The Last Dragon Chronicles #4: The Fire Eternal (5 page)

I
t was during the final weeks of her pregnancy, and for the first months after Alexa had been born, that Zanna had found she needed the most support. Liz was always on hand, of course. Lucy, too, had been a tower of strength then. And though Gretel had helped with restful potions, especially at night when Zanna had sometimes had difficulty sleeping, no one could calm
her quite like Arthur. It was during this stressful phase that he had first invited her to meditate with him. Peace, he told her, came from inner silence. In the silence she would find contentment and truth.

Arthur was no stranger to the concept of silence. He had spent many isolated, troubled years at an island monastery, trying to understand the nature of the
universe and how it related to
human consciousness, a journey that had shown him many wonders and dealt him many blows. The blindness he endured, caused by the agent of an alien life form in the struggle to protect a guardian of the universe, a dragon known to them all as Grockle, was both a hindrance and a blessing. In his daily life, the darkness was inconvenient. But in the Dragon’s Den, locked away in deep contemplation, it
was a catalyst of enlightenment, a window which opened on the quality of devotion. For these trials, ordeals, and years of hardship had finally brought him here, to this house, to Elizabeth.

Everything happened for a reason.

Everything.

So when Zanna sat with him that Sunday afternoon, before she chose to go out and meet Tam Farrell, Arthur listened to her, not with the ear of a priest or its
surrogate, but with the ear of a man who felt nothing but unconditional love for her. A state in which he could not pass judgment. A pool in which she could mirror her thoughts.

“I mean, I feel … I don’t know what I feel. Help me, Arthur. I’m …”

“Be calm,” he said. “Breathe slowly. Breathe deep.”

Zanna synchronized her airflow again. The third time she’d done so since the session started. She
pulled her left foot tight against her thigh. That was a measure of her tension, she thought: cramp, sitting in the lotus position. She glanced at Gwillan.
Would she like him to hurr on her toes?
he asked.

“No,” she said gratefully, and set herself again. “I mean, I see Liz’s point, but I feel mixed up.”

“Are you frightened of letting go?” asked Arthur.

“Of David?” She sounded alarmed. “I could
never give him up. He’s …”

Arthur parted his lips again. “Are you afraid of letting go of yourself, Zanna?”

She tipped her head forward, sending her long hair cascading down her cheeks. After a few seconds lost in thought she replied, “I told Lexie about G’lant.” She looked up for any sign of a reaction, but his face was a model of stillness and serenity. “Was that letting go?
Or was I just
passing the buck to my child because I can’t cope alone with the burden of carrying that invisible flame?”

Gadzooks, sitting on a stool behind Zanna, shifted his wings uncomfortably.

Arthur opened his eyes. She preferred it like this. Although he could not see her, it seemed as though he did. It felt more personal. “When I was blinded by the Fain,” he said, “I was terrified, but not for the
reason you imagine. In the moment I commingled with that extraordinary creature, I was exposed to a greater part of the universe. I saw worlds I did not believe I could imagine. I sensed feelings …” He swallowed and closed his eyes again. “Every light is visible somewhere, Zanna. Your love for David is alive. You created it. On some level, you can be certain he knows you care for him. And that’s enough,
enough for you to open your hands and let G’lant fly free.”

“I know, I know, I know,” she repeated, dragging the back of her hand under her eye. “But I don’t want to feel I’m betraying him, Arthur.”

“Let go,” he counseled her, quiet and assured. “Follow your instinct. Follow your heart.”

Zanna sighed and looked up. On a shelf just behind Liz’s workbench was a dragon called Gauge. He was a counting
dragon and the most accurate “clock” in the house. She raised an eyebrow and Gauge in turn raised his paws for her, making the hands for 7:10 p.m. Fifty minutes before the poetry reading began.

Zanna uncrossed her legs and nudged her feet into her shoes. “Follow my heart?”

“Always,” said Arthur.

She nodded, bent forward, and gently kissed his cheek. “Thank you. I know what I have to do. We’ll
speak again tomorrow. Love and light.”

“Love and light,” he said in return. “Enjoy yourself.”

