The dragon thoughtfully nodded his head. Barnabas Greenbloom translated what Ben had said to the lama. The monk smiled and replied, looking steadily at the boy.
“He says,” Twigleg whispered in Ben’s ear, “that after the morning meal he will give the dragon rider back his property, and he can do with it what he came here to do.”
“Does that mean he’s going to give me one of the sacred stones?” Ben looked first at Firedrake, then at the lama.
The monk nodded.
“Yes, I think you’ve got the general idea,” said Barnabas Greenbloom.
Ben made a shy bow to the monk. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. But don’t you think the luck may be lost if I break one of these moonstones?”
The professor translated Ben’s question to the lama, who laughed out loud and took Ben’s hand.
“Dragon rider,” Twigleg translated the lama’s answer, “no stone can bring as much luck as the visit of a dragon. But you must strike hard to shatter the moonstone, for those you wish to conjure up like to sleep soundly and long. After breakfast, I will show you the stone dragon’s head.”
Ben looked at the monk in surprise. “Did you tell him all that?” he asked the professor quietly. “What the djinn said, I mean?”
“I didn’t have to,” Barnabas Greenbloom whispered. “He already knew. You seem to have the knack of fulfilling prophecies, my boy. You’re right in the middle of an ancient legend.”
“Amazing,” murmured Ben, looking around once more at the shrine containing the moonstones. Then he and the others followed the lama outside. The sun was rising in a red glow above the snow-covered peaks, and the courtyards of the monastery buildings were now swarming with monks. To his surprise, Ben saw that some of them were even younger than he was.
“Look, they have child monks here!” he whispered to Barnabas Greenbloom.
The professor nodded. “Yes, of course. These people believe that we all live many lives on this planet. So any one of these children could really be older than the oldest grown-up monk. Intriguing idea, don’t you think?”
Ben nodded, feeling confused.
Suddenly the peaceful activity in the monastery courtyard was interrupted. Firedrake had put his long neck out of the door of the Dhu-Khang. Most of the monks were transfixed by the sight. Raising his hands, the lama spoke a few words.
“He says,” Twigleg whispered to Ben, “that luck will fall like moonlit snow from Firedrake’s scales, and you and Sorrel are dragon riders who need their help.”
Ben nodded and looked down at all the faces gazing up at the dragon in amazement but without fear.
“Ben,” whispered Barnabas Greenbloom, “breakfast will be tsampa, roasted barley flour, and hot tea with butter. It’s very healthy and good for you at these altitudes, but you may not like it much when you first taste it. Shall I make your excuses and say you’ll keep Guinevere company instead? I’m sure she can rustle up something you’d prefer to eat.”
Ben looked at the lama, who returned his glance and smiled. Then the lama whispered something into Twigleg’s ear.
“The lama says,” translated the homunculus, “that he understands a few words of our language and will by no means think it uncivil of you, dragon rider, to seek the company of the professor’s clever daughter instead of enjoying tsampa and buttered tea.”
“Th-thank you,” stammered Ben, returning the lama’s smile. “Twigleg, tell him I like it here very much, and say” — he added, looking at the mountains rising on the other side of the valley — “that I somehow feel at home here, even though it’s very different from where I come. Very, very different. Tell him that, would you? Only put it better, please.”
Twigleg nodded and turned back to translate Ben’s words for the lama, who listened attentively to the homunculus before replying with his customary slight smile.
“The lama says,” Twigleg told Ben, “that in his opinion, it is quite possible you have indeed been here before. In another life.”
“Come on, dragon rider,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, “I’ll take you to Guinevere before your head bursts with all this wisdom. And I’ll come back for you when breakfast is over.”
“What do you think Sorrel and I should do, Professor?” asked Firedrake, putting his muzzle gently over the man’s shoulder.
“Oh, these people will go along with anything you want, Firedrake,” replied Professor Greenbloom. “Why not have a nice sleep in the Dhu-Khang? No one will disturb you — in fact they’ll say so many prayers for you that you’ll be sure to find the Rim of Heaven.”
