Ch. 9: The Father of Dragons

(Return to Arheled)

           “I  love  this  weather.”  murmered  Brooke  lazily  as  she  stretched  out  on  the  beach. The air  was  soft  and  delicate  and  warm,  despite  the  steady  breeze  coming  off  Highland  Lake. Now and  again  a  motorboat  would  roar  past,  sometimes  towing  a  tube  on  which  shrieking  young  girls  tried  to  cling,  and  then  after  a  while  waves  comparable  to  a  minor  ocean  would  crash  and  boom  most  excitingly  upon  the  narrow  sand. Kids were  splashing  and  throwing  sand  at  each  other,  and  a  very  pretty  teenage  girl  with  dark  hair  was  climbing  all  over  her  boyfriend. It was  perfect  essence  of  summer.

           A  couple  of  nice-looking  boys  were  coming  up  the  road  toward  her  now,  towels  thrown  over  bare  bronzed  shoulders. Brooke put  on  her  sunglasses  so  she  could  covertly  check  them  out  without  being  too  obvious  about  it. They had  nice  chests  and  really  good  muscles. She liked  the  way  their  hairy  but  strong-looking  legs  swung  when  they  walked. It made  her  heart  skip  a  beat  or  two  when  they  parked  their  gear  right  beside  her.

           “Hey,  good-lookin’.”  drawled  the  taller  one. The voice sounded  a  little  familiar,  but  when  she  looked  at  his  face  she  decided  she  was  mistaken:  this  hot  hunk  of  beef  was  a  stranger. She gave  him  a  shy  but  warm  smile  and  pushed  back  her  glasses  so  he  could  see  her  eyes.

           “Hi.”  she  greeted.

           “This  seat’s  not  taken,  I  hope?”  chuckled  the  other  guy.

           “If  you  can  call  a patch  of  really  rough  sand  a  seat,  that  is.”  Brooke  retorted. They laughed  and  sat  down. Next to  her.

           “So,  what’s  your  name?”  the  first  boy  said,  flashing  a  smile. She decided  he  had  a  really  cute  mouth. “I’m Jeff  and  this  is  Kibba. We call  him  that  because  he’s  always  kidding.”

           “Hey,  I  thought  it  was  because  I  like  chibba.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Chibba??”  Brooke  echoed,  amused.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  it’s  kind  of  a  nickname  for  sugar  in  our  gang. ‘Please gimme  da  chibba.’  ‘More  chibba,  you  niggaa.’”  said  Jeff.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’re  retarded,  man!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Jeff  proceeded  to  say  in  a  Christopher  Lee  voice,  “Mighty  Jabba,  I  have  chibba.”  He  added  in  the  falsetto  of  the  Hutt’s  protocol  droid,  “The  most  wise  Jabba  demands  to  know  if  the  chibba  is  sweet.’

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “ ‘It  is  as  sweet  as  your  baby’s  breath.’

