The Return of the Dragon

by Rebecca Rupp

  “He has houses all over the world,” Zachary said. “In Paris and London and New York. And he owns this big ranch in Montana.”

  “Why is he here?” asked Hannah.

  “He said he came to apologize,” said Mrs. Jones. “He was passing by in his yacht and thought that the island was uninhabited. We told him that the island belongs to your auntie, who never allows visitors without her permission. Then he wanted to know who lives on the island, and we told him that it was just the two of us, and you three children, visiting. He said he was fond of children and would like to meet you. It’s quite an honor. They say he never meets anybody.”

  Mrs. Jones smoothed her apron and bustled toward the refrigerator. “Just leave your jackets there on the chair and run along. I’ll bring some tea — thank goodness Tobias bought lemons on his last trip to the mainland — and cocoa and fresh pound cake.”

  The children paused, flabbergasted, in the hall.

  “J.P. King,” Zachary whispered. “Wow!”

  Together they stepped through the parlor door. There, sitting on a needlepoint chair and playing idly with Aunt Mehitabel’s jade chess set, sat the man from the yacht. Now he was wearing khaki slacks and a blue sweater with a thin gold stripe across the chest. As the children entered the room, he got to his feet, smiled in a friendly manner, and held out his hand.

  “The young explorers, I presume?” he asked. He shook hands with Hannah, then Zachary and Sarah Emily. “I am so pleased to meet you. My name is J.P. King. And you are? . . .”

  “How do you do?” said Hannah politely. “I’m Hannah. This is my brother, Zachary, and my sister, Sarah Emily.”

  J.P. King resumed his seat and waved his hand hospitably toward Aunt Mehitabel’s horsehair sofa.

  “Do sit down and relax,” he said, as if he were the host and the children the visitors.

  The children perched on the edge of the sofa. The horsehair was slippery and uncomfortable, and the seat was so high that their feet dangled uncomfortably above the floor. Sarah Emily gripped the arm of the sofa to keep from sliding off.

  “What a gift,” Mr. King continued wistfully, “to live on this lovely and unusual island. While passing by in my yacht — perhaps you noticed my yacht, anchored offshore? — I was struck by its unspoiled natural beauty. I spend most of the year in the city — smog, traffic, litter, crowds. You have no idea how lucky you are.”

  “It’s a perfectly beautiful boat,” Hannah said. “Why doesn’t it have a name?”

  “Privacy, my dear,” Mr. King said. “When one is as rich as I am —” He stopped, looking embarrassed. “Though my wealth is nothing compared to the riches you have here,” he said quietly, gesturing at the window through which there was a view of rocky shoreline and blue bay.

  There was a clatter of china in the hallway, and Mrs. Jones scurried in with a loaded tray of food. There was a steaming teapot, mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, a sliced pound cake, and a plate of oatmeal cookies. She set the tray on a low table in front of the sofa.

  “Now, you children see to your guest,” she said. “I’ll make sure there’s more hot water when you need some.” She hurried away, staring back over her shoulder at Mr. King.

  “Thank you,” Mr. King said, accepting a cup of tea and a plate with a slice of pound cake. He took a bite. “Delicious.”

  “Mrs. Jones is a wonderful cook,” Hannah said.

  Mr. King leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea. He crossed his legs in his elegantly creased khaki slacks.

  “I understand,” he continued, “that the entire island is owned by your aunt?”

  He set his teacup down, picked up one of the jade chess pieces, and began to turn it over and over in his fingers.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  “Our great-great-aunt,” Zachary said.

  “She lives in Philadelphia,” put in Hannah. “She doesn’t allow visitors here.”

  Mr. King clamped his hand shut around the chess piece and gave an exclamation of dismay. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I fear that — believing that the island was deserted, of course — I allowed some of my party to set up a small camp on the beach.”

  “I don’t think Aunt Mehitabel would like that,” Sarah Emily said. “She’s a very private person.”

  Mr. King sighed. “I can understand wanting to keep this lovely place all to oneself,” he said. “But perhaps when I see her —”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Hannah said. “She was planning to meet us on the island, but it turned out that she couldn’t. She had a fall and broke her ankle.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. King said in a startled voice. “So there’s no chance of our meeting?” Deliberately he replaced the chess piece on the board and lifted his cup for another sip of tea. He sounded oddly relieved.

