The Fire Within (The Last Dragon Chro) (17 page)

T
HE
F
IRE
T
EAR

 

L
ike a flower blooming, she opened her hands. “The song of Guinevere touches the ancient heart of Gawain. It rouses his emotions, yet tempers his fire. Suddenly, he roars and shakes his head, then takes at once to the frosty skies. One beat of his mighty wings gathers leaves and dust into spiraling clouds. His giant shadow covers the valley. He bellows so loudly the ice caps shatter. The terrified villagers cower in their caves. Guinevere must surely die, they think. But when they look again, the red-haired girl is still by the stream. The dragon has flown, but a token of his presence is lying at her feet. It glints in the sunlight, green and ridged.”

“A scale,” whispered David. He pictured it clearly. It was about the same size and thickness as a roof slate, curved and tapering at the bottom.

“Guinevere holds it to her breast,” said Liz. “A gift from a dragon is something to treasure. She knows, by this sign, Gawain will return.”

“He knows she feels sorry for him,” David muttered. “He knows she wants to help him.”

“Yes,” said Liz, “but he is not sure how. Even so, he comes to her again. For seven days and seven nights she sings her lullaby to the dragon. Sometimes he lies beside the stream bed with her. Sometimes he flies her to the ice-capped mountains. Her singing soothes his heart. But with every passing moon his strength is fading. The fire in his belly is losing its spark. One night he can barely lift his wings. Too weary to fly, he roves the valley, clawing at the earth, belching smoke. Soon, dragons will be no more. Gawain roars at the starlit sky and sweeps his tail in a whirlwind of despair.”

“And the people,” gabbled Lucy. “The people are coming.”

“With spears,” said David, creating the scene. “They want to kill him. While he’s weak.” He kicked his legs as if having a nightmare and felt a calming touch on his ankle.

“Even a dragon’s dying breath could turn their bones to ash,” said Liz. “Gawain stands forth. He scorches a line of fire in the earth. The villagers draw back, mortally afraid. Some hurl spears. They bounce off the dragon like pieces of straw. Guinevere, angered by the villagers’ prejudice, runs to Gawain and swears undying love for the dragon. The villagers taunt her foolishness. They say she will die a lonely old shrew, for he, Gawain, is the last of his kind and little more than a fading ember. Guinevere knows this is true. But her will is strong and her heart is pure. She vows to find a way to preserve the dragon’s fire. But who can she speak to about such a thing? Who knows the ways of dragons and men?”

“Someone old,” said David, his eyes moving rapidly under their lids as if he was searching the valley for a figure. “Someone who remembers … lots of dragons.”

“Gwilanna,” whispered Lucy. “She goes to Gwilanna.”

A picture shimmered into David’s mind. Gwilanna: a smelly, broken-toothed crone; gray hair matted and blackened by ash; sitting in the mouth of a firelit cave, littered with bones and animal furs. “She’s an outcast,” he muttered. “People fear her. She’s got scrawny hands and spooky eyes — sort of murky, like soup.”

“Deeper than the ocean itself,” said Liz. “She draws Guinevere into her cave. She already knows why the girl has come. ‘You wish to save the dragon’s fire,’ she cackles. It is not a question, but a revelation of Gwilanna’s powers.”

“I don’t trust her,” mumbled David.

“Perhaps not,” said Liz. “But the crone is Guinevere’s only hope. Gwilanna spits a chewed bone into the fire. She demands that Guinevere give up the scale in exchange for the secrets she knows she requires. Guinevere opens her pouch. She has carried the scale since the day it fell from the dragon’s body.
Gwilanna snatches it hungrily from her. She licks the scale with a snaking tongue, then beckons the beautiful Guinevere close. She caresses her hair with hawkish fingers.”

“She’s going to cut it,” gasped David, “with the scale.”

“One lock,” said Liz. “In a flash, it is done. She rubs the hair once against the scale, then hurls it into the crackling fire. Sparks fly to the roof of the cave. Somewhere in the distant ice-capped mountains, Gawain throws back his head and roars.”

Hrrr,
came a furious clamor from above.

David gripped the folds of the blanket. “It’s loud. It’s shaking the walls of the cave. I see dust and stones spilling out of the cracks.”

“Dream it,” said Liz, caressing the words. “Even a fading ember of a dragon can move the earth with the power of his breath.”

“Hrr,” breathed Lucy, as if to prove it.

