“‘We come from a world of fire,’” says Angel, cleverly quoting her father’s text.
But Nathan wins the round with another quip, “No wonder he never won the Nobel Prize.”
The audience claps, spurring the presenter on. “Can we talk about Professor Merriman? ’Cause he’s great, isn’t he?”
“Don’t you dare suggest he’s mad,” she warns.
“As a hatter,” Nathan says from the corner of his mouth.
Angel scowls.
Nathan protests. “Oh, come on-n-n. He’s got cats called Higgs and Boson! Who in their right mind names their pets after an undiscovered particle?”
The audience, by their laughter, are clearly with him. But Angel moves her gaze toward the seats as if to threaten Nathan with a no-show from her mother. He gets the significance and confesses he’ll behave. “Okay, eccentric. Can we settle on eccentric?” He takes her silence as a yes. “Can I ask you, seriously, about his work?”
“Sure.”
“He believes it’s possible to ‘imagineer,’ doesn’t he? To actually construct or materialize objects from thoughts?”
“Yes, he does.”
“That’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?”
Angel brushes her thigh. “Grandad would say there are lots of unexplained forces in the universe, especially in the quantum world. His team feels they’re close to a breakthrough.”
“Really?”
“Mmm.”
There is a pause. The audience giggles at Nathan’s look of incredulity.
“Seriously,” says Angel, laughing herself.
“You’re putting me on.”
“No. Really. Ask Dad afterward.”
Now Nathan is hooked again. “Your dad’s involved in this, isn’t he? And so is Anders Bergstrom, I believe, the famous Norwegian … What is Bergstrom, exactly? I’ve never really understood what he does.”
“Officially, a psychologist. But he’s done a lot of things.”
“Including exploring dangerous glaciers.”
“He gets around, yes.”
“No,” Nathan argues, tapping his desk. “I bike here in New York City. That’s getting around. The Canadian High Arctic is a whole different ball game. Is he really a polar bear?”
“Probably.” She laughs. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s an interesting guy. One of the most charismatic men I’ve ever met — present company included, of course.”
Nathan wiggles his tie. A deliberate act of self-effacing vanity.
“Anders is a free-thinking spirit. A very bright and gifted man. He helps Grandad to rationalize his beliefs. He’s the perfect complement to the scientific approach.”
“I’m told he wasn’t in the final book.”
“Who, Bergstrom?”
“Yes. According to Jess, he doesn’t appear in The Fire Ascending.”
Angel shrugs. “I guess he just wasn’t needed.”
Nathan accepts this at face value. “Let’s go back to the imagineering thing. There’s been a buzz going around the Cloud for years that your dad is a guinea pig for Professor Merriman’s research into ‘active consciousness,’ which I believe is the basis for imagineering.”
“Well, that’s a bit X-Files,” Angel says, referring to her father’s favorite television program, an old show in which an FBI agent, Fox Mulder, investigates paranormal events. “When Dad started the books he asked Grandad Arthur’s permission to include him as a character. Grandad agreed on two conditions: one, that Dad stayed true to his beliefs —”
“Your grandfather’s beliefs?”
“Yes. And two, that he wrote the books organically.”
“Meaning they should come out as they wanted to. Unplanned.”
“Yes. This is why there are some loose ends or seemingly impossible complexities in the stories: They reflect the nature of spontaneous creation, the chaotic universe of a writer’s mind. Whenever Dad wrote, he wore a small device that recorded the pattern of his thoughts and the synaptic energies involved. I’ve seen the graphs. They’re particularly spiky when Dad has moments of genuine inspiration. The auma of the universe is most empowered when he’s apparently creating something out of nothing. If you can harness that energy, theoretically you can imagineer.”
“Right.” Nathan sets his shoulders square. He closes his eyes and concentrates. After a second or two he blows a breath of failure. “No, still can’t produce a clone of your mother.”
Angel rolls her eyes. The audience appreciates the joke, all the same. Nathan, all teeth and schoolboy smiles, tosses his hair off his forehead again. “What?”
“Mom is so going to tear you down.”
