Dragon Rider

by Cornelia Funke

  In his hiding place, Twigleg pricked up his ears. Those scales could only have come from his master! Nettlebrand had lost three scales in the course of his life, and in spite of sending out all his ravens in search of them he had never recovered any of them. He wasn’t going to be at all pleased to hear that a human had found two of the precious scales.

  The manikin stuck his nose out of Ben’s backpack to get a look at them, but the professor’s hand was too far above his head for him to see anything.

  “They have no scent,” said Firedrake, “as if they were made of nothing. Yet they feel as cold as ice.”

  “May I see them?” asked Ben, bending over the professor’s hand.

  Twigleg was listening.

  “You can hold them,” said Professor Greenbloom. “Look at them closely. They’re curious things.”

  Ben carefully took one of the scales from the professor’s hand and ran a finger over its sharp edges. It did feel like metal, yet there was something else about it, too.

  “I believe they’re made of false gold,” the professor told him, “a metal used by alchemists in the Middle Ages when they were trying to make the real thing. They never succeeded, of course. But this must be alloyed with something else because that scale is very, very hard. I couldn’t make the slightest scratch on it, even with a diamond cutter. Ah, well.” Barnabas Greenbloom shrugged his shoulders. “Take one with you. You might unravel this mystery, too, on your travels. I’ve been carrying those scales around with me for so long that I’ve given up hope.”

  “Shall I put it in with our things?” Ben asked the dragon.

  Firedrake nodded. Thoughtfully he raised his head and looked out to sea. Sorrel scurried up onto the dragon’s tail. Ben threw her the backpacks, and she caught them and slung them over Firedrake’s back.

  “Here we go!” she cried. “Who knows, tomorrow morning we might even land where we meant to for a change.”

  “The weather seems fair, Sorrel,” said the professor, looking up at the sky.

  Ben went over to him and shyly offered his hand. “Goodbye, Professor,” he said.

  Professor Greenbloom took Ben’s hand and pressed it hard. “Good-bye, Ben,” he said. “I really do hope we’ll meet again. Oh, yes,” he added, handing Ben a small card, “I almost forgot this. It’s Zubeida’s card. If you do visit her after you’ve stopped off to see the djinn, give her my regards. And should you need more provisions or anything else, I’m sure she’ll be happy to help you. If the village where she’s working hasn’t changed too much, then its people will still be waiting hopefully for the dragons to return. But you’d better make sure of that before Firedrake walks in on them!”

  Ben smiled and put the card away with his other treasures. Then he clambered up on Firedrake’s back.

  “You’ve still got my card, too, I hope?” said Professor Greenbloom.

  Ben nodded.

  “The best of luck, then!” cried the professor as Firedrake spread his wings. “And think hard about the question you ask the djinn. Beware of basilisks. And write to tell me if you do find the dragons!”

  “Good-bye!” called Ben, waving.

  Then Firedrake rose into the air. The dragon circled once over the professor, breathed a blue flame into the night as a farewell, and flew away.

  16. Flying South

  Over the next few nights, Firedrake flew faster than the wind. Impatience drove him on. The airstream blew so hard in the faces of his two riders that Sorrel stuffed leaves in her ears, and Ben wound the cloth the professor had given him tightly around his head for protection.

  The nights were cool, but by day it was so hot that they found it hard to sleep. They took the professor’s advice and rested among the crumbling walls of ruined cities, far from roads and villages. While Firedrake and Sorrel slept in the shade, Ben often sat for hours among the ancient stones, gazing across the hot sand to the horizon, where every now and then a dusty truck drove by, or camels swayed through the heat of the day on their long, thin legs. He would have loved to see more of this strange land, but it was only at night, when Firedrake occasionally flew low over a town, that he caught a few glimpses of domes, slender minarets, and flat-roofed white houses crowded together inside old walls.

  The Red Sea was always on their right. Below them, the endless road wound its way south along the foot of an equally endless mountain range. Beyond it, dry and stony land stretched to the horizon, with towns and villages scattered like islands, and deep ravines gaping like vast cracks in the wilderness.