“And what about me?” asked Sorrel. “What do I do while Firedrake’s asleep and the rest of you are drinking buttered tea? I don’t like tea and I don’t like butter, so I’m hardly going to like tea with butter in it.”
“I’ll leave you with Guinevere, too,” said the professor. “There’s a nice soft bed in our room, and she brought some biscuits that I expect you will like.”
Then he led the two of them down the steps, through the crowd of monks standing respectfully in the courtyard, and over to a small building nestling below the high wall of the Dhu-Khang.
As for Firedrake, he followed the lama into the great prayer hall, coiled up among the columns, and slept a deep, sound sleep while the monks sat around him quietly murmuring prayers, wishing all the good fortune of earth and sky to descend upon the dragon’s scales.
39. The Rat’s Report
Sorrel enjoyed Guinevere’s breakfast so much that she ate almost half of it all by herself. Ben didn’t mind. He wasn’t very hungry, anyway. All the excitement of the last few days and the thought of what still lay ahead had taken away his appetite. He never felt hungry when he was excited.
When Sorrel, having eaten to her heart’s content, curled up in a ball on Guinevere’s bed and started snoring loudly, Ben and Guinevere tiptoed out of the room, perched on one of the low monastery walls, and looked down at the river. Morning mist still clung to the mountainside, but as the sun rose over the snowy peaks the cold air slowly warmed.
“It’s lovely here, isn’t it?” said Guinevere.
Ben nodded. Twigleg was sitting on his knee, dozing off. People were working in the green fields down in the valley. They looked no bigger than beetles from up here.
“Where’s your mother?” asked Ben.
“In the Temple of the Angry Gods,” Guinevere told him. She pointed to a red-painted building to the left of the Dhu-Khang. “Every monastery in this country has one. The building next to it is the Temple of the Kindly Gods, but the angry gods are considered particularly useful because they look so terrifying that they keep evil spirits away. The mountains around here are said to be full of evil spirits.”
“Goodness!” Ben looked admiringly at the girl. “You know a lot.”
“Oh, well,” said Guinevere dismissively, “that’s hardly surprising with parents like mine, is it? My mother’s copying the pictures on the temple walls at the moment. When we’re back home, she shows them to rich people and gets them to give money to have the pictures restored. The monks can’t afford that kind of thing, and the pictures are already very old, you see.”
“Goodness!” said Ben again, covering the sleeping Twigleg with his jacket. “You’re lucky to have parents like that.”
Guinevere cast him a questioning glance. “Dad says you don’t have any parents yourself.”
Ben picked a little stone off the wall and fiddled with it. “That’s right. I never did.”
Guinevere looked at him thoughtfully. “But you have Firedrake now,” she said. “Firedrake and Sorrel,” she added, smiling and pointing to the little homunculus, “and you have Twigleg.”
“So I do,” agreed Ben. “But that’s different.” Suddenly he narrowed his eyes and looked westward to where the river disappeared into the mountains. “Hey, I think Lola’s coming back! There, see?” He threw the stone over the wall and leaned forward.
“Lola?” asked Guinevere. “Is that the rat you were
talking about?”
Ben nodded. A faint humming could be heard. It grew louder and louder until the little plane landed in expert style on the wall beside them. Lola Graytail opened the cockpit and got out.
“Nothing!” she announced, clambering up on one of the wings and making her way down to the top of the wall. “Nothing, absolutely no sign of anything. All clear, I’d say.”
Twigleg woke up, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the rat, confused. “Oh, it’s you, Lola,” he muttered drowsily.
“That’s right, humblecuss,” replied the rat and turned to Guinevere. “And who, may I ask, is this?”
“This is Guinevere,” said Ben, introducing her. “She’s the daughter of the professor who almost stepped on your plane, and she thinks she saw Nettlebrand.”
“I know I saw him,” said Guinevere. “I’m a squillion percent certain I did.”
“Could be.” Lola Graytail opened a flap under the wing of her plane and took out a miniature lunch box. “But the creature’s disappeared now, anyway. I flew upstream and downstream, keeping so low over the river the fish thought I was a midge and water kept splashing into the cockpit. But I didn’t see any sign of a golden dragon with a dwarf. Not a thing. Not a single golden dragon scale.”
