Thrice Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris
Poppy lay in the laundry basket, her round brown eyes moving from one face to another.
“Put a blanket over that kid, won’t you?” Fogarty said to Emlyn. “I don’t like the way she looks at us. Like she’s thinking.”
Emlyn said, “If she is, she’s doing a lot better than you are. But even if she is thinking, what’s she going to do about it? She can’t walk, or talk, or handle tools. What are you worried about?”
Fogarty draped a blanket over the basket himself. “I just don’t like it. It gives me the whim-whams.”
As he said that, the goat took a bite out of the back of his jacket. When he yelped and tore the fabric away, Emlyn laughed, and then said, “Looks like the goat is thinking, too.”
Meanwhile, Poppy was wondering why it had suddenly gotten so dark. She’d thought she was figuring out this daytime/nighttime business, but maybe she’d gotten something wrong.
7
BUB WAS ELATED TO go off to track the Terrible Twos. His feelings had certainly been hurt by the focus on the squalling bundle in the castle, but attention seemed to be on him now, which was good. He didn’t want to muff his chance to remind them of what an excellent and irreplaceable dog he had always been. He was a bit put out that Cate, Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy would also be coming along in nothing but a decorative capacity; they were all completely useless at tracking and would only be excess baggage. Still, he was used to having them around, so maybe it would work out all right, even if the expedition into the forest was beginning to look like a circus parade.
Bub trotted importantly along beside Chris’s horse while Cate rode in the comfort of the king’s saddlebag, and Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy rode in Marigold’s. It was a long trip out to the hunter’s cabin; by the time they got there, old Bub was wondering if he would have the stamina to get home again. But he had a job to do and a wish to prove how indispensable he was. Definitely more indispensable than the decorative extra baggage.
He ran around the cabin a few times, his nose a fraction above the mud (most of the time), sniffing like a blacksmith’s bellows. Then he sat down and looked up at Chris, his brow furrowed, his ears drooping. Maybe he wasn’t so indispensable after all.
“What is it, boy?” Chris asked, as if he expected Bub to answer.
Bub did his best. He shook his head so hard his ears flapped.
“No?” Chris asked. “You’re telling me no? No what? No scents? No idea which way they went? No idea what’s going on?”
Bub shook his head again and lay down in the mud, looking and feeling mournful. The rain had washed away every scent except that of mud. If it hadn’t been so undignified he would have lifted his muzzle and howled in disappointment.
“I think he means he can’t do it,” Marigold said. “I think this is a dead end.”
Suddenly Bub jumped to his feet and began lumbering around in a circle, stiff-legged and moving his head slowly from side to side. Perhaps he could still redeem his reputation and ensure Marigold’s affection.
“What’s he doing now?” Marigold asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” Chris said. “You’re going to think this is crazy, but it looks to me as if he’s imitating Hannibal.”
“Hannibal? But why would he want to look like a big white elephant?”
Chris shrugged. “Maybe he thinks Hannibal can help with this somehow.”
Marigold just looked at Bub in disbelief, but then decided, why not? They were desperate and in a hurry, and why shouldn’t Bub know something they didn’t about elephants? He spent more time in the stables with Hannibal than she did, that was for sure.
“I wonder if he’ll wear dark glasses,” Marigold said.
“Who? Hannibal?” Chris asked. “Why would he wear dark glasses?”
“It’s an elephant joke,” Marigold said. “The answer is, so he won’t be recognized.” She gave him a weary smile.
“Huh,” he said, not appreciating yet another of her jokes. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wished the dogs could talk. I can see how hard he’s trying to tell us something, and I can only guess at what it is. What if it’s not about Hannibal at all?”
“But I think you’re right,” Marigold said. “It looks just like him. And even if dogs could talk, most of the time they’d probably just be saying they were hungry.”
Chris thought dogs were more complex than that, but he figured this was not a good time to get into that conversation—especially since he thought that whatever dogs had to say, it would be better than an elephant joke.
Bub woofed to get their attention again, then resumed his stiff, swaying walk.
“Yep,” Chris said. “That’s Hannibal. I guess we have to get him out here with Bub and see what happens.”
So once again the group made their way back to the castle through the mud and the oncoming darkness. Halfway there, poor exhausted Bub had to be slung across Chris’s saddle and hauled home like a sack of potatoes, while Cate, Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy sat perkily in their saddlebags, enjoying the view.
Bub hoped Chris and Marigold had gotten the message that maybe Hannibal, with his huge trunk, would be able to sniff out any lingering, telltale scents that Bub, with only his black, dog-size nose, could not. It was a long shot, he knew, but he was desperate.
Trying to explain to Wendell what they thought Bub wanted wasn’t as hard as they thought it would be. Maybe it was because he was a wizard and was used to unusual happenings. Or maybe he knew how eager Hannibal would be to get out of the stables where he had been parked next to the jittery unicorns. Or maybe it was because he was as anxious to find Princess Poppy as anybody was.
“When do you want him?” was all Wendell said.
As much as Christian and Marigold wanted to go back into the forest immediately, they recognized the futility of trying to find anything in the falling darkness, even if they took torches.
