Icefire

by Chris D'Lacey

  Zanna came around and knelt in front of her, taking Lucy’s hands in hers. “In the old days, people used to believe that the Earth Mother often took the form of a hedgehog.”

  “I know,” said Lucy. “It’s in my book.” She had tried to tell David this, that time she’d shown him Spikey’s hutch, but all he’d done was joke about it.

  But it was clear that Zanna didn’t think that way. She chewed idly on her hair for a moment; then she, too, was looking through the windows, as if the resolution to all their problems might be out there, hibernating. “Where’s David got to?” she wondered aloud.

  “Bathroom, probably,” Lucy said. “I’m not going to look.”

  But even if she had, she would not have found David in the bathroom. At that moment, he was inside Henry’s study, pursuing a spiritual quest of his own.

  The room was still and silent and gray, drawing what little light it could from the spreading cushions of white outside. The slanted almond-shaped eyes of the bear looked out from the shadows of the chimney wall. David moved to the side of the room. “I know you’re here, Dr. Bergstrom,” he whispered, letting the very tips of his fingers glide smoothly over the photographs and books. “I know what it is you’ve done. You knew when you gave Liz the fire that one day a chance like this would come — a chance to seize the scale from Gwilanna’s clutches. But Liz is in trouble now. She’s lying on a bed in Gwilanna’s ‘cave,’ in danger of never waking up. You’ve got to help me save her. For Lucy’s sake, if nothing else. I’ve watched and I’ve waited. Now it’s your turn. Show me what I need to see.” And he looked into the mesmerizing eyes of the bear.

  A window shuddered in tune to the wind. Under floor level, the pipework clanked. An odor that might have been the reek of fish oil seemed to leak out of the leather-bound books. Shadows rolled across the chimney wall. And it could have been the darkness playing tricks or a crease or a fold in the surface of the print, but on the head of the bear a mark appeared: three uneven jagged lines, torn into the flesh by a blow of some kind.

  A cold unlike any cold he’d ever known brought the student tenant to an utter standstill. He was looking at the cub struck dead by a bone. The son of Ragnar, grown to adulthood, slain but somehow alive again, a blaze of white fire burning in its scars.

  The ice bear opened its monumental jaws, drawing the oxygen out of the room. David fell sideways against the desk, one hand clutching against his chest. But though his breaths were hard to find, images began to fill his brain like a flock of birds landing en masse in his head. Gadzooks, struggling in vain to reach him; the dragon child biting at the shell of the egg; Bonnington, under Gwilanna’s bed, sparks of violet in his staring copper eyes; G’reth, alive, at the door of the hutch; the hand of a clock ticking ever onward; the strange etchings on an Inuit talisman, changing their positions as the universe turned …

  … and over and above and pervading all this, water bonding back to ice, the molecules speeding hither and thither as if they had memorized their unique positions and all that was hindering their revival was time. Water, freezing in a kitchen sink, plugged by, of all things, mushroom peelings.

  And then suddenly a door slammed. A sound that in retrospect could have been the bang of a starting pistol. For from that moment on, the world began to race.

  Henry Bacon was home from work.

  31

  THE STORM

  Suzanna?” he queried as she hurried to the hall to intercept him.

  “Hello, Mr. Bacon. I’ve, um, come to study with David.”

  Henry brought forth an approving grunt and made his way past her, into the living room. He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of Lucy, perching on his favorite chair.

  Before either girl or Henry could speak, David came thumping down the stairs. “Zanna, gotta talk to you. In the kitchen. Now.”

  “Stop,” said Henry, clapping a hand to his tenant’s shoulder. “Rule seventeen, boy. No parties, dates, or similar functions. What’s going on?”

  “Power’s out next door. Lucy’s here to keep warm.”

  Lucy obligingly rubbed her arms.

  “No power?” said Henry, looking confused.

  “Temporary problem with the fuses,” said David, and yanked Zanna into the kitchen.

  “That was pretty dumb,” she hissed, “letting Henry know there’s a problem next door.”

  “Never mind Henry. This is important. I’ve just had a kind of … revelation upstairs. I know where the pouch is: G’reth’s taken it to Spikey’s hutch.”

