The Fire Within (The Last Dragon Chro) (4 page)

G
REENFINGERS
G
EORGE

 

A
few paces along the leaf-strewn path that led the way into the gardens proper, David halted by a noticeboard which read:

WELCOME TO SCRUBBLEY LIBRARY GARDENS

 

We hope you enjoy your visit

 

 

“Thank you very much,” David muttered.

“You what?” a rasping voice replied.

A curious little man stepped out of a clump of laurel bushes.

“Oh — sorry,” David called out, turning red. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

The little man wiped his nose on his sleeve. Partly
hidden as he was in the shadow of the trees, he didn’t look much bigger than a garden gnome. He was wearing a tattered black padded jacket, and a gray canvas hat with a brim that flopped down like a fraying lampshade. One knee was poking out through his earth-stained pants. On his feet were a pair of work boots that were so big an elephant might have slopped around in them.

David made a stab at proper conversation. “You’re not the library gardener by any chance, are you?”

“And what if I was?”

“You might be able to help me. I’m doing a sort of … nature study.”

The little figure snorted and shuffled around. He went back into the bushes and emerged a moment later with a two-wheeled cart. He bumped it onto the paved path. “People call me ‘Greenfingers George’ —”

“Pleased to meet you,” said David, holding out his hand.

“— but to you, it’s Mr. Digwell.” George ignored the
handshake, preferring instead to scratch his backside through a hole in his pants. “Well? What is it you want?”

Before David could say, the clock in the library tower bonged three times. David frowned and looked at his watch. It was eleven exactly. “Clock’s wrong,” he muttered.

“No, it ain’t,” said George. “Everyone in Scrubbley knows exactly what time it is at three bongs o’ the library clock: eleven — one hour before my lunch. I’ve got half a dozen shrubs to plant by then, so if you want my help you’d better make it quick.”

“Squirrels,” said David. “Where can I see some?”

“Squirrels?” George trumpeted. “What do you want with them? Pesky little varmints. Bane o’ my life. Bite the buds off my saplings, dig up my bulbs, plant their stinking nuts in my lawns. There’s one,” he said, beckoning David closer, “that lives up the beech near the fountain back there.” He pointed vaguely into the distance. “Mean little villain, that one. Plays tricks on
me for fun, I reckon. You can’t miss him. He’s got a
look.”

“A look?” repeated David.

“A great big
smile.
”

David cast a doubtful glance toward the fountain.

“Oh, yeah,” said George, sucking mud off his finger. “Little pest was in my pottin’ shed last week. Stole my ham sandwich, he did.”

David did his best to form a sympathetic look. “And where did you say I’d find him — them?”

“Go down the embankment,” Mr. Digwell said, pointing along the narrow path that tumbled helter-skelter through the thicket of trees, “all the way to the fencin’ at the bottom. Take the left-hand path around the front of the bandstand and keep going over the duck pond bridge. Go through the clearing where the big oak stands, and the beeches are right on up from there.”

David gave a cordial nod and crunched off down the path. He’d gone less than five paces when he turned and said: “Mr. Digwell, can I ask you something else?”

The gardener sighed and leaned on a pitchfork.

“How might a squirrel lose an eye?”

George muttered something under his breath. He lifted his fork and forced it ominously into the ground. “Could be any number o’ reasons. Accident. Disease. Likeliest cause is somethin’ attacked it.”

“A cat?”

“Yeah, maybe. Tomcat’d most likely kill it, though. They don’t take many prisoners, cats.”

David nodded. Maybe Bonnington wasn’t as dippy as he looked. “What about another squirrel?”

George beat his chest and spat a glob of phlegm into a leaf-blocked drain. “Nah. Squirrels, they squabble and bluster a lot, pull out fur, bite toes, perhaps. But an eye? No, that’s somethin’ bigger. Fox. Dog. Man, maybe.”

David looked at the gardener, hard.

George threw his pitchfork into the bottom of the cart. “Tree rats ain’t a protected species. If they’re a nuisance, boy, people remove ‘em.” He drew a sharp line across his neck.

“What sort of people?” David asked.

“People who don’t like pests,” said George. “Now, if you have no more questions, I’ve got my plantin’ to do.” And pushing his two-wheeled cart ahead of him, he strode off down the winding path, until he was no bigger than another dead leaf, tumbling out of the autumn sky.

