“Oh, yes, that’s right, the ravens!” cried Ben. “I’d forgotten all about them. There were two of them on the roof of this hut. We think they’re spies. Spying for that — what did you call him?”
“Nettlebrand,” said Professor Greenbloom. He and Zubeida exchanged concerned glances.
“Yes, those ravens.” The dracologist folded her hands. Ben saw that every finger of her left hand wore a ring with a different gemstone in it. “I’ve been worried about them myself for some time. They were here when I arrived. Usually they roost up by the tomb, but I sometimes feel they’re following me about. Of course, I immediately thought of the old tale of the black birds darkening the moon to prevent the dragons from escaping the monster. I’ve tried to chase them away, but every time I shoo them off, they’re back within minutes.”
“Sorrel has a special method,” said Ben, rising from his cushion. “They don’t come back after she’s dealt with them. Right, I’ll get the other two.”
“It’s a dangerous method,” muttered Twigleg.
The rest of them looked at him in surprise, and the homunculus hunched down his head between his shoulders, scared.
“My dear Twigleg,” said the professor, “do you have any inside knowledge of those ravens?”
“No, why would I?” Twigleg made himself as small as possible. “No, no! I just think it’s better not to provoke them. Ravens can be very nasty birds,” he added, clearing his throat. “Especially ravens with red eyes.”
“Yes,” the professor nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that myself. As for your suspecting that they’re spies,” he said, leading Ben to the door with him. “Nettlebrand knew you had been to see the djinn. I had the clear impression that someone close to you has been telling him about everything you do. I was racking my brains to think who it might be, and then —”
“The ravens?” Ben interrupted, horrified. “You think the ravens told him what we were doing? But I didn’t see any ravens in the djinn’s ravine.”
Twigleg turned first red, and then white as a sheet. He began trembling all over.
“What’s the matter, Twigleg?” asked Ben, looking at him in concern.
“Um … er …” Twigleg steadied his shaking hands on his knees, not daring to meet Ben’s eyes. “I did see one,” he stammered. “A s-sp — a raven, yes. Yes, definitely. A raven roosting up in the palm trees when the rest of you were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.” Thank goodness no one could hear his heart thumping.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” murmured Barnabas Greenbloom. “But if Sorrel knows a way of shooing them off, perhaps we needn’t worry too much, even if our friend the homunculus here doesn’t think much of brownie methods. Brownies and homunculi tend not to get along too well, isn’t that right, Twigleg?”
Twigleg managed a feeble smile. What could he say? That enchanted ravens are vengeful birds? That Sorrel might already have thrown one stone too many? That his master had an endless supply of ravens?
Ben shrugged his shoulders and pulled back the door curtain. “I’ll go fetch Firedrake,” he said. “If the ravens are here, they’re going to notice him sometime, anyway.”
Zubeida Ghalib rose from her cushions. “We’ll get the village cats to go up on the rooftops,” she said, “and under all the trees. Perhaps they’ll keep the ravens away so that they can’t hear what we’re discussing.”
“Good idea.” Ben made her a shy little bow, glanced again at Guinevere, and hurried off. The villagers, still waiting outside the hut, looked at him expectantly.
“Tell them we’ll be back soon,” Ben whispered to Twigleg. “And tell them we’ll be bringing a dragon with us.”
“If you say so,” said the manikin, who then translated it into Urdu.
A murmur of astonishment rose in the air, the villagers drew back, and Ben and Twigleg set off.
27. The Dragon
The sky was radiant in the mild morning light as Firedrake approached the village with Ben and Sorrel, and the sun was not yet too hot for comfort. Flocks of white seabirds circled above the dragon, announcing his arrival with excited cries.
The villagers were waiting for him, standing outside their huts with children in their arms. The beach had been sprinkled with flower petals. Paper kites flew above the roofs of the huts, and even the smallest children were wearing their best clothes. Ben felt like a king sitting high above them on the dragon’s back. He looked for the ravens, but there wasn’t a bird in sight. However, the village cats — white, ginger, tabby, black-and-white, and tortoiseshell — were all over the place: on rooftops, outside huts, in the branches of trees. Firedrake walked over the flower petals and past the cats and the people until he saw Barnabas Greenbloom. When he stopped in front of the professor, the onlookers respectfully retreated a few steps. Only Zubeida and Guinevere stayed put.
