by GARY DARBY
She gives me a hurt look for an instant before turning and lumbering toward the forest with me following as best as I can. We slip into the tree line just as I hear dragon wings in the distance.
I hastily slide down to the ground and hide under the overhanging limbs of a good-sized spruce. The golden goes deeper into the grove, careful not to brush too hard against the trees and set them to swaying, a dead giveaway that a dragon is moving through the forest.
I wiggle forward and peek through the needle-like leaves to watch the open glen. Moments later, the pulse of dragon wings sounds through the night. I can tell by the slow beat of their wings that the dragons are gliding in for a landing.
And that’s the last thing we need right now. After all, what good is someone, me, who can barely notch an arrow, let alone hit anything with it going to do against armed and angry Wilders?
Die, that’s what.
I start to back out of my hiding place to follow the golden deeper into the woodlands when I stop and with a grin so broad that it hurts, I scramble to my feet. I know the sound of those wings! I’m almost choking as I stumble from behind the tree. It can’t be, but it is.
Sailing just over the treetops comes a sapphire. It cups its wings before extending its hind legs and settles to the ground. A second later, a second dragon drops to the ground, and then a third. Three sleek sapphires, and to my eyes, miracle dragons.
By the time the second sapphire touches down, I’m already running at my best pace toward the first. It’s Wind Song, and riding her is the beautiful, and very much alive Cara Dracon. She slides to the ground holding a wriggling bundle. She opens her arms and a dark-grey wad leaps to the ground and bounds toward me in that funny, sideways rolling gait that I know oh so well.
It’s Scamper.
The little grub digger hits me in the chest, nearly bowling me over. I drop to the ground, and an almost childlike giggle escapes my lips as Scamper licks every bit of my face. I squeeze him tight in my arms. I’ve never been happier in my life.
Finally, Scamper stops giving me a tongue bath, puts his paws on my chest and juts his face at mine. Grrwaaayyy, he says in a stern and accusing voice. “Yes,” I answer in my most apologetic tone. “I went away and left you.”
I draw in a deep breath. “And, I’m very, very sorry I did. I didn’t mean to, I — I tried to find you, but I couldn’t. I promise I won’t ever do it again.”
He eyes me for a second, considering whether my apology was sincere enough. It must have been because his little nose quivers before he drops down in my lap and searches my tunic with his paws. Eeeeet? he asks.
I scratch him behind his rounded ears. “Sorry, fella, I haven’t had anything to eat either. We’ll have to find something later for the two of us.” With that, he ambles off, no doubt to forage and find his own late-night meal.
I look up. Cara is standing nearby, a little smile on her face. I scramble to my feet and all but stumble over to her. There are so many things I want to say, but I fumble my words and sound like a gibbering fool. “Cara — you’re alive — you’re — I’m so — how — are you hurt?”
She laughs and throws her arms around me and to my astonishment gives me a hug. “Of course, I’m alive, silly,” she says. “I told you we weren’t going to die. And no, I’m not hurt, but Helmar is.”
She steps back and with a serious look on her face asks, “The golden?”
I swallow and point. “In the woods, she’s fine.” I start to say, “But there’s something you should know,” when Cara draws in a deep breath and lets it out in great relief. She gives me another hug while whispering, “Thank you, Hooper.” She lets go of me and runs back to the sapphires.
I quickly follow her to find Helmar easing himself down to the ground, grimacing in pain and holding his left arm. “You’re hurt,” I state.
“Just a nick from a Wilder arrow,” Helmar answers bluntly. “I didn’t duck fast enough.”
“Nevertheless, even a nick needs tending,” a familiar and welcome voice comes from the side.
“Master Phigby!” I yelp. “We thought you dead.”
“Near enough,” he answers, “but it appears my time is not yet.”
Before he can say more, Helmar reaches out to turn me toward him. “The golden?” he demands.
“Safe,” I reassure him and point toward the dark tree line. “I hid her in there when I heard dragon wings. I was afraid you were Wilders.”
“Wilders there be,” Phigby grumps, “but, for now, we’ve left them behind.” He points to the hill’s overhang. “Let’s get Helmar under that so that I can brew up the medicine I need to tend to that wound. I’ll get my kit.”
