The Dragon at the North Pole (8 page)

“Eureka,” said Jesse, holding up the cylinder. Attached to the box by a chain was a D-shaped metal ring.

“What is it?” Daisy asked.

“It’s a tinderbox,” Jesse said. “This is how people started fires before matches were invented.”

Jesse opened the top of the cylinder and upended it. A small rock fell out into the palm of his hand. Inside the cylinder, Daisy caught sight of a wick.

“This little rock is flint,” Jesse said. “You take the flint and strike it against the metal ring and you get a spark. This wick inside the box is soaked in oil. The spark from the flint lights the wick inside the box, and presto, you’ve got fire.”

“Okay, so how come you know so much about tinderboxes?” Daisy asked.

“Some people in Africa don’t have matches,” Jesse said. “They still use tinderboxes. This kid I used to play with in Tanzania, he taught me how to use his.”

“Great. So let’s fire it up and burn the contract,” Daisy said.

“Right, but not here,” said Jesse. “Let’s go to Emmy’s room. Maybe she’s back. We can give her the blue goo
and
burn the contract. Once the spell
is broken, she’ll know that the man she’s working for isn’t Santa Claus.”

“Yeah, but we still don’t know who he really is,” Daisy said.

“We do now,” Jesse said solemnly. He walked Daisy back through the secret passageway. As he returned the book to the shelf, the passage sealed shut. Then he led her over to the desk and pointed at the inscription on the piece of paper he had held up earlier.

Daisy read it aloud.
“From the desk of B. O. Wolf,”
she said. “I don’t get it.”

“B. O. Wolf,”
Jesse said. “Ignore how it’s written and listen to how it sounds.”

“B-o-wolf,” Daisy said slowly. “You mean … Beowulf? You think Mr. Unsavory is the guy who killed Grendel in that famous story you told me about? But that’s just a story, Jesse! Besides, didn’t you say it took place in the eighth or ninth century? Even if Beowulf was real, he couldn’t be alive now!”

“But Beowulf’s killing Grendel isn’t the whole story,” Jesse said. “Ten years after he did that and became king, he slew … a dragon.”

“Oh, no!” Daisy sat down hard on the desk chair. “A dragon?”

Jesse nodded. “Supposedly Beowulf died after the battle. But now I’m thinking that Beowulf survived,
faked the funeral, and hid the truth from the world, substituting the legend we’ve all learned. What he actually did was drink the blood of the dragon he slew. Like St. George, he achieved immortality.”

Daisy shook her head. “Jesse Tiger, do you mean Mr. Unsavory, the guy who wants to be Emmy’s new Keeper, is a
dragon slayer
?”

When Emmy greeted Jesse and Daisy at the door to her room, they saw that her eyes burned feverishly. She was in desperate need of Miss Alodie’s blue goo cracker.

Jesse and Daisy exchanged a worried look. On
their way from the man cave, they had discussed strategy. They knew all too well, from the day Emmy had been born, how difficult it was to get her to eat something when she didn’t like the taste. Miss Alodie’s blue goo cracker tasted nasty. Emmy might even spit it out, and they couldn’t risk that. They’d decided they would use the distraction of burning the contract to get her to eat the cracker.

“I was having cookies and milk,” Emmy droned. “Do come in.”

Emmy turned, walked back into the room, and hunkered down in a giant easy chair carved to accommodate her draconic dimensions. A second chair, a table, and the fireplace were similarly large. On the table, there was a plate of cookies, each one the size of a cake. Also on the table were the other two pieces of Emmy’s Christmas stationery.

Emmy gestured to the chair across from her. The layout of the room was identical to Jesse and Daisy’s, except for its dragon scale, which made the cousins feel that much smaller and more helpless. The cousins climbed up into the second chair. It was big enough to fit both of them and about five other kids, too.

“Won’t you have some?” Emmy asked, gesturing at the cake-sized cookies.

“No, thanks,” said Daisy. “We’re here on other
business. We’re here to burn the contract, because we have no intention of giving you up to the Claus.”

Emmy shook her head rapidly. “The Claus will be very angry with you.”

Jesse jumped down from the chair and shrugged off his backpack. He took out the scroll and held it up to her. “Too bad. We’re burning it anyway.”

