by GARY DARBY
Yes, he scared me so bad that I thought my heart would stick in my gullet. Yet, I have to admit, even though I was incredibly afraid of him there was something about the way he stood. There was a presence, an aura that seemed to surround him as if the morning sunlight had melted and left its sheen glowing on his body. The muscles in his neck had bulged and rippled and he had towered over me like a god, full of power and strength.
Murderous power and strength. Still, even as he was about to lop my head off I couldn’t help but feel his commanding authority.
I stare at Phigby, his unkempt hair, scraggly beard, and rumpled robe. Yes, he had stood firm when the three had appeared at Fairy Falls, and Helmar had given ground.
But after seeing Helmar in all his impressive ability, I have to wonder, is Phigby really the Gem Guardian?
Or, was it Helmar that Pengillstorr searched for at Draconstead? In a way, that makes more sense. If Pengillstorr was searching for Phigby, he would have lumbered onto The Common at Draconton, or stood in front of Phigby’s shop. And after this morning, with Helmar appearing as he did, commanding, larger than life, and appearing as powerful as a torrential tempest, I can’t help but wonder, is he the guardian, and not Phigby?
I shake my head to myself, deeply troubled and confused. How do I know which of them is the guardian? Or, is it still possible that the guardian is yet to show? My head is spinning, trying to decide who I should give the jewel to, or should I wait? After all, the guardian may yet appear at some point in our travels.
I let out a long sigh. I can’t decide on my own. First chance, I’ve got to speak with the golden, she has to help me. For the first time, I feel a weight on my shoulders. With all that’s happened, the power of Pengillstorr’s jewel may just be the thing to help us. I absolutely can’t give it to the wrong person.
Phigby says over his shoulder, “What was that deep sigh all about, Hooper? You sounded as if you’d lost your best friend. But, you haven’t, he’s right here.” He chuckles lightly and points to Scamper, who’s curled up in sleep. A corner of my mouth lifts up in a little smile. He’d been so ferocious back there, certainly braver than I, willing to take on Helmar and his longsword.
I abruptly realize that Phigby is waiting for an answer. “Uh, Phigby,” I slowly ask, “have you ever faced a question that you didn’t know the answer to or a problem that you didn’t know how to solve?”
“Since just a few moments, ago?” he snorts. “Never.”
I can tell he’s teasing so I go on. “Seriously, what do you do when you’re so perplexed that you can’t think straight, yet you know that you’ve just got to find the answer to your question? And it absolutely has to be the right answer.”
He’s silent for a moment before he mutters, “Sounds serious, Hooper. Just what is this taxing question that you face?”
“Umm,” I answer, “I’m sorry, but I’d rather keep it to myself for now.”
“I see,” he murmurs. He gives a little shrug and then says, “What little advice I can give you is that I’ve found it quite useful to ponder over the question for some time, formulate several possible answers and then decide which of those answers feels most right to me.”
He pauses before saying, “Then I do the most important thing you can do before making the final decision.”
I lean forward and ask. “What is that?”
“Sleep,” he answers. “A good night’s rest does the heart, mind, and soul good. Never make a critical decision, if you can help it, without sleeping on it first.”
“Sleep,” I mutter, a little disheartened by what seems to be an overly simple solution to a most vexing problem.
“Absolutely,” Phigby replies and then says, “Barring that, flip a coin and pray that it comes up right.”
“Oh, that’s a big help,” I retort. “I haven’t a farthing to my name.”
He glances over his shoulder and grins. “Don’t worry, if you come to that point, I’ll lend you a coin, with the stipulation you return it, of course.”
“Of course,” I mumble.
We ride on in silence for some time before I say, “Uh, thanks for standing up for me back there. I thought for sure that Helmar was going to slice me in half.”
“That man,” Phigby growls, “like too many, acts before thinking.”
“Well, I guess I deserved his anger,” I mutter.
“Nonsense!” Phigby is quick to say. “Under the circumstances, I would have ridden the golden too, and Helmar for all his sanctimonious prattle would have done the same if it meant saving the golden from the Wilders.”
