Searching for Dragons

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Hooligans?” Mendanbar blinked and began to feel more cheerful. Maybe he wasn’t in trouble with the dragons after all. Maybe it had been a rogue who had burned out part of his forest. That would be bad, but at least he wouldn’t have to figure out a way of dragon-proofing the whole kingdom. He frowned. “How am I going to find out for sure?” he wondered aloud.

  “Ask Morwen,” said the squirrel, flicking her tail.

  “What?”

  “I said, ask Morwen. Honestly, don’t you big people know how to listen? You’d think none of you had ever talked to a squirrel before, the way most of you behave.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Mendanbar said. “Who’s Morwen?”

  “That’s better,” the squirrel said, mollified. “Morwen’s a witch. She lives over by the mountains—just head that way until you get to the stream, then follow it to the big oak tree with the purple leaves. Turn left and walk for ten minutes and you should come out in her backyard. That is,” she added darkly, “you should if all this burning things up and moving things around hasn’t tangled everything too badly.”

  “You think this witch had something to do with what happened?” Mendanbar waved at the ashy clearing a few feet away.

  “I said no such thing! Morwen is a very respectable person, even if she does keep cats.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you think I should talk to her.”

  “You asked for my advice, and I’ve given it,” said the squirrel. “That’s my job. I’m not supposed to explain it, too, for heaven’s sake. If you want explanations, talk to a griffin.”

  “If I see one, I will,” said Mendanbar. “Thank you for your advice.”

  “You’re welcome,” said the squirrel, sounding pleased. She flicked her tail twice and leaped to a higher branch. “Goodbye.” In another moment she had disappeared behind the trunk of the tree.

  “Goodbye,” Mendanbar called after her. He waited, but there was no further response. The squirrel had gone.

  Slowly, Mendanbar started walking in the direction the squirrel had pointed. When someone in the Enchanted Forest gave you advice, you were usually best off following it, even if you were the King.

  “Especially if you’re the King,” Mendanbar reminded himself. He wished he knew a little more about this Morwen person, though. He wasn’t really surprised that he hadn’t heard of her. So many witches lived in and around the Enchanted Forest that it was impossible for anyone to keep track of them all. Still, this one must be something special, or the squirrel wouldn’t have sent the King of the Enchanted Forest to her.

  What sort of witch was Morwen? “Respectable” didn’t tell him a lot, especially coming from a squirrel. Morwen could be a white witch, but she could also be the sort of witch who lived in a house made of cookies in order to enchant passing children.

  “She could even be a fire witch,” he said to himself. “There are probably one or two of them who could be termed respectable.” He thought about that for a moment. He’d never heard of any himself.

  If Morwen had lived in the Enchanted Forest for a long time, she was probably a decent sort of witch, he decided at last. The nasty ones generally made trouble before they’d been around very long, and then someone would complain to the King.

  “And nobody has complained about Morwen,” he finished.

  Mendanbar reached the stream and turned left. Maybe it had been a mistake to cancel all those boring formal festivals and dinners Willin liked so much, he mused. They would have given him a chance to meet some of the ordinary people who lived in the Enchanted Forest. Or rather, he amended, the people who didn’t make trouble. “Ordinary” was not the right word for anyone who lived in the Enchanted Forest, not if they managed to stay alive and in more or less their proper shape.

  His reflections were cut short by a loud roar. Glancing up, he saw a lion bounding toward him along the bank of the stream. It looked huge and fierce and not at all friendly. As it leaped for his throat, Mendanbar batted hastily at a nearby strand of magic. The lion sailed over Mendanbar’s head and landed well behind him, looking surprised and embarrassed. It whirled and tried again, but this time Mendanbar was ready for it. With a quick twist and pull, he froze the lion in the middle of rearing on its hind legs and stepped back to study it.

  The lion roared again, plainly frustrated as well as embarrassed and confused. Mendanbar frowned and twitched another invisible thread. Suddenly the roaring had words in it.

