The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [6]
“And you,” he said to John, “how are you finding teaching at your old stomping grounds?”
“I like it as much as I expected,” said John. “Although I think I’d prefer to be left alone to write if I have another crop of students like the current bunch. Hardly an inquisitive or creative mind among them.”
“It could be worse,” said Charles. “You could be teaching at Cambridge.”
At the mention of their old joke, the three friends doubled over in laughter. But soon enough a more serious mood settled upon them again, and the haunted look Jack had worn when they entered returned to his face.
“Why have you called us, Jack?” John asked. “What’s happened?”
“It’s hard to say,” Jack replied. “I came up here with Warnie to work on some of my poems—and perhaps a book or three—but several weeks ago I began to have nightmares, and in the last few days, they’ve gotten worse.”
“Warnie said you called out Aven’s name,” said Charles.
“Yes,” admitted Jack, wincing visibly. “I’ve tried not to think much about her since our return to England—but I’ve been dreaming about her. I—I think she’s in terrible trouble of some kind. But I can’t say what.”
“Hmm,” John mused. “What else has been in these dreams?”
“Well, dreamstuff, naturally,” said Jack. “Things that come bubbling up from one’s subconscious. Indians, and crows, and strangely…children.”
“Do tell,” John said, considering his own recent dreams. “If there were children, I’m assuming there were also…”
“…Giants,” finished Charles. “If there were children, then there were also Giants. I’ve been having the same dream.”
“As have I,” said John. About the Giants, but not about Aven, he said silently to himself.
Before any of them could elaborate further, they were interrupted by a knock at the study door.
“I’m dreadfully sorry to interrupt,” said Warnie, “but it seems we’ve, ah…” He paused and bit his lip, as a curious and puzzled expression came over his face.
“Warn?” said Jack. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Oh, nothing bad—I think,” Warnie replied. “But it appears we have an angel in the garden.”
There was indeed, as Warnie had surmised, an angel in the cottage’s garden; or at least, something that was as close to a description of an angel as one might give if one was unaccustomed to finding such things in one’s garden.
Sitting in a disarray of just-blooming bluebells, mud, and free-floating feathers was a small girl. A small girl with wings.
Her face was smudged with dirt, and her clothing, a simple brown tunic, belted at the waist and across the shoulders, was tattered and torn. Her wings were spread out behind her in a manner that was more awkward than graceful, and they were bare in patches where the feathers had detached themselves in an apparently difficult landing.
“More of a cherub, really, don’t you think, John?” said Charles.
“And you would know this how?” asked John. “When have you ever seen a cherub?”
“Look,” said Charles, “when he said ‘angel,’ I was expecting something a little more grown-up. This cherub can’t be more than five years old.”
“I’m eight, I’ll have you know,” the girl piped up. “Next Thursday, anyway. And I’m not a cherub or an angel, whatever those are. I’m Laura Glue, and Laura Glue is me.”
“Your name is Glue?” asked Charles.
“Laura Glue,” the girl protested. “There is a difference, you know.”
She stood up and dusted off her clothes, all the while keeping a wary eye on her accidental hosts.
“How did you get here?” Warnie asked, looking around. “Are you with your parents, or on a school outing, perhaps? This is a private garden, not a picnic spot.”
Laura Glue looked at him like he was speaking Swahili. “I flew here, I’ll have you know. What d’you think the wings are for, anyways?”
Jack began examining Laura Glue’s wings, and quickly discovered they were not naturally hers, but were in fact artificial. Delicately made, of extraordinarily inventive design, but constructs nevertheless.
“Hey!” Laura Glue cried, stepping back defensively. “You should ask permission b’fore poking someone’s wings, y’know.”