“Oh, just a cup of tea,” she said.
“No problem.” He was about to turn to get it when she caught his arm and said, “Um, Mr. Farrell, may I introduce you to someone?”
Tam glanced at the elderly man beside her.
“My neighbor and mentor, Henry Bacon. He’s a librarian. He likes poetry, don’t you, Henry?”
“Not this modern trash,” he muttered, scowling his way through the pages of a pamphlet.
Tam’s mouth fell open. “Well, you’re full of surprises, Miss …?”
“Martindale,” she said, “but you can call me Zanna.”
Tam nodded in the style of an old-fashioned gentleman and smiled again, as if he’d won a small but important victory. Hands in pockets, he turned to Mr. Bacon. “I’m a Blake man, myself. What about you, Henry?”
“Too many angels,” Mr. Bacon grunted.
“There’s nothing wrong with angels,” Zanna chided him.
“You like Blake?” Tam turned to her again.
“Had to read him at school.” Stroking her hair, she quoted one of his lines, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.”
“Fair assessment,” said Tam, looking impressed. “Tea, then, and …?”
“Tea as well,” said Henry. “Where are the restrooms?”
Tam flapped a hand. “Oh, at the back of the shop, I think. Sit down where you like,” he said quietly to Zanna. “I’ll be back with …”
“Tea?” she said wryly.
“Tea. Right.” He drifted away.
Zanna chose the back row of seats. Suspecting that Tam might elect to join them, it was her intention to use Henry as a buffer between them, but Mr. Bacon’s insistence on having an aisle seat left the chair beside her free, and sure enough Tam chose to sit there. To his credit, he kept a respectful distance and only spoke once or twice throughout the first reading to whisper the odd comment. “Too intense,” he suggested about one poem. “Probably better off the page,” he said of another. Zanna said nothing in return. With her hands in her lap she struck a high-chinned pose, which she hoped might make her appear to be listening, even though she was finding the poetry dull and Henry’s bad-tempered shuffling difficult to cope with. She was mildly surprised that Tam had not gone to sit with friends or even tried to introduce her to them, an embarrassment she’d been steeling herself for since her arrival. And why hadn’t he known where the restrooms were, if this was one of his regular haunts?
The answer became clear when the second reader was announced — none other than Tam Farrell, a “highly respected” name on the poetry circuit, with many publications in small press magazines. She clapped benignly as he stood up.
“Seems I’m not the only one with surprises,” she said.
“It’s not Blake, but I hope you enjoy it,” he replied.
He read about Scotland. He read about his childhood. But most of all, he read about love. His voice, in turns both lyrical and commanding, hung in the air with the ethereal quality of a good radio broadcast. Despite her better wishes, Zanna found herself moved. At the end, the applause was rapturous and deserved. He nodded modestly and thanked them all for coming. She was pleased that he did not try to look at her.
The readings concluded there and Tam was drawn away to a table at the front. Cassandra announced that his first collection of poetry was available to buy and he would be happy to sign copies if anyone was interested. A small crowd soon gathered. To Zanna’s surprise, Henry Bacon declared he was going to join them.
Zanna didn’t know what to say. She looked over at the table where Tam was smiling broadly, already handing a book to a gushing fan. How many times had she imagined David doing that? “I’ll just browse,” she said to Henry. “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”
Half an hour later she was standing beside the section labeled “New Age/Spiritual,” glancing through a book about the Wiccan religion when Tam’s voice drifted over her shoulder. “Ah, thought I might find you here.”
“In the crazies’ section?” She reached up and slid the book back onto the shelf.
He clicked his tongue. Touché. Again. “You know, that really is a nasty scar,” he said, daring to hold her arm a moment. “You must have encountered some brutes in your playground?”
“I fell,” she said, releasing herself with just enough force to suggest that she didn’t approve of the contact. “Where’s Henry?”
“Treating Cassie to a discourse on libraries.”
“Then I’d better go and rescue her.”
Tam swept a path clear. “He asked me to give you this.” He held out a copy of his poetry pamphlet.
