“You know, you really ought to put a seat belt on,” he said, looking straight ahead.
Sarah laughed. “We have been targeted by a dragon that wants to kill you and kidnap me, and you are worried about a seat belt? As to confusing—try merging a six-year-old personality, who still likes to watch cartoons and color, with a thousand-year-old medieval princess who could turn into a dragon if she doesn’t behave herself. Frankly, Harry, I don’t think you know what confusion is.”
Harry snorted, then sighed. “And I really hope I never do, because this is difficult enough. Now, however,” he continued, releasing a long breath, “now, I am not sure what to do. I am pretty sure the dragon, or reverend, or whatever the hell that beast is… oops, sorry, Sarah, didn’t mean to cuss.”
“Aheeemmm, that was a really bad wooord,” a little voice chirped beside him. He looked down at her, wondering which Sarah was manifesting, concerned that he had offended. A sharp nudge in the ribs freed him from that fear.
As they started to make the turn onto the road that led to her grandparents’ house, they could see through the open pasture that the porch light was on. Harry was about to turn down the long drive when the speaker interrupted his thoughts. “Harry, something is not right. You are being watched. Text the fire marshal before you drive down this road. Tell him to turn the porch lights off! Do it now!”
The old man was quick to obey, turned off his truck lights, and stopped the truck in the middle of the dirt road before the turn to the farmhouse.
“Harry, what are you…”
“Shh! Something is wrong. Speaker is warning me.”
“Grandma and Grandpa!” Sarah cried. “Are they okay? Are they hurt? Did the…”
The old man ignored her. Honed in on his task, he began to text: Kenneth, this is Hank. Not trying to be too cautious, but we are being watched. Is that you in the house? If it is… Then he stopped. What can I ask him?
Sarah, who was carefully watching his screen to see what he texted, piped in, “Ask him what my favorite storybook is.”
Old Harry quickly texted: …turn off the porch lights and tell me what Sarah’s favorite storybook is.
Seconds after sending the text, the porch lights on the farmhouse went out. After a few more seconds, Hank’s phone beeped. The message read: Sarah’s favorite storybook is Harry Bear and Barry Hare by Wm David Ellis. Come on in. We have coffee and hot cocoa for Sarah.
Both the sword in his head and the girl to his right started talking at the same time.
“Something is wrong. I hate cocoa!”
“Harry, you need to get out of here… but text him back.”
The old man quickly tapped the oversized keys on his senior citizen smartphone: Right answer, but don’t want to endanger you further, so spending the night elsewhere. See you at library tomorrow with fresh clothes for Sarah, and her favorite breakfast, egg burritos with lots of onions.
“I hate onions and eggs,” Sarah whined.
“I know you do. It’s to let your grandparents know that we know something’s wrong.” The old man pressed send, and the text was delivered. He started the truck but didn’t turn on the lights until they could no longer see the farmhouse. Then he turned on the running lights and finally, after a mile, the headlights.
Sarah was frantic. “Where are we going? Are Grandma and Grandpa okay? Does the sword know if they are okay? Has the dragon hurt them?” She was close to panicking.
Understanding her fear, the old man answered as slowly and calmly as he could, “Sarah, the sword thinks, and I agree, that your grandparents are safe, at least for the night. I told them to meet us tomorrow to say goodbye, that we needed to leave for a while, and to bring you some more clothes. Even if the dragon and his followers realize they were tricked, if they want to capture us—well, capture you; they just want to kill me,” he interjected, “—they will have to keep your grandparents alive for bait. Those dragon people know we are going to be at the library tomorrow, so they will have to bring your grandparents, unharmed.” Or at least I hope and pray so, he thought.
Sarah’s sharp panting breath slowed down. She exhaled a long, slow, cleansing breath. “Okay, okay… sounds right. What now?”
***
In the farmhouse with the fire marshal and Grandma Grace
“All right, we did as you asked!” the fire marshal reprimanded. “Get out of our house!”
