The Fire Eternal

by Chris D'Lacey

  “I see it flying, like a giant bird,” Avrel said, his eyes filling up with newfound wonder. “Flames are flowing like water from its mouth. It …” He stopped walking, as if a wall of ice had hit him, causing Ingavar to pause as well. “It … burned you,” he said, looking fearfully into the eyes of his Nanukapik.

  “Not Ingavar,” Ingavar said to him calmly. “The young dragon you remember is called Grockle. Grockle raged at the Fain that had entered this body; the invader had been sent here with orders to kill him.”

  “Did he survive?” asked Gwilanna.

  “Yes,” said Ingavar.

  Avrel swiped a paw in confusion. “But … I don’t understand. If these beings, the Fain, first came to this world to breed dragons, why would they send an agent to destroy one?”

  “For once, a good question,” Gwilanna admitted.

  “And one you must have asked yourself many times as you sat in your ice block counting stars,” said Ingavar. He gave a grunt of approval for his Teller’s intelligence. “Listen carefully, both of you. What I have to say next will have a bearing on the outcome of our journey. The Fain disrupted the human race, Avrel. But in doing so, they also disrupted themselves. The commingling process worked both ways. When the human trait of aggression was introduced into the Premen, a new division of the Fain began to evolve and ultimately break away, a darker breed who call themselves the Ix.”

  “What?” said Gwilanna, as though the idea was not only impossible but absurd.

  Ingavar raised his head. “Things are not what they were, sibyl. It was an Ix:risor who was sent to slay Grockle. An assassin. One of the deadliest agents of the new order. Grockle was fortunate to survive, and so were you. The Ix want control of the realm of dark matter, the matrix of the universe that nurtures all creation. It’s not a physical battle, but a war of wills. A conflict of moods. A push and pull of shadows. It has been in process for centuries, but only now is it coming to a climax. And this earth, this one-time place of dragons, is being drawn into it again.”

  “But why was this … Grockle a threat?” pressed Avrel.

  Ingavar narrowed his gaze. “The Ix are planning their own dragon culture.”

  “And? What’s wrong with that?” said Gwilanna.

  “The beings they will make are anti-dragons; their spark will be created from dark fire.”

  Avrel glanced at the raven, expecting her to comment. But her shape was now as rigid as ice. And though it was only flecks of snow spotting her feathers, she appeared almost pale. “That … can’t … happen,” she said in gulps.

  “What does this mean?” the Teller asked anxiously.

  Gwilanna hurled the phrase back with venom. “What does it mean? What does it mean? It means everything of meaning will be meaningless, you idiot. A dragon born of dark fire would be a monster. It would be in mortal conflict with natural dragons and would seek to extinguish The Fire Eternal. It would turn this world into a barren gray moon. How are they doing this?” she snapped at Ingavar.

  “They’re probing,” he said, “but their source is hidden. They’re almost certainly here on the earth already.”

  “Probing?” queried Avrel.

  “Sending out thought waves,” Gwilanna said impatiently, clucking as best she could at his ignorance. “To humans?”

  “To their collective consciousness, mining it for negative energy.”

  Gwilanna squeezed her claws deep into the ice. “They’d never do it,” she muttered. “Even if they killed every human on this planet and left some pathetic specimen to mourn for them, they couldn’t condense enough negative energy to make one pure burst of dark fire.”

  “The Ix are not planning to kill anyone,” said Ingavar. “Their methods are much more subtle. They intend …” But here he paused. The others followed his gaze and saw Kailar pounding toward them through the layers of the storm. The eye of Gawain was thumping hard against his chest.

  “What is it?” said Avrel, as taut as a cat.

  “A creature,” panted Kailar, “unlike anything I know.”

  “Where?” hissed Gwilanna, peering into the mist. And then she saw it. A huge gray beast with long woolly fur and tusks that protruded from its head like hooks. “An elephant?” she squawked.

  “Not quite,” said Ingavar. He turned to his Teller. “Look closely, Avrel. This is a creature from the time of the Premen. It’s called a mammoth.”

