Dragon's Green

by Scarlett Thomas

  Perhaps he just couldn’t bear to part with them. He certainly did seem to be a book lover. A bibliophile, as he described himself (which is Greek for ‘one who loves books’). As well as running his antiquarian bookshop, he currently had a 20 percent stake in the Matchstick Press, an up-and-coming publisher. Perhaps the Matchstick Press was how Levar made his money, as he didn’t seem to sell any books from his shop. His tax returns showed a dreadfully poor man making a loss every year, scraping to survive . . .

  None of which explained three strange things about Levar. First, if all reports about him were true, he would have to be at least three hundred and fifty years old. Second, whatever the tax inspectors believed about his bookshop, he was clearly very, very rich. A small gossip column piece from the year before seemed to imply that he had recently bought one of the most expensive objects in the Otherworld – a dragonstooth dagger called the Athame of Althea, which had an enchanted platinum handle studded with precious gemstones from both worlds.

  The last strange thing was that, for a book lover, Levar did an awful lot of pulping. Pulping, Maximilian had discovered, was a process where unwanted books are melted down into a milky liquid and then turned back into blank paper. And Levar owned 75 percent of a book pulping business in the remote Borders. Why would such a bibliophile be interested in pulping books? It didn’t make sense.

  Just then, there was a tap on the window. Maximilian jumped. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find Leonard Levar himself standing there, all shrivelled and tiny and frightening, perhaps wielding the dragonstooth dagger Maximilian had just been reading about. Would he murder him slowly, or would it be mercifully quick? People who messed around with Levar’s business didn’t tend to survive very long, on the whole. The Liminal had recorded at least seven suspicious deaths that were connected in some way to Levar. Of course, nothing could be proven, and . . . Maximilian looked up, his heart beating wildly.

  It was Wolf.

  Maximilian opened his window and Wolf climbed in. He was breathless and wet from the rain and kept looking behind him. He looked as if he’d just played seventy-nine minutes of intense Under 13 rugby, except that he wasn’t bleeding. He did, however, look more frightened than Maximilian had ever seen him look before.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Maximilian.

  Wolf tried to catch his breath. He was holding a key, Maximilian noticed: a large ornate brass key with rusty turquoise smears on it. The spectacles scanned first Wolf, and then the key. Wolf’s energy was about 50 percent of normal, which the spectacles assured Maximilian was fine, given that he had probably just run halfway across the city. Wolf’s M-currency was looking quite low for someone who had recently epiphanised, at around four hundred. The key had no stats at all, which was odd, given that even a pair of Maximilian’s socks generated several numbers and a heartfelt suggestion that they be either washed or destroyed immediately. Perhaps the key was cloaked or blocked in some way.

  ‘It’s for where he’s keeping the books,’ said Wolf. ‘Effie’s books.’

  ‘OK . . .’ said Maximilian. The key was was actually more useful than all Maximilian’s research. Which made him feel slightly put out. ‘So you’re on our side now, are you?’ he said, sulkily.

  ‘I’m not on any side. I just want Effie to have her books.’

  ‘So where are they?’

  ‘Under the city. You go down to the basement of the old guy’s bookshop – you have to go through a secret door behind a false bookshelf to get there – then after that you have to go through an old tunnel until you get to another door. This is the key for that door. Behind the door there’s a kind of small cave that leads to a bigger cave full of loads of crates wrapped in plastic. Me and my uncle had to wrap up all Effie’s books individually – all blooming 499 of them – he made us count them – and put them in crates and then lock the door behind us. My uncle’s going to go totally ape when he finds out I’ve nicked the key. We’re meant to give it back to the old bloke tomorrow when we drop off all the rest of the stuff from the Old Rectory.’

  ‘Well,’ said Maximilian. ‘That doesn’t give us much time.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it was the best I could do. My uncle is literally going to beat the crap out of me when he finds out that— ’

  Just then the door opened and Maximilian’s mother walked in.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, pleased. ‘You’ve got a friend here.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Underwood, I was just going.’