  The air was heavy with strange aromas. On the second night, black clouds came sailing over the mountains, enveloping Firedrake and his riders in a stinking smog before drifting out to sea. Barnabas Greenbloom had warned Ben of this, too. The dark clouds were the sooty discharge from oil wells in the east, burning like torches after a war between humans. Just before the sun rose to blaze down on the land, Firedrake dived into the waters of the Red Sea to wash off the black filth, but some of it stuck firmly to his scales. Sorrel spent almost all the next morning cleaning the dragon’s wings and her own thick fur, and muttering crossly to herself. It was easier for Ben with his smooth skin.

  As he was taking a clean T-shirt out of his backpack, he almost touched Twigleg’s head.

  The manikin was only just in time to duck. Since they had set out, Twigleg had left the backpack only when he was sure the others were all asleep. Then he would stretch his aching limbs, catch flies and midges to eat — luckily there were plenty of them in this hot country — and creep back into hiding as soon as one of the other three stirred.

  He wanted to put off the moment of discovery for as long as possible. Sorrel distrusted him, and that scared him. He did once steal a look at the golden scale the professor had given Ben. The boy kept it in a bag that he wore around his neck, and Twigleg had looked inside while Ben was asleep. It also contained a small photograph, a stone, a shell, and some of the silvery dust from the basilisk’s cave. The scale undoubtedly came from Nettlebrand’s armor. Nothing else in the world felt so cold or so hard. When Ben turned over in his sleep the homunculus put it back in the bag with a shudder and sat down beside the boy — as he did whenever the other three were asleep — and leaning very, very carefully against the small human being’s shoulder he read the book that the boy always left open at his side. It was the book Barnabas Greenbloom had given Ben. Every day, the boy read it until his eyes closed, for it was full of marvels. It contained everything that humans knew about unicorns and water sprites, Pegasus the winged horse and the giant roc bird that feeds sheep to its young, about fairies, will-o’-the-wisps, sea serpents, and trolls.

  Twigleg skipped several chapters. For instance, the one about mountain dwarves — he knew quite enough about them already. But on the third day, while the others were asleep and the light of the afternoon sun was bathing everything in a yellow haze, Twigleg finally came to the chapter about homunculi, artificial man-made creatures of flesh and blood.

  His first impulse was to close the book.

  He looked around. Ben was murmuring in his dreams, but Sorrel was snoring peacefully, as usual, and Firedrake was sleeping like a log.

  Twigleg began reading, his heart beating fast. Oh, yes, he knew he had a heart all right, but there was more information on the yellowing pages. A homunculus usually lives longer than its creator, he read. He knew that, too. But he had never heard what came next. So far as it is known, a homunculus can live almost indefinitely unless it develops a strong affection for a human being. In such cases, the homunculus dies on the same day as the human to whom it has given its heart.

  “Uh-oh! Just think of that! Watch out, Twigleg!” the manikin whispered to himself. “Keep your heart to yourself if you want to live. You’ve already survived all your brothers and even your maker. So don’t turn foolish in your old age and give your heart to a human being.”

  He jumped up and turned back to the page at which Ben had left the book open. Then he looked up at the sun. Yes, it
was time he reported to his master. He hadn’t done so for two days now, not that there was anything to report.

  Twigleg turned and looked at the small human being. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night they’d reach the ravine where the djinn lived. And if the djinn really knew the answer to the question, the answer his master had been seeking for more than a hundred years, then Nettlebrand would set off for the Rim of Heaven and go hunting again at last.

  Twigleg shivered. No, he didn’t want to think about that. What business was it of his, anyway? He was only his master’s armor-cleaner. He had been doing what Nettlebrand told him to do ever since he, Twigleg, first slipped out of a small colored-glass test tube like a chick hatching from an egg. What difference did it make that he hated his master? The crucial point was that Nettlebrand would make a single mouthful of him if he didn’t come up with what his master had been waiting for so long.

  “Just remember to keep your heart to yourself, Twigleg,” the homunculus whispered. “Now, time to get down to work.”

