Janet McNaughton - Dragon Seers Gift

For Nathaniel Oppel

Contents

Safe in his red-brick lair in the heart of the city, the dragon dreams, nose to toes, his tail draped over his neck like a scarf. A wisp of snow-chilled air seeps under the wooden door. His crest rises to register pleasure, then falls again, like a sigh. He hears sleigh bells and the steady hiss of metal runners on hard-packed snow, laughter ringing out over spruce-clad hills. He sees Daniel, bent over his notebook in the mellow lamplight of a ships cabin, hears canvas sails snap like dragons wings in the wind. His dreams fall backward in time, swiftly, over centuries until, finally, the sharp scent of a charcoal fire tickles his nose and he hears the musical tink of a tiny hammer in the glow of a bronze smiths forge. Then, he is a hatchling, sitting in the sun on a beach with his clutch mates and cousins, watching the big dragons fly; his beautiful mother, his wise father, his mothers funny sister and her mate, only four of them, but they know everything. Looking down, he can see the blood veins running through his sharp grey claws, white sand clinging to them, the memory crisp in every detail, though it is more than a thousand years old.

Even as a hatchling, even in a happy moment on the beach, he already knew to keep watch for the Vikings wooden boats. Much later, he would learn they were called Drakkar, dragon ships. That made him shake his head. The Vikings hated the dragons, tried to kill his father, caused the chain of events that left him the last of his kind. The Vikings ruined anything they touched.

Fast asleep in his chilly lair, the dragon rolls away from these troubling memories. Teetering on the brink of dreams, he wonders where Daniel is. Hed said hed be back in a few weeks. Surely the time has passed. The thought forms and vanishes as the dragon slips once more into his enchanted sleep.

In fact, Daniel has been gone for one hundred and twelve years.

A hard wind blew off the North Atlantic, shrinking Gwyn into the warmth of his down jacket. The ocean was out of sight, just beyond the hills on the other side of the lake. He could picture it, an icy, heaving expanse of black water stretching all the way from Newfoundland to Europe. Somewhere out there a storm was brewing. He could feel it in his bones.

Gwyn glanced at the mouth of the Virginia River beside him again, looking for the birds hed come to see, two male wood ducks. The Latin name for wood duck, Aix sponsa, meant waterbird in bridal clothes. Linnaeus, the Swedish scientist who gave them that name in the 1700s, had been making a joke, and Gwyn always got it when he saw them. Though they wintered with the mallards and black ducks like part of the gang, they looked as if they should be in some kind of bird fashion show. Bird books would tell you that Nova Scotia was the northernmost edge of their habitat; even so, it wasnt unusual for them to show up on Quidi Vidi in the winter. They were nowhere today, though. Gwyn was disappointed but not alarmed. Ducks could disappear for days at a time, up the Virginia River running into the lake beside him, or the Rennies River closer to home, or even downstream into Quidi Vidi Harbour.

Gwyn checked his watch. Only four-thirty and night was already creeping in from the sea. At least January was almost over. Time to go home. He pulled his binoculars from the warmth of his jacket for a quick look at the gulls in the middle of the lake before he went. This calm lake, so close to the open sea, was a haven for odd birds that had been storm-tossed to this side of the Atlantic or were just plain lost. Birders actually flew to St. Johns in winter just to see the Bonapartes gulls and Icelandic gulls that showed up here.

Hey, Rae!

Gwyns body tensed to the threatening tone even before he recognized the voice. Oh no, Tyler Cull. This was not good. Gwyn stuffed the binoculars (expensive, breakable) into his jacket before turning, and was almost knocked off his feet by a big, black dog. Fat and smelly, it lumbered by on skinny legs, wheezing with effort. Gwyn was no fan of dogs, and this one seemed more repulsive than most. It flopped into the Virginia River, scattering ducks in all directions. Then it stood ankle-deep in the middle of the river, looking stupidly pleased with itself.

Call your dog off, Gwyn shouted. Youre not supposed to let it run around off leash on this trail. In that moment of fury, he forgot who he was talking to. Though they were both twelve, Tyler Cull was a head taller. And mean.

Tyler stopped in amazement, raised one eyebrow, then smiled as if hed just been handed a present. Run around off leash? Who do you think you are, my nan? He took a step forward.

Gwyn was cornered. Hed have to run across the river to escape, scaring the ducks that were just beginning to settle again. Hed be no better than the dog if he did that.

He chose to stay.

The dog came back up the bank, spraying cold water everywhere.

Good boy, Cuddles, Tyler said absently.

Cuddles. Gwyn had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

Tyler took his time, clearly enjoying himself as he picked a particularly vicious-looking chunk of ice before advancing on Gwyn.

Thats cheating, Gwyn thought. Then he almost laughed. Why would anyone like Tyler Cull play fair?

The inward chuckle must have made it as far as his face. Tylers eyes narrowed to slits. Im going to turn that face into hamburger, he growled.

Past his attackers shoulder, Gwyn saw a middle-aged woman walking a shitzu. The dog looked like a dust mop on a leash. He grabbed the chance.

Aunt Judy, Gwyn cried, brushing past Tyler. He ran to the womans side and stopped in mock confusion. Oh, he said. You arent my aunt.

The woman gave him a puzzled smile.

Is that a shitzu? Gwyn asked, as if it really mattered to him. He ransacked his mind for something, anything to get the woman talking so he could walk away from Tyler Cull with her. He put his hand out to pat the little dog, but it disappeared behind its owner with a whimper. Smart dog, thought Gwyn, and the fact he needed came to him, something hed read in one of his fathers genetics journals a few weeks before.

Did you know, he said, that shitzus are more closely related to wolves than larger dogs like German shepherds? and he began to walk.

Really? The woman fell into step beside him. Gwyn resisted the urge to glance back at Tyler Cull, while he strained to remember more about what hed read.

A few minutes later, when Gwyn left the woman at Kings Bridge Road, he had to make a quick decision.

Across the road, the trail followed the Rennies River in the direction of home. Gwyn would be alone if Tyler caught him there, but it was faster. There was a break in the traffic, so Gwyn jogged across the street, letting the tree-lined trail swallow him.

It was always quiet here. The river ran black in winter between snowy banks. The houses on either side were distanced by long backyards so it was hard to remember he was near the heart of the city. When he was younger, this wooded trail had overflowed with magic, dragons and unicorns waiting at every bend in the river. One summer, there had been an evil Viking wizard who could take the shape of a crow. Gwyn had almost forgotten how he and his sister, Maddie, had terrified themselves with that one, running and screaming whenever a crow landed near them. Where had that come from? It must have been something theyd read or seen on TV. Gwyn smiled, then his smile slipped away like the fading light. Once, hed thought those days of make-believe would last forever. Now he knew better.

Most days, Gwyn would have looked for birds in the trees overhead or on the river. Now he kept his eyes on his feet to help him navigate the icy path while a flood tide of darkness rose around him. Im scurrying home like a small, hunted creature, he thought, a mouse or maybe a rat. I wish I could be brave enough to face guys like Tyler instead of always running.