Twigleg felt his legs beginning to tremble, but he nodded. “I’ll try,” he whispered. “As true as my name’s Twigleg and I was born in a test tube.”
When they returned to the village, it was deserted. The midday heat beat down, and the air seemed too thick to breathe. Even the children were out of sight. But the villagers were busy in their huts, cooking and baking, and their excited voices could be heard behind the colorful curtains.
“The whole village is expecting you to bring us luck,” Zubeida told Firedrake on the way to her hut. “They believe that dragon scales shed good luck like gold dust; they think it will settle on our rooftops and in the nets of our fishermen and stay with us long after you and your friends have flown away.”
“We must leave tonight,” said Firedrake. “The sooner we start, the harder it will be for Nettlebrand to follow us.”
Zubeida nodded. “Yes, you’re right. But if I am to help you outwit the moon when it is dark, you must wait until it is high in the sky tonight. Come with me.”
She led Firedrake and the others around behind her hut, where she had fenced in a plot of land. She had been growing flowers there, flowers with prickly leaves and tightly closed buds.
“As you all know, most plants need sunlight to live and grow,” explained Zubeida, leaning on the fence. “This flower is different. It lives on the light of the moon.”
“Extraordinary,” murmured Barnabas Greenbloom.
Vita leaned over the fence for a closer view of the strange plants. “I’ve never seen a flower like that before, Zubeida,” she said. “Where did you find it?”
The dracologist smiled. “I found the seeds up there in the dragon rider’s tomb. The plants that must once have lain there fell to dust long ago, but the seeds were still scattered around the sarcophagus. So I collected them, soaked them in water for a few days, and then sowed them here. You see the results before you. The petals we walked on in the tomb are the remains of my last harvest. I dry the flowers up there to get new seed. I’ve called them dragon-flowers — what else?” Zubeida Ghalib smiled and stroked one of the tightly closed buds. “They open only in moonlight, and then the blue flowers are so fragrant that moths come flying around them as if they were lamps. But most wonderful of all: The longer the moon shines down on them the brighter they glow, until the moonlight collects on their petals and leaves like dewdrops.”
“Amazing!” Barnabas Greenbloom looked at the dragon-flowers, fascinated. “Did you discover that by chance, or did someone tell you about these plants?”
“Can you say exactly what chance means, Barnabas?” replied Zubeida. “I remembered the age-old stories in which dragons once flew through the sky even by day. But only the oldest stories of all tell that tale. Why? I asked myself. How was it that a time came when dragons could fly only by moonlight? I looked for an answer in the inscriptions up at the tomb, and it was there — call it by chance if you like — that I found the seeds. I believe the dragon rider was on the track of the secret himself. After all, the dragon who cured him with dragon-fire came on a moonless night, didn’t he?” She looked into Firedrake’s golden eyes. “I believe these flowers gave that dragon the strength to fly, and the dew that collects on them has the power of the moon in it.”
“You think so?” Sorrel scrambled under the fence and sniffed the prickly leaves. “But you’ve never tried it out, have you?”
The dracologist shook her head. “How could I? Firedrake is the first live dragon I’ve ever met. And there’s no other creature that can rise in the air only with the aid of moonlight.”
“Hear that?” Sorrel turned to Firedrake. “You might just as easily fall out of the sky like a stone if you put your faith in these prickly things.”
Firedrake shook his wings. “Perhaps we won’t need their help, Sorrel. Perhaps we will have reached the Rim of Heaven long before the next dark time of the moon. But suppose there’s another eclipse, like the one over the sea? Suppose the moon disappears while we’re above mountains?”
Sorrel shook herself. “Oh, all right. You have a point.” She plucked a leaf from a flower and nibbled the tip of it suspiciously. “Doesn’t taste bad. More like catmint than moonlight, though, if you ask me.”
“Do I have to eat them?” Firedrake asked the dracologist.
