The Dragon Charmer Page 17

  “What about Lougarry?” asked Gaynor. “Should we take her with us?”

  “That’s up to her.”

  While he enlisted the support of the Dinsdales, Gaynor, with an abrupt access of practicality that kept her fears at a safe distance, checked the museum’s opening hours and tried in vain to locate it on a rather basic street map of York. Mrs. Wicklow had produced the map—one of an armful—from Robin’s study after tentative enquiries about the area. Gaynor rifled through Provence and Tuscany, the Peak District and the Brecon Beacons, before finding what she wanted. “We’re going to see a … a doctor,” she said feebly, tiptoeing round the facts. “He’s a specialist in coma conditions.”

  “Ahh.” Mrs. Wicklow gave the single syllable a wealth of hidden meaning that Garbo could not have equaled. “And Will’s gone to see the vicar. Happen he s on the right track.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something bad in the house, something that came here near on twelve years ago. She may be dead, but if you ask me she’s still around, that Ms. Redmond. My husband always says you shouldn’t have no truck with the supernatural, but when the supernatural comes a-pestering you, there’s little you can do about it. I saw her in the mirror t’other day when I went in to dust. Gave me quite a turn. Only for a minute, so I thought I’d been dreaming; but she wasn’t no dream. I never liked her, never.”

  “I’m moving that mirror outside,” Gaynor muttered.

  “First the television, now the mirror,” Mrs. Wicklow remarked sapiently. “Happen you’ve been seeing things, too.”

  “Happen,” Gaynor said.

  That night, Will sat with Fern until two o’clock. When his father arrived to take over, Will offered Gaynor’s explanation for their forthcoming absence, this time with all the conviction of a gifted liar.

  “A specialist?” said Robin, baffled. “But we’ve got a specialist coming next week. From Edinburgh,” he added, as if it were a clincher.

  “This chap favors the holistic approach,” Will said, trying to recall the precise meaning of “holistic.” “New Age stuff. We thought anything was worth a shot.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Robin, with a sad, twisted look that made him appear very much older. “Anything.”

  In the kitchen at Dale House, Will poured whiskey into two tumblers with slow deliberation. A soft noise made him glance up: Gaynor was standing in the doorway wearing the type of candlewick dressing gown that could only have been unearthed from one of the murkier upstairs wardrobes. With her long dark hair and unmade-up face she had an old-fashioned appeal, unglamorous, homely, yet somehow reassuring, like comfort food on a cold day. He was very glad to see her.

  “You didn’t sit up for me, did you?”

  “No,” she said. “I woke. I was sleeping very lightly. Is one of those for me?”

  “Not exactly, but it can be arranged.” He tipped whiskey into a third glass. “The alcohol level in this house is plummeting. Are you worried about going to the museum?” She nodded. “Scared?”

  “Yes. But I’m still going.” She took a mouthful of the neat spirit, making a face as it scalded its way down to her stomach.

  They sat for a while in silent companionship. Presently Will lit a candle and switched off the electric light. The sneaking drafts that always permeate old houses set the flame dancing, filling the room with wavering shadows. But gradually the air grew still and the darkness settled into place out of range of the yellow glow that encompassed Will and Gaynor.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “Atmosphere.”

  In one corner the dark seemed to thicken and solidify, acquiring definition. A small shape sidled into existence, a shape that approached the far end of the table in a strange lopsided scuttle, very swift and furtive. There was an empty chair waiting, and Will slid the third tumbler of Scotch toward it. Gaynor was still not quite sure what she had seen when something swarmed monkey-like onto the chair and reached for the glass with long, many-knuckled fingers. As it came within the radius of the candlelight she saw a leather-brown face, squashed against a broad head matted with hair. The features were unnaturally mobile, vividly expressive, though the expression was of a kind she could not read. The tiny flame was reflected twice over in eyes that were neither human nor animal, oblique whiteless eyes bright with their own luster. Gaynor did not move, paralyzed with a kind of awe at seeing such a creature, not in a half dream or nightmare but real and close up—awe touched with a fear that was yet not disagreeable. The goblin drained the whiskey in a single long swallow: the gulp was audible, and the smacking of lips. “A bonny wee dram,” he said in a gruff, whiskery voice shaded with an accent assimilated at random over the centuries. “With usquebaugh we’ll face the devil!”

  “Sounds like Burns,” said Will.