Phigby stumps back to the third sapphire and my eyes widen when I catch full sight of the blue dragon. “That’s Wind Rover,” I stutter.
I turn to Cara. My announcement has brought a mist to eyes that turn sad and bleak. She holds a hand to her mouth before saying, “Somehow, she made her way back to Draconton, but father wasn’t with her. Nor was there any sign of Daron and his crimson.”
She takes a deep breath. “Phigby said there wasn’t any blood on Rover, so that’s a good sign.”
“But where is — ”
“We don’t know, Hooper,” Phigby growls as he rejoins us. “Save your questions for later.” He motions for Helmar to follow and as they do, Cara says, “Hooper, bring Golden Wind over by the overhang, I’ll get the sapphires in close.”
I give her a quick nod and head for the trees. I push past the jutting tree limbs to find the golden lying on all fours. “C’mon,” I say, “it’s Cara, Scamper, Master Phigby, and Helmar. They’re all right, except Helmar has an arrow wound.”
“I know,” she replies.
“You know?” I reply. “Then why did you stay hidden, why didn’t you come out?”
“Because I wanted you to have your moment with your comrades and friends. I would have been a distraction.”
She rises and together we walk back toward the small hillside. Helmar is sitting on a small log and Phigby is helping him get his tunic off. I can see the blood streaming down Helmar’s arm from the puncture-like wound that still has the arrowhead and a shortened piece of the shaft sticking out of his shoulder.
As Phigby presses a cloth on the wound to stem the bleeding, he glances up and barks, “Get wood for a fire, I need hot water.”
He tosses several water flasks at me. “Fill them, and hurry.”
Helmar wipes at his sweating, grimy face and says, “The Wilders may see the fire’s glow.”
“Maybe they will, maybe they won’t,” Phigby grunts. “But, without hot water to brew the medicine I need, that wound of yours could fester and the poison will spread through your body. If so, then your life glow will surely end.”
I glance around and say, “The dragons.”
Cara turns and asks, “What about the dragons?”
“We could bring them in closer,” I answer, “form a screen. The overhang will prevent the fire from being seen from above, the hill shields it to one side, and the dragons will mostly block it on the other.”
Cara peers up at the overhang before she turns to Helmar with a questioning expression. He nods in return. “Put the golden in the middle,” he orders, “she’s the biggest and will block most of the light.”
Cara says to me, “Get the water, Hooper, and I’ll arrange the dragons. When you get back, help me with the wood.”
I start to turn, but Helmar calls out, “Hooper.”
I face him, and he says, begrudgingly, “Nice work getting the golden out of the barn.”
I give him a sheepish grin. “All I did was get a barn door open, which I couldn’t have done if you and Cara hadn’t so thoroughly distracted the Wilders. Not to mention that there are a lot fewer of them going back to their lairs thanks to you and Cara.”
I lean closer to Cara. “And I do thank you for saving my life back there.”
She smiles in return, but the moment is quickly over as
Phigby snaps, “Now that we’ve stopped patting each other on the back, Hooper go get the water. Cara get those dragons in place and then the both of you collect some wood.”
Before I hurry out, I say to Cara, “Just so you know, the sprogs are asleep in the golden’s carapace.”
Her eyes grow wide. “You did save them!”
I give her a quick smile in answer and dash off to get the water. I hurry down to the river to fill the flasks and find that Scamper is fishing. “Having any luck?” I ask. His front paws are wet which means he’s made at least one attempt to snag a fish, but missed.
Brrrrrt, he says and shakes a few drops off one paw. “Yes,” I reply, “the water’s cold, but keep trying, I hear brook trout are very tasty.”
I rush back with my filled water flasks, squeeze past the dragons to find Cara pushing together a pile of small twigs and branches that she apparently found under the overhang. She reaches out for the water flasks, and I hand them over.
