When Connie arrived back home, she was surprised to see that they had a visitor, or maybe visitors. An old motorbike and sidecar stood in Shaker Row outside Number Five. Clattering into the kitchen, she found two helmets but only one caller: Dr. Brock. He was chatting with her aunt and Signor Antonelli over a mug of coffee and some tough, homemade biscuits.
Dr. Brock called out to her as she came in: “Ah, Connie, I was waiting for you. I see you’ve been bearding the lion in his den with your trip to Axoil.”
“Yes,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “Sorry about that. But it was Anneena and Rupa’s idea.”
“So I’ve heard. You can’t help what your friends get up to. After all, they’re only following their nature as two very inquisitive young women. We’ll have to hope that the sirens lie low for a time. But I haven’t come on a social call. As I told you, I have written to the Trustees about the events of last week, and they’ve replied asking to meet you.”
Evelyn could not keep silent, evidently convinced that Dr. Brock was not giving the news its due weight. “It’s a real honor to be asked to meet the Trustees, Connie,” she exclaimed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone else being invited to do so!”
“No, we companions of le sirene do not meet with Trustees, carina.” The signor beamed at her.
Dr. Brock gave Connie a conspiratorial wink. “Well, our Connie is special. And we have to have the highest authority to overrule an assessor.”
“But to meet all of them: it’s unprecedented!” said Evelyn.
“Indeed. But the long and the short of it is that the meeting is to take place tonight up on Dartmoor. We will need to get there before dusk, as I don’t fancy trying to find the place in the dark. Your aunt has given permission for me to take you, so if you agree, we’ll have a quick lunch and be off.”
Connie could sense the excitement among the three of them. It made her eager to see what these Trustees were like. “That sounds great. But I had been thinking that I should go and see the sirens today. Surely someone should go and talk to them?”
Dr. Brock exchanged a quick look with Evelyn and Signor Antonelli.
“Er...we don’t think that’s a good idea at the moment, Connie,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “If the sirens have gone over to Kullervo...Well, let’s get your membership in the Society sorted out first. Signor Antonelli is dealing with the sirens.” The Italian bowed to her.
“But—” began Connie.
“The Trustees are expecting you, Connie,” interrupted Evelyn swiftly. “They’ve come a long way; you mustn’t keep them waiting.”
An hour later, Connie was belted into the sidecar, zooming along the country lanes that separated Hescombe from Dartmoor. She could not see much, as rain splattered the small windscreen in front of her, but she gained a tremendous sense of speed crouched so close to the ground. When she glanced to her side, there was Dr. Brock sitting on the bike, goggles over his eyes and raindrops streaming off him. It occurred to Connie that riding a motorbike might be the closest he could come through conventional means to flying on a dragon, but it was a poor exchange: no wings, no flames, no creaturely communication.
The bike slowed to enter a parking lot and jolted through some muddy puddles. Connie climbed stiffly out of the sidecar and stretched her cramped muscles. With the exception of one car, they had the place to themselves. Hardly surprising as it was a miserable day for a walk on the moor: clouds scudded across the horizon shedding gray showers on the hillsides; nearby a sheep bleated sorrowfully; and the wind tugged insistently at Connie’s hair. Bronze bracken sagged over the path, weeping raindrops as they passed.
Dr. Brock, however, seemed far from downhearted.
“Good, good,” he said, locking the helmets away in the sidecar. “This is perfect: no one else around so next to no chance of anyone seeing the Trustees.”
“Why don’t they want to be seen?” asked Connie.
“Because half of them are mythical creatures—they’d create quite a stir if they showed up in Hescombe.” He chuckled at Connie’s expression of amazement. “You didn’t think I would drag you all the way out to Dartmoor on a wet day like this if we could all have met in your aunt’s warm kitchen?”
Connie was not sure what she had thought. The ways of the Society were so new and so extraordinary, nothing Dr. Brock suggested would have seemed odd to her.
“There is someone else around, though,” she said, nodding over to the car.