“The Fire Eternal,” she mumbled, reading the title.
“It’s a metaphor — for everlasting love,” he said, letting his gaze wander over her face. “Not too subtle, but folks seem to like it. Read the inscription.”
Zanna opened the book. On the title page were the words, To Zanna — I hope this opens a small door to perception, Tam Farrell.
“Henry asked me to sign it for you.”
Speechless, she chewed her lip.
“Kind man,” he said. “Interesting, too — once he’s put you in your place, of course. Forgive me if I’m about to wade in with elephant-sized feet, but … I take it he’s not your partner?”
Zanna shook her head. “No. No, he isn’t.”
“He couldn’t make it, then — your guy?”
“I have to go,” she said, loosening the flap on her knit shoulder bag and pushing the pamphlet hurriedly inside. “Thank you for a pleasant evening.”
“My pleasure,” he said as she swept away. With an unresolved sigh, he followed her back to the signing table.
Henry was still in deep discussion and had regressed from the library system into the war years. Cassandra, who seemed grateful to see another female face, interrupted him to ask if Zanna had enjoyed the event.
“Yes, very enlightening,” she said, her attention still diverted to her bag. It had felt awkward for a moment when she’d opened it, but she couldn’t quite understand why.
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Cassandra was nodding at Tam.
“Mmm. A revelation,” Zanna mumbled, absent-mindedly buttoning up her bag.
“He gets better. You should come to these events more often. Haven’t I seen you before anyway?”
“I work on Main Street,” Zanna replied quickly. “I stop in now and then.”
Cassandra nodded. “Tam, about your ‘fee.’”
“You pay him?” said Henry, who clearly felt that literature ought to be free to the masses.
“In kind,” she said. “Choose a book, Tam. Anything you like, hard or paperback.”
Tam looked around a moment then walked across to a display table and picked one up. “I’ll take this.” It was a copy of White Fire.
Zanna felt her breath moving forward in stutters.
“Fine choice,” said Henry.
“You’ve read it?” Tam half-lifted an eyebrow.
“I’ve more than read it, boy, I —”
A nudge from Zanna stopped him short. “Henry, I think it’s time we go.”
Tam opened the book at the back page. “No, please, go on. I’m interested to hear what Henry has to say. There’s quite a cult growing up around this. Thought I’d find out what all the fuss is about. Local chap, isn’t he?” He pointed to a small photograph on the inside of the book jacket. David in the library gardens, feeding a squirrel.
Cassandra nodded. “He died — a few years ago.”
Tam hummed thoughtfully. “Tragic. So young.” He let the pages flutter. “Polar bears, the Arctic, Inuit legends.” He looked pointedly at Zanna, then at Henry. “Doesn’t strike me as your sort of thing, Henry?”
“I’m a librarian,” he said. “I’m widely read.”
Good answer, thought Tam. Cleverly evasive. He smiled, accepted it, and opened his messenger bag. “And you, Zanna? Have you …?”
“Yes,” she said, trying not to look away. “It’s a brilliant book. Naively written in places, but refreshing. It sends out a clear environmental message to the world and I think everyone who cares about this planet and the welfare of its wildlife should read it. Now, I’m sorry, but we really must go.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, standing aside to let her go past. “Oh, about my consultation?”
She came to an imperial halt.
“Would next Wednesday at eleven be okay?”
She thought a moment. “Twelve-thirty would be better.”
“Okay, twelve-thirty it is. Oh, and Zanna?”
“What?” she said, turning, crunching the word.
“Thank you for coming.”
He meant it, she could tell. She stared at him a second, then noticed Cassandra smiling in the background and hurriedly escaped before her cheeks lit up.
That evening, Tam Farrell drove home to his riverside apartment, thinking endlessly about Suzanna Martindale. His mind should have been fixed on the article he planned to write for The National Endeavor. Instead, his thoughts danced in the rain and the headlights, lingering on her dark-haired beauty, her calf-length Indian cotton dresses, the braids in her hair, the bangles on her arms. So much passion. So many secrets. So much he still wanted to know about her.
