The Dragon Charmer

by Jan Siegel

  “Touché,” said Will. “I’m not exactly a bad lot neither black sheep nor whiter than white. More sort of piebald. Or white with black spots.”

  “Gray?” suggested Gaynor.

  “Thanks. Maybe we could move into a wider color spectrum? For instance, how purple do you feel? Gaynor”

  “Wait!” Her expression had changed to one of anguished concentration; she was clutching her temples in furious thought. “White black gray that reminds me that connects … I’ll have it in a second.” Her hands dropped: she looked at him with the clarity of dawning realization. “Listen. There was this story I found this afternoon I was sure it was important but I couldn’t think why. It was about this ancient family who had a special gift of being able to talk to dragons, and tame them. One of their ancestors had been burnt in dragonfire and had lived, and his skin was black ever after, and fireproof, and so was the skin of his descendants. Supposing … supposing the family heritage got so dissipated over the centuries that the black faded, and became gray? Didn’t Ragginbone say something about a certain family? I wish I could remember… Our Dr. Laye—”

  “—could be a tamer of dragons,” Will agreed. “Hell. Hell and bugger.”

  “This is another clue,” said Gaynor, “and it’s leading somewhere.”

  “That’s what I don’t like,” Will said. “I don’t imagine I could assert my macho authority and make you stay behind tomorrow?”

  “No,” said Gaynor. “You need me. I’m the expert on old books and manuscripts. He won’t talk to you unless I’m there. Anyhow, it’s become something I have to do. Fate. Also, I’m older than you. If you get assertive, I can claim seniority. And it isn’t as if there were dragons anymore. And—”

  “Coffee?” said Will.

  Gaynor shook her head. Their stolen interlude was over, aborted long before midnight. Fears for the morrow had invaded, destroying their brief indulgence in romance. When Will kissed her good night before settling on his friend’s sofa, the sudden flare of passion seemed less sexual than desperate, a commitment to each other not as lovers but as partners, setting out together on a dark road. His lips felt hard and his mouth tasted of wine and peppered steak. She found herself thinking she would never be able to eat it again without remembering that kiss. It was swift and hungry and soon over, but afterward, lying alone in the spare bed, she relived it and savored it, sensing it would be their first and last, knowing a chance had passed her by that she might regret and she might not, but it would not come again.

  She fell asleep with the throb of that brief passion running in her blood and disturbing her dreams.

  The following morning did not dawn bright and fair. It just dawned, night paling slowly into the grayness of day. Will’s friends left early, one for part-time computer programming to supplement her student grant, the other for a full-time job as a garbage man that appeared to be the only thing for which his philosophy degree had fitted him. Gaynor heard the belch and gurgle of water in the pipes, indistinct voices from the kitchen downstairs. Eventually the front door banged, and there was silence. If Will had been woken, he must have gone straight back to sleep. Gaynor knew she should get up but a huge reluctance seemed to be weighing her down, a feeling that once she left her bed the wheels of fate would start to turn, and she would be carried forward inexorably into the shadows of the immediate fixture. She tried to recapture the sweetness of last night’s intimacy, the pepper-and-wine aftertaste of that kiss, but only gray thoughts came with the gray daylight, deepening her premonition of an unspecified doom. In the end she forced herself to get up and, finding the shower little more than a trickle, ran herself a bath. Scrubbing at her limbs with a coarse loofah, she was visited by the fancy that her actions were those of a soldier purifying herself before the battle or a victim before sacrifice. It was not a pleasant thought.

  The morning was well advanced before they got on the road, armed with their maps and Dr. Laye’s West Riding address, courtesy of the museum curator. It was a long drive from York to the Dales and the house proved elusive, or maybe they were unwilling to find it too easily, so they halted at a pub for lunch. The conversation steered clear of emotional entanglement and the potential for passion; instead Will related more details of his and Fern’s previous connection with Ragginbone and Lougarry, Alison Redmond, the Old Spirit, and the otherworld they represented. Gaynor asked so many questions that it was late when they returned to their search, later still when they finally saw the place they sought, a silhouette of steepled roofs and knobbled chimneys against a sky dark with cloud. It had been built on a ridge just below the crest, so that its ragged gables topped the hillside; the millstone grit façade was cloven with tall windows that seemed to be narrowed against the wind. “Wuthering Heights,” said Gaynor. She thought it looked like the kind of house where there always would be a wind, moaning in the chimneys, creeling under the eaves, making doors rattle and fires smoke. The somber afternoon seemed to provide its natural background.

