Dragon Removal Service Page 13

  "I meant 'family' in the familiar sense, you smellfeast!" He slammed the sauna door in her face.

  Gulchima took a deep breath, and started to walk back to the houseboats. She'd have to speak to Uncle Rattbone, get his advice on what to do. She wouldn't let Uncle Roog ruin her good mood this morning. But something he had said bothered her.

  Not the insults or the threats; that was just Roog being Roog. No, it was the part about the festival!

  Was that today? The Festival of Rough Peter!

  Oh Sweet Sorcerer, Gulchima was supposed to be running it. She'd forgotten.

  She was head of the Outfit. The children were all waiting for her. She had to—

  "—We've been looking everywhere for you."

  It was her sister, Isolde, and she was angry. As usual.

  Isolde was with Tiktok, the boy from the boat, who had kissed the river-hags.

  They stood in the tunnel through the old curved earthen ramp by the burgh's walls. Tiktok was eating chomp maple syrup out of a jar. He stood dangerously close to Isolde, who had her hands on her hips, in exaggerated anger. She'd done some curling thing to her hair, and she wore her best dress. They both looked out of breath, as if they'd been kissing.

  "Why?" Gulchima asked.

  "It's the Festival of Rough Peter," Isolde said. "You forgot didn't you? Gulchima! You had one thing to do for the boats. One thing!"

  "One thing? What about the geyser ghosts? What about the fairies? What about all the free fizz-water, they sent over this morning? I got cases of it."

  Isolde nodded, but wasn't listening. "Well this is all on you. You said you would handle it. You said you were the boss. So you figure it out. You're just lucky Uncle Rattbone took care of the adults' party."

  "I was just finishing up my plan," Gulchima said. She tried not to look panicked.

  What was she going to do? Gulchima had to entertain twenty or more kids, give them the time of their lives. Everyone on the houseboats loved festival days. And of all festival days, they loved the Festival of Rough Peter the most.

  If only she could distract the kids, keep them busy for a few hours. She needed an idea, she needed a . . . treasure hunt.

  I'll take them on a treasure hunt around town, she thought. At each spot, they'd uncover some mystery, some clue, then they'd get a small piece of candy. She could buy bags of the stuff at the bakery, write up the clues in a few minutes. But this was the most important festival. So the final pot of candy had to be somewhere amazing. It had to be . . . .

  Gulchima thought about the dragon. All the kids wanted to see the dragon up close. So why not?

  She would be a hero to the children. And, since she had everything ready, she could cross one more thing off her list too.

  With that many people to help, the dragon could be moved. The older children knew how to use pulleys and equipment and so on. Wouldn't that be the best festival ever? The festival day when they got rid of a dragon?

  It would work. Gulchima was certain.

  "Well let’s get back to the boats," Gulchima said. "I'm sure the children are waiting for me."

  Isolde huffed and started walking too quickly ahead of them. Tiktok hung back.

  "Want some maple syrup?" Tiktok asked. "Soltanabad is practically giving it away."

  Gulchima shook her head. "No thanks," she said. "As a personal rule, I don't like butt juice."

  ✽✽✽

  The Festival of Rough Peter was here and despite the tight budget and Gulchima's well-crafted plan, no work would be done today.

  Festival Days were important to the Outfit, and there were lots of them: Rough Peter, Jacks Knees, Woodman's Lots. This was in addition to Enders Day, the day off at the end of each week, and whatever the local holidays were at the town they were fixing. And occasionally a lesser-known festival day would pop up, like Lover's Moon, which occurred anytime a girl of a certain age declared love for the first time.

  It was difficult to get any work done, especially since some young workers were known to date local girls and fall in love with them, just to ensure they could get a Lover's Moon day off, and have extra time for fishing.

  But today's festival was important, even to Gulchima. It had been her favorite when she was younger, because it meant the end of the snow, and the brief spell of warm weather.

  The Festival of Rough Peter occurred at the start of planting season, and Gulchima wasn't prepared. She, as head of the Outfit, was required to run the event, set the traps, put out the brandy and herring and rum-bread. She would help the children set their snares for the mystical figure, Rough Peter, and make sure that if he was not immediately generous (wink wink), the other adults could put out presents in his honor.

