Dragonfell Read online

  Chapter 3

  My da’s never been much of a talker. Sometimes there’s hardly a word between us from morning to night. There’s just the constant sound of his weaving loom, the shuttle going swath across the warp and whirr as the thread spins out from the bobbin, and thump-thump as he sends the shuttle whirring back again.

  The loom that does Da’s talking for him is a square frame made of heavy wood, and it fills half of the one main room of our cottage. Da keeps his back to the room as he weaves, his broad, bony shoulders hunched, his big hands busy with the shuttle.

  It’s just me and Da. My ma’s been gone since I was born. Da never talks about her.

  Swath and whirr and thump-thump wake me in the morning. It’s Da’s way of saying Get up, Rafi, go milk the goats and make breakfast.

  Up on my sleep shelf, I lie as still as I can—which isn’t very still—and blink at the thatched roof overhead. My fingers and toes tingle. Scraps of a roiling dream blow out of the corners of my mind—the strangers from the day before mixed up with wind and flame and bits of broken teacups. My throat is sore. I feel like I was gargling fire all night.

  Swath, whirr, thump-thump.

  “All right, Da,” I croak. Quickly I hop out of bed, pull on my shirt and pants, then climb down the ladder.

  Our cottage has a front door and a back door and just the one window, which is right beside the loom so Da will have enough light to work by. The rest of the dim main room has a wooden table and chairs, a hearth, and a cupboard that holds some food, a few plates, a dented pot, and a pan.

  I pause at the bottom of my sleep-shelf ladder. The stone floor feels cold under my bare feet, but cold never bothers me.

  The whirr of the loom falls silent, and Da turns on the bench to look at me. “Mornin’, Rafi,” he says.

  I take the two steps to him and lean into his shoulder, and he kisses the top of my head. “Mornin’, Da,” I say, and I wait to see if he has more to say.

  You slept well during the night? he could ask.

  Yes, Da, I would tell him, except I had that dream again, and I keep thinking about what happened with those strangers.

  Come and have breakfast and we’ll talk about it, Da might say. But he doesn’t.

  He’s quiet about most things, but the thing he can’t talk about, not with me, not with anybody, is fire. It’s because of his leg, and what happened when it was burned. I don’t know the story of it; he’s never told me. I don’t think he’s ever told anyone.

  Letting me go, he turns back to his weaving. “See to breakfast,” he says, and then the whirr of the loom begins again.

  Quietly I pad over to the hearth and swing the kettle on its hook over the fire, and then, checking to be sure that Da can’t see what I’m doing, I reach into the fire and poke the coals so they burn better. Tam did see me put my hand in the fire that one time, because flames don’t bother me any more than cold does. Then I take the bucket and go outside.

  The sun is not quite up, and my breath steams in the chilly air. New snow dusts the very top of the Dragonfell. Soon the snow will creep down the sides of the fell and start piling up in the village. Winters are hard here, and long, and hungry.

  For a moment I stand and look up the road toward the village. All seems well. Fires and lanterns are lit in the other cottages; I can taste smoke in the air, and I can hear the clang-clang of John Smithy already at work at his forge. No doubt he’s making one of his intricate iron weather vanes. Every house in the village has one of his vanes on the peak of its thatched roof. Ours does, too. We always know which way the wind is blowing here, that’s for certain sure.

  Farther up the road I can see the bright blue door of Tansy Thumb the seamstress’s house, which will have blue flowers and vines growing all over it in the springtime, and the long, low cottage where Jemmy and Jeb live, singing in harmony all day while they weave cloth almost as fine as my da’s, and nearly at the top of the village, the cottage and herb garden of Ma Steep, who raises herding dogs that are almost as smart as people, when it comes to sheep.

  Seeing the village, my heart settles. I may be different from all of them, but my place is here. I know it, the same as I know the Dragonfell isn’t ever going to heave itself up to stand on stony legs and walk away.

  Crossing the yard, I go to the stream that tumbles down the hill behind our house and wash my face and take up some water into the bucket.

  The sun peeks over a distant hill, and the frost along the edge of the stone wall sparkles in the new light, and a swirl of wind rushes past the cottage, and for just a moment I want to leap into the air and rush after it.

