Tears of a Dragon (19 page)
Reginald waved his hand across his books. “Even as I do my research on the origins of this town, I get vague notions that I have read the same books, analyzed the same thoughts, and come to the same conclusions, only to forget them by the time I awake in the morning.” He drew back his arm and slung the binder across the room, scattering the newspaper clippings through the air. “Ha! I won’t be reading you again anytime soon!”
Breathing heavily, he ran his fingers through his hair. “I . . . I apologize. As you can see, this could easily drive a man mad. I think I would be better off as one of the robots, unaware of my condition, happily repeating my daily routine.” He suddenly gave Billy a strange look, his brow lowering. “But if you are one of them, you must have come in here yesterday, which means that I have forgotten your visit.” He picked up another book and slammed it on the table. “There is no hope! I am doomed to a fate worse than hell!”
Billy couldn’t help himself any longer. He wrapped both arms around Reginald and hugged him with all his might. “No!” he cried. “You’re not doomed! There’s a way out of here.”
Bonnie joined in the embrace from Reginald’s other side. “God will clear your mind. I know he will.”
Billy felt Reginald’s heart race, thumping against his ear like a ravenous woodpecker. A deep voice oozed from Reginald’s lips, barely a whisper. “God? . . . Did you say . . . ‘God’?”
“Yes,” Bonnie replied softly.
He pushed Billy gently away and pulled free from Bonnie as he turned to face her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes filling with tears. “That word haunts my nightmares, but I can’t remember what it means. I try to remember, and it seems for a moment that I understand, but then the memory is lost and I am left with a vague impression. It is a fish in a stream that I try to catch with my hands, but it swims away just before I close my grip, and I can only feel its tail as it slips through my fingers.”
Reginald picked up a thin pamphlet with the words “The Waiting Room” on the front. “There have been others like me. I see it in their eyes. When I ask them about God, I catch a glimpse of a tiny spark, but it is quickly snuffed like a paper match in a gale.” He opened the pamphlet to the first page. “Look. Here is a tract an old woman handed me this morning.” He motioned toward a stack of pamphlets on a nearby chair. “I have dozens of them, so I suppose she brings me one every day. In any case, it seems that a prophet has predicted the coming of a king, and all who believe the prophecy are supposed to go to the theatre and wait for him.”
He closed the pamphlet and tossed it to the table. “When I read these pages, I feel that spark, the same one I felt when I heard you mention God, and I hear a siren song to join those mad folks who wait in line.” He ran his hand through his hair again. “Everyone already thinks I am crazy, so I often ask myself why not go to the theatre? After all, who is the madman, the fool who sits in a dark theatre waiting for a show that never begins, or the fool who is quite happy living day after day in endless monotony, not even noticing that he has carried a bucket of bolts from a shelf to a workbench and back again ten thousand times over his tedious years?” He bent down and rested his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers behind his head. “Either way I choose, I play the fool.”
Billy leaned over to look into Reginald’s eyes. “But you would be the biggest fool of all if the king showed up and you were still here studying old books and newspapers.”
Reginald spread out his arms. “But the whole story lacks credibility!” He picked up the pamphlet again and turned to the last page. “You see, according to the prophet at the theatre—whom only a very few people heard, mind you—this deliverer king is supposed to open a doorway to a new world, and those who pass through will meet a greater king who will determine whether or not they go to everlasting peace.” He pointed at a line on the page. “But here is the crux of the problem. The prophet said, ‘Every person who chooses to follow the king must give up his will and become the king’s servant.’” He threw the booklet down again, spinning it on the table. “Servitude is not exactly the kind of salvation I had in mind, so why should I believe a story that promises a deliverance of chains? It just makes no sense.”
Bonnie picked up the pamphlet and opened the cover. “Servitude’s not so bad if your master is fair and noble.”
