“Too right,” said Lucy.
A few weeks ago they had a real humdinger and I heard Lucy shout, “Have you forgotten who you are?” Maybe Liz has. I do think she’s guilty of neglecting Lucy’s heritage. I mean, look at us. We live in a house of flying dragons, with a cat that has an alien life form sharing its psyche. We’re the product of a time when dragons roamed the Earth and bears ruled the Arctic. We’re the kooks on the block. And all we seem to concern ourselves with is paying the bills and watching TV. Lucy has a lot to fight for, I think.
“And she’s going to,” said Lucy, bashing her fist down right beside the keyboard and making Gwendolen jump a few inches.
How? the dragon hurred, concerned to see Lucy’s eyes swimming with tears.
“We’ve got to do something,” she said. “I don’t care what Mom says or what Zanna thinks: David’s not dead. I think he’s lost. We have to find him. Arthur always says that the more people who believe something, the more likely it is to happen, right?”
Gwendolen nodded. She was expected to, she thought.
“Good. Then we ought to make sure that everybody knows who David is.” Lucy swung her chair and tapped the keyboard. Her e-mail inbox quickly appeared. On top of the list was the message she’d been dwelling on for several days, the inquiry from the journalist, Tam Farrell.
Thanks for the feedback on David Rain. Appreciate you taking time to reply, but you’ve told me nothing more than I can find on your Web site already. Feature needs a definite angle. Some history. Circumstances of his disappearance, perhaps? If you can’t supply, will look elsewhere.
“I can supply,” Lucy muttered grimly. And she wrote back a short, twice-edited reply:
u don’t kno what ur getting into
do this rgt, you get more info
do this wrg, you burn
The Healing Touch. Shop on Main St., Scrubbley
ask 4 suzanna
xhrrrpennyx
www.rainandfire.com
the official Web site of David Rain
“There,” she said defiantly, and clicked on SEND. “Time to wake the world up.”
4
SEA ICE, NORTHWEST OF NORDAUSTLANDET SVALBARD ARCHIPELAGO, UNRECORDED TIME
It was many years since Thoran had watched the winter die. But there was little else a bear could do in these months, except shelter, rest, and wait for the long night to reach its end. Four days ago it had. He had seen the sun returning like a distant bird, its solar wings reaching out far across the north, setting the sea ice alight for miles. Each morning thereafter he had watched it rise a little higher in the sky, tinting the horizon with its pale shades of orange. Warmth. Spring. The promise of life.
But it was not in a moment like this when they came.
The sky was still half-lit. Moody. Gray. A blizzard was stirring up in restless circles, halfheartedly sighing as it ripped through his fur. Those parts of his body given mortal senses — the ears, the eyes, even the black-tipped snout — were all beginning to fail him now, so he did not hear the bears or scent them or see, but rather knew, in the ways of the shaman, they were close. He was dying naturally, growing weak, yet his instincts warned him there was something out there, something worth clinging to these shreds of life for. Not for him the heart stopping on a long bed of ice, nor the frosted eye staring at an unchanging sky. He was Thoran, creature of legend. Something wonderful was coming. Something strange.
There were three of them, approaching from the permanent ice to the north. The two bears on the outside came slugging through first, flanking nothing but a cloud of swirling ice. One was a fighting bear, heavy, in his prime. The other was younger, slender, thoughtful. A Teller’s son if ever there was one. That singular expression of awe in his eyes had as much to do with history as it did with fear.
The visitors drew to a halt, blowing hard. They sat down, keeping a respectful distance. Thoran let out a moderate growl. He knew it was not their purpose to challenge him, but appearances and rituals had to be observed. The fighting bear offered up a cynical snort. The Teller looked sideways, into the mist. He shuddered as the third bear floated out of it.
