Fire Star (23 page)

A
bbot Hugo, I must speak with you, urgently.”

The abbot’s hand was raised before Brother Bernard was halfway through his sentence. He immediately slowed to a halt, lowered his head, and spoke an apology.

The abbot’s hand drifted sideways and pointed absently to the pew seat. He himself was in the leather chair at his desk, hunched forward, reading Brother Vincent’s manuscript.

Brother Bernard chose to stand. For the next few minutes he waited patiently, gathering his thoughts as the abbot meticulously turned the pages, lifting them gingerly by the corner and laying each one facedown upon the last in crisp and perfect register. Finally, after reading a page barely one-third filled with the looping
green script, he sat back in his chair and removed his glasses.

“What am I to make of this?” He sighed, widening his hands above the leaves of paper as though addressing the cast of characters within.

“Abbot —”

“Is it the work of a madman or a genius?”

“I have only glimpsed through it. I cannot comment. May I speak with you about the creature?”

Abbot Hugo seemed uninterested. “It appears to be a children’s fable, and yet …” he paused and hung the arm of his spectacles off his lower lip, “… there is a definite substance to it. He spoke of this story in the folly, did he not?”

“Yes,” said Bernard, trying not to show any sign of impatience. “He claimed it was a fictionalized account of true events.”

The abbot gave a burp of incredulity. “Explain.”

Now Bernard cursed his slackness of tongue. Five hundred years ago, Brother Vincent would have been sealed alive into these walls for a single mention of the
word “dragon,” and though his fate in present times would be far less devastating, any affirmation of his beliefs would be met with ridicule and almost certain expulsion from the Order. But to lie would be a sin in itself. Perhaps an outline of the theory of dark matter, followed by the evidence accumulated at the stables, might be enough to persuade the abbot to review these happenings without any prejudice?

“He …” But from the beginning, Bernard was stumbling for a choice of words. “He was a physicist before he came here.”

Abbot Hugo rocked his chair at a pace befitting his age and stature. “He was. Go on.”

Bernard turned to the window. “He believes that reality is not what it seems. If I understand it correctly, he has a theory that contemporaneous events, that is, those happening at identical times but in a different place, can be accessed via a realm of the universe he labels dark matter, a realm invisible to you or I — though he leaves the impression that all of us, all humankind can attain this ability, through an expansion of consciousness.”

Abbot Hugo clicked his tongue, a sound he only made when considerably displeased. “Is he taking a drug?”

Bernard turned sharply to face the old man. “A drug?”

“How is he achieving this … growth of awareness?”

Bernard slipped his tongue between his lips. They felt cracked and dry. “By using the claw. He seems to think it amplifies the process. He believes, in his … cloud of confusion, that dragons are the guardians of the dark realm. My Lord, the creature —?”

Once again, Abbot Hugo raised his hand. “I have been trying, unsuccessfully, to write with this artifact, but I can manage no more than a droplet from it. Did he demonstrate the process?”

“Yes, but —”

The abbot raised a hand for no more interruption. Built onto his desk was a stack of box drawers. Turning the knob on the middle one of three, he slid the drawer open and removed the claw from it. “Please, be good enough to show me.”

Bernard loosened his shoulders. Any protest was
pointless. “Very well. Your water.” He pointed at a half-filled glass.

Abbot Hugo slid it across the desk.

“Should I write on the manuscript?”

The abbot shook his head. He tidied the two stacks into one and turned it all face up. Then he took a piece of paper no larger than the size of a small chocolate wrapper from a pigeon hole next to the set of box drawers and pushed it within Brother Bernard’s reach.

Bernard dipped the claw and squeezed it gently. As he did so, he felt an odd euphoria sweeping through him. A pleasing dizziness he could neither comprehend nor begin to explain. He touched the claw to the paper, squeezed again to produce a flow of ink, and wrote the words “Farlowe Island” across it.

“Intriguing,” said the abbot. “Let me try.”

But before he could, his attention was drawn by a commotion in the corridor. “What is this?” he demanded, whirling in his seat as the door burst open.

Brother Peter stumbled in, collapsing to one knee. “Wickedness,” he panted, reaching for his heart,
which seemed in imminent danger of seizing. “Brother Terence …”

“What of him?” the abbot said, going to Peter and catching him before he could fall any farther.

“Blinded,” he gasped, gripping Abbot Hugo’s habit so tightly that the cloth was ripped apart at the collarbone.

“By the creature?”

Peter nodded and fell into a faint.

“Attend to him,” Abbot Hugo said, and swept out of the room.

In the corridor, monks were running back and forth, calling for aid and medical supplies. Two cells away, behind a locked door, Brother Vincent was shouting to be released. In the stable block, no doubt, the baby dragon was being stoned with the vilest of words, if not rocks themselves.

