The Fire Within

  She blew a little kiss to the dragon on the fridge and puttered off down the hall.

  David turned and looked thoughtfully at Bonnington. “She’s doing it again, isn’t she?” he whispered. “She doesn’t mean herself at all. She’s trying to tell me I shouldn’t upset the dragons.”

  A-row, went Bonnington, whose only concern was another treat.

  David scooped up a glob of frosting and dabbed a smidgen on Bonnington’s nose. “Rule number ninety-seven, Bonners. You shouldn’t ever make a dragon cry.” He smiled and let the cat lick his fingers. “Your humans are totally weird,” he said.

  Despite her moodiness earlier in the day, Lucy enjoyed her birthday party. As her friends trooped in one by one, she took great pride in introducing them to David. For the moment, it seemed, the rift was healed.

  There was lots of food and games and presents. Christopher Jefferson, the boy who Lucy sat next to at school, brought her a book called Martin’s Mice, which he claimed he’d read a hundred times at least. Beverley Sherbon gave her a bunny rabbit backpack and a plastic lobster with luminescent eyes. Samantha Healey gave her a jigsaw puzzle in a tin and some sparkling tubes of glitter paint. Lucy dabbed it on her arms and face (her mom said she looked like a piece of tinsel).

  David, of course, had not forgotten her. He made a royal show of presenting Liz’s daughter with a “Lucy” hat he’d found in a thrift shop. It had a green velvet bow with deep blue sequins. It was far too big, and kept slipping down over its namesake’s eyes. But Lucy wore it all day long and bluntly refused to take it off.

  The last presents she opened were the ones from her mom. When she unwrapped the little camera she jumped with joy and gave Liz a huge hug. Then she took pictures of everything: her friends spilling food and pulling faces; David in a party hat with Pixy Stix up his nose; Bonnington on the counter, finishing off the cake; her mom shooing Bonnington down. At five, when everyone was saying good-bye, Lucy was as happy as she’d ever been.

  That was when the tenant winked at Liz and quietly slipped away to his room.

  “Lucy,” said Liz, recognizing the signal, “go and wash your face and hands now, all right?”

  Lucy adjusted her Lucy hat and skipped upstairs without any argument.

  She returned to find David and Liz in the living room. They were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa.

  Lucy plunked herself down between them. It was then that she noticed a chair in the bay. It was facing the sofa, all trimmed with balloons and paper chains. Lucy looked at her mom. “Why does that chair have decorations on it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Liz. “You’d better go and see.”

  Lucy hurried over. A note was lying on the seat. “STORYTELLER’S CHAIR,” she read out loud.

  David stood up and walked across the room.

  Lucy’s face lit up with delight. “Are you going to tell me a story?”

  David took a sheaf of papers off the footstool. “No, I’m going to read you one.”

  Liz patted a cushion. “Lucy, over here.”

  Lucy sprinted over and bounced into place. David sat in the storyteller’s chair.

  “This is David’s special present,” said Liz. “You shouldn’t interrupt until the end of a chapter.”

  “But doesn’t he have a book?”

  “Yes, he does,” said David, shuffling the papers. “I typed one myself.”

  Lucy’s mouth fell open in shock. “You wrote me a story?”

  David nodded. “This is just the first few chapters, unfortunately. You’ll probably have to wait until Christmas for the rest. Would you like to see what it’s called?”

  Lucy gave an ecstatic nod. David turned the manuscript around and showed her.

  SNIGGER and the NUTBEAST

  a squirrel story

  for Lucy Pennykettle

  (age 11 today)

  “Sit back, be good and listen,” said Liz.

  Lucy sat back, as tame as one of Martin’s mice. But she couldn’t resist whispering, “What’s a nutbeast?”

  “Ah,” said the tenant, “you’ll have to wait and see.”

  And with that he turned the page and started to read.

  THE TRUTH ABOUT THE NUTBEAST

  Chapter One,” said David. “The Nutfall That Wasn’t.”

  “The nutfall that wasn’t?” Lucy repeated, already interrupting.

  “Oh, Lucy,” her mother chided.

  “It’s all right,” said David, raising a hand. “There’s too much to read all at once, anyway. I’ll have to do it in pieces.” He leaned forward. “This is the opening line: Once upon a time there was a squirrel called Snigger, who lived in the beech tree near the wishing fountain in the beautiful library gardens in Scrubbley.”