“Me and my precious flame will not be a party to this wanton destruction,” Emmy said, clamping her talons over her snout.

“It just so happens we don’t need you or your precious flame,” Jesse said. He spread the sheet of parchment on the floor. Then he took out the tinderbox and began to strike the flint against the ring. The first strike got a spark. The second strike got a bigger spark. The third strike would surely light the wick.

“Give me that,” said Emmy. She reached across the table and plucked the tinderbox from Jesse’s hands.

“Hey!” he said, lunging for it. But Emmy held it out of his reach.

“This is the property of the Claus. I will return it to him
after
you two have signed the contract.”

Jesse shot a look of desperation at Daisy.

Daisy hopped down from the chair. She
marched over to Emmy and stared up at her. “Emmy, we’ll be happy to sign the contract.”

Jesse stared at Daisy as if she had just sprouted antlers. “We will?”

Daisy smiled serenely. “We think it’s wonderful that Santa is going to be your new Keeper,” she said, sauntering back to Jesse. “Don’t we, Jess?”

“We do?” Jesse said.

Daisy elbowed him hard.

“We do!” he said to Emmy, rubbing his side.

“The Claus will appreciate your compliance,” said Emmy.

Daisy paced before the giant fireplace. Unlike the one in their room, this one had no flame in it, cold or otherwise. “When I think that you, Emerald of Leandra, are going to single-handedly change the way Christmas is celebrated, I feel lucky just to witness the new dawning. Sure, Christmas has always been a wonderful time. But now, thanks to you, it will be a
magical
time. It will transform the way children’s minds grow and develop! Who knows, maybe it will eventually make world peace more than just a dream.”

Jesse stared at his cousin in wonderment.

“And to ensure that this miracle happens,” Daisy went on, “we’re willing to sign over our
Keepership to Jolly Old St. Nick. Right, Jess?”

“Absolutely!” Jesse said, pounding his fist into his palm.

“We’ve brought the quill and ink to sign it with, haven’t we, Jess?” Daisy said.

Jesse nodded. He rolled up the contract and tucked it under his arm, just in case Emmy decided to swipe it as she had the tinderbox.

“But here’s the thing of it, Em,” Daisy said. “I won’t be able to sign my name with these hands.”

Daisy peeled off her mittens and held them up to Emmy. Her hands were pinkish blue and chapped. “Feel?” She went over and placed them on the tender inside of Emmy’s hind leg.

Emmy’s toe talons shrank away. “Your core temperature is woefully low!” she cried.

“I’ll tell you what, Emmy,” said Daisy. “If you’ll use those mighty jaws of flame to make me a nice cozy fire in the fireplace, I bet my core temperature will warm right up. And
then
I’ll be able to sign the contract. Plan?”

“I will do as you say!” said Emmy.

The cousins looked on sadly as Emmy balled up the sheets of stationery and tossed them into the fireplace.

“Stand back,” Emmy said.

“Don’t we need logs or something?” Jesse said.

“The paper will be sufficient,” Emmy said.

Jesse and Daisy huddled behind Emmy’s back and peered around. Emmy took a deep breath and blew out. A bright orange flame leapt from her mouth and into the fireplace, striking the ball of paper. It caught fire instantly.

“There you go, Daisy,” said Emmy. “Now raise your core temperature. Before the fireplace melts and the Claus gets angry with me.”

Daisy and Jesse circled around Emmy and stood with their backs to the fire. Daisy nudged Jesse with her hip. Jesse nodded. He’d kept the scroll behind his back as they moved to the fire. Now he fed the end of the scroll into the flames. He heard a satisfying crackling sound as the scroll began to burn.

Jesse shoved the rest of the scroll into the fire. The fire flared up behind them with a mighty
whump
, sending Jesse and Daisy scooting forward.

Emmy lifted her snout into the air. Her nostrils twitched. “What smells like burning yak?” she asked. Then she looked into the fire and spied the scroll in flames.

“Nooooo!” she cried, scrambling toward the fireplace.

But it was too late. The scroll was engulfed by flame. Not even Emmy could save it now.

“Oh, no!” Emmy howled, opening her mouth wide. Jesse saw his opportunity. He reached into his hoodie pocket, took the last of Miss Alodie’s cracker, and tossed it into her big pink maw. Jesse and Daisy watched as the piece of cracker sailed down her throat and disappeared. Emmy swallowed it with a loud gulp.

