The Flight of Dragons

by Vivian French

  The queen looked down in surprise at the tumbled heaps of books and the sleeping professor. “Whatever’s going on?” she asked the empty library. “Never seen such a mess. Aha! So that’s where I left it!” She retrieved her lorgnette with a grunt of satisfaction. Curiosity made her peer at the book under the professor’s nose. “Hmph! It’s those dragons again. Well, I never. Think the poor old chap needs a vacation. I’ll send him off to that sister of his. Do him good to have a rest.” And with a decisive shake of her head, she left the professor to sleep.

  Conducta and Globula had found their way to the southern border of the Five Kingdoms relatively easily. They had persuaded a farmer driving an empty cart to give them a lift for much of the way; the farmer had not intended to go nearly so far — or, indeed, so fast — but his old gray horse had spooked when Globula began to whistle, and it had taken the farmer six or seven miles to persuade the animal to calm down to a manageable speed.

  “That’s some whistle you’ve got there,” he said sourly as the girls climbed down.

  “Isn’t it?” Globula agreed. As the farmer turned the cart, Globula winked at Conducta, put her fingers in her mouth, and blew a high-pitched whistle that only the horse could hear. The cart disappeared in a cloud of dust, and the twins collapsed into giggles.

  “Wish I could whistle like that,” Conducta said as they climbed the wooden stile that marked the border crossing. A couple of ancient guards yawned, gave the twins a cursory glance, and then went on with their knitting.

  “You can spit farther than I can,” Globula reminded her sister as they walked on.

  “I can, can’t I?” Conducta gave a demonstration — then stopped as a movement caught her eye. “What’s that bird doing?”

  A large and balding crow had flapped down from a twisted elm that sheltered the path. He tilted his head to one side and studied first Conducta and then Globula with an evil little eye. “You’ll be Cankers, then. Yer great-grandpa said you’d be along one day. Taken yer time. You’d best follow me.”

  For once the twins were at a loss for words.

  The crow gave a harsh screech by way of a laugh and hopped closer. “Never met a bird like me before, I’ll bet.”

  “Erm . . . no.” Conducta pulled herself together and into her normal state of narrow-eyed wariness. “How do we know you’re going to take us the right way? And what makes you think we’re Cankers? We might be Mousewaters for all you know!”

  The crow gave a louder screech of laughter. “Mousewaters! Since when did a Mousewater spit like that? And what Mousewater ever drove a horse mad, thinking it had a wasp in its ear, just by whistling? Nah. Cankers through and through, you two are. Yer great-grandpa’ll be pleased as Punch. Feared you were growing up soft and sappy like that Mousewater mother of yours. Never once been to see him, have you?”

  “Ma wouldn’t let us.” Globula folded her arms. “And Great-Grandpa never came to see us, either.”

  This made the crow laugh so much, he had to lean against the trunk of the tree to recover. At last he said, “You’re a scream, you are. Don’t they teach you nothing in those schools of yours? Don’t they teach you that that border”— he waved a ragged wing in the direction of the stile —“is as far as your grandpappy can go? If he as much as thought of showing up in yer goody-goody world, those hideous old crones would be onto him, and the armies would be sent out, and he’d be marched off and away forever. Now, are you going to follow me or stand here yakking all day?”

  “We’ll follow you.” The twins spoke together, and the crow began to half fly, half hop between the trees. Globula poked Conducta in the ribs as they hurried behind him. “What’s Grandma like?”

  The crow heard her and swiveled his head to answer. “You don’t need to worry about that old bag. Nothing left of her but skin and bones and a vinegar tongue.”

  Conducta made a face. “So why does Dad bother to come and see her?”

  “Where’s yer wits?” There was another screech. “He comes to see if the old man’s OK, of course. Could be your dad’ll be thrown out as well, one of these days. Seen him up to a few naughty little tricks, I have . . . and he’s not as careful as he should be. Singing rude songs outside the Howling Arms is only the start of it.” The crow found this hilariously funny, and Conducta and Globula had to wait while he laughed himself in and out of a coughing fit. When he could speak again, he asked, “Brought yer granpappy a present, have you? He likes presents. Makes him happy.”

  “No.” Globula frowned. “Why should we bring him presents? He’s never given us anything.”