  “Aah,” went Lucy, smiling at her mom.

  “One blustery morning,” David continued, “Snigger was sitting on the fountain wall, enjoying his usual morning grooming, when another squirrel appeared at his side. It was Shooter —”

  Lucy turned to her mom. “Told you they went to the gardens,” she whispered, then clamped a hand quickly across her mouth.

  “— and judging by the way he came dashing up the hill, he clearly had his tail in a bit of a fluff. ‘Snigger! Snigger! Come quickly!’ he panted. ‘Cherrylea says a nutbeast has come!’ “

  Bonnington looked warily over his shoulder.

  “ ‘A nutbeast has come?’ Snigger repeated, doing a frenzied twirl on the wall.

  ‘It was in the clearing by the oak tree!’ gasped Shooter. ‘It took our whole nutfall.’ “

  Lucy bit her lip and grabbed for a cushion. She squeezed it tightly onto her lap.

  “We used to get a nutfall in the Crescent,” said Liz. “Every autumn, before the oak was cut down, hundreds of acorns spilled across the road. It used to drive Mr. Bacon mad. When he went off to work in the mornings, they used to splinter and crack underneath his car. He said it cost a fortune in garage repairs.”

  “Mom,” huffed Lucy, “we don’t want to know about Mr. Bacon. We want to know what Snigger did next.”

  “He ran to the clearing with Shooter,” said David, “and had the misfortune to bump into Birchwood.”

  “ ‘Watch it, fleabag!’ Birchwood snarled. ‘Or I’ll pull your whiskers out and throw them in the pond!’

  ‘Not while I’m around!’ cried a voice.”

  “Who was that?” asked Lucy, sitting up so quickly she disappeared inside her hat.

  “Ringtail,” said David. “He’s Snigger’s best friend. He came leaping to Snigger’s defense. Before you could say ‘fluff and whiskers,’ Ringtail and Birchwood were in a fight. They rolled and hissed and scratched and bit, each accusing the other of stealing the nutfall. It was a good thing Cherrylea came when she did or one of them could have been badly hurt.

  “ ‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘I know what happened. There was a horrid black beast in the clearing last night. It was scuffling around in the fallen leaves, picking up as many nuts as it could find.’ “

  “I bet it’s that crow,” said Lucy.

  “What crow?” said Liz, looking confused.

  “David saw one in the sycamore tree.”

  Bonnington twizzled an inquisitive ear.

  “It was bigger than a crow,” David said spookily. He turned another page. “Now, Ringtail, when he learned what had happened to the nutfall, decided to organize a nutbeast watch. Each of the squirrels took turns hiding in a yew tree and watching the oak at dusk that night. Guess who was watching when the nutbeast came back?”

  “Snigger.”

  “Correct. He’d been sitting in the tree for absolutely ages, when all of a sudden something came plodding down the path.” David lowered his voice to a whisper:

  “Snigger’s body turned as cold as ice. It was all he could do to prick his ears and concentrate on which way the thing was heading. First it shuffled along the path, kicking up little explosions of leaves. Then it was skidding down the earthy embankment, snapping twigs and stumbling aga
inst tree roots. It made strange, floppy, thudding sounds as it moved awkwardly into the clearing.

  “Suddenly, a chill wind howled across the gardens —”

  “Hhh!” squealed Lucy. She covered her eyes and paddled her feet. Bonnington scooted off behind the television. Liz raised an eyebrow. David leaned forward.

  “— and the branches of the yew tree parted! At last, Snigger saw the beast. It was just as Cherrylea had described: a great black shape, crouched low to the ground. Snigger watched with a sort of fascinated horror as it sifted through the leaf litter, hunting for acorns. Bravely, he crept along an outlying branch, hoping to get a closer look, when suddenly, without warning, the nutbeast reared! Snigger bolted for the top of the yew. He sat there, panting in terror. But his fear was soon replaced by anger. For in that one daring glimpse he had learned the truth: The nutbeast was nothing more than … a man.”

  Lucy’s mouth fell open in shock. “It was YOU!” she cried, jumping up. “You in your big black stinky coat! He’s a robber, Mom. That’s where he got those nuts for our trap. He stole them from the library gardens. That’s why Snigger came to our garden — to see where the nutfall went!”