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “’The  most  clever  Jabba  accuses  you  of  lying!’”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           All  three  of  them  were  laughing  like  old  friends. “Hey, you  forgot  to  have  Jabba  saying  Beechee  noo  gongwanga  glug  or  whatever,  in  between!”  Brooke  gasped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  I  don’t  speak  Hutt!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  had  a  wonderful  time  in  the  water,  although  both  the  boys  did  have  a  tendency  to  put  hands  on  practically  any  part  of  her  anatomy  when  horsing  around,  unless  sharply  reprimanded,  but  she  didn’t  really  mind. It was  all  part  of  the  fun.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hey,  um,  you  doing  anything  later?”  Kibba  wanted  to  know,  when  they  were  relatively  alone  due  to  Jeff  swimming  out  to  the  buoy.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke’s  heart  started  pounding. Maybe she  might  actually  have  a  boyfriend  this  year. “Not really.”  she  said  invitingly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  would  you,  um,  want  to  go  out  with  me?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  pleased  smile  came  over  Brooke’s  face. “Sure. I’d love  to. What did  you  have  in  mind?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  Jeff’s  having  folks  over  later,  so  how  about  we  grab  a  movie  and  hit  one  of  the  bars,  then  party  at  his  place? He lives  right  on  the  lake.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  16!”    Brooke giggled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  all  right. I’ve got  some  friends  of  my  old  man  over  there,  and  they  won’t  card  you  unless  you  look  really  young.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  I  suppose  I  could  lay  on  the  makeup  a  bit.”  Brooke  said  archly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  stopped  by  the  Grange hall  at  3:00;  right  on  time,  too,  that  was  a  plus. His car  was  pure  muscle:  small,  fast,  and  flashy  red. With flame  decals  on  the  sides. She felt  a  wild  thrill  at  the  thought  of  stepping  out  of  a  car  like  that  with  everyone watching—even  better  if  Delilah  and  Julian  were  among  them.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  drove  down  Boyd  Street  and  into  Winsted,  then  over  the  hill  to  the  cinema. Until last  year  it  had  been  named  Cinerom,  but  now  new  owners  had  it  and  called  it  Mallory Brook  Cinema,  a  big  box  of  a  movie  building  with  a  square  front,  all  glass. As it  was  an  earlier  show  there  were  only  a  few  people  in  line  and  they  got  tickets  to  “Thor”  quite  quickly. She nixed  the  popcorn;  it  got  in  her  teeth  and  crunched  when  you  really  wanted  to  hear  what  somebody  was  saying,  but  she  did  let  him  buy  her  a  soda  and  Skittles.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  a  lovely  experience,  watching  a  somewhat  lousy  movie  with  a  guy  putting  his  arm  around  her  and  touching  her—though  she  had  to  slap  him  once  or  twice  when  his  hand  started  trespassing  with  intent  to  rob—even  if  his  caresses  were  distracting. The movie  was  OK,  but  she  was  a  little  displeased  with  science-fiction  technology  in  Asgard,  which  was  supposed  to  be  all  medieval  and  Norse. Hiemdall and  the  awesome  armour  and  sword,  and  the  mysterious  things  he  said  while  guarding  the  Bifrost,  were  the  best  part. And of course  seeing  Thor’s really  good  muscles. Although he  was  quite  a  beefcake,  she  still  didn’t  like  his  power  being  only  the  Hammer  and  thought  he  adapted  to  modern  life  and  Christian  ethics  a  little  too  smoothly. She hated the  weak  portrayal  of  senile  Odin. Odin was  supposed  to  be  dreadful. The frost-giants  looked  like  Orcs  and  were  much  too  small. And the  ending  was  the  lamest  thing  she’d  seen  in  a  long  while:  a  dumb  invulnerable  Asgard  machine  throws  the  gods  around  who  aren’t  even  gods  really  but  just  immortals  with  magic  weapons.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  really  hate  a  god  who  never  uses  godly  powers.”  she  said  as  the  credits  rolled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  they  have  limits,  you know. I like  it  best  that  way. God-moding is  anathema  on  Runescape.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That’s  stupid. They’re  gods, for  crying  out  loud! They’re supposed  to  be  in  full  god  mode! What’s the  good  of  a  god  with  limits? I want  that,  I’ll  go  watch  a  superhero  movie.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  don’t  know…I  like  the  idea  that  even  a  god  is  limited.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Gods  exist  in  order  to  do  battle  with  each  other.”  she  retorted. “It’s no  fun  when  they  never  use  any  power.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  hot,  smoky  close  when  they  got  out. Brooke was  still  happily  criticizing  every  little detail  of  the  movie,  but  Kibba  didn’t  seem  to  care  much,  as  if  the  movie  had  only  been  an  excuse  to  fondle  her. They parked  on  Main  Street  wherever  they  could  find  a  spot—some  way  down  from  their  intended  destination—and  sure  enough  there  happened  to  be  a  group  of  young  folks  walking  by  and  goggling  at  the  car  at  just  that  moment,  and  Julian  was  one  of  them. Brooke gave  a  smug,  saucy  wave.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  walked  up  Main  St  where  it  curved  round  northwards  on  the  west  leg  of  its’  horseshoe  loop  through  the  Winsted  valley. They strolled  along  under  the  awnings  of  the  close-set  storefronts,  holding  hands,  which  Brooke  thought  was  really  sweet,  until  they  came  to  a  string  of  bars  and  restaurants. He took  her  into  one. It was  dim  and  almost  purplish  after  the  brilliant  though  hazy  sun,  and  other  men  were  jostling  elbows  with  very  pretty  and  heavily-made-up  girls  at  the  bar. After he  got  them  drinks  he  took  her  to  a  table  in  the  back,  where  they  could  barely  be  seen.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “This  has  been  such  an  exciting  day.”  she  exclaimed,  bouncing  a  little  in  her  seat.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  fun’s  just  beginning.”  he  said  with  an  odd  smile. Lifting his  glass  he  clinked  it  to  hers. “Cheers.” he  grinned. Brooke giggled  and  tried  to  slug  it  all  down  in  one  sitting  the  way  he  was  doing,  but  it  stung  and  made  her  eyes  bulge  and  water  and  her  head  flush  and  swim  gloriously,  and  she  choked  for  a  minute  or  two.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Wow!”  she  gasped. “What’s in  that  thing?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hey,  you  saw  him  mix  it.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  know.”  Brooke  said  a  little  woozily. It seemed  hard  to  form  clear  words. The whole  bar  was  full  of  a  lovely  golden  haze. She burped,  and  giggled  feebly  when  he  came  over  beside  her  and  began  kissing  her. It felt  so  sweet,  to  have  a  boy  kiss  her  like  this,  to  feel  his  hands  on  her,  undoing  her  shirt…She  felt  air  on  her  skin. They were  lying  twined  in  each  other’s  arms  on  a  soft  blanket  on  a  patio  in  the  yard  of  some  rich  house. Dimly she  realised  that  she  was  naked,  but  nothing  mattered,  nothing  mattered  but  him,  and  now  he  was  carrying  her,  there  was  a  fresh  hot  smell….how  nice,  he  was  going  to  give  her  a  bath  in  a  hot  tub.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           When  the  water  touched  her,  a  queer  feeling  came  through  her. It was  a little  frightening,  to  feel  the  water  on  her  body  and  her  body  panting  and  lusting  like  an  animal,  while  her  mind  floated,  disembodied,  unable  to  do  anything  except  watch. She wanted  to  be  wet  all  over,  to  have  hot  bubbles  in  her  hair,  and  with  a  squeal  she  wriggled  out  of  his  arms  and  ducked  under.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  felt  the  water  in  her,  all  through  her,  hot  and  shocking  as  if  she  was  stabbed  with  burning  ice. Skin and  fluid  merged  together;  she  was  one  with  the  water,  she  was  back  inside her  body,  cold,  furious,  and  sane. She lunged  to  her  feet  with  a  gasp.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hey,  hey,  what’s  the  matter,  baby?”  Kibba  crooned.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           With  a  quick,  angry  motion  Brooke  vaulted  out  of  the  tub  and  stood,  naked  but  for  soap  bubbles. “You drugged  my  drink!”  she  shouted.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  hey,  it  might’ve  been  a  little  strong  but  I—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Where  are  my  clothes?”  she  stormed. “What place  did  you  drag  me  off  to,  you  dirty  sick  creep? Where the  hell  are  my  clothes?! How dare  you  get  me  doped  up  and  date-raped  like  that,  you  God-damned  whore-boy  and  son  of a  bitch?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  strange  laughter  was  shaken  out  of  her  captor. He rose  out  of  the  tub,  bubbles  sliding  down  his  splendid  gleaming  maleness,  and  his  face  was  changing  before  her  eyes,  and  she  knew  him. “Curses, from  a  Christian. Curses that  are  truer  than  you  think. You haven’t  been  raped. You don’t  have  the  slightest  conception  of  rape. Up to  now  you’ve  only  been  seduced.”  He  stood  exposed  before  her,  but  she  was  so  angry  she  only  noticed  a  grosser  detail  in  his  shape. “You sassy  little  brass,  shaking  your  pretty  (top)  and  your  cute  (stern)  at  me,  you  wanted  it,  oh  yes  you  wanted  it,  pretend  all  you  want. You are  on  our  Island  now,  and  I  have  you,  river-bitch. I am  Kevin!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Instantly  Brooke  broke  her  stare. She remembered  all  too  well  what  had  happened  the  last  time. The breeze  off  the  lake  suddenly  felt  cold  on  her  wet  skin.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  broad  smile  crossed  the  revealed  face  of  Kevin. “So you’ve  learned,  Brookie. Does it  surprise  you  that  dragons  have  many  different  powers? To change  our  faces  is  almost  boring.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Will  you  at  least  get  my  freakin’  clothes,  you  pervert?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Kevin  climbed  out  of  the  tub. His gaze,  foiled  by  her  refusal  to  make  contact,  rested  on  her  lower  regions. “I’ll think  about  it.”  he  said  sweetly. You’re so  lovely  the  way  you  are. You’re going  to   be  here  for  quite  a  while,  so  you  may  as  well  get  used  to  doing  whatever  you’re  told.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          Brooke  threw  a  dark  glance  at  the  nearby  lake. Boats roared  back  and  forth. “A scream  will  set  me  free  in  moments.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Assuming  that  they  can  hear  you.”  Kevin  laughed. “Go ahead,  Brookie. Scream. Run around  like  a  streaker. See for  yourself  just  how  safe  you  are  here.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Somehow  Brooke  had  not  the  smallest  doubt  he  was  telling  her  the  truth.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Your  clothes  are  in  the  hall.”  Kevin  said  unconcernedly. She darted  for  the  door  and  sprang  inside. He was  climbing  back  in  the  tub  and  paid  her  no  further  attention. Scrambling into  her  clothes  Brooke  hurried  through  the  rooms  with  their  fake-homestead  décor  and  dark  woodwork,  threw  open  he  front  door  and  found  herself  facing  a  driveway  under  tall  tossing  white  pines. She sprinted  up  it. A rolling  curve  or  two  shut  out  the  dark-brown  house  completely. The island  had  once  been  a  long  stony  hill,  before  the  dam  was  thrown  across  the  overflow  of  the  Sluncha  and  the  Long  Lake  raised  twelve  feet,  drowning  the  glacial  terraces  around  its’  shores. Ahead the  island  narrowed  to  a  causeway  that  carried  the  drive  across;  young  trees  grew  on  the  steep  sides  and  walled  it  with  green. Brooke broke  into  a  desperate  run.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  caroomed  off  a  firm,  unyielding  barrier  like  an  invisible  trampoline  and  crashed  to  the  ground. It hurt. Moaning she  sat  up  and  discovered  several  painful  scrapes. She picked  gravel  out  of  them  and  felt  along  the  barrier.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Don’t  waste  your  time,  Streamy.”  Kevin  had  appeared  out  of  nowhere in  front  of  her. “As far  as  you’re  concerned,  there’s  a  glass  ceiling  around  this  entire  shore. Outside it,  you  don’t  exist. And what  does  not  exist  cannot  be  seen—or  heard.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Without  warning  his  naked backside  became  a  huge  tail  and  slammed  into  her. Brooke collapsed  as  if  she  was  made  of  cardboard,  tears  starting  from  her  eyes. It felt  like  a  baseball  bat  in  the  stomach. “You’re mine—until  Cornello  comes  for  you  tonight. Then there  will  be  only  Five  to  walk  the  Road,  and  Winchester  Center  will  be  abandoned  to  us  as  Pleasant  Valley  in  the  east  already  is.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Weird  Sisters  hold  the  Valley.”  choked  Brooke.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           This  time  the  tail  hit  her  in  the  side. She started  to  cry  from  the  pain;  she  could  not  believe  that  hadn’t  broken  some  bones. “You think  the  Three  Sisters  will  help  you  in  the  end? You will  only  join the  hills  of  bones  of  others  before  you  who  thought  the  same. And I  didn’t  give  you  leave  to  speak.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  prehensile  fin  at  the  end  of  the  tail  pulled  her  upright  by  her  hair. Brooke cried  in  earnest,  not  just  from  the  pain  but  from  the  furious  helplessness  of  her  situation. “You must  do  as  you  are  told,  or  I  will  have  to  teach  you. Now take  off  your  clothes,  and  come  have  a  bath  with  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  punched  at  his  face.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           At  the  last  second  his  face  transformed,  for  an  instant,  into  a  long  ragged  muzzle  dark  with  scales. Her hand  smashed  into  solid  metal  and  went  limp,  and  she  cradled  it  with  a  shuddering  gasp.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “How  many  fingers  did  you  break?”  he  said  almost  conversationally. “I’m pretty  sure  I  heard  two. Now we  can  do  this  the  easy  way,  Brooke,  and  you  can  have  the  time  of  your  life,  or  the  hard  way. One way  or  another,  you’re  gonna  lay  me  today.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’ll  take  the  hard  way.”  said  Brooke  with  difficulty.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  Christians.”  sighed  Kevin. There was  a  blast  of  withering  heat  from  his  hands. She screamed. The tattered  rags  of  her  clothes,  still  smouldering  at  the  edges,  fluttered  and  fell  from  her  reddened  flesh.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  see,  I’m  very  good  at  these  flames.”  said  Kevin  eagerly. “It took some  precision,  let  me  tell  you,  to  burn  off  the  cloth  and  keep  the  flesh  from  anything  worse than  sunburn. Now you’re  gonna  have  some  fun.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           His  prehensile  tail  carried  the  struggling  girl  back  to  the  hot  tub. He climbed  in and  lowered  her  into  the  water. With all  her  injuries  it  stung  and  seared,  and  Brooke  screamed  again. She was  desperately,  furiously  angry.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “If  you  would  only  stop  fighting  me,  this  would  be  so  much  more  fun  for  you.”  murmered  the  creature  in  her  ear,  as  its’  horrid  human  hands  crawled  up  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “My  God,  my  God,  help  me!”  Brooke  screamed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  dragon  laughed  in  her  ear,  a  low  tickling  sound. “Oh, he  won’t,  He  won’t. Countless virgins  are  despoiled  every  day  across  the  world,  but  He  never  acts. He comforts  them  after  the  damage  is  done,  but  he  lets  them  suffer  anyway. Your prayer  should  be  rather  Eloi,  Eloi.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  held  her  close. “Soon you  will  be  among  their  number.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke’s  entire  being  seemed  to  be  condensed  into  the  sense  of  touch. The burns  and  breaks  and  bruises,  numbing  now. The dragon’s  hands,  cold,  slimy. The water  surrounding  her  skin. Time seemed  to  be  slowing  as  her  violated  being  recoiled  in  loathing;  she  felt  again  that  the  water  outside  her  was  no  longer  separate  but  fused  with  her  skin. It was  not  outside  her. It was  her. She was  merging  with  water  and  water  was  curing  every  scrape  and  bruise  and  burn. She was  affining  with  the  water. It had  affinity  with  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  dragon  crashed  to  the  ground  a  hundred  feet  away,  followed  by  a  thudding  rain  of  fragments  of  hot  tub. She stepped  out  of  the  wreckage,  robes  of  foamy  water  sheathing  her  nakedness  in  a  silky  smooth  wetness. He was  entirely  in  dragon’s  shape  now,  and  his  eyes  glowed  balefully  at  her  as  he  shot  forth  a  vomit  of  flame. The hot  tub’s  water  sprang  upward,  and  a  square  shield  of  held  liquid  broke  the  fire-blast.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  happens  to  water  when  it  boils?”  the  dragon’s  voice,  like  Kevin’s  mingled  with  burning  wood,  laughed  at  her. The shield  shredded  into  steam,  and  Brooke’s  robes  leaped  up  to  replace  it. Suddenly the  fire  ended:  Kevin  had  to  draw  breath. Brooke fled  barefoot  over  rocks  and  roots  of  pines,  down  to  the  seawall  that  edged  Big  Island,  and  the  dock  on  its’  east  shore,  several  boats  tied  to  it. Third Bay  stretched  away  before  her,  a  long  rough  oval  about  a  half  mile  long,  inaccessible,  cut  off  by  the  unseen  wall.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  dragon  appeared. She was  trapped. A steep  brushy  hillside  rose  at  her  back. The dragon  sat  upon  the  path  to  the  dock. She couldn’t  plunge  into  the  lake,  for  the  unseen  barrier  rose  from  the  seawall,  and  she  was  leaning  on  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  can  only  call  to  water  you  are  touching.”  the  dragon’s  voice  echoed. “When the  water  you  are  wearing  dries  up,  you  will  be  at  my  pleasure  once  more;  but  I  will  not  make  the  mistake  of  putting  you  in  water  again.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  advanced. His prehensile  tail  circled  around  from  behind. The scaley,  flexible  features,  still  bearing  some  odd  resemblance  to  Kevin  in  their  set  and  expression,  breathed  hot  air  into  her  face.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Brooke  leaned  upon  the  barrier,  shoving  frantically. All that  water,  so  near  at  hand! Waves chuckled  among  the  stones  of  the  seawall  and  sloshed  along  the  docks,  jostling  the  boats  and  jet-skis. Water, acres  of  water,  churned  and  ploughed  and  tossed  about  by  boats  and  swimmers,  and  she  couldn’t  reach  it,  couldn’t  reach  out  to  it. The dragon’s  flames  were  beating  on  the  skin  of  water  she  was  holding  round her, until  it  scalded  her  and  she  let  it  go  with  a  yelp,  lifting  it  like  a  shield  before  his  flames. A shield  steadily  shrinking. His tail  snaked  around  her  and  knocked  her  feet  from  under  her,  and  she  was  dragged  off,  borne  away  once  again,  helpless  despite  her  new  power.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Words  she  half-remembered  from  ages  back  in  winter’s  cold  came  now,  unbidden  to  her  mind,  and  she  reached  out,  reached  out  with  tremendous,  desperate  strength,  reaching  out  to  all  that  water  shut  away  from  her:

