Fire Star (25 page)

T
hey traveled as Henry Bacon and clay figurine. Human male, insignificant sculpture. For the Fain, a being capable of moving through the vastness of space and time purely by the power of conscious thought, it was drudgery of the highest order. Bones, muscle, blood, skin. How did these humans cope with such oppressive vibrations? Why did they still submit to G’ravity?

The Fain looked through its human eyes, studying the clay on the table in front of it. The clay seemed to be enjoying the passage, as though it had traveled on one of these cumbersome vehicles before. It was here with some kind of stratagem, of course. But he would snuff it out when his work was complete. For now, it merely intrigued him to observe how this creature,
cleverly constructed in the image of Godith and animated by a spark of genuine dragon fire, would interact with the master it called “the David.” What did this human mean to the clay?

The vehicle, the thing they called “train,” halted. The dragon shook its flowers, indicating they should leave. Henry rose from his seat. He glanced briefly at the human that had challenged him for payment and was now slumped against the window opposite, then left the carriage with Gretel in his hands.

They reached the dockside on foot. It was raining heavily by then. The materials covering the human’s skin had become far weightier still, and it was this that attracted the attention of a man, sheltering beneath a brightly colored awning over a wooden hut decked with fishing nets.

“My goodness. You are soaked!” The man stood up. He was tall and bald-headed and dressed in gray. Under his arm was a leather briefcase. On his feet were a pair of sandals.

“What are you?” said Henry.

The man appeared confused. “My name is Brother Darius. I am a man of God. Please, take shelter.”

“You are traveling to the island.”

Brother Darius looked to one side. “The island is not open to tourists at the moment. You would need special dispensation, I’m afraid.”

“I travel where I please,” Henry said. And throwing Gretel aside (she flew to the awning), he stepped closer, then suddenly collapsed to the ground.

During that second of brief confusion, Brother Darius was still himself. But as the Fain left Henry and invaded the monk, it quickly learned the nature of this brother’s mission and used the muscles around his mouth to pull the lips into a satisfied smile.

A jeep drew up. Two figures in wet weather clothing got out. One, a bearded man with no other hair said, “Is it you who’ll be wanting a boat, brother?”

The other, spotting Henry’s prostrate body, hurried over to crouch beside him. “Och, now. What’s this?”

“I do not know him,” Darius said.

“Mebbe a drunk,” muttered the man. “Did you see him go over? This chap’s barely alive, Dougie. He needs a hospital.”

“You take him,” said the bearded man, thumbing at the jeep. “I’ll take this brother across to Farlowe.”

A
t two o’clock, the fishing boat docked on the jetty. Brother Darius, dressed in a plain gray habit, stepped off and strode purposefully along the landing stage. Hiding in his cowl was a potions dragon. High above the waterline, thunder rumbled, gathering the boat back into the gloom.

Brother Feargal, sent to wait for an unnamed visitor, turned his umbrella and hurried across the planking to greet the stranger. Despite the persistent rain, the gray monk’s cowl lay flat against his shoulders. Crowns of water were breaking on his head. There was barely any color around his puckered mouth. He looked up, his dark eyes drilling through the drenching rain.

“Brother, let me shelter you,” Feargal said, tilting the umbrella like a spindly toadstool.

The gray monk raised a hand, a movement that seemed to pause weather and time. “Thank you … brother, but I find the rain refreshing.”

Brother Feargal looked aghast. “You will suffer a chill. The winter is barely done and —”

“I do not feel the cold,” the gray monk interrupted, speaking with such an air of supremacy that Feargal, awestruck, stumbled back a pace.

“As you wish. Where are your belongings?”

“I have no need of belongings,” said the monk. The briefcase he had dropped overboard on the crossing.

“I see,” said Feargal, though he was clearly confused. “Come, let me guide you, the abbot is expecting you.” He turned for the narrow path between the rowan trees, only to see that the stranger was already making for it.

“Thank you. I can find my way.”

“You have visited the island before, Brother …?”

“Darius,” he said. “You may call me Brother Darius.”

Feargal nodded. An unfamiliar name. And the dark gray cloth, unusual also. “Forgive my curiosity, Brother Darius, but may I ask what Order you are from?”

“I do not belong to any Order,” said the monk, as though to suggest it was some kind of insult.

Feargal, sensing a warning note, bowed and decided he would not dig deeper. This visitor, this emissary (as the rumors among the brethren had it) was clearly some kind of high-ranking official. But what kind of monk had no fellow brothers? It set a troubled nerve ticking in Feargal’s head.

“Have you traveled far?”

“I am here,” said Brother Darius. “That is all that matters.”

