The Return of the Dragon

by Rebecca Rupp

  “Zachary! Sarah Emily!”

  Twelve-year-old Hannah dashed up the stairs, shouting for her younger brother and sister. Zachary — who was almost eleven — and Sarah Emily, who was nine, were sitting on the floor in Zachary’s room, playing Monopoly. Zachary had just made a shrewd bargain involving Atlantic Avenue and the Electric Company, when they heard Hannah’s voice.

  “We’re in here!” Sarah Emily called.

  The door flew open and Hannah burst in. Her brown eyes were bright and her cheeks pink with excitement.

  “Something wonderful has happened!” she exclaimed. “Mother just told me. She and Dad are going to Europe during our spring vacation.”

  “Europe!” said Sarah Emily. She peered at Hannah owlishly through her thick spectacles.

  “Are we going too?” asked Zachary.

  “It’s even better,” said Hannah. “We’re going to Aunt Mehitabel’s house on Lonely Island. And this time Aunt Mehitabel is coming with us.”

  Zachary let out a whoop of glee. Hannah sank down on the bed, shoving aside a pile of computer manuals and the scattered pieces of Zachary’s latest model rocket. She was grinning from ear to ear.

  “There’s an International Whale Conference in London,” she said. “Father is going to give a speech there. Mother is going with him, and after the meeting, they’re going to take a vacation by themselves. A second honeymoon. But they’re worried that we’re going to feel bad if they go without us.”

  “I’d rather go to the island,” Sarah Emily said.

  “So would I,” said Hannah. Her eyes turned toward the map of Lonely Island that hung on the wall above Zachary’s bed. “I can’t wait to get back to Drake’s Hill and see —”

  “Shh!” Zachary said. He reached across the Monopoly board, upsetting Sarah Emily’s two fortress-like hotels on Park Place, and grabbed Hannah’s ankle. “We promised to keep him secret and safe, remember? We shouldn’t even say his name out loud.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Hannah said.

  “There’s nobody around,” Sarah Emily said.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Zachary said darkly. “We have to get into the habit. Spies could be anywhere.”

  “Well, not here,” Hannah said.

  “That’s the thing about spies,” Zachary said ominously. “They show up where you least expect them.”

  Zachary had been reading a book about secret agents who carried tiny cameras the size of gumdrops and had microphones that could pick up whispered conversations half a mile away.

  “We should come up with some kind of code name for him, so we can talk without anybody knowing what’s going on. We could just call him F, like Aunt Mehitabel does in her letters.”

  “It’s been so long,” Sarah Emily said. “Sometimes I’m almost afraid that we dreamed the whole thing.”

  Hannah stretched out her hand. In the center of her palm glittered a tiny pinprick of gold.

  “Just look at your hand,” she said.

  Zachary and Sarah Emily glanced down at their hands, where identical golden flecks gleamed.

  Then Zachary quickly closed his fist, hiding the mysterious golden spark from sight.

  “Secret,” he said.

  The next weeks dragged by. It seemed as if vacation would never come. Then, just a week before leaving, an unexpected letter arrived from Aunt Mehitabel, written in swooping handwriting in lavender ink.

  “Oh, no,” said Mother as she read it. “This is dreadful news.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Hannah anxiously.

  “Aunt Mehitabel won’t be able to go to the island with you after all,” Mother said. “She’s had a fall and has broken her ankle. She’s all right, she says, but she will be laid up for several weeks while it heals. She’s terribly disappointed. There’s a letter enclosed for you children.”

  She handed the children an envelope and hurried away to the telephone. The letter was addressed to Hannah, Zachary, and Sarah Emily. It was sealed with emerald-green sealing wax and was marked PRIVATE.

  “Open it,” Sarah Emily said, tugging on Hannah’s arm.

  Hannah broke the seal, tore the envelope open, and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper:

  Dear Children,

  I am furious to have had this foolish accident, which will prevent me from spending time with you this vacation! I was so looking forward to it! In the meantime, Mr. and Mrs. Jones will look after you, and you, I trust, will look after our mutual friend. Please give F my regrets and fondest wishes.

