D.A. Nelson - DarkIsle

DarkIsle

CONTENTS

for
Ian, Emma, Xander and Robbie
xxx

WITH THANKS TO:

Ian, for his never-ending support;
Natalie, for being my first reader;
Jonathan, for his encouragement;
my dad, for his editing skills;
my mum, for her enthusiasm;
the rest of the family and all my friends;
Alison McAllister and Melanie West at North
Ayrshire Council for all their help and ideas;
and Keith, Graham and Alison at Strident
for taking a chance on me.

T he dragon stared out over a menacing gray sea, the dark waters swelling below the raggedness of three miles of sandy hilltops that had been her home these past thirty years. An angry black sky warned of a storm brewing, and the dragon shivered at the thought of enduring yet another winter. She had seen many such squalls lying there on the hill overlooking Irvine Beach, but this one was going to be a beauty. The clouds sagged, heavy with rain, and it looked like it would only be a matter of time before the sky opened up and a tempest rained down on her. She worried that the bricks of her body would not hold up to this latest squall; after all this time she was feeling old and worn out. The wind lashed against her cold stone flanks, whipping sand into her unblinking eyes. Oh, what she would give to be real again; to stretch her stiff and aching legs, to rise up again. To be free.

And so it began to rain. Cold, harsh raindrops fell like tiny arrows against the dragons unmoving stone hide. She braced herself against the terrible weather that was to come, forever alone and miserable.

A few miles down the coast in a ramshackle guesthouse overlooking a large sewage pipe on the beach, a small ten-year-old girl was watching the approaching storm from the window of her attic bedroom. A solitary, sad little figure, the girl often knelt up against the headboard of her bed beneath the window and gazed out the dirty glass. She liked being up here, hidden from view where no one could see her. She could forget who she really was and fantasize about the lives of the people who often walked by.

In the summer, she would watch as the shiny cars filed into the empty field nearby, turning it into a makeshift car park. The car doors would burst open and out would spill excited children running with spades and balls toward the sea. They were always on the beach before anyone else, daring each other to go into the cold water first. Their parents brought up the rear, laden down with striped umbrellas and wicker picnic baskets, multicolored sun hats and sun cream. From her vantage point, Morag (for that was the girls name) saw everything. There was the joy radiating from the children, the togetherness of their parents and the love of the family. How she wanted to be one of those children getting hugs and kisses from a mother or father. How she yearned for a family of her very own.

The beach was hardly used in winter. Only dog walkers braved the cold, cold sea air, their faces set hard against the stinging wind and salty spray, the fur of their dogs dancing wildly in the gale. Morag loved to watch the dogs; she had always wanted a dog to look after and love, but Jermy and Moira wouldnt allow it. Theyre too dirty, they said. Costs money, they said.

She sighed long and hard. There were no dogs or holidaymakers playing on the sand on this wild October morning. The beach was deserted. There werent even any sea birds trotting along the shoreline. Morag turned away from the window and got down from her bed. She supposed shed better start her chores before breakfast. She didnt want to get locked in the cellar again.

Her foster parents, Moira and Jermy Stoker, were still snoring loudly in their bedroom on the floor below. She could hear them above the rumbling of the storm, snorting and snuffling away in their bed, oblivious to the gale outside. Thunder grumbled over the little house, rain lashed at the windows, and the wind tugged at the doors and shutters. Morag shivered. There was no central heating in the house and it was freezing. Barefoot and wearing her too-xssmall pajamas and frayed pink housecoat, she grabbed hold of her special book and stuffed it into one of her pockets. This was all she had left of her real parents. It was a red leather-bound book of ancient poetry, about the size of a prayer book, and inside on the first page was the inscription that made her heart sing every time she read it. They were simple words, but they meant a lot to her:

To Morag,
Until we meet again...
Lots of love, Mum and Dad xxx.

There was a marker tucked away on page thirteen, held tight against a short poem. It was a little piece of pink cardboard, just big enough to sit snugly in the palm of her hand. It appeared to be an old-fashioned train ticket, and marked on it, in faded black letters, was the name of a station that, despite her best efforts, Morag had never been able to decipher. There was an M and an r, but she couldnt read the rest.

The book felt reassuringly weighty in her housecoat pocket as she slipped out of her room and crept out of the attic and down the creaking, cracking stairs to the kitchen, where she could get warm beside the stove.

Stokers Seaview Guesthouse was always really creepy in the morning, and Morag hated being the first one up. The house was dark and shadowy on the brightest of days, and every room was in desperate need of some care and attention. Neglected paint peeled off the woodwork, strips of wallpaper were missing in patches from the walls, and the carpets were stained and threadbare. There were six rooms in the tall narrow house near the beach, not counting Morags bedroom in the attic. On the ground floor was a living room full of burst sofas and chairs, a dining room with no furniture in it other than Jermys locked desk with its computer, and a large, dirty kitchen that was dominated by an old stove. One of the three unloved bedrooms on the first floor was Jermy and Moiras untidy room and the other two were permanently unwanted and unopened guest bedrooms. Morag often asked if she could move down to one of the proper bedrooms, but Jermy and Moira always refused, telling her the rooms were needed for guests. But no one ever came.

Besides, Jermy would say with a sneer. Youre better up in the attic out of our way.

Morags feet were freezing by the time she reached the kitchen. It didnt help that the floor was covered with torn linoleum that was always icy underfoot, even in summer. She wished she had put her socks on before she had come down, but it was too late to run back upstairsthose two might hear her go past as she went up, and she didnt want to wake them. She tiptoed over to the kitchen table and dragged one of the rickety chairs over to the stove. Quietly, she sat down and savored the lovely heat coming from it. Lifting both feet, she placed them within an inch of the old cookers body. Ah, that was better. The stove never went off, as she made sure it was well stocked with driftwood, and its flaking red body was always hot: too hot to touch, but just perfect to be near. She felt its heat slowly restore the feeling to her numb feet. It was bliss.

Although the house could be cold and creepy, this was the only time of the day when Morag felt she had it completely to herself. With Jermy and Moira still in bed, she had time to daydream about what life would be like if she was a princess or a famous film star, or just someone elses child. She thought about the pair upstairs, her parents, or so they called themselves. They werent really her parentsthey had adopted her when she was a babybut they liked to pretend they were. They didnt act like real parents; there were no hugs, no kisses and certainly no love. There was only their coldness and anger. Jermy usually ignored her, and Moira just screamed orders and accusations at her. And then there were all the things they expected her to do around the guesthouse: the dusting and wiping and scrubbing and ironing and washing and shopping and cooking. Most of the time she wished she had a different life, or at least a different mum and dad. She couldnt remember her real parents and didnt know what had happened to them. Jermy had said they had run away and abandoned her, but Morag didnt believe that for a minute. They were lost, she told herself, and one day they would find her again, she was positive of that.