by Karen Foxlee
She felt Hafwen clutch at her hand.
“What is it, Hafwen?” she asked.
“Listen,” said Hafwen.
Annabel could hear nothing.
You must not fear the dragon. You have the broomstick.
Hafwen clutched at her elbow. She dug her fingers into Annabel’s skin.
“What is it now, Hafwen?”
Hafwen’s eyes were wide. She looked at the ground, and Annabel followed her gaze. The pieces of wood they stood on were shaking. There was a tremor beneath their feet.
“It’s coming,” said Hafwen, and Annabel didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone, troll or human, more terrified.
“We must hide,” said Annabel, and she made for the boat they had arrived in.
“Not that one,” said Kitty. “It will look at that one first.”
They picked their way quickly through the remnants of boats along the shore until they found one that was no longer smoldering. It was well shielded by the wreckage of several other boats, a jumble of wood and smoke. The ground was shuddering now. Hafwen’s face crumpled, and she began to cry.
“Don’t fear, Hafwen,” said Annabel. “All will be well.”
She was surprised at how calm she sounded.
“Quickly,” she said, unfastening her cloak. She hurried Hafwen into the bottom of the small boat and lay down beside her. The broomstick shivered in her hand.
You must not fear the dragon. You have the broomstick.
She tried to think it in the shadow Miss Estella’s voice, but it still didn’t make any sense.
“Hurry, Kitty—lie down.”
Kitty moved sullenly beside Hafwen, and Annabel tossed her cloak over them. There was pushing and shoving beneath, and Hafwen cried out. Annabel patted her gently on what she thought might be her hand but was actually her nose.
“Stay very still now. Put your hands around my waist.”
She felt Kitty’s and Hafwen’s arms around her and more fighting.
“It’s no good—she’s too fat,” said Kitty.
“We should have left your good friend the skinny behind,” said Hafwen.
The ground rumbled beneath them; the boat trembled. Hafwen held Annabel tighter.
A deep, low growl came from within the tunnel, a growl that shook their very insides, a growl that rattled their teeth. They held each other as a hot wind rushed out of the opening, followed by the dragon.
The rumbling grew greater, and Annabel peeked from beneath the cloak. The West-Born Wyrm was coming from its lair. It was unraveling itself, twisting and turning and writhing. Oh, the smell of it! It slid out of the tunnel, shedding filthy scales. Oh, the size and darkness of it! It was as long as a train at Paddington Station and darker, far darker than the darkness itself. It had terrible black eyes.
Annabel felt Hafwen’s quivering, Kitty’s heartbeat, the broomstick’s shivering. She hoped the cloak covered them. The dragon oozed itself out of the tunnel. Its black wings unfolded slowly, almost mechanically, sounding brittle, like a thousand umbrellas being opened in unison. They opened and closed twice, three times, sending huge downdrafts of wind to press against the cloak. The wings fluttered then, frantically fast, until their sound filled the cavern.
The West-Born Wyrm was graceful. It hovered just above the rocks, coiling the great length of its body, its tiny legs tucked up against its monstrous belly. It moved toward the funeral boat that had carried Annabel, Kitty, and Hafwen across the Lake of Tears. It expected its dead-troll offering. It nudged the boat with its wet snout. It sniffed and buried its nose inside the thing, and when it realized there was no troll inside, it coiled its body whip-quick and, with its great black tail, smashed the boat to splinters.
You must not fear the dragon. You have the broomstick.
Hafwen broke wind. Kitty cursed her.
The dragon sniffed the air deeply, and the cloak rustled. It slipped its body over the rocks toward them. Annabel was aware of the smell of Hafwen beneath the cloak. Oniony, smoky, earthy Hafwen. The dragon was looking for the troll that belonged in the funeral boat, and it slid toward them, all black and oily. The broomstick shook violently beside her.
You must not fear the dragon. You have the broomstick.
The dragon came toward them, closer and closer. Its hot breath ruffled the cloak. It was almost upon them.
“Fiddlesticks!” cried Annabel.