  “No,” said Sarah Emily baldly.

  “I believe I saw you children playing today,” Mr. King said. “On the hill at the far end of the island. Mrs. Jones tells me it is called Drake’s Hill? What an unusual name.”

  The children were silent.

  “Do you spend much time there?” Mr. King continued. “It must have a marvelous view.”

  “We don’t really go there very often,” said Hannah.

  “It’s one of our favorite places,” Sarah Emily said, at the same time.

  Zachary hastily made a spluttering noise in his cocoa.

  Mr. King appeared not to notice. He leaned forward and set down his teacup.

  “There’s an amazing population of wildlife on this island,” he said. “Simply amazing. Why, just a few days ago I saw the most incredible sight. . . . Just take a guess. . . .”

  Sarah Emily gave a tiny gasp.

  Mr. King turned toward her inquiringly.

  Hastily she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Puffins!” Mr. King cried. “A flock of puffins! I wouldn’t be surprised if they were nesting on the island.”

  “I’ve never seen any,” Zachary said.

  “Ah, well,” Mr. King said.

  He patted his lips with a napkin, folded it, and laid it carefully on his plate. “Simply delicious,” he said. Then he got to his feet.

  “I do hope we shall meet again soon,” he said, giving the children another friendly smile. “I plan to write to your aunt to inform her of my presence here and will keep my yacht at anchor until I have a reply. Perhaps you three would like to come onboard for a visit?”

  “On your yacht?” Hannah said excitedly.

  Mr. King pulled a small leather notebook and a gold pencil from his pocket, scribbled something on a sheet of paper, tore it out, and handed it to Hannah.

  “My personal telephone number,” he said. “If you have time to arrange a visit, I can be reached here.”

  “It’s been very nice meeting you,” Hannah said.

  Mr. King paused on the front porch, turning his head north and south, gazing the length of the island. He took a deep breath.

  “Sea air,” he said. “Open spaces. One gets the feeling that almost anything could happen here. Almost a magical place.”

  He gave a friendly nod, turned, and went down the porch steps. Beside the dock in the little cove, the children could see a small white motorboat floating.

  “So that’s how he gets to and from his yacht,” Zachary muttered to Sarah Emily.

  Mr. King lifted a hand in farewell. Then he walked quickly across the beach, stepped onto the dock, climbed into his motorboat, and sped away.

  Zachary shut the front door and leaned against it.

  “Whew,” he said.

  “I thought he was sort of nice,” Hannah said. “I think you’re just imagining things. He’s really famous, Zachary.”

  “I wish he’d just go away,” said Sarah Emily. “Him and his puffins.”

  “Well, he’s not leaving,” said Hannah. “You heard him. He’s keeping his boat anchored here until he hears from Aunt Mehitabel. And I think we should give him the benefit of
the doubt. Weigh the evidence, like Fafnyr said.”

  “I think we should warn Fafnyr,” Sarah Emily said.

  “F,” Zachary said.

  Sarah Emily was having a wonderful dream. She was flying, swooping and soaring high above the ocean in glorious loops and dips and glides. The air smelled clean and salty — she could smell it even in her dream — and there was a distant squawky sound of seagulls. Far below her the sea was a beautiful shade of cobalt blue, dotted with lacy froths of white where the waves were whipped by wind. She was over the island, she realized suddenly. There it was, Lonely Island, a crescent-shaped sliver of gray and green, surrounded by glittering sea. The sun glinted off the weathervane on the rooftop of Aunt Mehitabel’s house, and then there was an answering glint from somewhere else, to the north, beyond the craggy tumble of rock that formed the hill. She flew toward it, curious. It came again, a silvery flash, as if someone were signaling with a mirror. She dived, dipping a powerful wing, and the sun blazed off her scales, blindingly golden . . .

  She sat up, her heart beating fast. The sun was shining in her eyes and someone was pounding on her bedroom door.