From his bag, Phigby pulls out a small jar, takes the lid off, and sprinkles some tiny gray pellets in his hand. He tosses them into the wood, mutters something under his breath, and the wood catches fire. I’m not the only one with an amazed expression at what just happened, but before I can say anything, Phigby points to the tree line. “More wood,” he orders, “this little fire won’t suffice for what I need to do.”
Cara starts to turn, but I reach out to stop her. “Stay here and help,” I say, “I’ll get the wood.”
She nods gratefully, and I can see the weariness in her eyes. I push past the golden who’s lying with her head on her forelegs, eyes closed. The sprogs are still asleep, having slept through all the excitement.
It doesn’t take long for me to gather a bundle of dried, broken limbs and branches and start back. I don’t see Scamper anywhere, but I figure he’s given up on his fishing expedition and is rooting in the hillside for worms or beetles.
I glance upstream to where the three pillars stand tall and dark. The clouds part and a beam of moonlight falls on the columns. I suck in a breath. In the pale light, I see three faces staring; their cool, blue eyes centered on me. The light passes, and they’re gone. “No,” I whisper to myself. “Please, please no more witches.”
I scurry back with my load and quickly drop the wood by the small fire. I gulp and start to point toward the pillars. Phigby, who’s laid out two gray, metallic cups and several jars, takes one look at me and snaps, “Well, what is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
My mouth works, but nothing comes out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the golden raise her head, peering at me with an intent expression. Phigby glares. “Hooper!” he grumbles. “Out with it, or let me get about tending to Helmar.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing,” I murmur, deciding that I must be seeing shadows in the night, faces that really aren’t there.
“Humph,” Phigby replies. “In that case, put more wood on the fire.” As I do, Cara unloads the sprogs off the golden and places them near the fire for warmth. They’re snuggled together, except I notice that Regal has wormed his way into the middle of the pack, gaining even more warmth off the other sprog’s bodies.
Phigby dips two fingers into a lime-colored jar and pulls out a pinch of green-tinted flakes. He drops those into the first cup, adds water, stirs with a small wooden spoon and sets the cup next to the fire.
He pours water into the second cup, adds a sprinkle of fine granules from a white jar and a liberal amount from a small, dark red pot. After stirring, Phigby sets that cup, too, next to the fire. It’s not long before steam begins to rise from the first cup and he pulls it away from the coals.
He stirs the olive-colored liquid, letting it cool before he hands the cup to Helmar. “Drink,” he orders. Helmar brings the mug up to his nose and sniffs the steam. He jerks his head back and wrinkles his nose.
“Phigby,” he scowls, “if that tastes like it smells, I’m going to end up spitting it all out. What happened to that delicious cinnamon and honey molasses concoction you gave me when I had the cough?”
“I don’t tell you how to train dragons,” Phigby retorts. “Don't tell me how to tend arrow wounds. Now, drink.”
Cara gently touches Helmar’s hand. “Go ahead,” she says encouragingly, “I know from experience it doesn’t always smell or taste good, but Phigby knows what he’s doing.”
Helmar wrinkles his nose again. “I’m not so sure,” he answers. He takes another sniff, grimaces, but then takes a deep breath and downs the liquid, making a face when he finishes. Seeing his expression, I know from experience exactly how he feels.
He coughs, gags, and says in a raspy voice, “I was right, it tasted every bit as bad as it smelled.”
“Be that as it may,” Phigby answers, “that will help defeat the poison, just in case there was any.”
“Poison?” I ask.
“Wilders sometimes use the juice of the pison berry on their arrow tips,” Phigby explains. “Even a tiny scratch results in a horrible death. Someone who has such a wound begins to writhe, foam at the mouth, and — ”
He stops, seeing the distressed look on Cara’s face. He reassuringly pats Helmar on the shoulder. “You show none of the symptoms, lad, so be at ease. I only gave that potion to you as a precaution.”
He reaches over and pulls the other steaming cup away from the fire. He rummages in his bag and pulls out several long strips of cloth. He hands those to Cara and lifts up the cup to Helmar. “Drink just a bit of this but no more than one small swallow or you’ll be sleeping for three days and that we can’t afford.”
