The Story of Owen (33 page)

“No,” I said. Somehow, my voice stayed level. “I won't be able to manage the woodwinds anymore, or any of the valves for the brass. Certainly not the piano.”

“What about writing?” Hannah asked.

“It'll never be easy again,” Mum said. “But her typing should be okay. And she can compose on a computer. There are programs now where you can sing a line and the notes will come up on staff paper. Your throat's just irritated, not burned. Your voice and lung capacity won't diminish. It might take longer, but you can still write operas if you want.”

I closed my eyes and breathed, listening to the heart monitor that paced out my new life in measured stanzas. I could already see the notes above and below the tone, shaping into the song of healing that would help us piece ourselves, and our towns, back together. When I opened my eyes again, all the grown-ups were looking at me like I might go into hysterics, but Owen had a small smile on his face.

“I read about someone who learned to play the trombone with his feet. Maybe I could do that,” I said, and everyone relaxed. “What happened to Saltrock?” I asked.

“Most of the dragons went for the burning ships,” Hannah said. “But a few of them went into the town. There was a lot of property damage, more than we expected. The Hub is nearly leveled and there were power shortages and gas leaks, but repairs are already underway.”

“Death toll?” I asked, preparing for the worst.

“Fifteen,” Dad said. “One of the tanker crews got turned into the lake and nine of them drowned. Four people died because they wouldn't leave their houses, and Mr. Knott's heart gave out when he was underground. And one of the foremen from the mine stayed up in the catwalk to make sure someone could warn those below if more of the dragons turned inland. The catwalk caught fire, and he couldn't get down. That's just Saltrock and Trondheim, though. We don't know about anywhere else yet.”

Fire again.

“Okay, I'm not your doctor, but you really need to rest.” I think my mother had some sort of undisclosed superpower, because she knew that I was about to break. “And since I
am
everyone else's doctor: go get some rest.”

The adults grumbled good-naturedly and left. Lottie squeezed my shoulder again, and Hannah leaned over to kiss me and whisper “I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault,” I said.

“It was a stupid mistake,” she replied. “I should have seen the flaw in the design.”

“We're the ones who were too stupid to watch the sky,” I said. “If you're looking for someone to blame.”

“It's easier to blame myself,” she said.

“Well, I don't,” I told her. She kissed me again and followed her wife out of my room.

Mum and Dad left too, giving me a moment with Owen before he was packed into the car and subjected to whatever terrible forms of over-parenting resulted from having four parents, none of whom were legally barred from giving him medical advice.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” I asked.

“For being late for English,” he said, again. “And for slaying that dragon. It probably would have eaten me if you hadn't gotten it in the hearts.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You pretty much owe me forever.”

“Hey, I did extinguish you,” he protested. “You weren't exactly in the headspace to stop, drop, and roll.”

“Okay, so we're even,” I said.

“And still a team,” he said, gently bumping his fist against my bandages.

“Really?” I said. I hadn't expected him to drop me entirely, not after everything, but I had suspected some kind of change in the roster.

“Of course,” he said. “Don't think I'm replacing you just because it'll be harder for you to write songs now. Besides, you're pretty good with a sword in a pinch.”

“I think that was a bit more than a pinch!” I protested. “And anyway, if you thought algebra was bad, you have no idea what you're in for with calculus next year. Mrs. Postma stops playing nice for that.”

“Fine, I owe you forever,” Owen said. “Or at least until we graduate.”

“Speaking of, did the school survive okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, more or less,” he said. “I mean, it was on fire when the helicopter landed, and a soot-streaker was attacking it. I managed to take it out, though. I had the helicopter drop me off right on the roof. I wish you'd seen it. It was very action hero.”

I was almost positive he was making it up.

“You didn't even think about just letting it burn?” I asked.

“I gave it some thought,” he admitted, and I could tell by his face that the part where the school had been on fire was true, though I still had my doubts about the part with the helicopter. He smiled at me. “But then where would we have the prom?”

And that was how it started.

Once upon a time, there was a dragon slayer named Owen. He was brave and strong, and he wasn't afraid of anything. He was very good at soccer and he was terrible at math. When his town was attacked, he defended it. When his friends were in danger, he saved them. And when he had to, he risked his own life to do it.

One day, Owen went on a perilous voyage to a faraway island to rid his home of dragons forever, or at least reduce the population to a manageable number. Though he was beset by bad weather and cold water, he neither quailed nor flinched away from his quest. And he got to that island, and he lit it on fire, and he burned away the dragon eggs before they could hatch into a ravening horde that would put his house and the houses of the people he loved in harm's way.

When he came home, there was a parade, and a street named after him, and a medal of honor from the Prime Minister himself. And when all the pomp was over, Owen got back
into his car and went out to slay more dragons, because that was his job. He can be seen all over Huron County, defending farms and chickens or making sure that the high school formal doesn't get set on fire. He does his duty, working hard and working alone, as heroes always do. And because of that, the people of Trondheim are safe.

That is the Story of Owen, dragon slayer of Trondheim. And it is more or less true, but you can believe whatever you want.

If it takes a village to train a dragon slayer, it also takes a village to write a book about one.

Thank you so much to Agent Josh, who almost always calls while I am driving, and to Editor Andrew, who said “You've kind of written a Socialist Tract”, and meant it as a compliment.

I thank my support group. Faith King, Laura Josephsen and Emma Higinbotham are the writing partners of my heart. Jo Graham and Natalie Parker stopped me from outright panic when it came time to send out query letters. RJ Anderson and Tessa Gratton believed in this book SO HARD, and spoke up about it on my behalf. Colleen Speed, Amy Hetherington, Emily Wilkinson, Rachel Mikitka, and Kathleen Dorsey are test-readers beyond compare.

To my family, who kept me and fed me, and did their level best to be understanding and patient: I love you all so
much! Special thanks to EJ and Jen, and to Auntie Jo, without whom I couldn't have done any of this. And to Eli, who sat very patiently on the swing while I was babysitting him, listened to the first two chapters, and said, as four-year-olds do, “Auntie Kater, is there really a dragon on the CN Tower?”

And I would be remiss if I failed to mention my f-list on livejournal, whose encouragement never fails. In particular, huge thanks to irony_rocks, lanna_kitty, oparu, mylittleredgirl, cincoflex, eolivet, amenirdis, penknife, dbalthasar, shadadukal, colej55, miera_c, and melyanna. You are not only the reason I write, you are the reason I am starting to get better at it.

The Story of Owen
was born in Alberta, the subject of much discussion in Ohio, and written in the Erbsville Starbucks in Waterloo.

The cool things about Emily Kate Johnston are that she is a forensic archaeologist, she has lived on four continents, she decorates cupcakes in her spare time, she adores the Oxford comma, and she loves to make up stories.

The less cool things about Kate are that she's from a small town in southwestern Ontario, she spends a lot of time crying over books in random coffee shops, and she can't play as many musical instruments as she wishes she could. Visit her online at
ekjohnston.ca.