  22

  THE ROAD TO BLACKBURN

  Tam Farrell’s car rattled. Something inside the glove compartment perhaps? Or maybe the rearview mirror wasn’t fixed? Or there was a tiny screw or a random coin or an old candy wrapper trapped inside the air vents? It was driving Lucy crazy. Making her fidget. And the highway seemed to be never-ever-ending. And the rain seemed to be so non-stopping, the drops hammering on the car like kamikaze sparrows. She pushed a finger into a hole in her jeans. For the past ten minutes she had chewed her lip and promised herself she wasn’t going to say this, because she’d done so as a girl on journeys to the beach and her mom had always teased her for it, but sometimes, well, you just needed to know. Looking straight ahead at the arrow-gray road through the hypnotic wipers beating triple-time, she said, “Are we nearly there yet?”

  Tam touched his satellite navigation screen. “We’re just passing Birmingham.”

  “Meaning?” Her hands flowered with four years of pure teen spirit.

  “One hundred and eleven miles to go.”

  Lucy slumped down and sighed. She pressed her knees together and let her feet explore either side of the footwell. “I’m bored. Can’t we have some music on?”

  Tam reached for the radio dial. Stations crackled in and out of the speakers. Pop. Country. News. Sports. He left it on News.

  “This isn’t music,” Lucy complained.

  “Antenna’s bent. This is the only good station I can get. Besides, it might be useful — for weather updates.”

  “Um, it’s … raining.”

  “Go to sleep,” he said. “I’ll wake you when we’re close.”

  “Excuse me? I’m not a little girl,” she griped. “Anyway, you’re the one who’s half asleep. Why are you so quiet?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “What about?”

  “Everything,” he said, giving nothing away. Then, “What’s that around your neck?”

  “My collar, of course.”

  He glared sideways at her.

  “All right. It’s a charm. It protects me from evil journalists!” She pulled it into view, a simple twist of hairs, one side red, one cream.

  “That your hair, the red?”

  She bobbled her head. “Sort of —” No. Wait. How could she possibly explain it was really a lock of hair from her ancestor’s grave on the Tooth of Ragnar? She thought briefly about the spirited adventuress, the real Gwendolen whom Lucy’s dragon was lovingly named after. No. She wasn’t going to tease him with any of that. But the devil in her couldn’t resist saying, “The cream-colored hair comes from a polar bear.”

  He seemed to find that funny.

  “I mean it,” she said. “There are things about me you’d never believe.”

  He nodded and adjusted his rearview mirror. “Like the dragon, you mean?” Gwendolen was riding on the back shelf, staring through the rear window like a nodding dog. “She’s real, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah, right,” Lucy said and folded her arms.

  Without warning, Tam yanked on the steering wheel, lurching the car into another lane.

  “Hey!” Lucy shouted, slamming her hands against the dash. The car accelerated past a truck, through the blinding wash of its spray. As soon as they were clear Tam switched lanes again, just as jerkily as the first maneuver.

  “What are you doing?” Lucy squealed. “You’ll kill us, you lunatic!”

  “Amazing,” he said. “She must move at the speed of light. I can’t see her doing it, but she readjusts her position so she doesn’t fall over.” He wobbled the car again. “No hunk of cl
ay, look.”

  Lucy swung a backhand, which caught his upper arm. “Stop doing that! You’re making me sick!”

  He glanced sideways again. “You don’t get along with Zanna, do you? You think she’s inferior to you and your mother. In fact, you’re angry with her for all sorts of reasons. David … okay, that’s understandable. But something about losing an isoscele … what’s that?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You made it my business. You gave me the memories — or rather, your ‘special’ dragon did.” He glanced at Gwendolen again. He could swear her ears had tipped back and stretched. “Who’s Guinevere?”

  Lucy groaned and banged back into her seat. “Oh, this was so not a good idea.”

  Tam switched lanes again, finding an open stretch of road to cruise. “Look, Lucy, let’s cut a deal. If you want me to help you, you’ll have to meet me at least halfway.”

  She rolled her head and stared at the waterlogged fields.

  “Alternatively, I can pull off at the next exit and take us straight home.”

  “Yeah, but then you won’t have your story, will you?”

