Icefire (15 page)

26
S
OMETHING IN THE AIR

 

T
he following morning, David was ready on the dot at nine. Although his meeting at the publisher’s was not until eleven, the journey involved two changes of trains and he wanted to arrive in plenty of time. He showered and hurried downstairs. Henry had already left for work, and Gadzooks, as always, was enjoying the freedom of not having to pretend he was a lifeless object. He was sitting in the middle of the dining table, tapping his pencil against his snout and poring over something on his pad, when David crept up and peeped over his shoulder. “Planning a robbery, Zookie?”

Gadzooks immediately snatched up his papers. He shuffled them together and folded them away.

David threw him a searching look. “You’re edgy
this morning. What were you drawing? It looked like some sort of … escape route.”

The telephone rang.
Hrrr!
went Gadzooks, and pointed to it.

“Yes, I can hear it,” David said and picked up the receiver. “Hello. Bacon residence.”

“At last! Where have you
been?”

David frowned. He thought he knew that voice. “Is that Zanna?”

“Of course, it’s Zanna! I’ve been trying to reach you for absolutely ages. What’s up with your cell?”

David pulled it from his pocket. “Nothing. It’s fine. It isn’t switched on.”

“Oh, you don’t say.
Quelle surprise.
Feeling heavy, is it? It should be, with all the messages I’ve been leaving!”

David tried to reason this out. “Did you want something, Zanna?”

There was a squawk of incredulity somewhere down the line. “How about your head on a stick? Are you
feeling
OK?”

David touched the aforementioned head. It was still on his shoulders and its temperature was normal. “Yes, thanks. Gotta run. I’ve got a train to catch.”

“RAIN?” she screamed.

But David had already hung up. Flashing a glance at his watch he said, “Better pop next door before I leave.”

Hrrr,
went Gadzooks, paddling his feet.

“You want to come?”

Hrrr!

David clicked his tongue. “You can’t go on your windowsill, you know that, don’t you?”

Hrr-ar!
Gadzooks explained.

“The pen? You want to visit the pen?”

Hrr … ar!
the dragon hurred a little slower.

“Oh, the
den,”
said David, grinning stupidly. His grasp of dragontongue was still not great. “OK, come on.” He tapped his shoulder.

Gadzooks was there in a flash.

As they made the short trip to the Pennykettles’
house, David asked again, “By the way, what
were
you drawing just now?”

For once, Gadzooks wasn’t paying attention. He was catching snowflakes in his paws, puzzling over their texture and shape. There was auma in the snow — as there was in all things — but it was fragile, fainter than a distant star. And it fizzled when the crystals turned to tears. He chewed the end of his pencil and pondered. He felt sure there was a real connection here, between the flaking ice and the fire of Gawain. It was, after all, the reason why G’reth had been horribly abused, and the motive for his business at number forty-two….

He was off the instant David opened the door. “Behave yourself,” David shouted after him and carried on into the kitchen. Bonnington was sitting on the drainboard as usual, staring out into the snow-filled morning. Lucy was in her favorite seat, halfheartedly munching a piece of toast.

“Hi. Any news? Why the long face?”

“Gwilanna won’t let me see Mom. She won’t even let me look through the window. It’s not fair. It’s been ages. And the dragons don’t like it either. They’re whispering a lot and acting funny.”

David sat down beside her and lifted the teapot. “Dragons are always acting funny. Try not to fret. By six tonight you’ll have a bouncing baby brother, then we’ll be back to normal again. You must be looking forward to it, surely? I know Gwilanna can be a bit strict, but it’s important to maintain … security, I guess. I’m sure your mom’s doing absolutely fine. If she was in a hospital like a normal mom you wouldn’t be able to see her
that
often, would you?” He poured a cup of tea. It looked stewed and cold.

“That’s yesterday’s,” Lucy told him. “See what happens when Mom isn’t here?”

Unfazed, David whistled down the hall. A young male dragon flew in at once, carrying a postcard in its mouth. He dropped it at David’s place. David recognized the creature as the one he’d seen checking the
plants for water. “Thank you. Where’s Gruffen? I thought he was door monitor?”

