Avrel swaggered forward in a cloud of breath, pools of water running off his flip-flopping paws.
The animal’s dark eyes screwed into his. “Aren’t you at least going to ask?” it said.
Avrel came to a snorting halt. Most prey, if it spoke, limited its output to squeals of alarm. To be asked a question was …
“Exactly,” the animal said, as though it could read his puzzled mind.
And puzzled he was. The instinct to hunt had overtaken his natural inquisitiveness, but now, stopped in his tracks by this dialogue, the questions were there: What was this creature? Why was it here? Why hadn’t he seen its kind before? “Are you a … fox?” he grunted, though he did not understand where the reference had come from.
“Sometimes,” it said, which puzzled him even more. Annoyed, he cut short all other questions in favor of: What do you taste like, I wonder?
He padded forward again. Unalarmed, the “fox” trotted off behind a crest of snow. Avrel mooched on, in no particular hurry. The floe was detached from the rest of the field. Unless this creature could fly like a bird or outswim a seal it was only a matter of wearing it down. It was quick, no doubt. Silent, too, on its furry little feet. But how long could it hold out against a bear? It might as well offer itself up and be done with.
“Only a bear with a head full of stories would know what I was,” its voice said suddenly.
Avrel swung to his left. The “fox” was sitting on a plinth of snow, staring down at him as if it owned the whole white world.
“What are you?” Avrel grunted.
“What are you?” it said with a tilt of its head. “How did you know to call me fox when fox are never found in these waters, bear?”
Avrel blinked and thought about this. His mother must have taught him, but he couldn’t recall it. A guess, perhaps? But how could he guess at what he didn’t know existed? And yet when he nuzzled down deep into his thoughts, he could picture these creatures in strange locations, stealing food, running with young, their bluish fur turning white in winter. They were there, in his memories. Arctic fox. As clear as this one in front of him now.
“Tell me a story, Avrel,” it said.
What? He looked up. The plinth was empty. Nothing to the left or right of it either. Avrel moved forward, purpose in his step, his chest heaving in time to his heart. Was he dreaming? How did this thing know his name? He lunged forward at the crest, certain that the fox would be cowering behind it. It wasn’t. It was ahead again, riding another floe.
“Tell me a story,” it said across the water. “Tell me of Ragnar, Lorel, and Aluna.”
Avrel shook his head wildly. Suddenly, pictures were pouring through his mind. It was as if he’d been buried for years in a den and now someone had punched a bright hole in the roof. He saw bears. Great bears, in battle with men. In conflict with one another. On nine great pillars. Memories, running the aurora of time. All the way back to the dawn of the ice. Generations. History. Adventure.
Stories.
He looked up again. The fox was trotting across the ice, north. This was impossible, he told himself. How had it crossed the gap so fast when there was ten bears’ length of water between them? “Wait!” he cried.
“This way,” the fox replied. Its voice was lower now. Deeper. Rounded.
Avrel took to the water again. He swam for the floe, but it seemed such a long, long time in coming. When he eventually saw the white edge, the sky had darkened and he knew in his heart he was a long way from home. It occurred to him then he might have been dying, on a dream journey heading for the far side of the ice.
In truth, he was about to come alive, to awaken.
Just ahead, he could see the feet of his quarry. But they were no longer stick feet, nimble and clean. They were rugged, fur-straggled, heavy of claw. He looked up then, into the eyes of eternal wonder. The bear he would come to call Nanukapik, Ingavar, was gazing down at him. “Tell me a story, Avrel,” he said, and he carried all the souls of the North in his voice.
Avrel knew without knowing that the real story began here. He dragged himself tiredly out of the water, shook himself down, and gathered his thoughts.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Everywhere and nowhere,” Ingavar said.
Avrel tested the ice. It was sound. “My head …?” he began. “These memories … are they mine?”
“For now,” said Ingavar, looking at the sky.
“Are you a spirit bear? What do want with me?” Avrel could feel himself trembling now.
“Walk with me,” said Ingavar, and the fur on his head seemed to separate into three until a mark was burning in white fire there. “You are Avrel, son of Lorel. My chosen Teller. Walk with me, nanuk. Watch, learn, remember …”
… And now here they were, many, many months later, under a gray sky that seemed to walk with them. “Lord, look at the clouds,” said Avrel.
