Too right. Start saving, because I’m gonna storm it. Didn’t get a talisman to hold, though. I’m curious. What happened? What’d ya see?
This is dumb, thought David, sitting back. Why am I telling Zanna this? He typed, Nothing. Just a name. Gotta go now. Bye.
Rain, come on, she wrote back quickly. Don’t leave me hanging. Spill. I’m agog.
No, Zanna. You’ll never let me live it down.
Rain, play nice boy or I’ll turn you into a squelchy toad. The cauldron is a-bubbling, beware …
To his horror, David found himself laughing at that. But before he could type a response, Zanna came back with another incentive. OK, handsome, I’ll make you a deal. You tell me about your mystic experience and I’ll lend you a really smart book on dragons.
That made David sit up and think. Handsome? He smiled at Grace. No doubt about it, that dragon was frowning. “Sorry, you’re going in the wardrobe,” he told her. And he picked her up and put her on the shelf above his shirt rail. A reproachful dragon he could do without. He went back to the keyboard and tapped out a message. Why do you want to give me a book? Could help me win the comp.
Well, I guess under this chimney sweep’s outfit I’m just a plain old-fashioned girlie at heart. Could bring it over tonight if you like? Have car. Will travel. Not busy. Hint.
Didn’t know you had wheels?
More convenient than a broomstick.
Very funny, thought David. But she was, very funny. Despite his reservations, he was warming to her. What’s more, she was just the type to know about dragons. But bring her to the house? That was risky. A Goth: What would Liz and Lucy think? And Bonnington? She’d probably terrify him. Tonight’s not good, he typed. How about Sunday afternoon? (when Liz and Lucy would be out selling dragons at a local craft fair).
It’s a date, she tapped back.
No, it isn’t. You’re bringing me a book.
Relax. I don’t bite — except when I’m draining necks. Come on, let’s hear this name.
David paused over the keyboard. It felt odd, giving the name away, as if he might be betraying some special kind of confidence. He looked at Gadzooks, who was staring through the window, his gently curving smile reflected in the glass. David took that as a sign of approval. He typed out Lorel.
The reply almost scorched the screen. NO WAY?! YOU’RE KIDDING ME???
David frowned and felt a shudder run down his spine. You know what it means?
That’s spooky, she wrote. You got THAT in Bergstrom’s presence? Wow. Swear you’re not pulling my braids?
Got out of the playground years ago, Zanna. Just tell me what it means, OK?
I read it in a book about the Inuit once. Lorel is the Teller of Ways. He has all the legends of the Arctic in his head.
David gulped. An Eskimo? he typed.
It seemed an age before the answer came back. When it did, David almost wished he’d never asked the question. A cold breeze circled his neck and shoulders as Zanna’s explanation flickered up in blue. No, dummy. Where’s your sense of romance? Lorel’s not a man. He’s a polar bear.
7
BONNINGTON’S TREASURE
Wthin minutes of Zanna’s strange revelation, David said he would talk to her some more on Sunday and broke the e-mail connection. He closed the computer down and flopped out on his bed, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He needed a time-out. Space to think. There was definitely something strange going on. First Lucy, with her wishing dragon, bringing the snow; then Bergstrom wanting to talk about dragons; then Bonnington being upset by the snow bear; and last but not least, Liz being spooked by the name Lorel. What was it about the bear that had rippled her nerves and made her drop the silverware? He was absolutely certain she knew the name and that that was why she would like to meet Bergstrom. And that, in turn, could only mean one thing: There had to be a primeval connection between dragons and bears. But what? Was it something to do with Gawain and his fire tear? The mysterious hidden fire? Hidden where? In the Arctic? A teardrop, lost in a thousand miles of ice?
The ceiling creaked like an ice floe groaning — Liz, moving around in the Dragons’ Den above. If she knew the answer, she would never let it out. But maybe he could hear it from another source? Twice he had dreamed that a polar bear was trying to speak to him. Could that have been Lorel, the Teller of Ways, come to give up the ancient legend? David closed his eyes and threw down a challenge. If you are he, he whispered, show yourself. Tell me, now, about the fire….
