Fire Star (9 page)

G
oing somewhere?”

As he turned to see Zanna, leaning back against the outer wall of the base, idly brushing snow off her flawless mukluks, what startled Tootega the most was the stealth she had used to creep up on him. Here she was, a mere girl, a
kabluna,
inexperienced in the ways of the hunter. And yet she had stalked him as easily as a bear might ambush a fat and witless seal. It was twenty-five yards to the nearest door and the snow was solid enough to crunch when it broke. How had she closed the gap and made no sound? And even if his ears were bemired with blubber, why had the team of dogs not stirred?

“Nice woofers,” she said, and pushed away from the wall.

Tootega did not understand these words, but his instincts warned him he was being scorned. He hissed at her through broken yellow teeth as she moved among the thirteen panting huskies. Showing no fear, she crouched by the handsome lead dog, Orak, looking deep into his eyes as she gripped the thick fur around his neck and roughed his head back and forth like a doll. Orak growled, but did not snap or bite.

“Good boy,” she said, and held out her glove.

Frightened to see the animal sniffing it, Tootega stepped forward, halfheartedly flicking a sealskin whip. “You go. Leave here.”

“We talk,” said Zanna, using such a mordant edge to her voice that the leather-faced Inuk shuddered and fell back, almost toppling onto his sled.

Zanna stood up, testing the tautness of the ropes that bound furs and tarpaulins over a bundle of hidden possessions. “Heavy load. Doesn’t look like a quick scoot round the bay. Moving igloo, are we?”
Tootega swore at her and spat between her feet.

“Nice,” she said, toeing the stain into the snow.

“First you try talismans to scare me away, now your foul smelling, whiskey soaked phlegm.” She pulled off a glove and pushed back her sleeve. “What does this mean, Inuk?”

“He can tell you on the way up to Chamberlain,” said a voice. And there was Bergstrom, walking steadily toward them in a billowing blue windbreaker that rustled at every step.

Tootega whistled the dogs to their feet. “We go now.”

“No,” said Bergstrom, looking absently across the bay. “You take Zanna in the pickup to Chamberlain.” He leveled his blue-eyed gaze at the Inuk. Tootega nodded and backed down instantly.

Zanna dropped her sleeve. “What’s happening in Chamberlain?”

“The bear is ready for release,” said Bergstrom, grimacing against the low, sharp sunlight.

Tootega grunted in his native tongue.

The two men exchanged a short babble of Inuit words, then Bergstrom spoke in English again. “Russ is
up there, waiting for you. He’ll fly you to the pack ice where you’ll set the bear free. Enjoy it, Zanna. David would envy you for this.”

Zanna pulled off her bobble hat and tied back her hair. “David quit,” she said. “Let’s roll.”

For the first five minutes on the road to Chamberlain, Zanna said nothing, knowing this would irritate Tootega even more. His anxiety levels, already visible in the whiteness of his knuckles as his hands steered the straight gray road ever north, were at a maximum when she eventually said, “The Inuit, they like stories, right?”

Tootega breathed in deeply. His narrow black eyes remained fixed on the road.

Zanna smiled and folded her arms, shuffling herself into the angle of the seat and the rattling door. “On the flight over, David told me one — set here, in the north, thousands of years ago. He’s not sure how it came to him, but what does that matter? Stories float around like snowflakes, don’t they? They settle on the ears of anyone who’ll listen. It’s about a time when polar
bears — nine of them — ruled the ice, lived in packs, and outnumbered men. Sounds corny, right? But then all myths do. Except, David doesn’t think this
is
a myth. He wouldn’t say so, to your face, but in his heart he believes every word of it is true. He started to write about it while he was up here. Good yarn. Wanna hear it? Gotta pass the time somehow.”

Tootega muttered something under his breath.

“Fine. I’ll take that as a yes,” said Zanna. “So, we’re in this Inuit settlement called Savalik. It’s a small place, somewhere in the Canadian High Arctic. More teeth in a man’s head than occupants, you know? It’s been a bad year for weather, even worse for seals, and the main guy, some hunter — David calls him Oomara — comes back from a hunting trip empty-handed to find his kid, a boy of ten, dead from starvation. So Oomara builds some kind of ceremonial shrine and lays the kid out in it, wrapped in furs. Now this is where it starts to get a bit creepy, ‘cause a day or so later a bear wanders by — not a daddy bear — a cub, and he’s starving, too. He sniffs out the corpse and starts to eat, until all that’s
left of the kid is bones. But Oomara discovers it and he’s filled with rage. So he goes to the shaman of the settlement who says, ‘Kill the cub. Take back what the bears have taken from you.’ But Oomara’s afraid, really afraid. Bears rule the ice. They’re fierce and powerful, their spirits even more so — but then working around Bergstrom, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

The pickup wobbled a fraction off course. Tootega, desperate not to look at the girl, ground his teeth and babbled out a litany of blasphemies — or prayers — while he swung the spikes of his lank black hair back and forth across the pits of his sunken cheeks.