  Just before Firedrake landed that morning, Twigleg had seen light flashing on water somewhere close, in an old cistern that, although disused, still collected precious rainwater. The homunculus was about to set off for the cistern when he felt Ben beginning to stir. He quickly hid behind the nearest rock.

  The boy sat up sleepily, yawned, and stretched. Then he rose to his feet and climbed the high wall behind which they had camped. This time Firedrake had had to fly some way inland before they found this ruined castle among incense trees growing on a sandy hill. The trees looked half dead. The walls of the castle courtyard still stood, but the buildings behind them had fallen in and were almost buried in drifts of sand. Only lizards and a few snakes lived here, but Sorrel had driven off the snakes by throwing stones at them as soon as they arrived.

  Ben sat on the wall, dangling his legs and looking to the south, where high mountains rose into the hot sky, breaking up the line of the horizon.

  “It can’t be much farther now,” Twigleg heard him murmuring. “If the professor was right, we’ll reach the ravine tomorrow.”

  Twigleg peered out from behind his rock. For a moment he felt like revealing himself to the boy as Ben sat staring into the distance, lost in thought. Then he thought better of it. He cast a quick glance at the sleeping Sorrel, then crept over to the backpack without a sound and wriggled in like a lizard among Ben’s things. The report to his master would have to wait.

  Ben stayed up on the wall for some time, but at last he sighed and jumped down onto the sand. He went over to Sorrel.

  “Hey, Sorrel,” he said quietly, shaking the brownie’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

  Sorrel stretched and blinked at the sunlight. “It’s still broad daylight!” she hissed, looking at Firedrake, who was sleeping peacefully in the shade of the old castle wall.

  “Yes, but you promised me we’d talk about the question to ask the djinn, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, the question.” Sorrel rubbed her eyes. “Right, but only if we have something to eat first. This heat makes a person hungry.” She made her way over to her backpack, the sand hot on the furry soles of her paws.

  Ben followed, grinning. “It’s the heat now, is it?” he teased her. “We’ve had rain and thunderstorms and all kinds of weather since we started out, and you’re hungry all the time.”

  “So what?” Sorrel took the bag of mushrooms out of her backpack, sniffed it appreciatively, and licked her lips. Then she placed two large leaves on the sand and tipped the mushrooms out on them. “Hmm … which shall I eat first?”

  Ben just shook his head. He put a hand into his backpack for his bottle of water and a few of the olives the professor had given him. The bag containing them had slipped to the very bottom. As he rummaged, Ben’s fingers felt something hairy. He snatched his hand out in alarm.

  “What’s up?” asked Sorrel.

  “I think there’s a mouse in my backpack,” said Ben.

  “A mouse?” Sorrel put down her mushroom, bent over the backpack, and pounced, quick as lightning. With one swift movement, she produced the struggling Twigleg.

  “Well, take a look at this!” she cried. “What have we here?”

  “Twigleg!” cried Ben, staring at the homunculus in surprise. “How did you get into my backpack? And why,” he added, baffled, “have you kept so quiet till now?”

  “Oh, young master, because, because …” stammered Twigleg, trying to free himself from Sorrel’s grasp, but no matter how hard the manikin twisted and turned the brownie girl held him tight.

  “That’s stumped you, right?” she growled.

  “Let go of me, you furry feline!” squealed Twigleg. “How can I explain anything with you squeezing me like this?”

  “Come on, let him go,” said Ben. “You’re hurting him.”

  Reluctantly Sorrel put the homunculus down on the sand.

  “Thanks!” muttered Twigleg. Looking injured, he straightened his jacket.

  “So, why didn’t you say anything before?” repeated Ben.

  “Why didn’t I say anything? Because of her, of course!” Twigleg pointed a trembling finger at Sorrel. “I know she wants to be rid of me. So, I hid in the backpack. And after that,” he added, rubbing his nose and giving Sorrel a nasty look, “after that I kept quiet because I was afraid she’d throw me into the sea if she found me.”

  “Not a bad idea,” growled Sorrel. “Not a bad idea at all.”