  “How? I thought the dragons were all out of action?”

  “Liz’s dragons, yes. But Lucy made G’reth, not her mom. She didn’t put any of the icefire into him. So he wasn’t affected when the snowball melted.”

  Zanna turned to the window. “And he’s gone to the hedgehog? That’s weird because —”

  “Boy, where are you?” Henry Bacon burst in, cutting Zanna off dead. “Get your key. No time to lose.”

  “Key? What are you talking about?”

  Henry hoisted up a bright green toolbox. “Bacon’s patented electrical repair kit.”

  “He wants to go next door!” cried Lucy, rushing in.

  David shook his head. “No, that’s not possible.”

  “Nonsense. Can’t leave Mrs. P. without light. Ah, light. Good point: flashlight.” And he turned and strode briskly out of the kitchen.

  Lucy started to hop like a rabbit. “Mr. Bacon mustn’t see the egg.”

  “She’s right,” said Zanna. “Gwilanna will fry him. Good work, Rain. You wanted a diversion, you just got one. Now what?”

  David ran a hand through his mop of brown hair. “There’s a gap in the fence at the top of the garden. Take Lucy and find that pouch. Bring it back here and keep it safe. Lucy, Zanna will explain, OK?”

  “What about you?” Zanna asked, looking worried. “What are you going to do?”

  The front door opened and Henry boomed, “Come on, boy! Haven’t got all day!”

  David took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. “I’m going to save Henry’s bacon.”

  The snow was falling like cut-glass splinters as David charged out into the crescent. Mr. Bacon had already crossed the drives and was bending down outside number forty-two, calling out for Liz through the flap of the letterbox. To David’s horror, the door swept open.

  Gwilanna appeared on the step, in a dark blue Aunty Gwyneth suit. “Who are you? And what do you want?”

  David skidded to a stop, almost knocking Henry over. “This is Henry from next door, Aunty Gwyneth. He wants to check the fuses, but I’ve already told him that —”

  “Oh, get out of the way,” barked Henry. Bustling David aside, he touched his flashlight politely to his temple. “Henry Bacon, at your service, Madam. Have your lights working in a jiffy, no charge. Is Mrs. P. about?”

  Aunty Gwyneth looked him sharply up and down. “Elizabeth is resting.”

  “Not to be disturbed. We understand,” said David. “No problem. We’ll ring an electrician in the morning. Come on, Henry.”

  “Wait.” Aunty Gwyneth looked Henry in the eye. “I will grant you five minutes to investigate the fault. I want a full report. Do not be surprised by anything you see.” She left the door hanging and marched into the kitchen.

  Henry swept inside before David could stop him, heading for the door to the basement. “Been trying to catch a glimpse of the aunt for days, boy. Fine-looking woman. Frosty but firm. Like a lady who knows her own mind. Is she attached?”

  “Forget it, Henry, she’s out of your league. Just check the fuses. Then go home.”

  Henry dipped into the basement, his flashlight beam dancing like a laser in the darkness. Within seconds, his head struck a shelf with a bump. “Doh! There’s one of those models in here. Sitting on the fuse box, gargoyle pose. What’s it —? Good grief! Your wires are like overcooked sausages. Surprised you haven’t blown every circuit in Scrubbley. How in blazes have they got like that?”

  David
glanced in. Gwillan was standing frozen on the fuse box. “In blazes” was probably an apt description of how he’d left the lighting circuits. If Henry reported that to Gwilanna, the young snuffler would be severely punished. What to do?

  As if the universe had recognized his quandary, suddenly things began to stir. An overwhelming cold invaded the house, just as if a ghost had risen from the basement and spread its death chill into every corner. The lampshade in the hall began to swing back and forth. The stairs creaked. The ceilings rumbled. Then, from deep within David’s room, there came the most awesome crash of glass.

  Gwilanna was at his shoulder in an instant. “What was that?”

  David couldn’t answer. The intense cold seemed to have frozen his senses. Or turned them again in an odd sort of way. A change was occurring deep within his psyche, as if something was trying to contact him. He could feel the unmistakable presence of —

  “Bears,” murmured Gwilanna as a howling wind ripped through the hall, flapping doors as if they were bedsheets.