He stops and lets out a long sigh. “I suppose, though, that Helmar is having a hard time accepting that all he knew, his world has been lost and with it, his dreams, too.”
Not all of his dreams, I think. He still has Cara, and she would gladly be his world if he would just let her.
“For him, I guess so,” I reply.
“But not so much for you?” Phigby questions.
I shrug and say, “Oh no, my world has hardly changed at all. I don’t have to shovel manure all day, but I do have a dark witch chasing me. I don’t have to worry about Malo stabbing me with his Proga lance, I only have to worry about drog spears and Wilder arrows piercing my body. Or maybe Helmar slicing my head off if he gets angry enough again.
“And at least before I had a barn with a roof overhead, straw to sleep on and a meal house with food, even if it was barely enough to survive on.” I raise my arms toward the sky, “Now I get to sleep on dirt and rocks and wonder where my next meal will come from, if ever.”
I pause and then say, “No, my world has hardly changed at all.”
“You still have Scamper,” he points out.
“That’s true,” I answer, eyeing my little friend who’s curled up in sleep. “And that’s the best part of my world that hasn’t changed.”
“And all thanks to Cara,” Phigby is quick to say. “You owe that girl, Hooper. You know that, don’t you? If it hadn’t been for Cara, Helmar would have left your furry friend sitting on those rocks.”
I gaze ahead to where Cara sits upright in her saddle, never once glancing back. It’s apparent she shares Helmar’s feelings about my blunder with the golden. I crossed the line and for now, I’m that persona non whatta that Phigby called me.
“I am deeply, deeply grateful,” I murmur. “I’ll make it up to her, somehow, I promise.”
“And I’ll hold you to that pledge,” he replies.
My eyes go from Cara to Helmar, who seems to sit rigid in the saddle. Still getting over his mad, I think. “I guess you’re right about Helmar,” I say. “He did have big dreams, and now it’s all gone. Draconstead, I mean. The buildings, the dragons, his chance as he put it to climb up the ladder of success.”
Phigby is slow to answer, but when he does, his voice is quiet and mournful. “Yes, Draconstead is gone, and not just the herd, or the buildings, Hooper, but the good people who worked at the stead and those who lived in Draconton. That’s the greatest loss. You can replace mere things, but lives you cannot.”
He lets out a breath. “Nothing left of Boren Dracon’s legacy but these four dragons and the four sprogs in Wind Song’s saddlebag. A sad ending to a good man and a great Dragon Master.”
“You’re forgetting Cara,” I murmur.
“So I am,” he replies, “and perhaps she is his greatest legacy. After all, our children are a part of us, and we are a part of them, down through all generations.”
I bite down on my lip. If that is the case, then my family’s heritage stops with me.
We plod along a little farther before I ask, “Phigby, what happened back at Fairy Falls? Who were those three?”
He’s quiet for a bit before saying, “Someone whom I dreaded seeing, and yet, in a way, glad as well.”
“Their poem or chant,” I say, “it sounded like the one you spoke the night I saw that witch thing.”
“It’s more than just a poem or chant, Hooper, it’s part of a
n ode,” he replies.
“An ode . . . ” I’ve never heard of an ode. “What’s that?”
In answer, he says, “What they and I recited is part of a lengthy poem that tells a story.” His tone lowers as if he’s recalling a memory. “Of creation, of life and death, and perhaps the future, as well. It’s part history, part prophecy, part answers to many questions.”
“They kept mentioning something about riding a rainbow,” I point out. “How do you ride a rainbow? It’s just colors in the sky, or so say your books.”
Phigby grunts. “Did I not say that odes often present mysteries as well?”
“Well, you mentioned Vay,” I reply, “and so did they. Who exactly is Vay?”
He’s slow to answer. “Someone that we need to discuss among the four of us and not just between you and me.”
He turns back to face forward and from his posture, I can see I’ve gotten all that I’m getting out of him, for now. I glance up at the swaying treetops. The wind rises, causing the new spring leaves to rustle together.