“They are not clouds,” said Ingavar, continuing.
Avrel peered at them again. Where he usually saw twisting vapor, he could now see a flock of spirit people, walking. They were dressed in the furs of the Inuit natives. Some carried harpoons, others drums. Some drove long sleds, pulled by dogs. Avrel rose up, reaching out a paw. “Who are they?” he asked. Everything his claws raked turned to fog.
“The dead,” said Ingavar, “mourning their home.”
“Why are they with us?”
“They are always with us,” Ingavar said. “You will see them when we need them, and we need them now.”
He came to a halt. A drumbeat sounded, echoed by another and another and another, till the sky shook with a thunderous hum. The cloud people formed a gigantic circle. From their throats, they chanted ai-ee-yah! ai-ee-yah! stirring the wind into flurries and moans. They clapped and danced and sang to the ice, beckoning a great spirit into their ring.
Avrel felt a rumbling vibration in his feet. The ocean was angry. Something was surging up from below. “Lord!” he cried urgently. “Lord, we must run!”
But Ingavar threw back his head and howled, a sound no bear should be capable of making. In the sky, every sled dog joined his call. Avrel, nearly deafened, flattened his ears and saw the ice break with a rolling crack. A great spout of water gushed into the sky and came crashing back in clinging waves, over his paws. Then from the crack came the body of a woman with the tail of a fish. She crawled out, looking around, hissing threats. Her upper half was dressed in the furs of the natives. Her hair was long and matted with algae, her face crusted and twisted by shells, her eyes yellow with the rot of death. On one hand, all her fingers were missing. On the other, all that remained was a thumb.
The spirit people sighed. The drumbeats softened. The dogs ceased to howl. Ingavar also. “Do you recognize this creature?” he asked his Teller.
Avrel nodded in fear. He had seen what he had seen, and here it was to Tell: the story of the day he had walked with the souls of countless men, and seen the blue-eyed Nanukapik, Ingavar, call the sea goddess, Sedna, up from the deep.
8
A MEETING OF MINDS
The Pennykettle house was full of many strange and special dragons: the inspirational Gadzooks; the healer, Gollygosh; the wish-maker, G’reth; the mysterious shape-shifting (even to the point of invisibility) Groyne; the feisty potions dragon, Gretel. But the dragon known as Gwillan was not considered “important.” He was special in the sense that he could fly like the others and speak in dragontongue like the others and turn his oval-shaped eyes from green to violet (stasis to life) just like the others, but he had no magical abilities to hurr of. His had always been a life of service and simplicity.
Until the morning he spotted Gwendolen acting strangely.
His duty was to snuffle — or to put it another way, to clean. He was excellent at it. Truly committed. There was barely a speck of dust in the house (including on the scales of his fellow dragons). No crumbs on carpets. No dried autumn leaves just inside the hall door. No falls of ash down the open chimney. All of th
em snuffled up and burned to cinders. (Cinders, of course, were puffled away later, usually around the roots of the yellow rosebush which grew near to the garden rockery.)
He was hardworking, uncomplaining, and incredibly efficient. As well as keeping dust bunnies in order, he was able to turn his paws to many other domestic chores, such as hanging out the wash, feeding Bonnington, or chopping up vegetables with his tail. Any small task that might help Liz run the house more smoothly. Putting stray socks into the laundry basket, for instance. Fetching the mail. Tugging Lucy’s wild red hairs out of the drain. Anything. Gwillan loved his work — especially watering the plants.
He had seen a lot of things during indoor gardening, but he had never witnessed anything as frightening or bizarre as the intense beam of light that poured out of Gwendolen’s eyes that day, the day she sneaked into Zanna’s room. Gwillan almost dropped his watering can (a tiny replica of the big ones used by Liz). His first instinct was to hide, but he was already hidden in the overhanging leaves of a flourishing coleus. Through the greenery, he saw papers being picked up and turned. And when the light went away, he saw it disappear into Gwendolen’s eyes.