The dragon wriggled its snout.

“Gwillan and Gruffen take turns,” said Lucy. “Guarding the hall, I mean. Gwillan does lots of jobs for Mom. He’s a snuffler dragon. He dusts.”

Without prompting, Gwillan bent his snout to a small patch of dust and “snuffled” it into his wide, flared nostrils.

“Very impressive,” David told him and pushed the cold tea under Gwillan’s snout. “Warm that, will you?”

“That’s not allowed!” Lucy protested as Gwillan, with one snort, brought the tea back to boiling — but left it covered in a layer of dust. The snuffler gulped and his cheeks turned a very deep shade of green. He nudged the postcard closer to David, then beat a warmish exit.

“Serves you right,” said Lucy. “Who’s your postcard from?”

David flipped it over. “Someone in Africa.”

“Sophie! Let me see!”

“Ah, ah. My girlfriend, remember? It’s personal. There might be intimate … thingies.”

Before Lucy could issue her usual batch of insults, the telephone rang, drawing her away. Moments later she was back, looking even more disgruntled. “It’s her.”

“Who, Sophie?”

“No, the
other
one. She rang yesterday as well. I told her you were dead.”

“What?”

“Can I read the card now?”

“No.” David batted her arm with it. “And don’t ever tell anyone I’m dead — unless I am.”

“OK,” she chirped, and whipped the card off him anyway.

Strangely, death was on Zanna’s mind, too. “Hang up and you’re history,” she threatened. “I want to know what’s going on. First I get a cryptic text message from you, then you’re giving me the big cold shoulder. Is your woman back on the scene or what?”

David, perplexed by both of these questions,
thought it best to avoid all references to Sophie. “Text?” he queried.

“H-r-r-r,”
Zanna spelled.

“I didn’t send that.”

“Yes, you did. It came from your number. Stop messing with me. What’s going on? Is everything OK? You promised you’d tell me about the egg.”

At this, David’s brain began to go swimmy. Egg? How could anyone outside the family know about the egg?

“What have they done to you?” Zanna pressed.

David bit his lip. It was times like this he wished Liz was awake. She was so much better at this game than him. “I’ve gotta go, sorry.”

“David, don’t you dare hang up! What have they done? Tell me or I’m going straight to Bergstrom.”

Bergstrom. David remembered something about him. “Will you pass on a message for me?”

“Maybe.” She sounded guarded now.

“Tell him … I didn’t have time to write my essay.”

He put the phone down and wandered back to the kitchen.

“Have you finished with her yet?” Lucy asked hopefully.

“You can’t finish something you haven’t started, Lucy.”

Lucy wiggled her nose. It wasn’t quite the answer she’d been hoping for, but it seemed to do. “Sophie sends her love.” She pointed to a cluster of kisses on the card.

“Hmm,” went David, glancing at the clock. “I think she misses us.”

David wasn’t so sure. If anything, the card had been quite perfunctory. Not so much as a “wish you were here.” He felt a tug of disappointment and buried it fast. “Going to the bathroom, then I’m off, OK?”

A-row,
went Bonnington. He jumped down off the sink and started scratching in his litter box.

“Yuck,” went Lucy, and pinched her nose — though it wasn’t clear which of them, cat or tenant, this gesture was intended for.

Upstairs, while David was performing his ablutions, he tried to rehearse what he wanted to say to Dilys
Whutton. But every time he pictured the interview scene, his thoughts were swiftly derailed by a lot of busy hurring in the Dragons’ Den next door. “What’s going on in there, do you know?” He turned to the puffler dragon on the tank. The puffler shrugged. It wasn’t its business to know of goings-on. Its duty was to puffle, which was just what it did, sending out a cloud of sweet-smelling jasmine as soon as David had flushed. David washed his hands and went next door.

At the first creak of hinges the hurring stopped, then rose to the gentle background level that generally warmed the house so well. David peered around the shelves. Those dragons that weren’t just lifeless lumps blinked or blew smoke rings or stretched their wings. His gaze came last to Liz’s workbench. “Now, then. What are you all up to?”