Nathan says, “I’ll look forward to that. So where does he come in?” He nods at Gadzooks.
“Well, he’s a dragon. He’s in perfect harmony with the universe. He helps Dad when he’s stuck.”
“I love that,” says Nathan, curling a titter around his words. “That you talk about him as if he’s real.”
“To the family, he is. Grandma felt the urge to create him because Dad was always scribbling stories. All through the novels, he used Gadzooks in the same way David Rain does. When he was stuck, he talked to Zookie. In his mind’s eye he’d see him write on his pad and that would kick-start his imagination again.”
Nathan leans forward to point something out. “In his mind,” he says quietly.
“It’s a perfectly valid tool,” says Angel. “I know writers who talk to trees to help them through a mental block.”
“Yeah, but the tree doesn’t talk back!”
“How do you know?” she counters, laughing.
“Because …” But Nathan is flummoxed now. He merely points at Gadzooks and says assuredly, “They’re a myth.”
Angel smiles in silence. But she isn’t done yet. “Grandad’s got a nice take on myths. Do you want to hear it?”
“Is it quick? I could debate this with you all night, but we have other guests and I want to show another clip from the movie.”
“Real quick,” she says. “Arthur would argue that what we call myths are events that happened in their own timeline. But if the timeline changes, an etheric trace of those events is left behind — and that becomes the basis of a memory, or a legend.”
“Didn’t understand a word of that.”
“Play it back later.”
“I will.”
“Slowly.”
“Thank you.” His laughter acknowledges a point on her scorecard. “Let’s see another piece of the movie, shall we?”
The audience claps their approval.
“This is from the beginning of the film, when Bergstrom talks to the polar bear. My daughter says this isn’t in the book.”
“No. Dad has always acknowledged that it would be difficult to film the books individually because they don’t lend themselves to discrete movies. So he and Rod, who wrote the screenplay with him, cherry-picked parts from later in the series, particularly Dark Fire, to help explain the overall plot.”
“This is Rod Duncan?”
“Yes.”
Nathan gives an approving nod. “I am such a big fan of his zombie movies.” He glances at Gadzooks and points. “Did he just do the zombie thing? I swear I saw him hold up his paws and sway.”
Which prompts Angel to lean forward and whisper to Zookie, “Behave, you’re scaring Nathan. That’s Mom’s job.”
The studio erupts in laughter.
“Okay, here we go!” Nathan shouts. “This is from Icefire, out in general release next Thursday. Go and watch it. Trust me, it’s a terrific film.”
The screen flares into life. We see Bergstrom, the enigmatic explorer, approaching a sitting polar bear, who appears to be guarding a pocket watch. The watch is ticking louder than it should, as if it’s in harmony with the universe. It’s Bergstrom’s timepiece. A precious heirloom. He stares at the bear and asks for it back. The bear speaks, telling Bergstrom he can have the watch back, but only if he picks it up and follows the bear north. When
Bergstrom asks why, the bear reminds the explorer of what he discovered earlier that day: dragontongue, burned into the walls of a cave. A record of the meeting of the last twelve dragons. Bergstrom is the first human to encounter evidence of dragons on Earth. The mark of Oomara suddenly appears in the polar bear’s head. Bergstrom looks back at the life he once knew. He steps forward and picks up the watch. He flips it shut and puts it in his pocket. “Lead on….,” he says.
The clip ends. The audience applauds with great enthusiasm.
“Wonderful scene,” says Nathan. He addresses the crowd. “Be honest. How many of you would pick up the watch and go with the bear, and how many would just get the heck out of there?”
Judging by the rumble, the audience is divided.
Before Nathan can respond, Angel sits upright and says, “Hey, you know Uncle Tam, don’t you?”
“The journalist who married your aunt Lucy? I play golf with him. Bad loser. Owes me five bucks.”
“No, he doesn’t,” says Angel. “Uncle Tam’s great. Shall I tell you what he’d do in this situation? He says he wouldn’t pick up the watch. He’d just offer the bear a couple of grand to publish his story.”