  “And you won’t know for sure about David.”

  “I lived with him!” she said, twisting upright. “How can you think he wasn’t real? He was our tenant. I’ve got pictures of him. He ate with us. He … he … used our bathroom! He wrote me a story for my birthday — and signed it!”

  “Snigger. I know.” His eyes flicked up, searching, retrieving. “You always read a bit at bedtime before you say your prayers.”

  “How did you …? Oh, this is so embarrassing,” Lucy said. “You shouldn’t be — oh no, what’s this?”

  She looked up to see a string of red brake lights curling into the distance. Great. A holdup. That was all she needed. Her enthusiasm for this quest was slowing down as quickly as the engine’s revs.

  “Traffic,” muttered Tam, reading an announcement on an overhead sign. He joined the stream of traffic snaking into two lanes. The car rolled to a virtual halt.

  “How long will we have to wait?” asked Lucy. Suddenly, everything seemed so grim, stuck in this fishbowl drenched in rain, hemmed in by fumes and creeping metal. Her bedroom at home was like a five-star hotel in comparison.

  “Let’s put it this way,” Tam muttered anxiously. “Now is not a good time to say you need the bathroom.”

  “Oh, you’re sooo funny.”

  “Let it drop,” he said, setting the vents to blow warm air. “Do you want to call your mother?”

  “No,” she said pointedly, hiding her face.

  “If we’re held up too long we’ll have to stay over.”

  “What?” she said, color draining from her cheeks. “I’m not staying anywhere with you!”

  “My aunt lives near Blackburn. She’s got extra rooms.”

  Lucy was speechless.

  “We’re not turning back.”

  “Excuse me? I think that would be kidnapping, actually.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” he said. “I haven’t come all this way not to get some background on your mystery tenant.”

  “You said you didn’t care!”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “So you admit he existed? Fine, take me home.”

  The car shunted forward another few yards. “I want to find his parents, Luce, and so do you.”

  “It’s Lucy,” she snarled, putting her feet against the dash.

  “Lucy,” he repeated, in a softer tone. “Look, I’m not saying you didn’t know the guy. It’s just a little strange that I can’t trace any details of him back beyond the college. It’s almost as if he popped up out of nowhere, did a quick geography course, saved your squirrel, then disappeared again. For the sake of my professional integrity, I need to nail this down. And if I don’t,” he added before she jumped up again, “someone else will. The longer you go on wrapping David up, the more people are going to come snooping. So why don’t you just ease off and trust me? Is it true, for instance, that he died in the Arctic?”

  Lucy chewed an imaginary piece of gum.

  “I can’t find the details in these memories you gave me, but I can feel your sorrow. You cried for weeks and planted a yellow rosebush in the garden for him, didn’t you? You had a ceremony and you held hands with Zanna. She was still pregnant at the time. Come on, what really happened up there, Lucy?”

  “He drowned, trying to save me. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Save you? Save you from what? How come you were there at all? You must have only been about eleven at the time. What was a kid from the middle of suburbia doing in a killer wasteland like the Arctic?”

  “I can’t tell you,” she said, making claws of her fingers, “and you wouldn’t understand if I did. Anyway, my mom would go totally crazy — and you’ll really get zapped if Mom’s on the case.”

  “Then why did you ever bother to ‘unzap’ me? Why hitch a ride to Blackburn? Why contact me in the first place? What is it you want, Lucy?”

  “I want people to know about David,” she said, tears springing from her flashing green eyes. “Polar bears are dying and the ice is melting and people like you don’t even care.”

  Tam took a hand off the wheel to gesticulate. “All right, if you’re going to generalize, let’s at least set the record straight. It’s people like me who try to present a balanced picture. You say polar bear numbers are dwindling? Yes, they are — in certain parts of the Arctic, like Hudson Bay. But in some territories, their numbers are actually increasing. That doesn’t mean we should ignore the problem areas, but likewise, they shouldn’t be used as the only barometer of what’s happening up there. The same is true for the whole global warming debate. I admire people like David who stick their necks out and try to bring the issues to people’s awareness, but that doesn’t mean I close myself off to the scientists who argue the other side of the story. You know what the biggest trouble is from all this?”

