Dandelion Fire

by N. D. Wilson

  Henry lay back on his bed and sighed. The doors frightened him, but they drew him as well. Behind one was the world where he'd been born, where he had siblings. At least six older brothers, if he believed what the old wizard had said in the cold throne room when he'd first gone through the cupboards. He looked up the wall at door number 12. Richard had crawled into that world behind him, and the wizard had known who Henry was. He would be able to tell Henry where he was really from. But he'd been horrible. Henry shifted his thoughts away from the memory and back to the doors in front of him. There was no reason to think that he'd come from a nice place, that the bent old man eating grubs on his dark throne had told the truth, or that his family was alive, and if they were, that they even wanted him. Wanted babies weren't usually shoved into cupboards.

  But there was still the raggant. Raggants were for finding things. Someone had wanted to find him.

  Henry took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. Why had Uncle Frank stopped trying to get back? Was he afraid, too? But Frank had Dotty and his daughters. No one was going to put him on a bus back to Boston in two weeks.

  “Two weeks,” Henry said out loud. He looked over to the corner of his room, where one week ago, Frank had left a small roll of chicken wire and a five-gallon bucket of plaster. The wire was to cover the cupboards and strengthen the plaster. Frank hadn't touched it since he'd put it there. He'd mixed the plaster, but then left it. Now the bucket was as solid as a boulder.

  “I could come back when I'm eighteen,” Henry said. But he didn't think Frank could put Dotty off that long. A couple years, maybe, but not more than five.

  Someone was coming up the attic stairs. Henry sat up on his bed and quietly shut the open cupboard.

  His bedroom doors swung open, and Henrietta stepped into his room. She had the raggant tucked under one arm. It dropped quickly to the floor and jumped onto Henry's bed.

  Henrietta sniffed the air, and her eyes drifted to the cupboard to Badon Hill. They hadn't talked in a while, and for a moment, they were both silent.

  “Henrietta,” Henry said. “I need Grandfather's key.”

  She met Henry's eyes and stared right through.

  “There's no point in lying to me,” Henry continued. “Things got really crazy at the end, but I know I didn't keep it, and you were the only other one who could have.”

  Henrietta crossed her arms and looked at the wall of doors. Henry rambled on. “I'd be happy to stay here, but I can't. Two weeks, Henrietta, and then I go back to Boston and then back to school, and over the summers they'll store me somewhere, and I won't be able to come back until I'm old enough to move out or go to college.” Henry took a breath. “I can't be here when they come for me. I have to go through the cupboards. And you have the key, Henrietta. You have to give it to me.”

  Henrietta sat down on the bed beside him.

  “I know,” she said. “I buried it behind the barn.”

  was supposed to be watching for Anastasia and Richard, but he didn't think there was too much risk of being found. He had followed Henrietta silently out of the house while the others were watching television. If they did start looking for him, they wouldn't start behind the barn.

  So, while Henrietta dug, he sat on a rusted seat loosely attached to the fragmented bones of an old plow. It was piled against the barn along with chunks of moss-covered concrete and a tangle of unrecognizable metal.

  Henrietta was on her fourth hole. After the second one, she had straightened up on her knees and demanded that Henry either go inside or stop watching her. Now Henry was leaning back against the barn and watching the weather. It was hard not to.

  He had never been outside in a storm. Not really. In about five minutes, he thought, he would be.

  The early evening sky was divided in two. The east was as bright as it had been at noon, but the west was overflowing with charcoal clouds, flat-bottomed and towering. The wind that had rolled through the fields most of the day now rushed, bending and shaking wheat all the way to the horizon. The barn creaked behind Henry, and tall grass swirled around Henrietta, clinging to her hair while she dug.

  Henry had carried the raggant down with them, but it had nosed off toward the old irrigation ditch that marked the edge of the fields. In the grass, it was invisible.

  “I left a bottle on it,” Henrietta said. “I swear I did.” She grimaced and tried to push her hair out of her face. “It's not here now.” She turned in place, examining the ground.

  The sun was edging below the western clouds, and its light chased the wind across the fields. Every green and gold intensified while the clouds grew darker, saddled on the glow. A long, low rumble vibrated in the air, and Henry felt it in his chest.