“That’s only Ivor Coddrington,” Dr. Brock said dismissively.
Connie’s spirits sank. “I didn’t know he was going to be here,” she muttered.
“He wants to put his version of events to the Trustees first after making such a scandalous mistake. Turning down the first universal companion for a century: not something he’ll like to remember, believe me!”
Dr. Brock studied his map for a moment before setting off in a northerly direction. Connie tagged behind, of two minds as to whether she wanted to go. The last person she wanted to see was Mr. Coddrington. She was sure that their dislike was mutual. He had shown at the assessment that he didn’t want her anywhere near his Society. Might he not turn the Trustees against her?
“Is it far?” she asked.
“About four miles,” said Dr. Brock, glancing back. “We’ve got plenty of time. We’ll take it easy. Best foot forward, my dear.”
They set off across the green turf, winding around rocks that protruded like gray teeth breaking through earthen gums. The grass seemed to Connie to be only a thin layer concealing something that slept beneath, some nameless presence more primal, cold, and bleak than anything she had ever met before. In places the gorse had been hacked back or burnt away; gray roots writhed on the surface like twisted snakes. The silence and desolation crept into her heart, filling her with despair. Unbidden, the memory of her aunt’s twirling dance returned to her mind and she felt all happiness leach out of her soul, spun off into the remorseless barrenness of the moor. It was only through a great effort of will that she kept putting one foot in front of another, doggedly following in the footsteps of Dr. Brock.
Connie trudged on, wiping the rain from her eyes. It was uncomfortable walking in the wet: as she grew warm from the exercise, she longed to take off her anorak, but it was still raining. She wondered how Dr. Brock could keep going with no sign of suffering in these conditions: perhaps dragon companions were made of stronger stuff? Just when Connie felt she could go no further, Dr. Brock stopped at a stone stile to take a short breather. It was already getting dark. The looming clouds made it blacker than normal at this time of day.
“Dr. Brock?” she said.
“Yes, Connie?”
“There’s something that has been bothering me since the assessment.”
“Oh yes, and what’s that?”
“I think that Mr. Coddrington might have known that I was a universal companion, but he failed me deliberately. He doesn’t like me, you know.”
Now that she’d voiced the fear that was plaguing her, Connie expected Dr. Brock to tell her not to be so silly. But he did nothing of the sort, just considered her thoughtfully, leaning against the stile.
“I suppose it’s possible,” he said at length. “Universal companions are both envied and feared by other members of the Society. Some see them as a threat to the system, as they cut right across all our neat little categories and arrangements. Ivor would be the sort not to want the boat to be rocked. After seeing the gift die out, it could be that it’s his worst nightmare to find it reborn in the new generation of companions.”
Connie thought about this for a moment. Yes, it was plausible, except that she had had the impression that he had disliked her even before assessing her—as if he had already decided his verdict when she stepped into the room.
“But whatever Ivor Coddrington thinks is now irrelevant, Connie,” Dr. Brock continued, standing up. “You’re to be assessed by the Trustees; there’s no higher honor for a compani
on than that.”
Col was having his worst flying lesson on record. His father had turned up out of the blue to watch, and the knowledge that he was there had sent all of Col’s natural talents scuttling into hiding.
“No, no, boy!” rapped out Captain Graves. “Lean to the left when he turns. You’ll fall off in a jiffy if you continue on that tack.”
Col grew even angrier with himself as he felt his face flush.
“What is the matter, Companion?” asked Skylark with concern. “Parts of you are closed to me today. I cannot hear your thoughts.”
Good, thought Col sullenly, for Skylark would be shocked if he heard the tirade of angry words running through Col’s head at that moment. He did not like himself in this mood and could not imagine that it would be forgiven and understood by anyone else.
It’s nothing, Skylark, Col lied. The horse tossed his head, scepticism emanating from him like the beam from a torch, threatening to shine into places that Col would rather keep hidden. Such exposure was the last thing Col wanted right now, so he leaned forward and said aloud: “Enough, Skylark. I’m sorry but I’ve had enough. Can we go down, please?”