But the harder he tried, the more obstinate the gateway to the dream state seemed. To make matters worse, after half an hour or so, the door wafted open and Bonnington nudged his way into the room. He yattered something catty, then leaped up and sat on David’s chest. He was showing no further signs of anxiety, just the usual inclination to tread his paws against a human rib cage before he settled down for the night. As the cat nodded off, so did David — on the bed, fully dressed. He slept fitfully and dreamed about Sophie’s dragon, Grace. She seemed to be whispering in Sophie’s ear. The next thing David knew he was being chased by elephants, a whole herd of them trumpeting, Zanna? Who’s Zanna?
He jerked awake, panting, but thankfully untrampled. It was morning. Dawn had broken, gray and wet. The ice bear had disappeared from the garden. What had been a double helping of snow was now no more than a shallow island, isolated in the middle of the lawn.
Even so, Bonnington was still watching over it. He was sitting on the windowsill, paws tucked under him, suspended in some kind of sentinel’s catnap. David frowned and touched the cat’s whiskers, concerned that Bonnington had still not escaped whatever specter (Lorel or otherwise) was haunting him. Bonnington burbled and shook himself awake. He ducked the tenant’s hand and peered anxiously through the window. “It’s gone,” David told him, “all washed away. Come on, I’ll show you.” And gathering Bonnington into his arms he cradled him, chest-high, into the garden.
Crossing the lawn was not a good idea. After only four paces, David’s feet were coated with a soggy band of mud. But once sludged there was no going back. He took Bonnington up to the ice. They circled it. They studied it. They did not try to cross it. When David put him down, the cat put his nose to the lip of the island, pulled back suddenly, then trotted away to the bottom of the garden.
“Now what?” David asked, chasing after him. “Bonnington, the polar bear isn’t in there.” The cat was heading for a patch of wild ground, covered over with weeds and a crisscrossing den of rotting branches. “Come out,” David commanded as Bonnington wriggled into a hole. “You’ll get mucky, and I’ll get into trouble.” With a sigh, David dug his hand into the mound — and touched something prickly that wasn’t a cat. Carefully he lifted the branches. There, amid the bracken, was an old hairbrush.
And a shoelace. And a key ring. And half a picture postcard (of the seafront in Maine). And a golf ball. And a coaster. And what looked like chicken bones. Two lollipop sticks. A clothespin. A potato peeler. And a Scrubbley Wildlife Hospital badge. There was even a felt-tipped pen that David remembered had once rolled under his bed.
“Bonnington,” he muttered, crouching down, “how long has this been going on?”
Brr-up, went the cat, a picture of innocence.
“You’re a robber,” David told him. “A furry feline felon. And what’s more, I’m having this back.” He picked up the pen and tapped the cat playfully on the nose. “I ought to tell Lucy you’ve got her hairbrush, too, but …” He stopped and a wicked grin lit up his face. “But why don’t we play a little trick on her instead?”
A-row? went Bonnington.
“Watch,” David whispered, and he drew a little face on the end of the brush, then wrote “My name is Spikey” along the handle. He put the brush back and pulled the branches over it. Bonnington gave him a short, sharp stare. “You started it,” said David. And he dusted off his trousers and squelched back to the house.
He was met at the kitchen door by Liz. “And what exactl
y have you been doing?” Her gaze dropped straight to his mud-clogged feet.
“Erm, I was helping Bonnington….”
“Don’t you go indicting my cat, young man. I’m sure he didn’t willingly drag you around the garden, messing up your shoes with half a ton of dirt.”
“He’s a kleptomaniac.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He swipes things and stores them down in the garden. He’s got a hiding hole near the tree.”
Liz pursed her lips. Leaning sideways into the kitchen, she grabbed an old toothbrush from a jar of utensils and slapped it into David’s hand. “Clean those shoes with the hose outside. Don’t come in till they’re spotless, or else. Honestly, calling my Bonnington a thief.” She sighed.
“He’s a villain!” David shouted. “A tabby desperado!” You’ll find out, he muttered in his thoughts, when I send Lucy on her hedgehog hunt.
