Highfire

by Eoin Colfer

  Hooke could not be completely sure where Squib had been for that hour and a half the previous night, but his best guess put the boy somewhere near Honey Island, where all the shit he was concerned with had gone down.

  Where I lost the Elodie and all my gear, Hooke thought, taking a minute to mourn his cruiser and all the wonderful ordnance that had gone down with her.

  Hooke took his sweet time motoring downriver, waving at passing pleasure craft and shrimp boats, the brim of his fishing cap pulled low over his eyes, trying to make himself look ordinary.

  I ain’t here, he broadcast to the universe, and the universe seemed okay with that, because once he cleared the Petit Bateau southern meander, traffic thinned out, and soon Hooke found himself alone on the river so far as humans were concerned.

  It was tough for a guy not to enjoy himself out there on the Pearl. Fish were swimming so thick they butted the keel on occasion, and the weather was that rarest of Louisiana sorts where the sun was penned behind a stubborn haze and the humidity was having a little mercy on the folks below and easing up for once. Hooke found that he could mouth-breathe deep as he liked without the usual lung constriction.

  So it was tough for a guy not to enjoy himself, but Hooke persevered.

  Again it occurred to him that maybe a man could be happy, but the notion didn’t hold much weight.

  Happy? What’s the damned point in that?

  His poppa had never been happy, no matter how high he’d clambered on Jacob’s ladder.

  In his youth, Hooke believed that he himself experienced happiness as an emotion per se whenever he put an enemy down, but now he reckoned that was more of a triumphant rage, an I’m still here, motherfucker kind of thing.

  Close enough, thought Hooke. And I’ll still be here long after that bug Squib Moreau is crushed.

  So he lit a cigar to chase the mosquitoes away and settled back into his usual grim funk.

  SQUIB MOTORED ALONG the same stretch of river some hours later, his pirogue evenly weighed down with the day’s groceries, which included:

  A new card for Vern’s satellite box so the dragon could watch the pay-per-view fights.

  One carton of Krispy Kremes, which were definitely not ketogenic.

  And:

  A gallon of fungus ointment, which Vern did not want to discuss.

  Squib WhatsApp’d Vern to let him know he was on the way and then relaxed on the wooden slat seat he had built into his craft, having a little fun with the throttle, weaving in and out of a cypress and tupelo wetland slalom course.

  Ain’t life awful curious? he thought. One minute there’s a dragon on my ass with murder on his mind, and the next thing I know I’m on the payroll.

  Squib was squarely in the sweet zone age-wise when it came to accepting such a frankly astonishing turn of events, information which would surely have driven most adult types to distraction. Not only had dragons ruled the world, but there was one left and he, Everett “Squib” Moreau the Third, worked for him.

  Actually, there weren’t no Everett Moreaus the First or Second, but it sounded cool, so Squib sometimes tacked it on in his mind. He’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Charles Jr. one time, and for maybe a month his friend had referred to him as Everett Squib Moreau the Turd, which wore thin real quick.

  Squib popped in his earbuds while he steered. No doubt Vern would make him listen to that ancient jazz stuff he liked, which sounded almost as old as the dragon himself, so he stuck on some Green Day, who were favored by his number one boss, Bodi Irwin, and Squib did have to admit that those boys knew how to shred a guitar.

  Ten minutes later Squib skirted Honey Island and nudged up into Vern’s switchback just as the sun tucked itself into the treetops. If a guy didn’t know the old dock was there, then he would never find it behind its curtain of moss and bamboo and a slop of lily pads on the water looking like they hadn’t been disturbed in a thousand years. But Squib had memorized a bunch of markers for himself, and he knew by the five fingers of cypress root poking through the scum and the brown horizontal slashes on a water oak trunk that he was where he needed to be, and so gave his engine one last rev before cutting the power altogether and drifting the last ten feet, steering with the dead prop.

  Squib considered today’s questions for Vern as he unloaded the pirogue:

  Have you ever fought a bigfoot?

  Did you ever meet Dracula?

