Once In a Blue Moon (27 page)

“Wimps,” said Chappie indistinctly.

•   •   •

B
y the time they’d finished all the things that needed doing, it was night. The dragon returned, and they all sat around the fire, quietly digesting as they watched the dancing flames, enjoying the quiet and one another’s company. The night sky was full of stars, with a pale half-moon hanging right overhead. The birds had stopped their singing, the insects had disappeared to wherever small, irritating things go at night, and although there were various noises out among the trees from all the usual nocturnal animals humping and killing one another (often at the same time, from the sound of it), nothing emerged from the tree line to bother the camp. Having thirty feet of dragon around was enough to make even the largest predator suitably cautious. A few flappy-winged moths fluttered around, making a nuisance of themselves for no obvious reason.

Hawk and Fisher sat side by side, leaning against each other companionably. Chappie lay at their feet, worrying a bone. The dragon lay curled in a semicircle around them, like a great green protective wall, his heavy head flat on the grass. His great golden eyes were half closed, and two thin plumes of smoke rose from his nostrils in perfectly straight lines. Fisher leaned back against his ribs, easily riding his slow breathing.

“Hawk, Fisher,” said the dragon, with the air of someone trying out new names just for the practice, “does the dark still bother you even after all these years?”

“Some,” said Hawk, looking out at the darkness beyond the firelight without flinching. “The poison the Darkwood put in my soul is still there. I suppose it always will be. But it doesn’t rule my life, like it used to.”

“You never get over it,” said Fisher. “But you do learn to live with it.”

“I suppose that’s why the Demon Prince was able to find us so easily,” said Hawk. His voice was calm and relaxed, and would probably have fooled anyone else.

“How do you feel, Dragon?” said Fisher. “Are you . . . fully recovered?”

“I feel like myself again,” said the dragon. “Ready to eat a whole army of demons, and then drop something very heavy on the Demon Prince from a great height. Do you want me to fly you to Forest Castle?”

“Eventually,” said Hawk. “Remember, Dragon, we have to go back as Hawk and Fisher, not as Rupert and Julia.”

“Is Chappie still Chappie?” said the dragon.

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Fisher. “No point in giving him another name; he’d never remember it.”

“I heard that!” said Chappie. “I am me, and proud of it! And if anyone else can’t handle that, that’s their problem.” He paused and looked up from his bone, licking at the dried blood around his muzzle. “You know, there are bound to have been a lot of changes at the Castle since you left. A lot can happen in a hundred years.”

The dragon chuckled heavily, making Fisher jump as the slow ripples moved along his ribs. “Only humans could think a hundred years a long time.”

“Things should change,” said Hawk. “Otherwise you get bored with them. I’ll be very interested to see what they’ve done with the old place.”

“You never liked Forest Castle,” said Fisher.

“No,” said Hawk. “But it’s still the place where I grew up, where my family was, so I suppose that makes it . . . home.”

“You never liked your father either,” said Fisher.

“He was the King,” Hawk said simply. “He had duties and responsibilities. I always knew that. Even when he sent me out to die, on a quest I was never supposed to accomplish, I always knew why he did it. And I can’t think too badly of that; it’s how I met you. And the dragon.”

Hawk and Fisher smiled fondly at each other. “I hated my father,” said Fisher. “He had too many daughters, and I wouldn’t behave like he wanted . . . and he needed a sacrifice, so he sent me off to die too. To be eaten by a dragon. Funny how things turn out. Thank you for not eating me, Dragon.”

“I told you,” said the dragon. “Humans give me heartburn.”

“It’s . . . different with sons and fathers,” said Hawk. “Fathers shape your life, whether you like it or not. You either want to be just like them, or nothing like them. And you never ever break free of their influence. Even when they’re dead. Perhaps especially when they’re dead, because you can’t show them what you’ve made of your life, to impress them or to spite them.”

“Ghosts should stay in the past,” Fisher said firmly. “Concentrate on the present. We have to find our children before we can return to Forest Castle. I need to be sure they’re safe.”

“Jack,” said Hawk. “We’ll start with Jack. At least we have a location for him.”

“Really?” said Chappie. “You never told me.”

“It always seemed important to let our children go their own way,” said Fisher. “Let them make their own lives, free from our shadows.”