Three prominent citizens of the community, people who had been acquaintances, guarded them. They had never been friends, but people you waved at when you saw them in town. As they stood in front of the fire marshal, he noticed that their faces, now unveiled, were pale green with patchy, scaly skin. Their eyes were bizarre. Instead of normal, round human irises, they were yellow and slitted like a snake’s. Even their body movements were different, smoother, and they flowed through the room. The leader, a sergeant on the local police force, laughed, walked over to the fire marshal, and slapped him across the face. Blood trickled from his split lip.
Grandma Grace, who was tied in a chair in the room, screamed, “Kenneth!” then turned to the sergeant and glared. Had she not been such a churchgoing Southern lady, she would have cursed the man. Then she thought, Well, if I think it, I might as well as say it. “You weakling. Hitting a man when he is tied up! How many times do I have to flush before you go away? When we get out of here, he is going to tear your head off, and I am going to let him!”
“Ah! Oh! My goodness! My poor ears,” the sergeant laughed, then moved toward Grace and slapped her. “Keep your opinions to yourself.”
The fire marshal spit blood from his busted lip and said in a tone that sent chills down Grace’s spine, “You know, I’ve been furious with this woman many times, but I have never struck her. And if I can control my temper, you should have controlled yours. You’ve made me angry. The last thought you have before I break your neck, with Grace’s permission, of course,” he said, nodding toward his wife, “will be ‘I wish I hadn’t done that.’”
The sergeant looked hard at the old marshal, measuring the stare that promised a bad end, then shook his head and in a still-gruff tone, but without another display of violence, said, “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” He turned to his companions. “Duct-tape their mouths shut. I need to call the reverend and see what he wants to do with them. They might live through the night, and then”—he walked over to Grace and stroked her hair—“we may just get to eat them. We’ll see.”
As the sergeant pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, the house shook and a hot wind whirled through the screened farmhouse windows. The captors paled, a strange look on light green skin. The sergeant’s hands began to shake, his mouth grew dry, and he grabbed a bottle of water and drank it down. Finally he had calmed enough to speak, “He’s here. Go out and greet him, Melba.”
“I don’t think so. You’re the fearless leader. You greet him,” the tall brunette quickly responded.
The sergeant gulped down the bile that threatened to embarrass him and, turning to the other kidnapper, motioned to him to greet the dragon. The man remained silent and shook his head.
“Fine, I’ll do it then!” the sergeant barked; then turning to Grace and the fire marshal, he said, “You two better start saying your prayers. You’re going to need them.”
The fire marshal stared back, his mouth duct-taped, but his thoughts free. I am always praying, buddy, and, unlike you, I am not afraid to meet my God.
Grandma Grace was also thinking. Oh, my friend… I have it on good authority that you are the one that should be praying because you will soon be standing before the One who tamed that dragon of yours a long, long time ago.
***
The sergeant opened the screen door and stepped out onto the front porch. The lights were still off, but no one needed them. The sky over the secluded farmhouse was lit with red flames. A dragon twice the size of the farmhouse was descending, its fiery breath lighting its drop. The sergeant trembled, waiting for his master to land. He watched i
n fascinated terror as the dragon flapped its bat-like wings. The creature reeked evil. Its eyes shone like cauldrons of poisoned lava, its scales shimmered, reflecting the red tint of its flame. Then with a thud, the earth compacted beneath its great mass. As soon as the serpent’s claws gripped the ground, it cast out a furious spray of flame that encircled it, momentarily hiding it from view. The effect only lasted seconds. As it died down, the figure of a man formed. When the inferno had completely dispersed, the Reverend Laden Long stood there, steam rising off his clothes. He stared at his trembling disciple and watched as the sergeant bent down to one knee, head bowed. The reverend approached him and calmly asked, “Where is she? You captured her and killed the old man, right?”
The sergeant didn’t look up. A pool of warm water formed around his feet. “No, sir, she did not come to the farmhouse,” he finally gasped out.
The reverend’s golden, serpentine eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” he asked in a voice that would freeze blood.