“True enough, but . . .” Reginald pressed his fist into his palm and twisted it like a pestle in a mortar. “I must be more than wheat in a mill. I cannot believe that I have only these two choices—to suffer this daily gristmill or else submit myself to a king who will also grind me as he pleases. Is servitude really better than toiling in this village? At least here I have a shred of hope that I can . . .” He stroked his chin. “How should I put it?”
“That you can run the grinder,” Billy said. “That you can be in control.”
“Exactly!” His face reddened under a furrowing brow. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘That you can be in control.’ You don’t want someone else deciding your fate.”
Reginald’s eyes narrowed, the red in his cheeks deepening. “But do I deserve the same fate as all the mindless robots in this town? Since I am able to see through this veil of despair, is it right that I must stand in the same line as those who cannot see past their noses, only to learn that at the end of the line we will be fitted with rings for those same noses?” He slammed his hand on the table. “I am not a lemming who leaps into a void simply because my fellow lemmings have done the same. What do they find at the bottom? Nothing but dead lemmings.”
He crossed the aisle to a parallel table and threw open another book, an old tome filled with heavy parchment, yellowed and empty. “Look here. This is the work that helps keep me sane and proves that I do not belong here.” He turned the parchment leaves back to the first page. “As you can see, there are quite a number of old runes.”
Billy leaned over, bracing himself with his palm on the table. “I’ve seen writing like that. It’s ancient English, right?”
“Of a sort. While I was trying to figure out where to shelve this book, I opened to the first page. Since it was blank, I assumed it was a logbook that no one had bothered to use, but suddenly these letters appeared as if by magic. I knew deep in my soul that this was new, that I had not done this the day before.” He turned the page. “I immediately translated the words to modern English, believing that writing on a blank page was a sure sign that I was doing something new.”
Billy read the words silently, his gaze riveted to the parchment.
A warrior craves the power of light.
Yet strength alone will not avail.
For keys to mysteries hide from men
Who think their eyes can pierce the veil.
A dragon’s key unlocks the truth
Of light’s redeeming power to save.
Its eye transforms the red to white;
It finds the lost, makes wise the knave.
For light explores the darkened heart,
Igniting souls with probing flames.
It cuts and burns away the chaff—
The flesh of dragons, knights, and dames.
The way of darkness traps and keeps
Its captives naked, cold, and blind,
But light revealing words of truth
Will open doors that snare and bind.
Billy’s heart pounded. This was the same poem that appeared in the cave when he was trying to escape drowning in the flood! How could the words appear in both places along with their translations at the same time? Did his father somehow provide the translation for him? It was just too weird, too coincidental to happen at all. But what else could possibly explain it?
He mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve and drank in the verses once again. When he had first read them, they meant little more than a way to escape, but now they rang with new truth. They meant so much more.
He read the second quatrain again. He knew the rubellite in the pendant was a key, because it had acted as a gateway into Dragons’ Rest. But he had taken it off—otherwise he couldn’t have gone through it. Still, the poem said “
A
dragon’s key,” and not “
The
dragon’s key.” Could any rubellite work the same way? He balled his hand and gazed at his ring. How should he use it?
He read from the last section out loud. “But light revealing words of truth will open doors that snare and bind.” He thumped his pencil eraser on the page. “It sounds like we have to find this light if we don’t want to stay trapped in this place.”
Reginald blew out a long breath, nodding. “Agreed. But how do we find it? I’ve searched everywhere.”
Bonnie closed the pamphlet and laid it back on the table. “Did you search the theatre?”
“No,” Reginald said. “I am told that the theatre is dark. Why would I search for light there?”
“Light shines in a lot of strange places,” Billy replied. He laid his palm on the table and splayed his fingers. “I heard that almost everyone in town has a ring like this one. Why don’t you?”
Reginald waved at the ring, a look of disdain on his face. “The dragon’s eye is for the superstitious, not for scholars. Besides, yours is white, so it must not be a dragon’s eye.”