Thoran’s weak heart pounded with relief. Astonishing. Him. Just as he had hoped. Only now the bear walked with magnificent grace, as if the ice were his servant and carrying his weight, not merely supporting it. The limp, long ago caused by a bullet of lead lodged deep in the shoulder, was gone, healed, an incidental nuisance. Confidence shone from the once-troubled eyes. Every hair of his thick pelt glistened with power. Even the snowstorm whipping around his ears was like a child, an ice cub, begging for attention. The ice was his plaything, his to command. Here was Ingavar, Lord of the Arctic.
“You have walked a long way, nanuk,” said Thoran, for on the last occasion these bears had met they had been on the other side of the world.
The fighting bear stiffened, visibly outraged by the informal greeting. But it was the Teller that Ingavar chose to glance at, as if to say, “Remember this. Remember how this bear addressed me as a cub, for in many ways that is what I am to him, his novice.”
Ingavar swung his head forward in an arc. “This is your homeland,” he said, looking west, though no trace of rock or glacier could be seen.
Thoran opened his claws, feeling the wind run between them. Cold. “Where else would an old bear come to die?” He spread his paws and pushed himself upright, wobbling slightly as he tried to stand. The curves at his sides fell inward, not out. The Teller gulped, his empathy obvious. The fighting bear stared ahead, hard and unmoved.
Ingavar said, “I need your help.”
The wind moaned and seemed to gather in Thoran’s chest. “The North has changed — and I am not the bear I was.”
“Nor I,” said Ingavar.
The Teller shuddered again.
“This is Avrel,” said his master, indicating the Teller. “Kailar to my right. They are here to witness a new beginning.”
Thoran put his head back and stared at the sky. It was shifting, making shapes from the cloud: narwhal, seal, walrus, fox. His forepaws clenched and grated the ice, audibly catching in the brittle surface. “Where have you been, nanuk?” he asked.
Avrel noted what he thought was a tremor of betrayal.
“Away,” said Ingavar with measured reassurance. And in every reflection of his deep brown eyes he knew that Thoran saw an image of a fire star.
“The north is dying,” the old bear said. There was a drumming in his ears, a song of the Arctic. Above him, the sky made pictures of The Men.
Ingavar raised his snout to the wind. “I have come to free you from the burden of caring for it.”
The sky darkened then and Avrel caught his breath. A light had appeared in the ice beneath Ingavar. It was at once both blue and colorlessly blue. He watched it spread into his master’s body, turning him from flesh and bone into … what? He looked across at Kailar as if to say, “Do you see this? A legend coming to life? The fire that melts no ice is upon us.”
But Kailar clearly had. He was edging back, head lowered, physically shaken. He checked around his paws. The ice there was sound.
Thoran tilted his head and stared into the radiating eyes again, looking for something that perhaps could not be seen. “When I was imprisoned in this mortal body, I heard the wind whisper that you had burned in the tears of Godith. Are you really the bear I knew?”
Ingavar padded slowly forward, creating footprints of fire in the snow. On his forehead there now appeared a telling mark, three lines the North knew as the mark of Oomara. He turned his head sideways, scissoring his jaws. White flames danced on his tongue as he spoke. One word was all he uttered. “Sometimes.”
“Then I am yours to command,” said Thoran.
And the icefire leapt from Ingavar’s mouth, into the jaws of his old companion.
Avrel, remembering all he had journeyed and all he had seen, now added the following to his stories to Tell: He saw how the body of the ice bear Thoran burst into flame, then bro
ke into a blizzard of snowflakes and sparks that set themselves into the wind and were gone. And he noted, keenly, how the heart of the blaze appeared to move out of the body of Thoran into the body of his master, Ingavar, and what change took place in Ingavar because of this. He saw the morning sun rise. He heard the ice moan. And he witnessed the brightest of auroras above. A spirit-dance. A passing. A changing of Ways. And when the lights had settled and all was darkness and spinning cold again, Ingavar, standing with his back to them, said, “Do you know of an island called the Tooth of Ragnar?”
