The Dragon of Avalon (5 page)

His head spun; his chest ached. He coughed, vomited water, and coughed some more. The smell of basil—so strong it seemed to shout—wafted over him. He wished the smell, both sweet and tart, were even stronger, knowing that it would provide the best possible camouflage against enemies. Then everything went dark.

He lay there, unconscious, for the next two days. Occasionally he would awaken for a few seconds—barely long enough to lift his head and smell the heavy scent of basil that shrouded him. Then he'd drop his head and fall into darkness again.

Once, in a brief moment of consciousness, he stirred, as a heavy wind whipped through the basil leaves. Just for an instant, he thought he heard, in a familiar, airy voice, those words from distant memory:
a life hhhwell hhhworth saving.

A life well worth saving! Ridiculous! His whole life he'd spent hiding, being hunted, or trying to steal somebody else's food. Unlike many of Avalon's creatures he'd seen, he wasn't magical. Not at all. Even a lowly sparkworm, who could glow dimly at night, had more magic than he did. Why, he couldn't even fly! Nor even say what kind of creature he really was—just a scrawny lizard with round ears and useless wings.

All he knew with certainty was that he wasn't the least bit worthy of Aylah's words. Those words, like her acts of kindness toward him, were as fleeting as a breeze. The sweetness of basil now tainted by something more bitter, he lost consciousness.

In this state, he never knew how many predators crawled or slithered or flew nearby. Disguised by the herb's color and, even more, by its smell, he evaded the hungry river otter who swam past, the yellow-tailed fisherhawk who swooped above the shallows, and the tan-coated bear cubs who splashed through the reeds. Even the vengeful fox, still stalking his elusive prey, passed just a tail's length away—but didn't notice him.

Finally, he awoke. Vaguely aware that he needed to find some food, he concentrated on a damsel fly hovering lazily just above his snout. At just the right moment, he reared up and snapped his jaws. But as weak as he was, he moved far too slowly. The fly easily evaded him, darting out of reach.

Dejected, hungry, and weak, he crawled slowly to the edge of the herb patch. There he found a small pool, no more than a puddle, which still held a bit of water from the spring floods. The potent smell of basil still surrounded him, so he felt safe enough to crawl into the open, sliding onto the sand beside the pool.

Maybe, he thought, he'd find some slow-moving grub or drowned beetle in there—something he could eat. Yet as soon as he raised his head to look into the pool, the only creatures it held—a flock of spray faeries with bright silver wings that flashed like liquid stars—lifted off immediately, wings humming.

The lizard watched the delicate, silvery creatures rise into the sky, climbing in unison as if they were raindrops pouring upward. Then, all at once, they called on their particular faery magic and melted into the air, completely invisible.
So beautiful
, he thought, gazing at the sky.
So magical.
Then, glumly, he shook his head.
And for me, so impossible.

Lowering his head, he gazed into the pool. But for the gentle ripples caused by the faeries' wings, the water sat very still. And beautifully clear. Light from the stars of Avalon, which brightened every dawn and dimmed every evening, sparkled on the surface.

Suddenly, without any forethought, the little reptile felt compelled to make a wish. Leaning over the edge of the pool, so that he could see the full reflection of his face, he said in a small, reedy voice: "Hear me, stars of Avalon. Hear me, if you can. I want to be . . ."

He paused, hesitant to say the next word. And then he spoke it, as ardently as he had ever spoken anything.

"Special. Just . . . special. Not big, or powerful, or anything like that. But someone who, well,
matters
. The same way a new day matters. Or a fresh rain. Or even . . . a faery's magic."

At that instant, something fell on him, as fast as lightning. A beak! Catching the lizard firmly by the tail, the slender, gold-colored beak lifted him high into the air, where he dangled helplessly.

He hung upside down, writhing madly to free himself. But whenever he twisted, the beak merely gripped his tail more tightly. Meanwhile, two yellow-rimmed eyes above the beak studied him with obvious interest. Recognizing those eyes and the plume of white feathers rising over them, the lizard froze. Struggle, he knew, was useless. For he'd been caught by one of the realm's most feared hunters, a bird known for deadly, ruthless efficiency. A great blue heron.

