The Fire Within

by Chris D'Lacey

  With Liz’s go-ahead, Lucy bounded upstairs. She and Sophie disappeared (unscathed) into the den. Liz followed. David dawdled on the threshold. He waited till Liz and Lucy weren’t looking, then racked the doorknob left and right.

  Normal.

  “Oh, wow,” Sophie gushed, overwhelmed by the rows of spiky creations. “Look at this one. And this. And this baby, hatching from its egg.”

  Lucy turned to her mom. “Can Sophie have one?”

  “I’d love one,” said Sophie. “How much are they?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Liz, flapping a hand. “Have a look around. If any of them speak to you —”

  Suddenly, there was a clunk from the back of the room. Everyone turned to see David on his knees, rubbing the back of his head.

  “David, what are you doing?” said Liz.

  David flushed with guilt. He didn’t think “looking for an oven” would be the sort of answer Liz would want to hear. “Um, slipped on some clay, banged my head on a shelf getting up.”

  Liz looked down at the polished boards. There wasn’t a smidgen of clay to be seen. She turned again to Sophie. “As I was saying, just choose one you like, and it’s yours.”

  “Except for them.” Lucy pointed to the bench.

  Sophie puttered across the room to investigate a dragon on the potter’s wheel. “He’s fierce,” she said.

  “That’s Gawain,” said Lucy, swelling with pride. “I broke him last week. He’s just been mended.”

  Sophie turned the wheel a few degrees either way. “You’d never know.”

  You wouldn’t, thought David, peering over Sophie’s shoulder. Liz had done a remarkable job. Gawain was standing with his veined wings tented and every claw spread neatly to a sharpened point. If anything, he looked more threatening than ever. As Sophie returned the wheel to rest, the dragon was suddenly lit from behind in a halo of rays from the setting sun. David almost jumped onto the nearest shelf. His first impression had been to think that the dragon had actually burst into flames. He sighed at his stupidity and glanced at the window. On the sill were several pieces of plywood, which looked as if they might have clay stains on them. Maybe that was Liz’s kilning secret? Perhaps she baked her sculptures in sunlight?

  “Who’s this?” asked Sophie, moving on.

  “Guinevere,” said Lucy, lowering her voice. “She’s Mom’s special dragon.”

  “Is she praying?” Sophie steepled her fingers, mimicking Guinevere’s virtuous pose.

  Lucy shook her head and whispered into Sophie’s ear.

  “Making fire?” Sophie exclaimed quietly.

  “What?” said David, turning in surprise. He knocked a knee against the workbench, upsetting a jar of brushes and sticks.

  Liz righted them and said, “David, behave, or you’ll have to leave.”

  “But Lucy said Guinevere was making fire.”

  Lucy stepped behind her mother to avoid eye contact.

  “They are dragons,” laughed Sophie. “What do you expect?”

  “Right,” said Liz, frowning at the tenant. She guided Sophie toward another shelf.

  David hung back to look closely at Guinevere. The red-haired girl from the dragon story had never really come up in his thoughts before. Why did she have a dragon named after her? A special one at that. David stared hard at the sculpture.

  And saw Elizabeth Pennykettle in it.

  Suddenly, he found himself thinking back to Sophie’s faux pas in the car. If Guinevere was Liz, and Gwendolen was Lucy, did that then mean that Gawain was …? David stared into the fiery eyes….

  One second, two seconds, three seconds, four …

  All he saw was a dragon.

  No more.

  “This one’s sweet,” Sophie piped up.

  David glanced across the room and saw Sophie reach out for a fragile-looking creature with angelic wings and shell-like ears. She took it off the shelf, then paused for a second. Her head leaned forward slightly. “Hello, who’s that — hiding in the back?”

  “Ah,” said Liz, reaching forward. She pulled a youthful-looking dragon to the front of the shelf. “That’s Gruffen. He’s not for giving away either, I’m afraid.”

  Gruffen. A spark lit up in David’s mind.

  “He shouldn’t be on this shelf,” said Liz. “Lucy, put Gruffen in his proper place, would you?”

