Fire: Tales of Elemental Spirits

by Robin McKinley

  And then there was this really strange pause that didn’t seem to have anything to do with time, and you could feel something like a big wet fog of discouragement roll itself up and go away, and then Dad straightened up and Mum sort of got shorter as the anger drained out of her, and they looked round and smiled at each other, so then Dag and Kel and I did too.

  But what I really liked about our wizard is that she also did healing, and she did it like it was no big deal. Wizards, even all-sorts, are really conscious of their dignity, aside from worrying about whether anyone will ever talk to them again if it gets out that they do healing or that they don’t make you beg for it first. Maybe they make a big fuss about dignity because they’re only third on the list after dragonriders and spiritspeakers.

  Ralas lived a little outside of the village, which made it easier to sneak off there and ask about your chilblains or your old dad’s cough or whatever. I should know because I did—sneak off to ask her things I mean—some of the mums that asked me for gimpweed asked me about other stuff too, and if I didn’t know, I asked Ralas. She never seemed to mind, and she always told me anything I could use, that I could pass on. She always seemed pleased to do it too. She liked helping people. Wizard training is supposed to make you want to help people if you aren’t that way to begin with but I bet she didn’t have to be taught to want to. And she never made me feel like a dumb clumsy kid when she said she’d have to see someone herself, that what was wrong sounded sort of complicated. And she never said ʺTell the old so-and-so to come here and pay my fee and stop trying to get it for free out of a kid.ʺ

  Also although I’m really healthy, I have a sort of negative gift for finding sick hedgehogs and birds with broken wings and stuff, and I always brought them to her. A lot of them stayed on after they got better. So when I say ʺsneak offʺ you can sneak as much as you like but you won’t surprise her, because she’s got all these three-legged or bald or blind or somehow crooked-up creatures going squawk and squeal and chirp and yelp and so on, every time anyone comes near. And a lot of people did come to see her, people that weren’t from our village too, so it was pretty noisy out there a lot of the time.

  Mum and Dad and I were at a craft fair once and a foogit pup got trod on by a horse. Nobody knew who the pup belonged to and it was lying there crying with its leg at a funny angle and all sort of mashed looking. Everybody stared the other way. Once the animal was damaged no one was going to claim it, not when everyone else could see, and it was near noon and the craft fair wouldn’t be over till sunset. It was weird somebody had brought it at all—it was way too young to be useful—and while foogits aren’t the brightest lamp at the festival, you don’t get wild foogit pups in the middles of craft fairs, so it must’ve belonged to somebody.

  I asked someone where the town wizard lived, and I picked the pup up as carefully as I could—although it was amazingly good about this and sort of relaxed into me as if company was better than nothing—and went there. It was a grand house in the middle of town with stars painted all over it and a long fringe of charms hanging over the front door. It gave me the creeps—Ralas didn’t use any of that show-offy stuff—but it didn’t matter so long as he knew how to set broken bones. But whoever it was who answered the door wouldn’t let me in to trouble ʺthe master.ʺ I’d just managed to say, ʺHe has a broken—ʺ when Stoneface said, ʺThe master doesn’t deal with vermin,ʺ and shut the door. I’m not sure if he meant me or the pup. It’s true I hadn’t thought about how I was going to pay, but I don’t believe the door thug had got that far in his thinking either.

  So I went back to our waggon and stole a bit of lath from my dad, because I knew he’d say no if I asked but I also knew he wouldn’t ask any questions if he recognised what I’d stolen, and then I had to use my belt and some of my sleeve because Mum would ask if some of the stuff she wrapped her candles in disappeared, and I splinted the pup’s leg as best I could from having watched Ralas do it a lot better, although it was harder than that because, as I say, it wasn’t just broken, it was kind of crunched up. There were a couple of places where the bone poked through the skin and I didn’t have a clue what to do about that, I just made a big green smelly poultice of pretty much any plant I could find that hadn’t been stomped flat by everybody at the fair and slapped it on. Mum was really annoyed, but mostly about my shirt (she said something about vermin too but I think she meant fleas) but she let me keep him till we got home. Nobody came around asking about him either.

