The rain had stopped long before Alvar woke up. When he opened his eyes, the bed was flooded with golden light from the window, the last rays of the sun shining through after a gloomy day of pouring rain and howling winds. Now all was clear and warm once again.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, groggy from his afternoon nap that he had not intended to take. Lars still had one arm around him, and Marcella lay in between them, curled over the blanket. Both were sound asleep.
He had not come here only to take a nap, of course. The hedges around Lars' house had gotten all scraggly. When Alvar arrived early in the morning, armed with his shears to prune them, it was still dark. Great billowing clouds drifted in from toward the sea. The wind picked up speed and the smell of storm was in the air. Streaks of lightning cut through the gloom every now and then.
"Looks like rain," said Lars from the porch, a needless prediction. His smoking pipe hung unlit from between his teeth as he paused to watch the clouds. "Oh no."
He rushed outside to collect his laundry from the clothesline, forgotten until now. It was the same as always, a few pairs of shirts and breeches, and an unusual number of cloaks. At first Alvar used to wonder if he wore the same cloak everyday, until he saw how many he had, all varying shades of green. Now he was used to it, and so paid no heed to the half dozen cloaks hanging there. They whipped every which way, like kites torn from their strings.
Lars bundled them up into one big ball. "Come inside before the winds carry you away," he called.
Alvar clicked his tongue. "I'll be done in a minute."
He was not done in a minute. In fact, the work took several minutes, and he could not finish half of it. The hedges skirted the whole house and garden, stretching all the way to the gate that led down to the dock. The gate now swung wildly on its hinges, its latch undone.
The sea churned below, the rushing of waves so loud he could hear them from all the way up here. He leaned over the gate and chanced a look below. Lars' boat danced upon the dark waters that heaved and fell. He wondered if the moorings would stay.
Then down came the rain, the season's first shower.
A flash of lightning followed by a rumbling thunder, then a thin sheet of rain lashed against his face, cold and sharp and fresh. He ought to have headed inside then, but he didn't. Instead he stood there, arms open wide as if to welcome the storm. The storm took no heed and blew past him, ruffling his hair on the way in a half-hearted greeting. He laughed aloud.
The downpour grew stronger, and beyond the gate over the sea nothing could be seen but a white mist. Even the boat vanished from view.
When Lars found him, he was soaked through.
"There is a sweetness to this early rain," the wizard remarked. "This bodes well. We'll have a plentiful harvest this year."
"Good for my flowers then," Alvar said.
"But not for you," said Lars. "Stand here any longer and you'll catch a terrible cold. I had to run to your house four times last time you had a fever. Four times! I'm not doing that again, oh no."
He grinned. "And leave me to suffer just like that?"
"Certainly not. I'll keep you here--held prisoner--until you get well."
All the more reason to catch a cold on purpose, thought Alvar. Drenched in the rain, Lars had the look of a windswept tree. His tousled hair glistened like spun gold, flying free in the rough winds that left them shivering. Alvar wanted to tuck them behind his ear and taste the sweet rain off his lips.
Yet he stopped himself, like he had many times ever since that day on the boat.
There had been countless such moments, pauses in doorways heavy with words unsaid, purposeful gazes, breaths held in anticipation, only to be met with nothing from his end. Alvar found himself unable to return what Lars gave so freely, no matter how much he wanted to.
A strange sort of fear always seemed to creep up on him in those moments and paralyse him.
Fear of what? That, he didn't know.
That day they kissed in the boat, the true weight of the action struck Alvar a good few minutes later, when they were heading back, when the sun had gone down and the lights of the waterfront shone out in the distance, fireflies in the dark.
The truth was out at last, and there was no putting it back. Alvar was in love, and he'd confessed it, as best as he could, and in doing so he'd crossed the line beyond which there was no more turning back.
And that frightened him the most. The point of no return.
Hiding his feelings behind a silence seemed easier than to declare them aloud and act accordingly.