Annabel leapt up from the bottom of the boat. She knew what had to be done. The broomstick shot forward in her hand, and she threw herself on it, and off they soared, straight past the dragon that snapped its terrible mouth, straight past its black eye, murderously gleaming.
The dragon recoiled. It opened its great dark mouth and hissed.
Inside its mouth there were teeth. Row after row of teeth strung with rotting flesh.
“Annabel!” cried Kitty.
“Stay down!” shouted Annabel.
She did not tell the broomstick to fly faster with words. She screamed it with her body, with every part of her being, with her toes and her fingers, with her set mouth, with the very tips of her hair. She leaned forward and shot up past the dragon into the air.
The dragon thrashed its body. It whipped its great tail so fast that it hurtled toward Hafwen and Kitty in the boat, and they threw themselves beneath the cloak again. Its black eyes were fixed on Annabel on her broomstick. It snapped open its wings and with one dreadful shriek launched itself into the air.
Annabel looked behind her and saw it coming. Its great mouth opened, and it let out a blast of orange fire. Down! her body told the broomstick, and she plummeted straight toward the dark water, the dragon on her heels. She skimmed along the surface, then exploded upward again just as the dragon let out another shriek and spewed fire at her.
Annabel rose and fell; she swerved and skidded. She could not tell in the darkness where the cavern ceiling was, yet she trusted the broomstick. Faster! she thought, and her hair blew out behind her, and she rose and fell like a stone being skipped across a pond. She flew far away from the shore where Kitty and Hafwen huddled. She flew far out over the deep, dark lake.
The dragon was fast. It surged forward, it gushed fire, it roared.
Annabel willed the broomstick on. Faster! she told it with her heart. Faster! We must throw this dragon into a wall. She curved and turned, and the thing followed and she did not think she could outwit it, so graceful was its flight. She felt the burn of its flames against her boots. She saw the hem of her dress begin to smoke. The West-Born Wyrm was nearly upon her.
Faster! thought Annabel. She urged her broomstick on. Her broomstick. Faster. Faster. Faster. She flew so fast that she could barely open her eyes against the roar of the wind. Faster. Faster. She let out a scream. One long, high-pitched scream, and the broomstick jolted forward in a great surge of speed, and the dragon, thinking it would lose her, surged after her, toward the cavern wall.
Annabel Grey flew toward the cavern wall without slowing. Annabel Grey, who had never once done a dangerous thing, not once, until she met this broomstick. She flew without slowing.
She shrieked another wild, unladylike shriek that would have made Miss Finch turn gray in an instant.
She was oblivious to the rocky shore. She did not notice the wreckage of boats or the spot fires burning. She did not see Kitty and Hafwen standing to watch her, their mouths open. She hurtled toward the wall without slowing, until it grew so huge, so close, that there was nothing but the great rocky face and she would slam into it within seconds. And then she flipped the broomstick upside down and turned with such swiftness that she felt she had left her stomach behind. She turned out over the lake, which was so wide and open in comparison that she smiled and remembered to breathe.
She heard the dragon hit the wall. She flinched at the sound of it. It hit the wall with such a crash that the whole cavern shook. The jumble of funeral boats collapsed, clattering and banging, and the water rose up in a huge wave and thumped itself against the shore.
“You really are very good, dear thing,” she said, and it skittered and swerved so playfully that it almost threw her from its back.
The West-Born Wyrm lay upon the rock before the entrance to its lair. It huge black body was not completely still. It twitched and lifted its giant head, shaking it slowly, eyes closed. It groaned and slumped again.
“We must hurry,” said Annabel, landing before Kitty and Hafwen. “Perhaps it will not sleep for long.”
Hafwen still had her mouth open. Kitty shook her head, and a brief smile of admiration passed across her face before she hid it away just as quickly.