  “Oh, David,” Liz said, with a smile. “Is this true?”

  “Chapter Two,” he admitted. “It’s all here; my complete confession — right up to the point where Snigger gets trapped in the box by mistake.”

  “I bet he went home to tell the others,” scowled Lucy. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Birchwood came around and bit your toe.”

  “Well, let’s find out,” said David, turning a page.

  “Stop!” cried Lucy.

  “What now?” her mom sighed.

  “The dragons aren’t here.”

  Liz rolled her eyes. “You can fetch Gawain and Gwendolen. But you’d better be quick — and we’re not going to start again.”

  “Can Gadzooks come, too?”

  “He’s on my windowsill,” said David, meeting Lucy’s eye.

  Lucy whipped around and scooted to the door. “I might want to go to the bathroom as well.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Liz sighed.

  Lucy shot down the hall. Seconds later she returned with Gadzooks. She placed the special dragon on the coffee table, pushed her hat from her eyes, and dashed out again.

  After a pause Liz said, “You do realize you’ll never be able to leave this house now? You’ll be chained to your computer forever and a day writing squirrel stories for my daughter.”

  “It’s your fault for giving him to me,” said David.

  Liz’s gaze dipped lovingly to the pencil-chewing dragon. “Oh, he’s always been with you. I just gave him shape, that’s all.”

  Before David could comment, Lucy’s voice came echoing down the stairs. “David! Quick! Come up here!”

  “Oh, what’s the matter with her now?” Liz sighed.

  The answer was a gentle crash, followed by a squeal that seemed to rock the whole house.

  Bonnington’s eyes were wide with concern.

  “Lucy?” Liz breathed, looking at the door.

  David was up the stairs in a flash.

  He found Lucy in the bathroom on her knees, in tears.

  She was picking up the pieces of a broken dragon.

  David sank down with a hand across his mouth. “Oh no,” he gulped. “It’s Gawain, isn’t it?”

  He put a comforting hand on Lucy’s shoulder. The door banged open and Liz burst in. Her gasp of shock when she saw what had happened seemed to draw the heat right out of the room.

  Lucy threw herself into her mother’s arms. “I was coming to tell David and I tripped on the mat and he just fell, Mom. Oh, I’m sorry!”

  “It’s all right,” Liz stuttered, swallowing hard, doing her best to stroke Lucy’s hair. David noticed that her hands were shaking.

  “Why were you shouting for me?” he asked Lucy quietly.

  Lucy thrust an arm toward the window. “Mr. Bacon is trying to kill him.”

  David frowned and rose to his feet. He turned and peered out of the open window.

  On the long green swath of Mr. Bacon’s lawn, a strange confrontation was taking place. Mr. Bacon was scuttling around, spraying water from a garden hose. The object of his aim was a small, gray squirrel. It was darting energetically around his feet, trying to escape the crashing water. But, instead of dashing to the safety of a tree, it was running around in frightened circles.

  Round and round and round it went.

  As if it had lost all sense of direction.

  As if it were completely blind in one eye.

  IN MR. BACON’S GARDEN

  It’s Conker,” said David, looking urgently at Liz.

  “He came to drink in Mr. Bacon’s pond,” sobbed Lucy. “Mr. Bacon saw him and got very angry and started to shout and throw things at him.”

  “Sssh,” Liz murmured, rocking her gently.

  “I’ll be back,” David promised, glancing at Gawain. He ran a hand quickly over Lucy’s head, hurdled over Bonnington, and thundered downstairs.

  Moments later he was hammering on Mr. Bacon’s gate. “Mr. Bacon! It’s David! Let me in!”

  From the garden came a worrying cry of, “Gotcha!”

  David grimaced and rattled the latch. The gate was firmly locked. There were roses growing above it as well, preventing any chance of him climbing over it. That left only one option. “Sorry, Mr. Bacon,” David muttered to himself, stepping back a good ten paces, “no time for polite introductions …” He steadied himself, took a good deep breath, then went hurtling forward.

  He was a yard from impact when Henry slipped the bolt and opened the gate. David sped through, shoulder first. He collided, painfully, with a barbecue grill, stumbled down the patio steps, and bellyflopped onto the water-softened lawn.

  “What in the heck are you doing?” barked Henry.