  “Is this going to be a tornado?” he asked. “Should we go inside or something?”

  Henrietta looked up. “No,” she said. “Just a thunderstorm. Not a big one.”

  Henry stared at the clouds, at the fields, and at Henrietta's blowing hair, all of it edged with solar gold. The moment dragged its feet in passing, and Henry savored each second, wanting to keep more than any memory would be able to give him. He almost felt like he could, like time would freeze for him, like the sun would hang just above the horizon and the storm clouds, laden with hail and rain and night, would rest in place, content to float on sunlight.

  White and gray caught Henry's eye, and he turned slowly. Blake the cat had joined them, and he lay on his side in the bending grass, batting at a dandelion as golden as the sun. More golden. It had a yellow fire all its own, and the sun was adding to it, frosting it, wrapping its light around the weed's petaled head. Blake batted again, and Henry slid off his seat and knelt in the grass. The moment would die young, but not yet.

  The dandelion was glowing. It couldn't just be the sun. Henry blinked, and the glow was gone. He was staring at a bright little lawn pest and nothing else. He let his eyes unfocus, something in his mind relaxed, and time rushed through, leaving him untouched. He wasn't staring at the dandelion, he was staring through it, at something else, behind it, in front of it, filling the same space.

  Henry's head throbbed, and he almost blinked again. The rest of the world drifted away. The wind was gone, and his bones ignored the thunder's drums. There was a word singeing the tip of his tongue, a thought nearly captured by his mind.

  And then he saw it.

  At first it looked like fire, like the flower was burning. But nothing wilted away, nothing blackened and turned to ash. It lived in the fire. Or, the fire was its life. But as Henry stared, ignoring tears that streamed out of his unblinking eyes and a pain carving its initials inside his skull, he saw it differently. He was looking at a thing, a shape, a symbol, a writhing, changing word, a scattered, bursting story. And then, for a moment, it all came together, and he was hearing it. He was seeing a dandelion. Hearing a dandelion. Hearing the orange and the yellow, seeing the sour milk crawling in its veins, tasting its breath.

  Henry put out his hand.

  Somewhere, in another world, hail was falling, stinging his neck and ears. White smeared in the corner of Henry's eye, and Blake was gone.

  “Got it!” Henrietta said. “Henry?”

  Henry's hand was over the dandelion, and he could feel no heat. It wasn't real. Inside him, he had known that already. He touched it.

  The world ripped. Light and sound surrounded him, lifted him up, and threw him on his back.

  He was unconscious when he landed.

  It was embarrassing for Henrietta, rooting around on her hands and knees, trying to find something that she had hidden. Embarrassing, first, because Henry had known she was lying, and lying is always embarrassing. It would have been worse if he'd known everything she'd been planning. She'd intended to steal Grandfather's journals from him before he left, and then, with the key and the cupboards and the compass combinations from the journal all to herself, she could have gone anywhere. Of course, not being able to find the key brought its own embarrassment. With Henry just sitting there, mout
h-breathing and picking at the burn scars on his face, the whole experience was much worse.

  So she'd snapped at him. He'd stopped staring at her, and the wind had calmed her down. She could hear the thunder already, but she knew it wouldn't be a big storm, not if the sun could get below the clouds.

  Henry got down in the grass, but he hadn't gotten down to help. He was playing with Blake. Henrietta swatted at the grass in front of her, and, as it moved, she saw the place she had been searching for, where the glass Dr Pepper bottle lay on its side, still nestled halfway into the earth.

  As she ripped it out of the ground, hail began to fall. The skeleton key, sealed in a plastic bag, was only a few inches down. Her fingers burrowed quickly.

  “Got it!” she said, and loose earth fell on her lap when she pulled it free. She turned. Henry was kneeling on the ground with one hand out in front of him. He was crying. “Henry?” she asked.

  The raggant burst through the tall grass, snorting. Lightning flicked in the clouds, and the bolt struck. Too fast for Henrietta to tell if it rose from the ground or fell from the sky, it was simply there in front of her, cracking its jagged whip between heaven and earth. She didn't hear the thunder, she felt it, like a blow, and she was on her back, deaf and blinking, hail stinging her face.