  She wondered who or what Rough Peter really was. In the children's stories he was half-god, or half-magic, she knew. But what was his other half? He reminded her of Uncle Roog.

  As the legend went, Rough Peter sowed the seeds, stole your gold, and ate your food. He was a god of spring, in a shabby sort of way. But he was simple. He was easily outsmarted.

  Rough Peter stole your stuff, but then stored everything in his magic rucksack, a bag which he patched, but never really repaired. On his festival day, you just had to steal it back.

  Rough Peter liked a drink or four, and his rucksack was torn. And so what you needed to do, the legend said, was to make sure he was boozled on rum-bread. Then, you had to set up a few obstacles for him to trip over: a chair in the wrong place, a loose log on the floor, maybe a sharp stick to tear his magic rucksack.

  If you did it right, a few things he'd stolen from others may appear as presents for you (and they would get new things too, so it wasn't really stealing). The seeds would fall out of the holes in his bag too, and be spread in the field.

  And if you were lucky, and you trapped him, you'd find a piece of gold in his place, because "gold opens doors," as even the smallest child knew.

  Gulchima wasn't feeling up to the task today, but she had to take the younger children, Novvy included, on the Hunt for Rough Peter. They'd never find him, but when they returned all the adults would swear Rough Peter had just appeared.

  The children would get the presents he left, the older children would get the gold, and the adults would eat and drink whatever Rough Peter had accidentally "dropped". It was a great feast.

  So no work would get done today or tomorrow. But, nobody would walk off the job in a huff either.

  Gulchima boarded the Biters houseboat, where she and all the junior craftsmen lived. She walked to the central plaza and found almost the entire Outfit waiting for her. Every man, woman and child seemed to be there, and they were all in a good mood, all drinking the free fizz-water Jaroo had dropped off. They were clapping and carrying on, and it took Gulchima a few seconds to push her way to the front of the crowd.

  The air smelled of vinegar and salt and rum-bread. Tormo, a young boy about Novvy's age, stood near her, trying to eat a cheese rope. But he was struggling without his two front teeth.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  "Deadly combat," Tormo said in a bored tone. He pulled hard on his cheese rope and managed to free a few strands.

  Gulchima was about to ask who was having a deadly combat, but there, at the center of the crowd, she saw it.

  Uncle Rattbone and Hubward were staring warily at one another across a table. Their faces were deadly serious, and each was waiting for the other to make a move.

  Hubward picked up a knife.

  Uncle Rattbone narrowed his eyes, and picked up a bigger knife.

  They were locked in deadly combat.

  And Hubward was winning.

  Chapter 22: Gulchima Finds an Unfortunate Treasure

  Well, it was deadly combat of a sort, Gulchima thought.

  It was an eel eating contest, and the eels were already dead. So while it wasn't deadly for Hubward or Uncle Rattbone, it had been deadly for the eels.

  The eel eating contest was an important part of the Festival of Rough Pe
ter, especially if you liked to gamble or watch people eat themselves sick. And no one had bet on Hubward to win.

  Hubward jabbed his knife into the bucket of eels on the table between them. The eels were pickled, and even from this distance Gulchima could smell the vinegar and salt that did nothing to cover up the rubbery eel stench.

  Hubward held up a dripping piece of eel on the tip of this knife. It was almost as long as his hand. He put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

  "Yum," he said.

  Hubward shoved the glass figure of an eel across the table, toward Uncle Rattbone. "You're next," he gagged.

  Uncle Rattbone swayed on his feet. His face was green, and his overshirt was damp. He wiped at his beard, once then twice. "Orphans . . ." he mumbled.

  Uncle Rattbone stabbed into the bucket of eels with his knife.

  He pulled out an eel piece slightly larger than Hubward's, but this one was undercooked. It still had slime on it.

  The crowd groaned.

  "That one's still alive," Tormo whispered.

  Uncle Rattbone held a fist up to his mouth, puffed out his cheeks. The eel trembled on the edge of his knife.