“Nice,” says Nathan, laughing with the audience. “That’s very him. Listen, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. Good luck with the movie. Will there be another?”
“Two more, we hope. Dad’s roughing out the next one now with Rod.”
“Fantastic. We’ll all look forward to that. Ladies and gentleman, Angel Merriman!”
They stand and air-kiss again. Angel picks up Gadzooks and kisses his topknot, a scene that will later spark another incredible buzz around the Cloud. Just for a moment, as Angel waves good-bye, the camera manages to blur Gadzooks. But what was written on the dragon’s notepad? It looks like the three-lined mark of Oomara.
Though it could have just been Hrrrrrrrr….
The studio lights come up and the floor manager announces a break in recording. “Do you want to go down and see him?” David asks.
Zanna, who has had her arm looped in his throughout, says, “She’ll be disappointed now if I don’t.”
“If it’s all right with you, I won’t. I’d like to go and visit Mom.”
Zanna nods. “Of course.”
“Mr. Rain? Sorry, I mean Mr. Merriman?” An embarrassed fan has shuffled along the row in front of them, holding a pad she hopes he’ll sign. “Would it be all right if I had your autograph?”
“Of course,” David says. He takes the pad.
“I just love your books, and I do believe in dragons.”
“I should hope so,” he says, making Zanna smile.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why did you call yourself Rain in the stories?”
David hands the pad back with his signature. “I always wanted to write paperback books, and the Beatles had a tune called ‘Paperback Writer.’ On the opposite side of the record was a track called ‘Rain.’ That’s my favorite song of theirs. That’s where it comes from.”
“Record?” says the fan.
Zanna laughs. “Now you’re showing your age,” she says.
“Enjoy the movie,” David says to the fan.
“Oh, I will.” She clamps the pad to her chest. “Thank you so much.”
She shuffles away.
“You’ve still got it,” Zanna says.
David smiles. He stands up and kisses her cheek. “Tell Lexie she was great. See you back at the house.”
And he disappears out of the theater, noticed by many, questioned by none.
When he arrives in Scrubbley later that day, he takes a cab to the small graveyard on the hill outside the town where his mother and Joseph Henry are buried, stopping on the way to buy a few lilies. They are Liz’s favorite flower. He pays the driver but asks him to wait, saying he will only be ten minutes. He opens the swinging picket gate and walks along a winding path that will shortly bring him to his mother’s grave. It is autumn and the path is speckled with leaves. Appropriately, a squirrel bounds across the gravel. It bounces onto a wonky urn, then a tilted headstone, and disappears into the shadows of an oak. David smiles and scents the flowers. They smell heady. He thinks that Gretel would approve.
Liz’s headstone faces the afternoon sun. A simple arc of granite. No real frills. There was talk at the time about fixing one of her dragons to the plot, but the risk of theft put an end to that.
David crouches and removes the existing flowers. They are long dead, needing to return to Gaia. “Hello, Mom,” he says, laying the lilies down. “I’ve just come from a TV studio. Lexie was being interviewed about her role in the movie. She did well. She’s a big star now. You would have been so proud of her.”
He brushes some moss off the epitaph wording, the part that says MAKER OF DRAGONS. He traces the last word with his fingers, making sure the grooves in the letters are clear. He does the same with the small bit of corbeling that decorates the top of the stone.
He speaks some more about Alexa, and is about to move on to Zanna and Arthur and Lucy, when he hears footsteps farther down the path. This is not unusual, even in midafternoon, but the visitor’s identity does surprise him. He stands up as Anders Bergstrom joins him at the graveside.
“I thought I might find you here.” Despite his many years in Massachusetts, there is still a strong hint of the Arctic in Bergstrom. “How is she?”
There is nothing strange about this. Both men hold the strong belief that the spirit survives the body after death. So David says, “Calm. She’s calm.”
Bergstrom nods. “I’m glad to hear it.” His hair, like David’s, is closer-cropped; his skin a little thinner on his cheekbones, perhaps. As always, despite the threat of winter, he does not appear to be feeling the cold. David is wearing an open overcoat; the Norwegian has his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A jacket, at least, is slung across one forearm.
