Fire Star

by Chris D'Lacey

  Bernard covered his face.

  “Replace it!” roared the abbot.

  “I don’t have it,” Bernard wept. This was madness. A nightmare. The claw, literally squirreled away. How could he explain it? How?

  The abbot turned, hearing footsteps close by. Brother Malcolm appeared, still tying the cord of his nightrobe. “I heard voices, breaking glass …” His words tailed off into disbelief.

  The abbot plunged his hand into Bernard’s robe pocket and pulled out the keys with the bright orange tag. Were they being taken or being returned? He threw them into Malcolm’s hands. “Check that Brother Vincent is still in his cell.”

  Question marks appeared in Brother Malcolm’s eyes, but he knew not to argue with the abbot’s will. As he hurried away, Hugo turned his ire on Brother Bernard again. “What were you hoping to achieve by this?”

  “The truth!” Bernard cried, sinking back against the desk. “There are things occurring here that you refuse to see. Things that could change our world forever. The creature you have bound and treated so badly may be closer to God than you or I or any church ever built.”

  “This is a sickness,” said the abbot, appalled. He crossed himself. “First Vincent. Now you.”

  “Since when was the truth an illness?” shouted Bernard.

  The abbot turned his head. Brother Malcolm had returned, pale-faced. “I cannot rouse him.”

  The abbot’s gaze narrowed. “Is he dead?”

  Malcolm gulped and shook his head. “He is sitting cross-legged by his window, praying. I cannot shake him from the pose. He seems taken — by some kind of trance.”

  “He must be working without the claw,” muttered Bernard. “Bending the universe by his will. It must have been him who sent the squirrel.”

  The abbot seized him by the neck of his habit. “Stop babbling. What have you done with it?”

  “I have done nothing,” Bernard said, his cheeks growing red with rage. “The claw has been taken by a force you could never comprehend. But my guess is that it will not be long before you know precisely what became of it.”

  For if the claw was not on its way to Vincent, then it was surely on its way to the dragon.

  In this, Brother Bernard was correct. Even as the thought had entered his mind, the squirrel was scrambling across the courtyard into the shadow of the stable block. In a blink it had wriggled beneath the padlocked door and bounded into the dragon’s pen. The creature, sensitive to any warm blood, lifted its head and twitched its nostrils. Although it could not see the small gray messenger, the cargo it carried raised every flexible scale on its body. It growled and punched its head forward. Lively and fearless, the squirrel swerved away and dived between the dragon’s open legs, taking care not to brush the talons with its tail. It dropped the claw as close to the injured back foot as it could. Then it turned and whisked back into the dark.

  A quietness came upon the hooded prisoner. Somewhere here was a shadow of the past. The scent of history. A trace of greatness.

  Instinctively, its feet moved toward that place, claws spreading wide above the dank and rotting straw. Like a compass needle, the claw of Gawain jumped and flickered, aligning itself with the toes of the foot. The dragon, Grockle, set his foot down. And just as the tooth of the ice bear Ragnar had melded to the jaw of his descendant, Ingavar, so the claw of the last great dragon, Gawain, joined the body of his distant son.

  With it came a tingling sense of belonging. Connection to the Earth. Wisdom.

  Power.

  56 WAYWARD CRESCENT, LATE NIGHT, FEBRUARY 12TH

  She liked to read in bed. Magazines, mostly. Something glossy. Homes and gardens. Although she had never been particularly house-proud, and the garden was defaulting to a “wild” state, Elizabeth Pennykettle liked to imagine that something better could always be achieved.

  That night, however, the night the Fain invaded her home, she had been unable to settle. The magazines lay unread on her blanket. Her cup of hot chocolate had already cooled leaving a milky skin on its surface. For an endless time she sat among her pillows, staring at the wall, worried about Lucy, terrified for David.

  Gwillan was the first to notice the change. He gave a short hurr of surprise and flew from her table to the small corner bedpost, arching his wings and tufting his ears.