Billy jerked off his ring and slapped it down, then moved his hand away slowly. “What color is it now?”
“Well, now, that’s a clever trick. It’s red.”
Billy clenched his teeth. Dad had always been tenacious, but now he was fighting like a thousand-pound marlin. What else could he do to reel him in? His father had always been as sharp as a saber, but maybe in his confused condition he would fall for a bluff. It was worth a try.
Billy banged his fist on the table, making the ring jump. “You’re hopeless!” He spun on his toes and stormed toward the entrance. “C’mon, Bonnie. Maybe someone else will listen.”
Bonnie reached for him, grabbing empty air. “But Billy—”
Reginald lunged and grasped Billy’s arm, pulling him back. “No! I need you. If you leave, I’ll—” He suddenly let go, straightened his body, and smoothed out his clothes. “I’m terribly sorry. That was out of line.” He lowered his head, flipping through a book’s pages once again. “Go on,” he said, gesturing toward the door with his hand. “Your destiny is your own.”
Billy sighed. The bluff didn’t work, yet feeling his dad’s powerful grip, even for that brief moment, brought back a rush of memories from a fateful morning that seemed ages ago—a dream about gazing into a rubellite and seeing the face of a dragon, a Pop-tart for breakfast, his mother’s hummed song about remembering the past, a wrestling match in the middle of the kitchen, and a scalding kiss on his mother’s cheek. Why could he remember so much, yet his father’s mind seemed vacant? Those images had to be in there somewhere, didn’t they?
Billy regripped the pencil and turned to a blank page of parchment in the old book. With lightning fast jots and swirls, he sketched a woman’s head, adding short, dark hair and sad, longing eyes. Bonnie pulled up a stool and sat down to watch, nodding at Billy as though she knew exactly what he was doing.
Reginald glanced up, his face aflame. “What are you doing to my book?” He scooted over and jerked it away. “How dare you? That was my only link to sanity!”
Billy wrestled it back, smacked it down on the table, and pressed his finger on the drawing. Heat flashing through his cheeks, he yelled, “What do you see, Jared Bannister?”
Reginald stared at him, his mouth dropping open. “What did you call me?”
“Jared Bannister!” Billy grabbed Reginald’s shoulder and turned him toward the page. “Just look at the picture and tell me. Without thinking, what comes to your mind? Tell me now!”
“Ma . . . Ma . . .”
“Say it!” Billy screamed.
Reginald’s eyes slowly widened. “Marilyn?”
Chapter 13
Yes!” Billy shouted. “Marilyn is your wife’s name!” He threw down his pencil, wrapped his arms around Reginald’s torso, and wrestled him to the ground. Reginald instinctively fought back, pushing Billy to the side and wriggling his hands in between his chest and Billy’s arms to free himself.
Billy had seen his father try this move a hundred times, and it had always worked. But now he was stronger than the boy his father had wrestled in the past, much stronger. Struggling for position with their heads close together, he grunted a pained whisper. “What . . . are you . . . thinking . . . now?”
Reginald gave no reply. He strained to push Billy away, but Billy pushed back even harder, turning the bigger man’s body and pressing his shoulders toward the ground, nearly pinning him. Billy grunted. Only . . . another . . . inch. Sweat now streaming down his cheeks, he strained with all his might, as if pinning his father would mean so much more than a simple wrestling victory. “I told you I’d pin you one of these days, remember?”
Reginald’s eyes glimmered as though something prodded a new thought. “So . . . you want . . . to know . . . what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah. Tell me.”
With a double-fisted thrust, Reginald threw him to the side and jumped to his feet. He leaned over the table that held the parchment book, panting. Mopping sweat from his brow, he looked down at the book as if searching for lost thoughts. “The words, ‘not a chance’ came to my mind. Does that mean anything to you?”
Billy scrambled up to meet him. “Yes! That’s it! That’s what my father always used to say when I said I would pin him.”
