The Fire Within

  To David’s relief, the rescuing squirrel popped up on a boulder at the edge of the pond.

  Mr. Bacon threw a rubber boot at its head. It missed and hit a garden gnome.

  “Henry, leave it be,” hissed David, pacing stealthily toward the squirrel. It twitched when it saw the nutbeast coming and hopped onto the back of a small stone badger.

  David raised his hands in peace. “It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Whack it with a spade while you have the chance,” said Henry.

  “Sssh!” hissed David. “You’ll frighten it away.” He looked the little squirrel straight in the eye. It sat back and did its best to smile. “Snigger,” David whispered, trying Lucy’s favorite tactic of talking to the animal, “bring Conker to the nutbox. It’s the only way I’ll be able to help him.”

  “You’re the one who needs help,” Mr. Bacon snorted.

  “Mr. Bacon, will you please —” David was about to say “shut up,” when Snigger unexpectedly chirped with alarm and fled at high speed to the end of the garden.

  “Drat,” said Henry. “Lost the little pest.”

  David stepped back in confusion. “Something frightened him,” he said, and looked over his shoulder. “Something like …”

  On a fencepost between the neighboring gardens was a huge black crow. It was sitting tight with its shoulders hunched, fixing its beady-eyed glare on the men.

  David felt his mouth turn slightly dry. Even Mr. Bacon looked a little wary. “Wouldn’t tangle with that. Looks a bit mean, if you want my opinion.”

  David gave an uneasy nod. He rose up slowly. The crow’s eyes followed. Its sharp claws tightened against its perch.

  David took a sideways step. Was it his imagination or was the bird trying to stare him down? He shuddered and found himself thinking of dragons, half-hoping some fire-breathing champion would come. Not surprisingly, he fixed on Gadzooks. In his mind’s eye he saw the special dragon hurriedly scribbling something on his pad:

  Caractacus

  David whispered the name to the wind. The crow immediately screeched its displeasure, spread its wings, and took to the sky. It swooped straight over David’s head, making a dreadful screeching sound as it climbed and banked toward the sycamore tree. And there, cradled in the uppermost branches, David spotted something he hadn’t seen before: a large crow’s nest — not far from the hole beneath the eaves where a squirrel had once made a drey in Liz’s roof. The crow split the air with another loud screech, as if to warn anyone with ears to listen that it was most definitely King of the Castle. David nodded and made the connection.

  “It was you,” he breathed as the great bird landed and folded its wings. “Caractacus, the crow. You were the one who hurt Conker’s eye….”

  THE LAST DRAGON IN THE WORLD

  A steady drizzle had begun to fall by the time David came back to Liz’s garden. He closed the gate with a hasty bang and hurried, teeth chattering, across the patio. As he was passing the kitchen window a plaintive meowing brought him to a halt. Bonnington was sitting on the garden bench, glistening like a fiber-optic Christmas tree. He had his paws tucked neatly under his tummy and raindrops misting the ends of his fur. Beside him lay the rabbit hutch, untouched since the day that Snigger had sprung it.

  David wandered over and knuckled the cat’s ear. “What are you doing sitting here, in the rain?”

  Bonnington rose and rubbed his cheek against the corner of the hutch. David, remembering his words by the pond, studied the trap with renewed determination. If Conker could somehow find his way to it, there might yet be a chance to save him. He looked into the kitchen. No sign of Liz — or Lucy. “Come on,” he whispered softly to Bonnington. And he hauled the trap into his shivering arms, took it to the rock garden, and reset the door.

  While he was checking the acorn trail, he issued the cat some hopeful orders. “I want you to be a guard cat, Bonners. There’s a big crow nesting in the sycamore tree. If you see it in the garden, chase it away. Don’t hurt it. Just shoo it away, OK?”

  Bonnington, who’d been sitting on a large, flat rock impassively treading his columnlike paws, pricked his ears and sat to attention.

  “Very good,” said David. “Very guardlike. Now, let’s go and see how Lucy is, shall we?”