  “S.E.! Are you up?” It was Hannah’s voice. “Zachary says he’s found something. In the Tower Room.”

  The children thought that the Tower Room was the most wonderful room in Aunt Mehitabel’s house. Its door was always kept locked, but last summer Aunt Mehitabel had sent them its strange little iron key.

  Hannah opened Sarah Emily’s bedroom door and peeked inside. She was barefoot and wearing lavender flannel pajamas.

  “Come on,” she said. “Don’t bother to get dressed. Zachary said to hurry.”

  Together the girls scampered to the end of the hall and, one by one, climbed the narrow staircase that led to the third floor. At the top of the stairs, the door to the Tower Room stood ajar, the key, with its odd little curlicued handle, still in the lock. Behind the door was an iron ladder at the top of which was a trapdoor, now open. They climbed, one after the other, and scrambled out onto the tower floor.

  They were in a small octagonal room, surrounded by round windows that looked like portholes. Zachary always felt that those windows must have made the sea captain who built the house feel as if he were back in his ship’s cabin. Sarah Emily stood up and slowly looked around, breathing deeply through her nose. She loved the way the Tower Room smelled: like gingerbread and cedar chips, with a crinkly hint of mothballs and iodine. It made her think of hidden treasures and mysterious trunks stuffed with old satin ball gowns, peacock-feather fans, frock coats with gold buttons, and beaded dancing shoes.

  The room was filled with a peculiar jumble of things. There were shelves of old books, their cracked leather bindings stamped in gold, a collection of rainbow-colored shells and odd-shaped stones, children’s toys from long ago — some of them had once been Aunt Mehitabel’s — and, on a carved stand, a brass gong with a little red wooden hammer hanging by a silk cord from its side.

  Zachary was bending over something on the sea captain’s desk, which was open, revealing all its rows of tiny drawers and pigeonholes. Zachary wanted to have a desk just like it when he grew up, with secret compartments and a glass inkwell, though Sarah Emily thought that, knowing Zachary, he’d need a place to put a computer too.

  “What did you find?” Sarah Emily asked.

  “It was in the bookcase,” Zachary said. “I pulled out a book and it just fell out.”

  The book was still on the floor. Hannah picked it up.

  “A Historie of Magical Beastes,” Hannah read. “With Tales of Griffyns, Basilisks, Mermaids, Dragons, and an Account of the Marvelous Vegetable Lamb. Published by Marlowe & Perkins, Ltd., London, 1727.”

  “It’s not nearly as interesting as it sounds,” said Zachary. “It’s mostly in Latin and the pictures are all sort of smudgy. But look at this.”

  It was an old-fashioned black-and-white photograph. There were two women in it, both wearing straw hats with ribbons around the crowns and droopy long-waisted dresses. The taller of the two had a long pointed nose on which were perched a pair of spectacles. She looked cross. The shorter woman was laughing and squinting into the sun. Between them was a little boy in a sailor suit.

  “Who are they?” Sarah Emily asked.

  Zachary turned the photograph over and showed them the back.

  “‘Me, Anna, and Johann,’” he read, pointing. “And then this was written under it. It looks like it was added afterward.”

  Hannah leaned forward. “‘An Awful Warning,’” she read slowly.

  “I think it’s Aunt Mehitabel’s writing,” Zachary said

  “Why is it an Awful Warning?” Sarah Emily asked.

  “And who are they?” asked Hannah. “Who are Anna and Johann? And who’s Me?”

  “Let’s ask Aunt Mehitabel,” Zachary said. “We should write her anyway. About J.P. King.”

  “Somebody’s calling,” Sarah Emily said.

  It was Mrs. Jones, downstairs, sounding very faint and far away.

  “She’s saying ‘pancakes,’” Sarah Emily said.

  “Let’s go eat,” Zachary said. “We can write Aunt Mehitabel after breakfast.”

  After Mrs. Jones’s blueberry pancakes were finished — Zachary had eaten eight, with lots of maple syrup — and the dishes finished and the letter to Aunt Mehitabel written, the children prepared to hurry back to Drake’s Hill.

  “Read it one more time,” Sarah Emily said. “Just to make sure we remembered everything.”