“She never showed up, Master. The storyteller texted the fire marshal checking to see if it was safe to come in. We monitored the whole conversation with a knife to the throat of the old woman, assuring the fire marshal would behave. We censored every word. It didn’t matter. The storyteller and the girl told the fire marshal they didn’t want to endanger him or his wife, so they went elsewhere for the night. That’s all we know, sir.”
Reverend Long looked down on his trembling underling and sneered. “The sword told him. I’m sure of it.” He walked into the farmhouse. “Oh my! Look who’s all tied up—I do love puns—the fire marshal and his lovely wife, Grace. I would ask how you are, but it is rather obvious. What you need to ask yourselves, however, is do you want to be roasted like a chicken over a pit, or can I just kill you quickly and be done with it? You’re going to die, no doubt about that, just slowly or quickly? The choice is yours.” Then he laughed. “Just kidding. You have no choice at all. It is my choice and that choice will be determined by your behavior. All you have to do is answer my questions. Where is Sarah? And where is the old man? It’s that simple. I will start with you, Grace… may I call you Grace? I am going to anyway.”
The reverend turned toward Grandma Grace, stooped down, and ripped the duct tape from her lips. Grace yelped as the tape ripped off a thin layer of skin. She licked her lips, looked the dragon square in the eyes, and said, “That was not nice.” Her husband snorted beneath his own tape. He had heard that tone of voice before and knew the dragon had better not give his wife an inch, or she would ream his butt all the way back to perdition.
The demon’s eyes narrowed and a sneer slid across his lips. Grandma Grace held his stare. Her expression did not waver; then she answered, “We do not know where he is, you old serpent. Hank didn’t tell us. I think he saw we were… tied up and didn’t want us to give anything away. So, what can we tell you?”
Reverend Long stepped back, reluctantly agreeing with his captive. He continued to stare at her, thinking. A heartbeat passed, and then the reverend motioned to the woman who held the fire marshal’s phone. “Let me see the texts.”
The middle-aged woman tossed her long brown hair over one shoulder and looked up at the reverend from under her lashes. She was tall, fashionably dressed, and carried herself well. It was obvious that she was enamored with the reverend. She reached into her pocket, grabbed the phone, and handed it to the clergy. “Yes, sir,” was all she could bring herself to say. Her eyes sparkled in idolizing worship.
The reverend flipped through the texts, carefully reading each one. He flipped back again, reread them, frowned, and then turned to the sergeant, who was not beaming in idol worship but shivering in terror, his eyes fixed on every move the cleric made. The sergeant came close to shrieking but bit into his lip instead. He quickly grabbed a handkerchief and was daubing his mouth when the dragon turned to him and, in that same cold tone, said, “Right under your nose. He warned them right under your nose, with you watching his every move.”
The sergeant’s eyes grew large with fright. His heart pounded. “Look here, you fool,” the reverend continued, pointing to the cell phone screen, “Hank Ferguson texted the fire marshal, asking if he was safe. The fire marshal was only minutes ahead of him and the girl. Why would Ferguson think that they would be in danger so soon after leaving them? Someone warned him, and I know who it was. I wasn’t sure he was still around… but the sword still speaks.” The clergy turned toward the sergeant and smiled. “But that does not free you from responsibility.
“Notice what the crafty fire marshal says next… ‘We have coffee and cocoa for Sarah’… both of those have caffeine. You don’t give a six-year-old caffeine before bedtime. He was warning them off, and they got the message. See their response… ‘We don’t want to endanger you further, so spending the night elsewhere, see you at library tomorrow. Bring favorite food… eggs and onions’… Have you ever been around children, sergeant? They do not like onions; onions are an acquired taste. You failed me, sergeant. Now, what should I do about that?” He turned to the woman, who was still looking at him in admiration, smiled, and then said, “Please follow me, dear. I need to think, and your company would be appreciated.” He bent over and kissed her hand. Her eyes brightened in fanatical reverie. He clasped hands with her and took her outside. “Sergeant, come with us.”
