The Flight of Dragons

by Vivian French

  He was puzzled to find how difficult it was to squeeze himself through his study door; a vague idea that the palace had shrunk during the night crossed his mind. This idea was reinforced when he tried to make his way to the kitchen. “Shockingly narrow,” he complained as he negotiated his way along the corridors. “Must have a word with . . . with someone.” The strange confusion in his head was beginning to worry him, and he stood still and leaned his head against a pillar to see if the coldness of the marble would assist his thinking.

  “Are you all right, Your Maj?” Bobby was standing beside him. “You look a bit the worse for wear, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I feel a bit the worse for wear,” the king said, “and I’m hungry. Be a good boy and fetch me my breakfast.”

  “Certainly will. Eggs ’n’ bacon? Mushrooms? That sort of thing?” Bobby asked. “Shall I bring it to the dining room?”

  The king heaved himself away from the pillar. “In the dining room. Yes. But I want chocolate mousse.”

  Bobby dithered, then went somewhat unwillingly to do as he was told. He met Saturday as she came staggering down the back staircase carrying a bucket of dirty water and a mop. “King’s a bit odd,” he said in a whisper. “Wants chocolate mousse for his brekkie, and I don’t think he was in bed last night. And he’s ever so fat!”

  Saturday looked anxiously over her shoulder. “ ’Tis that cook, Mercy Grinder. ’Tis her food, if you can call it that. Have you seen Prince Tertius? He’s swelled up like a balloon under the dining table, like. ’Tis terrible, Bobby, terrible! And I don’t —”

  Footsteps were heard approaching, and Saturday froze. Bobby gave her a swift wink of encouragement before hurrying to pass on the king’s request. He was hardly out of sight before Globula and Conducta came marching around the corner; on seeing Saturday, they elbowed each other in vicious glee. “It’s little batty Saturday,” Globula sneered.

  “That’s right,” Conducta agreed. “Little batty Saturday who drops everything she carries!” And she kicked Saturday’s ankle.

  Saturday screamed and dropped the bucket; it fell on the marble floor, and dirty water splashed in all directions.

  “Oooh! Look what you’ve done!” Globula pointed to the mess. “Better clean it up, or you’ll be in trouble.”

  “BIG trouble. You might even get the sack!” Conducta snapped her fingers under Saturday’s nose. “Maybe you should leave. Run away before things get really nasty.”

  “Because that’s what’s going to happen.” Globula tilted her head to one side and smiled a mocking smile. “Much better for little batty Saturday to go NOW!”

  Saturday reeled back, her hands over her ears. “Leave me alone! I never did nothing to you!”

  Conducta gave Saturday’s hair a vicious tweak. “You’re a Mousewater!”

  Globula came even closer. “A horrid, horrid Mousewater. Run away, Saturday Mousewater — run away!”

  And she gave Saturday such a hard slap that the girl found herself half skidding, half falling along the corridor. With an effort she stayed on her feet and ran as fast as she could to the front door of the palace. Wrenching it open, she staggered out into the sunlight.

  Marcus and Gracie, slipping through the door of the old stables, found themselves in a tall, dusty building. It was full of outdated coaches and outmoded carriages and a pile of broken wheels that reached nearly to the ceiling. There were windows set high in the stone walls, but they were covered in cobwebs and the light was dim. As Gracie’s eyes grew accustomed to the shadowy gloom, she found she could see iron mangers fixed below the windows and could make out the remains of the stalls where the dragons were kept.

  “Look!” Marcus whispered as he pointed to a heap of soot swept into a dark corner. “Do you think that’s left from when the dragons breathed fire?”

  Great-Uncle Alvin gave a derisive snort. “They knew better than to breathe fire in their own home. That’ll be from when the crowds broke in after the dragons had been driven away. Set fire to the place, they did. If it hadn’t been stone, it would’ve burned to the ground.”

  Marcus, aware that the elderly bat was still regarding him with disapproval, did his best to look meek, but there was something he needed to know. “Could the egg have gotten burned in the fire?”

  “Of course not. Dear me!” Alvin fanned himself with his wing. “What do they teach you at school these days? A dragon’s egg can be dropped into an inferno, and it’ll come to no harm. Enjoy it, more like. And before you ask, young man, I checked this stable from top to bottom once the fire was out, and I didn’t see a single sign of any egg.”

