Bad News

  Still, every so often, something would catch his eye—a dark cloud, a large seabird, a shadow on the ocean—and he would get to his feet, an expectant expression on his face, only to sit down again a moment later, evidently disappointed.

  Nearby, a llama sat with his legs tucked underneath his body so that he looked almost like a second, smaller rock formation. The llama never moved from this position, but whenever Clay stood, the llama would shake his head, as if disgusted by the behavior of his human companion.

  “I know, Como, you think I’m totally loco,” said Clay, after the llama had shaken his head especially vigorously. “But I swear, Ariella’s coming back. El dragon viene aqui.”

  The llama, whose full name was Como C. Llama and whose first language was Spanish, regarded Clay with undisguised skepticism.

  “So what if it’s been over a year—that’s just like uno minuto for a dragon,” continued Clay in his broken middle-school Spanish.

  The llama snorted dismissively.

  “Es verdad,” Clay insisted. “They have this whole other idea of time.”

  The llama yawned and nibbled on a stray wildflower.

  “Admit it: You don’t want Ariella to come back.” Clay looked at Como, daring the llama to contradict him.

  The llama looked back meaningfully.

  “What?! Dragons don’t eat llamas,” Clay protested. “And, uh, okay, even if they do, Ariella knows you’re mi amigo. Ariella would never eat you.”

  Como sniffed and turned away.

  “Come on, bro. You know that’s not what I meant. You probably taste awesome.… Oh, whatever. I’m not hablo-ing with you anymore.”

  An old book lay beside Clay, weighed down by a small rock. Covered with a tough, scaly hide that had yellowed with age, the book was called Secrets of the Occulta Draco; or, The Memoirs of a Dragon Tamer.

  Sighing, Clay removed the rock; immediately, the book opened, then closed, then opened again, pages fluttering noisily. Before the book could fly away, Clay gripped it firmly, and the pages settled into place.

  He’d read the whole book three times already, but there was one passage in particular that he kept going back to:

  Let not a dragon leap when you’re astride, lest you lose your mind on the other side.

  What kind of leap? Just a jump, or something else? And what “other side”—the other side of what? The counselors at Earth Ranch spoke often of some mysterious and powerful Other Side—an Other Side with capital letters—by which, as far as Clay could make out, they meant the magical side of the world. A fourth, magical dimension. But it seemed doubtful that a guy who was writing more than four hundred years ago would be swallowing the same mystical hogwash as the counselors at Clay’s hippie summer camp. And even if the two Other Sides were one and the same, what did it have to do with dragons?

  Clay’s reflections were interrupted by a loud spitting sound; Como was trying to get his attention. Standing, and not looking particularly happy about it, the llama nodded toward the horizon.

  Clay squinted. The wind had changed direction, blowing most of the vog away from this side of the island, and now the morning sun reflected dazzlingly on the water. The view was almost impossibly bright, but in the middle, directly below the sun, was a small dark spot. It was not much more than a dot, but the shape of wings was unmistakable. Far out over the ocean, something—something big—was flying toward them.

  “No way!” Clay’s heart thumped with excitement. “I mean, do you really think…?”

  Not responding, the llama sat down again, duty done.

  With his hand to his forehead, Clay strained his eyes, waiting to see if the unknown flying object really was Ariella.

  A moment later, he looked down, shoulders slumped. It wasn’t a dragon; it was an airplane.

  Figures, Clay thought bitterly.

  The truth was, Clay had no real confidence he would ever see Ariella again, only a desperate hope. Sure, he’d rescued Ariella the previous summer when the dragon was chained inside a storage container and about to be shipped away like a circus animal. But the proud creature had made it clear that this brief episode did not mean they were friends in any sense that a mere human would understand. Afterward, Ariella had barely said good-bye, let alone anything about returning to Price Island. And yet, for a few precious minutes, Clay had been allowed to fly on the dragon’s back—by far the best, most electrifying (and also most terrifying) experience of his life. Joined with the dragon, he’d felt at one with himself for the first time. He couldn’t bear the thought of never having that experience again.