“My dear Firedrake,” said Barnabas, bowing low. “The sight of you makes me almost as joyful today as it did when we first met. You will meet my wife later, but let me introduce my daughter, Guinevere. And this lady is Dr. Zubeida Ghalib, the most famous dracologist in the world, who will help you to fly at the dark time of the moon.”
Firedrake turned his head to her. “Can you really do that?” he asked.
“I think so, Asdaha.” Zubeida bowed, smiling. “Asdaha would be the word for you in our language. Khuea hasiz — God be with you. Do you know, I imagined your eyes exactly as they are?” Tentatively she raised her hand to touch Firedrake’s scales.
At that the children lost the last of their fear. They clambered down from their parents’ arms, surrounded the dragon, and patted him. Firedrake patiently put up with it and nuzzled them gently one by one. The giggling children hid between his legs, and the bravest made their way up the spines of his tail to sit on his back. Unsettled by all this, Sorrel had been watching the crowd of humans uneasily. Her ears were twitching, and even nibbling a mushroom couldn’t calm her down. She was used to avoiding human beings and hiding whenever she smelled or heard them. Ben had changed that, but so many humans all at once made her brownie heart beat alarmingly fast.
When the first small boy appeared behind her, she was so startled that she dropped her mushroom.
“Hey, you, small human!” she snapped at the boy. “Get down!”
Frightened, the boy ducked into shelter behind Firedrake’s spines.
“Leave him alone, Sorrel,” said Ben soothingly. “You can see Firedrake doesn’t mind, can’t you?”
Sorrel just growled, clutching her backpack tight.
But the boy wasn’t interested in the backpack. He was staring at the furry brownie girl, asking a question in a soft voice. Two more children appeared behind him.
“What’s he after?” growled Sorrel. “I don’t understand much of this human language of theirs.”
“He wants to know,” interpreted Twigleg, who was sitting between Ben’s legs, “if you’re a small demon.”
“A what?”
Ben grinned. “A kind of evil spirit.”
“Oh, thanks a lot.” Sorrel made a ferocious face at the children. “No, I’m not! I’m a brownie. A forest brownie.”
“Dubidai?” asked a girl, pointing at Sorrel’s furry coat.
“Now what are they talking about?” asked the brownie girl, wrinkling her nose.
“It seems to be the word for brownie or woodland spirit in these parts,” said Twigleg. “But they wonder why you’ve only got two arms.”
“Only two?” Sorrel shook her head. “So people around here have more than two, do they?”
One brave little boy reached out his hand, hesitated for a moment, and then patted Sorrel’s paw. She flinched at first but decided to put up with it. The boy said something quietly.
“Hmm,” said Sorrel. “I understood that bit! The little human with skin like a bay boletus mushroom says I look like a cat goddess. How about that, then?” Feeling flattered, she preened and stroked her spotted coat.
“Come on, Sorrel,” said Ben. “Let’s g
ive them a bit more space up here. We can sit on Firedrake’s back anytime, but it’s a new experience for these children.”
Sorrel shook her head vigorously.
“What, get down there? No way!” She clung tightly to Firedrake’s spines. “No, I’m staying up here. You get down and let your own kind trample you underfoot.”
“Oh, very well, stay put then, you furry grumbleguts.” Ben put Twigleg in his backpack and clambered past the children to climb down from Firedrake’s back.
A little girl had hung a garland of flowers over the dragon’s horns, and he was licking the tip of her nose. More and more children climbed up on Firedrake’s back, clutched his spines, tugged at the dragon riders’ leather straps, and stroked the dragon’s warm silver scales. Sorrel sat in the middle of this throng with her arms folded, keeping a tight grip on her backpack.
“Sorrel’s in a mood,” Ben whispered in the dragon’s ear.
Firedrake glanced over his shoulder and nodded in amusement.
The grown-ups were crowding around the dragon, too, touching him and trying to catch his eye. Firedrake turned to Zubeida, who was watching the children on his back and smiling.
“Tell me,” he said, “how can I fly at the dark time of the moon?”
