The Fire Within

by Chris D'Lacey

  “Hey!” cried David. “Leave him alone.”

  But the smiling squirrel didn’t need any help. It was up a tree and gone before David had time to take another breath. He shrugged and decided to leave them to it. After all, this was probably the sort of tiff that squirrels got into a dozen times a day.

  Sploop. Just like the penny dropping into the fountain, a sudden realization hit him. What he just witnessed was a basic example of squirrel behavior: When faced with a nasty encounter, flick tail and run away fast. But the speed of the smiling squirrel’s escape, particularly up the tree, was largely due to its remarkable agility, and it couldn’t achieve that without peripheral vision. How would it have managed with one eye closed? Could it have climbed as quickly then? Could it have climbed at all? In short, how would Conker have coped if faced with the threat of a bullying squirrel, or marauding cat, or something not yet even imagined?

  Somewhere in the distance a mallard quacked.

  The answer was as sharp and as clear as that call.

  Conker wouldn’t cope. He couldn’t run from danger.

  He was, in effect, a sitting duck.

  INSPIRATION

  It was late afternoon before David returned to Wayward Crescent. The street lamps were flickering to life and a few dead leaves were skating the pavement. Whistling softly, he opened the gate to Liz’s drive. It swung back, not with its usual creak, but with an ear-splitting whine that almost had the tenant jumping into the hedge. He glanced suspiciously at the gate. Either those hinges were in dire need of oiling or …

  Neee-yaaaaah!

  The same whine split the air again. It was someone cutting wood with a high-powered saw.

  Someone like Henry Bacon, perhaps.

  A light was on in the neighbor’s garage. Fueled by curiosity (but more by suspicion), David crouched low and crept up to the doors. As he raised his face to the grimy window, the thump of a hammer rattled the glass. Something hit the garage floor with a crash. There was a snapping sound. Mr. Bacon cussed. He tossed his hammer onto a workbench. It hit a box of nails and spilled them onto the floor.

  David dipped away, frowning hard. Henry was obviously making something. But what, exactly, it was impossible to say. David shook his head and let it pass. There was no law against people doing woodwork in their garages, even if they were as crazy as Henry.

  With a shrug, he crossed over onto Liz’s drive and let himself into number forty-two. He had barely finished kicking the mud off his shoes when Lucy came sprinting down the hall to greet him.

  “Where’ve you been? School was out ages ago.”

  “I had lunch with the president and walked his dog around the White House.”

  “Liar,” said Lucy. “Did you get a book?”

  A book. David had forgotten the book.

  Lucy read the defeated expression on his face. “You did go to the library, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Thanks for telling me Mr. Bacon works there.” He draped his coat over her head and walked on into the kitchen. “Hmm, something smells good.”

  Down the hall Lucy shouted: “This coat stinks!”

  “Baked potatoes, sausages, and baked beans,” said Liz, pointing a wooden spoon like a wand. “Simple, but filling. How was your day?”

  “Not bad. Spent most of it in the library gard — ow!”

  David started with pain as Lucy jabbed him in the thigh with a lollipop stick.

  “Hey, that’s enough of that,” Liz scolded.

  “He’s being horrible,” Lucy complained. “He says I didn’t tell him about Mr. Bacon.”

  “Oh dear. You found Henry?”

  “Couldn’t miss him,” David muttered, glaring at Lucy. “He was at the information desk when I went in specially to get someone a squirrel book.”

  “Where is it?” Lucy badgered, ever hopeful.

  “They didn’t have one.” David flicked a breadcrumb at her.

  Lucy made a moody face and thumped into a seat at the kitchen table. On the table was a half-made dragon, a jelly jar of water, and a number of sticks. Lucy took a finely pointed stick and began to scrape doggedly at a flat piece of clay. David watched in quiet admiration as she turned it into a three-toed foot.

  “So, what did you think of the gardens?” asked Liz.

  “Nice,” said David, yawning lightly. “I met the library gardener.”

  “Oh, George. He’s been there since the place was opened. They grew him from seed, I think. His wife bought a dragon from me once. He’s a funny old guy. A little grouchy, but his heart’s in the right place.”