  “Boo.”

  Clay looked over his shoulder. His friend Leira, who had an annoying talent for treading softly, had crept up behind him.

  “Do you always have to do that?” Clay griped.

  “Hmm. Let me see.…” Leira took off her cap and scratched her short red hair, pretending to ponder the question. “Yes.”

  She looked up at the sky. The airplane—a seaplane—was circling the island, getting ready to land in the shallow water. They could hear the whir of propellers in the distance.

  “So I guess you figured out that Owen’s on his way.”

  Clay nodded grumpily. “I thought he wasn’t back for another three days.”

  Owen, the seaplane’s pilot, ferried campers to and from the mainland, and he made biweekly trips to deliver supplies.

  “I know, it’s weird. You’re supposed to go meet him.”

  “Me? Why?” said Clay, surprised.

  Leira shrugged. “No idea. Buzz sent me to get you.… Well, not me, exactly. I just tagged along for fun.”

  She gestured behind her, where a small hive’s worth of bees were hovering in the air. They spelled out these words:

  As Clay watched, the bees flew out of formation, making one big, buzzy, blurry cloud. Then they divided once more, forming three very emphatic exclamation marks:

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming—chill!” Clay shouted at them.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” he said to Leira as they started walking down the hill.

  Leira smirked. “No, I won’t be your girlfriend.”

  “Seriously…”

  “What?”

  “Do you think Ariella will ever come back?” He nodded toward Como, who was plodding along the trail ahead of them. “That guy thinks I’m crazy.”

  “I don’t know, Mowgli. Some people might say it’s crazy to talk to a llama.”*

  “Don’t call me that. And you’re not answering the question.”

  “What question? That reminds me. Missing anything?”

  “Why, what did you take this time?” Clay asked suspiciously.

  Leira, who was an incredibly skilled pickpocket and thief, frequently stole things from Clay—for sport. She smiled innocently. And held up the Occulta Draco.

  “That book is, like, four hundred years old and maybe the only one in the world!” Clay complained, irate. “Do you know what Mr. B would do to me if anything happened to it?”

  “If it’s so priceless, why’d you leave it on that rock?” said Leira, handing it over.

  “Oh, I did?” said Clay, grimacing. “Sorry—”

  “Or maybe I lifted it from your backpack.” Leira grinned. “Can’t remember.”

  Clay laughed. “Why am I friends with you…?”

  Ahead of them, two old garbage-pail lids with rope handles had been left leaning against a rock. Wordlessly, they placed the garbage-pail lids side by side and sat down on them.

  “Ready?” asked Leira.

  “You know it,” said Clay. “Eat my volcanic dust.”

  Together, they pushed off and started sledding down the scree-covered slope, spinning and bouncing as they went, the llama trotting behind.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  THE MEETING IN THE TEEPEE

  Have you ever been called to the principal’s office without knowing why? (Or perhaps knowing why but not knowing what your fate will be?) Clay, I am somewhat reluct
ant to report, had been called to the principal’s office more than once. At Earth Ranch, the director’s teepee was the closest thing to a principal’s office; so it was with a familiar sense of dread that Clay landed at the bottom of Nose Peak.

  As Clay handed over his garbage-lid sled for Leira to return to his cabin, she made him promise that he would tell her what the meeting with the director was about. “Maybe they’re finally kicking you out!” she said brightly.

  Then she ran off, the two sleds on her back clanking against each other.

  What had he done wrong lately? Clay played back the past few days in his head.… The previous morning, he got caught skipping out on weeding, but everybody was expected to skip once in a while, right? And then he was busted for putting chocolate chips in his oatmeal, but again, nobody could exist entirely on the camp diet of seeds and sprouts. The day before, he had skateboarded on top of the picnic tables—a more serious offense, no doubt. But serious enough to get him sent home? Not when everyone, including the counselors, had laughed and applauded. And anyway, Pablo, not Clay, had made the skateboard.