G’reth, Gadzooks, and the guard dragon, Gruffen, all shuffled their feet and gave an innocent cough. Gadzooks put his notepad behind his back.

“You shouldn’t be on there,” David told them. “Guinevere mustn’t be disturbed, you know.” On the
stand immediately behind the bench, Liz’s special dragon was sleeping deeply. David looked to the opposite side where the dragon Liz had made in the image of Gawain was hunched in a corner, also fast asleep.

Suddenly, the peace was broken by a strident shout downstairs: Aunty Gwyneth calling for Gretel. All three dragons tensed their scales. “Stay out of trouble,” David told them, and went to see what the fuss was about.

Aunty Gwyneth collared him in the hall. “Where is Gretel?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen her. In the garden, collecting seeds, I guess. I’m going to the publisher’s. See you later.”

Aunty Gwyneth stopped him with a talonlike grip. “There is an atmosphere in this house today. I hear whisperings. Murmurs of insurrection. I hope this is none of
your
doing?”

“Insurrection?” David looked puzzled.

“Rebellion,” Aunty Gwyneth growled. Her eyes sharpened as if they could slice him in two.

David flapped a hand. “Oh, it’s just the dragons.
Lucy said they were acting funny. They’re restless. Missing Liz, probably.”

“Yes,” said Aunty Gwyneth, “I suppose they are. Very well. You may go. You will return by three. Are there adequate mushrooms in the fridge?”

“I peeled a whole bagful late last night. Lucy, I’m going! See you later, OK?”

“Good luck!” she cried, running through from the kitchen.

“The boy does not need luck,” said Aunty Gwyneth, picking a piece of fluff off his jacket, “merely the proper kind of … guidance.”

This made David squirm. Guidance? What did the old crone mean by that? It wasn’t like her to offer friendly advice. Fearing she might try to peck him on the cheek, he grabbed his overcoat and hurried away.

As soon as he was gone, Lucy asked politely, “Aunty Gwyneth, may I see Mom now, please?”

“You may not” was the harsh reply. “You will go into the garden and search for Gretel. There is an urgent task required of her.”

“But it’s snowing.”

“Then wear a hat.”

Lucy sighed and pulled on her boots. “I want to see my mom!” she shouted. But her words fell on hollow ears as usual.

Gretel, as it turned out, was closer at hand than anyone imagined. She was actually on the fridge top, near to the back where no one could see. In front of her stood the listening dragon, a glazed kind of look in its spectacled eyes. One flower — a mixture of buttercup and chives — had been enough to bring it under Gretel’s control. Gretel, like her mistress, had sensed the growing unrest in the house and was cleverly fine-tuning the listener’s ears, hoping to pinpoint the source of the revolt. She found it exactly where she thought she would: on the bench in the Dragons’ Den. Three of them: G’reth, the silly little guard dragon, Gruffen, and the soppy-eyed writing dragon, Gadzooks, all tuning in to the dragon in the wardrobe, the one they were calling Grace. They were conspiring, plotting their revenge for the way G’reth had been made to suffer. Gretel
blew a smoke ring in despair. Pennykettle dragons! Did they have nothing but soot for brains? They would all be quenched for this; tails used as disposable toothpicks. How could four incompetent pufflers hope to defeat her mistress, Gwilanna? She tuned in again, searching for details. The first snippet she picked up stiffened her scales.
Hrrr-rrr-ar-raar.
The password for the suitcase. Great Gawain! They were planning to steal the scale? How? None of them could carry such a weight, let alone get past … Wait. What was that? She tuned in again, carefully tweaking the listener’s ears, trying to receive an accurate signal. The hurrs faded in. The hurrs faded out. And then the dragon Gadzooks broke through. Help would come. G’reth was sure of it.
Pff!
went Gretel. Help? From where? The airwaves hummed again. And out of the Dragons’ Den came an answer. A word that made Gretel curious and fearful in equal amounts.

What in clay’s name was a
Spikey,
she wondered?