  With the wind, and with all that happened yesterday, it’s a restless day for certain sure. A day for the clear cold air up on the high fells, and finding bits of broken teacups, and talking to a dragon that isn’t there.

  But Da doesn’t like me going up to the Dragonfell.

  When I open the door to the shed, our four chickens bustle out, clucking, and start pecking at the dirt in the yard. I slip inside and go to the goats’ pen. Pet is an old nanny who still gives a little milk; she blinks and says maaaaah. The other goat, Poppy, is small and fat and she’s the color of cinnamon, with a white nose and black legs and a narrow black stripe next to each eye. As soon as I step into the pen, Poppy hustles over and leans against me, warm and heavy; her fur prickles against my legs. I give them some hay and water, and while they eat I milk them.

  As I milk Poppy, she looks over her shoulder at me. Her eyes are strange—even stranger than mine—golden with a sideways slit for a pupil, but her face seems happy and calm as I talk to her.

  When the bucket is full of milk, I duck into the house, where I cook eggs and cheese for breakfast, leaving Da’s plate on the table for him. Then I go out our front gate and head up the road toward the village.

  None of the other villagers ever talk about the dragon who lived up on the Dragonfell with its teacup collection. It’s been gone for such a long time. But Old Shar was right about me. I’ve always been strangely interested in dragons. Now I’m even more interested in them. And Old Shar can tell me more.

  One windy day last spring when I was coming down from the highest fells, Old Shar called me over to help her, and I asked what it was like in the village when the dragon still lived here.

  Old Shar was kneeling beside one of her sheep, putting medicine on its hoof while I held its head. She paused, and her eyes got a faraway look. “When I was a girl, we had a kind of festival about this time of the year. We would go up and leave the dragon a present, and it would keep the wolves away from the flocks and lambs. It was always there, like part of the fells.”

  “Are there dragons in other places?” I asked. My head felt funny asking that question. The village was my whole world; I wasn’t used to thinking about anywhere else.

  Old Shar nodded. “I hear they tell stories about a dragon in Barrow, a town about three days walk over the fells, then along the river.”

  “Will our dragon ever come back?” I asked.

  Old Shar shook her head. “The world is changing,” she said. “With all the factories and steam engines and roads, there’s no room in it any more for dragons. The one in Barrow might not be there anymore.” She inspected the sheep’s hoof and then climbed to her feet. “You can let her go.” I did, and we stood and watched the sheep hobble off. “Some people say,” Old Shar went on, “that dragons were greedy thieves. The people down in Skarth, in the city, they tell stories about how every dragon steals and hoards a different thing, like jewels or crowns or princesses.” She bent and picked up her shepherd’s crook. “Some people say we’re better off without dragons.”

  “What do you think?” I asked her.

  She turned and looked up at the highest fell, where the dragon used to live. Her eyes got that faraway look again. “Ah, Rafi, the dragon was so beautiful when it flew. It would launch itself from up there, and open its wings, and the sound was like thunder. Then a rush of wind, and it would swoop an
d circle, with the sun glinting on its scales. Our dragon was bluer than the sky, and it shimmered when it flew.” She shook her head, and her eyes cleared. “Our dragon was dangerous, there’s no doubt about that. But it kept watch up there. It kept us safe. The dragon was our protector.”

  Chapter 4

  When I’ve almost reached the gate outside Old Shar’s house, I see Tam Baker’s-Son leading his donkey down the steep road. Tam, who used to be my friend but isn’t anymore. After yesterday, he certain sure isn’t going to talk to me.

  As he comes closer, he stares.

  It’s a frosty morning, and he’s wearing warm clothes and shoes, and knitted woolen mittens on his hands. I have those things, but I don’t feel the cold, and I forgot to put them on. All I’ve got on is my usual shirt and trousers and bare feet.

  “Mornin’, Tam,” I say as I pass.

  Tam twitches and ducks his head. “Mornin’, Rafi,” he mutters, and tugs on his donkey’s lead rope and hurries away.

  With a sigh I turn and open the gate to Old Shar’s yard, and see her step out of her front door. John Smithy comes out after her. I stop and stare as Gringolet, with her rows of pins and her smoked glasses, follows. And after her comes a new stranger.