  Yours affectionately,

  Aunt Mehitabel

  “Oh, how awful,” said Hannah.

  “Poor Aunt Mehitabel,” said Sarah Emily.

  Mother bustled back into the room, shaking her head. She gave the children a rueful smile. “She fell out of a tree, bird watching,” she said. “Why Aunt Mehitabel thought she could climb a tree at her age, with her arthritis . . . But she’s going to be fine. And you children will have a lovely time with Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Jones were the only people who lived on Lonely Island. They looked after Aunt Mehitabel’s house. Mr. Jones went back and forth to the mainland to fetch mail and groceries in his boat, the Martha, and Mrs. Jones was a wonderful cook.

  “I hope she’s made doughnuts,” said Zachary longingly.

  “Oatmeal cookies,” said Sarah Emily promptly.

  “I hope you’ll find something to do on the island besides eat,” Mother said worriedly. “It’s still chilly there this time of year. It’s much too cold to swim.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Hannah. “We’ll find plenty to do.”

  Mother and Father took the children to Chadwick, Maine, to meet Mr. Jones before leaving themselves for the airport in Boston. Mr. Jones was waiting on the wharf when they arrived.

  He had red cheeks and a bushy gray beard that made him look a little bit like Santa Claus. The children flung themselves on him.

  “How is Mrs. Jones?”

  “Do you still have Buster?”

  Buster was the Joneses’ cat, a fat gray tabby.

  “Can I run the Martha?” That was Zachary.

  There were last-minute instructions from Mother and Father and hugs all around. Then the children and Mr. Jones climbed into the boat, and Zachary cast off. They watched, waving, as their parents grew smaller in the distance. Sarah Emily sniffled.

  “I hate goodbyes,” she said.

  “Me, I never think of it as ‘goodbye,’” Mr. Jones said. “I think of it as ‘until we meet again.’ And look, there she is ahead of you. There’s Lonely Island.”

  The children leaned forward, eager for their first glimpse of Aunt Mehitabel’s house.

  “I see it!” Sarah Emily shouted. “There’s the weathervane!”

  The familiar house came slowly into view, an old gray Victorian with a wide veranda, tall tower, and widow’s walk, topped with a whirling metal weathervane shaped like a ship under full sail. Mrs. Jones was waiting for them at the open front door. She hugged each of the children in turn and told them all how much they’d grown, even Sarah Emily, who was convinced that she hadn’t grown at all.

  “You know which bedrooms are yours,” Mrs. Jones declared. “Scoot up and get settled.”

  The children paused on the way upstairs to peek into Aunt Mehitabel’s front parlor. It was just as they remembered. The windows were hung with green velvet curtains, and one wall was covered by a Chinese lacquer cabinet, with gold trees painted on its doors. There were straight-backed chairs with needlepoint seat covers, tiny end tables with spindly legs, a stool made out of an elephant’s foot, and a horsehair sofa that always reminded the children of a stuffed walrus.

  “There’s the telescope, Zachary,” s
aid Sarah Emily. Zachary loved the telescope, which had belonged to the sea captain who originally built Aunt Mehitabel’s house.

  “There’s your favorite, Hannah,” teased Zachary, pointing at the elephant’s-foot stool.

  Hannah made a horrible face.

  “I hate that thing,” she said. “It has toes. But I love everything else. It feels just like home.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” said Sarah Emily. “It’s as if we’d never been away.”

  Later, after the clothes were unpacked and put in drawers, and the empty suitcases were shoved under beds, they gathered in the kitchen. As they munched Mrs. Jones’s oatmeal cookies and drank steaming mugs of cocoa, they heard all the latest news of the island.

  “We heard about your auntie’s busted ankle,” Mr. Jones said. “She was right sorry not to be here with you while your folks are off in London.”

  “Mother says she’s doing fine,” said Hannah. “She just won’t be able to walk around for quite a while.”

  “A real shame,” said Mrs. Jones.