  “What is it?” Liz said, sitting forward. She, too, was aware of something now. She gazed at several abstract places, before deciding that the presence she could feel descending was centering itself around the Dragon’s Den. Throwing off the blanket, she leaped out of bed, wearing nothing but a pair of blue cotton pyjamas.

  Gwillan called out again as the air filled with an urgent sense of pressure. Perfume bottles rattled on the dressing table. Books fell sideways on their shelves. The lights went out, then pulsed back in. There was a breakage somewhere in the Dragon’s Den.

  “Hide!” Liz shouted to the terrified puffler, and ran, barefoot, along the landing.

  The wave hit her the moment she opened the door. She screamed and was thrown back against a rack of shelves, bringing it and many dragon sculptures crashing down around her. A picture of Lucy flew off the mantelpiece and crossed the room tumbling like the blade of a propeller. Several items on the workbench were swept to the floor. The anglepoise lamp took a sharp uppercut, banging back against the wall and snapping its springs. The lightbulb popped and fell from its housing. Chips of broken clay were everywhere.

  Suddenly, there was a mighty roar and Gruffen grew to three times his size. This had always been a planned defense against any kind of break-in or attack. Built into the guard dragon’s auma was a key which allowed him to manifest a magnified image of himself as the fire-breathing monster the human race fondly assigned to his species. But the enemy here was far from human.

  The Fain twisted into him, and finding nothing but a minimal outflow of auma, stole his fire as quickly as a wet thumb puts out a candle. The guard dragon lapsed into his solid state and fell to the floorboards, snapping his tail. The door clattered and the air in the den became still, though elsewhere in the house the whirlwind continued.

  “What’s happening?” Liz cried to any dragon who could answer. She crawled across the floor to her beloved Gruffen and was met there by a shaken G’reth.

  Hrrr, he explained in a trembling voice. The Fain he had brought back into the house was being chased by a larger, evil one.

  Liz wiped a bloodstained hand across her mouth. “Close down. All of you. Now.” And staggering to her feet, she hurried downstairs.

  The outcome of the chase was never in doubt. All the master Fain was seeking was a suitable host to drive the upstart into for a time. To lock it away until the work at the north of this planet was done. Then to return and punish it properly.

  It found what it sought in the Pennykettles’ kitchen. A fur-covered quadruped of low intelligence, whose auma was now in gradual decline.

  All Bonnington had ever wanted was a quiet life. A warm basket. A tickle of the ears. The occasional bowl of Chunky Chunks. When the young and terrified Fain flew into him and was locked into his cells by its more advanced pursuer, all prospect of serenity ended. Yowling wildly, he bolted around the kitchen before trying to throw himself out through his catflap. He missed and hit his head against the plastic frame, knocking himself out cold in the process.

  Trinnnnnggg!

  The doorbell rang.

  Rap! Rap! Rap!

  Someone walloped the panels.

  “Mrs. P.!” cried a voice. “Are you all right?”

  “Henry, go back home!” Liz shouted. She was in the hall now, trying to sense the location of the Fain.

  “Heard noises! Sounded like you might be in trouble —”

  His voice stopped abruptly.

  “Henry?” Liz called. “Henry, are you all right?” She slid back the bolt and opened the door a crack. “Henry? Agh!”

  He was inside in a moment, examining his hands, rolling his shoulders. A blue light swirled around the pup
ils of his eyes. “Aged,” he said, “minimal power.”

  “No power whatsoever. Let him go,” Liz said.

  His arm came up and took her by the throat, forcing her backward down the hall. “You have many connections,” said the Fain.

  “I’m not your enemy,” she croaked, as he stretched her neck fully till her head went back and made contact with the wall.

  “You have history with the dragon in the north. You are hybrid to its auma. And you have offspring.”

  “Please,” Liz said, though the word was barely audible.

  “I sense the dragon’s fire in this place.”

  Liz waggled a hand towards the kitchen. “Take it. In the cold box. Go.”

  “Minimal. Where is the rest?”

  “Don’t know,” she said, trying to shake her head free. Something cold and inhuman spiked her brain. She cried out in terror, her fingernails gouging paper from the walls.