Abruptly there’s a caw, caw . . . from overhead. I find the source of the noise and see a bird, its feathers as dark as night, hovering high above.
Phigby stops Wind Rover dead in her tracks. The bird whirls over us for a moment, its eyes on the dragons, before it dips its wings and speeds away. Phigby’s body is stiff, and he’s staring at the bird as it disappears through the treetops.
“Phigby, what’s wrong? It was just a bird.”
“Not just any bird, Hooper,” Phigby rumbles. “That was a black crawven, strictly a night bird. It should not be out this late in the day.”
I shrug. “It probably fared poorly in its night hunting and was searching for one last bit of food.”
Phigby shakes his head. “Its eyes were on the dragons, especially the golden, and dragons are not part of its diet.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
“Nothing,” he snaps and urges Rover onward. “Hooper, stay quiet, I need to think.”
We’re soon marching next to a series of tall, rounded hills. We climb up a small knoll and stop. Below us, set just inside the tree line formed by a mix of forest glens and stands of birchen trees is a broken-down cabin. We peer down into the little dale, which is covered mostly by short grass and tree stubs.
Helmar gestures. “From the looks of those cut trees, I’d say it was a woodsman’s hut.”
“It’s not much more than a shanty,” Cara murmurs. “How do we know it’s empty?”
“No smoke from the chimney,” Phigby observes, “and from the looks of the roof’s thatching, I’d say that either the owner doesn’t mind getting wet, or it is indeed deserted.”
“I think the latter, Phigby,” Helmar answers and prods Glory down the slope. We follow Helmar cautiously until he calls a halt. Helmar slips off Glory signaling for us to stay where we are and to be silent. He quietly draws his sword and warily approaches the cottage.
Cara notches an arrow and holds her bow at the ready, just in case. Helmar stops at the hut’s front corner and seems to be listening. After a few moments, he steps to the door, which seems ajar, and slowly pulls it open. He guardedly sticks his head inside, then all of him disappears into the shanty. Moments later, he steps out and waves for us to join him.
As we bring the dragons up, he says, “It’s long empty. There’s a dirty makings of a bed, a small, rough-hewn table and chair, and a hearth with a bit of wood. The cuttings are so dry that they’ll give off little smoke. I think we can chance a fire. Phigby, would you get one started?”
“Certainly, my boy,” Phigby answers and clambers down to the ground.
Helmar points to the woodland past the hut and says to Cara, “The trees thicken just beyond. Let’s get the dragons under cover and let the sprogs out of their cocoon. Before we let them graze, though, we’ll search the ground for dragon bane. This is still dragon country, and there might be some just sprouting.”
At the mention of the poison petals, I blanch. I’d forgotten about the flower in my pocket. My hand starts toward my tunic, but I stop as I don’t want to draw any further attention to myself, especially not about that and particularly not from Helmar. If he knew I had poison petals on me, not even Phigby and Cara combined could stop him from slaying me on the spot.
As soon as I can, and in a safe place, I’ll get rid of it. Helmar hasn’t given me any orders, so I reach for the two water flasks that are tied to Rover’s saddlebag and mutter, “I think there’s a stream over that way. I’ll fill these and try to find more dry wood.”
“You do that,” Helmar growls, “and if you do find water, let us know so that we can take the dragons for a drink.”
I give him a quick nod and Scamper, and I slide off Rover. I start to walk off, when Cara says sharply, “Hooper, aren’t you forgetting something?”
I raise the water flasks to peer at them and do a quick once over of my tunic and threadbare pants, but I don’t see anything missing.
Cara stands there watching me with an irritated expression. I glance up and give her a questioning shrug. “A bow,” she says, “without arrows is like a sword or knife without an edge. Useless.”
She points at Wind Song’s saddlebags where my quiver of arrows is tied tight. “Oh,” I say meekly and hurriedly retrieve the arrows. I scurry away, but I can feel Cara’s and Helmar’s glowering stare on my back the whole way. Scamper is already off searching for food, and Phigby has disappeared into the shanty.
