The Fire Within Page 3

“It’s what he wanted,” said Liz, coming to join them. “I tried him with a book, but he just didn’t like it. He definitely wanted a pencil to chew on.”

  “Perhaps he’s a drawing dragon,” said Lucy. “Do you like drawing pictures?”

  David shook his head. “Can’t draw for anything. What do you mean, he ‘wanted’ a pencil?”

  Liz lifted a shoulder. “Special dragons are like characters in a book; I have to go where they want to take me. I have a writer friend who’s always saying that.”

  Lucy let out an excited gasp. “You mean he’s a dragon for making up stories?!”

  “Lucy, don’t start,” said Liz. “Now, David, if you accept this dragon you must promise to care for him always.”

  “You mustn’t ever make him cry,” said Lucy.

  David ran a thumb along the dragon’s snout. “Erm, this might sound like a silly question, but how is it possible to make him cry?”

  “By not loving him,” said Lucy, as if it ought to be obvious.

  “Imagine that there’s a spark inside him,” said Liz.

  “If you love him, it will always stay lit,” smiled Lucy.

  “To light it, you must give him a name,” said Liz.

  “Something magic,” said Lucy. “Think of one — now!”

  David had a think. “How about … Gadzooks?”

  Lucy turned on her heels. “They like it!” she said, looking around the shelves.

  “They do?” said David, raising an eyebrow. As far as he could tell there were no dragons doing backflips or flapping wings for joy.

  Lucy nodded so fast her head looked as if it were in danger of coming right off. “Didn’t you hear them going h—”

  “Gadzooks is a lovely name,” said Liz, giving Lucy a nudge with her shoulder. “It suits him very well. Now, tour over. It’s time we went downstairs, I think.”

  “Good idea,” said David, wiping a trickle of sweat off his brow. “Is it me or is it getting warm in here? Your oven’s not on, is it?”

  “It’s not dinnertime yet,” said Lucy.

  “Not the oven in the kitchen,” David laughed. “I meant your potter’s oven. You know, your kiln? When you make things from clay you put them in a kiln to fire, don’t you?”

  Before anyone could speak, the telephone rang. Liz moved toward the door. “Better answer that.” With a curt look at Lucy, she left the room.

  No sooner was her mother out of sight than Lucy turned to David and said, “Are you going to make up a story for me?”

  “No,” he said, trying to clean a blemish off Gadzooks. It looked for all the world like a scorch mark on his tail. It was deep in the glaze though. “I’m hopeless at stories, Lucy. I wouldn’t have a clue what to tell one about.”

  “Conker,” she suggested, almost bouncing off the floorboards. “Do a story about Conker. Gadzooks will help you. That’s what special dragons are for.”

  David pried his collar away from his neck. It really was getting warm in the den. “No,” he said, “but I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ve got to go into town on Friday. While I’m there I’ll go to the library and see if I can find a good book about squirrels.”

  “A storybook?”

  “No, a factual one. I’m curious to know how Conker’s eye got hurt. A reference book about squirrel behavior might give us a clue.”

  “All right,” said Lucy. “When you know some more, you can do a story then.”

  “Lucy!” Liz called, before David could respond.

  “Coming!” she cried, and ran off. At the door, she paused and looked back at the tenant. “Did you really not hear them hrring?”

  David looked left and right at the dragons. Dozens of oval-shaped eyes peered back.

  Lucy pointed to her heart. “You have to hear it here, before you hear it here.” Her finger moved from her heart to her ear. She grinned and skipped away.

  “Yeah, right,” David muttered, and brought Gadzooks up close to his face. “Hello, dragon. Pilot light lit? Good. Now, listen up. Let’s get this relationship straight from the start: No sneezing in the middle of the night, no setting fire to my books or computer, and no frightening my teddy bear, OK? Oh, and no crying. First sign of trouble and you turn into a shapeless lump again. Got it?”

  Gadzooks chewed the end of his pencil in silence.

  David looked around the room a final time. “Hrrr,” he went at the shelves of dragons.

  Then, clutching Gadzooks, he headed for his room.