  At long last, Uncle Rattbone held the uncooked eel in the air, inches from his lips. A strand of eel slime dribbled onto his beard, and then . . . .

  He threw up.

  A lot.

  Everywhere.

  Twice.

  Hubward had won! The crowd went wild.

  Anya from the Black Sea and a few of the other carpenters rushed in and threw sawdust across the vomit on the deck, shoveled that out of the way, and then tossed the rest of the eels overboard. Hubward received the prize, the glass eel figurine, and Uncle Rattbone, who had never lost as long as Gulchima could remember, gave Hubward a hug.

  He caught Gulchima's eye. "Orphans! Don't you just—blaaht."

  Uncle Rattbone threw up again. Everywhere.

  Gulchima grabbed the sawdust and helped to clean it up.

  ✽✽✽

  The Hunt for Rough Peter was fun, thanks to Hubward. He was good with kids, good at being silly, pretending to trip over things, pulling candy out of thin air.

  Gulchima made it up as she went, and eventually the kids found the clues for the treasure hunt. They visited the bakery, the east wall, the sauna—where the clue was hidden in Uncle Roog's hair.

  At last, they arrived at the dragon. All was in readiness. The ditches were ditched. The ropes and tackles and pulleys were prepared. The levers of un-cursed wood were waiting. If she could get the tail moving in the right direction, Gulchima knew she could throw the dragon in the river. And once it was off land, it was officially out of Bayadev. Checkbox checked. Money earned. This would be a festival to remember.

  The day Rough Peter moved the dragon.

  "So what's the plan?" Hubward asked. He flipped his hair out of his eyes. "Gonna tackle the problem, head on? Or should I say, 'tail on'?"

  Gulchima sighed. "The next time you tell me a joke, hold up your left hand so I know I'm supposed to laugh." She paused, then said with a smile, "Just kidding."

  Gulchima walked over to the group of children. "Do you think Rough Peter is hiding under the dragon?"

  The children looked perplexed. They talked it over.

  "That would be a good hiding place," said Tormo. He whistled through his missing teeth.

  "A great hiding place," said Novvy. "But how do we get underneath it?"

  Hubward was standing near the dragon, staring at it. "Hold on a minute Gulch . . ." He flipped his hair over his eyes.

  "Maybe we could use this lever," Gulchima said. She held out a long piece of lumber. "Maybe we could use that to look under the dragon."

  The children cheered. Some stood back, afraid to approach the magical beast. Using a lever would be much better, they thought. They would be safer at a distance.

  "Don't touch that," Hubward called. "There's something wrong. The dragon is swelling with magic."

  Gulchima thought he was being silly again. So did the rest of the children.

  She held her hand near the dragon and said, "Oh, is this what I'm not supposed to touch—"

  Gulchima felt her skin blister, then tear from her palm, as if she'd just grabbed a hot piece of iron from the fire.

  A whoosh of green flame shot out from underneath the dragon, nearly blinding her.

  She staggered backwards. The air smelled of singed hair, and iron and smoke.

  Gulchima held her right hand up to her face, but it wouldn't move. Her hand was a mess of blood, and black skin curled away at the edges. She saw something white, poking out at the end of her ring finger, and realized it was bone. Her bone.

  Gulchima threw up.

  But this time there were no carpenters and sawdust and laughter. This time there was only the ringing in her ears and the children, screaming, screaming.

  —The children! Gulchima had to find them.

  Most of the other children were far back from the dragon, and—somehow—the flame had missed them. Somehow—

  A group of seven shabby people she hadn't seen before, stood in front of the children. They had taken the brunt of the flame, and—somehow—had shown up to save the children just in time. Their faces were dark and ashy, almost blue, but she could see places where the magical flame had burned them too. In a way, they looked like older versions of Hubward.

  But they were alive, and—somehow—the rest of the children had dove at exactly the right time, and were unharmed.

  Perhaps these seven strangers were the source of all her "somehows". Perhaps . . . .

  Gulchima stumbled over to them, counted the children.

  Two were missing. Novvy and Tormo. They had been the closest.