  With that, he led the way back into the house, Bonnington trotting along at his heels. As they passed through the kitchen and into the hall, the mail slot rattled and a small white envelope fluttered to the mat.

  David picked it up. On the front was a picture of an injured fox. On the back were several lines of writing:

  David left it on the hall shelf for Liz.

  Guessing that Lucy and her mom were in the Dragons’ Den, he started up the stairs to tell them what had happened next door with Conker. The house was unusually still. There was a strange, almost haunted atmosphere about it, as if everything had somehow frozen in time. David thought about Gawain right then and looked at the door to the pottery studio. It was closed. A sign was hanging from the polished brass knob:

  KILNING IN PROGRESS

  DO NOT ENTER

  Kilning. The word shaped like a question in David’s mind, though he knew exactly what it meant. A kiln was a name for a potter’s oven. When a dragon was being made, it would be put into an oven for firing — so its clay would harden and its glaze would set. But the last time David had visited this room he remembered that the only thing missing … was an oven. How could Liz be kilning dragons if she didn’t have anything to fire them in?

  Puzzled, he pressed one ear to the door. A faint hrring echoed through the panels. That noise again. It was everywhere. The tenant stood back, rubbing his lip. There was something very odd going on in this house, and the answer to the mystery lay inside this room. But he couldn’t just barge in, unannounced. If Liz was making delicate repairs to Gawain, she’d be furious if he ignored the notice.

  So he raised a knuckle, to knock — just as Bonnington, weaving around his feet, yowled loudly enough to rattle the lid off a trash can.

  “That’s Bonny,” said a voice: Liz, from inside Lucy’s room.

  That meant the den was empty.

  Temptation pushed David toward the door. Sign or no sign, he was going inside. He quickly let his hand close around the handle — and instantly wished he hadn’t.

  The brass was scorching hot.

  Stifling a yelp of pain, he flapped his hand and twisted away, colliding lightly with the stair post behind him.

  “What on earth is that cat doing?”

  There was a creak of boards. Gentle footsteps. David dropped down to the turn in the stairs, dipping his head beneath the level of the landing. He slipped lower as Lucy’s door creaked open.

  “In you come,” he heard Liz say.

  Bonnington padded along the landing.

  “Is David there?” Lucy’s voice rang out.

  David closed his hands in prayer. If Liz looked over the banister now …

  “Not that I can see,” she said, and backtracked into Lucy’s room, this time leaving the door ajar.

  “Oh. I want to know about Conker.”

  “I’m sure David won’t let him get hurt,” said Liz. “Now, into bed, birthday girl. I want you to rest, while I look at Gawain.”

  Lucy gave out a sad little sniff. “You can fix him, can’t you, Mom? Nothing horrible’s going to happen, is it?”

  David heard a creak of springs and guessed that Liz had settled on the bed.

  “Lucy, his fire is within you, always. If you love him, how can it ever go out?”

  Lucy sniffed again and blew her nose. “Tell me the story of his fire tear, please.”

  His what? thought David, glancing at the dragons in the picture window. Was he dreaming it or had their ears just pricked up?

  “Oh Lucy, you know it inside out.”

  “It is my birthday, Mom.”

  There was a pause, time enough for David to adjust his position before Liz said, “All right, but just a mi
nute — and only if you promise to go to sleep afterward.”

  “I promise.”

  “All right, then, close your eyes. You know what to do.”

  “I have to dream back.”

  “Way back,” said Liz. “To a time when the special people lived. A time when dragons roamed the earth.”

  David instinctively closed his eyes. Immediately a picture formed in his mind of something akin to prehistoric times. He began to imagine a dust-baked plain, littered with rocks and sparse vegetation, a stream winding through rocky outcrops, a world alive with animal calls, the sun beating down from a pale blue sky.

  Into the picture, Liz put a character: “In a cave on the side of a hill lives a girl. She has flowing red hair and pale green eyes.”

  “Guinevere,” said Lucy. “I dream her, Mom.”

