Tears of a Dragon (18 page)

Billy pressed his thumb against his chest. “You mean me? How?”

Merlin pointed at the floor. “Convince them to come here, and you will all see together. They know that deliverance has long been prophesied. I’m sure many are already awaiting your coming.”

Billy nodded toward the doorway. “Well, not that many, maybe a couple dozen at the most.”

Merlin’s lips turned downward, but they slowly recovered as he lowered his brow, a wave of determination steeling his face. “Then you must convince more to come. Earth depends on their numbers, and their deliverance depends on their faith in you, the chosen one.” He raised a fist and rapped on the screen. “They cannot be saved unless they follow you to this stone, and even when they come, their faith will be tested. All who have enough faith to line up will believe when they see you pass through the stone, and only a chosen anthrozil, fully human and fully dragon, can lead them through the passage.”

Bonnie laid her palm on the glass. “What will happen to the dragons when they go through?”

Merlin lowered his fist and flapped his arm against his robe. “Actually, I am not quite sure. These dragons have died, so they will likely not return to physical life, but”—he pointed at the glass barrier—“there are not only dragons in there. You must also find two souls who do not belong.”

“Your wife?” Bonnie asked. “Billy read about her in
Fama Regis
.”

“Yes. My wife still has her mind, but her human soul has died within her, making her like one of the deceased dragons. I searched through the circles to find her, especially the sixth circle, but I never saw her among the spirits there. Perhaps her image is unable to appear in the human realm because of the unusual nature of her captivity in Dragons’ Rest.” A glimmer of a smile brightened Merlin’s face. “But if you can get her out, I can take her to a place where she will be restored.”

“Don’t worry,” Bonnie said. “We’ll do everything we can to find her.”

Billy breathed a sad sigh. “Then I guess the second one must be Professor Hamilton’s wife.”

Merlin half closed one eye. “Is Dorcas in there?”

“Yes,” Bonnie said, nodding. “She’s a seamstress, just like she was in our world.”

“Well, then, Morgan murdered another enemy’s wife. I should have guessed. She is predictable, if nothing else.”

Billy drew a smudge line on the glass with his finger. “Then who’s the other one who doesn’t belong here?”

Merlin leaned close to the barrier. “Your eyes give you away, Billy. Yes, your father is likely in the village, though I cannot tell you where to look. He doesn’t belong there, and he, above all, must be convinced to come. The fate of the world may rest on his shoulders.”

Billy lifted his eyebrows. He didn’t want to get too excited. Not yet. “So, if he doesn’t belong here, then he’s not dead?”

“No. Not at all. He is merely without a body. When you sent Excalibur’s beam into the abyss, his spirit passed through the pendant’s rubellite and entered Dragons’ Rest. Since an evil spirit now controls his dragon body, I cannot say what will happen should you bring him out, but you must persuade him, for your coming marks the end of the dragon’s redemption story. They will all make their choice, and there will no longer be any need for this place. It will be utterly destroyed.” He paced to the edge of the barrier and back, then leaned close again. “For some reason, God doesn’t tell me exactly how he will carry out his plans, but I do know that your decisions, Billy, will make all the difference. Mark these words well, for they are words of prophecy.

The path to grace, a path of blood,

Will cost the king his greatest gifts.

Of life, of love, he must resign

And give his all for souls adrift.

“Give his all?” Billy repeated. “What does that mean?”

Merlin paced again, faster this time, his head down and his arms lifted. “I don’t know!” he said, his voice strained. “It could mean a lot of things.” He stopped at the center and took a deep breath, closing his eyes as though fearing to gaze into Billy’s. Finally, he looked up again, tears flowing and his voice barely a whisper. “Just be ready for anything, even if it means following in your savior’s footsteps. No matter what happens, even if you should die, you will never be forsaken.”

The sound of shuffling feet filled the theatre. Martha hobbled to the very front row, her eyes sparkling in the glow of the red screen. “Look!” she cried. “The king has parted the curtains!” Cheers erupted as the people hurried to their seats.