  The letter was printed on Hannah’s best stationery, which was lavender with a border of purple pansies.

  “Dear Aunt Mehitabel,” Hannah read.

  “We all hope your ankle is feeling better. F is fine, but there are some strangers on the island. Mr. J.P. King arrived in his yacht and has put up a camp on the beach. We told him that the island is private, but he won’t leave until he hears from you.

  And one other thing. We found a picture stuck in a book in the Tower Room. The picture says Me, Anna, and Johann on the back, and then there’s a note that says An Awful Warning. Who are the people in the picture? And why is it an Awful Warning?

  Please write back soon.

  Love from Hannah, Zachary, and Sarah Emily

  “It’s fine,” Zachary said, busily stuffing granola bars, apples, and plastic bottles of lemonade into his backpack.

  Hannah folded the letter, put it in a lavender envelope, sealed it, and stuck on a stamp.

  “You can’t be packing food,” she said in tones of horror. “Not after all those pancakes. I’m so stuffed, I don’t think I ever want to eat again.”

  “They were small pancakes,” Zachary said.

  “They were not,” said Hannah.

  Zachary ignored her. “Let’s get going,” he said.

  They set off briskly, walking fast, eager to get back to the dragon’s cave. By the time they reached the foot of Drake’s Hill, the sun was high overhead. The sky was a clear deep blue, and the air smelled cleanly of the distant ocean. Nothing, it seemed, should go wrong on such a perfect morning.

  “Let’s go check the camp,” Zachary said. “Before we go to the cave. Let’s just see if they’re still there.”

  They were.

  In the center of the cluster of white tents, next to a ring of rocks that had once held a campfire, was a group of people. There were several young men all dressed alike in what looked like uniforms: navy-blue pants and white windbreakers with name tags on the breast pockets. There was also a girl wearing a rubber wetsuit. She held a diving mask and a pair of rubber flippers in one hand, and there were air tanks in a harness on the ground next to her feet.

  They seemed to be getting orders. A man with a clipboard was talking rapidly, pointing at each person in turn, and then making check marks on the clipboard with a pencil.

  “I wish we could hear what they’re saying,” Hannah whispered in a frustrated voice.

  Zachary gave a little exclamation and began to rummage in the
backpack. He pulled out his tape recorder and microphone.

  “We can,” he whispered excitedly. He switched on the tape recorder. “We just have to plant the microphone somewhere closer — it’s got a really long cord — and then we’ll be able to hear every word they say. You two stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Holding the tiny microphone, he crawled rapidly to the edge of the sheltering fir trees and tossed the tiny microphone toward the speakers. It fell invisibly into a clump of beach grass. Zachary scooted quickly backward to where Hannah and Sarah Emily waited.

  “Now listen to this,” he said. He switched the tape recorder on.

  “. . . underwater caves,” a scratchy voice said. “Mr. King seems to think there might be something of interest along this stretch of beach. That will be your job, Alison. Take Danny along to stand watch while you dive.”

  There was an inaudible murmur that sounded like Alison asking a question.

  “No, just caves,” the scratchy voice said. “See what’s in them. And Mike and Tony, you two head down the beach and see if you can spot anything else in the way of rock formations. And Ben can cover the hill.”

  “Not again,” somebody — presumably Ben — said in tones of disgust. “I’ve been over every inch of that blasted rock pile.”

  “Not quite,” the scratchy voice said. “Mr. King wants complete maps of the terrain — you haven’t delivered those yet — and detailed notes on the resident wildlife. And I might add, Ben, that if you’re interested in keeping your job, you’ll have to do better than one misspelled note reading ‘Saw a dum raccoon.’”

  Ben snorted.

  “All right, then,” the scratchy voice said. “Let’s get going. Report back here by five o’clock and we’ll compare notes.”

  There was a confused mutter of voices as the group began to scatter, talking among themselves.

  Zachary turned the little tape recorder off.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said. “They’re looking for something all right.”

  “Zachary,” Sarah Emily said urgently. “That man . . .”

  A man in a white windbreaker was just straightening up from the clump of beach grass, a puzzled expression on his face. In one hand he was holding Zachary’s microphone.