  Gripping the key, she rolled over and crawled to Henry. His feet were bent beneath him and his arms were splayed out in the grass. The raggant crouched by his head, hooding itself with its dark wings. Henrietta looked at her cousin's face and panicked. He hadn't been struck. She knew he hadn't been struck. The bolt had been right there, but it hadn't hit him. She would have seen it hit him. Henry's face was white and lifeless. His mouth and eyes were open, his pupils were barely pinpricks.

  “Henry!” she yelled, and slapped his cheek. The hail surged, small stones falling in a cloud. They left tiny spots of red on Henry's skin and fell into his mouth, striking teeth and lips.

  “Henry!” Henrietta yelled again. Hailstones, melting, rested in his open eyes. She grabbed at the raggant's wing, pulled it over Henry's face, and pressed one hand against his chest. Relief surged through her when she felt the slow pound of life inside, but he needed to breathe. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him onto his side, letting his legs straighten. The hail was already fading.

  “Breathe, Henry! Cough! Do something!” She banged on his back. The lightning couldn't have touched him. If it had, his shoes would be all melted and his hair would be frazzled. His fingertips would probably all be split wide and charred. She felt his ribs expand, and she sat back. Probably just shock. He scared easy. Then she saw his hand. His right palm was peeled open. It wasn't bleeding. The skin was curled back around a two-inch slice, and all the edges were black. Small blisters dotted his palm, and larger ones crowded the freshly exposed skin inside the wound.

  Henry's body shook. His legs jerked, and he levered himself up and turned toward Henrietta, blinking.

  She frowned at him.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Lightning,” she said. “You went into shock or something.”

  “Did it hit me?”

  “No,” she said, and glanced at his hand. “I don't think so.”

  Henry tried to stand but couldn't. Henrietta gripped his shoulders, and he staggered to his feet. Together, they tripped around the side of the barn, and, while the last of the hail turned to rain, the two of them moved slowly toward the back of the house.

  Henry's joints were throbbing. His head felt chained to the ground. His vision clouded, and his stomach boiled. He grabbed at Henrietta, and she kept him from falling. She couldn't keep him from throwing up.

  He knew he was inside when the rain stopped and Henrietta's voice erupted beside him.

  “Mom! Dad!” she yelled. “Henry's sick!”

  Henry leaned against the kitchen wall. Voices and people swirled around him, and his eyes burned. So he shut them, trusting in the hands that pushed and pulled, lifted and moved. He ignored it all and was alone in his head.

  Alone with a dandelion.

  * * *

  Opening his eyes was not possible. His mind had no desire to try, and even if it had, his eyes didn't feel like they'd comply. But he could hear.

  “Frank, I think we should take him to the hospital.” Dotty's voice wavered. “Henrietta didn't think the lightning hit him, but what else would lay him out like this?”

  Henry felt a rough hand on his face. Frank's hand. “Doesn't have to hit you. It's a current. It can hit something else and still find a way into you.”

  “We should take him in.”

  Henry felt his bed creak when Frank stood up. “We'll wait till the morning. Sleep is better than bouncin' in a truck for forty-five minutes just to have a doctor tell us he needs his rest.”

  “I can't believe you just let him sleep beside all these awful doors,” Dotty muttered. “They give me the shivers. I never liked being up here, even when they were behind plaster. And speaking of plaster, Frank …”

  Frank sighed. “Ease up now. He's leaving in two weeks. I'll get it done.”

  Henry vaguely listened to his aunt and uncle descend the attic stairs, and his mind rolled back in his head, searching for dreamlessness, where there could be no pain.

  Instead, his doors opened and new voices entered.

  “Henry.” Richard's voice was just as pompous when you couldn't see him. “If you can hear me, I'm very sorry for your pain.”

  “Get out of the way, Richard,” Anastasia said. “I want to see his hand.”

  Henry's hand was lifted, a bandage slid away, and Anastasia caught her breath. “That looks like it hurts. Did you see the lightning come out, Henrietta? He must have looked like a wizard.”

