Bad Luck

by Pseudonymous Bosch

  The paintings probably depicted a myth or legend, like the story of the creation of the volcano or the discovery of fire. And yet to Clay’s artist eye, the dragons looked surprisingly lifelike, as if the paintings were showing scenes not from an ancient myth but from a recent hunt.

  Strange.

  He was about to step outside when he spied a square object sitting in the shadows next to the cave entrance.

  When he picked it up, he saw that it was a book. It was largish, the size of a school notebook, and bound in some kind of tough, scaly hide or skin that had cracked and yellowed over time, like an old man’s toenail. Inside, there was a manuscript written on parchment paper, with a title scrawled across the top page in black ink:

  Tucked into the book was a slip of paper with a library call number penciled on it. Even if there hadn’t been a call number, Clay would have known where the book came from: the private book collection called (misleadingly) the Price Public Library. Campers, and even counselors, were only occasionally allowed to enter the library, and they were never allowed to remove books. Flint must have hidden the book in the cave so that nobody would see that he’d taken it.

  Naturally, Clay was curious to read whatever was written inside, but there was no time for that now. He debated for only a moment before putting the book in his backpack. Returning it to the library would be a good deed.

  Making Flint angry and confused when he came back to look for it? Even better!

  By the time Clay got to the beach, the vog was gone and the ocean shimmered in the afternoon sun. He thought it must be about three or four o’clock, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d slept for at least a couple of hours.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Anybody here?”

  There was no answer.

  He walked along the beach, looking for his friends, but as far as he could tell, everybody had left without him. Maybe they’d figured he went back to camp? Or were his cabinmates getting back at him for losing the game of Capture the Flag?

  If one of them had gone missing, he definitely would have waited, he thought.

  Well, almost definitely…

  Clay stopped in his tracks.

  Yuck.

  About twelve feet ahead, there was a big white lump lying on the black sand. At first, Clay took it for a squid washed up on the beach, or maybe just a very large, very pale jellyfish. Whatever it was, it was disgusting. (Clay had inherited from his brother a fear of anything white and slimy—chiefly mayonnaise.) And probably dead.

  Still, Clay thought, he should take a closer look—just in case it was a live seal or baby whale or other animal that needed to be pushed back into the sea.

  Only a little—well, a lot—nervous, he stepped up to the mysterious lump…

  … and stared in surprise.

  It wasn’t a squid or a jellyfish or a seal or a whale; it was a boy, a boy who looked to be about Clay’s age and who was tangled in seaweed and dripping seawater, as if he had only recently washed up onshore. The boy’s hair was full of sand, and his eyes were crusted with salt. His wet shirt had come unbuttoned, revealing a soft, plump belly, and his equally wet pants were torn and bunched up around the knees. He had lost his shoes and one of his socks. Only his black bow tie showed no sign of having been tossed and turned by the ocean; it was still shiny and perfectly tied around his neck. Until—

  “Aack!” Clay yelped, startled.

  The bow tie had moved! For a second he thought the boy had awakened, but then he saw the little purple crab scurrying away across the sand.

  Clay’s heart pounded. He had no idea what to do.

  Calm down, Clay told himself. First things first.

  “Hey, um, can you hear me?” Clay managed to ask, his voice hoarse.

  No reply.

  Starting to sweat, Clay knelt by the boy’s side and put his hand on the boy’s cheek. It was cold and clammy.

  But was it dead clammy? Or just clammy?

  He lifted the boy’s wrist and felt for a pulse. He didn’t feel one, but that didn’t mean anything; he hardly knew what a pulse should feel like.

  He tried to remember what he knew about CPR; it wasn’t much. You were supposed to push on the person’s chest—or was it the stomach? And then you were supposed to count to something. And then there was the mouth-to-mouth part.

  Yikes.

  He tried pushing the boy’s chest a couple of times.

  Nothing.