“Now, the old woman takes Guinevere’s arm. Her
fingers, like talons, cut into the flesh. ‘You are joined to the dragon in fire,’ she hisses. ‘Now you must join him in water, too.’ She points to the tranquil moon. ‘His flame will expire when the moon is full. He will wish to die alone, as dragons should. But you must be there, waiting, child. For the moment will come when his fire will flow briefly into the world. The dragon is proud and knows no fear, but in truth he is crying deep inside. With his last breath, a fire tear will come. Catch it and the essence of Gawain will be yours; fail and dragonkind is lost forever.’ “

“Fire tear …” David repeated tiredly.

“Dream it,” Liz whispered, as Lucy began to sing once more.

David yawned and snuggled into his pillow, faintly aware of movement on the bed. It felt lighter, suddenly. More freedom to move. He stretched his legs and cuddled Winston. His body relaxed. His mind drifted. He saw Gawain on a mountaintop, silhouetted against the shimmering moon; Guinevere, wrapped in a kind
of shawl, singing into the shell of his ear. Gradually, the dragon lowered his head. His spiked tail drooped. His scales fell flat. His oval eyes, long-closed and weary, blinked one final, fiery time. His life expired in a snort of vapor. But in that moment, a teardrop formed. A living teardrop, on his snout. A violet flame in a dot of water. It trickled down his face to the tip of his nostrils and fell, sparkling, into Guinevere’s hands.

“Got it,” muttered David, with a sleepy smile. “Umm. What happens now?”

His eyes blinked open. Liz and Lucy were nowhere to be seen.

“Liz?” he called, pushing the blanket aside. “Liz, where are you?”

He got out of bed and stepped into the hall. The house was wrapped in the silence of night.

David walked to the foot of the stairs, bathed in moonlight from the picture window. “Liz?” he called. “You didn’t finish the story. What do I do about Gadzooks?”

Suddenly, something fluttered in the shadows and the moonlight was pricked by a faint orange glow. David gulped and glanced to his left. On the newel post beside him, two clawed feet were scrambling for a hold. A small, winged creature had landed there.

It was Gruffen.

K
ILNING
G
ADZOOKS

 

F
ff,”
Gruffen snorted and pointed his snout, hound-like, up the stairs.

“The den?” guessed David.

Gruffen blew a couple of smoke rings and nodded. He spread his wings and fluttered onto the tenant’s shoulder.
“Hrrr,”
he went, warming David’s earlobe.

“Thanks,” David winced, and climbed the stairs.

As he neared the top, he turned his gaze toward the picture window. A frowning dragon was tapping the bulb of a small thermometer. It
hrred
warm air as the tenant went past. Meanwhile, in the bathroom, the dragon on the tank was blowing a beautiful rose-scented flame.

“I knew it,” muttered David. “I knew you were real.”

Gruffen flicked his tail as if to say “naturally,” then
hrred
on the handle of the Dragons’ Den.

The door to Liz’s studio swung open.

David edged inside.

The reception was
warm,
but not exactly friendly. Claws tightened on every shelf as dragons stretched their necks to peer at the tenant. Some scowled with disapproval. Others whipped their tails. Before David could utter a word of explanation, one of the dragons gave a quiet sniffle. Gadzooks. He was sitting on the potter’s wheel. Every pair of violet eyes turned to look at the story-writing dragon.

A strange hush fell. The room darkened as the dragons held their breath. David knelt in front of Gadzooks. The dragon had sagged into a doleful heap. His pencil and pad were lying idly at his side. Smudge marks had darkened the bridge of his snout as if he’d rubbed his eyes with his writing paw.

“I’m sorry I sent you away,” David whispered. “Please come back. I love you. Really.”

Gadzooks blew a pitiful wisp of steam. His head lolled forward and something glittered in the corner of his eye: a tear with a violet flame inside it.

There was a sharp intake of breath along the shelves.

Gruffen, still sitting on David’s shoulder, let out a high-pitched squeak and whipped his book from beneath one wing. On the spine was a grand-sounding title:
Guard Dragons: Procedures for Beginners.
He flipped through at lightning speed, stopping at page ninety-seven. He blew what appeared to be toast crumbs off it, and rapped the page hard for David to see.

CRYING
(not recommended for special dragons)

1.  Take dragon to SAFETY

(Gruffen gave that a scorching check.)

2.  In the event of a FIRE TEAR — catch it!

David, remembering the story of Gawain, cupped his hands and caught the tear as it dropped.

Dragons everywhere
hrred
with relief.