  “Then why are we here?” Marcus wanted to know.

  Gracie felt it was time to intervene. “We’ve got to start somewhere. Perhaps one of the stones was loose, and Lumiere hid the egg behind it. . . .”

  “Or maybe there never was an egg at all.”

  Marcus sounded gloomy, and Gracie looked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter?”

  The prince rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. It seemed so easy before we got here. But look at it!” He gestured at a moldering pile of leather and the clutter of harnesses beyond. “There’s just so much stuff, and it’s all been dumped since the dragons left. And the floor’s solid stone slabs.” He stamped his foot to demonstrate his point. “I thought it might have been floorboards —”

  “Marcus!” Gracie stood very still. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Marcus asked, puzzled.

  “It sounded hollow!”

  Marcus went pale, then sank to his knees. Carefully, he felt around with his fingers while Gracie pushed away the layers of dust, old leaves, and grit. “I can feel an edge. If I can just get my fingers under it, I might be able to shift it . . . but it’s really heavy.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Great-Uncle Alvin warned, but neither Marcus nor Gracie was listening.

  “Let me help.” Gracie knelt beside Marcus, and between them they managed to heave a broken section of stone up from the floor.

  The bat fluttered down to look. “Nothing,” he said. “Knew there wouldn’t be.”

  “Bother.” Marcus was about to let the segment of stone drop when Gracie stopped him.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “Oh — I do wish it wasn’t so dark!”

  “I’ve got some matches somewhere,” Marcus told her, and holding the slab up with one hand, he dug in his pockets with the other. “Here.”

  Gracie took the battered box and struck a match. The light flared, and for a moment it was clear that under the stone slab was a carefully scooped hole, a hole lined with moss so old that when Gracie gently touched it with her finger, it crumbled into black dust. “Can you see the shape?” she said breathlessly. “It’s exactly the shape of an egg!”

  “But the egg’s gone,” Great-Uncle Alvin said as the match went out. “So that’s not a lot of use.”

  Gracie stood up as Marcus dropped the stone back into place. “But it is useful! The egg was here — I know it was. My fingers feel . . . I don’t know how to describe it. Tingly. So someone must have moved it.”

  “Maybe the dragon boy took it away,” Marcus wondered.

  But Gracie took no notice. She was standing with her hands clasped together and her head on one side as if she was listening to a secret message. “Oh . . .” she whispered. “Of course! The archway . . .”

  Great-Uncle Alvin and Marcus stared at her. She was quivering with excitement. “Don’t you remember? I nearly fell over when we ran through. I felt that same tingling feeling then, only much much stronger. It made me feel almost dizzy, it was so strong — but I didn’t know what it meant —”

  “Come on!” Marcus was already at the door. “Let’s go!” He peered cautiously out into the yard. “Lucky they can’t see us here from the palace. None of the windows faces this way, and the main drive’s on the other side.”

  It took them only seconds to retrace their steps. As they drew close to the archway, Gra
cie felt tingles run through her entire body. “It’s there,” she whispered. “I’m sure it is.”

  Marcus was already pushing and shoving at the blocks of stone. “How could it be hidden here? Do you think one of these pulls out?”

  Gracie didn’t immediately answer. She was standing underneath the arch with her eyes shut. After a moment she said, “It’s so odd. I know it’s here somewhere, but I can’t place it. The tingles seem to come from all around me.”

  “But we’ve got to find it.” Marcus scrubbed at his hair in frustration. “Can you tell if it’s on one side more than the other?”

  Gracie opened her eyes again. “No. At least —” She stopped midsentence. “What’s happening down there? Look! Near the tree where we tied the ponies. The bushes are shaking . . . Oh! It’s GUBBLE!”

  Gubble emerged, brushed the remains of a bird’s nest off his head, and stomped steadily on.

  Gracie waved encouragement, while Marcus picked up a stone and began to tap and chip at the arch.

