Chapter 5
Chapter Five
For several moments all I can hear is the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. I look at him and then back at the people in the photo.
“But how can that be?” I breathe. “You should be older than that man.”
I wonder suddenly if I fell on the beach on the rocks and I’m now lying in a coma, dreaming of handsome, strange men and beautiful homes.
Maybe that’s it. I rest my fingers against my forehead.
I’m hot. Do I have a fever? Is it making me hallucinate?
I pinch my hand and grimace. Yep. It hurts. No, I’m not dreaming.
Sigurd watches me solemnly. There’s a funny light in his eyes that I can’t decipher at all.
“That can’t be,” I say again. “Can it?”
“And yet it is,” he says quietly. “That is me.” He sighs. “It was a good year. An innocent year before darkness fell over the world.”
“What did you say to that man when you returned his scarf?” I blurt.
“I said he was the best student I ever had, and it was the truth. A fine mind full of curiosity. I’ve never met one such as that.” He pauses and then says steadily, “Until you.”
“Me?” I say, stunned. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“You have a lively curiosity, a fearless disposition, and a keen eye.”
“I feel like I’ve been moving through a fog over the last two days,” I admit.
He’s still leaning against the doorjamb, but his manner isn’t relaxed. “Mayhap that is because you are straddling two worlds and have finally become aware of the fact.”
“What does that even mean?” I say helplessly. I glance at the picture. “This doesn’t make any sense. It can’t be you.”
“And yet it is, Cary.” His tone is sympathetic.
“But how?”
He considers me for a long moment, and I drag in a startled breath as he rises to his full height and moves in quick strides to the desk. He offers me his hand. “Would you come with me?”
“W-What for?”
“I have something to show you.”
“And when you’ve shown me this something, will you tell me what’s going on?”
“Ah, Cary. They are one and the same.” His hand is still outstretched, and I think I detect a trace of hope and a hint of sadness in his voice. He expects me to say no, I realise with a shock.
And I should say no. This whole situation is becoming increasingly bizarre. Yet I trust him. It’s a feeling that seems to be rooted in my bones, and it compels me to stand and take his hand.
His eyes close, and he sucks in a breath. There’s a faint tremor running through his fingers. “Are you alright?” I ask, filled with a desire for him to be okay.
His eyes open. They’re golden in this light, and the lamplight must be playing tricks on me, because for a second I think I see flames in his pupils.
He blinks and then offers me a crooked smile. “Ask me that question in a few minutes.” He stays silent for a few seconds while I cling to his hand, his head cocked as if listening to something. I think I hear a bell ring, and he nods as if answering someone. “Yes, come.”
I let him tug me out of the library, and when we come to the staircases, he takes the upper one.
He hasn’t shown me up here, and I look around curiously, trotting to keep up.
There’s a sense of urgency about him now, as if he’s made a decision and must go through with it.
He seems at once eager and yet almost scared.
We come out into a vestibule. There are no windows, just a set of double doors. He strides over to them and pulls them open. He gestures for me to follow him, and I gasp as I round the doors.
We’re standing on a huge stone patio on the cliffs.
Above me is the wild grey sky, and the sea stretches as far as I can see.
The roar of the waves is deafening, and the wind is fierce, dusting my lips with salt.
It makes me feel dizzy, as if a gale might pick me up and bowl me over the ocean.
I turn, taking in the area, and frown. It’s a beautiful view, and yet there’s not a scrap of furniture on the patio—nothing on which to sit and absorb the stunning scenery.
Sigurd lets go of my hand, and I blink as he starts to strip off his clothes.
“Lovely as this sight is,” I say tartly. “You being naked is not going to answer any of my many questions.”
A smile tugs at his full lips, but he carries on stripping. His golden skin seems to glow in the grey light. His earlier amusement has fled, and now he’s serious again. He hands me his clothes, and I clutch them, the scent of him striking and almost comforting.
“Stay here by the doors,” he says with quiet urgency. “No matter what you see, you must stay there out of the way.”
“Out of the way of what?” I ask, but the wind snatches my words away, and he doesn’t answer.
He strides into the centre of the patio.
He stands still for a second and then stretches out his arms. The tattoos on his body are bright and bold, and I watch him in fascination.
