The Gorgon's Gaze

  “Yes-ss, Cass-ssandra ss-said you were a ss-strong boy—I can ss-see it in your face-ss and in your shoulders-ss. You will be a fine man ss-soon.”

  Col shifted uneasily under the creature’s touch, both embarrassed and pleased by her words. He was flattered to see himself through her eyes for a brief moment. Squaring his shoulders, he resolved not to flinch again from her hand.

  “Mom—Cassandra—said something’s going to happen. Is that what you want to talk to me about?” He flashed the mirror around the ceiling, the rock wall, until, there, he found her again.

  “Ha!” The gorgon gave a shout of laughter, making him start. To Col’s dismay, the laugh opened her mouth wide, wider than any human mouth, revealing great teeth, like the tusks of a boar, curling up from her lower jaw to meet dagger-like fangs descending from above in a fearsome bite. “Ss-something might be happening—but we need ss-someone to make it work.” Her tongue flickered black in the red maw of her throat.

  Col, mesmerized by the contrast between her smooth beauty when her face was at rest and the monstrous teeth revealed when she spoke, only half took in her words. It was like watching a sleeping python as the feeble line of its closed mouth suddenly roused to face danger, hissing, jaws open, fangs dripping venom.

  “W-who do you need to help you? Me?” he stammered.

  She smiled enigmatically. “Why not you, my bold one? We creatures-ss need to fight to pressserve our exiss-stence before humans-ss stamp us-ss out. Look what is happening to me—to my la-sst refuge. But even that is to be torn away from me. And why?” She gave another of her bitter laughs, shaking her head back and this time stirring all her snake companions as they sensed her rising anger. “Cass- ssandra told me the wood is doomed because it creates-ss a bend in a human-road, making it slower for those machines of yours-ss.”

  The snake-locks wove in and out of one another in an angry dance, creating a writhing halo around her head, all eyes glaring at Col in his mirror.

  “Is this-ss all the excuse humans need to make others homeless-ss—to drive some of us into extinction? Will you let this happen? Or will you help save us-ss? Ss-ave me?” Her voice dropped to a soft plea, the snakes no longer lashed the air angrily but swayed sinuously on her shoulders, all eyes still fixed on him. Their gaze was like a cold breeze chilling his back; under this scrutiny, he had no difficulty understanding the power of her deadly eyes.

  “Of course I don’t want this to happen. What can I do?”

  “Fight with us-ss. Do not wait until the machine crushes us-ss, but act now.”

  If Col had been thinking straight he would have been suspicious of her arguments, but he was under the spell of the image the gorgon was reflecting back to him. Her words painted an alluring picture of a young warrior ready for combat.

  “Show me what I must do—how I can help,” he offered eagerly.

  The gorgon smiled and nodded. “Good. It is-ss as we hoped. You are ripe for the tass-sk we have for you.”

  “Task?”

  “Your mother will tell you more when we are ready.” Her finger caressed his cheek again. “I must tend to my hatchlings. You ss-should go.”

  As Col got up to leave, he almost turned to take a last good look at her, but he caught himself just in time.

  “Idiot,” he hissed. If he was going to help the gorgon, he couldn’t start by getting turned to stone.

  7

  Argand

  Connie bent over her Latin grammar book and tried to make sense of the introductory lesson. So far, all she had noticed was the dog-eared state of the pages and the cramped writing; the words were sliding in and out of her mind making no impression. Idly, she flipped to the front and looked at the title page again: Sybil, crossed out; Robin, crossed out; Hugh, crossed out; Godiva, still plain to see. Her great-aunt obviously thought what was good enough for her and her brothers and sisters was good enough for Connie. Picking up her pen, Connie struck through her aunt’s name and added her own underneath. The latest in a long line of Lionheart Latin martyrs, she thought grimly.

  “How are you doing, Connie?” asked Godiva. She was sitting at a table embroidering a cushion with the Lionheart compass.

  “Fine,” lied Connie. She turned back to the first chapter. Someone had underlined certain words in pale blue ink. She traced them through, skipping from page to page—horse, bear, tree. Whoever it was had picked out all the words to do with nature. Wolf, serpent, dragon.