“Well, that’s good!” said Ben, sighing with relief. “I really thought we had him after us again. Thanks, Lola!”
“You’re welcome,” replied the rat. “Glad to be of service.”
She crammed a few bread crumbs into her mouth and stretched out on the wall. “Oh, I do like lazing about!” she sighed, raising her pointed nose to the sun. “Good thing Uncle Gilbert can’t see me. He’d really get his tail in a twist.”
Guinevere was still silent. Frowning, she looked down at the river. “All the same, I bet that monster’s down there somewhere, lying in wait for us,” she said.
“Oh, come off it, he’s buried in the sand,” said Ben. “We know he is. You should have heard that dwarf — I’m sure he wasn’t lying. Come on!” He nudged her with his elbow. “Tell me more about the temple.”
“What temple?” muttered Guinevere, without looking at him.
“The one your mother’s looking at,” replied Ben. “The Temple of the Angry Gods.”
“The Gon-Khang,” murmured Guinevere. “That’s its Tibetan name. Okay, if you really want to know….”
When Barnabas Greenbloom came down the steps of the great prayer hall with Firedrake and the lama, he found Ben and his daughter still on the wall. Between them were Lola Graytail and Twigleg, both snoring. The children were so deep in conversation that they hadn’t heard the others coming.
“I don’t like to disturb you two,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, coming up behind them, “but Ben could try breaking the moonlight now. The lama has brought him one of the sacred stones.”
The monk opened his hands to reveal the white stone. It had a radiant glow even in the daylight. Ben got off the wall and carefully took the moonstone.
“Where’s Sorrel?” asked Firedrake, looking around for her.
“In bed,” replied Guinevere. “Full of breakfast and snoring.”
“You astonish me!” Her father grinned. “And what has our friend the rat to report?”
“Not a sign of Nettlebrand,” replied Ben, looking at the moonstone, which he thought seemed darker in the sunlight.
“Well, that’s a relief.” Barnabas Greenbloom looked at his daughter. “Don’t you think so, Guinevere?”
Guinevere frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, taking his daughter and Ben by their arms. “Let’s go find Sorrel and Vita, and then our dragon rider can see about solving the puzzle the djinn gave him. I haven’t been in such suspense for ages. I wonder what sort of creature will appear when Ben breaks that stone?”
40. Work for Gravelbeard
But Lola Graytail was wrong. Nettlebrand was lurking on the bed of the river Indus, sunk deep in the mud, just where the shadow of the monastery buildings fell on the water. The river ran so deep there that not the faintest reflection of Nettlebrand’s golden scales could reach the surface. He lay waiting patiently for his armor-cleaner to return.
Before Nettlebrand had dived deep into the river, Gravelbeard had jumped to the bank and hidden among some tufts of grass. And when, after a long day and half a night, Firedrake came flying out of the mountains to land behind the white walls of the monastery, the mountain dwarf set off. He trudged on, through fields and past huts, until at last he reached the mountain with the monastery on its slope.
Then Gravelbeard climbed.
The mountain was high, very high, but Gravelbeard was a mountain dwarf. He loved climbing almost as much as he loved gold. The solid rock of the mountain whispered and spoke under Gravelbeard’s fingers as if it had been waiting for him, and him alone, all this time. It told him tales of vast caverns with columns made of precious stones and veins of gold ore, and caves where strange creatures lived. Gravelbeard chuckled with delight as he scaled the rocky slope. He could have climbed forever, but by the time day slowly dawned above the peaks, he was hauling himself over the top of the low wall surrounding the monastery. Cautiously he peered down into the courtyard.
Gravelbeard had arrived just in time to see Firedrake and his friends disappear into the Dhu-Khang. The dwarf even followed them up the steps, but the heavy door of the hall was already closed before he reached the top, and hard as he tried to open it just a crack with his short, strong fingers, it wouldn’t budge.
