The Fire Within (The Last Dragon Chro) (16 page)

George

 

on his pad.
Go away,
growled David, tightening his fist.
Just leave me alone, OK?
Gadzooks dropped his pencil and slowly disappeared. Even so, it didn’t stop David from saying, “… the gardener’s hut.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Lucy, running around to stand in front of Sophie. “They go and steal the gardener’s sandwiches sometimes!”

“Aha,” said Sophie. “No wonder they don’t want our measly peanuts.” She stood up and flicked a leaf at David. “Come on, Mr. Misery, you can lead the way.”

He took them back to the duck pond. They followed the water around in an arc, passing through a corridor of weeping willows and a slippery patch of wild bird droppings, before climbing through several conifer beds, then out again onto level ground.

As they were passing a memorial stone, rising from the earth like a granite finger, the library clock began to strike.

David counted nine slow bongs. He stopped in his tracks as the others walked on.

Just ahead of them now was the gardener’s hut, tucked away in a small enclosure framed by a waist-high hedge. At the rear of the hut was a mound of old cuttings. David sidled toward it as Lucy rapped her knuckles on the base of a wheelbarrow. The noise brought the gardener into the open.

“Aft’noon,” he grunted. “Mrs. Pennykettle, isn’t it?”

“Hello, George,” said Liz, shaking hands. “Nice to see you again. How’s Mrs. Digwell?”

“Still dustin’ that dragon you sold her. It’s got pride o’ place on the mantelpiece, I tell you. What can I do for you?”

“This is my daughter, Lucy,” said Liz, guiding her forward by the shoulders. “And our friend, Sophie. And David, our tenant … who seems to have disappeared for the moment. We were hoping to see some squirrels, George, but there don’t seem to be many around today.”

“Oh, they’re around,” George said frostily. “Diggin’ in my roses all yest’day. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Pennykettle, I’ve only seen the one this mornin’, over by the big horse ches’nut tree.”

“We’ve been there,” said Lucy.

“We didn’t see one,” Sophie added.

George ran a hand around his bristly chin. “Well, no, you wouldn’t. The squirrel I saw ain’t there anymore.”

“How do you know?” asked Lucy.

George gave a backward tilt of his head. “I dropped it yonder not two hours since. Over there, where the boy is lookin’ around.”

Sophie shot a worried glance at David.

He looked up from the side of the mound. His eyes were staring and his face was pale. Slowly, he brought his hands into view. A still, gray body was lying across them.

It was Conker.

The little squirrel was dead.

N
ATURE’S
W
AY

 

L
ucy quivered and her bottom lip started to shudder.

“Oh dear,” said Liz, gathering her in her arms.

“He’s dead,” bawled Lucy. “Conker’s
dead.”

David rested Conker in the crook of his arm and picked a seed pod out of the squirrel’s tail.

“Sssh,” Liz soothed, hugging Lucy tight. “We knew it would happen. We knew he was ill.”

“But why did it have to happen today?”

“Oh heck,” said George, looking rather bewildered. “I seem to have started a bit of somethin’. I’m sorry, Mrs. Pennykettle. Do you know this animal?”

“Yes,” said Sophie, getting in first. She took a purse from her pocket and pulled out a card. “I’m a volunteer with the Wildlife Hospital. I’m involved in a project
that’s tracking the migration of gray squirrels from urban areas to woodland — I mean parkland — no, library land! These people are my helpers. This squirrel used to live in their garden.”

George added another crease to his face. “You mean it’s a sort of pet?”

“Yes,” said Sophie, fighting back a tear.

“Waah!”
wailed Lucy.

George shook his head and slid back his cap. “I know you, don’t I?” he said to David.

David nodded. “I came here once to ask about squirrels. Would it be all right if we buried him, Mr. Digwell? Here, in the gardens? Anywhere … here?”

Liz gave George a plaintive look.

“Bear with me,” he said, and popped into his hut. He emerged seconds later, tapping a trowel against his palm. “I dunno if it helps but I’m go in’ to say it anyway: I’ve seen a lot of creatures die in these gardens and the way I always look at it is this …”

Liz turned Lucy around.

“… these thievin’ rascals,” he nodded at Conker,
“will eat anythin’ they can lay their graspin’ paws on. Mostly they take from that oak in the clearin’. That big tree feeds them all their lives. But trees need feedin’ too. They need to take nutrients out o’ the ground.” George looked kindly into Lucy’s face. “It’s not pleasant, I know, to think of your squirrel lyin’ dead in the soil, but his body will help these trees survive. So I s’pose, by rights, he should be buried here. That way, he’s doin’ his pals a favor. What you take from the earth, you must give back. That’s nature’s way.”

Liz put a hand on Lucy’s brow. “I think we understand that, don’t we?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, with a little squeak.

“Ah, well, I’d best get back to work,” said George. He nodded at Liz and tugged his cap, then handed the trowel to David. “Here, you’ll be needin’ this. Plant him where he can do some good.”