  Tap-tap.

  Connie looked up, feeling a strange burning sensation in her stomach. Godiva raised her eyebrows, warning her great-niece to re-apply herself to her work.

  Tap-tap.

  This time, Connie sneaked a glance at the window—and almost dropped her book in surprise. There, dancing in the morning sunlight, was a small golden creature, wings glistening with all the colors of the rainbow like a dragonfly—but it wasn’t a fly. Seeing Connie watching, the dragonet Argand looped-the-loop with excitement.

  A cold sweat broke out on Connie’s brow. Her companion was bobbing around only a few feet from Godiva’s head. What could she do?

  She waved her hand at the window. “Go away!” she mouthed.

  Argand waved her tail back with a friendly gesture.

  Connie shook her head and repeated the hand signal.

  “What are you doing, Connie?” barked Godiva, laying her sewing to one side.

  “A wasp’s bothering me.”

  “Well, really, don’t you know better than to wave your hands in that stupid fashion—you’ll only annoy it. Sit still and it’ll go away.”

  But this particular “wasp” didn’t. Thwarted by the glass, Argand began to dive-bomb the barrier, trying to smash her way in. Connie gulped. Godiva appeared to be ignoring the thumping sound behind her. Connie had to do something—and quick!

  “May I open the window, please?”

  Godiva turned and took a long look outside. Surely she must see the little dragon now? She gazed back at Connie, her expression set.

  “No, you may not. You will do five extra pages of exercises as punishment.”

  “Punishment for what?”

  “For inattention.”

  This was so unfair! Godiva must have seen Argand, too—why was she pretending she hadn’t?

  “You can see the dragon, can’t you?”

  “Eight pages!”

  “Her name’s Argand. She hatched last month.”

  “Ten pages!”

  “She’s my companion.”

  Godiva leapt from her seat and thrust her face right up to Connie’s.

  “Listen, there is no dragon—no companion. You are ill, Connie, very, very ill. If you carry on talking such drivel, I will have to take drastic measures.”

  At that moment, the glass shattered and Argand zoomed merrily into the room, heading straight for Connie. Godiva screamed.

  “That damned parakeet!” She started throwing anything at hand toward the dragonet. “The abbey organist really must keep it under better”—Crash!—“control!” Thump. The last missile, Connie’s Latin book, struck Argand on the snout and burst into flames.

  “Quick, quick! Put it out!” shrieked Godiva.

  Connie stripped off her hooded top and smothered the book and the irate dragon underneath. Scooping them up, she ran out of the room, calling, “I’ll take it out into the garden,” over her shoulder.

  Godiva was leaning against her desk, panting hard.

  “Be back here in two minutes—or else!”

  Connie ran down the path to the stone seat at the far end of the garden. Argand struggled in her arms, protesting at this rough treatment. Placing the bundle on the bench, Connie unwrapped the contents. Immediately the way was clear, a very angry dragon darted into the air, spitting sparks at Connie.

  “Hey, hey!” said Connie soothingly. “It wasn’t me!”

  Argand circled once and then flew into her chest with a thud, knocking her back. The dragon dug in her claws and clung to Connie’s T-shirt, shivering. Gently
, Connie tried to extricate the most painful talons that were pinching her skin.

  “Calm down,” she crooned. “It’s all right now. The nasty lady has gone.”

  Argand gave a low fluting sound of distress. Connie dipped into her mind, seeking the bond with her companion. She swiftly found her—Argand was still in a nightmare of loud noises and missiles. Stroking the creature along her scaly spine, Connie led Argand back to the daylight and to peace. Opening her eyes, she found the little dragon gazing adoringly at her, her tiny fire-bright eyes full of trust.

  “There now, that’s better, isn’t it? What are you doing here? Does your mother know where you are?”

  If dragons could look sheepish, Argand did now.

  “No? Well, you’d better hurry home. Can you remember the way?”

  Argand nodded.

  “You can’t come here like this, you know. I’ll have to think of another way for us to see each other. Will you wait till I send word?”