  ‘Stay for supper,’ she said. ‘It’s homemade cottage pie.’

  14

  When Effie got home, everything was horribly quiet. Normally there was the sound of the TV or radio and the whirring of the blender and the washing machine and the microwave and the bang-crash of baby Luna in her playpen while Cait did something – even if sometimes this was just blending – about dinner.

  Effie walked in and shut the door quietly behind her.

  ‘She’s here,’ she heard her father say. ‘It’s all right.’

  The next thing Effie heard was a terrible wail, like a sort of primal scream, coming from the sitting room.

  ‘ARRRGGGHHHH . . .’

  Effie approached the sitting room. Cait was on the sofa, wrapped in about four different blankets. On the table was an empty pizza box, a half-finished bottle of wine and a dog-eared paperback romance novel – the one that had come with the latest tub of Shake Your Stuff. Effie’s father was standing there, holding baby Luna, who was chewing his tie. Perhaps that was all the nourishment she’d had today.

  ‘IT’S ALL SO SAD,’ wailed Cait.

  ‘Effie’s back now,’ said Orwell, throwing his daughter a glance that partly said I am going to kill you but also partly said Help me.

  Effie threw back a glance that said If you wanted my help you shouldn’t have sold my books, and then she looked away.

  ‘BUT GRIFFIN ISN’T COMING BACK.’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  Effie was startled. Was Cait actually crying over her husband’s dead wife’s father? Cait hadn’t seen Griffin for years, and they hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms. And Cait had agreed with Orwell that all Griffin’s talk of magic and other worlds was ‘mumbo jumbo’, despite one of the magazines she read reporting a study that said that magic in the world had increased by 10 percent since the worldquake. Well, Effie now knew that her grandfather’s eccentric ways had been connected with real magic, and that his library was even more important than she’d thought. She still had to work out some way of rescuing his books and . . .

  Effie’s stomach grumbled again. Where was her dinner? Since Cait had thrown out all the food, there wouldn’t even be any cheese in the fridge for cheese on toast. There’d be no milk to make a cup of hot chocolate . . . although Effie couldn’t imagine tasting anything quite as wonderful as the hot chocolate in Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop ever again.

  The room smelled of pizza. Cait must have ordered one when she got hungry after realising there was no real food in the house. This was typical of her lately. And she used to be quite nice.

  ‘Is there any more pizza?’ Effie said hopefully.

  ‘AND I THOUGHT EFFIE WAS DEAD . . .’

  ‘How could you?’ said Orwell to his daughter. ‘You’ve almost given Cait a nervous breakdown. Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘My grandfather died, or have you forgotten? And then someone decided to sell the books he’d left to me. I was a bit upset, and so I’m home a little later than I thought I’d be. It doesn’t look like I’ve missed anything interesting. Well, apart from pizza. Is there any more?’

  ‘You are a cold, callous . . .’ Orwell raised his hand, but at the last minute decided he didn’t want to be the sort of father who hit his daughter. ‘Look at what you are doing to us. You are destroying this family.’

  Baby Luna started to cry. She didn’t like it when her big sister got into trouble.

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ said Effie. ‘And I don’t know why Cait’s crying over Gran
dfather Griffin anyway. She never even liked him.’

  ‘ARRRGGGHHHH!’

  ‘Right. That’s it, madam. I’ve had it with you. You can go straight to bed without any dinner. And take Luna with you.’ Orwell passed the baby to Effie. ‘I’m going to try to comfort my poor grieving wife.’

  Before Effie put Luna to bed she gave her a spoonful of the damson jam she’d taken from her grandfather’s kitchen – the jam he said he kept for emergencies. He had once told Effie, with sparkling eyes, that it was ‘medicinal’. Well, this certainly seemed like an emergency. Had Luna had anything real to eat today? Effie gave herself a big spoonful of the jam as well. It made her feel warm inside, and even quite full, almost as if she’d had a roast dinner this evening, rather than nothing at all.

