by Kit Peel
“No, it can’t be me …”
“Why not?”
“Are you serious? You’re telling me that I’m a dragon? A real-life dragon!”
“There are just three days left until the end of summer,” said Thwaite. “Time enough for you to discover your old power and bring warmth back to the world.”
“Let me get this right. You’re saying I’ve got three days to become a dragon and save the world?” said Wyn.
“I will do my best to train you. I’ll help you to remember,” said Thwaite.
From the tree, Tawhir was slowly nodding. And all at once Wyn was filled with anger; anger at Thwaite, at the things he was saying, and above all at Tawhir. And in amongst her rage, a great wild voice filled Wyn’s head, telling her over and over to get away from the two spirits. She began backing away from them.
“Find someone else to put this on,” she muttered.
Then she was running. She tore across meadows and through trees and bushes, throwing up her hands as branches whipped at her face. She reached the vine ladder that she’d climbed down earlier and was scrambling up it when it shook with a gust of wind and Tawhir appeared, hovering next to her.
“Where are you going?”
“Get away from me!”
“The earther is right. You’re the only hope for the world.”
Wyn was nearly at the top of the ladder. The roots of the other trees dangled down around her, and with them came the smell of the cold night. She pushed at the stone blocking the entrance to the cavern. It didn’t budge. Consumed with her blind panic to get out of the cavern as fast as she could, Wyn slammed her hand into the stone, yelling, “Come on!”
With a painful crackling of roots, the stone was drawn back. Tawhir came between her and the entrance.
“You think that ice spirit was alone? Right now every rebel spirit is searching for you, many of them far more powerful than the bear. If one of them catches you in the open, there’s nothing Thwaite and I will be able to do to protect you. Your only chance is to stay hidden with us and to try to unlock your old powers. If not for yourself, what about your friend? You’re the only one who can save her.”
Wyn wanted to push past Tawhir and reached out a hand to shove him out of the way, but just as she was about to touch his chest, her hand stopped of its own accord. It held there, shaking.
Tawhir vanished.
Wyn scrambled through the entrance and out into the starlit wood.
Behind her, the stone was noisily drawn back into the roots of the ash. Wyn stumbled among the trees, breathing hard, as her head slowly began to clear. She was expecting the boy to reappear beside her at any second. But he didn’t come.
The silence of the night grew around her. Snow began to fall, thick and fast, casting a veil over the moon, turning the distant lights of Pateley to haze. She clung to the trunk of a holly, the tips of its glossy leaves dipped in ice.
Wyn felt the tree vibrate under her hand. Beneath her feet, she sensed the warmth of the cavern and the last vestige of summer that clung there. Her thoughts were full of Tawhir. She forced them away. Now she saw Kate, lying in the hospital, her once ruddy face lost in the white of winter, just as Mrs. March’s had been.
There was a noise close by. Thwaite was climbing out from the roots of the ash, Pip under his arm. Fighting down the warning voice inside her, Wyn let go of the holly and trudged uphill to where the earth spirit was standing. It took all her willpower to find the words.
“All right,” she whispered. “Test me, train me, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I don’t know what I can do, if anything, but I’ll try.”
Snow was gathering on his coat. He stood there, tall and lean, stroking Pip’s head with one of his great hands.
“That’s as good a place to start as any. Now we’d best get on our way.”
“Where to?” Wyn asked as they left the wood. Instead of taking the road, Thwaite climbed a stone wall and dropped down on the other side.
“My home,” he said.
13
—
Wyn had walked through Nidderdale all her life, but she had never seen the paths that Thwaite led her along that night.
They went on secret ways that hugged close to stone walls and hedges and that ran in the shadows of trees. Paths appeared in impenetrable bramble thickets. As they neared Pateley Bridge and Wath, tunnels opened for them in the riverbank. Although Wyn walked in darkness, to her eyes these roads through the earth were clear as day. Then they were stepping out onto the shores of Gouthwaite Reservoir, snow blowing hard over its icy surface.