27
H
OBNOBBING WITH
D
ILYS

 

T
he offices of Apple Tree Publishing were wedged between a lumberyard and a bar in a cramped and rundown area of Boston. It was hardly the castle of literary elegance that David Rain had imagined it to be. Redevelopment was everywhere. Half the road was checkered by scaffolding. Boards surrounded the knocked-out shop fronts. The smell of damp brick dust hung in the air. Taxicabs shuttled past, squirting slush onto the snow-packed sidewalks. And from every quarter there came a noise. Hammering, drilling, workers shouting, music thumping out of the bar, the steady buzz of traffic, the rumble of a bus, the sucking whistle of an overhead plane. By the time David had found the right door (a giveaway, thanks to the
window display of Apple Tree’s award-winning TV character Kevin the Karaoke Kangaroo), he could barely make his voice heard over the intercom. Thankfully he did and the door clicked open. A pleasant young woman, wearing what appeared to be a pilot’s headset, asked him his business. He brushed the snow off his shoulders and told her.
Mr. Rain for Dilly,
she announced. She invited him to take a seat. Someone would be down to see him in a moment.
Dilly?
thought David. Seemed a bit irreverent for a senior editor. He shrugged. Perhaps it was a publishing thing. He plopped himself on a stylish futon and picked up a copy of
Kevin Goes to Texas.

He was halfway through the classic
Home on the Range,
when a woman appeared on the stairs to his left. She was tall and frighteningly slim; all arms and legs, like an alien visitor. She would have been several years older than Zanna, but not nearly as old as Liz. Her dark brown hair was short and chic. She was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, trapped at the hips by a low-slung belt that sat on top of a
short suede skirt. She walked like a Siamese cat. David whistled inwardly and tried not to stare. He was checking out where the buffaloes grazed when the alien leg-stalks halted in front of him.

“David?” A delicate hand came out.

Dumbstruck, David shook it.

The alien apparition smiled. She had a generous mouth and sparkling eyes. High cheekbones. Perfect skin. “You’re quite a bit younger than we imagined,” she said, slightly overpronouncing her words.

“Sorry,” David muttered.

“No problem,” she said. “Come and meet the clan.” She turned and led him up the stairs. By the time they had climbed four winding flights, she seemed to have learned the best part of his background. “Geography? Isn’t that a lot of maps and contours?”

“Mmm,” went David, mapping the contours of her swinging hips.

They entered a large office. Posters of book covers and children’s characters leaped off every scrap of wall. The whole floor was divided up by orange partitions.
In every space was a desk, a computer, and at least one rack of children’s books. “This is Editorial,” the tour guide fluted, trailing a hand as they wandered past. “And over here is Design.”

David smiled at everyone in turn. It wasn’t difficult. All the computers were staffed by women. Young women in T-shirts and jeans. They waved or said hi and went back to their screens. The apparition stopped by a coffeemaker. “Coffee?”

“Thanks. One sugar, please. Excuse me, but don’t any
men
work here?”

The hostess thought a moment. “Hmm. Robert in Marketing. He’s very useful for blowing up balloons at parties. Why?”

“Just wondered,” David muttered. The prospect of being a children’s book author was beginning to appeal to him more and more. “What do you do? Are you Mrs. Whutton’s assistant?”

The “assistant” smiled rather inwardly at this. “I make the coffee — among other things,” she said, handing him a scorching plastic cup. “Strictly speaking, it’s
‘Ms.,’ not ‘Mrs.’ I would accept ‘Miss,’ but I always think it makes me sound like a schoolteacher. Just plain Dilys will do.” She opened the door to a quiet office.

David went in, wishing that the floor would dissolve beneath his feet.
“You’re
Dilys? I’m sorry. I thought you’d be …”

“Older?” she laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment — this time. Sit down. Help yourself to a cookie.”

David looked at the plate. Chocolate chip cookies. How could he resist?

Ms. Dilys Whutton sat down opposite. On the table in front of her lay David’s manuscript. She stroked her fingers along its margins and pressed the pages neatly into register. “This is a lovely story, David. How did it come about?”

So David told her about his adventures with the squirrels, and how he’d written the story for Lucy’s birthday.

Dilys Whutton cooed like a dove. “Ah, that’s so
sweet.
You made half the girls here cry, you know.”

“They’ve read it?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone has. Even Robert in Marketing. Anything we consider for publication is read by the whole office.”