  Effie took all the important things out of her schoolbag – the walkie-talkie, the Sword of Orphennyus, the wonde, the candlestick, the candles and her grandfather’s black book. And of course the ring. She turned each object over in her hands carefully before putting it into the wooden chest her grandfather had given her last Christmas. She opened the black book and saw line after line of her grandfather’s handwriting – all in blue ink, and all in Rosian.

  Then she got into bed with Dragon’s Green and the flask of tonic that Lexy had given her. If the damson jam had made her feel that she’d just had a roast dinner, the tonic made her feel as if she’d just followed it with a lovely big steamed chocolate pudding with ice cream. She felt content and restored as she opened the book. Well, almost. Something was wrong. Of course – her grandfather was dead. And on top of that she was worried about the argument she’d had with her father, and found she was still furious with him because of the books. But maybe it wasn’t really his fault. Maybe he was just doing what he thought was best. Effie resolved to apologise in the morning – well, sort of apologise, and only if he did too – and turned her full concentration to the book.

  Once upon a time there was a girl who . . . it began.

  Effie yawned. Oh dear. What with the damson jam and the tonic and the difficult and long day, she had begun to feel sleepy. But the tonic was supposed to help her stay up and read – even read in the dark, Lexy had said. Effie took a deep breath and started again. Maybe the enchantment needed time to kick in.

  Once upon a time there was a girl who was very, very sleepy, the book seemed to say now. How ridiculous. Effie prised her eyes open and started again. Once upon a time there was . . . The words blurred. The lines all started dancing around. And then, before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

  The first thing Effie heard the next morning was a car horn beeping. There was some conversation that she couldn’t pick up and the sound of a car door opening and closing. Then there was the sound of a very powerful and expensive engine turning over quietly outside. The car seemed to be waiting for something.

  There was a knock on the door and her father came in.

  ‘Breakfast is in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Do you want it in bed?’

  Breakfast in bed? What? And why wasn’t her father at work?

  ‘OK, thanks,’ said Effie. Was this his way of apologising for the night before? ‘And I’m sorry for last night. I was just really tired and upset and hungry.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Orwell. ‘How do you want your eggs? Boiled or poached or fried? Sunny-side up? Hard, medium or soft? And would you like toast or soldiers? Brown or white bread? Grapefruit? Cereal? Maybe a bowl of porridge before your journey?’

  Effie sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘What journey?’

  ‘You’ve been invited to Dragon’s Green,’ said Orwell. ‘Your driver’s waiting outside. It must be something your grandfather arranged. You’ve got a private car and then overnight accommodation in the Green Dragon Inn, before . . . Well, the next bit’s a surprise. Anyway, breakfast?’

  ‘OK. Thanks. Can I have two boiled eggs with white soldiers, please? And a bowl of porridge. And some grapefruit would be lovely. Thank you.’

  ‘Right away,’ said Orwell, with a smile. ‘Would you like brown sugar on your grapefruit and clotted cream and honey on your porridge?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Effie.

  While Orwell was cooking breakfast, Cait came in.

  ‘Sorry about yesterday,’ she said. ‘I’ve bought you something to make up for it.’ She brought in a brand-new suitcase.

  ‘It’s all packed for you,’ she said, ‘with new clothes. It’s a capsule wardrobe for a . . . Well, for a trip to a house in the countryside. And here,’ now she presented Effie with two boxes, each tied with a silk ribbon, ‘is your travelling outfit. I hope it’s all right. The lady said it should fit you.’

  But Effie had to wait to unwrap her travelling outfit, because just then her sumptuous breakfast arrived. Her father had brought her a cup of hot chocolate as well as all the food, because he knew it was her favourite drink.