Every so often the path alongside the reservoir vanished under snow drifts the height of stone walls. Thwaite plowed through the deep powder, carving a way for Pip and Wyn. The earth spirit was breathing hard, but his pace never slowed. Often he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the landscape behind them, then drove on harder still. Wyn didn’t notice when Thwaite finally stopped. She crashed into the back of the earth spirit.
“We’re here,” he said.
They were standing in front of three sprawling hawthorn trees that lay a stone’s throw from the ice and were surrounded by a mass of snow and brambles. The hawthorns were growing so close together their branches interlocked. Cobwebs stretched across the few gaps in the branches, billowing in the wind. The whole effect was of a giant, rotting spider’s nest.
A long, drawn-out howl came from far off through the darkness. Wyn had never heard anything quite like it. It was too bleak to be a dog, and, despite herself, Wyn shivered at the sound. She saw again the huge white bear rising up above her, teeth and claws bared.
“Wolves. I’ve not heard them here for three hundred winters,” said Thwaite, squinting uphill towards Fountain’s Earth Moor. Wyn picked out dark shapes, heads low to the snow, moving just below the skyline.
Pip was fretting, baring her teeth in the direction of the wolves.
“Don’t be so daft,” said Thwaite, catching the collie by the scruff and leading her to a gap in the brambles where two hawthorn branches hung down, forming a sort of archway. Thwaite shoved Pip through the gap. The collie disappeared, crashing through the unmistakeable sound of leaves.
“You, too,” he told Wyn.
From beyond the archway, Wyn caught the scent of flowers and heard Pip’s soft cough. She ran her hand around the archway, and, as she did, white blossom and green leaves materialized, hanging down like curtains. Drawing them apart, Wyn stepped forward into Thwaite’s home.
The wind and snow vanished and she was walking over a deep carpet of white and purple thyme flowers into a living space that was every bit as unexpected as the cavern had been. It was the size of a small barn, but far more comfortable and colorful than any barn Wyn had seen. Two large chairs, with deep cushions of sheep’s wool and leaves, were set by a stone hearth and beyond them a kitchen table with two plain chairs and a massive dresser. Above the table and dresser, the hawthorn branches interlaced and stretched to form a sleeping platform with a window on the left-hand side. Small stout branches growing out of one of the three trunks formed a ladder up to the platform, which was even more thickly padded than the fireside chairs. The second trunk formed a pillar at the entrance Wyn had just come through and the third grew up through the dresser.
Green hawthorn leaves dotted with white blossoms formed the walls and roof. Amongst the walls were windows, glazed with what Wyn thought was old glass, until on closer inspection she saw the panes weren’t glass at all, but translucent cobwebs. The weather outside pushed against the fine strands but couldn’t get in. As she traced her fingers over the windows, spiders came clambering over the cobwebs inspecting the places Wyn had been touching.
The young female blackbird landed on the windowsill and began hopping towards the spiders, its beak slowly opening. Thwaite shooed it off.
“How many times do I have to tell you.
Yes, you! And don’t pretend that you were just going to pass the time of day!”
He hung his pack on the green and white wall opposite the hearth, where rows of branches jutted out like coat hooks. Hanging from the other branches were a vast array of gardening tools: spades, forks, mattocks, hoes and many, many more. As well worn as many of them looked, their handles gleamed with polish and their blades were razor sharp. Below all these tools and all along the side wall was a massive earthenware cauldron, scrubbed clean, and scores of burlap sacks, full to the brim with dried wildflowers.
Wyn felt that she had walked into part home, part garden-shed and part tree-house. While Thwaite knelt by the hearth, rubbing sticks of kindling together, she took off her boots and padded around like a cat, inspecting every inch of her new environment. With each footstep, the thyme carpet gave off a deep scent of musk.