The fighting bear, Kailar, was disabled by sickness, the last contents of his stomach in a pool by his feet. So Avrel answered for the two of them, saying, “Lord, the Tooth was destroyed by …” He dared not go on. Some tongues said that the island had been brought down by Ingavar himself.
Ingavar nodded. “In that vicinity, Kailar will find a raven, a bird frozen in a block of ice. He is to free its head and feet but not its body. When he has done this, he will have it walk to me.”
“And me, Lord?” said Avrel. “What am I to do?”
“You are the Teller of Ways,” said Ingavar. “You will walk with me.” And he turned and a legend was instantly recorded.
He was Ingavar. Ice bear. Bringer of fire.
Ruler of the North.
And his once brown eyes were blue.
5
THE HEALING TOUCH
People said it was a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of place. A narrow shop, barely three times the width of its doorway, sandwiched between a beauty salon and a larger shop selling computer supplies. Zanna had bought it on a sudden impulse shortly after graduating from Scrubbley College, when the royalties from David’s books had amounted to a sum that demanded she make them work for her. One night she had come home later than usual, sat down in the kitchen with Alexa on her knee, and said to Liz, “I want to run a shop.”
“Really?” Liz had turned to her, sounding thrilled.
Unlike Lucy, who had looked up from her homework and said, “Why?” in a cursory, offhand manner.
Zanna said, “It’s something that I’ve always wanted to do. I was passing that real estate agent’s, Burroughs, in town, saw an ad for it, went in, and got the sheet. It’s on Main Street. It’s perfect. I’d easily have enough money to put down a deposit.”
Liz patted her hand. “That’s a super idea. What do you plan to sell?”
“Anything ‘new agey.’ Crystals. Incense. Semiprecious stones. Gothic jewelry — I’d really love to make some. Books. Cards. Even some bags and clothing, perhaps.”
“A magic shop?” said Lucy, twisting her nose.
“I’d prefer ‘place of enchantment,’” said Zanna.
Lucy gave a hmph. “Well, at least it’s not your hippie veggie stuff.” She glared at the bag of nuts Zanna was snacking from. “How can anyone eat so many nuts?”
“Squiwels,” said Alexa. She kicked her feet and smiled upward at her mom.
“Hmm,” answered Zanna, giving her a hug. “They eat lots of nuts, don’t they? The shop is close to the library gardens. We might have squirrels lining up outside — if we decide to take it on, of course.”
This last remark was addressed toward Liz, but it was Arthur, feeling his way into the kitchen, who asked the question, “Why wouldn’t you?”
Zanna took a deep breath. She glanced at Lucy, who scowled and pretended she was focused on her homework. “I’d need help, looking after Lexie.”
“Are you a nutbeast, Mommy?” Alexa said.
Lucy paused, closed her eyes, then went on writing.
“Not a problem,” said Liz.
“I don’t like to put upon you. You’re all so good to me as it is.”
Liz cupped a hand around the back of Zanna’s head. “Sweetheart, it would be a joy,” she said.
“Do you have a name for the shop?” asked Arthur.
“Yes,” said Zanna, brightly. “The Healing Touch, because everything in the shop will have therapeutic potential. I’m going to take some courses as well. I’d like to offer people aromatherapy and reflexology — to start.”
“Feet?” said Lucy. “You want to touch feet?”
“Honey, don’t, you’ll fall over,” Zanna said to Alexa as she tried to lean forward to touch her own toes. “Reflexology isn’t always done on feet. It could be hands or ears.” (Lexie held her ears.)
“It’s still gross,” Lucy muttered.
“It is not,” said Liz. “You have my blessing, Zanna. I think it’s wonderful.”
“A great adventure,” Arthur added, smiling.
“Thank you,” said Zanna. “I appreciate that. Erm, there is one other thing I’d like to run by you.” She waited till she had Liz’s gaze again. “I want to sell tinctures, made from flowers.”
Liz glanced at Alexa, who was curling her hair in rings around her fingers. “You want to involve Gretel?”