  “Can’t say the same for his timing,” David muttered. “He told me this peculiar story about everyone in Scrubbley knowing it’s eleven when the library clock strikes three.”

  “It’s true,” muttered Lucy. “All the chimes are wrong. We learn it by heart at school. You have to remember it never bongs nine.”

  “That spells doom and gloom,” explained Liz.

  “Hasn’t anyone thought to repair it?”

  “Frequently,” said Liz, turning sausages with a fork, “but a petition always goes around to leave it be. It’s become sort of a tourist attraction. Tricky when the clocks go forward, though.”

  “You gain four bongs,” said Lucy, bending to retrieve a piece of clay. It was then that David noticed two complete dragons, sitting on the windowsill at Lucy’s side. One of them, a rather regal-looking creature, bore an uncanny resemblance to Lucy herself. David looked again from a different angle. The dragon had the usual spikes and scales — and yet, when he stared at it, he clearly saw Lucy. It was almost as if she’d dissolved inside it.

  The second dragon, by contrast, was a real monster. Its wings were raised, its jaws were open, and its claws were spread in readiness for battle. David peered into its dark green eyes. They had a strangely disconcerting depth. The sort of eyes that could follow you anywhere. He was pleased Gadzooks didn’t look like that.

  “Who are they?” he asked.

  “Gawain and Gwendolen,” Lucy muttered.

  “What do you think?” asked Liz. She leaned back against the counter, drying pots.

  David pointed at the scary one. “Wouldn’t like to meet him down a long, dark alley.”

  “That’s Gawain,” said Lucy. “He’s very fierce and he doesn’t like jokes.”

  “Don’t be grumpy,” said Liz. “What about the other one, David?”

  The tenant sat down in his usual place and turned Gwendolen around to face him. “At the risk of getting burnt to a crisp, she really reminds me of Lucy —”

  Lucy dropped her modeling stick.

  “— give or take the odd green scale, of course.”

  For a moment there was silence. David gave an innocuous smile, hoping he hadn’t said anything out of place. You never really knew in the Pennykettle household; dragons were always a ticklish subject. He looked at Lucy. She was gaping at her mom.

  Liz dried a plate with a slow, circular motion of the dish towel. “That’s very observant,” she said. “Not many people can see the resemblance.”

  “Lucky guess,” said David with a nervous shrug. Why did he suddenly get the feeling he’d found the key to some deep, dark secret? He glanced at Gawain and couldn’t help but ask, “So if Gwendolen is Lucy, then who’s …?”

  Lucy’s eyes opened to the size of saucers. “He’s —”

  “Going upstairs,” said Liz, just as the timer on the microwave pinged.

  “But—?”

  “No buts, it’s dinnertime. Clear that table.”

  Lucy’s shoulders sagged. She looked once at her half-built dragon, blew it a kiss, then squashed it mercilessly into a ball.

  Liz pulled on a pair of oven gloves and took three potatoes out of the microwave. She put them on a baking tray and popped them into the oven to crisp. “Five minutes,” she said, and whisked outside with a bag of trash.

  As the door drifted shut, David tapped Lucy gently on the arm. “Who is he, then?” he whispered,
nodding at Gawain.

  Lucy bit her lip and glanced outside. “The last dragon in the world,” she hissed.

  “No. I meant, who’s he modeled on?”

  Lucy looked at him as if he were an idiot. “He’s the last real dragon in the world,” she repeated.

  David, none the wiser, changed the subject. “Fine. Let’s talk about Conker. I want to ask you something important. Have you ever seen him climb — since he hurt his eye?”

  Lucy looked faintly puzzled.

  “Up a tree? Fence? Anything? Think hard.”

  Lucy thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Know what?” said Liz, coming in again. She snatched up a box of cat chow and rattled some into Bonnington’s dish. Bonnington materialized in the kitchen as if he’d beamed down from outer space.

  “I was asking Lucy about Conker,” said David.

  “Quelle surprise,” said Liz, making Lucy frown.

  David knocked on the table to get her attention. “I saw two squirrels in the library gardens.”

  Lucy’s eyes lit up.

  “Lucy, I can still see a mess,” said her mom.