  Still wondering about that kiln.

  A VISIT TO THE LIBRARY

  Scrubbley Library was right in the center of town, tucked away on the end of a cul-de-sac that branched off from Main Street. As the front doors glided open, David was pleasantly surprised to find himself in a well-lit, modern building brimming with CDs, computers, and videos — and the odd book, of course.

  He made his way to the information desk. A balding librarian was sitting behind it, hidden by a large computer screen.

  David sat down and pinged the bell. “Excuse me, have you got any books on sq —?”

  To his astonishment, Henry Bacon looked up from the computer.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Henry, flaring a nostril. “ ‘Sq,’ did you say? You want me to find you a book on ‘Sq’? One of those Asian practices, is it? Like kung fu and tai chi? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it. Still, we must have something. Section 796.815. Up the stairs. Sharp left. Next!”

  “Wait, you don’t understand,” said David. “When I said ‘sq —,’ I hadn’t finished my sentence.”

  Henry frowned and sat back in his chair. “This is a very busy library, son. I hope you’re not trying to waste my time?”

  “I was a little surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

  Mr. Bacon said, “I work here, you fool. Now get to the point. There’s someone waiting.”

  David looked over his shoulder. A young woman with a toddler was standing behind him. “When I said ‘sq —,’ what I was trying to ask was, could you possibly find me a book on —”

  “Squid?” said Henry Bacon, beginning to understand. “You want a book on squid?”

  David shook his head.

  “Squash?”

  “No.”

  “Squeakers?”

  “No!”

  “Squints? Squatters? Squaws? Squeegees? Squalls? Squirmy things? Squeezing machines?”

  “SQUIRRELS!” David shouted.

  “Sssh!” went someone at a nearby table.

  David slapped a hand to his face.

  “Squirrels?” Mr. Bacon hissed, a disapproving tone in his gravelly voice.

  “Gray ones, please,” David said pointedly.

  Mr. Bacon’s faint mustache twitched.

  “It’s … for Lucy. She’s doing a project for school.”

  Mr. Bacon straightened the cuffs of his shirt. He tapped the word “squirrel” into his computer. While he was waiting for the search to complete, he leaned sideways and whispered, “Seen any more of that rat?”

  “What rat?” said David, not connecting at first.

  “The one in my garden, you idiot.”

  David’s mouth fell open slightly. “Oh, that rat,” he said, remembering his fib by the pest control van. “No.”

  Henry pursed his lips. “Doesn’t matter. I’m on the case, anyway. Tell Mrs. P. there’s nothing to worry about.” The computer beeped, drawing Henry’s attention. “We appear to have a book called The World of Squirrels by A. N. Utter —”

  “Great,” said David. “Erm, what do you mean you’re ‘on the case’?”

  “— but it’s out,” said Henry. “We also have Squirrels and Their Habitats by G. S. Forage —”

  “Good. That’ll do. On the case of what?”

  “— but that’s out as well. Ah, we have two copies of Squirrels in the U.S.A. by N. K. Graytail —”

  “Point me to the shelf,” David said tiredly. “—unfortunately,” Mr. Bacon sighed, “they’re both in our other branch, in Wiggley.”
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  David groaned and banged his head on the desk. Mr. Bacon grimaced. He removed a hankie from his jacket pocket and flicked it over the laminated surface.

  Just then, the woman with the toddler tapped David’s shoulder. “Can I make a suggestion? If you want to learn about squirrels, why don’t you just look outside?” David glanced through the plate glass windows, at the traffic rolling down Main Street.

  “The other way,” Mr. Bacon sighed.

  David turned. Through the far library windows he saw treetops swaying in the blustery wind.

  The woman said, “Haven’t you ever been to the library gardens? Goodness, you must be the only person in Scrubbley who hasn’t. Go through the gates at the end of the cul-de-sac. You’ll find all the squirrels you want in there.”

  “Thank you,” said David. “I’ll go and have a look.” He stood up. The woman took his seat. “Mr. Bacon,” he said, looking back, “what do you mean, ‘Mrs. P.’s got nothing to worry about’?”