At Sophie’s suggestion they took Conker back to the horse chestnut tree. David laid him down around the back of the tree where the soil was dry and easier
to dig in. With the tip of the trowel he traced a line around Conker’s body, then moved him aside and started to dig.

Lucy stroked Conker and talked to him constantly. She told him she loved him and always would. She chattered about the garden in Wayward Crescent, the felling of the oak tree, David coming, the drey in the roof, Mr. Bacon’s trap, Caractacus’s claw, the ongoing story of
Snigger and the Nutbeast
(the best birthday present ever, she said), and how everyone, Snigger especially, would miss him. David dug in time to her words, stabbing and scooping at the dark brown earth. He dug until the hole was as deep as his forearm and the sides were steep and smooth and square. When it was done he dropped the trowel and sat back on his heels, panting lightly.

“What now?” said Lucy.

David looked into her wide green eyes. “Now we have to put him to bed.” And he picked Conker up, gently but securely, and lowered him into the ground.

One single green leaf fluttered into the hole.

David stood up, brushing down his coat, triggering a minor avalanche of soil.

Sophie crumpled, uncrumpled, and recrumpled a tissue.

Lucy started to weep again.

“Don’t be sad,” said Liz. “Look how pretty and peaceful he is.”

Conker’s slim gray body lay curved across the grave, sort of like a miniature rainbow.

“Did anything hurt him?” Lucy asked, almost having to hiccough the words.

“No, I don’t think so,” David said quietly.

Lucy knelt down. She kissed one finger and touched it to the scar above Conker’s eye. “He looks like he’s sleeping — doesn’t he, Mom?”

“Yes,” said Liz. “He wuzzled off nicely.”

David’s blue eyes filmed with tears. He picked up the gardener’s trowel and cleaned it doggedly with his thumb.

“Come on, let’s tuck him in together,” said Liz. She crouched down, scooped up a handful of soil, and let it tumble into the grave.

Sophie hunkered down and joined in, too. “Bye-bye, Conker. I hope this tree grows bigger and stronger with you beside it and brings happiness and joy to everyone who sees it.” She squeezed Lucy’s hand. Lucy threw in some soil.

Steadily, the hole began to fill, until there came a moment when Conker was almost completely covered and all that could be seen was the outline of his face. Lucy leaned back, not wanting to continue. She and Sophie both looked at David.

David found a suitable lump of soil and broke it slowly in his fist. Whispering a last good-bye, he moved his hand over Conker’s body. The dry earth trickled through his fingers.
Pitter, patter.
Dust to dust. He shuddered and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Conker was gone.

From that moment on, Lucy took over. With Sophie’s help, she pushed the remaining soil into the grave and patted it down with her gloveless hands. While they were covering the site with underbrush, Liz drifted away to talk to David.
He was sitting alone on a low brick wall, rolling a dead leaf through his fingers.

“Are you OK?” Liz whispered, rubbing his arm.

“Not really,” he said in a voice that carried the faint shudder of despair. “All I wanted was a happy ending. Now, I don’t know what to do.”

Liz sat down and covered his hand. “You could cry if you want to. That would be a start.”

David gritted his teeth and looked away.

“No one’s going to think you’re a softy,” Liz told him. “It won’t help, you know, holding it in. Maybe Gadzooks —”

“I don’t want to know about
Gadzooks!”
David stood up suddenly, throwing out a hand. “I’m fed up of hearing about your
stupid dragons!”
He waved the trowel in the air and turned away. “I have to take this to the gardener, OK?”

“What’s happening?” said Sophie, hurrying over with Lucy. “What’s going on? Where’s David going? David, come back!” She started after him.

Lucy looked worriedly at her mom. “Why was he shouting about the dragons?”

Liz pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and did her best to clean Lucy’s hands. “He’s upset about Conker, and confused about the dragons. I think he is in a fight with Gadzooks.”

Lucy’s mouth fell open in shock. “Gadzooks won’t make a fire tear, will he?”

Liz flicked a speck of soil off Lucy’s bangs. “Gadzooks is a very proud young dragon. It would take a lot of shouting to put out his fire.”

“But Mom, if David doesn’t
love
him?”

“He does,” Liz assured her, cleaning her face. “We might have to show him he does, that’s all.”

Lucy’s eyes grew huge with astonishment. “Are you going to tell him about … y’know?”

“Only what he needs to know,” said Liz. She touched a finger to Lucy’s nose. “The rest he can dream for himself. After all, he’s very good at making up stories, isn’t he?”

D
AVID
R
ETURNS

 

D
avid walked in at ten past six. Three hours had passed since his outburst in the gardens. He was shivering and his hair was dripping wet. The bottoms of his jeans were splattered with mud. One shoe was so soaked it squirted water over Bonnington as the cat came to greet him. When he hung up his coat, it fell off the hook. At the second attempt he sneezed so forcefully he sprayed half the mirror with the contents of his nostrils. By that time, Liz was in the doorway of the living room, arms folded, tapping her foot.

