The Fire Within

by Chris D'Lacey

  “But Mom, if David doesn’t love him?”

  “He does,” Liz assured her, cleaning her face. “We might have to show him he does, that’s all.”

  Lucy’s eyes grew huge with astonishment. “Are you going to tell him about … y’know?”

  “Only what he needs to know,” said Liz. She touched a finger to Lucy’s nose. “The rest he can dream for himself. After all, he’s very good at making up stories, isn’t he?”

  DAVID RETURNS

  David walked in at ten past six. Three hours had passed since his outburst in the gardens. He was shivering and his hair was dripping wet. The bottoms of his jeans were splattered with mud. One shoe was so soaked it squirted water over Bonnington as the cat came to greet him. When he hung up his coat, it fell off the hook. At the second attempt he sneezed so forcefully he sprayed half the mirror with the contents of his nostrils. By that time, Liz was in the doorway of the living room, arms folded, tapping her foot.

  She said nothing to David, just “towel” to Lucy as Lucy came pounding downstairs to see.

  Lucy asked no questions, just turned and went.

  David swept his hair off his rain-soaked brow, sending a rivulet of water down his nose. “Went for a walk,” he said rather timidly.

  “Through a car wash, by the look of it,” Liz said, unimpressed.

  Lucy reappeared with a large bath towel. As she handed it to David her mother said stiffly, “Dry your hair. Take off anything wet. Then wrap yourself up in your blanket, clothed. You need to warm yourself slowly. I’ll make you a drink.” She walked into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle.

  David, knowing there was no point in arguing, squelched down the hall, toweling his hair.

  “Should I call Sophie?” Lucy called to her mom.

  David halted and looked at each of them.

  “We took her home,” Liz told him. “Tell her he’s back,” she shouted to Lucy, “and there’s no need to call every half hour now.” She gave David a critical look.

  He shivered and went to his room.

  Shortly afterward, Liz came in with a drink: something fruity, billowing steam. She put it on his desk and pulled the curtains half closed, reducing the room to a softer light. David, under the blanket as instructed, had Winston in his arms and Bonnington nestling at the foot of the bed.

  “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” he said.

  Liz sat on the bed with her hands in her lap. “Concerned would be a better word. Getting soaked is bad enough at the best of times, but when you’re not well and upset into the bargain …”

  “I didn’t mean about getting wet. I meant about what I said in the gardens. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted like that.”

  “Sit up,” said Liz. “Have your drink. It’s honey and lemon. It’ll help to clear your head.”

  David shuffled into a sitting position. He cupped the mug in his hands and took a few sips.

  “You’re a silly boy, sometimes,” Liz said gently. “Why did you go stomping off like that? Why didn’t you just stay and talk to me?”

  David shook his head. “Don’t know. It just happened.” He put the mug down and sank back against his pillows, his head just clonking the wall. “When we buried Conker I was really mixed up, sad and bitter, all at the same time. It seemed so unfair that he would go and die after everything Lucy and I had done. The whole thing seemed so pointless.”

  Liz smoothed a crease in her skirt and said, “But can’t you see how much you’ve achieved? You’ve brought joy and adventure to Lucy’s life — and who knows what to the library gardens.”

  “Conker’s still dead.”

  “No,” said Liz. “He’s alive in your story. And that’s the greatest achievement of all. Conker helped you find something you never knew you had.”

  “Yeah, that I’m useless at writing stories.” David thumped a fist against Winston’s body, making the old bear baa like a sheep. “What can I do for Lucy now? How can I end the story happily, without, you know …”

  “Fudging the truth?”

  David sighed and ran a thumb down Winston’s ear. “I spent ages in the gardens thinking about it. And before you say it, I did try asking Gadzooks — eventually. But every time I pictured him he looked so strange. He had his head bent low and his tail was all … droopy. The pages of his pad were peeling away. Where is he?” David peered around, hamsterlike. The pencil-chewing dragon was nowhere to be seen.

  “Lucy took him upstairs,” said Liz.

  “Why?” David’s tone was hesitant and nervous.

  “Oh, you know what children are like. Maybe she was feeling sorry for him, him being a stupid dragon and all.”