Reginald looked again at the picture of Marilyn, then turned to a fresh page. “Your father used to say?”
“Yes, you—”
Reginald pressed his forearm against Billy’s chest. “Look! New runes!” He frantically searched the tabletop. “Where is my pencil?”
Billy found the pencil on the table and presented it to him, sighing. “Here.”
Reginald grabbed it and began scratching down an English translation on the next page, flipping back and forth between the pages. After a few minutes, he dropped the pencil on the table. “I think it’s done.”
“What’s it say?” Billy asked. Bonnie got up from her stool and moved closer.
Reginald picked up the book and laid it open over his palms.
“Clefspeare, I dub you Jared, son of Arthur. By this decree, I name you my son, though truly you are closer than any of my natural offspring.” He turned and tapped the lady’s shoulder. “And you, dear Hartanna, I dub Irene, for your very presence brings peace to my soul. You are now my daughter, a treasured princess, who I hope will always find peace within the walls of my palace. For your protection, I have entered your names as Reginald Bannister and Tabitha Silver in the official records as my adopted son and daughter. Hide your identities well, for if your enemies discover them, you will be chased by bloodthirsty hounds for centuries to come. I suggest choosing different surnames for yourselves for the time being, though you may return to Bannister and Silver to protect your inheritance when the time comes.”
Reginald’s color seemed to drain from his forehead to his chin. He murmured, “Jared Bannister. That’s the name you called me.”
Billy felt like his brain was swimming in a boiling sea. “Reginald. . . . That’s your royal name.” He pulled the ring from his pocket. “Bonnie, remember I told you someone gave me this ring when we first got here?”
Bonnie drew close and eyed the ring. “Yes.”
“The voice said to give it to the first person that calls my father’s royal name.”
“Well,” Bonnie said, “Sarah was the first one to say, ‘Reginald.’”
He laid the ring on the table next to his own, and all three stared at the gold circles and red stones. Billy drew his eyes closer, peering into the light. “A dragon’s key,” he continued softly, “finds the lost.”
Reginald straightened and rapped the table with his knuckles. “I have made up my mind. I still have no conscious memory of your claim to be my son, but you have convinced me that I must make a new search for the light. I will go to the theatre.”
Bonnie threw her arms around Reginald. “You won’t be sorry!”
“There’s one problem,” Billy said. “We found out that you need a dragon’s eye ring to get in.”
“And I don’t have one.” Reginald’s shoulders sagged. “Do you have a solution?”
Billy snatched up his own ring, grabbed Reginald’s hand, and thrust it over his finger.
“No!” Reginald twisted the ring, pulling it toward his knuckle. “How will you get in if I—”
Billy strangled Reginald’s fingers. “This was your ring before it was mine. There’s another way for me to get out.”
Reginald tried to pull away, but Billy wouldn’t let him. “But how?” Reginald asked.
“If you’re such a scholar, then ask yourself how I knew so much about you. I knew your name. I pulled thoughts out of your head you didn’t even know were there. I even drew a picture of your wife, and you didn’t even know you were married.” He released Reginald’s hand and picked up the other ring. “If I know you better than you know yourself, then who am I?”
Reginald stared at him, caressing the dragon’s eye, his voice barely audible. “The deliverer king?”
“Come to the theatre and find out.” Billy jumped away from Reginald, wrapped an arm around Bonnie, and marched from the library, retracing their steps and squeezing through the gap between the shelves. As they approached the partition to the bookstore, a shrill voice broke the silence. He eased the door open a crack and peeked through. Bonnie stood on tiptoes, her chin on his shoulder.
A knot of people had gathered around Sarah, most looking angry or scared, a familiar woman in the front shaking a ringed finger—Jasmine. “I’ll bet your crazy friend is hiding them in the library. I’ve been watching those strangers, and I’m sure they came in here. And I saw their dragon’s eyes. They were white, I tell you. They must be the ones I’ve been warning everyone about.” She altered her tone from a rant to a chant. “Two eyes of white will change our ways. They’ll purge our world and end our days.”