And yet Brother Bernard somehow knew that, for the moment, his place was at the abbot’s desk. He squeezed the pen again and a new and bizarre impulsion came over him. From the pigeonhole above the paper supply he removed a matching envelope. He looked at Brother
Vincent’s manuscript. On the very first page was the name of a character and his address:

David Rain,

42 Wayward Crescent,

Scrubbley, Massachusetts

U.S.A.

This he wrote on the envelope and sealed the note inside it.

Then he went to the aid of the dragon.

F
our monks were clustered around Brother Terence where he sat, propped against the outside of the stable door. Brother Cedric, a retired physician, was holding a cotton pad against his eyes. Bright red blotches on his cheeks and neck suggested he’d suffered some kind of burns. Something yellow (was it vomit?) was splattered down his habit which was wet with copious amounts of water. One leg was twitching uncontrollably. A mumbled prayer was issuing from his lips. There was a halo of deep-rooted fear around him.

Bernard caught the arm of Brother Sebastian. “What happened?”

“The creature spat at him.”

“Was it provoked?”

“Does it
matter?
Our brother, Terence, may be blinded. He cannot open one eye; the other is clouded by the creature’s vile discharge.”

“Has he said nothing of the incident at all?”

“He is mumbling prayer and will not respond to questions. I tell you, this thing should be removed from our world and sent back to the pits of hell it arose from.”

Brother Bernard nodded, but said nothing in agreement. He patted Sebastian lightly on the shoulder, prayed for healing to be sent to Brother Terence, and hurried along to the stable block.

“Approach with care,” the abbot said, from several yards to the right of the dragon. His voice was calm but his manner solemn. Brother Malcolm, standing slightly forward of him, had the mood and posture of a drag-onslayer. The creature itself had withdrawn into a shadowed corner of its pen. Only the occasional blink of light glinted off its leathery green scales.

“I cannot understand this,” Bernard said. “I was with the beast not minutes ago and it was perfectly calm. It made no attempt to attack me.”

The abbot took no heed of this. Raising his hooked nose he said to Brother Malcolm, “Find a large sack.”

Malcolm immediately searched the pallets where wheat and barley had once been stored.

“What are you planning to do?” asked Bernard, feeling a sense of unease creeping over him.

“Do you pity this beast so much?” asked the abbot.

Bernard laced his fingers. “I don’t believe it’s a demon.”

The abbot turned slowly to look at him. “Brother Terence would not agree.” And it seemed to Bernard there was a sight more malice in the old man’s eyes than he’d seen in any parlay with the dragon.

Malcolm reappeared, shaking ears of straw from a dusty sack.

The abbot pointed to a loose stack of wood. “Choose a piece of board. Something large enough to shield us from any further spittle.”

Bernard looked in horror at the sack. “You plan to hood it?”

“There is a monk outside who may never see again. Neither will the beast, for now.”

“Abbot, this is monstrous.”

“The
wood,”
he growled.

“Allow me,” said Malcolm, throwing the sack into Bernard’s midriff, who caught it as though it were his prison issue.

“You intend to kill it?”

“I am waiting for an emissary,” the abbot said. “He will decide what is to be done.”

“Is he part of the brethren?” Bernard asked, nursing a feeling of nervousness. He had not shaken off Brother Vincent’s warning:
danger, a wind from another world.

“That is not your concern,” said the abbot.

“But if the Order has always been exclusive to the island, then why —?”

“You worry me,” said the abbot, cutting him off. “Increasingly, I find your mood infected by the same misguided sentiments that have addled Brother Vincent.”

“The creature should not be tortured,” Bernard snapped, switching the emphasis back to the dragon.

But the abbot merely turned and addressed Brother Malcolm, who was holding up a sizeable piece of board. “Advance with caution. Brother Bernard seems not to fear the beast. Let him stand close enough to cover its head.”

Brother Malcolm lifted the shield, showing forearms bruised with naval tattoos. But as he set off, Bernard stopped him and said, “I will do this alone.”

“What? Are you deranged?”

“The creature has intelligence,” Bernard said grittily. “Already, it cowers in the comfort of shadows. If I spring at it suddenly from behind a board it may attack again. Protect yourself if you must.” He stepped into the open.

The yellow eyes watched him fearfully. He took two steps forward. The dragon reared its head. Another step and its talons ratcheted the ground. One more. Its ear scales lifted. “Do not resist,” Bernard whispered in the tongue, matching his voice to the level of its growl.

“They will kill you if you try. Trust me. I will help you.” And he opened the sack and in one fluid movement ran it over the dragon’s head.

The baby creature bucked against its chains.
Zaaaannnnnaaaa,
it cried, sneezing, almost blowing the sack away. The material caught against its scales and held.

“Brother, step back,” the abbot shouted.

But Bernard had a question of the dragon first. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you spit at Brother Terence?”

And the answer was both confusing and frightful.

Biiirrrrdddd,
the dragon whimpered.

Bernard swept around and looked at the gable.

There in the window was the raven again.

“Come away,” the abbot insisted.

Brother Malcolm drew Bernard clear.