  But we didn’t get home till ten days later and the bones had already started to knit (Ralas said) and, as I say, I didn’t know what I was doing so the bones healed a bit funny and Sippy has been lame ever since, which is why he stayed with Ralas, but I don’t think Mum would have let me keep him anyway. Ralas tried to make me feel better and kept saying that I was only eleven and Sippy’s leg would have been tricky even for her, but the point is I’m a screw-up and Sippy is lame for life. Sippy’s always really glad to see me when I go to Ralas’ and that makes me feel both better and worse.

  There was a joke in the family that the reason I didn’t grow is because I kept wearing the growth off the bottoms of my feet with all the running I did for Mum. In finding all the best shortcuts through woods and fields, I found the best places for gimpweed, so I started looking for other stuff too, especially the common stuff that Ralas got through pretty fast. Ralas started letting me keep watch on her supplies so I could collect what she needed at the right time of year. That felt really good.

  I started looking for new things when people would ask me, after I’d checked with Ralas what it was and where it grew and if it was good for what whoever wanted it for. Since you’re not supposed to be sick in the first place, a lot of people are really dumb about what they think will make them better. Often I got the latest gossip as a kind of payment. It’s less embarrassing than saying thank you. I was the first one to bring it to Birchhome that our councillor’s daughter had run off with a smoother and her parents were going to disown her. I was also the first to hear when Fhig did something clever and got bumped up to Third Wing. Drat him.

  But during the second year at a dragonrider academy you finally meet the dragons. And dragons and Dag were . . . wham. Suddenly all the stupid rules and the boring history and the human hierarchy just disappeared, because it was all about dragons.

  And then Kel didn’t go to Jwell after all but some young guy named Chooko who’d never had an apprentice before but who told good stories and furthermore amazingly would smile and look at you (even when you’re the youngest and short for your age) when he came to your village and dropped in on the family of the second son who’s going to be his first-ever apprentice in a few months. And he and Kel really hit it off.

  So two sons down—and both of them happy—and one to go. Mum being Mum, I’d’ve thought she’d get going on me right away but maybe I was too much even for her tactical skills. Unless I started growing unexpectedly I could go on pretending to be fourteen forever, and never be apprenticed at all. Maybe I’d deliver candles for the rest of my life.

  Dag came home on his half-year leave from the Academy right before Kel was going off with Chooko and they were both full of excitement and the future. Their future. Dag’s wham with dragons was so spectacular he’d been jumped a class—Fhig hadn’t done that either—so he was going to be eligible for his First Flight only next year. Which, just by the way, was the year I’d be fifteen and so far as I knew Mum and Dad hadn’t even started looking for some desperate wizard they could bribe heavily (except they couldn’t afford to, although Chooko was a lot cheaper than the Academy) to take me on as apprentice.

  Dag and Kel’s way of dealing with this awkwardness was to talk over my head about their own stuff (since they’re so much taller than I am, this was very easy). They didn’t mean to make me feel lower than a foogit pup. But what could they do, anyway?

  Maybe my parents thought hanging out with Ralas would make me marginally more desirable as an apprentice. I would h
ave flown like a starling and swum like a fish to be Ralas’ apprentice but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. When I was still only a little kid I’d overheard Mik, who had a third son to find a place for, asking Ralas about apprenticeship. Ralas had been very polite but said that she didn’t take apprentices. I reminded myself of this a lot. At least it meant I didn’t have to go through being turned down by her personally—and I didn’t have to die of jealousy when she took somebody else. Although I’d still have to go away and be apprenticed to someone somewhere about something some day and stop hanging around her. I didn’t really think Mum would keep me delivering candles forever. Maybe I wished she would.

  Sippy believing I was wonderful was nice, even if he was only a foogit and it was only because he didn’t realise it was my fault he was lame. He’d grown up a lot handsomer than I was expecting. Bigger too. Foogits are good watchdogs—nobody sleeps through a foogit howling—and tend to be less trouble than real dogs so you see them around pretty often, but only at the backs and edges of things—no one invites a foogit to lie by the hearth during its off-duty hours. Also foogits can move so fast, in that sort of goofy dance they do, they can make you dizzy if you watch them. And if you’re a burglar, you probably will be watching them, because a good guard foogit will bite too, and their teeth sink in a ways. Not that Ralas needed that kind of protection. Some of the strangers who came to visit her were scarier than any burglar but I never saw her worried or bothered.