Merlin ducked low and whispered. “These people have awaited your coming for many years, so they won’t mind when you tell them you will return with as many of their fellow villagers as you can. But mark this well. A portal to and from this realm requires an extraordinary amount of spiritual energy to maintain, even for just three hours. Although the power to open the portal originates in heaven, it comes in response to the prayers of the faithful ones who wait here every day as they adhere to the schedule God has ordained. So, at three o’clock the screen’s passageway will close, and you must return by then and lead them to salvation. May God give you the right words to say, both here and in the village.” Merlin turned to the side and marched away, his shadow growing again, then fading.

Billy turned and faced the onlookers, slowly walking to the front of the stage with Bonnie at his side. Their bright and eager faces gazed up at him as if begging for a single word, like puppies hoping for table scraps. Bonnie slipped her hand into Billy’s, squeezed it three times, then let go. The warmth of her touch sent a stream of courage through his body.

Billy cleared his throat. “You have come because of the prophecy a man made here many years ago, and you were wise to believe him. I assume you have told many others, right?”

Martha waved her cane. “Everyone I knew and some I didn’t. I even made my own tracts and handed them out, but people just laughed at me.”

“Same here,” a man in the second row shouted. “My own wife thinks I’m crazy.”

Constance stood near the back. “I tell all my customers at the inn about the coming king, but most of them call me a fool.” A rumble of agreement passed through the audience.

Billy waved both hands, his palms down. “But you still want them to come, right?”

Silence fell upon the theatre. Billy glanced around at each person, a glow of red pulsing on every emotion-torn face. After a few seconds, a middle-aged woman stood up in the third row, her hands wringing. “I want them to come.” Her head turned from side to side. “We all have loved ones who just won’t listen.” Reaching into a dress pocket, she withdrew a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “My own son is kind and thoughtful, but he refuses to believe the prophet.” She returned her hand to the pocket, this time retrieving a carnation. “He brings me flowers, but he won’t give me what I long for more than anything else, hope that he’ll escape this place with me.”

Bonnie clutched Billy’s wrist. He knew what her signal meant.

“Is his name Brogan?” Billy asked.

The lady’s eyes lit up like two crimson sparklers. “Yes! How did you know?”

“I’ve met him. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try to find him again and tell him to come.”

Shouts from the audience peppered Billy with names, obviously loved ones the desperate people wanted him to find. He waved his hands again to settle them down. “I’ll bring everyone I can, but I’d better get going. There isn’t much time.” He turned and looked at the screen. The walking motion in the other world had stopped, and the professor had turned around. Mr. Foley and Sir Patrick stood next to him. The three seemed to be discussing something important, each one carrying stern expressions. “Just watch the screen until I get back,” Billy continued, “and tell me if anything really interesting happens.”

Billy jumped down the stairs, Bonnie following close behind. They ran up the slope toward the theatre exit and dashed out the door and onto the street. Billy stopped and surveyed the area, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight. “Okay. First back to the bookstore. Maybe Jasmine will be gone and we can talk to the clerk.”

“True,” Bonnie said, “but with time passing the way it is, it won’t be long till one o’clock. She’ll probably be close by.”

With a slight nod of his head, he gestured at the people streaming toward the center of town. “Think we can play follow the leader and blend in?”

Bonnie checked her ring to make sure the gem was on the palm side. “You lead,” she said, curling her fingers into a fist. “I’ll follow.”

The airplane hovered over a field next to the lake’s shore, its propeller quiet. Samyaza barked, “We’re low enough. Jump out.”

Ashley unbuckled her seatbelt, hustled down the aisle, still clutching her stomach, and stopped at the cargo door. She looked down at a field of wet grass sparkling in the moonlight. A cool breeze wafted in and chilled her body, making her shiver.

With the lake on one side and tall trees on the other, the long, narrow meadow acted as a border to the forested state park, probably a fun playground under normal circumstances. Tonight, however, it would be a field of nightmares where she would have to meet an enraged demon face-to-face. She swallowed, tasting again the caustic bile that so recently passed through her throat, then leaped from the plane.