Unrepentant, Zanna continued: “So Oomara goes back to the shaman and says, ‘How? How do I do this, without bringing the soul of the bear into my house?’ And the shaman says, ‘Take a bone of your dead son’s body and strike the bear cub once in the forehead —’”

“You stop now,” yelled Tootega, slapping a hand against the steering wheel. Sweat beads rolled across his creased dark brow and dripped into the fur around the hood of his parka.

“But this is the interesting bit,” said Zanna, leaning forward and tapping her sleeve. “The blow Oomara inflicted on the cub left a mark in its head like the one on my arm.
Identical,
I think, to the one on my arm. I didn’t want to believe it till we came up here last time and had our little encounter with —”

“We see bear. Let him go. Come home,” snapped the Inuk. “Then you and I …” He slashed his fingers across his throat.

Zanna smirked and pointed a toe of her boot. Idling a finger in a patch of condensation at the edge of the misty windshield she said, “Oh yeah, I sure plan to see Ingavar again. I’ll say one thing for David, he’s a talented bunny, drawing characters to him just by writing about them. Hey, do you think the bear
will
remember me?” She sat up suddenly, forcing Tootega to punch the brakes. The cab filled with the smell of burnt rubber as the tires locked onto available tarmac. The truck skidded to a halt, steam rising from the hood.
“Nice driving,” Zanna drawled, setting herself straight.

Tootega looked away from her face to the dribbling mark of Oomara in the windshield. “What you want?” he spat, eyes wild with fear.

She knuckled the screen. “To know what this means. Am I cursed or blessed? I need an answer, because I know now I’m related to her.”

“Who?” the Inuk grunted.

“You know who,” Zanna sneered back. “The shaman of Savalik, the priestess, the sibyl, the legendary ‘wise’ woman who forced the simpleheaded Oomara to murder a bear and so turned the laws of the north on their head. To you, she’s something unpronounceable, no doubt. I call her by her western name, Gwilanna.”

“We see bear,” Tootega repeated, flaring his nostrils till the soft hairs inside were glistening with dew. “I do what Bergstrom say.” He started the truck again and roared away.

“Oh yeah, Bergstrom,” Zanna said, nodding. “Champion of bears and keeper of mysteries. Wow, you must have seen some shamans in your time, but never one quite like him, eh? Thing is, anyone can bang a drum
and claim to speak with spirits, but transfiguration … that’s something else, isn’t it? Changing yourself into an animal — and back. Ever seen it happen? Ever seen the good doctor do the magic?”

“You should be dead,” the Inuk growled as they sped on, blurring past the tall town sign. “I pray to bear, eat you up and spit your bones.” He lurched the truck left, heading west beyond the houses for a piece of open ground, dominated by the outline of an orange and white helicopter.

“Not this bear,” Zanna grunted, mimicking the Inuk’s soupy accent. “Ingavar, my friend. He talked to me. He got the mark of Oomara on his head.”

“You lie,” Tootega shouted, stopping the truck again. He pulled a knife and jabbed it at her.

“Oh, that’s
really
smart,” she said, looking down, unperturbed, and laughing. “How are you gonna explain that to the Chamberlain police — and Russ?”

Tootega glanced ahead. Some fifty yards away, the pilot was standing over the body of a prostrate bear.
One of the uniformed policemen beside him gave the pickup a salute of recognition.

“You so much as glint a light on me,” said Zanna, running her finger down the flat of the blade, “and I’ll call the sibyl down from that tin can there.”

Tootega swallowed hard and stared again. Perched on top of a cylindrical steel holding pen that was used to jail unruly bears was a large raven.

Zanna moved her eyes toward the men. All three were staring in confusion at the pickup. “They’re beginning to wonder what the holdup is. If I were you, I’d drive.”