“What now?” asked David, for this was as far as Liz’s story had gone. Guinevere had caught Gawain’s fire tear — but what had she done with it? David rolled the tear in the center of his palm. The fire within it flickered and danced, throwing purple patterns all across the ceiling. On the potter’s wheel, Gadzooks sank into a deep, dark sleep. Gruffen dug a claw into David’s shoulder. David looked at the next instruction.

3.  FREE
the fire

He pressed the fire tear with his thumb. The tear spread flat but did not burst. He found a modeling stick and prodded it with that. The tear indented, but still it didn’t burst.

“How?” he asked Gruffen. The guard dragon gave a worried shrug. From the shelves came a deep-seated
hrrr
of ignorance.

No one knew how to free the fire.

Then, with a clink, Gadzooks dropped a scale.

And suddenly, Gwilanna was in the room.

David and the dragons all reared back. A cloud of mist was swirling in the doorway, as if Gwilanna had dropped from the clouds.

“You must join the dragon in water,” she cackled, snatching the scale as payment for her wisdom. She touched a grubby finger to David’s cheek. A tear welled in the corner of his eye. Gwilanna screeched with laughter and disappeared. The tear trickled down David’s face, then fell toward the fire tear in his palm. It dropped slowly, floating like a bubble. Inside was an image of Conker. The young squirrel tilted his head. He looked back at David as if he knew they would always be part of each other’s lives. His eyes, no longer matted or cut, gave one single appreciative blink. Then the tears came together with a gentle
fssst!
and all that remained was a tiny flame.

There was no pain and the flame did not feel hot. It tingled in a light, refreshing way, touching every nerve in David’s skin. He felt it from his head to the tips of
his toes: dragon fire, burning within. Instinctively, he knew he could keep it if he wished. One inward breath would absorb the fire. But if he took it, Gadzooks would surely die.

You alone can rekindle his spark, Liz had said.

The fire belonged to the dragon.

David put the flame under the limp, green snout, watching it circle the cone-shaped nostrils. For a moment, little happened. The fire dipped and leaned and gave off a delicate flicker. Fearing it might go out, David decided to take a chance. Leaning forward, he blew on it gently, sending it spiraling into the snout. Gadzooks immediately sneezed, but somehow
inward
rather than out. His tail spike twitched. His scales rattled. He shuddered and coughed a wisp of smoke. His graying eyes turned through green to violet …

All around the shelves dragons flapped for joy.

Gadzooks’s spark was lit.

Gruffen did a twirl on David’s shoulder and hastily checked his book of procedures:

4.  
REKINDLE dragon

5.  
REKILNING strongly advised

Gruffen pointed to instruction five.

“No oven,” said David, frowning a little.

Gruffen snorted and slammed the book shut. He pointed an excited paw at Guinevere.

Guinevere’s oval eyes slid open.

Two rays of violet light poured forth.

She stretched her neck and looked down at Gadzooks.

Around the room, dragons began to trill.

Guinevere opened her stout front paws … and breathed a column of fire.

Hrrrrrr.

It engulfed Gadzooks in a ring of white light. The dragon twitched and lifted a foot. There was a crackling noise as his pointy ears rattled. A puff of steam came out of his nose.

Then Gawain walked out of the shadows. There
were gasps and much bowing of heads on the shelves. Gawain arched his mighty wings, leaned forward, and blew a cone of flame. Gadzooks put back his head and
basked
in it. Within seconds, his scales began to lift. His tail curled up. His ridges straightened. The first luminescent flush came back to his glaze. Gawain roared and blew once more. In the window, the little stained-glass ornament twirled on its string and clinked against the glass. Orange light flickered around the room.

Gadzooks shook his head and sat up abruptly. He paddled his feet and thumped his tail. His scales clattered like a stack of dominoes. He stretched his neck in a graceful arc and fired off a happy-sounding
hrrr.

“All better?” asked David.

Gadzooks gave a grateful nod. Gruffen fluttered off David’s shoulder and handed Gadzooks his trusty pencil.

“What’s that?” said David, pointing to the pad. There was some sort of tailed-off message on it. The last thing Gadzooks had tried to write.

“Wuz?” David muttered, reading it off.

Gadzooks shook his head. He licked his pencil and added three letters: z, l, e.

“Wuzzle,” said David.

Gadzooks gave a radiant smile.

Outside, the first rays of morning broke across a sleepy Wayward Crescent. Inside, deep within David’s mind, the light of inspiration dawned.

“Wuzzle,” he repeated with a nodding grin. “Of course.
That’s
how to end the story….”