The rain beat down. Tam tapped his head. Come on, it’s a job, he told himself. Just another feature. Stay professional. Not too close.
He glanced at the cover of White Fire where it lay on the passenger seat beside him. It was the original version, a polar bear in close-up at the edge of the ice cap, its head low, its brown eyes angled upward as though it was aware of something in the distance. Suddenly, the exterior street lighting changed and on the head of the bear Tam thought he saw a mark. He walloped his brakes, slowing to a stop just a bumper kiss away from the car in front. The driver remonstrated and drove off angrily. Tam gestured in surrender and pulled into the curb. The mark on the polar bear’s head had gone away. Thinking at first it was a holographic projection cast in the foil effects on the jacket, he held the book up to the light from the windshield. No amount of tilting could reproduce the mark. And yet he was certain he hadn’t imagined it. He scrambled in his messenger bag, pulling out a sheet of paper. An image, downloaded from the Internet that morning. A three-pronged symbol. The mark of Oomara. The subject of several Inuit legends. The same mark that was gouged into Zanna’s arm. The symbol he’d seen on the cover of the book.
A spray of rain lashed into his driver’s window. For the first time since he’d begun this feature, a thread of fear wormed its way around the intrigue. “What are you?” he whispered, clenching his teeth. He picked up the book and stared at it again. He stroked the bear’s face and thought, ironically, about the doors of perception. When they didn’t open, he pushed the book and the image deep into his bag, unaware that as he did so he was covering up something that had stowed away there. It was an artifact, patterned with Inuit etchings, fashioned long ago from the tusk of a narwhal, a creature thought to have magical properties — which might have explained, had Tam been aware of it, how he came to be carrying a shape-shifting dragon called Groyne into the heart of the city that night.
11
THE DOOR OPENS
When Zanna arrived home, the only person still up was Lucy. She was in the front room, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, watching TV. Zanna poked her head around the door and said, “Hi.”
“Um,” Lucy grunted, without once taking her eyes off the screen.
Just in front of her, Bonnington was sitting on the hearth rug. He was in his favored “panther” mode. His ferocious yellow eyes were glued to the broadcast. Zanna always found this a little unnerving. It was easy to see how a domestic cat might be fascinated, in passing, by this animated glowing box (her parents’ cat, Pippa, used to like watching golf balls being putted across a green) but Bonnington, or rather the hybrid he’d become, watched it with critical intensity. No one would have been at all surprised if he’d donned a pair of glasses or set the DVD player. He was that kind of cat now.
“News 24?” she queried, reading the corner of the screen. A music program or a soap opera, maybe; it was unlike Lucy to be watching the news.
“It’s about Patagonia.”
Patagonia. Right. Zanna perched on the arm of the sofa. “Homework?”
Lucy lowered the sound. Bonnington’s ears immediately pricked up. “They have these ice fields in the Andes mountains. They’re melting too fast because of global warming. While you were out listening to poetry, the southern ice sheet probably lost an area equivalent to the size of a football field.”
Right, thought Zanna. And I’m to blame for that, am I? She laid her hands on her knees and pushed herself up again. “Sorry, I’ll try not to be out so long in the future.”
“Sea levels are rising,” Lucy added casually. “About a millimeter a year — on average. Doesn’t sound enough to cause major flooding, does it?”
“Lucy, it’s not my fault, OK? I’m just as concerned about climate change as you are.”
“No, you’re not.”
And there it is, Zanna told herself. Shut down before I can make a case. She shook herself together with a clatter of bangles. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what the poetry was like?”
Zanna opened her bag and threw the pamphlet toward her. “Pretty good. Check for yourself.”
“Is this his?” Lucy said, making no attempt at all to disguise her shock.
“He’s a fine writer,” Zanna said a little pompously. “His poetry’s very moving. Why don’t you read it? He’s coming to the shop for a consultation next Wednesday. I’d appreciate it if you could stop in during your lunch hour and cover for me.”