  And the big one:

  What’s that trick you do with your dragon junk, making it disappear like that?

  On further reflection, Squib figured he might lead off with the dragon-junk question, as Vern often ran out of tolerance for interrogations real quick. Or maybe he’d soften Vern up with the bigfoot softball and put the junk question second.

  Once settled on this course of action, he decided that he should maybe take a sniff of the fungal ointment, see if he couldn’t get a handle on where Vern might be intending to slather it, seeing as the dragon probably didn’t suffer from no human-type ailments.

  Lotta crevices, though, thought the boy. And he does live in a swamp.

  Squib had the top half screwed off the ointment container when he heard a snuffling, which cut through the fading final chord of “Basket Case” in his earbuds. He looked up guiltily, reckoning that maybe Vern had caught him red-handed interfering with his medicine.

  But it wasn’t Vern. It was a red-eyed boar the size of a small cow. The bristles quivered on its back.

  “Easy, boy,” said Squib like he was talking to a dog. “Easy now.”

  Unfortunately, the boar didn’t speak canine and charged like it’d been shot out of a cannon.

  Fuck, thought Squib. Spared by a dragon and done in by a boar. This is some bullshit.

  VERN WAS IN his favorite subaqua cradle while all these boar-centric shenanigans were about to unfold on his dock. The cradle was a natural hammock of tangleweed and soft shale which had bedded itself into a mud bank. Not only was it slowing down the erosion process, but the little niche provided a nice heat trap for a fella who might like to eke the last red rays outta the Louisiana sun, and there was a tiny icicle of salt water that somehow snaked up this far, which kept a dragon cool, and so Vern was reluctant to climb out even though the kid was already on the dock. He could see this because he had elevated the top end of his cradle with a turtle-shell pillow which fit neatly into the crook of his neck, so he could open his nostrils when he needed a breath and see pretty clear through the few inches of water.

  There be Squib, he thought, sucking out a heelsplitter mussel. I wonder did he get that ointment?

  Vern cleaned out the mussel, then crunched on the shell, which had the double advantage of scraping his teeth and toughening the gums: his version of a visit to the dental hygienist.

  Ten more minutes, thought Vern. Then I’ll go over there and educate the boy about jazz.

  Ten more minutes, just enough time for one more breath.

  Vern opened his nostrils and breathed in. A scent crept in with the air: a familiar scent, if a mite stronger than usual.

  Boar, thought Vern.

  But not just any boar. This particular guy was the pig master on Boar Island, and he would have been top dog entirely had it not been for Vern. The boar had made a couple of snuffling forays over Vern’s border, and Vern had sent him scurrying off with a shot of flame to his hindquarters the last time he came around, burning his hide good.

  It was stupid toying with the boar, really, because wild animals as a rule didn’t tend to learn their lessons. Hell, not even the gators had learned to stay clear of his patch, and he’d been throwing them around for years/decades.

  I should have barbecued that fella because now he’s making a move on my boy Squib.

  When he raised his head, he spotted the animal, and even from this distance Vern could read the boar’s body language. The big pig was quivering like he was plugged into an outlet.

  If that boar’s head goes down, thought Vern, then the fat lady has sung.
>
  The boar’s head went down.

  Goddamn, thought Vern, and made his move.

  VERN MANAGED TO flap his wings underwater just once, which is a bastard of a maneuver to accomplish considering the resistance, but it was enough to lift him clear of the surface, sending water sluicing through the grooves in his plates, which had evolved for exactly that purpose. Once airborne, he threw his hindquarters backwards, which jerked his head upright, and from that position, maybe six feet out of the water and from a range of fifty yards, he squinted for clarity, hawked, and spat a single blob of dragon flame, which was reflected in the Pearl as it covered the distance between dragon and boar in less than a second, catching the boar in midleap and pinning him to the trunk of a water oak, where the poor animal crapped himself and squealed like the hog he was until the dragon flame burned through to his heart and shut him up for good.

  By the balls of Blue Ben, thought Vern, which had been quite the saying back in the day. It’s a pity Squib had his back turned to that move.