“We need a quieter place to discuss that,” replied the dracologist. “Let me show you where I found the answer to the secret.”
She raised her hands, bangles jingling, the rings on her fingers flashing in the sunlight. Immediately all was still. The excited voices died away. The children slid off Firedrake’s back, and there was no sound to be heard but the roaring of the sea. Zubeida addressed the villagers.
“I am taking the dragon to the tomb of the dragon rider now,” Twigleg translated. “I have important matters to discuss with him, matters that must not come to the wrong ears.”
The people of the village looked up at the sky. Zubeida had told them about the ravens, but apart from a flock of white seabirds making for the river the sky was empty. An old man stepped forward and said something.
“They’re going to prepare the feast now,” Twigleg translated. “A feast to celebrate the return of the dragons and the dragon rider.”
“A feast?” asked Ben. “For us?”
Zubeida turned to him, smiling. “Of course. They won’t want you to leave before they give a party for you. These people believe that a dragon brings a year of good luck — good luck and rain, which is the best luck of all in these parts.”
Ben looked up at the blue sky. “It doesn’t look much like rain,” he said.
“Who knows? Dragon’s luck can come as suddenly as the wind,” replied Zubeida. “But follow me.” She turned, beckoning Firedrake with her ringed fingers.
The dragon was about to set off after her when Guinevere shyly tapped his foreleg. “Please,” she said, “do you think I’d be too heavy for you? I mean, I was just wondering, could you possibly …?”
Firedrake bent his neck. “Climb on,” he said. “I could carry ten people your size and hardly notice!”
“What about people my size?” inquired Zubeida, putting her hands on her hips. “Too much even for a dragon, I fear?”
Smiling, Firedrake lowered his neck once more. Zubeida gathered in the full skirt of her sari and nimbly scrambled up on the dragon’s back, holding on to his spines.
Sorrel gave the girl and the woman a dark look. But when Guinevere held out her hand, saying, “Hi! I can’t say how pleased I am to meet you!” even the brownie’s furry face softened in a smile.
And while Firedrake carried the three of them to the hill beyond the huts where the tomb of the dragon rider stood, Ben followed on foot with Barnabas Greenbloom and Twigleg.
“As you see,” said the professor as Firedrake’s tail dragged through the sand in front of them, “Guinevere loves riding anything — elephants and camels, too. Personally I’m happy if I can stay on a donkey’s back for five minutes. Oh, by the way,” he added, putting his arm around Ben’s shoulders, “my wife is waiting for us at the tomb, where I hope you’ll tell us what’s happened to you all since we last met. Vita is particularly looking forward to meeting you and Sorrel, and she will be delighted to see Twigleg, too. She knows some other brownies, but she’s been wanting to meet a homunculus for ages.”
“Hear that, Twigleg?” Ben asked, turning his head to the manikin on his shoulder.
But the homunculus was lost in thought. In his mind’s eye, he could still see the happy faces of the villagers as Firedrake approached their huts. Twice in the past he and his master had entered a village of humans, but Nettlebrand certainly hadn’t made any of them feel happy. Fear was all his master ever brought, and he relished doing it.
“Is something wrong, Twigleg?” asked Ben.
“No, no, nothing, young master,” replied the homunculus, mopping his forehead.
The professor put his arm around Ben’s shoulders again. “I’m so eager to hear your news I can hardly wait! But tell me one thing first.” He glanced up at the sky; there was still no sign of any ravens. Even so, he lowered his voice. “Did the djinn know the answer? Did you manage to ask the right question?”
Ben grinned. “Yes, but his answer was rather mysterious, like a riddle.”
“Like a riddle, eh? Typical of a djinn, but —”The professor shook his head. “No, no, tell me what he said later, when Vita’s with us. She ought to hear it, too. If it weren’t for her I’d never have ventured to board the wretched plane that brought us here. And besides, ever since this business about a spy came up I’ve been feeling very cautious.”
Twigleg couldn’t help flinching when he heard the word spy.
“My dear Twigleg,” said the professor, “you really don’t look at all well. Perhaps flying doesn’t agree with you, either?”
“I don’t think he looks too good,” agreed Ben, examining Twigleg with concern.