  The crow gave her a knowing wink. “Might be to yer advantage to keep him happy, Miss Clever Clogs. Seeing as you’re wanting to ask him a favor, like.”

  “How do you know that?” Conducta glared at him.

  “I hear things.” The crow nodded his bald head. “And I see things. They can’t keep us birds out of the Five Kingdoms, you know.”

  Globula began to dig in her pockets. At last she pulled out a small and somewhat battered brooch. “Would this do?”

  Conducta grinned. “That belongs to Ma! It’s her favorite!”

  “I know.” Her sister was looking smug. “Given to Ma by her poor old ancient mother as she lay breathing her last Mousewatery breath. I took it yesterday when she was nagging on and on and on. Serves her right for being so mean.”

  “That’ll do nicely.” The crow sounded impressed. “Right . . . here we are. After you, ladies. I suggest you keep to the path. Fall off it, and you’ll be sucked down into the Ravenous Bog, and I doubt you’ll ever be seen again.” And he swept a mocking bow to them, then pointed with his ragged wing at a small and winding path that made its way between pools of stagnant green water and blackened roots.

  Globula hesitated, but Conducta pushed past her and grabbed her hand. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve come this far. We may as well see what the old man’s like.”

  Above their heads, the crow, now perched on a rotten and ivy-strangled tree, gave a series of loud squawks that could have been meant either as encouragement or derision.

  Conducta ignored him. “I can see a house!”

  To call the broken-down hovel that was set in the midst of the scum-encrusted water a “house” was beyond complimentary. The roof was thatched with a patchwork of sodden rushes, tattered pieces of old cloth, bent and rusty wire, and what appeared to be long skeins of dirty brown, black, and reddish yarn. It was only as the twins came closer that they saw this was, in fact, hair. Human hair woven in and out to hold the rickety roof together. The twins paused, and at that moment a tiny shrunken creature appeared in the darkness of the doorway. As soon as she saw them, she put a bony finger to her lips, then waved her arms as if shooing them away.

  Conducta stood her ground. “Are you Grandma? Dad’s mother?”

  The creature nodded.

  “Well — we’ve come to see our great-grandpa. Please tell him we’re here.”

  “His Malignancy is taking a rest. His Malignancy is sleeping now.” The creature’s voice was monotonous and curiously metallic; Conducta found herself rubbing at her ears.

  Globula was made of sterner stuff. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled.

  The skeletal figure gave a faint cry and disappeared. From the darkness inside the hovel, another voice, a voice that appeared to have its own hollow echo, boomed, “My little darlings! Come and kiss your old granpappy. Come inside, my lovely little cankerous ones . . .”

  Conducta looked at Globula, and Globula looked at Conducta. Then they linked arms and went in through the door. A small candle was flickering in the gloom, but at first they could see nothing — nothing but a huge mass of old rags heaped on the damp earth floor.

  “Come a little closer,” said the voice. “Granpappy is waiting. Waiting for his kisses. . . .”

  Marcus had left Gorebreath Palace early, despite a gloomy sky. Buoyed up by his mission, he had set off at breakneck speed; only concern for his pony made him slow dow
n as he made his way through the Enchanted and Less Enchanted Forests.

  It was a route he and the pony knew well, and as the Five Kingdoms fell far behind, the prince began to whistle. His home life, with all its rules and regulations and restrictions, bored him unutterably; he was profoundly grateful that his twin, Prince Arioso, would inherit the crown and the kingdom. Although I would be able to bring in a few dragons if I were king, he thought idly. But maybe I could persuade Arry. Further consideration made him regretfully decide that this was beyond unlikely, and he began dreaming of a life of exploration instead.

  “Cooee! Marcus!”

  Marcus jumped, and Glee broke into an eager canter. Gracie was waving from the top of the path, Gubble standing foursquare beside her.

  “Hi, Gubble!” Marcus said as he slid off Glee’s back. “Hello, Gracie. How did you know I was coming?”

  Gracie grinned. “Alf,” she said. “He raced you here.”

  A cheery squeaking from a neighboring tree confirmed that Alf was not only present but extremely pleased with himself. “Remembered you were off on a jaunt today, Mr. Prince! Thought you’d got me beat, but you slowed down on those hills.”