  But Henry was immersed in his computer once more.

  David drummed his fingers and turned away. He had the feeling Mr. Bacon was plotting something, though what, precisely, he couldn’t say. All he knew as he exited the library was that something cold had touched him inside. Oddly, he thought about his dragon, then; Gadzooks, sitting on the windowsill at home: a spiky silhouette against the rain-spattered glass. And, in that moment, something peculiar happened. In his mind’s eye David saw Gadzooks take his pencil from his mouth and try to scribble something down on his pad. The wind whistled and tugged at David’s hair. Ahead of him the treetops bristled and sighed. He shook himself once and Gadzooks disappeared. But as David clanked his way through the tall iron gates and entered the gardens for the very first time, he couldn’t shake off the bizarre idea that the dragon had been trying to tell him something.

  GREENFINGERS GEORGE

  A few paces along the leaf-strewn path that led the way into the gardens proper, David halted by a noticeboard which read:

  WELCOME TO SCRUBBLEY LIBRARY GARDENS

  We hope you enjoy your visit

  “Thank you very much,” David muttered.

  “You what?” a rasping voice replied.

  A curious little man stepped out of a clump of laurel bushes.

  “Oh — sorry,” David called out, turning red. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

  The little man wiped his nose on his sleeve. Partly hidden as he was in the shadow of the trees, he didn’t look much bigger than a garden gnome. He was wearing a tattered black padded jacket, and a gray canvas hat with a brim that flopped down like a fraying lampshade. One knee was poking out through his earth-stained pants. On his feet were a pair of work boots that were so big an elephant might have slopped around in them.

  David made a stab at proper conversation. “You’re not the library gardener by any chance, are you?”

  “And what if I was?”

  “You might be able to help me. I’m doing a sort of … nature study.”

  The little figure snorted and shuffled around. He went back into the bushes and emerged a moment later with a two-wheeled cart. He bumped it onto the paved path. “People call me ‘Greenfingers George’ —”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said David, holding out his hand.

  “— but to you, it’s Mr. Digwell.” George ignored the handshake, preferring instead to scratch his backside through a hole in his pants. “Well? What is it you want?”

  Before David could say, the clock in the library tower bonged three times. David frowned and looked at his watch. It was eleven exactly. “Clock’s wrong,” he muttered.

  “No, it ain’t,” said George. “Everyone in Scrubbley knows exactly what time it is at three bongs o’ the library clock: eleven — one hour before my lunch. I’ve got half a dozen shrubs to plant by then, so if you want my help you’d better make it quick.”

  “Squirrels,” said David. “Where can I see some?”

  “Squirrels?” George trumpeted. “What do you want with them? Pesky little varmints. Bane o’ my life. Bite the buds off my saplings, dig up my bulbs, plant their stinking nuts in my lawns. There’s one,” he said, beckoning David closer, “that lives up the beech near the fountain back there.” He pointed vaguely into the distance. “Mean little villain, that one. Plays tricks on me for fun, I reckon. You can’t miss him. He’s got a look.”

  “A look?” repeated David.

  “A great big smile.”

  David cast a doubtful glance toward the fountain.

  “Oh, yeah,” said George, sucking mud off his finger. “Little pest was in my pottin’ shed last week. Stole my ham sandwich, he did.”

  David did his best to form a sympathetic look. “And where did you say I’d find him — them?”

  “Go down the embankment,” Mr. Digwell said, pointing along the narrow path that tumbled helter-skelter through the thicket of trees, “all the way to the fencin’ at the bottom. Take the left-hand path around the front of the bandstand and keep going over the duck pond bridge. Go through the clearing where the big oak stands, and the beeches are right on up from there.”

  David gave a cordial nod and crunched off down the path. He’d gone less than five paces when he turned and said: “Mr. Digwell, can I ask you something else?”

  The gardener sighed and leaned on a pitchfork.

  “How might a squirrel lose an eye?”

  George muttered something under his breath. He lifted his fork and forced it ominously into the ground. “Could be any number o’ reasons. Accident. Disease. Likeliest cause is somethin’ attacked it.”