  He is finely dressed—more shiny and fine than anyone I’ve ever seen, in a fancy black suit with a fur-lined coat over it, glints of gold rings on his fingers, and polished shoes on his feet. He has a neatly trimmed white beard and a gold chain that goes from a button to a pocket in his embroidered waistcoat. His gray-green eyes are shadowed by bushy white brows. As he steps outside, his keen gaze sweeps the yard and fastens on me. His heavy brows go up, as if in surprise, and he turns to say something to Gringolet, who nods and points at me.

  Closing the gate behind me, I start across the yard.

  Old Shar comes to meet me. She’s wearing her best blue dress and has a flowered kerchief knotted under her chin. “It’s all right,” she says in a low voice. “It’s Mister Flitch, a factory owner from Skarth. He just wants to talk to you.”

  He must have sent Gringolet with the paper and the questions. He thinks I might be the one who is burning cottages and looms in other villages. “Good,” I tell Old Shar, keeping my eyes on the old man. “Because I want to talk to him.”

  With a knobbled hand she grabs me by the shoulder, making me stop. “Be careful,” she whispers as Mister Flitch comes closer. “For once, take a minute to think about what you’re going to do, Rafi, before you do it.”

  “Oh, sure,” I mutter to her, because she knows as well as I do that her good advice is impossible for me to follow.

  Mister Flitch comes up to us. He’s leaning on a cane with a gold head, but he doesn’t seem weak or frail. With his free hand he fingers the fine gold chain at his waist. “Well, Shar Up-Hill,” he begins, and his voice is deep and a little bit sneering, in a way that makes me feel prickly. “What do we have here?”

  “He’s just a boy from the village, Mister Flitch,” Old Shar says, sounding not nearly as sharp as she usually does.

  “Is he?” Flitch’s steely eyes are studying me carefully. “And yet he sent Gringolet and Stubb running home yesterday like dogs with singed tails.” Behind him, Gringolet is scowling at me. “I think he needs to tell her that he is sorry.”

  “They were talking about burning,” I say. “Threats, it sounded like, and my da’s afraid of fire.”

  “That doesn’t sound like an apology,” Mister Flitch says.

  “Because it isn’t,” I shoot back.

  “Rafi,” Old Shar warns. John Smithy has his burly arms folded and a disapproving frown on his face.

  I ignore them. I have a bad feeling about Mister Flitch. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he stepped out of Old Shar’s cottage. Then he steps nearer and, leaning on his cane, peers even more closely at me, looking deep into my eyes.

  I stare back at him.

  “Shadows,” he murmurs. “Only shadows.”

  Then the spark inside me flickers.

  In response, his own eyes widen, and for just a flash he looks exultant, and he says in a hissing whisper, so only I can hear him, “Ah, I see it.”

  “What do you see?” I whisper.

  “I see something that you have,” he hisses back. “And I want it. If you do not give it willingly, I will take what I need from under your village.”

  I don’t know what he means by that. Nothing is under my village except rock, and more rock. So I look deeper into him, just like he’s doing to me. Inside, he’s greedily, hungrily glittering.

  And I see something else. He’s a threat.

  “If you try to hurt my village, or anybody who lives here,” I tell him, “I will stop you.” And I give him my fiercest glare.

  He blinks, and the connection between us breaks. He straightens and looks away, and his eyes are red and watering, as if he’s been looking at the sun.

  “Did you hear that?” Gringolet asks, at Mister Flitch’s shoulder. “My village, he said.”

  “Yes, I heard,” he says impatiently.

  Gringolet gives me an ashy look over the rim of her spectacles. “So interesting.”

  “You’ll do well to watch this one,” Mister Flitch says loudly. “This boy has the look of one who is dragon-touched.”

  “I’m what?” I ask.

  Old Shar’s eyes have gone wide. “Dragon . . . touched?”