Trained as a long jumper in school, she knew how to land, bending her knees when she struck the ground and thrusting forward again to ride out her momentum. She rolled to her back, the airplane and demon now in full view. As big as an elephant, yet as striking as a sculpture of a Greek god, Samyaza gripped
Merlin II
under its wing structure, then, with his bare feet set like a boy throwing a toy glider, he slung the plane into a stand of trees and sent a stream of dark red flames behind it. The Cessna ripped apart, and the trailing flames ignited the remaining fuel, creating a fireball that engulfed nose, wings, and tail almost instantly.

Ashley sat up and gulped. Walter had barely escaped that explosion, but was his watery plunge any better? She jumped to her feet, turned a half circle, and gazed at the lake’s waves lapping at the shoreline. Could he have survived the impact after falling from such a height? Even if he had, could he survive the frigid water?

Samyaza stomped toward her, his pointed teeth bared. “Enough playing nice.” Ashley grabbed a thin branch, but how could such a feeble weapon ward off a monster? With a sweep of his arm, he scooped Ashley up and carried her toward the forest as if she were a teddy bear, his grip squeezing her breath away. She chattered her teeth, still encoding their location, and broke off a piece of the branch.

“It’s not that cold,” Samyaza growled.

Ashley dropped the piece and gasped through his crushing hold. “It
is
cold, . . . and you’re scaring me . . . half to death!” She broke off another thumb-length fragment and dropped it.

He tightened his grip even more, compressing her stomach and making her feel like her liver was about to explode and spew into her esophagus. She heaved for each breath, her lungs catching teaspoonfuls of oxygen. Forget chattering Morse code! She just had to survive!

Cold rushed through Walter’s crate. “Gahhh! I’m falling!” His limbs stiffened. His lungs grabbed for air and held it tight. Then—

Splash!

The impact whipped his head against an inner wall. Jets of ice-cold water sprayed his face and soaked his clothes, keeping him from blacking out. Thrusting upward with both arms, he threw the lid off and found himself bobbing on the surface of an enormous lake, bright moonlight shimmering on choppy waves as far as he could see. A brisk wind raced across the wide expanse and pummeled him unhindered, biting through his wet jacket and shirt like a thousand dagger-sharp icicles.

His joints locked in the frigid water. The wooden crate, although not even close to sea-worthy, kept him afloat, but would he be able to swim if it started to sink? Maybe he could paddle to shore with his hands before it got waterlogged. He could see lights, probably houses at the edge of the water, but he had no way to judge how far away they were. Could he possibly get there before he turned into a human popsicle?

He picked a single light on the shore and surged toward it, paddling in the direction the wind was blowing. He felt like a mouse in a flooded coracle as he bobbed in an endless expanse of white-capped water. Every stroke brought a stab of pain. Every wave splashed ice water into his hair. Every gust of wind snatched breath out of his lungs, breath he sorely needed as he slogged across the lake.

A huge fireball erupted to his right. He gasped. “Ashley!” The towering column of flames marked his new course, a two o’clock heading. He had to fight the wind somewhat, but the explosion sent a shot of adrenaline into his heart and limbs. He thrust his arms through the water, new energy giving him new hope. But how long would it last?

Chapter 12

Jared Bannister

With more people filling the town square, Billy felt safe weaving through them as he and Bonnie headed for the bookstore. Still, he eased the door open, entering slowly and scanning the room for Jasmine. When he stepped to the side to give Bonnie room to enter, a plank groaned under his weight.

An elderly woman glanced up from the sales counter, smiling as she peered over her spectacles. “May I help you?” she asked.

Billy ambled to the counter, trying not to appear too anxious. “Yes. I’m looking for someone—a man, over six feet tall, slender and kind of muscular. Reddish-brown hair.”

“You’ve described my librarian to a tee. Are you a friend?”

“Uh . . . a relative.”

“I see. Reginald didn’t tell me about relatives coming to visit, but you are certainly welcome.” She gestured toward a set of swinging double doors. Billy took note of the fingers on the one hand he could see, her right hand. No ring.