  “I’m sorry she’s not here, too,” said Mr. Jones. “We’ve had a bit of excitement here. Visitors. We haven’t met them yet, but their boat is anchored up off the north end of the island. Near that pile of rocks you youngsters are all so fond of. Drake’s Hill.”

  “It’s probably perfectly all right,” Hannah said later, as the children met in Zachary’s room before going to bed. “Just fishermen or something. Nobody could possibly know about —”

  “Careful,” Zachary said warningly.

  “About F,” Hannah finished.

  “His cave isn’t easy to find,” said Sarah Emily. “Nobody could find it, could they? Unless they knew right where to look?”

  She was clutching Oberon, the stuffed yellow elephant who had slept with her since she was two years old. Oberon had one ear and button eyes that bulged nervously when Sarah Emily squeezed him too hard. Just now Oberon looked very nervous.

  “I don’t like it,” Zachary said. “It could be dangerous, strangers poking around. They could be spies. They could have some kind of laser-powered eye that can see right through rock.”

  “Oh, stop it, Zachary,” Hannah said. “I wish you’d never read that stupid book. You’re scaring S.E.” She patted Oberon on the head, then put her arm around Sarah Emily and gave her a little squeeze. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Everything is probably fine.”

  “Sure,” Zachary said. But he didn’t sound convinced.

  “You’ll see,” Hannah said. “We’ll go first thing in the morning and investigate.”

  “I wish we could go tonight,” Sarah Emily said.

  Sarah Emily opened her eyes to sun pouring across her pillow. Zachary was shaking her foot.

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Zachary was already dressed, though he hadn’t brushed his sandy-colored hair, which was standing on end all over his head. It made him look like a hedgehog with freckles.

  “Hurry up and get dressed,” he said. “It’s too great a day to waste. We can get going right after breakfast.”

  They found Mrs. Jones scrambling eggs in the kitchen, her pink apron covering a pair of faded overalls. A plate of blueberry muffins steamed on the table. Buster was asleep in the kitchen rocking chair, lying on his back with his paws in the air.

  Sarah Emily was too excited to eat, and she glared at Zachary as he reached for his fourth muffin.

  “I thought you were in a hurry,” she said impatiently.

  “I am,” Zachary said. “But I’m growing. I need fuel.”

  He ate his muffin in two enormous gulps. Hannah shook her head at him.

  As soon as the table was cleared, they shouted goodbye and thanks to Mrs. Jones, and flew out the back door, racing for the garden gate. Zachary, who liked to be well supplied, wore a bulging backpack containing a bag of snacks, a flashlight, a pair of binoculars, his Swiss army knife, a notebook, and a mechanical pencil. Alert to the possibility of spies, he had also added a magnifying glass and the hand-held tape recorder that he had been given for his last birthday.

  “You look like a camel,” Sarah Emily said.

  “A camel stuffed with muffins,” said Hannah.

  It was a beautiful day. They found the familiar path, a narrow worn track leading toward the rising hill at the far end of the island. The hill looked silent and empty, dark against the bright blue sky. The children hastened toward it.

  They stopped for a snack at the halfway point, then hurried on, following the little path through thickets, around boulders, and across open fields. Finally Drake’s Hill loomed above them. It was dotted with clumps of dark green fir trees, some twisted into strange shapes by the sea wind, and at the very top was a vast blocky pile of gray rock, looking like a tumbled tower built by a careless giant. They paused, gazing upward, breathing hard.

  Suddenly Zachary put his hand on Hannah’s arm. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Someone’s been here.”

  “Oh, Zachary, not spies again,” Hannah said.

  “Well, look,” Zachary said.

  The girls followed his pointing finger. The flat field at the foot of the hill was brown with withered weeds and grass — it was still too early for the green of spring — and through it a faint track led to the right, winding around the base of the hill toward the beach.

  “Rabbits?” asked Sarah Emily hopefully.

  Zachary shook his head. “Too big,” he said. “Somebody’s been making a path. See that? That’s a heel mark.”

  “Let’s follow it,” Hannah said.