  “He’s crying, isn’t he?” David said. He raised his head as if listening for the sniffles. “I made him cry, because the story didn’t have a happy ending.”

  To his surprise, Liz shook her head. “Gadzooks would be a pretty poor authoring dragon if his flame was extinguished the first time he helped you with a sad story.”

  “Extinguished?” David looked at her hard.

  “Dragons are different than you and me, David. When they shed tears, they fall within.”

  The tenant’s face suddenly turned very pale. “You mean, Sophie was right: Crying really does put out their fire …?”

  “Yes,” Liz said. “Without flame, they enter a deep, dark sleep. If their fire isn’t quickly rekindled …”

  “No!” David sat up, grasping the blanket.

  Liz, arms folded, sat quite still. “He’s crying because you rejected him, David. If you love him, his spark stays lit, remember?”

  The tenant’s eyes filled with hope. “But I do love him — really. Where is he? I want to see him.”

  At that moment, Lucy slipped into the room. “Sophie’s coming over tomorrow,” she reported. “She says we’ve got to look after him. Puh.”

  “Tell me how to help Gadzooks,” said David. “It has something to do with that story, doesn’t it? The one about the last true dragon in the world? I heard you telling Lucy when Gawain was broken. He came to the stream to drink, and Guinevere sang him a sort of lullaby.”

  “The song of Guinevere,” Liz said eerily, as Lucy began to faintly hum it, “is the key to the heart of dragon legend. Are you ready to dream it, David?”

  “Yes,” he said, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He slid down as Lucy’s humming washed over him, closed his eyes, and took himself back — to a distant time of fire-breathing creatures and cave-dwelling kin.

  “Good,” said Liz. “For you, and you alone, can rekindle Gadzooks. Listen closely, David. There may yet be time to save him….”

  THE FIRE TEAR

  Like a flower blooming, she opened her hands. “The song of Guinevere touches the ancient heart of Gawain. It rouses his emotions, yet tempers his fire. Suddenly, he roars and shakes his head, then takes at once to the frosty skies. One beat of his mighty wings gathers leaves and dust into spiraling clouds. His giant shadow covers the valley. He bellows so loudly the ice caps shatter. The terrified villagers cower in their caves. Guinevere must surely die, they think. But when they look again, the red-haired girl is still by the stream. The dragon has flown, but a token of his presence is lying at her feet. It glints in the sunlight, green and ridged.”

  “A scale,” whispered David. He pictured it clearly. It was about the same size and thickness as a roof slate, curved and tapering at the bottom.

  “Guinevere holds it to her breast,” said Liz. “A gift from a dragon is something to treasure. She knows, by this sign, Gawain will return.”

  “He knows she feels sorry for him,” David muttered. “He knows she wants to help him.”

  “Yes,” said Liz, “but he is not sure how. Even so, he comes to her again. For seven days and seven nights she sings her lullaby to the dragon. Sometimes he lies beside the stream bed with her. Sometimes he flies her to the ice-capped mountains. Her singing soothes his heart. But with every passing moon his strength is fading. The fire in his bel
ly is losing its spark. One night he can barely lift his wings. Too weary to fly, he roves the valley, clawing at the earth, belching smoke. Soon, dragons will be no more. Gawain roars at the starlit sky and sweeps his tail in a whirlwind of despair.”

  “And the people,” gabbled Lucy. “The people are coming.”

  “With spears,” said David, creating the scene. “They want to kill him. While he’s weak.” He kicked his legs as if having a nightmare and felt a calming touch on his ankle.

  “Even a dragon’s dying breath could turn their bones to ash,” said Liz. “Gawain stands forth. He scorches a line of fire in the earth. The villagers draw back, mortally afraid. Some hurl spears. They bounce off the dragon like pieces of straw. Guinevere, angered by the villagers’ prejudice, runs to Gawain and swears undying love for the dragon. The villagers taunt her foolishness. They say she will die a lonely old shrew, for he, Gawain, is the last of his kind and little more than a fading ember. Guinevere knows this is true. But her will is strong and her heart is pure. She vows to find a way to preserve the dragon’s fire. But who can she speak to about such a thing? Who knows the ways of dragons and men?”