“As soon as it’s light,” Chris said.
And they all went off to spend the night tossing, turning, worrying, and waking suddenly from dreams so awful that they never mentioned them to anyone.
In the morning, they set off again, still without any of the guards but with Hannibal and Wendell. Sebastian was wondering if it was such a hot idea to go out without guards this time, but maybe the king knew best. Maybe all those guards, with their armor and their weapons jangling, would make it too hard to sneak up on the Terrible Twos. Or maybe the king feared the guards would be more interested in attacking than sneaking. Or maybe he feared Poppy could get hurt in a general melee. Still, an expedition that included a great white elephant wasn’t the most inconspicuous kind.
“Were you surprised they believed us? When we said we knew it was the Terrible Twos?” Phoebe asked him.
“Sure,” Sebastian said. “Weren’t you?”
She nodded. “Especially once they knew who we were. But the ransom note confirmed it, so I guess that gave us some credibility. Do you think we’ll find the baby?”
“I hope so. Children should be with their mothers.”
“Yes,” she said wistfully. “What was your mother like?”
“I wish I could remember. One day, when I was three, she went out to gather berries and never returned.”
“Really?” Phoebe asked, astonished. “My mother disappeared, too. When I was not quite one.”
“Maybe it’s not so surprising,” Sebastian said, “considering who they were married to. Wouldn’t you want to walk away from them?”
“But our mothers walked away from us, too. Why didn’t they take us with them?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot. And asked my father, too, but he only said he was glad she was gone because she treated me too nicely. So I don’t know the answer. There could be lots of reasons. Maybe . . . maybe they didn’t go voluntarily. Maybe something befell them. I just don’t know.”
“What I think about is maybe they didn’t want us,” Phoebe said in a small voice.
“That could be,” Sebastian said. “But I don
“Still. It might be true.”
“Here’s what I say—when you don’t know or can’t know the answer to a question, why not believe the answer that you like best? It’s as valid as any of the others—and it might be right.”
She thought for a moment and then said, “That’s brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you know that the eye of a duck has three eyelids?”
Every time she told him one of her odd facts, he felt as if she had given him a little present. The only gift he had to give her was his appreciation of the meaning of words. “I did not. You have enlightened me. My interest is always piqued by your pedagogy.”
“Really?” she asked, pretty sure she knew what he meant.
“Assuredly.”
She flushed with pleasure. “The average cat has twenty-five to thirty whiskers,” she murmured.
“That is very good to know,” he said.
Wendell joggled along on top of his elephant. He didn’t know what Bub thought Hannibal could do, but he didn’t question that animals understood each other in ways that people did not, and he trusted Bub’s instincts.
He’d been trying to convince Mrs. Clover to take a ride with him on Hannibal, but so far she’d declined the invitation. Come to think of it, he considered, adjusting his awkward seating, it probably wasn’t the most comfortable ride in the world. But Hannibal was an advantage he had over Swithbert in the pursuit of Mrs. Clover and he wanted to use all the tricks he had. How else could a washed-up wizard compete with an ex-king?
As they neared the hunter’s cabin, Hannibal led them away from it, farther into the forest.
“Isn’t this the way to the dragon’s lair?” Marigold asked apprehensively. “Why isn’t he going to the cabin?”
Here, all the trees had singed leaves and certain sections were beginning to show new growth after being burned to the ground.
“It is indeed,” Christian said. A leaden hand seemed to clutch his heart at the idea of his child being anywhere near the dragon. But he knew how the Terrible Twos felt about dragons, so he did what he could to prepare himself for something awful—even though there’s actually very little one can do in such a circumstance. There is no such thing as truly being prepared for something awful.
Just then a roar echoed through the forest, followed by a tongue of flame that flickered through the trees ahead of them.
“Uh-oh,” Wendell said. He pulled hard on Hannibal’s harness, but Hannibal kept going, toward the flames. Wendell pulled harder and yelled, “Stop!” But Hannibal was huge and purposeful, and Wendell had no choice but to go along for the ride.
The rest of the party had halted, and they watched as Hannibal and Wendell headed away. As humorous as the back end of an elephant can be—what with the gigantic rear haunches and the little stringy tail—there was nothing funny about watching their friend being carried helplessly away toward the dragon.
Another spear of flame just missed Hannibal and Wendell, accompanied by another roar. It was becoming increasingly possible that the court crier was going to have some sad and surprising news to report that evening.
8
UP AHEAD WENDELL WAS beginning to see the scorched earth and charred tree stumps that surrounded the dragon’s lair. He smelled charcoal and cooking and was afraid he would soon be part of the aroma. Hannibal kept walking, cinders crunching under his enormous feet, until he was standing on a patch of bare ground. Wendell cringed, his eyes squinched shut, awaiting the flames that would incinerate him. And maybe Hannibal, too, although his skin was thicker and tougher and maybe even fireproof.
It is hard to cringe for very long without getting a kink in one’s back and neck, so after a while Wendell had to straighten up and open his eyes. And when he did, he saw that the dragon had come to the mouth of her lair and was looming directly in front of him. It was the first time he had ever been face-to-face with a dragon, and one part of him couldn’t help admiring the beautiful iridescence of her scales and the intricate patterns in which they were arranged. The other part of him was afraid his heart had stopped beating for good.