  “I’ve got a picnic.” Gracie pointed to the large wicker basket on the grass beside her. “Although the weather doesn’t look too good.” She glanced up at the cloudy sky. “Still — we might be lucky. Oh, Auntie Edna says to be sure and bring you back for tea.” She paused for a moment, then went on: “Alf says you were in Wadingburn Palace library yesterday, and you were talking about dragons.”

  Marcus grimaced. “You know what? I’d really hate to try to keep a secret from you and the Ancient Crones. What with Marlon and Millie and Alf whizzing to and fro, you know everything just about as soon as it happens!”

  Gracie, always sensitive to other people’s feelings, realized he had wanted to tell her the news himself. “Alf didn’t say much, really. He says he went back to sleep when Queen Bluebell and King Horace appeared.” She gave Alf a warning glance, and the little bat took the hint and settled himself to listen.

  “Well . . .” Marcus draped one arm casually over Glee’s saddle and the other over Gracie’s shoulders. “Arry and Nina-Rose were driving me mad, so I went to see the prof . . .”

  “Ug.” Gubble, realizing this was likely to be a long story, picked up the picnic basket. “Gubble carry. Go to pool.” Without waiting for the others to agree, he turned and made his way up a small side path.

  Glee followed him, and Gracie and Marcus, still talking, went where the pony led them. By the time Gubble had reached his favorite picnic spot, Gracie had heard all about the dragons and the professor’s concerns, as well as Marcus’s idea for her birthday.

  “Do you think the dragons are planning to attack the Five Kingdoms?” Marcus asked. “I wouldn’t blame them, actually. I can’t believe they were chucked out. But why haven’t they done it before? I wouldn’t think anything as powerful as a dragon would be bothered by those stupid laws.”

  Gracie sucked the end of her braid. “I don’t know. It sounds more as if they’re looking for something. Or someone. We’ll ask the aunts when we get back.”

  “Oh! I’ve just remembered!” Marcus slapped his hand on Glee’s saddle. “The prof said I was to ask his sister about the web of power.”

  “Auntie Val?” Gracie looked surprised. “Oh — of course. Hmm . . . do you think he’s told her more about the dragons than he’s told you?”

  “He might have,” Marcus said. “You could ask her.”

  Gracie was thinking out loud: “The professor’s right. The web has been a bit odd lately. Auntie Edna’s not said much, but I can tell she’s worried. She might be quite relieved to hear about the dragons, actually — I think she’s scared there’s some kind of horrible evil brewing.” She sat down underneath the tree where Gubble, now completely surrounded by crumbs, had settled himself.

  Marcus, with a suppressed sigh, sat down beside her. Picnics were overly domestic in his view; he preferred action and adventure.

  Gracie pulled the picnic basket toward her. “Would you like a sandwich — oh! They’re nearly all gone! There’s not a single egg one left, and they’re my favorite. Gubble? Have you eaten all the egg sandwiches?”

  Gubble looked up, his cheeks bulging. “Ug.” He sounded reproachful. “Gubble hungry.”

  “Hmm.” Gracie was inspecting the remains. “Sorry, Marcus. The chocolate cake’s gone, too. There’s a fruitcake left — hang on a minute. It’s got a huge bite out of it! Gubble . . . how could you?”

  The troll stared down at his toes. “Bad Gubble. Gracie angry. Gracie hate Gubble.”

  “Heavens, no.” Gracie patted his arm reassuringly.

  A puzzled expression crossed Gubble’s flat green face. “Niven’s Knowe?”

  Gracie realized his mistake. “No . . . I said, ‘Heavens, no.’ I meant I wasn’t angry. Just a bit disappointed. I’m ever so hungry, and Auntie Elsie makes the best egg sandwiches ever.”

  “More egg at home,” Gubble suggested. “Go home.”

  “That’s an idea,” Marcus said eagerly. “We can tell your aunts about the dragons and ask about the web.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see a dragon.” Gracie shook the last crumbs out of the picnic basket. Without looking at Marcus, she added, “That was a nice idea of yours to take me to see a — What was it? A flight? — a flight of dragons for my birthday.”

  Marcus shuffled his feet. “Oh. Good. I mean, I just wanted to do something special.” There was a pause, and then he said rather quickly, “You see, you’re a bit special, Gracie.”