  Desperate, he shook the boy by the shoulders. “Wake up! I mean, if you’re alive…”

  Suddenly, a spray of spit and salt water and vomit hit Clay in the face. He wiped the warm, sour mess off his nose and cheek, almost as relieved as he was disgusted. It was the first time he’d been happy to have somebody throw up on him. Not that anybody had ever thrown up on him before.

  When the boy’s coughing subsided, he opened an eye and squinted at Clay.

  “Don’t tell me—some kid beat me up again,” he said groggily. “Was it you?”

  “What? No! I don’t even know you.”

  “Then why does my head hurt so bad?” the boy demanded. “And why are you grabbing my shoulder like that?”

  “Because… Never mind.” Embarrassed, Clay let go.

  “Wait, I’m not at school, am I?” Confused, the boy pushed himself up to a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, blinking. “I guess this is one of those good-news-bad-news situations, huh?”

  “You really don’t know where you are?” Was it possible the boy was as surprised to find himself here as Clay was?

  The boy shook his head. “No idea… unless…” He looked suspiciously at Clay. “Am I on a reality show?”

  Clay laughed. “Not that I know of. Unless… are you?” In truth, it was just as likely as any other explanation for the boy’s mysterious appearance on the beach.*

  “I don’t think so.… Do you have any water? My mouth is burning.”

  Clay handed over his water bottle. The boy looked at the bottle with distaste—it was pretty dirty, now that Clay saw it from someone else’s perspective—then took a swig.

  “Well, it’s not Perrier, but it’ll do in a pinch,” the boy said, wiping his mouth.

  He handed back the bottle. “Okay, so tell me—where are we? Guam? Tahiti? Indonesia?”

  “No, just Price Island… and I’m Clay, by the way.”

  “Price—are you sure?” said the boy doubtfully. “I’ve never heard of it, and I’ve been to a ton of places. I’m Brett Perry. You know, like Perry International…?”

  “Not really.”

  “Offshore drilling, war-zone security, military scandals… doesn’t ring a bell?”

  Clay shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Oh.” The boy—Brett—sounded surprised. Apparently, his family was famous—in his mind, at least. “Well, anyway, that’s me. Or my dad, really. I’m Brett junior.”

  Clay decided to change the subject. “You think maybe you were in a plane crash—I mean, if you travel so much?”

  “Maybe…”

  Brett reached for the bottle and took another swig of water—and coughed again.

  “No, I remember now!” A shadow seemed to fall across his face, but he shrugged it off. “I was on a ship. A huge cruise ship. HUGE. Like a Las Vegas hotel.”

  “I’ve never been to Las Vegas.”

  “Wow. You are sheltered, aren’t you? Well, the hotels there are ridiculously big, and so was the ship I was on. It had pools, a casino, everything.” Brett’s face brightened. “And the most amazing Jell-O parfaits ever! I know, Jell-O, who cares, right? But trust me, you have to try them. It’s all about the combination of taste and texture.”

  Clay smiled uncertainly. Jell-O seemed like a funny thing to talk about under the circumstances. “Not sure I’m going on any cruises, but if I do—okay. How’d you wind up in the water?”

  “Oh, I, uh, was running on the deck and I just… fell over the railing. Then I… I don’t know, floated here?”

  Clay h
ad the impression that Brett was leaving something out of the story, but Clay didn’t say anything. It wasn’t in his nature to pry.

  “Is there anything to eat in that backpack, by any chance?” Brett asked. “I’m so hungry I’m going to die.”

  Clay dug into his backpack and pulled out a handful of trail mix.

  Brett made a face. “No offense, but I wouldn’t feed that to my worst enemy’s pet gerbil. Don’t you have any anything else?”

  Clay shook his head. This guy had nearly drowned, and he was complaining about trail mix? “Sorry. There’s other stuff at camp.”

  “Oh, all right, then—” Brett grabbed the trail mix and threw it all into his mouth at once as if it were some terrible-tasting medicine.

  “What camp?” he asked, his mouth full of nuts and raisins.

  “Earth Ranch. My summer camp. So, uh, are you okay? Can you walk?”

  “I guess.” Brett picked a stray sunflower seed off his arm and ate it. Then he wobbled to his feet.