They had to climb over the dragon’s tail to enter the tunnel. It was scaly and slimy and covered in pointed barbs. Annabel held the torch, which they lit from a smoldering funeral boat. Her broomstick was tucked back inside her sash on her back. She held out her hand to Hafwen, and Hafwen held out her hand to Kitty, who refused, of course. Sometimes the dragon convulsed suddenly and they clung to the spikes on its tail. It was treacherous business. They scrambled over the side of the dragon into the dark entrance, where Annabel held her flame high. Hafwen smiled her huge gray-toothed smile.
“Dragon slayer,” she said.
“Oh, not really,” said Annabel, but her cheeks flushed.
“She wouldn’t have needed to if you hadn’t been so stinky,” said Kitty, but Hafwen smiled as though it were a compliment.
The tunnel was a black hole. The worst hole. It was sticky and slimy and coated with scales. It filled Annabel with dread, but she also knew it was the only way to find the wand. If they found the wand, she could go home, and home was what she wanted. Yet it wasn’t the house of her Mayfair mother she thought of, but the little magic shop in Spitalfields and her two great-aunts and everything they might teach her.
The full moon rose slowly through the fog. Its first beams hit the great brass moon funnel, and the Dark-Magic Extracting Machine sang up one gear. The shadowlings slid themselves across the ceiling backward, away from it.
Their number had grown. All through the house they clung to the ceilings and to the staircase balustrades. They swayed and shivered against the walls. They filled up the darkened sitting rooms, whispering black thoughts into each other’s ears. They touched their faces to the windows and looked out upon the city with their empty eyes.
The moonlight hit the moon funnel, and the machine fed.
Its cogs and wheels turned. The light filtered down through its brass tubules. The moonlight combined in glass reservoirs with the dissolved remnants of sorrowful things. The black hats and mourning rings, the unfinished letters and the dead baby’s booties. It mixed with the pieces of stopped clocks and the poor girl’s boots and the strap used to whip poorhouse orphans. It filtered and combined. It breathed and sighed. Moonlight and air. Fabric and paper fragments. Onyx slivers and black glass glitters. The strange substance dripped into the spinning black heart, which turned faster and faster until it made dark magic.
The machine shuddered and bulged with the weight of it.
The needle in the dark-magic gauge inched closer to full.
“The swiftest and strongest,” said Mr. Angel to the shadowlings. He took Mr. Keating’s handkerchief from his pocket and held it high. “There are two girls, and if they succeed, they will come up again aboveground. It is the Grey girl I need. Seek her out. Bring her to me, unharmed, and I will feed her to the machine….Behold, the moon rises.”
“On arrival at her destination, a young lady should sit quietly and wait for her friend or host in a position that is readily visible. She should not explore the station, nor visit the refreshment rooms alone.”
—Miss Finch’s Little Blue Book (1855)
The passage was narrow, and they had to squeeze themselves through it. Annabel supposed it was the worst place she had ever been, but still she led the way. Her broomstick shivered on her back, and she touched it tenderly.
“Nearly, dear thing,” she whispered. “Soon you shall have sky.”
Annabel wished there were a more scenic way to the chamber of the Morever Wand—which was drawn very neatly upon her forehead, according to her two companions. They had peered at her forehead in a way she did not like. By the flame she had looked at her arm where the map had disappeared. The ladder to the secret river…the Singing Gate…the maze of Trollingdom—now all gone. The deep waters of the Lake of Tears had almost completely vanished, too, but she could still feel that place inside her. She could still feel all those places. She wondered if they would stay inside her forever.
The map written on her skin had changed her. She knew it.
“We have come such a way,” she said, trying hard to sound cheerful. She felt very tired but also quite brave.
Behind her she could hear Hafwen muttering to herself about a star. She was very fond of the troll and glad she hadn’t been eaten by the dragon. She turned to check on her friend and saw that Kitty had fallen behind. The wild girl was shivering, and her cheeks burned red.
“Dear Kitty, put my cloak on,” she said. “Are you taken ill?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” said Kitty. She refused the cloak.
“Well, we’ll be home in no time,” Annabel said as sunnily as she could.