This is what I get for making a wish
, he grumbled to himself.

Still inspecting her catch, the enormous bird hunched her head down on her grayish-blue shoulders. Then, with one deft motion, she flipped her beak upward, hurling him into the air—and kicked out one of her long, bony legs. Immediately she caught him again, this time in the tight grip of her foot. Standing on one leg in the reed-choked shallows, the heron continued to peer closely at him. As she turned his scaly little body from side to side, her plumed head tilted in puzzlement.

"By the deep gaze of Dagda, what do we have here?" The heron's hoarse squawking rose above the splatter of the stream. Still content to stand on one foot, she hopped a bit closer to the bank, never relaxing her grip on her catch.

"You be not a bird," she squawked, "though you do have some sort of wings. If you call these floppy featherless things wings! You be not a lizard, with those ears the size of holly leaves. And you be not a bat, at least no bat worthy of the name. What be you, then? Some sort of ugly insect?"

An insect?
Insulted, the lizard ground his teeth angrily. Trying his best to sound imperious and terrifying—not very easy to do when imprisoned by your enemy's foot—he declared: "Actually, I am—well . . . I am an extremely dangerous . . .
dragon faery!
Yes, yes, a dragon faery. Capable of eating you in a single bite! Release me at once, good bird, if you value your life."

The heron clacked her beak and then, from deep in her throat, released a loud chuckle. "Whatever you be, it be something funny."

"My good bird, I am not joking! Hear me, I command you! I am merely giving you fair warning before I slaughter you without mercy." To emphasize his point, he grimaced, showing a mouthful of microscopically small teeth.

The heron laughed, so vigorously that her head seemed to bounce up and down on her hunched shoulders. "Well then, dragon faery, you be funny, yes indeed. And also," she added with a curious look in her eyes, "you be smelly. Very smelly."

Surprised, the lizard sniffed himself. Sure enough, he smelled powerfully—of basil. It wasn't just a lingering aroma, what he might expect after staying so long among those fragrant leaves. No, he smelled as if he
himself
were a patch of basil—as if he, too, were made from the herb. But how could that be?

The heron scrutinized him, turning her foot to view him from another angle. After a moment, she announced, "You be somewhat magical, I believe."

"Er . . . me?" asked the lizard, surprised. "You must be mistak—" Suddenly realizing the bird had given him an unexpected opening, he caught himself. "Of
course
I'm magical," he declared. "All extremely dangerous dragon faeries are—"

"Hush," commanded the immense bird. "By my father's feathers, I do believe you have the ability to make smells! Strong smells. A rare talent, yes indeed! One I have not encountered before. And judging from your startled look just now, it seems you be not aware of your own power."

Caught completely off guard, the lizard remained silent. Could this really be true? Or was the heron merely toying with him before making him her next meal?

"Such a waste," she said with a ruffle of her blue-tinted wings. "To have a gift and not know about it! My guess be that you produced the smell of basil to help you hide among those herbs. Consciously or not. To keep you safe—at least until a superior hunter came along,"

With that, she chuckled, her head bobbing again on her shoulders. But the lizard she clutched didn't quite see the humor, and kept quiet.

"This calls for an experiment," she squawked decisively. "If I be right—and, by the wings of the wind, I be almost always right—you can make other smells, too."

"Wait," protested her captive, still not at all sure that his basil smell was anything more than residue from the herb patch. "I'm not—"

"Therefore," she continued, ignoring him, "here be the terms. Listen up, now. Your little life depends on it. If you can produce another smell—preferably something pleasant—then I shall release you. Yes, release you! I shall set you free . . . at least for the rest of this day. If, however, you can't do anything but basil, then I shall eat you. In one gulp—a tasty little gulp, I expect. Scented with basil."

The heron chortled at her little joke, then demanded, "Do you accept the terms? Say yes, and I will grant you this chance to demonstrate your power. The threat of impending death, I find, can bring out the best in creatures. Or the worst. In any case, this be your opportunity to do something truly remarkable. Say yes, and you be spared. Say no—and it be time for supper."

To emphasize her point, she jabbed her beak into the shallows at her foot. Half a second later, she pulled out a wriggling minnow, then swallowed it whole.