  “Aye, Burns,” said Bradachin. “He stayed at Glen Cracken once, no sae long ago. He wa’ the best of poets. He knew mair aboot the worrld than many an auld wizard, Gifted or no. And ye, will ye be facing the devil in the morning?”

  “I hope not,” Will said. Briefly he explained what they were after: the museum, the clue of the manuscript, Dr. Laye. “If Ragginbone gets back before we do, will you tell him where we’ve gone?”

  “I’m thinking ye’d do better tae wait for the gaberlunzie yoursel’. He’s unco wary o’ folks like me. He canna believe a boggan’s tae be trusted—och, and maybe he’s in the right of it, mostly. Seems tae me ye’re rushing intae Trouble like a mad cow intae a bog. Ye wilna help the lassie that road.”

  “We can’t wait,” said Will. “Ragginbone could be ages.”

  “Then maybe I shou’d be coming with ye.”

  “I think we’ll take Lougarry. Someone has to stay to report to Ragginbone—whenever he shows up.”

  “He isna going tae like it,” prophesied Bradachin.

  Throughout this extraordinary conversation Gaynor had said nothing, partly from the shock of it, partly because so much of what Bradachin said was virtually unintelligible to her. The goblin had not appeared to look in her direction, addressing himself exclusively to Will, so she was startled and disconcerted when those strange hazel-brown orbs turned abruptly on her. “Ye’re nae planning tae tak the hinny with ye?”

  “Not exactly,” said Will. “Unfortunately, she s planning to come. There isn’t much I can do about that.”

  “Havers,” Bradachin responded derisively. “I thocht ye had the rummlegumption tae put your foot doon with a wee lass. She’s nae Gifted like your sister, only a wee bit thrawn. Ye shoudna be mixed in such a wanchancy business, hin.”

  Realizing belatedly that she was the object of this advice, Gaynor said: “I have to go. Ancient manuscripts are my specialty. Will needs my—my academic credibility and my know-how. Anyway, I won’t stay behind just because I’m a woman. We don’t do things like that anymore.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” said Will. “Remember: whatever hazards we may come across, Fern’s the one who’s in real danger.” Privately Gaynor suspected him of trying to convince himself.

  “Aye, weel,” said Bradachin, “I wouldna wish ill tae ony lassie, but I hope ye’re right.”

  Gaynor went to bed exhausted and slept badly, haunted by uncomfortable dreams. Bats pursued her down the endless corridors of crumbling museums, and a man with gray hands reached out toward her, beckoning. “I look forward to eating you,” he said, and she saw he had pointed teeth, like a dragon, and his mouth opened wider and wider, and the corridor vanished down the red tunnel of his throat. And then the fragments of nightmare disseminated and she thought she had woken up. She was alone in a large, dark room paneled with wood. Huge mounds of furniture rose around her, monstrous chairs and humpbacked sofas, stiffly cushioned as if stuffed with wire wool, the upholstery intricately patterned in old, dim colors. The paneling seemed to be strangely carved in places, or maybe it was the effect of graining and occasional knots in the wood. She guessed it must be oak; it looked very ancient and hard, so dark in
the shadowy corners that it was almost black. Everything was dark. A tall window at one end, heavily curtained, showed a narrow glimpse of a garden in daylight, and she wanted desperately to be out there, but she was trapped in the room. She was very frightened, not the dream panic she had experienced fleeing the bats but a fear that was immediate and real, intense as passion. She knew she was alone but she did not feel alone. She felt… watched. And then she saw the eyes. The first pair caught her off guard, peering from under a cushion; the second emerged slowly from the complex whorls of a design on a piece of brocade, invading her awareness by stealth, fooling her into the belief they had always been there. And there were yet more of them, and more, winking from the knots in the wainscot, lurking in the shadow beneath the mantelpiece, squinnying from among the coals in the chilling fire. Some looked almost human, some animal; others might have been the lidless eyes of insects, the pale discs of an owl, the slanting orbs of a goblin. She knew it was important to keep track of them but they kept disappearing and reappearing elsewhere, moving from shadow to pattern, from pattern to panel. And there were so many of them.

