Rain & Fire (2 page)

Chris recently found an article on the Internet stating that if you compared the history of Earth with a calendar year, then the first cell of anything that could be called “life” did not appear until midsummer. Plants followed in August, then the various animals in the next few months. Dinosaurs arrived at the winter solstice, around December 21, and died out by the day after Christmas, the 26. Humans didn't appear until early evening of the 31, and true civilization not until four minutes to midnight. Allegedly, many living species became extinct “daily” —
Including dragons
, he thought, in a blinding flash of inspiration.

Now, I don't know about you, but to him that is a very exciting concept. Not that dragons died out, of course, but that they might actually have existed in the first place on this wonderful blue planet of ours. Imagine seeing a group of them (a flock? a wing? a
flame
?) soaring and swooping overhead in the warmth of the sun. Or beating their huge majestic wings against a fierce Arctic gale. Would you be scared silly or would you be exhilarated? Would you rush outside to stare in wonder at the spectacle, or would you cower indoors, too terrified to even peek through the window? Or would you be so used to seeing them around that you would just accept their presence and go about your normal day without paying them much attention? These are some of the questions that Chris wanted to find his own answers to when he wrote the Last Dragon Chronicles.

He is often asked whether he believes that dragons did exist on this world, and he usually replies, “I'd like to.” He is in very good company. From doing some background reading, I found that while relatively few
people do believe in their one-time existence, a large majority, just like Chris, would like to. What can it be about dragons that fires (sorry!) the imagination so strongly? Especially since, overall, they have had pretty lousy press.

Think of most dragon legends and myths; it seems like nine times out of ten they feature dragons as the bad guys — fire-breathing monsters who would have you for dinner as soon as look at you. Personally, I reckon all this was a ploy to keep knights in shining armor in work. What else could they do, after all, apart from rescue helpless damsels in distress? No damsels, no job. To be fair, there are some cultures around the world that do revere dragons and think them admirable creatures,
and
definitely believe that they were real. China is the most notable example, Vietnam another, and, much closer to Chris's home, Wales has its own red dragon.

But love them or loathe them, they do seem to pop up in so many countries' legends that you have to think that there is something in it. “No smoke without fire”
comes to mind — a highly appropriate phrase, in the circumstances.

Perhaps there is a common folk memory or group recall from way back, or maybe it is all simply wishful thinking, that we feel that there somehow just “ought” to be dragons, to fulfill some unacknowledged and unconscious need in us all. Or, to stretch the imagination a little further, could it be that they did (still do?) exist, but on some other world, and that there was a bleed-through or crossover to this one in the dim and distant past, mentally and emotionally, if not physically? Whichever way, belief in dragons does seem to be “hardwired into the human consciousness.” I don't know who came up with that phrase, but I think it sums it all up beautifully.

Although there is this huge fascination with dragons, Chris himself, when asked, always used to say that he wasn't particularly smitten with them in his early years;
he never gave them much thought. However, on closer questioning for this book, I discovered that one of his all-time favorite books from childhood is
The Hobbit
, by J. R. R. Tolkien. And guess who one of the main characters is? Smaug, a classic “bad” dragon who sits on his pile of stolen treasure and roars vengeance on anyone who dares to intrude upon him. The edition that we have even has Smaug defending his ill-gotten gains on the cover. A subtle influence there, perhaps, after all.

Chris's current take on dragons is that they are noble beasts, worthy of respect and awe, spiritual guardians of the planet and servants and defenders of Gaia, Mother Earth. But Chris does not limit himself to one type of dragon; in the Last Dragon Chronicles, there are two very different sorts — one large, one small; both benevolent. The first, as you might expect, are the
relatively
traditional “real” dragons; full-sized, immensely powerful, fire-breathing, and truly awesome. But they are birthed from eggs by parthenogenesis….

The second type is more unusual still. They are about eight to ten inches tall and made from clay by one of the main characters, a potter named Elizabeth Pennykettle. She sometimes uses something called “icefire” in the process, which makes them into “special” dragons, that is, those that can come alive. All the dragons speak variants of a language called dragontongue, as do Liz and her daughter, Lucy, as well as the odd polar bear or two. (Yes, that's right, polar bears. I'll come to those a bit later.) These small dragons are to be found all around the Pennykettles' home, from the entrance hall to the Dragons' Den, where they are created.