“What are you doing here, Anders?”
Bergstrom stares at the grave. “I visit when I’m in the area. I liked your mother. She was a wonderful woman. How did the interview go?”
“Good. Alexa handled herself well.”
“Did Nathan speak of the experiment?”
“A little. Why?”
Bergstrom hunkers down and picks up a lily. “Why have you stopped using the implant?”
David instinctively feels in the region of his heart. He seems to come to a decision and slips his hand inside his shirt. When he withdraws it, there is a small spike of transmorphic crystal between his forefinger and thumb. It could almost be a piece of ice. At one time, the invisible neural fibers running through the implant would have been pulsing neon blue. Now, there is nothing. He shows the crystal to Bergstrom. “I haven’t. It stopped working two days ago.”
“Have you told Arthur?”
“He’s away, at the Oslo Conference — where I thought you would be. I was going to tell him when he comes back. Why aren’t you in Oslo?”
“Because I’m here.”
This is a fairly standard response. Bergstrom is a man of few words, and likes to cultivate an air of detachment with them.
David looks across the graveyard. In the distance, a gardener is mowing the bumpy strips of grass between the graves. David thinks of Henry Bacon, his long-dead neighbor, and how squirrels once wrecked the old man’s mower. The memory is strong and almost overpowers him. He hears the gardener bellow something. But the man is too far away to make any sense. David shivers and looks at the sky. There are no clouds present, and no real warmth from the orange sun either. He lets Dr. Bergstrom come back into focus. There has always been an odd kind of tension between them, which David has never fully understood, though he’s written about it accurately in the books many times. He offers Bergstrom the crystal. “Take it. Maybe there’s a fault.”
“Or maybe the experiment has run its course?”
There is a sense of accusation here, as though David is holding something back. But Bergstro
m doesn’t pursue it. He relaxes and pats David’s arm. “We’ll talk about this when Arthur returns. Now I’ll leave you in peace, with Elizabeth.” He takes the crystal and puts it in his pocket. Before he leaves, he switches his jacket to the other arm and touches his right hand to his lips, releasing a silent kiss for Liz. It’s then that David sees something he’s never seen before. On Bergstrom’s temple, revealed by his receding hairline, is a three-lined scar.
David grips the Norwegian’s arm. “How did you get this?” He points to the temple.
Bergstrom stares at him without blinking. That powerful icy squint, straight out of the polar bear handbook. “I had minor surgery when I was younger. It’s nothing, David. A scar, that’s all.”
But it doesn’t look like nothing to David. It looks very much like the “sometimes” symbol. The trademark of dragons. The sacred sign of ice bears, the Inuit — the North. “Why have you never shown me this?”
“Because some things are better not said,” says Bergstrom, gently but firmly freeing his arm. He looks at the grave for a long moment before adding, quietly, “Be with your mother.” As he walks away, he pulls an old driving cap out of his jacket. He puts it on, covering the scar.
David watches him all the way to the gate. It creaks as he opens it, clatters as he leaves.
Another leaf falls from another tree.
The smell of mown grass is in the air.
David turns to his mother again. There is so much he wants to talk to her about. So much he’d like to know. He crouches again and thinks about the mark on Bergstrom’s head, all that it has meant to him over the years. And perhaps because he can’t let go of that symbol, his mind begins to flood with dragon auma. One by one, they all flash through. The natural dragons — Gawain, Galen, Grockle, Godith. Roaring at him from every angle. Then firebirds in the great librarium, flitting back and forth between the shelves of books. But, inevitably, his mind grows calm and only one kind of dragon fills his thoughts. His mind does a tour of his mother’s creations before settling on the one most personal to him. He pictures Gadzooks, as he has so often. The dragon, as usual, is poised with his pencil, ready to scribble a note on his pad. David’s heart begins to thump. He can’t explain it, but he feels much closer to Gadzooks today. Yet they haven’t written a story for years. What message could the dragon have for him? What could be so important at this odd juncture of their lives?