  Lucy hurried to the sink with her jelly jar and sticks. “What did they look like?” she asked.

  “Gray and squirrelly,” David said unhelpfully. “One of them was big and fat.”

  The jelly jar clattered around the sink. “Was it Birchwood?!”

  “Birchwood?” David spluttered with laughter. “Not unless he caught the bus to Scrubbley. It’s quite a trek to the library gardens.”

  “Not if you go across the fields,” said Lucy. She banged her hands down on the counter. “That’s where they went, Mom, the library gardens!”

  “Very nice,” said Liz. “Now move that clay.”

  Lucy transferred it to a corner of the counter. “What did the other squirrel look like?”

  David put his fingers to the corners of his mouth and pushed his lips up into a grin. “It shmiled, like thish.”

  Lucy gaped in astonishment. “What’s its name?”

  “I don’t suppose he thought to ask,” said Liz. “Cutlery, please.”

  “Smiler!” Lucy shouted, opening the drawer. “I bet its name is Smiler!” She slapped a fork on the table in triumph.

  “That doesn’t sound right,” said David.

  “Well, that was Gawain’s turn,” Lucy said hotly. “Big Beam, then?”

  “Oh dear,” clucked Liz. “Imagine being stuck with a name like ‘Big Beam’!”

  “Well, that was … Gwendolen’s turn!”

  Liz looked at Lucy hard. “Then Gawain and Gwendolen have both gotten it wrong.”

  Lucy, undeterred, had one last option. “Can Gadzooks have a try?”

  “Pardon?” said David.

  “Ask him,” said Lucy.

  “How?” said the tenant, looking bemused.

  Lucy paddled her feet. “Dream it,” she breathed.

  “What?” said David.

  “Mom, make him do it.”

  “I’m cooking sausages, Lucy.”

  “Oh, Mom. Please.”

  “Do what?” said David.

  Lucy threw herself into the chair beside him. “It’s Mom’s special way of telling stories. You have to join in and tell what you see. Then the story really comes alive. Things happen. Things you don’t expect. Oh, Mom, make him do it.”

  Liz sighed and gave in: “David, close your eyes and picture Gadzooks.”

  He looked at her askance. “You’re not serious?”

  “In thirty seconds, your dinner will be burned.”

  “That’s serious,” said David. He closed his eyes. “OK. He’s on his windowsill, looking out over the garden. I think he’s wondering if it’s going to rain.”

  “No,” said Liz, “he’s biting his pencil, deep in thought, trying hard to think of a name for your squirrel. Dream it, David.”

  David rocked in his chair and let his mind float. “He flipped a page of his notepad over.”

  “Hhh!” gasped Lucy. “It’s working, Mom!”

  “Shush,” went Liz.

  “He’s writing something.”

  “What?” gasped Lucy, too excited to be shushed.

  David let his imagination flow. To his amazement, he watched Gadzooks take his pencil from his jaws and hurriedly scribble down a name on his pad.

  Snigger

  David’s eyebrows twitched in surprise. Liz prodded a sausage or two with a fork. Lucy bit a fingernail. Bonnington yawned. The whole Pennykettle household waited for an answer.

  “Snigger,” David whispered.

  From somewhere came a gentle hrring noise.

  David’s dark blue eyes blinked open. “Yes,” he said, “his name is Snigger.”

  SOMETHING TRAPPY

  I like it,” said Lucy, smiling at her mom.

  The doorbell rang before Liz could begin to offer an opinion. “Terrific timing,” she muttered, turning things down to a lower heat. “Lucy, set the table while I see who that is.”

  Lucy grabbed the placemats and plopped them down. “Tell me some more about Snigger and Birchwood.”

  David shrugged. “They went up a tree. That was it.”

  “Nooo,” said Lucy. “Make up a story.”

  “Lucy, I told you, I don’t tell stor — hang on.” David cocked an ear toward the hall. He could have sworn he had just heard Henry’s voice. Now that he’d tuned in, he could certainly hear Liz.

  “No,” she sighed loudly. “Thank you. Good night.” The door banged shut. She bustled back into the kitchen. “Well, I’ve heard everything now.” She whipped the oven door open. “That was Henry, wanting some gorgonzola.”