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">''<span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ando  Lemenka!” ''

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  stone  of  the  island  began  to  shudder  underneath  the  dragon’s  feet. He paused  halfway  up  the  rock  stairs,  sniffing  the  air. The vibration grew  and  mounted,  as  if  the  very  foundations  of  Club  Island  shook  upon  their  moorings. Slowly Kevin  turned  to  look  behind  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Screams  mounted  up  from all  around. Slowly, rising  like  a  tilted  pan,  like  a  pancake  being  pried  from  its’  pan,  Third  Bay  was  standing  on  its’  head. The far  end  was  tilting  up,  tilting  higher,  a  huge  slab  of  single  water  rising  like  a  standing  sea,  breaking  off  from  docks  and  bushes,  shedding  boats  and  tubes  and  swimmers like  leaves. Water poured  in  a  weird  rain  from  the  hanging  edges  and  the  quivering  underside  of  the  solid  lake,  fish  and  boats  and  people  falling  into  the  muddy  sand  and  weedy  bottom. Higher still  the  Long  Lake  rose, a  hill  of  water  steep  as  a  house-roof  and  half  a  mile  high,  boats  skidding  crazily  across  its’  surface,  poised  edge-on  above  the  Island. So shocked  was  Kevin  he  actually  dropped  Brooke. She rose  to  her  feet,  naked,  dripping  and  terrible  as  some  pagan  water-goddess,  her  face  ablaze  with  the  might  of  the  Long  Lake.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’ve  got  to  be  kidding  me.”  breathed  the  dragon.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Like  the  fall  of  the  sky  the  solid  lake  descended  as  a  single  mass of  water  against  the  unseen  barrier  of  magic. Straining it  held  for  a  short  moment,  but  the  power  of  the  Long  Lake  was  too  great  for  it,  and  suddenly  the  enchanted  wall  splintered  like  ice,  and  water  thundered  down  upon  Kevin. He tried  to  teleport,  but  the  living  water  was  destroying  his  magic,  and  Brooke  held  him  by  the  tail,  and  she  was  one  with  the  lake  and  he  would  have  had  to  take  the  whole  lake  with  him;  and  with  the  strength  of  the  lake  she  was  stronger  than  him. He glowed  as  hot  as  white  metal  as  he  emitted  dragon-flame  sufficient  to  melt  the  stone  around  him  like  butter;  but  the  lake   was  mightier  than  he,  and  as  the  endless  flood  cannoned  down  his  fires  sputtered  and  were  gone,  and  his  magic  was  hammered  out  of  him,  until  he  snapped  back  to  the  form  of  Kevin,  and  the  lake  crushed  his  very  bones  into  pulp.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  insane  flood  ceased  to  pour. Down out  of  the  woods  and  hill-slopes  around  the  western  sides  of  Third  and  Second  Bays  the  Lake  returned,  a  raging  sheet,  taking  with  it  trees and  houses,  cabins  and  cars. There was  a  growl  as  part  of  the  Sucker  Brook  Dam  collapsed;  but  the  berm  of  rocks  was  too  strong  to  be  breached. Soon the  dry  lake  had  filled  back  up,  crashing  with  ruin  upon  the  other  side. Rivers still  roared  out  of  the  yards  and  woods,  and  the  wreckage  of  countless  boats  stuck  like  fins  out  of  the  brown  water. Wails and  shouts  went  up  from  all  directions. Giant waves  slapped  back  and  forth  in  all  directions,  slowly  settling.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Still  Brooke  stood,  water  streaming  from  her  hair,  naked  save  for  a  rippling  robe  of  brown  water  that  sheathed  her  like  a  fish  as  far  as  the  armpits,  upon  the  bones  of  Club  Island. House and  buildings  were  blasted  away  to  the  very  roots,  and  their  foundations  too  had  shattered  and  been  taken,  and  ancient  pines  had  snapped  like  matches,  or  been  undermined  and  thrown  like  spears. A few  whose  roots  had  gripped  the  living  rock  still  stood,  their  stems  smashed  of  branches,  bark  and  even  outer  layers  of  wood,  like  ragged  white  fishbones  jutting  from  bare  stone. Neither causeway  nor  soil  remained  upon  the  stone  hillock  rising  from  the  lake. Even the  seawalls  had  been  blasted  away. Strong’s Island  behind  it,  a  conical  hill  once  crowned  with  a  yellow  house,  had  suffered  a  similar  fate,  and  so  had  most  of  the  Sucker  Brook  shoreline.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           As  sirens  began  to  wail  and  police  and  emergency  vehicles  began  accumulating  behind washed-out  roads,  Brooke  Pond,  Child  of  the  Streams,  walked  off  the  island,  stumbling  but  erect,  as  if  groggy  with  sleep  or  deep  drink. The water  held  like  rubber  under  her  feet. Across Second  Bay  she  walked,  north  to where  Wintergreen  Island  stood,  untouched  by  the  flood  as  it  was  under  the  Road. There they  saw  her, Forest,  and  Bell,  and  Hunter  Light,  and  Chrissy  Lake,  walking  over  the  water  and  clad  in  the  water,  shining  with  a  queer  silver-clear  twinkle  like  light  on  mountain  streams. Mr. Light reached  out  his  hand,  and  she  took  it,  and  stepped  onto  shore.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Then  Brooke  collapsed  as  the  Lake  let  her  go,  and  her  water-robes  splashed  onto  the  ground  and  flowed  away. Forest raced  off  and  grabbed  a  sheet  off  the  line,  and  Mrs. Lake folded  it  around  Brooke,  and  Mr. Light and  Forest  lifted  her  up  and  carried  her  inside.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  Wendy  pedaled  wearily  up  the  last  hill  of  Mountain  Road  and  stopped  to  rest  at  the  crossroads. Mountain Rd  curved  on  left  toward  the  interior  of  the  Winchester  upland,  while  up  from  the  right  mounted  the  street  connecting  it  with  the  shore  road. He wiped  his  forehead. The water  was  going  to  feel  so  good  when  he  got  into  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  queer  deep  rumbling  began  to  vibrate  through  the  earth and  air  around  him. He could  actually  feel  it  in  his  feet. Hastily Ronnie  glanced  at the  sky:  thunder? But the  only  clouds  were  a  few  fair-weather  ones. Still the  earthrumble  grew,  like  a  hundred  dump  trucks  all  in  bottom  gear  at  once, coming  from  below  him. From the  bowl  valley  of  Highland  Lake.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  stood  in  complete  incomprehension,  holding  to  his  bike,  atop  the  hill. It looked  like  a  low,  dark  cloud  rising  up  behind  the  trees,  and  the  rumble  was  mingled  with  a  splashing  roar  like  a  hundred  waterfalls. A huge  gray  mass  was  rising  up,  ponderously,  steadily,  like  a  vast  cliff  growing  from  the middle  of  nowhere,  a  cliff  streaming  rain. He stood  rooted  to  the  spot. His eyes  told  him  what  it  was  and  he  still  could  not  make  his mind  believe  it.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  water. The lake  itself  was  lifting  from  its’  bed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Higher  and  higher  the  slab  of  water  rose,  now  standing  like  some  king  of  mountains  above  the  valley,  its’  quivering  underside  streaming  water,  its’  edges  a  ragged  fringe  of  shedding  water  that  ran  on  down  the  underside  of  the  mass,  swirling  and  squirming,  yet  held  in  place  by  some  unseen  force. Boats and  floatables  fell  off  the  edges  to  smash  upon  the  sand  and  mud  and  weeds  as  Ronnie  raced  down  to  the  shore  to  get  a  better  look. Half a  mile  overhead  it  now  towered,  filling  the  sky  like  a  monstrous  cloud,  and  the  rain  cascaded  about  him  and  he  was  soaked  to  the  skin  but  he  paid  no  attention,  he  was  too  absorbed  in  the  tremendous  sight  of  the  whole  Third  Bay  standing  as  if  peeled  up  by  a  spatula.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Then  the  sky  descended. With a  sound  that  overwhelmed  his  mind  the  lake  poured  itself  forward,  that  single  mass  of  water  descending  in  titanic  unimaginable  force  and  majesty  upon  the  far  end  of  the  Bay. The earth  rocked  and  cracks  split  in  the  shuddering  asphalt,  throwing  him  and  his  bike  off  their  feet. His ears  were  filled,  assaulted  by  the  violence  of  sound  that  filled  air  and  earth  and  left  no  room  for  thought  or  feeling. The rain  ceased. He saw  the  mass  sink  beneath  the  trees  that  rose  between  him  and  the  lake  (an  opening  on  the  left  afforded  view  of  the  dry  bed)  and  hurried  down  the  right-hand  branch  of  the  T  intersection,  which  met  at  a  hill,  till  he  got  to  the  yard  of  a  cottage  with  a  “for  sale”  sign  that  stood  on  a  high  slope  with  a  wall  dropping  to  the  lake.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  was  in  time  to  see  a  glimpse  of  a  great  cone  of  brown  water  pouring  its’ last  vestiges  upon  the  far  end,  and  the  lake  bottom  littered  with  boats  and  docks  and  flapping  fish  and  people  trying  feebly  to  rise. And then  the  brown  tide  fell  back  out  of  the  trees  across  the  lake,  and  huge  walls  of  mud-like  water  shot  in  from  three  or  four  directions,  meeting  with  a  mighty  clap  and falling  apart,  and  great  waves  of  opaque  brown  smashed  against  the  shore. Houses broke. Cabins fell. Shores, undermined,  poured  in  ruin  into  the  flood. Unclean-feeling soupy  water  engulfed  Ronnie  and  tried  to  pull  him  out  of  the  tree  he  had  swarmed,  and  then  fell  back,  the  high  bank  defeating  its;  violence.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  jumped  down  with  a  squelch. His bike  had  been  lifted  but  caught  by  a  fence,  but  his  sack  with  what  few  cans  he’d  gathered  on  the  way  here,  was  gone  out  to  sea. The white  cottage  leaned  crazily  outward,  the  first  floor  windows  broken:  its’  foundations  were  gone. A parked  car  was  slewed  round  across  the  road,  and  half  a  pine  tree  projected  from  its’  windshield. Down below,  great  waves  chopped  and  chased  in  every  direction,  and  streams  still  drained  in  from  the  yards,  but  it  was  a  lake  once  more.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  biked  back  over  the  high  hump  where  the  shore  road  meets  the  cutover  road  to  Mountain  Rd,  and  down  to  the  state  land  where  he  picked  blueberries. Trees were  washed  over  the  road  and  brown  mud  covered  everything  to  an  astonishing  height. He climbed  up  above  the  rocky  shore  where  a  really  fun  rope  swing  had  been  until  town  goons  cut  it  down  last  year:  entire  sections  of  road  were  washed  out,  and  great  deltas  of  mud  buried  others. Cabins floated  in  the  lake  or  lay  about  in  splintered  heaps.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  worst  damage  was  at  the  Sucker  Brook  Bay. Only a few  segments  of  asphalted  road  remained  intact:  the  rest  was  washed  out. Trees were  snapped  off  or  bent  at  all  angles. Huge piles  of  shattered  planks  and  household  debris  lay  everywhere,  marking  the  graves  of  cabins. One stone  chimney  stood  up  out  of  the  water,  the  land  around  it  either  washed  away  or  undermined,  like  a  warning  finger. Great channels  had  been  gouged  in the  earth  and  water  still  ran  sullenly  down  them. A big  slump  scarred  the  face  of  the  stone  berm,  but  the  dike  remained  unbreached. What few  houses  were  strong  enough  to  stand  unshivered  bore  boats  in  their  roofs  or  trees  stuck  through  them  like  javelins. And where  the  islands  had  been—there  was  nothing. Only a  few  bare  mounds  of  scoured  rock  still  rose  out  of  the  water,  brown-yellow  from  ages  beneath  the  soil,  white  needles  of  stripped  trees  standing  stark  as  bones  here  and  there. A mailbox  with  Cornello’s  name,  half  buried  in  mud,  was  the  only  trace  of  its’  former  habitation. A gleaming  star  was  moving  slowly  across  the  lake,  a  star  on  the  water.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  found  it  impossible  to  round  the  cove,  there  was  so  much  mud  and  wreckage  and  canyons. In the  end  he  carried  his  bike  up  the  tumbled  rocks  on  the  face  of  the  berm,  past  the  great  slump  and  around  through  the  woods,  skirting  the  worst  of  the  damage. A hill  rose  here,  and  the  lake’s  violence,  after  gouging  it  fiercely,  was  spent  on its’  heights. He was  able  to  descend  to  the  shore  road  north  of  “Janet’s  Corner”,  a  sharp  turn  just  north  of  Sucker  Brook  bay. The road  was  still  pitted  and  washed  out,  and  he  had  to  avoid  mudslides  and  the  odd  boat,  but  soon  he  was  crossing  the  bent  bridge  of  Wintergreen  Island.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  opened  to  his  knock. The boy’s  strange,  pale  face  was  grave. “It was  Brooke.”  he  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Illumination  suddenly  came  upon  Ronnie. “She affines  with  water.”  he  said. “Of course. But—why? What happened?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We  don’t  know.”  said  Forest. “She’s inside. She won’t  wake  up.”  He  looked  at  Ronnie  with  stunned  eyes. “She came  across  the  water.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Gleaming  like  a  star?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “She  was  wearing  the  water.”  said  Forest. “Nothing else. She looked—like  a  water  goddess. And she  came on  shore  and  just—fell  down.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Let  me  see  her.”  said  Ronnie.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           She  was  stretched  out  on  Bell’s  bed,  her  hair  spread  out  to  dry  like  a  net  of  damp  gold. They had  managed  to  dress  her  in  some  of  Mrs. Lake’s things. Mrs. Lake was  fidgeting  around  the  room,  here  there  and  everywhere,  wringing  her  hands  and  bumping  into  things.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh,  Ronnie,  that’s  right.”  