As I pass the tiny cabin, I give it a quick once-over. The walls are cut tree trunks and strips of bark hang loose, exposing the pale, bleached wood underneath. Unfinished logs notched at the ends and set ten to a side make up each wall of the rectangular structure while old, stringy darkened yellow hay thatches the roof.
Carved out of one wall is a window with thin shutters while the rough-hewn door is slanted and partly open. The sagging thatched roof and the door that tilts to one side, as Helmar stated, signal that the previous occupant abandoned the cabin some time ago. Still, it is out of the weather, and out of sight, which is good.
I start to slip past the door but stop. I can hear Phigby inside fussing with the kindling, scraping at the hearth with an edge of some kind and muttering under his breath.
My hand goes to the jewel. It would be so easy, with Cara and Helmar out of sight, to march in, hold out the gem and declare, “Phigby, you are the guardian of this dragon gemstone. Keep it safe, keep it hidden, and I know you’ll soon be able to wield its powers.”
I’d hand him the crystal, I’d stride out, my duty done, and go back to what I’m good for and meant to do in this life. Draw water, collect firewood, and most of all, shovel dragon dung.
I hold my hand over the jewel for a moment more, before my shoulders droop, and I pace past the cabin door. Hand the gem over to Phigby is what I should do, but I can’t. Not without talking with the golden first. She’ll be able to tell me if my suspicions are correct; either Phigby or Helmar is the Gem Guardian.
It has to be one of them, I’m all but certain it can’t be anyone else.
A sudden chattering startles me. I spin to see what’s making the noise. Evidently, a squirrel has come down from the treetops to investigate Scamper’s activities. Now the two are engaged in a furious back and forth of chattering and chittering at each other.
From what I can tell, the squirrel is letting Scamper know that this is his tree, and Scamper had no right to strip the bark away. Scamper, on the other hand, seems to be saying that squirrels don’t eat termites, so why is he so upset?
Knowing that my attempt to skewer the squirrel with an arrow would be a waste of a perfectly good bolt, I glance around to see if I can spot a rock. He’s only one squirrel to split among the four of us, but still, we could make squirrel soup. It would be short on meat, but it would fill our empty bellies for a time.
Before I can find a rock, the squirrel, still angrily chattering at Scamper, darts back up the tree and disappears into the bra
nches. I shake my head in disappointment. Even if I could find a suitable rock, I’m not sure I could throw it that high with enough force, to knock the squirrel out of the tree. I resolve to tell Cara about the animal, maybe she can bring him down with an arrow.
If she’ll listen to me, which is not a good bet right now.
I make my way out to a small open meadow and hold my right hand straight out and up so that the fingers are horizontal between the horizon and the sun. I put my other hand and its fingers on top of my right hand and count between horizon and the sun’s edge. “Eight fingers high,” I mutter, “and no sleep last night.”
I stifle a yawn. “No wonder I’m so tired.” I glance back toward the hut just in time to see Cara and Helmar come from the tree stand and head for the cabin.
Cara walks exactly beside Helmar, close enough that her arm and shoulder brush against his. They’re talking to each other, but they’re too far away for me to hear. However, it must be an earnest conversation because Cara appears quite animated, her hands out front making quick, small gestures and her eyes centered on Helmar.
“Probably talking about me,” I mutter. I put a hand on my hip and pretending to be Cara, say, “Helmar, what shall we do about Hooper? He’s making a mess of things. First, he rides the golden, then he gets us in a battle with a goblin that leaves us running from the Wilders, then he falls off Wind Song and nearly drowns himself.”
“I know, I know,” I answer, imitating Helmar’s deep voice. “He’s nothing but trouble, spouting nonsense, costing us valuable time. He can’t use a longbow or a sword, he can’t sky a dragon, and with that leg of his, he can’t keep up. Frankly, my dear, he’s not worth our time. We should get rid of him.”
They’re almost to the cabin when I see Cara point back at the dragons. “Now she’s telling Helmar, that there’s only one reason to keep me around. To water, feed, and pick up after the dragons, and oh yes, be a mother duck for the sprogs.”
