by GARY DARBY
“It is,” Phigby replies. “And the chains that held her and her sisters for seven epochs have been torn asunder, and they are now free to roam Erdron. Vay to work her wickedness, her sisters, evidently to fight against that evil.”
“And that’s why,” Cara replies softly, tapping her finger on the page, “in the drawing, Vay is apart from her sisters and cast in such a dark and foreboding light.”
“Exactly,” Phigby affirms.
Amil shakes his head and mutters, “I don’t understand. Why would the fairies be held in chains for all that time and why does Vay want to enslave us? We’re a mortal kingdom, she belongs to — ”
“The enchanted, immortal world?” Phigby finishes.
Amil nods in answer. Phigby slowly replies, “It may be that she cannot or perhaps will not be allowed to rule over anything in that kingdom, so — ”
“She would have her own world to rule over and to enslave all those who live upon it,” Amil returns.
“That is my thought,” Phigby replies.
While pointing at the book, I ask, “Is that all there is? Is there more to the story?”
Phigby wrinkles his forehead for a moment as he runs a gnarled finger over the book’s edge. Wistfully, he says, “There is a companion book that adds to what’s there.”
He breathes deeply, sighs and says with a frown, “Unfortunately, it’s been lost.”
“Lost?” Cara moans. “Don’t you know any of it?”
Phigby takes a finger and twirls several strands of his beard together as if he’s thinking to himself. “Only from what we can gather from the parts of the ode that we have, and what little I can remember. But as the legend goes, when the gods created Erdron, our world, it was to be a world of magic, with sorcerers and wizards, enchanters and — ”
“Witches?” I ask pointedly.
He gives me a little nod. “And witches, too. But also fantastical creatures such as — ”
“Those in the book,” Cara eagerly answers, laying a hand on the thick manuscript.
“Yes, yes,” Phigby grumps, “like those in the book. Now quit interrupting me. Because the gods favored the fairies, they allowed the Gaelian Fae to create dragons. The Fae in turn — ”
“Set the colors of their scales,” I say, “to match the bow that colors the rain.”
I blanch. My mind has gone for a walk in the woods, leaving my mouth to march alone and speak for itself.
Cara looks at me with wide eyes. “Where did that come from?” she asks.
“Indeed,” Phigby agrees in surprise, “just where did that come from, Hooper?”
“Uh, I must have read it,” I answer, hoping that Cara will save me again, but when she doesn’t speak, I murmur, “Or, heard it somewhere, maybe?”
“Really?” Phigby grumbles apparently not accepting my explanation.
I glance over at the golden and find that her eyes are open, and her ears cocked in our direction as if listening to every word of the conversation. Gazing at her, I seize on a way to turn this discussion away from my big mouth having a life of its own.
I point at the golden. “So, if the dragons were to be the colors of the rainbow, why did Vay create a golden dragon? That color’s not part of the rainbow.”
“Weren’t you listening, Hooper?” Helmar snaps. “‘One dragon to rule them all, one queen, to her we’d fall.’ The golden must be the dragon meant to rule them all.”
He peers at Phigby. “The golden is tied to Vay’s power in some way, isn’t she, Phigby?”
Phigby slowly nods and says, “If you had a golden bow in the sky and measured it against a rainbow’s brightness, which of those two is the brightest?”
“Gold,” Amil instantly answers.
“Yes,” Phigby murmurs low. “What does the king wear on his head and what does he hold in his right hand when he’s on the throne?”
“A gold crown and scepter,” Amin again answers.
“Yes,” Phigby affirms, “and as today, gold is an ancient symbol not just of wealth, but of great power and authority.”
He gestures toward where the golden lies. “And Golden Wind is the embodiment of power, both here, and in the enchanted world.”
Suddenly, it all fits together. “Phigby,” I whisper in a voice so small that I can barely hear myself, “you’re suggesting that it’s not just the Wilders who are after the golden, it’s Vay, too.”
He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t have to. His solemn eyes say it all.