  I’ve often wondered why it’s okay to despise foogits. So that a foogit pup with a broken leg can lie crying in the middle of a hot fairground and no one will even bring it a bowl of water. I suppose it’s because we hero-worship dragons and foogits play the fool in dragon stories. Usually there is no fool in a dragon story, because stories about dragons are always big and grand and solemn and exciting. But if you want something funny or ridiculous to happen somewhere in a dragon story you’ll probably put in a foogit. I don’t know why a foogit. But there’s a connection between them and dragons somehow. Foogits are a bit dragon-shaped, although they’re hairy and a dragon is scaly. And even the biggest foogit would look pretty silly next to the smallest dragon. Also dragons don’t have topknots of hair that look like huka nests. No one can look dignified with a huka nest on their head.

  I’ve seen dragons a few times, and around here the only dragons you’re going to see are the smallest and the oldest and the slowest. But even they have that air about them: that they rule the world and they know it. I don’t know why they let us little thin-skinned squeaky wingless humans order them around. I suppose that makes us feel kind of conceited too. Or maybe awed or even just confused. So then you look at a foogit and I guess it’s sort of a joke, but the joke’s in bad taste. Hard on the foogit, who didn’t ask to look like a small hairy dragon with a silly dance. But if Sippy knew he was a buffoon he never let on. Or maybe he liked it. He was always cheerful and he always cheered me up.

  You don’t hear from your apprenticed relatives all that often. They’re too busy being apprentices. We got a letter from Dag about twice a year, depending on there being someone to bring it, and because of the unpredictableness of this, it never seemed strange if we didn’t get any letters. And there hadn’t been any gossip, and now that our village had someone at the Academy every tinker passing through had an Academy story for us. There was just Dag, one day, turning up a week before we were expecting him for his half-year break, looking grey and hollow-eyed. We started out being delighted to see him but it was immediately obvious ʺdelightedʺ was the wrong response. It had been raining for weeks and the first thing I thought was that he’d caught a chill, and started patting my pockets for gislarane; I’d been carrying extra in case anyone I was delivering candles to was feeling shivery and sneezy. I gave him the gislarane but it wasn’t a chill.

  The story came out in jerks over the rest of the evening. I’m putting it together in more or less the right order now but he didn’t tell it like this.

  At first we thought he must be feverish after all because what he said didn’t seem to make a lot of sense. Then for a while we thought it was about having been jumped a year. But bullying or social exile wasn’t the kind of thing that would get Dag down. I even wondered if he might be in love. I had probably a strange view of love from Ralas’ clientele.

  That was closer. But it wasn’t a girl. It was a dragon.

  ʺI couldn’t believe it, when the First Flight list went up. I don’t know . . . I don’t understand . . . Hereyta, for all the gods’ sake,ʺ Dag said. ʺI know they say it’s all handed down in the signs and so on. But they could just not do it—or they could tell me they’d changed their minds and I’d take my First Flight next year with my old class.ʺ

  Typical of Dag that it didn’t occur to him that this might be awkward or embarrassing.

  ʺI can’t believe they’d do this to Hereyta. But they’re not going to change it. Some of the other cadets are pretty upset about it too. Fistagh says I should refuse to Fly.ʺ A grimace that had very little relationship to a smile passed briefly over Dag’s face. ʺI’ve thought of that—it’s about the only thing I have thought of—but not for Fistagh’s reasons.ʺ Fistagh was one of the fourth-years who thought a third-year jumper was a bad idea. ʺBut I’ve decided—I think I’ve decided—that refusing to Fly—to try to Fly—would be even worse for Hereyta.ʺ

  Some of why I didn’t get it at first is that I’d been around Sippy too much, and I’d unconsciously begun thinking of dragons as being a kind of very large foogit with less sense of humour and better posture. I’d maybe forgotten about the awe part. And the honour part.