  The dragon shook her head.

  “Please?”

  A pause, then Argand nodded.

  “Right, off you go!” Throwing Argand up into the air like a ball, Connie watched the dragon flit away over the wall, her wings flashing with rapid strokes.

  Knowing her two minutes had been up long ago, Connie picked up her scorched top and the smoldering remains of the Latin book.

  It seems she was the last in a long line of Lionhearts to use it, Connie thought as the pages drifted away in black flakes. A noble end for a family heirloom.

  Col was waiting in his grandmother’s boat, Water Sprite, for his father to arrive. Mack was late—of course. Seagulls mewed overhead, etching figure eights like ice skaters in the sky. Bored with watching tourists mill around the gift shops, Col busied himself coiling ropes, involuntarily thinking of them as snakes and wondering what his mother and the gorgon were up to.

  “Hi, Col!” He looked up, shading his eyes against the slanting rays of the sun. Anneena, dressed in fuchsia pink, was standing on the gangplank; Jane hovered shyly behind her.

  “Oh, hi,” Col said brightly. “Come on board. I haven’t seen you all week. What’ve you been doing?”

  “Busy working on these,” said Anneena, gesturing to a bundle of posters Jane was carrying. The girls leapt lightly down into the boat.

  “What are the posters for?” He took them from Jane and put them on a dry spot on the engine hatch.

  “We’re appealing for teams to take part in the carnival procession,” Jane said, patting the scrolls proudly.

  “Oh, yeah?” Col had seen the pageant in previous years. It was not his kind of thing. A bunch of people dressed up in ridiculous costumes for “Michaelmas,” one of the old quarter days in honor of the Archangel Michael and the traditional start of the festival. He was always more interested in the music that followed.

  Anneena took over. “This year we want to make it really good because my sister—you know Rupa’s landed a job with The Times in London?—well, she’s going to do an article about it for the weekend magazine—they’re running a story about the festival. It’s all part of the publicity about the new road.”

  “Really?” Col replied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “Yes,” Anneena continued, undisturbed by his reaction. “You ride, don’t you, Col? You’d be great—all you need is a costume.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Col said firmly. “You are absolutely not going to rope me into it.”

  “Think about it—please!”

  “I don’t need to think about it.”

  Anneena’s face was a picture of disappointment. Col felt a bit bad letting her down, but the last thing in the world he wanted to do was to team up with the aging amateur dramatic society who ran the pageant and make a fool of himself in some stupid costume. He couldn’t think of any circumstances under which he would willingly take part.

  Jane nudged Anneena to stop her from arguing about it any further today. “Go on, tell him,” Jane muttered. Evidently, they had not dropped by the boat by accident.

  Anneena said: “It’s about Connie.”

  “What about her?”

  “We saw her again yesterday. She really wants to see you.”

  “And I want to see her. But how can I? Her aunt won’t let her near anyone from our Society.”

  Jane smiled sadly. “Yeah, she thinks you’re all a bunch of tree-hugging nuts.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Col laughed.

  “I dunno,” said Jane, shrugging. “Poor old Connie. She’s really hating it in Chartmouth.”

  “Did she say if she can get out of there?”

  Anneena nodded. “She’s had an idea. She wants you to meet her in the abbey tomorrow at noon—she’s got a favor to ask.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “No idea—she was very mysterious about it.

  It must be about the Society then, thought Col. “Sure, I’ll go to the abbey.”

  “She said to hide in case she’s with her aunt.”

  “Fine—I can do that.”

  “So, Col, I see you’ve got company!” Mack had arrived and was looking down at the threesome with an unnecessarily broad grin. “Shall I come back later?”

  The girls both glanced at Col, not knowing what to make of the arrival of one of Hescombe’s famous characters. Col wished that the earth would swallow him up but he had to say something.

  “Anneena—Jane—this is my dad,” he said heavily.

  Mack jumped into the boat. He then reached up to the quayside to lift down his diving gear, knocking Jane’s posters into a puddle of water. He swore and shook them out.