She quickly discovered that Thwaite was fastidiously well organized. From the cauldrons and sacks that were laid out in neat lines under the gleaming tools, to the perfectly stacked dishes on the dresser, to the rows of preserve bottles above the dishes, each sealed with a square of cloth and tied in a precise bow; there was a rigid discipline to Thwaite’s house, despite the fact that it was built of leaf, bark, bramble and cobweb.
Wyn quietly opened the drawers of the dresser, her heart quickening when she saw what they contained. They were full of small animals; mice, frogs, snakes and hedgehogs, all fast asleep in beds of sheep’s wool.
Pip was shaking the snow out of her coat in front of the hearth. Wyn went over to the collie and examined the intricate carving on the backs and arms of the two chairs. One showed images of the fields and woods of the dale, rich with the flora and fauna of spring. Carved into the other chair were the running waters of the Nidd, widening and narrowing; trout-fast then minnow-slow.
Thwaite had got the fire going and laid on logs, watching them as they caught. Using a flaming splint, he lit several lanterns that were suspended over the table. With the lanterns and the fire burning, his home became even lovelier in Wyn’s eyes. Thwaite told her to take a seat by the fire and asked her if she was hungry. She nodded eagerly. While Thwaite went to the dresser, Wyn watched the flames in the hearth, listening to their soft voices. In the past, when she had thought she’d heard whispering from the fire at Robin’s house, Wyn had put it down to a trick of the wind or her imagination.
And now … what if she really was the reborn fire dragon?
Checking that Thwaite wasn’t looking, Wyn sent her thought towards the fire.
All at once she felt the flames sense her, just as the trees had done. Excitedly, they reached out to her, whispering urgently. Wyn was filled with a surge of energy so wild that she thought it would burst free of her body. The flames leapt up in the hearth, illuminating the room. But just as she felt that she was losing control of herself, all her instincts raged against the fire, warning her to stop what she was doing.
She wrested her thought away from the flames and they dropped back just as Thwaite turned around, frowning from Wyn to the fire. She clung to the sides of the chair, doing her best to mask her emotions. The flames had reacted to her. Even though she was doing her utmost to ignore them, the flames were whispering out into the room that they were ready to obey her, that she just needed to call on them.
Outside, a wolf howled, followed shortly by a deeper, answering howl. Thwaite went over to the cobweb window.
“The pack has split up. Half of them are keeping to the tops. I can’t tell where the others are. They’re hunting something, that’s for certain.”
“Hunting what?”
“Whatever it is, it’s not an animal, not at this time of night.”
“You think they’re after…?” Wyn was about to say me and caught herself. She got out of her chair and stood next to Thwaite, following his gaze. Even through the snow and darkness, Wyn could pick out low shapes bounding over the distant moors. She blinked, wondering if she was imagining it. But, no, when she looked again the shapes were still there and this time even clearer. She saw the outline of ears and long muzzles. Involuntarily, she took a step back from the window.
Thwaite picked up the water jug and drenched the fire. The flames hissed, calling out to Wyn before fading to smoke and nothingness. She felt a flash of anger towards the earth spirit.
“They may well be after you,” he said. “And unless they were servants of the bear, it means that they are doing the bidding of another spirit. It could be an ice spirit. We’d best hope it’s not one of my kin.”
“An earth spirit?”
“I have heard of earth spirits who keep wolves as familiars, but none with territories in Europe. More than other spirits, we draw our strength from the territories we tend. The further we travel from where the earth created us, the weaker we grow. If the wolves obey an earth spirit, it must be one of unusual power.”
Thwaite returned to the window, his huge hands gripping the stone sill.
“There are two earth spirits in nearby dales who could help us. Hackfall and Old Mal. They’re strong, Old Mal most of all. If only I could be sure they were on our side.”
“You think they could have joined the rebels?”
“They’ve long been my friends, but how can I be sure of what lies in their hearts? This rebellion has divided and poisoned the spirit world. No, until you return to your true self, we trust no one.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“What sort of fool question is that? Of course you can trust me,” said the earth spirit. “The boy is another matter. My bones tell me that there’s something not right about him. He claims that he knew Mugasa, but why would she reveal herself to a low-ranking wind spirit? No, he’s not telling us all of the truth.”
