He wondered what had happened to them. Where their lanterns and food and equipment were now.
As he made his way through the tunnel, though, Clay began to see signs of a different sort of activity.
A distinctly nonhuman sort of activity.
With growing apprehension, he noted claw marks at points where the tunnel had been widened well beyond what would have been necessary for a person. Repeated scratching and scraping had created bowl-shaped spaces that would have been too large for even the tallest of human beings but that were perfect for a bigger animal to curl up inside. The tunnel called to mind a giant rabbit warren—although Clay suspected that rabbit paws, even giant ones, would not be strong enough to carve through the volcanic rock.* Some bigger, sharper-clawed creatures had laid claim to this tunnel.
Much bigger, much sharper-clawed.
Who survived? That was the question that plagued him. Had the humans outlasted these other creatures? Or had these other creatures outlasted the humans? And if the creatures had prevailed, as Mr. B had suggested, could one still be alive?
Could there be a dragon—it still sounded crazy to say it—living on Price Island to this very day?
Clay tried to think rationally. If there were a dragon on the island, wouldn’t there have been signs? Burning trees. Animals fleeing in terror. The bloody remains of a dragon meal.
The island seemed too small to hold such a big secret.
And yet if there was one thing Clay had learned about Price Island, it was that there was always another surprise waiting around the corner.
At first, the air in the tunnel was fairly cool, except for periodic sulfurous blasts of heat that grew more and more intense as Clay pushed deeper and deeper into the mountain. There must have been another steam vent somewhere in the tunnel.
He had been walking for about ten minutes, the tunnel getting hotter and hotter all the while, when that strange, syrupy sleepiness hit him again, with even more force than before.
What was it about these caves that made him so drowsy?
Bleary-eyed, he could see a circle of light up ahead. Daylight or flashlight?
Actually, it looks more like firelight, Clay decided. Or am I just too tired to tell the difference?
He staggered toward the light, unsure whether the glow was real or a trick of his imagination. Then he stumbled, dropping his torch—
He is flying again. Over the bamboo forest.
He is high enough that the forest looks like a field of bright green grass. Yet low enough to see the bamboo bending in the wind.
There is a shadow moving across the bamboo. It looks like the shadow of an airplane, but an airplane that swings its tail and flaps its wings.
It is his shadow, he realizes.
The tail is his tail. The wings are his wings.
The wind bending the bamboo—it is his wind.
He is a dragon, and yet he is still Clay.
(In the same way, he knows he must be dreaming, and yet feels sure that he is not.)
He flaps harder. The strength in his wings is tremendous.
The bamboo bends further, bowing to his power.
The island looks different from this height, but he knows where he is. Behind him is Bamboo Bay. To his left is Mount Forge. Soon he will see Earth Ranch.…
Yes, there, just ahead, is the long, crescent-shaped lake. Lava Lake, it’s called. And there, jutting out of the lake, is the boulder, Egg Rock, that the campers have to reach in order to pass their swim tests.
But on the shore, he sees only a few unfamiliar grass huts and a smoldering campfire. Where is everything else?
He flies low over the lake, coming up on camp. Or where camp should be.
The dome is gone. The yurts are gone. The barn: gone.
He flies faster.
The palace ruins and the library tower: gone and gone.
He glances back—even the rainbow is gone.
Something horrible has happened.
Zing! An arrow whizzes by on his right.
Zing! Zing! On his left, this time. Closer and closer.
Startled, he looks down to the bluff where Price Palace once stood, and sees a man readying his bow to shoot again. The man has paint on his face, and he is wearing some kind of skirt or loincloth. He doesn’t look like anybody Clay knows from the island. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He looks like a man from a different world. A man from long ago.
That’s why the camp isn’t there, Clay thinks. It hasn’t been built yet.…
But by now Clay’s voice is very faint in his head—as if his human self were disappearing over some faraway horizon. Soon it is all but obliterated by a terrible animal rage.
He comes down on the hunter like a firestorm.…
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
A PRIMAL WHEEZE
Wake up, Clay. You hear me? Wake up!”
It felt like hours, but it was less than a minute later that Clay blinked awake—only to see a bow tie inches from his face. He was lying on the ground, and Brett was shaking him, just as Clay had shaken Brett on the beach the day before.
“Wake up!”
“I’m up, I’m up,” Clay groaned.
“You okay?”
“No.… Yes.… Maybe. Just let go of me, would you?”
Brett laughed, letting go of Clay’s shoulders. “Now you know what it feels like.… Just don’t puke on me.”
“Why not? I owe you one,” Clay joked groggily.
He smiled—or tried to—and sat up.
They were at one end of a vast, glittering cave, suffused with a soft orangey glow. The glow came from the long, fiery lava pit that was about twenty feet away from them.
“Why are the walls so bright?” he asked.
“Look closer—”
Clay leaned forward. His vision was a little blurry, but the sight was spectacular nonetheless. “Wow… crystals?”
Brett nodded. “Not just that. Diamonds, I think.”
“How do you know?”
“I was into geology when I was little.”