In his experience, even enchanted plants did not always bloom. Sometimes the magic wore off with time, and rot took them, and all that was left in the end were shriveled brown leaves that crumbled like dust. And when that happened, there could be no more going back to that little seedling it once was.
What if things did not go as he'd envisioned? What if he ruined it all? What if, what if...
"I think I've bathed enough today to last me a lifetime. Can we head inside now?" said Lars, pulling him out of his thoughts. He was thankful for that.
The wizard gave Alvar a set of his own clothes. They were plain and a little worn, but they were all the more comfortable for that and had a wonderful sunny smell. The shirt suited him well, though a bit too big for his size.
Next, he set a pot of milk over the fire. He poured it into two huge mugs and put spoonfuls of honey into Alvar's share, followed by a pinch of cinnamon. Snatcher roosted up at the rafters, and Marcella curled into Alvar's lap, purring loudly as he stroked her soft fur. He blew away the rising steam from his drink and took a sip, clutching the warm mug with both hands.
They sat, listening to the rain patter on the roof and the wind rattling the windows.
It was one of those days where there was not much to do, except folding up a pile of laundry which Lars tossed over his bed without a care, because one should not trouble themselves about trivial things as such. He tried his best to convince Alvar of the same.
"And where would you sleep if your bed is in such a mess?" he asked.
"I'll just put them there." Lars showed him a chair. Alvar didn't even know the chair had been there at all, because it was buried beneath another pile of clothes, washed but never folded or put away.
After Alvar had finished picking up all of them, and put them in the wardrobe where they ought to be, Lars discovered many such forgotten pieces of furniture in his room--a footstool, another chair, and a little side table. But there was still a trunk that lay half-packed, and Lars would not let him anywhere near it.
"Planning to go somewhere?" he asked. He hoped it was not far away, and that it was not forever.
"I can't tell you about that yet, I'm afraid," said Lars, shutting the lid with great urgency.
Outside, the rain continued to pour with gusts of wind that howled through the cracks in the walls with strange voices. Through the kitchen window, the smell of rain soaked earth wafted in. Even at midday it was still dark--but a good kind of dark, one that makes you want to curl up in a blanket and fall asleep, listening to the rain.
After the table had been set for lunch, Lars brought out the candle that Aunt Elena had given him. "Now's your time to shine!"
It was a beautiful thing, the most flawless one of the bunch that she'd made. She'd taken the time to carve intricate patterns into it. Like all the things she made with her hands, it had the touch of her love. The pressed flowers in the wax had retained their colours, almost as vibrant as the day they were picked.
"Shouldn't you save it for something special?" said Alvar. Gran had many such things saved for special occasions, the fancy tea cups and kettles, the polished silverware and the tablecloth embroidered by herself, all wonderful and pretty things. But Alvar hardly got to see them, except on those few special occasions where there would be a guest at the table.
They were all up in the attic now, collecting dust.
"But this is a special day," said Lars, setting the candlestick in the middle of the table.
"It's just...us," Alvar said.
"Just us?" Lars raised a pale brow. Alvar reddened, not knowing what to say.
"A situation becomes special if we think of it as such. So what's the use of waiting for some prophesied day when you can make this one special? Makes no sense to hold yourself back from using the nice things that bring you joy," he said, and with a snap of his slender fingers, set fire to the wick.
At first it wouldn't catch, but when it did, it burned bright and shone on their faces. It flickered a little when the wind blew. A sweet smell of flowers and herbs rose through the air, and it had to be one of the finest meals they'd ever had. Alvar had no idea how Lars could make something so simple as stewed tomatoes taste so good and savoury, but then again, he was a wizard after all.
The candle burned and the intricate patterns on it melted away, and by the time they finished eating it was short and stubby, but that did not bother Alvar. It made their afternoon special.
"Haven't seen Marcella in a while though," he said as he began putting away the dishes. "Where's she gone?"