“Yes, of course,” mumbled Feargal. “I …” He rubbed his head. Was that rain beneath his fingers or pearls of sweat? What was it about this man that disturbed him so?

They passed through the gardens, dead now of flowers, and on toward the gift shop, closed for the winter. Here, Brother Darius paused a moment and directed his gaze toward the roof.

There was nothing on the tiles but moss and rain. Feargal, with a nervous squint, inquired, “What is it? What do you see?”

“A shadow,” the gray monk said, and turned his powerful gaze to the priory, at its stone walls planted in the lush wet rise of green embankments. “There is a dragon among us.”

The tic in Feargal’s head became a major shudder. Clumsily, he brought his hands together. A carousel of raindrops flew off his umbrella. “The island is stained by its presence,” he jabbered. “Have you come to deliver us, brother?”

The sky opened and lightning flashed beneath the clouds. Briefly, within it, the shape of a wide-winged raven could be seen, circling above the stable block. Brother Darius made a strange kind of rumble in his
throat. “There are many forces at work here,” he said. “And soon, brother, you will see one more.”

And he smiled a smile that had little to do with joy and much to do with malice.

Then he walked on toward the monastery.

Alone.

T
his is it,” said Abbot Hugo. “The results of his labor. Allegedly written in the blood of the beast, through the use of its claw — which has disappeared, still unaccounted for.”

He stood away from his desk, allowing Brother Darius to view the manuscript. The gray monk cast his eye at the papers, then slowly withdrew a hand from his sleeves. He picked up the top page and sniffed it carefully. “Have you read this?” He quietly put the sheet aside.

Abbot Hugo nodded. “Our unworthy brother, Bernard Augustus, believes the story is a means for Brother Vincent to purge his emotions of a past relationship.”

The gray monk nodded, and shifted his gaze across the room. “Where is the claw?”

Bernard, sitting on a stool by the window, sat up slightly, popping his jaw.

“Answer him,” Abbot Hugo commanded.

“I believe the dragon has it.”

“By what means?”

“I saw a squirrel take it,” Bernard said, flushing brightly and breaking sweat. The gray monk’s stare was so invasive. His eyebrows, black and sharply arched, were like tunnels hiding heaven knew what.

“Nonsense!” Abbot Hugo snorted, blowing fiercely into a tissue. “You expect us to believe that a
rodent,
a creature of low intelligence, broke into my drawer and removed the claw?”

“He is telling the truth,” Darius said darkly.

The abbot’s eyes swelled with disbelief. “But that’s preposterous. How can you —?” His speech was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Yes! What is it?”

Brother Malcolm stepped in. “Abbot, forgive the interruption, but I thought you ought to know that Brother Terence is running about the corridors, prattling wildly about his attack. He is saying he saw —”

“An angel!” cried a voice, and in burst Brother Terence, eyes as large as hard-boiled eggs. He ran to Brother Bernard and clamped his hands, shaking them as though they were a cup of dice. “An angel, brother. A dark-haired angel.” He jumped towards the abbot. “She appeared before my eyes!”

“Restrain him!” cried the abbot, as Terence fell against him, clinging to his robe like a wild dog.

“I will deal with this,” Brother Darius said, stopping Brother Malcolm before he could advance. He tapped Brother Terence lightly on the shoulder. As he turned, Brother Darius gripped his wrist and pulled it down as if striking a lever.

Terence, swaying slightly, stared back mesmerized.

“You saw an angel,” said Darius. “Describe it to me.”

“Hair,” pined Terence, his pupils expanding. “Hair as dark as the perfect night. Wings, brother. Beautiful wings. I tried … I …” With a pained expression, he stretched out a hand.

“You tried to touch her?”

Terence nodded, helping a tear stream down his cheek. “I meant no harm. No harm at all. But the creature …” He stood back. “No! No! No!” And suddenly he was buckling up, covering his face.

Brother Malcolm caught him around the midriff as he fell, and took him down to the safety of the floor.

“There!” snapped Bernard, rounding on the abbot. “He was trying to touch an angel and the creature protected it. Doesn’t that prove that —?”

“It was not an angel,” Brother Darius cut in. “Merely a spirit, in the guise of a bird.”

“Bird?” said Bernard. He searched the bald-headed face for more.

“On my walk here, I saw a raven. A bird often associated with portents and spirits.”

“Is it friend or foe?” Bernard gulped.

“That depends on which side you stand,” said Darius.

“Oh, this is beyond me!” the abbot blustered. “Birds. Squirrels. Mystical scribblings. I applied to the Elders for advice upon this creature, and the sooner it is done,
the sooner my brethren can return to their sanity. Please, shall we go to the stables and finish this?”