she  said  a  little  distractedly. “I don’t  know  what  to  do. I don’t  know  what  to  do. The phones  are  all  down  and  our  cell  phones  have  no  service,  and  the  bridge  is  damaged  so  we  can’t  drive  on  it—oh,  what  should  we  do,  what  should  we  do…”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Hunter  Light  looked  at  Ronnie  helplessly.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           With  a  sigh  Ronnie  made  her  sit  down. “You can  stay  in  one  place,”  he  said,  “that  might  help. Hunter, I  think  you  and  I  had  better  go  grab  some  rope  and  head  down—the  cabins  south  of  you  are  pretty  much  gone  and  there’s  a  lot  of  rescue  work. There’s nothing you  can  do  for  Brooke. In fact,  I  think  calling  the  police  for  her  would  be  the  worst  thing  you  can  do.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Why? They can  help  her  at  the  hospital—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  stared  him  in  the  eye. “She called  up  the  lake.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Mr. Light couldn’t  say  a  word.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  saw  it,  didn’t  you,  the  whole  lake  peeling  up  and  standing  on  its’  head? You saw  the  water  smash  itself  upon  Club  Island  and  wipe  it  from  the  earth? Do you  think  they  will  let  her  alone  after  this? You know  who  lives  on  that  island. You know  how  important  he  is.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Cornello.”  whispered  Hunter  Light.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  bed. He put  his  hand  upon  her  brow. Brooke stirred  but  did  not  awake. “Come here,  Forest.”  said  Ronnie. “Do you  See  anything?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  gazed  at  his  friend  of  the  Road  for  a  long  time. “She isn’t  here.”  he  said  in  a  faint  voice. “She’s lost…she’s  wandering  on  roads  I  cannot  follow…and  I  cannot  see  where  she  is.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  lifted  his  hand  away,  and  there  was  a  great  weariness  in  his  eyes. “Come on,  Hunter.”  he  said. “Let’s see  if  we  can  be of  more  use  down  in  the  ruins. Forest, Bell,  keep  an  eye  on  your  mom  and  don’t  let  anyone  in! Especially the  police. This house  is  under  the  Road,  so  unless  they  have  permission  they  will  not  be  able  to  enter.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Bell  nodded. They left  her  speaking  soothingly  to  Mrs. Lake, and  getting  some  rope  headed  out  on  foot. Forest went  to  the  door  with  them,  and  stood  looking  after  them,  watching.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “We  could  drive,  but  the  bridge  is  broken.”  said  Hunter.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  noticed.”  Ronnie said  dryly. “It’s not  too  far. We can  walk.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It  is  interesting,  isn’t  it,  how  dependent  we  are  on  our  vehicles.”  Mr. Light mused  as  he  walked  in  his  stiff,  ponderous  gait  beside  Ronnie. “I mean,  I  don’t  even  have  a  bike,  and  I  never  think  about  what  happens  if  I  have  no  car. And then  something  like  this  comes  and  foom—everyone’s  caught  flat-footed.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  found  the  road  blocked  by  a  line  of  yellow  tape  long  before  Janet’s  Corner and  were  prevented  from  going  any  closer  by  several  supremely  confident  and  suspicious  policemen,  who  started  questioning  them  about  what  they’d  seen. Ronnie would  only  say  he  heard  a  giant  crash  and  came  to  find  it  already  over. “Tornado?” he  suggested. When the  cop  started  asking  his  name,  address,  date  of  birth  and  if  he  had  any  outstanding  warrants,  Ronnie  protested  they  just  wanted  to  help  rescue  their  trapped neighbors. “What are  you  asking  all  this  for?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “It’s  standard  procedure,  sir,  in  case  we  need  to  gather  evidence. Now I’m  going  to  ask  you  again. What’s your  name?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Robert  White.””  said  Ronnie,  looking  out  to  the  piles  of  shattered  cabins where  children  and  entire  families  for  all  he  knew  might  be  buried. A few  firemen  and  emergency  personnel  were  trying  to  dig  in  wreckage,  while  an  incredible  amount  of  able-bodied  policemen  were  gathered  in  a  group  and not  doing  anything  but  turning  back  neighbors. “Can you  let  me  pass? My friends  are  trapped  in  there!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I’m  sorry,  sir,  but  it’s  just  too  dangerous  for  civilians. We’re going  to  be  evacuating  Highland  Lake  while  we  assess  the  situation. Properly trained rescue  personnel  only  are  authorized  beyond  this  point. Now, your  date  of  birth,  Mr.  White?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “July  14th,  1979.”  This  was  exactly  one  year  and  five  days  wrong.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “So  how  old  are  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Thirty-one.”  sighed  Ronnie. Never deviate  too  far  from  the  truth;  that  way  you  won’t  forget.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Do  you  have  ID?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  don’t  commonly  carry  my  wallet  when  hurrying  to  rescue  trapped  neighbors.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  sarcasm  was  wasted  on  the officer. “Do you  have  a  phone?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “No.”  Ronnie  answered  at  once.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “How’d  I  know  that  would  be  the  answer.”  muttered  the  cop. “And what’s  your  address?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “75  Mountain  Rd.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Very  well,  let  me just  run  a  quick  check  to  see  if  you  have  any  outstanding  warrants.”  and  he  began  speaking  tersely  into  his  radio  that  he  wanted  a  check  on  Robert  White,  echo-echo-fox-wholemeaninglesslistofcodewords. Helicopters were  landing  at  the  Sucker  Brook  Dam  now, and  men  in  uniform—presumably  rescue  workers—were  hurrying  to  the  scene. Ronnie frowned. Why were  they  ignoring  the  ruins—and  sweeping  in  a  widening  ring  outwards? He looked  at  the  police  car. Behind the  tinted  windows  the  close-cropped  head  of  the  cop  was  bent  over  the  computer  screen  fixed  to  the  dashboard,  like  the  maleficed  mirrors  that  magicians used. He glanced  briefly  up  at  Ronnie,  the  cold  eyes  like  a  flicker  of  ice,  and  back  at  his  screen.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  were  not  looking  for  survivors. They were  beginning  a  manhunt.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           They  were  hunting  down  the  Children  of  the  Road.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  began  to  move  slowly  away. If he  got  into  that  yard,  he  could  escape  up  the  mountain.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           In  the  car  there  was  a  frantic  scrambling  motion:  the  policeman  was  going  for  his  gun  and  trying  to  open  the  door  at  the  same  time. He had  photoed  Ronnie,  and  Cornello  had  recognized  it. Ronnie did  not  question  how  he  knew  this:  his  power  was  to  reveal,  and  he  knew  it  with  deadly  certainty.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Ronnie  Wendy  broke  into  a  run. He heard  and  ignored  the  shouts. As the  bullets  began  to  come  he  dived  behind  a  cabin  that  had  sustained  only  minor  damage,  and  scrambled  into  the  forest.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Behind  him  he  could  see,  converging  inexorably,  the  scattered  lines  of  the  enemy. They knew  whom  they  were  hunting. Could he  make  it  to  the  Island,  or  was  it  already  under  siege?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Stumbling,  scrambling,  Ronnie  hurried  on  uphill. He was  no  good  at  long  running. Soon they  would  come  in  sight,  and  then  he  would  fall,  riddled  by  bullets,  the  Hill  of  the  Road  destroyed  by  the  servants  of  the  Dragons.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  dropped  into  a  hollow  behind  a  big  rock  and  frantically  scraped  leaves  over  himself. Panting shouts  and  crashing  feet  sounded  horribly  near. He pulled  leaves  over  his  face  and  tucked  in  his  arms.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Running  men  sprang  over  the  rock,  as  he  had  expected,  and  their  side  vision  registering  no  hiding  places  they  hurried  on  past  and  were  gone.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Wait,  Ronnie told  himself. Others could  be  following,  more  crafty  than  their  fellows,  expecting  him  to  pop  out  and  bolt  like  a  scared  rabbit  when  its’  foes  are  safely  past.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  felt  a  sudden  gust  of  hot  wind. A queer  smell,  like  metal  and  fire,  rushed  about  him,  overpowering  the  earthy  reek  of  old  wet  leaves. A continuous dragging  sound  and  scraping  but  very  heavy  footfalls—what  devilry  was  this?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  monstrous  shape  crossed  the  tiny  field  of  his  vision  through  holes  between  leaves. There was  a  harsh  huge  snuffling. And then  a  woman’s  voice,  rich  and  melodious,  and  yet  harsher,  and  huger,  and somehow more  scorched  than  human  vocal  cords  could  produce,  spoke  just  above  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Well,  Ronmond  Wendtho,  I  smell  you  and  I  feel  your  heat. I hear  your  heart. Come out  from  those  leaves  before  the  ticks  eat  you  alive.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Her  voice  deepened  to  a  fiery  hiss. “Or I  will  make  that  your  cremated  grave.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">A cold  wet  smell  filled  Ronnie’s  nose.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  pulled  his  face  with  a  groan  out  of  the  floor  of  a  cave. That it  was  a  cave  he  saw  at  once  when  he  looked  around;  but  the  walls  and  roof  gleamed  a  pure  metallic  yellow,  beautiful  and  pure. Gold. The cavern  was  made  of  gold.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Other  details  slowly  came  to  him  as  he  shook  off  his  grogginess. The pebbles  and  stones  littering  the  floor  and  lying  against  the  walls  were  colorful,  deep  brilliant  pure  hues,  red  and  orange  and  translucent  blue,  and  deepest emerald  green,  and  amethystine  purple. As if  it  was  paved  with  gems. Lying on  the  bright  rocks  was  Travel  Lane,  bound  hand  and  foot. He tried  to  rise  to  his  feet  and  discovered  that  he  suffered  from  a  similar  impediment.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Travel?”  he  croaked.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ron?”  she  murmered,  turning  over. “Oh gosh. They’ve got  you  too?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Nabbed  me  in  a  manhunt.”  he  said. “How’d they  get  you?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  got  a  phone  call  from  one  of  my  friends. Said he’d  meet  me  downtown,  but  the  second  I  got  out  my  driveway….this  woman  appeared  in  my  passenger  seat,  grabbed  my  hand  and  suddenly  we  were  here.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  hope  you  put  up  a  fight.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Tried.”  sniffled  Travel. She blew  her  nose  on  her  sleeve. “Suddenly she  wasn’t…human  anymore. Ronnie, am  I  dreaming? Is this  some  long  awful  nightmare?  She was  a  dragon!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  what,  may  I  ask,  makes  you  think  you  must  be  dreaming,  simply  because  you  see  dragons?”  a  deep  rich  female  voice  purred  from  the  shadows. A young  woman  with  skin  as  golden  as  the  wall  she  had  been  leaning  on,  detached  herself  from  the  depths  and  strolled  over  to  them. Her strap  top  was  small,  so  were  her  shorts. Her golden  hair  flowed  gorgeous  around  her  face,  but  two  black  sunglasses  stared  like  holes  where  eyes  should  be. It was  abominable. It was  like  gazing  at  a  skull. “Is seeing  dragons  akin  to  seeing  pink  elephants? Are you tripping  out  right  now,  or  suffering  from  a  hallucinogenic  trance? Or perhaps  a  computer-animated  virtual  reality? How are  you  to  know,  hmm?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You.”  said  Ronnie  through  his  teeth. “The girl  from  Case  Mt. The whore  Cornello  keeps  in  his  pocket. What, might  I  ask,  do  you  want  with  us?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  do  I  want? If I  am  indeed  his,  you  should  be  asking  what  does  he  want  with  you. You will  not  be  slain. Nor will  you  be  enslaved. Kevin tells  me  you  broke  through  his  spell. But can  you  break  through  mine?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">She lifted  her  sunglasses  and  showed  him  her  naked  eyes.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Travel Lane  gave  a  screech  that  resounded  throughout  the  cave.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">The dragon-woman  paused  in  the  act  of  shifting  shape,  half  girl  and  half  monster. “What is  gotten  into  you?  I  haven’t  even  looked  at  you  yet.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Mother!!”  Travel  shrieked. “Mother!!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Mrs. Lane stood,  frozen,  her  dragon-eyes  suddenly  alarmed. “Don’t call  me  that.”  she  snapped.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  you  are.”  Travel  cried. “You walked  out  of  my  life  seven  years  ago. I know  you. Do not  dare  to  deny  it!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Mrs. Lane tore  her  eyes  away. “I stopped  being  your  mother  a  long  time  ago.” she  said,  her  voice  filling with  fire. “You don’t  get  it,  little  girl. I am  not  human  any  longer. I am  dragon!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Travel  Lane  collapsed  before  the  withering  stare  of  the  dragon’s  eyes. Filling the  cave,  sinuous  and  serpentine,  the  dragon  bent  her  head  down  until  it  was  almost  touching  Travel’s. “And you  are  not  my  daughter.”