Gwendolen. She was Lucy’s dragon, who, like him, never had adventures or ever got involved. Why would she be here, on Zanna’s desk?
For several days he lived with this knowledge, though he wished that he could puffle it into smoke. He carried it around, but it rattled his scales. If he tried to ignore it, it nagged him like the grime in an awkward place to clean. People noticed he was out of sorts. A potato peeling was found on the floor of the kitchen. Arthur’s slippers were arranged the wrong way around. Bonnington got a bowl of packing peanuts for dinner.
Bad. Questions began to be asked.
Eventually, Gwillan himself, realizing that his standards were slipping, made up his mind to tell someone what he’d seen. That someone was Gollygosh, the healing dragon.
Golly was a kindred spirit. He and Gwillan were an unofficial team. While Gwillan ran errands, Golly fixed things — like fuses in plugs, or blown lightbulbs, or the TV reception, or Bonnington’s cat bell. He was making the ink flow in Liz’s favorite pen (by hurring gently on the barrel) when Gwillan came up and asked for advice.
Golly thought about it and said perhaps they should mention this to Gretel?
Gwillan gulped. He didn’t like to tangle with the potions dragon who was, after all, the fiercest thing in the house.
So, together, they approached G’reth. The wishing dragon had traveled the universe and boldly gone where no dragon had gone before. Surely he would be brave enough?
No.
The three of them spoke to Gadzooks, perhaps the most respected dragon in the house. He was curious, but also worried. He identified the papers as a letter. Every year he watched Zanna writing one, he said. And every year, including this, he watched Gretel burn it (under Zanna’s instruction). He suggested Gwendolen might have read it in some way. But why?
They checked with Groyne, who could offer nothing more. So then the five of them called in Gruffen, who was recently returned from the shop. This was a security matter, they decided. Who better to deal with it than a guard dragon?
Gruffen did as he always did. Long ago, when he’d been made by Liz, he had been given a book of instructions, a manual of “what to do in difficult times.” He consulted it now, under S for Security. He found just six words: If in doubt, tell the Liz.
Every dragon sighed. They knew this instruction was wise and correct, but if Gretel was left out …
It was no good. She had to be told.
They approached her in Zanna’s room. She was practicing a form of acupuncture on Bonnington, using pine needles she’d collected from the Christmas tree some weeks before. The needles were sticking out all over his head. He looked like a tabby cat version of a porcupine.
A-hurr, said Gruffen. There was no correct way to approach a dragon of Gretel’s status. One just went for it and hoped she wouldn’t scorch.
What? she said.
A-hurr, he coughed again.
She twiddled a pine needle and pointed it at the guard dragon’s chest.
He continued with his report.
As predicted, Gretel was immediately suspicious. Bring Gwendolen to me, she said.
Gwillan flew upstairs and brought her down.
Outnumbered and surrounded, Gwendolen told them what she knew. (It was either that or be zapped by Gretel’s magicks.) She didn’t think the Lucy meant harm, she said.
What was in it? hurred Gretel, meaning the letter.
Gwendolen hunched up and flicked her tail. Words, to the David.
Gadzooks gulped and stared longingly at the notepad he carried. The corners of the pages were beginning to curl and the paper itself was yellowing with age. Every now and then he tore a blank page off, in the way he’d seen Liz remove dead leaves from plants. It hurt him to talk about messages to David when none came through to him anymore.
She didn’t finish reading it, Gwendolen said, but …
But. The biggest word in the universe. Every single dragon lifted his or her ears.
Gretel waved a solitary flower, a warning to Gwendolen that she had better speak up or feel the effect of a truth scent in her nostrils.
She sent a message, what she calls an e-mail, to … Gwendolen gave the address.
Every dragon held its breath. Inklings of doubt and distrust were gathering in Gretel’s intelligent eyes. Tam Farrell. She remembered him clearly. At the time, when he’d walked through the door of the shop, she had paid very little attention to him. Why should she? Hundreds of people came to the shop and many of them spoke at length to her mistress. But none of them left any kind of impression. He was different. They’d been talking about Tam at home for two days. Something about this wasn’t right.