Zanna knew Allandale’s bookshop well. When David’s first book,
Snigger and the Nutbeast,
had been published, the shop had organized a small promotional
event to celebrate the success of their most local — and mysterious — author. This was the first time the readers of Scrubbley had come to discover
that the man who had made their library gardens famous was doing so posthumously. A journalist and photographer from the
Scrubbley Evening Echo
had turned up that night, hoping to talk to the “family” of Mr. Rain. Zanna, by prior agreement with Liz, had opted to stay anonymous, and it was Liz and David’s editor, Dilys Whutton, who gave the paper what they needed to know:
David disappeared tragically,
presumed drowned, on a scientific expedition to the Arctic. His next — and last — book,
White Fire,
would be set there. For the sake of his nearest and dearest, that was all they wished to say.

Zanna caught her breath. It was the same room, set out in just the same way, with three arcs of soft-backed chairs and a small lectern at the front. The main ceiling lights had been turned off, and the
room was illuminated by filtered blue halogens built into the two walls
of bookshelves. Ten or a dozen people were already randomly seated, poring over programs, but Zanna’s eye was drawn to a larger group, clustered around a table where tea and fruit juice were being served. She spotted Tam Farrell in quiet conversation with a spiky-haired woman, whom she knew to be the bookshop owner, Cassandra.
He was dressed almost identically to the way she’d last seen him, but without his glasses. He seemed more handsome, if less stylish, as a result. Zanna gulped at the embedded disloyalty of this thought and almost turned to leave, but by then he had spotted her and was waving in acknowledgement. He finished off his drink and came hurrying to greet her, hand extended.

“Hi. Glad you could make it.
Come on in. What would you like to drink?”

“Oh, just a cup of tea,” she said.

“No problem.” He was about to turn to get it when she caught his arm and said, “Um, Mr. Farrell, may I introduce you to someone?”

Tam glanced at the elderly man beside her.

“My neighbor and mentor, Henry Bacon. He’s a librarian. He likes poetry, don’t you, Henry?”

“Not this modern trash,” he muttered, scowling his
way through the pages of a pamphlet.

Tam’s mouth fell open. “Well, you’re full of surprises, Miss …?”

“Martindale,” she said, “but you can call me Zanna.”

Tam nodded in the style of an old-fashioned gentleman and smiled again, as if he’d won a small but important victory. Hands in pockets, he turned to Mr. Bacon. “I’m a Blake man, myself. What about you, Henry?”

“Too many angels,” Mr. Bacon
grunted.

“There’s nothing wrong with angels,” Zanna chided him.

“You like Blake?” Tam turned to her again.

“Had to read him at school.” Stroking her hair, she quoted one of his lines, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.”

“Fair assessment,” said Tam, looking impressed. “Tea, then, and …?”

“Tea as well,” said Henry. “Where are the restrooms?”

Tam flapped a hand. “Oh, at the back of the shop, I think. Sit down where you like,” he said quietly to Zanna. “I’ll be back with …”

“Tea?” she said wryly.

“Tea. Right.” He drifted away.

Zanna chose the back row of seats. Suspecting that Tam might elect to join them, it was her intention to use Henry as a buffer between them, but Mr. Bacon’s insistence on having an aisle seat left the chair
beside her free, and sure enough Tam chose to sit there. To his credit, he kept a respectful distance and only spoke once or twice throughout the first reading to whisper the odd comment. “Too intense,” he suggested about one poem. “Probably better off the page,” he said of another. Zanna said nothing in return. With her hands in her lap she struck a high-chinned pose, which she
hoped might make
her appear to be listening, even though she was finding the poetry dull and Henry’s bad-tempered shuffling difficult to cope with. She was mildly surprised that Tam had not gone to sit with friends or even tried to introduce her to them, an embarrassment she’d been steeling herself for since her arrival. And why hadn’t he known where the restrooms were, if this was one of his regular haunts?

The answer became clear when the second reader was announced — none other than Tam Farrell, a “highly respected” name on the poetry circuit, with many publications in small press magazines. She clapped benignly as he stood up.

“Seems I’m not the only one with surprises,” she said.

“It’s not Blake, but I hope you enjoy it,” he replied.