"Not stuck behind a bookshelf again, I hope," said Lars, and went to find her.
He called out her name many times and shook a jar of her favourite treats, but there was no sign of her. Later, he called from upstairs, severe urgency in his voice. "Come here and see, quick!"
Hastily wiping his hands Alvar dashed upstairs, wondering what horrible thing might have happened to the cat, only to find Lars standing over the bed, grinning like a fool.
"Look!" he pointed. "Look where the little devil's been hiding all this time!"
There was a perfectly round lump under the blanket. Alvar lifted it, only to find Marcella sitting there, limbs all folded like a loaf. "Mrrp," she protested.
"Oh, come on, there's plenty of room," said Lars, and he dove under the blankets and settled in with a sigh, after a struggle to find the long end. This was the most perfect afternoon for a nap, after all. Then he saw Alvar just standing there and stretched out a hand in invitation. "Care to hop in?"
Of course he did. But--
"The dishes won't wash themselves."
Lars gave a slow smile. "In this house, they would."
And there could be no more arguing against that.
Now, before he got out of bed, Alvar leaned close to Lars. He pushed back his hair and kissed him on the forehead, eyes squeezed shut and with all the love he could muster, hoping that would make up for the countless times he could not gather up the courage. The wizard smiled in his dreams and did not stir. Reluctantly, he moved his arm away and stepped out of the covers, missing the warmth already.
Downstairs, the foyer was flooded with light. Sunlight streamed in through the window over Lars' workdesk, where a book lay open, its pages flipping in the wind. Alvar stopped on his way past it.
Beside it there was a map of some old mining settlement far east of here. A long route of travel was highlighted in red ink, some calculations scrawled on the margins.
He was going away after all.
Call of the Unknown, he thought. Explains all that luggage.
Alvar didn't know what took over him, but he didn't want to spare it another glance. With quick movements, he shrugged out of the clothes lent to him, grabbed his own, and dressed, and ran out of the door without a goodbye.
The rain had stopped now, gathering in puddles by the garden path. But he did not resume his work on the overgrown hedges. He headed home instead.
All the way down the mountain and through the woods he tried to forget what he'd just seen; erase the sight of the map from his memory entirely. But he couldn't.
He remembered Lars' words. I've been in all sorts of places, seas and forests and deserts and mountains--you name it. And he never settled down at any of those places, because when you've got magic in your blood, you cannot stay in one place for long.
Alvar should have known that Frostspire was but a brief stop in the wizard's journey, not a place he would call home. Perhaps he'd known it in the back of his mind all along, but wasn't ready to face the truth until it stared him in the eye.
When he entered through the kitchen door, Aunt Elena was at the table, quill in hand, putting down figures on the big red book they kept in the shop to keep track of all earnings and spendings.
"Up there all day, eh?" she said with a knowing look.
Alvar gave a half-hearted nod and rooted around in his box of tools.
"In that case, I hope your wizard friend has fed you well, because I just ate the last of the apple pie," she said, an apologetic smile on her face.
Other times he would have despaired over it, but now he'd lost all appetite. "That's fine," he said. "I'm full."
He sifted through his tools again, took out a trowel, and went back into the garden. He got down in a crouch and began to loosen the soil.
Al had never really been the talkative sort, that much was common knowledge to perhaps all of Frostspire, but Elena knew at once something was wrong, and it was not the last slice of pie. She watched him through the kitchen window for a while, then decided to join him, picking up the rake on the way out. There was much work to be done. The storm had left piles of leaves strewn all over the place.
He was not working at all when she went up to him. He was not even moving the trowel.
She sat down beside him. "Something bothering you?"
He looked down and said nothing for a long while. They sat in comfortable silence. She placed her hand on the soft curls of his hair. They were flattened on the right as if he'd fallen asleep on that side.