The diamonds were encrusted on the jagged black rock in clusters, like barnacles on a ship. They reflected a myriad of colors, but predominantly the orangey light of the lava. The color looked oddly familiar to Clay, as if he’d been in the cave before.
“Diamonds sometimes pop up around volcanoes,” Brett explained. “They grow over billions of years, way down in the earth’s mantle, where it’s superhot and there’s a lot of pressure. Then one day volcanic eruptions bring them up to the surface, and… bling! It’s an overpriced engagement ring.”
“Awesome.”
Next to Clay was Flint’s bamboo torch, no longer lit. He picked it up off the ground, then stood—and grabbed his forehead.
“Head rush, right?” said Brett. “It’s the drop in blood pressure. Kind of the reverse situation of a volcano.”
“Yeah, I guess…”
“Careful—”
Clay removed his hand from his eyes—just in time to avoid hitting his head against a rock formation that was hanging from the ceiling.
“That’s a stalactite, in case you’re wondering. As opposed to a stalagmite, which is the one that comes up from the ground. There are lots of stalactites in volcanic caves. Made from dripping lava. They’re called lavacicles.”
“Like icicles? That’s funny.”
Still in a daze, Clay leaned against the cave wall.
Brett smiled. “No such thing as lava-lagmites, though. Lava doesn’t really make stalagmites.”
Clay laughed. “You know what? You kinda remind me of my brother.”
“How?”
“Just, there’s a lot of stuff in your head, let me put it that way.”
Brett made a face. “Too much, you mean, right?”
“What do I know? I can’t keep anything in my head.”
“So you and your brother…” Brett hesitated. “You’re not really close then?”
Clay looked at him askance. “I did
n’t say that.… Anyway, he’s a lot older, and I don’t even know where he is right now.”
“Oh… I never had a brother. I had a stepsister. She was my best friend—well, kind of my only friend—but then…” Brett made a chopping motion with his hand.
“She was killed?!”
“No! My dad divorced her mom, that’s all,” said Brett. “We still text sometimes, but she’s… older now.”
“I know what you mean,” said Clay. At their age, girls sometimes inexplicably got older in a way that boys usually didn’t. It was unnerving.
“Hey, isn’t that a… lava-lagmite right there?” Clay pointed at a crystal-encrusted rock formation rising out of the cave floor. “See that one that looks like a guy holding a spear?”
“I think it is a guy holding a spear…” said Brett.
“Like, a real guy?”
“A real spear, anyway.”
They walked closer, although not much closer. It was extremely creepy.
“See how the end is sticking out?” said Brett. “It’s like it was frozen in place.…”
“Or burned in place,” said Clay darkly.
“By lava, you mean?”
“Maybe.”
“What else?”
Clay shrugged. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it: By a dragon.
Brett shuddered. “Maybe it’s just a stalagmite after all,” he said hopefully, turning away from it.
“Yeah, maybe.” Or maybe not.
“Anyway, I know you probably want to hear me talk about rocks for another five hours, but can we… go?”
“Sure,” said Clay, although he felt strangely reluctant to leave. “But can I at least look around a little more first?”
Without waiting for an answer, he started walking toward the lava pit.
As Clay looked from one side to the other, he couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d been there before, and as soon as he got to the edge of the pit, he knew why. It was because he had been there before. In a dream.
He stared at the bubbles, popping and steaming when they reached the lava’s surface, and he inhaled their familiar sulfurous scent. He watched the lava’s constantly blackening and un-blackening crust, remembering how fantastic it had felt to dive underneath…
“Clay? You’re standing a little close, aren’t you?”
“What? Oh yeah.” He stepped back. “Sorry, I guess I haven’t totally woken up yet.”
Brett looked at him with concern. “Seriously, you’re acting kind of weird. I think we should get out of here.”
Clay forced himself to focus. “Right. Let’s go, then.”
“Yeah, let’s,” said Brett. “The battery in my flashlight went out just before I saw you, but you’ve got one, right?”
“A flashlight? No, just this—” Clay held up the unlit torch. A thin wisp of smoke rose from it.
“You have a match?” asked Brett.
“Nope.”
“How’d you light it before?”
“Someone else did,” said Clay, in a way that didn’t invite further questioning. Although, really, Clay wondered, what was the point of hiding magic from Brett anymore?
“So we’re out of luck, then,” said Brett grimly. “No way to get back except by feel… which is pretty much impossible.”
“Pretty much.”
“Perfect. Headline: Twelve-year-old boy is pushed off ship and narrowly escapes drowning, only to perish under a volcano.” Brett shook his head, as if he’d expected nothing less. “At least it makes a good story. Not that I’ll ever get to tell it—”
“Oh, come on. Nobody’s perishing,” said Clay. “There’s got to be a way to get this lit again.”
“I know,” said Brett. “What if we dip it in the lava? Maybe it will catch fire.”
Clay shook his head. “Too risky. The whole stick might burn. What about a piece of paper?” he said, thinking of the way the leaf had caught fire in his dream. “Maybe we could light the torch with it.”
“Do you see any paper?”