  “Ugh. Head rush,” he said, putting his hand to his forehead.

  Clay regarded him skeptically. The guy didn’t look like much of a hiker—under the best of circumstances. “Maybe I should go back and get help.”

  “No!” said Brett, as if Clay had proposed amputating a limb.

  “You sure?”

  “Isn’t there a hotel or a resort or something?”

  “Nope. Only camp. There’s nothing else on the island.”

  “Seriously?” Brett looked alarmed. “Well, I can’t go there.”

  Incredulous, Clay glanced around the beach. “What are you going to do? Swim home?”

  Brett grabbed Clay by the arm and looked at him intently—intensely intently. “What do you think they’ll do if you take me to your camp?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clay, pulling away. Why was this kid freaking out? “Call your dad, I guess?”

  “Exactly!”

  “He’s that bad?”

  Brett nodded.

  “Worse than being stranded on an island in the middle of nowhere?”

  Brett nodded again.

  “What about your mom?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh, jeez. Sorry,” said Clay. Why couldn’t there be anything simple about this situation?

  “I never even knew her.… Now promise you won’t tell anyone about me.”

  “Maybe if you explained…?” Clay suggested. “The director of the camp, Mr. Bailey—he’s pretty cool.”

  “Please,” scoffed Brett. “It’s a summer camp. He’ll turn me over to the authorities before I finish dinner. The only thing he’s worried about is a lawsuit. Trust me, I know. My father’s been in court more times than I can count.”

  Actually, Clay thought, what Mr. B would be most worried about is an outsider finding out about the true, magical nature of the camp. Maybe it would be best not to drag Brett to camp after all.

  “Okay,” said Clay. “So what do you want to do, then?”

  “I need to think. Can’t you just… wait?”

  “Here? If I don’t go back soon, they’ll come looking for me for sure,” said Clay.

  At least, he hoped they would. He was still a little sore about his friends going back to camp without him.

  “So you’re just going to leave me? You can’t!” said Brett. He seemed almost as upset about the prospect of being left alone as he’d been about the prospect of being taken to camp.

  Clay gripped his hair in exasperation. “What else am I supposed to do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe what any decent human being would do? Help me find more food, water, a place to sleep… shoes.” Brett looked down at his bare foot. “Or leave me alone to wither away and die. Your choice.”

  Clay sighed. He had the feeling that his life on Price Island was about to become considerably more complicated.

  “Okay, I know a place,” he said reluctantly. “It smells kinda rank, but you’ll be fine.” Clay told Brett about the cave and how to get there. He didn’t mention the dream—or the book.

  Brett looked like he was about to protest, then thought better of it.

  “Just promise not to tell anyone about me,” he repeated. “Or I really will be dead.”

  He sounded so worried that an awful idea occurred to Clay:

  What if Brett’s fall from the cruise ship hadn’t been an accident?

  FROM Secrets of the Occulta Draco; or, The Memoirs of a Dragon Tamer*

  Prologus

  Today, there are very few dragons left. Soon there may be none. Already, many people believe that dragons never existed.

  I, the last of the Dragon Tamers, have decided to record my memories and to relate whatever wisdom I may have gained during a lifetime spent among the noblest and most magical of beasts, in the hope that one day, when dragons again roam the earth, a brave young person will read my words and will heed the dragon’s call.

  To that person, I dedicate this book.

  But first, a word of caution: Only someone who has the true spirit of the Dragon Tamer may learn our ways. We speak the tongue of dragons, and that is not a language that can be taught, only awakened. One knows it instinctively, the way a great musician knows music, or one knows it not at all.

  To all others, our words are gibberish, our traditions senseless, and our beliefs unfathomable.

  Thus the secrets of our order, the Occulta Draco, are protected from those who would make mischief.

  Alas, there are a few who share our knowledge of dragontongue yet have no love for dragonkind, or indeed for humankind. They have the gifts of a Dragon Tamer but not the heart. Inside their chests is nothing but an unquenchable hunger for dragonfire and the power it brings.