  “Sorrel!” Ben dug his elbow into the brownie’s ribs. Then, looking concerned, he turned to the homunculus. “She’d never do that, Twigleg. Honestly. She’s very nice really. She just acts like she’s so … so …” He glanced sideways at Sorrel. “So hard-hearted all the time, see?”

  But Twigleg did not seem convinced. He gave Sorrel another suspicious look. Sorrel responded with a scowl.

  “Here.” Ben pushed a few crumbs of pita bread toward Twigleg. “You must be hungry, aren’t you?”

  “My humble thanks, young master, but I, er …” Twigleg cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I’ll just catch myself a few flies.”

  “Flies?” Ben looked incredulously at the manikin, who shrugged his shoulders awkwardly.

  “Flies! Yuck, putrid panther-caps!” said Sorrel. “Sounds just like you, you spider-legged fairy-ring champignon!”

  “Sorrel!” snapped Ben. “Stop it, will you? Twigleg’s done nothing to hurt you. Okay? He freed you from that cage, remember?”

  “Oh, very well.” Sorrel turned back to her mushrooms. “All right, I promise I won’t throw him into the sea. Happy now? So let’s think about the question you’re going to ask the djinn with the thousand eyes. After all, that’s why you woke me up.”

  “Okay.” Ben nodded and took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “I’ve written down a few ideas. Listen.”

  “Just a moment,” Sorrel interrupted. “Do we want the manikin to hear this?”

  Ben groaned. “Here we go again! Why shouldn’t he hear it?”

  Sorrel looked Twigleg up and down. “Why should he?” she replied tartly. “If you ask me, as few ears as possible ought to hear our question.”

  “I’m off, then,” said Twigleg. “Don’t mind me. I can be gone in a moment.”

  But Ben held him back by his jacket. “You’re staying here,” he said. “I trust you. And I’m the one who has to ask the question. Right, do I finally have your attention, Sorrel?”

  The brownie rolled her eyes. “Just as you like. But you’ll land us in trouble, trusting him like that. I’d bet my mushrooms on it.”

  “You’re nuts, Sorrel,” said Ben, “totally nuts.”

  Twigleg sat on Ben’s knee, hardly knowing where to look. He had often felt small and worthless, but never as small and worthless as he did now. He was so ashamed of himself he felt like confessing everything to the boy then and there, but he couldn’t utter a word.

  “Right, how about this?” said Ben, smoothing out his paper. “Where — is — the — Rim — of— Heaven �
� hidden? Seven words exactly.”

  “Hmm, not bad,” growled Sorrel. “Sounds kind of funny, though.”

  “I’ve got another one.” Ben turned the piece of paper around. “Seven words again. Where — does — the — Rim — of — Heaven — lie?”

  Quietly Twigleg slipped off Ben’s knee and took a couple of steps backward.

  Sorrel instantly turned her eyes on him. “And where do you think you’re going now?” she growled.

  “Just for a walk, fur-face,” replied Twigleg. “Any objections?”

  “Going for a walk?” Ben looked at the homunculus in surprise. “Wouldn’t you like me to come, too?” he called after him. “I mean, we don’t know what kind of wild animals there may be around here.”

  Twigleg’s heart sank at the note of concern in Ben’s voice.

  “No, no, young master,” he called over his shoulder. “I may be small, but I’m not helpless. Anyway, I’m so skinny I don’t look very tasty.”

  And so saying, he disappeared through a hole in the wall.

  17. The Raven

  The hot air felt as thick as cotton wool to Twigleg. He made his way through it, keeping his sharp nose raised to pick up the scent of water. Yes, the old cistern must be right there at the foot of the hill, under that tall incense tree. He could already smell the water distinctly. With difficulty, he made his way through boulders and coarse grass. His arms and legs ached horribly from his days of playing hide-and-seek, shut up inside Ben’s backpack.

  He had Sorrel to thank for all that — the stuck-up, suspicious brownie! Laughing at him for eating flies, then stuffing her own face with those stinking mushrooms! He just hoped she’d soon pick a poisonous one, a mushroom that would make her stomach ache enough to shut her up for good.