Skylark had sufficient sensitivity to know not to push Col any further so he glided silently down to land, with only the merest thump, on the grass near Col’s father and Captain Graves.
“Don’t know what’s got into the boy today, Mr. Clamworthy,” said Captain Graves almost apologetically, as if he felt responsible for his pupil’s poor performance. “He’s not like this normally. He’s a natural, as I was telling you, extraordinarily gifted on horseback.”
“It’s all right, Captain,” said Col’s father, casting a wary look at his son. “We can’t all perform on demand, can we? I believe you when you say he’s good—after all, he’s my son. I can hardly be surprised if he turns out talented, can I now?”
He said it as a joke, but Col winced: his father was always so sure of himself, so proud of his own obvious abilities as a companion.
Captain Graves led Skylark away, patting the young horse affectionately on the shoulder, leaving father and son alone in the paddock. The day had turned nasty—a cold rain flattened Mr. Clamworthy’s spiked black hair and spotted his designer jeans. Mr. Clamworthy—or Mack, as he preferred to be known, even to his son—always aspired to look younger than he was, to be one of the guys. Col thought that the rain-flattened hair somehow made him appear older, revealing lines around his eyes: in fact, making him look more like the ordinary dad Col often wished for.
“So, Col, having a bit of trouble, are you?” Mack Clamworthy asked none too subtly. Perhaps his father was trying to show interest in his progress, but Col could not help but hear the unspoken words he had so often had to listen to, that success was due to Clamworthy genes, failure to those of Col’s mother.
“I’m managing okay.”
Mack put his arm round his son’s shoulders to steer him in the direction of the farmhouse. “Has your mother been to see you recently?”
Col shrugged, feigning indifference as a painful image of his startlingly beautiful mother flashed into his mind.
“No.”
“Huh!” Mack laughed disdainfully, leaving the implication hanging in the air that somehow Col’s trouble today was due to his mother’s neglect. Col felt a wave of anger: he knew full well that, had she visited, that too would have been seized on as a cause of his poor showing. Eager to change the subject before he said something rash, Col asked the question he knew would always get his father on to a different track.
“What brings you down here? Is the Kraken in our waters again?”
“That’s right. I went diving yesterday but everything’s okay. It’s well hidden—very deep.”
Col glanced sideways at his father, thinking that despite everything else he felt about him, it was really cool to have a father who was a companion to one of the most feared sea-beasts in the world. He could not even begin to imagine what that encounter must be like; it made his gift for the pegasi seem tame by comparison.
“I hear from Mum that you’ve been visiting our friends over at Chartmouth,” said Mack abruptly, surfacing to the present from the depths into which Col’s question had sent him.
“Oh yeah. Did you see the newspaper, too?”
“Yeah. Too bad you drew attention to what the sirens are up to.” Col flushed. “You watch those guys, Col—I mean it. I’ve met their kind before in other parts of the world: they’re real cowboys. Axoil is ruthless—no reason to expect their European branch to be any different. Don’t go thinking that some two-bit paper and four kids will stand in their way. And as for that idiot, Maurice Quick—I know him. We were at school together. Axoil’s welcome to him. He was a nasty piece of work as a boy—always boasting that he had a better watch or something than the rest of us. I bet he’s just the same now that he’s been given even bigger toys to play with at the refinery. He must’ve loved coming back here to shove his success down our throats. You’d better pray our paths don’t cross. It won’t be pretty if we come face-to-face, I can tell you.”
Col suppressed his resentment that even here his father was claiming that he knew better than his son. He never seemed to be able to do anything that Mack had not done before—and done better. But perhaps for once, his dad was right: Mack’s vast experience of the sea might mean that he would be able to give them some advice as to what to do next. Was there any way to stop the sirens being exposed?
“Dad, do you have any ideas what we should do now?” Col asked when they reached the driveway in front of the Mastersons’ house. Mack paused in the act of buckling on his helmet and met his son’s eyes for the first time. He hesitated, then took his helmet off and smiled, clapping Col on the back, looking very pleased to have been asked.