  Gradually the feeling grew in her that there was a pair she had missed. She could sense the eyes watching her as a cat watches a mouse, cold, indifferent, faintly intrigued, faintly amused by her antics. She scanned all the others in an attempt to find them, but it was no use: somehow they eluded her. She had all but given up when she finally saw them. They were enormous—so big that the whole room might have been merely a reflection in their depths, and she herself a part of it, enclosed in double images, watched by eyes within eyes. Her surroundings had become transparent: beyond, she saw gigantic pupils, slitted, feline, black as the abyss, and slow vapors of thought coiling and uncoiling like oil on water. She gazed and gazed, no longer afraid, mesmerized and ensnared by those eyes. “Don’t look,” said a voice from nowhere. “Never look into the eyes of a dragon—” and at the word “dragon” her trance was broken, and she knew everything she saw was a reflection, and the creature was behind her, behind her, and her terror returned with a vengeance, and her knees were water. She tried to run, but there was nowhere to run to, and brocade-patterned shrouds impeded her, sewn with eyes that moved and glittered. Then the fire came, eating up the paneled walls, encircling and consuming her…

  She woke to a paler darkness and the unmistakable whiff of whiskey. “Ye waur having a bad dream, hinny,” said the voice of Bradachin, and though she could not see him, for a moment she thought she felt a gentle touch on her forehead, smoothing her hair. She let her eyes close, insensibly comforted, but she did not sleep again.

  Ragginbone came to the house in the afternoon, long after Will and Gaynor had left. “They went off in t’morning,” said Mrs. Wicklow. “Will said as how they were going to find some kind of specialist to see Fern—leastways, so I understood, though Mr. Robin says he has someone coming next week from Edinburgh.” Robin, as the senior Capel, still got the honorific “Mr.” “Odd they took the dog, though.”

  “Lougarry?” queried Ragginbone.

  Mrs. Wicklow nodded. “You don’t usually take the dog when you’re off to see a doctor,” she asserted unanswerably. “Happen they think her’ll sniff him out.”

  Frowning, Ragginbone snatched a minute when she was distracted by the washing machine to make his way upstairs, murmuring an excuse about the bathroom. Once in Will’s room he began to chant the Atlantean words of Command, but Bradachin appeared without preamble. “There’s nae call for all that,” he said dismissively. “I guessed ye’d be asking after Will and the lassie. They wanted me tae tell ye aboot it.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Gone. The lass remembered something aboot an auld book she’d seen on the picture box, and they’re gone away noo in search o’ the clue. I told them tae wait for ye, but they woudna listen. They went off tae Yorrk the morn, taking the wolf with them.”

  “York?” Ragginbone’s frown deepened, creasing his brow into a concertina of lines. “Why York?”

  “The book waur in a museum there, sae she seid.”

  “Of course. The Museum of Ancient Writings, which has the gray-faced Dr. Laye on its board. How very convenient… for somebody.”

  “It cam’ a wee bit timeous for young Will tae swallow, but he said they must gae a-questing, whether or no. He’s sae troubled for his sister, his heart’s winning over his heid. Ach weel, he’s a fine lad. I hanna seen any like him for many a hundert year.” In the ensuing silence the late afternoon sun emerged from behind a cloud bank, sending a low ray slanting through the window. The goblin faded in the strong light, remaining visible only as a faint pencil sketch against the solidity of the room. Age sat upon Ragginbone like a veil of dust. “Ye will be following them for sure,” murmured the goblin.

  “No.” The single word was harsh, hiding indecision. “I must go to Fern. Who have they left with her? Her father can’t be there all the time.”

  “The pairrson. They say he’s no sae bad—for a man o’ the kirk.” Habitual contempt for the church and all its works sounded in his voice.

  “It won’t do. I fear she may need help, more help, perhaps, than I can give. Still, we must do what we can. All of us.”

  “We must dree our weird,” remarked Bradachin without enthusiasm. “The McCrackens were aye for that. It didna bring them much guid.”

  “By the way—” Ragginbone hesitated, then continued brusquely “—I saw your queen yesterday. She doesn’t speak well of you.”

  The gleam that lit the goblin’s face had nothing to do with the sun, a transient flicker that quirked his strange features into what might have been a look of amusement. “She waur aye a contermacious besom. Still, she’s only a wee maidie, when all’s seid and done. She disna grow aulder like some of us. There’s many a lass is ayeways a bairn at heart. She’ll forget she’s fasht with me any day—unless she’s reminded. For-bye, she’s all pharisee—she woudna understand men’s honor or women’s faith.”

  “And you do?”

  “Ye dinna trust me, gaberlunzie? Is that all the trouble?”