Zubeida shook her head. “No, you just have to lick the dew off their leaves and petals. But as I can’t give you the flowers to take with you, I’ve been collecting moon-dew from them ever since Barnabas told me about you. I’ll collect more tonight, and then I can give you a full bottle to take on your flight. If the moon deserts you, one of your friends must put a few drops on your tongue. I think you’ll be able to tell how much you need. The dew will stay clear as water until the next full moon, when it will turn cloudy. So if you need any more for your flight home to the north, you must visit me again on the way.”
Firedrake nodded. He looked at the horizon thoughtfully. “I can hardly wait,” he said quietly. “I long to see the Rim of Heaven at last.”
32. All Lies
Twigleg enjoyed the party very much — all the singing and laughing and dancing, and the children chasing one another over the sand while the moon cast a broad ribbon of bright light over the sea.
The homunculus sat outside Zubeida Ghalib’s hut with Ben, Sorrel, and the Greenblooms. Firedrake was lying on the beach. The villagers were crowding around him so eagerly that most of the time all the others could see of him was his head. Everyone in the village wanted to stroke his scales, climb on his crested back, or sit between his paws. The dragon took it all kindly, but Sorrel knew him well enough to sense his impatience.
“See how his ears are twitching?” she said, stuffing a pawful of rice into her mouth. There were raisins in the rice, and sweet almonds and such delicious spices that, for the first time in her long life, Sorrel was really enjoying human food.
“When Firedrake’s ears twitch like that,” she said, licking her lips, “it means he’s impatient. In fact, very impatient. See that frown on his face? What he really wants to do is get up and fly away.”
“And so he can very soon,” said Zubeida, sitting down beside the brownie. She was holding a small red glass flask that contained a silvery liquid. “I’ve collected every drop I could from the petals of the dragon-flowers. I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you. Here you are, dragon rider,” she said, giving Ben the bottle. “Look after it carefully. I hope you won’t need it, but in case you do I feel sure it could help Firedrake.”
Ben nodded and tucked away the moon-dew in his backpack, where he had the rat’s map close at hand, too. He had discussed the djinn’s instructions with Barnabas Greenbloom. The professor thought that the palace Ben had seen in the djinn’s eye sounded very much like a monastery the Greenblooms had once visited on a field trip. It was not far from the place where the Indus changed course deep in the Himalayas, and the way to its source went east. Gilbert Graytail’s map showed a great many blank patches in those parts.
“Zubeida,” said Sorrel, “do you think a hungry brownie could take some of this human food along for the journey?”
Zubeida Ghalib laughed. “I’m sure she could,” she said. “After all, you must keep up your strength. Who knows how many more enchanted ravens you’ll have to drive out of the sky?”
“Yes, who knows?” murmured Sorrel, looking up. Her sharp eyes couldn’t make out the smallest black speck among the stars, but she didn’t trust this lull in hostilities. Night was a good disguise for black feathers.
“Hey, Twigleg,” she said, tugging the manikin by the sleeve, “find yourself a pool of water. It’s time you had a word with your master.”
Twigleg jumped. He had been sitting on Ben’s knee, dreamily watching the people enjoying themselves. “What did you say?”
“Nettlebrand!” repeated Sorrel impatiently. “Your old master! Find out if he’s still in the desert. We’re leaving soon.”
“Oh, yes.” Twigleg’s shoulders slumped.
“Shall I come with you?” asked Ben.
“Would you really, young master?” Twigleg gazed at the boy gratefully.
“Of course.” Ben put the manikin on his shoulder and stood up. “But if you say ‘young master’ once more, I shall go away and you can talk to the monster on your own.”
Twigleg nodded, clutching the boy’s sweater.
“Good. While you two do that,” Professor Greenbloom called after them, “Zubeida and I will rescue Firedrake from his admirers.”
Ben carried Twigleg to the field of dragon-flowers, where a shallow water basin had been dug in the ground near the fence. Zubeida watered the flowers from it when the heat made their leaves droop. It was covered with black plastic to keep the precious water from evaporating in the sun.
Ben put Twigleg down on the ground, pulled the plastic cover off the basin, and sat on the fence. The dragon-flowers were wide open now, and their prickly leaves shone in the dark.
“Suppose he really is still in the desert?” asked Ben. “Can he answer you all the same?”