I remember thinking that when Amil announced that we had a King’s Warrant on our heads that was bad. Add that to the Wilders trying to kill us and things were looking awful. But I honestly didn’t think it could get any worse.
Cara’s hand flies to her mouth, and I can feel both Amil, and Helmar abruptly stiffen behind me. Phigby turns grim eyes on us. “It may not be ‘too’ Hooper. It may be that the Wilders are under Vay’s grotesque influence.”
“Phigby,” Cara says in a shaky voice, “you can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious,” Phigby utters. He turns his eyes to me. “And Hooper’s witch?”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t a witch. It was Vay, herself. For some reason, she’s not only after the golden, she’s after Hooper, too.”
I was wrong.
It just became much, much, worse.
Thoughts of Golden Wind
Drachs are such unusual creatures. They believe so much in what their eyes see, their ears hear, their sense of taste, smell, and touch.
Unable to accept beyond what their puny senses tell them they live such meager and limited lives. It is a wonder that any of them have survived this long.
So many turn their sight inward, caring only for the pleasure of the moment.
A few among them, such as Professor Phineas Phigby, he of the inquiring mind, understand that there is much beyond this world, much beyond what he sees and hears.
So much more.
Even when presented with the three queens, Hooper and the others still doubt. Granted clear direction, they waver. Given answers, they still question.
Even when faced by Vay herself, Hooper refuses to believe that which is happening around him, rather, he turns inward, in many respects a scared little boy.
The gemstone is his to carry, but he must face his task clear-eyed and not be clouded by pride, or vanity, jealousy, or greed.
He must begin to have faith, to believe in more than just himself, to want more for those around him, for those he knows and those he doesn’t. His vision must grow.
For some, faith is frail, easily slain by the slightest adversity. That cannot be in this company. Their conviction must never waver; tested by hardship, yes, but met by confidence in each other, faith in themselves, and a firm belief in the promise that what they do is for the right and good.
Not just for today, but always. If not that, then what is the purpose of faith?
19
I shove the book into Cara’s lap and jump to my feet. I can’t help it. Terror sweeps over me, and I want to run, to hide. My adversary has gone from being a simple witch with skeleton claws for hands, eyes that glow like coals, riding on a broomstick, and eating little children, to being a wicked, powerful fairy “just below the gods.” I’m doomed. I’m more than doomed if such a thing is possible.
Phigby is quick to my side and grips both of my shoulders in his strong hands. “Easy, Hooper, she’s not here. Of that, I can assure you.”
Helmar snorts with a crooked grin. “Oh come now, Phigby, just what would an evil fairy want with Hooper, other than to eat him, maybe. And even then, he’d be a pretty scrawny meal.”
“That’s not funny, Helmar,” Cara retorts and turns to Phigby. “Seriously, Phigby, what would Vay want with Hooper?”
Phigby peers at me with a questioning, concerned expression. My heart is still thudding in my chest, and my hands have suddenly gone cold, even in the day’s warmth. I manage to swallow, give him a weak nod that I’m all right, and sit back d
own.
He steps away, draws a breath and as his usual custom when thinking through a problem he tugs on his beard. As much and as often as he pulls on his shaggy whiskers, it’s a wonder he has any hair left.
“I don’t know,” he rumbles and vehemently shakes his head. “But Vay would not waste her energy on Hooper if he were as insignificant as you assume him to be.”
He steps back to scratch at his head as he peers at me. “Still, there must be a reason but for the life of me, I don’t know why Vay would have such an interest in Hooper.”
He begins to pace in a tight circle, his robe swirling about him. Today, it seems to have an azure color to it that almost blends in with the sky. “There is so little that I can remember,” he mutters as if to himself. He stops and lets out a long, melancholy sigh. “That companion book I mentioned, it might hold a great many answers.”
He whirls around, the hem of his robe scattering bits of leaves. Amil points at Phigby’s oversized haversack. “You seem to carry your entire library in there, you don’t have it with you?”
“No,” Phigby growls. “Of all the foul luck, I had it and then lost it.”