  David nodded. He pictured her easily, barefoot in a shimmering robe.

  “She is coming to the stream to bathe,” said Liz, “when, in the distance, a roar is heard from the ice-capped mountains.”

  “Gawain,” said Lucy, with a pang in her voice.

  “Sitting on the highest peak,” said Liz.

  David pictured him surrounded by mist. He saw the hooked claws squeezing deep into the ice, boulder-sized pieces cracking away in the power of the mighty dragon’s grip.

  “He’s amazing,” said Lucy.

  “Magnificent,” said Liz. “The Lord of the Skies is a wonder of creation. And yet there is room in this noblest of hearts for the faintest glimmer of mortal sorrow. For he, Gawain, is the last of his kind: the very last dragon in the world.”

  “But he’s not going to die. Not really,” Lucy gabbled. “He’s got to see Guinevere and …”

  “Shush,” went Liz, in a soothing voice. “Dream it gently. Watch as he spreads his spiky wings and glides in a spiral, down toward the caves.”

  “They’re running!” cried Lucy. “The people are running!”

  David saw people gathering children, herding them into the shelter of the caves.

  “He has no wish to harm them,” said Liz. “His thunderous roar is an echo for himself, a reminder of times gone by when many dragons filled these mountains. But yes, the people fear him. His blazing breath sets fire to the rocks. Trees bend to the song of his wings. He settles and his feet make craters in the earth.”

  “I dream it,” said Lucy.

  David gulped. He could almost feel the thud of the dragon’s feet rattling every last rib in his chest.

  “But Guinevere does not run away,” said Liz. “She is there when Gawain bends down to drink. She looks boldly into his violet eyes. A wisp of smoke leaves the dragon’s nose. He makes fire in the back of his throat. Hrrr!”

  “Hrrr!” went Lucy.

  “Ow,” went David, banging his head against the wall as the force of the hrring made him jump.

  “He’s mad at her, because she isn’t scared,” said Lucy.

  “A little,” said Liz. “But curious, too. He decides he will test her courage. He threatens to burn her down to the tiniest cinder and blow her to the other side of the world. Guinevere shows no fear. She walks toward Gawain and asks him … what?”

  “If she can sing to him!” Lucy exclaimed.

  And suddenly the air was filled with song. Not a song with words or a hummable tune, but a gentle lullaby of growls and trills and warbles … and hrrs.

  As the song washed over him, David began to feel strangely drowsy. The ice-capped mountains faded from his thoughts. The mighty Gawain put his head down … and slept.

  But then, as quickly as the singing had begun, it ended with the sound of a gentle kiss. “Sleep tight, sweetheart. See you in the morning.”

  The floorboards creaked.

  Liz. She was coming!

  David shook himself awake and ducked into hiding. A second or two later, Liz appeared. She scuttled along the landing, Bonnington at her heels. “No, you go to David,” she said, refusing Bonnington entry to the den.

  David took a chance and raised his head, in time to see Liz reach out for the doorknob. For a moment, he thought about shouting a warning, but the words seemed to stick in the back of his throat. It was just as well they did.

  Liz didn’t jump. She didn’t even wince.

  She simply turned the knob once and disappeared inside, greeted by a very gentle hrrr.

  SEEKING GAWAIN

  What’s going on?” David asked, pacing the kitchen, arms outstretched. “Come on, you’ve lived here longer than I have. Are those dragons real or what?”

  Bonnington, sitting on a stool by the table, turned his head as the tenant swept by.

  “And your human — what about her? Is she some sort of ‘guardian’ type? One of those ‘special’ people she was going on about? She’s not normal, that’s for sure. Any normal person would need hands like oven gloves to touch that doorknob. I could have been scarred for life.”

  Bonnington responded with a dragonlike yawn. As if by magic, a smell of burning filled the air. David dived toward the stove and yanked the grill pan away from the heat. Great. Two servings of badly charred toast. He glanced at his beans to check their progress. An orange volcano was forming in the pan. It erupted with a sort of alien glop, splattering its lava over the warmer. The tenant closed his eyes. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to make his own dinner, after all. But as several hours had now gone by since Liz had shut herself away in the den, it was either this or leftover gelatin or raid the cat’s treats … or starve.