But the moment wasn’t right for that. So David scrubbed his shoes clean and left them just inside the kitchen door to dry, then kindly presented Bonnington the toothbrush for his collection.
He was heading to his room when he found two letters propped up against the microwave. Both were addressed to him. He ripped the first open and groaned.
“If that’s the bank telling you you’re overdrawn, I advise you to keep it quiet,” said Liz, sweeping in from the hall just then. “You owe me nearly two weeks’ rent.”
David winced. It was indeed a letter from the bank reminding him he owed them quite a bit more than two weeks’ rent. He tore the second letter open. “Oh.”
“Oh?” said Liz. “ ‘Oh, good’? Or ‘oh, not so good’?”
“Not sure,” said David, slipping into a chair. “It’s a letter from a publisher.”
8
THE HUNT FOR SPIKEY
It’s from a woman at Apple Tree Publishing,” he said, “the last people I sent Snigger to.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” said Liz. “What does she have to say?”
David folded back the letter and read: “ ‘Dear Mr. Rain, thank you for sending us Snigger and the Nutbeast. While I do not feel this story is currently right for our list, I nevertheless enjoyed its freshness and charm and think, with a little work, that your style might be developed for today’s children’s market.’ Is she telling me I’m old-fashioned or what?”
“Don’t be so negative. What else did she write?”
“Not much. ‘I wondered if you would like to drop into my office sometime and have an informal chat over coffee? Please call and make an appointment blah blah. Yours sincerely, Dilys Whutton.’ “
“Gosh, how exciting. Coffee with a publisher. That’s a step forward.”
“Dilys Whutton? She sounds older than my grandmother.”
“Which means she’ll have a lot of experience, doesn’t it? You get on your phone and call her. If Lucy finds out you passed up this chance, your name will be mud. Speaking of which.”
“I did them.” David pointed to the mud-free zone that was his shoes.
“No, I meant …” Liz nodded at the door, just as Lucy breezed in crying, “Mom, the bear’s gone flat! Can I wish for more snow?”
“No. Now G’reth is kilned, he belongs to David.”
Lucy pouted and turned to the tenant. “Wish for more snow for me. Please?”
David shook his head. “I think Lorel’s gone into hibernation, don’t you?”
Lucy’s eyes lit up at once. “Was Lorel the bear?”
“Hmm, that’s the name I gave him,” said David, smiling and flicking a glance at Liz. No silverware crashes this time. She merely reached for a dish towel and bunched it in her fist. “When you said he wasn’t a dragon, I thought he might as well be the bear. Grrr.”
“Grrr,” laughed Lucy. “Are you going to do a story about him?”
David closed up the letter from Apple Tree Publishing. He didn’t want Lucy to see it and start building up false hopes about Snigger. “Maybe. Lorel did look the sort of bear who might be involved in lots of stories. I was even wondering if he hadn’t bumped into a dragon or two on his Arctic travels — as they both like snow and ice?”
Lucy turned to her mom. “Is that right?”
Liz folded the dish towel and left it on the countertop. “Dragons lived a long time ago,” she murmured. “I don’t think the dynasties overlapped. Anyway, come on. It’s time for school.”
Lucy hovered by David’s shoulder. “Wish for more snow. Please. For Lorel.”
“Nah, we’ve had enough snow,” he said. “What if I wished to find Spikey instead?” “Hhh!”
“Upstairs. Hair done. Now,” said Liz, turning Lucy before she could speak. “We’ve no time for hedgehogs — or any other creatures.” And casting David a penetrating glance, she bustled Lucy out of the kitchen.
OK, thought David, smiling to himself. That round to me, I think. Now that we both know who Lorel is, let’s see where we go from here….
“Here” turned out to be nowhere, really. The next few days went by without incident. And as the weekend loomed and Sunday came around, David found his thoughts turning once again to Zanna.
Liz and Lucy were leaving for the craft fair at eleven, which meant there would be plenty of time between their departure and Zanna’s arrival. In other words, no embarrassing encounters. That suited David fine.