“This place is forbidden,” Abbot Hugo said. To Malcolm, he added: “Have it well guarded.” To Bernard: “You may leave.”

“Abbot, this dragon —”

“Go, Brother Bernard.”

Bernard looked once more at the pitiful creature, then bowed his head and hurried outside, almost fainting as the colder air hit him. He staggered over to a disused water trough and sat upon it, panting, clutching his side. What was happening in this once holy place? Dragons, ravens, burnings, torture. And here he was at the center of it all. He pulled the envelope from the pocket of his habit and stared at it as though it were a sentence of death.

“Brother, are you hurt?” Cedric came up and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

Bernard shook his head. “How is Brother Terence?”

“Not as bad as I feared. The injury is more in his mind than his eyes. I believe he saw something which greatly disturbed him before the creature chose to attack.”

“Has he spoken of it?”

“I cannot say; his jabberings are meaningless.”

Bernard let out a beaten sigh. Something must be done here. Something which might persuade the abbot to review this creature in a sympathetic light. He tapped
the letter against his thigh. “Has the boat arrived from the mainland yet?” Once a week, on this day, a small boat came to bring supplies.

Cedric nodded. “Yes, it moored half an hour ago. Brother Ferdinand and Brother Rufus are helping it unload, taking care to make sure that any visitors are kept well away from our secret.”

Our secret. His own inclusion made Bernard want to retch. “I missed prayers this afternoon. I must go to the chapel. Would you grant me a request?”

“Of course,” said Cedric.

Bernard handed him the letter. “Please add this to the postal collection….”

T
he bear was in the road, waiting for him. Sitting. Staring. Squinting through the snow. Every aspect of its body shape spoke of provocation. It was here to mount a challenge. To make itself
known.

Something in the natural order had changed.

He brought the pickup to a halt and switched off the engine, but left the headlights blazing at the bear. Five miles on the odometer. Five miles south of the polar research base. He glanced at the radio and opened a channel.

“Russ.”

“Anders?”

“Got a situation.”

“Don’t hear your engine. You broken down? Don’t say those relays have burned out again?” “It’s a bear, Russ. Down near Scarrow.” “Jeez, what’s a bear doing there at this time of year?” “Don’t know. I’m about to take a look. You might want to come down with the can.”

“You got time for this? What about your flight?” In his pocket, the narwhal talisman buzzed. It sensed danger. Very great danger. Bergstrom looked behind the seat at the loaded rifle. “Bring the can,” he said, and cut the radio link. Then he stepped out of the pickup, unarmed. Snow danced in the warmth of the headlights. Silhouetted by their lazy beam, he walked forward at a nonaggressive pace.

Ice clouds dusted around the bear’s paws. It altered its stare, but not its position.

Ten yards from contact, Bergstrom stopped walking. The bear twisted a forepaw, flexing the claws. “Heavy,” it said. “Powerful, but cumbersome.”

Not a bear, then. A being inside a bear.

“You are Fain,” said Bergstrom.

“And you are … interesting,” the ice bear said.

“How did you come through the portal early?”

The bear blinked as if the question wasn’t worthy of respect. “I am tracing a young Fain which broke the continuum. You have been close to it, shaman. You radiate Fain.”

A break. G’reth. What had the wishing dragon brought back with him? Bergstrom stayed his breath. “What is your purpose with the young Fain?” he said.

“To retrieve it. To punish it. Then to cleanse this world of dragon. No image of Godith will travel back to the Fain.”

“Why?”

“That is not important. Where is the fire of the dragon called Gawain?”

“Hidden.”

“Speak the location — or die.”

“Why can’t you detect it?”

The squint shortened. “I will find it, shaman. And come back and burn your body to ash.”

The wind shifted, rolling the snow. Bergstrom moved a hand and the lights of the pickup shrank to black. In that moment, he threw himself forward, changing in the blur to the shape of a bear. His teeth sank into the neck of the Fain. But it was strong and crushed the air out of his lungs with one gigantic closure of its paws. As he slid to the road, the Fain hit him with a blow across the back of his head that neither man nor bear could have possibly withstood.

When Russ found him, twenty minutes later, his fur had been shredded with bloody lines and the airstream falling out of his snout was less measurable than the weight of any snowflake.

The lights of the pickup were on once more, drilling softly through the night.

The vehicle’s driver was nowhere to be found.

Russ radioed a major alert. Dazed, he stood over the wounded bear, aiming a handgun at its head.
Compassion demanded that he end its suffering. But though his firearm shook and his trigger finger shortened, curiosity stayed his hand. Might they learn more with the bear alive?

He put away the handgun, and returned to his truck for a tranquilizing gun.

And it was then, while his back was turned, that something squeezed out from beneath the stricken body and rolled a short distance across the road. It was a piece of bone, cut long ago from a narwhal’s tusk. The etchings on it were moving rapidly, trying to detect further traces of the Fain. But the being had gone, to continue its search. And so the talisman obeyed its primary order: In emergency, turn into the dragon, Groyne, and seek out David Rain….