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           It  was  another  crummy  day  at  McDonald’s,  thought  Lara Midwinter  as  she  wearily  rang  up  another  order  and  tried  to  muster  up  another  fake  smile  for  the  next  customer. The line  was  almost  at  an  end,  she  was  glad  to  see. Ringing up  the  order  she  made  change  for  the  last  customer  with  a  certain  satisfaction.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Thank  God,  that  looks  like  it  for  the  supper  hour.”  Heather  said. The air  conditioners  were  old  and  often  couldn’t  compete  with  the  heat  from  the  food  warmers  and  stoves. “I hate  customers.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Now  remember,  all  of  you,  the  customer  is  always  wrong.”  Lara  said  in  a  mincing  voice,  misquoting  the  latest  pep-speech  the  big  boss  had  given  to  all  the  employees  a  week  ago. Heather howled  with  laughter. James, coming  in  to  sweep  the  front  counter  floor,  gave  them  an  odd  look.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Yeah,  I  mean,  serious,  some  little  old  guy  wanted  his  burger—how  was  it—‘lettuce,  tomato,  mayo,  and  no  bun.’”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Here  she  comes,  on  the  run,  with  a  burger  in  a  bun.”  James  sang. It was  a  TV  jingle  from  who  knows  when,  Lara  had  found  out.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “That  is  so  corny.”  she  said.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Hey,  didn’t  you  know  McDonald’s  uses  corn  in  everything? In the  buns—fed  to  chickens—fed  to  cows—“