It'd only been a few months since Mother passed away and he recovered from the illness that took him afterward, but he seemed to have grown so much. There was a firm, stubborn look about his eyes; gentle but unyielding, like tree roots that reach through tough soil to find sustenance, untouched by frost even in midwinter. Perhaps all those who lived so closely with the earth had that look about them, their very souls anchored in the soil they worked in.
Yet Elena worried for the boy. Quiet and soft spoken he may be, but he loved fiercely. And sometimes that brought great suffering.
Among the crew of North Wind, the brig she sailed upon for many a long year, they referred to her simply as the Crow. That was because during her early years the captain used to send her up to the crow's nest, punishment for gambling at first. But later he did so on purpose, for naught escaped her sharp eyes that saw all there was to see. And that was not limited to spotting pirate ships or stormclouds, of course.
She read people just as well.
The truth was laid bare to her soon after she met Lars and saw the ardent way the wizard cared for her ailing nephew, climbing down the treacherous mountain path in the dead of night, pushing his way through snowstorms to come down to the village and turn up at their doorstep even when she called for him at the most inconvenient of times. He'd been up all night alongside her as they tried to fight off that stubborn fever that would not let go of Alvar, wrecking him with shivers and burning him alive. There was love in his eyes and he was true at heart, she did not doubt that for one moment.
But she knew his kind, the ones with sorcery in their blood. They rarely settled down, if ever, drifting from place to place all their lives but never taking root .
She would know.
She'd sailed in the same ship as the Wind-caller, a witch who could summon the sea winds and command them in their favour. They all called her that so much they'd forgotten her real name. Limbs long as a spider and just as agile, she spent more time hanging from the rigging than on the deck. That was how she came upon the crow's nest, and met the sullen young woman posted there as punishment. High up there under starry nights, they dreamed of a future together.
Yet as days went by, Elena noticed a strange unease take hold of her lover, a restlessness that kept her awake at night. It seemed commanding the sea winds pleased her no longer.
Their tale reached its end when they were docked in the port town of Westone. Beyond the walls of that town there lay leagues upon leagues of desert, where the winds blew free, hot as fire from a hundred forges, and the sand it carried cut through rocks like knives, so the townsfolk said. Elena had seen the glimmer in her eyes as she listened to the talk of the desert with wonder, and she knew in the back of her mind, this was it.
The Call.
And so it happened in the black of night, the Wind-caller ventured into the lands beyond the wall, leaving Elena asleep in her bed without so much as a goodbye. She'd visited Westone countless times after that, but never found her again.
She hoped Alvar would not have to suffer the way she did.
"What if he leaves Frostspire someday?" Al broke the silence without a preamble, yet they understood each other.
"He may, or he may not," said Elena. "That is up to him. To love is to trust. Trust that he would come back to you, even if he left for a little while. But fair warning, my lad, this whole trusting business is tricky. You place your heart in someone's hands and trust them not to drop it. Sometimes they do, despite their best intentions."
Alvar dropped the trowel and fell back on his bottom, giving up the task of loosening the soil. "Even so. I wouldn't want to hold him back if he feels happier that way, answering the Call and everything."
She wondered if the Wind-caller was happy out there today, chasing sandstorms into the horizon. Perhaps she was. And so was Elena, in this lovely house and garden, running the flowershop with this sweet nephew of hers.
She ruffled his hair. "Aren't you a fine little philosopher?"
Alvar scrunched up his face, but with a hint of a smile. "I'm not little. I'll be twenty one this winter, thank you very much."
"Still a child to me. A wee babe, that's what you are," she told him, pinching his nose as he began to laugh. Then she wondered to herself. "Damn, twenty one? Really? Now I feel ancient!"
The many snaps and pops in her joints agreed, as she got to her feet. "Grab another rake and help me clear this mess, my lad."
"That was one terrific storm," he said as he began gathering piles of fallen leaves. "I hope nothing is broken." He peered up at the tiles of the roof. All seemed to be in order.
"Ah, that reminds me...Mr. Bushbury dropped by earlier. Says he needs help fixing his chimney. You up for that?" she said, grinning. "I could use some help, not gonna lie. These old bones aren't what they used to be."