“He is working on a research project,” she continued, “but you may interrupt him.”

At the sound of “Reginald,” Billy’s heart sank. He was hoping for “Jared,” but somehow the name seemed familiar, as if Reginald might be a relative from long ago, maybe a great uncle he had never met but had seen listed in a family tree.

“Bonnie,” Billy whispered as they approached the door. “She doesn’t have a ring. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Merlin’s wife?” Bonnie asked.

“Books are like scrolls. Why not?”

“Let’s see what we can find out.”

With Billy following several feet behind, Bonnie strode to the counter and extended her hand. “My name is Bonnie. May I ask yours?”

The clerk tilted her head and stared. “Yes, young lady,” she said, slowly putting her hand in Bonnie’s. “My name is Sarah.”

Bonnie shook her hand firmly, her smile growing from ear to ear. “I’m pleased to meet you.” She picked up a book from a stack on the counter—Jasmine’s prophecies. Apparently it was required reading among the townspeople, and an ample supply lay within easy reach. “How long have you been selling books here?”

“Oh, as long as I can remember, but I rarely think about such things.” She held her hand out for the book. A hint of sarcasm spiced her tone. “As Jasmine says, dwelling on the past is an unprofitable venture.”

“I see.” Bonnie passed the book to her. “Are you married?”

Sarah took off her spectacles and laid them on the counter. “Young lady, I adore your smile.” She touched the tip of Bonnie’s nose. “But I think your nose is getting rather long, if you understand my meaning.”

Bonnie rubbed her nose, then blushed. “I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“Apology accepted. Since you are obviously not accustomed to our practices here, I have three pieces of advice for you. One, gentlemen shake hands. Ladies curtsy. Two”—she pointed at Bonnie’s finger—“keep the gem in that ring hidden. Turning it is not enough. Three, refrain from asking anyone about the past. Four, stay away from Jasmine, the mayor.”

Bonnie held up three fingers. “Uh, you said three pieces of advice. That was four.”

“Here is a fifth,” Sarah replied, holding up her hand, her fingers spread. “Be careful about correcting an old woman. We rarely enjoy being reminded of approaching senility.”

“I see.” Bonnie curtsied. “And I apologize again.”

Sarah’s smile lit up her face, making her look like a delighted grandmother. “No need, dear girl. I apologize for being abrupt with you about my marital status.”

Bonnie folded her hands over her waist. “I was only asking because we’re trying to find the wife of a man named Merlin.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted. “Merlin, you say?”

Bonnie nodded rapidly. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“The name is familiar . . . very familiar.” Sarah rolled her eyes upward and tapped her finger on her chin. “Perhaps I knew him at one time, but I cannot remember him now.”

Bonnie twisted her ring nervously. “Uh . . . may I ask why you don’t wear a ring?”

“You may ask”—Sarah rubbed her naked finger, her hands trembling slightly—“but I have no answer to mysteries I cannot understand. To hear Jasmine’s interpretation, I am an underborn, that is, a member of a lower class, so I am not privileged enough to receive a ring.”

Billy took two steps closer. He didn’t want to interrupt Bonnie—she was doing a great job—but the conversation was becoming so interesting, he didn’t want to lose a single word.

“How many others are there like you?” Bonnie asked.

“I know only of Dorcas, the seamstress, but Jasmine tells of dangerous foreigners who have no dragon’s eye, and they are driven out whenever they set foot in our town. She allows Dorcas and me to stay, because we are harmless old women.”

Bonnie touched the book on top of the stack. “How does Jasmine keep everyone from asking about the past? Don’t you wonder where you came from or how long you’ve been here?”

Sarah rifled through the pages of the book in her hand. “Not everyone here is spellbound by her prophecies.” She slapped it closed and set it down. “We are simply accustomed to thinking only in the present, so the past does not occur to us.”

“What about the people who go to the theatre? Are they influenced by Jasmine?”

“By her prophecies? No. By her power to punish? Yes. But she allows them to go. She sees it as simple foolishness that amounts to nothing. The people still seem to get their work done.”