  “Sorry, darling. What’s all this then—a pageant?” he asked, catching sight of what was written on them. “You’re looking for volunteers? You should come up to the woods and ask the protestors—they’ve got plenty of time on their hands. Getting dressed up in weird costumes would be right up their alley. I expect you’d think that some of them wouldn’t even need to change.” He gave Jane aconspiratorial wink. Col felt a pang of pity for her and wished he could whisk his father away. Then it got worse: Mack peeled off his jacket and shirt to put on his wetsuit, revealing a tattoo of a great tentacled creature on his back. Jane did not know where to look. “Up for an expedition, girls?”

  “Er…no thanks, Mr. Clamworthy,” Anneena excused them hastily.

  “Mack, darling, call me Mack.”

  Col noted dismally that everything he hated about his father seemed magnified in the presence of girls.

  Anneena looked flustered. “Thanks, Mr.…er…Mack, but we’ve really got to get these posters up.” Jane was already abandoning ship with the scrolls stuffed haphazardly under her arm. “Some other time, perhaps.” The girls hurried off, shouting their good-byes before the invitation could be pressed any further.

  “So,” said Mack, leaning on the wheelhouse and assessing his son, “you haven’t started to make progress with the girls then? Give it a few more years.”

  Col was bored waiting for his father to surface from his dive, having tired of staring out across the same patch of ocean for several hours. He wished Connie was with him—with her there, they’d have a chance of catching sight of a siren, or a selkie, or any mythical creature in the vicinity, come to think of it.

  He thought back to the Society meeting last night. Dr. Brock had stressed that they were far from ready for Kullervo’s next attack with Connie unable to continue her training. The adult members were working hard in secret for the expected confrontation with the shapeshifter and his supporters—even junior members like Col were being taught ancillary tasks, like treatment of weather injuries for the unicorn companions, search and rescue for the selkie companions, and evasion techniques for pegasus and dragon riders. They all expected Kullervo to unleash a devastating revenge, an assault that would require everyone to play their part—especially the universal. Col hated the feeling of powerless panic that hit him every time he thought about the shape-shifter. He want
ed to be braver—stronger. He had wanted to learn how to fight, to know how to protect Connie from Kullervo. He’d be good at it, he was sure of that, and he’d enjoy learning the skills. But Dr. Brock had firmly put him in his place when Col had expressed this wish.

  “The Trustees are strongly of the opinion that children must not be used in battle. When you are eighteen, you can apply to join one of our active units, but until then you must be content with learning these other, equally useful skills,” Dr. Brock had told him.

  Watching the sea lap against the fenders, Col yawned. Adults were all the same really. There was Dr. Brock spoiling his plans, just as Connie’s great-aunt was determined to spoil hers.

  There was an explosion of bubbles in the sea and a masked head bobbed to the surface. Col helped pull his father’s gear over the side before Mack slithered back on board, dripping liberally, shaking himself like a dog emerging from a bath.

  “How was it?” Col forced himself to act interested.

  “Amazing,” Mack replied, his eyes still bearing a faroff look as if part of him had not yet returned.

  “Yeah, right,” said Col, starting the engine. “Connie said the Kraken was one of the weirdest creatures she’d encountered.”

  Mack looked up abruptly, anger sparkling in his dark eyes. “Weird? She knows nothing then.”

  Col, already irritated by his father’s crass behavior earlier, scaring off his friends, sprang to Connie’s defense.

  “Nothing, huh? A universal and she knows nothing? Well, Dad, she knows a lot more than you’ll ever know about mythical creatures, and if she says the Kraken’s weird, then it’s weird.”

  Mack peeled off his wetsuit jacket and threw it to the floor.

  “That’s right, son,” he said with a bitter edge to his voice. “Live in her shadow. Play lapdog to the universal if you must. You’re just like your mother—a slave to someone else. Some of us prefer to stand on our own two feet.”

  As Mack was wearing bright yellow flippers when he said this, the remark would have been funny if it had not bothered Col so badly

  “You’re so blind, Dad. Mom’s not a slave. The gorgon’s amazing.”