“Sure. When in doubt, I’ve always found it best to go back to the first principles of the Society. I think what you need is a diversionary tactic....”
Dr. Brock and Connie reached the meeting place at about seven in the evening. The Trustees had chosen one of the remotest points on the moor: it was marked by a tor—a rock carved by the elements into a tortured shape, like a hooded man leaning into a strong wind, straining to remain upright. Wisps of low cloud curled around it so that the tor seemed to be moving, revealing glimpses of its dark, mysterious features between the rags of mist. It dwarfed Ivor Coddrington, who was already there, taking shelter in the lee of the rock, struggling with a black umbrella. It had just blown inside out and he was wrestling to fix it; their arrival did little to cheer him.
“Hello, Ivor!” called Dr. Brock heartily.
Mr. Coddrington glared at them both. “Fine fuss they are making about her,” he replied, shaking the umbrella violently so that it re-formed itself into a crumpled dome over his head. “Dragging us all out here!”
Connie shrank back behind Dr. Brock.
“Come now. Connie’s quite a find for us,” Dr. Brock said with a hint of amusement.
“Humph!” Mr. Coddrington grunted, before turning his attention back to the umbrella, avoiding further conversation. Connie heard him mutter “a danger more like,” but not loud enough to make Dr. Brock feel he had to respond.
It was a tedious wait. There was only one place that offered any chance of shelter from the rain—the leeside of the tor—which meant the three of them had to sit in unwelcome proximity. With Mr. Coddrington within earshot huddled beneath his battered umbrella, Connie was disinclined to ask any questions. But they ran around in her head nonetheless. The wind moaned in the crevices of the tor like a demon imprisoned in the rock, howling to be released. A steady, penetrating rain fell, casting a gray twilight over the moor, which stretched out on all sides like a dull green sea, rippling with restless waves of grass. Staring at the fading landscape, Connie once again felt desolate and afraid. Her gift set her apart, she was beginning to understand that, but would the Trustees let her into the Society after their assessment or would they listen to Mr. Coddrington? And who or what were the Truste
es? To distract her anxious thoughts, she passed the time casting stones at chosen targets. Dr. Brock joined her in this game, and she cheered up as they got a fierce little competition under way.
“Ah, ha! I win!” shouted Dr. Brock, after hitting a clump of grass on the edge of the pool of light cast by their torch. Connie gracefully conceded defeat, having won six rounds herself.
“Again?” she asked, but got no reply. Dr. Brock was looking up into the night sky. She could make nothing out—there were no stars or moon to be seen—but she sensed something, too: others were approaching. The creak of leathery wings forewarned her—a burst of flame and a dragon with a brilliant green underbelly descended through the clouds right above their heads, circling down to land.
Dr. Brock jumped to his feet with excitement. “It’s Morjik!” he cried.
“Morjik?” she asked.
He helped her up. “Yes—the oldest and wisest of dragons—all the way from central Europe.”
The dragon landed with a heavy thump a stone’s cast away, folding its wings into its gleaming body. It was then that Connie noticed a woman dressed in a brown leather riding-suit on his back. From the glimpse of her in the torchlight, Connie guessed the lady was around Dr. Brock’s age and, like him, still quite up to the task of dragon-flying.
“Kinga!” Dr. Brock rushed over to help the woman down. “It’s a joy to see you after all these years!”
“And you, Franciszek—though I see you’ve lost your fiery top to age,” she replied in a throaty voice with a Slavic accent, gesturing to his white hair. She kissed him lightly on the cheeks three times. “Are we the first?”
Dr. Brock nodded and then turned to bow very low to Morjik.
“Wise One, we are honored by your presence,” he said gravely. The dragon—with its vivid green hide, gnarled and knotted like tree bark, and startling red eyes—flickered its tongue gently so that it touched Dr. Brock on the head. Connie sensed a bond of affection between the three and wondered what story lay behind this encounter.