Tootega bundled the knife away and slammed the truck into gear again. Within seconds, they were pulling up by the bear.

“Hey, cowboy,” Zanna said, jumping out before the wheels had fully stopped turning.

“Hey,” said Russ, glancing at the cab. “Why the wait? Everything OK?” He nodded at Tootega, sitting motionless with his hands on the wheel.

“Freaked by the blackbird,” Zanna said, laughing. She pointed at the raven and walked on by. “How’s the baby?” she said to one of the policemen, a middle-aged guy with full red cheeks. He was spreading out a large rope net beside the bear.

“Kinda sleepy,” he replied.

“Can I touch him?”

“Oh yar. He ain’t gonna bite. Any minute now we’re gonna roll him up in this big old net and take him for a long ride outta town.”

Zanna smiled and hunkered down. Through half-closed lids, the bear’s dark brown eyes stared vacantly at her. “Hello, Ingavar,” she whispered, and taking off her glove she ran her hand over the fur of his neck and upwards to cup his ear in her palm.

On the roof of the holding pen, the raven squawked.

“Beauty, isn’t he?” Russ came to crouch beside her.

“The best,” she said. “What’s with the blood on his lip?”
Russ knelt forward and opened the bear’s mouth. Its thick black tongue lolled sideways, into its upper palate.

“We took a tooth,” he said, showing off a gap in the lower jaw. “Messy, but it’ll heal all right.”

“Tooth?” said Zanna, looking up at the bird.

“Umm,” Russ grunted, laying the head flat. “Every year, they add a new layer of enamel. If you section through it you can count the layers, just like you can with the growth rings in a tree. Easiest way to age them. This guy’s about twelve. In his prime. It would have been a travesty if the goon that shot him had finished the job.”

Zanna pursed her lips and made her straight hair dance. “I think he’s got a really big future, this bear.”

“He’s got a big journey, that’s for sure,” said Russ. “Fifty miles, up the coast.” He stood up and patted her shoulder. “Come on, we need to get this package wrapped. It took a lot of dizzy juice to knock this guy out. He’s strong. He won’t be asleep for long. Tootega, lend a hand, here.”

With a shuffle of feet, the Inuk stepped forward. Zanna immediately stood up and faced him.

“The bird knows,” she said quietly. “You’d better
give it back.” She rubbed her fingertips together, guiding a smear of blood across her skin.

“Tootega, come on, take a paw,” Russ called.

But the Inuk was watching in horror as Zanna pushed her hand inside her sleeve and carried the blood of the ice bear, Ingavar, to the scratches on her arm. With a lurch, he stumbled past her and helped the other men roll the bear onto the netting.

“OK, have it your way,” Zanna whispered and raised her dark-eyed gaze once more.

The bird extended its sleek black wings.

“To the ice,” said Zanna.

Caaark!
went the bird, and flew away.

North.

S
he can’t raise Gawain. That’s impossible,” said Liz. She put aside the tapestry cushion she was clutching as David handed her a cup of strong tea. He put a plate of cookies on the sofa arm beside her.

“Well, Gwilanna obviously believes she can. And in three months’ time, she’s going to give it a try.”

“But it’s ridiculous. She’d need his fire tear for that. How can she revive him when he’s locked in stone?”

David sat down, focusing on the space between his knees. “We’ll talk about the tear in a minute. Tell me what you know about this star.”

“Nothing. I’ve never heard of it before.”

“You don’t know how dragons came to be?”

“There are myths,” Liz said, “about a dragon called Godith.”

“Oh? You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Her,” Liz corrected. “Godith was supposed to have created the world with one gigantic outgoing breath, making dragons in her image — as you would.”

Hrrr,
went the Pennykettle dragons in turn, who had gathered as a group on the mantelpiece.

David scratched the side of his neck. He looked at Gadzooks, Gretel, Gruffen. All of them had their ears cocked forward. “I thought dragons were created from clay and their fire was born from the center of the Earth?”

“They are,” said Liz, “but something had to kick the process off. It’s like saying how did
we
get here? How far back can you go? No one truly knows. Actually, Henry’s very knowledgeable on this subject.”

“The birth of dragons?”

“No, cosmology. If you’re looking for a connection with this so-called fire star, he might be able to identify it for you. He’s got dozens of books on the subject.”

David nodded and broke a cookie in half. “What about Lucy, then? Why would Gwilanna take her away?”