  “Someone old,” said David, his eyes moving rapidly under their lids as if he was searching the valley for a figure. “Someone who remembers … lots of dragons.”

  “Gwilanna,” whispered Lucy. “She goes to Gwilanna.”

  A picture shimmered into David’s mind. Gwilanna: a smelly, broken-toothed crone; gray hair matted and blackened by ash; sitting in the mouth of a firelit cave, littered with bones and animal furs. “She’s an outcast,” he muttered. “People fear her. She’s got scrawny hands and spooky eyes — sort of murky, like soup.”

  “Deeper than the ocean itself,” said Liz. “She draws Guinevere into her cave. She already knows why the girl has come. ‘You wish to save the dragon’s fire,’ she cackles. It is not a question, but a revelation of Gwilanna’s powers.”

  “I don’t trust her,” mumbled David.

  “Perhaps not,” said Liz. “But the crone is Guinevere’s only hope. Gwilanna spits a chewed bone into the fire. She demands that Guinevere give up the scale in exchange for the secrets she knows she requires. Guinevere opens her pouch. She has carried the scale since the day it fell from the dragon’s body. Gwilanna snatches it hungrily from her. She licks the scale with a snaking tongue, then beckons the beautiful Guinevere close. She caresses her hair with hawkish fingers.”

  “She’s going to cut it,” gasped David, “with the scale.”

  “One lock,” said Liz. “In a flash, it is done. She rubs the hair once against the scale, then hurls it into the crackling fire. Sparks fly to the roof of the cave. Somewhere in the distant ice-capped mountains, Gawain throws back his head and roars.”

  Hrrr, came a furious clamor from above.

  David gripped the folds of the blanket. “It’s loud. It’s shaking the walls of the cave. I see dust and stones spilling out of the cracks.”

  “Dream it,” said Liz, caressing the words. “Even a fading ember of a dragon can move the earth with the power of his breath.”

  “Hrr,” breathed Lucy, as if to prove it.

  “Now, the old woman takes Guinevere’s arm. Her fingers, like talons, cut into the flesh. ‘You are joined to the dragon in fire,’ she hisses. ‘Now you must join him in water, too.’ She points to the tranquil moon. ‘His flame will expire when the moon is full. He will wish to die alone, as dragons should. But you must be there, waiting, child. For the moment will come when his fire will flow briefly into the world. The dragon is proud and knows no fear, but in truth he is crying deep inside. With his last breath, a fire tear will come. Catch it and the essence of Gawain will be yours; fail and dragonkind is lost forever.’ “

  “Fire tear …” David repeated tiredly.

  “Dream it,” Liz whispered, as Lucy began to sing once more.

  David yawned and snuggled into his pillow, faintly aware of movement on the bed. It felt lighter, suddenly. More freedom to move. He stretched his legs and cuddled Winston. His body relaxed. His mind drifted. He saw Gawain on a mountaintop, silhouetted against the shimmering moon; Guinevere, wrapped in a kind of shawl, singing into the shell of his ear. Gradually, the dragon lowered his head. His spiked tail drooped. His scales fell flat. His oval eyes, long-closed and weary, blinked one final, fiery time. His life expired in a snort of vapor. But in that moment, a teardrop formed. A living teardrop, on his snout. A violet flame in a dot of water. It trickled down his face to the tip of his nostrils and fell, sparkling, into Guinevere’s hands.

  “Got it,” muttered David, with a sleepy smile. “Umm. What happens now?”

  His eyes blinked open. Liz and Lucy were nowhere to be seen.

  “Liz?” he called, pushing the blanket aside. “Liz, where are you?”

  He got out of bed and stepped into the hall. The house was wrapped in the silence of night.

  David walked to the foot of the stairs, bathed in moonlight from the picture window. “Liz?” he called. “You didn’t finish the story. What do I do about Gadzooks?”

  Suddenly, something fluttered in the shadows and the moonlight was pricked by a faint orange glow. David gulped and glanced to his left. On the newel post beside him, two clawed feet were scrambling for a hold. A small, winged creature had landed there.

  It was Gruffen.

  KILNING GADZOOKS

  Fff,” Gruffen snorted and pointed his snout, hound-like, up the stairs.