Wyn didn’t like the sense she had that Thwaite was right about Tawhir. The wind spirit was holding something back; she was sure of it. Nevertheless, her heart jumped as she felt Tawhir’s presence coming suddenly towards them. The hawthorn shook violently as he landed in the room. White petals fell around the wind spirit and for a split second Wyn had a vision of him surrounded by snow.
14
—
Tawhir began emptying the contents of his pockets and laying them in a line in front of the hearth.
“Chips, peanuts, cookies and … in my view the highpoint of human endeavor … chocolate.”
Wyn watched Tawhir produce nine bars of chocolate, then stop and mutter to himself before finding one more tucked into his sock. After a brief contemplation of his pile, he offered Thwaite a Bounty. The earth spirit glared back at him.
“Not a Bounty fan?” said Tawhir, sifting through the pile before reluctantly holding out the Toblerone. “But only because you’re putting me up for the night.”
“And when did I agree to do that?”
“I’ve been over every inch of your territory and all the others surrounding it. If there were other spirits out there, I would have seen them.”
“What of the wolves?”
“Heading back north, with a stiff wind to hurry them on their way.”
“A stiff wind? What sort of foolishness have you been up to?”
“Relax, earther, they weren’t aware of me.”
“If that’s true, you can go back out there and follow them, find out if they were acting alone.”
“Since when did I become your lackey? The wolves are gone and there are no other spirits bearing down on your little territory. But there might be if I spend all night going back and forth over the dales. The wolves won’t notice me, but there are other spirits out there who could. Then they might ask themselves, what’s a wind spirit from southern Europe doing so far to the north? Is he looking for someone? Has he found someone? If you want to go out and advertise that we’ve found Mugasa, just two days before the end of summer, then that’s your business. I think I’d rather keep under cover tonight. So if you
’d like to break a habit of a lifetime and start showing some hospitality, a bed wouldn’t come amiss.”
Thwaite pointed to the floor.
“And I want you out and keeping watch by dawn.”
“That’s the gratitude I get for saving both your lives today!” exclaimed Tawhir.
Thwaite pointed to a chair, and in reply Tawhir pointed to the sleeping platform. He winked at Wyn.
“There’s room up there for both of us.”
“I’d sooner sleep on the floor,” said Wyn.
Pushing past them, Thwaite laid his hand on the hawthorn whose branches formed the sleeping platform. He bent his head, talking softly. With a sound of creaking and rustling of leaves, branches of the hawthorn tree stretched down, interweaving tightly and sprouting new leaves and blossom, until there was a solid wall down the middle of the platform.
“You can have the view,” said Tawhir, vanishing and reappearing on the windowless side of the platform. Wyn felt a rush of panic.
“Go on up and get some rest,” said Thwaite, as Wyn hesitated at the ladder. Her hands were trembling. She gripped the ladder as hard as she could to make them stop. “Tomorrow will be a long day for you.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“A miracle, I hope.”
Wyn clambered up to her side of the platform. Once there, the green wall was reassuringly dense and some of the panic she was feeling lessened. The platform was surprisingly comfortable with its mattress of wool blankets and springy branches, and she quickly discovered that she wasn’t alone. As she inspected her bed, she came across other lodgers: a family of weasels curled up together and a whole pile of snails next to a wall. In amongst the hawthorn branches above, she saw thrushes and fieldfares and, eyelids half-open, a row of tawny owls.
Thwaite was moving about below, extinguishing all the lanterns except one. He placed it on the floor next to the chair with river carvings and sat down. He was holding a sketch pad. Wyn watched him open the pad and leaf slowly through the pages. One of his hands dropped down to the sides of the carved chair, his fingers tracing a pattern on the swirling lines. Gradually, the lantern’s flame weakened to nothingness. The earth spirit closed his pad and shifted the chair to face the door.