  “Yes.” Mister Flitch sneers. “There’s a word for it. Everyone knows that dragons are malicious, cruel creatures. In fact—” He gestures at Gringolet, who reaches into a pocket and pulls out a book about the size of her hand. “In fact, a great expert on dragons, Igneous Ratch, has written a book describing and delineating their great evil.” Gringolet holds the book out to Old Shar, and after a moment, she accepts it. “In this book,” Flitch goes on, “Ratch also describes certain strange people. People who are different from other humans.” He points at me. “And not just in their looks. These people have . . . let us call it a depraved affinity for dragons. For a time they seem normal, and then terrible things begin to happen around them. I hear,” he says, still watching me very closely, “that his cottage burst into flames yesterday, when he was nearby. Isn’t that true?”

  I feel the first tremor of fear. It is true.

  “Yes, it is,” Old Shar admits after a moment.

  “And, lately,” Flitch goes on, “there have been burnings in villages not far from here.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” Gringolet puts in.

  “But I never—” I start to protest.

  “He is dangerous,” Mister Flitch interrupts. “Just look at him. That hair. Those eyes. You can tell, can’t you?”

  John Smithy gives a hesitant nod.

  “Different doesn’t mean dangerous,” I insist.

  “This boy,” Flitch goes on, as if I haven’t spoken, “spends a good deal of time in the lair of the evil dragon that once inhabited the fells here, doesn’t he?”

  At that, John Smithy blinks. “He does,” he says slowly. “Certain sure he does.”

  “Well,” Flitch concludes, looking satisfied, “clearly that evil has rubbed off on him.”

  “Dragons aren’t evil, and neither am I,” I tell them. “There are no stories about the Dragonfell dragon ever hurting anyone.” I turn to Old Shar. “You told me yourself. Our dragon was dangerous, but it was our protector, too. It kept the wolves away from the sheep. Things were better, you said, when the dragon was looking out for us.”

  Old Shar’s answer is a concerned frown. “Rafi—” she begins.

  “It’s a known fact that dragons are evil,” Gringolet interrupts. She points to the book that Old Shar is holding. “Says so in the book, so it must be true.”

  I know they’re wrong, or lying, and I’m about ready to explode with fury and frustration, but for once I think first. If I fight with them, they’ll just say it proves that I’m bad and dangerous.

  As I stand there seething, Mister Flitch gives a smug smile, making his v
oice syrupy as he speaks to Old Shar. “You would be wise to give this dragon-touched boy to us.”

  “He needs to be locked up,” Gringolet puts in. “Poor Stubb is in the hospital back in Skarth with the burns this boy gave him yesterday. He should be locked up so he can’t hurt anybody else.”

  “You must think of the safety of your village,” Mister Flitch says, and he’s giving me that greedy, glittering look again.

  What is it that he saw? What does he really want with me?

  I can see John Smithy nodding, like he agrees that I should be locked up, but Old Shar is shaking her head. “No,” she says firmly. “Rafi has lived here in this village all his life, and he is ours. If he is in trouble, we’ll deal with that trouble here.” She gives them a brisk nod. “Now, we appreciate the warning, but you should be on your way, back to Skarth.”

  “Unwise, Shar Up-Hill,” Mister Flitch says sharply. “Most unwise.” In an instant he is all smooth politeness again, bowing and then striding out of the yard and down the steep street, followed by Gringolet. Giving me a worried look, John Smithy leaves, too.

  “You don’t believe them, Old Shar?” I blurt out. “Do you? What Mister Flitch and Gringolet said about me being dragon-touched, whatever that means, and what they said about dragons?”

  “Oh, Rafi,” she says wearily. “I don’t know.” She shakes her head, and I see that her wrinkled face is tired and frightened. “All I know is that this village is in danger. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

  Chapter 5

  Instead of going home, I head into the hills, climbing until my muscles burn and the wind swoops past me, and the air sparkles with cold in my lungs. There are wolves up here, waiting to come ravening down on the sheep, but when I’m on the Dragonfell they stay away. This high, the grass thins until the fells turn to patches of snow and stone scoured clean by the wind. I run with it, and jump from rock to rock, until all of my fierceness and fury is run out. Then I crouch in a sheltered place out of the wind and look out over the fells and hills.

  My farseeing eyes trace the road winding into the valley, and on the road I see some sort of wheeled cart without horses to pull it. It puffs out clouds of black smoke as it goes along. Mister Flitch and Gringolet must have left it and walked to the village, where the road is too steep for carts, and now they’re going back to the city.