  She heard a groan, and fought through the smoke toward it. Her pulleys and wooden levers were all on fire now. Her right arm felt cold, but her palm burned, as if she were holding a hot coal. She'd take care of that later. Right now, she had to find Novvy!

  Hubward lay in a heap, his arms outstretched.

  "Hubward!" she yelled. "Are you all right!"

  For a moment he didn't respond, but then, he stirred.

  He stood up and Gulchima saw Novvy blinking from somewhere underneath him. Novvy was all right, and Hubward had saved him.

  Novvy looked fine. And Hubward?

  His eyebrows were missing, but she'd tell him later. And his hair . . . his stupid haircut was gone too. At least that was an improvement.

  Hubward was bald.

  Novvy patted Hubward's smoking head. "Got lots of hair," Novvy said. "Hair grows back."

  Hubward looked at him, bewildered. His eyes were wide with shock. "Did you find . . . everyone?" he asked.

  Gulchima started to tell him that everyone was fine, that some mysterious strangers had shown up and saved the day. But then she saw—

  It was Tormo. Tormo, who was a little older than Novvy, and liked to eat cheese rope. Tormo was not all right. Tormo was—

  Tormo lay in the mud, face down, unmoving. His hair was burned off, but the skin on his neck looked okay. Gulchima rolled him over, saw his blood on her hands.

  He was not okay. Tormo was definitely not okay. His eyes—his face. It looked like a popped blister. She could see his lips, drawn back, like he wanted to scream, had planned on it— but would never get the chance.

  Gulchima screamed for help, tried to stop the blood leaking from a gash on his neck.

  But nobody came. Nobody came to help her.

  From atop the burgh wall, someone screamed, "Fire! Fire at the docks!"

  The burgh was on fire too. First Tormo, now the burgh.

  Gulchima had ruined it! Why had she been so stupid? Trying to move a dragon, by herself.

  Inside the burgh, the fire had spread. She saw green flames licking at the oast house, all the fresh gleaming wood on the new roof was already burned off.

  She heard a loud moaning, like a siren, from the wonder worms inside. They moaned as they burned, louder and louder: waaaaaa-waa
aaaa-waaaaaa.

  But the boy—Tormo. He wasn't moaning. He wasn't breathing. His blood seeped out.

  Ninestone, the herbalist from the factory, was the first to find them.

  "What happened?" she asked. She was out of breath, and dropped her wide basket to the ground beside them.

  Gulchima blubbered something about the dragon, the green fire. She noticed small useless details: The freckle in Ninestone's eye, the sparkling white bone in the dirt beside them, the way the blood leaked out of Tormo's body, like water from a hidden spring.

  Ninestone lay her body across Tormo, started to chant in an odd vowelly language. She placed a packet of crushed birch bark across Tormo's neck, and the bleeding slowed.

  "Is he all right?" Gulchima asked.

  "He's not breathing," Ninestone said grimly. She guided Gulchima's good hand to the wound. "Hold this compress, here. We have to stop the bleeding."

  Ninestone grasped a golden ring that hung from a chain around her neck. In her other hand, a ball of purple light crackled into existence. The freckle in her eye glowed purple too, like a star in the middle of the night sky.

  She was using magic. Ninestone was using magic!

  Ninestone shoved the crackling light into Tormo's chest.

  He gasped, then started to breathe again.

  "That was magic," Gulchima whispered. "You can't use—"

  Ninestone shook her head. The light in her eye had faded, and she looked pale, shaky. "No more death," she said. "I've seen enough children die."

  "But magic . . . ."

  "Then send me to prison for saving a boy's life!" Ninestone shouted. "Go ahead and report me. It's worth it!"

  Gulchima shrunk back. "I won't," she said. "I won't ever tell."

  Ninestone pointed at Gulchima's right hand, the one that had been burned by the dragon. "Your hand," Ninestone said. "Let me see it."

  Gulchima pulled it away from her. It didn't hurt anymore. Was it the fear, keeping the pain away? Or was her hand . . . ruined?

  "No. It's my hand, I . . . I understand what you're doing. But . . . no magic. I can’t use magic."

  "You might lose it," Ninestone said. The freckle in her eye began to glow.