“But … you said in your letter you’re not going to publish it.”

Dilys steepled her fingers and tapped them together. “No, that’s right. Let me tell you why. Every publisher has what they call a list, which kind of represents their general tastes. If we don’t feel confident that a book will sit right on our list, we tend to let it go.” She cast her eyes at
Snigger.
“I know that must be awfully disappointing for you, but there is a ray of hope. The reason I called you in today was to tell you how much I enjoyed your style. Your writing is full of innocence and charm, but it’s also oddly captivating. If we could find a project that might interest us both, I’d like you to have another go.”

“Oh,” said David, and took another cookie.

Dilys sat back and crossed her legs. “Are you working on anything else right now?”

“Well, um …”

“Just an outline of something, perhaps?”

David looked at the window, at the patterns forming on the snow-flecked glass. This was his chance to make an impression. But what could he tell her when there
was
nothing else? Everything he’d tried to write just lately, including his essay, had come out sounding like gobbledygook. He sighed and focused his gaze on the snow. And as he did, something peculiar happened. From the light and angles and shapes and spaces he made out the face of a polar bear. In his mind he heard Lucy’s happy voice chattering, “He’s going to do another book soon, about bears!” And before he knew it he was telling Dilys Whutton, “I have an idea for an Arctic story. It’s going to be a sort of … saga, I think. It’s set in a time when the ice was ruled by nine bears. One of them was a male called Ragnar.”

Dilys broke a cookie. “Go on,” she whispered. “How does it start?”

“On an ice floe,” David said, and suddenly the story started to come, as if all that had ever been required of him was to pluck it out of the surrounding air. Staring straight through the polar bear’s eyes, into the gray city sky he said, “A mother bear is sitting with her female cub. They’re looking across the Arctic Ocean, at an island the bears call the Tooth of Ragnar. The mother is telling the cub its history. The island is a place of many legends, but it also marks a time of … terrible conflict.”

“Between rival bears?”

David swept his head from side to side. “No. Bears and men.” The snow began to dot the windows again, and now, with every flake that settled, an image of the Arctic came along with it.
A village … an ancient tribal place … people wailing … hunger … drums … the wind whistling … darkness … cold … a bear cub, lost and seeking shelter … a man with a long bone in his hand, wielding it high above his head …
“No!” David let out a sudden gasp and a snow shower thumped against the office windows, almost punching a dent in the glass.

Dilys Whutton jumped and knocked her coffee. She took a tissue from her sleeve and mopped the spill, then stood up and checked the window latch. “Sorry, these windows are very old. They get a bit spooky in weather like this. What made you cry out?”

“I saw a cub,” said David, setting his gaze into the middle distance between himself and the corner of the office. “It wanders into an Inuit settlement where the people are starving and desperate for food.”

Dilys bit her lip. “A cub? They killed it?”

“Yes.” Here David paused and narrowed his eyes, as though his mind was having to reach far back in time. “Yes,” he breathed again, “but it shouldn’t have happened. In those days, bears were sacred to the Inuit. Hunting them was strictly forbidden.”

“But if the people were starving?”

“No.” David frowned and shook his head again.
“This didn’t have anything to do with need. Something turned them. Something bad. I’m not sure what. And the cub is no ordinary bear. He’s Ragnar’s only son. And when Ragnar finds out, he takes his bears and attacks the village. Bears from all parts of the ice join in. Not even the Nanukapik, their leader, can stop it. It’s a terrible disaster. And it
shouldn’t
have happened.”

Dilys Whutton patted her chest. “Well, I’m breathless just thinking about it. An odyssey in the Arctic? We’ve never had that at Apple Tree before. This is very exciting, David. I want you to go away and write this, now. Send me six chapters and a synopsis of the rest. If I like it, I’ll consider making an advance.”

“Advance?”

“Money,” said Dilys, with a twinkle in her eye. “I wish I could give you something now, but I’d really have to see how the story pans out. How long do you think it will take you to write six —?”

A knock at the door cut Dilys short. A young woman popped into the room. “Hi, Dilly. Sorry to
interrupt. This just arrived by messenger for you.” She put a medium-size gift-wrapped box on the table, smiled briefly at David, and left.