T
HE
W
ISHING
F
OUNTAIN

 

W
hen the gardener was out of sight, David set off in search of the beech trees. He followed the path around as George had suggested until the ground leveled out at the foot of the embankment and the path split into two. To his left, the bandstand poked into view, half hidden by a weeping willow. To his right was another large bank of trees. In front of him now was a sun-speckled pond. Mallards and rails were resting near the shore. A few paddleboats were moored to a makeshift dock. David clattered across the narrow arched bridge and strolled into the clearing toward the great oak. The ground there was littered with acorns, many still wedged into their knobby gray cups. David crouched
down and picked one up. It was greenish brown and not quite firm — softened, perhaps, by early morning dew. He jiggled it in the palm of his hand. He began to think then about Wayward Crescent and the oak tree that had once stood there. What was Conker eating if it wasn’t acorns? Peanuts from a bird feeder? Bacon rinds? Did he have a secret cache of nuts? Was it because of a fight for food that his eye had become so badly hurt? David sighed and dropped the acorn back into the ferns. How could he really hope to find out?

He was still pondering the question some ten minutes later when he stumbled upon a small, stone fountain halfway up a rise called Cobnut Hill. He peered into the glistening, leaf-covered water. Coins of varying size and value were lying against the blue-tiled bottom. David found a penny and flipped it in the air. As it spun, he found himself wishing he knew what he could do to best help Conker. With a
sploop,
the penny hit the surface of the water. It sank with a gentle
skating motion. As it settled on the bottom, David heard a faint noise. He looked to the opposite side of the fountain. A keen-eyed squirrel was sitting on the wall.

Without a moment’s hesitation, it scuttled around the stonework and stopped within a meter of David’s hand.

“Hello,” said David.

The squirrel flagged a lively, white-tipped tail. It lifted one foot and twitched its nose. It looked at David as if to say “feed me.” David put a hand in his coat pocket and produced the only item of food he possessed: a small red apple.

The squirrel scratched its ear with a thumping back foot.

Then it sat back on its haunches — and
smiled.

David nearly fell into the fountain in astonishment. Perhaps it was the shape of the squirrel’s mouth, giving the impression of a cheesy grin, but it really did look as if the creature had smiled.

“It’s you,” said David. “The sandwich robber. I was warned about you.”

The squirrel, unconcerned by its notoriety, bristled its whiskers and edged a little nearer. It looked hard at the apple and its nose twitched again. It put a long, clawed foot on David’s thigh.

David crunched softly into the fruit, chewed off a piece and dropped it on the wall.

The squirrel leaned forward and took it … then promptly spat it into the fountain.

David frowned like a disappointed parent. “Don’t tell me — you prefer
Granny Smiths?”

The squirrel chose not to smile at that. It fidgeted, impatiently, left and right, then sat up cautiously and sniffed the air.

Suddenly, with a chatter of alarm, it was gone.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” David called.

The cause of the problem soon became apparent.

Another squirrel was on the wall. It was big enough to be a baseball on legs. Its tail alone was like a small
feather boa. With a passing sneer at the visiting human, it scrabbled off the fountain and chased the first squirrel across the path.

“Hey!” cried David. “Leave him alone.”

But the smiling squirrel didn’t need any help. It was up a tree and gone before David had time to take another breath. He shrugged and decided to leave them to it. After all, this was probably the sort of tiff that squirrels got into a dozen times a day.

Sploop.
Just like the penny dropping into the fountain, a sudden realization hit him. What he just witnessed was a basic example of squirrel behavior: When faced with a nasty encounter, flick tail and run away fast. But the speed of the smiling squirrel’s escape, particularly up the tree, was largely due to its remarkable agility, and it couldn’t achieve that without peripheral vision. How would it have managed with one eye closed? Could it have climbed as quickly then? Could it have climbed at all? In short, how would Conker have coped if faced with the threat of a bullying
squirrel, or marauding cat, or something not yet even imagined?

Somewhere in the distance a mallard quacked.

The answer was as sharp and as clear as that call.

Conker wouldn’t cope. He couldn’t run from danger.

He was, in effect, a sitting duck.

I
NSPIRATION

 

I
t was late afternoon before David returned to Wayward Crescent. The street lamps were flickering to life and a few dead leaves were skating the pavement. Whistling softly, he opened the gate to Liz’s drive. It swung back, not with its usual creak, but with an ear-splitting whine that almost had the tenant jumping into the hedge. He glanced suspiciously at the gate. Either those hinges were in dire need of oiling or …

Neee-yaaaaah!

The same whine split the air again. It was someone cutting wood with a high-powered saw.

Someone like Henry Bacon, perhaps.

A light was on in the neighbor’s garage. Fueled by
curiosity (but more by suspicion), David crouched low and crept up to the doors. As he raised his face to the grimy window, the thump of a hammer rattled the glass. Something hit the garage floor with a crash. There was a snapping sound. Mr. Bacon cussed. He tossed his hammer onto a workbench. It hit a box of nails and spilled them onto the floor.