  When Effie came to put on her travelling outfit she was absolutely amazed. Where had Cait found this stuff? There was a delicate pink skirt with layers and layers of petticoats. It was the lightest, softest thing Effie had ever held, and must have been made of the purest silk. It was the sort of thing that very rich girls might wear for a wedding or a party, but Effie had never seen anything like it before. As if knowing that Effie didn’t like to look too girly, whoever had chosen the outfit – could it really have been Cait? – had added a distressed black denim jacket and a dark grey t-shirt with a gold star on it. There was even fresh underwear and a pair of soft grey cashmere tights. In the second box there was a pair of biker boots, and a thick studded belt.

  When Effie was dressed she felt like someone else. She’d never worn a pink skirt in her life. Did she like it? She wasn’t sure. But she did like the jacket, and the boots. She brushed her hair for the first time in about a week and then pulled it into a loose ponytail.

  It was only when she had completely finished dressing that she looked down and noticed the ring on her thumb. She didn’t remember putting it on. Should she take it off? But when she tried, it wouldn’t budge. Never mind. It went with her outfit. And if – as Effie suspected – she was dreaming all this, it wouldn’t matter anyway. In fact, if this was a dream, Effie didn’t want to ever wake up, because so far it was the best dream she had ever had.

  When she was ready, her family assembled in the thin hallway to wave her goodbye. Even baby Luna looked pleased to see her sister go off looking so glamorous, on such a mysterious adventure. What had Griffin arranged? No one seemed to know. Orwell helped Effie with her suitcase, and then kissed her goodbye, while the driver loaded the case into the boot of the car.

  ‘Write to us?’ said Cait.

  Effie climbed in and got comfortable on the huge back seat of the car. She carried on waving to her family until they were out of sight.

  ‘Music, miss?’ asked the driver. ‘I’ve got R&B, alternative folk, experimental jazz, East Coast hip-hop or drum and bass, if you please.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Effie. ‘How long will the journey take?’

  ‘Around four hours, miss.’

  ‘Well, I might have some music later. Thanks.’

  ‘My name is Percy, miss.’

  ‘Thanks, Percy.’

  Although it was still autumn, and quite grey as they drove out of the city and into the Borders, soon they were travelling down bright country lanes lined with meadows. Several of these meadows were full of buttercups, as if it were the height of spring. There were also ox-eye daisies, birdsfoot trefoil, black medick, white campion, clover, self-heal, yarrow, musk mallow and red campion, among all sorts of different grasses. The sun came out and sparkled on little streams and lakes. There were animals grazing contentedly everywhere. There were horses in paddocks and ducks on ponds.

  The journey went quickly and did not seem to take anything like four hours. Soon, after turning left and then right and then travelling along an improbably tiny, leafy lane, they were approaching the Green Dragon.

  The Green Dragon was an o
ld-fashioned inn of the sort you might find in medieval English stories featuring highwaymen and wild boar. Or one of those very, very old plays that Mrs Beathag Hide was fond of, where everyone went into a mysterious forest and came out married to the wrong person. The inn was made of yellow brick and its arched entrance was covered in pink clematis. Its windows were almost hidden behind great folds of pale blue wisteria.

  Percy didn’t drive right up to the entrance, however. Instead, he stopped just before a small wooden bridge that crossed over a winding stream.

  He took Effie’s case out and placed it on the ground by the bridge.

  ‘I can’t cross the water, miss,’ he said. ‘You’re on your own from here.’

  This seemed like an odd thing to say. But odd things did happen in dreams. Although Effie wasn’t at all sure this was a dream. It seemed so real.

  ‘When will you be back?’ Effie asked.

  ‘Can’t say, Miss,’ said Percy. ‘My booking was one-way only. Good luck.’

  And then he drove away, leaving Effie standing by the bridge, quite alone, listening to birdsong and the trickle of the stream.

  She picked up her case and stepped onto the bridge. As she did, everything became foggy and cold for just a moment, and then went back to normal. After the fog cleared Effie could see she was no longer alone.

  A boy a bit older than Effie was walking towards her, but paying her no attention at all. He was dressed in what looked like riding clothes, and carrying a large sword. He looked baffled but pleased as he strode by Effie and off in the direction from which she had come. It was as if Effie were invisible to him. How odd.