As they walked out under the stars, the sergeant trembled with fear, barely able to move. He tried to calm himself by lighting a cigarette, but his hands shook so much he couldn’t do it. The reverend smiled at the woman, patted her hand, and said, “Stand here, please.” He stepped back about twenty feet, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Flame spewed from his mouth and curled around him, briefly hiding his form. The dragon stepped out of the fire, and a quick draft of wind instantly extinguished the flames. Towering over the woman, he bent down and opened his mouth. Terror instantly replaced the woman’s smile. She barely had time for a short, muffled scream as she disappeared down the throat of the beast. Flames curled back around, and once again, the Reverend Long stood in a burnt circle of grass. He wiped his mouth and walked over to the sergeant, who lay curled on the ground in a fetal position, weeping.
“Now, now, sergeant, somebody had to be punished. See here, be glad it wasn’t you… this time. So, get up now and do your job.” Then in a stern, hypnotic tone that broke through the broken mind of the man, “Get up and guard those two! They are bait for my trap. And change your clothes. You stink. Now go.” The demon’s voice had cast a spell on his minion, forcing the brokenness to dissipate, leaving him calm, drugged, but functional. “I will be back in the morning; then we will go to story time to finish this story. Goodnight, sergeant.” With that, the reverend stepped back, breathed out, and in a flurry of flame, clothed himself in dragon and flew away. The sergeant stared into the night sky for a long time, then walked into the farmhouse to shower and change.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m not sure where to go,” Harry said. “We can’t go to my daughter’s house. They will probably be watching there, and I don’t want to endanger her in any way.”
“You didn’t seem to have that same problem endangering my grandparents!” Sarah fumed.
Harry looked back at the ancient princess pontificating from a six-year-old’s body. He wanted to bite back and say he hadn’t endangered them. She had. But he knew that even though true, it would not help. In a calm voice he answered, “Your grandparents are your protectors, your guardians. Your life means more to them than their own. They would lay down their lives if they had to. My daughter has no idea what is going on. She is not prepared for this.”
Sarah’s fear-based anger turned to shame. She bowed her head a moment, regaining her calm. Her thoughts shifted to another topic that was extremely important to her. Her face showed she had a question. Before her mind was ready to ask it, she forced herself to relax, hoping Harry hadn’t noticed.
He had. “Go ahead, ask,” he prompted.
“Well, Harry, you ha
ve a daughter, and that is fine. I mean, you probably thought you would never see me again, and why would you? I understand that, I really do, but that also means you have a wife, and—this is foolish. I am six years old going on 1,244.”
The old man gawked in confusion. “Huh?”
“Is she still alive?”
“Well, I hope so! She’s the librarian. Keeping her alive is why we’re not going to her house, and by the way, I thought you were five.”
Sarah pulled back, made a fist, and punched the old man smack in the arm.
“Dang, Sarah, what’s your problem? You asked me a question. I gave you an answer, and you slug me?”
“Harry, Hank, Ferguson, or whoever… You know exactly what I meant, and exactly why I hit you. I wasn’t asking about your daughter. I was asking about her mother. And for your information, I celebrated my sixth and 1,244th birthday two weeks ago.”
“Oh,” the old man laughed. “Well, the truth is, I never met her mother. I don’t know who she is. My daughter is adopted.”
“Harry, you don’t have a wife?” Sarah said, sitting on the edge of the seat and turning to face the old man.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, who is she? Where is she?” Sarah asked, leaning back against the seat and folding her arms.
“Uh, she isn’t,” he answered cryptically, deliberately not giving away any information.
“Haaarrrrryyy!”
The old man laughed again. He was enjoying this exchange. Sarah sounded like a cat, one minute purring, the other hissing. He hoped he knew, based on her tone of voice, just exactly when he would have to cough up the truth.
The truck cab grew quiet as Harry drove down the road, thinking of where they should go. They needed someplace private, someplace protected, someplace the Right Reverend would never think of going.
Sarah was also thinking, This is miserable and ridiculous. He doesn’t want to tell me about his wife. He used the phrase “She isn’t,” so she must have died. He adopted, so they must not have been able to have children, and he doesn’t want to be reminded. He must have loved her a great deal. He really is a good man.
The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set Page 15