“No,” said Brother Darius, gathering up his sleeves. “First I will commingle with Brother Vincent.”

“Commingle?” said the abbot. “What kind of phrase is that?”

“He means to mix, to share thoughts,” Bernard muttered, trying to reason out why his head was suddenly so full of doubts about this monk.

The abbot ran a troubled hand across his brow. “Oh, very well, if you must. This way —”

A knock. Yet another monk appeared at the door. Brother Rufus, striking a timid pose.

“Not now,” said the abbot, sweeping past with Darius and Bernard close behind.

Brother Rufus bowed to him, quietly grateful. He had been guarding the restless dragon when, of all things, the lightbulb in the barn had blown with a pop that had showered the floor with heated glass, scaring him nine-tenths out of his wits. It did not take a genius in electrical wiring to know right away that the cause
was not simple wear and tear. He had tracked the problem to this piece of cable, taken from the base of the central support. He twisted it once or twice in his hand. Teeth. One could see the indentations. Sharp teeth, gnawing through the plastic sheathing. Annoying, but what was done was done. He had better light a lantern and return to his duties.

Teeth. Yes.

Probably a rat.

I
t was a nuisance, but it had its worth sometimes. He had bought it to record important messages when he was away at prayer. It would cut in after just four rings. The manual had instructions on how to change that, but manuals irritated Abbot Hugo, almost as much as telephones themselves.

That day when it cut in, a woman left a message. In a clear but troubled voice she said: “My name is Elizabeth Pennykettle. I wish to leave an urgent message for a student called David Rain, who I believe may be with you any moment now. Please tell him to call me or come straight home. It’s very important. I believe he’s in serious danger.” {PAUSE} “And if … if a monk
called Brother Arthur is among you, please tell him I never really went away….”

A
tearing. He thought he heard a tearing sound. A crack not unlike the sharp snap of cardboard when the staples are torn from the walls of a box. Coming, he thought, from the dragon pen.

Snap!

Yes. There it was again. He tilted the lantern, swinging amber light deeper into the barn. The hooded creature was half in shadow. But half was all that Brother Rufus needed to see.

A wing! Heaven help us! A wing extending! The mailing tape ripped through, torn along the ventral line of the chest! As the full extent of his horror gelled, the dragon struck out fitfully, crashing the wing into a stack of hay bales. The wire binding them was sliced in
an instant, severed so fiercely the ends coiled into zinging pigtails. The dry air filled with flying grass seed, topped by the dragon’s unearthly squeal. Brother Rufus threw his lantern aside, bolted for the courtyard, and screamed for help.

The dragon, Grockle, still growing in strength, yanked on his neck chain, straining it taut. On the third time he did this, he caused a small movement in the purlin above. The ancient timber, stout but riddled with wood-boring insects, cracked at its center and pulled into a
v.
With another wild tug the purlin snapped and the chain flew clear, lashing its captive with a clatter of steel. Rafters creaked. A rotted timber fell, shattering on the anvil of the cobbled floor. Near to it burned the abandoned lantern, its yellow light flaring as the oil it drew upon spilled from its well. Though unsafe, there was no real danger of combustion. The lamp lay on stone, with little loose straw around. It would take a deliberate act of arson to cause a blaze of unstoppable proportions.

But that was precisely what was in Brother Vincent’s mind.

The squirrel had done him such good service. Now it would undertake one last mission. Drag the lantern into the straw and set the stable block alight. Then would come the final proof that the dragon, Grockle, was a savior to them all.

Lying out, in his state of heightened consciousness, he pictured the squirrel clamping its teeth around the lantern top. But it was hot, and the little creature squeaked and jumped back. The lid of the lantern, loosened by the bite, fell away slightly from its glass walls. A naked tongue of flame poked out.

Vincent’s eyeballs flickered under their lids. Another way. He must find another way. This thought line was too ambitious for the squirrel. Perhaps if it laid a bridge of straw between the hay bales and the —

“Wake!”

The word fell into his mind like a pebble breaking the waters of perception. The squirrel, the dragon, all disappeared, replaced by a rushing sense of fear.

“Wake!” the voice commanded again.

A concentrated force of heat above his eyes. When
he opened them, he felt a hand on his forehead and stared up into the face of death. Its colorless mouth gave a smug little twitch. “It’s over, brother,” the thin lips said.

Erasure. Darkness. The blades of wickedness cutting and stirring his memories into sludge. Brother Vincent, Arthur, physicist, monk, cried out and clutched at the corners of his mind, as voices elsewhere were shouting for sanctuary.
The dragon is empowered and breaking loose! God in his mercy, save us all!

But the loudest shout of all was that of Brother Peter. Scrawny of body, burly of lung: “FIRE! FIRE IN THE STABLE! FIRE!”