“Last we heard, our boy, Jack, had taken up the religious life,” said Hawk. “As a contemplative monk living in seclusion in a monastery. The Abbey of Saint Augustine.”

“A monk?” said Chappie. “Jack?”

“Our boy,” said Fisher, frowning despite herself. “He must be in his seventies by now. Hard to think of our son being older than us.”

“A contemplative monk is just one step up from a hermit,” said Hawk. “Not what I wanted for my son, but no doubt he knows his own mind best. And he did lead an active life before he got religion.”

“An active life?” said Fisher. “He was the Walking Man, the wrath of God in the world of men, protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty!”

“He was?” said Chappie. “Shit . . .”

“Killing people who needed killing,” said Hawk. “I have no problem with that.”

“He must have,” said Fisher. “Or he wouldn’t be in a monastery at the end of his life.”

“I wouldn’t disturb him,” said Hawk, “but the Demon Prince threatened our grandchildren. Jack has a right to know.”

“When the Demon Prince threatened Mercy and Nathanial, he threatened all of us,” said Fisher. “The whole family. We’re all in danger. Of course Jack has to know.”

“Right,” said Hawk. “Everyone in the Abbey could be in danger! Just because Jack’s there . . . So we start with Saint Augustine’s.”

“In the morning,” said the dragon. “I don’t fly in the dark. You three get your sleep. I’ll stand watch. I don’t feel like sleeping. I think I’ve had enough of that for the time being.”

•   •   •

I
n the early hours of the morning, with the sun up and bright light everywhere, they all clambered back aboard the dragon and set off again, being careful to fly high above the Forest Land so that no one would be able to make out exactly what the dragon was. The Land flowed by beneath the great beating wings, all the colours of field and wood and cropland smearing together in a great rainbow blur. Hawk quickly identified one of the main rivers, and they followed its curves and turns all the way to the Abbey of Saint Augustine, set deep in dense woodlands, far away from towns and villages. Once again the dragon picked out a suitable clearing, within walking distance of the Abbey, and settled down there. Everyone disembarked, and Hawk produced an old and much-used map of the territory from his backpack. He and Fisher studied it for some time. They were pretty sure they knew where they were, in general, but a hundred-year lifetime does take its toll on the memories. In the end, Chappie got fed up and said he could guide them straight to the Abbey, because it smelled entirely different from everything else.

After a short walk through the woods, they came to a rough-hewn clearing, just big enough to contain the monastery. The Abbey of Saint Augustine was just a collection of rough stone buildings with slate roofs and grilled windows, surrounded by a long stone wall with just the one entrance door. For a house of God, it didn’t look the least bit inviting. Chappie sniffed the air ostentatiously.

“Told you. This is it. I’m getting wine and smoke and a vegetable garden, and a whole bunch of people who don’t wash much. And look at those buildings! I’ve had more aesthetic bowel movements. Ugly place. What’s it for?”

“It’s a place for people who want to get away from it all, so they can think big, comforting thoughts,” said Fisher. “A place of religious seclusion, for those who’ve led very active lives, one way and another, and now regret it. So they’ve chosen to turn their backs on their old lives and spend their last few years in seclusion, repenting. Well away from anyone or anything that might tempt them back to their old ways and their old lives.”

“When we get in there,” said Hawk, “let me do the talking.”

“I can’t say I’m any the wiser,” said Chappie. “Dogs don’t look back. Or forward. We live in the moment. Eating and drinking, humping and sleeping. What else is there that really matters, when you get right down to it?”

“Friendship,” said Hawk.

Chappie brushed his great head against Hawk’s hip. “All right, you got me there.”

“So what did your son do, to make him decide to spend the last years of his life in a place like this?” said the dragon.

“Well,” Hawk said carefully, “being the Walking Man, defender of the innocent and punisher of the guilty, does take its toll on a person. And the better the person, the greater the toll.”

“I think I’ll step back into the woods,” said the dragon. “Religious fanatics make me nervous. Or is it the other way round? I can never remember . . . Anyway, I think it’s best if I stay out of sight, in the trees at the edge of the clearing. No point in upsetting anyone.”

“Good idea,” said Hawk. “If the Demon Prince really has returned, he might well have human agents keeping an eye on Jack, just in case we turned up here. No point in letting the creepy little bastard know we’re back in the game until we have to.”