  From deep within the basement Henry Bacon shouted, “Felt a bang, boy. All right up top?”

  David slid along the stairwell. He closed the basement door quickly and dropped the latch. No matter how much Henry Bacon liked bears, he couldn’t be involved in this.

  “This” was a mini-blizzard in his room. The window, thrown wide and almost off its hinges, had shed its glass in jags across the floor. Snow was whipping into every corner, sticking to the walls, to the furniture, to Liz. For the first time in days, David saw a flicker of movement in her eyelids. She was going to wake. The dragon baby, too. It was scratching at the shell as though desperate to touch the weak glow of moonlight that was wrapping the garden in a silver-gray sheen.

  Suddenly, a figure fluttered onto the sill.

  It was G’reth — and in his wide, dished paws was the pouch.

  In the garden, meanwhile, Zanna and Lucy had reached the hutch. Lucy immediately hunkered down and swept a thick layer of snow off the ramp. She peered inside. “They’re not here,” she reported.

  “Um?” asked Zanna, her teeth chattering like typewriter keys and her attention more on the house than on Lucy. Was that a crash of glass she’d just heard?

  “G’reth and Spikey. They’re not here.”

  Shivering wildly, Zanna bent to look. The hutch was nothing but a mess of leaves. So much for David’s revelations. Anxiously, she checked her watch. Thirteen minutes. That was all they had. She dropped a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “I want you to go back to Henry’s. Now.”

  “Why? What for? We haven’t got the pouch.”

  “Something’s wrong. I heard a crash from the house. David might be in trouble. I’m going to check it out.”

  “Me, too. I’m coming.”

  “No!” Zanna turned and raised her hands. “It might be dangerous, Lucy. Please. Go back.”

  The wind switched and Lucy had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, Zanna’s slim black shape had been swallowed by the storm.

  “But what about your prayer?” Lucy ran a step forward, holding up the silver Earth Mother necklace. The chain loosened and the pendant dangled free. Snowflakes immediately gathered around it, forming a glowing lantern of ice. “Zanna,” Lucy whispered. “Zanna, look at this.” And then a voice uttered her name on the wind. A voice that spoke in very deep dragontongue. With a start, Lucy looked back over her shoulder.

  Sitting in the snow was a large white bear.

  “You?” croaked Gwilanna. “What spell is this?”

  Hrrr! went G’reth and showed her the pouch.

  “I have eyes. I can see it. Bring it to me. Now.”

  The wishing dragon spread his wings and flew. He soared high into the air and circled twice. At the start of the third, he let the pouch go. It landed on the floor at Gwilanna’s back.

  “Idiot,” she snarled, scrabbling for it.

  G’reth paid no attention to the slur and dived down straightaway to the desk, landing silently by the flickering candle. At the same time, David caught a movement near the bed. Bonnington: down low, ready to spring, his once-copper eyes like violet buttons.

  Gwilanna found the pouch and fiddled with the drawstrings. Her reaction to the contents surprised even David: There was shock in the old hag’s eyes. “A tooth?” she screamed. “Is that meant to be funny?!” She hurled the tooth viciously across the room. It pinged off David’s computer screen and ricocheted into the rubble somewhere.

  G’reth sucked at the candle and the flame went out.

  “Traitor! The dark cannot hide you!” screamed the sibyl. She lifted a hand to release a spell, only to find her fingers freezing as a gale force wind drove in from the garden, bringing with it a wall of snow.

  David made his choice and made it quickly. Whatever the significance of this tooth, and whatever G’reth and Bonnington were up to, he was going to be part of it. He took Gwilanna down with a tackle that would not have won any prizes, but did enough to distract her attention from G’reth. The wishing dragon zizzed to the suitcase. In one quick breath he had spoken the password and the contents of the case were beginning to rise. Enter Bonnington, the much-maligned cat. In two surefooted bounds, his lithe brown figure was over the debris and the scale of Gawain was in his jaws. Every strand of his fur, each filament of whisker, bristled with an ancient spasm of fire. But protected from within by the ice he’d lapped, he made it to the window and crouched there, ready. Ears flattened, he leaped for the sill. But the scale, heavy and awkward to carry, caught against the lip and he was thrown backward in a twisting fall. Instinctively, he flipped and spread his paws, only to feel three shards of glass piercing the soft pink tissues of his pads. With a yowl, he let the scale drop. And by then his chance of glory had gone.