Mr. Bushbury sat on his doorstep, leaning on his cane when they arrived. He was a stooped old man, with fine wisps of white hair left on his shiny bald head. Alvar saw him deliver letters when he was younger, and his wife Ruth was an old customer and friend of Gran's.
He looked up with a toothless smile when he saw them. "About time! I was beginning to think you forgot."
He led them to the back and showed them a ladder, but Aunt Elena did not need these. She clambered up the back of the house with her bare hands, toes of her boots digging into the cracks between the bricks for support.
Old bones, she says. Alvar didn't know how she did it, but in the blink of an eye she was on top of the roof. He came up a moment later, preferring the safer way even with his younger bones, clutching the box of tools under his arm. The chimney was all the way on the other side of the roof. The rusted metal covering on top of it hung askew.
"The fireplace's been flooded with rainwater," explained Mr. Bushbury from below. "Completely flooded!"
"Of course it is," Aunt Elena called back. "Chimney cap's knocked over. We'll fix it for now, but you really ought to get it replaced."
They crawled on all fours and shuffled closer. Aunt Elena cleared the leaves around the cap and began to straighten it, but it was too bent out of shape. "Hand me the hammer, will you?"
Alvar squinted at the thin trail of smoke that filtered out of the chimney. "How come you have a fire going, if the fireplace is all flooded?" he yelled, leaning over the side of the roof.
This time, Grandma Ruth answered, poking her head out of the kitchen window. "Aye, that's another problem I'd like you to look into. I'm still draining the water, not a spark of fire down here, but a little bit of smoke keeps coming out from above. Don't know how that's possible."
Meanwhile Aunt Elena pressed her ear against the top of the chimney, listening. "Hold on, I can hear something moving inside!"
Next, she pulled away and plunged her entire arm in, and struggled to get hold of whatever it was. Her eyes went wide and her hair seemed to stand on end. "What on earth...is this? Something's nested in here!"
"A bird maybe?" he said.
But the next moment she pulled her arm free with a cry and scooted back on her bottom, almost falling off. "Watch out--stay back!"
A jet of angry fire leapt up from the chimney with a shrill whistle, filling the roof with light. Plumes of smoke and soot and hot air rose with it, raising a small-scale whirlwind of fallen leaves. Aunt Elena watched dumbfounded, her whole arm and the tip of her nose blackened with soot, face flushed red.
"That ain't no bird!" she cried.
Alvar thought of phoenixes. Gran said they lived just beyond the mountains.
But the thing that crawled out next was not that, either.
Black talons clutched the edge of the chimney, then two leathery, bat-like wings fluttered above them, sending ashes and bits of burnt leaves everywhere. A small, reptilian head popped out next, eyes gleaming like molten iron, forked tongue lashing as it opened its mouth in a hiss. Embers flew from its flaring nostrils.
--"You two alright up there?" called Mr. Bushbury.
"We're fine," she yelled back. "But--"
"But?" This time it was Grandma Ruth who asked.
"Well--there's a dragon living inside your chimney."
"A what?" said Mr. Bushbury.
Alvar thought he was just shocked, until he remembered he was short of hearing. Grandma Ruth repeated the words to him. "The lass says there's a dragon in our chimney, dear."
"A dragon? How'd it fit?" wondered the old man.
"It's a wee babe," said Aunt Elena, then staggered back as it hissed again. "A feral one, nonetheless. Almost burned my arm off!"
Alvar grinned. "I'd turn feral too if some stranger came by and tried to yank me outta my own house by the collar."
"This seems like a job for the wizard boy," said Mr. Bushbury from below.
Footsteps sounded against the gravel, and the familiar clickety-clack of a staff hitting the ground.
"Speak of the devil," said Grandma Ruth.
He and Aunt Elena peered over the edge of the roof, heads side by side. Lars stood below, his pipe between his teeth, and Snatcher perched on his shoulder. Smiling, he held up a pair of pruning shears.