  The road swooped below it, and they pulled up beside the single entrance in the high stone wall. Their way was barred by a black ironwork gate crowned with spikes; the gateposts on either side were surmounted by statuary that might once have been heraldic, but endless cycles of wind and rain had eroded them into shapelessness. However, there was a modern intercom inset on the right, complete with microphone and overlooked by a video camera. “If his collection is so valuable,” said Gaynor, “he must be afraid of burglars.”

  “Maybe,” said Will.

  The name of the house was on a panel in the gate: Drakemyre Hall. “No sign of a mire,” Will remarked, “and no ducks either.”

  “Myre may be a corruption of moor,” Gaynor explained. “And drake usually means dragon.”

  After a short argument, she was the one who rang the bell. Her recollection of the television program was imperfect but she was almost sure the voice that responded was not that of Dr. Laye. She gave her name and professional status and enquired for him, feeling gauche and uncomfortable, thinking: He knows already. He knows who I am. He’s expecting me. The gate opened automatically and they got into the car and drove up to the house. In the backseat Gaynor saw Lougarry’s hackles lifting; her eyes shone yellow in the dingy afternoon. “Stay out of sight,” Will told her. “We’ll leave the window open. Come if we call.” He parked in the lee of a wall where a silver Mercedes lurked incongruously, gleaming like a giant pike in the shadows of a murky pond. In front of the house, someone had attempted to create a formal garden, their efforts long defeated by bleak climate and poor soil. The wind had twisted the topiary into strange, unshapely forms; a few predatory shrubs and spiny weeds sprawled over the flower-less beds; moss encroached on the pathways. Two or three holly trees huddled close to the building, weather-warped into an arthritic crookedness, seeking shelter under the man-made walls. The Hall itself loomed over its unpromising surroundings, grimly solid, a bulwark against long winters and bitter springs, sprouting into irregular wings on either side, capped with many roofs. The front door stood open, showing an arch of light that looked unexpectedly warm and welcoming. Will took Gaynor’s arm and they stepped across the threshold.

  The door swung shut to reveal a man standing behind it—a short, gnomelike man, with a lumpy face that appeared to have been made of dough, a tight mouth, jutting ears, and eyes so deeply shadowed he might have been wearing a mask. But his dark suit was immaculate, his manner that of the perfect butler. “I have reported your arrival to Dr. Laye,” he said. “I am afraid he cannot be with you just yet: he is on the telephone to Kuala Lumpur. A manuscript has come on the market that he has been seeking for some time. However, if you will follow me …” He led them down a corridor that branched left and through another door into a large drawing room. In contrast to its exterior, inside the house everything was warmth and luxury. The room was partly paneled in some mellow wood; the flicker of a fire real or fake, it was impossible to tell picked out glints of gold in its graining. Central heating engul
fed them, Oriental carpets deadened their footsteps. They sank into the depths of a sumptuous modern sofa as into a soft clinging bog. Most of the furniture looked antique: heavy oak sideboards, unvarnished and ostentatiously venerable, elegant little tables poised on twiglet legs, a baby grand piano, another instrument that Gaynor thought might be a spinet. Will, scanning the pictures, noted something that could have been a Paul Klee and a pseudo-mythical scene of rural frolics that might have been painted by Poussin on LSD. “Dragons are good business,” he murmured for Gaynor’s private ear.

  “I will bring you some tea,” said the butler. “Indian or China?”

  “China,” said Gaynor, and: “PGTips,” from Will.

  “The lady has the preference,” the manservant declared, and retreated with the soundless tread of butlers long extinct or of gnomes.

  “The butler did it,” said Will when he had gone.

