good news crumble to the floor. If Acacia had been there, they would have joined hands and danced in a circle. If Paili ha
d been there, they would have embraced and squealed, feeding and watering the good news with hugs and kisses.
But now two of her dearest friends had disappeared to who knew where? Her only clue was a brief conversation she had heard between Elam and Patrick. Apparently, Paili ate Morgan’s fruit and had somehow vanished, but Gabriel, her eyes and ears to the world of the living, couldn’t pick up any more information. And she couldn’t leave to get any news on her own. The screen wouldn’t roll up into a portal column, so it was now impossible to go anywhere.
Sapphira stood up and wandered toward her bed. Everyone had forsaken her. Even Yereq no longer responded to her verbal prodding. No matter how much she chattered or sang, he just slept on and on. And loneliness led to her bigger problem boredom. With nothing to do but sit and watch others enjoy life, she could only reread the books she had memorized long ago. She had no slumber party friends giggling over shared secrets, no birthday guests singing around a frosted cake, and no family sitting at a table filled with steaming dishes of delicious bounty.
Not that she needed a meal. After nearly starving, she had finally eaten the fruit from the tree of life and never felt a hunger pang again. But watching families happily clinking glasses and passing laughter from place to place instilled a craving for their glorious joy.
Sapphira sat cross-legged on her mat, worn to a thin pad from hundreds of nights of tossing and turning. Acacia’s mat lay beside hers, its blanket pulled back for her should she ever return. Between the two mats lay her cross. She picked it up and stared at it. Why didn’t it work anymore? Had it lost its power?
She pointed it at herself. “Have I lost my power?” she asked out loud.