Brother Darius, hearing it, snatched away his hand. He scowled at Brother Vincent, as though the man had outwitted him.

“Fire?” called the abbot, hurrying out of the cell.

Brother Bernard rushed to Brother Vincent’s side. He pored over the body, feeling for a pulse. “Is he revived?”

“He is empty. No longer any threat.”

“Threat? To whom?”

FIRE! FIRE!

“Lead me to this hybrid dragon.”

“What
are
you?” said Bernard, standing in his path. “What have you done to this man?!”

In a move so swift Bernard didn’t see it happen, Darius clamped a hand across the fat monk’s forehead. “Well, well. Even you have been an instrument in this comedy.”

Grimacing, Bernard sank to his knees.

“Now,” said Darius, leaving him gasping. “Now the finale begins.”

By the time Brother Bernard had regained his senses, the barn in which the baby dragon had been chained was already a mass of crackling flame. He arrived to see cinders spitting high into the air, and smoke, coaxed by the falling drizzle, winding eastward toward the sea. The large outer wall was standing proud, charring rapidly at its base. But the lower one closest to the monastery itself had begun to fall inward, drawing down the roof. It was here that the abbot had positioned
the brethren, with long poles, planking, anything they could find with which to push the wall in farther, to foil any chance of the fire migrating. With a grinding crack! a row of panels went over. Rafters buckled. The roof caved in. The stench of melting roofing felt tarred the air. A great crown of debris, sparks, and ash erupted from the ground and blew back in a cluster. Several brothers cried out or dropped to their knees as the embers caught on their clothing and skin. But in contrast to the wretched, piercing screeches issuing from the burning pyramid of wood, their shouts were merely whispers on a distant wind. Bernard’s stomach squeezed itself out like a sponge.

The creature, the dragon, was trapped in the blaze.

“How was this started?” he cried, falling down. He looked through the smoke at the blackened faces. Brother Malcolm was tottering, exhausted, through the debris. He was covering his ears to block out the screeches.

“Who started this?” Bernard shouted again. He struggled up and pulled Brother Malcolm around. “Who set it on fire?” He shook the man hard.

“It was escaping,” Malcolm mumbled. “I … there was a lantern …”

Graaarrrrrkkkk!

“Brother, what have I done?”

“Pray for it!” said Bernard, making Malcolm kneel. “Pray for it!” he screamed, running to the others, purging them with swipes of an illusory stick. “It feels pain! It cries out! It has a soul. PRAY!”

And one by one, each brother, including a dazed and despectacled Abbot Hugo, settled to his knees and began to beseech his Heavenly Father to send this creature to a better place.

Only one, Brother Darius, did not join in. He was looking back an impossible distance, beyond the gardens and the rowan trees, toward the jetty where another small boat had just docked a passenger. A young man, a civilian, was sprinting along the stage, clearly heading for the source of the blaze. Brother Darius turned his face to the sky, the color blue running through his sharp gray eyes. There, a far greater distance away, the fire star was starting to reach its
zenith. Less than a day before the portal opened fully. He returned his gaze to the dragon and the monks.

With a sudden inward rush of air, the fire consuming the barn went out.

Startled gasps cut short the prayers. The brethren looked to one another for guidance.

A wisp or two of smoke twizzled out of the pyre. Blistered, shriveled relics of timber cracked and shifted, finding new levels. The shoulder of the dragon poked through the mess. Bloodless. Gray. Like solid stone.

Then, as the rain increased a little and the dying wood hissed and the earth around it fizzed, a shade of green rose through the dragon’s shoulder, forming into a pattern of scales. A breath of movement rippled the wood.

Then the mighty wings came out.

Fragments, some as large as untouched rafters, flew out sideways in both directions. What did not strike the flesh of human skin, splintered windows, charcoaled walls, or simply came to rest in the open fields.

The dragon rose. Its body, flushed with its newborn energy, grew in girth again by the length of a scale. The
manacles around its feet and neck burst like useless paper hoops.

Brother Bernard, one of the few uninjured, watched it shake away the last flakes of wreckage and turn its eyes on the screaming humans. “Please,” he begged, “we only want to help you.”

The dragon snorted a sulfurous blast, powerful enough to knock Bernard over.

“Don’t hurt me,” he begged, scrabbling in the dirt. “God have mercy. Please, don’t hurt me.”

The eyes slid, the wings gyred. The creature, head back, roared at the rain. And where there had once been water, there was steam.

“Grockle!” cried a voice. “Grockle, it’s me!”

But by then the young dragon had taken to the sky. And the only further signs of fire after that were those short blasts flowing out of its throat as it banked instinctively toward the north.