  “The den?” guessed David.

  Gruffen blew a couple of smoke rings and nodded. He spread his wings and fluttered onto the tenant’s shoulder. “Hrrr,” he went, warming David’s earlobe.

  “Thanks,” David winced, and climbed the stairs.

  As he neared the top, he turned his gaze toward the picture window. A frowning dragon was tapping the bulb of a small thermometer. It hrred warm air as the tenant went past. Meanwhile, in the bathroom, the dragon on the tank was blowing a beautiful rose-scented flame.

  “I knew it,” muttered David. “I knew you were real.”

  Gruffen flicked his tail as if to say “naturally,” then hrred on the handle of the Dragons’ Den.

  The door to Liz’s studio swung open.

  David edged inside.

  The reception was warm, but not exactly friendly. Claws tightened on every shelf as dragons stretched their necks to peer at the tenant. Some scowled with disapproval. Others whipped their tails. Before David could utter a word of explanation, one of the dragons gave a quiet sniffle. Gadzooks. He was sitting on the potter’s wheel. Every pair of violet eyes turned to look at the story-writing dragon.

  A strange hush fell. The room darkened as the dragons held their breath. David knelt in front of Gadzooks. The dragon had sagged into a doleful heap. His pencil and pad were lying idly at his side. Smudge marks had darkened the bridge of his snout as if he’d rubbed his eyes with his writing paw.

  “I’m sorry I sent you away,” David whispered. “Please come back. I love you. Really.”

  Gadzooks blew a pitiful wisp of steam. His head lolled forward and something glittered in the corner of his eye: a tear with a violet flame inside it.

  There was a sharp intake of breath along the shelves.

  Gruffen, still sitting on David’s shoulder, let out a high-pitched squeak and whipped his book from beneath one wing. On the spine was a grand-sounding title: Guard Dragons: Procedures for Beginners. He flipped through at lightning speed, stopping at page ninety-seven. He blew what appeared to be toast crumbs off it, and rapped the page hard for David to see.

  CRYING (not recommended for special dragons)

  1. Take dragon to SAFETY

  (Gruffen gave that a scorching check.)

  2. In the event of a FIRE TEAR — catch it!

  David, remembering the story of Gawain, cupped his hands and caught the tear as it dropped.

  Dragons everywhere hrred with relief.

  “What now?” asked David, for this was as far as Liz’s
story had gone. Guinevere had caught Gawain’s fire tear — but what had she done with it? David rolled the tear in the center of his palm. The fire within it flickered and danced, throwing purple patterns all across the ceiling. On the potter’s wheel, Gadzooks sank into a deep, dark sleep. Gruffen dug a claw into David’s shoulder. David looked at the next instruction.

  3. FREE the fire

  He pressed the fire tear with his thumb. The tear spread flat but did not burst. He found a modeling stick and prodded it with that. The tear indented, but still it didn’t burst.

  “How?” he asked Gruffen. The guard dragon gave a worried shrug. From the shelves came a deep-seated hrrr of ignorance.

  No one knew how to free the fire.

  Then, with a clink, Gadzooks dropped a scale.

  And suddenly, Gwilanna was in the room.

  David and the dragons all reared back. A cloud of mist was swirling in the doorway, as if Gwilanna had dropped from the clouds.

  “You must join the dragon in water,” she cackled, snatching the scale as payment for her wisdom. She touched a grubby finger to David’s cheek. A tear welled in the corner of his eye. Gwilanna screeched with laughter and disappeared. The tear trickled down David’s face, then fell toward the fire tear in his palm. It dropped slowly, floating like a bubble. Inside was an image of Conker. The young squirrel tilted his head. He looked back at David as if he knew they would always be part of each other’s lives. His eyes, no longer matted or cut, gave one single appreciative blink. Then the tears came together with a gentle fssst! and all that remained was a tiny flame.

  There was no pain and the flame did not feel hot. It tingled in a light, refreshing way, touching every nerve in David’s skin. He felt it from his head to the tips of his toes: dragon fire, burning within. Instinctively, he knew he could keep it if he wished. One inward breath would absorb the fire. But if he took it, Gadzooks would surely die.