  “Let me down!” the lion shouted. “This is entirely undignified. How dare you treat me like this?”

  “I’m the King,” said Mendanbar. “It’s my job to keep this forest as safe as I reasonably can. And I don’t much like being jumped at when I’m just walking along minding my own business.”

  “What?” The lion stopped roaring and peered at him nearsightedly. “Oh, bother. I’m exceedingly sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t recognize you. You’re not wearing your crown.”

  “That’s not the point,” said the King. “It shouldn’t make any difference.”

  “On the contrary,” the lion said earnestly. “I’m the guardian of the Pool of Gold, and I’m supposed to keep unauthorized people from dipping branches in it, or diving in and turning into statues—that sort of thing. But if you’re the King of the Enchanted Forest, you’re not an unauthorized person at all, and I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I do apologize.”

  “You should,” said Mendanbar. He looked around and frowned. “Where is this Pool of Gold you’re supposed to be guarding?”

  “Just around the bend,” the lion answered. He sounded uncomfortable and a little worried.

  “Then what are you doing attacking people over here?” Mendanbar demanded. “I might have gone right by.”

  “You wouldn’t have if you were a prince,” the lion muttered. “They never go on by. I was only attempting to get ahead of things a little, that’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Yes, well, you should have thought it through,” Mendanbar said in a stern tone. “Princes don’t always travel alone, you know. Someone could distract you with a fight along here while a friend of his stole water or dipped branches or whatever he wanted. This far away from the pool, you wouldn’t even notice.”

  “That never occurred to me,” said the lion, much abashed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Stick to the pool from now on,” Mendanbar told it. “And make sure that the people you jump at are really trying to get at the water, and not just wandering by.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the lion. “Uh, would you mind letting me down now?”

  Mendanbar nodded and untwisted the threads of magic that held the lion motionless. The lion dropped to all fours and shook itself, then bowed very low. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” it said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Does a witch named Morwen live somewhere around here?” Mendanbar asked.

  “Sure,” said the lion. “Her house is up over the hill where the blue catnip grows. It isn’t far. I haven’t ever been there myself, of course,” it added hastily, “since I have to guard the Pool of Gold, you know. But sometimes one of her cats pays a call, and that’s what they tell me.”

  “Thank you,” Mendanbar said. “That’s very helpful.”

  “You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” said the lion. “Any time. Is there anything else? Because if there isn’t, I should really be getting back to the pool.”

  “That’s all,” Mendanbar said, and bid the lion a polite goodbye. He waited where he stood until the lion was well out of sight, then continued on. He was very thoughtful, and a little annoyed. His quiet walk was turning out to be more of a project than he had expected.

  A short while later, he passed the oak the squirrel had described, and a little farther on he found a hill covered with bright blue catnip. He paused, debating the wisdom of walking around the hill rather than through the thick growth.

  “You never know what things like oddly colored catnip will do if you touch them,” Mendanbar
reminded himself. He looked at the knee-high carpet of blue leaves, then glanced at the deep shadows below the trees at the foot of the hill.

  “On the other hand, one of the easiest ways of getting lost in the Enchanted Forest is to not follow directions exactly.” He looked at the catnip again. He did not want to spend hours hunting for Morwen’s house just to avoid some oddly colored plants. Cautiously, he poked at the invisible network of magic that hung over the hill. It seemed normal enough. With a shrug, he waded in.

  Halfway to the top, he saw some of the stalks near the edge of the patch wobble, as if something small had run through it. The wobble kept pace with him until he reached the top of the hill, but though he tried to see what was causing it, he was unable to catch a glimpse of whatever was brushing by the plants.

  The patch of catnip ended at the top of the hill. Mendanbar stopped to catch his breath and look around. The hill sloped gently down to a white picket fence that surrounded three sides of a garden. A large lilac bush was blooming on one side of the gate in the middle of the fence, and an even larger apple tree loaded with fist-sized green apples stood on the other side.