But it started again, and when it did, he noticed that the dragon was paying no attention at all to him.
Her large gold eyes, with surprisingly long and luxurious eyelashes, were fastened on Hannibal, who was just about her size. Her lashes swept down and up again, and a trickle of smoke meandered out of the side of her mouth.
Hannibal raised his trunk and lowered it again, as if in greeting.
Wendell sat, holding his breath, watching his elephant and the dragon watch each other. In the meantime, the rest of the party had edged closer, but not too close.
“What do you think is going on?” Marigold asked in a whisper.
“This seems crazy,” Chris said. “But it looks to me as if they are—”
“Flirting,” Marigold finished for him. “Yes. That’s what I thought, too. Can it be? That dragon’s probably never seen another creature as big and as—”
“Impressive as she is,” Chris cut in. “It’s a perfect match.”
“What if Hannibal doesn’t like her?” Marigold asked. “We don’t want him to make her mad.”
“Doesn’t look to me as if that’s happening,” Chris said. “He’s probably never seen another creature as big and as impressive as he is, either.”
“Do you suppose he’s lonely?” Marigold asked.
“I never thought about it,” Chris said. “But it makes sense. We should have thought about it. Poor Hannibal. With only those nervous unicorns for company.”
“This could help us,” Marigold said.
“Uh, sure,” Chris said, not sure at all what she meant.
“If those Terrible Twos are going to try to use the dragon somehow in this, maybe Hannibal can keep that from happening.”
“Well, Bub seemed to think we needed Hannibal for something,” Chris said. “And he led us straight to the dragon.”
“I know I wanted to go back for Bub,” Marigold said, lowering her voice. “But he is just a dog. I know he’s very special to you, but he doesn’t really have a record of being brilliant about anything. Except tracking, sometimes.”
When Chris sat up straighter, getting defensive about his dog, Marigold remembered about living happily ever after and went on in a more charitable way. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have some kind of intuition about this situation. He is a very sensitive fellow.” She hoped she was right about that.
Chris’s shoulders relaxed. “I’ve always believed that animals sense things we can’t.”
They turned their attention back to the dragon and Hannibal—and poor Wendell, who was both a trapped audience and an innocent bystander to the blossoming romance, if that’s what it was.
The dragon had moved a little closer, still trailing a ribbon of smoke from the corner of her mouth. She made a sound, something between a growl and a purr. Hannibal made a low sound in response, but he took one step backward. She frowned and advanced, the smoke increasing in volume and darkening in color.
“Easy, boy,” Wendell said to Hannibal. “Don’t make her mad. Can’t you see she likes you?”
Shafts of angled sunlight struck the scales on the dragon’s flanks, causing them to shimmer and glitter with flashes of color. Hannibal raised his great ears in surprise.
“See, Hannibal?” Wendell murmured to him. “Isn’t she something? Who else do you know who could do something like that?”
The dragon was all the way out of her lair now, inching across the bare earth toward Hannibal. This time he stood his ground. Her long forked tail rose up over her back and wagged a little, back and forth.
She came right up to Hannibal and bumped his trunk with her nose. He rested the tip of his trunk between her eyes, which she closed. A sigh in the form of a long white plume of smoke issued from her lips.
“This is getting embarrassing,” Phoeb
“I think it’s sweet,” Marigold said dreamily. “Those are two of the rarest and most extraordinary creatures in our world. If they can’t help us, I don’t know who can. Let’s see what else happens.”
As they watched, a great tear formed in one of the dragon’s eyes and turned to steam as it slid down her face. She lowered her lush lashes and ducked her head as another tear followed, and then a torrent, until her face was almost obscured by a cloud of steam.
Hannibal took a step back and gave her a puzzled look.
“What’s happening now?” Chris asked. “Why is she crying? Is she crying?”
“I think she’s trying to tell him something. And he doesn’t know what to do with the news,” Marigold replied.
“How in the world do you know that?” Christian asked, astonished.
Marigold shrugged. “Woman’s intuition. And remember, I used to be able to read people’s thoughts.”
“You think she wants him to know something about the Terrible Twos?”
“Possibly. We all know the way they feel about dragons. Maybe they want her to do something she knows is wrong.”
“But wait a minute,” Sebastian said. “Hasn’t she been doing plenty of things wrong? For a long time? Like burning down acres of trees time after time?”
Marigold was quiet for a minute. “You’re right,” she finally said. “She has been doing bad things for a long time. But maybe she had a reason. I can’t guess what it would be, but it’s possible.” Her voice rose. “Do you suppose . . . What if the Terrible Twos hid Poppy in her lair?” Her voice rose higher, became more urgent. “Isn’t that the kind of thing Boris and Vlad would do—hide Poppy where nobody would dream of going after her? Could that be why Bub had Hannibal lead us here?” She slid off her horse. “Well, I’m Poppy’s mother! I’ll go anywhere to get my baby back!” And she picked up her skirts and ran straight toward the dragon’s lair.