Twigleg shook his head. “Not without water. But I don’t think Nettlebrand will be in the desert anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I just feel it,” murmured Twigleg. He picked up a small stone.
Ben shifted uncomfortably on the fence. “If he does turn up in the water,” he said, “do you think he’ll be able to see me here?”
Twigleg shook his head. Weak at the knees, he went to the rim of the basin. His reflection was paler than the moon, but the fragrance of the flowers filled the night and calmed the frantic beating of his heart.
“Stay as you are, please!” whispered the homunculus. “Stay dark, water!”
Then he threw the stone. Splash! Shimmering circles rippled over the surface of the water. Twigleg held his breath. An image appeared in the dark pool, but it was not the image of Nettlebrand.
“Gravelbeard!” Twigleg stepped back in surprise.
“Oh, Twigleg, there you are at last!” The mountain dwarf pushed his big hat back on his head. Large tears were trickling down his nose. “His Goldness, our master,” he gulped, raising his short little arms and then letting them sink again, “he’s … he’s …”
“He’s what?” stammered Twigleg.
Ben leaned over from the fence to hear better.
“He’s buried in the sand!” moaned Gravelbeard. “Gone, just like that! Oh!” He rolled his eyes and went on hoarsely. “It was terrible, Twigleg. The crunching. The squealing. And then suddenly” — the dwarf doubled over until it looked as if his nose would come up through the water — “suddenly everything was still. Perfectly still.” He stood up again, shrugging his shoulders. “What was I to do? I couldn’t dig him out. I’m much too small!”
Twigleg scrutinized the sobbing dwarf thoughtfully. He didn’t believe Gravelbeard’s story. Was it really possible that the source of all their troubles lay buried in the sand of a distant desert?
“Where are you now, Gravelbeard?” Twigleg asked the sniveling dwarf.
“Me?” Gravelbeard wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “I was lucky. A camel caravan happened to pass by soon after His Goldness” — here, he started sobbing again — “soon after His Goldness sank into the sand. I managed to cling to a camel’s leg and ride with them. And so I came to a city, a human city full of gold and diamonds. A wonderful place, I can tell you, an absolutely wonderful place.”
Twigleg nodded. Deep in thought, he stared into the water.
“What about you?” asked the dwarf. “Where are you now?”
Twigleg opened his mouth, but at the last minute he bit back what he had been about to say. “We only got out of the desert ourselves yesterday,” he said instead. “We didn’t find dragons any more than you did. That wretched djinn lied to us.”
“Yes, by tin and iron ore, what a villain!” Gravelbeard looked at Twigleg, but the homunculus could scarcely make out the dwarf’s eyes under the huge brim of his hat. “So what are you going to do now?” asked Gravelbeard. “Where will the silver dragon look next?”
Twigleg shrugged his shoulders and looked as indifferent as he could. “No idea. He seems very depressed. Have you seen the raven lately?”
Gravelbeard shook his head. “No, why?” He looked around. “I must go now,” he whispered. “Good luck, Twigleg. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“Maybe,” murmured Twigleg as the image of Gravelbeard blurred in the dark water.
“Hooray!” Ben jumped off the fence, swung Twigleg up onto his head, and danced around the dragon-flowers with him.
“We’re rid of him!” he chanted. “Good-bye, Nettlebrand! He sank into the sand in a desert land. Not so clever, he’s gone forever! Oh, wow!” He leaned on the fence, laughing. “Hear that? I’m a poet, I am!”
He took Twigleg off his head and held him in front of his face. “Why don’t you say something? You’re not looking too happy, either. You weren’t actually fond of that dragon-eater, were you?”
“No!” Twigleg shook his head indignantly. “It’s just,” he said, rubbing his pointed nose, “that it sounds too good to be true, see? I’ve had such a terrible time with him for so long, I’ve been afraid of him for so many hundreds of years, and now” — he concluded, looking at the boy — “now do you think he’s really sunk into the sand, just like that? Not him!” He shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, come on!” Ben poked Twigleg’s narrow chest with one finger. “That dwarf sounded as if he was telling the truth. There’s no end of quicksand in the desert. I saw something about them once on TV. Quicksand can swallow up a whole camel as if it were no bigger than a sand flea, honest.”