  Mendanbar frowned. “Aren’t lilacs and apple trees supposed to bloom at the same time? What is one doing with blossoms while the other is covered with fruit?” Then he laughed at himself. “Well, it is a witch’s garden, after all.” He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised if things behaved strangely.

  On the other side of the garden stood a solid little gray house with a red roof. Smoke was drifting out of the chimney, and lace curtains were blowing in and out the open windows on either side of the back door. Below the right-hand window was a window box overflowing with red and blue flowers. The stone step outside the door was cleaner than the floor inside Mendanbar’s study, and he resolved to do something about that as soon as he got home. Sleeping on one corner of the step was a white cat, her fur gleaming in the sun.

  Mendanbar walked down the hill to the gate. A small brass sign hung on the latch. It read: “Please keep the gate CLOSED. Salesmen enter at their own risk.” Smiling, Mendanbar lifted the latch and pushed the gate open.

  A loud yowl from just over his head made him jump back. He looked up and discovered a fat tabby cat perched in the branches of the apple tree, staring down at him with green eyes. An instant later, a long gray streak shot out from behind a nearby tree and through the open gate. It slowed as it neared the house, and Mendanbar saw that it was actually a lean gray cat with a ragged tail. The gray cat leaped to the doorstep and from there to the sill of the open window. The white cat on the step raised her head and made a complaining noise as the gray one vanished inside the house.

  “So much for a surprise visit,” Mendanbar said to the cat in the tree. The cat gave him a smug look and began washing its paws. Mendanbar stepped through the gate, closed it carefully, and started across the garden toward the house.

  3

  In Which Mendanbar Receives Some Advice from a Witch

  BEFORE MENDANBAR WAS HALFWAY ACROSS THE GARDEN, the door of the cottage swung open. Seven cats of various sizes and colors trotted out, tails high. They flowed over the stoop, collecting the sleepy white cat on their way, and lined themselves up in a neat row. Mendanbar stopped and looked down at them, blinking. They blinked back, all eight at once, as if they had been trained.

  “Well?” said a voice.

  Mendanbar looked up. A short woman in a loose black robe stood in the open doorway. Her hair was a pale ginger color, piled loosely on her head. Mendanbar supposed she must use magic to keep it up, for not one wisp was out of place. She wore a pair of glasses with gold rims and rectangular lenses, and she held a broom in one hand.

  “You must be Morwen,” Mendanbar said with more confidence than he felt, for she was quite pretty and, apart from the black robe and broom, not witchy-looking at all.

  The woman nodded. Giving her a courteous half-bow, Mendanbar went on, “I’m Mendanbar, and I was advised to talk to you about—well, about a problem I’ve discovered. I hope you weren’t on your way out.” He indicated the broom.

  Morwen examined him for another moment, then nodded briskly. “So you’re the King. Come in and tell me why you’re here, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  “How do you know I’m the King?” Mendanbar asked as the cats exchanged glances and then began wandering off in various directions. He felt disgruntled, because he had not intended to mention the fact. At least Morwen wasn’t curtsying or simpering, and she hadn’t started calling him “Your Majesty” yet, either. Perhaps it would be all right.

  “I recognize you, of course,” Morwen said. She set the broom against the wall behind the door as she spoke. “You’ve let your hair get a bit long, but that doesn’t make much difference, one way or another. And Mendanbar isn’t exactly a common name these days. Are you going to stand there all day?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mendanbar said, following Morwen into the house. “I didn’t realize we’d met before.”

  “We haven’t,” Morwen said. “When I moved to the Enchanted Forest five years ago, I made sure I knew what you looked like. I’d have been asking for trouble, otherwise.”

  “Oh,” said Mendanbar, taken aback. He had never thought of himself as one of the hazards of the Enchanted Forest that someone might wish to be prepared for, and he did not like the idea much, now that it had been pointed out to him.