  Lucy took Gruffen to the shelf by the door. “Stay there and don’t be so naughty,” she muttered.

  “Oh dear, poor Gruffen,” Sophie laughed. “He has lovely eyes, doesn’t he? Soppy, like a puppy.”

  “What?” grunted David. Somewhere at the back of his mind a dreamlike image roared to life — of a soppy-looking dragon with violet eyes, framed in the shape of a tiny keyhole. He swept across the room to investigate Gruffen.

  “What’s the matter with you now?” said Liz.

  “It’s him,” gasped David, staring Gruffen in the face. “I had a really weird dream when Gawain got broken — all about a dragon, guarding this room. It had violet eyes and it looked like him.”

  “His eyes are green,” said Sophie.

  “Yeah, but — hang on, what’s that he’s standing on?”

  “His book,” huffed Lucy as if anyone with eyes to see could tell.

  Gruffen was perched on a hardback book made entirely from clay.

  “I don’t remember seeing that before,” said David.

  “You wouldn’t; I only just made it,” said Liz.

  David moved Gruffen and picked up the book. “Can’t open it.”

  Sophie whispered in his ear: “I think that’s because it’s made of clay.” She held up the dragon with the shell-like ears. “I’ll take this one, if I may.”

  “She’s a listening dragon,” Lucy said. “You can tell her things. What will you call her?”

  “Let’s decide over a cup of tea,” said Liz. “Come along, David, you can put the kettle on.” And exchanging quiet words about people with overactive imaginations, she and Sophie left the den.

  Lucy folded her arms and waited for David.

  “You can’t hide it from me forever,” he said, plunking Gruffen back on his book. “I dreamed about that dragon. I know it was him.” Hrrr! he went, in Gruffen’s face.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Lucy bristled.

  David thumbed his nose and turned away.

  As he did there came a gentle hrrr from behind. “Ow!” he exclaimed, clapping a hand to the back of his neck. “What was that? Something … burned me.”

  “Serves you right,” said Lucy, pushing him out. “You shouldn’t mess around when their eyes are lit.”

  “Lit?” said David, glancing back. Lucy was quickly shutting the door. The gap narrowed and narrowed, shutting Gruffen out of sight. But it was open long enough for David to glimpse one single, sparkling, violet eye.

  SNOOP

  Sophie named her dragon Grace.

  “Very apt,” said Liz.

  “I like it,” said Lucy.

  “It’s not very magical,” David grumbled.

  “Ignore him, he’s in a funny mood,” said Liz.

  Sophie turned her wrist and glanced at her watch. “It’s time for me to go. Thank you for the tea — and Grace; she’s lovely. I’ve had a super day. I’m glad I was able to help with the squirrels.”

  Lucy threw her arms around Sophie’s waist. “You will come back again, won’t you?”

  “I’d love to,” said Sophie. “When you go and visit Conker, I’ll come along, too — if that’s all right?”

  “Oh, I hope we see you before then,” said Liz, prodding a finger into David’s back.

  “Um, what? Oh, I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.

  As they stepped outside into the cold, crisp air, Sophie was the first to speak. “What was all that about in the den? You were acting really weird.” She put Grace on the roof of the car and rummaged around in her bag for her keys.

  “There are things going on in this house,” said David. “Odd
, unworldly things.”

  “You’re not telling me you’re hearing bumps in the night?”

  “No, growls in the night.”

  Sophie’s mouth twitched into a grin. “David, all houses make peculiar noises. Ours creaks and bloggles and gloops all the time.”

  “Yeah, I know, but they’re normal noises. This one hrrrs. Liz says it’s the central heating, but she doesn’t have any radiators.”

  Sophie gave it a moment’s thought. “I guess it’s the dragons snoring.”

  David threw up his hands in despair.

  “Well, what do you think it is?” she laughed, throwing her bag onto the passenger seat.

  “Don’t know,” he said, resting on the hood. “But they’re keeping something secret. It all has to do with Liz’s glazing process. She keeps making these dragons, but she hasn’t got a kiln. How can she fire them without an oven?”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t need to,” Sophie said, shrugging. “Maybe she uses a special kind of clay?”