  It seemed far likelier that an emergency of some sort had brought Owen back to the island. Had something happened to Clay’s parents? Or to his brother? Yes, Clay decided, it had to be his brother. His brother the hypercautious hypochondriac.* Despite (or because of) his excessive efforts to stay safe, Max-Ernest had always been accident-prone. Images of hospital beds and funeral parlors swam around in Clay’s mind.

  The atmosphere at camp did nothing to reassure him.

  Earth Ranch was built on the shores of Lava Lake, a long, crescent-shaped lake that was normally a brilliant tropical turquoise; today, though, the surface was dark and moody, and swirling like an oil slick. At the far end of the lake, smoke rose in a steady stream from Mount Forge, roiling the sky with ominous gray clouds. Vast lava flows, black except where the edges burned orange, slowly advanced down the sides of the volcano.

  Meanwhile, the camp’s ever-changing but previously omnipresent rainbow kept flickering in and out, sometimes vanishing for minutes at a time, only to come back brighter than ever. According to the counselors, the rainbow acted as a sort of supernatural “barometer,” measuring the level of magic in the island’s atmosphere.* At the moment, this level appeared to be extremely unstable.

  As Clay led Como into the barnyard, a random assortment of chickens and turkeys and goats and sheep crowded around Clay. Nudging him in the leg and other less comfortable places, they snorted and bleated and honked and squawked.

  “Don’t bust a gut, guys,” said Clay. “I fed you already, remember?”

  A man in a beekeeper suit—Buzz—addressed Clay from outside the gate. “Did you get my message?”

  “Yeah, I’m on my way.… Do you know why I’m supposed to see Mr. B?”

  Buzz shook his head. “No idea. But it sounds urgent.”

  Clay swallowed. He didn’t like the sound of sounds urgent.

  Around him, the animals continued to complain noisily, scratching the fences and pawing the ground. “What are they saying?” asked Buzz.

  “I can’t tell—they’re all talking at once,” said Clay.

  “Then tell them to speak one at a time,” said Buzz, as if this were a perfectly obvious solution.

  Buzz was the only person at camp who could relate to animals in the way that Clay could, although Buzz’s particular gift was an ability to communicate with bees. Clay, on the other hand, seemed to be able to talk to most species, at least to some degree. He simply spoke and animals understood him—not his words exactly, but the intent behind them. It was the same when they spoke to him. He couldn’t have done a word-for-word translation of barks or neighs, but he always seemed to understand what the dog or horse was trying to say.

  “Um, guys, quiet, please,” said Clay, in what he hoped was a stern but not unkind tone. “You.” He looked at one of the goats. “What’s going on?”

  As the goat bleated heatedly, Clay tried to focus on her and ignore the other animals.

  “It’s the smoke in the sky; they’re not digging it,” he said to Buzz, after a moment. “But the volcano’s always acting up, and I’ve never seen them behave like this.”

  “They must sense something different this time.”

  With great effort, Clay managed to slip out the gate without letting any animal inmates escape.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, maybe a disturbance in the Force.”

  Clay looked at Buzz’s face, which was partly hidden under his beekeeper hat. Was he joking? Buzz was Earth Ranch’s resident yogi-wizard-Yoda type, and he often invoked Star Wars in perfect seriousness.

  “You mean the Other Side?” said Clay tentatively.

  “Maybe,” said Buzz. “Randolph Price chose this island years ago because he was certain it was a power spot. It’s only a guess, but this latest eruption may not be simple geophysics.”*

  Clay struggled to understand. “So then the Other Side is underground? The way you guys talk about it, I always thought of it as behind the sky.”

  “Who says it can’t be both? The Other Side is everywhere and nowhere.” Buzz smiled and pointed upward. “Speaking of the sky, looks like your meeting is coming to you.”

  It was the second time that morning that Clay had seen something big flying toward him, but this time there was no mistaking it for a dragon.