“Yes,” Sarah replied, “I heard your soapbox sermon this morning, but I tell you, they’re not here.”
Jasmine huffed. “Spoken like a true underborn. You have no dragon’s eye. What would you know?”
Sarah raised her voice. “I know enough to realize that you would have those two killed if you had your way.”
Billy let the door swing shut. Sarah was clearly trying to make sure he heard that warning. He whispered, “Let’s see if there’s a back way out.” He and Bonnie turned, but they ran right into Reginald.
Reginald gestured with a sharp wave, keeping his voice low. “This way.”
Billy and Bonnie followed him through a maze of bookshelves, noiselessly winding their way toward the very back of the library.
Jasmine’s voice pierced the silence again. “Reginald! If you don’t give those two demons to us, you’ll suffer their fate!”
Reginald led them to a door in a dim corner, too far from the transoms to take advantage of their light. He lifted a wooden beam from two brackets, propped it against the wall, and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.
“Reginald!” Jasmine’s voice grew closer, accompanied by the sound of a dozen tromping shoes. “I know you’re in here somewhere!”
Reginald put his shoulder to the door and launched his body against it. It flew open, squealing on its hinges, and he tumbled to the ground outside, grunting. Jumping to his feet, he waved his arms. “Go! I’ll keep them at bay and meet you later at the theatre.”
Billy and Bonnie sprinted down the cobblestones, more of a back alley than a road. When they reached the corner of the main street, Bonnie grabbed Billy’s arm. “What about Dorcas? We have to get her to come! She needs a ring!”
“But the extra ring is for Merlin’s wife. We have to get it to her somehow.”
Bonnie yanked off her own ring and held it in her fingers. “I’ve got one.” She dashed away, her long dress flapping in her wake.
Billy sprinted behind her, catching up just before they reached the seamstress shop. They stopped at the door, puffing. “How will you get into the theatre without one?” Billy asked.
“Whatever way you do. I’m not leaving your side.”
Bonnie pushed through the door. The familiar bell jangled. Dorcas was sitting on a stool at her cutting table, several pins squeezed between her lips. “Did you come for your old clothes?” she asked, mumbling through the pins. She nodded toward a pile on the counter. “Right there. All clean and pressed.”
Bonnie marched straight up to Dorcas, grabbed her right hand, and pushed the rubellite ring onto her index finger, but she couldn’t get it past the second knuckle. She held the ring in place and looked up at the elderly lady, her face pleading. “You have to come with us to the theatre right away. We’ll take you to a man who’ll tell you why Oxford means so much to you.”
Dorcas dropped the pins into her hand and laid them on the table. “Didn’t I tell you that I tried? I just couldn’t seem to go in.”
Bonnie moved the ring to Dorcas’s smallest finger and slid it all the way on. “You can go in if you wear this ring.”
“But why the rush? I have a dress to finish. The Oxford mystery can wait.”
Billy stepped over to Dorcas’s cutting table. “No, it can’t. Jasmine’s on our trail.” He picked up a stub of chalk and began drawing on her slate. In less than two minutes, he had sketched a striking portrait of the professor. He handed the slate to her, dramatically tapping on it with the chalk. “Charles Hamilton, Professor at Oxford University.”
Dorcas stared at the portrait, her eyes growing wide as she brought it closer to her face. “I . . . I know him.” She gently rubbed her finger across the man’s hair, smudging the lines. “I can’t say how, but I know him.”
Bonnie leaned her head against the trembling woman’s shoulder. “He’s your husband.”
Dorcas reached into the pocket of her smock and pulled out a dainty ring. Tiny gold blossoms lined both edges. “I’ve often wondered why I have this.” She slipped it over her finger, caressing the blossoms as if encouraging them to grow. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Did . . . did he like flowers?”