  “He wasn't struck by lightning.” Henrietta's voice was flat. “I saw it. The lightning was just as close to both of us, and I'm fine.”

  “Henrietta.” Penelope's voice was soothing. “I think he has to have been struck. Maybe just by a little side current, but something did that to his hand.”

  Henrietta sniffed. “I would have seen it. If a bolt of lightning had shot out of his hand, I think I would have noticed.”

  “I think you're jealous,” Anastasia said. “You've always wanted to get struck by lightning, or sucked up by a tornado or something.”

  “I think we should leave him,” Penelope said.

  “I think you should leave him, too,” Henrietta snorted.

  “I'd like to stay with him,” Richard said. “I could sleep on the floor in here tonight.”

  “Get out, Richard. Right now. You too, Anastasia. Bye-bye, Penny.”

  The doors clicked shut, and Henry felt Henrietta sit down on the bed beside him.

  She sighed. “Are you faking, Henry?”

  Henry swallowed and tried to lick his lips. His tongue felt like it belonged to someone else, someone much larger than he was.

  Before he could say anything, two thumbs pressed down on his eyelids and pried them back. Light and air, both made of pain, funneled into his eyes.

  “Ow!” He tried to sit up, but only made it partway. Henrietta still held his eyes open. He swung at her with his left arm, and she let go and slid away.

  “You were faking,” she said quietly. “I'm glad. I was getting worried.”

  “I wasn't faking anything,” Henry managed. His tongue was tripping over his teeth. He kept his burning eyes open, and Henrietta slowly slid into focus.

  “You were pretending to be asleep.”

  “No,” Henry said. “My eyes hurt.”

  Henrietta leaned back toward him and whispered, “Listen. It's okay. Everyone thinks you've been struck by lightning. Mom won't even be kind of suspicious. We can explore the cupboards tonight.”

  Henry collapsed back onto his bed and shook his head.

  “It's okay,” Henrietta said. “I'll let you rest, and I'll come wake you in a couple hours when everyone else is asleep. I've got Grandfather's key, you have all the combinations in the journal; we shou
ld get started. Two weeks will go fast.”

  Henry shook his head again and dropped his arm across his eyes.

  “If they think you're really sick for too long, they'll probably send you back to Boston sooner.”

  “I'm not faking,” Henry said. “Go. Please.”

  Henrietta stood slowly and tucked her hair behind her ears. Henry looked at her from beneath his arm.

  “You're really hurt?” she asked.

  Henry nodded.

  “Then I'm sorry,” she said, and turned to leave the room.

  Henry shut his eyes, but they still burned. He tried to breathe slowly and drift away, but his little room oppressed him. Everyone had gone, but the heat of their breath and chatter remained.

  With a sudden burst of resolution, Henry rocked and levered himself up. His joints burned like they were full of salt, and his vision dimmed as the blood left his head. For a moment, he sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for his dizziness to settle. When it did, he braced his hands on his knees and groaned as he straightened. After finding his balance, he slid carefully to the foot of his bed.

  Henrietta was amazing. Even if he hadn't been struck by lightning, or whatever it was that had happened, he wouldn't have wanted to explore the cupboards willy-nilly. There was only one cupboard he wanted to go through, and that was where he intended to be in two weeks, no matter what was on the other side. He blinked his watering eyes and gripped the latch on the door to Badon Hill. It slid under his weight, and the door swung open. Then, breathing hard, he braced himself against the wall of cupboards and waited for the cleansing air to come.

  It didn't. Henry could smell nothing but the sour closeness of his attic room. He placed his hand in the mouth of the cupboard, but the air was still and warm. He reached through and his knuckles scraped against a rough board at the back. There was no moss, no soft earth or confused worms. Not the slightest breeze. The cupboard had been cleaned and sealed from the other side. Henry put his hand on the back and pushed. The board didn't move, but his fingertips brushed against a thick piece of paper tacked onto the wood. He tore it free, leaned his back against the cupboard wall, and stared at it. His eyes went in and out of focus, and he blinked quickly to keep them from clouding over.