  “You speak the truth,” said the Fain, then chillingly added, “yet you still have something to protect.”

  “No!” she squealed, as his left hand came up to cradle her skull and make a full circuit throughout her head.

  The human eyes blinked. “Your … creations have touched my world. They are working for a master. Where is he?”

  “He went away. Please, leave us be.”

  “Where is he?” growled the Fain, using the masculine edge in the human host’s voice.

  “I can take you to him,” a quieter voice said.

  “She’s lying!” Liz cried, recognizing the voice of the betrayer.

  “Sleep,” said the Fain, and threw her, collapsing in a heap, to one side.

  The figure of Henry turned around to see a small clay dragon, sitting on the stairs.

  “I know where he is,” she said, and proudly displayed her bouquet of flowers.

  57 DUNLOGAN, SCOTLAND FEBRUARY 13TH

  They traveled as Henry Bacon and clay figurine. Human male, insignificant sculpture. For the Fain, a being capable of moving through the vastness of space and time purely by the power of conscious thought, it was drudgery of the highest order. Bones, muscle, blood, skin. How did these humans cope with such oppressive vibrations? Why did they still submit to G’ravity?

  The Fain looked through its human eyes, studying the clay on the table in front of it. The clay seemed to be enjoying the passage, as though it had traveled on one of these cumbersome vehicles before. It was here with some kind of stratagem, of course. But he would snuff it out when his work was complete. For now, it merely intrigued him to observe how this creature, cleverly constructed in the image of Godith and animated by a spark of genuine dragon fire, would interact with the master it called “the David.” What did this human mean to the clay?

  The vehicle, the thing they called “train,” halted. The dragon shook its flowers, indicating they should leave. Henry rose from his seat. He glanced briefly at the human that had challenged him for payment and was now slumped against the window opposite, then left the carriage with Gretel in his hands.

  They reached the dockside on foot. It was raining heavily by then. The materials covering the human’s skin had become far weightier still, and it was this that attracted the attention of a man, sheltering beneath a brightly colored awning over a wooden hut decked with fishing nets.

  “My goodness. You are soaked!” The man stood up. He was tall and bald-headed and dressed in gray. Under his arm was a leather briefcase. On his feet were a pair of sandals.

  “What are you?” said Henry.

  The man appeared confused. “My name is Brother Darius. I am a man of God. Please, take shelter.”

  “You are traveling to the island.”

  Brother Darius looked to one side. “The island is not open to tourists at the moment. You would need special dispensation, I’m afraid.”

  “I travel where I please,” Henry said. And throwing Gretel aside (she flew to the awning), he stepped closer, then suddenly collapsed to the ground.

  During that second of brief confusion, Brother Darius was still himself. But as the Fain left Henry and invaded the monk, it quickly learned the nature of this brother’s mission and used the muscles around his mouth to pull the lips into a satisfied smile.

  A jeep drew up. Two figures in wet weather clothing got out. One, a bearded man with no other hair said, “Is it you who’ll be wanting a boat, brother?”

  The other, spotting Henry’s prostrate body, hurried over to crouch beside him. “Och, now. What’s this?”

  “I do not know him,” Darius said.

  “Mebbe a drunk,” muttered the man. “Did you see him go over? This chap’s barely alive, Dougie. He needs a hospital.”

  “You take him,” said the bearded man, thumbing at the jeep. “I’ll take this brother across to Farlowe.”

  58 FARLOWE ISLAND, FEBRUARY 13TH

  At two o’clock, the fishing boat docked on the jetty. Brother Darius, dressed in a plain gray habit, stepped off and strode purposefully along the landing stage. Hiding in his cowl was a potions dragon. High above the waterline, thunder rumbled, gathering the boat back into the gloom.

  Brother Feargal, sent to wait for an unnamed visitor, turned his umbrella and hurried across the planking to greet the stranger. Despite the persistent rain, the gray monk’s cowl lay flat against his shoulders. Crowns of water were breaking on his head. There was barely any color around his puckered mouth. He looked up, his dark eyes drilling through the drenching rain.