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Here  she  comes,  on  the  run,  with  a  burger  and  no  bun.”  put  in  Kimberly  from  drive-through. She had  curling  blond  hair  and  deep  blue  eyes,  made  more  so  by  her  eyeshadow.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Oh  great,  here  comes  a  weirdo—Hi,  can  I  take  your  order?”  smiled  Heather. Lara looked  up  and  saw  Peter  Midwinter,  in  jeans  and  a  T-shirt,  and  that  wild  grizzled grey  hair  and  beard  incongruously  on  top.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ah,  there  you  are,  Lara.”  he  said. In a  low  voice  he  muttered,  “Can  you  meet  me  outside? Something really  important  just  happened. It’s very  urgent.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Lara  nodded. Her uncle  went  on  to  order  a  cheeseburger,  and  she  rang  it  up,  made  change  and  then  told  Debbie  the  manager that  she  had  to  use  the  restroom.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  lobby  of  the  Winsted  McDonald’s  was  L-shaped,  one  leg  giving  down  the  west  side  toward  the  restrooms, out  of  sight  of  the  front  counter. A side  door  that  let  people  out  but  not  in,  opened  at  the  end  onto  the  western  parking  lot. An elevated  cement  walk  with  a  red  metal  rail  ran  along  that  wall  of  the  restaurant  from  the  main  entrance  to  the  back, interrupted  by  steps  near  the  side  door. Lara slipped  out  this  and  walked  into  the  lot. Her uncle  Peter  was  already  out  there,  swallowing  the  last  of  his  cheeseburger.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Peter  Midwinter’s  face  was  grave. “Do you  hear  that  roar?”  he  said. A strange  growling  sound  was  filling  the  air,  coming  from  the  west. Mad River  began  to  run  brown. “This way.”  He  took  her  hand  and  headed  across  the  lot. Lara, a  little  surprised  at  the  contact,  tried  to  pull  free,  but  he  didn’t  let  go.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “What  is  it,  Uncle?”  said  Lara,  following  him  perforce.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Like  a  scene  from  a  dream  the  world  changed  around  them. It was  still  hot,  but  a  metallic,  sulpherous-smelling  sort  of  hot. The light  grew  red  and  queer. Strange rising  shapes  of  darkish  rocks  as  shiny  as  if  in  the  process  of  melting,  rose  on  every  hand. In the  red  distance  was  a  glow  too  bright  to  look  long  at. A deep  constant  rumble  filled  the  dreadful  place.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Peter  Midwinter  turned  around,  and  a  smile  that  did  not  belong  in  that  wise,  weathered  face  grew  beneath  his  beard. “I’m not  your  uncle.”  he  said. “Oh, I played  the  part  pretty  well,  I  think. But not  anymore.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           His  face  and  form  began  to  melt  and  change. Lara backed  away,  cold  panic  rushing through  her.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Who  are  you?”  she  screamed.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           A  bald  ruddy  man  with  hearty  features  but  eyes  as  cold  as  those  of  a  reptile  stood  now  before  her,  still  smiling. “You may  call  me  Cornello.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  who  in—tarnation—is  Cornello?”  She’d  nearly  said  “who  in  hell.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Ah,  swearing,  now  are  we?”  he  said. “In fact,  your  intended  word  was  more  accurate. Who is  Cornello? What realm  of  damnation  does  his  consumed  soul  inhabit,  while  I  drag  along  the  atoms  of  his  body  and  shape  them  as  I  will;  adding  to  them  from  nearby  matter  when  I  need  to  increase my  mass,  or  allowing  them  to  resume  the  form  they  once  wore,  when  I  need  to  walk  as  man. As I  walked  when  I  played  the  part  of  dear  old  Uncle  Petey,  and  laughed  within  me  as  I  did.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  only  dressed  as  him  to  snare  me.”  snapped  Lara.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">                       “Ah,  so  touching,  the  little  niece  leaping  to  her  dear  uncle’s  defence. Peter Midwinter  has been  dead  these  fifteen  years. A tramp  to  the  end,  he  met  a  tramp’s  end,  shivering  to  death  alone  in  the  hills,  too  ill  to  walk  into  town,  ill  of  spoiled  food  from  a  garbage  bag. In pace  requisite!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “My  parents  saw  him  later  than  that. I spoke  to  him  this  winter!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  he  gave  you  all  the  lore  of  the  House  of  Midwinter,  I  suppose? ''What is  the  sign  of  the  head  of  the  Herald…Where  aims  the  arrow  of  the  bow  of  the  Herald…What  bears  up  the  Herald,  on  what  does  he  ride? ''Riddles the  dragons  have  asked  one  another  for  ages  uncounted,  and  they  smiled  as  they  did. For the  Herald  is  no  secret,  nor  is  his  fate:  the  Dragon  shall  burn  him,  and with  his  river  be  boiled.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Arheled  would  have  told  me!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  you  think  this  ‘arheled’  is  a  person  that  exists,  because  you  saw  an  odd  man  in  brown  leather  and  heard  him  drop  riddles. Calling, calling,  calling. If I  can  assume  any  shape  that  I  wish,  why  would  you  think  that  I  cannot  take  his? Come, tell  me. What proof  do  you  have  that  this  ‘arheled’  is  real,  and  not  merely  another  of  the  masks  of  Carn’hell’nar?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You  lie.”  said Lara.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Do  I  indeed?”  smiled  Cornello. “Well, come  with  me. I will  show  you  the  proof  of  what  I  speak.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  walked  forward  into  the  glow,  and  she  was  dragged  after  him  as  by  an  unseen  rope. He halted  in  a  high  chamber. The glow  that  beat  up  from  the  center  of  it  seemed  the  source  of  all  light  and  warmth  in  that  chamber;  nay,  of  the  entire  living  Earth. It was  like  a  flickering  pillar  of  white  light  or  energy,  beating  up  from  a  cauldron  of  black  metal  rooted  in  the  floor,  as  large  as  a  pool,  splashing  against  the  roof  where  it  spread  out  like  a  canopy  of  flame. Seven mighty  pillars  fenced  it  round,  and  halfway  up  each  pillar,  facing  the  light,  was  a  seat  and  chair  delved  into  its’  stone. Four were  occupied. Figures draped  in  robes  of  great  length  were  held  there,  fastened  by  glowing  loops  of  power,  their  robes  flowing  down  the  pillar  like  impossibly  long  bodies. One was  green,  a  boy  with  pale  hair. One was  in  scarlet,  a  man  who  might  have  been  young  but  whose  face  was  lined  and  drawn  with  pain  as  with  age;  and  his  hair  was  bronze. The two  on  the  right  were  girls. One had  dark  hair,  robed  in  night-blue;  the  other  was  small  with  curly  yellow  hair,  and  her  robes  were  a  soft  stone-silver. The two  pillars  on  the  far  side  were  empty. The pillar  closest  to  her…she  could  not  see,  for  the  throne  was  on  the  far  side…Slowly  she  walked  around  the  graven  base,  like  roots  of  mineral  trees,  until  she  could  see  it. It was  empty.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “These  thrones  have  been  waiting  for  the  Children  of  the  Road  for  a  long  time.”  Cornello  said,  his  voice  now  somehow  scorching,  larger,  like  the  voice  of  flame. “Years beyond count  have  we  toiled  in  the  bowels  of  the  Field  of  Arda,  slowly  encompassing  the  Earthheart  that  gives  it  life,  garnishing  the  tectonic  energy  of  the  moving  crust,  harvesting  the  thermal  power  of  the  inner  heats,  bending  all  natural  forces  to  our  indomitable  will. For here,  above  the  very  Heart  of  the  Earth,  is  the  focal  point  of  the  Universe,  only  a  small  bubble  in  the  Necklace  of  Eä,  but  the  most  important. Above us  was  where  Him  that  we  Hate  was  Incarnated;  but  here  beneath  the  earth  is  where  Him  that  is  Mighty  will  arise  in  Might,  and  you  will  have  the  honor  of  being  the  power  that  incarnates  him.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “There  are  three  empty  thrones.”  said  Lara  faintly. Despite the  scorching  heat  she  was  shivering.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Six  of  you  there  are.”  Cornello  answered. “When Sophia  is  in  the  seventh,  then  it  will  all  be  complete. The essence  of  my  Master  is  nearly  all  returned  to  him. You will  be  the  sacrifice,  the  fuel,  the  energy  He  will  need  to  make his  incarnation.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “You’re  only  a  man.”  Lara  said  through  chattering  teeth. Her muscles  were  cramping  clenched  and  her  entire  body  was  shaking.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Cornello  turned  slowly  toward  her,  a  weird  and  awful  smile  on  his  fractured  face. It was  dividing. His skull  was  cracking  into  distinct  slices,  crevasses  opening  red  and  gleaming  with  blood  and  brain  matter. His face  had  splintered  into  seven  pieces,  the  awful  smile  still  crossing  each  piece. Now the  pieces  were  growing  upward,  thickening,  bending  and  waving,  and  the  tops  bulged  and  sprouted  horns,  the  middle  three  heads  having  two  and  the  others  one. The arms  grew  long,  bent,  and  scaled,  great  claws  instead  of  fingers. His body  elongated  backwards,  a  mighty tail  twisting  and  coiling. He slumped  forward. His legs  bent  the  wrong  way,  the  knees  folding  backward  like  elbows  above  his  sprawling  trunk;  and  somehow  this  was  the  most  horrible  thing  yet. There coiled  before  her  a  great  scarlet  dragon. Seven heads  bent  toward  her  on  long  serpentine  necks. Seven diadems  adorned  the  seven  heads,  wrought  of  seven  sparkling  metals  and  set  with  seven  kinds  of  gems;  and  on  them  were  wrought  signs  of  power. Immense wings  unfolded  like  fans,  scraping  the  far  walls  of  that  mighty  chamber. Its’ faces  were  alien,  inhuman,  filled  with  a  queer  unholy  laughter.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Forest  sat  beside  Brooke’s  bed,  gazing  at  her  still  face  with  a  sad  earnest  stare. The glimpse  he  had  seen  of  where  it  was  she  wandered  now,  like  a  thousand  arches  of  red  and  white  stars  upon  a  background  of  shifting  violet-black,  swam  again  into  his  mind. How could  they  reach  her? How could  they  guide  her  out?