Twigleg nodded. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that, too. All the same —”
“Never mind all the same!” said Ben, putting the homunculus on his shoulder. “You’ve saved us. After all, it was you who sent him off into the desert. Imagine Sorrel’s face when we tell her! I can’t wait.”
And he ran back down to the beach to tell everyone the good news.
33. Face-to-Face
“Good!” growled Nettlebrand. “You did really well there, dwarf. That pathetic stick-insect creature really believed you.”
He raised his muzzle from the water and hauled his gigantic body up onto the bank, panting and snorting. A flock of birds fluttered into the night sky, screeching in loud voices. Gravelbeard clung to one of Nettlebrand’s horns and looked down anxiously at the great river, which was black as ink as it lapped around his master’s scales.
“How about a little reward?” he suggested. “Give me just one of your scales, Your Goldness!”
“What, for a few little lies? Shut up!” grunted Nettlebrand.
Gravelbeard muttered crossly into his beard.
“I’m going to pick up his scent now,” growled Nettlebrand.
“Whose scent?”
“The silver dragon’s, you pebble-brained idiot.”
“But there are human beings there.” The dwarf adjusted his hat nervously. “Lots and lots of them. Suppose they see you? Your scales shine in the moonlight, Your Goldness!”
“Shut your gob!” Nettlebrand waded through the mud of the riverbank toward the hill beyond which the village lay. The party was still going on, and the sound of music and laughter drifted their way on the wind, drowning out the roaring of the sea. Nettlebrand pricked up his ears and made his way to the top of the hill, still snorting.
And there he was. There was the silver dragon.
Firedrake was standing on the seashore, surrounded by people, and Ben and Sorrel were just climbing on his back.
Nettlebrand greedily inhaled the night air, snuffling and grunting. “Ah yes, I have his scent,” he breathed. “He can’t escape me now. At long, long last the hunt is over!”
He licked his dreadful lips. The thrill of the chase was running through him like wildfire, and he trod restlessly from one paw to the other.
“How are you going to follow
him?” asked the dwarf, wiping a few splashes of mud off Nettlebrand’s armored brow. “He can fly and you can’t.”
“Huh!” Nettlebrand shook his head scornfully. “There’s only one way from here into the mountains, and that’s up the river. If he can fly, I can swim. We’ll be going the same way. And now that I have his scent I can always find him again. The whispering wind will tell me where he is.”
Down on the beach, Firedrake was moving. He turned his back to the sea, which gleamed silver in the moonlight, and looked north. The crowd around him stepped back, leaving only four of them standing there: a tall thin man; two women, one short and the other tall; and a child. The dragon leaned down to them.
“It’s that professor,” growled Nettlebrand. “The one who has my scale. How the devil did he get here?”
“No idea, Your Goldness,” said Gravelbeard, nervously putting a hand under his shirt to touch Barnabas Greenbloom’s wedding ring, which hung on a ribbon around his neck.
“I’ll deal with him later,” grunted Nettlebrand. “I can’t stop now. Yes, I’ll save some of the fun for later.”
“Look, Your Goldness,” whispered Gravelbeard, “the dragon is taking off.”
Firedrake was spreading his wings. They shone like spun moonlight.
“At last!” whispered Nettlebrand. “Off you go to the Rim of Heaven, my little silver sleuthhound, to find the other dragons for me.”
At that moment the boy glanced up at the hills.
Nettlebrand’s scales flashed in the moonlight so brightly that Ben narrowed his eyes. Next moment the glint of gold was gone. A large rain cloud had drifted in front of the moon, casting a dark shadow over the hilltops. Puzzled, the boy stared into the night.
Nettlebrand laughed hoarsely. “You see, dwarf?” he growled. “Even the clouds are on our side.”
The silver dragon beat his wings and rose into the night sky, light as a bird. He circled a couple of times over the huts, while the people down on the beach waved to him, and then flew off into the night.