  “He looks like Goebbels.” Gaynor shuddered. “All the same, this isn’t what I”

  “Nor me. I wonder if that Paul Klee really is a Paul Klee?”

  “I was wondering if this really is a good time to phone Kuala Lumpur” She paused, fiddling with a stray lock of hair, braiding the ends into a plait. “Will what exactly are we looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “A dragon’s tale a broken spear—a piece of stone. I ought to try to case the joint while our host is occupied elsewhere. When the butler comes back I’ll say I need a piss. Going in search of the bathroom should give me a chance to see a bit more of this place: it’s bound to be miles away.”

  “You won’t leave me?”

  “Not for long.” He appeared slightly startled at the note of panic in her voice.

  “It’s an awfully well-worn ploy,” she explained, pulling herself together, righting an irrational upsurge of fear. “Do you think he’ll believe you? The butler, I mean.”

  “Nothing succeeds like an old trick,” said Will optimistically. “Anyway, why shouldn’t he? I can—if necessary—prove my point.”

  But Gaynor did not smile. “The thing is,” she pursued, “we didn’t really come here to follow a clue, or trace a long-dead dragon or a magic spear. We came … because this is a trap, just like you said, and you want to find out who set it and why, and the only way to do that is to walk right into it. But…”

  “Whatever the reason,” said Will, “we’re here now, and we may as well get on with the job.”

  Presently the butler returned bearing a tray laden with crockery and a teapot from which wafted the scent of Lap-sang Soochong. Gaynor struggled to rise and failed as a table was whisked in front of her and the tray set down on it. Will scrambled to his feet, hampered by the cushions, requesting a bathroom. “Of course,” the butler said. “I will show you the way.”

  “I won’t be a minute,” Will said to Gaynor by way of reassurance, and left in the wake of the gnome, following him back into the corridor, past numerous doors, and through what seemed to be a breakfast parlor to the farthest reaches of the house. Here he was shown a room with a lavatory and basin and left to his own devices. “I can find my own way back,” he assured his escort, and when he reemerged, he was alone.

  Adjacent to the parlor was a kitchen and a storeroom, both unoccupied. Back in the passageway, he approached the first of the doors with caution, listening at the panels before venturing to turn the handle and push it a little way open, his excuse—“I’m afraid I missed my way”—on the tip of his tongue. Instead he found himself staring into a broom closet. The second door admitted him to a small bare room that seemed at a quick glance unremarkable. Then he tripped over a footstool that he was almost sure hadn’t been there a moment earlier, picked himself up, and was immediately confronted by a picture so unpleasant, so seething with subliminal motion, that the ill-formed patches of color appeared to be actually heaving off the canvas toward him. He retreated shaken, trying to shrug off what he hoped was just fancy, approaching the next door with trepidation. It opened into a kind of gallery, with glass cabinets against the walls and a display case in the center similar to the type used in the museum. Forgetful of Gaynor waiting nervously in the drawing room, Will closed the door behind him and gazed and gazed.

  The room was full of weapons. There were pikes, halberds, longbows, claymores, a broadsword whose blade was notched and misshapen, a ten-foot spear that looked too heavy for a normal man to lift. A ragged banner adorned the far wall showing a dragon rampant, rouge on sable. In the cabinets were helmets, many of them battered and blackened, reduced to mere lumps of metal, breastplates scored as if by giant claws, the tattered shreds of mail coats. The display case showed a single huge glaive, engraved with words in a language Will did not understand; red jewels shone in the hilt. The sight of it sent a strange shiver down his spine. He thought: Those stones must be worth a fortune; but it was the words that drew him, though their meaning could not be guessed. He pored over them, peering closer and closer, and when he finally wrenched himself away he seemed to have lost track of time. The room appeared to have both grown and shrunk, its proportions distorted, and the dragon banner rippled as if with hidden life, and he was staring at a hanging shield that he thought he had seen before, in a dream long ago. Realization dawned; he said to himself: These are the weapons of the dragonslayers, and for an instant he smelled fire, and there was blood running down the walls. The room shivered with the potency of what it contained.