"Missing something?" he said to Alvar.
Snatcher launched into a flight and wheeled around the chimney, squawking. A moment later, Lars came up and looked at the newfound creature.
"Ah, it's a young mountain dragon," he said, taking cautious steps toward it. "There's a wooded island south of here. That's where they come from. Though they've got kin scattered all over the mountains up north."
The dragon looked wary of him at first, guarding one of its wings with another, mouth snarling in a soundless warning. But when Snatcher swooped down beside it and cackled, it seemed reassured somehow. The feral glow in its eyes softened.
"Easy, now--" Lars put his staff aside and crouched down, and with gentle hands, lifted the dragon out of the chimney and took it in his arms. It squeaked and reached for his pipe with taloned forelimbs.
He smiled. "See these blue spots on the snout? It's a girl!" Then a frown creased his brows. "But why's such a youngling here, so far from home? They travel in packs."
"I think I know why," said Alvar, and pointed at her wing, which was bent in an odd angle. "Caught in the storm, I reckon."
After Alvar and Aunt Elena had finished with the troublesome task of sweeping out debris and hammering the chimney cap back into place and securing it on top, they all gathered in the foyer of Bushbury household. Lars drained the rest of the water and had a fire going in full blaze in no time, and laid the baby dragon on the soft rug in front of the fireplace.
Mr. and Mrs. Bushbury peered over his shoulder. "Poor little thing," they said. "Will she be alright?"
"Of course," said Lars, sifting through the contents of his satchel. "I've got just the right thing."
He brought out a glass vial of a clear, shimmering solution, pale blue like the summer sky.
Alvar recognised it at once. It was the essence of Ursanthus, or the Witch's Apple, refined and perfected after many a sleepless night spent up in the laboratory in the turret. He flustered as the wizard offered him the vial. "Here. You do it."
"Me?" He looked at everyone's faces, then back at Lars.
"Yes, you," he said. "You took such great care of the tree. I'd never gotten this far otherwise. So I'd like you to do the honours."
With trembling hands, Alvar applied the medicine to the dragon's injured wing, and then bandaged it up, following Lars' instructions. She looked at him with curious eyes, but didn't interrupt, laying there on her side.
"It'll take some time to heal," judged the wizard as he examined the tied up wing.
Mr. Bushbury sank into one of the armchairs with a grunt. "Oh, I could put her up here until then. If she doesn't burn the house down, that is."
"She won't. Mountain dragons don't usually attack," said Lars, then glanced at Aunt Elena, who stood soot-covered, "unless provoked."
She scratched the back of her neck, grinning. "Now, now, how on earth was I supposed to know there was a dragon living inside the chimney? That's not a common occurrence. Anyways, she's given me the scare of a lifetime. Look!"
"And it's about time you wash off all that grime," said Grandma Ruth, who entered with a steaming big plate in her hands, and set it down on the table in the centre. On it was a large apple pie, topped with dollops of rich cream.
"Grab a chair and help yourselves, children. You've earned it." Her wrinkled mouth stretched into a lovely smile, and for a moment she looked almost identical to Gran.
Needless to say, Alvar ate to his heart's content, feeling his eyes fill with tears even as he dug into the next slice, and the next one after that.
The dragon stayed with the old couple. Their son worked as a clock-maker in a distant city where he now lived, and so his room upstairs was unoccupied--except for the huge ornate clock that hung on one wall.
Grandma Ruth carried the tiny creature there, and placed her into an old wooden crib that had once belonged to her daughter, who also lived far away, and had a daughter of her own now, around Alvar's age. She was a master in the craft of woodcarving, and many of her creations were displayed upon the shelves, which Mr. Bushbury showed off with great pride to the three of them.
"It gets lonely without the children around, with just the two of us," said Grandma Ruth. She placed her wrinkled hands on the edge of the crib, looking fondly at the dragon. "I'm glad we've got company."