“Ooh,” gushed Dilys. “Who’s sent this?” She read the card and frowned. “Hmm. No name. But I’m to open it at once, apparently. Do you mind? I love surprises.”

“No,” said David and took another cookie. He watched idly as Dilys tore into the wrapping, but his mind was still focused hard on the bears. Where had that story come from? Was it true? Why did it feel so real? He turned his head to look again at the window, and in that moment Dilys Whutton exclaimed, “Oh, how sweet! Someone’s sent me a dragon!”

“Dragon?” said David, smearing chocolate off his lip.

Dilys drew the sculpture out of its box. “How wonderful. It’s got a bunch of flowers.”

“What?”
A shower of crumbs flew across the table.

“I wonder if they’re scented,” Dilys said, and put her nose to the dragon’s bouquet.

“No!” cried David. “Dilys, don’t —”

But Dilys had already sniffed. “Ooh,” she went again, sitting back, looking dizzy. Her eyes crossed and she blinked a few times. She put the dragon down on the table. “Hmm, yes, I … hmm, would you excuse me a minute?”

“Certainly,” said David, turning on the dragon the moment Dilys had stepped outside. “What in clay’s name are
you
doing here?”

Furrff!
went Gretel, very rudely indeed, as if to say she’d rather be anywhere than here. Home: that was where she wanted to be, keeping an eye on the Pennykettle dragons. She picked up a bookmark of
Kevin the Karaoke Kangaroo
and launched it into David’s coffee.

“Pack it in,” he hissed. “I asked you a question. Why has Gwilanna sent you here? What was in that flower you made Dilys sniff? This is an important meeting, Gretel. You’re going to ruin everything if you —”

Suddenly the door reopened. In a flash, Gretel re-assumed her solid form. David flopped back in his
chair and sighed. This was all going to go horribly wrong.

But Dilys sat down looking strangely chirpy. “I’ve just had a word with our publisher,” she smiled. “I’ve told her I want to sign you up.”

“What?”

“We’re going to make you an offer, Mr. Rain. For
Snigger — and
the polar bear book.”

From the corner of his eye, David saw Gretel blowing pollen off her claws and polishing them smugly against her breast.

“It would have to be a standard contract, I’m afraid. You’re an unknown, so we’d be taking a chance.”

David raised his hands. “Hang on, this isn’t right.”

Gretel scowled at him darkly.

“Oh,” said Dilys, looking disappointed. “Well, if you’d rather negotiate — through an agent, perhaps?”

Oh yeah,
thought David.
Aunty Gwyneth: the agent from hell.

Dilys shuffled in her chair and said, “We’d pay you
a thousand on signature. Another thousand when you deliver the manuscripts; the rest on publication.”

“A thousand?” David’s mouth fell open.

“Dollars. It’s not a bad offer, David. If you agree, I can have a contract drawn up by the end of next week.”

A thousand dollars? The figure was making David giddy. He could go to the Arctic on that.
And
clear his overdraft at the bank.

“Go home and think it over,” Dilys said, packing Gretel into her box. “Give me a call in a couple of days. It’s been lovely to meet you. I’m so glad you came.” She floated her hand and David shook it. “Lovely dragon as well.” She slid the box across the table. “I’m glad you were able to do a bit of shopping. That will make a beautiful present for your aunt.”

David smiled at her weakly. Gwilanna had thought this through very neatly. A potion for the contract and a potion to enable Gretel’s return. He would have a few words to say to his “aunt” as soon as he and his “present” got home.

On the journey, he questioned Gretel again. As the train drew near to Scrubbley North station, the volume of passengers gradually thinned until he was finally alone in the carriage. He tapped on the lid of Gretel’s box. The dragon forced her way out. She puttered to the window, looking fidgety and anxious.

“What you did up there wasn’t clever,” David told her. “It’s not right, using potions to influence people. She’s giving us money. That’s fraud, you know.”

Furrfff!

“And you can cut that out. Especially in here.” David pointed at the
NO SMOKING
sign.

Phoof!
went Gretel, and covered it with ash.