“Lost it?” Cara questions with a sideways glance at me. “How did you lose it?”
“In the fire,” Phigby snaps. “I forgot to grab the book when I fled my shop, and now it’s little more than ashes.”
He gestures wildly and says, “And I had it sitting right there, on my pedestal and I ran right past it. All I had to do was reach out . . . ” his voice ends in a groan, and he stands there, angry and upset at himself.
Cara and I stare at each other. I lean toward her and say firmly, “You have to tell him.”
“Eh?” Phigby mutters, peering at the two of us. “Tell me what?”
Cara and I lock eyes in a hard stare and stay that way for several heartbeats before she abruptly jumps to her feet. “I’ll do better than that.”
Cara marches over to her sapphire, who’s lying down while Phigby turns and watches her. He turns his head to me with a quizzical expression, but before he can say a word, I answer, “Just wait, she’ll show you.”
Cara rummages in her nearest saddlebag before she withdraws the sealed book and comes striding back. She hands it to Phigby while his eyes widen in amazement and an enormous smile cracks his face. His grin is so big, I’m afraid that if he breathes in too deeply, he’ll suck in his beard and suffocate.
He holds the book up and turns it over in the sunlight beaming in delight as he holds the hefty manuscript. He continues to smile and then as quickly as his grin appeared, it disappears. He peers at us with a deep frown and glowering eyes.
“Wait,” he rumbles, “how did you — ”
Then he gapes at us, his eyes growing so large that I feel as if the moons Nadia and Eskar have taken their place. “You!” he sputters, his finger jabbing at the both of us. “It was you that I heard in my formulating room!”
“It was my fault, Phigby,” I quickly say. “I goaded Cara into sneaking into your house and taking the book. I’m the one you should be mad at, not her.”
“Oh, bosh,” Cara replies, giving me a sharp elbow in the side. “Phigby, it was no such thing. After Hooper told me that you were going to find an old book that you hadn’t read in a long time, I just had to have a look at it. Yes, I slipped into your house while Hooper kept watch, and borrowed your book.”
“Borrowed!” Phigby thunders. “You mean stole, young lady.”
“No,” Cara answers primly and brushes at her tunic as if she’d just found some imaginary dirt, “borrowed. When I don’t have the money to buy, you always let me borrow your books, knowing that I always return them.”
“That’s true,” I quickly add. “Remember, she was, uh, is, your best customer.”
“That’s right,” Cara huffs. “And what I borrow, I always return. So there.”
Cara is holding her head and nose up a little higher than usual as if Phigby’s accusation is somehow insulting and outrageous.
I keep my eyes on Phigby, just in case I need to leap away from his backhand. He wouldn’t hit Cara — I, on the other hand, am a different matter.
He’s never struck me before, but to Phigby, stealing a book is second only to murder. Then again, murder might be a close second.
Still keeping my eyes on Phigby, I hang my head low, like a cur dog with its tail between its legs.
Phigby’s eyes, narrow and hard, flick from Cara to me and back again. He stays that way for several moments before he starts to chuckle, then laughs, holding his hand to his mouth to muffle the sound as if he’s afraid to disturb the sleeping dragons. “Borrowed,” he laughs out loud. “They borrowed it.”
He reaches out and sweeps us both together in a bear hug. I look at Cara. Her smile is genuine. But not for me, for Phigby. I, on the other hand, I’m thinking Phigby may be laughing now, but it’s like the calm before the storm. When he lets go, I’m still going to keep my head low, just waiting for his backhand to land.
Phigby releases us and to my surprise, declares, “Bless you both. I don’t know what prompted you to do what you did, but I am grateful.”
He lifts the book up. “This, I believe, holds many secrets, perhaps even the answers as to why we find ourselves in these circumstances and my heart was heavy with its loss.”
“But it’s not lost,” Cara replies. “You have it back now. Can you open it, Phigby? We watched you try before and you couldn’t.”
At that, he turns a severe eye on her so she shrugs and says, “We were in the tree outside your window watching you try to open the book. We were going to knock for you to let us in but you were in such a foul mood when you went to bed that we thought better of it.”