“Wait, I know!” Clay gestured to Brett’s bow tie. “Wouldn’t you be happier with that thing off anyway?”
“No way!” said Brett. “This tie is my good-luck charm. It kept me from drowning.”
“Right. And it will keep you from dying under a volcano if we can use it to light the torch,” said Clay. “Then it will really be a good-luck charm.”
“Fine,” Brett grumbled. He untied his bow tie and tossed it to Clay.
Clay tied it to the unlit torch, then lowered the loose end into the pit. The tie started smoking before it touched the lava. By the time it grazed the lava’s surface, it was on fire.
Clay slowly raised the torch and waved it from side to side.
For the first time he noticed the enormous undulating mounds of rocks that surrounded the entire left side of the lava pit; it looked like a giant toddler had dribbled rocks through his fingers.
“Great,” said Brett, turning around. “Now let’s get out of here—”
“Watch out!” exclaimed Clay. “Those steam vents there will fry you if you’re not careful.”
He nodded in the direction of two round holes in the closest rock mound. A blast of scorching-hot air came out of them.
“See what I mean?”
Brett studied the holes, his eyes narrowing.
“Those aren’t steam vents,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, they are,” Clay insisted. “I know you’re the geology guy, but I’ve been on this island longer. Volcanic gas and stuff comes out of them—”
“Do steam vents suck air in before air comes out?” asked Brett, his face pale.
“No…” Clay stuck his hand out.
Brett was right: There was a slight vacuum-like pull.
“Do they move and, uh, twitch, like they’re feeling itchy?”
“No…” said Clay, feeling less confident.
It was true: The holes were quivering. A bit.
“And do… big globs of green goo drip out of them?”
“No…” Clay tilted his head.
He had thought the green stuff was another, smaller rock formation, but now that Brett mentioned it…
“I see what you’re saying,” said Clay, his throat suddenly dry.
He noticed that his leg was jiggling and forced it to stop.
“I’m saying it’s time to run for our lives,” said Brett. “Screaming.”
“Maybe we should try backing away slowly first,” said Clay. “No screaming.”
“Okay. Slowly. Right.”
Brett took a step backward and—“Aaack!”—hit his head. He had backed up against the cave wall.
“I know,” he said, wincing with pain. “You said no scream—”
He froze. Clay froze.
The mound with the two holes was shaking. Rocks and crystals slid off the top in a noisy avalanche.
“Volcanic eruption?” Brett whispered.
“I don’t think so,” Clay whispered back. “Maybe an earthquake?”
Brett shook his head. No, not that either.
As the mound’s shaking lessened, a terrible sound could be heard blaring out of the two holes. A sound that must have been building for a long, long time. A sound that seemed to come from the mountain’s very core. And yet, you wouldn’t have described the sound as deep; it was more high-pitched.
Have you ever heard of a primal scream?* This was like that, but, well… nasal.
A primal wheeze.
The wheeze echoed throughout the cave, louder and louder, until the holes twitched for a last time, the mound heaved upward in a final spasm, and—in one big, powerful blast—sizzling-hot green goo erupted from the holes and splattered the cave.
It was as if the mountain itself had expelled its mucus.
A primal sneeze.
Or, as Brett put it, with a horrified gasp: “It’s like a nose volcano.”
Clay nodded, awestruck. “Snot lava.”
Thankfully, they had stepped far e
nough away to avoid the worst of it. Still, backed up against the cave wall as they were, they had not totally escaped. Steaming globs of goo dripped from their heads, leaving behind the smell of burning hair, and oozed down their arms, leaving trails of red, blistered skin.
The burns must have hurt, but they didn’t notice. Their attention was on something else.
“Are those what I think they are?” Brett mumbled. “I mean, they are rocks… right?”
As the last bits of rubble fell away from the mound, revealing a crusty gray under-layer, two round rocks—or what looked like two round rocks—had become visible a few feet behind the two steam-holes-that-weren’t-steam-holes. The rocks—if that’s what they were—appeared to be lodged in the mound’s surface, as if they’d been pushed most, but not all, of the way in. Deep circular wrinkles surrounded them like ripples, and a line—or more accurately, a slit—divided each one in half.
Brett and Clay watched, riveted, as the slits started to open.
“No, definitely not rocks,” said Clay.
The slits opened further. Inside, protected by heavy folds of ancient, armored skin, were two glassy, golden orbs with big, black, diamond-shaped pupils in the center.
The “rocks” were eyes.
FROM Secrets of the Occulta Draco; or, The Memoirs of a Dragon Tamer
There is an old saying that goes, Just as a camel has two humps, a dragon has two hearts—one good and one bad.
Hogwash.
I suppose it is possible that dragons have two blood-pumping organs in their bodies. (I have spent my life among dragons, yet much of their biology remains a mystery to me.) But remember this: It is people who have good hearts and bad hearts. For a dragon, there is no good or bad. There is no should or should not. There are only is and is not.
Although dragons are infinitely smarter than people, they are also simpler. Push a dragon and it will push back. Treat a dragon gently and it will treat you gently. Try to kill a dragon and it will try to kill you.