  “A cat?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Tomcat’d most likely kill it, though. They don’t take many prisoners, cats.”

  David nodded. Maybe Bonnington wasn’t as dippy as he looked. “What about another squirrel?”

  George beat his chest and spat a glob of phlegm into a leaf-blocked drain. “Nah. Squirrels, they squabble and bluster a lot, pull out fur, bite toes, perhaps. But an eye? No, that’s somethin’ bigger. Fox. Dog. Man, maybe.”

  David looked at the gardener, hard.

  George threw his pitchfork into the bottom of the cart. “Tree rats ain’t a protected species. If they’re a nuisance, boy, people remove ‘em.” He drew a sharp line across his neck.

  “What sort of people?” David asked.

  “People who don’t like pests,” said George. “Now, if you have no more questions, I’ve got my plantin’ to do.” And pushing his two-wheeled cart ahead of him, he strode off down the winding path, until he was no bigger than another dead leaf, tumbling out of the autumn sky.

  THE WISHING FOUNTAIN

  When the gardener was out of sight, David set off in search of the beech trees. He followed the path around as George had suggested until the ground leveled out at the foot of the embankment and the path split into two. To his left, the bandstand poked into view, half hidden by a weeping willow. To his right was another large bank of trees. In front of him now was a sun-speckled pond. Mallards and rails were resting near the shore. A few paddleboats were moored to a makeshift dock. David clattered across the narrow arched bridge and strolled into the clearing toward the great oak. The ground there was littered with acorns, many still wedged into their knobby gray cups. David crouched down and picked one up. It was greenish brown and not quite firm — softened, perhaps, by early morning dew. He jiggled it in the palm of his hand. He began to think then about Wayward Crescent and the oak tree that had once stood there. What was Conker eating if it wasn’t acorns? Peanuts from a bird feeder? Bacon rinds? Did he have a secret cache of nuts? Was it because of a fight for food that his eye had become so badly hurt? David sighed and dropped the acorn back into the ferns. How could he really hope to find out?

  He was still pondering the question some ten minutes later when he stumbled upon a small, stone fountain halfway up a rise called Cobnut Hill. He peered into the glistening, leaf-covered water. Coins of varying size and value were lying against the blue-t
iled bottom. David found a penny and flipped it in the air. As it spun, he found himself wishing he knew what he could do to best help Conker. With a sploop, the penny hit the surface of the water. It sank with a gentle skating motion. As it settled on the bottom, David heard a faint noise. He looked to the opposite side of the fountain. A keen-eyed squirrel was sitting on the wall.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, it scuttled around the stonework and stopped within a meter of David’s hand.

  “Hello,” said David.

  The squirrel flagged a lively, white-tipped tail. It lifted one foot and twitched its nose. It looked at David as if to say “feed me.” David put a hand in his coat pocket and produced the only item of food he possessed: a small red apple.

  The squirrel scratched its ear with a thumping back foot.

  Then it sat back on its haunches — and smiled.

  David nearly fell into the fountain in astonishment. Perhaps it was the shape of the squirrel’s mouth, giving the impression of a cheesy grin, but it really did look as if the creature had smiled.

  “It’s you,” said David. “The sandwich robber. I was warned about you.”

  The squirrel, unconcerned by its notoriety, bristled its whiskers and edged a little nearer. It looked hard at the apple and its nose twitched again. It put a long, clawed foot on David’s thigh.

  David crunched softly into the fruit, chewed off a piece and dropped it on the wall.

  The squirrel leaned forward and took it … then promptly spat it into the fountain.

  David frowned like a disappointed parent. “Don’t tell me — you prefer Granny Smiths?”

  The squirrel chose not to smile at that. It fidgeted, impatiently, left and right, then sat up cautiously and sniffed the air.

  Suddenly, with a chatter of alarm, it was gone.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” David called.

  The cause of the problem soon became apparent.

  Another squirrel was on the wall. It was big enough to be a baseball on legs. Its tail alone was like a small feather boa. With a passing sneer at the visiting human, it scrabbled off the fountain and chased the first squirrel across the path.