  “Wheeeeeeeee!” As Gracie blushed, Alf looped an enthusiastic loop over her head. “Go on, Mr. Prince! Go on! Give her a kiss!”

  Marcus turned an agonized scarlet, and Gracie all but shut herself in the picnic basket.

  Alf looped another loop. “Wheeeeeee!” he caroled, “Wheee — OOF!”

  There was a small but solid thump as Gubble put up his hand and checked Alf midflight. “ ’Nuff,” he said firmly. “Bad bat.”

  Alf, lying on his back on the grass, glared up at him. He was too winded to speak. Marcus began to laugh loudly, and Gracie looked at him in surprise. Realizing he was only trying to cover his embarrassment, she joined in. Gubble stared at them before trying out a few puzzled chuckles himself.

  “It would serve Alf right if we shut him in the basket,” Gracie said with feeling, and she gave Marcus a rueful smile.

  Marcus breathed again. Good old Gracie, he thought. All the other girls I know would have made a terrible fuss. But she’s different.

  Alf managed a hoarse squeak.

  “He’s sorry,” Gracie interpreted. “Come on. Let’s go back to the house. It looks as if it’s about to rain.”

  She was right. As the small party emerged from the trees, a few drops began to fall, followed by more and more. By the time they reached the House of the Ancient Crones, they were soaked through.

  “We can’t go in through the front door, I’m afraid,” Gracie said as she negotiated the path, which was twirling around her ankles in a loving but irritating way. “It’s been behaving very badly recently. It’s spent the last two days up on the roof. Maybe we should go around to the back, and then you can put Glee in the stable before we go inside.”

  They dripped their way around the outside of the house, and after drying Glee with a wisp of straw and settling him comfortably, they headed for the back door. The front door had slid down beside it and was flapping its mailbox in an inviting manner. Gracie looked at it suspiciously. “Last time it did that, it tried to pinch my fingers. I think we’ll use the other one.”

  Marcus, who was used to doors staying where they were, was happy to agree. He, Gracie, and Gubble trailed inside and immediately found themselves in the kitchen. There was a roaring fire in the hearth and a kettle singing on the stove; Marcus’s and Gracie’s spirits rose, and Gubble grunted approval.

  The Youngest One was stirring a large saucepan
of delicious-smelling soup, and she nodded knowingly. “Thought the rain would send you home, so I’ve made some soup. Or did you have time to eat your picnic?”

  “Gubble did,” Gracie said as she handed Marcus a towel. “He ate all the sandwiches and the chocolate cake. I think he only left the fruitcake because he doesn’t like raisins. Marcus and I are starving. That smells wonderful!”

  Val smiled. “Good. Do you want some bread?”

  “Yes, please,” Gracie said — and then feeling Marcus’s eyes on her, she added, “Did you know Professor Scallio’s been watching out for dragons, Auntie Val?”

  Val looked at her in surprise. “Dragons? Frederick? No. I had no idea.”

  It was Gracie’s turn to look surprised. “Oh . . . I thought he might have told you.”

  “He’s been overworking, if you ask me.” Val gave the soup a final stir. “He’s got some research he’s working on, or so he says. Sent Millie with a message that he wouldn’t be home last night. Him and his books!” The youngest crone shook her head in sisterly despair. “Now, when you’ve had something to eat, the Ancient One wants to have a word with you. Marlon’s just arrived, and the two of them are hatching some wild idea.” Val looked disapproving. “Seems he wants you two to go off on some expedition or other. And instead of telling him not to talk nonsense, Edna’s all for it.” She stopped to pour soup into two large bowls.

  “An expedition? Where?” Marcus jumped up from the table — but Val waved him down again.

  “Now then, Mr. Prince — you sit down and eat your soup. You can’t go anywhere on an empty stomach, and, besides, Edna and Marlon are still talking. Plenty of time to find out all about it once you’ve eaten.”

  Gracie grinned at Marcus. “You’d better do as Auntie Val says. She worked as a nanny before she came to the House of the Ancient Crones.” She did not think it necessary to explain that the Youngest had, in those distant days, also been in the habit of regularly absconding with all the children’s toys. Val’s ways had been radically changed by the Ancient One, and she was now a reformed character, as was Elsie. Gracie’s stepsister, Foyce, was currently undergoing the same process; her progress was slow, but the Ancient One was not without hope.