Until eleven, everything went pretty smoothly. The Pennykettle women spent their morning wrapping dragons in thick bubble wrap and packing them neatly into cardboard boxes, ready to be taken out to the car. This had meant a few quiet hours for David, who had stayed in his room catching up on college work and making further notes for his essay. He had still not played his trick on Lucy; the ground had been far too wet underfoot. He didn’t dare send her out on a wild hedgehog chase in filthy conditions; Liz would not see the funny side of that. But by late morning a drying wind had blown over Scrubbley, raking the water out of the ground. And when Lucy cornered David on the stairs and asked, “Did you make a wish about Spikey, yet?” David couldn’t help but reply to her, “How can I? Your mom hasn’t given me G’reth. But funnily enough, I thought I saw something small and pointy shuffling about in those brambles near …” And Lucy was gone before he had finished.
Two minutes later, she was back. David steeled himself for a sharp tirade. Strangely, it didn’t come. Instead, she flashed past him and dived into a cabinet. She pulled out a flashlight, then shot out again.
Half an hour went by. David began to panic. Lucy had been hunting all that time. What’s more, the clock was approaching noon and that meant Zanna could arrive at any minute. It didn’t help when Liz threw the kitchen door open and asked him, “Do you know much about cars?”
“Cars?”
“Engines. It’s coughing. Won’t start.”
“What? It’s got to start. I’ll come and have a look.”
“What’s Lucy doing?”
“Hedgehog patrol.”
Liz frowned and knocked the window. “Lucy, come on! We’re going to the fair — if we can start the car, that is….”
She joined David on the front drive a few moments later. The hood of the car was raised and David was looking distinctly puzzled.
“Well?”
“Um, not quite sure. It’s, um, probably a jizzle on your sproggleclonk or something.”
Liz tapped her foot. “I’ll call the mechanic.”
Just then the gate swung open to the house next door and Mr. Bacon, the Pennykettles’ neighbor, stepped out. He was dressed in a baggy old shirt and trousers held up by a pair of splendid yellow suspenders. David immediately started to tense. He didn’t get along with Henry Bacon, who had a habit of sticking his nose into things. That morning was no exception. Henry saw the raised hood and immediately asked, “Problem, Mrs. P.?”
“Car won’t start. Sproggle on the jizzlewots, according to David.”
“Jizzlewot? There’s no such thing.” Mr. Bacon brushed David aside, leaned across the engine, and started
to fiddle. “Get in, Mrs. P. We’ll soon have her running. Turn her over, if you would.”
Liz seemed a little uncertain, but she got in anyway and turned the ignition. The car spluttered but failed to start.
“Stop!” cried Henry, and tweaked another screw. “Once more, please.” Liz turned the key again.
To David’s relief, the engine shook and the car exploded into life. Liz left it running and came to offer thanks. “Henry, you’re a marvel. I’m indebted to you.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. P. Learned a trick or two in my army days. Needs a good tune-up. Plugs and points. Happy to oblige. Any time at all.”
“Thank you,” she said, and would have added more had she not been nearly knocked over by an onrushing Lucy.
“Mom,” she panted, her fine hair plastered all over her face. “You’ve got to come and look. He’s here. I’ve found him!”
“Who?” said Liz and David together.
Frowning, Lucy turned to the tenant. “Spikey, silly. Why didn’t you tell me he was special?”
“Special?” A hairbrush with a funny face was special?
“Yes,” said Lucy, eyes almost popping. “Mom, he’s the greatest hedgehog ever!” “And why might that be?”
Lucy danced and knocked her fists together. “Because he’s white!”
9
ZANNA IN THE GARDEN
White?” Liz repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“White?” said Henry Bacon, wiping his nose and leaving an oil stain on his mustache.
“White?” spluttered David.
“With pink eyes,” Lucy added, looking at all three adults in turn.
“That means … well, I’ll be darned,” said Liz.
“Think you mean ‘albino,’ strictly, Mrs. P.”
“Where?” rasped David. “Where did you find it?”
“In the brambles,” said Lucy. “Where you said. Mom, can we please get the rabbit hutch out of the attic and make a real den for Spikey?”
“Not now, we’ll be late for the fair,” she said, aiming Lucy toward the car. “Say good-bye to Mr. Bacon and David.”