After Helmar downs one small sip, Phigby holds the cup over the wound. “This,” he says to Helmar, “is going to sting. But it will cut the pain while I get that arrow head out of your shoulder. Hopefully, if it hasn’t gone too deep, your arm should practically be good in a day or so.”
Phigby tips the cup, letting a good amount of the liquid pour into the wound. Helmar grimaces and says to Phigby, “You and I have a difference of opinion on what the word sting means.”
Phigby ignores Helmar and goes to work on the arrowhead. Fortunately, the tip hasn’t gone very deep, and it takes Phigby only a few moments to work it out. Cara pours the rest of the medicine into the wound and with Phigby binds Helmar’s shoulder tightly with the bandage strips that Phigby has pulled from his bag.
I reach over, pick up Helmar’s tunic, and hand it to Cara. With Phigby helping, Helmar manages to wiggle back into his tunic and pulls it down over his waist. Phigby fashions a sling and settles Helmar’s arm in the crook. Once done, Helmar flexes his fingers and peers at Phigby in surprise. He nods appreciatively while announcing, “The pain is all but gone. From now on, I’m going to call you Professor Medicine.”
“Professor Emeritus of Medicine,” Cara smiles.
Phigby lifts one corner of his mouth in a tight, satisfied smile while he points at Helmar’s wound. “You were lucky, that arrowhead didn’t even go halfway in. Your arm should be pain-free well past sunrise. So, was a few wee moments of pain worth a day or more of no pain?”
Helmar smiles back. “Of course.”
“Good,” Phigby says, “so from now on, you won’t be questioning my medicines, now will you?”
Helmar shakes his head dutifully. “No, Professor Phigby. I promise to keep my mouth shut in the future.”
“Wilder poison,” I say to Phigby, “I’ve never heard of that before.”
He turns stern eyes on me. “There are a great many things that you’ve never heard of before, Hooper. You should have studied my books more.”
“I did what I could,” I mumble in defense.
Phigby flaps a hand at me. “Never mind. I guess you were like most every other child in the village.” He peers at me sideways, and his eyes seem to bore straight into my soul. “Except that I always thought you were different . . . ”
He lets out a long breath. “Maybe I was wrong.”
I hang my head in the uncomfortable s
ilence that follows before I start to rise and murmur, “I’ll go get more wood.”
“Wait, Hooper,” Helmar orders, “I have something to say to you, too.”
His manner causes me to think, what else have I done wrong now? First, Phigby, and now Helmar.
He gestures with his good arm toward the golden. “Where are her wing chains?” he demands.
Cara jerks her head around, apparently unaware until now that the golden’s wing chains were missing. “Did you remove them?” Helmar questions bluntly.
I take a deep breath and let it out before I answer. “Uh, yes, Helmar, I did,” I reply truthfully. I hurriedly go on. “If we were discovered either by the Wilders or drogs, I wanted her to have the chance to escape.”
He and Cara exchange looks. From Helmar’s stern face and disapproving expression, I’m afraid that I’m in for it. I can only hope he understands my reasoning, even though he may disagree with my decision.
I wait for the tongue lashing that I’m sure is forthcoming while Helmar’s gaze flicks from me to the golden and back again. He mutters slowly as if forcing each word out of his mouth. “I guess under the circumstances; it was the right thing to do, Hooper.”
Not exactly high praise, but coming from Helmar, it’s pretty close. I glance over at Cara, who gives me a small smile of approval, too. Cara’s smile warms me more than any fire.
Phigby holds up a hand and says, “No need to get more wood, Hooper, we have enough for now. Besides,” he says while glancing at the lot of us, “I suspect that we need to sort a few things out.”
He points to the golden. “Especially about her. Obviously, the question is, what do we do now?”
“I agree,” Cara chimes in. She nods toward Wind Rover before turning to Helmar, “And I want to know what you can tell me about how she found her way back here — without father or Daron.”
I sit back down and almost tripping over my words, say, “And I want to hear how Master Phigby escaped the dragon fire in Draconton, how you two escaped the Wilders, how you found Scamper, what happened to — ”
“Hooper,” Phigby growls in an exasperated tone, “I’ve never known anyone to get so many words out in one breath as you.”