“Too bad,” muttered the dwarf, looking around, “but they’ll have to come out again sometime.” He looked around the courtyard for a hiding place where he could keep watch on the steps and the courtyard unobserved. It wasn’t difficult to find a suitable gap in the old walls.
“Just the place,” whispered Gravelbeard as he pushed in among the stones. “Could have been made for me.” And then he waited.
He had chosen his hiding place well. Admittedly, when Firedrake and the others came out of the prayer hall again, Gravelbeard couldn’t see much apart from the feet of countless monks in their well-worn sandals. But when all the monks were up in the Dhu-Khang praying, Ben and Guinevere came and sat down on the wall only a stone’s throw away from him.
So now Gravelbeard learned that a flying rat had been out looking for his master but had failed to find him; and he discovered that the boy really did believe Nettlebrand had been buried in the desert sand. The dwarf saw the stone in the lama’s hand and heard about the djinn’s riddle. He saw Ben take the stone, and when Firedrake and his dragon riders went with the monk to try solving the riddle, Gravelbeard stole after them.
41. Burr-Burr-Chan
The lama led his guests to the other side of the monastery grounds and the place where the Gon-Khang and the Lha-Khang stood, one the Temple of the Angry Gods and the other the Temple of the Kindly Gods. And scurrying from wall to wall Gravelbeard, Nettlebrand’s spy, came after them.
As they were passing the red temple, the lama stopped. Vita Greenbloom had joined her husband.
“This,” she said, translating what the lama said, “is the Temple of the Angry Gods, who are said to keep all evil from the monastery and the village.”
“What sort of evil?” asked Sorrel, looking around uneasily.
“Evil spirits,” replied the lama, “and snowstorms, avalanches, rockfalls, disease —”
“Starvation?” added Sorrel.
The lama smiled. “Starvation, too.”
A strange shivery feeling came over Gravelbeard. Weak at the knees, he stole past the dark red walls. His breath was coming faster, and he felt as if hands were reaching out to him from the temple, hands ready to seize him and drag him into the darkness.
Involuntarily he leaped forward with a little shriek and almost collided with Barnabas Greenbloom’s heels.
“What was that?” asked the professor, turning around. “Did you hear it, Vita?”
His wife nodded. “Sounded as if you stepped on so
me poor cat’s tail, Barnabas.”
The professor shook his head and looked around again, but by now Gravelbeard had hidden in a crevice in the wall.
“Perhaps it was the evil spirits,” said Guinevere.
“Very likely,” said her father. “Come on, I think the lama’s reached our destination.”
The old monk had stopped where the slope of the mountain met the monastery walls. The rock here was full of holes like Swiss cheese. Ben and Sorrel tilted their heads back. Yes, there were gaps everywhere in the rock, all of them large enough for either the boy or the brownie to fit into comfortably.
“What’s that?” asked Ben, looking inquiringly at the lama. Twigleg interpreted for him.
“These are dwellings,” replied the lama, “the dwellings of those from whom you are about to seek help. They do not often show themselves. Very few of us have ever seen them face-to-face, but they are said to be friendly beings, and they were here long, long before we came.”
The lama went up to the rock wall, taking Ben with him. Ben hadn’t noticed them earlier, but he now saw the heads of two stone dragons jutting out from the rock.
“They look like Firedrake,” whispered Ben. “Just like Firedrake.” He felt the dragon’s warm breath on his back.
“They are the Dragon of the Beginning and the Dragon of the End,” the lama explained. “For what you have in mind, you should choose the Dragon of the Beginning.”
Ben nodded.
“Go on, dragon rider, hit it,” whispered Sorrel.
Raising the moonstone, Ben brought it down with all his might on the horns of the stone dragon.
The moonstone smashed into myriad splinters, and it seemed to them all that they heard a deep rumble slowly dying away in the heart of the mountain. Then all was still. Very still. They waited.
As the sun slowly rose behind the mountains, they cast their shadows on the monastery. A cold wind was blowing from the snowy peaks as a figure suddenly appeared in one of the holes in the rock, high above the heads of those waiting below.