  David winced with pain and flashed a glance around the garden. Conker seemed to have completely disappeared. “I saw you with a squirrel. Where did it go?”

  “Sssh!” Henry raised a hand for silence. He cocked one ear toward his potting shed. “Rascals might be holed up in there.”

  “Rascals?” David queried, rubbing his knee. “You mean there was more than one?”

  Mr. Bacon didn’t reply. He tiptoed over to a small wheelbarrow and noiselessly picked out a long-handled fork. Without warning, he heaved the shed door open and dived inside as if charging into battle. “Yearrgghh!” he screamed, stabbing wildly. There was a thud and a sproinng and a cloud of dust, but nothing squirrellike emerged through the door. Either the squirrels weren’t in the shed at all …

  … or Mr. Bacon had managed to spear one.

  David hobbled over as quickly as he could. To his relief he found the fork wedged safely in a bag of compost and Mr. Bacon sitting spread-eagle on the floor. A plastic plant pot rolled off a shelf and bounced with a clunk off Henry’s head.

  Mr. Bacon roared in annoyance. He leapt to his feet and stomped into the garden.

  “Tricky little pests have to be here somewhere.”

  David took a peek behind Henry’s trash can. There was nothing but wet leaves, wood lice, and a potato chip bag. “Didn’t you see which way they went?”

  “Lost them while you were knocking,” Henry muttered. “Could be anywhere. Pesky vermin.”

  “What’s wrong with them, Henry?” David said hotly. “Most people think squirrels are cute.”

  Mr. Bacon’s eye began to twitch. “Tree rats dig up the garden, boy. Worse than moles for holes, they are. Thought I’d seen them go away for good.”

  David’s eyebrows came together in a look of deep suspicion. “What do you mean, you’d ‘seen them go away’?”

  “Oak,” hissed Henry, flipping a switch on the side of the mower. He gave the engine cord a tug. The engine spluttered, but failed to start. “Out in the Crescent. Massive monstrosity. Friends in high places. Soon finished it off. Industrial chain saw. Barely left a twig.”

 
David felt a tingle of coldness in his spine. “You cut the tree down?”

  “Public service,” Mr. Bacon sniffed.

  David reeled back, fizzing with anger. “You made Conker homeless,” he spluttered.

  “Conker?” Mr. Bacon rattled. “What are you gibbering on about, boy?” He reached down to pull at the mower cord again. David plunked a foot on the engine and stopped him.

  “Mr. Bacon,” he said, in a very low voice, “did you hurt Conker’s eye?”

  “Are you drunk?” Mr. Bacon said, rather rudely. “Get your hoof off my mower before I call the cops.” He shoved David aside and gave the mower cord a tug. At last the engine exploded into life — and so did something else.

  “Waah!” yelped Henry, as a slim gray shape leapt out of the grass catcher and catapulted through his legs.

  “I’ll get it!” David cried and launched himself forward, only to stumble on the garden hose and stomp on Mr. Bacon’s toe as he fell.

  “Ow!” shouted Henry, hopping around, giving the mower a nudge in the process.

  There was an ominous click. The mower shuddered — then set off, unattended, down the lawn.

  “Oh no!” gasped David. “It’s heading for the pond!”

  But that was the least of his worries. The mower had barely rolled five meters when a second squirrel emerged from the grass catcher. It scrambled onto the engine housing, riding along like a little gray pirate. Even from a distance David could tell that the squirrel had one eye tightly closed.

  Conker flagged his tail in distress. He hopped left, then right, then turned a full circle — too afraid or confused to leap to safety.

  All the while the mower chugged on, and the water came closer and closer and closer.

  “Stop that mower!” Mr. Bacon squawked.

  David jumped to his feet. “I’ll never catch it in time.” But just as he was fearing a horrible accident, something very peculiar happened. Amazingly, the first squirrel ran out of hiding and hurtled toward the runaway machine. With a single bound it boarded the mower and knocked Conker straight off the engine housing. Conker tumbled onto the grass. He picked himself up and scurried out of sight. Meanwhile, the mower continued on course. It descended a lightly graveled slope, making an utterly awful racket as its blades churned up and spat out the stones. There was a sploop and a strange sort of bubbling sound. The mower lurched sideways and puttered to a stop. A wisp of smoke snaked up into the sky. Mr. Bacon made a sort of mewing sound.