  Hereyta was pretty old, although not all that old for a dragon, and mostly retired. She’d flown for the king in the last border wars and been pretty special. They used her at the Academy now for the practical stuff, when the cadets get out of the classrooms their second year and start working with the dragons, and she was a big success there. If Hereyta liked you it really meant something. He’d mentioned her before so I kind of half recognised her name. They’d also been breeding her but while she’d been bred this year she hadn’t settled. ʺI knew she was barren this year,ʺ said Dag, ʺand I’ve been worried about her because I’m afraid if she doesn’t settle next year too. . . .ʺ

  There are no romantics on a dragonrider academy staff. They can’t afford it. All the dragons used for training in all the academies are rotated back into the income-earning world every few years to make some money, usually including the breeding stock. Nobody could run an academy if they had to feed all their dragons all the time, and nobody but maybe the king could afford to send their kids to an academy if they had to pay total dragon upkeep as part of the tuition. And a young dragon doesn’t start earning its living till it’s twelve or fifteen years old—some of them don’t reach their full strength till they’re twenty. Hereyta was very special indeed to have been granted the luxury of even semi-retirement, although coping with a lot of cadets can’t be too restful.

  ʺBut why humiliate one of their best?ʺ Dag was so wrapped up in Hereyta he kept on leaving the crucial bit of the story out.

  ʺHumiliate,ʺ said Dad. ʺI don’t understand humiliate. You mean she’s too—too injured or arthritic to fly? That sounds . . . cruel.ʺ

  ʺIt is cruel,ʺ said Dag. ʺShe can still get off the ground, yes. She can fly under the blue sky, yes. She’s got one stiff wing—that’s another old war wound—but it still works. But no, she can’t Fly. She only has two eyes.ʺ

  Even so it took a moment for this to sink in. Most people don’t get close enough to any dragons to have to think about how they do what they do, and it’s pretty eerie besides. You don’t really want to think about how your expensive parcel or your more expensive visitor got here—what it or they might be trailing in from the journey. Dragons are too big and heavy to fly like birds fly for long; they do it to get going, and they do some pretty fancy blue-sky flying during courtship (and afterward they’ve burnt up so much energy they do nothing but ea
t and sleep for days) but mostly, as soon as they get a few spans up, poof, they aim their three eyes however it is that they do it and zap, they’re into the Firespace, or the red sky, or the secret way, or the Endless Fire, or the haven, or the centre of the world, or whatever you choose to call it. And anything they’re carrying—back on the ground in its net at the end of its special rope—disappears too. (With a jerk. Careful packing is crucial. Dag says you loop up any parcels while you’re in the Firespace, so they come out with you and the dragon. Otherwise they’d be liable to brain you coming down.)

  Most of the academies, and the companies that use dragons, don’t call that other place anything; it’s just how dragons get around—officially they don’t call it anything. But that’s because they don’t want us ordinary people getting too spooked. A lot of your taxes go to the dragon regiments in the army. I’ve wondered sometimes how the tradition got started that you want your first son to go to a dragonrider academy. It seems to me a really convenient counterbalance to the uncanniness of Flying. But some of the old magicians could have cast a spell that huge, so maybe one of them did.

  Anyway, when your dragon zaps back out of the Firespace again you’re a lot closer to where you wanted to be than when you went in—or that’s the idea. Depending on how good you are at communicating with your dragon you may be very close to where you want to be or you may not, and if you’re not you may have to go back into the Firespace and try again. Every now and again a dragonrider gets really awful vertigo in the Firespace and has to stop being a dragonrider. (Passengers are securely tied in on the dragon with its rider, and a lot of people only do it once, even the ones who can afford it.) Everybody gets some vertigo so aside from needing to be as fast and efficient as possible because that’s your job—and because dragons are staggeringly expensive to keep—you want to zap in and out of the Firespace as few times and for as short a stretch each as possible. Except for really short hops, when it’s about the same, it’s a lot quicker, going from point A to point B through the Firespace. Which is why it’s worth it, although time as we know it goes a bit funny in there too, which they think is part of the vertigo.