The next morning they got plenty more, as a crowd of villagers showed up in their house, all wanting to have a look at the dragon. Mr. and Mrs. Bushbury had never had to make so many cups of tea that they did that day. Mr. Launceleyn showed up with one of his giant cabbages that he was famous for, though he was a bit disappointed to discover mountain dragons did not, in fact, eat cabbages. But she loved the smoked sardines that the fisherman's daughter brought.
Lars left more vials of medicine with Mrs. Bushbury with directions for when to apply them.
Day by day, she showed remarkable signs of recovery. Within a month, she was able to fly. One fine morning, she leapt off the edge of the roof, spreading her wings to traverse the breeze once again. Borne aloft in the air, she was quite the sight, black scales gleaming in the sun, her now healed wing unfurled, carrying her in an effortless glide. She was so happy she let out a spout of flame as she flew, painting chaotic patterns of smoke against the bright blue sky.
Yet as the days went by, she grew restless. Some days she would fly far from the house and into the forest. Other times, she would be gone for days on end, and the couple would nearly worry themselves sick, until she would turn up again. She always came back.
She'd recovered fast, much faster than Lars had predicted.
"The real credit goes to the two of you," he said in one of his visits. The dragon was outside, playing with Snatcher.
"Isn't it a wonder how such a little thing can fill the whole house with joy? I feel like my children and grandchildren have all come to visit!" said Grandma Ruth, who sat by the window, busy crocheting a small blanket. It was almost finished.
Lars hadn't the heart to ask who that was for, because of what he was going to say next. He glanced at Alvar beside him before speaking.
"You know she can't stay here forever, Mrs. Bushbury," he said, steeling himself.
Outside, they heard Mr. Bushbury laugh as the dragon swooped in and snatched his hat away. He chased it across the garden as best as he could, covering his bald head with one hand.
Grandma Ruth put her crocheting aside and sighed. "Oh, I know. I've known since the beginning that a day would come when she'd have to leave us. Some days, when she's gone for too long I wonder if it's finally time." She smiled as she watched her husband finally catch up and reclaim his hat. "She always comes back, though."
Alvar reached out and took her hands in his. "But it's about time she returns home, Grandma. To her kin. I've seen her fly as far as the cliffs by the sea. She misses her home."
She looked down. "I suppose that's right. What would you have me do?"
Lars began stuffing his pipe as he told them what he saw in his recent hike to the mountains up north. "Many of her kind have nested there since the beginning of summer, when the weather on the island gets too hot. Judging by the time we found her here, she must've belonged to one of those groups, struck down on her way to the mountains." He finished lighting up the pipe.
"They will return to the island by the end of summer. We'll follow their trail when they do, and let her join them on the way back home. How's that sound?"
"What must be done, must be done," she said solemnly.
The blanket was finished now, but she began to fold it up and put it away, seeing now it would be of no use.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. There was a whoosh at the window, and the dragon entered the room like a dart, and landed on the couch. She turned in a circle, like Marcella often did before finding a comfortable place to nap. Then she noticed the blanket, and bit onto one of the corners, trying to snatch it from her.
"Alright. you can keep it." Grandma Ruth laughed aloud, and petted her tiny head, but her smile saddened all the same. "For now."
A fortnight went by. On clear nights, Lars watched the stars up in the turret and made scribblings on pages that were near impossible to decipher, and they piled up over his workdesk, the map of the mining city and his plans for travel forgotten beneath them.
Eventually, Alvar forgot about them too and finished up his work of trimming the hedges back into shape. On the days when the sky was clear, Lars was often gone, hiking in the mountains again, going on long, solitary walks through the forest, awaiting the return flight of the dragons.
Then at last he came up with a date for her safe return.
Mr. and Mrs. Bushbury listened without a word with their faces sober, huddled side by side on their couch, as he told them how this journey should commence.