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Forest!”  Bell  hailed  him  as  he  came  downstairs. “Is she  any  different?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           He  shook  his  head. Farther.” he  said. “She’s farther  away  now.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “I  wish  Arheled  was  here.”  said  Bell,  hugging  herself. “I don’t  know  what  to  do…I  feel  like  some  disaster  is  just  hanging  over  us,  waiting  to  break.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px">    <span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">       There  was  a  sharp  knocking  on  the  door. Bell looked  up. “Now who  could  that  be?”  she  wondered. There was  a  pause,  and  then  the  deep  ringing  of  the  doorbell  sounded,  ominous  and  unexpected.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">         “Open  up  in  there,  it’s  the  police!”  came  voices  through  the  door. The knocking  became  a  pounding. “Open up,  or  we  break  it down!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “Get  away  from  the  door!”  hissed  Forest. Bell shot  him  an  alarmed  look.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “Are they  here  for  us?”  she  said.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">He didn’t  answer. From outside  he  could  hear  the  official  police  voices  telling  someone  that  nobody  was  answering. And then  a  hearty,  but  low-pitched,  voice  spoke  in  response. Forest went  cold  all  over. It was  Cornello’s  voice.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “Oh, they  are  in  there,  all  right.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “If you  say  so…We’ll  have  the  door  down  in  a  jiffy.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Cornello  laughed  to  himself. “You can  try.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">There was  a  scamper  of  charging  feet. Then a  great  thump  and  the  sound  of  men  falling  down. The door  had  not  even  quivered.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “No one  can  break  down  that  door.”  Cornello’s  voice  sounded  darkly. “It is  under  the  Road.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “Forest! Is someone  at  the  door? And you  didn’t  even  answer  it!”  Forest’s  mom  said  as  she came  out  of  the  living  room. Forest and  Bell  acted  too  late:  she  was  already  at  the  door.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">               “Noooo!!!”  they  howled,  trying  to  drag  her  away  from  it. Even as  they  did,  the  door  hurled  open.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Mrs. Lake had  turned  the  knob.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> In rushed  the  police. Forest and  Bell  were  thrown  to  the  ground  and  handcuffs clapped  on  them. Their mom  stared,  flabbergasted,  as  police  crashed  through  her  house. Before the  children  could  say  a  word,  duck  tape  was  fastened  over  their  mouths  and  they  were  carried  out  like  sacks  of  potatoes,  black  bags  tied  over  their  heads. Cornello gave  Mrs. Lake a  wide,  empty  smile.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">“Your children  are  under  arrest  for  aiding  and  abetting  a  perpetuator  of  first-degree  murder.”  he  said. Policemen, having  searched  the  lower  floors,  headed  up  the  stairs. And came  to  a  sudden  stop.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Filling the  stairwell  was  a  huge  figure  with  black  hair,  a  great  ragged  mantle  falling  about  him  like  a  pair  of  folded  wings. The Wild  Man  of  Winsted.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “This house  is  under  the  Road.”  he  said.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">The smile  froze  on  Cornello’s  face  as  severed  parts  of  human  bodies,  still  in  police  grey,  fell  sloppily  down  the  stairs  to  rest  at  his  feet. He turned. The Wild Man came  slowly  into  view,  eating  the  remains  of  the  second  policeman. Negligently he  tossed  two  bloodied  heads  with  short-shaved  hair  at  Cornello.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">“You have  two  Children  of  the  Road.”  he  said  in  his  great  rough  voice. “Let them  go. And I’ll  let  you  live.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Cornello smiled  even  more  widely. “You’ll let  me?”  he  repeated. “How very  considerate  of  you. Why have  you  not  snatched  them  free  with  your  awesome  powers,  pray  tell? Can it  be  because  they  are  beyond  your  reach—beyond  even  the  power  of  the  Road?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “Don’t be  an  ass,  dragon.”  sneered  the  Wild  Man. “Your son  thought  he  could  stand  against  me,  too.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">“Dragon, is  it.”  said  Cornello  softly. He began  to  laugh. “Oh, I  am  so  much  more  than  that,  you  ignorant  elemental. You think  that  the  substance  of  the  Earth  is  able  to  make  war  with  the  power  that  is  in  me? Can dirt  and  gravel  endure  the  lava,  Wild  Man?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt"> “Can the  lava  exist  when  its’  heat  is  forced  out  of  it?”  mocked  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted. “Does the  enduring  stone  take  reck  of  raindrops? Unless you  have  strength  that  can  move  the  very  mountains,  you  cannot  move  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “And  why  should  I  need  elemental  strength,  as  if  I  was  a  bastard  lesser  son  of  myself? You have no  conception  of  the  level  of  my  being. I swept  with  my  tail  the  stars  from  the  sky. I bear  seven  diadems  of  the  seven  kings  of  men. You are  a  mountain—but  I  am  the  breaker  of  mountains.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           His  head  burst. Necks like  seven  serpents  grew  out  of  it,  and  upon  every  neck  was  a  long  dragon’s  head. “ ''I am  the  Father  of  Dragons!” ''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">Suddenly they  were  no  longer  in  the  house  on  Wintergreen  Island, but  on  Mad  River  Dam,  the  vast  dragon  all  gleaming  red  crouching  above  the  deep  gorge,  and  on  the  dike  the  tiny  shape  of  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted,  small  against  his  huge  adversary,  ragged  mantle  lifting  in  the  winds.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “A  simple  trick,  Wild.”  scoffed  the  dragon. “But if  you  think  that  earthporting  me  and  my  servants  out  of  that  house  will  keep  us  from  seizing  the  Stream,  you  are  mistaken. It was  opened  to  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          “I  closed  it.”  said  Wild. “You cannot  enter  it  without  leave. The Road  will  not  let  you  so  much  as  smite  the  wall  with  your  hand.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">             “I  know  that  the  killer  of  my  son  is  asleep  within  that  house,  Wild  Man.”  the  dragon  growled. “Now I  have  in  my  power  nearly  all  of  the  Children,  and  not  even  the  Road  can  penetrate  the  place  to  which  I  have  taken  them.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “You  may  shut  out  the  Road,  but  the  Warden  of  the  Road  cannot  be  so  gainstood.”  the  Wild  Man  snarled. “And unless  you  can  stop  up  the  stone  or  the  earth,  you  cannot  keep me  from  interpenetrating  to  them. Not even  the  Weird  Sisters  have  been  able  to  keep  me  out.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">             Earth  burst  in  a  huge  shifting  wall. The stone  underneath  it  seized  the  red  dragon  and  smashed  its’  seven  heads  into  the  dike. The dragon  shattered  the  stone  bonds. The stone  instantly  fused  back  together,  holding  him  down. The dragon’s  power  melted  the  stone. But the  molten  stone  still  would  not  let  go,  for  lava  was  but  liquid  rock  and  still  subject  to  the  Wild  Man;  and  he  lanced  the  Father  of  Dragons  with  spears  of  solid  stone. The dragon  teleported  out  of  the  lava  and  shapeshifted,  healing  himself. Lava, still  inside  the  dragon,  hardened,  and  the  substance  of  the  Wild  Man  that  was  within  him  ripped  open  the  dragon’s  heart.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  laughter  of  the  monster  shook  stones  loose  from  the  steep  hill  behind  them. Faintly they  could  be  heard  bounding  down  through  the  trees  to  cannon  into  the  lake. “Fool. As simple  and  thinkless  as  the  substance  thou  art  made  of. Do you  really  think  that  my  body  is  me,  or  that  I  can  be  killed  by  cutting  me  apart? Are you  doing  battle with  a  simple  thing  of  earth? Do you  fancy  yourself  still  fighting  an  Embodied?”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">       Out  of  thin  air  the  red  dragon  reappeared,  bigger  than  before,  settling  upon  the  dike  with  a  crunch  of  compressing  stone. “All that  you  have  seen  of  me  has  only  been  my  accidents. Now comprehend,  if  you  can,  the  strength  of  my  essential!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">        The  dike  underneath  it  came  alive  as  the  Wild  Man  entered  it. Black magic  fought  with  the  stone  of  the  dike  and  battled  with  the  essence  of  the  being  that  was  in  it;  but  the  dragon-magic  could  not  overcome  him.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “The  Road  intended  me  to  stand  against  whatever  threat  befalls  the  structure  of  the  Temple  Fell.” the  voice  of  the  entity  that  bore  the  name  of  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted  thundered  from  every  rock  in  that  valley. “A poor  defender  I  would  be,  if  magic  could  upon  me  bite!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           The  very  hills  around  them  shifted,  as  if  fluid,  or  made  out  of  jello. The Wild  Man  of  Winsted  was  calling  on  his  fullest  nature. The Father  of  Dragons  was  swallowed  as  if  by  a  mouth,  and  the  power  of  the  Road  was  imbued  into  that  stone,  and  it  sealed  him  up. Where the  Dike  had  been,  there  a  dome  of  solid  rock  now  loomed. Mad River,  the  outlet  blocked,  backed  slowly  up  in  his  bed,  and  the  falls  dried  to  a  trickle.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">             Telekinesis  unmade  the  living  stone. The gas  that  had  once  been  rock  gave  a  wordless  scream  as  its’  atoms  splintered  into  particles:  the  agony  of  the  Wild  Man  of  Winsted. With a  great  flap  of  his  wings  the  Father  of  Dragons  rose  out  of  the  gorge.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">             “Think  and remember,  Wild,  what  was  done  to  you  this  day,”  his  huge  voice  roared  over  the  land. “Do not  think  you  can  challenge  with  impunity  the  intellectual  substances. I go  now  to  take  the  Children  of  the  Road,  and  not  even  Arheled  will  be  able  to  forestall  me.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          Then  the  dragon  was  gone  from  the  air.