He read about Scotland. He read about his childhood. But
most of all, he read about love. His voice, in turns both lyrical and commanding, hung in the air with the ethereal quality of a good radio broadcast.
Despite her better wishes, Zanna found herself moved. At the end, the applause was rapturous and deserved. He nodded modestly and thanked them all for coming. She was pleased that he did not try to look at her.

The readings concluded there and
Tam was drawn away to a table at the front. Cassandra announced that his first collection of poetry was available to buy and he would be happy to sign copies if anyone was interested. A small crowd soon gathered. To Zanna’s surprise, Henry Bacon declared he was going to join them.

Zanna didn’t know what to say. She looked over at the table where Tam was smiling broadly, already handing a book
to a gushing fan. How many times had she imagined David doing that? “I’ll just browse,” she said to Henry. “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

Half an hour later she was standing beside the section labeled “New Age/Spiritual,” glancing through a book about the Wiccan religion when Tam’s voice drifted over her shoulder. “Ah, thought I might find you here.”

“In the crazies’ section?” She reached
up and slid the book back onto the shelf.

He clicked his tongue. Touché. Again. “You know, that really is a nasty scar,” he said, daring to hold her arm a moment. “You must have encountered some brutes in your playground?”

“I fell,” she said, releasing herself with just enough force to suggest that she didn’t approve of the contact. “Where’s Henry?”

“Treating Cassie to a discourse on libraries.”

“Then I’d better go and rescue her.”

Tam swept a path clear. “He asked me to give you this.” He held out a copy of his poetry pamphlet.

“The Fire Eternal,”
she mumbled, reading the title.

“It’s a metaphor — for everlasting love,” he said, letting his gaze wander over her face. “Not too subtle, but folks seem to like it. Read the inscription.”

Zanna opened the book. On the title page were the
words,
To Zanna — I hope this opens a small door to perception, Tam Farrell.

“Henry asked me to sign it for you.”

Speechless, she chewed her lip.

“Kind man,” he said. “Interesting, too — once he’s put you in your place, of course. Forgive me if I’m about to wade in with elephant-sized feet, but … I take it he’s not your partner?”

Zanna shook her head. “No. No, he isn’t.”

“He couldn’t make
it, then — your guy?”

“I have to go,” she said, loosening the flap on her knit shoulder bag and pushing the pamphlet hurriedly inside. “Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

“My pleasure,” he said as she swept away. With an unresolved sigh, he followed her back to the signing table.

Henry was still in deep discussion and had regressed from the library system into the war years. Cassandra, who
seemed grateful to see another female face, interrupted him to ask if Zanna had enjoyed the event.

“Yes, very enlightening,” she said, her attention still diverted to her bag. It had felt awkward for a moment
when she’d opened it, but she couldn’t quite understand why.

“Impressive, isn’t he?” Cassandra was nodding at Tam.

“
Mmm
. A revelation,” Zanna mumbled, absent-mindedly buttoning up her
bag.

“He gets better. You should come to these events more often. Haven’t I seen you before anyway?”

“I work on Main Street,” Zanna replied quickly. “I stop in now and then.”

Cassandra nodded. “Tam, about your ‘fee.’”

“You pay him?” said Henry, who clearly felt that literature ought to be free to the masses.

“In kind,” she said. “Choose a book, Tam. Anything you like, hard or paperback.”

Tam looked around a moment then walked across to a display table and picked one up. “I’ll take this.” It was a copy of
White Fire.

Zanna felt her breath moving forward in stutters.

“Fine choice,” said Henry.

“You’ve read it?” Tam half-lifted an eyebrow.

“I’ve more than read it, boy, I —”

A nudge from Zanna stopped him short. “Henry, I think it’s time we go.”

Tam opened the book at the back
page. “No, please, go on. I’m interested to hear what Henry has to say. There’s quite a cult growing up around this. Thought I’d find out what all the fuss is about. Local chap, isn’t he?” He pointed to a small photograph on the inside of the book jacket. David in the library gardens, feeding a squirrel.

Cassandra nodded. “He died — a few years ago.”

Tam hummed thoughtfully. “Tragic. So young.”
He let the pages flutter. “Polar bears, the Arctic, Inuit legends.” He looked pointedly at Zanna, then at Henry. “Doesn’t strike me as your sort of thing, Henry?”

“I’m a librarian,” he said. “I’m widely read.”