David Rain, the hero of the series, even uses the Pennykettles' bathroom, which has a small “puffler” dragon named Gloria sitting on the toilet tank in front of him. She's there to “puffle” a pleasant rose scent when necessary. David does have the grace to turn her to face the wall — but whether to spare her blushes or his own, who can say?

Each of the special clay dragons that Liz creates has a particular talent or ability. There is a wishing dragon, a guard dragon (who is rather young and inexperienced and therefore always needing to check his manual for the correct procedure), a natural healing dragon, and many more. But the one you most need to know about is Gadzooks. Zookie, as he is also known, is made especially for David as a housewarming gift when he comes to lodge in the Pennykettle household, and he is an inspirational writing dragon. Gadzooks helps David get unstuck when faced with any problem — particularly writer's block. This is just as well, as David, like Chris, eventually becomes a writer….

The anatomy of a Pennykettle dragon

Chris had just finished college and was working in his dad's pub, the White Horse, while sorting out what he wanted to do with his life when a friend persuaded him to move to London. The friend promised to find Chris somewhere to live and, taking up the offer, Chris soon found himself on a fast train down to the capital, followed by a slower one out to the suburbs, and ultimately knocking on the door of his new landlady in Bromley, Kent. Not at all unlike David Rain, in fact, although there were no “children, cats, or dragons” involved in Chris's case. He settled in quite readily and got on well with the family with whom he was lodging.

Making new friends, though, he thought would be quite tricky, as he was still unemployed. He regularly went into the center of the town, usually on foot due to a lack of money and a desire to get to know the area, which was entirely new to him. The outskirts of Bromley are quite leafy, but the town itself much less so, with one notable exception: the Churchill Library Gardens. Chris discovered the library quite early on — one of his favorite things to do was to take a book out and wander through the public gardens alongside until he found a sunny spot, whereupon he would sit on a wall next to a path overlooking a large stand of trees. Once settled, book in one hand, sandwich in the other, he would while away the day until it was time to go back to his digs.

One day, as he was doing exactly that, a squirrel suddenly turned up on the path nearby. It sat up on its hind legs, twitched its nose and tail (which Chris took to mean “Anything for me, please?”), and waited patiently. Being a generous sort of guy, but having only a small corner of sandwich left, he offered the squirrel
that. The squirrel took it with great glee, twiddled it around in its paws a few times, and popped it into its mouth. Yum. But no — categorically not “yum”
at all
— as fast as the sandwich went in, out it came again. It was at this point that Chris discovered that squirrels can look totally disgusted. Off it went, shaking its head and spitting
puh, puh, puhhh
, every few steps. Rather taken aback by this vehement display of ingratitude, Chris was forced to the conclusion that squirrels are not terribly eager for cheese and pickle sandwiches.

Thinking no more of the incident, he shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to his book. Eventually, this being October, it got a little chilly. Home time. Chris mostly took the same route back to his home — it was the shortest and therefore the quickest way — but for whatever reason, on this day he found himself veering from the usual path and taking one in a slightly different direction. Such a small deviation, such a tiny decision, and yet, unbeknown to Chris, the wheels of the Universe had turned and a step was taken toward his destiny.

This new way happened to take Chris past a large oak tree. It had shed its abundant crop of acorns all over the sidewalk and far into the road. Chris was unaware of this until a car, coming too fast around the bend, sprayed him like a pellet gun with the acorns that had caught under its tires. Jolted out of his reverie, the bright idea suddenly came to him.
This is what squirrels like to eat. Acorns, not cheese and pickle sandwiches …

The next day, he returned to the spot under the oak and gathered up every acorn he could find. Then, laden with two large brown paper bags full of squirrel delight, he retraced his steps to the library gardens and settled down in the same place as the day before. He didn't have long to wait. Within minutes, the same squirrel appeared on the path by his side. Chris was sure of it. Perhaps it was just the play of shadows on its face in
the autumn sunshine, but it definitely seemed to
wink
at him in a knowing way. Slightly disturbed by this, but determined to make up for his sandwich mistake, he tentatively offered up an acorn. The squirrel took one open-eyed look, made a fast grab for it, and guzzled it on the spot. Success!