  Morwen waved at a sturdy chair next to a large table in the center of the room. “Sit down. Would you like some cider?”

  “That sounds very good.” Mendanbar took the chair while Morwen crossed to a cupboard on the far wall and began taking mugs and bottles out of it. He was glad to have a minute to collect his wits. He was not sure what he had expected her to be like, but Morwen was definitely not it.

  Her house was not what he had expected, either. The inside was as neat and clean as the outside. The walls of the single large room were painted a pale, silvery gray. Six large windows let in light and air from all directions. There were no gargoyles or grimacing faces or wild tangles of trees and vines carved into the window ledges or the woodwork around the ceiling, and no intricate patterns set into the floorboards. One of the cats had come inside and was sitting on a big, square trunk, washing his paws; another was lying in an open window, keeping an eye on the backyard. There was a large black stove in the corner by the cupboard, and three more chairs around the table where Mendanbar was sitting. It was all very pleasant and uncluttered, and Mendanbar found himself wishing he had a few rooms like this in his castle.

  “There,” said Morwen as she set a large blue jug and two matching mugs in the center of the table. “Now, tell me about this problem of yours.”

  Mendanbar cleared his throat and began. “About an hour ago, I ran across a section of the Enchanted Forest that had been destroyed. The trees had been burned to stumps and there wasn’t even any moss left on the ground. I’m afraid it may have been a rogue dragon. I found dragon scales in the ashes, and a squirrel suggested I come and see you.”

  “Dragon scales?” Morwen pressed her lips together, looking very grim indeed. “Did you bring them with you?”

  “Yes,” said Mendanbar. He dug the scales out of his pocket and spread them out on the table.

  “Hmmm,” said Morwen, bending over the table. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  “Can you tell anything about this dragon from his scales?” Mendanbar asked.

  “For one thing, these scales aren’t all from the same dragon,” Morwen said. Her frown deepened. “At least, they shouldn’t be.”

  “How can you tell?” Mendanbar asked, his stomach sinking.

  “Look at the colors. This one is yellow-green; that one has a grayish tinge, and this one has a purple sheen. You don’t get that kind of variation on one dragon.”

  “Oh, no,” Mendanbar groaned, shutting his eyes and leaning his forehead against his hands. He had so hoped that it had been a single dragon. It would have been a nuisance, sending letter
s of complaint to the King of the Dragons and waiting for an answer, but it would have been better than a war. If a group of dragons had attacked the Enchanted Forest, war was almost inevitable. “You’re sure there were several dragons involved?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Morwen snapped. “I said that these scales look as if they came from different dragons.”

  “But if the scales came from different dragons—”

  “I didn’t say that, either,” Morwen said. “I said they looked as if they came from different dragons. Have a little patience, Mendanbar.”

  Mendanbar opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it again. Morwen was staring with great concentration at one of the scales, the one that was the brightest green, and she didn’t look as if she would welcome an interruption. Suddenly she straightened and in one swift movement scooped the scales together like a pile of cards. She tapped the stack against the tabletop to straighten it, then set it down with an air of satisfaction.

  “Ha! I thought there was something odd about these,” she said, half to herself.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a minute and I’ll show you.” Morwen went back to the cupboard and took down a small bowl and several jars of various sizes. As she spooned and mixed and muttered, Mendanbar felt magic gather around her, like a tingling in the air that slowly concentrated itself inside the bowl. At last she capped the jars and carried the bowl, brimming with magic, over to the table.

  “Stay back,” she warned when Mendanbar leaned forward to get a better view.

  Mendanbar sat back, watching closely, as Morwen spread the five dragon scales out in a line. She set the purple scale at one end and the bright green one at the other. Then she held the bowl over the center of the line, took a deep breath, and said,

  “Wind for clarity,

  Stone for endurance,

  Stream for change,

  Fire for truth:

  Be what you are!”

  As she spoke, she tilted the bowl and poured a continuous line of dark liquid in a long stripe across the middle of the five scales.