  “Of course, she’ll say it’s a medical condition — like ‘tennis elbow’ or ‘housekeeper’s knee’.” He grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the beans that hadn’t welded themselves to the bottom of the pan. “ ‘Potter’s palm,’ that’s what she’ll call it. She’s always got some clever response.”

  Bonnington twizzled a sympathetic ear.

  “It’s all wrapped up with that story,” said David, spreading his toast with lashings of butter, then glopping a hill of beans on top. “What did she mean ‘the fire of Gawain is always in Lucy’? And how come he had violet eyes? She always paints them green. And what’s this ‘fire tear’ thing? What’s that all about? They don’t cry sparks when they weep, do they? Is that why you shouldn’t make them sniffly? They might set the house on fire?”

  A-row, went Bonnington, choosing that moment to dab a paw at a rivulet of butter dripping from the toast in David’s hands.

  “Get off,” said the tenant, jerking back and spraying beans across the tabletop. Terrific. He put down his toast and reached for a cloth. When he turned back, Bonnington was licking his plate.

  David sighed. This wasn’t his day. “All right,” he conceded, “if you want it that badly you might as well have it.” He whipped the plate from under Bonnington’s nose and scraped the whole mess into the bowl marked CAT. Bonnington jumped down, sniffed at the beans — and promptly walked away.

  “That’s it,” said David. “I’m going to bed.”

  Brr-rup, went Bonnington, and ran for the blanket.

  Sleep was a long time coming that night. No matter how tightly he cuddled Winston, played imaginary soccer, counted sheep, David just couldn’t seem to drift off. To make matters worse, every time he closed his eyes, Liz’s storytelling voice echoed through his mind.

  Do you dream it, David?

  The words beat like the throb of a drum.

  Dream.

  Like a song that wouldn’t leave his head.

  Dream.

  Till the rhythm of it overpowered him, and his eyes became heavy and he did nod off.

  Then, not surprisingly, a dream did come. A rather strange dream — about a dragon.

  It began on the landing, outside the den. He was wearing his coat over his pajamas. He had a tea cozy on his head, a pair of oven gloves on his hands, and a well-burned slice of toast in his pocket.

  (But then, it was a dream.)

  The door to the den was closed, the sign still warning him not to enter. This time he heeded it. Warily a
voiding the polished handle, he knelt down and peeked through the keyhole instead.

  A dragon’s face peeked back.

  It had huge, soppy, violet-colored eyes. But it wasn’t made of clay. This dragon was real.

  “Hello,” David whispered dreamily to it.

  The dragon blinked. Its scaly green ears pricked up and swiveled. David had a feeling he should know its name, but the dream wouldn’t bring it to mind for the moment.

  “Is Gawain in there?”

  The dragon blew a wisp of smoke from its nose. It rolled its eyes and looked to one side. After a moment, it nodded its head.

  “May I come in and see how he is?”

  The dragon’s mouth crinkled up at the edges. The eyes took on a worried expression. It slowly shook its head.

  David patted his oven gloves together. “Are you a guard dragon?”

  The dragon trilled proudly and paddled its feet. Another fine wisp of smoke hit the air.

  “Come on, you can let me have a little peek,” said David. “I’ll give you this piece of toast if you do.”

  He took the bread from his pocket. The guard dragon’s eyes lit up like sparklers. It looked quite interested in the idea of toast, especially the crispy blackened bits. David grinned. Rather strangely (even for a dream) he folded the toast into a tiny square and pushed it through the keyhole. It landed right at the guard dragon’s feet. The dragon bent its head.

  David raised one glove to the doorknob.

  There was a rustle. The guard dragon stiffened its scales. It seemed to know it was being tricked.

  In bed, David gave a nervous twitch. In his dream, he decided to risk the door.