On a full moon night at summer's end, when the wind was high and a crisp chill had just begun to settle into the air, they set off from the docks, heading southwards.
They took two boats. Aunt Elena steered one, with the Bushburys, Lars and Alvar in the other, rowing ahead of them. The little dragon was cradled in Grandma Ruth's arms, wrapped snugly in the crocheted blanket.
She slept soundly at first, making no noise, but later she awoke, with a strange look in her eyes they'd never seen before.
The further they moved from the shore, the more restless she became. She wriggled out of the blanket and circled the boats, jets of fire leaping out from her mouth.
At last they came to a halt and Lars dropped the oars, standing up. The boats bobbed up and down in the gentle waves, and the sea winds whispered in their ears. The dragon did somersaults mid-air, and landed on his shoulder with a whoop.
His cloak rippled like a sailcloth as he pointed at the horizon, smiling.
"Look," he said to her."There's your home."
She watched, her golden eyes open wide, the stars reflected in them. There was a wildness in them now, not at all like the homely creature that had played with balls of yarn on the hearth rug.
They could just make out the shape of forests and mountains against the inky black backdrop of the night sky. Far, far away, there stood an island veiled in mist.
A long, distant roar reached their ears.
Grandma Ruth seized the hand of her husband. Aunt Elena sat frozen, clutching the oars so hard her knuckles went white.
"What was that?" whispered Alvar.
Deep, rumbling sounds reached them from beyond the clouds above. The surface of water seemed to tremble from their impact, and a hot gust of wind blew forth. Nearer and nearer came the blood-curdling cries.
Lars turned and raised a finger to his lips, his smile did not waver. "Hush. There's nothing to fear. Look."
Words failed them.
Huge black shadows obscured the moon and the stars, all light of the world extinguished for a moment, engulfing them in an abyss. Enormous wings beat upon the air, raising miniscule storms, sending ripples across the sea, sleek bodies glided through the air, starlight upon the scales dark as night. Their eyes were burning coals, piercing through the thin mist that hovered over the sea.
Scores of mountain dragons flew above them, homebound.
The little dragon on Lars' shoulder gave a cry, her voice shrill and high in the midst of their thunderous rumbling. They'd never heard her make such a sound before.
Far from above came an answering call. It was a wonder they could recognise their kin from so high up, but nothing escaped those eyes.
With a final look at them all, she beat her wings and set off into the air, soaring up, and up, and up, until she could be seen no more. She became one with them, a tiny ripple in a vast, dark river through the sky. Together they journeyed toward the misty island.
"I'm gonna miss the little rascal," said Aunt Elena. "Even if she did almost burn me alive."
Lars lowered his head respectfully as they passed.
"They are ancient beasts, these dragons. They roamed the earth when the mountains were still young, when the trees were greener, towns and cities fewer. Now they have retreated to the farthest reaches of the world where they may find peace. Offering them aid is the least we could do, if we find them in distress. And that, we have done," he said, then turned to the elderly couple. Grandma Ruth sat clutching the blanket to her chest, her eyes shining.
"She'll grow to be great someday, like the rest of them. But she will remember you always," he told her.
Mr.Bushbury looked away, wiped his eyes, and took out a handkerchief to blow his nose into it. "Think I've caught a chill, dear," he said in a broken voice.
Grandma Ruth was the more straightforward of the two. "Sure you have!" she said, and laughed even through her tears. "This hurts, I won't lie. But heaven knows I'm happy for her, like I am for our children."
"Aye." Now Mr. Bushbury spoke up. "Sure, it gets lonely without them around, but at some point we gotta let go, for we must not hold them back. They've found their own paths in life. And she--she too has found hers, leading to a place where she belongs. Isn't that what true happiness is about, eh? Finding where you belong and all that?"
"Indeed," said Lars, and as he spoke, his fingers interlocked with Alvar's. "I quite agree."
When they returned, the sky to the east had turned rosy, the last of the stars waning into the light of dawn.