On the floor at Liz’s feet, Bonnington mewed. Liz widened her arms to let him jump onto her lap. The cat sniffed at the cookies and drew his nose away. He circled twice, then settled down and started to groom his paws. Liz stroked him gently as she spoke. “It was always going to happen that Lucy would have to spend a while with Gwilanna. As you know, Gwilanna is always present at the birth of a dragon child. She takes it upon herself to instruct us in the old ways. I was taught by her myself, like all the descendants of Guinevere before me.”

“This is different,” said David, crossing his arms. “She snatched Lucy without your permission. She hasn’t gone to school, Liz. She’s being held hostage on an island in the Arctic.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“It’s a pretty safe bet. Gawain turned to stone on the Tooth of Ragnar. It’s seems sensible, therefore, to think that’s where Gwilanna will take her.”

Liz put her tea on a coaster by a lamp and broke a
cookie in half herself, showering Bonnington with oaty crumbs. “She won’t harm her. Lucy’s far too precious. She’s the youngest living relation to Guinevere, the woman who caught Gawain’s fire, remember. She’s a princess to the throne of dragonkind. Gwilanna will want to preserve all that.”

David blew a sigh and dunked his cookie. “I know you have this grudging respect for Gwilanna; I saw it when Grockle was born. I do understand how important she is to you, but she’s selfish, Liz, and hungry for power. Frankly, I’m worried about Lucy. Call me weird, but my fairytale imagination keeps reminding me that ‘princesses’ are traditionally despised by their wicked godmothers. I have this unpleasant notion running through my head that the ‘godmother’ in this case might need the blood of a Pennykettle ‘princess’ to carry out some kind of resurrection ritual.”

There the dialogue was brought to a halt by a stiff
hrrr
or two from the dragons on the mantelpiece. “Shush,” Liz said, soothing them with a note or two of dragonsong. She looked at David and shook her
head. “Hair,” she said. “If she takes anything from Lucy, it will be her hair. This …” she fingered her own red locks, “… was always part of the Guinevere legend. Remember I told you how Gwilanna burned a lock of it to join Gawain and Guinevere in fire?”

David tightened his lips. “Lucy’s got fair hair.”

“Not for much longer. If you’d looked at her closely on her last birthday you’d have seen the first strands of red appearing. We go through a change around the age of eleven. We start to develop ability with the clay — which you saw when she made G’reth — and our hair changes color … and so do our eyes. By February, she will be as redhaired as I am, with sharp green eyes. And that may be another reason Gwilanna wants her present at the raising of Gawain. The sight of …”

“A Guinevere clone?”

“… yes, might calm him when he wakes.”

David took his cookie — half his cookie — from his tea. “Then why take her so early? What ‘preparations’ does she need to make? And let’s say you’re right, that she stands in
waiting when Gawain is raised. She’s a
child, Liz, somewhat small in stature compared to a dragon. He’s only got to stretch a wing and bang, good-bye, Lucy. This is always assuming she’s not crushed by the rockfall that’s going to ensue when — or rather if — he stirs from the grave.”

Liz winced and pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “He’ll know Lucy’s there. Dragons have a very keen sense of smell.”

“After thousands of years locked away in stone? I wake with two gummy nostrils every morning and sometimes struggle to get a whiff of Bonnington.”

Hrrr,
went Gretel, though it might have been
urrrgh.

Liz ran her hand down Bonnington’s back, producing an appreciative purr from his throat. “Trust me, he’ll know. If Gwilanna is going to succeed, I’d rather be in Lucy’s shoes than hers.”

“Yeah, well, that’s where the ifs and buts come to an end.”

Liz lifted an eyebrow. “Meaning?” “She’s not going to succeed. I won’t allow it. I know what became of Gawain’s fire tear. If Gwilanna was to
restore it to him, she could end up destroying the world as we know it.”

An unsettled
hrrr
rumbled off the mantelpiece. Even Bonnington stirred and raised his head.

“You found out where it’s hidden?”

David nodded. “I’m concerned that Gwilanna has learned that I know and plans to use Lucy as a ransom demand.”

“Like Gwendolen,” Liz muttered, letting her green eyes slowly defocus as if she was looking back through time. “Like the redhaired daughter she promised Guinevere in exchange for Gawain’s fire. She’s running it again.”

“Maybe,” said David. “Only this time, it’s Lucy, not Gwendolen, for the fire. That’s the choice I’m worried she’ll present us with: your daughter’s life — or the rest of mankind….”