“It’s camouflage time, then,” said the dragon. He backed rapidly into the trees and disappeared completely. Chappie shook his head in amazement.

“For thirty feet of very large dragon, complete with bloody big wings and tail, he really is awfully good at blending in with his surroundings.”

“If more of his kind had learned to hide, there’d be more of them around,” said Fisher.

The three of them approached the wooden door set into the wall surrounding the monastery. The door turned out to be a single slab of very solid wood, held in place by heavy brass hinges, and it was quite definitely closed. A sign above the door said,
The Abbey of Saint Augustine. For Those of a Troubled Spirit. Go away. This means you. No one here wants to talk to you. Whoever you’re looking for, they aren’t that person anymore.
Hawk studied the door and its surroundings with great care, without actually touching anything.

“I don’t see any door handle, knocker, or bellpull,” he said finally.

“Hardly surprising,” said Fisher. “This is where you go when you really don’t want to be disturbed by anyone.”

“So what do we do?” said Chappie. “Make a loud and unruly nuisance of ourselves, until they let us in? I could do that. I’m really very good at making a horrible display of myself. Everybody says so.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Hawk. “Though thanks for the offer. They must have seen the dragon when we circled overhead to make sure we’d got the right place. And they must have seen us land in the woods, when we could have just dropped straight down into their courtyard. So they must know we’re very polite and civilised, even though we don’t have to be.”

“Hawk,” said Chappie, “why are you saying all that in such a loud and carrying voice?”

“So whoever’s listening on the other side of that door can hear me,” said Hawk. Loudly.

There was the sound of several heavy bolts being pulled back, followed by two very heavy keys turning in locks, and then the door swung slowly inwards. A more than usually large man, in a battered brown monk’s habit, stepped forward into the gap, blocking their way. The hood was pulled well forward to hide the face within. A large hand emerged from one over-long brown sleeve, missing one finger and carrying a lot of scars. The hand rose slowly, to push the hood back, revealing a face as red as boiled ham and about as attractive. A bald head, with a heavy brow, a great beak of a nose, and the kind of scars you got only in serious battles. He had the look of someone who’d seen more than his fair share of action, but his eyes were surprisingly warm, even kind. A man finally at peace with himself. He bowed briefly.

“Hello,” he said in a rough voice that suggested he didn’t do much talking anymore. “Do you know who I am? Who I used to be?”

“No,” said Hawk.

“Good,” said the monk. “I get on so much better with people when they don’t know what I used to do. Now I am Brother Ambrose. Come in. We’ve been expecting you. You are here to speak with Brother Jack? Of course, of course. He said you’d turn up here any day now. He’s been having . . . bad dreams. Very specific bad dreams. I hope you can help him. Sorry, no dogs.”

“I am not just a dog!” said Chappie.

“Oh, it’s
you
!” said Brother Ambrose. “Brother Jack warned us . . . told us, about you. The talking dog who is a friend and is not in any way possessed or demonic. Come on in; we’ll make an exception for you.”

“Damn right you will,” growled Chappie.

The monk stood well back, to let them all enter. Chappie led the way, swaggering in with his head held high, just to make a point. Brother Ambrose closed and locked the door behind them, slamming the heavy bolts home with some force. Hawk tried not to take it personally. He looked around the empty courtyard. No stables, not even a hitching rail or a watering trough for visiting horses. They really weren’t expecting company. Just an open space, with carefully raked sand and gravel. The outer wall seemed even taller and more solid from the inside. Hawk let his hand rest near, but not actually on, the axe at his side. Fisher was equally polite, though her hand was a lot nearer the sword on her hip, because she was just naturally far less trusting than he was. Chappie sniffed at the air and looked down his nose at everything.

Brother Ambrose led them past the main Abbey buildings, with their grilled windows and firmly closed doors, and then past a series of small stone cells, presumably set aside for complete seclusion and meditation, and then all the way round the back, to where half a dozen other monks in rough brown robes were quietly working an extensive vegetable garden. It was all very serene, very peaceful, as the monks planted and weeded and dug without once looking up to acknowledge the visitors. Presumably lost in their own thoughts. They all seemed content enough. Brother Ambrose pointed out a single hooded figure on his knees by the far wall, planting seeds in the earth with his bare hands.