  Because, goddamn, it must have looked awesome.

  HOOKE WOULD CERTAINLY not dispute that the display was awesome in the true sense of the word—not awesome like good pizza or doing some sort of flip with a skateboard on YouTube. But awesome as in very close to incredible.

  He’d scouted the area and decided to set himself up in a horseshoe wetland that would most probably be an oxbow in five years and an island in twenty. There was the usual huddle of ancient trees on the central hump clustered together, fighting for root space, and every spare inch of mud was populated by bamboo. Hooke was able to wade ashore and wedge his skiff between two trunks under a quilt of moss until it was invisible to the untrained eye and damn near invisible to the trained eye.

  Hooke admired his work and was satisfied. “Hey, Pop,” said Hooke to the heavens, “I am gazing upon my work, and damn, it is good.”

  Which made him smile.

  He went a little craft-crazy then, hacking out a nice hide for himself maybe eight feet up where two cypress trunks were twisted like lovers. He enjoyed that kind of work; it cleared out his head for a while. When a fella was swinging through hardwood with a short-handled field axe, there weren’t space for nothing but the blade and the timber, unless that fella didn’t mind sacrificing a finger or two.

  The job took longer than it should have because Hooke was forced to suspend his labors whenever a boat came around the bend.

  Shrimp boats. Pleasure cruisers. Swamp skiffs. Pirogues. Hooke had never realized there was so much traffic on the river. But at least the breaks meant he kept himself hydrated, which was important at his age.

  Hell, Regence, he thought, you’re sneaking up on fifty, boy. Who’d’ve thought you’d last this long?

  Nobody, most especially not Regence himself.

  Shit, the grim reaper must have had me in his sights a dozen times or more.

  Eventually, once Hooke had the hide set up to his satisfaction, he climbed on in there and wiggled himself comfortable, with the camouflage veil draped over his head and shoulders.

  Okay, Regence, he thought, nothing for it now but to wait.

  And wait he did, for several hours, staring through the sights mounted on his old Browning rifle, watching with some satisfaction as Squib came downriver in his dinky canoe, doing some dipshit maneuvers in the tree line. It was light enough that Hooke didn’t bother changing over to Starlight.

  He watched the kid tie up at a concealed dock and begin unloading his cargo. Then a boar showed up and Hooke thought, Shit, maybe nature’s gonna solve my problem.

  But nature never got the chance because the boar’s ticket got punched in a most unlikely way.

  HOOKE HAD BEEN on stakeout for hours at this point and had transitioned into that sniper fugue that made the world seem somehow illusory. Veteran shooters often spoke of how pulling the trigger on a target didn’t seem real after hours spent looking through a scope.

  Which was why, when a large creature erupted from the water maybe fifty feet downriver, Hooke didn’t fall out of the tree with shock. His first thought was, You murdered your daddy in a church during a hurricane. It was only a matter of time before you started seeing demons.

  But he quickly realized this wasn’t no hallucination. That thing was real as the water it came out of and the sky it flew into.

  Goddamn Honey Island monster, thought Hooke. It exists.

  He kept stock-still, as he had no idea as to the potential of this creature, but he guessed that a winged bear-sized animal with tusks like a walrus could probably inflict a lot of damage.

  He ain’t pointed my way, he thought. Let’s just see how this goes.

  He imagined that it would go something along the lines of:

  Boar craps itself.

  Boar runs away.

  Monster eats boy.

  But he was wrong on two out of three of those points.

  The boar did indeed crap itself—but only after the monster nailed it with a ball of flame which it shot out of its mouth, looked like.

  A ball of honest-to-God, I-shit-thee-not flame. Dragon-style.

  Nice, thought Hooke; then, Is that what I’m dealing with here? A dragon?

  A part of him was pleased that he was continuing his keeping-it-together-while-shit-went-crazy streak going.

  I am not bothered by extremes.

  Not extreme religious fanatics of any kind.

  Nor, now, by extreme animals.

  Though Hooke did notice his hand was shaking slightly.