  The track skirted the base of the hill and ended in a little cluster of trees. Beyond the trees, the children could hear the steady crash of ocean waves on the distant beach.

  “I told you it was rabbits,” Sarah Emily said.

  Suddenly Hannah, in the lead, stopped dead.

  “Look at that!” she said in a horrified voice.

  Zachary and Sarah Emily crowded behind her, staring.

  Someone had made a campsite on the beach. A cluster of white tents was set up behind the sheltering rise of a dune. There were five tents, one much larger than the others. “That must be the leader’s,” Zachary whispered.

  The large tent had plastic windows in it — they could be sealed shut at night with white canvas covers — and a zippered double door. A folding wooden chair was set just outside the door with a table next to it. On the other side of the chair was a tripod to which was attached an enormous pair of black binoculars.

  As the children watched, crouching behind the tree trunks, the zippered door rolled open and an elderly Chinese man came out. He was tall and thin, dressed in a black suit, with an embroidered cap on his head. He stood silently, his expression grim, eyes narrowed to slits, arms folded across his chest. Then he stalked slowly across the campsite and vanished between the tents, heading in the direction of the sea.

  “Who’s that?” Sarah Emily said. She sounded frightened.

  Hannah and Zachary exchanged anxious glances.

  “A trespasser,” Zachary said.

  They watched the camp for several more minutes, but nothing happened. The tents sat silent and deserted, their canvas doors firmly shut.

  “We might as well go,” Hannah whispered finally.

  The children turned and crept quietly back through the trees, the way that they had come.

  “Let’s go see . . . F,” Zachary said. “We should warn him about this.”

  The children hurriedly retraced their steps, putting as much space as possible between themselves and the white tents on the beach.

  “So who lives in those tents?” Zachary fretted. “And where are they? They could be anywhere. Spying.”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Zachary,” Hannah said. “Let’s climb.”

  They scrambled up the steep slope of Drake’s Hill until they reached the enormous pile of rock, layered like gigantic steps, that crowned the hilltop. Carefully they began to climb, feeling for remembered hand- and foot-holds. At last they edged around a final
rocky ledge to stand on a wide platform overlooking the ocean. At the back of the platform gaped a dark opening that led, the children knew, to a hidden cave. The very sight of it made their hearts beat faster. Before them was an endless stretch of deep blue water, lashed by the wind into white-capped waves.

  And just off the shore of the island —

  “Look at that!” gasped Zachary, pointing downward.

  Below them, a great white boat lay at anchor.

  “A yacht,” said Hannah in an awed voice.

  “I’ll bet that’s who’s camping on the beach,” Zachary said.

  He fumbled in his backpack and pulled out his own small pair of binoculars. He put them to his eyes, focused, and slowly swept the length of the boat, from bow to stern.

  “Funny,” he said. “It doesn’t have a name. Most boats have names. Even Mr. Jones’s little boat has a name painted on it. But this one doesn’t say anything. It’s just plain white.”

  “Let me see,” said Hannah, reaching for the binoculars.

  She put them to her eyes and studied the silent floating yacht.

  Then, as the children watched, a doorway opened and a man appeared on the yacht’s polished deck. He was broad-shouldered and deeply tanned, with closely clipped iron-gray hair. He wore dark trousers and a heavy white sweater. He stood for a moment gazing out to sea, then slowly turned toward the island. A seagull glided past, sun glinting off its white wings. The man lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Hastily the children dropped down behind a pile of concealing boulders.

  “He’s watching F’s cave,” Zachary said. “He suspects something.”

  “How could he?” Hannah said in disgusted tones. “You’re nuts, Zachary. He was watching that gull.”

  “It gives me the creeps,” said Zachary. “That boat. Those tents. People snooping around.”

  Cautiously he poked his head above the rocks and peered toward the white yacht. The gray-haired man had lowered his binoculars and was scribbling something in a small notebook.

  “You see?” Hannah said. “He’s a bird watcher. They take notes all the time. About the kinds of birds they’ve sighted.”