Bonnie picked up a piece of paper from another stack and scanned it. “Do you ever go?”

“I tried twice.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “But it seems that underborns are not allowed.”

Bonnie glanced up from reading the page. “Did a strange wall keep you from going through the door?”

“Yes,” Sarah replied, her eyes narrowing. “How did you know?”

Billy stepped up to the counter. “The same thing happened to Dorcas.” He pushed his hand into his pocket, wishing he could give her the ring, but he knew he had to wait for the sign he’d been given. “We’ll go back and see Reginald now, if it’s all right.”

“Of course,” Sarah replied. “But be warned. Although Reginald is harmless, he is a bit eccentric.”

Billy and Bonnie returned to the area near the back of the store. “What do you think now?” Bonnie asked. “Is she Merlin’s wife?”

“Makes sense to me. When you mentioned his name, it seemed to ring a bell.” Billy pushed one of the doors and peeked into a much larger room. Row after row of standalone bookshelves, rising from the floor and reaching to the ceiling, blocked much of his view. Old dusty books sagged the rows, as if threatening to collapse the shelves at any second.

Swinging the door farther, he walked in, feeling like he should tiptoe in the hallowed sanctuary of ancient codicils, as though the books themselves might shush him if he even swallowed too loudly. Bonnie followed, her anxious breathing sounding like the wheezing of an old woman. They padded through a corridor between the rows, Bonnie whispering the labels on each shelf as they passed. “Alchemy. Allegories. Art. Astrology. Biographies. We could get a lot of information here.”

The room opened up into a bleak studio, the only light coming from a series of transoms near the ceiling. Two long wooden tables covered much of the dusty floor, dozens and dozens of books spread across them, some open, some piled high in precarious stacks. A musty odor pinched Billy’s nose as he drew closer.

A man stood at the side of one table, his head down and his hands flipping page after page of a book. He jotted notes on a piece of paper, grabbed another book off the top of the nearest stack, then slapped it open on the table, starting the process over again.

The man looked familiar—reddish hair, strong hands, confident motions, but his face remained hidden, buried in his work.

Billy cleared his throat. “Reginald?”

The man looked up, his tawny face haggard, his eyes bright and inquisitive. “Yes?”

Billy squinted, not daring to believe what he saw. That face! Those eyes! His stomach flipped. He could barely breathe. “Dad?”

The man’s lips parted, mouthing Billy’s greeting, but his brow lowered as if he was unable to grasp the meaning. Picking up a book and clutching it in both hands, his eyes darted back and forth. He appeared to be wrestling with a memory, something that begged to break through to the surface, but he just muttered quietly with a British accent. “Parenting books are in the ‘Self-help’ section behind me, four rows in, turn right.” He lowered his head again, returning to his frenetic study.

Billy gulped, trying to push down a familiar lump in his throat. This man looked so much like his father he wanted to sprint forward, vault the table, and give him the hug to end all hugs, all the embraces he had missed over these many months of torture. But he couldn’t. This was Reginald, a man who seemed not to recognize him, or at least pretended not to, and although his voice carried the same low tones, Dad’s accent had never sounded British at all.

Billy grabbed Bonnie’s hand, glad to hold onto someone who knew who he was. He whispered, “Let’s get closer and ask some questions.” He strolled to the table and picked up a book, pretending to be interested in the title. “What are you studying?”

Reginald pointed at the book, then at the table, barely looking up at all. “Put that down, please. I will need it in a moment.”

Billy dropped it back in place. “Sorry.”

Reginald placed both palms on the table and sighed. “I apologize. It is my job to help the library’s patrons. Please forgive me . . . what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Billy.” He cocked his head toward Bonnie. “This is my friend, Bonnie.”

“Billy. . . . Billy. I know that name from somewhere. Have you been in here before?” He tilted his head upward, tapping his finger on his jaw. “Oh, I am sure you have. You checked out books on . . . Oh, what was it?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes! Art. Pencil sketches, to be precise, of various beasts. Didn’t you specifically search for examples of dragon art?”