  “The history of your kind does not inspire trust. House-goblins may feel a passing affection for their human cohabitees, but honor and fidelity do not usually enter into it.”

  “Yet it was ye put oot the word that brought me here,” Bradachin pointed out.

  “I thought this place needed an extra pair of eyes. That doesn’t mean I have to believe everything they see.”

  “There’s nary a kobold I’ve kent that I would hae trusted,” Bradachin admitted. “Ye must decide for yoursel’.”

  “I haven’t much choice,” said Ragginbone.

  It was late in the day when he reached the hospital, walking across the moor with a stride so swift that a pair of ramblers sensed his passage only as a draft of air and a flying glimpse of what they thought was an animal. He had worn out his Gift, but the ability to dislocate himself in Time and move to an alternative tempo was a habit that, like so many of his more uncommon traits, he had never lost. At the clinic he found Gus Dinsdale by Fern’s bedside, trying to write his Sunday sermon while plugged into a Walkman playing Jethro Tull. Gus welcomed the newcomer with some relief. “I didn’t let Will down,” he said, “but I ought to be at home. The boys are up for the weekend—” He had ten-year-old twins, currently at boarding school “—and I don’t get many chances to see them. Besides, they’re natural vandals—they’re at that age, I suppose—a constant flow of uncontrolled energy. They’re a bit much for Maggie on her own.” He continued, not quite as an afterthought: “Do you know what’s really going on here? Will seems to think Fern’s spirit has been ‘driven from her body’—that was the phrase he used. He says she’s lost somewhere, in some other dimension. The church doesn’t go in for that sort of thing nowadays, but … I’ve always believed in keeping an open mind. And Will’s imaginative, but not foolish.”

  “You should be more careful,” Ragginbone said with unusual gravity. “The trouble with keeping an
open mind is anything can get in. Or out. Perhaps that is what happened to Fern.”

  Gus met his gaze with eyes that stared thoughtfully through unsteady spectacles. “This isn’t the first time the Capéis have been mixed up with something out of the ordinary,” he persisted. “There was the death of Alison Redmond and Fern’s subsequent disappearance. You and I are barely acquainted, but I’ve always suspected that you knew more of these matters than any of us. I have even wondered if we are… on opposite sides of the fence, so to speak.”

  Ragginbone’s brows went up. “I’m no agent of the devil, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No indeed. I simply felt that you might represent—a more pagan world.”

  “I was born a Catholic,” Ragginbone admitted unexpectedly, “but that was a long time ago. Since then, I’ve learned to see God through rather different eyes. You could call that pagan. As to what I know about this—” a brief gesture indicated the figure on the bed “—it isn’t enough. Even if I were sure where she is, I could not bring her back. I can only watch. That is my fate.”

  Gus was still hesitating on the verge of departure, his raincoat hanging off one shoulder, the shabby satchel in which he had packed his Walkman dumped back on the floor. “Look, if you need me,” he said abruptly, “I can make other arrangements for the boys. This is more important. If there’s anything—”

  “Do your job,” said Ragginbone with a sudden crooked smile. “Pray.”

  When the vicar had gone Ragginbone bent over Fern for a while, adjusting the wisp of gossamer looped about her neck, lifting a fallen eyelid, studying the frozen features with the passionate absorption of an archaeologist poring over a vintage mummy. As the archaeologist seeks to reconstruct a long-forgotten life from a plethora of tiny clues, so Ragginbone sought to uncover not life but death, to follow the trail of the absent spirit through the gateway of a mind in stasis. It was more than an hour before he straightened up, his back stiff with bending, his face seamed with the lines of vain effort. He had caught only echoes of Fern, glimpses of dream and danger that did nothing to lighten his mood. He had wandered down long, dark tunnels of thought, calling her name, hearing his own voice coming back to him, seeing at rare moments a shadow slipping around a corner or an image of the tunnel’s end, too remote for certainty, too fleeting to pin down. Once he might have recalled her, even from the outer reaches of being; but he no longer had the power, and Moon-spittle, he knew, would be too ineffectual a tool for such a conjuration. “I can only watch,” he repeated, half out loud, and the nurse who had heard the murmur if not the words told a colleague she had always guessed he was a bit mad, dressing like a tramp and muttering to himself: she couldn’t understand why they allowed him to be left alone with the patient. But when another nurse went in to check on him, Ragginbone was sitting in silence, his face somber with thought, and she retreated without comment or question, feeling her presence an intrusion.