  The troll came puffing up to join them. “Not heavens no. Niven’s Knowe,” he remarked in the manner of someone finishing a conversation that had been going on for some time. “Gubble help prince.” And he walked straight into the left-hand pillar — which wobbled, shook, then collapsed with a rumble and a loud crash.

  The openmouthed Gracie and Marcus were left staring at the remains. Underneath the wreckage lay an egg — dull green, and in no way spectacular, but neither could take their eyes off it.

  “Pick it up, Trueheart,” Great-Uncle Alvin whispered. “Pick it up.”

  Gracie bent down and carefully lifted the egg from the rubble. It felt cold and was heavier than she had expected. She stroked it with her fingers as Marcus exclaimed, “We’ve found it! We’ve actually found it!”

  “Yes,” Gracie said. “Great-Uncle Alvin, can I ask you something?”

  Alvin didn’t answer. He was leaning forward and listening intently to something neither Gracie nor Marcus could hear. “Alf! He needs help!”

  “Alf? Where?” Marcus could see no sign of the little bat. Gracie didn’t look up. She was still staring at the egg in her arms.

  “Quick!” Uncle Alvin flapped his wings furiously. “Quick! Come on, Trueheart! He’s in trouble! In the yard!” He zigzagged away as fast as his ancient wings would allow, and Marcus hurried after him. Gracie, after tying her cloak tightly around her so the egg was held close to her heart, followed as fast as she could.

  Gubble watched them go, then bent to inspect the rubble. “Egg,” he murmured. “Egg sandwiches. Good Gubble. Gracie pleased.” And he turned his attention to the other stone pillar.

  They found Alf crawling across the cobbles, his wings dragging, and his fur matted. “Danger!” he gasped. “Terrible danger!” As Marcus and Gracie crouched down beside him, he waved a claw toward the palace. “There’s a horrible bird and there’s a hideous THING in the palace kitchen, and there’s something dreadful going on, and do you know what, Miss Gracie?”

  “Oh, Alf!” Gracie scooped him up. “What happened?”

  Alf trembled in her hands. “In the kitchen . . . this huge white thing! With white eyes! It’s evil, Miss Gracie, it really really is. And it knows about the dragon’s egg, and it wants it because dragons’ eggs make you more evil, and, Miss Gracie, it knows you’re looking for it! That horrible bird was watching us under the trees!”

  Marcus stood up. His face was as white as chalk, and he swallowed hard before he spoke. “That’s my fault. It was me who said about the dragon’s egg. I’m going to the palace right this minute. I’m going to find the thing in the kitchen and get rid of it, or at least try to stop it from getting any farther. Gracie, you take the egg and get away from here as fast as you can. And . . .” He swallowed again. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry —”

  “Hold the heroics, kid.” Marlon swooped into view in a leisurely curve designed to conceal the excessive speed at which he had traveled since leaving the House of the Ancient Crones. “Uncle Marlon’s back in the action. And here’s a suggestion. Go for cunning. Deviousness. Walk straight in and you could walk into big trouble.”

  Gracie looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Need to check what’s going on,” Marlon said. “The crones have spotted evil. Evil, big-time. Give me five, and I’ll be right back. No problemo!”

  Marcus watched as the bat zigzagged away. He was truly ashamed of himself, and he desperately wanted toshow Gracie that he could put things right by launching himself into the thick of the danger, but he was also aware that this could be bravado rather than bravery. He hesitated, then said, “You know what, Gracie? I’ve absolutely got to go and see for myself. It’ll be all right — when Terty and I were little, we were always playing spies. We used to watch the formal dinners and laugh our heads off. I promise I won’t be seen.”

  Gracie gave him her most luminous smile. “You mean, we won’t be seen. I’m coming with you.”

  “Don’t know what Unc’ll say.” Alf, perched on an upturned flowerpot, was recovering fast. He smiled smugly as Gracie and Marcus ran toward the palace. “I knew she’d go with him. True love ’n’ all that.”

  Great-Uncle Alvin snorted. “Love, nothing. What about that egg? She’s putting it in danger! And that,” he added rather more thoughtfully, “isn’t at all like a Trueheart. Hmm . . .”

  He and Alf looked at each other. No word was spoken, but seconds later they were flying after Marcus and Gracie.