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<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            The  gorge  of  Mad  River  lay  open,  freed  for  the  first  time  in  five  decades  of  the  mighty  work  of  the  toil  of  men,  who  thought  to  stop  up  with  their  science  the  power  of  the  River. Now he  raged,  unobstructed,  down  his  old  bed,  and  the  Falls  sounded  for  the  last  time  greater  than  they  had  in  all  their  short  existence,  and  a  flood  worse  than  any  since  1955  crashed  down  upon  Winsted.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">             Slowly  there  coalesced  into  shape  a  man  with  long  black  hair  and  ragged  cloak,  who  collapsed  limply  on  the  bare  rock  of  the  exposed hillside. Another man  appeared  beside  him,  tall  and  noble  and  dignified,  a  great  white  cloak  blowing  out  in  the  wind.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “I  warned  you  that  it  would  be  presumption  to  pit  yourself  against  him  unaided.”  said  Arheled.

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          “Would  you  rather  he  have  taken  Brooke,  too?”  snapped  the  Wild  Man. “At least  I  actually  did  something!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          “It  is  not  oversmart  of  you  to  insist  on  knowing  every  reason  for  every  action  I  commit  before  you  obey  my  orders.”  Arheled  replied. “The Road  brought  you  into  being;  but  I  was  there  before  the  Gods  had  wrought  the  Road. I stood  in  the  emptiness  and  longed  for  it  to  fill,  and  I  stood  in  the  chaos  and  longed  for  it  to  struct. The  Music  is  greater  than  either  you  or  I;  but  there  are  powers  in  the  world  that  are  greater  still  than  It.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">         “I  still  do  not  understand  why  we  had  to  sit  back  and  do  nothing.”  growled  the  Wild  Man. “They were  under  the  Road!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">          “And  they  will  never  learn  to  do  anything  themselves,  if  we  step  in  like  gods  every  time  they  stub  their  toes.”  said  Arheled. “They were  accepted  by  the  Road. Even where  it  cannot  go,  nay,  where  even  it’s  Warden  is  stymied,  they  shall  enter,  for  such  is  the  reason  that  I  have  been  calling.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “But  to  let  them  walk  untended  in  the  very  belly  of  the  Father  of  Dragons!”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           Arheled  gave  a  grim  chuckle. “Would Brooke  have  ever  learned  to  call  upon  water  if  Kevin  had  not  violated  her? And now  the  son  of  the  Dragon  lies  dead. No, Wild. Even as  my  Lord  and  Master,  so  must  I:  permit  great  evil  to  bring  about  a  greater  good. Do not  fear  for  my  Children. The Road  walks  within  them,  and  in  their  persons  has  entered  even  the  Dragon’s  lair. They are  mightier  than  you  know.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">           “They  would  have  to  be  mighty  indeed  to  overcome  one  who  so  easily  defeats  the  Wild  Man  himself.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">            “There  is  a  power  in  them  that  is  great  enough  to  bind  even  the  Father  of  Dragons.”  said   Arheled. He turned  his  ancient face  to  his  companion,  and  the  eyes  were  filled  with  a  cold  light. “But do  not  think,  Wild  Man,  that  I  am  not  watching.”

<p style="margin: 1em 0px"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Times New Roman', 'serif'; font-size: 12pt">