“Yes,” Bonnie replied, laying her own fingertip on the ring. “He said you loved carnations.”
Another tear followed the track of the first. “I adore carnations.” Dorcas sniffed, still caressing the ring. “But where is he now, and why don’t I remember?”
Bonnie took her gently by the arm. “Everything will become clear very soon,” she said, lifting Dorcas to her feet. “Just go to the theatre and sit down. Billy and I will meet you there.”
The town clock gonged a single time. Billy gathered their clothes, opened the door, jangling the bell once again, and allowed Dorcas and Bonnie to exit. Dorcas pulled up a shawl and shuffled along the planks next to the deserted street.
Bonnie wrapped her arm around a pole, watching the old lady head for the theatre. She swung around and faced Billy. “Two hours to go. Is that enough time to tell the whole town?”
“Yep, because the whole town will be gathered in one place.”
“The Founder’s Day Picnic?” Bonnie asked.
“Yep.” Billy leaned his shoulder against another pole. “Trouble is, our prophetess friend will be there, too. She might want to turn the picnickers into a lynch mob.”
Lugging Ashley’s laptop case, Karen labored from the Bannister house, trailing Shiloh. They halted at the station wagon, and Karen set the case on the pavement in the glow of the streetlights. “I think Ashley must’ve packed the kitchen sink and the bathtub with it.”
Carl, who had parked in front of the professor’s wagon, leaned against the back of his SUV. “Did you get a report from Larry?”
“Yeah. He wants to talk to you.” She unzipped the case and pulled out the computer. “Something weird’s going on.”
While Karen began the boot-up process, the professor and Marilyn exited the house. With
Fama Regis
tucked under her arm, Marilyn locked the door, then strode toward the cars with the professor. Her voice filtered through the night sounds, growing clearer as she drew near. “The gem quit working. It showed the adoption story, when King Arthur took Jared and Irene into his family, but I couldn’t get it to translate anything past that.”
The professor nodded. “So the rubellite’s powers are intermittent. How strange.”
Karen laid the laptop on the hood of the professor’s car, making sure it could be seen under the streetlamp. “Larry. Repeat to Mr. Foley what you just told me.”
“Ashley is sending a set of clues that I cannot decipher. I will play some of it for you.”
The speaker emitted a strange noise, like marbles clicking together in a random sequence.
Carl tapped the computer case. “Prof, have you heard this yet?”
The professor stepped close. “No. I did not speak to Larry. I was making sure the house was secure. It has been ransacked, but it seems that whoever did it is no longer inside.”
Everyone leaned toward the computer, listening to the odd clicks.
“Is she cracking her knuckles?” Karen asked.
“Not quite,” the professor replied. “Although the clicks are intermittent, they are too sharp and defined for knuckles.”
“A pencil striking a table?” Shiloh suggested.
Karen snapped her fingers. “It’s her teeth. If it’s coming through the transmitter, it’s got to be her teeth. But it’s not really chattering, so I’ll bet she’s sending us a code.”
The professor began nodding at each click, his eyebrows rising every few seconds. “Could it be Morse code?” He turned the keyboard and pulled up the word processor. “R,” he said, typing in the letter. With every new series of speaker clicks, his index finger fell on a key. “E . . . E . . . K . . . L . . . A . . . K . . . E.”
“That’s it!” Karen shouted. “Ashley’s at Deep Creek Lake!”
Marilyn clamped her hand over Karen’s mouth. “Shhh!”
The professor continued announcing the letters. “S . . . T . . . A . . . T . . . E . . . P . . . A . . . R . . . K . . . W . . . A . . . L . . . T . . . E . . . R . . . M . . . I . . . S . . . S . . . I . . . N . . . G . . . D . . . E . . . E . . . P . . . C . . . R . . . E . . . E.” He stopped typing. “It seems to be repeating now.”