  David shook his head. “She heats them somehow. While she was mending Gawain she put a sign on the den saying ‘KILNING — NO ENTRY.’ I tried to sneak in to see what was happening, but when I touched the doorknob it burned my hand.”

  “Serves you right,” Sophie said primly. “That was your conscience trying to warn you.”

  “No, it was Gruffen, keeping guard. He flamed the handle when I tried to turn it. Just now upstairs, when I breathed on him, he scorched my neck. Take a look if you don’t believe me. There must be a mark.”

  Sophie frowned and took a look. “All I can see is a spot the size of Everest.”

  “A spot?” said David, feeling for it.

  “Yeah. How’s this for a burning sensation?” Sophie breathed on it, making him wince. “I think you’ll find it was Lucy who hrred. Speaking of whom …” She tilted her head toward the house. Lucy was standing in the front room window, waving and pulling a smoochy face.

  David stuck out his tongue.

  “Hey, be nice to her,” Sophie clucked. “She’s going to need you now. Life will be quiet without the squirrels. She’ll miss them. So will you.”

  David folded his arms and shrugged.

  “At least you’ve got the story,” Sophie continued. “That should keep both of you happy. ‘Conker’s Dad.’ That’s the next chapter, isn’t it?”

  “No,” David said firmly. “It’s ‘Conker went to the library gardens, lived happily ever after, and the nutbeast was never pestered by the little girl again. The End.’ I’m going to write it tonight and give it to her tomorrow. Then it’s ‘really’ finished, as she likes to say.”

  Sophie smiled and got into her car, throwing an empty potato chip bag off the seat. “I hope Conker lives a good while. I think if I were Lucy’s age it would be sweet to read about him enjoying himself in the library gardens, even if I knew he was ultimately going to kick the bucket.”

  “No worries about that,” David grunted. “I’m under strict instructions to write a happy ending. Rule number ninety-seven: You’re not allowed to make a dragon cry.”

  “Right,” said Sophie, starting the engine. “Tears might quench their fire.”

  “Go away,” David sighed. “You’re as bad as they are.”

  “Thank you. I will now go home and sulk.”

  The tenant grimaced and chewed his lip. “I didn’t mean it. I was only teasing. You will come back again — won’t you?”

  “Possibly,” said Sophie, turning her cheek.

  David took a breath. Was this an invitation to kiss her good-bye? He said a quick prayer and puckered his lips …

  … just as Lucy pounded up the driveway. “Stop!”

  “Oh, Lucy! What—? OW!” David bellowed, banging his nose on the frame of the door.

  “Grace,” she cried, pointing.

  “Hhh!” gasped Sophie. “She’s still on the roof!”

  Grumbling, David snatched her down.

  Lucy took her and handed her to Sophie. “She didn’t like it when the car went vroom. She thought you were going away without her.”

  “No way,” Sophie whistled. “Thanks, Luce.”

  “Yes, thanks, Lucy,” David added. “You can go inside again now.”

  “I’m staying here, waving bye-bye,” she said, resisting all attempts to be shoved aside.

  “Don’t fight,” said Sophie. “I’ll see you both soon.” She blew both of them a kiss and reversed down the driveway. The car roared away in a cloud of blue smoke.

  As it disappeared around the Crescent, Lucy swung her hips and said to David, “Did you mean it? Will you really finish Snigger tonight?”

  “Possibly. I’ll — hang on. How did you know I might do the story tonight?”

  Lucy’s face turned fire-engine red.

  “You were snooping,” David accused her. “You had that window open, didn’t you? You shouldn’t listen in on private conversations.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Don’t lie. It just makes things worse.”

  Lucy stamped an indignant foot. “I wasn’t listening in on your private conversations.”

  David glared at her and walked away.

  “I wasn’t!” she shouted. “Don’t you dare tell Mom!”

  David wagged a finger. “You were listening. Don’t deny it.”

  “I wasn’t,” Lucy said again, almost in tears. She kicked a stone along the driveway. “Grace was.”