  He was horribly afraid, but he knew he had to stay, to look at every spearhead, every fragment of arrow or blade: the thing he sought might be here. But the shafts were tipped only with iron and steel, stone and bronze, all scorched and chipped and scarred; the splinter of Lodestone would be unmarked and unmistakable. At the far end on a small table he came across a knife that looked different from the rest. It was entirely black, without scratch or ornament, gleaming as if new: when he touched it the hilt seemed to nestle into his hand. It felt like something that belonged to him, that had been made for him, for this contact, for his grip. A leather sheath lay beside it. He slid the knife into the sheath and then, with a cursory glance over his shoulder, tucked it into his jeans, dismissing a minor qualm of conscience: he might have need of a weapon. It occurred to him that he had been absent for too long; Gaynor must be frantic. He hurried to the door, opened it without precaution, stepped into the corridor.

  The blow fell dully on the back of his head.

  Gaynor waited. She had poured a cup of tea, but she did not drink it. He wouldn’t leave me, she told herself. He wouldn’t leave me here. Nearby, a clock ticked. And slowly, very slowly, the light changed. The fire sank and guttered, the gold flecks faded from the paneling, the electric lamps seemed to blear. The gray daylight retreated beyond the half-curtained window, leaving the room dim and unfriendly. Shadows gathered behind the furniture. A disquieting sense of déjà vu assailed her. And then she remembered: It’s my dream … The room there had been darker, the woodwork more somber, the details exaggerated, but surely, surely it was the same. Soon she would see the eyes… She got to her feet, stumbled over a rug, but even as she reached the door it opened. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Dr. Laye.

  In the flesh, his grayness was shocking, a hideous abnormality. The insides of his eyelids remained pink, making his eyes look bloodshot, the irises luridly blue. As he spoke, yellow-ivory teeth flickered between colorless lips. His suit was almost as immaculate as that of his servant, but Gaynor could not help shrinking at the proffered handshake, her gaze averted from the remembered horrors of finger and nail. Yet his voice was not quite the one that had summoned her nearly two weeks ago. It was somehow lighter, single toned, more… human. “I see my complexion disturbs you,” he said, withdrawing the gesture. “Many people react that way. It is a hereditary peculiarity: I assure you not contagious. Do sit down. I trust Harbeak has made you comfortable.”

  And she was plunged back into the sofa, stammering something incoherent, while he added with a thin smile: “I have been so looki
ng forward to meeting you.” For a moment her head spun: she thought he might actually allude to the nightmare incident of the television screen. Then: “I have acquaintances among your colleagues,” he went on, and named a couple of people she hardly knew. “I understand you are interested in dragons.”

  She had not said so, but perhaps the curator had telephoned him. How else would he know? “Will,” she interrupted. “My friend. He’s the one who—I mean, I think we should wait for him.”

  “We’ll let him take his time,” said Dr. Laye. “I expect he’s having a look around. There are many interesting things in this house.”

  “Maybe he’s lost,” said Gaynor, braving raised eyebrows. “I ought to go and find him.”

  “Then you might become lost, too,” Laye responded. “Much wiser to stay here.” She did not like his choice of adjective. “Shall I order fresh tea? Brandy, perhaps? No? Very well then. We will talk. You are interested, as I said, in dragons.” It was a statement, not a question. Gaynor did her best to assume an academic mien. She could think of no alternative. “Dragons have always fascinated me,” he continued. “Did they ever exist? If not, why did we have to invent them? Of all the monsters of mythology, they are the most charismatic, the most enduring. And yet, what are they? Lizards with wings—magical cousins of the dinosaur, breathing flames, endowed with a hypnotic eye and a human intelligence. According to legend—and we have few other sources—they eat virgins and hoard gold, undoubtedly human traits. Such creatures can only be demons born of the wishful thinking of mortal men. Yet I used to dream that in the dawn of history there were true dragons, spirits of fire, dreadful and irresistible, soaring beyond the imaginings of minstrels into a wider world. There was a tradition in my family that our ancestors were once dragonslayers, their skin not gray but black, dragon burned, dragonproof.” And, as Gaynor started: “Perhaps you have heard that tale?”