David dipped away, frowning hard. Henry was obviously making something. But what, exactly, it was impossible to say. David shook his head and let it pass. There was no law against people doing woodwork in their garages, even if they were as crazy as Henry.

With a shrug, he crossed over onto Liz’s drive and let himself into number forty-two. He had barely finished kicking the mud off his shoes when Lucy came sprinting down the hall to greet him.

“Where’ve you been? School was out ages ago.”

“I had lunch with the president and walked his dog around the White House.”

“Liar,” said Lucy. “Did you get a book?”

A book. David had forgotten the book.

Lucy read the defeated expression on his face. “You did
go
to the library, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Thanks for telling me Mr. Bacon works there.” He draped his coat over her head and walked on into the kitchen. “Hmm, something smells good.”

Down the hall Lucy shouted: “This coat stinks!”

“Baked potatoes, sausages, and baked beans,” said Liz, pointing a wooden spoon like a wand. “Simple, but filling. How was your day?”

“Not bad. Spent most of it in the library gard — ow!”

David started with pain as Lucy jabbed him in the thigh with a lollipop stick.

“Hey, that’s enough of that,” Liz scolded.

“He’s being horrible,” Lucy complained. “He says I didn’t tell him about Mr. Bacon.”

“Oh dear. You found Henry?”

“Couldn’t miss him,” David muttered, glaring at Lucy. “He was at the information desk when I went in specially to get
someone
a squirrel book.”

“Where is it?” Lucy badgered, ever hopeful.

“They didn’t have one.” David flicked a breadcrumb at her.

Lucy made a moody face and thumped into a seat at the kitchen table. On the table was a half-made dragon, a jelly jar of water, and a number of sticks. Lucy took a finely pointed stick and began to scrape doggedly at a flat piece of clay. David watched in quiet admiration as she turned it into a three-toed foot.

“So, what did you think of the gardens?” asked Liz.

“Nice,” said David, yawning lightly. “I met the library gardener.”

“Oh, George. He’s been there since the place was opened. They grew him from seed, I think. His wife bought a dragon from me once. He’s a funny old guy. A little grouchy, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“Can’t say the same for his timing,” David muttered. “He told me this peculiar story about everyone in Scrubbley knowing it’s eleven when the library clock strikes three.”

“It’s true,” muttered Lucy. “All the chimes are
wrong. We learn it by heart at school. You have to remember it never bongs nine.”

“That spells doom and gloom,” explained Liz.

“Hasn’t anyone thought to repair it?”

“Frequently,” said Liz, turning sausages with a fork, “but a petition always goes around to leave it be. It’s become sort of a tourist attraction. Tricky when the clocks go forward, though.”

“You gain four bongs,” said Lucy, bending to retrieve a piece of clay. It was then that David noticed two complete dragons, sitting on the windowsill at Lucy’s side. One of them, a rather regal-looking creature, bore an uncanny resemblance to Lucy herself. David looked again from a different angle. The dragon had the usual spikes and scales — and yet, when he stared at it, he clearly saw Lucy. It was almost as if she’d dissolved inside it.

The second dragon, by contrast, was a real monster. Its wings were raised, its jaws were open, and its claws were spread in readiness for battle. David peered into
its dark green eyes. They had a strangely disconcerting depth. The sort of eyes that could follow you anywhere. He was pleased Gadzooks didn’t look like that.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“Gawain and Gwendolen,” Lucy muttered.

“What do you think?” asked Liz. She leaned back against the counter, drying pots.

David pointed at the scary one. “Wouldn’t like to meet him down a long, dark alley.”

“That’s Gawain,” said Lucy. “He’s very
fierce
and he doesn’t like
jokes.
”

“Don’t be grumpy,” said Liz. “What about the other one, David?”

The tenant sat down in his usual place and turned Gwendolen around to face him. “At the risk of getting burnt to a crisp, she really reminds me of Lucy —”

Lucy dropped her modeling stick.

“— give or take the odd green scale, of course.”

For a moment there was silence. David gave an innocuous smile, hoping he hadn’t said anything out
of place. You never really knew in the Pennykettle household; dragons were always a ticklish subject. He looked at Lucy. She was gaping at her mom.

Liz dried a plate with a slow, circular motion of the dish towel. “That’s very observant,” she said. “Not many people can see the resemblance.”

“Lucky guess,” said David with a nervous shrug. Why did he suddenly get the feeling he’d found the key to some deep, dark secret? He glanced at Gawain and couldn’t help but ask, “So if Gwendolen is Lucy, then who’s …?”