  THE FINAL WORDS

  As a punishment, David didn’t complete the story that night. Or the next. Or the next. Or the one after that. No amount of pestering could make him type a word. Lucy told him she hated him more than cold oatmeal. He replied that her nose would grow for telling lies and threatened to stir his oatmeal with it. Lucy said she’d tear the story up and throw it in the trash. David said, Fine, it was in the computer anyway.

  It took a phone call from Sophie to turn things around. “Don’t be mean,” she said when she learned what was happening. “I don’t remember the windows being open. How could she have heard us? Write the story — or I’ll set Gruffen on you.”

  The hairs rose on the back of David’s neck.

  He decided to end the feud.

  The following evening, he was lying on the sofa watching TV when Lucy slipped into the room. She was wearing her pajamas and bathrobe.

  “I found this under my pillow.” She flapped two sheets of paper at him.

  “Gosh, that squirrel fairy is quick,” he said. (Lucy had visited the dentist that day.)

  “I read it.”

  “I gathered. Did you like it?”

  Lucy shuffled her feet and flopped into a chair. “When are you going to write some more?”

  David threw her a glance. “There isn’t any more. They’re the last two pages.”

  “You mean this is it?” She held up a page and started to read: “For the rest of that week, the library gardens were alive with the drama of the nutbeast.”

  “Lu-cy.”

  “Snigger told his story so many times that he couldn’t remember who’d heard it and who hadn’t and received several dark looks from irritated squirrels who all seemed to have a drey to build.”

  David turned up the TV sound.

  Lucy turned up her voice: “Snigger could not remember a time when there had been so much construction work going on, but at least it reminded him of the urgent need to find Conker somewhere to sleep. So, joining forces with Ringtail and Birchwood, he began to search out a good place for Conker’s new home.”

  “Lucy, buzz off. I know what I wrote.”

  “Taking into careful consideration Conker’s climbing difficulties, they opted for a hollow in the trunk of an ash. The ash stood next to a notice-board, supported from the ground by two metal legs and a sloping wooden strut. The strut was a perfect approach to the tree. In no time at all, Conker was able to reach his hollow without any fear of falling.”

  “I’m not listening.”

  “And so it was that the little squirrel s
ettled into his brand-new home and lived a happy and contented life. The End.”

  “Thank you. Can I watch soccer now?”

  Lucy found the remote control and muted the sound.

  David gave her a very hard stare. “What’s wrong with that ending?”

  “It’s not very interesting, is it?”

  “It’s not meant to be ‘interesting’. It’s supposed to be happy.”

  “But nothing happens. It ends too soon.”

  David threw up his hands. “There’s nothing else to write.”

  “There is,” said Lucy, widening her eyes. “You can write about Conker’s adventures in the gardens!”

  “No chance,” David snorted. “That’s another book entirely.”

  “Yes!”

  “No! One story was enough.”

  For once, Lucy knew that the tenant meant it. “Well, finish this one the right way, then. Ask Gadzooks, he’ll know what to do.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of writing it myself.”

  Lucy gave him a doubtful look.

  David groaned and snatched up the manuscript. “All right, I’ll ask the dragon!”

  He got to work on it the following Sunday afternoon. “Okay,” he muttered, firing up the computer. “This is it. The final words.” He grabbed Gadzooks while the screen was clearing. “Sharpen your pencil and clear your pad. We’re finishing this today.”

  Gadzooks chewed the end of his pencil in silence. “No, wait,” David said, plunking him down. “I’ll do it myself. I’ll show her.”

  And he started to type.

  Then erase.

  Then type.

  Then cut.

  Then mutter.

  Then fiddle with the mouse.

  Then mutter some more.

  After fifteen minutes on one short sentence, he stood up and started to pace the room.

  “This is stupid,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustation. “All I want is a nice, happy, believable ending.” Sighing loudly, he turned to the window. Outside, in the garden, shadows rolled across the empty lawn. What’s really happening at the library? he wondered. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine. Without prompting, Gadzooks wrote a word on his pad.