Lucy read the inscription and put the book down. “Did he ask about David?”
“No, why would he?”
Lucy gave her a questioning glare.
Sighing heavily, Zanna replied, “He seemed relieved that Henry and I weren’t an item, if that’s what you mean? And bizarrely, he took a copy of White Fire home to read.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“He’s a client, Lucy. I don’t discuss my personal life with clients.”
“Not even if you’re into them?”
Raar, meowed Bonnington, and trotted out the door.
“Okay, forget it. I’ll ask your mom if she’s free next week —”
“Oh, talk about ‘sensitive.’” Lucy made a face. “Relax, will you? I’ll cover. I always do, don’t I? Might as well see if he’s ‘worthy,’ I suppose.”
“Thank you,” Zanna said, performing a minor curtsy. “Now, if Her Majesty approves, I’m going to retire to my bedchamber and check that my daughter’s asleep.”
“She is,” Lucy said with an aggravated drawl. But as Zanna turned away she sparked up again, saying, “Oh, by the way, she drew a picture.”
Zanna jiggled her house keys, a measure of her annoyance. “Lexie’s always drawing pictures. What of it?”
Lucy aimed the remote, making the television channels flash like a zoetrope. “It’s an ancient dragon. Not like one of ours.”
On the mantelpiece, Gwillan rattled his scales.
Zanna hunched her shoulders. “And your point is?”
“Nothing … ‘cept she’s never drawn one like it before — and it’s got blue eyes.”
Blue eyes. Zanna turned the thought aside. She couldn’t face that path. Not tonight. Not after Tam Farrell’s heartbreaking poetry. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said and walked away. But as she entered what used to be David’s room, the words were still with her, doing their best to conjure up ghosts in the way that poems make worlds between their lines.
She slid her bag off her shoulder, sat on the bed, and stared at Alexa. The child was at peace, sleeping soundly, her pretty face catching the light of the moon. One small fist was resting on the pillow. Inside it was a fan of drawing paper.
Zanna leaned forward and teased it out. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gadzooks twitch.
“Have you seen this?” she whispered, using soft dragontongue.
He sent her a quiet hrrr of acknowledgement, but his gaze was clearly taken by something in the garden, making Zanna ask, “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Beyond the glass there came the faintest tinkle of a wind chime. Gadzooks immediately peered at Alexa. Her eyelids twitched as though she were dreaming and from her lips came a gentle murmur of dragonsong.
“Oh, baby,” Zanna whispered, cooing inside. She touched her hand to Alexa’s cheek. “Are the fairies talking to you?”
Alexa fell back into sleep once more. Gadzooks blew a thoughtful smoke ring and frowned.
“Has she been doing that all night?”
Gadzooks hurred again.
“Has it woken her?”
His tail flicked sideways, but he shook his head.
Zanna nodded and opened the piece of paper. As Lucy had said, it was a drawing of a dragon. A child’s effort. More of a sketch than a picture. In outline, it had the classic dragon shape: small head, umbrella wings, sinewy body. None of this came as any real surprise, for any talented child might reproduce that. But the eyes made Zanna catch her breath. In the pale light, she could not see their color properly, but the detail around them was quite astounding. Scales. Dozens of tiny scales, small below the eye, larger above. And she had tried to draw something in the pupil as well. Something reflected in the dragon’s vision. Some kind of star, perhaps?
Just then, Alexa gurgled in her sleep and squeezed her empty fist against the pillow. Zanna folded up the drawing and reinserted it between the soft pink fingers. “Dream it,” she whispered, using one of Liz’s favorite expressions. She stroked a lock of hair off Alexa’s temple and was about to turn away when a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness made her jump.
“Oh, Bonnington!” she chided. “What are you doing there? You gave me such a fright!”
The cat was sitting on the dressing table, looking like something from a pharaoh’s tomb.
“Turn back into something less spooky,” Zanna said. “I can’t see you in black. You’re not allowed up there anyway. Come on, shoo.”