Phigby stares at us both for a moment and then, seemingly accepting Cara’s explanation, sits on the log and Cara and I slide in next to him.
He runs his hands over the book’s shiny surface. In the dying sunlight, the cover seems to change color in the sunlight, almost as if a rainbow played across the top.
His fingers tap on the orb that holds the clasp and he says in a distant voice, “Once I knew how to open it, but I can’t quite remember now . . . ”
As Phigby is speaking, I notice something unusual about the book.
“Phigby,” I say, “it doesn’t have a title. What’s it called?”
“Eh?” he replies and shakes his head. “I can’t recall that either.”
Cara leans forward eagerly. “A mystery book! Phigby, you’ve just got to remember how to open it.”
Curious, I run a hand over the front binding. “Phigby, what are these rounded depressions?” I count to myself. “There’s seven all total, and they make an arch from one corner across the top and then to the other corner. Are they significant in some way?”
I run a finger on the inside of one of the shallow scoops. There is something vaguely familiar about the indentation’s size and depth. Phigby lets out a long sigh. “Alas, Hooper, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten much. It’s been too long, but, yes, I believe that they’re meaningful in some way.”
“So you really can’t open it,” Cara says in a disappointed voice. “And that means we can’t read what’s inside.”
Phigby straightens himself and gently runs a hand over the book’s cover. “It will come to me, I’m sure of it, just not now.”
Helmar lets out a little grunt. “I’m sorry, Phigby, but frankly, I think you’re filling our heads with more mystical nonsense. The Wilders, they’re real, as are our dragons and the golden. Not some mumbo jumbo fairies from fairy folk land.”
“It’s not nonsense,” Phigby retorts. “To every legend and lore, there is always a bit of fact, Helmar. Vay and her sisters are real. What? Do you think that what you experienced at the falls was, as you put it, some ‘mumbo jumbo’?”
“And as I recall,” Cara says curtly, “that ‘mumbo jumbo’ had you stumbling backward with your bow up.”
“As it did you,” Helmar returns.
“
Oh, yes,” Cara answers. “I fully admit that I was close to running. Wilders are one thing, they’re from my world; fairies are not.”
“No — ” Phigby begins when abruptly, the dragons are on their feet, snorting and pawing the ground.
I snap my head up. “Dragon wings!” I yelp.
Helmar is quick to action. “Get deeper in the woods!” he orders. “Move!”
Cara springs away, with Phigby and Amil in close pursuit. I start to run, but Helmar’s hand flashes out, grabs my hood, and jerks me back so hard that I stumble backward. He holds me up so that I’m practically on my toes. “Where’s your bow and quiver?” he demands.
I swallow and point back at the cabin. “Get them,” he orders.
“But — ” I waver.
“No buts, Hooper,” Helmar growls, his hand on his sword hilt, “we may just need that bow and those arrows. Go!”
He shoves me toward the hut. I stumble forward, hesitant and unsure, trying to choose between Helmar’s sword and unknown dragon wings. Helmar is closer than the oncoming dragons, which makes up my mind for me, and I spin to scurry toward the shanty. An uncertain future death is better than a certain death standing in the form of Helmar.
Behind me, I can hear our dragons lumbering away as they make for the thick forest. I swing my head around in every direction, trying to find Scamper, but the little tub is nowhere to be seen. I’m at the cabin door when I hear the dragon wings almost overhead. I duck into the cottage, grab my bow and quiver before peering outside.
Wilders!
Six reds are landing in the far meadow, their crimson scales shimmering in the sun’s last light. I start to ease outside when I hear Eeeett? behind me. “Scamper!” The little chunk has been sleeping under the bed the whole time. I snatch him, and bolt through the door, praying that the Wilders don’t see us.
I charge around the cabin to hide behind the back wall. I peer around the corner. The Wilders are talking among themselves. One points toward the creek, and while he leads several Wilders toward the hut, the others take the reds toward the stream.