They both glanced at Zanna’s special dragon, who was sitting on the table, casually jabbing an orange with a toothpick. Gretel was regarded (mostly by herself) as the most powerful dragon in the Pennykettle household. She had the ability to make potions from flowers, anything from a sleeping potion to a hay fever cure.
“She can’t,” protested Lucy. “She can’t use Gretel’s powers.”
“Hrrr!” said Alexa.
On top of the fridge, the listening dragon frowned and noted that the David child had literally said, “Hrrr.”
In a level but guarded tone Liz said, “She can — if it’s done for the right reasons, of course.”
“But she’s a —” Lucy bit her tongue, an act that only made Zanna glower.
“Go on, Lucy, say it. You know you want to. Witch? Sibyl? Spawn of Gwilanna? Mad, bad, dangerous to know?”
“Zanna,” said Arthur in a calming voice.
“All right,” Liz chimed in. “Everyone calm down. I do not like being a referee in my own kitchen.”
“But —?”
“Lucy, that’s enough.” Liz’s voice was definite. “Zanna, you know I can’t stop you from doing this, but please remember you have a great responsibility to use Gretel wisely and to keep us out of the public eye.”
“Is Gurlanna a dragon?” Alexa asked.
“And that’s just one reason why,” Liz said.
Zanna nodded and answered her daughter’s question. “No,” she said quietly, placing a protective kiss on her head. “Forget I said that. Mommy was annoyed.” She looked again at Liz. “I wouldn’t ever let you down.”
Liz filled a glass with water and raised it in a toast. “Then we wish you well. Here’s to success, and The Healing Touch….”
And that was how it started. In the months that followed, Zanna’s life had been a turmoil of phone calls, deliveries, and general moving in. Fortunately, there were barely any structural changes to be made. The previous owner had run the property as a small gift shop and had passed it on with all the fixtures in place. Pine shelving racks occupied the two long walls and a glass display counter faced the door. Behind it, curtained off by bamboo strips, were two utility areas that served as stock room, preparation room, and kitchen. The two rooms upstairs were bare and dusty, but over the next three years, as her turnover increased and her reputation for producing effective “lotions and potions” expanded, Zanna was able to decorate throughout and turn them into her consulting area, for clients requiring her unique brand of healing.
And so it came to be that one March morning, some five years after David Rain’s disappearance, the door chimes tinkled and a young man with short-cropped, salon-cut hair walked in. Zanna was sitting on her stool behind the counter, resetting a tray of earrings at the time. “Hi,” she said. “Feel free to browse.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling, but not at her. His voice had traces of a soft Scottish accent. He looked left and right, taking in most of the shop in one sweep. He pored over the card rack and dream catchers a moment, before a large block of amethyst caught his eye. He weighed it in his hand and pu
t it back. “Wasn’t she a maiden turned to stone by the goddess Diana — something to do with protecting her from tigers?”
“Sorry?” said Zanna.
“Amethyst,” he said. “In the Greek legend, Dionysus wept tears of wine and stained her purple. Something like that. She makes a beautiful crystal, don’t you think? Mind you, I have to confess that whenever I see stones cut and polished like this they always remind me of the middle of strawberries. Or those kiwi fruits, sliced in half.”
Zanna put the tray into the display case and locked it. “Let me guess: You’re the mystery customer from the Department of Crystallography, come to make sure I know what I’m selling?”
He laughed at that and looked at her directly. He wore wide rectangular glasses with frames as black as his hair and stubble. His eyes were quick and intelligent. Blue. “My name’s Tam. Tam Farrell. I hope you’re Suzanna?”
“Well, if I’m not, I’ll be arrested for fraud,” she said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Farrell?”
He swung to his left, eyeing a shelf of homeopathic medicines. “I hear you do wonderful things with herbs?”
In the back room, working on a potpourri mixture, Gretel pricked her ears and paused to listen.
The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal Page 2