  For by now, Gwilanna had overcome David. The moment he had brought her crashing to the floor she had squirmed away, uttering a dreadful hex. The boards beneath the tenant had quickly given way, sending him crashing to the soil below — a fall of a couple of feet, no more, but the rubble that followed him through the hole, sucked in by a vortex of Gwilanna’s hate, had piled in on top, encasing his body and squeezing the air fully out of his lungs. One pitiful hand had poked through the mound, twitched just once, then fallen flat. Gwilanna, shrieking with spiteful laughter, had given one condescending click of her fingers and the boards had swiftly repaired themselves. It was over, just like that: The hole was covered, and the tenant was gone.

  From Gwilanna’s mouth, then, flew a blaze of sparks. Every snowflake thawed in an instant and the blizzard cleared with a deafening splash, the deluge knocking G’reth from the air. The dragon had been flying to Bonnington’s assistance when the sudden change of atmosphere had stopped his wings and brought him plummeting hopelessly down, into the raffia wastepaper basket. The impact had turned the basket over, spilling him, winded, under the desk. And there he had lain for several seconds, blowing a series of defective smoke rings and praying that his tail was still intact. But once again, the universe had treated him kindly, for while the accident had brought him no nearer to Bonnington, it had helped him rediscover the fragment of tooth given to him in the den of the Spikey. It was lying between two pieces of brick. G’reth reached out and closed a paw around it. There was auma in the fang. Powerful auma. But what could a wishing dragon do with it? He righted himself and peeked about. Gwilanna was closing in on Bonnington.

  “You soft-brained, fish-stinking hairball,” she hissed, her matted hair dripping and her sacking drenched. “I will chop you into pieces and put you in a can of your favorite meat.” She rolled a finger. The scale leaped up like an antique tiddlywink and came down like a brand-new ax. Bleeding and limping, but wits intact, Bonnington dodged it just in time, saving his tail by the width of a flea. He hissed and spat as any cat would, but the tiny burps of fire that left his throat only made Gwilanna crackle with anger. “You dare to fight me with fire, cat? I will fry you whole from the inside out.”

  “Try it and the dra
gon dies,” said a voice.

  Gwilanna whisked around.

  Zanna was standing beside the bed with her hand poised over the dragon’s egg.

  Lucy had never seen a bear before. Ordinarily she knew she ought to be afraid. The creature, even sitting, was nearly twice her height. Its power was plain to see. But the bear had spoken kindly to her, using the ancient language of dragons. How could she fear a being like that?

  “Are you Lorel?” she asked, using the tongue.

  A sharp wind played around the ice bear’s ears, making its white hairs ripple gently. “Sometimes,” it said.

  “Why are you here?”

  The bear lifted its snout and blew through its nose. Warm air filled the space between them. Lucy fancied she could see a host of sparks as the cloud settled sweetly over the hutch. Fanned by the breeze, it wafted through the mesh. “Look. Inside box,” said the bear.

  Lucy bit her lip and hunkered down. Nestling among the abandoned leaves was the tiniest snowball she had ever seen. It glistened and the ice lantern pulsed in her hands. “May I take it?” she asked, taking it anyway.

  “Yes,” said a new and gentler voice. “In your hands, it will never melt.”

  Lucy turned. Behind her now, in place of the bear, was the shimmering outline of a beautiful woman. She was tall and fair-skinned with flowing red hair, and her eyes were a pale, translucent pink. She seemed to be wearing a dress of white, but when Lucy looked closely she realized the clothing was really snow, mixing and gathering into ever-moving folds. “Are you … Guinevere?” she asked.

  The woman smiled. “Sometimes,” she said. Flowing forward, she took the lantern back and placed another small gift in Lucy’s hands. It was a pure white hedgehog spine. “Thank you for the shelter and the food you gave. Now you must bring me one last offering. Close your eyes, child. Let the fire guide you.”

  Lucy let her gaze fall onto her palms. A hedgehog spine in one, the icefire in the other. She rolled her fingers into fists.