Are we going to tell your mistress? G’reth asked quietly, hearing Zanna’s voice outside in the hall.
No, said Gretel, growling at them all, suggesting there’d be trouble if any of them did. We —
She’s coming in, said Golly, twizzling his ears.
Scatter, hurred Gretel, and in a flash each dragon found a separate location as Zanna swept in, with Liz close behind, saying, “It’s probably with my stuff. Yep, here you go.” She lifted a Benson’s bag from the floor.
“Mommy, Mommy! G’lant wants to see!” Alexa scooted in, bouncing with excitement. She held the cup of her hands up close to the shopping bag.
Zanna hoisted it higher. “G’lant will have to wait until we go into the garden.”
“All right!” Alexa dashed outside.
“G’lant?” asked Liz.
Zanna gave a rueful nod. “I told her about him on the anniversary. Not sure it was a wise idea. She’s been talking about it ever since.” She glanced tight-lipped at Gadzooks. The writing dragon had turned to face the window.
“Well, I wasn’t supposed to blab about the fairy door till we’d installed it, but I did,” said Liz. “Maybe it was simply time that she knew. Come on.” And resting a hand in the middle of Zanna’s back, she guided her out of the room.
As soon as they were gone, the dragons that were not already on the windowsill flew there to watch what was happening outside. Gretel immediately said to Gadzooks, Tell us about G’lant. It was a dragon name. A good one, ringing with authority.
Gadzooks made a whimpering sound in his throat.
It was the last thing he wrote on his pad, said G’reth.
I know that, said Gretel, scowling at him. The David child speaks as if she can see him.
G’reth shook his head. I think she just wishes it.
A sudden jingle of wind chimes made them look out at the garden again. Liz was hanging up the set she’d bought, dangling them off a bracket she’d previously used for a flower basket. Though her voice was muffled Gretel heard her say, “There. When you hear them chime, the fairies will be in the garden.”
Fairies? someone hurred.
Gadzooks said, Mythical creatures, I
think.
Gretel watched Alexa clap her hands, then shifted her gaze a little wider to Lucy. The girl had gone outside, but clearly under duress. She was hovering, arms folded, looking cold and bored. Suddenly, she looked up and saw the dragons watching. There was the usual grin of recognition, but when she saw Gwendolen among the others, her eyes narrowed slightly. She was wondering why.
Gretel gave Gwendolen a jab with her tail. Are you with us? she hurred, from the corner of her mouth.
Gwendolen nodded. It was a difficult choice, but dragon was dragon.
Then wave, said Gretel.
Gwendolen waved a paw. All the dragons did. The flurry made Lucy smile.
We need to know more about the Tam, said Gretel.
An outsider? said G’reth. How will we do that?
Gretel produced a big broad smile, one that brought her nostrils together in a sideways figure eight. He bought a dragon, she said.
The others gulped uneasily, wondering what was coming.
Who can make themselves into a Gudrun? she asked.
9
SEA ICE, NEAR TO THE LAST KNOWN LOCATION OF THE ISLAND ONCE CALLED THE TOOTH OF RAGNAR
As missions went, it seemed impossible. Walk to this region and find a raven? A useless (and generally annoying) black bird, preserved in a block of ice? It would be easier to point to a glinting star and turn it into a flake of snow. This must be a test, Kailar told himself. A demonstration of allegiance. A measure of faith. But why would Ingavar need that of him when he had already sworn to fight for him till death? Snorting heavily, he trudged on again, pace after weary paw-dragging pace, using the patterns of the stars to guide him, and the memory of the wind, and the motion of the ice. And as he walked, he let his mind drift back in time to his first encounter with the bear he called Nanukapik. It had been a night, much the same shape as this, when sickness had brought him collapsing to his knees, and he had lain down, panting in short dizzy bursts, not sure if he was dying, half-wishing that he were. That was when Avrel had appeared beside him. He winced, remembering the shame he’d felt to see a bear with a pelt like untouched snow and eyes as soft and innocent as the moon. For there was he, Kailar, a son of Ragnar, once the most powerful of fighting bears, all but glued to his place on the ice, his path across it marked by poisonous black smears.
The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal Page 4