It made her think of homes again. Hafwen’s home, which she had left behind and to which there was no returning, and Kitty’s home, which was nowhere at all. Her own home and, of course, her mother. It made her shake her head, but she kept walking. The passage stank. Something horrible stuck to her ruined boots with each step.
They squeezed themselves, slid themselves, lowered themselves onto hands and knees. The passage opened into small circular caverns littered with strange objects. There were bones and brooches and tattered banners. Troll clothes and pretty ladies’ shoes. Great tufts of hair in piles. They picked their way through the terrible clutter.
Annabel encouraged Hafwen, who grumbled behind her. She looked back at Kitty, who moved slower and slower. Kitty’s coughing echoed about them. The passage became more and more muddled with dragon treasure. Chairs and bassinets (oh, that made Annabel shiver), shields and horses’ saddles. Piles of bones and shredded clothes. They stepped over such things and Annabel recited to herself, very quietly, Be brave, be brave, be brave.
At last they entered a much larger cavern, filled with even more treasure. The place stank of the dragon, and everything was coated with its oil and scales. They slipped on the floor and held on to each other for balance. Annabel raised the torch, and they saw small mountains of coins and embroidered pillows, shields and swords, and the entire skeleton of a horse. They saw armor, ladies’ parasols, empty birdcages, clocks, and mirrors. A man’s coat, spectacles still neatly in one pocket.
Piles of clothes.
Piles of hair.
Piles of bones.
Kitty fell quite suddenly, her eyes closed.
“Kitty!” cried Annabel. “You are taken ill!”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Kitty said, but she moaned and struggled to sit up.
Annabel touched her friend’s burning skin. “Stay still,” she said. “Is this the last cavern before the chamber of the wand, Hafwen?”
Hafwen looked at the map on Annabel’s face. Her eyes followed the line of passageways and stopped. She counted on her fat, hairy fingers and puffed out her troll chest in her dirty yellow dress.
“This is the last cavern before the wand,” she said very solemnly.
Annabel looked about. There seemed no opening anywhere.
“Can you see the opening on the map?” she asked Hafwen.
Hafwen’s chest grew even bigger with the responsibility. She peered up at Annabel’s face with her sparkly troll eyes. She planted her finger squarely on Annabel’s forehead.
“It be right at the back, opposite the place we came in,” she said.
“Oh,” said Kitty, closing her eyes again. It was a terrible “Oh.” She looked tiny and fr
agile, the light quite gone out of her.
“Stay still, Kitty. Rest a little,” said Annabel, taking her hand.
Kitty coughed. Perhaps Aunty had broken something in her. Perhaps it was the wound from the bone wall.
Hafwen began to remove the clutter from the place where the opening should be. She was strong and fast. She did not complain. There was a chair and more shields, two women’s hats, tall and conical, quite ruined. There was a carriage wheel.
“I want to see the sky,” whispered Kitty.
“And you will see it,” said Annabel. “We’re nearly home. We’ll see the Miss Vines. They’ll be very pleased with us.”
Kitty smiled weakly.
“You could stay with us,” Annabel said. “Oh, I’m sure they’d let you. They’d teach us magic, and then one day my mother would come home.”
Kitty shook her head and sat up further. “Do you never stop talking?” she said, and coughed again, wincing as she held her chest.
Hafwen removed bones. Troll bones. Troll pots. Troll pans. She removed a troll washing line, still pegged with troll underwear. She found the hole. It was a small hole. She looked inside.
“I see it!” she cried.
“Good girl, Hafwen. Now you must help me lift Kitty,” said Annabel.
“Leave off,” said Kitty, standing up and swaying, refusing their help.
They heard a noise. A terrible noise. It was a roar loud enough to rattle the armor on the floor. The coins slid from their piles.
“Quickly—to the hole!” cried Annabel, and together they helped Kitty to the place.
The opening was at waist height, and Annabel and Hafwen lifted Kitty and squeezed her through the hole. They heard her slide, then tumble through into the adjacent chamber.
“Ouch!” she said as she hit the stone floor.