There was a moment of stillness, like the calm before the storm.

“Look at her eyes, Jess!” said Daisy.

Emmy’s eyes had begun to spin like a pair of bright red pinwheels. Red smoke poured out of her nostrils.

“Miss Alodie’s cracker is working on her, too,” Daisy whispered to Jesse.

When the red smoke thinned, Emmy’s eyes stopped spinning and gradually turned green again. Then she threw back her head and let out a heartrending wail. “Oh, my Keepers!” she cried. “What have I done?” Giant tears slid out of her eyes and rolled down her snout.

Daisy reached into the backpack for her bandana. “What you’ve done is good,” she said soothingly, reaching up to catch the tears. It was a vain effort. There were too many of them, and dragon tears are hot. Where the drops hit the floor, they sizzled and left golf ball-sized dents.

Daisy continued, “You’ve eaten the cracker and broken the spell.”

Behind them, the fire was quickly going out as it consumed the last of Emmy’s stationery. The heat of the fire had melted the fireplace into a sludgy mound of ice.

“I feel
terrible
!” Emmy wept. “I’ve done a no-good, awful, terrible, very bad thing.”

“But everything’s fine now,” Jesse said. “You’re back to your old self.”

“The spell might be broken,” said Emmy, taking the bandana from Daisy and blowing her nose with a loud honk. “But the damage is done!”

“What damage is that?” Daisy asked, stuffing the sodden bandana into the side pouch of the backpack.

“Santa Claus asked me to give him a special present this Christmas,” Emmy said.

“We know, Em,” Jesse said. “But the thing is, he’s not Santa.”

“I see that now,” said Emmy. “I see now that he is the notorious dragon slayer Beowulf. But when I thought he was Santa Claus, he asked me for a Christmas present, something only I could give him. And who could deny Santa a Christmas present?”

“Absolutely no one,” Daisy said gently. “In your
shoes, I’d have done the same thing.”

“I don’t have shoes,” Emmy said. “But
anyway
, Santa asked me for a brace of Thunder Eggs.”

“Oh, no,” Jesse said. Thunder Eggs were geodes containing baby dragons. For a dragon slayer to get his hands on a supply of baby dragons would be good for the dragon slayer but very bad for the babies.

“You see, that’s what the Toyland Vortex machine does,” Emmy said. “It isn’t really for making toys—although he spelled me into thinking it was. It’s really a Vortex Interceptor.”

Jesse and Daisy gave her a wary look. “What’s that?” they asked.

Emmy heaved a sigh. “It’s a machine that’s designed to intercept dragon eggs as they enter the earth’s atmosphere from the Time Before.”

“How exactly does that work?” Jesse asked.

“Well,” Emmy began, “you know that dragon eggs, otherwise known as Thunder Eggs, rain down from the heavens.”

Daisy nodded. “Just like it says in Native American lore,” she said.

Emmy went on. “They come from the Time Before, hurtling through space and time. What no one but dragons—and it seems Beowulf, and now you—know is that the eggs penetrate the earth’s
atmosphere at the North Pole. From there a swirling vortex sucks them down through the earth’s crust to the core. From the molten center of the earth, the Thunder Eggs are then distributed to all the Realms for which their natures destine them: Airy, Watery, Fiery, Earthly.”

“Nifty,” said Jesse.

“I, daughter of Leandra, who was, in turn, daughter of Tourmaline, am a second-generation earthborn dragon.
Autochthonous
is another word for what I am. Autochthonous dragons are very rare, my mother tells me. Most dragons are Ethereal, which means they are hatched from Thunder Eggs that arrive from the Time Before. What I did under Beowulf’s spell was intercept a bunch of Ethereals on their way to earth.”

“Not so nifty,” said Daisy.

“I told him I couldn’t do it while he was breathing down my neck. I waited until he was out, searching for his lost reindeer. When he came back, he knew I had succeeded. He asked me for the eggs. But something in me wouldn’t give up those eggs. Even though I was still under his power, it was like this little voice deep inside me said, ‘Emmy, do not give the eggs to this man!’ So I didn’t. I hid them and pretended I was saving them for a surprise.”