  As the teepee sped over the lake, heading toward camp, it spun this way and that, looking as though it were about to tip over at any moment. Yet somehow, whether because of Mr. B’s expert steering or some mysterious balancing spell cast years ago, the teepee managed to descend from the sky without any passengers falling out.

  When Clay finally caught up with it, the teepee was floating at the far end of the lake’s long but narrow beach. The teepee kept skirting the shoreline, as if debating whether to land or go for a swim.

  Owen stuck his head out the flap door. “Hi, Clay. Right on time… Eli, how do I stop this thing?” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “You don’t!” came a voice from inside. “You pilot your plane; I pilot my teepee!”

  At these words, the teepee lowered itself almost but not quite to the ground and then stopped moving. Even so, Clay nearly fell over as he entered; stepping into the teepee was like stepping into a rowboat on a choppy sea.

  “Sit down, Clay, before you knock over the teapot!”

  The teepee pilot—Eli, aka Mr. Bailey, aka Mr. B—a small, round man with big mutton-chop sideburns, put a hand on the tall glass teapot resting on the brass tray in front of him. Flowers and herbs and other less identifiable botanicals steeped inside the pot.

  On the other side of the teepee, Owen, the seaplane pilot, was settling back on a pile of cushions, a teacup in hand. Younger, taller, and slimmer than Mr. Bailey, he had a shaved head and a scruffy chin. A master of disguise, Owen was usually to be found playing one role or another—whether a ponytailed airplane mechanic or a cantankerous old janitor—but for the moment he seemed not to be playing anyone but himself.

  Clay chose an empty spot to sit down, whereupon he discovered he had an unwelcome view of Mr. B’s naked hairy feet.

  “Is it my brother?” he asked Mr. B, unable to hide his anxiety. “Is he okay?”

  “Your brother’s fine,” the camp director reassured him.

  Owen laughed. “Or as fine as he ever is. You know Max-Ernest.… Actually, I’ve got a message from him. Well, a mission, really.”

  “A mission?”

  The knot of tension in Clay’s stomach relaxed (his brother was alive, at least), but it was soon replaced by a bilious ball of indignation.

  In the year that had passed since his first summer at Earth Ranch, Clay had seen his older brother exactly once. Max-Ernest had promised to come home sometime in the spring to visit, and indeed he did come—for all of one day. A day that Max-Ernest spent arguing on the phone with his old friend Cass while Clay skateboarded around the block over and over, waiting for Max-E
rnest to pay some attention to him.

  When the attention finally came, it consisted mostly of Max-Ernest criticizing him for not wearing a helmet.… To which Clay responded that he was almost fourteen years old and he would do what he wanted.… To which Max-Ernest responded that you could crack your head open at any age.… To which Clay responded, you’re never around anyway, so what do you care if I crack my head open?… To which Max-Ernest responded, depends, is that like cracking a joke?… To which Clay responded, huh? That isn’t even funny.… To which Max-Ernest responded, you’re right, it’s not. Cracking your head open is never funny.… And that was pretty much that.

  And now Max-Ernest had the nerve to send Clay on a mission?

  “That’s right, a mission,” said Owen. “For the Terces Society.”

  The Terces Society. That was the secret organization to which Max-Ernest and Cass had belonged since childhood. Max-Ernest had always kept Clay away from his Terces Society activities. He wouldn’t even confirm that Terces was secret spelled backward. Clay had had to figure that out for himself.

  “And for the SOS,” Mr. Bailey added. “It’s a joint operation, you might say.”

  SOS. Society of the Other Side. That was them. That is, Mr. Bailey, and the counselors and campers at Earth Ranch. Last year, by agreeing to stay at camp, Clay had agreed to join the SOS, but he hadn’t thought of the SOS as the kind of group that sent you on missions. It wasn’t like it was the CIA. Or the Terces Society, for that matter.

  “Here—” said Owen.

  He handed Clay a glossy black brochure. There was no picture on the front, only words:

  You’ve gone on safari in Kenya and ice fishing in Sweden.

  You’ve ridden camels in Egypt and elephants in India.