My earlier concerns about his mental stability are resurfacing.
I reach down and pat my phone. It seems a comforting gesture, a link to the outside world, even though it’s not working.
Gulls ride the wind above us, calling raucously. Their cries become louder as the wind increases in fierceness. Sigurd continues to stand there.
I narrow my eyes when I notice something’s crawling up his back. I quickly move forward, thinking to brush it away, but then I gasp.
One of his tattoos is moving. Within seconds, all of them begin to move, sliding over his body in lazy figure-eight movements, slow at first and then faster and faster. Suddenly, they light up and begin to glow in the dim light.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
As I watch them dance across his skin, I realise they’re not random designs. They’re the same symbols I’d seen on the mirror’s frame and door amongst the rocks on the beach.
I shake my head. This can’t be happening.
But it is. And now the designs are transforming again, become even brighter, leaving behind trails of fire and sparks crisscrossing his beautiful body.
The sparks flare into pink and gold stars, and there’s a sweet smell of burning wood like I’d noticed in his lounge, where he burns those apple logs.
“Sigurd! Are you alright?” I call.
He just raises his arms and laughs joyfully.
Smoke appears, drifting around his feet before starting to rise.
It weaves around him, and he lowers his head, his golden eyes watching me intently as the smoke tendrils fully conceal him.
There’s a sudden loud bang and a hiss like a rocket firework going off.
Sparks shoot up into the grey sky like those from a bonfire.
I blink, holding my breath, waiting for the smoke to dissipate.
The wind sweeps it suddenly away, and there, standing in Sigurd’s place is a creature. A massive creature.
I take a gulping breath of heat-singed air, watching a fiery haze swirl around a massive, muscled body with four legs, a long tail, and… wings?
If I’m not mistaken, I’m face to face with a dragon.
“What the fuck?”
I have to be mistaken. I drop his clothes and scuttle backwards until my back hits the doors. I rest my hands against the wood to keep myself upright. This can’t be.
“No, no, no,” I chant. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut.
“It’ll be a trick of my eyes,” I say. “When I open them, Sigurd will be standing there, and he’ll shout April Fool, even though he’s a few months too early.
And then we’ll laugh, and afterwards I’ll run away as fast as my legs will carry me, which admittedly isn’t that fast. I’m not built for too much speed at one time. ”
But when my eyes flutter open, the dragon is still there.
He’s easily the size of a bus, and he looks just like an illustration in a children’s book.
His scales are a pretty pink, gold, and midnight blue, and his wings, even when tucked into his sides, are enormous.
His massive feet with their fearsome talons could crush me to dust in a second, but oddly, I feel no fear.
Just a profound sense of incomprehension—as if this is happening to someone else.
I shake my head again. “This cannot be true,” I say out loud. I consider that blatantly false statement and try again. “This most definitely is a dream. Wake up, Cary.”
The dragon cocks its head and utters a faint snorting noise, and I get the strong impression that it’s laughing at me. And why wouldn’t it? Because it’s patently real. It’s as real as the stone flags of the patio and the rocks and the sky.
A dragon is standing in front of me.
It moves and I flinch back, and the creature immediately stills, making a faint chuffing noise as if trying to reassure me.
I make myself step forward. Part of me is screaming to run, run as fast as I can, but I’m not a fucking gingerbread man, and a bigger part of me is nodding and encouraging me to take another step.
“Are you going to eat me?” I whisper and hold my breath.
The dragon tosses its head, making a funny groaning noise, and I realise with a shock that it’s laughing.
“How is that funny?” I say indignantly.
It laughs some more. Then it stills and holds up one massive paw.
It crooks its claw as if beckoning me, and although my instincts scream not to do it, something inside me moves me forward until I’m standing right in front of it.
It towers above me, and the heat is intense, like standing in front of a fire on a freezing day, where your back and legs are cold, but your front is toasty warm.
I inhale and draw in the same scent as Sigurd’s home.
For a fleeting second, I wonder where Sigurd has gone, but I already know the answer, and with the strangest sense of inevitability, I look up and into the dragon’s eyes for the first time.
They’re golden, the colour molten and sparkly, and they’re warm and soft with affection. They’re Sigurd’s eyes.
“It’s you,” I breathe. “Oh my god, it’s you.”