  When Marlon made his way back five minutes later, eager to report on the twins and Mercy Grinder, he found the yard deserted. Soaring up into the sky to get a better aerial view, he was rewarded with the sight of a headless Gubble sitting among the remains of the now totally demolished stone archway. “Leave ’em for five minutes and they lose their heads,” Marlon remarked to himself. “Hang on! What’s he got there?” And he increased his speed.

  Gubble’s head looked up from a patch of dandelions. “Help. Find Gracie. Find Gracie NOW!”

  Marlon’s attention was entirely concentrated on the grit-covered object clutched in Gubble’s arms. “My goodness,” he exclaimed. And then, pulling himself together, “Right! Follow me!”

  “Can’t,” said the head.

  Marlon shook out his wings, took a deep breath, and issued instructions at such speed that the troll became hopelessly muddled. His head, when finally back on his shoulders, faced the wrong way. Marlon, suffering from intense frustration, snapped, “No time to change it. You’ll have to walk backward. Come on — this way!”

  As Queen Bluebell’s carriage came to a halt outside the main entrance to the palace of Niven’s Knowe, she was greeted by the sight of the weeping Saturday. Weeping housemaids were a common phenomenon and, in Bluebell’s wide experience, easily dealt with. She pulled a handkerchief from her bag with a practiced flick of the wrist. “Now, now,” she said briskly. “Blow your nose, and then we’ll have a nice cup of tea. Was it the butler who upset you? Or are you in love with a footman?”

  Saturday took the hankie and blew her nose hard. “Oh, Your Majesty — it’s them twins, like. Oh — I can’t bear it anymore!”

  Bluebell patted Saturday’s shoulder. “Twins? What twins, my dear? I don’t remember King Horace employing any twins.”

  If Saturday had not been so overwrought, she might have stayed silent, but the queen’s sympathetic gesture was too much for her. “Oh, Your Majesty!” she wailed. “Everyone’s gone! Mrs. Basket and Mr. Trout and the footmen and everybody! Only me and Bobby are left, like. And there’s that Mercy Grinder in the kitchen, making everybody blow up like balloons . . .”

  Saturday had lost the queen’s attention. Bluebell had heard enough to make her realize there was a serious problem, and she had never been one to shirk her duty. “You stay here,” she ordered, and with a shake of her skirts she sailed into the palace.

  Marshling Stonecrop, who had been listening with interest, immediately leaped out of the carriage and grabbed Sa
turday’s arm. “Blow up like balloons? This I have to see!”

  “Oh, no!” Saturday gave a loud wail. “Don’t make me go back in there! Please don’t!”

  “Well . . .” Marshling gave Saturday a hard stare. “Is it really that bad? Or are you just a scaredy-cat?”

  “ ’Tis terrible! That Mercy Grinder — she be evil! And the twins, too!”

  Marshling decided Saturday’s terror was genuine. “Is there another way in?”

  Saturday nodded. “The back door.”

  “Right,” Marshling said. “Around the other side, I’d guess. See you later!” And he marched off at a determined trot.

  Saturday wavered, then ran after him, terrified at the thought of being left alone.

  As they turned the corner of the palace, Marshling came to an abrupt halt. Saturday looked around in surprise, stared, then screamed as she saw a solid green troll standing nose to nose with Bobby. Then, realizing that the troll’s body and head were facing in opposite directions, she screamed again.

  Marlon, hovering overhead, rolled his eyes at this demonstration of human foolishness. “Keep going, troll!” he squeaked, but Gubble, confused by the noise and the fact that he was obliged to walk backward, stayed where he was.

  “ ’S all right, Saturday,” Bobby said through chattering teeth. “He wants to get inside the palace. I won’t let him hurt you.”

  “He won’t hurt anybody.” Marshling stepped forward and gave Gubble a pat on the back. “Hello, Gubble. Why is your head on back to front? And what are you carrying?”

  Gubble indicated the palace with a jerk of his chin. “Find Gracie.”

  “He keeps saying that.” Bobby shook his head in bewilderment. “But I don’t know who he’s talking about.”

  “Gracie.” Gubble tried again. “Ug. Gubble find Gracie . . .” He forced his very small brain to make one last supreme effort. “Pillypot!”