What to do? The lizard's thoughts raced madly. Why in the name of Avalon did this crazy bird think be possessed magic? And even if she were somehow right, how could he possibly make that magic work?

Clack. Clack.
The heron's beak tapped impatiently.

Think smelly thoughts!
the lizard told himself. With all his concentration, he conjured up mental images of slimy fish eggs. Rotten apples. Piles of boar dung, crawling with maggots.

Hopefully, he sniffed the air. Nothing. Not even the smell of basil reached his nostrils.

Clack. Clack.
The heron watched him, eyes narrowing.

Hurriedly, he tried other pungent ideas. He imagined a parade of moldy pears, a grove of pine trees dripping with sap, a pile of crushed beetles, some newly opened daffodils, a family of stinking skunks, and a whole field of rotten eggs.

Nothing.

Clack. Clack.

The heron's eyes strayed to the small fish swimming by her foot. Clearly, she was getting hungry. And clearly, she wouldn't wait much longer.

Harder and harder the lizard tried, picturing the smelliest things he could remember. The week-old carcass of a fallen deer. The sulfurous bubbles rising out of a hot spring. The first bush of lilacs to blossom.

Clack. Clack.

I'm running out of time. All those images
, he thought ruefully,
but no smells.
Wait! He caught his breath. Maybe the trick was not to picture pungent things in his mind—but to
smell
them. Aromas, not images. Smells, not visions.

Clack.
"Your time be up, regrettably." The heron shook her feathered head. "I be sad you disappointed me. So very sad. Fortunately, though, eating something always brightens my mood."

Even as her beak bent toward him, the lizard tried furiously to concentrate.
Think smells!
But how? He wasn't used to doing that. He wasn't even sure he
could
do that.

The beak approached, nearer and nearer. It started to open. Inside, all he could see was a gaping chasm of darkness.

Think like a hunter!
he commanded himself.
Like the heron—smelling out her prey.
He tried his best to imagine how she would catch the scent of every fish before catching the fish itself. Even a big, meaty trout that might leap out of the stream, she'd probably smell first: its oily scales, its fishy breath. Then she would—

Snap.
The heron's beak closed hard.

But not on the lizard. She had whirled around to clamp her beak on the fish she had smelled right behind her. And yet, to her astonishment, there wasn't any fish at all.

"What?" she squawked, turning her head to and fro. "I be sure I smelled . . ."

"A trout?" the lizard asked. "A nice juicy one, maybe?"

The heron's head spun back around. Judging from her expression, she was greatly annoyed. Rarely, if ever, had she been fooled—certainly not by someone she'd already caught. The lizard swallowed anxiously. Would she go back on her bargain? Had she never planned to keep it?

The heron's foot tightened around her prey—then abruptly released him. He fell with a splash in the reedy shallows. Quickly, he swam to shore.

"Congratulations," she declared with a flap of her broad wings. "You have an unusual life ahead, I predict. A most unusual life! Perhaps even a long one." She glared down at him. "Unless," she whispered, bending low, "you ever make the smell of a trout near me again."

The lizard stiffened. Instantly, his fishy smell vanished from the air. Still, he didn't feel entirely comfortable with the heron's beak so close to his face. She might still be thinking about the appetizing fish she'd almost eaten. In a flash, he knew what to do. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on a new smell.

"Basil," said the heron, nodding with amusement. Pulling her head back to her bony shoulders, she observed, "You have learned two important lessons today, my little mystery beast. How to use your power. And how to distract your enemies."

The lizard stared up at her, his green eyes aglow. "True. But I disagree with one thing you said."

The heron cocked her head inquiringly.

"You may have been my hunter," he explained. "But really . . . you're not my enemy."

The heron waded a bit closer. "You could be right, little one. At least for today. Tell me now, before we part. What is your name?"

The lizard blinked, suddenly aware that he didn't
have
a name. "I . . . I really don't know."

"Don't know?" The huge bird shook her grayish-blue wings in amazement. "Don't know your name? Well then, allow me to give you one."

With a loud clack of her beak, the heron announced: "Your name, from this moment on, shall be . . ." She paused, sniffing the air. "Basil. Yes indeed, Basil."