  “Um, boredom?” Lucy suggested, who hated being lectured.

  “Disinformation.”

  She wriggled her nose. “What?”

  “While the jury’s out, the politicians will have a field day. They can spin the debate whichever way they choose. That’s what’s known as power, Lucy. When the populace is confused, our leaders are well and truly in command.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. Politics as well, now. This guy was sorely in need of a tedium bypass. “I don’t care about politicians.”

  “Well, you should,” he said, as if she’d just had her wrist slapped. “If you want to make David a hero, you’ll have to aim for the heart and find something that will strike a planetwide chord. And that has to be done in a political sphere.”

  Lucy yawned.

  “Want to hear what I think?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. But I could always leave you by the roadside with a sign around your neck saying, ‘Annoying, arrogant, naive little girl. Please give me a home.’”

  “Very funny,” she said, squirming uncomfortably. He was quiet for a moment, driving, so she said, “Well? What, then? What would you do?”

  He braked again. “Remember that news story a few months back about the polar bear cub born in a zoo in Europe?”

  “‘Course I do. They were going to kill it.”

  “Yes. You know what stopped them? Public sympathy. I read an article about that bear. The most telling line in it was a quote from its keeper. ‘The thing that’s caught people’s imagination,’ he said, ‘is that he — the cub — almost died.’ Almost died. Transfer that feeling en masse to the Arctic and you have your quickfix solution to global warming: You lobby the UN Environmental Agency to persuade the big industrial nations to get polar bears listed as an endangered species, using a cute cub as the perfect icon. Once that motion goes through, the powers that be will be forced to protect the polar bear’s habitat. That means they will have to examine what’s causing the reduction of the Arctic ice cap and come clean ab
out what they know. In other words, either they have to admit that there is a direct correlation between the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere and the degree of Arctic meltdown so that they’re forced to introduce strict laws to cut CO2 emissions, or they establish once and for all that it’s a natural phenomenon and they pour more resources into helping the bears that are threatened. It wouldn’t be perfect or painless, but it would be a start. David knew this when he wrote White Fire. But his book, by itself, won’t motivate people to act soon enough. It’s too subtle. What you need is a media crusade. That’s how I can help.”

  “So … will you?” Lucy’s tone now was meek. “Even after what Zanna did?”

  Tam pushed a hand inside his shirt. The skin on his left side was tingling again, as it had been on and off for most of the day. His mind flashed back to Zanna’s arm, coming down like a branding iron across his heart. This is the mark of Oomara. The first three fingers of his hand gave a twitch and he felt something stirring, as if he had connected with a distant force. Some kind of whispered chant in his head. Some kind of darkness flowing through his synapses. He shook it away and planted both hands on the steering wheel. “I can make a champion of David for you, but he’s not exactly A-list material. I’d need an angle. Something that will take the world by storm and make people really sit up and listen.”

  “Like …?”

  “Like what’s his connection to dragons, for instance?”

  Lucy buried her face in her hands.

  “Come on,” Tam pressed. “Anything bizarre makes a real difference. Dragons are wired into the human consciousness. If people thought David could bring clay to life he’d be —”

  “He couldn’t,” she cut in. “He’s not like us!”

  “Then let’s talk about ‘us.’ You and your mom. Or …” He felt the stirring again. “Gawain, is it?”

  “No!” Lucy shouted. “No! No! N —!”

  “Whoa!” Tam cried and suddenly pumped the brakes.

  Despite the low speed the car skewed a little and Lucy gave out a little yelp. “Is that a tree?” she gasped, rubbing at the windshield.

  Just ahead, behind a cordon of revolving yellow lights, lay the severed trunk of a very large tree. At its broken end the splintered spikes of wood stood out like clean white flames, as though it were a rocket frozen on blastoff. It was spread across the bottom third of the embankment, reaching out into the first two lanes of the highway. Men in orange waterproof jackets were waving cars past, guiding them through a coned-off region, fresh with the dust of cracked and flattened wood. A small van was on the shoulder with two police vehicles. It had been half crushed.