She said nothing to David, just “towel” to Lucy as Lucy came pounding downstairs to see.

Lucy asked no questions, just turned and went.

David swept his hair off his rain-soaked brow,
sending a rivulet of water down his nose. “Went for a walk,” he said rather timidly.

“Through a car wash, by the look of it,” Liz said, unimpressed.

Lucy reappeared with a large bath towel. As she handed it to David her mother said stiffly, “Dry your hair. Take off anything wet. Then wrap yourself up in your blanket, clothed. You need to warm yourself slowly. I’ll make you a drink.” She walked into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle.

David, knowing there was no point in arguing, squelched down the hall, toweling his hair.

“Should I call Sophie?” Lucy called to her mom.

David halted and looked at each of them.

“We took her home,” Liz told him. “Tell her he’s back,” she shouted to Lucy, “and there’s no need to call every half hour now.” She gave David a critical look.

He shivered and went to his room.

Shortly afterward, Liz came in with a drink: something fruity, billowing steam. She put it on his desk
and pulled the curtains half closed, reducing the room to a softer light. David, under the blanket as instructed, had Winston in his arms and Bonnington nestling at the foot of the bed.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” he said.

Liz sat on the bed with her hands in her lap. “Concerned would be a better word. Getting soaked is bad enough at the best of times, but when you’re not well and upset into the bargain …”

“I didn’t mean about getting wet. I meant about what I said in the gardens. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted like that.”

“Sit up,” said Liz. “Have your drink. It’s honey and lemon. It’ll help to clear your head.”

David shuffled into a sitting position. He cupped the mug in his hands and took a few sips.

“You’re a silly boy, sometimes,” Liz said gently. “Why did you go stomping off like that? Why didn’t you just stay and talk to me?”

David shook his head. “Don’t know. It just happened.” He put the mug down and sank back
against his pillows, his head just clonking the wall. “When we buried Conker I was really mixed up, sad and bitter, all at the same time. It seemed so unfair that he would go and die after everything Lucy and I had done. The whole thing seemed so pointless.”

Liz smoothed a crease in her skirt and said, “But can’t you see how much you’ve achieved? You’ve brought joy and adventure to Lucy’s life — and who knows what to the library gardens.”

“Conker’s still dead.”

“No,” said Liz. “He’s alive in your story. And that’s the greatest achievement of all. Conker helped you find something you never knew you had.”

“Yeah, that I’m useless at writing stories.” David thumped a fist against Winston’s body, making the old bear baa like a sheep. “What can I do for Lucy now? How can I end the story happily, without, you know …”

“Fudging the truth?”

David sighed and ran a thumb down Winston’s ear. “I spent ages in the gardens thinking about it. And before you say it, I did try asking Gadzooks —
eventually. But every time I pictured him he looked so strange. He had his head bent low and his tail was all … droopy. The pages of his pad were peeling away. Where is he?” David peered around, hamsterlike. The pencil-chewing dragon was nowhere to be seen.

“Lucy took him upstairs,” said Liz.

“Why?” David’s tone was hesitant and nervous.

“Oh, you know what children are like. Maybe she was feeling sorry for him, him being a stupid dragon and all.”

“He’s crying, isn’t he?” David said. He raised his head as if listening for the sniffles. “I made him cry, because the story didn’t have a happy ending.”

To his surprise, Liz shook her head. “Gadzooks would be a pretty poor authoring dragon if his flame was extinguished the first time he helped you with a sad story.”

“Extinguished?”
David looked at her hard.

“Dragons are different than you and me, David. When
they
shed tears, they fall within.”

The tenant’s face suddenly turned very pale. “You mean, Sophie was right: Crying really does put out their fire …?”

“Yes,” Liz said. “Without flame, they enter a deep, dark sleep. If their fire isn’t quickly rekindled …”

“No!” David sat up, grasping the blanket.

Liz, arms folded, sat quite still. “He’s crying because you rejected him, David. If you love him, his spark stays lit, remember?”

The tenant’s eyes filled with hope. “But I
do
love him — really. Where is he? I want to see him.”

At that moment, Lucy slipped into the room. “Sophie’s coming over tomorrow,” she reported. “She says we’ve got to look after him. Puh.”

“Tell me how to help Gadzooks,” said David. “It has something to do with that story, doesn’t it? The one about the last true dragon in the world? I heard you telling Lucy when Gawain was broken. He came to the stream to drink, and Guinevere sang him a sort of lullaby.”

“The song of Guinevere,” Liz said eerily, as Lucy began to faintly hum it, “is the key to the heart of dragon legend. Are you ready to dream it, David?”

“Yes,” he said, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He slid down as Lucy’s humming washed over him, closed his eyes, and took himself back — to a distant time of fire-breathing creatures and cave-dwelling kin.

“Good,” said Liz. “For you, and you alone, can rekindle Gadzooks. Listen closely, David. There may yet be time to save him….”