  “Brother, let me shelter you,” Feargal said, tilting the umbrella like a spindly toadstool.

  The gray monk raised a hand, a movement that seemed to pause weather and time. “Thank you … brother, but I find the rain refreshing.”

  Brother Feargal looked aghast. “You will suffer a chill. The winter is barely done and —”

  “I do not feel the cold,” the gray monk interrupted, speaking with such an air of supremacy that Feargal, awestruck, stumbled back a pace.

  “As you wish. Where are your belongings?”

  “I have no need of belongings,” said the monk. The briefcase he had dropped overboard on the crossing.

  “I see,” said Feargal, though he was clearly confused. “Come, let me guide you, the abbot is expecting you.” He turned for the narrow path between the rowan trees, only to see that the stranger was already making for it.

  “Thank you. I can find my way.”

  “You have visited the island before, Brother …?”

  “Darius,” he said. “You may call me Brother Darius.”

  Feargal nodded. An unfamiliar name. And the dark gray cloth, unusual also. “Forgive my curiosity, Brother Darius, but may I ask what Order you are from?”

  “I do not belong to any Order,” said the monk, as though to suggest it was some kind of insult.

  Feargal, sensing a warning note, bowed and decided he would not dig deeper. This visitor, this emissary (as the rumors among the brethren had it) was clearly some kind of high-ranking official. But what kind of monk had no fellow brothers? It set a troubled nerve ticking in Feargal’s head.

  “Have you traveled far?”

  “I am here,” said Brother Darius. “That is all that matters.”

  “Yes, of course,” mumbled Feargal. “I …” He rubbed his head. Was that rain beneath his fingers or pearls of sweat? What was it about this man that disturbed him so?

  They passed through the gardens, dead now of flowers, and on toward the gift shop, closed for the winter. Here, Brother Darius paused a moment and directed his gaze toward the roof.

  There was nothing on the tiles but moss and rain. Feargal, with a nervous squint, inquired, “What is it? What do you see?”

  “A shadow,” the gray monk said, and turned his powerful gaze to the priory, at its stone walls planted in the lush wet rise of green embankments. “There is a dragon among us.”

  The tic in Feargal’s head became a major shudder. Clumsily, he brought his hands together. A carousel of raindrops flew off his umbrella.
“The island is stained by its presence,” he jabbered. “Have you come to deliver us, brother?”

  The sky opened and lightning flashed beneath the clouds. Briefly, within it, the shape of a wide-winged raven could be seen, circling above the stable block. Brother Darius made a strange kind of rumble in his throat. “There are many forces at work here,” he said. “And soon, brother, you will see one more.”

  And he smiled a smile that had little to do with joy and much to do with malice.

  Then he walked on toward the monastery.

  Alone.

  59 ABBOT HUGO’S OFFICE, FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER

  This is it,” said Abbot Hugo. “The results of his labor. Allegedly written in the blood of the beast, through the use of its claw — which has disappeared, still unaccounted for.”

  He stood away from his desk, allowing Brother Darius to view the manuscript. The gray monk cast his eye at the papers, then slowly withdrew a hand from his sleeves. He picked up the top page and sniffed it carefully. “Have you read this?” He quietly put the sheet aside.

  Abbot Hugo nodded. “Our unworthy brother, Bernard Augustus, believes the story is a means for Brother Vincent to purge his emotions of a past relationship.”

  The gray monk nodded, and shifted his gaze across the room. “Where is the claw?”

  Bernard, sitting on a stool by the window, sat up slightly, popping his jaw.

  “Answer him,” Abbot Hugo commanded.

  “I believe the dragon has it.”

  “By what means?”

  “I saw a squirrel take it,” Bernard said, flushing brightly and breaking sweat. The gray monk’s stare was so invasive. His eyebrows, black and sharply arched, were like tunnels hiding heaven knew what.

  “Nonsense!” Abbot Hugo snorted, blowing fiercely into a tissue. “You expect us to believe that a rodent, a creature of low intelligence, broke into my drawer and removed the claw?”