Lucy’s eyes opened to the size of saucers. “He’s —”

“Going upstairs,” said Liz, just as the timer on the microwave pinged.

“But—?”

“No buts, it’s dinnertime. Clear that table.”

Lucy’s shoulders sagged. She looked once at her half-built dragon, blew it a kiss, then squashed it mercilessly into a ball.

Liz pulled on a pair of oven gloves and took three potatoes out of the microwave. She put them on a
baking tray and popped them into the oven to crisp. “Five minutes,” she said, and whisked outside with a bag of trash.

As the door drifted shut, David tapped Lucy gently on the arm. “Who is he, then?” he whispered, nodding at Gawain.

Lucy bit her lip and glanced outside. “The last dragon in the world,” she hissed.

“No. I meant, who’s he modeled on?”

Lucy looked at him as if he were an idiot. “He’s the last real dragon in the
world,”
she repeated.

David, none the wiser, changed the subject. “Fine. Let’s talk about Conker. I want to ask you something important. Have you ever seen him climb — since he hurt his eye?”

Lucy looked faintly puzzled.

“Up a tree? Fence? Anything? Think hard.”

Lucy thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Why do you want to know?”

“Know what?” said Liz, coming in again. She snatched up a box of cat chow and rattled some into
Bonnington’s dish. Bonnington materialized in the kitchen as if he’d beamed down from outer space.

“I was asking Lucy about Conker,” said David.

“Quelle surprise,”
said Liz, making Lucy frown.

David knocked on the table to get her attention. “I saw two squirrels in the library gardens.”

Lucy’s eyes lit up.

“Lucy, I can still see a mess,” said her mom.

Lucy hurried to the sink with her jelly jar and sticks. “What did they look like?” she asked.

“Gray and squirrelly,” David said unhelpfully. “One of them was big and fat.”

The jelly jar clattered around the sink. “Was it Birchwood?!”

“Birchwood?” David spluttered with laughter. “Not unless he caught the bus to Scrubbley. It’s quite a trek to the library gardens.”

“Not if you go across the fields,” said Lucy. She banged her hands down on the counter. “That’s where they went, Mom, the library gardens!”

“Very nice,” said Liz. “Now move that clay.”

Lucy transferred it to a corner of the counter. “What did the other squirrel look like?”

David put his fingers to the corners of his mouth and pushed his lips up into a grin. “It shmiled, like thish.”

Lucy gaped in astonishment. “What’s its name?”

“I don’t suppose he thought to ask,” said Liz. “Cutlery, please.”

“Smiler!” Lucy shouted, opening the drawer. “I bet its name is Smiler!” She slapped a fork on the table in triumph.

“That doesn’t sound right,” said David.

“Well, that was Gawain’s turn,” Lucy said hotly. “Big Beam, then?”

“Oh dear,” clucked Liz. “Imagine being stuck with a name like ‘Big Beam’!”

“Well, that was … Gwendolen’s turn!”

Liz looked at Lucy hard. “Then Gawain and Gwendolen have both gotten it wrong.”

Lucy, undeterred, had one last option. “Can Gadzooks have a try?”

“Pardon?” said David.

“Ask him,” said Lucy.

“How?” said the tenant, looking bemused.

Lucy paddled her feet. “Dream it,” she breathed.

“What?”
said David.

“Mom, make him do it.”

“I’m cooking sausages, Lucy.”

“Oh, Mom. Please.”

“Do what?” said David.

Lucy threw herself into the chair beside him. “It’s Mom’s special way of telling stories. You have to join in and tell what you see. Then the story really comes alive. Things happen. Things you don’t expect. Oh, Mom, make him
do it.
”

Liz sighed and gave in: “David, close your eyes and picture Gadzooks.”

He looked at her askance. “You’re not serious?”

“In thirty seconds, your dinner will be burned.”

“That’s serious,” said David. He closed his eyes. “OK. He’s on his windowsill, looking out over the garden. I think he’s wondering if it’s going to rain.”

“No,” said Liz, “he’s biting his pencil, deep in
thought, trying hard to think of a name for your squirrel. Dream it, David.”

David rocked in his chair and let his mind float. “He flipped a page of his notepad over.”

“Hhh!” gasped Lucy. “It’s working, Mom!”

“Shush,” went Liz.

“He’s writing something.”

“What?” gasped Lucy, too excited to be shushed.

David let his imagination flow. To his amazement, he watched Gadzooks take his pencil from his jaws and hurriedly scribble down a name on his pad.