  “That horrible smelly cheese?” said Lucy.

  “Why did he want gorgonzola?” asked David, suddenly aware that the hairs on the back of his neck were rising.

  “He didn’t say,” Liz muttered, sliding the potatoes out of the oven. “But, knowing Henry, it’s bound to be something typically trappy.”

  “Oh, no,” David gasped, standing up suddenly. His chair legs squealed against the kitchen tiles. “That’s it. He’s building a … Oh, no!” Without another word he was away down the hall.

  “Da-vid? What about your dinner?” Liz threw up her hands in despair.

  “I’ll get him,” offered Lucy and went scooting down the hall before her mom could stop her. Ten seconds later, she joined David at the doors of Mr. Bacon’s garage.

  “Lucy, what are you doing here?”

  “Why did you run away so fast?”

  David gritted his teeth. “Does Mr. Bacon like squirrels?”

  “No. He hates them — especially Shooter.”

  David turned away with a hand across his face. He pushed his hair back hard at the roots. “Go home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because —”

  “WHO’S THERE?!”

  With a bang, the garage doors opened and Henry leapt out, wielding a golf club.

  Lucy squealed and hid behind David’s back.

  “Stop, Mr. Bacon!” David cried.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Henry, looking disappointed. He let the club flop tamely to his side. “What are you lurking for, boy? Thought it might be robbers.”

  David glanced through the open garage door. On the workbench he could see a long narrow box. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at it.

  A smile touched the corners of Henry’s mouth.

  “Bacon’s patented rodent remover. Come and have a look, boy. Work of genius.”

  “What’s a rodent?” asked Lucy, tugging David’s sleeve.

  “Another name for a rat,” he said. “Stay here, Luce. No arguments, OK?”

  Lucy looked a little disappointed, but planted herself by the doors anyway.

  David followed Mr. Bacon inside.

  Henry tapped the box with the heel of his club. “Knocked it out in a couple of hours. Had a little trouble with the spring at first. Works great now. Want to see it
in action?”

  David crouched down and peered at the contraption. It was made from solid sheets of plywood and was big enough to catch a dozen rats. At the front of the box was a sturdy, hinged door, with a window made from wire mesh. Mr. Bacon pulled it open. It swung upward with a gentle chafing sound. Mr. Bacon hooked it in place with a slim strip of metal screwed to the inner wall of the box. David peered inside. In the far top corner was a covered light, with a small red motion sensor underneath. The only other object was a fine metal wire, dangling from the center of the ceiling of the box. David raised a finger to touch it, and got a golf club across his knuckles for his trouble.

  “Safety first,” Mr. Bacon hissed. “Finely tuned system. Hair-trigger response. Wire sets it off, boy. That’s for the bait. Going to dangle a smelly chunk of cheese on that. Pity Mrs. P. didn’t have any. See that?” He pointed the club at the covered light. “Stays on all night to attract the rodent. When Ratty sneaks in, the light blips off. Ratty gropes around in the dark for the bait and …” Mr. Bacon prodded the wire with his club. The door came down with a spiteful snap.

  Lucy gasped loudly and flapped her fists.

  David stood up straight. “Mr. Bacon, stop this. Now.”

  Henry knitted his wispy eyebrows. “What are you talking about, boy? We can’t have Ratty and his chums in the garden.”

  “But it was Conker!” Lucy shouted, storming in. “David didn’t see a rat, he saw a —”

  “Cat,” said David, clamping a hand across Lucy’s mouth. “Conker the cat. Lives four doors up. Slim, gray animal. Easily mistaken for a large rat.”

  “Cat?” Mr Bacon scoffed. “The only cat around here is the girl’s awful beast.”

  Lucy stamped on David’s foot and worked herself free. “I’m going to tell Mom!” She dashed from the garage.

  “Lucy, wait!” David called, skipping sideways after her. “Don’t do it, Mr. Bacon,” he said from the door.

  “It’s my garden,” barked Henry. “I’ll do what I like.” He swished his golf club to show he meant business.

  David hurtled after Lucy. He caught up with her in the hall.