  Hell, most guys would have vibrated right out of this tree, thought Hooke. A shaking hand just means I ain’t stupid.

  The surreal sequence of events went right on unfolding, oblivious to Hooke’s bearing witness. The dragon, if that’s what it was, glided across to the hidden landing, and not only did it not attack Squib, but it seemed to know him.

  It looked like they were . . .

  Could those two assholes be . . . ?

  Actually conversing? In actual language?

  The light was fading now, so Hooke hurriedly reached into his pack for his monocular and switched on the night vision.

  And there they were, plain as green day: kid and dragon, chewing the fat.

  This is unexpected, thought Hooke, sharpening his focus and thinking absently that he must trade this monocular in for a newer model with autofocus.

  But old gadget or not, it was working well enough for Hooke to see the dragon dismember the boar with a few casual slashes of its claws and then chew on a charred leg right out there in the open.

  That motherfucker is dangerous, thought Hooke, and then: More than dangerous, he’s like the wrath of God.

  The wrath of God: exactly what Hooke had been searching for.

  “Thank you, universe,” said Hooke under his breath, and made a mental list of what he needed to do:

  Take more time off.

  Step up the surveillance to include audio and video.

  Get hold of some heavy-caliber weapons.

  Chapter 12

  SQUIB WAS PRETTY SHAKEN UP AFTER THE BOAR EPISODE. HE reckoned that Vern should quit riling up the wildlife.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t oughta go around antagonizing vicious predators?” Squib had argued. “First the gators, now the boars.”

  Vern had an answer for that, too. “Yeah, says the goddamn human. Don’t talk to me about vicious predators. How many species have you humans wiped out? Including my own, almost.”

  Which was a fair point, so Squib calmed himself down and had himself a slice of charred boar haunch, which he had to admit was delicious, especially as Vern allowed him a beer to go with it.

  “Don’t tell your momma,” Vern warned him. “We don’t want Elodie taking against your employer.”

  “Don’t worry, boss,” said Squib in between mouthfuls. “I reckon keeping secrets is second nature.”

  “Good to know,” Vern said, rooting out some freezer bags and starting in on butchering the hog with his claws. “It certain
ly is a requirement of the job.”

  After maybe ten minutes he said, “Shit, this old boy is cooked through. I can’t save none of this meat. You wanna take some home to your momma?”

  “I sure do,” said Squib. “We don’t get this quality of free-range stuff too often. I’ll tell her Mister Waxman sent it as a gift.”

  If Squib had to name his favorite thing in the world, if he was straight about it and let his heart show, he would have to say his favorite thing was the look on his momma’s face when he did something good, right out of the blue. The way her face lit up like a lamp. The way her smile seemed like she’d had clean forgotten about the rest of the world and all the troubles it held. Squib knew pulling into the jetty with this meat would earn him one of those smiles.

  Vern heated up one talon and expertly carved a dozen steaks. “These’ll be good for a couple of days. Have someone over.”

  “I know who’d like to come over,” said Squib, his mood souring. “That murdering asshole Constable Hooke.”

  And then the enormity of what had almost happened hit Squib like a punch in the gut and he puked all over his own shoes.

  Vern patted his back. “Yup,” he said, “there it is. Sometimes the shock gets too much. I was wondering when you’d reach your limit.”

  Chapter 13

  SQUIB HAD ANOTHER SHOCK WAITING FOR HIM WHEN HE LUGGED the cooler of meat in the back door at three A.M. Hooke was waiting in the Moreau shack, relaxing in the armchair like he owned the place. This turn of events set Squib’s heart beating so hard that it felt like his entire body must be blushing.

  “What you got there, Squib?” asked the constable, sitting forward like he actually gave a crap.

  “Boar steaks,” said Squib, happy to have an easy question to answer because he certainly wasn’t up to a complex debate. “Mister Waxman’s been hunting.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Hooke. “I hope that old coot’s got a license. Otherwise I might have to pay a house call.”

  Squib humped the bag to the refrigerator and began loading up.