Adrenalin surged through Billy’s body. Reginald had to be his father! Who else could know about his interest in art and dragons? At the same time, however, he felt as though a vacuum cleaner had sucked out his insides, heart, breath, and soul. What good was it if his dad didn’t know who he was? This was the worst torture of all. This man was like a visible picture of Billy’s memories, a father he loved but who could give no love in return. Watching him was like hugging a portrait, the joy of a familiar face, but aching hollowness when no arms hugged him back. Still, “Reginald’s” latent memories had to mean a spark of hope existed somewhere in his mind. All Billy had to do was figure out how to fan it into a flame.

“I see from your reticence that you have forgotten,” Reginald continued, “but I distinctly remember you from somewhere, definitely something to do with art and dragons.”

“Oh, sorry. I got lost in thought. But you were right. I’m an artist, and I’m interested in dragons.” Billy pointed at Reginald’s pencil lying atop his notes page. “May I show you?”

“Yes. Please do.”

Billy drew a quick sketch of a dragon and slid it in front of Reginald, desperately hoping to prod his memory. “What do you know about them?”

“Mythical creatures,” Reginald replied, glancing at the drawing. He nodded toward the shelves on his left. “Mythology is between Music and Names. But if you want my opinion, they’re not worth the time or effort to study.”

Billy laid his hand on a book, remembering not to pick it up this time. “Whatever you’re studying sure seems important.”

“It seems that it’s only important to me.” Reginald opened a binder filled with newspaper pages. “But I’ll tell you about it. I am already considered the village idiot, so what difference does it make if you think me mad as well?”

Billy grabbed Reginald’s forearm, hoping his touch might have some effect. Reginald tried to pull away at first, but when Billy wouldn’t let go, Reginald’s arm relaxed. “Please trust me,” Billy said softly. “I won’t think you’re mad.”

Bonnie sidled up to Reginald and peered at the newspaper pasted to the facing page of the book. “Is this your town’s newspaper?
The Daily Herald?
”

“It is a simple, one-page newspaper for the locals.” He tapped on the page with his finger. “Notice the date?”

Billy scanned the paper, drumming the pencil on the table. “Uh, no. I don’t see a date anywhere.”

“Exactly.” He turned the page. “Now, do you see any similarities between the two issues?”

Billy took the page and flipped back and forth between the two. “Yes. They’re identical as far as I can tell.”

“Exactly, again.” He pointed at the headline. “For example, read this story on the Founder’s Day picnic.”

“I saw this on Sarah’s counter,” Bonnie said. She put her finger on the article and moved it slowly down the page. “Looks like everyone’s getting ready for the big event at one o’clock this afternoon, so they’re supposed to get their shopping done early today.” She ran her finger along the last line. “There will be food, fun, and friendship, so come on out and celebrate with your neighbors.”

Reginald fanned through the pages in the binder. “I collect them and put them in this book, and every single issue is the same. Every day the entire village attends a community picnic, and they never seem to realize that they did it the day before. And as I watch the people in this community, and myself, for that matter, I get the distinct impression that the picnic isn’t the only repetitive event. Everyone goes through the same routine every day. And it seems that I am the only person who is aware of the repetition.”

“Have you shown anyone your collection of papers?” Billy asked.

“I have shown the mayor and the constable.”

“What did they say?”

Reginald let out a “humph,” then closed the book with a thud. “They accused me of collecting a stack of copies of today’s paper and concocting an insane story in order to get attention.”

The door between the library and the bookstore squeaked. Billy lowered his voice. “But they can’t be serious. Why would they accuse you of lying?”

Reginald didn’t bother to lower his own voice. “They are serious, and as sincere as a mother’s love. They have no idea they are racing on a hamster’s wheel. And as each day goes by, I feel as though I am beginning to repeat my own actions. I seem to forget what I did the day before, so I often do it again, remembering that I did something yesterday only after I have repeated it today. Therefore, I am convinced that I am slowly becoming one of them, and I will fall into a repetitive pattern day after day, blindly stupid to the fact that I am treading the same ground I trod the day before.”