  From these people, whom we call the Fire Breathers, this book must be kept at all costs. Were even one of them to learn its secrets, disaster would surely fall.

  For he who has power over dragons has power over us all.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  THE RAINBOW

  Earth Ranch had a rainbow.

  It was a permanent camp fixture, like the yurts and the geodesic dome and the lakefront rope swing. Sometimes it got a little brighter or dimmer. Sometimes it moved a little this way or that way. But rain or shine, it never left. Even in the vog it was there, lighting up the smoky air like a big neon sign.

  According to the counselors, the rainbow acted as a sort of magical barometer. If and when it disappeared, they would know magic was in trouble. And yet for Clay, the rainbow’s presence was far more frustrating than comforting. At this very moment, for example, as he was eating breakfast in front of Big Yurt (the closest thing Earth Ranch had to a dining hall), the rainbow appeared five or six feet away at the most, but he knew perfectly well that it would evaporate if he tried to touch it. No matter how tantalizingly close it came, the rainbow remained forever out of reach.

  Just like magic itself.

  Jonah waved his hand in front of Clay’s face. “Stop staring. That thing will drive you crazy. Trust me, I chased it for six hours straight once.”

  Sitting across the table, Kwan laughed. “He’s just tweaked that we left him on the beach yesterday.”

  “Wait, what?” said Clay, snapping out of it. Left who on the beach? Were they talking about Brett?

  “You think we were so mad about Capture the Flag that we would leave you there on purpose?” said Pablo. “Okay, we’re jerks sometimes, yeah, but c’mon—”

  “We told you, it wasn’t up to us,” said Jonah. “We were all, But what about Clay? And Flint was like, No worries, Clay went back to camp.”

  No, there was no way they could know about Brett, Clay reassured himself.

  “Man, that guy really hates on you,” said Kwan, shaking his head. “Flint’s not going to be happy until your butt is off this island.”

  “Thanks,” said Clay. “That makes me feel much better.”

  He took a sip of his carrot-beet juice and put it right down. Why did all the food in this hi
ppie fairyland taste the same?

  “Here, this will cheer you up,” said Pablo, grabbing Clay’s glass. He inserted his straw and started blowing bubbles.

  “What are you doing?!”

  “Watch—” Pablo withdrew his straw. The red-orange juice continued to bubble and fizz like carbonated soda.

  Magic carbonated soda.

  Clay smiled. “Cool. Radioactive spit.”

  He put the glass to his lips, then stopped mid-sip; the Pond counselor, Adriana, who happened to be the strictest counselor at the camp, was walking by. If she witnessed Pablo’s magical tomfoolery, their whole table would be punished. She gave the boys a suspicious glance but continued on.

  There was no chance for Clay to be relieved, however, because the bubbles were coming faster and faster.

  “Oh, man—”

  By the time he put his glass down, foam was spilling out of the glass, and juice was pouring out of his nose. He was drenched.

  The others burst out laughing.

  Pablo grinned. “Okay, so maybe I was a little mad that we had to give our s’mores to the girls last night.…”

  Juice dripping from his chin, Clay shook his head, laughing with them. “Yeah, well, you can just go… expel-your-anus!”

  More laughter. Expel-your-anus was the Worms’ favorite all-purpose rejoinder—not a real magic spell, perhaps, but almost as satisfying.* Pablo gamely put his hand to his mouth and made loud farting noises.

  As he wiped himself off, Clay looked down at his plate. “Hey, what happened to my bananas?”

  “Were you looking for these?” Laughing, a certain freckle-faced girl in a newsboy cap plopped three bananas onto his plate.

  Of course.

  Clay shook his head. “The master thief strikes again!”

  “Why do you need three bananas, anyway?” asked Leira, sitting down next to him on the stone bench. “You think juggling fruit is that special magical talent you’ve been looking for?”

  “They’re for Como.”

  Como C. Llama was the llama Clay had been taking care of since his first day at camp. Hopefully, Leira wouldn’t remember that Como hated bananas.