“N-no, really,” stammered the manikin. “Honestly I’m fine. I just don’t like this heat. I’m not used to it.” He mopped the sweat from his brow. “I was meant to live in the cold. In the cold and the dark.”
Ben looked at him in surprise. “Why, I thought you came from Egypt! At least, that’s where we first met you.”
Twigleg glanced at him, alarmed. “Egypt? I … er … yes, right, but …”
Barnabas Greenbloom spared the homunculus the problem of finding a plausible answer. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, pointing ahead, “but we’ve nearly reached the tomb. It’s up there. And there’s Vita!” He waved — and then suddenly let his hand drop, horrified. “Oh, good heavens! Do you see that, my boy?”
“Yes,” replied Ben, frowning. “Two fat ravens waiting for us.”
28. The Tomb of the Dragon Rider
The tomb of the dragon rider stood on the top of a low hill. It had gray columns and looked like a small temple. A flight of steps led up to it from each of the four points of the compass. Firedrake’s three riders got down at the foot of the northern flight, and Zubeida led the dragon up the steps, which were worn smooth. As Guinevere helped Sorrel up the steep stairs she waved to her mother, who was standing at the top between the columns, waiting for them expectantly. Three cats were rubbing themselves around her legs, but they ran away when they saw the dragon.
The tomb looked very old. The stone dome resting on the columns was still well preserved, but there was some damage to the burial chamber underneath it, and here and there the walls had fallen in. Carvings of flowers and tendrils of leaves adorned the white stone.
When Firedrake came up the steps, the two ravens perched on the dome rose and flew away, cawing. But they stayed quite close, two black dots in the cloudless sky. The monkeys sitting on the top steps ran away, screeching, and climbed the trees at the foot of the hill. Firedrake stepped between the columns of the tomb, accompanied by Zubeida, and bent his neck low before the professor’s wife.
Vita Greenbloom returned his bow. She was almost as tall and thin as her husband, and her dark hair was tu
rning gray. Smiling, she put her arms around her daughter and looked first at the dragon, then at Sorrel.
“How wonderful to see you all,” she said. “And where is the dragon rider?”
“Here, my dear. This is Ben,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, coming up the steps with him. “He was just asking me why this place is known as the tomb of the dragon rider. Would you like to tell him?”
“No, I think Zubeida should do that,” replied Vita Greenbloom. Smiling at Ben, she sat down with him on the back of a stone dragon that stood guard outside the tomb. “The story of the dragon rider had almost been forgotten, you see,” she told the boy quietly, “until Zubeida rediscovered it.”
“Yes, that’s right, but it’s a true story all the same.” Zubeida glanced up at the sky. “We must keep an eye on those ravens,” she murmured. “They weren’t at all scared of the cats. But now for the story.” She stood leaning against the head of the stone dragon and looked at Ben. “Well, about three hundred years ago,” she began, “a boy lived down there in the village, a boy no older than you. Every night when the moon was full, he sat on the beach and watched the dragons come down from the mountains to bathe in the moonlight. Then one night the boy jumped into the sea, swam out to the dragons, and climbed onto the back of one of them. The dragon didn’t mind, and the boy sat there until it rose from the water and flew away with him. His family was very sad at first, but whenever the dragons came back so did the boy, year after year, until he was a grown man, and he lived to be so old that his hair turned white. Only then did he come back to visit his brothers and sisters in the village and see their children and grandchildren. But no sooner was he back than he fell ill, so ill that no one could help him. On a night when the dragon rider’s fever was particularly bad, a solitary dragon came down from the mountains, even though there was no moon. He settled outside the dragon rider’s hut and breathed gentle blue fire all over it. When morning came the dragon flew away again. But the dragon rider was cured, and he lived for many, many more years — so many that there came a time when everyone lost count of them. And as long as he lived, enough rain fell on the village fields every year, and the fishermen’s nets were always full. When at last he died, the villagers built this tomb in honor of the dragon rider and the dragons. And once more, the night after his funeral, a solitary dragon came down from the mountains and breathed dragon-fire over these white walls. Since then, they say, any sick person who touches the stones of these walls will be cured, too. When the land is cold by night and people are freezing, they can find a warm place here, for the stones are always as warm as if the dragon-fire lived on in them.”