The squirrel thought so, too. It sat wide-eyed and waiting. Chris obliged with another nut. This time the creature twitched it in its paws as before, but then ran across the pathway and between some railings, burying the acorn in the loose soil to be found there. That done, it immediately came back for “thirds.” Once more Chris obliged. The squirrel ran up a nearby tree and deposited the acorn somewhere within a hole in one of the branches, promptly returning for another go, obviously thinking all its Christmases must have come at once. However, when it reached Chris this time, a second squirrel was being fed a nut. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth arrived … until within a very short space of time there were no less than seventeen squirrels all
feasting and scrabbling around Chris's feet. Some of the tamer ones even plucked up enough courage to run up his legs and perch on his lap, the bravest of all sticking its furry little head right into his coat pocket. He'd certainly made a lot of new friends — and much quicker than he'd expected!

At this point a woman pushing a baby buggy came along the path, holding the hand of a young girl of four or five. They stopped to watch the scene before them. The young girl pointed and in a piping little voice said, “Ooh, look, Mummy. It's the squiwwel man.” And so it turned out to be, but many more years were to pass before the world at large became aware of that fact.

Ten years later, Chris was working as a lab technician at Leicester University Medical School and, being an enthusiastic songwriter, was writing and recording in
his spare time. However, with full-time employment, there wasn't much of that available. Looking to find a less energy-intensive way of expressing his creativity, he decided to drop the music temporarily and focus on just the words.
Writing
, he thought.
How difficult can that be?
Ha! Famous last words, almost. His office waste-basket (and the surrounding area) quickly filled up with scrunched-up bits of paper. Failed attempts at a science fiction short story. Failed attempts at short, long, middling,
any
kinds of story. Frustration reigned. But Chris is nothing if not persistent. He decided as a final try to write a cutesy little tale as a Christmas present for me. Romantic soul, eh?

For a previous Christmas present, Chris had bought me a polar bear stuffed animal, which he'd put outside in the backyard, leaving him with one paw raised against the back door, as if he were knocking. Chris's story was to be something very simple: how Boley the polar bear had arrived in our backyard from the North Pole. Easy.

Christmas present extraordinaire

But no, not easy. Chris had barely gotten two paragraphs written when he realized that he knew nothing about polar bears except that they are white and live at the North Pole. Wrong on both counts, actually — their hair is hollow, and is more of a cream color because of it; and they live right across the Arctic ice cap —
except
at the Pole. Oh, well. A trip to the local library was called for. Mission achieved, Chris returned home with a book called
The World of the Polar Bear
, by Thor Larsen, intending to cherry-pick a few interesting snippets to dot around the cutesy little tale. He began writing. And writing. And writing. The tale took
two and a half years to complete. All
250,000 words
of it. Six hundred pages; longhand.

I remember this very well; I typed it.

This
little tale
, if nothing else, taught Chris the craft of writing. It was ultimately named
White Fire
, and parts of it were used in the dragon books, as if written by David Rain, who also writes a book called
White Fire
. It should be stressed, however, that the two books are not the same. David's is an ecological plea to save polar bears and the planet; Chris's goes much further than that, being a grand saga involving the Inuit people, white men (researchers, hunters, etc.) from the south, and great dynasties of polar bears. It has never seen the light of day and remains dormant in a desk drawer, awaiting — who knows what?

“White fire” is a metaphor for spirituality, and this first book sowed the seed for the dragon books. It was written partly at home, early mornings and late evenings, and partly during Chris's tea breaks at the university. It was written longhand because (believe it or not) this was still in an age when computers were
few and far between. Chris's whole department at the university had only one, for instance. He eventually “graduated” to using this machine, but until that time, his trusty pen and pad were his tools of the trade. It became a standing joke among his colleagues that Chris wouldn't be going to the break room with them, he would be “writing his bestselling novel, ha-ha.”

One day, one such colleague walked into the room where the computer was housed and said, “Still writing about polar bears? Can't you write about anything else?”

Chris stopped, left a blank line, and began, “It was a beautiful autumn morning in the library gardens …”

To this day, he does not know why he did this — or where it came from. He refers to it as his “Tolkien moment.” (Apparently J. R. R. Tolkien, a professor at the time he wrote
The Hobbit
, and grading exam papers, came upon a blank sheet of paper within the pile. It is alleged that he, for no apparent reason, wrote: “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.” Of such moments careers are made.)